A Livewire

by leftovercrumbz

Summary:

You fix failing businesses in the Dark World.
That’s your thing — walk in, clean up the chaos, and get out after things finally start to stay afloat.

So when you get an anonymous call begging you to save a dying studio on the edge of implosion, you assume it’s just another mess to mop up.

 

You weren’t expecting his face on the building.

And you sure as hell weren’t expecting him to still be running it.

 

Now you’re trapped in a rundown studio full of burnout, flickering neon, and a ghost from your past with too much of an ego and not a bit of self-awareness.

He hasn’t changed. He’s worse. And yet, the more the studio falls apart, the more you’re forced to deal with what neither of you ever got over…

 

There’s nothing professional about this.

Notes:

Okay so uh hi….thanks for reading this, pleaseeeee let me know how y’all enjoy everything, or if you have any possible ideas for future chapters. I kinda just wanted to write a fic with the enemies to lovers trope with Tenna. Sorry not sorry I’m a freak what can I say, ANYWAYS enjoy!!!

Chapter 1: Rude Awakening

---

The Dark World is… well, kind of messed up.

That might sound harsh — maybe even offensive to certain folks — but you’ve  known the truth since you  were a kid. Growing up as a Darkner wasn’t easy. It was all loops, hurdles, and a whole lot of pain. Every twist in your adolescence drove one fact deeper into your bones:

The Dark World is Messed. Up.

That’s why you chose your profession. If you could even call it that.

It all started with that rundown pizza joint near the edge of the fountain. The walls were crumbling, the sign barely lit up anymore, and the owner was two missed payments away from losing the place entirely. You weren’t even hired, really — you just stepped in, made some changes, and… somehow, it worked.

After that, word spread. Suddenly you were the go-to fixer for failing places — restaurants, shops, even little corner stalls barely clinging to relevance. You got a name for yourself in the niche world of “re-establishing” Dark World businesses. Not exactly glamorous, but it made sense. You always knew darkness has a way of pulling things apart. So it only made sense someone had to be there to put things back together.

Most jobs were simple enough. You’d get a call, show up to a half-dead establishment, and do what you had to do. Sometimes it meant logistics, sometimes design, sometimes just morale. Whatever worked.

Sure, some jobs dragged on longer than others — some places fought back harder, or had more rot under the surface. But nothing quite made you feel whole like those rare moments when a tired storekeeper looked you in the eye and thanked you like they meant it. Thanking you specifically.

Like you’d given their livelihood — their life — another shot in a place that rarely handed out second chances.

This all leads to what you’ve been dramatically calling your “magnum opus.”

Or at least, that’s what you’ve started calling it to help take the edge off the dread and anxiety clawing at your spine everytime you think of this damn job gig you accepted. 

A few days ago, you got an anonymous call.

Yeah — anonymous. A first for you. And, honestly? Weird as hell.

The person on the other end sounded like they were whispering from inside a supply closet.

Their message?

 

“PLEASE come help our dying studio or our boss is going to end up killin’ one of us!! LITERALLY, like for REAL.”

 

So.

Instinctually, every red flag in your body had gone off all at once.

You wanted to decline — badly. Everything within you had screamed at you to politely decline somehow, say no, hell even run away from your phone if you had to. But then the guilt hit. The memories of all those shopkeepers you’ve helped — the way their eyes lit up when you gave them another shot, like someone finally saw them.

And because you’re apparently a glutton for punishment… you said yes.

You didn’t even ask what kind of studio it was.

“Studio” could mean a dozen different things. Dance studio. Art studio. Apartment studio. Hell even “Dojo’s” are considered studios. You name it. And you’re not exactly qualified fixing almost literally any of these.

All the caller gave you was an address… and a vague demand to “show up as soon as possible.”

Why do you do this to yourself?

What went so terribly wrong in your life to lead you here? 

Well you could think of a couple things, but that wasn’t important right now. You had a job to do.

So now here you are — crammed into a stuffy old taxi, heading toward what you’re really hoping isn’t some yoga studio run by a washed-up Darkner influencer.

At this point, the studio wasn’t even your biggest concern. You were starting to worry this was all an elaborate trap to rob you and dump your body in a dumpster.

Joke’s on them. Your savings account had barely any Kromer Dark Dollars, actually neither did any of your other accounts. 

But as the cab rumbled closer to the address, a different kind of nausea twisted in your gut. Not just dread. Not even anxiety.

This was worse.

This was nostalgia.

No. No no no. Please don’t let it be that kind of studio.

Your lunch had churned in your stomach — the kind of churning that felt like your soul was trying to eject itself before it was reunited with one of the things that had hurt it the most.  And then, just as the building came into view, you saw it. The sign. The obnoxious, flickering, all-too-familiar sign:

“Welcome to TV World!”

 

Chapter 2: Welcome to the Show!

Summary:

While you push down the nerves of finally stepping foot in his eyesore of a building, you finally encounter the thing you had dreaded most.

After pissing off the taxi driver by staring blankly out the window with your mouth agape for at least three solid minutes, you finally got out of the car.

Was this a joke?

Some kind of sick prank?

As you started walking, mentally replaying every career decision you’ve ever made, something about the city hit you.

Something was… off.

No pun intended — but everything around you seemed to flicker. Not in a “cute, retro” way, either. More like a beat-up carnival ride that’s been running nonstop for ten years and is begging desperately for someone to pull the plug.

The neon signs glitched in and out. Billboards shimmered with unfinished animations. Shopfronts stuttered in and out of proper lighting, like the whole place was stuck halfway between scenes.

And somehow, none of it helped the knot in your stomach.

You kept moving, steps automatic now — and then you saw it.

 

That building.

 

His building.

 

It towered in the distance like some ego-fueled skyscraper, its cheap, jagged logo above the main entrance.

And right there, plastered across the walls, the windows, even the god damn doors…

 

His face.

 

How could someone be so narcissistic that they  put other narcissists to shame…?

 

Besides that, the worst possible scenario was playing out in real time. Honestly? At this point, you would’ve preferred getting robbed and thrown in a dumpster. At least you wouldn’t have had to see that hideous CRT television again.

A small voice in the back of your head scratched at you, begged you to turn around. Just go home. Pretend this never happened. Never look back at this shithole again.

But of course, that other voice — the annoyingly sappy one — decided to pipe up. It reminded you of how frantic that person on the phone had sounded.

Whatever was going on here… it wasn’t a joke. And if things really were falling apart, could you live with yourself if you didn’t at least try to help?

You took one long seriously deep breath.

Okay. Think positive.

Maybe this wasn’t his workplace anymore!

Sure, his face was plastered all over the damn building… but maybe it was just for aesthetic purposes?

Maybe the new owners just loved starting their mornings staring at the smug, shit-eating grin of a washed-up egotistical doucheba-

Okay well that’s not positive thoughts.

maybe you should just imagine that one thought of him being gloobed on, that was a favorite of yours it always seemed to ease your tensions.

But before you could fabricate any more cartoonishly violent fantasies about that man, you were there.

Right at the entrance.

Your chest tightened. It felt like a panic attack was brewing instead of just that pit in your stomach.

This was so far outside your comfort zone — and to mention way outside your pay grade.

And yet, for some sick reason, your feet kept moving.

You stepped inside.

The only thing you could do now was hold it together. Be professional. Be compassionate. No matter what chaos — or who — was waiting for you on the other side.

The door creaked open with the sharp groan of disuse.

What greeted you inside was… jarring.

It was loud. Spastic. Honestly? You’d even call it lively, if only in the “I’M HAVING A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN!!” kind of way.

Employees scattered left and right, juggling everything from oversized prop pieces — to what was probably their tenth cup of coffee for the day.

Sure, things were functioning. Technically. But it sure wasn’t pretty.

The energy in the room didn’t feel like momentum — it felt like panic.

Everyone looked half-dead, eyes sunken, movements erratic. 

While you stood there, watching the chaos unfold like some strange fever dream, you felt a sudden tug at your leg.

“Hey! We could really use another stage runner — can you grab the rest of the props before we get yelled at again?”

You blinked down at them, confused.

Had… they not been told you were coming?

“Oh! No, sorry — I don’t know if anyone told you, but I’m [Y/N]. I’m here to oversee things. See what needs fixing.”

The same creature stared up at you like you’d just screeched out static instead of actual words.

“Uh… yeah. Sure, me too, bub. Normally I wouldn’t ask, but he’s in one of his moods again, and I’m really not trying to test the waters today.”

There it was. Confirmation.

Not new owners.

Not some wacky aesthetic nerd.

It was him.

Still here.

Still the same overdramatic, egotistical, short-tempered maniac you remembered.

You hated those mood swings of his.

Always so clingy, then furious the moment things didn’t go his way.

Weird how he still had the same problems after all these years — like he’d never grown past the emotional range of a broken vending machine.

You realized you’d been standing there, zoning out instead of actually responding.

“Oh! Uh— sorry. I’m actually here for a different job. Sort of like… remodeling?”

The guy blinked at you, completely dead-eyed.

You couldn’t tell if it was sleep deprivation, or if you’d just sounded like a total idiot.

“It’s fine, I’ll just take a look around?”

After that awkward first encounter, you decided to wonder a bit. You’d never actually seen this place in person — not back then, and certainly not after everything that happened.

It was built after you two had your falling out, so there was never a reason to step foot inside.

And yet… here you are.

 

How wonderful.

 

The walls looked like retro vomit. Every inch was plastered in tacky old film posters — and of course, each one featured the same recurring model.

How shocking.

 

It did nothing to loosen the knot twisting tighter in your gut, but you pressed on. Determined.

Whoever called you here had to be somewhere. And if they weren’t going to give you a tour, well, that was their problem.

The carpet beneath your feet was patterned with some loud, outdated design. It all led toward what you could only assume was the backstage area. Honestly, you weren’t even sure you were supposed to be here.

But again — not your fault no one gave you a damn map.

Just as you rounded the corner, you almost crashed into another crew member.

And once again: small.

Why the hell was everyone here so short?

“Who the hell are you?! You can’t be here right now — the boss is gonna flip his lid!!”

Oh god.

You felt the realization hit like a bad trip.

 

He’s here.

 

Yeah — no shit, you knew he worked here. But for some idiotic reason, you’d been walking around like this was a casual stroll through a damn flea market, instead of being cautiously terrified you could run into the guy any second. 

You swallowed hard, the taste of bile rising in your throat.

Too late to back out now.

“Hi! Uh— I’m [Y/N]? I’m supposed to be meeting with someone who called me in to help fix this place up?”

“Do you… maybe know where they’d be… at?”

Each word that came from your lips didn’t at all help ease the horrified expression on  his face.You almost felt bad for the guy. Like you should give him a hug or something.

That’s when he started frantically shoving at you — or, well, attempting to shove you. He barely came up to your chest.

“LIKE I KNOW?! I’m just trying to keep everyone alive! Now OUT — OUT!! Before he sees yo—”

 

 

 

“MIKE?! Earthhhh to MIIIIIIKE?!!”

 

Chapter 3: Power Surge

Summary:

After dreading this the most, you finally encounter the one obstacle you were trying to avoid.

Him.

“MIKE?! Earthhhh to MIIIIIIKE?!!”

 

 

You both froze.

Too late to hide.

Too late to run.

 

 

Years of dread, tears, rage — all of it — rose up inside you much like the bile sitting in your throat. What a time to finally have a reunion! 

The little guy’s face somehow managed to grow even more horrified, which was impressive, really.

 

“God. That guy ALWAYS— I mean HA-HA, always runs off when I need him! When I find him, I swear to GOD—”

 

The eccentric voice stopped mid-sentence.

Tenna had finally realized what he was looking at.

He stopped cold the moment his eyes locked on you. His expression seemed to be the perfect balance of utter horror and pure shock.

 

Yet there he was. In front of you. Still the same shitty old television you used to know.

Except now?

He was definitely…snobbier.

Sleeker, somehow.

Like someone had given him a budget and an ego boost. For only god knows why. 

There were subtle changes — well, not subtle exactly.

 

When the HELL did he get that tall?!

…Not that it mattered to you…

 

You’d imagined this exact moment — this exact scenario — hundreds of times. And yet, somehow, you were still completely unprepared. Especially with no time to plan for this sudden get together.

 

At least you weren’t the only one caught off guard.

 

Lost in your thoughts, it took you a second to actually look at him — really look at him. At his screen.

What was once that bright, snarling white face was now pitch black.

Completely off.

 

Did he really just… shut down?

Good.

You hoped he had stayed that way.

Forever.

 

 

The little guy next to you somehow looked even more horrified than before. Seriously, incredible how he was able to distort his face like that.

 

Then the little guy was trembling as he spoke.

 

“I—I’ve never seen the boss shut down like that… we’re so screwed.”

After a solid fifteen seconds of tense silence and nerve-wracking eye contact, Tenna finally booted back up.

Despite rebooting, his display was a little different now — slightly distorted, glitching around the edges.

 

“OH ho oh—what a lovely surprise!!”

 

It sounded like he had to physically wheeze the words out, like the effort to stay composed was physically painful.

Still, he slapped on a grin and rested one arm against the wall, trying to look cool.

Your cold, unflinching stare probably didn’t help him achieve this.

 

“Man! [Y/N]! I-It’s been so LONG! Really! So glad to FINALLY see you here… right now… at this exact moment…!”

 

You didn’t respond.

A wicked part of you wanted to let the silence drag — to make this as excruciatingly uncomfortable as possible.

Especially for him.

 

 

 

After several long, tense seconds — interrupted only by a couple of awkward coughs — someone finally decided to break the silence.

“Uhh… hey, boss? Since, uh, you two clearly know each other… I’m just gonna go reset the stage!”

 

And before Tenna could utter a word, the little guy scurried off and disappeared behind the curtain like his life depended on it. Even he couldn’t survive with the tension hanging in the air.

 

Now it was just you and him. Alone. In this hallway.

 

Tenna looked… terrified.

 

He fiddled with his sleeves, his screen flickering slightly before forcing himself into a strained, shit eating smile once more.

“SO UH—[Y/N]! Classic ol’ [Y/N]!”

His voice had let certain syllables crack just a little too loud. He was already falling apart. 

“What, uh… brings you here today..? Y’know! To TV World! My humble little slice of showbiz!”

Before you could answer, he couldn’t help himself — slipping right into that insufferable, ego-driven mode that made your blood boil.

“LET ME GUESS!!”

 He threw an arm dramatically in the air.

 “You’re here to witness the performance of a LIFETIME! Starring yours truly!”

Disgusting.

The sound of his voice alone was enough to remind you why you never reached out. Why you had left him in your past. Why he made your skin crawl and your stomach twist. It was always the same thing with him — always performing, always posturing.

Never giving a shit about anyone but himself.

You didn’t hesitate.

 

“No,” 

 

you said flatly, voice colder than you had initially intended.

 

 “I would never.”

 

That wiped the grin right off his face.

You saw it — that flicker of a wince, subtle but satisfying.

And god, did that feel good.

A small part of you wanted to twist the knife deeper.

You wanted him to hurt. Just a little. Maybe even half as much as you had.

But first you still needed to figure out who the hell gave you this damn job in the first place. 

 

…was it him who had called…?

 

You narrowed your eyes at the man before breaking the silence once more. 

 

“Actually, I was called here. Anonymously. Someone said this place was falling apart and begged me to come fix it. Ring any bells?”

 

You watched the static of his screen grow faintly, as if this news was new even to him. Tenna’s new grin twitched at the corners, suddenly unsure.

 

“Wh-what? Called you? HA Ha—come on, [Y/N]! You think I need to call anyone for help? This boat is SMOOOTH sailing!!”

 

You raised an eyebrow, slowly folding your arms. Unpleased with his answer you continued.

 

“I don’t know. That is what people do when their shitty TV empire starts crumbling around them.”

 

There it was. That static-pop sputter his screen always gave when he didn’t like what he heard. Like a flinch masked by live-wire.

 

“You think I’d need help? This studio’s THRIVING baby. We’re BOOMING with productivity! Sky high ratings! Fans out the WAZOO! Never GLOOBY!!”

 

You blinked slowly. 

“Are you sure about that? Because someone here sounded pretty desperate when they called me from what I can only assume was a closet — whispering about their totally stable, not-at-all homicidal boss who’s just thriving as everything else is seemingly going to shit.”

 

His act begins to falter at the words you just landed on him. Then, just for a second, a pixel at the edge of his frame stuttered, and you caught it. He’s still so easy to rile up. 

“L-look, maybe one of the interns got dramatic—y’know how soft they are these days! Crying over spilled coffee and tight deadlines—HA! Can’t even handle a little SCREAM or two!”

 

His voice cracked mid-sentence. Truly this was getting pathetic, even for him. Yet the whole display was placing a smirk on your face. 

“You really didn’t know someone called me?”

Silence. His screen darkened slightly — not off, just dim.

“No,” he muttered. “I didn’t.”

 

Bingo.

 

You took a step forward, resulting in him taking two steps back. 

 You kept your voice low.

 

 “So your staff’s calling for help behind your back now? That’s rough. Guess the whole charming ‘dictator on set’ act isn’t working like it used to.”

 

Tenna’s screen crackled like a spark about to catch fire, glitching hard at the edges now. His hand twitched at his side, curling slightly into a fist.

You now couldn’t help the fully formed smirk that pulled at your lips. You were winning whatever this was. And he knew it.

 

But this wasn’t just about gloating.

This was leverage.

And you were going to use it…

 

…Well you were eventually, but you again, had work to do. 

 

“Anyways…” 

 

you began, wearing the same shit eating smile that he had worn earlier, only this time you knew yours was digging right under his plastic casting.

“Since everyone around here is too scared to admit they made the call, I’ll just go ahead and set up operations today. Get a feel for how bad a ‘normal’ day is here at TV Time Studios. Then we can move forward from there… huh, Mr. Tenna?”

His name slipped from your lips like venom.

 

“Mr.”

 

What a weird, formal title for someone you used to be willing to drop everything for — just to be near. What a bitter, twisted future you both found yourselves in.

But all the barbs you shot, and all the snark you spoke out — they had a purpose.

And it was working.

 

You saw it in the way Tenna’s fidgeting grew more erratic, less theatrical and more… desperate.

Like he needed to do something with his hands or he’d end up punching another hole through the damn wall.

It was beautiful.

 

Let him put on his little show in front of the crew — all flashing lights and fake charm.

 

You were the only one here who remembered what he really was.

 

A wiggly, pathetic, putrid little snake. One that moved anywhere that would give it the slightest bit of attention. 

 

From the way he kept reacting to you, you decided to lean full force into the “I’m more professional than you in almost every way” persona — just to see if it would piss him off more.

 

Maybe this job wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It was sorta therapeutic, in its own messed up kind of way?

 

Even if you still felt like vomiting every time you looked at him too long.

 

“So, Mr. Tenna,” you said, with the sweetest condescension you could muster up, “would you please mind showing me where I’ll be staying during the revamping of TV Time Studios? I’m sure you’ve thoughtfully prepared a work area for me to begin.”

 

You didn’t give him time to respond before adding:

 

“And clearly, the sooner I get started, the better it’ll be for everyone here. Including you.”

 

You heard his teeth clench — audibly.

Impressive, considering he was, in fact, a CRT television.

 

“HAH! Yes!! Of course!! [Y/N], right this way! So sorry for being such a lousy host!!”

That response caught you off guard.

It was as if all the pent-up frustration from moments ago had… fizzled out. Like someone had yanked the plug on his emotional tantrum.

Maybe his temper had actually improved over the years?

 

Bummer, you thought. 

 

But even as his voice slipped back into that over-the-top theatrical cadence, his body language told a different story.

Stiff. Jittery. Like moving at all was painful.

Then, without another word, he spun dramatically on his heel and began power-walking down the hallway — his pace was just fast enough to be irritating for you.

 

“Please — TRY to keep up!”

 

You cringed.

The way his body screamed discomfort while his tone oozed forced charm was… sickening.

Maybe riling him up on purpose wasn’t the smartest move…

Then again, you weren’t about to let him get the upper hand.

You quickly followed after the washed up man, wherever the hell he was dragging you now.

Notes:

Sorry for this chapter being a bit longer! I’m trying to get this surface level stuff out of the way so we can get so some of the juicier bits, so these next chapter might be as long if not longer

Chapter 4: Imbalance

Summary:

After running into the absolute last person you ever wanted to see again, things somehow get worse. Not only is he still insufferable, he’s made it his personal mission to make the start of your new job as difficult—and petty—as possible.

Notes:

Thank you for all the feedback I truly appreciate it!! Please keep interacting etc. with how you feel about the story overall it’s fun to read your thoughts and opinions. Again thank you!

A lot is crossing your mind right now.

Like, for example, the fact that this man — the one you have a concerning amount of unresolved baggage with — could totally just suplex you into the nearest wall and no one would hear your screams.

Or maybe he’d lock you in the same supply closet where he keeps all the paranoid, trembling employees who dare to ask for help.

Or—

 

He stopped. Abruptly.

 

He had finally ended his aggravating speed walk.

Before you could spiral into another worst-case scenario in your head (like being forced to eat cardboard props for the rest of your life), you finally took a second to look around.

 

This was a dead end.

 

There were only two doors at the end of the hall, positioned diagonally from one another. Opposite walls. No exit.

One was labeled — not at all subtly—

 

Mr. ANT Tenna’s Office

 

The other door? No label. Just… stains…

You had no idea what they were from. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

 

This was it, wasn’t it?

 

You’d had a good run. You threw a few low blows. Wounded his ego a little.

And now he was going to strangle you here and hang your corpse from his dressing rack — maybe even turn you into a makeshift punching bag for when things went wrong on set for him.

You swallowed and tilted your head up to look at him.

You hadn’t even realized how much you were sweating.

He was still facing away from you — and, much to your dismay, still hadn’t said a word.

 

That alone was… weird…

Unsettling, even.

 

It wasn’t like him to be quiet this long.

You swore you could smell something burning.

Not fire exactly — more like something was overheating. And beneath it, the faint, desperate whine of internal fans struggling to stay discreet.

Just as you were on the cliff of saying something, anything, he jolted.

His head tilted back, a stiff jerk of motion like he was rebooting again mid-thought. Then he turned to face you, slowly, deliberately.

His screen flickered once — then twice— then his face was plastered with another smile. This one felt different, it felt malicious. 

“WELL!”

 he said, far too cheerful. 

“Here we are!”

 

You blinked.

His hand lifted, and with the same flair he used on his  game show, he gestured toward the door with the blinding gold encased logo:

 

Mr. ANT Tenna’s Office.

 

“As you can see,” 

he went on, practically glowing with his new sense of smugness, 

“this is my personal, carefully calibrated, creative headquarters — highly classified, obviously. So… off-limits.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he cut you off with a too-loud clap and an exaggerated pivot toward the door across from it. The unlabeled one. The stained one.

 The knot inside you pulled stronger. He wouldn’t…

“AND THIS-,” 

he cooed almost mockingly,

 “will be your designated workspace!”

 

You stared at the door.

Then at him.

Then back at the door.

 

 

This absolute jackass-

 

“It’s of course got character,”

 he added quickly. 

“A few funky smells, SURE — but that’s just the smell of opportunity! Or possibly paint fumes! Or something else entirely — who can say?”

 

Your silence was deafening. It was now your turn to try to not “flip your lid.” 

 

“I mean, of course I would offer my office…,” 

 

he said, shifting his weight as if this whole debacle left him so excited he could barely stand still,

 

 “but… you know how important it is that I have space to think. To create. To breathe. You understand dontcha’ [Y/N]?”

 

He looked so utterly full of himself that you had to resist all urges to somehow slap him, even if he towered over you.

 

He wasn’t just being passive-aggressive.

He was daring you to make this a problem.

 

You tilted your head, giving him a smile just as fake as his. Both expressions hiding how you two truly felt.

“Yes of course Mr. Tenna, thank you,” you muttered somehow. 

“You are absolutely welcome!,” he beamed.

 “I really just am the picture of HOSPITALITY!”

You looked at the stained door again, the scent of mildew already creeping under the threshold. It already had started to give you a premature migraine.

And then you stepped towards it — calm, slow, unbothered.

 

But your blood was boiling.

This was just his pathetic little way of flaunting power over you.

 

Childish. Predictable.

But you were patient.

 

You knew better than to react — better than to give him the satisfaction of seeing you annoyed over something as petty as a moldy storage closet.

 

Still…

 

His brightly lit, smug little screen of a face made it really hard not to react.

 

What an absolute douchebag. 

 

Just as you were about to force your way into the moist, mildew-scented closet and finally get yourself situated for this hell of a job—

Tenna grabbed your shoulder.

You shuddered immediately, unable to stop your body’s raw reaction.

 

It was the first time he’d touched you after all this time.

And you weren’t even remotely prepared for it.

 

You turned your head to look at him — and immediately remembered why you’d spent so many sleepless nights fantasizing about throwing this bastard into traffic.

 

He was grinning.

Wide. Showy. Almost giddy.

 

It was the biggest, almost sincere smile you’d seen from him since you arrived.

“Since you’re here to ‘rejuvenate’ the TV Time brand,” he said sweetly, 

 “please do remember to run all changes by me first. No matter who made that phone call, I’m still the lead man around here.”

 

His grip loosened slightly.

 

You exhaled — involuntarily. You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath.

 

“Don’t break a leg, TIGER! See you during the performance — we’re live in 30!!”

 

Then came the pat on the back.

 

Awkward. Hesitant. Almost like he regretted it the moment he made contact.

You stood frozen as his loud, uneven footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Skittering. Retreating. Just like old times.

 

You weren’t quite sure which was worse:

The idea that when he first saw you he might’ve tried to rekindle whatever twisted, burnt-out mess existed between you…

Or the idea that he was now treating you like one of his shitty overworked interns —

Only this time, you were an intern he especially took a very personal pleasure in tormenting.

 

Again only one single thought had reoccurred in your mind. 

 

 

What an ABSOLUTE douchebag. 

Chapter 5: Pressure Fracture

Summary:

You had a plan. A strategy. But Tenna always did know how to knock you off balance — especially when you were just starting to find your footing again.

Notes:

I sound like a broken record at this point but, thank you???? So happy with how the story is being received so far!! And don’t y’all worry it’s only getting juicier from here 😋

After spending the first few unfortunate minutes in your new personal hell — a storage closet that smelled like feet and somehow felt…wet??— you finally got your shit together.

You’d let him get in your head, sure. You could admit  that.

This entire situation overall wasn’t ideal to you. 

Hell — him interacting with you at all wasn’t ideal to you.

And the touching?

God, how gross. How embarrassing. Why had you reacted so harshly to that?

No — screw that. It didn’t matter.

You reminded yourself for the hundredth time now: 

 

 You had shit to do.

 

 

— And with less than twenty minutes now to prepare.

 

If there’s one thing you remembered about Tenna, it’s that he never knew when to stop.

Not when to stop probing. Not when to stop pushing.

So you knew this whole “closet office” debacle was just the beginning.

He was going to try something else. Probably something even worse next time.

 

But you weren’t going to let him get his way.

 

In the remainder of your limited prep time before TV Time went live, you ran through every possible situation you could think of him putting you in.

Mapped out each scenario. Each angle. Every trap he might try to lead you in.

And in return?

You made yourself a plan.

A clean, calculated, ironclad course of action — no matter which way things played out.

 

You couldn’t wait for him to come at you.

 

 

Because you’d sure as hell be ready this time.

 

 

Just as you finish placing the last few items from your bag onto your wobbly excuse for a desk—thank god he at least had the decency to give you a desk—you hear a soft knock at the door.

 

The knob turns, and the door creaks open just enough to reveal a figure in the gap. Not as tall as Tenna, but tall in a more normal sense.

They’re most likely security you thought, judging by the uniform and the no-nonsense type tone.

 

“Excuse me? [Y/N]?” he says, voice polite but stiff. “We’re live in five. Tenna asked me to escort you backstage.”

 

Escort?

 

What were you, a toddler?

 

You’re not the one having daily meltdowns and throwing temper tantrums resulting in everyone around you to be visibly shaken.

 

Still—whatever.

 

You sigh, grab your clipboard, and stand. Time to play along.

 

At least for the time being. 

 

By the time you were led back to the backstage area, the show had already started.

And there it was again — that sick, twisting feeling in your gut.

 

Nostalgia.

 

What a curse.

 

It felt like yesterday you’d watch him rehearse his ridiculous theatrics on loop — obsessing over every gesture, every line delivery — desperate to make them perfect before a performance.

 

He always wanted your feedback. Your critiques.

Hell, sometimes it seemed like your attention was all he really wanted.

 

 

Now, here you were again — watching him perform.

 

 

But this time? The intention behind it was completely different.

 

You swallowed the bitter pang that stirred in your chest and kept your eyes locked on him from your position backstage.

 

 

What are you up to, you shitty CRT television.

 

“Ladies, gentlemen, and HOMUNCULI of all ages—

Do we have a TREAT for you today!”

 

He boomed, voice bursting with natural prestige.

While the man had so many faults — and god, there’s too many that you could list — this was never one of them.

 

Stage presence? 

Never was his weak point.

If anything, it was his greatest asset.

 

Up there, he looked untouchable. Timeless. Like the spotlight had been made just for him, and he knew exactly how to wield it.

 

You used to admire that.

Used to.

 

But not anymore.

 

You fought the urge to let your lips curl into a smile.

Maybe — maybe — you could’ve even enjoyed the show… if you didn’t know what a complete and utter dick the host was.

 

“And now, folks—this treat isn’t some inanimate object made for consumption!”

 

Tenna’s voice rang out.

 

“Our treat for today’s broadcast is, in fact… a VERY— special guest!”

“Someone especially near and dear to my circuits…”

 

Tenna’s voice dripped with an artificial sweetness, every syllable slipping off his tongue. His screen seemed to glow brighter, pulsing like he was savoring every second of his big reveal.

 

“A real Dark World celebrity, if I do say so myself! Known far and wide for stepping in just when things are looking a little… dim, and breathing new life into the places that need it most — unlike our censors!”

 

You froze.

 

No way.

 

Even knowing how ridiculous he could be, this felt low — even for him.

 

He let the audience laugh and cheer — like he wanted you to hear it. A reminder that he still had a spotlight. That they were still watching him. Praising him. Eating up every word.

 

“And now…”

 

he continued,

 

 “…they’ve graciously decided to set their sights on our very own TV Time Studios! How LUCKY— are we, folks?”

 

The audience erupted again. The pause that followed was dramatic. Intentional. His screen seemed to flash even brighter, the glow now blinding.

 

“So please! Give a round of applause for our newest behind-the-scenes sensation… the ONE, the ONLY — [Y/N]!”

 

 

 

What. the. FUCK.

 

 

 

You’d considered this might happen — envisioned it as one of Tenna’s many possible stunts — but still, actually seeing it unfold felt literally insane?

 

He was using what you’d once been vulnerable with him about — on live television.

 

Of course he remembered how much you hated crowds — how the feeling of all those eyes could make your stomach twist and your lungs seize. And now, he was purposefully dragging that fear out of you. For amusement. For fun.

 

You felt a cold sweat break across your skin.

 

When you turned, the entire crew was already staring at you. Wide-eyed. Like deer caught in headlights. There were layers to their expressions — too many to pick apart in one glance — but the message was painfully clear:

 

“Oh god, we’re so sorry he’s doing this to you, but please, for the love of everything, get on stage before he sets the studio on fire.”

 

You almost laughed. Almost. The dumb little inner voice you’d just assigned to these strangers was the only thing keeping you somewhat grounded.

But that feeling vanished the second your eyes had finally landed on the empty spotlight waiting for you on stage.

 

It wasn’t just waiting.

It was ready to swallow you whole.

 

Before you could begin hyperventilating your eyes had caught on something else on that stage.

 

Him.

 

His body language radiated smugness, a grin so wide it looked like it stretched well past the edges of his screen.

 

 

 

That was it. That was all it took.

 

 

Something in you had finally snapped.

 

 

Just seeing him so blissfully proud of this whole fiasco he had created—

 

 

You wanted to see him falter. Wince. Break. Cry.

 

 

You wanted to be the one to ruin him, piece by piece, by any means necessary.

 

 

 

You could practically feel the wave of relief radiating off the backstage crew the moment you had finally decided to step towards the stage.

Chapter 6: “Banter”

Summary:

What begins as a forced moment in the spotlight quickly unravels into something far more complicated. Tensions rise, boundaries blur, and nothing unfolds the way either of you had expected.

Notes:

Okay so this chapter is way longer than any of the others I’ve posted, which is either a good OR bad thing. Anyways this chapter is juicy that’s why I wanted To stretch it out a bit. Enjoyyyy 😏

You’d forgotten how hot spotlights felt on your skin.

So overbearing — so suffocating.

You resisted the urge to bolt offstage, to vanish into the dark and never return.

But your pride had held you steady.

Your legs carried you forward, one step at a time, as the blinding spotlight tracked your every move now. Tenna had no idea just how much more poised you were in settings like this now.

Sure, the weight of every eye in the room still made you want to projectile vomit everywhere just like the past — but unlike before, you’d trained yourself to silence that survival instinct. You knew how to counter it now.

 

And he had no fucking clue.

 

He had no idea that the second you stepped under that light, he lost control.

 

That thought alone made your heart surge with something.

 

The audience’s applause only grew louder as you reached center stage.

And of course — there he was. The walking trash heap beside you. Tenna was practically vibrating from the satisfaction radiating off him.

 

You locked eyes.

 

He looked smug.

 

I’ll show you a fucking show, you box-headed cunt—

 

No. Focus.

 

You could curse him out later. Right now? You had to nail everything about your performance on this stage.

He extended the mic toward you with performative flair. You stepped up — but the second you reached for it, you felt the resistance.

 

Oh.

 

He was tightening his grip.

 

Just enough to make it awkward. Just enough to force a little public struggle. Just enough to remind you — he thought he still had the upper hand.

 

You yanked it from him anyway.

 

You didn’t look at the crowd. You Just raised the mic and spoke:

 

“Why thank you, Mr. Tenna.”

 

Your voice came out smooth — hiding the tremble surging through your chest like a battle cry. Thank god you’d practiced public speaking after the two of you had cut contact.

 

You turned to the audience, air caught in your lungs, and still managed to deliver your next line:

 

“And more so thank you, audience, for the warmest welcome!”

 

You then offered them a small, gracious smile. That’s all you could muster under the circumstances — but it was enough.

 

Enough to hold the room.

Enough to knock the wind out of him.

 

You stole a glance at Tenna. He was still smiling, but it was straining now. The cracks were forming. You could see it.

 

Poor thing.

 

You continued, voice dripping like honey now with your newfound confidence:

 

“I know you all were probably expecting something… quite different for today’s broadcast.”

 

You paced a step to the side, letting the suspense build.

 

“But sometimes… surprises are great for ratings.”

 

A few chuckles from the crowd. Uneven — but genuine.

 

From the corner of your eye, you saw Tenna twitch.

 

“Now we all know this studio’s been through quite a lot,”

you said, giving your words a slightly exaggerated flair much like Tenna was doing earlier. It landed well — a few more laughs rippled through the audience.

“And yes, some things around here? They’re underperforming. Outdated. A little… past their prime.”

 

You gestured to Tenna without even looking at him.

 

The crowd erupted again, thinking it was all in good fun. Just friendly banter between colleagues.

 

But the two of you knew better.

Every word was meant to hit where it hurt.

 

“But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” you said, finally meeting his screen. “To help.”

 

You watched the flicker of unease spark behind the shine of his screen. That little jolt in his posture. He didn’t like this. Not one bit.

 

Because you weren’t just surviving this.

 

You were taking over.

 

You smiled like the moment was truly tender to you.

 

“So folks — here’s to turning things around. Together.”

 

Then, with a casual pivot, you turned to Tenna. Tilted your head just enough to be caught on camera — just enough to read like playful banter.

 

“Try to keep up, Mr. Tenna — I know it’s been a while since you’ve had to share the spotlight.”

 

The room exploded in applause and laughter.

You slipped the mic back into Tenna’s hand, sparing him one more final glance.

You watched as his grin spasmed — twitched. For just a split second, you saw how truly bewildered he was.

 

You’d rattled him.

 

That alone gave you a rush.

 

You didn’t bother looking back as you exited the stage.

Instead, you let yourself imagine how ridiculous he must’ve looked standing up there now — spotlight still on, applause fading, ego thoroughly bruised.

That image alone gave you your first genuine smile since stepping foot in this place.

 

Backstage, the crew’s eyes were on you again — but this time, it wasn’t deterring. It was… light. Charged.

There was a buzz in the air now, one that had shifted entirely in your favor.

You heard voices calling out as you passed:

 

“Great job out there, [Y/N]! You’re a natural!”

 

“WOW, you didn’t start sobbing mid-sentence like I would’ve — how do you even do that?”

 

More cheers, a few laughs, and even some claps followed you down the corridor.

 

The sudden wave of positivity wrapped around you like a blanket — and it had almost made up for the fact you now had to return to your damp, mildew-scented closet-of-an-office.

 

But as you reached the hallway, you heard something strange.

 

Was that—

 

Commercials?

 

Already?

 

 

The show had just gone live. Why the hell were they already on a break?

Then you heard something else.

Faint — but still loud enough to echo from backstage all the way to where you stood.

 

“WHERE DID THEY GO?!?”

 

Oh god.

 

Okay, so earlier when you joked that the TV-headed man might strangle you to death?

 

Yeah, that had only been a slight exaggeration then.

 

Now?

 

You were definitely getting strangled to death.

 

Especially since you began to hear the heavy, furious stomping heading directly toward you.

 

You felt the utter panic kick in.

 

When you said “Try to keep up, Mr. Tenna,” this is not what you meant — JESUS CHRIST.

 

You hit metaphorical four-wheel drive and bolted down the hallway. But with Tenna’s stupidly long legs, he could probably catch up in, like, three steps.

 

And for some twisted reason?

 

You were… kinda excited.

 

God. Get a grip. What is wrong with you?

 

You skidded around the corner — and then you remembered something devastating from earlier.

 

This was a dead end.

 

This. Was. A. Dead. End.

 

God dammit.

 

Before you could even think of a new escape route, you heard him.

Right behind you at the end of the hall.

You didn’t have to see him to know he was there — the heavy steps stopped just short of your heels. You could hear the way he was breathing — sharp, uneven. Either from the short burst of exertion, or just pure frustration.

 

You’d take the ladder towards either.

 

And one thing was clear:

 

He was mad.

 

No — mad wasn’t even the right word.

 

He was ENRAGED.

 

And you?

You were cornered.

 

Of all the places to die, you never imagined it would be next to a door stained with god-knows-what.

But there was no turning back now.

 

“Was that supposed to be funny?”

 

His voice was low — frayed and worn down, pitched a full octave deeper than usual.

 

He didn’t bother keeping up appearances.

No audience to charm.

No spotlight to bask in.

 

Just him.

 

And you.

 

And the splinters of his ego scattered all over the floor.

 

You didn’t answer right away.

Mostly because you were trying really hard not to laugh.

Instead, you inhaled — slow and deliberate — before finally turning to face him.

 

He looked unhinged.

 

Every bit of that flashy, performative persona from earlier? Gone.

What was left was raw. Wild. Desperately animalistic.

You could’ve sworn you saw fangs jolting from his clenched teeth.

 

“C’mon,” you said, voice light, teasing.

“You shove me on stage, and now you’re upset I did well? Doesn’t really scream ‘gracious host’ to me.”

 

You could see it — the way your tone chipped away at what little restraint he had left.

His screen flickered with a blinking blue error message before he barked back:

 

“You made a JOKE out of me. On my own show.”

 

The words came out like a growl — like that was the only setting he could get to work.

 

 

You were loving every second of this.

 

“Oh?”

You tilted your head.

“So we’re just pretending that dragging me on stage wasn’t your little attempt at doing the exact same thing?”

 

That landed.

His silence told you everything.

 

It wasn’t that you’d made a solid point — he didn’t care about logic.

But you’d turned his own game against him, and now he was recalculating, scrambling for a comeback that wouldn’t sound like a tantrum.

 

You took a step forward.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t back down.

 

Good.

 

“You know what’s funny?”

You murmured, voice dropping just enough to sharpen the tension.

“I knew you’d pull something like this. So I planned ahead. For you.”

 

A pause.

 

“You’re still the same, Tenna. Exactly the same as back then. And you probably always will be.”

 

He ignored your final remark.

 

“OH-HO-OH — so you planned accordingly?”

 

His voice echoed down the narrow hall, distorted with static and something razor-edged beneath it.

 

“That’s your thing now, right?” he sneered.

“So polished. So perfect.”

 

Each word oozed venom — his tone dipping lower, darker. Sharper. Like he wanted to cut you just by speaking.

Yet you didn’t flinch.

 

“If you’re comparing me to you, then no — you’re not wrong.”

Your delivery was dry. Brutal. Calm.

 

“And hey — flattered you finally noticed your downsides.”

 

His grin twitched violently. Too wide now. Strained at the corners like it had been on stage.

He took a step forward — and when you didn’t flinch, he took another.

You could feel the heat rolling off him now, like the neon buzz in his circuits was radiating straight from his chest.

The heat was beginning to burn the nerve endings in your face.

Still, you refused to back down.

 

“You love this, don’t you?” he breathed, voice curling into something manic — yet somehow controlled.

His grin spread even wider as he loomed in front of you.

“Coming in here. Pretending like you’re just here to do a good deed — help us out. ‘Revitalize the studio,’ right?”

 

He leaned in, words nearly pressed into your skin like the heat that was already there.

“But let’s not kid ourselves. You didn’t come here to fix anything.”

 

You tried to even your breath, but his closeness — it was making you falter.

 

“You came here to get my attention.”

 

“Go ahead —” he taunted. “Admit it.”

 

Oh god.

Why was he so close?

 

You tried to keep your mind sharp, tried to think of something to say — something witty — but it was taking all your focus just to keep it out of the damn gutter.

 

And that’s when you felt it.

 

That familiar heat, low and slow, starting to pool in your stomach like a warning.

You shoved it down.

 

You decided to focus on the only thing that didn’t make you spiral.

 

How much you hated this guy.

 

You noticed the way he hung on your silence like it meant something.

Like he needed your answer.

That desperation helped anchor you — gave you back just enough control to speak.

 

“I didn’t come here for you,”

you said, voice low, almost a wheeze.

“If I’d known the job was at this shithole, I would’ve never accepted.”

 

His grin didn’t falter — but his screen glistened. Just briefly.

 

“Then why are you still here?”

 

He didn’t back away. If anything, he leaned in further — his screen just inches from your face now, glowing hot enough to sting.

You could feel his stare raking over your expression, scanning for the crack, the tremble, the tell.

 

And the worst part?

 

You didn’t have a good answer.

 

You hadn’t even figured out who offered you this job.

You hadn’t found anything redeemable about this wretched place.

And no amount of paycheck or pride seemed worth sharing air with this narcissist one second longer than necessary.

 

So why were you still here?

 

And why did your pulse jump every time he got this close?

 

You could see it — the way he fed off your hesitation.

Like the fact you didn’t have an immediate comeback was some kind of twisted validation for him. A reward.

 

So instead of giving him more to gloat about, you held his stare.

Tense. Unyielding.

Refusing to give him the satisfaction of even the smallest reaction.

 

No flinch.

No crack.

No weakness.

 

“…Uhh, boss? We’re back on in ten.”

 

The voice cut through the tension.

 

You glanced past Tenna to see the same little crew member from earlier — the one who had bolted the moment you two fist had encounter each other today.

He stood at the edge of the hallway now, clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t witnessing whatever the hell this was.

 

Judging you both.

 

Hard.

 

You glanced back toward Tenna.

Was he… blushing?

 

The sudden presence of a third party snapped both of you out of the moment — and that’s when it hit you just how close the two of you had been standing.

Too close…

 

You both stepped back at the same time.

 

Tenna had immediately began brushing off imaginary dust from his suit, like that would somehow restore his dignity.

 

“O-OF COURSE! Thank you! Truly — employee of the month material right there! Ha… ha…”

 

The strained laugh did nothing to soften the disgusted look plastered across the crew member’s face.

 

Ew.

This was getting unbearably awkward.

 

You decided you needed to get the hell out of there — even if it meant hiding in your smelly little office closet for the rest of the day.

 

“I have work to do,”

you said quickly, already stepping back,

“so… I’ll be in there now.”

 

Tenna glanced at you, then turned and started heading back toward his employee.

 

“Of course! GREAT idea, [Y/N]!”

 

God. Did this guy have a flip-switch for personalities?

 

Just before he slipped out of view, he tossed one final thing over his shoulder:

 

“Oh — and [Y/N]? Before you leave tonight… stop by my office.”

Chapter 7: Off Script

Summary:

A tense late-night meeting causes buried feelings to bubble to the surface. Neither one of you seem to handle this well.

As soon as you escaped into your smelly makeshift office, you slammed the door shut behind you — landing your back against it with more force than necessary. You slid down until you hit the floor, arms wrapping around your knees, breath ragged.

 

From the distance, you could hear it — Tenna making his grand reappearance on stage.

Like nothing had happened back here.

No crack in his persona whatsoever. Just the same old showman — like the two of you hadn’t almost turned a screaming match into the world’s most heated make out session just minutes ago.

 

The censors would've really killed you two then. 

 

You tried to steady your breathing, but it was useless. Each inhale came shallow and pained, like you’d just sprinted a marathon.

 

You’d had your fair share of shitty first days on the job before — but this?

This took the cake. By miles.

 

A long, defeated groan clawed its way out of your chest. You dropped your head onto your folded arms, resting atop your knees.

 

What even was that?

 

That wasn’t you. That wasn’t him, either — not really. It was like something primal had short-circuited in both of you.

How did he rile you up so easy like that?

 

Why did your body react like that?

You felt it now — the wave of shame rolling in hot and fast, settling low in your guts. That hollow, crawling guilt you could only describe as post-nut clarity, despite the very glaring lack of any nut.

You’d never wanted to simply cease existing so badly.

 

Whatever that was can’t happen again.

Ever.

In the history of ever.

 

After a few more shameful minutes of trying to physically recover, you finally forced yourself to get back on track.

TV Time Studios wasn’t going to revive itself.

 

You dragged yourself over to your crappy desk and fired up your laptop, pulling up the latest ratings and internal reports for the brand. You scrolled through pages of analytics, performance charts, viewer evaluations—until you were so sick of looking at line graphs you thought you might pass out.

 

Time passed.

Hours, maybe.

 

Eventually, you heard the end of the broadcast echo faintly through the building. No more surprises. Just the familiar post-show shuffle — footsteps, voices, laughter. Staff clocking out, escaping this place before they had to do it all again tomorrow.

 

Then came the sound of him.

 

Tenna’s footsteps were unmistakable — loud, heavy, exaggerated like always.

You heard his office door open.

 Then, a dull thud, some clattering, and some swearing…

 

You winced.

 

Then you painfully remembered what he’d said to you earlier:

“Before you leave tonight… stop by my office.”

You glanced at the time on your laptop.

9:48 p.m.

 

Technically? You could leave now. And you should. You’d more than earned your exit — hell, you should’ve had your name engraved on the damn exit sign for everything you endured today.

But you already knew that if you tried to slip out now, Tenna would never let it go. You’d hear about it the moment you walked in tomorrow — maybe even indefinitely, knowing him.

 

So you decided to save yourself the future headache, suck it up, and just get this over with.

 

With how awkwardly short the distance was between your offices, you were already standing in front of his door in about two and a half steps.

 

You were once again greeted by the same gold casted nameplate:

 

“Mr. ANT Tenna’s Office.”

 

It was almost comically over the top.

 

Were you supposed to knock? It’s not like he wasn’t expecting you… unless he assumed you’d fled the building with everyone else.

 

Maybe he was in there, completely broken from all the chaos of the day. Maybe he was slumped at his desk, hunched over in defeat, a tear or two forming where his eyes would be—

The image was delicious to you.

 

Still, you decided to give him the dignity of preserving whatever remained of his self-image. You knocked.

No answer.

 

You debated whether that was your cue to leave — pretend you’d never heard him come in here at all. But something kept your hand hovering over the handle anyway.

 

You opened the door.

 

Tenna didn’t even look up.

 

He was seated behind his desk, legs kicked up on the surface, leaning back in his chair. He wanted to look cool — calm, unaffected — but you could see through it. The faint warping at the edges of his screen gave him away.

Something was wrong.

 

Honestly, you would’ve preferred to walk in on him crying. That would’ve been more satisfying.

 

Was that a glass of whiskey on his desk?

 

Before you could question further you realized the air was thick. Too thick. Like something congealed in the silence and refused to clear.

 

So you broke it.

“You wanted something, Mr. Tenna?”

You savored the formality. It made you sound professional — but really, you were just honestly trying to be an asshole. Win-win.

 

He finally looked up at you.

And in that moment, you saw it.

 

Underneath the theatrics, past the false bravado — 

His utter exhaustion.

 

Tenna hadn’t responded right away.

 

Just stared at you from behind that monitor — his posture lazy, but his screen flickering ever so faintly. A soft, pulsing distortion. Like he was buffering emotions too complex to process for his outdated motherboard. 

 

“You’re late,” he said eventually, voice low and a bit scratchy. Not angry. Not petty. Just… tired.

 

You raised a brow.

 

“It’s not like you gave me a certain time to get here?”

 

“Well...” 

 

He tapped the rim of the glass on his desk.

 

 “Still feels rude — I was even considering filing a complaint!”  

 

He let out a dry chuckle. 

 

It was almost pitiful how unfunny that was.

 

Still, you just stood there, waiting for him to continue — arms hanging awkwardly at your sides because you didn’t know what the hell to do with them.

 

“So,” 

 

you blurted,

 

“what’s this about?”

 

Tenna slowly swung his feet off the desk, the chair creaking beneath his weight as he leaned forward and set the glass of liquor aside. He folded his hands — slowly — then tilted his head at you.

 

“I wanted to talk...”

 

You blinked.

 

 “About?”

 

He shrugged. 

 

“Us. You. What you’re doing here.”

 

“That’s… pretty vague.”

 

His smile twitched, crooked like it was difficult to keep plastered.

 

“Look, I get it. You hate me. I can’t change the past. Blah blah blah, whatever.”

 

You hadn’t even said anything — but clearly, that didn’t matter. He was already spiraling, tossing out accusations like he had already been arguing with a ghost version of you in his head.

 

He waved a hand dismissively, like brushing away a fly.

 

“But you came here to fix this place—”

 

You barely caught the sigh he muttered under his breath.

 

“—right? That’s your talent now?”

 

You didn’t answer, just gave a short quick nod. You were still trying to figure out where he was going with this.

 

Tenna leaned back in his chair again, trying to give off the impression that he couldn’t care less. But you caught the way his fingers tapped against the armrest — quick, restless.

 

“I mean, not that I’m complaining!”

 

 he added with mock cheer. 

 

“God knows we needed some kind of shake-up around here. The lights were practically fizzling out before you showed, HA—”

 

He flashed you a grin that barely reached upwards

.

“Guess we’re sooo lucky you swooped in when you did, huh?”

 

He let the sarcasm drip heavier now.

 

“Although...” 

 

he continued, tone light yet firm,

 

 “...for someone who's job it is to fix places, you sure seem like you’d rather watch this place burn to the ground.”

 

You narrowed your eyes.

 

 “What the hell is that even supposed to mean?”

 

He shrugged, all performative innocence.

 

“Just saying. Most people who sign up to be a fixer at least pretend to like the broken things. You? You act like you’re doing — community service.”

 

Wow.

 

You’d been here for  one day and he was already doing what he always did to you — twisting you into some warped narrative — making you to seem like some conniving bitch. Like he hadn’t known you for years. Like he hadn’t once trusted you with everything.

 

You took a slow step forward.

 

“So that’s why you dragged me on stage today?” 

 

you asked, voice flat. 

 

“To test  whether or not if I can pretend good enough?”

 

“No. That was just for fun.”

 

You stared daggers into him.

 

Great. So was this just another elaborate ploy he set up to mess with you? You still couldn’t figure out what the hell the motive was here.

 

“Anyways!!”

 

he carried on, voice breezy — too breezy,

 

“You're what, twenty-four hours into this gig? And already diving into ratings, project files, staff evaluations? Pretty bold for a first day — if you’re asking me.”

 

Your heart sank.

 

How the hell did he know that?

 

Had this freak peeked at your laptop while you were in the bathroom or something?

 

He must’ve seen the look on your face, because his grin returned — softer now. Not cocky. Just… knowing.

 

“I mean, [Y/N],” 

 

he said, casually flicking something nonexistent off his sleeve.

 

“you didn’t seriously think I’d let someone waltz in here without keeping tabs… even if it was you, did you?”

 

That made your blood run cold. 

 

He leaned forward now, elbows propped lazily on the desk, head tilted like this was all one big joke.

 

“You forget who runs this place,”

 

 he said, voice solid.

 

 “I see everything that goes on. I have to.”

 

There was a glint in his screen that wasn’t quite playful. Not quite a threat, either. But it coiled in your gut all the same.

 

He quickly added, all faux charm:

 

“It's all for safety measures, of course!”

 

And then came that grin again — too wide, too bright. Like he’d just said something adorable instead of deeply unhinged. 

 

Sicko.

 

For another moment, you didn’t speak. Your mind raced — replaying every action from today, every file you’d opened, every document you’d skimmed.

 

And he’d been watching the entire time?

 

That’s when it clicked.

 

This wasn’t just some casual post-show debrief. There was an ulterior motive behind all this.

 

He was trying to intimidate you. To make you second-guess everything. To make the job feel too big, too messy — to make him feel too powerful to challenge. A quiet reminder that every inch of this studio — every light, every camera, every anxious employee — reported to him.

 

All of this was some sort of thinly veiled warning.

Don’t push too far. Don’t try to change too much.

 

Your eyes finally wandered the room — the gaudy posters, the tacky retro decor, the over-polished desk, the half-empty whiskey glass teetering at the edge.

 

And then you looked right back at him.

 

He really loved underestimating you at this point — some old habits just refused to die, didn’t they?

 

“So that’s what this is? Your pathetic little attempt to intimidate me?”

 

You felt the smirk began to grow from the corner of your lips.

 

His antennae twitched, giving away that he hadn’t expected this reaction. 

 

“I—That’s… an inaccurate assumption.” 

he sputtered forcefully

 

You saw a single bead of sweat now appear on his display. 

 

You stepped forward closer to his stupid desk, watching as his tapping fingers had entirely stopped moving.

 

“I’m not scared of you, Tenna. And if this was your best shot at making me second-guess why I’m here?”

 

You planted your hands on the edge of his desk, leaning in as you narrowed your gaze at him. You saw him swallow. 

 

“You’ll have to try harder.”

 

He hadn't responded right away.

 

He just stared at you — antennae twitching slightly, screen dimmed at the corners. You could practically hear his fans whirring as he tried — and failed — to reboot whatever script he’d planned in his head.

You’d shattered it.

…and the realization was clearly not sitting well.

 

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

 

“I didn’t—” 

 

he started, then stopped. His fingers drummed once against the desk before curling into a loose fist.

 

“I didn’t bring you here to… scare you.”

 

His voice cracked at the end like it surprised him, too.

You didn’t move.

 

“I just—” 

He sat forward too quickly, the chair creaking under the motion, and then leaned back like he regretted it instantly. 

“I thought maybe if I could… remind you how things worked around here—”

 

You raised an eyebrow.

 

“Right…” 

you said, your voice flat.

 “And how’s that going for you so far?”

 

He flinched — visibly. Like you’d just landed a slap.

 

“I mean, not—not as expected,”

 he rushed out, suddenly speaking too fast. 

“It was more of a general vibe thing, not like, uh, an actual intimidation tactic, per se—”

 

He cut himself off. Realized how ridiculous he sounded.

Then groaned and slapped a hand over his screen like that would somehow erase what just happened.

You heard him muttering what you could only assume were curses into his palm.

 

The honesty of his body language stunned you into silence.

And that silence? It made it worse for him. You could tell.

 

Tenna then slowly dragged his hand down his faceplate and exhaled with an exaggerated volume, like he was trying to force-cool his own internal drives.

 

“I’m just saying,” 

he finally muttered, screen still half-hidden behind his hand,

 “this place used to really be something. And now everyone’s going to be waiting around for you to make it better. I didn’t think I’d have to— I don’t know—compete with you.”

 

You blinked.

 

"Compete?”

 

“I know how that sounds,” 

he groaned again.

“Forget I said anything.”

 

His screen was glowing pink now. Pink. Not red, not blue. Straight-up embarrassed pink.

 

You took a step closer to his desk. His face flicked to you, then quickly away again.

 

The way he was acting around you now… it was familiar. You’d seen this before — that fidgety, uncertain energy. He used to get like this anytime you so much as praised him.

 

Give him even the smallest compliment, and he’d melt — turn to putty.

 

But now...

You weren’t charmed by it. Not even close.

 

You had felt a sick thrill in how embarrassed he looked. It wasn’t endearing anymore — it was now a guilty pleasure to you. 

You wanted to see how pink his screen could get, how far you could push him. How easily he’d stammer, whimper, beg you to stop. How your name might crack from his voice — whispered through static and simulated sobs—

 

JESUS CHRIST, get a grip.

 

You blinked hard, forcing that thought back into the deepest hellhole it had came from.

 

Clearly, this was something you needed to unpack later — preferably when you weren’t in a power struggle and battling full-blown intrusive delusions. (Not that he was the cause for these thoughts occurring, obviously. It’s just… been a while since you’ve gotten any. That’s all.)

 

Right.

 

You cleared your throat.

 

And — mercifully, for both your sanity and his ego — you decided to spare him from the awkward disaster this entire interaction had spiraled into.

For now.

 

“Well… Mr. Tenna,”

 

you sighed, your exhaustion was seeming to creep onto you as well.

 

“If that’s all you dragged me in here for, I’ll be heading out. It’s been a long day.”

 

He didn’t move. Just stared past you — like something had shut down mid-process.

Then, softly… barely above a whisper:

 

“It’s… weird, having you around again.”

 

You paused, your hand already on the door  handle.

 

You didn’t  look back as you replied 

 

“Goodnight, Mr. Tenna.”

 

And with that, you stepped out into the hallway, letting the door click shut behind you.

The air outside his office felt thinner somehow. Lighter.

Yet it still had tasted bitter.

 

You quickly returned to your dingy office, grabbed your bag, and shut your laptop without a second glance at the documents you’d left open. No need to linger.

The building was nearly dead quiet — just the hum of distant lights and your own footsteps echoing through empty halls. You passed by silent sets, lifeless props, and the flicker of that ever-glowing exit sign.

 

You pushed through the front doors.

Cool night air rushed in, sharp against your skin — and for the first time all day, you relaxed fully.

 

Somewhere in the Studio behind you, Tenna was still sitting alone in his office. Probably still pretending he hadn’t said anything at all.

 

And you?

 

You pulled out your phone and ordered a cab.

 

The wait felt like forever, standing there under the flickering studio sign like it might burn out any second.

When the taxi finally arrived, you didn’t look back once as you climbed in.

 

You didn’t have the energy to figure out what you were feeling.

 

Notes:

Sorry for adding the post nut clarity paragraph. I thought it was funny. I keep giggling rereading it so actually sorry-not-sorry.

Chapter 8: Home Video

Summary:

After finally making progress fixing the studio, you stumble across something you weren't meant to — and find yourself acting in ways you swore you wouldn't.

Notes:

Sorry for the delay!!! I just started some summer college classes, but do not worry dear readers. This will not slow me down on chapters, especially not since with every new chapter we are closer to smut...and trust me it will all be worth the wait...anyways ENJOY!!!!!

While yes, yesterday had easily been one of the worst days in your entire life, today you were fully prepared for whatever was in store for you at TV Time studios. 

 

Along with promising yourself to permanently repress any deeply unprofessional, wildly out-of-pocket thoughts you might’ve had about yesterday’s little…

 

… emotionally heated confrontation.

 

No hijinks. No elaborate ploys. Nothing was going to get under your skin today — or any day — during your time there now. You’d decided that before your head even hit the pillow last night.

 

And as if you were going to demonstrate that resolve to the entire workplace, you’d picked out your most professional attire this morning. Even did up your hair. You were ready to kick this fixer gig into high gear.

You had even found yourself smiling as the cab rolled closer to that unfortunately familiar buzzing sign — the same one that, just days ago, would’ve sent you into full cardiac arrest.

 

You finally stepped into the building — with an overpriced latte in hand, ready to kick today’s ass.

The atmosphere was noticeably different from yesterday. Employees looked a little less on edge, a few fewer coffees clutched like lifelines. Some were even chatting casually, without once mentioning their desire to swan-dive off the nearest rooftop.

You couldn’t tell if this image nudged you toward a sense of accomplishment… or mild, creeping paranoia.

Before you could decide how to feel about it, someone had called out to you.

 

“Hey, [Y/N]!”

 

You turned to see one of the backstage crew members — one who had been staring at you like a deer in headlights yesterday — looking a little more put-together now.

 

“Is it true? You really gonna clean up the mess around this place?”

 

That one question triggered a chain reaction. Just like when you were shoved on stage, heads turned in your direction. But this time… the expressions were different.

 

Was that hope?

 

“We can’t wait, [Y/N]!”

 

“If you survived that jerk on stage, you can survive anything!”

 

“Maybe they’ll finally make the Boss pay us a livable wage…”

 

“[Y/N], I’M GONNA NAME MY NEWBORN BABY AFTER YOU!!”

 

The sudden chorus of unfamiliar voices — paired with all the curious eyes glued to you — sent a sharp flare of anxiety straight through your chest. It was similar to how stage fright made you feel. Not quite full-blown panic, but close enough to make your palms clammy.

 

Great. Always loved having sweaty fingers.

 

Still, you weren’t about to waste the sudden attention. If they were all going to stare, you might as well give them something to listen to — and drop your first official step in this whole fixer-upper process.

 

“Ha—uh, yes! That’s the plan.”

 

You cleared your throat, like that would magically make you sound more professional.

 

“I’m actually here to announce my first official project at TV Time Studios — and I’ll need everyone’s input to make it a success.”

 

If they were glued to you before, they were super glued now.

 

As if their hyperfixation were your cue, you pulled a small box from your bag.

 

“Everyone say hello to our first official project — the Confessions Box!”

 

A few mildly disappointed looks floated around the room, but you powered through anyway.

 

“I want you all to drop in your honest opinions — what you like about the studio, what you don’t, what you think needs to change. Hell, you can even leave suggestions for what you’d want gone. Nothing’s off limits.”

 

“…Does that include, like… people? Y’know. People we want gone?”

 

You blinked.

 

“Uhh… sure? Just—don’t expect me to kill anyone. Not exactly the vibe I’m going for here.”

 

After a moment of silence you continued.

 

“I just wanted suggestions directly from you — the employees of TV Time Studios — because without you all, this place wouldn’t even be standing, let alone functioning.”

 

That line landed way better than expected. The once-disappointed stares softened into faint grins. You felt your chest swell with warmth.

Maybe this job wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

 

You made your way over to a nearby table and placed the box down with a small, decisive pat. It wasn’t anything fancy — just cardboard with a slot in the top — but it carried weight. Or at least, it would. You stood beside it like it was something revolutionary.

As employees finally began lining up to slip their confessions inside, it hit you how quiet the morning had been.

Simple. Uneventful.

Almost… too easy.

Where the hell was Tenna?

You were scanning the studio, subtly at first — just in passing glances, nothing too obvious. Or so you thought.

 

“Looking for your boyfriend?”

 

You nearly choked on air.

Your head snapped toward the voice. 

 

It was him again. The same little guy who had caught you and Tenna mid-confrontation the other day — the one who looked like he’d just walked in on a live exorcism. The little guy was now wearing a grin that was entirely too smug for your liking. He waggled his brows.

 

 “You know, the one who screamed at you yesterday and then stormed off? Romantic stuff.”

 

“I am not—” you started, face heating.

 

He held up both hands, still grinning.

 

 “Hey, no judgment. Just wondering if you knew where he was. We kinda need the guy — the broadcast goes live in an hour.”

 

That made you freeze.

 

Tenna hadn’t been seen all morning? That… wasn’t like him. For all his chaos, he never missed a spotlight. Not willingly.

 

Now you were scanning the halls for real.

Not because you were worried. Obviously.

Just… concerned about the functionality of the studio. That’s all. Strictly professional.

 

Still, with every empty hallway and silent corner, the gnawing curiosity in your gut only grew louder.

Then you thought about last night — how exhausted he looked, how flushed his face had gotten.

 

Before your brain could veer into pervy territory, a much more logical theory popped into your head: he probably just shut down in his office.

He was an outdated device, after all — his battery likely didn’t have enough charge to make it safely home.

 

So, operating under the theory that Tenna hadn’t made it anywhere else, you turned down the hall toward his office.

You passed your own godawful office-closet before finally arriving at your destination.

The door to Tenna’s office was cracked open — but the lights were off.

 

Despite the darkness, you caught the faint flicker of light from within.

Sure, this was technically a breach of privacy — but if the lights were off, he probably wasn’t even in there… right?

Quietly, you lowered your head, peering through the cracked door to get a better look at what was going on inside.

The door creaked slightly as you leaned in.

The room wasn’t pitch-black — just dim, lit by a soft, flickering glow. It took a moment to register the source. Tenna was still slumped at his desk, an empty whiskey glass nearby. His monitor was still on, casting dull light across his face. He was clearly asleep.

 

You silently cursed yourself for continuing to watch, feeling like a total creep. But your eyes shifted to the screen, finally focusing on what it was projecting.

 

It looked like footage from a phone — grainy, handheld, unpolished.

And it was you.

 

You, years ago, sitting cross-legged on a cluttered set floor, laughing so hard your shoulders shook. Tenna’s voice chimed in a moment later — snarky, smug — and the camera tilted just enough to catch the two of you mid-banter. Younger. Softer. Stupidly comfortable with each other.

 

He’d saved this?

 

The timestamp in the corner was ancient — from a time when things were still good. Before the fame. Before the fallout.

 

Your heart stumbled. You didn’t even remember this being filmed. But Tenna must’ve.

He’d kept it.

Watched it.

The playback bar was paused halfway through—

 

“YO [Y/N]! DID YOU FIND THE BOSS?!”

 

The shout rang from down the hallway.

 

You jumped, heart seizing in your chest. Inside the office, Tenna stirred — face scrunching, posture shifting. His fingers twitched on the desk.

Shit.

 

You backed away from the door like it had burned you, silently cursing the creaky hinges and your own damn curiosity. You were halfway down the hall before you even registered your footsteps.

 

He hadn’t seen you. Probably.

 

Didn’t matter. You weren’t about to linger and find out.

The rest of the day passed in an uneasy blur.

 

You checked in on the Confessions Box — which had already collected a surprising pile of notes — answered about five dozen questions from confused employees, and even managed to rearrange some broken production schedules. Progress. Sort of.

 

But your thoughts kept flicking back to Tenna.

 

You caught glimpses of him between meetings — trudging through the halls with a half-lidded gaze and a paper cup of god-knows-what clutched in one hand. He looked like hell. Sluggish, drained, barely upright.

 

No flashy remarks. No biting jokes.

Just a shell dragging itself through the motions.

 

It wasn’t like him.

 

No matter how hard you tried to shrug it off — to convince yourself it didn’t matter — the image from that morning was still stuck in your mind like background noise. That old video. Your laugh. The way he’d watched it, half-asleep with a glass of whiskey by his side.

 

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

 

Again.

And again. 

 

But somehow, without even realizing it, your feet had carried you right back to his office — bag slung over one shoulder, brain fried from too much scheduling and not enough caffeine.

 

You didn’t mean to end up there.

 

Your feet just… kept walking. Like they had a mind of their own.

The door was closed now. Still no lights on behind it. No movement.

 

Just silence.

 

You stared at it, lips pressing into a tight line.

A part of you wanted to knock. To ask if he was okay — if he’d slept at all, eaten anything, if that video on his screen actually meant what you thought it might.

 

But that part of you was small. Quiet.

 

The louder part — the one that remembered everything he did, everything he said, everything he ruined — told you to leave it alone.

 

Still.

 

You dug around in your bag until your fingers closed around a crushed granola bar, then slipped to a cold water bottle from the shared fridge. Cheap, basic, functional. You hesitated a beat longer, then crouched and placed them gently outside his door.

 

You didn’t knock. 

 

Didn’t want him to see you doing this. Didn’t want him to think it meant anything more than what it was — a tired, petty act of human decency.

 

You pulled a sticky note from your notebook and scribbled something without thinking.

 

“Don’t get used to this. Also get more sleep. You look like you’re running on fumes.”

 

You stared at the note for a moment.

It was stupid. Maybe even pathetic.

But you stuck it to the bottle anyway.

 

And then you walked away — fast, before you could change your mind.

 

You didn’t look back.

But if you had, maybe you would’ve seen the door shift just slightly.

Maybe.

Chapter 9: 360

Summary:

You walked in with hope. It didn’t last. By the end, nothing felt safe — not even your voice.

Notes:

Is the title a brat reference???? Maybe…maybe not…

You weren’t expecting a miracle. Just… maybe a little less whiplash.

It was your third day at TV Time Studios, and that annoyingly persistent voice of optimism in your chest was whispering that maybe — maybe — things would go even better today than yesterday. 

 

After all, you’d seen something real from Tenna yesterday.

 

Not a joke. Not a performance. Just him — slumped at his desk, screen glowing with some half-forgotten memory of the two of you, from when things were still good.

 

And okay, sure, maybe you’d left him a snack and a note like some kind of sentimental idiot. But that didn’t mean anything.

 

Still, you’d expected something to shift — even if it was just awkward eye contact or a muttered “thanks.” Anything to suggest a change.

 

But the second you stepped into the studio, you should’ve known better.

 

Because there he was.

 

Tenna was tap dancing on a table for attention — wide-screen grin blazing, voice slicing through the air like a buzzsaw, loudly threatening to stop paying for half the crew’s electricity bills unless someone brought him a smoothie.

 

Yeah. That flicker of hope you had?

 

It curled up and died on the spot.

 

As you stared at the debacle unfolding in front of you — far too early in the day for this kind of chaos — you had to suppress the sharp pang of disappointment rising in your chest.

 

You were an idiot for expecting anything different. He’d never changed — just like always, he spiraled into episodes and came out the other side acting like nothing happened. If anyone was to blame for hoping otherwise, it was you. For being even slightly optimistic.

Still, you weren’t about to let that derail your plans. There was too much you wanted to help with today — and with little to no time to waste.

 

As if he’d read your mind, Tenna finally glanced in your direction — noticing you for the first time today.

 

“Whyyy, GOOD MORNING — superstar!!”

 

He shouted so loudly the floor practically vibrated beneath your feet.

 

You should’ve run the second you saw him acting this way. Before he even known you were there.

 

But no. You stayed rooted, determined to keep things professional between you two.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Tenna.” you replied, not moving an inch.

 

“Ooh, don’t tell me we’re back to titles again?”

 

Tenna clutched his chest like you’d wounded him.

 

“The granola bar? The little note? Did none of that mean anything to you?! You’re COLD, [Y/N] — COLD!”

 

He delivered the line like he was already mid-broadcast — full theatrics, all eyes on him.

The surrounding employees, who’d been entertained by his ridiculous tap-dance antics, turned to look at you now — a few brows raised, some smirking.

 

Like they were trying to piece together what, exactly, he was talking about.

 

Like they were questioning you.

 

“It was a granola bar, not a reconciliation.”

 

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t even look at him for long — just long enough to make the point.

 

“Some of us have work to do today. Let me know if you plan on joining us.”

 

And with that, you turned away.

 

 

 

 

The morning marched on.

 

You buried yourself in everything that didn’t involve Tenna — which, thankfully, still amounted to a small mountain of work. You spent the better part of the day bouncing between backstage chaos and production floor fires, helping re-organize busted equipment closets, smoothing out script miscommunications, and directing clueless interns who looked at you like you’d parted the damn Red Sea.

Everywhere you went, people kept thanking you — sometimes just with their eyes, sometimes outright. And for a while, that high kept you going. You had control. Purpose. Progress.

 

But then there was Tenna.

 

Always somewhere nearby. Always too loud. Too much.

 

At first, it was subtle — a loud sip from a drink you’re pretty sure he didn’t even like. Then it was his voice echoing off the rafters with some half-baked monologue that had nothing to do with production. By midday, he’d “accidentally” dropped props near your foot. Twice. Once while locking eyes with you like it was a dare.

He wasn’t even helping with anything — just drifting from group to group like a TV-headed poltergeist, interrupting conversations, rattling off snide remarks, and somehow always popping up wherever you happened to be.

 

By hour four, your jaw was so tight you were starting to get a headache.

 

He was being impossible on purpose. You knew it. He knew you knew it. And somehow, that only made him act worse.

 

Still, you kept going.

 

Because the others were watching. Because this place still needed fixing. Because you refused to let him ruin the only shred of momentum you had created.

But god, he was getting under your skin.

And you were starting to wonder just how much longer you could hold it together.

 

So when the meeting you’d scheduled finally rolled around — a chance to lay out the changes you’d made, to show real progress — you grabbed onto it like a lifeline. Something solid. Something that couldn’t be twisted into another one of his jokes.

The crew filtered in, taking seats around the battered conference table, a few balancing clipboards or half-finished lunches. The Confessions Box sat at the front of the room, already half-full. A small, visible win.

 

You inhaled deeply and began.

 

“So far, we’ve received over sixty notes through the box. And there’s a clear message in most of them: too much chaos, not enough structure. People are tired. Frustrated. Confused. I’ve been working on that.”

 

You gestured to the pinned-up charts behind you, color-coded and clean.

 

“We’ve so far reorganized set assignments. Repaired the cue system on Stage B. Fixed two overlapping schedules that were messing up post-production. And I’ve submitted a budget request for working air conditioning in the editing suite.”

 

There were nods. Even a few impressed looks.

You were steady. Calm. Almost confident.

Until, from the back of the room, a slow clap started.

 

Tenna.

 

“Wow,” 

 

he said, drawling the word like it tasted sweet on his tongue.

 

“BRAVO! Really! It’s incredible what someone can do with a clipboard and too much time on their hands.”

 

You tensed. But didn’t stop.

 

“This is just the beginning,”

 

 you said, voice firmer.

 

 “I want this place to function. I want you all to be heard. This isn’t just about patching holes — it’s about building something that lasts.”

 

But he didn’t stop either.

 

“Right! Because nothing has ever blown up in your face before...” 

 

Tenna said, his grin wide but hollow. 

 

“Remember your big solo debut? What was it — slam poetry? A dramatic monologue?”

 

A few people chuckled — awkward, unsure if they were supposed to.

But Tenna didn’t stop.

 

“You got, what, a minute in? Lights hit, voice cracked — and BAM! Total shutdown!! I found you curled behind the prop cart, fetal position, like someone told you your dog died HA HA—“

 

He laughed. Like it was harmless. Like it wasn’t a moment that had entirely gutted you.

 

“Seriously,”

 

he added, his voice dipping into mock affection.

 

“You were sobbing for hours. And now look at you — all grown up, giving PowerPoints like a real adult. TRULY warms the circuits!”

 

He even mimed wiping tears from his screen, like the whole thing touched him.

 

Your jaw locked.

 

The laughter. The eyes. The weight of his voice — it pressed against your skull like a vice.

 

That moment he brought up — twisted into a punchline — wasn’t just embarrassing. It wasn’t just vulnerable. It was one of your lowest moments. And now he’d dragged it into the light, held it up for everyone to gawk at, like roadkill on display.

 

You tried to breathe. Tried to bite your tongue.

Tried.

 

But something in you had snapped once again.

 

 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

 

Your voice rang through the meeting — loud, sharp, impossible to ignore.

 

The room went still.

 

Your hands trembled, voice rising like water boiling over.

 

“You humiliate me in front of everyone and think it’s entertainment?! You’re so obsessed with being seen you don’t care who you hurt as long as someone laughs!??”

 

Tenna’s smugness faltered for a moment. 

 

“You think dragging up something that shattered me — something I trusted you not to use against me — makes you clever?!”

 

Your voice cracked.

 

“IT MAKES YOU CRUEL, TENNA! THAT’S ALL YOU ARE!”

 

You were screaming now — louder than you’d ever heard yourself.

 

“YOU TEAR PEOPLE DOWN JUST TO FEEL BIG! YOU HUMILIATE THEM, YOU LAUGH WHEN THEY BREAK — BECAUSE YOU CAN’T STAND NOT BEING THE LOUDEST ONE IN THE ROOM!”

 

Your breath was ragged, chest heaving.

 

“AND YOU STILL HAVE THE AUDACITY TO WONDER WHY I LEFT?!”

 

You could barely see through the red.

 

And then… you saw them.

 

The crew. The staff. The people who’d smiled at you this morning with admiration in their eyes.

 

Now? 

They were staring at you like you were something unstable. Something dangerous.

 

Just like how they looked at him when he lost it.

 As if you were the exact same. 

 

Your words died in your throat — like you’d swallowed a brick.

 

And then your vision blurred.

Hot, fast tears. 

You blinked hard. It didn’t stop.

 

Didn’t stop the tears. Didn’t stop the silence. Didn’t stop the gutting realization that — just for a moment — you’d become just like him.

 

You turned.

 

 

And you ran.

 

 

The door slammed behind you, echoing through the room like a gunshot.

 

Silence followed.

 

Not the stunned kind that fades quickly — the kind that lingers, heavy and stifling, like everyone had just witnessed something they weren’t supposed to see.

 

No one moved. 

No one breathed.

 

And in the middle of it all, Tenna sat slumped in a chair near the back, the glow of his screen dim — like even he didn’t know what the hell just happened.

The grin had vanished. His hands were now awkwardly resting on his knees, jaw slightly slack behind the static hum of his screen. 

Like a kid who just broke something expensive and doesn’t know how to fix it.

For a second, it looked like he might say something. But nothing came out.

 

Just more silence.

 

Until someone near the door muttered, barely above a whisper:

 

“Dude… you’re brutal.”

 

 

It wasn’t loud. But it cut deep.

Tenna didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

 

He just stared at the door you disappeared through — the buzz of his screen the only sound left in the room.

Chapter 10: Damage Control

Summary:

After everything that went wrong yesterday, Tenna tries to make amends with you.

Notes:

Oh boy. This is. a long. chapter. IM SORRRRRYYYYY I just wanted the pacing to feel right for this. It'll be worth the read TRUST!!! Buckle up, because this chapter is pure JUICE.

Okay, maybe he messed up yesterday.

 

Maybe he could even agree that he messed up badly.

 

But come on — it’s not like that was new.

Tenna had always messed up. That was just… part of the charm.

He’d push buttons, say the wrong thing, get under people’s skin — and yeah, sometimes they yelled, or cried, or quit. But things always settled down eventually. They’d laugh again. Move on.

 

Because that’s how it worked.

That’s how he worked.

 

He caused chaos. Then smoothed it over. Then charmed his way back in.  

But you were always different.

 

He cared about you — even if he never said it. Even when it hurt.

And now that you were finally back, after all this time?

 

He still cared. Too much.

 

That’s what scared him the most.

 

That’s why he was acting like this — spiraling, poking, pushing buttons.

Because even if you were mad at him, even if you hated his guts…

 

At least then, he knew you were still there.

At least then, he knew he still mattered.

 

So when he couldn’t find you after you ran out of the meeting, he started to panic internally.

Quietly. Desperately.

 

Way to go, Tenna!

You drove them away.

Again.

Right after they finally decided to come back.

It was fine, though — totally fine.

 

You’d be back at work tomorrow. Of course you would.

You had a job to do, and if there was one thing you were good at now, it was being painfully, stupidly professional.

So yeah, maybe you were pissed. Maybe things got a little… intense.

 

But that’s how it always was between you two, right?

 

Push, pull. Snap, crackle, pop.

 

You’d fight, maybe yell, maybe throw something at him — and then things would go back to normal.

His version of normal, anyway.

 

But the sliver of hope still flickering in his wires began to short-circuit two hours into your absence the following workday.

 

You were late.

Really late.

You were two hours late.

That wasn’t… that bad. Right?

 

Tenna couldn’t sit still.

He’d already circled the backstage halls twice, pretending to be “supervising” even though he was mostly just peeking behind curtains and awkwardly hovering by the coffee station.

Nothing. Not a trace of you.

Finally, he progressed to pestering anyone he could.

 

“Hey, YOU!”

 

he called to a lighting tech fiddling with a busted spotlight.

 

“Have you seen [Y/N] today? Y’know, fixer person, kinda judgmental stare, walks like they own the place even though they just got here?”

 

The tech blinked at him.

 

“Uh… no? Thought they weren’t coming in.”

 

Tenna’s screen flickered.

 

“They’re coming.”

 

He didn’t even believe himself.

He tried again. Different hallway. Different crew member.

 

“[Y/N] been around? I’ve got something important for them. Like, really important. Show-critical. Schedule-altering. Absolute emergency.”

 

The worker squinted at him, unconvinced.

“You mean like when you said the coffee machine was a ‘network hazard’?”

 

Tenna’s laugh came out too loud.

“Okay, but it was leaking.”

 

They gave him a look and walked away.

His circuits were buzzing now. Not in the good way.

He needed you to come in.

You had to.

 

And then—

 

“Boss?” 

 

Someone said behind him. 

 

“[Y/N] is, uh… over there.”

 

Tenna turned.

 

And there you were.

Standing by the entrance. Bag in hand.

Watching him with the flattest expression he’d ever seen on you.

 

Not angry. Not bitter. Just… neutral. 

 

Like he was a stranger.

Like you’d never even met.

 

His screen dimmed slightly.

He raised a hand — half wave, half reflex.

 

You turned.

Walked past him without a word.

 

Alright. Ouch.

 

That was fine. Nothing to panic about. Totally normal behavior. 

 

Totally cool.

 

He’d just give you some space. Since that seems to be what you wanted so bad.

You just needed time to cool off. Reset. Adjust.

 

He could do that.

He was great at boundaries.

Thirty minutes.

 

Thirty agonizing, twitchy, completely-normal minutes.

 

And then he saw you.

Across the soundstage, talking to two crew members.

You were nodding along to something they were saying. Even smiled. Smiled.

 

He froze in place, mid-step.

 

Wait. That was a smile? For them?

 

No. Nope. That was—

Okay. That was enough space.

 

He sauntered over, screen beaming just a bit too brightly, arms crossed in that classic faux-casual stance he used when he was clearly overcompensating.

 

“WOWZA — is that a smile I saw?” 

he said, loud enough for the group to hear. 

“Careful, [Y/N], people might start thinking you like it here!”

 

That earned a small chuckle from one of the workers. A polite one.

 

But you?

 

Didn’t even look at him.

 

You tapped your clipboard and said,

 

“Let’s stay on track.”

 

Then resumed whatever you were saying.

 

Like he wasn’t even there.

 

Tenna stood there a second too long.

Discoloration began to flutter at the edges of his screen.

He cleared his throat. Fidgeted with his sleeve.

 

“Tough crowd…” 

he muttered under his breath, forcing out a shaky laugh that nobody joined.

 

Then he turned and walked away.

But the buzzing in his circuits was becoming unbearable.

 

Because for the first time in a long time…

 

You didn’t roll your eyes.

You didn’t smirk.

You didn’t react.

 

And that?

 

That was so much worse.

 

And maybe he deserved it.

Maybe this was your way of saying: I don’t care anymore.

 

So, yeah. He decided to start actually panicking a little.

 

He decided to do something corny, something stupid even. 

But he had remembered something.

 

Your favorite energy drink. The citrusy, too-sweet kind that made your face scrunch up like you hated it — but you always bought it anyway.

You used to chug one every time you pulled an all-nighter. Said it tasted like battery acid…in a good way??

 

So… he got one.

Found the exact brand at some random shop three blocks down. Took him longer than he’d admit.

 

And — okay — he might’ve added a note.

Just something simple. Light. Sweet-ish. Maybe.

 

“HEY! Remember this radioactive sludge?? Still your fave? 

-T ✰”

 

He left it outside your office door. Right in front. Perfect placement.

Then scurried around the corner like a raccoon hiding a stolen snack.

 

And waited.

 

A few minutes later, he heard the door open. Peeked around just enough to see your hand reach down.

 

You picked it up. Held the can.

Tenna’s screen lit up a bit brighter.

He nearly did his iconic little dance.

But then—

 

He watched you walk inside.

Heard the soft clink of a trash can.

And then the door shut.

 

No sip.

No thank-you.

Not even a glance.

 

Just—

Gone.

 

Tenna stood frozen in the hallway, still half-leaning around the corner like a creep.

His smile didn’t fade. Not right away.

It just kind of… slowly fell in on itself.

Tenna decided to try again at lunch.

 

He approached the table you sat at with a bag of chips in one hand and what looked like a slapdash paper crown on his head, labeled in Sharpie: 

King of Emotional Growth.

 

He dropped into the chair across from you.

 

“Hey. Look at me.”

 

He said, wiggling his fingers near his screen like jazz hands.

 

 “Growth.”

 

You calmly tore off a piece of your sandwich.

He pushed another crown toward you. 

 

“Want to be my co-ruler? I’ve got markers.”

 

You didn’t even blink. Just stood up and left, sandwich in hand.

 

Tenna sat frozen again — the crown still resting between his fingers like it meant something.

 

“…Guess I’ll workshop it,” 

 

he muttered, voice threatening to break.

 

Then he crumpled the crown and shoved it into the nearest trash can, like maybe if he buried it deep enough, the moment wouldn’t sting so bad.

 

By the late afternoon, Tenna was unraveling.

 

Like, visibly.

 

He couldn’t sit still at all anymore, couldn’t keep a sentence straight, and had already yelled at three separate employees — not out of anger, but because they “weren’t moving fast enough” on something he refused to explain.

 

All anyone knew was that he wanted the lights dimmed near the entrance, a folding table dragged out of storage, and someone to hang up a hand-lettered banner he clearly made in a rush — the letters jagged and off-center, screaming:

 

“I REGRET EVERYTHING!!”

 

Then came the cake.

 

He demanded someone go get one — any one — and when they asked what it should say, he practically shrieked:

 

“JUST PUT ‘SORRY’ IN BIG LETTERS. CAPITALS. FROSTING. MAKE IT LOOK LIKE IT’S SAD!!”

 

So now, in the middle of the entrance area — right where you couldn’t miss it — was a tiny plastic table, one overhead spotlight, a slightly lopsided cake that read SORRY, and a crooked banner drooping sadly on one side.

 

It was pathetic.

 

It was dramatic.

 

It was so him.

 

Tenna hovered nearby, pacing small circles around the setup like a nervous birthday clown about to bomb his first party. His sleeves were wrinkled, and he couldn’t stop wiping his palms on his coat.

 

“I just— It’s fine. It’s fine. Just… soften the lights a little, okay? Not depressing, just like… a guilty sitcom dad remembering your birthday too late. That feeling. You get it, right?”

 

The tech didn’t get it. No one got it.

But they helped anyway.

Because when the boss starts spiraling this hard, it’s usually safer to play along.

 

Tenna stopped pacing. Stared down at the cake like it held his last shred of dignity.

 

He told himself it was a bit. A joke. Something dumb you’d laugh at.

But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He straightened his coat. Took a breath. Tried to stand like he meant it.

And then—

 

He saw you.

 

Off in the distance. Standing at the end of the hallway that led into the entrance area. Still. Silent. Watching.

 

Tenna froze.

 

This was it.

 

The moment. The last card he had to play.

 

His screen dimmed and brightened in a stuttered flash — unsure, uncertain — as he took a single shaky step toward the table.

 

“H—HEY!” 

 

he called out, louder than he meant to. His voice cracked slightly.

He flailed an arm toward the sad little setup behind him. 

 

“LOOK! [Y/N]! I, uh—LOOK!”

 

You didn’t move. Just kept standing there, unreadable.

Tenna stepped aside like a frantic game show host, gesturing to the table. 

 

“TADA!! I, uh— I made a whole thing for you!” 

 

He laughed nervously.

 

 “See? Regret cake! Glooby banner! Personal growth, but make it EDIBLE!”

 

You stared at him. Unmoving.

Tenna took a tiny step forward.

 

“I just… I figured you’d maybe laugh. Or yell. Or… I dunno…”

 

The silence stretched.

Then you spoke — cool, detached.

 

“…Excuse me,” 

you said. 

“I need to get by.”

You stepped around him without another word.

Tenna stood there.

Alone. Banner fluttering slightly in the breeze from the AC.

 

And this time, he didn’t chase you.

And for the first time all day, he didn’t move.

 

The lights above the entrance shut off gradually. One by one.

The cake sat untouched. The banner drooped lower.

Eventually, the rest of the building began to empty — techs packing up, assistants gathering bags, laughter fading into clicks of closing doors.

 

But Tenna stayed.

 

He didn’t even know why.

Maybe he thought you’d come back out. Maybe he thought you’d say something — anything.

Or maybe he just didn’t know what to do with himself once everyone else was gone.

 

The silence felt louder than any applause he had always seemed to chase.

 

He wandered the halls, unsure what he was even looking for — until a soft shuffle caught his attention.

Down the corridor.

Third door on the left.

 

The same room.

 

He paused in the doorway of the meeting space where it had all gone wrong yesterday — where he’d made you cry. The chairs were still pushed back from the last meeting. The overhead lights buzzed lowly.

 

And there you were.

 

Alone. Quietly organizing a stack of papers near the projector cart.

You didn’t look up when he stepped inside.

 

He lingered by the door, unsure. Then finally—

 

“…Hey,”

 

he started, voice pitched too high.

 

“So uh… that whole setup earlier? Cake, lights, the extremely heartfelt banner?”

 

He paused, forcing out a dry chuckle.

 

“Pretty amazing, right?”

 

Nothing. You didn’t even flinch.

His screen dimmed slightly.

 

“I mean, I get it,”

 

he said, stepping a little further in.

 

“You’re still mad. Totallllllllly valid. I would be too, probably.”

 

Still no response.

He scratched the back of his neck, his confidence dissipating faster with every second.

 

“I’m just saying… I’m sorry, alright?”

 

He waved a hand, like that should cover it.

 

“For the meeting. For being a jackass. For whatever.”

 

 

Your fingers paused briefly over the next sheet of paper.

 

Then resumed.

 

 

Tenna’s posture wilted.

 

“…Okay. That was a bad apology.”

 

He stepped in further. His voice dropped a little — less performative now. Less practiced.

 

“I’m sorry,”

 

he tried again.

 

“For today. For all of it.”

 

You still didn’t say anything.

And something in him started cracking.

 

“I—”

 

he stopped. His hands dropped to his sides.

 

“…You really won’t even look at me, huh?”

 

Silence.

 

And that’s when it broke through.

The bitterness behind his screen. The guilt.

Tenna took one more step closer. And this time, his voice shook.

 

“…I’m sorry for how everything happened back then.”

 

That made you freeze.

 

“I should’ve never acted like fame was something I valued more than our friendship. More than you.”

 

His voice was quieter now. Raw. Each word dragged from something deeper, something scraped out from inside him.

 

“If I could go back and make things different, I would. God, I would.”

 

He exhaled, and it sounded like pure static.

 

“But you know me,”

 

he said, almost laughing — except there was no humor in it.

 

“I’d probably just figure out another way to mess it all up again.”

 

You turned.

 

Tenna blinked, startled by the shift of your body.

 

Your face was unreadable. Exhausted. Tired in a way no nap could fix.

 

And then—

You stepped forward. Three slow, purposeful strides.

 

Tenna didn’t move. His whole body stilled, screen dimming again slightly — like a system running low on power.

 

You stopped in front of him. Close. Too close.

 

And then you grabbed his tie.

Yanked it down — hard.

 

Tenna choked on air.

 

A sharp burst of static flickered across his screen as his head dipped downwards from the force, startled into half-stumbling toward you. His hands jerked upward instinctively — palms open, hovering in the air beside your shoulders, shaking slightly like they didn’t know whether to brace, catch, or run.

Then your mouth crashed into his.

 

No warning. No softness. Just raw heat and messy desperation and every ounce of frustration you hadn’t let yourself say.

His screen exploded in white light.

 

Tenna whimpered — A glitchy, high-pitched sound that broke out of him like a shorted wire. His whole body locked up, like his brain couldn’t compute the sudden data overload.

 

He kissed you back — badly at first, awkwardly, like his mind was ten seconds behind his mouth. Like he didn’t know if he was allowed. His hands hovered, trembling in the space beside your ribs, too stunned to land.

And yet his whole frame was trembling. Shaking like the tension alone might fry him from the inside out.

Another kiss. Harder.

 

A stuttered breath escaped him — ragged, clipped, needy. His shoulders slumped forward, like the weight of this was too much to hold up on his own despite his larger stature. 

 

You could feel the heat pouring off him in waves.

 

Another glitchy, garbled whimper slipped out — unprompted, quiet, desperate.

 

But before he could crumble further—

 

You let go.

 

Of his tie. Of him.

 

And stepped back.

 

Tenna swayed forward like his body hadn’t caught up yet, breath hitching sharp in his chassis, screen pulsing with colorful static bursts.

 

He didn’t speak.

 

Didn’t move.

 

Just stood there — tie crooked, hands still suspended midair, shaking, mouth parted like he’d just been struck by lightning and didn’t know whether to scream or pray.

 

And then you walked out.

 

No glance. No pause.

 

The door clicked shut behind you like the end of a sentence.

 

Tenna stayed exactly where you left him — gasping, chest stuttering in shallow jolts like his cooling system had shorted out completely. His screen dimmed and flickered, static crawling the edges. He was overheating. Shaking. His hands trembled uselessly in the air, hovering where you’d once been.

 

It felt like his motherboard had exploded.

 

 

And still, you were gone.

 

 

No explanation. No forgiveness. Just silence. Just that empty room echoing with everything he didn’t get to say.

Trembling. Breathless.

Utterly, horrifyingly alone.

 

Chapter 11: Haywire

Summary:

You kissed him—now he’s unraveling, and something tells you this is just the beginning.

Notes:

Sorry for the short hiatus of this chapter I honestly have just been planning out what happens from here and beyond. Also I wanted to take a second to say thank you??? 2k hits and over 200 kudos is still so crazy thank you all for the kind words as well. I promise you I will pay you all back ten fold with the hottest steamiest smut in future chapters. THANK YOU!!!

What the actual fuck were you thinking?!

You kissed Tenna. Kissed him.

You seriously deserved to be executed by the Censors.

You were still mentally berating yourself as you walked home that night — hoping the cool air would somehow justify what you’d done, would make it feel less insane.

 

Because seriously, what the hell were you thinking?

 

Sure, maybe the kiss would permanently shift the dynamic between you two. Ruin everything. Complicate it beyond repair.

 

But at least… at least you’d walked away with some sort of gratification.

 

And honestly?

 

His face was priceless.

 

Absolutely something you never would’ve seen if you hadn’t lost your damn mind and kissed him.

It also seemed to be a great strategy to shutting him up.

 

All those years of his stupid smug remarks, the constant jokes, the need to always have the last word — and that was what did it? One kiss? One rough little reminder that he didn’t always get to be the one that controls what happens?

 

You snorted under your breath as your shoes scuffed against the pavement, hands shoved deep into your jacket pockets. The night air was sharp, biting at your skin, but not enough to ground you.

 

Because your brain was still reeling.

 

WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING!?

 

In all the years you’d known Tenna — through every high and low, every fight and inside joke and weirdly tender late-night phone call — you’d never pictured it going like that.

 

Sure, there was that brief moment, way back when, when the two of you started getting close. When you used to wonder what it’d feel like if he kissed you first. If he meant it.

 

But that was a lifetime ago. A jitter in your emotional history.

 

This kiss?

 

It meant nothing.

 

Just a power move. Just a reminder.

 

You wanted him to suffer.

 

Because no matter how messy things had been between you, no matter how complicated or how blurry the lines got… he had humiliated you. He made you cry in front of a room full of people.

 

You stopped on the sidewalk, jaw tightening.

 

No. This wasn’t about feelings. This wasn’t about old memories or long-forgotten warmth.

 

This was about payback.

 

If he thought that kiss meant things were “fixed”?

If he thought you were going to just melt into his hands now?

He was dead wrong.

 

You smiled to yourself — slow and sharp — as a plan started to form.

Oh, you were going to make him regret every second of it.

You were going to drive him insane.

And this time?

 

You’d be the one calling the shots.

You showed up to work the next morning like nothing happened.

 

You didn’t act colder. Not cruel. Just… normal.

Friendly, even.

 

You said hi to the crew. You checked schedules, re-routed a few miscommunications, answered a production call like you hadn’t left Tenna trembling and overheating the night before.

 

Now that you thought about it… you hadn’t actually seen him when you walked in this morning.

 

Maybe that kiss finally jolted something back into place — forced him to start thinking straight again. Then again, he was Tenna. That might’ve been asking too much.

You’d volunteered to help out with the broadcast today since the back crew was short-staffed. It was nothing out of the ordinary — until you spotted him.

 

There he was. The man of the hour.

 

At first glance, he looked normal. Beaming. Chaotic as ever. Barking jokes and tossing out orders while hovering over the lighting techs before the show went live.

 

But then?

 

He saw you.

 

Just a quick glance backstage. That’s all it took.

 

And he stilled.

 

Stared a little too long. Screen shifting — just slightly — to a telltale rosy hue.

 

Even the techs noticed.

 

“You good, boss?”

 

Tenna jolted, practically tearing his gaze away from you.

 

“N-NEVER BETTER!! ALWAYS BETTER!!”

 

He coughed — hard — and tried to play it off like he hadn’t just blushed from a single look in your direction.

 

“LET’S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD, PEOPLE!!”

 

…Okay. So, this confirmed two things:

 

One — he was definitely affected by what happened last night.

 

Two — your little plan?

 

It was going to be so much more fun than you had initially thought.

 

So, you began your little scheme — fully intent on snapping this CRT television in half with your bare hands.

 

Maybe it was cruel. Maybe you’d feel bad later. But Tenna knew what he was doing when he made you cry. Hurting you came as naturally to him as breathing.

 

And now? He only apologized because you ignored him. Because, for once, he had to sit in the mess he made.

 

He didn’t even apologize back then — when he treated you like a joke, like you were disposable. When he let your friendship rot away and didn’t say a damn thing as you walked away.

 

So why should he get sympathy now?

 

You didn’t even need to lift a finger.

Not yet.

 

For now, you’d just… let him sit with it.

Let him wonder.

He started unraveling on day two of your plan.

It wasn’t dramatic at first — just little things.

 

He’d fumble his cue cards. Stumble over the teleprompter. Bark instructions to the crew that contradicted what he said thirty seconds prior. But it was his face that really gave him away. Always darting toward you. Tracking you from across the set like you were a live wire draped in silk.

 

You didn’t even have to do much.

 

A polite little smile here. A hand brushing his arm when passing him equipment. Tilting your head when you asked for clarification on his notes, letting your tone drip with innocent curiosity. It was all harmless, of course. Entirely professional.

 

But you saw it. Felt it.

 

He was squirming.

By midweek, he was a wreck.

 

Tenna wasn’t just fidgety anymore — he was flat-out malfunctioning. His screen flickered black when you stood too close. He’d start a joke and forget the punchline. One of the interns caught him mumbling to himself backstage with his hands pushing his antennas back, muttering

  “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”  

Each word was punctuated by him tugging at his tie, like it was the thing choking him.

You made a point to act concerned.

 

“You alright, Mr. Tenna?”

 

You’d tilt your head with that same calm smile. 

 

“You’ve been a little… distracted.”

 

He jolted his head to face you — and you caught it. The droplets of sweat pooling along the edges of his face. How his antennas straightened 

 

“Wh—me? I’m not distracted,” 

 

he stammered, antennas now twitching.

 

 “I’m—I’m multi-tasking! High-functioning brilliance in motion, that’s all! Just—uh—lots of spinning plates, very important plates…”

 

He trailed off when he caught your smile again.

His voice dropped, brittle.

 

“Stop looking at me like that.”

 

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t need to.

 

He always had some excuse. Always too loud. Always too quick.

 

But behind the static and bluster, you could see it.

 

He was desperate.

 

And if you were being honest… it felt good. More than good. It felt right.

 

That control you’d lost in the meeting, when he made you cry in front of everyone — it was back in your hands now, humming beneath your skin like electricity. If you had known a single kiss would’ve done this to him, you would’ve laid one on him the moment you walked through the studio doors.

And sure, sometimes that guilt would creep in — low and bitter in your gut. But every time it did, you just remembered the way he smirked at you while you were falling apart in front of his staff. The way his apology only came after you ignored him. How he never even tried to make things right back then, when it actually mattered.

 

You reminded yourself this wasn’t cruelty.

 

It was justice.

 

But Tenna wasn’t built to be toyed with like this.

 

And by the end of the week?

He snapped.

You didn’t expect it to happen during a broadcast.

But in hindsight, maybe you should’ve.

 

Tenna was a fire hazard on a good day — this week, he’d been a spark away from self-combustion.

 

You were mid-conversation with a few production assistants on the side stage, going over camera angles and prop resets for an upcoming sketch. You felt him before you saw him — a sudden heat at your back, a shift in the air.

 

Then his hand gripped your elbow.

 

“Talk. Now.”

 

You blinked, halfway through a sentence, turning just enough to catch his expression.

Tenna’s screen was bright — not cheerful bright, but dangerous bright. A flickering red tint bleeding at the edges like it couldn’t decide between fury or panic.

 

You raised a brow

 

“I’m kind of in the middle of—”

 

“Now.”

 

The assistants faltered. You could see their wide eyes, darting between the two of you like they weren’t sure whether to step in or run for cover. But you held up a finger, calm as ever.

 

“Give us a minute,”

 

you said smoothly, brushing past them.

 

He yanked you toward the side hallway — one that led to the unused set you’d passed earlier in the week. It used to be a fake talk show set, now cluttered with unused backdrops, dust-coated equipment, and a lonely folding chair in the corner.

The second the door shut behind you, he whirled on you.

 

“What the fuck are you doing to me?”

 

You folded your arms, unbothered.

 

“Good to see you too?”

 

“No—don’t give me that.” 

 

He pointed a finger, hands shaking slightly.

 

“You think this is a joke? This whole—this game you’re playing?”

 

You tilted your head, feigning thought.

 

“Which game? You’ll have to be more specific.”

 

His screen flared.

 

“You KISSED me. You kissed me and then acted like it meant nothing. Like I was a fucking punchline.”

 

You stepped forward slowly, voice calm and cutting.

 

“Oh, you mean like how you made me cry in front of your entire staff? Like that kind of punchline?”

 

Tenna flinched. Actually flinched.

You kept going.

 

“Don’t act like the victim now. You only apologized because I ignored you. Just like back then—you only care when I walk away.”

 

His mouth opened, then closed.

He looked furious. Hurt. Cornered.

You hated how satisfying it felt.

 

“You don’t know what that did to me,” 

 

he said, voice low.

 

“Seeing you walk in like I didn’t even matter. Like everything between us was just—just dead. You didn’t even let me explain.”

 

You stepped in close — the words sharp.

 

“Because you never do explain, Tenna. You joke, you deflect, and then you run.”

 

Your voice stayed sharp, even as something heavy twisted in your chest.

 

“I stuck by you. Through all of it. And the second things got messy — the second I needed you — you vanished. You made me feel like I didn’t matter. Like I was just something to step over on your way to something bigger. And when I finally broke, when I left, you didn’t even notice. So no — you don’t get to be the one acting like you’re hurt.”

“HA HA HA — So this is what I deserve, huh? 

 

His voice cracked with something between a laugh and a snarl, chest rising with short, furious breaths.

 

“You come back after all this time — waltz in like some untouchable saint — and look at me like I’m just some… thing to play with? Something to mess with for your own twisted satisfaction?”

 

He took a step closer. You could practically feel his body rumbling.

 

“You think I didn’t feel anything when you walked out? When you left without a word like I didn’t mean anything to you? You act like I broke you — like I was the only one who hurt someone — but what the hell do you think you did to me?”

 

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

You saw Tenna then — straighten up. His screen flickered slightly, expression shifting like a switch had been flipped.

 

Colder. Meaner. Angrier.

 

“Let’s face it, [Y/N]… back then, you never would’ve made it where I did. You couldn’t keep up. You didn’t.”

 

Not screamed. Not even said with malice.

Just stated. Like a fact.

 

You froze.

 

He must’ve seen the flicker of hurt in your expression, because his mouth twitched — regret or shame or something twisted sitting just beneath the surface. But he didn’t take it back.

 

He didn’t apologize.

 

And you couldn’t think.

 

You couldn’t speak.

 

You just moved.

 

Your hands hit his chest hard — harder than you intended — and despite his larger frame, he stumbled back with a surprised grunt, crashing into the edge of a broken desk. The surface creaked under his weight, but it held — barely — propping him up as he gripped it for balance.

Dust exploded off the surface. One of the drawers clattered open and fell off completely.

 

For a split second, neither of you spoke. Just stared at one another.

 

Your vision blurred at the edges. You didn’t know if it was from the heat of the argument or the tears threatening to spill.

 

“God, you’re so insufferable,” 

 

you spat, voice shaking.

The words cracked in your throat, raw and trembling. You hated how it made you sound—weak, unhinged—but it was all you could manage without breaking entirely.

 

For a moment, he just stared at you — stunned, mouth agape, breathing uneven. Then he flipped again.

 

“Way to BOOST the ratings!!” 

 

he barked, arms thrown up theatrically.

 

“MIKE CHECK THOSE NUMBERS!! Did we get that on camera, or what!?”

 

You stared at him, chest still heaving. Dust still hung in the air between you.

But he didn’t stop there.

 

Tenna staggered forward slightly, regaining his footing, then tossed both arms out as if he were presenting to an audience. His voice pitched higher—sharp and electric, almost mocking.

 

“What a TURNOVER, folks! Who would’ve guessed all a guy had to do was press the right buttons to finally get some attention?!” 

 

He looked directly at you, laughing as he spoke —but there was nothing real behind it. 

 

“Guess I should’ve tried this method years ago! Shove me against a desk, call me an asshole—suddenly, I’m the MAIN EVENT!”

 

You said nothing. The heat in your throat made it hard to speak.

Tenna stood there, chest rising and falling fast beneath his jacket. The edge of his screen flickered—red bleeding into static—like his whole system was being overloaded.

 

And then came the silence.

Thick. Charged. Dangerous.

 

Neither of you moved.

 

Your pulse roared in your ears. You hated him. God, you hated him. Hated how he always knew which nerve to hit. Hated how he turned pain into a performance. Hated how even now—even now—you couldn’t stop staring at his mouth.

 

His voice dropped, low and hoarse.

 

“…That really shut you up, huh?”

And that was it. That was the match.

You once again moved before thinking. 

Chapter 12: Overflow

Summary:

A week of tension finally explodes into something neither of you can take back.

Notes:

It is time. This is it folks. Did I use over 3k words entirely for a chapter that is mostly smut? Perhaps…anyways please enjoy I know this is a slow burn but I didnt want you dear readers to not be famished, enjoy!!!!!

You crossed the distance between you two immediately, grabbed the collar of Tenna’s jacket, and slammed your mouth against his — just like the last time.

 

But this time, Tenna didn’t hold back.

 

He wasn’t shocked. He didn’t freeze or fumble like he had after the first kiss.

 

No — he melted into it.

 

Like he’d been waiting an entire week for this.

 

Like he’d been starving.

 

A broken noise clawed out of his throat — low and unsteady — and then his hands were everywhere.

Gripping your waist. Your back. The edge of your shirt.

He clung to you like you were fragile, teeth scraping your bottom lip before diving back in like he couldn’t stand the inch of distance.

 

You barely had time to register the sound he made  — before your back slammed into the nearest wall.

 

It wasn’t gentle. But it wasn’t cruel, either.

 

Just desperate.

 

Tenna’s hands were tangled in your shirt like he couldn’t decide whether to rip it or keep it — his breath hitched against your mouth, screen flickering wildly between red and white static as he pressed in harder, closer.

 

His hands gripped your waist like a warning — tight, shaking, holding you like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

 

“You love this, don’t you,” 

 

he breathed, voice rough. 

 

“Dragging me around like I’m on a fucking leash. Like I’m some toy you get to break.”

 

You shoved him back, teeth bared.

 

“Oh, please. You were already broken before I ever touched you.”

 

That hit something.

 

His screen flared — a pulse of black then multicolored — and he pushed forward again, one hand slamming beside your head against the wall.

 

“You think you’re so above me?”

 

he growled, breath hot against your face.

 

“Like you’re so put-together? You’re just as fucked up. Worse, even.”

 

“Yeah?” 

 

you hissed, pulling  the front of his jacket towards you.

 

“Then what does that make you, since you can’t keep your hands off me?”

 

Tenna snarled — actually snarled — and kissed you again like it was a punishment, all tongue and teeth and frustration.

You bit down hard on his lip, just to make him flinch — but he only groaned, leaning in closer like he wanted more.

 

“You hate me,” 

 

he muttered between kisses, breath stuttering.

 

 “Say it.”

 

“I do,”

 

 you whispered, dragging your nails down his back. 

 

“I fucking hate you.”

 

But your hips grinded into his as you said it.

And the choked sound he made was something needy.

 

“You’re unbelievable,” 

 

he rasped, hands sliding under your shirt — one rough palm dragging up your spine, the other gripping your side so tight it bordered on bruising. 

 

“Acting like you’re in control when you’re falling apart just like me.”

 

“Then make me fall,” 

 

you snapped, lips brushing against the corner of his screen. 

 

“I dare you.”

 

You didn’t know if he growled or laughed — the noise came from somewhere deep, raw and volatile — but the next thing you knew, he had you spun around, pressed hard against the wall with his chest to your back.

 

His breath was shaking.

So was yours.

 

And neither of you were slowing down.

 

His hands slid up under your shirt again, rough palms dragging across your stomach, your ribs. 

You arched involuntarily, a breath catching in your throat — and you hated how quickly he noticed.

 

“Oh, you like that?” 

 

he muttered behind you, lips brushing your ear. His voice was thick with static, like he was under the strain of holding himself together.

 

“Bet you’d lose it if I touched you properly.”

 

You turned your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder.

 

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

 

But your voice cracked. Just slightly.

Tenna grinned — a mean, unhinged little twist of his mouth — and yanked your shirt up over your head before you could stop him.

 

“Then why’re you trembling?”

 

You turned on him fast, grabbing the collar of his jacket again and shoving him back — not because you wanted distance, but because you needed leverage.

You dragged him by his stupid coat toward the same desk you had pushed him on earlier, and now you slammed him into the edge on purpose this time.

 

His breath stuttered.

Your hands went to the buttons of his jacket.

 

“I’m trembling…” 

 

you growled,

 

“…because you never shut the fuck up.”

 

You yanked the buttons apart hard, nearly multiple pop off as you do.

He laughed again, but it came out breathy, unsteady.

 

“And yet here you are,” 

 

he said, letting you push the jacket off his shoulders.

 

“Can’t keep your hands off me. Not even when you’re mad.”

 

“I’m always mad when I’m touching you.”

 

“Then you must be furious right now.”

 

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt and dragged him back into another kiss — messier than before, your teeth clashing, your mouths colliding like the argument hadn’t stopped, just found a new language.

His hands were already working to take off your undershirt.

 

You didn’t stop him.

 

Didn’t want to.

 

Because the moment his fingers brushed your skin — shaky, hot, too careful for how angry he seemed — a soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat.

 

Not loud. But enough.

 

Enough for him to freeze, lips still pressed against yours, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to pull back or grab harder.

 

“Oh, fuck,”

 

he breathed, voice glitching like static.

 

“That was—do it again.”

 

Then his gaze dropped.

 

He stared — really stared — at your bare skin like it stunned him, like some part of him couldn’t believe you were letting him really see you like this.

His screen flickered, pink growing.

His mouth opened like he wanted to say something — wanted to make a joke, or bite back with something cocky — but nothing came out.

 

He just looked up at you.

 

You shoved him back further against the table.

 

“Get your jacket off.” 

 

“You ask so nicely,” 

 

he sneered, but obeyed — finally dragging the fabric off him.

Your eyes dropped to his chest, and for a split second, you forgot how to be angry.

 

Just a split second.

 

Then he leaned forward, face locked on you, and said, too softly,

 

“You were right, you know.”

 

You frowned.

 

“About what?”

 

His voice dropped.

 

“I need to be fixed.”

 

And then he kissed you again — slower this time, like the bitterness was bleeding into something heavier.

You hated the way your knees went weak.

 

Your hands stayed firm on his chest, holding him there like if you let go, the moment would consume you both.

His skin was warm — too warm — like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that the fight was no longer just verbal.

 

And under your palms, his heart was racing.

 

“You’re shaking,”

 

you muttered — not teasing. Just… stating.

 

“So are you,” 

 

he shot back, but his voice was low, almost hoarse, and it broke halfway through.

That moment of quiet vulnerability twisted into something sharp in his mouth.

 

“Get over here,” 

 

he snapped suddenly, grabbing your hips and dragging you more forward so your thighs slammed into the edge of the desk between his legs. The impact made you gasp — surprised, not hurt — and you instinctively gripped his shoulders.

He looked up at you from where he sat, breathing hard.

Screen flickering. Hands twitching like he didn’t trust them.

 

“You always need to be in control,” 

 

he said, almost accusing.

 

“And you always fall apart the second someone takes it from you,”

 

 you shot back.

 

That earned a wild, cracked laugh.

 

He pulled you closer again — this time with one hand slipping down your back, the other creeping up your stomach.

 

Your breath caught. You hated that it caught.

Tenna’s grin sharpened.

 

“There it is,” 

 

he whispered.

 

“That noise again.”

 

 

“Fuck you,” 

 

you breathed.

 

You shoved him down onto the desk before he could say another word — hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

His back hit the surface with a dull thud.

The desk groaned under the weight, another drawer already dangling off one hinge.

 

You climbed over him before he could recover — knees planted beside his hips, hands dragging down his bare chest, if there was skin you’d bet you’d be leaving red lines behind.

 

“You don’t get to enjoy this,” 

 

you growled.

 

“Too late,” 

 

he bit out, arching under you when your fingers skimmed below the waistband of his pants.

His voice stuttered. His screen popped with faint static.

 

You loved it.

 

Every time his control slipped, every time his breath hitched or he cursed under it — you clung to it like revenge.

 

And he — God, he thrived on your reactions.

 

When you cursed, when your hips pressed down against his, when a shaky, unwilling moan slipped past your lips — it only drove him wilder.

 

He grabbed your wrist, dragging your hand lower.

 

“Don’t pretend you don’t want this,” 

he hissed.

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Liar.”

 

You leaned down close to his face — breathing hard — your chest flush against his, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

 

“I hate you.”

 

His hand slid up between your bodies, fingers dragging slowly across your bare chest — warm, calloused, and just barely gentle.

 

You gasped.

 

Your body jerked, breath catching against his mouth — and the moment he felt it, the shift in your weight, the sound you couldn’t swallow — Tenna smiled.

 

Wide. Dark. Glitching.

 

“I know.”

 

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply.

Just dragged your nails down his chest again— harder this time.

Tenna hissed through his teeth, but he didn’t stop you.

If anything, he arched into it.

 

“God, you’re a fucking lunatic,”

 

you muttered, reaching down to unbuckle his belt. 

 

“This doesn’t mean anything.”

 

“Keep telling yourself that,”

he rasped — breathless, static fuzzing faintly at the edges of his voice.

 

After you pulled his belt off you shoved his pants down with a rough yank, and the curse he let out was shaky — sharp and strangled, like he hadn’t expected how fast you’d take it this far.

 

But you weren’t about to slow down.

 

And neither was he.

 

He sat up suddenly, hands grabbing your hips again — not to stop you, but to pull you closer — your bare skin brushing his as you settled over him, legs straddling his giant thighs.

 

“You don’t get to take your time now,” 

 

you growled. 

 

“You wanted this? Then do something.”

 

His hands squeezed your hips — almost painfully tight — and his mouth found your neck, teeth dragging along your skin without warning.

The sound that ripped out of you was raw, broken — and you hated it.

 

Hated how real it sounded.

 

Hated the way he groaned in response like it was fuel.

 

“Fuck—keep making those noises,” 

 

he muttered against your throat. 

 

“I’ve never heard you sound like that before.”

 

His grip on your hips tightened even more, breath shaking as his mouth dragged lower.

 

“It’s—fuck—it’s driving me insane.”

 

 

You shoved him again, this time flat onto his back — harder than before.

 

“You don’t get to talk like you know me.” 

You spat.

 

“Don’t act like you’re some stranger now,” 

 

he growled, screen burning into you.

 

“You don’t get to draw that line after you’ve crossed it.”

 

Your hand was already pushing his boxers down as if to respond to him that way.

He gasped — actually gasped — head thrown back against the desk, static popping along the edge of his screen as your hand exposed him further.

 

You looked down to see what you were dealing with.

 

Holy fuck.

 

He was loaded.

 

You didn’t think you’d ever been with someone this big — hell, you weren’t even sure you’d ever seen a cock that big.

 

You were ashamed how taken aback you were by this, and you could feel Tenna radiate underneath you from your reaction — like he could feel the way your breath stall, the way your body hesitated for just a second too long. 

 

Of course he noticed. 

 

Of course he fed on it.

 

His hands moved to your waist, face cocky even through the static.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

 he rasped.

 

“Too much for you?”

 

You scoffed, fingers wrapping firmly around his cock.

He jerked under you — breath hitching, static pulsing multicolored through his screen.

 

“Oh, please,” 

 

you said, voice cold and cutting.

 

“You’re this hard and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

 

Your thumb dragged up the head, collecting the mess already leaking out of him.

 

“Pathetic.”

 

Tenna groaned — full-bodied, involuntary, like he disliked how much he liked that.

You kept your grip around him — firm, steady — stroking him now with deliberate cruelty.

 

Slow.

 

Measured.

 

Just enough to keep him right on the edge.

 

Tenna’s breath hitched again, his back arching slightly against the desk.

His grip on your waist twitched — like he was trying to hold on to control, to dignity — but you felt it slipping.

 

He felt it slipping.

 

“You’re trembling,” 

 

you said, voice low, lips near side of his head where his cooling fans were. 

 

“Already?”

 

He let out a breathy noise that wasn’t quite a moan — more like something broken trying not to be.

 

“You always talk so big,” 

 

you continued, stroking him again, letting your thumb tease the head in slow, torturous circles.

 

“But you fall apart so fast. How long has it been since someone touched you like this? Or is this just what happens when you finally get what you want?”

 

Tenna whimpered — actually whimpered — and his hips jerked beneath you.

 

Once.

 

Then again.

 

Desperate.

 

“No—fuck, don’t—”

 

he gasped, voice cracking as he tried to push himself out of your hand.

 

“Don’t do that—”

 

“Oh, you mean this?”

 

You tightened your grip just slightly and stroked him harder — not fast, but mean.

 

Tenna’s screen glitched violently — red and white and pink pulses stuttering across his face like it was a rave.

 

A choked moan tore out of him.

 

His head tipped even further back.

 

His thighs twitched under you.

 

You leaned down again, lips brushing the side of his face, just above the buzzing edge of his screen.

 

“You’re begging and you don’t even realize it.”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“Then why are you moving your hips like that?”

 

Tenna let out a sound — some pathetic mix between a gasp and a sob — and you felt him buck into your hand again, chasing friction like he couldn’t stop himself. His breath hitched. His grip on your waist squeezed, fingertips digging into your skin like he was hanging on for dear life.

 

“Stop,” 

 

he whispered. But it was weak. Frantic. His thighs were shaking now. 

 

“Please—just—I can’t—”

 

You slowed your hand immediately, just enough to watch the devastation hit him in real time.

 

“You’re such a mess,”

 

you murmured, savoring the way he squirmed.

 

“I thought you liked being in control.”

 

“I do,” 

 

he rasped, screen flickering wildly.

 

“I do, I just—fuck, I can’t—”

 

Another moan escaped him — needy and loud, completely involuntary — and his hips thrust up again.

 

 

That was it. He couldn’t take it anymore.

 

 

Suddenly, his hands were on your shoulders, pushing.

 

He sat up and flipped you so fast you barely had time to register the shift before your back slammed down against the desk — the cold surface shocking against your skin.

 

His face was wrecked — screen glitching, chest heaving. If he’d had pupils, they’d be blown so wide he wouldn’t be able to see anything else but you.

 

 

“I can’t wait anymore,” 

 

 

he growled, voice ragged.

 

 

“I need it.”

 

 

And then he was on you.

One hand yanked your pants down along with your underwear. The other dragged his cock across your entrance, guiding himself in with no patience left, just need — messy, desperate, frenzied need.

 

And when he pushed in?

 

You both gasped.

 

His size almost made you cry out — not from pleasure, but from the sheer stretch of it.

He was overwhelming, taking up every inch of space inside you like he was trying to fill you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

 

If you hadn’t been so turned on, it might’ve been unbearable.

 

But the pain — sharp, burning — melted into something molten. Something indescribable.

The sensation alone was enough to make your mouth fall open, breath hitching, body trembling.

 

It was too much.

 

And not enough.

 

You finally glanced up — and Tenna looked like he was right there with you, caught in the same overwhelming rush of sensation.

 

His screen flickered, static crawling at the corners like it couldn’t keep up with his pulse.

His mouth was parted, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts.

 

You could feel it — the way his cock twitched inside you, the way his grip on your hips tightened like he was trying to hold still, to savor it.

 

But he couldn’t.

 

He tried to keep it slow at first.

 

His hips rocked into you with measured restraint — a gentle grind, deep and slow — but his breath hitched every time your body squeezed around him.

 

Every soft gasp you made, every tiny shift of your weight had him twitching over you, trembling.

 

“Shit,”

 

he whispered, barely audible.

 

“[Y/N] you feel so—fuck, you feel—”

 

He cut himself off with a moan — one that cracked in his throat and came out as a garbled, static-laced mess.

His hands were now planted besides your head like he was trying to ground himself, but still they trembled.

 

Then he thrust again.

 

Harder.

 

Slower still — but this time, with more pressure. More need.

 

You felt him sink all the way in, and your whole body tensed around him.

 

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

 

The pleasure was maddening.

 

The stretch. The heat.

 

The ache.

 

 

Tenna groaned.

 

Deep. Low. Feral.

 

And then he snapped.

 

His hips started to rut into you harder, faster — the slow rhythm abandoned entirely as he chased sensation like it was oxygen.

 

There was no finesse now. No holding back.

Just raw desperation.

 

You tried to brace yourself, gasping as he slammed into you again — and again — each thrust more frantic than the last.

 

“Fuck—fuck, I—”

 

His voice cracked, static bleeding through.

 

“[Y/N] you’re—shit—you’re perfect, [Y/N] you’re—”

 

“Shut up,” 

 

you gasped, your nails clawing at the arms he had beside your head.

 

“Just—fuck, shut up—”

 

But even as you said it, your body betrayed you.

 

You could feel it building — fast, furious, unbearable.

 

That blinding, choking heat that started low in your gut and climbed with every thrust.

 

You were already getting close — too close — and it made your stomach twist with shame.

It was humiliating, the way he could drag it out of you so quickly.

 

Like your body had been waiting for this after all this time, even if your mind still hated him.

 

Your breath hitched.

 

Your legs trembled.

 

You gritted your teeth, trying to fight it back — to hold onto some control — but it was slipping.

 

Every thrust sent white-hot pressure curling through your core.

 

Every desperate sound from Tenna made it worse.

 

You hated how good it felt.

 

You hated how it wrecked you.

 

“F-fuck—Tenna—”

 

It snapped.

 

Your orgasm crashed into you before you could warn. It tore through your spine and sent your vision blurring — a choked, helpless noise breaking from your throat as your whole body seized.

 

You clenched around him like a vice.

 

Tenna felt it.

 

His breath hitched — a sharp, fractured sound — and his hips faltered.

 

He gasped, voice glitching mid-moan, and drove into you one final time.

Then he came — with a raw groan, head thrown back, hands digging into your hips.

You felt the electric heat flood inside you, felt his whole body quake over you like he was falling apart at the seams.

 

And maybe you were, too.

 

Your body slumped, breath still ragged, your hands still now rested on his chest like you didn’t trust the world to stay solid unless you held on.

Tenna’s head rested against your shoulder, the glow of his screen soft and scattered, like whatever just happened had fried something deep.

 

Neither of you said a word.

Neither of you moved.

 

Not right away.

Chapter 13: Post-Nut Clarity

Summary:

After regaining your self-control, you regret what you did under heated circumstances.

Notes:

My post nut clarity paragraph will continue to haunt the narrative of this story. I won't let you forget it.

Before either of you could say a word—Before you could shove him off, before he could spit out something stupid, before either of you could fully register what just happened—

 

You both heard it.

 

Footsteps.

 

Then a voice in the hallway, loud and irritated:

 

“Where the hell is that guy?! We go live in ten!”

 

Your blood ran cold.

Tenna stiffened where he hovered over you, his screen buzzing faintly.

 

You both scrambled then —fumbling for clothes, limbs tangling, breath held. Your pants were halfway up when the doorknob turned.

 

“Shit,” 

Tenna whispered.

 

And before you could react, he yanked you down by the wrist. Making you land in his lap. 

 

Under the desk.

 

The same desk you two just—

 

The door swung open.

 

Two pairs of footsteps. Boots. Studio techs, probably.

 

“Of course he’s not here,” 

one of them muttered.

“Every time something important’s going on, he vanishes .”

 

“Probably hiding in the green room again,” 

said the other. 

“Guy’s been spiraling for weeks. You see his last performance? Cringe central.”

 

“He’s trying way too hard to stay relevant,”

 the first voice added, low and bitter. 

“Like… give it up, man. You’re not the latest thing anymore. We’re all locked into these insane contracts, but once they expire—”

 

They didn’t finish the thought. But you felt the weight of it.

 

Tenna didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe .

 

You stared at the floor, heart pounding.

 

“Anyway, if he doesn’t show up in five minutes, I’m not covering for him.”

 

“Let him crash and burn. Maybe he’ll get the hint .”

 

The door closed again.

 

Silence.

 

Dust hung in the air between you like smoke. You could hear Tenna’s ragged breathing begin again. The faint vibrating of his screen grew louder.

 

Neither of you said anything.

 

The silence lingered long after the footsteps disappeared down the hall.

 

You were still in his lap — breath shallow, limbs trembling, your back against his chest. Neither of you budged. The air under the desk was thick with dust, sweat, and something else you didn’t want to name.

 

You were shockingly happy you were in his lap, because you couldn’t look at him.

You couldn’t even look at yourself .

 

The guilt began to bloom slow and sick in your stomach — thick, acidic, curling up your throat like bile.

 

What the hell had you done?

 

You ran a hand down your face, trying to ground yourself, but all you could feel was the phantom echo of him still on your skin. The heat of his hands. The bruises forming under your clothes. The way you melted for him like an idiot — like nothing had ever happened between you two in the past.

 

Like he hadn’t humiliated you.

 

Like he hadn’t torn you down and left you behind years ago.

 

What is wrong with you.

 

The silence began to hurt .

But you couldn’t break it.

 

If you opened your mouth, something ugly would come out — a sob, a scream, maybe just the sound of you trembling. So you bit it back. Dug your nails into your thigh. Tried to anchor yourself to pain, something real, something you deserved .

 

Tenna finally moved. Barely. You could feel the fabric shifting behind you.

You could feel his face on you even if you couldn’t see it. You felt it burning through you.

 

You turned slowly to finally face him, ashamed. 

 

“…Don’t say anything,” 

 

you muttered — voice low, strained.

 

His hand reached out.

 

Fingertips brushed a piece of hair from your face, then tucked it behind your ear. Gently . Like he didn’t want to startle you. Like he knew he had no right to.

 

His screen was dim, flickering faint shades of blue.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Not at your body. Not at your lips. Just your eyes. As if trying to find something.

 

Or maybe remember something.

 

Then his voice came — quiet. Raw.

 

“…See you around, [Y/N].”

 

It wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t dramatic.

 

Just… somber.

 

And then he stood.

Pulled his jacket tighter around his frame, said nothing else, and slipped out the door without another word.

 

You sat there alone under the desk — still trembling, still stunned — watching the dust settle in the space he left behind.

 

Your chest ached .

 

And for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t from anger.

 

You eventually found the strength, and peeled yourself off the floor.

 

Fixed your shirt.

Fixed your hair.

 

Tried to fix your expression in a mirror on the way back to your office — but the moment you saw yourself, all you could think was 

 

pathetic.

 

Your clothes were wrinkled , your skin still flushed . You smelled like sweat and static and shame .

 

God.

 

You shut the office door behind you, slower than usual. The silence was deafening . Your desk looked untouched — clean, neat, professional — like you hadn’t abandoned it just to get wrecked in some abandoned set. 

 

You sat down.

 

Stared at the laptop on your desk.

 

Opened a file. Closed it again.

 

Your thighs were still sticky.

 

You hated how your breath still hadn’t fully evened out. Hated how your lips felt bruised. How your chest felt hollow. Like something had been carved out of you.

 

You should’ve said no.

 

You should’ve pushed him off the second it started.

 

But you didn’t .

 

You let him touch you.

 

You wanted him to touch you.

 

And now, hours of resolve and self-respect and progress — all of it felt like it had melted between your legs and evaporated under his hands.

 

You pressed the heel of your palm to your forehead and let out a breathless, bitter laugh.

 

You were disgusting.

 

And worse?

 

You still wanted him.

 

Your thighs clenched without meaning to, and the worst part was — it wasn’t even about him. It was the way he sounded. The way he shook. The way he whispered your name like he couldn’t stop himself from saying it.

 

It shouldn’t have made you feel anything.

 

It shouldn’t still be turning you on.

 

But your body didn’t know better.

 

And now you were stuck in your office, painfully aware of the soreness between your legs, your ruined underwear clinging to you like a reminder .

 

You didn’t need a punishment. This was the punishment.

And somehow?

 

You weren’t even sure you deserved better.

 

You tried to get to work but all you could manage was hovering your shaky fingers over the keyboard of your laptop.

 

You hadn’t typed a single word.

 

Instead, your mind kept drifting back to the way he looked at you under that desk — how his hand moved before he could stop it. The way he’d tucked your hair back like it meant something. Like he remembered something.

 

And maybe he did .

 

Because you did too.

 

The memory surged before you could stop it — fast and sharp, crashing down with all the weight of everything you’d tried to bury.

The last time he touched your hair like that…

You’d been sobbing behind a prop cart.

 

You’d frozen up completely on stage during a state performance. Couldn’t remember your lines, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move . Your body locked up in front of a crowd of judges, and you bolted — straight off the stage, humiliation hot in your throat, tears already threatening.

 

You barely made it backstage before it hit.

 

You dropped to the floor behind a dusty rolling set piece, curled up into yourself, choking on sobs you couldn’t keep in anymore. The sound of the audience clapping for him still rang in your ears. He’d nailed his scene, of course. He was always electric on stage. A natural.

 

But you?

 

You’d bombed.

 

All those hours rehearsing. All that hope. All that pressure. Gone. Gone the second you choked.

Your chest convulsed again, and you hugged your knees tighter, trying to disappear into yourself.

 

Then — soft footsteps.

 

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t want to look up.

 

Until a familiar voice reached you, low and careful:

 

“…There you are.”

 

You sniffled. Tried to wipe your face, but it was useless — everything was wet.

 

“I messed up,” 

 

you croaked through a sob.

 “I—I froze and ran like a fucking idiot—”

 

“Hey,”

 he said softly, stepping around the cart to kneel in front of you.

 “You’re not an idiot.”

 

You shook your head, arms wrapped around your legs. 

 

“You killed it. They loved you. You always get it right, Tenna. I just—I can’t even make it through one scene without panicking. I’m never gonna make it anywhere.”

 

His smile faded at that. He sat down beside you.

 

“You’re not me,”  he said gently.

“And thank god for that.”

 

You let out a soft, pitiful laugh through your tears.

 

“I’m serious,” 

 

he added. 

 

“You’ve got something I don’t. You care. You mean what you say up there. When it works, it works . It’s not about always being perfect.”

 

You stayed quiet, and he leaned in a little closer.

 

“Forget the judges,” he murmured. “Forget the crowd. They don’t get to decide what you’re worth.”

 

And then — he reached out.

His hand gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, lingering at your cheek. You looked up at him, glassy-eyed, chest still hitching.

 

“I know how good you are,”

 he said, voice low now, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. 

“Not some crowd. Me. I’ve seen it.”

 

Your throat tightened.

 

“You’re gonna be a star,” he whispered. “ You will. Even if nobody else sees it yet.”

 

A shaky breath escaped you.

He pulled you into a hug — arms wrapping around you, warm and comforting. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you from collapsing entirely.

 

And in that moment, he kind of was.

The memory faded slowly — soft edges turning sharp again.

 

You blinked hard, your vision still blurry, though you weren’t crying anymore.

Not from the past , at least.

 

But the ache was still there. Deeper now. Older .

You dragged a hand through your hair, as if it could erase the feeling.

 

What the hell happened to that version of him?

 

The one who believed in you. The one who held you like you mattered .

Who said you’d be a star.

You swallowed thickly, blood rushing through your veins. The contrast was too much. That gentle touch—his thumb brushing your tears—felt galaxies away from the one that left bruises down on your hips just an hour ago.

 

The one that made you confide in him like nothing had ever gone wrong .

 

You shifted in your chair, the soreness between your legs becoming brutal . A sick reminder that maybe you were the one who changed.

 

Or maybe you were both just better at pretending back then.

 

You reached for your mouse. Clicked on the open file again. Still blank.

Your reflection in the monitor looked haunted .

You were still wearing the same clothes from this morning.

Still smelled like him.

And no matter how hard you tried to forget — your body remembered .

 

The look in his eyes under that desk.

 

The sound of his voice.

 

The way he touched your hair again like he knew exactly what it meant.

Like he still remembered the last time he did it.

You pressed your knuckles into your mouth, trying to silence the sound rising in your throat — some horrible blend of a laugh and a sob.

You were falling apart again.

And this time, there was no prop cart to hide behind.

You didn’t do a single thing for the rest of the day.

No planning. No writing. No fixing.

Just sat there in your chair, frozen — your fingers hovering over the keyboard, your screen untouched.

Every time you blinked, you saw his face.

Every time you shifted, you felt him.

And so you didn’t move.

 

Didn’t breathe too hard.

Didn’t let yourself think .

 

The hours blurred. The buzz of the studio dulled.
People left. Lights dimmed. Doors shut.

And finally — when the place had nearly gone silent,
when you heard chairs scraping floors and keys jangling by the exit —
you stood.

 

Grabbed your bag.

 

Didn’t bother to fix your hair.

Didn’t say goodbye to anyone.

You just left.

 

Still sore.

 

Still ashamed.

 

Still pretending that none of this affected you. 

Chapter 14: Brain Fog

Summary:

Tenna hadn't reacted to yesterday's event like you thought he would — It left you completely stumped.

Notes:

SSORRRRY for not updating as quickly. I saw superman the other night and I've sorta just been in shocked state since then, ifykyk. ANYWAYSSS updates should resume on a quicker upload rate now, enjoy the toxicity!

You didn’t sleep much the night after everything happened. Mostly just stared at the wall.

 

Aimless. Empty.

 

By the time your alarm went off, it barely registered.

 

You moved through your apartment in a daze, getting ready without thinking.

You dreaded seeing Tenna again — and yet, some part of you, some stupid, naive part, still wanted to see the ridiculous plastic casting of his idiotic face.

 

You walked to the studio again today.

Lately, you've been skipping the cab more and more.

 

Maybe it was guilt. Maybe punishment. Maybe you just hoped the walk would quiet the vicious thoughts spinning through your skull.

 

It didn’t.

 

When you finally reached the building, your gut twisted the second you stepped inside.

 

Because the moment your eyes met with him across the hallway — Tenna turned and walked the other way.

 

No remarks.

No smug glance.

 

No anything.

 

Just… gone.

 

You blinked. Swallowed. Told yourself not to let it matter.

 

Told yourself this was what you wanted.

But the hurt was already setting in.

 

You told yourself it was a fluke.

That maybe he didn’t see you.

That maybe he was just in a rush.

 

But by the third time you passed each other that day — and he still didn’t look your way — you stopped making excuses.

 

Every time you turned a corner, he turned down a different hallway.

Every time you entered a room, he was already leaving.

Even in the few meetings, he kept his eyes locked on the whiteboard, fiddling with his tie, his gloves, anything but you.

 

It was surgical.

 

So intentional it made your chest feel hollow.

 

You tried catching him between rehearsals,

“Tenna—” 

but someone always called him, or he was already on the move again, tossing out a casual “Busy, talk later” without ever slowing down.

 

And the worst part?

 

You recognized the feeling.

 

He used to do this all the time.

Back when you were still close.

 

Back when he’d bring you to studio parties and showbiz mixers just to abandon you the moment someone more important walked into the room.

Back when you’d stand quietly at the edge of some velvet-roped circle, trying not to shrink as he laughed with producers or actors like you didn’t exist.

 

You thought you’d buried that version of yourself — the insecure little loser in the background.

 

But now they were back.

 

And they were hurting.

 

And god, what the hell were you even doing here?

 

This wasn’t supposed to be about him.

 

You were called in to fix this place — to rebuild a sinking ship before it crashed completely.
Someone out there believed you were the right person for the job. Professional. Smart. In control.

 

But lately?

You hadn’t done a damn thing to help anyone. 

 

You hadn’t reorganized a department, revised a budget, repaired a single broken system.
You were too busy tiptoeing around him. Fighting with him. Fucking him.

Hell, the only initiative you’d made was setting up a stupid cardboard “confessions box” — and even that you’d neglected.

 

It wasn’t just selfish — it was deplorable.

 

You’d let your focus blur the moment he reentered your life. Let the old wounds bleed all over your purpose.

And now, with him shutting you out again, retreating like you were just nothing — it burned.

 

Worse than before.

 

Because this time, you knew better.

 

And you still let it happen.

By lunchtime, you were running on absolute fumes.

 

Not that you’d actually done anything.

 

You couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t stop wondering how the hell this job gig could get any fucking worse.

You sat alone in the corner of the breakroom, stabbing at your cheap salad like it had wronged you personally.

 

The plastic fork felt too loud in your hand.

The overhead lights buzzed like gnats.

Even the background chatter of nearby crew members made your skin prickle.

 

Was this how it was going to be now?

 

Just… ignored?

 

Discarded like last time?

 

You took a breath, trying to stop your thoughts from spiraling — when a shadow crossed over your sad salad.

 

“Mind if I sit, kid?”

 

You blinked up at a shorter man in a tidy tux, the bowtie a bright pop of red against the dark fabric. His head — if you could even call it that — was the top of a microphone, the silver mesh glinting under the break room lights. 

He had a confident stance and the aura of someone who’d been in this business too long to be fazed by anything. A little smug, a little slick — like he’d smoothed over more disasters than you could count and still had time to crack a joke or two while doing it.

You didn’t recognize him.

“…Do I know you?” 

 

you asked, already bracing for the awkward correction.

 

He looked genuinely offended. 

 

“Oof. Harsh . And here I thought I made an impression around here.”

 

He sat anyway, sliding into the seat across from you like he owned the building.

 

“Name’s Mike. Co-producer. Tenna’s handler, miracle worker, chaos janitor — take your pick.”

 

Your eyebrows lifted.

Oh . 

That Mike.

 

“I’m so sorry— I just didn’t recognize you,” 

you muttered. 

“There’s been a lot going on.”

 

“No kidding.” 

 

He leaned back in his chair across from you, giving you a look that was too knowing for comfort. 

“Whatever you and Tenna got into, kid, it definitely ruffled his feathers.”

 

You stiffened. 

 

“What do you mean?”

 

He chuckled. 

 

“Please. He’s been twitchier than usual. Can’t sit still. Snapped at a grip this morning for sneezing too loud. You? You’ve got the look of someone who just got caught in a bear trap and ain’t sure if you should chew your leg off or just wait it out.”

 

You didn’t reply.

Not directly, anyway.

But your eyes must’ve given something away, because he leaned forward, voice lowering.

 

“Look… I’ve been dealing with that TV-headed diva for years . I know the signs. And I know how he gets when someone gets under his circuits."

 

You swallowed. 

 

“So what, you’re saying I should leave him alone?”

 

Mike smirked.

 

“Nah. I’m sayin’… if you wanna talk to him, really talk to him? You’re gonna have to do it in a way he can’t ignore. Don’t knock on the door and wait — kick it open. Shake him up. Give him something to react to.”

 

He stood up, but gave you a parting wink.

 

“Guy like that? He doesn’t listen until the static clears. Make sure he hears you when it does.”

 

And with that, he strolled off, leaving you stunned — but… not entirely defeated.

 

Because he was right.

 

His words swirled in your chest like broken glass — sharp, irritating, impossible to ignore.

 

Kick the door open. Shake him up.

 

You’d spent your life letting Tenna run circles around you. Letting him twist the knife in silence for most of it.

 

But you weren’t going to sit in the corner anymore.

If Tenna wanted to pretend nothing happened — if he wanted to push you back into the shadows like before — then fine.

 

You’d drag the spotlight to him yourself.

You spotted him just before the final call.

 

Tenna was on the studio floor, standing center stage beneath the overheads, one hand on his hip, the other flicking through a clipboard he clearly wasn’t reading. 

He looked too agitated — jaw clenched, shoulders high, antennae twitching like they were picking up a signal from your presence backstage alone .

 

You stayed back, pretending to study your phone near the monitors. Just long enough to watch him speak with the assistant director, nod like he was listening, then toss the clipboard to a nearby PA with a mutter, “Yeah, yeah, cue me in two.”

 

You knew exactly how much time that meant.

 

Two minutes.

 

So you moved.

 

Casually at first — weaving through a cluster of lighting techs, your fingers brushing your hair back like nothing was out of place. Like you weren’t already burning from the inside out with how expertly he’d ignored you all day.

 

He was checking his mic pack when you slipped behind him around the camera rig, close enough to feel the electric heat coming off his vents. He didn’t see you. Not until you leaned in behind him, close enough for your breath to skim the back of his plastic casting.

 

“Break a leg, starboy.”

 

 you purred, your fingers just barely grazing one of his antennae.

 

Tenna flinched.

 

Not subtly — violently.

 

A full-body jolt like someone had slammed an electric current through his spine. His fans sputtered, steam puffing from the left one, and he stumbled back a step with a CRACK — as his hand clenched too hard around the mic remote, snapping the plastic case entirely in half.

 

You tilted your head and gave him an innocent smile.

Tenna whirled around to face you, voice pitched loud and frantic.

 

“Are you INSANE?! You can’t just—! That’s— You—” 

He trailed off, static popping through his voice box, antennae bent with fried feedback.

 

You blinked sweetly.

 

“Something wrong, Mr. Tenna?”

 

His screen flickered, colors glitching through a loop of blues and reds, then back to his usual sharp display. But his posture had shifted. Everyone could see it. His grip on control? Slipping.

A few crew members glanced over — brows raised, unsure whether they were about to witness a tantrum or a full-on meltdown.

 

Tenna seemed to realize it too.

 

He sucked in a breath, muttered something through clenched teeth — maybe a “Not now, not fucking now…” — and stormed off the stage without another word.

 

You watched him go.

 

Didn’t smile.

 

Didn’t flinch.

 

You waited a beat, then followed.

He moved fast — but not fast enough.

 

You stayed on his heels, weaving past baffled assistants, ignoring every stare.

 

He nearly lost you when he ducked into a side corridor, but you caught the edge of his jacket just as the studio door slammed shut behind him.

 

Up ahead, you spotted him storming down the hall, heading straight for his office with sharp, aggressive strides.

 

By the time you caught up, he was already inside — pacing like a caged animal.

“SERIOUSLY!?” 

he barked before you even said a word.

 

 “You had to pull that STUNT right before we go live?! What is wrong with you?? ”

 

But you only closed the door behind you. Calm. Steady.

 

He froze.

 

You took a step forward.

 

Tenna’s screen flickered again — this time with faint discoloration across the edges.

 

“…What do you want now?” 

 

he muttered, voice low, defensive. 

 

“Haven’t you made your point already?”

 

You stared at him. Took one more step forward.

 

He backed away.

You didn’t answer him — not yet.

Because he had nowhere else to go.

Chapter 15: Goodjob, Starboy

Summary:

Getting what you wanted from Tenna was easier than expected… all it took was the right wires.

You had him cornered.

 

So you waited.

 

Let him speak first. Let him try to explain why he’d spent the entire day pretending you didn’t exist—why he’d looked through you like a dead channel, even as his screen flickered every time you passed.

 

Tenna’s jaw clenched. His fingers twitched at his sides, and sweat began to form on his screen. Finally, he scoffed, throwing his hands up in that over-the-top way he did when he was close to losing it.

 

“So there’s no point? You just wanted to break and enter my office? Reallll classy, [Y/N]!”

 

His voice was too loud, too sharp—like if he cranked the volume high enough, neither of you would hear how it shook. 

 

“I should call security.”

 

You didn’t move.

 

“Call them.”

 

His screen dimmed, just slightly.

You stepped forward. 

 

“Tell them I’m harassing you.” 

 

Another step. 

 

“Tell them you want me gone.”

 

You heard him swallow. Static fizzed at the edges of his screen.

 

You leaned in, close enough to watch his mouth tremble. 

 

“Say it.”

 

Tenna’s mouth opened—

 

But he couldn’t get anything out as he stumbled back into his desk, sending a tower of scripts crashing to the ground. Papers fluttered around him like pathetic confetti.

 

For a second, he just stared at the mess, chest heaving.

 

When he looked up, his voice was raw.

 

“…It was a mistake.”

 

The words hung in the air like smoke.

 

"It was a mistake..."

 

You repeated.

You stared at him—at the way his fingers dug into the edge of the desk, at the faint buzz of his screen struggling to stay bright.

 

"Bullshit."

 

Tenna flinched.

 

You stepped closer, crushing a stray script page under your shoe. 

 

"You don’t get to call it a mistake when you begged for it."

 

His screen flickered violently.

 

 "I—I never begged—"

 

"Liar." 

 

You were in his space now, close enough to see the pixelated flush growing on his screen.

 

"You whimpered. You shook. You came so hard you—"

 

"SHUT UP!" 

His voice cracked, hands flying up like he could physically block out the words. A high-pitched whine erupted from his speakers—feedback, panic, something—before his screen snapped to black.

 

Silence.

 

Then, so quiet it was barely audible:

 

"...Why are you doing this?"

 

His screen rebooted, slower this time, his face half-shadowed in the dim office light. He looked younger like this. Smaller. Like how he did before he became whatever he is now. 

 

You could’ve softened then. Could’ve let him off the hook.

 

Instead, you leaned down, lips inches from his face while you whispered: 

 

 

"Because you deserve to hurt like I did."

 

 

Tenna’s screen blared white suddenly — before his face snapped back, teeth bared in something too jagged to be a smile.

 

"Oh, WOW!" 

 

His laugh was broken, all static and screech. 

 

"So that’s your grand plan here? Hurt me until we’re even? Very mature, [Y/N] — guess all that professionalism was just disguise—"

 

You grabbed his tie, yanking him forward until his forehead nearly clanked against yours. 

 

"You don’t get to talk about professionalism when you fucked me on a desk like a—"

 

"IT WAS A MISTAKE!" 

 

He shoved you back, hands trembling. 

 

"A stupid, messy mistake that never should’ve—" 

 

His voice short-circuited, screen stuttering. 

 

"—GOD, why can’t you just let it go?!"

 

"Because you won’t."

 

You stepped into his space again, watching his breath hitch as a result.

 

"You ignored me for the entire day, but you still watched me. Every damn hour. Admit it."

 

His display sputtered in colors. A choked noise escaped him—not a denial.

 

You pressed your palm to his chest, feeling the heat sear your skin. 

 

"You missed this. Missed me. Miss how much of a mess I made you—"

 

Tenna made a choked noise — something between a snarl and a sob.

 

“I tried, okay?” 

 

he snapped, grabbing your wrist. His grip was firm but shaking, like he didn’t trust himself to hold on. Or to let go.

 

“I tried so fucking hard. I—I was doing good. I was doing so good.”

 

His voice cracked.

Then he dragged you in and kissed you.

 

Hard. Desperate. Sloppy.

 

Not the kind of kiss you could mistake for anything gentle. His hands fumbled at your sides like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to shove you away or claw through your clothes. His vents hissed against your skin, static popping against your mouth as he kissed you like he hated himself for it.

You yanked at his jacket, nails digging into the collar. He groaned into your mouth — high and broken — like he was trying to swallow the sound down but couldn’t.

 

“This is stupid,” 

 

he hissed, even as his hands dragged down your back. 

 

“We’re idiots. We are going to just make this worse—”

 

“Just shut up and fuck me.”

 

you breathed, biting his bottom lip just enough to make him stutter.

 

He froze.

Only for a second.

 

Then his hands shot down, grabbed your thighs, and lifted you to straddle him against the desk with a thud that knocked even more papers to the floor.

 

Tenna’s hands dug into your thighs, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. His screen flickered —ERROR, ERROR— but he didn’t stop. 

Couldn’t stop.

 

You rolled your hips in his lap, slow and deliberate, watching his face grimace.

 

“Fuck—” 

 

His voice short-circuited again, static shredding the word. His grip tightened on your thighs, dragging you against him, but you didn’t let him set the pace. 

You lifted yourself just enough to tease—then sank back down, grinding against him harder, watching his expression turn completely lewd.

 

“We—we don’t have time—” he gasped, his vents were now producing steam.

 

You smirked, leaning in to kiss the edge of his screen.

 

 “Then hurry.”

 

He whined—a high, staticky noise—before his hands flew to your waist, trying to buck up into you, but you dug your nails into his shoulders, forcing him still.

 

“Ah-ah.”

 You rocked against him, torturously slow.

 “You don’t get to do that after ignoring me.”

 

His screen whited out.

 

Then– 

 

BANG BANG BANG

 

“BOSS?! We’re live in a MINUTE THIRTY— What the HELL are you doing in there?!

 

Tenna's head jerked toward the door in horror, his whole body tensing beneath you. You could feel the panic in the way his grip tightened on your waist, in the erratic pulse of color along the edges of his screen.

 

You grabbed the bottom of his casting, forcing his gaze back to you. His screen was only left flickering with error messages.

 

"Tell him you're busy," you whispered, grinding down hard enough to make the entire desk rattle.

 

His screen flashed DANGER: OVERHEATING in jagged red letters, his voice glitching as he shouted, 

 

"N-NOT NOW, MIKE—f-fuck—JUST—JUST STALL—"

 

The protest died in his throat when you shifted slightly, the movement drawing your attention to something you hadn't noticed before. 

 

Just beneath the collar of his suit, where the base of his CRT head connected to the joints of his neck, a bundle of exposed wires peeked through—frayed slightly, like they’d been tampered with before. They twitched with every shaky breath he took, pulsing faintly with raw, overworked sensitivity.

 

Curious, you reached up, letting your fingers ghost over the delicate wiring.

 

Tenna's breath hitched intensely, his whole body going rigid beneath you. 

 

"W-wait—don't—"

 

You pulled one of the wires—just slightly.

 

And Tenna screamed.

 

Not in pain. Not even in fear.

 

Just a full-bodied, high-pitched, short-circuiting cry of pure overstimulation, like the sound had been dragged from somewhere deep in his coding and ripped into the open. His screen glitched so violently it blacked out for half a second before rebooting in a strobe of color and static.

 

“FUCK—FUCKFUCKFUCK, I—”

 

Outside, Mike slammed his fist against the door.

 

“TENNA, WHAT WAS THAT?! ARE YOU DYING IN THERE?!”

 

You shoved Tenna deeper into the desk as he writhed beneath you, mouth slack and gasping, body twitching with every exposed wire you grazed.

 

“Sensitive?” 

 

you cooed quietly, tugging one more time, just to feel him thrash.

 

He sobbed. Actually sobbed.

 

“P-please— STOP, I can’t—I’ll—”

 

His voice dissolved into staticky whimpers, his hands clawing at your thighs like he couldn’t do anything else with them. 

 

Mike’s voice turned genuinely panicked.

 

“OKAY, THAT’S IT—I’M KICKIN THE DOOR DOWN—”

 

Tenna’s head snapped toward the door, screen flashing a plethora of emergency messages.

 

“NO! DON’T—I’M FINE—!”

 

You leaned down, lips brushing the vents along the side of his head. 

 

“Tell him to go away… or I’ll do it again.”

 

He whimpered in response.

 

Tenna's vents roared like a dying engine as he struggled to form coherent words through the static.

His fingers now dug into your thighs hard enough to draw blood as he shouted toward the door, voice cracking like a broken record. 

 

"J-JUST—nngh—TELL THEM TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES! Fuck—S-SAY I'M—hah—IN THE MIDDLE OF CRITICAL UPDATES—"

 

Mike's silence was deafening. Then, slowly he responded skeptically:

"...Updates."

 

Tenna's screen flickered multicolor with exertion as he forced his voice steady.

 

“YUP! UPDATES." 

 

A high-pitched whine escaped him when your thumb brushed another exposed wire. 

 

"VERY... hnn... SENSITIVE UPDATES—"

 

Another thunderous bang hit the door.

 

"YOU BETTER NOT BE JACKIN OFF IN THERE TENNA, YOU BOZO–”

 

You chose that moment to twist two wires together between your fingers.

 

Tenna's back arched off the desk with a shriek that definitely shattered glass somewhere in the building. His knees knocked against yours violently before he finally responded.

 

"F-FIVE MINUTES!" 

 

he wailed, hands scrambling to push yours away while his hips bucked upward helplessly. 

 

"JUST FIVE—AH!—FUCKING MINUTES, MIKE!"

 

The silence from the hallway was nerve wracking. Then, with palpable disgust Mike responded.

 

 "...Christ. Fine. You owe me so many favors for this." 

 

Footsteps retreated down the hall.

 

Tenna collapsed back against the desk with a staticky moan, screen dimming from overuse.

 

"I h-hate you,"

 

he gasped, though the way his hands immediately dragged you closer betrayed him.

 

"That was—ngh—career-ending l-leverage you just gave him."

 

You leaned down, licking a stripe up the side of his head where steam was previously pouring out of.

 

He instantly lost whatever argument point he was about to spew out.

 

His breath hitched, high and shaky. 

You felt him pulse hard beneath you, still trapped beneath his pants.

 

You’d completely forgotten that you were both still dressed—well, mostly. Maybe a few wrinkles had formed, maybe your clothes sat a little crooked on your bodies, but none of that mattered.

 

Because you got him this far gone with nothing more than a little grinding… and a few tugs on his wires.

 

The thought made your pride swell, and a twisted smile curled at your lips.

 

“You’re really hanging on by a thread, huh?”

 

He didn’t even try to deny it. Couldn’t.

Tenna looked like he’d sell his soul for the smallest ounce of relief—so he nodded, like he’d agree to anything you asked.

 

You almost felt bad for him.

 

But then you remembered how he acted this morning, like you’d fallen off the face of the earth the moment you stepped into the studio.

 

So you chose the middle ground— something that would ease his tension just slightly…while giving your ego a delicious boost.

 

You dragged your palm slowly from the center of his chest—where the heat alone could’ve blistered your skin—all the way down to where you straddled him. With every inch you traveled closer to his erection, you could feel the anticipation rolling off him in waves.

 

“Now, starboy…”

 

You purred the nickname again, fully aware of the effect it had.

 

Tenna winced beneath you, his whole body tensed—fighting the urge to rut up into you even without being inside. Desperate. Shaking.

 

“I don’t think you deserve any of this,” 

 

you whispered, voice low and cruel.

 

Then—without warning—you lifted your hand off him completely, never once giving his aching cock the attention it begged for.

He deflated instantly. His vents kicked into high gear, fans roaring intensely. The disappointment was written all over his face, raw and visible.

 

“N-no—please,” 

 

he rasped, hips jolting.

 

“Please don’t stop, I—I’ll do anything—just—please…”

 

You tilted your head, watching him fall apart with clinical interest.

 

“Anything?” 

 

you echoed, dragging a single finger down his chest once more— just close enough to tease, but never close enough to relieve. 

 

He nodded frantically again.

 

“Yes—fuck—yes, I need it—need you—please, please, I’ll be good, I swear, just—”

 

His voice broke. His legs twitched beneath you.

 

 

And then the tears started forming.

 

Small at first. Barely visible.

 

But the longer you stayed quiet—the longer he sat there, denied and humiliated and aching—the more overwhelmed he became.

 

“I—I c-can’t take it,” 

 

he choked, voice glitching between frequencies.

 

“I’ll lose it, I swear, I’ll break—please—fuck— touch me, please—I’ll do anything—[Y/N] please…”

 

You leaned down, and finally spoke.

 

“Then I want your office.”

 

His screen fluttered. 

 

“Wh—what?”

 

“I want this office. The big one. Not my shitty smelly one.” 

 

You dragged your nails down his stomach now— slowly—feeling the way he shivered beneath your touch. 

 

“And you don’t interrupt me in meetings. You don’t undermine me in front of the team. You keep that smug little mouth shut when I’m in charge.”

 

He let out a choked sound—humiliated, turned on, overstimulated.

 

You sat back slightly, watching him try to process it all through the fog.

 

“Say yes,” 

 

you demanded. 

 

“Beg for it.”

 

His screen stuttered again — brightness surging and flickering as he stared up at you, expression caught somewhere between humiliation and desperation.

 

Bigger tears began to pool along the corners of his display.

 

“I—” 

His voice cracked hard, and he tried to swallow it down.

 

“Okay. Okay, just—please—”

 

You didn’t move.

And one of the tears finally spilled, trickling down the edge of his screen.

 

“I’ll do it,” 

 

he whispered, breath hitching.

 

“You can have the office. I won’t interrupt you. I won’t—I won’t say a word if you don’t want me to—just, please—”

 

His hips bucked up weakly, like he couldn’t help it anymore, couldn’t bear the space between your hand and his cock. You hadn’t even touched him again, and he looked ready to break apart entirely.

 

You tilted your head.

 

“And you’ll stop undermining me?”

 

He nodded. 

 

“Yes—yes, I swear—just don’t leave me like this, please—”

 

You watched him writhe, reduced to a sobbing, compliant mess underneath you. All it took was a little bit of tension. A few wires. A well-placed demand.

 

And now?

 

He’d give you everything.

 

You dragged a nail down his torso, and stopped right before his groin. 

 

“That’s it..good job, Starboy.”

 

That lit something inside him.

His head tipped back with a strangled moan, tears finally falling in earnest.

 

You finally pressed your hand against his clothed cock—firm, almost caring. He sobbed at the contact, hips jerking up eagerly like his body couldn’t help but chase it.

 

You leaned towards him again, because scaring him was fun.

 

“I still don’t think you deserve to fuck me.”

 

He choked on a sob.

 

You felt his whole body stiffen—almost like he expected you to leave him there, denied again, humiliated beyond belief.

 

Instead, you slid off his lap, slow and smooth, until your knees hit the office carpet.

 

Tenna’s display was struck with a blue ERROR screen before phasing back to normal.

 

His mouth opened in shock, a faint buzz of electricity escaping like a gasp. You looked up at him from between his legs, hands calmly unfastening his belt. His cock strained beneath the fabric, twitching every time your fingers grazed it, like even this was too much.

 

“But I’ll give you this,” 

 

you murmured, tugging his pants and briefs down just enough.

 

The air finally hit him, and he let out the most pathetic sound you’d ever heard. His cock was flushed and aching, throbbing like he was one wrong move from falling apart.

 

You didn’t take him in your mouth right away. You just… breathed on him.

 

His hips bucked, and he whimpered.

Then you let your tongue drag just once over the head.

 

“F-fuck—thank you—” 

 

he gasped, his screen glitching through every color it could project.

 

“Oh my god—thank you, thank you—”

 

You glanced up at him to make eye contact.

 

“Shut up,” you managed to say between licks.

 

But you didn’t stop.

 

You licked him again—slow, cruel—and then wrapped your lips around him, just the tip, just enough to let the heat of your mouth tease and torment.

 

And Tenna shattered.

 

His hands slapped over his mouth, his entire frame trembling like an overloaded circuit. His legs kicked weakly beneath the desk as his hips tried—and failed—not to rut upward.

 

He sobbed out your name between his hands, his voice muffled and broken.

 

“Thank you—thank you—oh fuck, please don’t stop—please—”

 

You swirled your tongue once, giving him a faint hum of approval, and that was it.

 

Tenna came.

Hard.

 

The first spurt hit the back of your throat with a searing jolt — not painful, but sharp, like licking a nine-volt battery. It buzzed through your mouth, tingling behind your teeth and making your eyes water. You swallowed it reflexively, heat and static blooming down your throat in a way that made your breath catch.

 

His entire body seized above you, cords tightening beneath his skin like snapped wires. His screen blazed with a blinding —WARNING: OVERLOAD— as a high-pitched static shriek tore from his vents. Then he collapsed back against the desk, twitching, gasping, utterly undone.

 

You pulled off before he was even done, letting the final spurts hit his stomach instead. His chest heaved, screen dimming, mouth parted in stunned disbelief.

 

You watched him pant, hands still over his face, legs trembling.

 

For a second, you thought he might cry harder.

 

 

 

A few moments passed and Tenna still hadn’t moved.

 

His arms lay slack across the desk, one leg twitching faintly. His screen flickered dim and disoriented, static hissing from his vents in soft, uneven bursts. You weren’t sure if he was recovering or rebooting.

 

Probably both.

 

You stood, smoothing your clothes back into place like nothing had happened—like you hadn’t just reduced the station’s star to a begging, crying mess with barely any effort.

 

His cum still clung to his shirt in messy, overheated streaks.

 

You didn’t offer him a tissue.

Didn’t offer anything at all.

 

Instead, you leaned over him one last time, lowering your voice to a gentle murmur right against his now-overheated casing:

 

“I’ll be waiting for you to move everything out of my new office after the broadcast.” 

 

Then you turned and walked out— shoes stomping over the scattered pages around the room, leaving him twitching in silence behind you.

Notes:

Another 3k words dedicated mostly to smut? My greed sickens me…(jk I’m a freak)

Chapter 16: Clutter

Summary:

You find something you shouldn’t have while moving into your “new” office.

Notes:

Work has been kicking my ass, but it will never stop me from hyper fixating and writing

You walked into work early the next day, completely rejuvenated.

 

You waved to every sleep-deprived crew member you passed, humming to yourself as you made one final trip to your mildew-rotted closet office.

 

Good fucking riddance.

 

You quickly shoved the last of your things into a box, giving your old wobbly desk a solid kick for good measure—just for old times’ sake.

 

You couldn’t wait to finally have a window and a full reclining chair. Tenna was nowhere to be seen, but hey — he’d agreed to give you the office. Granted, the terms were… heated. 

 

A deals a deal. 

 

You were halfway through the door of “your” new office, already imagining the look on his face when—

 

“I think you took my advice a little too ‘literal,’ kid.”

 

Mike stood at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and the biggest smirk plastered across his face.

 

“Shake him up, not steal his damn office.”

He nodded toward the door.

“Hope you’re ready for a tantrum. Also—check for traps. Guy’s petty when provoked.”

 

You jumped back a little, your box of things rattling in your hands.

How long had he been standing there?

 

Trying to play it off, you rolled your eyes like he hadn’t startled you at all.

 

“He’s always petty.”

 

That earned a chuckle from Mike.

 

“I guess that’s true…”

 

His smirk faltered slightly. If he had eyes, you would assume they were now locked directly on you.

 

“Listen, I don’t know what you did yesterday, but Ant’s never been that late to a live broadcast in the last couple years.”

 

Mike scratched the back of his neck, like he wasn’t sure if he should keep talking.

 

“Look… I ain’t picking sides. From what I’ve seen you both drive each other up the wall. It’s honestly impressive no one’s gotten electrocuted yet.”

 

He glanced toward the office door again, voice lowering.

 

“But Ant? He doesn’t break routine. Not unless something really screws with him.”

 

You raised an eyebrow, and he kept going.

 

“And yesterday?”

 

Mike gave you a pointed look.

 

“He came in late red-faced, steaming, and wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. Told me he had a ‘fever’ after recording, and locked himself in editing with the lights off for two whole hours. If you ask me, that wasn’t just a power trip you pulled — it hit… something else.”

 

You shifted the box again, jaw clenching.

 

“Yeah. Well maybe that was the point.”

 

Your voice wasn’t proud, or defensive — just… tired. Like someone who knew exactly where Tenna’s sore spots were — and how they got there.

Mike tilted his head slightly.

 

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “That makes sense.”

 

Then, softer:

 

“Just be careful, alright?”

 

He didn’t wait for a response this time. Just gave you a brief nod and turned, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

 

You hadn’t expected that conversation to leave you feeling so…

 

Sour.

 

Sure, you’d left Tenna yesterday with no aftercare — but you didn’t think it would get to him like that.

 

Before you could spiral into a mess of guilt and second-guessing, you forced yourself to walk into Tenna’s office.

 

The scent of leather, whiskey, and a faint trace of burnt rubber hit you the moment you stepped inside.

 

For once, you could actually take it in — the visuals, the atmosphere — without it devolving into a power struggle or ending with the two of you fucking on the nearest surface.

 

And the first thing you noticed?

 

The bastard hadn’t packed a single thing.

 

You muttered a curse under your breath.

 

Of course he hadn’t packed. Of course he’d leave it all here for you to deal with — like his overflowing ego wasn’t enough to handle, now you had to sort through his cluttered shrine of himself.

 

You set the box down with a thud, surveying the room.

 

Posters — his own face on at least four. Framed stills from past segments. A coffee mug that said “Best TV ever” in bold lettering sat on the desk.

 

Your gaze then swept across the office, landing on a tall, scratched-up cabinet shoved into the corner near the windows — half-hidden behind one of Tenna’s ridiculous standees.

 

You were still standing near the desk, but curiosity got the better of you.

You stepped over and tugged the creaky door open — and blinked.

 

A full liquor shelf — all unopened, top-shelf brands — except for one bottle. Cheap, half-empty, and dust-caked. The exact kind you two used to pass between each other on bad show nights, laughing until sunrise.

 

Your eyes narrowed on the date.

 

That was your vodka.

 

Your fingers curled around the neck of the bottle, lifting it like evidence.

 

He kept this?

 

Before you could concentrate too deep into what that meant, your eyes fell on something stranger: the bottom drawer of his desk. Locked — or at least, it had been. Now the latch dangled loose, like someone had rushed out or forgotten to lock it properly.

 

Curious, you knelt down and tugged it open.

 

At first, you expected something ridiculous. Maybe a stash of tv dinners or backup antennae or — god forbid — more gloves.

 

What you found instead?

 

Photographs.

 

Dozens of them.

 

Polaroids, mostly. Some blurry, some overexposed. You at craft services, mouth stuffed. Him mid-act onstage. One where he had his arm tossed casually over your shoulders, both of you red-faced from laughing too hard.

 

You blinked, then carefully set them aside.

 

Under the photos was a CD labeled “[Y/N] JAMS” in faded Sharpie. It only had three songs written in black ink on the plastic sleeve.

 

And beneath that—

 

 

A script.

 

 

Your breath caught.

 

The script. The one you two co-wrote before everything went to hell.

 

It hadn’t been edited, defaced, or thrown out.

 

Just… kept.

 

Pressed flat. The pages slightly yellowed now, corners bent, and a faint coffee stain bleeding through the cover. Like it had been handled more than once — but never altered. Never thrown out.

 

Untouched.

 

You reached down and began to lift the script out of the drawer, fingertips brushing the edge of the familiar cover — but something else caught your eye.

 

Tucked beneath it, barely visible against the wood, was an envelope.

 

White. Clean. Crisp.

 

Newer than everything else in the drawer by far — no dust, no yellowing. Just your name written neatly on the front in handwriting you recognized immediately.

 

 

Your hand froze.

 

Before you could set the script down to grab it—

 

CRASH.

 

The door slammed open, hard enough to rattle the frame.

 

“HEY—”

 

Tenna’s voice was loud, breathless, panicked.

 

His screen flickered like a siren, antennae stiff with electricity as he stumbled in.

 

“What the HELL are you doing?!”

 

You didn’t even flinch.

Instead, you glanced upwards, utterly calm.

 

“I’m reorganizing my office.”

 

He stared. His screen dimmed.

 

 “…What?”

 

You gestured casually at the desk in front of you, then the nameplate you’d placed on it while unpacking. 

 

“You gave it to me yesterday. Don’t you remember?” 

You paused for a second.

“Or was your brain too fried to process that part?”

 

Tenna made a strangled, glitchy sound.

 

“NO— no, no, that was NOT a real agreement. That was—! That was just exploitation! You—you sat on my lap! I was NOT of sound mind!”

 

You turned fully toward him now.

 

“You literally said ‘I’ll do anything’ while crying into my shirt.”

 

Tenna’s screen glitched hard enough to spark. 

 

“That—! I—! YOU—!!”

 

You raised your eyebrows. 

 

“Sounded pretty official to me.” 

 

He started to argue, mouth opening for some witty retort—but then his face flicked down.

 

To the drawer.

 

The open drawer.

 

His voice caught in his throat.

 

“…Wait. Wait, wait, wait—what drawer is that?”

 

You looked back at it innocently, script still in one hand. 

 

“This? Bottom one. It was unlocked.”

 

“No—” 

 

Tenna lurched forward from the door, panic flaring in his voice. 

 

“NO, no, get out of there—”

 

Too late.

 

Your other hand was already reaching for the envelope.

 

“…What’s this?”

 you said, fingers closing around the pristine white paper with your name on it.

 

 “It doesn’t match the rest of the junk.”

 

Tenna was practically vibrating now.

 

“That’s—! That’s private—“

 

You lifted the envelope slowly, turning it over in your hands.

 

“Huh. Kind of new. Did you forget this was in here, or were you saving it for your shrine?”

 

Tenna looked like he might combust on the spot.

 

“I’m serious—DON’T open that! It’s—uh—“

 

He looked like he was about to vomit as you began to play with the envelope more. 

 

“IT’S PORN. UH, DISGUSTING PORN! THE MOST EXPLICIT KIND.”

 

You snorted. 

 

“Wow. Guess I really am your type, huh? Seeing as my name’s plastered on it.”

 

You turned the envelope back to the front, thumb grazing your name.

 

“Honestly, it’s kind of cute how bad you are at hiding stuff.”

 

Tenna lunged towards your direction again.

 

 “GIVE ME THAT—!”

 

But you’d already taken a step back, carefully breaking the adhesive.

 

“You’re not making this less suspicious, y’know.”

 

His voice cracked as he flailed in place, caught between rage and humiliation.

 

“Please. I’m warning you—“

 

You held the envelope just out of reach, smirking. 

 

You slowly broke the seal — and watched, in real time, as Tenna crumble from the inside out.

 

“If Mike was right about you booby-trapping this place and there’s a bomb in here, I’m haunting you.”

 

Tenna blinked, thrown off for a moment.

 

“Wait—Mike said what?”

 

Before he could press further, you pulled the paper from its little cage and began to read it aloud — full dramatics, of course.

 

“Hey. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. Hell, I don’t even know if I want you to. But I had to write it. Had to say something. Even if it just ends up crumpled at the bottom of a trash can.”

 

You paused for effect, raising your eyebrows.

 

“Oh, promising start,” 

you muttered sarcastically, glancing at him.

 “I hope this gets juicy.”

 

Tenna said nothing.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

You blinked.

Your voice was still laced with mockery — but a little softer now.

 

“You were the most important person in my life, and I treated you like an afterthought. Like you’d always be there — like I could just reach out whenever I wanted and you’d still be waiting there for me.”

 

Your tone faltered slightly.

You didn’t look at him. You just kept reading.

 

“I didn’t realize I’d already pushed you too far until you left. And you haven’t looked back since.”

 

Your voice lowered.

 

“I miss you.

 

Not just the big things — your laugh, your voice, the way you used to challenge me like no one else ever did — but the small stuff too.

The way you corrected my spelling with post-it-notes. The way you’d fall asleep with a pen still in your hand. That hoodie you wore all the time… the one that made you look even smaller.”

 

You stopped reading out loud.

Tenna wasn’t even trying to hide his emotions now.

He stood frozen, hands balled into fists at his sides, like he was waiting for a punch that never came. 

His head was down, shoulders tense. Embarrassed. Exposed.

 

You read the rest to yourself, silent now.

Your eyes scanned the final lines.

 

“I don’t have some grand excuse for how I  acted. I was scared. Scared of needing someone the way I needed you. And I ruined it. I ruined us.

 

 

You meant something. You meant everything.

 

 

 

I should’ve told you sooner. I should’ve—“

 

 

The sentence didn’t finish.

 

The last line was a mess of scribbles — scratched out so violently the pen had nearly torn through the page.

 

You stared at it.

 

The room was completely silent now, except for Tenna’s quiet, shaky breathing ahead you.

 

You swallowed hard.

 

“…Why didn’t you send it?”

 

you asked, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

 

Tenna hesitated.

 

His antenna twitched like it wanted to fizzle and die.

 

“I… I didn’t think you’d want to hear it. You made it pretty clear you were done.”

 

You didn’t respond.

 

You just folded the letter carefully, fingers trembling slightly, and placed it back on top of the drawer. Not tearing it. Not throwing it. Just… placing it.

 

Like it might fall apart if you touched it any harder.

 

Your throat was tight. Not from guilt exactly, but from the sudden weight of everything. The memories, the ache, the part of you that had wanted something like this for a long time — but never thought he was capable of giving it.

 

He was.

Just too late.

 

You knelt back down and started methodically moving his stuff into a nearby box — scripts, wires, a half-empty bottle of cologne that smelled just like him. The scent made your stomach twist.

 

“I’m not keeping any of your shit,” 

you muttered, the edge back in your tone — but softer this time.

 “Just clearing it out.”

 

Tenna didn’t answer. You didn’t even have to look to know he was still standing there, watching you like you’d cracked him open and left his still beating heart on top of the desk in front of you.

 

 

 

“I wrote that a month after you left,” 

he said finally, voice small. 

“Every day after, I thought about sending it. Every day after, I didn’t.”

 

Your hand paused over a stack of papers.

 

You couldn’t let him see your face — not now. Not after that.

 

 

Tenna lingered a moment longer — like he wanted to say more but couldn’t. Then, quietly, he turned and walked out.

 

The door clicked shut behind him.

 

You stood there frozen for a moment, the box half-filled, the air far too heavy. Your eyes drifted back to the letter.

 

You didn’t mean to. You really didn’t.

 

But your throat caught, your vision blurred, and before you could stop it —

 

A tear slipped down your cheek.

 

Then another.

 

 

You swiped them away quickly. Angrily. Like they’d betrayed you.

 

 

 

Goddammit.

Chapter 17: On the Rocks

Summary:

You finally got Tenna’s office, but the consequences hit harder than you expected. Turns out watching him fall apart doesn’t feel as satisfying as you thought it would.

Notes:

WARNING!!!

This chapter delves into some alcohol abuse, and overall drinking. If that is a touchy subject for you, I would possibly skip this chapter.

 

Just wanted to make sure to give a proper warning, enjoy! <33

You spent the next hour boxing up the rest of Tenna’s crap — but the smug satisfaction you wanted to feel never really landed.

 

Your hands moved on autopilot. 

Grab. Fold. Shove. Stack.

 

But your mind?

Your mind was still in that drawer .

That letter.

You kept replaying the words like an idiot. Like some masochist desperate to torture themselves.

 

You meant something. You meant everything.

 

Your fingers curled tighter around the Tenna bobblehead in your hand, jaw clenched hard enough to crack a tooth.

No. No, screw that.

That letter was years old. Written a month after you left — not recent, not relevant. Who even knew what version of you he’d written it for?

 

He never sent it. Never said a damn thing until you practically stole it from him.

 

And sure, maybe it sounded sweet in the moment, but—

 

But it didn’t change what he’d done . What he kept doing.

 

You dumped the stupid bobblehead into the box and grabbed the next stack of junk, trying to focus on the weight of things in your hands instead of the one still pressing on your chest.

 

Tenna had humiliated you in front of the staff. Mocked you when you broke down. Stared like you were some open wound he didn’t want to deal with. He paraded around like you were beneath him for years, acted like you never mattered.

 

So what, now you were supposed to swoon over a dusty old confession he’d buried? One he never even had the guts to give you?

 

No.

 

You weren’t that stupid. 

 

You weren’t.

He made his choice. And you’d made yours.

You stacked the final box and shoved it against the hallway wall without looking back.

 

If he wanted his shit, he could come collect it from the hallway like a big boy.

 

You turned back into your office — not his, not anymore — and collapsed into the desk chair with a heavy exhale. You rubbed at your eyes, willing the headache to stay away.

 

Still, that letter lingered at the edges of your thoughts. 

 

Soft. Sad. Stupid.

 

You shook it off and opened your laptop.

 

No more overthinking. You had so much work to do.

Hours had passed.

You weren’t sure how many — just that the sun had long since dipped below the skyline, and the building had gone quiet around you. 

 

You hadn’t even noticed the crew trickling out one by one. No goodbyes, no noise, not even a stray knock on the door. You’d buried yourself in work — researching vendors, cross-referencing budgets, drafting a proposal for new set equipment, writing out ideas for a studio revamp with the kind of obsessive focus that screamed don’t think, just fix.

 

You didn’t even register the time until the blue glow of your monitor flickered, and your eyes finally drifted to the corner of the screen.

 

12:27 a.m.

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh Jesus—” 

 

You shot up from the chair, your spine cracking like brittle plastic. The realization hit all at once — how sore you were, how empty your stomach felt, how cold the office had become.

 

You were going to hate yourself tomorrow.

 

You rubbed your face hard and packed your bag with practiced speed, ready to bolt. But as you slung it over your shoulder and stepped into the hallway, something gave you pause .

 

Tenna’s boxes were still there .

 

Untouched.

 

Stacked exactly how you left them.

That… was weird.

 

He hadn’t come by once? Not even to scream at you for how you packed his weird junk drawer?

 

You stood there for a second, staring at the pile, then glanced toward the end of the hallway.

Nothing.

No flickering light from his screen. No chaotic noise. No dramatic cursing about the state of his posters.

You frowned, unease crawling up your spine.

 

You kept walking — shoes echoing across the now-empty hallway — until you turned toward the main entrance. You were almost to the door when—

Clink.

The sound of glass bumping.

 

Then a shuffle . A thud .

 

You froze mid-step.

 

The noise came from the greenroom. 

 

…Was someone still here?

For a second, you thought maybe it was Ramb. Sweet guy, chipper as hell, soft British accent that always made him sound like he was serving tea instead of cocktails. He worked the green room bar, always humming while he polished glassware or snuck you a ginger ale.

 

But there’s no way he was still here. Not this late. You hadn’t seen him — or anyone — in hours.

You hesitated, inching toward the doorway.

 

The sound came again. A bottle shifting .

 

Your heart sped up.

Then you saw it — a figure slouched on the green room couch, dimly lit from one of the studio’s sconces above.

 

You took one more step forward… just enough to peek fully through the crack in the door.

 

Tenna.

 

Slouched on the couch like he’d melted into it. Head hung low, one hand loosely gripping a nearly empty bottle of whiskey. His tie was loosened, his blazer tossed somewhere on the floor, and his screen… it was off.

 

Completely dark.

 

You froze.

 

There was another bottle on a  nearby coffee table  — full, unopened. It was a drastic difference to the nearly dry one in his hand.

 

Your insides curled.

 

Did he drink all of that?

You didn’t think he’d seen you as you darted back from the door. But something about the way he sat — slack, silent, utterly unlike himself — made your chest seize. 

It wasn’t just weird.

 

It felt wrong.

You lingered in the hallway, then you finally decided to peek back into the room. You stared at him like he might vanish if you blinked.

God fucking dammit.

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting out a sharp breath through your nose.

“You fucking idiot,” you muttered — not sure if you meant him or yourself.

Still, your feet were already moving.

 

You pushed the door open, just wide enough to slip in.

 

The room smelled like booze and febreze, a truly terrible combo.

“Wow,”  

 

you said, voice dry, hands shoved in your pockets. 

 

“And here I thought you only drank when you had an audience.”

 

No response.

 

Tenna didn’t move. His head lolled slightly to the side, one arm draped over the back of the couch. The bottle in his hand tipped a little, dangerously close to spilling all that was left in it.

 

You stepped closer. 

 

“…Tenna?”

 

Still nothing.

 

Only the faintest low buzz from his core. His screen was still off.

 

You crouched slightly to get a better look at him, your heart thudding now in a way you didn’t like.

 

“Jesus,” you breathed, softer now. “Did you seriously drink all of that?”

 

That’s when he stirred.

 

His screen blinked back to life — dull, fuzzy, unfocused.

 

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t even seem to register that you were there.

 

“…[Y/N]?”  

 

he mumbled, voice gravelly and slurred 

 

“Hey, how long… ‘til we’re on stage?”

You felt something inside you begin to crack.

 

His head lolled toward you, expression half-fogged like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing

 

You stayed still, cautiously watching him.

“…What?” you asked.

He turned slowly, then tried to sit up — wobbled , barely stayed upright, then fell straight back down. His bottle sloshed dangerously before slipping from his grip.

 

You moved fast, grabbing it before it could crash to the floor.

Tenna barely reacted.

 

“ …Shit . Sorry,”

 

he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands, screen flickering weakly like a dying bulb. 

 

“Director’s gonna kill me. I forgot… the lighting cue. You had to cover for me again, didn’t you?”

 

You froze.

 

That wasn’t today.

 

That wasn’t this year.

 

“…Tenna,” 

 

you said gently, brows furrowing.

 

“That was… years ago.”

He blinked at you. Confused. Slow.

 

“What…?”

 

You took a breath, trying to steady yourself. 

“We’re not in acting school. This isn’t state rehearsal. You’re not about to go on stage.”

Tenna stared at you — expression fragile behind the static crawl of his screen.

 

For a moment, nothing moved. Then he let out a slow, wet laugh — the kind that wobbled at the end.

 

“Ohhhh, fuck me… 

Thought we was back at school again,”

 

 he slurred, swiping weakly at his face.  

 

“BUT hey since you’re here. All we needz the old drama professor and a fog machine, and we’re really back in business baby.”

 

He let his head fall back against the couch, screen dimming again like the memory short-circuited something. Then, with a small chuckle that almost sounded real, he added, 

 

“Hope you still memorized my lines again, starshine.”

 

You didn’t smile.

 

You didn’t move.

 

Your fingers curled a little tighter around the bottle you’d caught, now dangling from your grip like a loaded weapon.

 

He was worse off than you thought.

 

“…Tenna,” 

you said, keeping your voice even.

“How much of this did you drink?”

 

Tenna squinted at you, tried to count on his fingers… then gave up halfway through and waved a floppy hand in the air. 

 

“Enough,” 

he muttered, like that made it okay. 

“M’fine. Just… just rehearsin’.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I am . I am .”

He shook his head rapidly, then raised a clumsy finger to point at you.

 

“You’re just mad ‘cause I didn’t invite you to the cast party. Or maybe— maybe you’re jealous ‘cause I got the lead that time. Yeah?”

He grinned, innocent and uneven.

“Bet you’re still sore about it. C’mon. Admit it.”

You just stared at him.

 

This wasn’t funny. None of this was funny.

“You need water ,” 

you said, now making sure the other full bottle of whiskey was far away from him. 

“And probably a fucking doctor. You’re slurring every other word.”

 

“Pshhh. Doctors. They don’t fix this,” 

 

he muttered, tapping the side of his screen.

 

“No cure for being outdated, sweetheart. 

Trust me, I checked.”

 

You felt the cracks inside you worsen .

 

He fumbled to stand up again, hands slipping against the cushion, so you reached out to keep him seated — just to make sure he wouldn't faceplant into the coffee table.

 

But then his screen turned toward you.

 

“I miss you talkin’ to me,” 

 

he slurred suddenly.

 

“You used to ramble. About all your dumb little plans. Every damn idea you had. Couldn’t shut you up.”

 

He gave a lopsided grin.

 

“I liked that.”

 

Your hand froze where it now hovered near his arm.

Tenna slumped forward again, head bobbing slightly like it was getting hard to hold up. 

 

“Y’know… I was gonna ask you what you’ve been doing since. After. Since you… left.”

 

You blinked.

 

“What?”

 

“You know,” he mumbled. “Everything. Since you got smart and ran off. Whatz it been? Years? Felt like a million .”

 

He stared blankly at the floor. 

 

“Bet you’ve done a lot. Always were good at makin’ things better. Not like me. Just…”

 

He trailed off, screen dimming even darker, words crackling in his throat.

 

You swallowed.

You weren’t sure why — maybe it was the way he asked, or maybe you just needed to prove you’ve succeeded without him — but something finally cracked open in you, too.

You sat down beside him.

And before you knew it, you started talking.

About the bakery you saved from shutting down. About the haunted burger joint you helped rebrand. The bar in the middle of nowhere. The crumbling community park. All the little odd jobs, the messes you cleaned, the lives you stepped into like they were costumes.

 

You told him about the people — the weird ones, the kind ones, the ones who reminded you of characters from shows you used to watch together in his old shitty apartment.

You rambled.

And Tenna watched you in awe, nodding every chance he could.

 

Until you realized how much you’d said.

 

Your mouth snapped shut.

 

You stiffened.

 

“…Sorry. I didn’t mean to go on—”

 

“No,” he said, barely audible. “No, I liked it. I always… I always liked it.”

 

He looked at you a bit longer, until his expression changed. It looked like he was in pain .

 

And then he slumped back hard against the couch.

A long pause.

Then, quiet and hoarse:

“I don’t know what to do anymore.”

You didn’t answer.

 

He stared up at the ceiling, blinking slowly.

“They’re all sick of me,” he said suddenly. “The crew. Mike. Everybody.”

 

You blinked.

 

“What?”

 

He let out a breath through his teeth, laughing without humor again. 

 

“They don’t say it out loud, but I can feel it. Every time I walk in the room — like they’re just waiting for me to explode or do something stupid again.” 

 

He made a loose, sloppy gesture with one hand, nearly smacking the bottle from the table.

 

You caught it mid-tip, steadying it with a shaky hand.

 

“…You’re drunk,” you said softly.

 

“Yeah.” He glanced at you and grinned. “Shocker, right?”

 

Your throat felt even tighter. Something ugly and nervous was rising through your ribs.

 

“And now…” he slurred, rocking slightly. “Now you’re here.”

 

You stiffened.

 

“I thought — I thought maybe that’d fix up my act. Like some kinda… miracle . Like if you showed up, then everything else would line up again…”

He snorted. 

“But it’s worse . Everything feels worse .”

 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think .

 

He dragged a hand over his face again, then leaned back against the couch like it physically hurt to sit up straight even slightly now.

“You only really look at me when we’re foolin’ around,” 

 

he said suddenly, voice cracking.

 

Your stomach dropped.

 

“I mean— fuck, that sounds pathetic , doesn’t it?”

 

 he laughed again, choked and jagged.

 

“But it’s true . It’s the only time you look at me like you— used to.”

 

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

 

Tenna’s head tilted even further back. His screen flickered again. And this time, when he spoke…

“…I think I broke it,”

 

 he whispered.  

 

“All of it.”

Then he started crying .

 

Just like that.

 

No big lead-up. No dramatic scream or outburst.

 

Just a quiet , broken sound — the kind that didn’t belong in his voice at all. His shoulders shook, his arms laid at his sides lifeless .

 

You sat next to him frozen in place, staring at him like you’d never seen him before.

And maybe you hadn’t . Not like this.

Not this honest .

 

Not this real .

Something curdled up inside you, as if you were rotting from the inside out.

You didn’t know if it was pity or guilt or something deeper than both.

 

But it hurt so badly. 

 

And you didn’t know what the hell to do about it

You heard a sniffle as Tenna began to speak again. 

 

“I just…”

 

A weak breath, trembling.

 

“I just want eyes on me again,” he whispered. “I just want to be watched.”

 

He finally looked down from the ceiling— and you finally got a good look at him.

 

God, he was really crying. You hadn’t even realized how badly he was until his voice cracked again and he gave a sharp sniff, like he was trying to swallow it all back down. His screen was now laced with a rosy tint, fuzzy with static, and for once, he didn’t bother hiding it.

 

“I don’t know how to exist without someone watching,” he rasped. “I don’t know how to be if no one’s looking. If you’re not looking.”

 

The silence that followed rang louder than anything he’d said.

And that’s when it hit you.

 

Like a chemical reaction.

He wasn’t the only one who’d been cruel.

You’d been cold . Cold on purpose. Petty . Sharp . You wanted to make him squirm, to remind him of everything he’d done, to punish him for making you feel small all that time ago.

 

But the things you’d said. The power games. The kiss. The way you’d held his dignity in your hands and bent it until it cracked.

You were here to fix the studio. 

 

But a sick part of you wanted to see him break more than anything else you were here for.

And now that he was breaking—now that he was looking at you like that, with a red-rimmed display and a soft, ruined voice—

 

You felt it.

 

The guilt.

 

Real and ugly and earned.

It clawed down your ribs, settling deep in your stomach like a parasite .

Because underneath all your pride, you knew one thing for sure:

 

This was no longer just his mess.

 

It was yours , too.

You still didn’t know what to say after this revelation.

 

Every part of you screamed to do something—anything —but your body stayed frozen, your throat shut with something entirely ugly.

 

You wanted to reach for him.

 

You really did.

 

But the weight of everything you’d done, everything he had done, settled over your shoulders like a lead. 

And for some reason, the thought of touching him now— after how both of you treated each other —felt almost cruel.

 

So instead, you took a shaky breath, got up, and stood in front of him.

 

“Come on,”

 

 you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. 

 

“Let’s… let’s get you out of here.”

 

Tenna didn’t respond right away.

His face flickered, dim and exhausted, the color of his screen still soft and glitching.

 

He sniffled again, but when you reached for his hand, he didn’t pull away.

 

Didn’t say a word.

 

You helped him stand—slowly, carefully. He stumbled once, muttering something incoherent under his breath, but you steadied him with one hand on his arm, the other hovering at his back.

 

No jokes. No insults.

Just quiet .

 

Just the hum of the hallway lights as you led him out of the green room.

 

You didn’t know what to do beyond this.

 

Didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t feel hollow or late or hypocritical.

But you could at least get him home.

 

That much, you could do.

You made it down the hall in silence, your hand lightly gripping his arm the whole time. He kept sniffling— quiet and shaky —and occasionally muttered something under his breath that sounded like static-warped words.

 

At the studio’s back exit, you paused under the dull, buzzing light of the exit sign.

 

“How did you get here?” you asked softly. “How do you get to work?”

 

Tenna looked at you, sluggish.

 

“Huh?”

 

“To the studio,” you clarified. “Did someone drop you off…?”

 

He squinted at you, then shook his head like it physically hurt.

 

“Car,” he mumbled.

 

You nodded slowly.

 

“Alright… where is it?”

 

He gestured somewhere behind the lot with a half-hearted wave. You followed the general direction, gently guiding him along until you found it — a sleek, obnoxiously modified car that fit his brand a little too well.

 

You opened the passenger door for him, and he collapsed into the seat with a drawn-out, static-filled groan. Once he was inside, you circled around to the driver’s side and climbed in.

 

It was… a larger fit.

 

The seat was pushed ridiculously far back, and the mirrors were angled like he expected to be sitting in another zip code. You fumbled with the adjustments — dragging the seat forward, fixing the mirror, nudging the steering wheel down — all while side-eyeing him slumped in the passenger seat.

 

He looked like a broken toy someone had tossed in a donation bin. Loose-limbed. Worn-down.

 

Once everything was set, you put your hands on the wheel and hesitated .

 

“…Are you able to give me directions to your place?” you asked, carefully. “ I don’t… I don’t know where you live anymore.”

 

That did it.

 

His shoulders trembled once. 

Then again.

And then he was crying.

 

Worse than before.

“Y-you don’t even know anymore,” 

 

he choked out, covering the top of his screen with both hands. 

 

“Y-you used to—used to just show up. You’d know when I was down and you’d— fuck, you didn’ even knock on the door— ya just showed up like you lived there.”

 

You froze.

 

His voice cracked again, harder this time.

 

“I thought about that. That one day you’d knock again. Just once. Just once—”

 

He trailed off, sobbing now, his frame hitching violently in the seat.

 

You panicked. You didn’t know what else to do, as you reached for the gearshift. 

 

“Okay...I’m– we’re going to go to my place. It’s safe there, okay?

 

No response, just sobs. 

 

So you turned the keys and started the engine.

 

And without a word, you pulled out of the parking lot and drove in the direction of your apartment.

It was all you could think to do.

You didn’t know where he lived anymore.

 

But he’d been to your place a hundred times.

 

He’d recognize it.

And right now… that felt like the only safe place left.

Chapter 18: Home Sweet Home

Summary:

Somehow, you ended up taking Tenna home — and things only got more hectic from there.

Notes:

GUYS!! Please go show some love to Hreremuss on tumblr, he drew some art for the last chapter AND ITS AMAZING?!?
I’ll link it below, it’s seriously so good it had me run 3 laps around my room.

https://www.tumblr.com/hreremuss/789701741723697152/some-fanart-of-a-livewire-chapter-17-on-ao3

You had severely underestimated how hard it would be to practically carry someone nearly twice your size up two flights of stairs.

 

You cursed your landlord. You cursed the other tenants. You cursed God for the cruel cosmic joke that landed you in a third-floor apartment.

 

Not only was it physically exhausting to haul Tenna’s deadweight up these stairs, but he was also absolutely shit-faced — and, well, he was Tenna. So silence wasn’t going to be an option.

 

He’d stopped sobbing after you finally managed to get him out of his grossly modded TV Time-branded automobile, but something else had taken over him. 

Whether it was the spins, or some twisted form of endorphin overdose — you couldn’t tell.

 

The moment you started walking — or rather, dragging him with his arm slung around your shoulder like he’d been wounded in war — he kept muttering nonsense.

Half-finished thoughts, half-remembered lines from past segments, starting and stopping like a scratched disc.

 

“Mannn… MIKE, would you take a looook at the board…”

 

A breathy laugh. Then two dry gags.

 

“DON’T  flip the channel, folkz!”

 

You clenched your jaw. Tried to keep your breathing even. You were only on the first flight of stairs.

 

Then — suddenly — Tenna leaned in too far. His face grazed the top of your head, you could feel his screen buzz with static against your hair.

 

From any other angle, it probably looked like he was trying to eat your hair.

 

“Smells so good, [Y/N]… you always smell so good…”

 

Heat rushed straight to your face.

 

 

Jesus Christ.

You were about to burst.

 

 

This was too much. You’d worked all day, you were currently hauling over 200 pounds up two flights of stairs, and on top of it all — this was Tenna.

 

 

Your ex-best friend.

 

 

The one you’d despised the day before.

 

The same guy who had turned this entire job into a shitshow.

 

The same guy who tossed you aside the second more “important” people started paying attention to him.

 

The same narcissist, Grade-A, double-B dickhead that everyone loathe with their whole heart and soul—

 

And yet…

 

 

You remembered the way he cried.

 

 

That moment of complete collapse. The sheer fragility in him prior to this.

 

 

You remembered what he said.

 

“You only look at me when we’re foolin’ around.”

 

 

God.

 

Maybe you were the sicker one now.

 

How could you even begin to judge him — after everything you’d done?

 

How could you act like some righteous victim when you’d done something equally awful?

 

 

You picked up the pace, pushing the two of you up the stairs with a new sense of determination — to get Tenna somewhere safe.

 

Even with his constant drunk quips slurred into your right ear, and the overwhelming stench of liquor practically seeping into your clothes, you didn’t slow down.

 

It was the least you could do.

 

 

 

By the time you finally made it into your apartment, you were drenched in sweat.

 

You hadn’t exactly been staying active lately, and this? This was a brutal reality check.

 

But before you could start questioning your current health, Tenna was already grinning beside you — practically beaming — before he peeled off and started wandering the apartment like it was the first time he’d ever seen it.

Like a puppy.

 

“Wow, [Y/N], great place you got here.”

 

You gave him a flat look.

 

“You’ve been here like… hundreds of times.”

 

He blinked.

 

Paused.

 

Then gave a lazy, drunken chuckle as he stumbled past your coffee table.

 

“Oh yeah. I knew that.”

 

“Sit down before you break something,” you muttered, nodding toward the couch.

 

It took a second for the command to register. Then Tenna finally dropped his heavy frame onto your regular sized couch with a thud.

 

“Couch feels the… same…” he slurred, rubbing his face into the fabric like it was unfamiliar.

 

“That’s because it is the same one.”

 

“Oh.”

 

A pause.

His head swiveled slowly toward you.

 

“Heyyy, where’s yer fish…? I liked that lil guy…”

 

You blinked.

 

“He died. Like… years ago.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Another beat.

 

“That’s… real sad.”

 

You decided to do something useful instead of suffering through more awkward small talk, so you headed to the kitchen to grab him some water — maybe even a snack if he could keep it down.

 

“Hey… where you goin’?”

 

Tenna half-shouted from the couch, his voice slurred and rising.

 

“You’re not leavin’, are you? Are you goin’ away? You’re not— you’re not comin’ back? Are you—?”

 

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t even turn around.

 

You were instead focusing your attention on your nearly empty fridge, praying to find something he might actually eat without throwing it up five minutes later.

 

You were halfway through digging past an expired yogurt when—

 

“[Y/N]?!”

 

You could hear movement from the living room.

 

Shuffling. A sudden thud.

 

“Hey— hey where’d you GO?! No— no, no, don’t just—don’t just leave me, please—”

 

Something tipped over. A loud clatter.

 

“You SAID you were stayin’—”

 

You sped out of your kitchen in time to see him halfway off the couch, gripping the armrest like it was a life raft.

 

His screen flickered erratically, head tilted downward as if too heavy to hold up.

He looked rattled. His fingers were twitching. Chest rising too fast.

 

 

Shit.

 

You rushed over, kneeling beside the couch and gripping his shoulders.

He flinched at first — like he hadn’t even realized you were still here at all.

 

 

“Hey. Hey— I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, okay? I didn’t leave.”

 

You shook him gently as if that would give him the memo.

 

His screen blinked. He sniffled, breath stuttering.

 

“You said—said you’d stay, you—you promised—”

 

“I am staying.”

 

He wasn’t hearing you.

 

He was somewhere else now — far past logic, drowning in something deeper.

 

His head dropped backwards suddenly, towards the head cushions.

 

“Don’t leave me again,” he whispered, barely audible through his slurring.

 

“I can’t— I don’t know what I’d do if—if you—”

 

 

You felt bile rise in your throat, and you weren’t the drunk one.

 

Your hands instinctively tightened on his shoulders, holding him steady even as your own breath faltered.

 

 

And then — just for a second — your mind raced backwards.

 

Backstage. Years ago. After an audition.

 

Tenna had lost the lead role to someone the director called “more disciplined.”

 

He’d laughed it off, told everyone the role was beneath him anyway.

 

But later, when you found him alone behind the curtain — screen black, pride gutted — he hadn’t said a word.

 

You didn’t either.

 

You just sat beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Slipped your hand in his, and then you’d brushed your fingers along the side of his head, brushing them soothingly over the vents that were there. 

 

He’d seemed to act more normal after that.

 

 

 

So now — without thinking — you did it again.

 

 

You let go of his arms and reached up, gently brushing your fingers over the thin metal grooves at the sides of his head.

 

His whole body softened. Sagged toward you, like you were ripping the fear straight out of him.

 

After a few moments he finally seemed back to a stable state.

 

He let out a low, uneven sigh.

 

“… ‘m sorry,” he muttered, barely audible. “Didn’t mean to freak out. Just—”

 

 

You didn’t let him finish.

 

 

You slipped your hand into his — firm, steady — like it was instinct.

 

 

Tenna blinked. For a moment, even through the drunken haze, he looked surprised.

 

Then he gave you a crooked, familiar smile. The kind you’d seen a thousand times before in the past.

 

 

And just like that — like back then — he squeezed your hand in return.

 

 

You felt your chest begin to tighten.

 

This was muscle memory, that’s all.

 

Your hand, the vents, the squeeze — it was just a reflex. Just… comforting him. Making up for everything you’d done since you got here. 

That’s it.

 

But that look in his eyes — or whatever glitchy approximation of eyes his screen gave you — made something twist in your gut.

 

You pulled your hand away.

Cleared your throat. Too loud.

 

“I’m— I’m gonna get you some water,” 

 

you mumbled, standing abruptly.

 

It came out stiffer than you intended. Awkward. Too quick.

 

You didn’t wait for a reply. You turned on your heel and marched toward the kitchen like your life depended on it, hoping he couldn’t see how hot your face was getting.

 

God, what were you doing?

 

 

You were helping him — not slipping back into… whatever the hell that used to be.

 

You weren’t friends anymore.

 

You weren’t anything.

 

 

Behind you, you heard shifting again.

Then a weak voice:

 

“Wait—wait, I… I wanna go too.”

 

You stopped just short of the fridge.

 

“No, just—sit down, Tenna,” you called back. “I’ll only be a sec.”

 

Silence.

Then a louder, more pathetic groan:

 

“But I don’t wanna stay here aloooone…”

 

You closed your eyes.

Felt your patience fray just a little further.

There was some rustling. A clumsy thump. Then the telltale dragging of heavy feet.

 

“Tenna—”

 

He appeared in the doorway a second later, wobbling dramatically as he clung to the wall like he was in some tragic silent film.

 

“I missed you,”  he said.

 

You stared at him.

 

Then sighed.

 

“Fine. But you’re sitting at the table and not moving.”

 

Tenna brightened instantly.

 

But before he could even get a word out — he took one step toward your table from the doorway, slipped, and nearly faceplanted right there.

 

Your heart jumped into your throat.

 

“TENNA—“

 

You lunged forward, grabbing his arm before he could crash to the floor. His weight nearly pulled you down with him.

 

“Jesus—are you trying to die?”

 

 you snapped, voice sharp with panic.

 

Tenna blinked at you with an amused expression completely unbothered. “I slipped,” he said, like that explained everything.

 

You stared at him, breathless. 

 

“You’re lucky you didn’t crack your damn screen.”

 

“Would’ve made headlines,” 

he mumbled with a crooked grin.

 

You rolled your eyes and helped him upright again — more carefully this time.

 

“Shut up and sit down before you actually get hurt.”

 

 

 

 

You finally poured a glass of water — the bare minimum, and still, your hand trembled just slightly as you set it on the counter.

 

Behind you, Tenna was slouched in one of your kitchen chairs, legs sprawled, arms hanging limp off the sides like spaghetti. He was talking to no one in particular.

 

“…That damn mailman. Said he was gonna teach me how to use email…”

 

You turned halfway, sliding the glass across the table toward him.

He blinked down at it, confused for a second, then reached for it like it might if he wasn’t careful.

 

“…What is email, anyway?” he slurred. “Who’s Email? Where’s Email? Why’s it in the mail if it’s in the air? Don’t trust it, [Y/N].”

 

He took a slow sip.

“Stupid spammy mailman.”

 

You blinked slowly, rubbing your face.

You didn’t even know what he was going on about anymore.

 

Tenna then took another sip of the water.

 

Paused.

 

Then wrinkled his nose.

 

 

“This water tastes like shit.”

 

 

You snorted — couldn’t help it. Just a twitch at the corner of your mouth. Too fast to stop.

 

What the fuck.

 

Of all the things he had been rambling about, that was what got you.

 

 

Tenna caught it instantly.

 

 

“There it is!” he said, jabbing a clumsy finger in your direction. “That—right there. You smiled. Admit it.”

 

“I did not,” you lied flatly.

 

“Uh-huh. Nah. I know that smile. I built that smile. I—used to make it happen all the time. Back when… y’know…”

 

He didn’t finish it. Didn’t have to.

 

 

Your expression hardened just slightly. 

 

The moment shifted.

 

 

Tenna noticed. You saw the exact second he regretted opening his mouth.

 

But he didn’t take it back.

 

 

He just took another sip of water. Even slower this time.

 

 

You leaned against your kitchen counter, trying not to look at him.

 

Trying not to remember.

 

 

 

That was, of course, until you heard him start to gag.

 

Oh my god. Can this seriously get any worse?

 

“—‘m sorry,” Tenna mumbled, voice cracking just as he lurched forward, dry heaving violently over the side of the chair.

 

You bolted from the counter again, rushing to his side as he gagged again — a horrible, choked sound that sent your stomach flipping.

 

“Okay, okay—bathroom, now. Come on,” 

you muttered, hoisting him up as gently and quickly as you could.

 

Tenna didn’t fight you. He staggered beside you, limp and trembling, one hand gripping your arm like he couldn’t tell where the floor was anymore.

 

“I didn’t mean to ruin it,” he slurred under his breath as it hitched. “Didn’t mean to be gross, I just— I was just tired, and you were nice again, and I—I didn’t mean to—”

 

“Tenna,” 

 

you cut in, voice firmer than you expected,

 

“it’s fine. Just hold on, okay?”

 

 

But your insides churned.

 

Because you knew for a fact he wasn’t just talking about the water.

 

 

 

You half-dragged, half-guided him into the bathroom — barely making it in time.

 

The second his knees hit the tile, he lurched forward over the toilet and finally threw up.

 

Hard.

 

You grimaced at the sound, but didn’t flinch.

You knelt beside him, keeping one arm across his chest so he didn’t collapse face-first into the bowl. Your other hand hovered near the back of his head, hesitating for just a second before settling against the back of his shirt.

 

He gagged again.

 

Then again.

 

Your fingers rubbed slow, steady circles into the metal plates on his back as he heaved.

 

“You’re going to be okay,” you murmured.

 

It felt strange, saying that — but you couldn’t stop yourself.

 

Tenna coughed, spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn’t look up.

 

“I didn’t mean to—” he choked out again, voice hoarse. “Didn’t wanna be… this. Not in front of you…”

 

Your jaw tightened. Your hand didn’t stop moving.

 

You didn’t know what to say to that.

 

So you didn’t say anything at all.

 

He dry-heaved one last time, shoulders trembling, screen flickering faintly as he slumped forward — completely spent.

 

You stayed there beside him, crouched on the bathroom tile, now you were rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades until the sound of gagging faded into tired, uneven breaths.

 

 

The silence that followed was thick. Uncomfortable. Too heavy for how small the bathroom felt.

 

Then, finally — you spoke.

 

“…Okay,” 

you muttered, more to yourself than him.

 “That’s enough. No more messing around.”

 

You stood, gently guiding him upright with both hands. His body sagged against you again like he’d gone entirely boneless.

 

“You need to go to bed,” you added, voice strict. “Like, now.”

 

Tenna didn’t argue. Didn’t protest.

 

He just nodded limply, resting his head briefly against your arm before mumbling something that sounded like agreement.

 

You half-dragged, half-guided him out of the bathroom with his arm slung over your shoulder again, both of you unsteady and exhausted.

 

The couch was the obvious choice.

 

Safer. Distant. Familiar.

 

You glanced at it as you passed — lumpy, cramped, way too short for someone with legs as long as Tenna’s.

 

He’d either fall off or end up curled like a shrimp by morning.

 

You hesitated.

 

Then turned.

 

Tenna barely registered the change in direction as you led him to your room instead.

 

You didn’t overthink it.

 

Didn’t say anything when you helped him sit on the edge of your bed, or when you tugged the comforter back for him to collapse into.

He was already halfway under before his head hit the pillow, screen dim and flickering, his limbs heavy now with exhaustion.

 

But just as you turned to leave, his voice cut through the quiet — soft, slow, and still slurred:

 

“…you always took care of me.”

 

Your fingers tensed around the doorframe.

 

“I think… that’s why I never forgot you.”

 

 

 

You didn’t respond. 

 

He was already slipping under, screen blinking gently into darkness as his body fully relaxed against the mattress.

 

You stood there a moment longer, feeling your pulse quickening.

 

Then, without a word, turned off the lamp and walked out — leaving the door cracked behind you.

 

Just enough light to make sure he didn’t feel alone.

Chapter 19: Old Habits

Summary:

After a night that could've brought you two closer, the walls go right back up.

Notes:

Thank you to the person who commented the song recommendation of "alright" by Johnny Manchild and the Poor Bastards. It lead to me having neuron activation, and added it to the song itinerary I listen to while writing about these two dumbasses

You didn’t know how long you’d been lying there.

The ceiling above you blurred in and out of focus. The clock ticked too loud. Your body ached from the couch springs.

 

But sleep?

 

Not happening.

 

Your chest felt tight. Stomach twisted. Thoughts looping like some cursed tape.

You let him sleep in your bed.

 

You let him sleep in your fucking bed.

What the hell was wrong with you? 

You’d asked yourself that question for the thousandth time this week — at least.

Were you really this easy to break down?

 

The same guy who stomped on everything you ever dreamed of — who turned his back the second the spotlight hit him — cried a little, said a few messy words, and you what? Folded?

 

Like some pathetic little noodle?

 

God , you were spineless.

 

You pressed your palms into your face. Tried to rub the thoughts away. But they just kept coming.

 

Because no matter how many times you reminded yourself of everything he’d done — the way he ignored you, belittled you, treated you like background noise while everyone else got the best of him — there was still that look.

 

That way he held your hand earlier.

 

That quiet, soft

 

“you always took care of me.”

You swallowed hard.

 

Your gut churned .

You told yourself he didn’t mean it. He was drunk. Barely conscious. It didn’t count.

 

But some part of you wondered…

 

What if he had been hurting all that time, too?

 

What if you weren’t the only one that spiraled after everything collapsed?

 

What if he’d been punishing himself this whole time?

 

Your eyes drifted toward the bedroom door.

 

You didn’t move at first.

Just stared .

 

But slowly, like something magnetic was pulling you forward, you sat up. One leg hit the floor. Then the other.

 

You were about to stand.

 

About to go check on him — to make sure he was okay, still breathing, not choking on his own vomit or something.

 

But just as your hand reached for the armrest—

 

“Nope,” you muttered.

 

Then you slammed your palms into your forehead.

 

Hard.

 

“Fucking STOP it—”

 

You dropped backward onto the couch like you were trying to knock yourself out.

 

A scream built up in your throat and burst out muffled into the throw pillow, face buried deep.

 

You kicked your heel once against the cushion in frustration. Then went still.

This was Tenna.

Tenna , who laughed with execs while you sat alone in the wings.

 

Tenna , who let everyone believe you were just some phase — some irrelevant hanger-on from the before-times.

 

The same guy who smiled at red carpet interviews while you cried in the stairwell .

 

And here you were.

 

Losing your mind.

 

On your couch.

 

Thinking about how broad his shoulders looked when you tucked him in. How soft his voice had sounded. The way his screen flickered like it used to when he was nervous .

 

And then…

 

Your thighs pressed together without meaning to.

 

Your chest rose unevenly.

God, what the HELL was wrong with you?

Why were you thinking about what it would feel like to crawl into bed beside him?

 

To touch him?

 

To feel him reach for you like he used to — except not just for comfort this time?

 

Your hand clutched the throw pillow tighter.

 

You were sick .

 

Utterly, irredeemably fucked .

 

Because somewhere in the middle of all this disgust and rage and spiraling heartbreak…

 

A part of you still wanted him.

 

And nothing — not even your worst memories — seemed to be enough to kill that want.

You must’ve closed your eyes at some point.

 

Not to sleep — you never really got there — but just to shut off. To stop looking at the ceiling. To stop thinking about him.

 

But morning still came.

 

Light crept in through the blinds, pale and unforgiving. You barely shifted.

 

And then… you heard it.

A low groan.

 

The sound of sheets rustling. 

 

A thud . 

 

Footsteps — slow, dragging.

“Ugh…” came the scratchy sigh from the bedroom.

 

Then a pause.

 

“…Why does my bed feel weird…”

 

Another pause.

 

“ …Mike?”

 

You opened one eye — just in time to see Tenna shuffle into view, screen still dim, antennas wildly bent, shirt wrinkled to hell.

 

He looked around the living room like it was a simulation glitching out.

 

His screen flickered.

 

Then again.

 

Then he spotted you on the couch.

 

He stopped walking.

You both stared at each other.

Neither of you spoke.

 

Just… awkward, horrible silence.

“ … This isn’t my place, ” Tenna said finally.

 

You blinked once.

 

“No.”

Another pause.

“…I’m at your place.”

“Yeah.”

Longer pause.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

 

You sat up a little, pulling the blanket higher out of reflex.

His screen stayed dim for a beat. Then flickered to a brighter mode.

 

“ …Did I… ” he gestured vaguely between you two, “Did we… y’know…”

 

Your eyes went wide.

 

“What— ew, no.”

 

“ Okayyyy ,” 

he muttered, seemingly blinking hard. 

“…Sooo, did I just crash here or something?”

 

You felt a vein twitch near your temple.

 

“Seriously?”

 

He blinked again, slower this time. “…What?”

 

You sat up straighter, the blanket slipping from your shoulders.

 

“You don’t remember.”

 

He squinted. “I mean… I remember drinking . Sort of. Things got fuzzy after rehearsal—”

 

“Yeah. Fuzzy is one word for it,” you snapped. “I found you half-drank to death in the green room, Tenna.”

 

That shut him up.

 

“I had to drag your drunk ass out before someone found you face-down in a puddle of your own mess.”

 

Tenna’s screen flickered.

 

“Okay, well—I didn’t ask you to do that.”

 

You scoffed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

 

He threw his hands up. “I’m just saying! You didn’t have to storm in like some dramatic fixer! I was fine.”

 

“You were obviously not fine.”

 

“Oh, come on, you think this is the first time I’ve drank on studio property?” 

he barked, beginning to pace. Arms flailed as he ranted, unsteady and over-loud. 

“I know my limits! I always bounce back! I’m—what’s the word— RESILIENT! Mike says I’m resilient!”

 

“You vomited in my toilet.”

 

He whirled on you, pointing like he had some genius rebuttal. “And yet— here I am! Upright! Talking! Not dead!”

 

“That’s not something to brag about,” 

you said flatly. 

“That shouldn’t be your bar for being ‘fine.’”

 

His hands finally dropped to his sides, fingers curling into loose fists.

 

“I didn’t mean to drag you into it, alright?” he muttered. “I just… don’t expect a play-by-play of what happened from me.”

 

You stared at him, stunned .

 

The audacity . After completely falling apart in front of you the night before—after crying, begging , letting you see every cracked, vulnerable inch of him—now he had the nerve to tell you that you didn’t deserve an explanation?

 

It offended you in a way you couldn’t even explain.

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

 

“Right. Of course. Silly me for thinking I deserved a little context after cleaning up your mess all over my goddamn floor.”

 

Tenna winced.

 

Your voice dropped, cooler now, but still bitter.

 

“Wouldn’t want to burden you with the consequences of your own breakdown.”

 

For a second, you thought he might throw something. His fists clenched tighter, his stance tense—but then his posture suddenly wavered.

 

He winced. Swallowed hard. One hand came up to cradle the side of his head.

 

“…Ugh. Okay. Shit—”

 

You watched as his screen distorted, static pooling faintly in the corners like TV snow.

 

“I get it,” he mumbled, squeezing what seemed to be his eyes shut. “You’re mad. Deserved— fuck —Everything is… so loud.”

 

He swayed slightly.

 

You instinctively got up off the couch, annoyed but still concerned.

 

“Jesus. Sit down before you fall.”

 

Tenna didn’t resist when you grabbed his arm and steered him toward the kitchen table, though he did hiss under his breath the whole way—mumbling complaints about light sensitivity, volume control, and something about his “brain wires frying.”

 

You sat him down with a sharp sigh, still visibly upset.

 

“You know,” 

you muttered, arms crossed as you stood over him,

“you don’t have to bleed all over someone and then act like they imagined it.”

 

Tenna didn’t respond.

 

Just sat there, hunched over the table, both hands covering his screen like a curtain.

 

You stood there for a beat longer, arms crossed, lips pressed tight.

 

He wasn’t going to answer. Not now, anyway.

 

You muttered something under your breath — half insult, half exhale — and turned toward the sink.

 

“Don’t die on my kitchen table,” 

you said, grabbing a glass and filling it with cold water. 

“I just cleaned it.”

 

He groaned in response. Mumbled something about bright lights and production cuts.

 

You shoved the glass in front of him with a little more force than necessary. He flinched like it was a murder attempt.

 

“And drink all of it,” you added.

 

You didn’t wait for a thank you. You were still too pissed. But your eyes lingered on him longer than you meant for them to.

 

He looked like shit.

 

Bent forward, hands cradling the sides of his monitor, digital wrinkles under his supposed eyes. His whole posture was smaller somehow — wilted. Embarrassed.

You hated how it made you feel just a little less annoyed.

Tenna nursed the water in slow, miserable sips. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him over the rim of your coffee mug.

 

His screen stayed dim — static crackling softly at the edges. Every now and then, he’d squint and wince like the air itself was too loud.

 

Then, finally, he muttered:

“…So. Last night.”

 

You raised an eyebrow.

 

“…Did I say anything… weird?”

 

The question was quiet. Careful. Like he was bracing for something awful.

You paused.

 

Then shrugged.

 

“Nothing too weird,” you said. “No confessions of studio affairs. No secret murder plots.”

 

Tenna snorted under his breath. “That’s… good.”

You gave a humorless chuckle and turned back to your mug.

A beat passed.

“But,” you added, voice casual, “you did cry. A lot.”

Tenna visibly stiffened.

 

You didn’t look at him. Just stared into your coffee.

 

“You kind of…said some real dramatic shit. Like how I ‘always took care of you’ — that sort of thing.”

 

Tenna went still.

 

Didn’t say a word.

 

You finally glanced over your shoulder.

 

He looked like you’d just hit him with a car.

You watched his screen flicker, trying to settle on a brightness. Trying to save face.

And then—like clockwork—he leaned back in his chair, shrugged once, and said:

 

“Yeah, well. People say a lot of stuff when they’re wasted.”

 

Something inside you twisted painfully.

 

You blinked.

 

“…Right.”

 

You turned back around — slowly now. Mug still in hand. Your fingers tapped against the ceramic once, then stopped.

 

“And here I thought it actually meant something,” you muttered. “Silly me.”

 

“Look,” Tenna said, not meeting your eyes, “I didn’t mean to say anything— It’s not like I planned to break down at your place. It was just a moment. I was drunk. Tired. I don’t even remember—”

 

“Yeah, no, I got that part,” you cut in, sharper now. “Loud and clear. Doesn’t mean anything. Just a moment.”

 

You turned, arms crossed again, staring him down now.

Tenna didn’t look at you.

 

Didn’t even try.

 

“You’re really good at this,” you said, tone light, but your mouth curled bitter. “The pretending . The backing off the second you let anything real slip through. Classic Tenna.”

 

“I’m not pretending—”

 

“You always do this,” you interrupted. “You open up just enough for someone to care , then slam the door in their face like it was their fault for walking in.”

 

Tenna pushed himself up from the table too fast — chair legs scraping hard.

 

“I didn’t ask you to care.”

 

That stopped you.

 

You stared at him, heart stuttering once.

 

Then your voice dropped — quiet, cold.

 

“No,” you said. “You just begged me not to leave you.”

 

Tenna choked on a breath.

 

Screen dark. Hands clenched on the table’s edge.

 

You didn’t wait for him to recover.

 

You walked past him bumping into his shoulder on the way to your room, mug still in hand.

 

“Congrats,” 

 

you muttered.

 

“You’ve officially hit all the classic marks. Drunken spiral, tearful apology, and full emotional backpedal. Must be a new record.”

Tenna’s screen flashed red for a split second.

“Oh my god, do you ever stop?!” 

 

he snapped, throwing his arms up like the ceiling had wronged him. 

 

“I wake up with my head splitting in two and suddenly I’m starring in your guilt monologue?!”

You flinched.

 

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and just kept going.

“You think I want to be like this?” 

 

he barked, turning to you while stepping in your direction, erratic and loud. 

 

“You think I planned to show up at your place and fall apart like some hooligan?! Newsflash — I don’t even remember it!”

 

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off:

 

“And maybe that’s what you really wanted.” 

 

He let out a sharp, loud laugh.

 

“Me, falling apart in your shitty apartment — just so you could stand there and rub it in. Show me how much better you turned out. Right?”

You stared at him — eyes wide, jaw tight — as the silence finally hit.

He stood there, panting, chest rising up and down erratically.

 

Then his posture cracked again.

 

His expression softened.

 

“…I didn’t mean that,” 

he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands. 

“I didn’t mean to— fuck. Look, I appreciate what you did, okay? I just—I’m not good at this. I don’t know how to…”

 

He trailed off.

 

The apology hung there. Barely stitched together.

 

He looked up — screen flashing uncertainly.

 

“…Can we just— pretend it didn’t happen?” 

he asked, quieter now.

 

Your stomach dropped.

 

You stared at him.

 

Then your voice came out low. Bitter. Almost numb.

 

“Wow.”

 

Tenna winced at your response.

 

You stepped back, shaking your head, like the room suddenly felt too tight.

 

He tried again, more desperate this time.

 

“I don’t mean that like it wasn’t real— just… it’s easier , alright? I can’t—” 

He broke off again. Frustrated. Hands flailing helplessly. 

 

“I’m gonna fuck it up either way, so why does it matter?”

 

He didn’t wait for your answer.

 

Didn’t wait for the reaction on your face to settle.

 

He just turned.

 

Grabbed his coat off the back of the chair.

 

And walked straight to the door.

 

“I’ll see you at the studio,” he mumbled. Not looking back.

 

And then he left.

 

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Too soft for how loud your chest suddenly felt.

Chapter 20: Recollection

Summary:

You think back to when Tenna used to let you in — but the memory drags you all the way to the moment he stopped.

Notes:

Holy shit I have had this chapter written out forever, and It finally felt like a good time to include it. I procrastinated proof reading it, I would've uploaded it sooner but this chapter is a BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG boy sorrrrry. I just really got into it. Buckle up <3

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Too soft for how loud your chest suddenly felt.

 

He didn’t always used to be so distant with you.

 

There was a time when things were different —

when he was different.

 

 

---

Theater, film — all things performance — had fascinated you ever since you were young.

 

You were drawn to how effortlessly people could slip into character, become something bigger than themselves, and build entire worlds just by changing their voice or the way they moved.

 

It was magic to you. The kind that made everything else feel dull by comparison.

 

As you got older, that fascination never faded. But somewhere along the way, you realized you probably weren’t meant to be the star. Sure, you dreamed of it — wanted it, desperately — but deep down, you knew you weren’t cut out for the spotlight. Just one pair of eyes on you was enough to make you sweat. Gods knew what thousands would do.

 

Still, you never let the dream die.

 

You knew you belonged in that world — even if it wasn’t center stage. If you could just be part of it, help shape it, fix what needed fixing… that would be enough.

 

So when you were finally accepted into the Dark World’s most prestigious acting school, you could hardly believe it.

 

You sobbed for two nights straight after getting the letter. Your parents — though reluctant to see you go — celebrated with quiet pride. They didn’t want to let you leave… but they were proud. 

 

So proud of where you’d landed in the world.

 

You packed your things the moment you could, kissed your parents goodbye, and set off to begin what felt like the most exciting chapter of your life.

 

The apartment you moved into was about twenty minutes from campus — small, run-down, definitely not luxury. Honestly, you wouldn’t have been surprised to find a few roaches.

But it didn’t matter.

 

It meant something. It meant you’d made it.

 

And that was enough to make you happy.

 

 

---

 

The first day of classes came quicker than expected.

 

You showed up early — anxiety always made you early — and grabbed a seat near the back. The classroom buzzed with conversation, but you kept to yourself, thumbing the corner of your syllabus, hoping no one tried to talk to you.

 

That was when he walked in.

 

Tenna.

 

Not late. Punctual.

 

He entered with his backpack draped casually over one shoulder, a notebook in one hand, and confidence radiating off him like a glow. He wasn’t loud in the obnoxious way — not at first. Just… magnetic. People naturally turned when he walked in.

 

You were one of them.

 

He had that weird, charismatic showman thing going — all swagger and sharp smiles — but the second he sat down, he got serious. He took notes like he was transcribing the gospel. Asked smart, pointed questions. Even corrected the professor once — politely, somehow — and got praised for it.

 

You hated how much you noticed.

 

And worse?

 

You really hated when he noticed you too.

 

You didn’t even realize you’d been staring until he glanced over — casually, mid-lecture — and caught your eyes for a split second. His screen blinked, bright and unreadable.

 

You looked away fast, ears burning.

 

At the end of class, you tried to slip out unnoticed, but a voice called after you.

 

“Hey. Back-row person!”

 

You froze. Turned slowly.

 

He was right behind you, taller than expected up close, that same smug little curve to his tone.

 

“Do I have something on my face? You’ve been staring at me all class.”

When he noticed you couldn’t muster a response he continued, with a playful wink —

“Don’t worry. I’m used to the attention.”

 

You finally sputtered, instantly flustered.

 

“I wasn’t—! I was listening—!”

 

He laughed, bright and unfiltered.

 

“Relax. I’m messing with you! I’m Tenna.”

 

You told him your name — voice softer than you meant — and he repeated it once, like he was testing the syllables on his tongue.

 

“Nice. I like it.”

 

He tilted his head.

 

“You in all the performance courses?”

 

You nodded.

 

“Cool. Guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you.”

 

And from that point on?

You did.

You started seeing him in every class, and even began sitting next to him in each one of them.

 

At first, it was a convenience thing — a shared elective here, a group assignment there. But somehow, by the time midterms rolled around, it just was. Your spot was next to his. His spot was next to yours.

He’d save the seat without asking. Slide his bag off the chair beside him with a casual nod. Make dumb jokes under his breath during lectures, nudging your arm with his elbow every time he got you to crack.

 

You tried not to smile.

 

You failed a lot.

 

Most of your early interactions were tied to school — rehearsals, projects, shared complaints about your overloaded schedules — but slowly, the borders started to blur.

He started walking you to your bus stop after class. Then he started missing his own stop to keep talking to you. Then came the invitations.

 

“Hey, I found this old film I think you’d like. Come over after class?”

 

“I need a second opinion on this script. You’re the only one I trust not to sugarcoat it.”

 

And eventually:

 

“Wanna skip tomorrow? SCREW IT! We’ll call it a 'mental health day.'”

 

One skipped class turned into two. Then three.

 

Late-night phone calls about ideas that couldn’t wait ‘til morning.

 

Inside jokes scribbled into the corners of each other’s notebooks.

 

Bitching about your professors, mocking the cliques on campus, trading half-eaten snacks in the hallway while cramming for tests.

 

Before you even realized it — he’d become your favorite person on that entire campus.

 

He still got you into trouble. Constantly. Whether it was breaking into the prop room after hours or nearly setting a curtain on fire trying to “fix” the lighting rig.

 

But somehow, even when you were both getting scolded by professors, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret a single second.

 

He made you feel alive.

 

Bolder. Louder. You-er.

 

You felt like you could be.

 

He made you feel seen. In a way no one else ever had.

 

You started laughing more. Talking more. You stopped fading into the background of every room you entered. And even though it still scared you to be seen… being seen by him never did.

 

He was sharp edges and chaos and late-night breakdowns over deadlines — but he was also kind. Thoughtful in strange ways. Like when he’d buy two of whatever snack he wanted just in case you wanted one. Or when he noticed you starting to shut down during a presentation and loudly knocked over his water bottle to distract the class while you composed yourself.

 

You never asked him to. He just did.

 

And you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make your heart skip every damn time.

 

The more time you spent around him, the more you realized he wasn’t this untouchable, all-knowing prodigy everyone whispered about.

 

He was… just Tenna.

 

A loud, dramatic, over-emotional disaster of a guy who burned everything he ever tried to cook and cried over animated movies and threw his whole soul into every dumb project he touched.

 

And gods help you — you loved every part of it.

Even if you wouldn’t let yourself say that yet.

Not out loud.

 

Not even to yourself.

---

 

 

Weeks, months, years passed away.

 

Time began to blur, and suddenly graduation was looming.

 

It crept in slowly — flyers tacked on bulletin boards, whispered conversations in rehearsal spaces, professors reminding everyone to polish their final projects. There was an energy buzzing through the halls — excited, nervous, hopeful — and somewhere in the middle of it, things began to shift.

 

Tenna was being noticed.

 

Not just by classmates or instructors anymore. Important people started showing up to school productions. Industry names. Studio reps. Critics. They watched him. Smiled at him. Took notes.

 

You could feel it in the air.

 

He wasn’t just another student anymore.

 

He was becoming something.

 

It started small — little murmurs between professors, offhand praise in critiques, compliments with an extra glint behind them.

 

“Mr. Tenna, you’ve got something special.”

 

“You ever consider directing? Producing? We’ve got contacts, you know.”

 

“He’s got a spark. He’s gonna go far, that one.”

 

At first, it thrilled you. Made you beam with pride every time you heard his name spoken with that kind of weight. Of course he was going to be big — how could he not be? He was amazing. Talented. Charismatic in that strange, sharp-edged way that made people listen even when they didn’t want to.

 

You believed in him.

 

You always had.

 

But then came the internship.

 

The offer was extended to only one student — one out of hundreds. And Tenna got it.

 

A high-profile mentorship program. The kind of gig people fought to get. A fast-track straight to the top of the entertainment world in the Dark World — working under one of the most prestigious broadcasting firms in the city. One semester away from graduation.

 

And Tenna?

 

He barely had time to celebrate before everyone else did it for him.

 

Word spread fast across campus. He’d been congratulated by nearly every professor, almost every student — people you didn’t even know walked up just to shake his hand, to tell him how proud they were, how lucky he was, how obvious it had been all along.

 

You were proud too.

 

God, you were so proud.

 

But that night, while everyone else went out to celebrate… you slipped away to the roof of the theater building.

It was cold up there. 

 

Quiet. 

 

The kind of quiet that settled into your ribs and made everything ache just a little more.

You lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. You didn’t even like smoking — but the motion was familiar. Grounding. Something to do with your hands while your thoughts became something you couldn’t handle.

 

You stared out over the campus skyline. The way the streetlights cast golden halos around the sidewalks. The way the wind tugged at your clothes and hair like it was trying to shake you out of it.

 

But the feeling stuck.

 

That fear.

 

Gnawing. Unspoken.

 

You’d never said the words out loud — never told him how much he really meant to you. Never dared. It had always been easier to stay where you were, to pretend it wasn’t that deep, that intense.

 

But tonight?

 

You were scared.

 

Scared he was going to leave.

 

Scared that one day soon he’d be gone — off chasing stars and studio lights and awards you could never touch — and you’d just be here. The quiet friend. The behind-the-scenes nobody. The one who kept his notes and fetched snacks and smoothed out his schedule and—

 

Fuck, you thought, pressing your palms to your eyes. 

 

You’re in love with him.

 

And he’d never know.

 

Because even if he stayed, even if he came back after this internship, things were already changing.

 

And you didn’t know how to stop that.

 

“You know you’re not supposed to be up here, dingus.”

 

You startled — whirling around so fast you nearly dropped the cigarette. But it was him.

 

Tenna.

 

Leaning against the doorway like he owned the place, his arms crossed, antennae twitching faintly in the wind.

 

You huffed out a breath. “How’d you find me?”

 

He shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

 

A beat passed.

 

Then he walked over, dropped down beside you with a grunt, and plucked the cigarette from your hand.

 

“You’re gonna get lung cancer,” he muttered, taking a drag anyway.

 

You laughed under your breath. It was soft. Barely there.

 

But he heard it.

 

Another beat.

 

Then: 

 

“So… you’re really doing this, huh?” you asked quietly.

 

He nodded. “Guess so.”

 

You nodded too. Eyes on the horizon.

 

“You’ll be incredible.”

 

He smiled at that. Not his usual cocky grin — something softer.

 

Then he glanced over.

 

“…Hey.”

 

You turned.

 

His screen was dim, but his voice was clear — steady, certain in a way that made your throat go tight.

 

“If I get big…” he said slowly, like he needed you to hear it all the way through, “you’re coming too. No matter what.”

 

You blinked.

 

He didn’t look away.

 

“I mean it,” he added. “I don’t care how. If I’m onstage, you’re backstage. If I’m behind a camera, you’re right there next to me. If I make it…”

 

He nudged your knee with his.

 

“We make it.”

 

You swallowed.

 

Your chest felt too full.

 

“…Okay,” you whispered.

 

“Okay,” he repeated, smiling just a little. “It’s a pact now. No backing out.”

 

You didn’t say anything else.

 

But when he passed the cigarette back to you, your hands brushed — and neither of you moved away.

 

You didn’t want that moment to end.

 

So you let your head rest on his shoulder.

 

And for once, you didn’t think about what came next.

 

You just existed there with him — the wind in your hair, the glow of the city, the scent of cigarettes and warm asphalt, the steady thump of his pulse just beneath his collarbone.

 

Just the two of you.

Like always.

---

He did exactly what he said he'd do. 

 

Somehow — and you still had no idea how — Tenna made sure you were there with him. When he landed that internship? You had one too. When he got cast in early test reels and sketch showcases? You were suddenly helping behind the scenes.

 

You didn’t know what strings he had to pull, or who he had to sweet talk, but it didn’t matter. You were in. Together.

 

It wasn’t glamorous — long hours, low pay, half the time you were fetching coffee or organizing prop closets — but it felt like everything you’d dreamed of.

 

And more importantly?

 

It was him.

 

He was right there. Still cracking jokes. Still pulling you into trouble. Still looking at you like you were something real in a world full of fakes.

 

And God… it felt so good to belong somewhere. To be part of something real. To be beside him.

 

Even if he didn’t know how you really felt.

 

Even if you were too afraid to ever tell him.

But things began to falter.

It didn’t happen all at once.

 

At first, it was just little things.

 

A missed lunch. A late reply. A meeting he forgot to tell you about — one you were supposed to be at. He always apologized, always smoothed it over with a smile and a joke and a “you know how crazy things get.”

 

And you did know. You did. He was getting more attention, more buzz — producers asking for him by name, short features in niche media blogs, one particular sketch going viral. People were noticing him. Everyone wanted a piece.

 

You were proud. So proud.

 

But…

 

Something started twisting in your gut.

 

It wasn’t just the missed meals anymore. It was the way he didn’t introduce you to people. The way he left you standing at the edges of networking events like an assistant. The way he laughed louder, acted bigger, more exaggerated, more charming — like the Tenna you knew had been replaced with a shinier, more marketable version.

 

And maybe worst of all?

 

He didn’t even see it.

 

Not when you dropped hints. Not when your smiles started to falter. Not even when you sat in the passenger seat of his beat-up car and stared at your hands the whole ride home.

 

You were slipping through his fingers and he didn’t notice.

 

Or maybe he did.

And didn’t care.

 

But you cared.

 

You started to wonder if you were the only one who remembered that roof. That promise. That feeling like it was the two of you against everything else.

 

You started to wonder if it had ever been real for him at all.

---

 

 

Finally, Tenna had his first big break.

 

He landed his first lead role in a Dark World film. A real, funded, wide-release project. You still remembered the day he got the call. He screamed. Literally screamed — then tackled you onto your couch and spun you in circles until you begged for air.

 

It was electric. He was electric.

 

And you were so, so proud.

 

Even after everything.

 

Even with how distant things had been lately — the weird tension, the late replies, the last-minute plan cancellations — part of you still clung to the idea that this was just a phase. That once the project wrapped, once the pressure settled, things would go back to how they were. That you’d sit on rooftops again and laugh together.

That he’d look at you the way he used to.

 

You told yourself you weren’t being naive. 

You told yourself it was normal.

 

Of course fame came with stress. He was busy. You understood.

 

You’d always understood.

 

When he invited you to the premiere party, your heart lifted in that familiar, dumb way it always did when he said your name.

 

“C’mon, you have to be there. Wouldn’t be right without you.”

 

That one sentence kept you warm for days.

 

So you went. Of course you went.

 

You fixed your hair, threw on something decent, and tried not to overthink things. You told yourself you’d just support him. That’s all this was. Nothing more, nothing less.

Even if a small part of you — a hopeless, aching part — hoped it was more.

The party was loud. Flashy. Full of people you didn’t recognize — producers, talent scouts, high-energy influencers who only spoke in buzzwords.

 

You stayed near the back, nursing a drink, politely smiling when addressed. The movie had ended about thirty minutes ago, and everyone was still raving about it. About him.

 

You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t good.

 

He was brilliant.

 

Commanding, sharp, expressive — his presence practically melted into the screen. You watched him become someone else entirely. A version of himself that was confident, flawless, magnetic.

 

But something in your chest had started to ache around the twenty-minute mark.

 

Because you knew that version of him wasn’t for you anymore.

 

You didn’t belong in the same orbit.

 

He’d been hard to get ahold of during filming. Plans that used to be automatic now came with delays and excuses. You had to remind yourself again that it was normal. Temporary.

 

You were used to supporting from the sidelines.

 

Still — it didn’t stop the pit in your stomach when you heard it.

 

You weren’t even trying to eavesdrop. But the group of younger interns surrounding Tenna a few feet away were laughing loud enough for the entire corner of the lounge to hear.

 

“You brought them?”

 

“That’s rich. Didn’t they used to be, like… your babysitter or something?”

 

“Dead weight if you ask me.”

 

And then—

 

You heard him.

 

Tenna.

 

Laughing with them.

Your stomach dropped.

You turned, slowly — just in time to see the smile still lingering on his screen, his shoulders relaxed, drink in hand.

 

You didn’t hear him say it. But he didn’t correct them.

He didn’t stop them.

 

He just… stood there.

And laughed.

Something inside you had shattered.

You set your drink down on the nearest table, wiped your hands on your pants, and started for the door.

He saw you.

 

Of course he did.

You made eye contact across the room, just for a second. And he must’ve sensed it — the shift in your expression. The heartbreak.

You turned without a word.

Shoved through the crowd. Out of the lounge. Through the hallway.

It wasn’t until you hit the pavement of the parking lot that you realized your face was wet.

You were sobbing.

Years of loyalty. Late-night editing sessions. Early morning coffee runs. All the encouragement. The reassurance.

 

The love.

And he laughed like you were nothing.

“[Y/N]!”

You flinched.

 

His voice came from behind you, rushed and breathless. Shoes skidding on pavement.

 

“[Y/N], hold on, wait—”

 

You didn’t stop.

 

He caught up to you anyway, panting, face flushed as the door slammed behind him.

 

“What the hell? Why’d you run off like that?”

 

You spun.

 

“You really have to ask?”

 

He blinked. Confused. Defensive.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“You laughed at me, Tenna. Right in front of them. You let them talk about me like I’m nothing. Like I was just some pathetic plus one you drag around.”

 

“I didn’t—!”

 

“You did! You didn’t say anything. You didn’t defend me. You just stood there and laughed!”

 

He ran a hand over his antennas, exasperated. 

“Jesus, it wasn’t about you—”

 

“They were talking about me!”

 

You hated how your voice broke. How your whole body trembled.

 

Tenna shook his head, pacing a step back.

 

“You’re blowing it out of proportion. It was just a dumb joke. I didn’t even—”

 

“I’m not some joke, Tenna. I’m not your sidekick, or your little project, or your goddamn dead weight!”

 

He winced. 

 

“That’s not what I—“

 

“It’s what you made me feel like.”

 

The silence stretched.

 

You were crying openly now. Embarrassed. Furious. Crushed.

 

“I don’t even recognize you anymore,” you whispered.

 

That one seemed to hit him.

 

His screen flickered. He stared at you — stunned, soft, like he finally saw how bad he’d hurt you.

 

Then, weaker:

 

“…I didn’t mean to.”

 

Your breath caught.

 

“I thought you cared,” you said, barely louder than a whisper.

 

“I do,” he snapped, desperate. “Come on, I’ll make more time for you, okay? I’ll take off, we’ll go somewhere nice — get away from everything, just us again—”

 

You shook your head, backing away.

 

“No. Don’t do that.”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Don’t act like you mean it.”

 

“I do!”

 

“Then why’d you stop trying?!” you shouted. “Why’d you stop seeing me, Tenna? Why did you forget me the second people started clapping your name?!”

 

You saw him shift. He stiffened. Voice cold.

 

“Maybe I got tired of dragging someone around who couldn’t keep up.”

You froze.

He looked shocked the second it came out.

But it was too late.

You stared at him, tears streaking your cheeks, barely breathing.

 

“…That’s what you think of me?”

 

He faltered. 

 

“Fuck, [Y/N] I didn’t mean—”

 

“No. You did.”

 

You turned.

Started walking.

 

He chased after you.

 

“[Y/N], come on, wait—”

“Don’t.”

“Fine!” 

 

he shouted behind you.

 

“Whatever! Have a good time trying to get anywhere without me!”

 

You didn’t turn around.

You didn’t stop.

 

The last thing you heard before slipping into the dark was:

 

“You’ll come crawling back — just wait.”

 

You didn’t turn around.

 

Didn’t let him see you crumble even more.

 

And when you got in your car, you didn’t drive away right away.

 

You sat there.

Face in your hands.

 

And cried harder like someone had died.

 

Because something had.

 

Something important.

 

Something irreplaceable.

Chapter 21: Residuals

Summary:

Just like you — Tenna decided to take a look down memory lane.

Notes:

I SPEED RAN PROOF READING THIS I AM SO SORRY IF THERE ARE TYPOS!!!!

I was going to initially include this in the last chapter but it was a bit too long so I broke it up, this is much shorter but I feel like it's so much more dreadful. Listened to "Lover, You Should've Come Over" by Jeff Buckley when I wrote this a while ago, I am still not okay.

“I’ll see you at the studio.”

 

That’s what he said.

 

Then he turned, walked out the door, and climbed into his car like it was nothing . Like he wasn’t falling apart inside.

 

He didn’t even remember starting the engine.

 

The drive was a blur — streetlights streaking across his windshield, city noise humming beneath a dull static in his head. He should’ve felt victorious. In control.

 

But the moment he hit the freeway, it started creeping in.

 

That weight again.

 

The voice in his head that sounded like yours . The ghost of a memory, whispering in the backseat.

 

By the time he pulled up to the studio parking lot, he wasn’t thinking about what happened in your apartment anymore.

 

He was thinking about the last time he stood in a lot like this — sweating, heart racing, watching your taillights disappear into the night.

 

The memory forced itself into his brain.

 

And suddenly…

 

He was back there again.

 

 

---

 

 

It didn’t really hit him at first.

 

Sure, you walked away — all dramatic, tears in your eyes, frizz in your hair, the whole cinematic breakdown. But you always came back. 

You’d slam a door, storm off, refuse to speak to him for a few hours maybe — and then return with that exasperated look, arms crossed, muttering something like,

 

“Can you just admit you were a dick so we can move on?”

 

So when he stood in the parking lot that night, sweaty and stunned, watching your taillights disappear down the road…

 

He didn’t panic.

 

Not yet .

 

He just scoffed, shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and mumbled something bitter under his breath. “Real mature, [Y/N]…”

 

Because yeah — he knew you. Knew your patterns. Knew you had a flair for dramatics, even if you liked to pretend you were the rational one. This was just another bump. Another spat. One of those stupid, painful fights that would sting for a few days, then fade into one of those weird inside jokes you always made about “almost killing each other.”

 

You needed space. He’d give it. Let you ice him out for a week — just to be petty — then you’d cave. You’d text. Show up. Say something sarcastic to break the tension.

 

You always came back.

 

So that night? He didn’t do anything.

 

He went home. Took a hot shower. Threw on a pair of pajamas. Ate some dinner.

 

But then he looked at his phone with a frown, waiting for your name to light up the screen.

 

But you didn’t text.

 

Didn’t call.

 

Didn’t even block him.

 

You just… stopped existing.

The next day, he constantly checked his phone expecting at least one passive-aggressive message. Nothing . He told himself you were just letting him sweat — so he laughed it off, shrugged, even cracked a few jokes to a coworker.

But by day four, something in his chest started to warm up.

 

By day seven, it started to burn.

 

He left you a message. Then two. Then five . One of them was almost apologetic — a little slurred, maybe — recorded at midnight from the floor of his apartment.

 

No reply.

 

Nothing.

 

Weeks blurred.

 

You weren’t at the usual places — not the theater, not the cafés you used to love, not even the town events you’d show up to just out of habit. Every time he passed your favorite bookstore, he’d glance through the window like an idiot , hoping to see you hunched over a script.

 

You never were.

 

It only got worse when he returned to the internship site and saw your old desk .

 

Still intact. Still the lanyard loop hanging from the drawer. Still that same dumb sticker you slapped onto the corner — the one he teased you about a hundred times.

 

He didn’t think.

 

Didn’t breathe.

 

Just snapped .

 

In a rage, he tore the desk apart — pulled the drawers, kicked the legs, smashed a clipboard against the wall, yelling curses that echoed through the empty hall. When he finally stopped, he was panting, his knuckles were battered, papers had scattered around him.

 

He dropped to his knees.

 

Mumbling apologies to no one.

Then he sobbed.

And he hated himself for it.

 

 

---

A few months in, he found the hoodie.

 

Your hoodie. Fallen between the back seats of his car — that oversized one you always wore. The one he used to bitch about because it shed on everything.

 

He should’ve thrown it out.

 

But instead, like a complete freak, he clutched it to his face and inhaled like he was starving.

 

It still smelled like you.

 

And God, it made his throat close.

 

He dropped it instantly. Face hot. Trembling .

 

“What the hell is wrong with me,” he whispered — as if someone had seen.

He left it in the car for weeks. Couldn’t bring it inside. Couldn’t throw it away either. Every time he saw it, it made something twist in his gut — guilt, desperation, longing.

 

So he told himself it was your fault.

 

You gave up first.

 

You couldn’t handle the pressure.

 

He was just doing what you’d both dreamed of. And sure, maybe he missed a few texts, forgot a few plans — but that didn’t mean you had to vanish. You could’ve said something. You could’ve fought for him.

 

But you didn’t.

 

And that thought — that awful thought — ate him alive.

 

Because no matter how many ways he twisted it, it all circled back to the same thing:

 

You were gone.

 

And you weren’t coming back.

 

 

---

 

The years crawled.

 

Milestone after milestone — and still , you never showed up.

 

No messages. No letters. Not even a glance his way from across the Dark World.

 

And God, the industry was getting too loud.

 

His name started circulating — online, in interviews, in flashing neon headlines:

 

“The Face of Dark World Media.”

 

“New Visionary in Dark World Production.”

 

“The Rise of a Broadcast Powerhouse."

 

It should’ve felt like winning. And for a while, maybe it did.

 

He smiled for cameras. Made people laugh. Started building something real — something people paid attention to. A late-night gig came first. Then a writing credit. Then… Mike.

 

Slick-talking, fast-walking, smart-as-hell Mike.

 

Mike changed everything .

 

With him on Tenna’s team, things exploded . His bits got funded. His name got plastered on more than just student theater flyers.

 

They built a brand.

 

Then a studio.

 

And the whole city knew who it belonged to.

It had his name on the walls.

 

His face on the billboards.

 

His signature on the contracts.

 

He had everything now.

 

Power. Control. Influence.

 

But it didn’t fix anything.

 

Because the first time he got a real dressing room, he stared at the empty couch beside him — and thought of you .

Where you would’ve been.

Where you should’ve been.

Because it was always supposed to be you beside him.

 

That was the promise . That stupid childhood pact whispered under the pale moonlight atop a roof. 

 

He made it. You came too. No matter what.

 

So where the fuck were you?

 

 

---

 

 

He started snapping more often. Losing his temper during rehearsals. Snapping at staff for things he used to laugh off. Mike covered for him — at first. Calmed him down. Took him aside.

 

But Tenna didn’t want to be calmed down.

He wanted to feel something.

 

Sometimes, he passed interns in the hallway who walked like you. Talked like you. Smiled like you.

 

His heart would jump.

 

Then crash.

 

It was never you.

 

That’s when he tried to replace you — just once.

 

He didn’t say that, of course. Not even to himself. But when a new assistant joined the team — fresh from media school, nervous and eager — she reminded him of you.

 

Same laugh. Same tilt of the head.

 

He praised her. Overpraised her. Told Mike she had “promise.”

 

But it wasn’t real.

 

She didn’t have your fire. Your bite. Your defiance.

 

She never told him to shut up. Never made his circuits fry with a single glare.

 

He started getting mad at her for mistakes you never made.

 

And when she called his name one day — soft, polite, familiar — he snapped.

 

He didn’t even realize he was yelling until she backed out of the room and ran to find Mike.

 

He sat down hard.

 

Buried his face in his hands.

 

“You’re not them,” he choked. “You’ll never be them.”

 

He spent the rest of the day staring at the hallway like you might suddenly show up.

 

You didn’t .

 

 

---

Then came Spamton.

 

Their partnership sparked fast — strange, erratic, and messy in a way Tenna hadn’t expected, but needed . Spamton was chaos: glitchy, intense, loud. But he was so brilliant . Sharp in all the ways Tenna respected. Unfiltered. Unapologetic.

 

And… he saw him.

 

Not the way you did. Not the kind of warmth Tenna had ached for. But it was something. Something completely raw.

 

There were late-night edits, unsalvageable shoots saved by wits, punchlines crafted mid-breakdown. Sometimes, they didn’t even have to speak — just a glance , a burst of laughter , and they’d know what to do next.

 

It wasn’t love . Not quite. But something in him had started to ache for Spamton in a way he didn’t fully understand.

 

The same way you made him ache years ago.

 

One night, after a shoot finally wrapped, Spamton clapped him on the back and crackled:

 

“You’re gonna be even [[BIGGER]], Ten. You just need a… [[FREE BOOST! CLICK HERE!!]]”

 

And Tenna believed him.

 

Maybe that’s why it hurt so bad when he vanished.

 

They had a meeting scheduled. A big one. Tenna was going to sign on to something that might’ve changed everything . Spamton had promised he’d be there.

 

Then the phone rang.

 

Spamton answered.

 

And he never came back.

 

No note. 

No warning. 

Just a dangling receiver buzzing with static.

 

Tenna waited.

 

Hours. Days.

 

Nothing .

And it broke him open all over again.

Not just because of the silence.

 

But because it felt just like you.

Two people. 

 

Two different kinds of connection.

 

Both gone.

Both leaving him to drown in what they left behind.

 

And maybe… maybe he’d started to feel something for both of you.

 

Spamton was noise . You were clarity .

But without either?

 

He wasn’t anything at all anymore.

 

 

---

Even more time passed now.

 

He stopped breaking things as often. Mostly because the guilt afterward was louder than the rage.

 

The hoodie lived in the drawer of his dressing room vanity.

 

He never touched it.

 

Some days he opened the drawer, stared at it, then slammed it shut like it might bite him.

 

He hated it.

 

He hated a lot of things now. 

 

The way people walked on eggshells. The way jokes didn’t feel funny anymore.

 

Even Mike had started backing off. Sticky notes instead of conversations. Quick glances. Early exits.

 

Tenna told himself he didn’t care.

 

He’d won, hadn’t he?

So why did it feel like he’d lost everything?

 

The ratings were dipping. Not bad. Just enough to get quiet rumors and hushed suggestions about “revamping the format.”

 

He ignored it.

 

Until one day, Mike wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

 

Tenna stormed through the studio — Studio A, B, C, the green room, the lot — getting more and more pissed .

 

And then he flung himself into a hallway and yelled:

 

“MIKE?! Earthhhh to MIIIIIIKE?!!”

And that’s when he saw you .

Bag in hand.

 

Unbothered.

 

Standing in his studio like the last five years never happened.

 

His words died in his throat. And so did he. 

He rebooted.

Because this wasn’t how you were supposed to come back.

 

And certainly not looking like that — confident, sharp, better.

 

Like you didn’t miss him at all.

Like he was the only one who’d lost everything.

 

And somehow, even after all this time…

 

You still had the power to bring him to his knees .

And it scared the shit out of him.

 

Because in that moment, he realized it wasn’t just guilt that had been eating him alive all these years.

 

It was you.

 

It was the thought that you were out there somewhere — not thinking about him. Not hurting . Not remembering .

 

Not caring.

 

So he needed something from you.

 

Anything .

 

Even hate. Even rage. Even the coldest glare if it meant you still felt something for him. 

 

Because silence?

 

Silence meant you’d truly moved on.

 

So when he led you down the hallway that day and opened the door to the worst closet in the building — flickering lights, a mildew stench, peeling paint — he didn’t do it to humiliate you.

 

Not really.

 

He did it to provoke you.

 

To rip a reaction out of you.

 

Because if you snapped, if you screamed, if you threw something at his head like you used to…

 

It meant you were still in there.

 

Still tethered to him by something real.

 

Because if you kept up that distant act — cool, composed, unreadable —

 

He’d unravel. Completely .

 

And this time, he wouldn’t come back from it.

 

Not with you standing in front of him like a ghost .

As if you were a distant memory now standing in the hallway of the empire he built without you.

 

An empire that never really felt like his to begin with.

 

Notes:

Also I was lowkey thinking some of you logged into my google docs, how did y'all know the next chapter was Tenna's POV of everything that happend??? 𓏗𓏗

Chapter 22: Guest of Honor

Summary:

You and Tenna were now on unknown terms — which made it easier to get work done. At least, until something was announced.

Notes:

Shameless plug I'm putting here, but I'll probably start doodling more things from this fic and my [Y/N] design on my Tumblr. I'm gonna link it here if any of y'all would wanna take a look <33

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/leftovercrumbz

After the whole drunken fiasco at your apartment, you and Tenna stopped talking. Even at work, the most you exchanged were brief greetings — only speaking when necessary.

 

Hell you barely even saw him around.

 

It wasn’t some intentional silent treatment. It just… happened . Fell between you like the only bearable option left.

 

Maybe that was for the best.

Weeks passed.

 

Instead of dwelling on what could’ve happened, what you should say, or whatever unfinished mess still lingered between you and that man, you threw yourself headfirst into fixing the studio.

 

You’d been too distracted lately — and you needed to prove you were here in the first place for a reason.

 

You weren’t just organizing feedback slips anymore. The confessions box had been a good start — a band-aid solution to open a wound. But now? You were building .

 

You launched actual initiatives: reorganizing production timelines, implementing new crew protocols, drawing up renovation proposals for the outdated sets.

You established weekly check-ins with each department, started jotting down metrics, performance targets, even backup budget plans.

 

Every day, you walked in with purpose .

 

And Mike noticed.

 

The two of you had developed an unexpected rhythm — him bringing jokes and coffee, you bringing outlines and action. It worked.

He was still his cocky, fast-talking self, but something about his tone had shifted. There was respect behind the sarcasm now. Sometimes even a hint of admiration .

 

“Kid’s got teeth,”

you heard him say to a crew member once, after you restructured an entire department’s schedule in a single afternoon. 

“I like it.”

 

But it wasn’t just Mike anymore.

 

The staff started turning to you .

 

When equipment broke, when schedules shifted, when something went wrong mid-production — they didn’t run to Tenna. Hell, they didn’t even run to Mike. They sought you out. Quiet knocks at your door. Side glances during team meetings. Hushed questions followed by thank yous when you gave answers that actually made sense.

 

And every time it happened, your chest swelled — not with nerves, but with pride .

 

You mattered here now.

 

You were building something that worked.

 

You'd spent your years jumping between struggling restaurants, rundown venues, and local businesses just barely clinging to relevance. You’d help them stand again. Patch their holes. Breathe a little order into the places. It was never glamorous work, but it was yours . 

And you were good at it.

 

You were proud of the trail you’d left behind — even if no one else remembered it.

 

But this?

 

This was bigger.

 

This was more than some crumbling cafe or doomed start-up. This was TV Time. This was Tenna’s empire — and now, somehow, you were the one bringing it back from the edge.

 

And for once, he wasn’t the center of the spotlight.

 

You were.

 

And deep down — way down — a part of you needed this.

 

Because for so long, you’d felt like you fell into the background. Especially in his world. You’d been the quiet one behind the scenes. The one who knew how to fix things but always got brushed aside for flashier voices, louder laughs, stronger characters.

 

And when Tenna left you behind all those years ago — when he rose without you, flourished without you — it drilled in a message you’d never quite shaken:

 

You weren’t important enough to keep.

 

But now?

 

Now the crew needed you. Not for show. Not for nostalgia. Not as some guilt-tripped sidekick.

 

They needed your mind . Your planning . Your stability .

 

And for once, you got to be the one holding the pieces together.

 

It felt good. It felt right.

 

And it was the first time in a long, long while you could look in the mirror and say:

 

I’m not dead weight anymore.

Which was exactly where your mind was when you stepped through the doors one day — flipping through a page of production notes, half-focused, half-distracted.

A rundown of lighting placements, adjusted call times, and a messy outline for a new audience interaction segment sat in your grasp, scrawled with edits and arrows.

 

It was going to be a busy day.

 

At least… that’s what you thought .

Until you looked up.

You barely noticed the commotion at first.

 

A couple of crew members were scattered around the main hallway, climbing ladders, stretching tape across columns, pinning things to every visible surface. At first, you assumed it was another marketing stunt — some seasonal promo or new show reveal.

 

Until you got closer.

 

Until you actually read one of the posters.

 

Your feet stopped cold.

 

“TV TIME ANNUAL GALA”

 

Your eyes scanned the oversized font again, then dropped to the fine print — a sleek list of honorees, performers, and special guests.

 

And there it was.

 

Right there beneath the logo.

 

“Special Guest of Honor: [Y/N]”

 

Your heart stalled .

 

No.

 

No, this wasn’t—

 

What the hell was this?

 

Your hand gripped the paper still in your hands, but your thoughts had already scattered. You looked up. Another poster. Another one. The hallway was plastered with them.

 

You stared.

 

Frozen .

 

Why was your name even on there? Who signed off on this?

 

Then — like clockwork — a voice cut into your stunned silence.

 

“I know, I know — the poster’s a masterpiece. Designed it myself, obviously.”

 

You turned just in time to see Mike sauntering up from the break room, sleeves rolled, coffee in hand, mouth curled into that annoyingly smug smirk.

 

“You didn’t know?” he asked, already looking far too entertained.

 

You blinked.

 

“Know what?”

 

He motioned vaguely at the walls. 

 

“The gala. Big showy thing we do every year. Fancy outfits. Too much champagne. People with their heads up their asses. It’s a whole production.”

 

“I got that part,”

 you said, eyes narrowing.

 “I mean— why am I on the poster?”

 

Mike tilted his head, like he genuinely couldn’t believe you were asking.

 

“Kid, look around,” he said. 

“Place is running like an actual oiled machine now. That’s you. People just finally noticed.”

 

You stared at him, unsure how to feel.

 

“It’s not just honorary,” he added. “They’re expecting a speech . Or a toast. Or at least for you to show up not looking like you just crawled outta the editing room.”

 

Your stomach dropped.

 

“A speech?”

 

“Relax. Nobody’s asking you to do stand-up,”

he said, sipping his coffee. 

“Just a few words. Y’know — humble, moving, ‘thank you for believing in me,’ blah blah. Should be easy.”

 

You opened your mouth to argue, but then—

 

“Oh. And yeah,” he added casually, already walking away, “Ant’s gonna be there too. It’s his studio, kid.”

 

Your breath hitched.

 

Mike didn’t even turn around. He just waved his hand and disappeared down the hallway.

 

Leaving you alone.

 

Staring at your name in glossy print.

 

The page in your hands slipped a little.

 

Your smile cracked .

 

Not because of Mike — he was always mouthing off.

 

But because, suddenly, you noticed how many people were in the room.

 

The way the production crew was gathered around the break table. The new interns taping more posters along the back wall. The idle chatter about the gala, the dress code, the plus-ones.

 

Your breath caught .

 

This wasn’t just a party.

 

This was an event . 

A real one. 

 

The kind with flashing lights and cameras and eyes. And the last time you’d been at anything even remotely like this…

 

You heard him laugh.

 

That sharp, cold sound — not at one of your jokes, but about you. You’d played the moment over in your head more times than you could count. The smug little curl in his voice. The way he didn’t even defend you.

 

You couldn’t stay in here.

You couldn’t do this here.

 

You needed to get to your office — your office now, It was quiet there. Safe. You could breathe .

 

But the second you finally got away, and turned into the hallway—

 

He was there .

 

Tenna.

 

Standing stiff, back half-turned, eyes glued to one of the posters like he’d been staring at it for hours. His screen wasn’t even on — almost like he was sleepwalking. Like his body had walked in without his brain catching up.

 

What the fuck…?

 

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe .

 

And when his screen finally flickered back to life, and he glanced down the hallway — toward you — there was nothing behind that face. No reaction. No smirk. No jab. No interest.

 

Just… a quiet look. A quick, neutral flash of recognition. Then he turned and walked away.

You swallowed hard.

 

Your hands were shaking .

You were going to be sick.

 

You darted into your office and slammed the door shut behind you, twisting the lock with more force than necessary.

 

You needed a second.

 

Just one.

You didn’t get anything done that day.

 

You’d tried. You really had. You sat behind your desk, clicked through the daily schedules, opened half a dozen drafts, stared at your inbox like it might somehow answer itself.

 

But nothing stuck.

 

Your thoughts kept circling back to that blank screen. That unreadable stare.

 

And now?

Now you were back at your apartment.

 

Curled up in bed with your blanket twisted around your legs and a notebook balanced against your knees. Crumpled scraps of paper littered the sheets — some shoved behind pillows, others tossed onto the floor in frustration .

 

Your pencil hovered over the page.

 

No words came. Just thoughts. Just pressure.

 

This wasn’t supposed to be hard. You’d given speeches before. Handled press. You’d soothed egos, talked down producers mid-breakdown, even talked Tenna out of setting a set piece on fire once.

 

But this wasn’t just some toast.

 

This was the toast.

 

And your name was on the damn poster. Special guest.

 

You didn’t even know what that meant.

 

Were you supposed to thank the staff? Praise Tenna? Crack a few jokes and pretend like you hadn’t spent the last month or two unraveling under fluorescent lights?

 

Whatever it was — it had to be perfect .

You had to be perfect.

 

Not just composed . Not just clever . Not just the “fixer” who made the studio run again.

 

You had to prove that you belonged beyond that. That you earned this. That you weren’t some wash-up from Tenna’s past crawling out of the woodwork to steal scraps of validation.

 

You had to walk into that room — into his orbit — and leave them with no doubt.

 

That you weren’t background noise anymore.

You stared down at your notebook, pages still blank except for a few scratched-out ideas and a coffee stain that looked like a bruise.

 

Your fingers flexed. The pencil sat loose in your hand.

 

And somehow — for the first time in a week or two — your mind drifted somewhere else.

 

To him.

 

You hadn’t meant to think about Tenna. Not really. Not beyond the occasional brush-past in the hallway, the awkward silence in staff meetings.

 

But now, out of nowhere, your brain conjured the image.

 

Tenna — not in his usual blinding show attire — but in a sleek, tailored tux.

 

Black velvet. Crisp white shirt. That wild screen dimmed to a cool glint. His antennae bobbing gently. Jacket pulling tight across his shoulders, drawing attention to his frame. Big. Solid. Sharp.

 

You pictured him standing near the stage lights, straightening his tie. Or smirking behind a champagne glass, his voice low and grating with that same showbiz rasp he always used when he was trying to sound suave.

 

God, he’d look good.

 

You swallowed. Hard.

 

You could feel it — that same low, dangerous heat that used to stir in your stomach when you two still had fire between you. 

 

When he’d pull you backstage by the wrist, lips grazing your ear with some half-muttered threat. When his hands would grip your hips so tight it left bruises.

 

You remembered the sound he made when he lost control. The way his screen glitched, sparked, like even his hardware couldn’t handle it.

 

You remembered the way he moaned your name.

 

Your breath hitched.

 

And instantly — instantly — you regretted it.

 

You slammed the notebook shut.

 

What the fuck is wrong with you.

 

You knew what he’d said about you two “ messing” around. What he felt like after.

 

He’d looked wrecked when he said you only look at him when you two were intimate. Like you’d torn open something he didn’t know how to close.

 

And here you were — lying in bed, reminiscing about the way he kissed you like you were oxygen.

 

You were sick.

 

You dragged a hand over your face, breathing hard.

 

But your mind wouldn’t stop.

 

Now it fed you something else. 

Something cruel.

 

What if Tenna brought a date to the gala?

 

What if they were stunning? Jaw-dropping? That perfect showbiz type with legs for days and a smile that charmed every camera.

 

You pictured them on his arm — nails grazing his chest possessively, laughing at every joke he made. You imagined Tenna whispering something in their ear, pressing a slow hand to their waist.

 

You imagined standing across the ballroom. Alone. Watching.

 

And then — like a knife — he turned, met your eyes, and smirked .

 

Right before pulling them in and kissing them, deep and slow and passionate, right there on the fucking dance floor.

 

You didn’t even realize your fingers had clenched until you felt the snap.

 

Your pencil cracked clean in two.

 

“…fuck.”

 

You stared at the broken pieces in your hand, chest heaving.

 

You couldn’t do this.

 

You had to get a grip.

 

You tossed the ruined pencil into the growing pile of crumpled notebook pages beside you, dragging yourself upright in bed. Your blanket slipped off your shoulder, and you sat there a moment — blinking, hollow, heart still rattling from the stupid fake scenario your brain had fed you.

 

You needed to move.

 

Do something.

 

The speech clearly wasn’t happening tonight.

 

So you slid off the mattress, walked over and opened your closet like it was going to give you divine answers.

 

Most of what you owned wasn’t formal. Your job didn’t really delve into that sort of fashion.

 

But then, buried beneath a jacket and an old sweater, you saw it —

 

A vest suit you’d almost forgotten about.

 

Dark. Clean-cut. Slim in the waist. You’d bought it years ago during another “fixer” job — one that required some degree of polish. It had barely seen the light of day since. You didn’t even know if it would still fit.

 

But when you slipped it on…

 

Damn.

 

The mirror didn’t lie. The fabric hugged your frame like it was made for you. It cinched at your waist, flattered your chest, and tapered down your legs like a tailored dream.

 

You turned slightly — checking the side, then the back.

Your eyebrows lifted.

 

“…I’d fuck the shit outta me,” 

you muttered under your breath.

 

It was the first time you’d felt even remotely attractive in weeks.

 

You ran your hands down the front, smoothing the fabric, jaw tightening with sudden resolve.

 

Alright.

 

So Tenna might show up looking like a devil in a tux.

 

So what?

 

Maybe you could find someone too.

 

Maybe you’d dance. Drink. Smile.

 

Let someone touch you for once, let them get a taste of what you offered.

 

You needed a distraction. A stress relief.

 

Something — someone — to pull your thoughts away from that man for good.

 

But just as that fire began to build…

 

Another thought slithered in.

 

Colder. Sharper.

 

What if they really are gorgeous?

What if Tenna’s date outshines you the second they walk in?

 

What if he looks at them the way he used to look at you — like they’re the only thing in the room that matters?

 

Your reflection wavered.

 

You looked too hard at your own face. At the lines under your eyes. The faint worry crease in your brow. The exhaustion you’d barely managed to hide.

 

Get a grip.

 

You gritted your teeth, stepped back from the mirror, and sat down on your bed — the polished vest still clinging to your frame, the illusion still half-alive.

 

You’d be ready for the gala.

 

Whatever happened there, whoever he brought — you’d be ready.

 

 

Even if it killed you.

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

 

Hi...this is crumbz, I usually would put this in the chapter notes, but I sadly can't put images there. I doodled this while proof reading the last chapter, and I thought it was silly so I'll share with the class. 

 

 

Chapter 23: The Gala

Summary:

You attend the studio's annual "gala."

Notes:

THIS IS SUCH A LONG CHAPTER. I AM SORRY. It's worth trust.

The gala was approaching much faster than you wanted it to.

 

And so was your anxiety.

 

Time hadn’t slowed down — but your productivity had. It was a lot harder to make progress when every free second was spent imagining how the event could go horribly wrong.

 

You could forget your speech. Trip and fall off the stage. Choke on your own spit.

The possibilities were endless — so you planned for all of them.

 

The studio could wait. For the next three days, your full-time job was preparation.

 

You used company time to draft five different speeches — each one memorized down to the last breath. You practiced your stage presence in the studio bathroom mirror, ignoring the weird stares from passing coworkers.

 

If anything went wrong, it wouldn’t be because you weren’t ready.

 

If you could predict every possibility, you could respond accordingly. You could stay in control.

 

Because the last time you didn’t have a plan on stage — didn’t have a scapegoat — everything fell apart.

 

And this time, there’d be no one to gently tuck your hair behind your ear.

No one to tell you how much of a star you really were.

The day before the gala, your routine was interrupted by the sound of familiar knuckles tapping on your office door.

 

You looked up, bleary-eyed, midway through reciting Speech #3 for the eighth time that morning. The papers were scattered around you like a nervous wreck’s nest — half-highlighted, half-crumpled, none of them feeling quite right.

 

Then Mike poked his head in, holding two mismatched mugs of coffee.

 

“Figured you were still stuck in rehearsal hell,”

 

he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invite.

 

You gave a tired half-smile, reaching for the mug — the one with a miniature cartoon Tenna smirking on the side.

 

“That obvious?”

 

“Kid, I’ve seen you get obsessive before, but this?” 

He gestured vaguely at the battlefield of notes. 

“This is, uh… advanced tier.”

 

You slumped back in your chair with a sigh. 

 

“I can’t screw this up, Mike.”

 

He sat on the edge of your desk, sipping the coffee he brought like it was whiskey. 

 

“You won’t.”

 

You shot him a look.

 

“I’m serious,” 

he said, voice softening. 

“You’ve already done the hard part. You turned this place around, got people actually giving a shit again. Whatever you say tomorrow night? That’s just the cherry on top.”

 

You didn’t reply. Didn’t trust yourself to.

 

Mike glanced at you for a long moment before standing up and heading for the door.

 

“Look,” he added, pausing in the doorway. “Even if you choke, even if you blackout and start quoting Cats on stage? You still changed this place. That’s not gonna disappear because of one night.”

 

You let out a breathy laugh — more relief than amusement.

 

“Now take a damn break,” he called back as he left. 

“And maybe narrow it down to, like, two speeches? Just a suggestion.”

The next evening arrived faster than you expected — as if the clock had been gunning for you.

 

You stood in front of your bedroom mirror, half-dressed, trying to remember how breathing worked.

 

The vest suit still fit like a dream — cinched at the waist, framed your shape in all the right ways. You’d had your little gasp moment back when you first tried it on last week… but even now, seeing it all come together with polished shoes, tailored slacks, and that cocky little stance in the mirror?

 

You couldn’t help but like what you saw.

 

It felt surreal . Like you’d stolen someone else’s life for the night — someone bold , someone magnetic . Someone who didn’t shrink under stage lights or spiral when things went even slightly off-script.

 

But still… something felt off.

 

Incomplete.

 

You cocked your head, scanned your reflection again, and then it hit you.

 

The eyes.

 

You needed something that could convey you were a “bad bitch” without saying anything.

 

Digging through a half-forgotten drawer, you unearthed a battered eyeshadow palette from your college days. The top was cracked slightly, and the logo had long since rubbed off — but inside? That familiar, dramatic, metallic black eyeshadow. Just enough shimmer to catch the light. Just enough edge to match your outfit.

 

Your fingers paused over the palette for half a second.

 

Tenna used to stare when you wore this one.

A little too long. A little too openly.

Like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

 

You almost put it back.

But instead applied it across your lids in confident strokes, blending it out with practiced fingers until your reflection sharpened.

 

The person staring back at you looked dangerous.

You grinned.

 

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I could eye-fuck every single person at this gala.”

 

Hair slicked back. Outfit on point. Speech locked in your brain like gospel.

 

This was it.

 

One bittersweet thought flickered at the edge of your mind — but you didn’t let it finish forming.

 

You grabbed your keys, straightened your posture, and walked out the door.

Tonight, you were someone.

You arrived at the studio and nearly tripped.

 

What the hell—

The inside was unrecognizable.

 

Gone were the scuffed floors and flickering hallway bulbs. The lobby had been drenched in moody golden lighting, sleek banners lining the walls with past highlights of TV Time in crisp high-res stills. Velvet ropes. Fresh-polished marble. Waitstaff with champagne flutes. Even the cracked tile by the main doors had been buffed out or — more likely — hidden beneath a designer rug.

 

The transformation was jarring.

Almost disorienting.

For a second, you just stood there.

 

Because this wasn’t the place you’d spent the last couple months gutting and fixing. This wasn’t your glorified mess of props, schedules, and cluttered desks…

 

…It was… elegant. Sophisticated.

 

You blended in like a thread in a tailored suit — polished and sharp but barely stitched in time.

 

People were already chatting near the entrance, martini glasses in hand, suits and gowns glimmering. You spotted sponsors — ones you recognized from press releases — and even a few executives you’d seen on streaming platforms but never met in person.

 

Your throat tightened.

 

Holy shit. This wasn’t just some schmoozy office party.

 

This was the big leagues.

 

You stepped further in, steadying your breath, heels clicking across the transformed tile. The music was smooth, low — the kind that filled the space like silk rather than sound. Every inch of the place screamed money, production, polish. A lot of hands had been involved in making this look effortless.

 

You adjusted your posture.

 

And yet… even while you tried to focus on everything else, one thought started to wriggle back into your brain like a splinter:

 

Where was he?

 

You scanned the room again, slower this time. No stupid catch phrases. No flashy boards. No visible chaos.

 

No Tenna.

 

Not yet, anyway.

 

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

 

It wasn’t like you cared if he showed up with someone clinging to his arm. It wasn’t like you gave a shit whether that someone was prettier or flashier or more graceful than you.

You were just… curious.

 

That’s all.

 

Really.

 

You swallowed hard and stepped deeper into the party.

 

You moved efficiently, head held high, offering polite nods and quiet hey’s to the few coworkers who recognized you. Some smiled in surprise. A few looked genuinely impressed. Most just looked… busy. No one lingered.

 

Which was fine. You didn’t want to linger either.

 

But then—

 

“Damn, kid! Barely recognized you!”

 

You turned — and your entire body exhaled at once.

 

Mike.

 

Looking slightly overdressed, slightly stressed, and holding a mostly-empty champagne flute like he’d almost downed it in one go. The second he spotted you, his expression shifted from annoyed to pleasantly happy.

 

“You clean up pretty damn well,” 

 

he added, giving you an exaggerated once-over.

 

“You tryin’ to give some poor exec a heart attack?”

 

You actually laughed — for real — and it startled you.

 

“God,”

 

 you said, stepping closer,

 

“you have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

 

Mike tipped his glass toward you. 

“Right back at ya. These parties are always a circus. And I don’t mean the fun kind. I mean the weird, corporate, buy out your entire family kind.”

 

You snorted. “Sounds about right.”

 

He grinned. “You been dodging the press hounds yet, or should I walk around with a mic boom and pretend I’m your bodyguard?”

 

“You’d probably love that.”

 

“Of course I would.”

 

You let yourself relax into the conversation, genuinely relieved. Mike had a way of cutting through the noise — of making the chaos around you feel just a little less suffocating. 

You were starting to like him more than you wanted to admit. He was quick, sharp, full of sarcasm and a little too much charm, but he never talked down to you. Never treated you like some fragile intern clinging to relevance.

 

He made you feel less like you were falling apart. 

Just… grounded.

 

But mid-sentence — somewhere between a jab at the catering and some quip about you being the studio’s only success story — your attention shifted.

You saw him.

Tenna.

 

Standing around the staircase near the back of the room, surrounded by a semi-circle of people you didn’t recognize — industry workers, probably. 

Someone said something, and he laughed politely, head tilting just enough to reveal the sharp cut of his casting, the way his collar framed his throat.

 

God, he looked better than you imagined.

 

The suit was crisp black. No embellishments. No chaotic colors. Just sleek, tailored confidence . His screen flickered softly beneath the low light, emitting quiet glows across his face.

 

He looked serious.

 

Focused. Controlled.

 

It was jarring.

 

You were used to the chaos — the spirals, the jokes, the tantrums. But this version of him? It made your heart thud against your ribs like it had no idea what to do.

And then… you saw her.

The arm looped gently around the elbow he kept tucked into his pocket. Elegant fingers wrapped loosely around his sleeve. A woman.

 

She wore a dark silk dress that shimmered like oil under the chandelier lighting. Her frame was tall, poised. She looked like someone off the cover of a fashion magazine — a model, probably.

 

Tenna leaned in slightly when she spoke.

God, why did that hurt?

 

You weren’t together. You weren’t even anything . You knew this could happen. Hell, you’d imagined it while overthinking last week — dressed in that vest, sweating through flashbacks, snapping your pencil in half over the idea of him with someone else.

 

But seeing it in person?

 

Seeing her?

 

It was worse.

 

So much worse.

Your stomach twisted.

 

“Earth to [Y/N]?” Mike’s voice cut in sharply. 

“Hellooo? I’m talkin’ to you, or did you swap yourself with a cutout and I didn’t notice?”

 

You blinked fast, eyes snapping back to Mike — who was now watching you carefully, brow raised.

 

You tried to play it off, but your chest still shriveled.

 

“Sorry,” you muttered, “just… thought I saw somethin weird.”

 

Mike sipped his drink. “Uh huh. Lemme guess — tall, broody, and tips five percent because they’re the real underdog in this economy.”

 

You didn’t laugh.

Didn’t even register it as a joke.

 

You didn’t answer.

Not yet.

 

Not when the weight of her hand was still ghosting in your mind.

 

You blinked again, hard er this time — forcing your body to remember where it was. Here. In this glitzy, transformed studio that didn’t even feel recognizable anymore. 

 

Mike was still watching you, arms crossed now, concern replacing his usual smirk.

 

You opened your mouth to say something, but no words came.

 

Instead, you took a shallow breath and mumbled, “I—I should go. Just need a minute.”

 

Mike’s brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t stop you. Just gave a slow, understanding nod.

 

“…Alright,” he said, softer now. “Well— good luck, [Y/N]. I’ll be around if ya need me.”

 

The warmth in his tone almost made you stop — but your throat was already tightening, and your feet were already moving .

 

You made a straight line for the bar.

 

You needed a drink. Now.

 

Not champagne. Not wine. Not whatever bubbly nonsense was floating on trays with toothpicked olives.

 

You needed something stronger.

 

You didn’t even look up as you reached the bar — just dropped your arms onto the polished surface and muttered, 

 

“Top shelf brandy. On the rocks.”

 

There was a short pause.

 

Then—

“Well, someone’s not messin’ around tonight!”

 

Your eyes snapped up.

 

And sure enough, there he was.

 

Ramb.

 

The studio’s warmest, friendliest, empathetic bartender. Silvery purple hair combed behind his drooped ears, suspenders clipped over a pressed white shirt, smile curling with effortless charm. The same guy who could talk you through a panic attack and mix a whiskey sour at the same time.

Your heart dropped with guilt.

 

“Oh my god—Ramb—I didn’t even look, I’m so sorry—”

 

But Ramb just laughed, a low, genuine sound from the back of his throat.

 

“Don’t worry about it, luv,”

he said, already reaching for the good bottle behind him. 

“I’ve had far worse shouted at me before.”

 

You sank into the barstool as he slid the glass toward you.

 

“Thanks,” 

you said, voice barely audible over the music. You took a slow sip, letting the burn spread through your chest.

 

Ramb tilted his head, watching you carefully — but not intrusively.

 

“Hey,” he said after a beat. “I can tell when someone’s got somethin’ on their mind. You wanna talk about it?”

 

You stared at the ice in your glass.

 

Then — against your better judgment — you let your shoulders slump, just a little.

 

“It’s complicated,” you muttered. “I don’t even know where to start. Everything just… feels like too much right now. My work, this party, the people here, my head—”

 

You stopped yourself.

Ramb didn’t press.

 

You swallowed hard, then added, quieter:

 

“…What do you do when you don’t know what you’re supposed to feel anymore? When everything used to be straightforward, but now it’s just a mess?”

 

Ramb leaned against the bar, gaze calm yet reassuring.

 

“You mean when you’ve climbed so far up that you can finally look back and realize how tangled the road was behind you?”

 

You blinked at him.

 

“…Yeah. Exactly.”

 

He smiled gently. 

 

“Then I’d say… give yourself a minute to breathe , luv. Don’t try to fix the whole mess in one night. Especially not when you’re already holdin’ a drink.”

 

You let out a short, humorless laugh.

 

“I don’t even know what I’m trying to fix anymore.”

 

“Sure you do,” he said.

 

“You just don’t like the answer yet.”

 

That shut you up.

 

You swirled the brandy in your glass, letting his words settle like dust. Ramb didn’t push further — just leaned back and started quietly tending to another guest down the bar, leaving you in peace with your thoughts and your bitter drink.

 

And the subtle ache still sitting stubbornly behind your ribs.

 

You were just beginning to feel the edge come off.

 

The burn of the brandy settled into something slow and manageable, and Ramb’s words gave you something else to hold onto — anything other than that image of Tenna’s arm tucked beneath hers.

 

You let out a long breath and took another sip.

 

“Excuse me,” a voice said beside you, smooth and steady. “Is this seat taken?”

 

You turned — and blinked.

 

The guy was… cute.

 

Lean build. Soft, tousled hair. A sleek navy blazer over an open collar. He had that casual sort of confidence, the kind that didn’t announce itself too loudly, just simmered . Same height as you, maybe even slightly shorter, but he made up for it in charm.

 

You gave him a once-over, then motioned toward the stool. “All yours.”

 

He sat down with a polite nod.

 

“Thanks.”

 

There was a short pause.

 

Then he added, “I like your suit. The vest is killer.”

 

You smirked, finally setting your glass down. 

 

“Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

 

He grinned at that, and the conversation rolled naturally from there — a little banter, a few questions, harmless observations about the party. Turns out he was one of the tech reps from a sponsor company, and It was also his first gala. You two were both nervous, but excited.

 

“You don’t seem nervous,” 

he said after a few minutes, glancing at you again.

 

You raised a brow.

 

“I’m faking it.”

 

That made him laugh. 

 

“You’re good at it.”

 

Something about the way he was looking at you made your chest feel lighter . His attention wasn’t forced, wasn’t desperate — it was curious. Kind. And for the first time tonight, you didn’t feel like a walking pressure bomb.

 

So you let yourself lean in, just a little.

 

“You dance?”

he asked, voice softer now, almost playful.

 

You tilted your head. 

 

“Depends. You asking?”

 

He extended a hand toward you, smiling. 

 

“If you’ll have me.”

 

You looked at it.

 

Then — feeling bold — you slipped your fingers into his.

 

But just as you started to stand—

You felt it.

 

Something massive. Looming.

 

A wave of heat pressed against your back, rolling across your shoulders like a familiar static electricity.

 

The guy in front of you blinked, his expression faltering. The flirty smile he’d worn seconds ago slipped into something stiffer, almost nervous.

 

His eyes weren’t on you anymore.

 

They were focused just past you.

 

Then — from behind, low and unmistakable — came the voice you hadn’t heard all evening. Hadn’t heard in weeks.

“Going somewhere…?”

That single phrase landed like a drop of ink in clear water — bleeding into everything, staining the moment.

 

You didn’t even have to turn around.

 

You could already feel the burn of his glare against your skin.

 

You glanced over — slowly.

 

And there he was.

 

Tenna towered behind you, all sharp lines and inky black formalwear. His suit was tailored to sin. Collar slightly unfastened. His tie was now hanging loose. His screen dimmed low — just enough to shadow his expression — but it was still crackling faintly around the edges, as if struggling to keep its composure.

 

He didn’t look like the host of the event.

He looked like someone who’d burn it all to the ground.

 

“Uh,” the guy started awkwardly, glancing between you two. “Hey, man. I was just—”

 

“Yeah,” Tenna said smoothly, stepping forward. His body pressed even further into you. “I saw.”

 

His tone wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even aggressive.

But something about it was wrong . Too calm. Too casual .

 

Like a wolf politely introducing itself to a sheep.

 

You could feel the tension thicken.

 

The guy in front of you hesitantly let go of your hand.

 

Tenna’s gaze flicked downward at the gesture.

 

Then he tilted his head. “Didn’t think [Y/N] was the… mingling type.”

 

The guy forced a tight smile.

 

“Didn’t mean to step on anyone’s toes.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry. I don’t mind a little competition,” Tenna replied, screen flickering a little brighter — a pixelated grin curling across it. “It’s just that usually, when someone tries to cut in…”

 

His voice lowered a notch.

 

“…they don’t do it with my date.”

 

You blinked. “Date?!”

 

The guy froze, completely caught off guard. “Wait, you two are—?”

 

“We’re not,” 

you said sharply, regaining just enough of your voice to cut through the altercation.

 

But Tenna didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

 

Didn’t correct himself.

 

The guy laughed nervously. 

 

“ Well hey — sorry, man. No hard feelings. I didn’t know.”

 

Tenna smiled wider. “You do now.”

 

The man gave you a quick, sympathetic look — and walked off.

 

Tenna didn’t even watch him go.

His focus was entirely on you.

 

You stood there, frozen, trying to catch your breath.

 

Because holy shit. 

 

He looked… dangerous.

 

Teeth clenched. Frame coiled with something unspoken. He wasn’t playing the clown tonight. He wasn’t cracking jokes or talking fast to fill the air. He was still . Focused. Unyielding.

 

And it was doing something to you.

 

Your chest tightened — rage, adrenaline, something molten.

 

It didn’t help that this was the closest the two of you had been since… since your apartment. Since things went too far … Since he left.

 

Your eyes narrowed.

 

“What the hell was that?”

 

He said nothing. 

 

Just looked at you — that same intense, unreadable stare.

 

You turned to fully face him, lips tight.

 

“You don’t get to pull this shit.”

 

Your voice was low, but furious.

 

“That was my moment. That was my chance to relax, maybe even enjoy myself before I have to give some goddamn speech. And you just—what? Mark your territory?”

 

Tenna’s screen fizzled. The static at the corners buzzed louder. But he didn’t respond.

 

Didn’t deny it.

 

You stared him down, heart pounding.

 

Because suddenly, all you could think about was his hand wrapped around your waist weeks ago. His voice in your ear. His mouth—

 

Nope.

 

You clenched your fists, trying to snap out of it.

 

But Tenna was still standing there, towering over you, every inch of him lit with the kind of heat you refused to name.

 

You crossed your arms, stepping closer to him until there were only inches between you.

 

“That guy could’ve been a good hookup, you know.”

 

Tenna’s screen glitched.

Just slightly — a flicker, a blip of color distortion at the corner.

 

Then… he sneered.

 

Not playful. Not smug.

 

Angry.

 

“That’s what you’re looking for tonight?” he said, voice low, bitter. “A quickie with some guy you met five minutes ago?”

 

You grinned. It was petty. Sharp.

 

“Aw, look at that. You do remember I exist.”

 

He didn’t move. His fists were clenched now, barely noticeable at his sides — but you caught it. You felt it.

 

“You’ve been ignoring me for weeks, Tenna. This is the first time you’ve interacted with me since you left my goddamn apartment,” you hissed, voice raw with building fury. “And now suddenly you’re acting like I’m yours?”

 

He opened his mouth — 

You didn’t stop.

 

“You’re such a hypocrite.”

 

Static buzzed louder.

 

“Because I saw you earlier,” 

you said, taking another bold step in, nearly chest to chest now.

“That stunning woman with her arm wrapped around yours? Dark silk dress? She looked like she walked off a runway.”

 

Tenna blinked. His screen dimmed again slightly.

 

You tilted your head, cruel and curious.

 

“What, did she ditch you already?”

 

But Tenna didn’t answer.

 

Instead, he looked… confused.

Genuinely. Like you’d just spoken in another language.

 

You stared at him.

 

“What,” you snapped, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Don’t remember who you showed up with?”

 

Tenna’s static quieted — not from calmness, but from something uneasy. Like his mind was trying to process a file that wouldn’t open. 

 

“Who are you—” he started, then stopped. His jaw locked.

 

And for a moment, he actually looked like he didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know what the hell you were even talking about.

 

And that — that only made it worse.

 

Tenna stared at you, screen flickering again — not glitching this time, but hesitating.

 

“…Are you talking about Rebecca?” he asked.

 

You blinked.

 

Tenna shifted his weight. His tone dropped, awkward and almost annoyed.

 

“She’s just touchy. I didn’t bring her here. She just… showed up. She always shows up. I don’t even like it. Makes me uncomfortable. That’s why I walked over here.”

 

You froze.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

You felt a knot in your throat as your brain scrambled to backpedal. You glanced away, suddenly way too aware of how close the two of you were standing.

 

“Well I— I didn’t know that. I just thought—”

 

But you didn’t finish.

Because something about him changed.

 

His screen hadn’t moved, but the way he looked at you did. Something flickered in his posture — something twitchy, restrained. His shoulders squared. His fingers twitched.

 

And that’s when you saw it.

 

He was blushing.

 

The longer you stared, the more undeniable it became — that faint, pink glow warming his screen, crawling slowly down the cords of his neck. Like heat was rising faster than he could contain it.

 

And then you saw where he was looking.

 

Down.

 

Not at your face. Not anymore.

 

Right at the deep cut of your vest — the way it dipped just enough to show your chest, the line of your collarbone, the shimmer of your skin in the dim party lights.

 

Your mouth parted slightly.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

 

He just stood there, transfixed — breath short, static soft and buzzing under the surface.

 

Like he was forgetting where he was. Forgetting everything except what he was seeing.

 

You swallowed hard.

 

“…Seriously?” you whispered, the word more breath than voice.

 

He flinched — like he’d been caught doing something filthy.

 

But he didn’t look away.

If anything, he looked even more hungry.

 

Your voice dropped low, edged in something piercing and amused.

 

“You’re actually checking me out right now?”

 

Tenna’s screen buzzed softly 

 

“…No,” he said, entirely too fast. Then quieter, 

“Not on purpose.”

 

You tilted your head, stepping closer — just a little. Just enough to blur the line between tension and danger.

 

“You’ve barely looked my way for weeks,” you murmured, voice low. “Now you’re gawking like you’ve never seen a body before.”

 

He inhaled sharply — artificial, controlled. 

“I haven’t— seen you— dressed like this. Not since—”

 

“Since I used to wear this eyeshadow for fun and you’d stare a little too long?” 

 

you cut in, smiling coldly.

 

His screen flickered.

 

You didn’t stop.

 

“You’ve been treating me like I didn’t exist. But the second some guy wants to dance with me? Suddenly you grow a fucking backbone?”

 

Tenna’s jaw clenched. “He didn’t want to ‘dance’,” he hissed. “He wanted to…”

 

He trailed off.

 

“Say it.”

 

He looked at you. Really looked. Then bent down, lips brushing close to your ear.

 

“You want me to say he wanted to fuck you?”

 

Your breath hitched.

 

Silence buzzed hot between you. His hands twitched at his sides — he looked like he wanted to grab you and shove you up against the nearest wall. Your pulse pounded with how close he was. 

 

How angry he sounded. How desperate.

 

You bit your lower lip.

 

“And you didn’t like that?”

 

“I hated it.”

 

His voice was breathless.

 

You could feel the heat radiating off him now. His screen cast a low light across your neck, and for a second you were sure he was going to bite you.

 

Or fuck you against the nearest surface.

 

Or say something so filthy it’d ruin your entire evening .

 

You swore you could feel it in the air — that snap, that pull, that thread of something feral rising up from his chest—

 

Then—

 

“ANT!”

 

The voice cut through the air like a slap.

 

You and Tenna jolted apart — the spell shattered , reality slamming back like cold water.

 

Mike was standing across the room, holding a paper and looking pissed.

 

“The board reps wanna talk to you now , you BOZO — quit disappearin!”

 

Tenna didn’t look at you.

 

He just turned, sharp and rigid, and walked away — his steps fast, like he needed to put distance between you before he lost his damn mind.

 

You stood there, frozen.

Throat dry. Legs shaking.

 

Still aching with everything that almost happened.

And furious that it didn’t.

Notes:

made a Spotify playlist for these bozos if y'all want to listen to it you can <3

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/108dxK36GPFkK9ZOUx9EqV?si=aaf86a6bd5554b41

Chapter 24: Mine

Summary:

You finally give your speech.

Notes:

TW!!!!

Slight depiction of unwanted touching, and creepy comments midway through chapter.

 

SORRY FOR THE HIATUS. I helped my friend move a couch into his new apartment, and guys that shit sucked. Take this chapter as token of my gratitude for being patient.

You had to calm down longer than you were willing to admit.

 

After Tenna left — dragged off by Mike’s barked scolding — your body stayed locked in place. Far too long. Too stiff. The thrum of your pulse refused to settle. Your face was hot, chest tight, brain still fogged over the way he’d looked at you before he turned away.

 

You needed a distraction. Something mindless.

 

So you found another drink.

 

Then maybe a third.

 

…then possibly a fourth.

 

Hard to tell — the bubbles sparkled just enough to keep your hands busy. You floated from group to group, nodding along to surface-level industry chatter, forcing polite laughter at jokes you didn’t fully process. Everyone had names that rang vague bells. Everyone was dressed to impress.

 

But none of it helped.

 

Every second that passed felt like it dragged you closer to doom.

 

 

Your speech.

 

 

It was coming.

 

 

You’d prepared. You were ready. Hell you’d practiced it a hundred times — in mirrors, backstage, alone in your office with a timer ticking beside you and a headache pounding behind your eyes.

 

 

But none of that seemed to matter now.

 

 

Not when the lights dimmed.

 

Not when your name was next.

 

 

The hush that swept across the studio buzzed in your ears. Like pressure underwater. Like your whole body recognized this moment as something to be afraid of.

 

And then — you heard his voice.

 

“LADIES and GENTLEFOLK, board members, executives, and… whatever you call people with incredible taste — welcome once again to the annual TV TIME GALA!!”

 

Tenna.

He was already on stage.

 

You turned toward him instinctively — breath catching.

 

He was magnetic.

 

That old, infuriating charm radiated off him in waves. He strode confidently across the stage, voice big and bright, animated expressions rippling over his screen with every shift in tone. Like he hadn’t just been shaking with some animalistic urge minutes ago. Like he hadn’t just confessed to hating the idea of anyone else touching you.

 

Now?

 

He was dazzling. Loud. Professional. Polished.

 

You hated how easy it was for him to flip the switch.

How he could pretend like you hadn’t affected him at all.

 

“AND NOW,”

he said, smile widening,

“I’d like to introduce someone very SPECIAL to this studio’s REVIVAL! A familiar face you’ve probably seen in a staff meeting, fixing a busted light, or screaming into a clipboard backstage—”

 

Scattered laughter from the crowd.

Your throat tightened.

 

“Everyone, please, GIVE IT UP FOR [Y/N]!!”

 

Applause broke out. Spotlights shifted.

 

You finally moved — stiff-legged — toward the stage.

 

Tenna met you halfway, holding the mic. He was tall. Poised. Impossibly composed.

 

He passed the mic slowly — his hand brushing yours just a little too long. Warm, steady. His fingers lingered like he wanted to say something without speaking.

 

You looked up.

 

His screen glowed softly — unreadable — before he gave the faintest nod and stepped aside.

 

 

 

Gone.

 

 

Now it was just you.

 

Center stage. 

 

 

 

Alone.

 

 

 

One breath in.

 

You could do this.

 

You opened your mouth. Began your first line—

 

 

Then you saw them.

 

 

The crowd.

 

 

Rows and rows of faces, watching. Judging. Expecting.

 

 

Some familiar. Some powerful. Some you desperately wanted to impress.

 

The spotlight hit harder now. It stung your skin. Dried your mouth.

 

Your voice caught.

 

Come on.

 

You blinked, tried again. But your words stumbled. Wavered.

 

And then it hit you — not from the room, but from your own mind.

 

 

Laughter. Not real. Remembered.

 

A voice. A phrase.

 

 

“ Dead weight.”

 

 

It cracked through your composure like a hammer through glass.

 

You saw the memory — clear and awful.

 

The after party. The sneer. The way someone spat the words like a joke.

 

And Tenna.

Laughing along.

 

The fight afterward. Your tears. His bitterness. His words.

 

“Maybe I got tired of dragging someone around who couldn’t keep up.”

 

You weren’t a star.

You weren’t even talent.

 

You were the backstage loser who froze up like a ghost the second it counted.

 

You were still that kid.

 

No matter how much you’d grown.

 

Your grip on the mic slipped slightly. You swore the blood drained from your hands.

 

The silence around you thickened.

Tightened.

 

You couldn’t hear your name. You couldn’t hear anything except the heartbeat behind your ears.

 

And then—

CRASH.

 

Loud. Chaotic. Sharp enough to shatter the silence.

 

“NOOOOOOOO—NOT THE SHRIMP COCKTAILS!!”

 

The room exploded.

 

Heads turned. Gasps. Chatter.

 

You blinked — like someone just gave your brain an ice bath.

 

There, at the back of the studio — Tenna.

 

He was crouched beside a tipped-over catering cart, hands dramatically outstretched as shrimp skidded across the floor like confetti. Cocktail sauce splattered across the ground. He looked devastated.

 

“MY LIFE’S WORK — MY LEGACY!!”

he wailed, his voice cracking with theatrical grief.

 

For a second, no one moved.

Then, laughter. Confusion. A burst of relieved noise.

 

 

And in the chaos — he looked at you.

 

 

Right at you.

 

 

Past every guest. Past every flashing light and half-distracted board member.

 

His screen flickered softly. His gaze steadied.

 

 

He gave you another tiny nod.

 

Subtle. Reassuring.

 

You’ve got this.

 

 

You just stared, stunned. It didn’t feel real.

 

He did that for you?

 

To distract them. To give you space. To let you breathe.

 

Your throat tightened.

 

No time to spiral. No time to doubt yourself again.

Your lungs finally expanded like they remembered how.

 

You gripped the mic tighter.

Still shaking — but steadier now.

 

You smiled, just barely.

 

Then you spoke…

 

 

 

 

The rest of your speech came out clean, focused. Words flowed effortlessly — like muscle memory had finally kicked in. Your jokes landed. Your voice steadied. You thanked the production crew. You shouted out Mike. You even thanked Tenna — “for giving me the opportunity to help rebuild something worth fighting for.”

 

You ended strong. Confident.

The applause was thunderous.

 

Backstage, Mike clapped you on the back hard enough to sting. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, kid!”

 

Board members approached. Cards were passed. Compliments were given.

 

But you barely heard any of it.

All you could think about was him.

 

That stupid shrimp stunt.

 

That split second when the room spun and he caught you.

 

You scanned the crowd, as you fully exited the backstage area.

 

Where was he?

 

Before you could look too hard, the lights shifted again.

 

Formal, classical music rose up through the speakers — the kind that felt elegant and heavy. Guests stepped into place on the dance floor, men offering hands, women twirling in gowns, a graceful swirl of laughter and booze.

 

You turned to leave.

 

But a hand grabbed yours.

 

 

You flinched.

 

 

You turned — and found yourself looking up at one of the older board members. His suit looked expensive, tailored and glossy, his slicked-back hair still shiny despite the heat of the room. His grip didn’t feel casual. It felt decided.

 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” 

 

he said with a too-wide smile, already pulling you into the rhythm of the music.

 

“You work for the studio, don’t you?”

 

“Um. Something like that,” 

you muttered, trying not to frown. You didn’t want to cause a scene.

 

But his hand found your lower back far too quickly. And lower.

 

You twitched — just a little — but he didn’t loosen his hold.

 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” 

 

he said, his fingers drifting down the curve of your waist.

 

“They said you’ve… shaken things up around here.”

 

You forced a polite laugh, attempting to keep your steps in sync with his.

 

“Yeah, I guess so.”

 

“They didn’t say you were this stunning, though,” he added smoothly. “Would’ve prepared myself better.”

 

You didn’t respond.

Your shoulders were tightening.

 

He leaned in closer. 

 

“Bet you know what kind of power you’ve got in a suit like that.”

 

You felt the bile start to rise inside you.

 

You shifted your hand — trying to create space between you — but he only adjusted his steps to close the gap again.

 

“You know…” 

he continued, voice low near your ear,

“Someone like you shouldn’t waste time fixing things. You should be shown off. Taken care of. Properly.”

 

Your jaw locked. You started to pull back — politely, but firmly now.

 

Then his hand slid lower.

You stopped moving.

 

“Don’t,” you said under your breath.

 

“Come on,” he chuckled, “don’t be shy. We’re just dancing.”

 

Your teeth clenched. You felt your whole body begin to rumble.

 

“Don’t make a fuss,” he added, lips close to your temple.

 

You didn’t breathe.

 

You could feel your anger rising until—

 

You were spun.

 

The man stumbled backward — replaced.

 

Firm hands caught yours, drawing you into a practiced turn, locking you smoothly into the next partner hold like it had all been rehearsed.

 

Your brain hadn’t caught up yet.

 

Tenna’s screen glowed dimly above you. He was staring forward, jaw tight, movements rigid as he led you into the next steps. His grip was just on the edge of too tight.

 

“I think they’ve made it clear you’re not worth their time,”

 

he said coolly, without sparing the board member a glance.

 

The board member narrowed his eyes.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Tenna finally turned to face him, smile too big to be sincere.

 

“Oh, don’t take it too hard. Boldness like yours is… admirable, really!”

 

Tenna twirled you again — locking you closer than before. His fingers dug slightly into your waist.

 

The older man watched, jaw tense, clearly ready to say something —

but before he could protest, Tenna spun you right into the next formation, falling in step with the other rotating dancers like it had been planned all along.

 

The music swept the man away with the next partner, whether he liked it or not.

 

Silence fell between you and Tenna as your bodies shifted into a slower rhythm.

 

 

“Thanks,”

 

you muttered, your voice breathier than expected — maybe from the spinning. Maybe from the way his hand was pressing into your waist like he didn’t know how to let go.

 

Tenna didn’t respond.

 

He kept his eyes ahead, towering above the crowd, posture too stiff for someone just swaying to music. His hand now rested firmly at the small of your back, the other clasping yours a little too tightly. The glow of his screen pulsed faintly above your head, flickering just at the edges — like he was tearing under the surface.

 

“Don’t thank me,” he said finally, voice tight. “I almost punched him.”

 

You blinked.

 

“You?” you huffed, glancing up at him. “In that suit?”

 

You smiled faintly, champagne buzzing through your veins.

 

“That thing probably costs more than the guy’s car.”

 

Tenna let out a short, tense breath.

 

“Would’ve been worth it.”

 

He turned you gently, his long arm guiding you into a slow, elegant spin. When he pulled you back in, your body pressed closer against his — or rather, into him. He was huge. Always had been, but something about the way you fit against him now, practically folded into the line of his body, made your chest twist with something sharp.

 

“Didn’t peg you for the jealous type.”

 

“I’m not,” he said too fast. Way too fast.

 

You raised an eyebrow. As much as you could, considering you had to tilt your chin up to even see him.

 

“Really?” you asked. “Because we haven’t spoken in weeks… and now I need a handler just to stand in a room with other people?”

 

His screen flickered above you.

 

“That guy was a creep,” he muttered. “Didn’t like the way he grabbed you.”

 

“And what about the guy from cocktail hour?” you challenged, stepping slightly closer to test his reaction. “He wasn’t grabby. Just asked me to dance. You practically dove between us.”

 

“He looked at you weird.”

 

You gave a dry laugh. “He looked at me normal. You’re the one who acted like I needed to be put behind a velvet rope.”

 

Tenna didn’t answer immediately. His hand tensed at your back, then softened — like he caught himself.

 

“…I didn’t like it,” he said finally. “Didn’t like anyone touching you.”

 

You scoffed under your breath, still looking up at him.

 

Your voice dipped. “You don’t get to act like that. Not after the last time I saw you.”

 

Tenna blinked. “What?”

 

“I see you one night, slumped in the green room with an entire bottle of whiskey down your throat,” you said, your tone quiet but cutting, “and the next you’re walking around like I didn’t carry you out of it.”

 

Tenna’s steps faltered — subtle, but you felt it in the sway of his body.

 

“I—”

 

“You didn’t explain anything,” you went on. “Why you were there. Why you drank like that. You just woke up, asked me to pretend it didn’t happen, and walked out.”

 

He turned you again — gentle, measured, like he was trying to keep up appearances. But his grip had lost its rhythm.

 

“I was ashamed,” he said finally. “Didn’t want you to see me like that.”

 

“But I did.” You looked up at him again. “And you left anyway.”

 

His screen dimmed slightly, buzzing faintly. He glanced away, gaze high over the heads of the dancers around you. Like he couldn’t even look you in the eye.

 

“I thought it was easier if we didn’t talk about it,” he said. “Less complicated.”

 

“It wasn’t,” you said. “It was just cowardly.”

 

He flinched. You felt it in the way his fingers twitched against your waist, the way his voice got small.

 

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” he muttered. “I just… didn’t know how to be around you after that.”

 

“So you chose nothing over trying?”

 

Tenna didn’t answer. His hand rested awkwardly on your back now — not possessive like before, but lost. Like he wasn’t sure if he had permission to touch you anymore.

 

“And now what?”

 

you said, stepping further into the dance now — not out of softness, but confrontation.

 

“Now you get to pretend like you’re allowed to protect me?”

 

He glanced down at you. His screen glowed low, framing the sharp cut of your face, the glint of your eyeshadow, the open collar of your vest. He hadn’t said anything, but the way his gaze moved made it obvious:

 

He hadn’t stopped looking since the moment you walked in.

 

“I didn’t plan this,” he said quietly. “Didn’t even think you’d show up tonight. But when I saw you…”

 

His voice caught. His fingers slid slightly along the curve of your waist.

 

“You looked unreal.”

 

You blinked. 

 

“What?”

 

“You look…”

He shook his head, visibly glitching.

“Ridiculously good. It’s messing me up.”

 

Your breath hitched — and not just from the compliment. You hated how warm your face felt, hated how easy it was for him to knock the wind out of you even while you were still furious.

 

“You look good too…” 

you muttered, eyes tracing the cut of his lapel, the sleek lines of his frame. 

“…Unfortunately.”

 

Tenna let out a weak laugh. His posture relaxed, just slightly — enough for you to feel the shift in his hold. It wasn’t rigid anymore. It was tense in a different way now— 

 

“So what now?” he asked, voice low.

 

You didn’t answer right away.

 

His thumb brushed over your hip — barely there. 

You looked up at him, at that impossible height, lips just parted.

 

“…I haven’t decided yet.”

 

The next rotation of the dance began — couples around you shifting partners with polite nods and murmured laughs.

 

Tenna glanced sideways. Then down at you.

 

“…Nope. Not happening.”

 

You blinked. “What?”

 

“I’m not swapping.” He tightened his hold on your waist. “C’mon.”

 

Before you could respond, he grabbed your hand and slipped through the crowd — weaving past swirling gowns and polished shoes until he pushed open a side door leading to the balcony.

 

The sudden rush of cool air hit you like a reset.

You stumbled slightly in your heels, breath catching in a quiet laugh.

 

Tenna didn’t laugh — but his screen flickered. Amused, maybe. Or flustered.

 

“You just kidnapped me,” 

you said, still catching your breath.

 

He shrugged, moving toward the railing. 

“You let me.”

 

You rolled your eyes. You didn’t have a retort — and he knew it.

 

Tenna leaned over the railing, silent.

 

Then:

 

“Why can’t you explain why I found you like that.”

 

You noticed the way his once-relaxed hand curled tighter around the railing, fingers white-knuckled now.

You stepped closer, angling yourself toward him fully.

 

“You can’t have me stumble on you one night with an empty whiskey bottle in your hands and act like everything’s fine afterwards.”

 

He didn’t respond. Just stared out over the lights of the city — mouth shut, screen dark.

 

“It scared the shit out of me.”

 

The words slipped out before you could catch them. Your voice trembled. You hated that it did.

 

“That’s why I’m upset. If I ever found you worse than that—if I found you completely broken, in a state I couldn’t pull you back from…”

 

You trailed off. Nothing else you could say felt strong enough. You didn’t even know why you were saying all this now — maybe the alcohol, maybe the nerves of the night — but deep down, you knew this had been sitting in your chest for years.

Ever since you left. Ever since you never looked back.

 

“…I still care about you,” you murmured.

“Even when I don’t want to. Even when you don’t deserve it. I worry about you, Tenna. I can’t handle watching you do that to yourself.”

 

You realized you were staring at the floor — at your shoes, the tiles, anything but him.

 

When you finally looked up, your breath caught.

 

Tenna looked stunned. His screen glowed brighter than you’d ever seen, a pink hue burning across it like he couldn’t process what you just said. Steam hissed from his vents in short bursts, like his body couldn’t regulate the heat fast enough.

 

You opened your mouth to backtrack, maybe say it was the alcohol talking — but he stepped toward you fast.

 

“You still… care about me?”

 

His voice cracked. He looked so genuinely soft — too soft for a man who’d once torn you apart.

 

And before you could even breathe out an answer, he moved.

 

He kissed you.

 

Not frantic. Not needy. But passionate.

 

It was a kiss full of things unsaid, of promises he never kept, of memories that still hurt too much to speak aloud.

 

And worst of all?

 

It worked.

 

God, it was working.

 

The kiss deepened — slow, consuming, dangerous. You both knew you wouldn’t bounce back from this. Not after tonight.

 

His hands roamed desperately, grasping at every inch of you like he couldn’t get enough — like you were the only spotlight he ever wanted to stand in again.

Your own hands clung to his forearms, shaking as you felt the tension ripple through his muscles with every shift, every pull.

 

“God—”

 

he gasped, voice ragged.

 

“[Y/N], I—” 

 

His breath hitched. He finally glanced up and looked at you — and the way you must’ve looked, dazed and flushed from just a kiss, knocked the air from his lungs.

 

“You look so good,” he murmured. “I just—”

 

He cradled your cheek, tilting your face to the side so he could drink you in from a better angle.

 

“I don’t want anyone else touching you,” he whispered. “Not after this. Not after I’ve had a taste. I couldn’t take it.”

 

You hated how vocal he was being — how every praise slipped from his mouth like a moan, dragging you under with him. It made it impossible to ground yourself. All you could do was whimper softly in response, melting under the weight of it, trying not to sound too desperate.

 

But then he kissed you again — deeper, needier — and before you realized it, the two of you had stumbled to the opposite wall, right beside the balcony entrance.

 

His body pressed into yours, tall and broad and unyielding. He was caging you in completely, and somehow that only made the burning low in your stomach twist harder.

 

And thank god it wasn’t just the kiss making you unravel — because Tenna was falling apart just as fast. Maybe even faster.

 

He broke the kiss — just long enough to stare at you again.

You could feel it rising in him now. That feral edge bubbling beneath the surface.

 

His hand tilted your chin up, firm and possessive, forcing your gaze to meet his. There was no escaping it.

 

“You—fuck—” he panted, glance flickering over your face like he couldn’t get enough, “you knew exactly what you were doing.”

 

He huffed a shaky breath, his screen pulsing faintly.

 

“Wearing that eyeshadow…” His grip tightened ever so slightly. “You knew I couldn’t stand it.”

 

The heat in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. You felt it — the possessiveness, the raw desperation — and God, it turned you on. The way he said it, the way he looked at you like you were something forbidden — it made your chest swell with wicked satisfaction.

 

So you leaned into it. If he was going to unravel, you were going to make him.

 

“Mmm… maybe I wore it to get attention from someone else.”

 

You tilted your head just slightly, eyes gleaming. 

 

“Worked, didn’t it?”

 

Tenna stared at you with such intensity it should’ve scared you — if you weren’t already throbbing from how hot it was.

 

His other hand gripped tightly on your waist, sharp and possessive, and when he bared his teeth in a snarl — all sharp edges and grit — your breath caught.

 

“Oh?” he growled, voice low and lethal. “Well, that’s just too bad.”

 

Before you could respond, his hand slipped beneath your vest — sliding up the soft fabric until his fingers found that spot, just under your ribs.

 

The one that made you gasp the very first time he discovered it.

 

The one that made you moan now, just as instantly — your back arching into the wall behind you.

 

You could see how your reaction wrecked him — how his jaw tensed like he was biting back a moan of his own, desperate to stay in control.

 

“I wonder,” 

 

he murmured, voice low and venomous, 

 

“if the other guy would know how to touch you like this?”

 

His hand slid lower, trailing from your stomach toward the heat between your legs — deliberate, teasing.

You let out a soft, breathy noise and instinctively rolled your hips into the contact, chasing more. Dignity be damned. You didn’t care how you looked or sounded anymore.

 

You just needed him. Needed this.

 

It had been too long.

 

And right now, you’d give him anything he wanted — if it meant he wouldn’t stop.

 

“Fuck—”

 

He moaned when your hips lifted into his touch, breath hitching like he was barely holding himself back.

Like one more second and he’d lose it — press you up against this wall and fuck you right there without thinking.

But something about this… about you letting him lead for once…

It lit a different kind of fire in him.

 

You were too turned on to care — too far gone to even try hiding it.

 

“Face it,” he rasped, voice low and heady. “I’m better than anyone else in there.”

 

Before you could answer — protest or beg — his hand left your core and moved upward, gliding over your body until it found one of the bundle of nerves on your chest. One deliberate stroke, and his finger engulfed the sensitive bud completely.

 

“AH~!” 

 

The sound tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Your whole body jolted at the touch, thighs trembling, breath caught.

 

This time, he couldn’t hold it back — a raw, shameless moan tore from his throat.

You looked up at him, and for a moment, it stunned you — how undone he already looked.

 

Even with his hands on you, even while taking the lead… he was just as desperate.

It made something grow inside you, some unbearable need that hollowed you out from the inside.

 

You couldn’t help it.

 

Your body moved on instinct, grinding down against his thigh — chasing friction, chasing anything.

 

Anything to take the edge off this ache.

 

Tenna snarled, suddenly grabbing both your wrists in one large hand and slamming them against the wall above your head, pinning you effortlessly.

 

“Please—”

 

You whimpered it without shame, breath hot in the air between you.

His screen flickered violently — vents spewing steam like a machine on the brink of combustion.

He looked feral, out of his mind, restraint dangling by a thread.

 

But still… he didn’t move.

 

 

Like he needed something else. One more push. One more piece of you before he finally broke.

 

“No… not yet.”

 

His voice was wrecked — low, strained, like he was holding back something that physically hurt to contain.

Your eyes dropped, and you saw it — the bulge beneath his suit pants, straining hard and obvious. It looked painful.

 

 

You wanted it. Inside you. Now.

 

 

“Please—Tenna, please, I need it,” you gasped, voice crumbling with want. “Please just—please, please—”

 

His fans kicked into high gear, whirring louder with each breath, his blush glowing hot enough to light the night sky.

 

And still, he didn’t move.

 

Until his voice came again — low and demanding, possessive in a way that made your whole body tense.

 

“Say it.”

 

You blinked, dazed.

 

“Say you’re mine,” he growled. “That no one else here gets to have you. Not like me.”

 

You didn’t even register what he was really asking — not until the words were already spilling out, raw and breathless.

 

“I’m yours—all yours. No one else. Please, just—fuck me already, God, please.”

 

That was all it took.

 

His hands were trembling as he shoved your pants and underwear down, frantic and fumbling. You barely noticed when he did the same to himself — too dazed, too needy, too far gone.

 

He lifted you effortlessly, letting your thighs wrap around him as best they could.

 

You nearly cried at the sight of his cock finally freed — flushed, throbbing, already dripping with precum. He looked up at you like he couldn’t believe this was real, expression utterly desperate, lining himself up with shaking hands.

 

“Since you asked so nicely,” he tried to murmur with authority — but it came out as a whimper.

 

Then he finally pushed into you — inch by aching inch.

The stretch made you jolt, your back arching from the sharp pressure.

 

“ah—AH—!”

 

But when he bottomed out, when he filled you completely, the pain blurred into something overwhelming. The heat, the fullness — it made your whole body clench, made your head spin. You could’ve climaxed just from that alone.

 

Tenna felt it too — his frame trembled, fans sputtering with bursts of steam as he whined against your throat. His whole body was overheating, barely holding together.

 

“F-Fuck—[Y/N]…”

 

He whimpered as his cock throbbed inside you, buried to the hilt.

 

“I missed this—missed you—so much, oh my god, oh my god—”

 

You pulsed around him at the words — at the way his voice cracked with sincerity. His honesty hit deeper than anything else tonight. Well maybe not as deep as his cock—

 

But just as he was about to move…

 

 

You both froze.

 

 

Footsteps.

 

 

Coming closer. Sharp and echoing against the tile — heading straight for the balcony door.

 

 

You stared at each other, breath caught, hearts hammering.

 

 

Shit.

 

You don’t know if you locked the door. Neither of you had even thought to.

 

And from where you were — pressed against the wall just beside the entrance — they wouldn’t see you unless they stepped fully out.

 

 

But if they opened it…

 

Even in your dazed, horny state, some part of you knew the consequences if anyone stepped outside.

Tenna, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care. Not one bit.

 

“[Y/N]—I’m sorry, I…” Tenna’s voice was barely a whisper, hot against your ear. “I can’t stop. Not now.” 

 

His hips started moving, slow and deliberate, thrusting into you like he wasn’t in control of his own body. His large hand clamped gently but firmly over your mouth, trying to muffle every noise he knew you’d make.

 

You bit down on it — hard — not out of malice, but because the fear and arousal were too much to contain.

 

He winced, breath hitching, but didn’t stop. If anything, he held you tighter, groaning softly through clenched teeth as his rhythm deepened.

 

 

The footsteps were getting closer.

Each second felt like a countdown.

 

 

The footsteps grew louder — closer — until they stopped right outside the door.

 

You stared at Tenna, wide-eyed, terrified… but he didn’t stop.

 

He was completely lost in it, his rhythm steady and relentless. He leaned forward, burying his face against your shoulder — and when his own moan threatened to slip out, he bit down  where your neck met your collarbone, muffling himself against your skin.

 

 

You couldn’t make out any voices.

 

 

Just one sound, cutting through the haze of skin against metal.

 

 

The doorknob.

 

 

It jiggled.

 

 

Your head snapped toward it, horror tightening your chest.

 

 

 

 

But then—silence.

 

 

 

The knob stilled. The footsteps retreated, fading back into the hum of the party.

 

You didn’t bother stopping the tears that  streamed down your face — from the overstimulation, from the unbearable effort of swallowing every moan that threatened to break loose. Your whole body shook, buzzing with adrenaline.

 

That’s when Tenna finally lifted his mouth from your shoulder, releasing the bite he’d sunk into your skin — a raw, aching mark that would definitely bruise.

 

He looked at you — your red cheeks, eyeshadow stained face, trembling lips — and you felt it.

 

A sharp twitch inside you.

He didn’t hesitate.

 

Tenna slammed you harder against the wall, arms locking around you like he couldn’t bear another inch of space between you.

 

Then—without warning—he began to move. Fast. Deep. Relentless.

The force of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

 

“Ah—AHH, T-Tenna—w-WAIT—!”

 

Your voice broke, trembling from the shock of how sudden it all was.

All he could do was moan.

 

“So good—FUCK, [Y/N], you feel so good—so fucking good. ”

 

Your name spilled from his lips like a prayer, breathless and broken.

 

You couldn’t speak anymore. Could barely breathe.

 

Every thrust slammed into a new part of you, sending jolts of white-hot pleasure through your core.

 

You felt your orgasm building—fast. Dangerous. Unstoppable.

 

That’s when Tenna folded you further in half, pushing deeper—burying himself inside you until there was nowhere left to go.

 

He hit something indescribable.

 

Your entire body jolted, muscles locking as that overwhelming pressure exploded into pleasure.

 

“Te-TenNAAH— I— I’M—AH, I’m gonNA—!”

 

You couldn’t even warn him properly.

 

Could only stare helplessly at his stupid CRT screen, flickering wildly as you came undone around him.

 

You clenched tight—squeezed—your whole body trembling violently before going limp.

You swore you blacked out for a second. Stars danced across your vision.

Everything blurred. Everything burned.

 

Apparently, the sight of you cumming was too much — because Tenna wasn’t far behind.

 

He pulled out with a whimper, breath ragged, and immediately started pumping himself in front of you — still holding you pinned against the wall like he couldn’t let go.

 

“All yours,” he panted, voice wrecked. “It’s all for you, [Y/N]—”

 

His hips jolted forward once, then again — until he finally tipped over the edge.

 

You felt the heat of him spill across your stomach, your thighs, dripping down your skin in messy, desperate streaks. You felt the static — electricity sensation dancing over every inch of you.

 

And you didn’t mind.

You couldn’t.

 

You were far too gone to process anything except how hard you just came.

 

 

Tenna finally let you down gently, and your legs trembled from the effort of standing. He caught you before you could fall.

 

Your mind flickered back to that night — the one where he was shit-faced, rambling, crying — when he confessed you only really looked at him when you were like this. Close. Intimate. Tangled up in something neither of you could name.

 

So you stayed a moment longer. Just standing there. Letting the silence settle.

 

When you finally glanced up at him, he looked jittery. Nervous. Smiling — but barely. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was on the verge of tears.

 

 

You nudged his arm with your elbow and muttered:

 

“Come one. Let’s go share a cigarette on the roof…for old times’ sake.”

Notes:

I am in-love with the idea of Tenna attempting to be dominant, and he just folds and is pathetic and cries and whimpers. Stupid old sweaty tv man. (We love you Tenna)

Chapter 25: Bottoms Up

Summary:

You and Tenna’s relationship has shifted into something…else.

Notes:

I’M NOT DEAD, EAT UP!!!

After that night at the gala, things between you and Tenna finally slipped into something… manageable.

 

It wasn’t how things used to be — not the bitter silence, not the unbearable rage — all of that had softened. Now, you two were able to sit in the same room without biting each other’s heads off. You could disagree without detonating. Joke without drawing blood.

 

You weren’t quite like your college selves anymore, either — blissfully naive, infatuated, convinced nothing could break the two of you.

 

Most days, you got along fine. Some days, you’d argue over absolutely nothing — whether it was where to move a camera rig or who left coffee grounds in the sink. But the yelling didn’t last. Not anymore. Because eventually, those arguments would lead to locked doors and breathless apologies, limbs tangled behind the desk you’d taken from him.

 

Professionalism was a slippery slope.

 

You’d tease each other in front of the crew, then hook up in his former office after a particularly stressful day — like it was part of your new routine. Like it was normal.

 

Yet a part of you still hadn’t forgotten. Still hadn’t forgiven him. Years of internalizing the idea that you had to prove yourself — to earn your place, your worth — didn’t disappear overnight. That damage stuck. But for whatever reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to hurt Tenna anymore. Couldn’t hate him now, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself that you should.

 

He still got on your nerves. Still poked at you. The new rhythm you two had fallen into was clumsy and unspoken, but it worked. And somewhere deep down, you were convinced there was a twisted part of him that wanted you to snap — to yell, curse, scream at him just so he could see that fire again.

 

What a gross guy.

 

You loved it.

 

Even helping out at the studio had become something you actually looked forward to.

 

You liked your stupid little banter with Mike. You liked talking to Ramb about life stuff. Hell, you even looked forward to whatever bullshit Tenna was going to pull that day.

 

It didn’t feel like you were just there to ‘rejuvenate’ the place anymore. It felt like you were building something — somewhere you could lift others up and yourself at the same time.

 

 

 

One afternoon, you were in the break room, minding your business and eating your usual sandwich, when Mike waltzed in and plopped himself right on the table in front of you — like some sad pin-up from an undersold calendar.

 

He looked smug. Too smug… Like he knew something.

 

You glanced up at him, deadpan, chewing slowly.

 

“If you’re trying to seduce me, you’re failing. Miserably.”

 

Mike smirked — slow, gleaming.

 

“Oh, kid. I ain’t tryin to seduce you.”

 

He leaned in just enough to make you uncomfortable.

 

“I’m just here to say congrats.”

 

Your chewing paused. “…For what?”

“For finally railin your boss.”

 

 

You choked.

 

Bread hit the floor. A tomato slid off your lap. You bent over the table, coughing like you’d just swallowed the entire thing sideways, while Mike of course sat back, looking smuggier than ever.

 

“What the HELL—” you gasped, pounding your chest. “What the fuck did you just say?!”

 

He raised his brows. “Don’t make me repeat it. That line was gold.”

 

You stared at him, watery-eyed, still hacking. 

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Oh, don’t play dumb.” He waved a hand. “Don’t worry it’s not like I walked in on you two with your pants down.”

 

You gawked.

 

Mike shrugged, way too casual. “Ant just let a few things slip the other night. We were havin’ drinks. He got all sentimental. Realll chatty.”

 

Your stomach dropped.

 

“What kind of things…?”

 

He tapped a finger to his chin, like he had to deeply ponder the question.

 

“Hmmm it was something about a balcony… and how it wasn’t exactly the best place for… ‘certain activities.’”

 

Mike shot you a wicked grin.

 

“Didn’t take much readin between the lines after that.”

 

Mike barely had time to blink before your fist grabbed the collar of his stupid button-up, yanking him halfway across the table. His smirk didn’t even flinch.

 

“What exactly. Did. He. Say?” you hissed.

 

He blinked once — then his smile grew.

 

“Didn’t get the whole play-by-play or anything,” he said, casually brushing a crumb off his knee — like you didn’t have him in a death grip.

 

“But he started ramblin about how you were there.”

 

He tilted his head. Raised a brow.

 

You stared, heat crawling up your neck.

 

Mike rolled his head on his shoulders.

 

“Connect the dots, kid. One plus one equals…”

His grin widened even more.

“Well. You know the rest.”

 

You shook him slightly, contemplating if you should  fling him across the room.

 

He raised his hands, face still plastered with his shit eating grin.

 

“Alright, alright — don’t throw me through a wall.”

 

You reluctantly let go of his shirt with a sigh and dropped back in your chair like your soul had just left your body.

 

Mike leaned back, watching you with interest — like you were some reality tv show unfolding live in front of him.

 

“If it makes you feel any better,” he added, “I didn’t really believe it… until I remembered the way you two were lookin at each other at the gala.”

 

He chuckled, practically bouncing.

 

“You were undressing each other with your eyes. Thought I was gonna have to toss a curtain over you.”

 

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “This can’t be happening.”

 

Mike patted your shoulder like a proud uncle. “Hey. I’m happy for you, kid. Or terrified. I’m leaning toward the latter”

 

Your hand twitched on your face.

 

“Where is he.”

 

Your voice came out low. Flat. Lit with a quiet fire Mike hadn’t seen in a long time.

 

He faltered.

 

“Okay, okay—” he said quickly, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “He didn’t mean to spill. It just sorta… slipped. But come on — it’s not exactly subtle anymore.”

 

You stared, confused and fuming.

 

“What does that mean?”

 

Mike exhaled like this had been a long time coming.

 

“Look — you two used to barely tolerate each other. Now you’re strollin in here all chipper, wearin turtlenecks mid July—”

 

You shot him a look.

 

“—and Tenna? That guy’s the most stable I’ve seen him in months. I don’t know what kind of freaky little arrangement you two’ve got going, but sweetheart… it’s not hard to piece together.”

 

Your anger simmered — then fizzled.

 

Because he wasn’t wrong.

 

You were both idiots.

 

Everyone probably knew.

 

And that caused a wave of slow, unbearable shame curl inside you.

 

“…Oh god. It’s that obvious.”

 

The words stumbled out like a confession — not to Mike, not even really to yourself. Just to the break room air.

 

Mike slid off the table.

The smugness was gone now — replaced by something quieter.

He glanced at you, then down at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

“Hey, kid…”

 

He hesitated.

 

“If Ant let that much slip just sittin with me…”

 

He didn’t finish. Just gave a tiny shrug — like he wasn’t trying to make a big deal out of it.

 

“…Maybe you oughta take him out sometime. Get a couple drinks in ‘im. See what else he’s got jammed up in that wired skull.”

 

You blinked. “Why would I do that?”

 

Mike gave a pointed look.

 

“Cause no one else around here’s the reason he’s been actin so different.”

 

He turned and strolled toward the door, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on you mid-bite.

As he reached the doorway, you barely caught the mutter under his breath —

 

“…I owe Ramb so much money.”

 

And then he was gone.

 

You sat there in absolute silence.

 

Your thoughts drifted — uninvited — to that night in the green room.

 

Yeah, no shit, Mike.

Tenna did spill a lot when drunk.

 

That night had been months ago, but the image still echoed in your brain more often than you cared to admit — Tenna slumped beside you, screen dark, crying softly.

 

You didn’t want a repeat of that. You especially didn’t want to feed into his very apparent alcohol problem.

 

But…

 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious.

 

He was vocal during sex — needy, possessive, desperate — but there was something underneath it. Something that never quite came out.

 

You felt it in the way he held you afterward.

In the way he’d tuck your hair back gently. Like it meant something.

 

Like it always meant something.

 

And maybe…

 

Maybe you wanted to know what it really meant. All of it.

 

So despite your better judgment — despite every loud, blaring, sensible thought in your head —

 

You still found yourself wondering how the hell you were gonna ask Tenna out for drinks before the workday ended.

 

 

 

 

The rest of the day had been slower than usual. You hadn’t really interacted with anyone of interest — just finalized some reports, finished typing up the schedules for next month. Routine. Quiet. Boring.

 

You hadn’t seen much of Tenna either, but that didn’t mean you weren’t planning to.

 

By the time evening rolled around, most of the crew had already packed up and left. You wandered the halls casually, waving at a few stragglers, eyes subtly scanning for any sign of him.

 

Then you spotted it — the crack of light beneath Tenna’s dressing room door.

 

 

Bingo.

 

 

You knocked twice before sliding in without waiting for a response.

 

Tenna was slumped in his chair, cigarette dangling from his mouth, looking like the day had chewed him up and spit him out. His screen was dark, posture loose. Tired. Maybe even drained.

 

“Hey,” you said simply.

 

He turned his head toward you, and a lazy, crooked smile tugged at his lips.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re here to suck me off,” he mumbled. “That would be so awful. I’d just hate it if you ended the shift like that.”

 

You stared at him, barely reacting to his vulgarity. “No, you idiot. I was gonna tell you something.”

 

He immediately collapsed further into the chair, letting out a dramatic groan and mock-sobbing into his hands.

 

“God, it’s never a blowjob! It’s always just ‘talking.’”

 

“Shut up,” you sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “Me. You. We’re going out for drinks.”

 

That snapped him out of his theatrics.

 

He turned to you, skeptical. “…You don’t even like going out.”

 

“Yeah, well… maybe I’ve changed.”

 

His gaze lingered. He tilted his head further, studying you like you’d just grown a second head. 

 

“…Right.”

 

Then, slowly, he sat up straighter — eyes darting around the room like he expected a hidden camera crew to burst out of the walls.

 

“This is a trap, isn’t it?”

 

He watched as you fumbled with your pocket and pulled out your wallet.

 

 

“Does it really matter if I’m the one buying?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bar you chose wasn’t anything special. A hole-in-the-wall dive tucked between a shuttered pawn shop and a crumbling vape lounge, the kind of place that only existed because no one had the heart to shut it down. The neon beer sign buzzed half-lit above the door. The floor was sticky. The jukebox was broken. It was perfect.

 

Nothing fancy. But it would serve its purpose.

 

You slipped into a circle booth in the corner — you sat not quite across from Tenna, not quite beside him. Somewhere in between. The light above you flickered intermittently, casting weird shadows over the table. Neither of you mentioned it.

 

The bartender was an older Darkner with half-lidded eyes and the expression of someone who had definitely seen too much. He barely looked up as he shuffled over.

 

You ordered a simple vodka cranberry — something easy, light, controllable.

 

Tenna didn’t even hesitate. 

 

“Whiskey. Neat.”

 

Of course.

 

You weren’t even sure if he drank anything else. Part of you wondered if he just liked the way it burned.

 

“Classy,” you muttered once the bartender walked off.

 

He raised a brow. “Jealous?”

 

“Of what?” 

you murmured, tapping a hand on the table. 

“Your questionable liver function?… if you even have one.”

 

Tenna let out a low chuckle, leaning back in his seat with a self-satisfied grin.

 

“Touché.”

 

The first round came quickly. Two drinks — yours clean and red with a lime wedge stuck like an afterthought on the rim, his darker, bolder, already halfway gone by the time you took your first sip.

 

It was awkward.

 

Not painfully awkward, just… tense. Like both of you were trying to pretend this was normal when it obviously wasn’t.

 

Tenna swirled what remained of his drink slowly, glance fixed on the melting ice.

 

“So,” he muttered. “This is… a place.”

 

“Wow,” you mocked. “Incredible observation.”

 

He seemingly rolled his eyes. “I meant it’s weirdly quiet. For a bar.”

 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly want to bring you to a five-star lounge.”

 

“Oh? You don’t think I deserve high-end liquor and velvet barstools?”

 

You took a long sip, giving him a slow once-over.

 

“You certainly don’t look the part. Your left antenna’s still bent from this morning — and that shirt? Looks like it’s two wrinkles away from ending it all.”

 

He smiled, clearly unfazed. “So you have been paying attention to me.”

 

You snorted and shook your head, looking away — but your smirk lingered.

 

The silence stretched again.

 

You both took another sip.

 

Then Tenna broke the silence.

 

“So… why’d you, uh—y’know, wanna get drinks?”

 

He scratched at the back of his neck.

 

“Why ask me out today?”

 

The guilt began to pool low in your stomach.

 

Because I wanted to see what would slip out once you were a few glasses in. Wanted to know what you’re really thinking — about me, about everything we’ve done. About what we are now.

 

You were shameless. Awful. And you weren’t about to admit any of it.

 

So instead, you kept your drink close to your face and gave a half-shrug, eyes flicking sideways.

 

“I dunno,” you muttered. “Guess I just… wanted to.”

 

Tenna smiled at that — soft, crooked, and strangely genuine.

Like that quiet little admission meant more than you realized. Like it confirmed something he’d been hoping for.

 

Then he dramatically cupped his hands to his screen, tone dripping with mock sentiment.

 

“Oh, [Y/N], you romantic! How did you know this was—”

 

He paused, glanced around the dingy bar — flickering lights, sticky floors, someone passed out in the back.

 

“…the most beautiful getaway I’ve ever dreamt of.”

 

You didn’t even try to hide the burst of laughter that escaped you. Tenna just had that effect — completely ridiculous. Completely himself.

 

An idiot.

 

You caught the faintest blush of pink flicker across his screen as your laugh settled.

 

 

 

 

 

By the time round two landed — the same vodka cranberry for you, another neat whiskey for him — things felt a little looser. Tenna was slouched further into the booth now, one arm hooked lazily along the backrest. He hadn’t moved closer, exactly… but the space between you was definitely shrinking.

 

You took a sip and caught him watching.

 

“…What?” you asked, tilting your head.

 

Tenna didn’t even flinch. “Just thinking.”

 

“That’s always dangerous.”

 

“Mm. You’re just attractive when you’re not pretending to hate me.”

 

You blinked, caught mid-sip. “That so sounded like a line you’ve used before.”

 

“It wasn’t,” he said, then paused. “…But if I recycle it, I’ll give you credit.”

 

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. What an honor.”

 

He nudged your foot beneath the table. “Hey. You brought me here. I’m just tryin to deliver what the people want.”

 

Your face flushed at the contact. You hated how alcohol made everything feel louder — the warmth, the tension, the buzz under your skin — while making you just stupid enough to melt to it.

 

Before you could get more flustered over the fact that Tenna’s foot was touching yours, you decided this was probably the perfect time to hatch your little plan — get him tipsy enough to spill all his deep, dark, emotionally repressed truths.

 

“Hey…” you started, voice quieter now. “How’d you feel when you saw me?”

 

Tenna perked up slightly at the shift in tone.

 

“Hm?”

 

You laughed under your breath, realizing you were probably more tipsy than you thought. 

 

“Shit — I mean… the first day. When I came back to the studio. What went through your head?”

 

You watched as his screen dimmed a notch, like a subtle flicker of nerves. He stiffened just enough for you to notice.

You weren’t sure if you regretted asking. But then—

 

“I sorta… thought I was hallucinating,” 

 

he said after a beat, voice lower than before.

 

He leaned further onto the table, elbows braced, like the truth was slowly dragging itself out of him.

 

“I mean — you looked the same. A little uglier than you used to, but hey, that’s fine.”

 

“Hey!” you barked, elbowing his side. He flinched with a giggle, the static of his screen buzzing a faint pink.

 

“No, but seriously,” he went on, a bit softer now. “You looked the same… but also not. Like—more put together. Grown.”

 

He glanced at you, expression layered.

 

“You looked like someone who finally figured out how to walk through everything… how to keep moving.”

 

His fingers tapped absently against his glass.

 

“And I just kept thinking, ‘Shit. They’re really here.’”

 

He stared off for a moment — like he was replaying the memory in real time, refeeling everything. You watched the pain slowly wash over his face, dulling the usual sharpness in his features, dragging his expression down with it.

Then, just as quickly, he turned back toward you — flipping a switch. He tried to mask it with a weak smile, but it didn’t quite reach his voice.

 

“…What did you think when you saw me?”

 

You blinked.

 

For a second, you just stared at him, caught off guard. You hadn’t expected your one-sided interrogation to be thrown back in your face. But, like him, the alcohol loosened something in your chest — and before you could stop yourself, the truth came tumbling out.

 

“I was mad,” you said, bluntly. “Like, really mad. And… kind of scared, too.”

 

Tenna’s expression shifted, just for a second. But he didn’t interrupt — only nodded, slowly, urging you to keep going.

 

You hesitated, swirling your drink.

 

“But I also couldn’t help but notice how… tired you looked.”

 

You glanced at him, testing the waters.

 

“I mean, I’ve seen you exhausted before — after long shows, during finals — but that day? It wasn’t just physical. You looked like… like something in you wasn’t sparking up anymore.”

 

Tenna didn’t say anything. He just took a slow sip of his drink, gaze fixed somewhere far from the table.

You wanted to break the sour tension that had crept over the table. So you nudged him with your shoulder, light and teasing.

 

“But hey,” you said with a grin, “I forgot all about that the second you dragged me onstage to embarrass me, fucking asshole.”

 

You laughed at the memory — but Tenna didn’t laugh with you.

When your eyes met, he looked… sheepish. Ashamed, almost.

 

“I’m… sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean—well, okay, I did mean it, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just…”

 

You stayed quiet, gaze steady, giving him the space to keep going.

 

“I just wanted you to get mad at me. To throw something. Yell. I thought if you… reacted, maybe it’d mean you still…” He trailed off, the thought unfinished.

 

And somehow, the mood felt worse.

You glanced at his empty glass, a strange knot forming in your stomach.

 

This was what you brought him here for — to get him talking, to squeeze out the things he wouldn’t say sober. But now that it was happening… it didn’t feel like a win.

 

It felt cruel.

 

You hadn’t expected it to hurt you, too.

 

Trying to pull the night back from the edge, you nudged him again, voice lighter.

 

“Hey — it’s whatever. I was an asshole too. Still am. And so are you.”

 

That earned a chuckle from him — small, but real.

 

You tilted your head toward the bar. “We can make up for it with another round?”

 

Tenna smiled faintly, nodding. 

 

“Yeah. Another round.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the time you slipped into round three… and four…then possibly fifth, the space between you had all but disappeared. His arm was draped behind your shoulders along the booth’s backrest, fingers occasionally brushing your hair. Your leg had somehow ended up resting on his thigh, and one of his hands now idly traced slow circles against it — casual, almost thoughtless.

 

And maybe that was the worst part.

 

Because it didn’t feel calculated. It didn’t feel like some performance.

 

It just felt comfortable.

 

You weren’t sure when it happened — maybe between the third round and the last offhand joke — but you were starting to forget the entire reason you’d brought him here in the first place.

 

Your gaze lingered on the curve of his hand over your leg, the way his fingers absentmindedly traced shapes into your skin like it was second nature. His screen was slightly brighter now, flickering with warmth and static.

 

And then, like ripping a bandage off with your teeth, you slurred:

“Wanna know what happened today?”

 

Tenna stirred, halfway through a lazy circle.

 

You turned toward him, giggling slightly, swirling your drink. “Mike told me he knew we… y’know…” — you trailed off, then casually raised your thumb and pointer, bumped them together, and slid another finger straight through the makeshift circle.

 

Tenna short-circuited.

 

His screen instantly flushed bright red. So red it glowed on the table. His posture stiffened like he’d  slammed a keyboard shortcut in panic.

 

“I—I—uh…” He grabbed his glass and took a long, desperate gulp of what was his fifth whiskey.

 

“I… wonder how he figured that out,” he mumbled quickly, almost to himself — voice cracking just slightly at the end.

 

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching.

 

“Oh?” you said slowly. “You wonder?”

 

He kept his drink pressed to his screen like it could somehow hide the heat blooming across it.

 

“…Maybe he’s just good at guessing,” he offered lamely, refusing to meet your eyes.

 

You didn’t respond right away. Just leaned in slightly, resting your elbow on the table, smirk growing.

 

This was fun. Fragile, but fun.

 

You dragged a lazy finger up his chest, mimicking the slow circles he’d been tracing on your thigh.

 

“Oh, Tenna… we both know how he figured it out.”

 

Your fingertip trailed higher, skimming the edge of his collar before slipping to his neck — where you felt his throat bob with a sharp swallow.

 

“You’re a blabbermouth,” you murmured. “A big one.”

 

Tenna stiffened beneath your touch — screen flaring red, unreadable — but then… something changed.

 

He exhaled, slow. Collected himself.

 

And when he looked at you again, his posture was a little looser. More confident. Maybe it was the booze. Or maybe it was you, sitting there with your leg still draped over his, looking like you wanted to devour him.

 

He leaned in slightly, face glinting.

 

“Mm,” he hummed, voice low. “Y’know, maybe Mike figured it out cause you’re actually the loud one.”

 

You blinked, stupidly.

 

Tenna’s grin widened, emboldened now — head tilting cockily, like he had all night to toy with you.

 

 

“Seriously,” he said, voice low and smooth as he nursed his drink. “If the walls in my old office weren’t so thick… half the studio would hear all the kinda noises you make.”

 

 

Your stomach twisted — heat climbing high in your chest from something other than alcohol. But you didn’t flinch.

 

 

You leaned in, just a little closer. Smirk tugging at your lips.

 

“Oh please. You think that would give us away?” you purred. “I’m not the one who screams and shuts down the moment someone touches their wires.”

 

Tenna’s breath hitched — just slightly.

 

He masked it with a laugh, tossing his head back like you hadn’t just struck a nerve.

 

”Okay, wow. So we’re pullin out the deep guns now?”

 

You shrugged, smug. “Just callin it like I see it.”

 

He leaned in, voice dipping to a low whisper against your ear. You could smell the whiskey on his breath.

 

“Hm. Well, I mean… you don’t seem to ‘see’ a whole lot when you’re bouncin on my cock — moanin every time I so much as breathe.”

 

 

Your face flushed immediately at the bluntness, the words sinking under your skin.

 

 

But you still didn’t back down.

 

 

“I wouldn’t act so cocky,” you slurred, leaning into him, “when you nearly come the second you’re inside me.”

 

You pulled back so you could see his reaction, then you cranked it up, full drama, pitching your voice into a breathy imitation.

 

“Oh god, [Y/N], you feel so good! I can’t get enough— please—”

 

Tenna tensed — and before you could finish your impression, you felt his hand slide up your thigh under the table. Slow. Intentional.

 

 

All the air left your lungs at once.

 

 

The small jolt that rippled through you didn’t go unnoticed.

 

 

Tenna ate it up — like that was some kind of victory. Like this whole thing was a contest and he’d just pulled ahead.

 

He shot you a smug, hot look.

 

“Big talk for someone who reacts like that… just from me.”

 

You didn’t let him savor it.

 

Your hand slid under the table just like his — firm, unbothered — and cupped him through his pants.

 

He was already half-hard.

And his reaction?

 

Way worse than yours.

 

His knee slammed into the table, causing it to rattle violently. The arm that had been lazily resting behind you flew to his mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle the choked noise that escaped. He turned away fast — screen flickering like mad.

 

“What’s wrong, big boy? Run out of things to say?”

 

When he finally turned to face you, his screen was flushed deep red — equal parts flustered and furious. The look alone sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

 

“Shut up,” he muttered — voice trembling.

 

And before you could savor the win, his hand slipped under your waistband.

 

 

Oh.

 

 

Oh god.

 

 

You glanced around the bar, heartbeat thudding as one of his fingers slipped beneath the fabric — pressing a rough, deliberate circle into you over your underwear.

 

A moan escaped you before you could stop it. You bit your lip hard, muffling the sound, breath catching in your throat.

 

Both hands flew to his forearm, gripping tight — nails digging in deep enough to leave marks.

 

“See, [Y/N]? You’re so damn noisy.”

 

Tenna glanced down at you, lips curled into a grin that showed off his sharp teeth.

 

“But you gotta be careful here…”

 

His finger pressed down harder, rolling another rough circle against you — sharper than before. You jolted, biting your bottom lip so hard you swore you tasted blood.

Then he leaned in, so close his voice buzzed against your mouth.

 

“No walls to muffle those pretty little sounds now.”

 

You were starting to feel lightheaded — whether from the alcohol or the way he was touching you, you weren’t sure. Maybe both. Either way, you were definitely starting to feel delirious.

 

Still, you weren’t about to let him win — not when you were practically a puddle beneath him.

 

So, with a slow breath, you lifted one hand from his forearm and slid it back down between you, cupping him again. This time, you gave a firm squeeze — followed by one deliberate, teasing pump over his clothes.

 

He clearly hadn’t expected it.

 

A sharp, unfiltered whimper slipped from his mouth before he could stop it. His hand froze under your waistband, expression going wide as he whipped his head around to scan the bar — like he could somehow erase the sound or the heat blooming on his face.

 

He was crimson.

And you still weren’t done.

 

While his head was turned, he unknowingly gave you full access to the good stuff — and you didn’t waste a second.

 

Your gaze landed on the jackpot: two small dials near the base of his screen, tucked along the side. Thanks to your recent… stress relief routines, you knew exactly how sensitive they were.

 

You shifted upright in the booth, leaned in, and gave one of the dials the gentlest twist.

 

“aaAAAHHHH—!”

 

Tenna let out a screamed moan.

 

And while that sound would usually go straight to your core, the fact that he just made it in public — in a bar — had you bursting into laughter instead.

 

He yanked his head away like it’d been electrocuted, slapping a hand over the side as he spun to glare at you — flushed, flustered, and looking one second away from overheating. 

 

“You… YOU— you think that’s FUNNY!?”

 

He was fully snarling now, teeth bared in a way that made earlier seem tame.

You nodded frantically, wiping tears from your eyes as you kept laughing.

 

“Well yeah— I think he also thought it was funny.”

 

Tenna’s rage stalled just long enough for confusion to flicker across his screen. He turned to follow your pointed finger.

The bartender was watching your table now. His once-blank expression had twisted into something between deep disappointment and mild trauma.

 

Tenna froze.

A bead of sweat trailed down his screen.

His hand clenched around his empty glass —

Crack.

You watched a thin fracture spider across the cup, sharp and sudden.

 

 

 

…Uh oh.

 

He turned back to you, eyebrows furrowed—but the curl of the smile growing on his screen didn’t match the look in his eye.

 

“I wanna show you something I think’s funny.”

 

Before you could react, your body lurched.

You yelped, dizzily realizing you were no longer sitting.

 

“H-HEY—wait, what does that mean?! PUT ME DOWN—”

 

Tenna ignored you, hauling you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, arms locked tight around your thighs as he power-walked toward the bar’s entrance.

Tenna finally spoke as the two of you burst into the night air — giving you a firm, taut squeeze in his arms.

 

“You’ll have to wait,” 

 

he muttered, voice scolding.

 

“But I don’t think you’re gonna find it nearly as funny as I do.”

 

 

You swallowed hard at the way he worded it.

 

 

…Still, you didn’t regret a thing.

Notes:

Um hello…ragebaiting Tenna? Could never get enough of that. (Bats eyelashes disgustingly.)

Chapter 26: Fixer Upper

Summary:

Tenna shows you what he thinks is "funny."

Notes:

If you people didn't think I was a freak before now, then get ready for this chapter-

You were still slung in Tenna’s arms as he stormed down the sidewalk — heading… where, exactly? 

 

…You had no idea anymore.

 

You were too riddled with anxiety to keep track.

 

And the worst part?

 

You couldn’t help it.

 

You were excited.

You were turned on.

You were scared .

 

What the hell was about to happen?

 

He hadn’t said a single word the entire walk — just kept huffing through gritted teeth, occasionally tightening his grip like he was holding back a growl.

 

Every time he did, you felt a fresh pulse between your legs.

 

God, you were so down bad.

 

You tried to numb your thoughts — either by provoking him more or defusing the tension in the dumbest way possible.

 

“Listen, maybe I went a little far—”

 

you started, already giggling at the memory of the bar.

 

“It was funny though, you gotta admit it.”

 

The giggle snowballed into a full-belly laugh as you decided to really pour salt in the wound. You launched into another impression, extra loud this time:

 

“aaaAAAAHH— MY DIALZ!”

 

Maybe you were drunker than you realized, but god , it was hilarious.

 

But then you finally caught a glimpse of Tenna’s face — just barely, from your position slung over his shoulder.

 

He was smiling too.

 

But it was obviously not from your shitty impression of him.

 

It was a wicked smile.

 

Malicious. Dangerous.

Oh no.

He was smiling about what he was going to do to you.

Oh god.

You went quiet instantly. Dead still.

 

Your insides twisted like they were trying to brace for impact.

 

That’s when you sloppily turned your head, trying to get a grip on your surroundings.

 

You were close to your apartment now — seriously? Had you two really been walking that long?

 

You clung to denial with the few minutes you had left before reaching your place.

He wouldn’t actually take you here if he planned to do anything… right?

 

No — if something was gonna happen, it’d be back at the studio. That’s where things always happened. That was an unsaid rule.

 

This had to mean something else. Maybe he was just being… sweet .

 

Yeah. That was it. Sweet.

 

Man what a well-mannered idiot. He didn’t have to walk you all the way home — or carry you like this.

 

There wasn’t a plan.

There couldn’t be a plan.

 

He was just being chivalrous .

Same old Tenna, even after all these years.

 

Before you could sink any deeper into your comforting little delusion, you felt movement — upward.

 

Tenna was carrying you up the first flight of stairs in your apartment complex.

 

…Then the second.

…And then you were at your door.

 

Okay, well — that was fine. He couldn’t actually get inside. Your key was in your back pocket, so he’d have to say goodnight and lea—

 

Click.

 

Tenna pulled out a key and unlocked your door. Slowly. Casually. Like it was his.

 

What the fuck.

 

He’d kept the key you gave him… after all this time?

 

Before the rage could fully bloom — before you could even open your mouth — he carried you inside without a word, grip still firm.

 

Goosebumps swept across your skin in a wave.

 

Your face was flushed from the alcohol — but it didn’t match the fear curling in your gut. Sweat had started to cling to your skin.

 

Tenna moved slowly, deliberately, carrying you through your apartment like you weighed nothing. When he reached your bedroom, he opened the door with the same unnerving calm he’d used at the front.

 

Was he even tipsy? Was he turned on?

 

If he was, then why wasn’t he acting like it?

 

Usually, when he was turned on, he got frantic — vocal, needy, messy.

He didn’t have a dominant bone in his body, no matter how hard he tried.

 

So what the hell was happening now?

 

That’s when he tossed you onto your bed.

 

It wasn’t exactly rough — but it sure as hell wasn’t gentle , either.

 

You figured now was the time to plead… before whatever happened next.

 

“G-great! Thanks for, uh… walking me all the way to bed! I’ll just— I’ll see you at work tomorrow!”

 

You rushed the words out, eyes flicking up to where he stood over the frame — towering.

 

His shirt was wrinkled, the top buttons undone, tie long gone.

 

And still — he said nothing.

 

The silence was terrifying.

 

It was so unlike him, so wrong, you couldn’t begin to guess what he was thinking.

 

Was he actually mad?

Should you apologize?

Should you—

 

Tenna grabbed your ankle and yanked you toward the edge of the bed.

 

You couldn’t stop the shocked sound that slipped out.

 

Instinctively, you propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes locked on him — searching his screen for any kind of tell, any clue what was going through his head.

 

That’s when he did the last thing you expected.

 

He started laughing.

 

Dry. Crackled. Hollow.

 

Your stomach churned.

 

Was this what he meant by wanting to show you something “funny”?

 

This — looming silence, vague threats, acting like some deranged murder?

 

Your expression twisted with anger.

 

“This is what you thought was funny??” 

 

you croaked.

 

“You’re such an asshole.”

 

You kept your eyes on him as he sank to his knees near the edge of the bed, his laughter tapering off with the movement.

 

Then, finally, he looked at you — really looked at you — screen tilted just enough to meet your gaze.

 

He was still smiling.

 

But something about it felt off.

 

That’s when he finally broke the silence.

 

“Ah— no.”

 

He muttered it casually, grin still stretched across his face, that low buzz from his screen humming through the air.

Then his hand moved — slow, deliberate — sliding from your ankle up to your thigh.

 

Your breath caught.

 

You’d been wrong .

 

He was going to do something to you here.

Right here. 

 

Right now.

The realization made your body begin to tremble.

 

“What I think’s gonna be funny… is watching you try to walk after this.”

 

You almost moaned at his words — and screamed at the implication.

 

You were pathetic, and catastrophically turned on.

 

Before you could respond to his loose threat, he was already tugging your pants down — leaving your lower half  in nothing but your underwear.

 

You shuddered as the cold air hit your newly exposed skin.

And before you could even mourn the loss of your pants, a new heat settled over you.

 

Tenna’s hands — huge, firm — gripped your thighs and forced your legs wide open.

 

Your face flushed so hard you could see your own blush in your peripherals.

 

What really wasn’t helping was your current perspective: Tenna, on his knees between your legs, manhandling you like it was instinct — staring up at you with something animalistic in his gaze.

 

This time, you couldn’t stop it.

You whimpered .

 

From the exposure.

From the way he looked up at you.

From how small you felt beneath him.

 

This wasn’t normal — not for you two . Not even close.

 

And god… maybe you should piss him off more often.

 

If this was the result?

 

You’d take it.

Suddenly, you felt a wetness.

 

Your eyes widened in shock as Tenna pressed his face between your thighs, tongue dragging over your underwear without hesitation.

 

He licked you through the fabric, slow at first — then with steady, focused pressure right against that throbbing spot through your underwear.

 

No warning. No buildup.

 

Just pure, deliberate contact.

 

The sound that tore out of your throat was downright pornographic.

 

Your hands flew up to your mouth in shock, eyes wide — had you really just made that noise?

 

He’d barely even started .

 

And already, you were unraveling like this? 

 

Oh god you were truly pathetic.

 

That’s when you felt Tenna protest against your attempt to muffle yourself — a low growl buzzed from his mouth, right where it was pressed against you.

 

The vibration rattled through you.

 

Your eyes rolled back at the sensation, spine arching instinctively.

 

Your hands did nothing to hide the loud, broken moan that escaped your lips.

 

Still Tenna didn’t let you keep them there.

 

In one fluid motion, he moved upward, grabbed both your wrists, and shoved them down into the mattress above your head. The force of it bent your body slightly, your hips tilting up toward his mouth — fully exposed, fully pinned.

 

“Don’t you dare hide that.”

 

he growled, voice low and frayed with anger, still pressed right against you.

 

He was so much bigger than you, it wasn’t even a struggle — one hand held your wrists firm above your head, while the other kept your thigh open wide.

 

Then he ducked back down without hesitation — tongue dragging through your underwear again, firmer this time, more harsh.

 

And you were helpless to stop it.

No leverage. No mercy.

 

Just him, holding you in place, mouth buried between your legs, drinking down every sound you couldn’t hide anymore.

 

“That’s better,”

 

he muttered between strokes of his tongue.

 

“Louder.”

 

You were a mess of broken words, whimpers, and ragged moans — barely coherent , barely breathing. You didn’t even realize tears had started to prickle at the corners of your eyes until they blurred your vision.

 

Every slow, deliberate lick made your body jolt.

 

Made your stomach tighten .

 

Dragged you closer to the edge — fast, burning.

 

“T–Tenna, I… I c-can’t—”

 

It was the only thing you managed to choke out.

 

You felt him pick up the pace — every stroke of his tongue hitting right where you needed it.

 

Your stomach tightened. The pressure coiled .

 

You were going to cum.

“F-FUck— TennA—AH! I’m— I’m gonNA—”

And then he stopped.

 

He pulled back from your underwear completely, a string of spit connecting his mouth to your soaked fabric as he broke away — while leaving you teetering on the edge.

 

The absence was devastating .

 

And you were so dazed, so drunk — not just on alcohol, but on him — that it took a few hazy seconds to even register what had just happened.

 

“What… what the FUCK!”

 

You finally managed to scream at him, your voice cracking with rage. You tried to sit up — to do something — only to be yanked right back down by the grip still pinning your wrists above your head.

 

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH Y—”

 

Tenna silenced you by lifting one hand from your thigh and squeezing your cheeks together, cutting your words off with humiliating ease.

 

You didn’t even know you could blush harder — but somehow, you did.

 

He looked down at you, grinning far too wide for the situation — like he was thrilled by all of this.

 

“What’s wrong with me?”

 

He tilted his screen and leaned in, lifting your head closer to his face.

 

“I don’t think you get to ask that.”

 

He paused — just long enough to let the silence needle into you, even with your lips still squished between his fingers.

 

“You made a joke out of me back there,” 

 

he murmured, voice low and sharp. 

 

“and you think you deserve any of this?”

 

He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a cruel whisper.

 

“I don’t think you do. Not one bit.”

You whimpered — humiliated, aching. 

 

Jesus, you were so close it actually hurt.

The throbbing between your legs had grown unbearable. You squirmed in his hold, desperate and frustrated, your body twitching with need.

 

He was right. And you hated that he was right.

 

But you needed it. Needed it. This feeling was so wrong — so bad — and you’d do anything to get rid of it.

Anything.

As if he could hear your desperate thoughts, he laughed — low, mean, knowing.

 

“Hmm… you like fixing things, don’t you?”

 

You didn’t care how dehumanizing this was. You nodded in his grip — frantic, eager, pathetic. Tears were welling now, hot and heavy, clinging to your lashes.

 

His grin stretched wider, sharp teeth flashing, he clearly enjoyed watching this version of you.

 

“So…”

 

he purred, tilting his head. 

 

“How do you think we should fix this problem?”

 

That’s when he finally let go of your face — releasing your cheeks so you could speak.

 

You didn’t waste a second.

 

“Please— please, I’ll do anything, just—touch me , please, I need—”

 

“Shut up.”

 

You froze. Lips snapped shut, eyes wide — your stomach dropping like an anchor.

 

He stared down at you, voice cruelly casual.

 

“You’re not doing a very good job fixing this.”

 

A pause. His screen staticed, studying your wrecked expression.

 

“I thought you were good at that. Huh. What a shame.”

 

That broke you.

 

A few tears spilled now — not just from the humiliation, but the unbearable thought that he might actually leave you like this.

 

“I—I am! I’m good— I’m so good at it—”

 

You were babbling, slurring the words together, not even hearing yourself — just pleading .

 

“Please, I’ll do anything, just— please, I can fix it, I promise—”

 

You didn’t even know what you were saying anymore. You just needed him back on you. 

 

Needed him to touch you. 

 

Needed it so bad it hurt.

 

“Then apologize.”

 

You perked up instantly — desperate for a way to fix this, to please him.

 

“I’m sorry,” 

 

you breathed, frantic.

 

“So, so sorry — I never should’ve done that—”

 

“What did you do?”

 

His voice cracked like a whip.

 

“I—I embarrassed you…”

 

You thought that would be enough.

 

It wasn’t.

 

“And?”

 

His tone sharpened. Dangerous.

 

That’s when his free hand moved — slid back down to your ankle.

 

You gasped. He was touching you again. You were doing something right . You just had to keep going — had to say whatever he wanted to hear.

 

“And! And I’m sorry for— f-for laughing at you!”

 

The words tumbled out like a lifeline.

 

You’d say anything if it meant he wouldn’t stop.

 

His hand crept upward, settling on your calf.

 

“Now that wasn’t very nice, was it?”

 

He said it like a joke — mean, mocking.

 

You had no self-respect left. 

 

None .

 

“N-no! It was mean — so mean — I’ll never do it again, I swear.”

 

You babbled like an actual idiot, clinging to every inch of contact.

 

“Wow… you really are a good fixer.”

 

His voice dripped with mock praise. 

 

“Look at what all your little words did.”

 

He finally let go of your wrists — the sudden release made them ache from the pressure, but you didn’t even have time to process it.

 

Because a moment later, he was crawling over you from the edge of the bed, grabbing your hand — and guiding it straight to the bulge in his pants.

You

 

were

 

going 

 

to

 

explode.

The heat between your legs flared as if you were the one being touched.

 

You watched Tenna’s screen glitch subtly as he let out a low, ragged breath — a grunt slipping through his speakers the second your hand made contact with his clothed cock.

 

His voice was thick with mockery and hunger.

“I guess …you need to fix this too, right?

At this point, you were seriously concerned you might cum from his words alone.

 

You didn’t even bother with a verbal response — just nodded frantically, like that was your default method of communication now.

 

You tightened your grip around his bulge, fingers curling harder under the pressure of his hand guiding yours.

You saw his screen flicker — a sharp clench of his teeth as another ragged groan tore through his speakers.

 

“Let’s get to it then.”

 

 

You thought he’d let you take it from there.

You were, once again, very wrong.

In one swift motion, his hands dropped to your hips. He lifted you like it was effortless — flipping you onto your stomach and then dragging you up onto your hands and knees.

 

Now he was behind you, his large chest pressed flush against your back, breath hot against your neck.

 

You felt his hands grip your hip bones, fingers digging in — then his hips rolled forward, grinding up against you.

 

You could feel every inch of him through his pants, right against your entrance.

 

“How bad do you want this?”

 

You weren’t even in your body anymore. All you could do was moan — shaky, desperate, useless.

 

You hoped it was enough.

It wasn’t .

 

He pulled back, hips snapping away to break contact entirely.

 

You let out a choked sob at the loss, whimpering as you twisted to look at him over your shoulder.

 

One look at his screen — the flicker, the jagged edges — and you could see it:

 

He was barely holding himself back. Barely keeping control.

 

“Well?”

 

You blinked back tears, heart pounding like it was trying to escape your chest.

 

Then finally — you found your voice.

 

“So— so BAD! I need it more than anyth— fffuck p-PleaSE!”

 

He rewarded you by shoving his hips back against you, grinding rough and slow.

 

Your soaked underwear squished between you — and when you felt it, the wet heat pressing into him, you realized…

 

You were leaving a stain on his pants.

You fluttered around nothing.

 

God, you were so disgusting.

Why did that turn you on even more ?

Before the shame could sink in, Tenna started grinding into you more — faster now, rougher — chasing his own high with ragged desperation.

 

“T-Tell me,” 

 

he moaned out, voice breathless and strained.

 

“Tell me how good I make you feel.”

 

His dominant edge was starting to fray.

 

You could feel it — with every rut of his hips, every staggered breath — the persona was crumbling .

 

He was slipping back into himself.

 

Raw. Needy. Tenna.

 

You couldn’t even string together proper praise —

but maybe the desperate confession tumbling from your mouth would be enough:

 

“OhHHh my GoD— g-gonna cuM —”

 

You felt his cock twitch beneath the fabric, pressing hard against you. He moaned at your confession and ground into you even harder — faster — with the exact rhythm you needed to finally lose it.

 

Your orgasm hit through you like an electrical current .

 

Your whole body spasmed as release tore through you, the strongest it ever had. You were soaked — fluids spilling onto him — but you could barely register it. You didn’t even know if you were screaming or gasping or just sobbing through it.

 

All you knew was when it finally ended, your body gave out — your head dropped to the mattress, trembling , while your ass stayed up in the air.

 

As your brain finally started catching up to everything, you felt Tenna’s fingers dig into your hips harder — possessive, trembling.

 

You turned your head where it rested on the mattress, arms limp at your sides, and looked at him.

 

He looked like he was about to snap.

 

Veins throbbed in his forearms. His screen flickered violently . You could feel the heat rolling off him, see how his jaw clenched like his teeth were about to shatter . Sweat clung to him — and you — staining his clothes with slick and effort and want.

 

“Oh my g-god, [Y/N] — h-hold out for me,” 

 

he panted, voice completely desperate now.

 

You didn’t fully process what he meant—until you saw him reach down and start unbuckling his pants.

Oh god.

This was going to kill you.

You braced yourself the best you could in your wrecked, trembling state as he tugged your underwear down — just barely. Just enough to give him access.

 

You’d squeezed your eyes shut without meaning to — too overwhelmed, too wrecked to hold his gaze.

 

But now, with effort, you tilted your head back again… just enough to catch a glimpse .

 

He was behind you, fist wrapped tight around his cock, pumping with fast, desperate strokes — every motion ripping a ragged moan of your name from his lips.

You fluttered around nothing again .

 

Jesus Christ, how were you still this turned on?

After only a few strokes, he suddenly froze — like he couldn’t take it anymore . And then, without another word, he lined himself up and pressed the tip of his cock to your entrance.

 

You barely even registered the stretch when he pushed in — not with how soaked you were, not after everything.

 

And when he finally filled you, all the way, to the hilt—

 

His cock twitched hard inside you.

 

You clenched tight around him in reflex.

 

And both of you let out loud, broken moans that echoed through the room.

It took a few minutes for either of you to recover from it.

 

You might’ve been embarrassed — humiliated, even — if he hadn’t collapsed against you like that too, trembling and breathless. 

 

Your body ached. Not from pleasure anymore, but from the raw, overstimulated pain threading through every nerve.

 

You flinched when Tenna shifted behind you, one hand wrapping around your stomach, the other gripping your hip to steady himself.

 

And then — he moved.

Slow at first. Even. Controlled.

 

But even that had you screaming.

 

It hurt . Everything hurt . You felt too much and not enough. The overstimulation numbed you while somehow making every thrust feel like fire. Tears flowed freely down your cheeks.

 

It was too much. You couldn’t—

Your eyes flicked upward.

 

And that’s when you accidentally met his gaze.

 

Tenna froze.

 

He was still buried inside you, but he wasn’t moving now. Just staring — watching the tears, the broken expression on your face, the way your body trembled beneath him. 

 

He looked wrecked.

And then — softly, shakily:

 

“[Y/N]… you’re… god, you’re so pretty…”

 

The tenderness in his voice barely had time to register before it shattered — because right after, he slammed back into you, hard and fast, over and over again.

 

His sweet words meant nothing against the brutal pace he suddenly picked up — punishing, relentless.

 

You cried out, sobbed into the mattress. The pain bled into something else — something hot, unbearable, addictive . You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

 

Your hands gripped the sheets like your life depended on it.

 

And maybe, right now, it did.

 

Each thrust — each twitch of his cock, each ragged moan from his throat — dragged you closer to your second climax. You weren’t ready for it. Not even close.

 

But it hit you anyway. Fast. Relentless.

“L-love you—”

At first, you didn’t even register it. You were too far gone, too overwhelmed to process what he’d just moaned into the heat between you.

“Love you, [Y/N]… l-love—oh my god—”

Your eyes then shot open.

 

You turned to look at him — and froze.

 

The words clicked. Sank in. Hit you like a bullet straight to the chest.

He loved you.

He loved you?

The horror set in too fast to stop it. You saw the raw pain on his face, the desperation tangled up in those words — words you weren’t ready for, didn’t want to hear. Not like this.

 

You stared back at him in shock, in disbelief, in something close to grief—

And then you came .

Hard.

Maybe even harder than before. Your body spasmed violently, lights flashing behind your eyes. And just like that—

Your mind shut off. 

Blank. 

Black.

You passed out.

 

And for once, you were grateful.

Because at least like this…

You didn’t have to think about those godawful, sickening, forbidden words he’d just whispered out loud.

Notes:

TRY NOT TO FUMBLE EVERY RELATIONSHIP YOU HAVE- OH NO TENNA YOU FAILED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Chapter 27: "Ironically Tragic"

Summary:

You mind "slips" somewhere else.

Notes:

TW:

Mild horror elements in this chapter.

 

Enjoy <33

Blank.

Black.

You didn’t even realize you were dozing off until the scratch of a pencil tugged you back from your unconscious. Something was being scribbled in the corner of your notebook. 

 

Maybe you really should’ve gotten another energy drink earlier.

 

But before you could fully embarrass yourself by faceplanting in your sleep during class, you forced your eyes open.

 

Tenna was leaning halfway across the aisle between you two, scribbling furiously in the margins of your page. You blinked down and saw it: a horribly drawn caricature of your face next to the words

 

“[Y/N] STINKS.”

 

Naturally, he’d drawn himself next to you in an over the top tuxedo, labeling his sketch “Dark World’s Next Biggest Star” and surrounding it with an explosion of poorly drawn stars.

 

It was so childish. So unbelievably immature.

 

But when you glanced over and saw how focused he was — tongue poking out a little, brows furrowed in faux concentration as he hovered over your desk like this was his life purpose to fill your notebook with crap — you couldn’t help it.

 

You laughed.

 

That sound immediately snapped his attention from the notebook straight to you — and he lit up instantly, a big, dumb grin spreading across his face like that was exactly what he’d been trying to earn all along.

 

“Oh, I see you agree with my very accurate depictions,”

 

Tenna said proudly, ignoring the way your laughter continued to bubble out of you.

 

“Glad to hear it! When I finally get BIG , the entire Dark World is gonna know how stinky you are. Sorry, [Y/N], it’s truly out of my hands.”

 

You laughed even harder, the sound slipping out natural and unfiltered.

 

“So you’re really planning to broadcast this to your loyal ‘fans?’”

 

“Well, OF COURSE! How else would they know the truth?” 

 

He placed a dramatic hand to his chest. 

 

“What kind of host do you think I am?!”

 

You smiled despite yourself — fond, warm. 

 

What an idiot.

 

But he was your favorite idiot.

 

Without looking, you grabbed the nearest pen off your desk and jabbed it into his ribs. He let out a startled grunt, flinching.

 

“If you’re seriously planning to air shit like this,” 

you snorted,

“I don’t think either of us needs to worry about you becoming the Dark World’s ‘biggest’ star.”

 

Before he could pout — or probably accuse you of being so mean — you were both yanked back to reality.

 

“[L/N]… and Mr. Tenna.”

 

You and Tenna froze at the same time.

 

Then, slowly, your heads turned toward each other — eyes wide, guilt-ridden, already bracing for it. A silent, mutual oh shit passed between you before you both straightened up in sync like two kids caught passing notes.

 

Your professor sighed.

 

“Glad to know someone is enjoying my class, even if it’s not for the actual material. Maybe you two could try waiting until after the lecture to flirt?”

 

Your ears burned .

 

Tenna, of course, didn’t look even remotely ashamed. If anything, he looked proud.

 

You resisted the urge to jab him again in the same spot you did earlier, but you just sank slightly lower in your chair.

 

It was like this every class. Even when the lectures mattered . Even when you swore to yourself you’d finally take the semester seriously.

 

But with Tenna next to you — his knees bumping yours under the desk, his screen flickering softly as he leaned in to whisper comedic commentary — it was hard to care about anything else.

 

Honestly, you weren’t sure when it started. But at this point, it felt like the only part of the day you actually looked forward to.

 

Your professor continued once she apparently decided the humiliation was sufficient for you two.

 

“I’m sure you two — and the rest of the class — are thrilled to hear about your upcoming final project.”

 

Tenna, like the dumbass he was, muttered out loud, 

 

“Final?”

 

This time, the whole room chuckled.

 

If he wasn’t so ridiculously talented, you were pretty sure the faculty would’ve found a reason to kick him out semesters ago. But no — they put up with his antics because, deep down, everyone knew just how much potential he had.

 

He really was amazing .

 

Infuriating , sure. But amazing.

 

So when your professor finally responded, she barely acknowledged his idiocy.

 

“For your final this semester, you’ll be crafting a monologue script,” 

she said, voice clipped with authority. 

“You’ll perform it on stage in front of the class — and me, of course. You may complete the project alone or in a group as small or large as you’d like. Just know your grade is very much on the line. So take it seriously.”

 

At that last sentence, she glanced your way — but you and Tenna didn’t notice.

 

Because the second she mentioned working in groups, you turned toward him. And, of course, found him already looking at you — that smug grin stretched across his face like he’d been waiting for this moment all semester.

 

“Partners?” 

 

you asked with a raised brow, even though you already knew the answer.

 

“Hmmm… I don’t know…”

 

he teased, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the side of his screen — even as his smile softened into something sweet.

 

You rolled your eyes, chuckling softly as a faint blush crept up your cheeks.

 

“That wasn’t a question, dumbass. You’re stuck with me.”

 

He sighed dramatically, but it was the kind of sigh that melted around the edges.

 

“Good,” he murmured.

 

And you swore you saw a slight flicker of pink glow across his screen… one that matched the warmth blooming across your own face.

 

 

---

 

It was late by the time you got back to your place, and somehow Tenna still had more energy than he did in class.

 

You were curled up on your couch with your notebook open across your lap, chewing the end of your pen while trying to brainstorm something — literally anything — that could be considered a “monologue.” 

 

Tenna meanwhile was pacing, of course. 

 

He always paced when he was thinking — talking with his hands, occasionally tripping over his own feet as he rattled off half-formed ideas faster than you could write them down.

 

He could never sit still. Not even for five minutes.

 

“No, wait— WAIT!! What if we do a tragic story about two lovers SEPARATED by space and worlds!?”

 

he blurted, spinning on his heel dramatically.

 

“One’s in the Light World, one’s in the Dark, and they’re trying to—uh—communicate using, like… radios!”

 

“…Radios,” you repeated skeptically.

 

“Yeah! Like walkie-talkies, but MAGICAL! One of us during the monologue will slowly be going insane—”

 

“Which one of us?”

 

He stopped mid-step and turned to give you a look — like the answer was so obvious it physically hurt him.

 

“The star of the show, thank you.”

 

You sighed and went back to scribbling random lines that didn’t even connect yet.

 

He kept pacing, now uttering a completely different idea.

 

“Okay, OKAY —what about something dystopian? Y’know, gritty. Bleak. Maybe the hero’s the last person alive in a world where everyone’s replaced by… WATERCOOLERS!!”

 

You gave him a look.

He doubled down.

 

“They’re haunted watercoolers.”

 

You threw a pillow at him.

 

He dodged it — barely — then flopped down beside you, letting out a loud, dramatic groan as his head dropped against the back of the couch.

 

“Why is everything not good enough?!” 

 

he whined. 

 

“We need something original , but, like, funny. And emotional!! And ironically tragic. Like us.”

 

You raised an eyebrow. “We’re ironically tragic?”

 

“Oh, deeply,”

 

he said, relaxing by the second, arms spread like he was sinking into a coffin. 

 

“We’re the poster children for dramatic irony. Everyone sees it coming but us.”

 

You stared at him for a beat. “…Are you okay?”

 

“NO! I’m a genius with too many ideas and a criminally underappreciated stage presence.”

 

You let out a laugh, nudging him with your knee.

 

 “Okay, genius , if you’re done complaining theatrically—”

 

“—never—”

 

“—maybe we try combining stupid and tragic . Like… I dunno. A parody of something already overdone.”

 

Tenna perked slightly. 

 

“Go on.”

 

You tapped your pen. 

 

“What’s the most overdone dramatic thing you can think of?”

 

He didn’t even hesitate. 

 

“Romeo and Juliet.”

 

You blinked. Then slowly looked over at him.

 

“…Wait.”

 

His screen flickered with sudden interest.

 

“…Wait.”

 

You turned to him fully, and leaned forward. You fully grinned now. 

 

“Okay, what if we do a full-blown parody of it — like, ridiculous, over-the-top melodrama — and twist it so you’re Juliet.”

 

“And you’re Romeo?”

 

he blinked, then raised a hand to his chest with mock grace.

 

“If I wore a dress, I wouldn’t just wear it — I’d destroy it. It would be fatal . I don’t think anyone could handle it.”

 

You snorted.

 

“Yeah, destroy the fabric trying to squeeze that big-ass CRT head through the neckline.”

 

He gasped. 

 

“How dare YOU speak to me— Juliet Montague of House of Capulet — in such a MANNER!!”

 

Before you could keep going, he collapsed dramatically across your lap like he’d been slain mid-sentence, sending your notebook tumbling off the couch. 

 

You barely glanced at it.

 

“Ah how ‘ironically tragic,” 

 

you said, smirking as he pressed the side of his face into your thigh. 

 

“A beautiful death. Taken out by ego.”

 

Before you could continue passively insulting him, he groaned, voice muffled against you while still keeping his dying act up.

 

“My only weakness…”

 

You rolled your eyes, fully expecting him to say something stupid again.

 

“…was you, Romeo.”

 

Your breath hitched slightly — just for a second — but you recovered quickly, flicking his nose like it was no big deal. He made a pained noise.

 

“Gross,” you muttered.

 

But your voice cracked just barely.

 

And you didn’t push him away.

 

After he finished dramatically acting like you’d ripped his nose off with a single flick, he tilted his head slightly — just enough to glance up at you from where he’d settled, head resting comfortably in your lap.

 

“Thank you, [Y/N].”

 

You blinked down at him, puzzled, which only seemed to encourage him.

 

“For doing this with me,” 

 

he said softly.

 

“I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.”

 

His smile was small, warm, and so genuine it made your chest flutter. He looked… soft like this. Sweet in a way that made it hard to breathe. And hearing something like that from him — so casually heartfelt — didn’t help.

 

You couldn’t think of anything witty to say this time.

 

So you just sighed, cheeks already hot and somehow growing hotter by the second.

 

“…Me too.”

---

 

 

The next few weeks, you both slipped into a new rhythm.

 

You’d hung out plenty before — late-night study sessions, the occasional movie night, the rare lunch out when your schedules aligned. But now? Now it was constant . Inseparable . All in the name of “working on the final,” of course… but even you were starting to not believe that anymore.

 

From that day forward, everything seemingly shifted. You’d go to lecture, then spend the rest of the day together — either at his place or yours, notebooks out, snacks between you, ideas bouncing back and forth like some kind of game only the two of you knew how to play.

 

Hours bled into hours. Days fused together.

 

It wasn’t like you hadn’t been close before — you had. But before, it was casual. Comfortable . Once or twice a week, maybe. Now? You were seeing him every day. Talking to him constantly. Falling into step with his routines, syncing up without even trying.

 

And with each night spent sprawled on his couch… each argument over line delivery… each sleepover that neither of you wanted to end… you felt something in your chest begin to shift. To grow.

 

It started to feel like you lived together. You shared air. You shared everything.

 

Restless nights turned into movie marathons. Pillow fights broke out between script revisions. Entire pages were scrapped just because you made each other laugh too hard to finish a single thought. And you wouldn’t have traded any of it — not for anything.

 

Sometimes he’d show up to your place without warning, takeout in hand, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. Sometimes you’d beat him to it, crashing on his couch after class and dozing off until he came home and tossed a blanket over you without a word.

But still you both insisted it was just for the project.

But the truth crept in anyway — soft, slow, syrup-sweet.

 

You felt it when he laughed too hard at your jokes. When his eyes lingered longer than they used to. When the space between you got smaller… and neither of you moved away.

You tried not to think about it too much.

 

But that didn’t stop it from happening .

 

 

---

 

 

The weeks blurred past like a montage. 

 

And before you knew it, the day of the final was staring you down — closer than you ever thought it’d be.

 

You and Tenna arrived at the empty theater early that morning — hours before class — just to squeeze in one last rehearsal before the final performance.

 

It had all crept up faster than you expected.

 

Tenna, for all his dramatics, took this kind of thing seriously . Behind all the antics, the jokes and ego, he cared about his work. His grades. His performance. And now that you were officially part of that equation… your anxiety was beginning to float straight to the surface.

 

Normally, his high standards didn’t faze you. They weren’t your problem. But now? Now you had a very major role in his final grade — and suddenly, vomiting felt like a very real possibility.

 

Tenna was up at the front of the stage, clutching the printed script you two had written together. He was muttering to himself about lighting cues and action blocks, pacing the floor with intense focus — the kind of tunnel vision you’d only ever seen when he was really in the zone.

 

You stood in the shadows toward the back of the stage, just watching him.

 

And panicking.

 

When did the room start getting so hot?

 

Your fingers tightened around your copy of the script, the paper crinkling in your clammy hands. Sweat rolled from your forehead, dripping onto the front page.

 

Shit. Shit—

 

Why did you agree to this?

 

Why did you ever think you could handle this?

 

You were going to ruin it. Ruin it for him.

 

Sure, your grades were fine. You got by. But Tenna was different. He was an easy A student — professors liked him, respected him, even when he was being a brat.

 

And now here you were, on the verge of dragging him down with you.

 

Your chest tightened.

 

God, you were such an idiot.

 

You couldn’t stop thinking about your previous performance — the one back at the state competition where you froze halfway through and ran off the stage in tears . At least back then, the only person affected was you .

 

But now you’d selfishly pulled someone else into it.

 

Not just someone .

 

Tenna.

 

The person you cared about more than anyone else.

 

Your hand flew up to your hair, gripping it tight — tugging just enough to feel something, to try and ground yourself as your thoughts avalanched completely out of control.

 

What the fuck were you thinking, you idiot.

 

You were so stupid. So fucking stupid.

 

Why were you even here? You enrolled in acting school when you could barely breathe on a stage without falling apart?

 

Pathetic .

 

You should’ve stayed home. Stayed out of the way. At least then Tenna would’ve aced this thing on his own. At least then you wouldn’t be dragging him down with you.

You’re a failure. An absolute piece of—

“[Y/N]!”

 

The shout cut through your spiral instantly.

 

Your head snapped up, breath shaky. You hadn’t even realized how badly you were trembling — or how tight your hand had clenched in your hair.

 

Tenna had stepped to you from the front of the stage. He was right in front of you now, eyes wide, brows furrowed — every ounce of his attention focused on you.

 

You didn’t even realize he’d placed both hands firmly on your shoulders — grounding you, squeezing gently like he was attempting to keep you tethered.

 

This was bad.

 

You had to pull yourself together. For him. For the grade. For anything that wasn’t the mess currently spilling itself inside your head.

 

So, you chose deflecting as the best course of action.

 

“Oh— sorry. My mind just wandered for a sec. Where were we?”

 

You forced a smile, but it twitched — loose and half-formed.

 

Tenna didn’t buy it. You could see it in the way his brows in his casting pulled even tighter, in the way his expression softened, concern blooming even more than before.

 

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry.

 

“[Y/N]…” 

 

he said gently. 

“You’re doing it again aren’t you?”

You blinked. 

“What?”

 

“That thing,” he said, gaze narrowing just a little. “Where you freak out so hard in your head, you forget you’re actually here.”

 

Your heart dropped.

 

“I know what it looks like by now.” 

he continued, his tone still gentle, but edged with something serious. 

“You get this faraway look, you get all sweaty, and then you start curling in on yourself like some sort of overgrown shrimp.”

 

You looked away instinctively, chest clenching with sudden heat — shame, panic, all of it boiling over at once.

 

“I’m fine,” you retorted quickly. “I just… didn’t get much sleep.”

 

Tenna gave you a flat look. Like, really?

 

You tried to force an even faker smile. 

 

“Seriously. You’re overthinking it—”

 

“I’m not.” 

 

His voice cut through yours — not harsh, just certain . 

 

“I know you.”

 

You swallowed, throat parched now. You didn’t know what to say — because it was true, and being seen like that made your skin feel too tight.

 

But Tenna wasn’t judging you. His grip only softened.

 

“You’re not gonna ruin anything,” he said. “You’re not.”

 

He stepped in closer, his hands sliding down to your upper arms. His thumbs moved in slow, steady circles — a quiet gesture he was obviously trying to soothe you with.

 

“Even if you forgot every line — even if you tripped over your own feet or god threw up everywhere — it’d still be us up there. And I’d still be proud.”

 

He hesitated for a second, gaze flicking to your mouth then back to your eyes again.

 

“You make things better just by being part of them.”

 

Your lip quivered — barely, but enough for him to notice.

 

He didn’t tease you for it. Didn’t look away.

 

Just stayed there. 

 

“You don’t have to be perfect for this to mean something. You just have to be here.”

 

There was a pause, just a breath, before his voice dropped lower — quieter , like something slipped his mind before he could stop it.

 

“I… I lov—”

He froze. 

 

You both did.

 

His expression faltered just a little. Then he shook his head quickly, letting out a nervous laugh — awkward, unsure.

 

“I mean—I really like you. Like… a lot. Obviously.”

 

His voice cracked slightly near the end, and he paused, scratching the back of his neck, gaze flicking anywhere but you.

 

“Not just as a partner. I mean—yeah, for the project, but… it’s more than that.”

 

He exhaled sharply, almost frustrated with himself. Then finally looked at you again.

 

“I’m just… really glad it’s you up there with me. That’s all I think that matters…”

 

His screen dimmed slightly, like the brightness faded just enough to show the honesty beneath.

 

“That’s all. I don’t care how this plays out. I just wanted to do this with you.”

 

Then — without warning — he pulled you into a hug.

 

Firm. Warm. Real.

And for a second, everything stilled .

 

The panic, the pressure, the fear… it faded under the weight of his arms around you, his words still causing something to shimmer inside you.

 

Your fingers loosened. Your script slipped from your hands. You closed your eyes and let your forehead rest against his shoulder, breath quickening quietly.

 

Your panic didn’t vanish — but with him there, holding you like that?

 

You finally started to breathe again.

 

The hug lingered longer than it probably should’ve. His arms stayed firm around you, like letting go might break something between you — something fragile, quiet, unspoken.

 

You didn’t rush it. Neither did he.

 

Eventually, you leaned back just enough to glance up at him, cheeks still warm — but this time, your smile wasn’t forced.

 

A soft laugh slipped out, airy and a little cracked.

 

“I can’t wait to see you in a dress.”

 

That finally broke the tension.

 

Tenna let out a dramatic groan, it was his turn to rest his forehead against your shoulder as he muttered something incoherent.

 

“You’re gonna regret giving me that role, [Y/N],” 

 

he grumbled. 

 

“I’m gonna eat this stage alive.”

 

“My point still stands, your stupid head is going to rip the poor dress apart,” 

 

you teased, voice still weak from earlier but laced with something steadier now — affection. Comfort.

 

He pulled back just enough to flash you a grin — the real kind, the one that lit up his entire screen.

 

“Even if it rips, that’ll just make it a more iconic performance.”

 

His grin grew even bigger.

 

“And you’ll love it. Don’t try to pretend you won’t.”

The two of you went into rehearsal more easily now — without you self-destructing at every turn. Even when you fumbled a line or your nerves flared again, Tenna was always just a few feet away, ready with some ridiculous gesture or stupidly soft reassurance to pull you back. 

Everything felt lighter somehow. Softer . Layered with a new kind of fondness that hadn’t been there before — or maybe had always been there, buried beneath all the noise.

 

The hours, again, passed like nothing.

 

And now you were both crammed into those stiff auditorium seats, sitting shoulder to shoulder somewhere in the middle of the theater, watching your classmates perform one by one. Scripts in your laps. Costumes half-wrinkled. The air heavy with nervous energy.

 

Your group was scheduled last , which meant you’d had to sit through nearly every act before yours — some genuinely good , some so awkward you wanted to sink into your chair from secondhand embarrassment.

 

Tenna hadn’t stopped fidgeting for the last twenty minutes.

 

Partially because he couldn’t ever sit still.

 

Partially because he was already in costume.

 

The stupid Juliet dress clung to his frame in the most absurd, ill-fitting way imaginable — puffy sleeves, ruffled hem, a tacky flower crown you both found in the theater’s prop bin. And somehow, somehow , he was wearing it like it belonged on him. Like it was a badge of honor.

 

You blamed the obscurity of his costume to be the reason you were feeling yourself smiling every time you looked at him.

 

“Think they’re ready for our magnum opus?” 

 

Tenna whispered in your ear, slouching in his chair like he didn’t have a corset biting into his ribs.

 

You side-eyed him. 

 

“We rhymed ‘Romeo’ with ’toe.”

 

“Exactly. No one’s expecting that.”

 

You gave him a dry look. 

 

“Except maybe everyone who actually took this seriously.”

 

He shrugged with a grin, unfazed. 

 

“Listen ‘Romeo’ our love is about to send everyone here into tears, good or bad . Even with the nursery level rhymes”

 

You nudged him with your elbow. 

 

“Gee, I can’t wait.”

 

Tenna leaned in a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

 

“I mean it though. You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

 

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. The tension in your stomach hadn’t left — but it was different now. Not panic. Just anticipation. A little terror, yeah. But also something weirdly close to excitement.

 

Your professor’s voice echoed from the front row:

 

“Next up — Tenna and [Y/N]. You’re closing us out.”

 

Your breath hitched.

 

Tenna stood, casually adjusting the dress like it was just another Tuesday, and held out a hand.

 

You stared at it for a second, heart racing.

 

Then you reached for it.

 

“Let’s go break their legs.”

 

 

---

 

 

You didn’t even notice your nerves were gone until the lights hit the stage.

 

Because the second Tenna stepped out — wearing that wrinkled thrifted dress, stuffed with tissues at the chest and wobbling in heels that didn’t quite fit — the room lost it. His expression was the perfect combination of vacant and theatrical. Juliet had arrived, and she was ready to die for love… or at least attention.

 

Then came you — cape fluttering behind you, shirt unbuttoned just enough to be concerning, striding in like some tragic heartthrob. Your Romeo was rewritten as a swaggering disaster of a man — chest out, voice booming, and absolutely in denial being a douchebag . You gave him the walk of someone overcompensating for something, the body language of a boy raised in a household of toxic masculinity, and the emotional intelligence of a stapler.

It was obvious to everyone that your Romeo was also deeply, painfully in the closet, and obviously in love with Mercutio. And honestly? That only made the performance funnier.

 

Tenna’s Juliet fainted every other scene, screamed when touched by dirt, and pronounced “thy” as “thigh.” Meanwhile, you delivered every single line with your chest puffed out, flexing, smoldering at the crowd like you were trying to seduce them each directly.

 

It was stupid . It was brilliant .

 

And the audience couldn’t stop laughing.

 

The timing . The delivery . The sheer absurdity of it all.

 

Tenna threw himself to his knees in the center of the stage, clutching a prop plastic locket to his chest like it was cursed treasure. His voice rang out, exaggerated and high-pitched, one arm reaching to the heavens as if calling upon the god’s judgment—

 

“FORSOOTH! My Romeo doth fancy men!”

 

That line got an actual snort from your professor — a quick, unexpected laugh that cracked through the otherwise quiet room. 

A few classmates even glanced over at her in disbelief , before bursting into their own fits of laughter.

 

You nearly lost it right there, biting the inside of your cheek just to stay in character.

 

But you seemingly kept it together — barely.

 

You crossed to him with all the dramatic flair you could muster, tossing your fake sword aside and dropping to one knee like a knight pledging absolute loyalty.

 

“Juliet,” you gasped, voice quivering, “I wouldst kiss thee even with thine unholy contour.”

 

Tenna didn’t even blink. 

 

“Then BRING forth thine lips, thou sweaty, tragic himbo.”

 

The class lost it.

 

You two delivered the final lines through the sound of muffled laughter — yours, the audience’s, maybe even your professor’s again. But the best part?

 

You weren’t scared. Not for a second.

 

Because every time you felt your voice waver, Tenna looked at you with that same stupid, encouraging grin — and you excelled far beyond what you thought you could do.

 

The scene ended with you both collapsing dramatically to the floor, Tenna halfway sprawled over your lap, arm flung across his screen like he was trying to die in the most photogenic pose he could muster.

 

The lights dimmed.

 

Applause followed.

 

Real, genuine applause.

 

You looked at each other as the curtain closed — breathless, buzzing, barely holding in your laughter.

 

That’s when Tenna shot up from your lap and grabbed you, lifting you clean off your feet as he spun you in dizzying circles.

 

“[Y/N]!! YOU WERE AMAZING! I told you that you were a STAR!!”

 

Your heart swelled . You were proud of everything. Of the play. Of the script. Of him. Of yourself.

So you let yourself fall into the moment, flushed and breathless, giggling as he spun you through the air — both your laughs echoing across the now-empty stage like a standing ovation all its own.

 

He eventually set you down — but didn’t let go.

 

His arms lingered around your waist, chests still pressed together as the adrenaline faded, leaving something quieter, warmer in its place.

 

You were both breathless — still laughing softly, your forehead nearly touching his screen.

 

“I told you,” he murmured, his voice a little steadier now. “I knew you’d be amazing.”

 

You smiled, wide and flushed and glowing. 

 

“We were,” you corrected.

 

He smiled at that, and his screen flickered in brightness then settled into a dimmer setting.

 

His voice dropped.

 

“I loved this,” he exhaled.

 

His voice wasn’t playful anymore—it was gentle . Sincere.

 

He let out a breathy laugh, glancing down at you with a familiar pink painting his screen.

 

“I loved writing it. I loved rehearsing with you. I loved being up there . I…”

 

His voice cracked — barely.

 

“I love…”

 

He trailed off as his gaze lifted — slowly — locking with yours.

“I love you.”

The admission was quiet , and raw .

 

You didn’t speak for a second. You just stared back, eyes wide, pulse loud in your ears. But then—

“I love you too.”

It came out barely above a whisper. Like if you said it too loud, the whole moment might disappear forever.

 

Tenna’s screen flickered to a more intense hue of pink, like he was heating up behind all his circuits. 

 

You both just stood there, staring at each other — not intensely, but compassionately . Like everything that needed to be said had already passed between you in silence.

 

You didn’t care about the grade anymore. Or the performance. Or the crowd that had just cheered for you.

 

This was the real payoff.

 

After a few quiet beats, Tenna leaned down and pulled you into another hug.

 

No words. Just warmth.

 

His hand lifted to the back of your head, fingers curling gently into your hair — like he was trying to hold onto the moment with touch alone.

You wrapped your arms around him, gripping the fabric of his costume at the back, pressing closer.

 

You almost laughed at the fact that he’d confessed all this while wearing a dress — but the moment was far too sweet to poke fun at him.

 

A soft sigh escaped your lips, content and relieved.

 

You could’ve stayed there forever .

 

Before either of you could break contact, you felt something wet beneath your fingers — slick and warm against the back fabric of his costume.

 

At first, you figured it was just sweat from the intense show you two just put on. 

 

But then he said it.

 

“I love you, [Y/N]… but you’re nothing but deadweight.”

 

You blinked.

 

What…?

 

The words didn’t match anything . Not the moment. Not the smile he’d just given you. Not the pride, not the warmth.

 

It had to be a joke .

 

But that’s when you noticed it — the wetness on your palms was thicker than sweat. Sticky.

 

You stepped back instinctively , eyes snapping up to his face to question him — only to find his screen black. His body motionless . His limbs limp at his sides. The fluid you’d mistaken for sweat was dripping from him in heavy, viscous trails.

 

“Y-You knew that I loved you, didn’t you?” he rasped.

 

The voice was wrong. Slower. Broken. Glitched.

 

“So why’d you run off? You always knew you were nothing . So why’d it matter when I finally acknowledged it?”

 

You staggered back. Your breath caught in your throat.

 

Run off? What the hell was he talking about?

 

Where do you run off to?

 

To the bathroom? To your apartment?

 

This wasn’t making any sense.

 

And then — pain. Blinding, splitting pain at the back of your skull like lightning had cracked through your brainstem. Your head throbbed as memories poured in too fast — words, moments, feelings you weren’t ready to remember — all flooding back in sharp, fractured shards.

 

You collapsed backwards. Hard.

 

The stage was gone.

 

Everything was gone.

 

The world around you had gone pitch black — just void and shadow. And Tenna…

 

Tenna was melting.

 

He oozed into the darkness like paint spilled in water, his limbs warping as he took a shuddering step forward. The drips of his body hit the void with wet slaps , pooling into nothing. He was collapsing, losing form with each movement — but still dragging himself toward you.

 

You couldn’t move. Just stared, frozen with horror.

 

Then he reached out.

 

“I love you, [Y/N],” 

 

he whispered again — but the voice was warbled now, fuzzy , like it was coming through a blown-out speaker. 

 

“DON’T. LEAVE. ME.”

 

He lunged at you.

 

You tried to scramble away — anything, anything — but he was simply faster.

 

His hands — sticky, half-formed — gripped your face, dragging it up close to what was left of his.

 

His screen was flickering violently now, static and glitches swallowing all his features.

 

“I love you,” he said, barely audible. “I’ll always drag you behind me.”

 

That pain returned. Piercing. Unrelenting.

You screamed—

 

—And the world snapped.

Just before it all vanished, a flicker of yellow and pink cut through the void — brief, impossible, and gone.

 

 

 

 

You jolted upright in bed, gasping like you’d broken the surface of deep water.

 

It was dark. But not pitch-black void. Just your room. The hum of the AC. The weight of blankets twisted around your legs. The awful taste of unconsciousness and panic still in your mouth.

 

And beside you — still as anything — was Tenna.

 

Sitting on the other side of the mattress.

 

Staring at you, screen filled faintly with static, worry drawn across every line of his expression.

 

“[Y/N]??” 

Notes:

Kicking my feet and giggling while imagining Tenna in a dress.

Chapter 28: Ice Pick

Summary:

You wake up from your blackout, and things only get more complicated from there.

Notes:

SORRY FOR THE SHORT HIATUS!!!! I finished my summer classes (thank god) so I can be way more active until the fall semester starts. Thank you all for the kind words/song recommendations I promise I appreciate every single one of them. Also ALMOST 20k HITS HELLO?? HYPERVENTILATING?!?!?

One last thing, sorry for the long chapter note Jesus Christ, but I drew a scene from the last chapter! If you wanna check it out I’ll leave a link to it here.

https://www.tumblr.com/leftovercrumbz/791199445226258432/ill-always-drag-you-behind-me-aaaaaaaaaahhh-i

 

Anyways…PLEASE ENJOY THIS CHAPTER!!! <3333

“[Y/N]…?”

 

Tenna’s voice was quiet — uncertain.

 

His screen flickered faintly as he glanced at you from the other side of the mattress. His screen was painted with a mess of expressions. Fear. Concern. Shame.

 

You sat up too fast, lungs already burning. It felt like you couldn’t drag enough air in, couldn’t fill them completely. You needed the lights on. You needed to get rid of the black swallowing the room. Anything to push away what you’d just seen in your head.

 

“Are you okay??”

 

His voice trembled as he reached a hand toward you.

 

“S-STOP!!”

 

The word ripped out of you before you could think. You lurched off the bed, moving so quickly your back slammed into the wall. Your breath came in sharp, ragged pulls. 

 

You needed light. Now.

 

But before you could even find the switch, you had to get rid of the feeling on your hands. You scrubbed them hard against your thighs, desperate to erase the phantom sensation — that sticky, viscous residue of Tenna you swore was still clinging to your fingertips.

 

Only once the feeling dulled — if it even had — did you start fumbling along the wall. Your fingers slipped uselessly over the surface, cursing under your breath as every second in the dark stretched too long. When you finally hit the switch, the sudden light stabbed at your eyes, but at least the darkness was gone.

 

When you looked back, Tenna was still sitting on your bed. But his expression… it had shifted.

 

The concern was still there, buried somewhere deep — but now it was overpowered by something else.

 

Hurt.

 

Deep, quiet hurt — the kind that didn’t lash out or raise its voice, just… settled heavy in the room. His screen flickered in uneven bursts, jittering like he was holding it together by sheer will, fighting to keep it lit, fighting not to let you see him fray.

 

But you didn’t need him to say anything.

 

You could see it in the way his shoulders dropped, in the way his hand slowly curled back into his lap.

 

 

If he were alone, you were certain he’d be crying.

 

 

And the second you saw it, the true weight of his pain — guilt gripped your chest.

 

 

You regretted how you’d reacted. God, you hated how you’d reacted.

 

 

But then, like a whisper buried under everything else, the memory came back.

 

 

 

“L-love you—”

 

 

 

You blinked, breath instantly hitching.

 

That hadn’t been part of the nightmare — he’d confessed it, right before you passed out.

 

 

 

He’d really said it.

 

 

Before you could even begin to untangle what the hell you were supposed to feel about that, something else hit you: you were still naked. The blanket had been covering you before, but now that you’d moved, there was nothing hiding the fact.

 

And worse, the sudden movement had reminded you — vividly — of what you’d been doing with him before you passed out. Your muscles ached from it.

 

You couldn’t hide the blush that instantly flooded your cheeks. In a rush, you yanked the blankets off your bed — and off of Tenna, who was still sitting there, staring at you in dumbfounded silence.

 

At least he’d had the decency to put his clothes back on, which spared you some embarrassment. You were pretty sure you’d actually die if you saw him naked right now. 

Without the liquid courage that had carried you earlier, you wrapped the blanket around yourself in a frantic attempt to hide your figure.

 

In any other situation, Tenna would’ve teased you for it — maybe even laughed outright at the sight of you hiding yourself. But now… he didn’t.

 

He still looked the same.

 

 

Deeply pained.

 

 

A few moments passed — just intense, unblinking stares — before it hit you that you should probably say something instead of standing there like you were horrified by his touch… or by the fact you were naked.

 

“I, uh… sorry. I guess I just had a really bad headache.”

 

 

Oh, brilliant. 

 

 

A headache!

 

 

That totally explained you passing out after he made you cum so hard you saw stars. 

 

Totally explained you flinching away from his hand like it was fire and launching yourself into the opposite wall. 

 

 

Perfect save. Really. Put it in the record books.

 

You could tell just how pathetic your excuse was by the fact Tenna’s expression didn’t change at all. 

 

 

 

Oh God. This was bad. 

 

 

Why did you ever willingly put yourself in this situation? Why did you listen to Mike?

 

 

 

No — this was karma. 

 

 

This whole awkward mess was the universe punishing you for trying to get this man drunk so he’d spill all his dark secrets. And, hell, you got what you wanted — he admitted he loves you, whether it was about now or back then — and you couldn’t even handle it. 

 

 

You are, truly, a wet noodle.

 

 

Without knowing the dumpster fire of your internal turmoil, Tenna finally spoke — voice low, reluctant.

 

“Right… sorry if I… went too hard earlier.”

 

The not-so-subtle reference to him blowing your back out sent a fresh wave of heat crawling up your neck. 

 

Maybe dying on the spot wouldn’t be the worst outcome of this.

 

You coughed, hoping it would hide the way your face was burning, muttering a quiet, “It’s fine,” before the silence swallowed the room again.

 

When he spoke next, you noticed how uneasy he looked — like he couldn’t decide if he was about to cry or throw up. His hands fidgeted restlessly in his lap.

 

“Before you… uh… blacked out…”

 

He hesitated. Didn’t look at you. Just kept staring into his lap.

 

“What do you… remember?”

 

You felt your Adam’s apple bob. Of course he’d ask that — why were you even surprised?

 

Still, unease knotted in your gut. This had clearly rattled him. You passing out in front of him probably came close to giving him a heart attack, and now you were acting like touching him might give you some kind of disease.

 

And really… why were you the one reacting so harshly? He was the one who’d made a fool of himself — letting those three sick little words slip out probably hit him like a tsunami of horny shame.

 

So, to spare you both from unraveling everything that should stay unsaid — everything that should stay dead between you — you looked off to the side before answering.

 

“I don’t remember much. Just… uh, what we were doing before. But I don’t remember you saying anything, or me saying anything. Sorry if I was… weird or anything.”

 

You told yourself it was a good enough lie.

 

And it seemed to work — Tenna finally glanced back up at you, his features softening, his shoulders releasing their tight hold. Your words seemed to bleed a little relief into him, like he could finally exhale.

 

You even felt yourself loosen a little at the shift in his body language.

 

His lips even curled upward, just barely.

 

“Good… that’s, uh… good!”

 

He exhaled and sank back into your pillows — but before he could settle, something in his head clearly short-circuited. He jolted upright, flailing his arms like he could physically rewind what he’d just said.

 

“NOT that you passing out was good!! NO, that was so NOT good — VERY BAD! I mean, obviously I was worried, I’m not a MONSTER! But I didn’t, like, panic-panic. I didn’t cry or… or sit there shaking and thinking you’d died or anything, ‘cause that would be insane, right? I mean— not that I didn’t care! I DO care! JUST—“

 

“Tenna.”

 

You cut him off before he could spiral into saying something even worse than before. The beginnings of a migraine throbbed in your skull, a dark blot spreading at the edge of your vision.

 

With a sigh, you lowered yourself back onto the bed beside where he was still busy self-destructing. The second your head hit your favorite pillow, a soft, unfiltered moan slipped out.

 

“It’s fine, really,” 

 

you muttered, eyes half-lidded. 

 

“You’re the one that rocked my world, remember?”

 

You let your head loll to his side, sinking deeper into the mattress until you were almost swallowed by it. Now it was his turn to burn.

 

Pink bled across his screen, heat shimmering at the edges. Beads of sweat gathered along his casting, and you were pretty sure you caught a faint hiss of steam escaping his vents — not that you cared enough to keep looking.

 

If he’d even processed what you’d just said, it didn’t show. His gaze was fixed on you, lingering over the blanket that was barely managing to cling to your naked body.

 

“I, uh—”

 

He shifted in place, fingers drumming aimlessly against his thigh before curling into fists. 

 

“Yeah, we should… probably do that again.”

 

His screen pulsed faintly as his gaze flicked anywhere but your face. 

 

“Like — at my place, or here. Not just the studio.”

 

He scratched the back of his neck, the corner of his screen collecting a faint static. 

 

“I mean… if you’d be okay with it. I just… had a—” 

his voice pitched awkwardly upward, 

“—very good time tonight.”

 

You blinked at him, his words replaying in your head like a bad ringtone you couldn’t shut off.

 

God. 

 

Everything about tonight still clung to you — the sex, the nightmare, the words, the way you’d lied through your teeth about what you remembered.

 

And here he was, talking about doing it again.

 

You forced a small smile, even though your stomach felt knotted. 

 

“Tenna… I think I just… need a little space right now.”

 

His shoulders tensed — just barely — before he nodded, quickly covering it up with a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach the right places. 

 

“Y-yeah. No, sure. Totally!”

 

He leaned back slightly, fiddling with the seam of his sleeve like it was suddenly fascinating. 

 

“Space. Got it.”

 

With his last words hanging in the air, it was like he finally got the memo. Tenna pushed himself to his feet, straightening his shirt even though the wrinkles stubbornly clung to the fabric.

 

“I’ll be on my way then. BIG day tomorrow at the studio, [Y/N]!”

 

You glanced at him, head pounding. He was so… stupid. But man, he was also so cute.

 

The thought curdled almost instantly as bile rose in your throat — the sick memory of him melting over you in that nightmare flickering through your mind uncontrollably.

 

You turned your head away. 

 

“Yeah… big day tomorrow.”

 

You didn’t know if he was still watching you, but after a pause, you heard his steps shuffle over to your side. A warm large palm cupped your cheek, coaxing your head up until you met his gaze. He was smiling — a smile with too many layers to decipher right now — and you were too drained to try.

 

Then he bent down and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. His hand shook when he pulled back.

 

“Make sure you get good sleep, [Y/N]. Call me if you need anything.”

 

 

And with that, he was gone. You watched him slip out of your bedroom, heard the clumsy fumbling at your front door, and then the quiet click as it shut behind him.

 

 

 

The second you were sure he was gone, a strangled groan tore out of you.

 

 

It was like his very presence had been pressing some unseen weight onto your chest — and now, finally, it was gone.

 

Still… the emptiness he left behind wasn’t comforting. It felt lonely. Even a little scary.

 

But you didn’t let yourself dwell on that. You didn’t need him. You didn’t need anyone. It had been that way for a long time.

 

Reluctantly, you pushed yourself up to turn off the lights. Every joint in your body popped with the effort.

 

Your hand hovered over the switch… and froze.

 

 

Your mind shoved you back into that filthy scene.

 

Tenna looming over you, his voice dripping with venom as he spat out how worthless you were. Thick, sticky globs spilled from him above you, dropping in uneven, wet slops that burned against your skin.

 

You shuddered.

 

You didn’t dream often. You’d never had much of an imagination unless music or film dragged it out of you — so having a sudden, lucid nightmare like this was… jarring. 

 

And it had felt real — too real. The beginning was built from memory, but it twisted into something warped and unrecognizable. The fact that it happened right after you blacked out made it worse.

 

It freaked you out — not that you’d want to admit it.

 

Still, you decided, as childish as it felt, to sleep with the lights on tonight. You were already so exhausted that you doubted it would make any difference to your sleep cycle.

 

You dragged on an old t-shirt and shorts before finally crawling back into bed, the sheets curling around you like they were begging you to sleep.

 

God, you were tired. Today had been rough.

 

Your eyes grew heavier with each blink, until you finally let them close, hoping it would pull you straight into slumber.

 

 

But he was still there.

 

 

His hands on you.

 

 

His gaze.

 

 

His heat.

 

 

His weight inside you.

 

 

His words.

 

 

Why the hell did he have to say that?

 

 

What an asshole. Really? Drop that on you in the middle of railing you? What a fucking dick.

 

Why couldn’t he have said it when it would’ve actually mattered? When you’d have killed to hear it — back when you were fantasizing about it almost every night your senior year of college. No, instead he just slipped it out like it weighed nothing.

 

Like it meant nothing.

 

And maybe it didn’t. Tenna was an idiot, so yeah — him saying that probably meant as much as anything else that came out of his mouth. Hell, maybe he got off on it, making you squirm and feel uncomfortable. Maybe it was payback for the bar stunt.

 

As if trying to snap you out of your own bitterness, your phone buzzed beside you.

 

You rolled over and grabbed it.

 

3:45 a.m.

 

You didn’t even bother checking what the notification was — you were too stunned by how late it was. A louder groan tore out of you as you flopped back over, slamming your head into the pillow.

 

Tomorrow was going to suck. You were going to regret all of this. And you were going to need at least three cups of coffee just to function.

 

 

And with that, you finally forced yourself to sleep — not letting your mind wander, not letting it think, not filling it with any more thoughts about that dumbass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Your eyes shot open.

 

 

It felt like your skull was splitting in two again — a deep, searing pain tearing up from the base of your neck to the back of your head. Every pulse of it sent fire lancing through your brain, as if someone had jammed a hot blade straight into your spine.

 

Then you saw it again.

 

Two flashes — pink and yellow — swallowing your entire vision in blinding bursts.

 

You bolted upright in bed, a scream ripping out of your throat so loud you felt it vibrate through your entire body. The sound startled even you, hanging in the air for a moment before fading into the pounding in your ears.

 

Your breaths came hard and fast. You clutched the back of your head where the pain had been moments ago, your fingers pressing against skin still buzzing with a phantom ache.

 

The clock on your nightstand glared back at you.

 

7:13 a.m.

 

Too early. You hadn’t even made it to your first alarm.

 

You just sat there for a moment, staring at the wall, heart still racing. Your chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, each inhale scraping against the dryness in your throat. You could still feel your pulse hammering in your temples, like the echo of that pain was refusing to let go.

 

Your hand drifted up almost without thinking, fingers sliding to the back of your neck where it had started. The skin was hot, tender, like you’d been burned from the inside out. You rubbed slow circles at the base of your skull, trying to knead the ache away, but all it did was make the ghost of that searing line up your spine feel even more real.

 

You followed it higher, fingertips combing through your hair, pressing against the exact spot where it had felt like your head was going to crack open. The memory of it made your stomach twist. It wasn’t the kind of pain you could mistake for anything else. It was sharp, deliberate.

 

And the colors…

 

You blinked hard, almost expecting to still see them burned into your vision. Pink and yellow, flooding everything. Too bright, too close. Like they’d been inside your eyes, not in front of them.

 

You hadn’t dreamed. You were sure of it.

 

So why the hell had you woken up screaming?

 

Why those same colors?

 

 

The questions sat heavy in your chest, cold and uneasy.

 

 

What the fuck is happening…?

 

 

 

 

 

By the time you stumbled into the studio, you looked like someone had pulled you straight out of a dryer cycle — wrinkled, limp, and out of place. 

Your clothes didn’t match as cleanly as usual, your hair looked like you gave up on brushing it, and the coffee in your hand looked like it was barely scraping the surface.

 

 

The fluorescent lights felt aggressive today, buzzing against your skull with every step you took down the hallway.

 

 

 

The studio had its own heartbeat, and usually you matched it without thinking.

 

 

But today, you had missed every beat.

 

 

Your coffee was half-cold before you even remembered to drink it. You mixed up two segment prep folders and nearly sent a weather report down to the entertainment floor. At one point, you walked into the wrong meeting room and just… stood there, staring at the whiteboard like you’d forgotten what your job even was.

 

It wasn’t enough to get yelled at, but it was off. Enough that you could feel the fractures forming.

 

By late morning, you’d slipped away to your office just to breathe. The steady hum of the studio was muted here, the door closed, your forehead resting in your palm. You weren’t even looking at your laptop — just staring at the same empty corner of your desk, willing the headache behind your eyes to fade.

 

The door opened without a knock.

 

You inhaled sharply through your nose, annoyance already spiking before you even looked up.

 

Mike stepped in like it was second nature, hands in his pockets.

 

“Long night, kid?”

 

You didn’t bother to answer right away, and that only made his smirk grow.

 

“Didn’t think going out for drinks with Ant was that bad.”

 

You rolled your eyes. 

 

“I’m fine.”

 

 

“Uh-huh.” 

 

His tone said he wasn’t buying it.

 

“So? You figure anything out? Or was it just awkward small talk?”

 

The reminder made something twist tighter in your gut — because sure, you’d gone in with the plan Mike mentioned yesterday. But Mike hadn’t been the one stuck in bed with Tenna saying those simple cruel words. Mike hadn’t been the one waking up screaming at flashing colors.

 

“Why do you even care?”

 

His shoulders lifted at the bite in your tone, but he still tried to smooth it over with a joke.

 

“What, can’t a guy take an interest in your social life? Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me I need to fill out a permission slip.”

 

Normally, you’d play along. Today, you didn’t.

 

“Maybe you should just stop talking altogether. You might actually be useful for once.”

 

The words hit like a slap. His smirk froze, humor draining out of his face.

For a second, Mike just stared at you — like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Then his teeth clenched, and the air in the room cooled a few degrees.

 

“Talk to me again when you get your head out of your ass,” 

he said flatly, and left without looking back.

 

You sat there in the silence he left behind, the tension still humming in your chest.

 

Great. Now Mike was upset with you.

 

 

Today couldn’t get any worse.

 

 

 

 

 

Eventually by the afternoon Tenna’s broadcast wrapped.

 

 

Which meant he was suddenly everywhere.

 

 

It started small — a glimpse of him down the hall, striding toward you with that too-wide grin, his coat tails swishing dramatically like he was still on stage. You tried to turn the corner before he spotted you, but Tenna was like a heat-seeking missile when he wanted attention.

 

“Hey, starshine!” 

 

he called, slipping right in step with you. 

 

“Didja miss me?”

 

You didn’t answer. Just kept walking, a random report in hand, your brain still lagging a few seconds behind.

 

 

 

 

From there, it only got worse. 

 

 

Every time you entered a room, there he was. Sometimes with a jab — 

 

“Whoa, that’s a pretty serious face. What is it this time — gunning for my co-host spot?”

 

Other times, it was sugar-sweet: shoving a mock-up for a new set piece into your hands, telling you about a sponsor’s “big exciting pitch” next week, leaning in far too close like you were sharing some secret.

 

Over the past few weeks, you’d actually grown to like this new dynamic — the banter, the baiting, seeing how far he’d push before you pushed back. 

 

But today? It wasn’t landing. 

 

Every word slid past you without sticking. Your replies were short, clipped. The studio’s hum — the cameras, the chatter, the shuffling of crew — all felt muffled, like you were somewhere else entirely, and your body was just here on autopilot.

 

And every time you were on the verge of snapping, the memory shoved its way forward.

 

Not the nightmare. Not the warped, dripping image that had made you keep the lights on.

 

The moment before it.

 

Tenna’s breathless I love you in the middle of sex, moaned like it slipped out by accident.

 

Not when you would’ve wanted it. Not when you would’ve believed it. Just blurted out in the heat of something ugly and desperate, moments before your vision went pink and yellow and everything went dark.

 

You forced it back down — but the echo stuck.

 

 

 

 

By late afternoon, even Tenna seemed to notice you weren’t as entertained as usual. His grin had dulled, his teases lost their sting. When you passed him in the hall without so much as a glance, he fell into step beside you again — this time slower.

 

“You’ve been a little… off today,” 

 

You didn’t pay him any mind as you made your twelfth trip back to your office. At this point, it was the only place in the building where you felt even remotely okay.

 

Still, you could feel his gaze on you — clinging like a persistent pet begging for a treat.

 

He bent down slightly, voice dipping into a low whisper against your ear.

 

“Is it ‘cause it’s harder to walk today?”

 

A chuckle followed, and when you glanced over, he gave what you assumed was a wink. 

 

Annoyingly… he wasn’t entirely wrong. Yeah, you were definitely sore in certain places after last night — but there was no way in hell you were admitting that. Not out loud. Not today.

 

Tenna seemed to catch the shift in your body language and, for a second, it looked like he was dropping the innuendo.

 

 

Or so you thought.

 

 

“Listen, uh… if you’re just stressed about something, maybe I could, y’know…”

 

You shot him a look, your brows knitting.

 

“No, Tenna. I don’t want sex right now. Thanks for the offer.”

 

He jolted beside you.

 

“W–WHAT? N-no!! I didn’t mean— well, I mean, if that would make you feel better—”

 

He tripped over himself, scrambling to recover.

 

“I was thinking more like… a massage? Or I could, uh… make that one dinner you like! That pasta you used to eat all the time — remember?”

 

You inhaled deeply at the mention of memories, letting the air sit heavy in your chest before you exhaled in a slow, tired sigh. You’d reached your office door by now, hand hovering over the handle.

 

“Listen, Tenna… I just—”

 

 

The pain came like a cracking whip, sharp and brutal at the base of your skull. You winced hard, fingers digging into your temple as your other hand clutched the back of your head.

 

“Hey—” 

 

Tenna’s voice jumped an octave. He leaned in, his shadow spilling over yours.

 

“What’s wrong? Is it your head? Do you need—”

 

You barely heard him. The pressure was all-consuming, pounding in time with your heartbeat. You could feel him close now — his shadow cutting the light, his hands hovering like he wanted to help but wasn’t sure how.

 

“[Y/N]— talk to me—”

 

You waved him off, sucking in a sharp breath and forcing yourself upright, even as your vision swam.

 

That’s when it hit — the same sharp, ugly surge of anger you’d felt when Mike cornered you this morning. All the annoyance, all the frustration, all the fatigue you’d been swallowing down since you woke up at 7:13 came boiling up at once.

 

And with Tenna standing right in front of you — so close, so him — it all snapped.

 

“Oh my GOD, can you just—GO AWAY?!”

 

The words tore out of you, loud and jagged. You gripped the side of your head, the throbbing only intensifying with the shout.

 

Tenna flinched. He stepped back, like the force of it had hit him physically, his expression went wide for a split second.

 

But it didn’t stop you. Nothing could stop you now.

 

“Can you stop acting like we’re just fine?!”

 

you barked.

 

“We aren’t! We never will be, Tenna. We’re NOT friends like we used to be, and you need to get that through your stupid fucking head.”

 

Even as you said it, something pulled inside you. You didn’t even believe that. The truth was… you’d been starting to see something new forming between you. Something shaky, maybe even worth keeping. But the thought of that path — of trusting him again — terrified you more than you'd wanted it to.

 

And fear was easier to burn down than nurture.

 

Tenna didn’t interrupt. Didn’t move. He just stared — into you, past you, through you — like he was trying to map every word to something that made sense. You couldn’t read his face, and you didn’t want to.

 

“So STOP acting like you never fucked everything up!” 

 

you pushed on, voice wobbling with the edge of it.

 

“Just because you’re a good lay, don’t expect me to treat you like I used to. You didn’t love me then, and I sure as hell don’t believe you love me now—“

 

the words spilled too fast, too sharp,

 

“—even if you said it.”

 

 

 

 

 

Silence.

 

 

 

Your own voice echoed back at you like you’d just screamed in an empty theater. The weight of it hit slow — the way his gaze sharpened, the way your pulse kicked hard in your veins.

 

 

 

Oh… fuck.

 

 

You’d just told him.

 

 

You’d blown your cover. 

 

 

You saw the flicker in his expression — recognition, hurt, something deeper — before you tore your gaze away.

 

 

 

Goddammit.

 

 

 

Worst. Day. Of your life.

 

 

 

Before you could even try to play it off — or double down on knowing what he’d said yesterday — another scream ripped out of you again.

 

 

This time, it was pure agony.

 

 

The pain hit so fast and so deep you couldn’t even register what it was. It felt like you were dying — like the inside of your skull was caving in, beaten from within. Your vision went white, then split: yellow burning in your left eye, pink searing in your right.

 

You staggered, reaching for the wall, trying to ground yourself — but your balance gave out before you could even think. Your hands slipped. Your knees buckled.

 

And then—

 

Two large hands caught you under the arms, hauling you up.

 

 

“[Y/N]— w-what’s going on??” 

 

 

Tenna’s voice was trembling, threatening to crack. 

 

 

“You need to tell me, I want to help you, I really do. Even if— even if you don’t believe me— please, let me help.”

 

 

You looked up at Tenna through the haze, vision tilting and swimming. 

 

You could see how much your words had hurt him — but the care and concern on his face overrode it. Tiny tears pricked at the place where his eyes would be, threatening to swell and spill. The sight made your lip quiver, even through the throbbing pain smashing your skull.

 

 

Then your body betrayed you.

 

 

A wet choke caught in your throat, and you started spitting up — saliva slipping from your lips in messy strings you couldn’t stop.

 

 

Maybe this is it. 

 

 

Maybe you’d worked yourself into the ground. 

 

 

Some fatal, stress-induced collapse, and your last act was screaming at the man who had once been the love of your life.

 

 

 

And maybe… 

 

Maybe that made you just as bad as he’d been to you back then. Using him for comfort, treating him like he was only good for one thing, as if the rest of him meant nothing to you.

 

You wished — God, you wished — it had all gone differently. That you’d built everything you’d dreamed of together. That you’d never walked away. That you’d become stars, side by side.

 

 

That you got to fall in love the right way.

 

 

But instead, you were here — convulsing in his arms, probably scarring him for life.

 

 

 

The only thing that might make the dark feel a little less heavy… was to say the one truth you’d never meant to admit. 

 

 

 

 

 

“I—i… l-love you t-too.”

Chapter 29: Out of Your Hands

Summary:

On his way to get you help, Tenna runs into two familiar faces.

Notes:

GUYS! I TURN 21 ON MONDAY!!!!!! YIPPIE ALCOHOL!!! Sorry I thought that was silly, anyways enjoy the chapter <333

 

ALSO! Here's my tumblr again if any of you would wanna follow me there!

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/leftovercrumbz

Tenna tore through the hallways, somehow staying upright even as his steps tangled over each other. He wasn’t in his prime anymore, but he still pushed himself to run faster. He had to get you help. He had to make sure you were alright.

 

Around him, crew members were still lost in the monotony of their day — sweeping floors, stacking props, complaining about anything they could.

 

That’s when they noticed him — barreling past with you limp in his arms, his screen dim, his frame hunched like he was finally running on fumes.

 

Eyes followed. Whispers started.

 

One voice called out as he passed.

 

“Boss, what the hell happened?!”

 

Tenna slowed only enough to snap his head back.

 

“N–NOTHING!! Just a… minor accident! Y’know what— all of you take the rest of the day off! You guys earned it!”

 

“Boss, we still gotta—”

 

“LEAVE.”

 

The command came out sharp, teeth bared. That shut them up. They shuffled out in clusters — some cheering about the early release, others staring at your motionless body with unsettled looks.

 

Had Tenna hurt you? Had he finally gone too far?

 

If anyone cared enough to act, they didn’t show it. All but two slipped out with the others — two who had had your back since the beginning.

 

“You’re sure it was them?”

 

Mike frowned, startled.

 

“I saw ’em in his arms, Mikey. Didn’t look right. I don’t know what’s goin’ on, but we need to do somethin’. It’s fishy.”

 

Ramb had caught Mike in the green room just after Tenna’s dramatic announcement about canceling the day’s work. He didn’t know all the details, but Ramb’s voice was low, certain.

 

Mike stood there for a beat, hand to his chin, running through the possibilities in his head. Then he went still — and slowly turned to Ramb.

 

“You don’t think he…”

 

Ramb’s gaze drifted off to the side, hesitation written all over his face.

 

“I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t want to think Mr. Tenna’s done anythin’. But, luv… he’s always had a knack for losin’ his temper..”

 

Mike cursed under his breath, a sharp tch slipping past his clenched teeth.

 

“Where the hell did he go? Where’d he take them?”

 

Just as Mike asked, Tenna came clumsily sprinting past the doorway — heavy, uneven stomps echoing down the hall.

 

The two locked gazes for a split second before Mike shoved past Ramb, adrenaline spiking with a mix of panic and anger.

 

“ANT! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?! GET BACK HERE!”

 

But Tenna was on autopilot. He didn’t hear Mike’s voice — or maybe he just didn’t let himself. His focus tunneled in on the weight in his arms. He could feel his fans roaring into overdrive, circuits straining, fuel pumping harder and harder. None of it mattered.

 

Not when he looked down at you.

 

Frail. Sickly. Pale.

 

Unconscious .

 

He was nearly at the studio entrance when Mike’s voice finally seemed to break through, loud and close enough to snap him out of it. His shoes squeaked against the floor as he came to an abrupt halt.

 

“ANT!”

 

He turned to see Mike and Ramb in pursuit, their shorter strides failing to close the gap. Both were panting hard — Mike bent over with hands braced on his knees, Ramb resting a steadying hand on his back while trying to catch his own breath.

 

The three of them stood locked in place, as if they were in a standoff.

 

Tenna loomed at the studio’s entrance doors, while the two smaller men faced him down — three sets of faces locked, each carrying their own perspective, their own emotions.

 

“Mike! Ramb! Oh my god— oh god —oh god I’m so—so, so, so happy to see you two!! I r-really need help—”

 

Mike had finally caught enough breath to straighten from where he’d been resting. He took a fierce step forward, jabbing a finger in Tenna’s direction.

 

“SHUT UP! Don’t tell me you put a finger on them, I swear to god I’LL RIP YOUR WIRES OUT MYSELF—”

 

Ramb stepped in before he could spit out anything else, laying a steadying hand on his shoulder. He gave Mike a firm, reassuring look, and Mike begrudgingly let the words die in his throat with a loose exhale.

 

Ramb’s voice was calmer, but no less serious.

 

“Tenna, luv… what happened to [Y/N]? We’re properly worried.”

 

Before Tenna could muster a response — any half-formed explanation — Ramb’s expression shifted. His brows drew tight, his gaze intensifying into something that felt like it could cut right through him. 

 

Tenna had never seen him look like this.

 

“If you had anythin’ to do with this… we need to know. Even if you hurt ’em — tell us.”

 

Mike’s head turned toward Ramb, taken aback by the sudden shift in his demeanor. He hadn’t expected that edge from him. 

 

Mike then turned back to Tenna, fixing him with the same hard stare — the kind that said, you’ve got nowhere to run, and if you hurt [Y/N], we’ll rock your shit.

 

Tenna could admit he was unstable — sure. He got angry, sad, emotional. So what? That was normal. He’d own up to that.

 

But this? His best employees, some of his closest friends, accusing him of hurting you? Really?

 

Did they even realize what kind of can of worms they were cracking open? Did they know he’d literally tear someone apart if it meant you’d be okay right now?

 

The distaste showed in his expression as their words sank in. His grip on you tightened protectively, pulling you closer as he faced them head-on, refusing to back down.

 

“W–what!? Listen, I would never do anything to hurt [Y/N]. I can’t believe you two would even begin to think that.”

 

Mike let out a huff beside Ramb, and the sound made Tenna’s insides hum with unease.

 

“Really? You? Hurt [Y/N]?” 

 

Mike’s voice twisted. 

 

“Buddy, you’ve been hurting them since they got here. I’ve seen it all. Your petty crap is one thing, but whatever that is—”

 

He gestured to your limp body in Tenna’s arms. 

 

“—that’s another. Even for you.”

 

Tenna’s mind reeled. Yeah, maybe he had hurt you emotionally — and yeah, it was selfish — but it was never meant to be malicious . Physically hurting you? That wasn’t even in the same ballpark. The fact that Mike of all people was throwing that in his face made something in him bruise.

 

A grin curled over his lips before he could stop it.

 

Tenna let out a sharp, ugly laugh.

 

“Ohhh-ho, OH-ho-ho! That’s rich!!”

 

His grip on you tightened until his knuckles under his gloves went white.

 

“I didn’t know YOU, of all people, were suddenly the expert on [Y/N]! Is that what this is? I’m the big bad, and you two are some kind of HEROES now?!”

 

He took a step away from the entrance, intimidating, chest heaving from the running — from the rage.

 

“So glad you finally decided to give a DAMN about someone — and leave ME to rot like a BAG OF ROCKS!!”

 

Mike and Tenna locked stares, trading the nastiest snarls they could muster. Tenna even leaned down, closing the height gap just to glare on equal ground.

 

That’s when Ramb finally got a good look at you in Tenna’s arms. Your skin was flushed, damp with sweat, lips parted as spit dribbled from the corner of your mouth.

 

His stomach dropped. You looked sick — worse than he’d thought.

 

The bickering between Tenna and Mike blurred into muffled noise. Ramb wasn’t listening anymore. He stepped forward, hand lifting to your forehead.

 

You were burning.

 

“We need to get ’em help. Now.”

 

Ramb’s voice cut clean through the arguing, pulling both men’s heads toward him. He was right at your side, brushing damp hair from your clammy forehead, concern etched deep into his face.

 

The sight seemed to knock the wind out of Tenna. His screen flickered, the anger draining from him in uneven pulses. He looked from you to Ramb, then down at his own hands still holding you. His grip loosened a fraction.

 

He cleared his throat, gaze darting away as if ashamed to meet theirs. 

 

“…We were— uh —walking to their office. And they said their head r-really hurt, then…”

 

Tenna remembered your words — the sharp, cutting insults that had slipped past your lips like they’d been waiting there for months. The memory made him wince. He’d earned them, really, after everything he’d put you through. Still, that didn’t stop them from sinking under his coding, each one snagging like a burr he couldn’t shake.

 

And then his mind jumped — unbidden — to the last three words you’d gasped before your knees gave out. 

 

I love you too. 

 

The recollection burned hot through him, a rush of electricity he couldn’t process. It made his screen flicker faintly, made something in his chest tighten until he had to fight the urge to look away from you in his arms.

 

“…Then they just… s-slumped. And now— here we are.”

 

Ramb’s interjection didn’t ease Mike’s anger like it had for Tenna — that was until he got a good look at you, the same way Ramb had from Tenna’s angle.

 

God, you weren’t looking too good. 

 

Mike never would’ve expected this to happen. Not from you. It had to be something serious to keep you down.

 

He reluctantly tore his gaze away from you and fixed it back on Tenna.

 

“That can’t be it. There’s gotta be more. What are you not spillin’?”

 

Tenna hesitated before answering.

 

“They said some harsh stuff before they… passed out. But that’s it. Nothing else. They just kept grabbing uh…the back of their head.”

 

Mike shifted at the new information. So you weren’t just being an asshole to him. Good to know.

 

“So what’s the plan, wise guy? Besides you running around here like a maniac?”

 

Mike’s retort had less bite than before.

 

Tenna bit his lower lip. 

 

He didn’t know. He didn’t know what to do, where to take you. 

 

You were right — he really was an idiot.

 

Ramb finally looked up from where he’d been fussing with your hair, deciding he’d pulled enough of it back from your face to let you cool down.

 

“They need water. An ice bath. Then we just… hope for the best. We’re not professionals, but it’s the best we can do, innit?”

 

Tenna and Mike locked glares one last time. Then, with a silent flicker of agreement, they both turned back to Ramb.

 

Tenna gave a short nod. 

 

“W-we can go to my place. Call someone to come help… get them cooled down.”

 

From there, the three of them hurried to the parking lot — Tenna still holding you as close as possible against him, as if even a few inches of distance might make your condition worse.

 

They reached his ridiculously TV Time–modded car and paused for a moment.

 

“Alright, let them go. You’ve gotta drive — you’re like a Goliath compared to us, Ant.”

 

Tenna’s arms tightened around you without him even realizing it. He swallowed hard. He couldn’t put you down — what if something else happened? What if you needed him and he wasn’t there, like before?

 

Not this time.

 

He had to be here for you now. He had to make sure you knew he was sticking by you — that he wasn’t going to leave you behind again. He needed to keep you clos—

 

“Tenna. We’ve got ’em, okay? We care about them just as much as you do, I promise, luv.”

 

Ramb’s words echoed with nothing but fondness and warmth. Tenna stared at him for a long beat before reluctantly setting you in the back seat beside Mike as Ramb climbed into the front.

 

He hated leaving you for even a second, but at least you were in good hands — even if they weren’t his.

 

Tenna finally slid into the driver’s seat, and they set off toward his ‘humble’ abode.

The ride was tense, quiet — each of them lost in their own minds. But really, those thoughts all orbited the same thing. 

You.

Your head rested in Mike’s lap in the backseat. The two of you rarely got this close unless it was during some silly argument you two were secretly enjoying. It was foreign to him… but not unwelcome. 

 

Up close, he noticed things he’d never really taken the time to see before — the deep shadows under your eyes, the faint lines carved by stress. Still, despite the sickly pallor, you looked peaceful. Free, for once, from the weight the studio kept pressing onto your shoulders.

 

Mike frowned, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. His voice dropped to a murmur.

 

“Geez, kid… this is really doing a number on you, huh?”

 

The frown deepened at your silence — no smart remark, no eye-roll, nothing to bite back with. Even when his words were dressed up as a joke.

 

“I guess I’ll forgive you for being an asshole when you wake up. But first… you gotta wake up, kid.”

 

Ramb didn’t hear any of it. He was slouched against the window, face in his palm, buried deep in his own brain. 

 

But Tenna? 

 

Tenna caught everything in the rearview mirror when he should have been watching the road. He couldn’t make out the words, but the sight alone made his grip on the wheel tighten until the leather squeaked.

 

Was this why Mike insisted he drive? Just so he could get up close and personal with you?

 

Tenna’s chest buzzed with a mix of jealousy and paranoia , and from there, the rest of the drive went by way quicker than before.

Before long, Tenna was easing the car up a winding driveway, tires crunching over gravel until the shape of his home curved into view.

 

It wasn’t a mansion in the showy, modern sense — more like the kind of place you’d find in an old magazine spread from decades ago. The trim paint had faded just slightly, the stone walkway worn smooth with age, but everything about it screamed meticulously ‘well kept.’ Not a single shingle out of place, no weeds between the walkways, even the brass doorknob gleamed like it had been polished that morning.

 

Inside was more of the same. Plush carpeting that had clearly been vacuumed within an inch of its life, wood paneling with a soft, honeyed sheen, furniture that looked like it belonged on a vintage TV set. A record player in the corner. Rotary phone on the wall. 

Even the smell was old-fashioned — clean, but with a faint undertone of dust and cedar, like opening a perfectly preserved trunk from the attic. It was less a house and more a time capsule that someone had lovingly maintained for decades.

 

Ramb stepped in first, scanning the place like he was assessing how to make you comfortable. He glanced back at Tenna and Mike.

 

“I’ll run a bath. Cold enough to bring their fever down, but not so cold it’s a shock. You two—” 

he motioned between them,

“—just keep an eye on ’em, yeah? Make sure nothing else kicks off.”

With that, he disappeared down the hall, his footsteps muffled on the thick carpet.

The silence that followed was heavy.  

Tenna was still standing with you in his arms, screen glitching faintly. Mike’s gaze was steady, his arms crossed. It was only a matter of time before one of them spoke — and when they did, it wouldn’t be small talk.

 

Mike gave Tenna a quick jab with his elbow — though with their height difference, it landed squarely in his leg.

 

“Geez, bozo. They’re not gonna run away. Put ’em on the couch and relax a little.”

 

Tenna shot him a withering look, clearly not in the mood for Mike’s usual antics. Still… he wasn’t wrong. If this whole bath plan worked, he’d need to be less wound up by the time you woke up.

 

The three of you made your way into the living room — sleek but comfortably worn, retro without feeling outdated. Everything was spotless and taken care of, like a vintage showroom someone actually lived in. A CRT television sat proudly at the center.

 

Tenna laid you down on the couch as though you were made of glass, lowering you inch by inch like any sudden movement might make you shatter . Mike sighed at the dramatics and dropped into an oversized chair near the couch, while Tenna took the matching seat set across from him.

Silence stretched.

Mike and Tenna’s friendship had always swung between high highs and low lows, yet somehow they’d weathered every storm. He’d come into Tenna’s life after you left, stuck it out through the entire mess with Spamton, and never once walked away — even when Tenna gave him every reason to.

 

And Tenna was grateful for him — really — but there were days he couldn’t shake the thought that Mike might leave too. That one day, he’d be just like the others: use him, then toss him aside when he wasn’t as useful anymore. 

 

Lately, that thought had been harder to ignore… especially when he saw how much happier Mike seemed around you, around the rest of the crew.

 

It grated on him. Scraped against his patience.

Mike’s voice finally cut through his thoughts.

 

“Ya ever gonna update your decor? This place looks the same as the first time I came here.”

 

Mike’s attempt to break the ice did little to loosen the tension in Tenna’s shoulders — or in his back, or in his head. Tenna just leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together to keep them from fidgeting.

 

He let out a slow sigh before answering.

 

“Nope. If it’s not broken, why fix it?”

 

Mike smirked at that — a classic Ant response.

 

“I guess that’s true…”

 

He leaned back, arms folding behind his head. The chair was big enough for him to sprawl out completely if he wanted to, but he kept himself in check.

 

“Listen, Ant.”

 

Tenna’s gaze lifted at the shift in tone, his screen catching the warm lamplight.

 

“I’ve seen you in every mood under the sun — angry, sad, happy, weird — but I’ve never seen you cycle through all of ’em in record time.”

 

Mike dropped one arm to gesture while he spoke, like he always did when he wanted to drive a point home.

 

“In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you this worked up. Not even in the most stressful shows”

 

Tenna gave him a look — not annoyed, not amused — just enough to tell him to keep going.

 

“What I’m trying to ask is… what’s your history with [Y/N]? ’Cause I’m offended you never told me a damn thing. And don’t try to fib your way out of it, poindexter — I can tell you two had something there.”

 

Tenna groaned.

 

Did they really have to do this now? Watching you pass out twice in the last twenty-four hours was bad enough — digging up the wreckage of what broke everything between you was just going to make everything feel even worse. 

 

But…Mike was right. 

 

There was no way to dodge this without looking suspicious. And hell, he’d already admitted to him a few days ago you two had something physical going on now.

 

With a slow breath, Tenna pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“We… we went to college together. Long time ago.”

 

Mike’s brows shot up, surprised he’d actually gotten an answer — only to fall again when Tenna left it at that.

 

“Yeah? Then why were you two acting like you wanted each other dead the second they walked into the studio? Making an old classmate cry in a meeting doesn’t exactly seem in character for you.”

 

Tenna cringed at the memory, groaning louder this time.

 

“It’s— fuck —it’s complicated, okay? Do I really have to unpack all that right now?”

 

Mike leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

 

“Ant… I’m not asking for a documentary here. Just—”

 

he made a vague, circling motion with his hand

 

“—give me something. Anything. Because right now, I’m seeing you damn near tear your circuits out over someone you used to be ‘friends’ with, and it’s not adding up.”

 

Tenna’s jaw flexed. “Used to,” he muttered under his breath.

 

Mike caught it. 

 

“Yeah. Used to. What happened?”

 

Tenna leaned back in his chair, screen flickering as he searched for the right words — or maybe for an excuse to not say them. 

 

“We… had a falling out.”

 

Mike snorted. 

 

“Understatement of the year.”

 

Tenna shot him a look. 

 

“Drop it.”

 

“Not a chance.”

 

Mike’s tone sharpened, just enough to cut through Tenna’s walls without going full confrontation. 

 

“You’re sittin’ here like the sky’s falling. I’ve seen you tank bad reviews, lawsuits, hell — even Spamton walking out. But this?” 

 

He gestured toward the couch where you lay. 

 

“This has you twisted in knots.”

 

Tenna looked away, with a hand now tightening on the armrest. 

 

“…You wouldn’t get it.”

 

Mike shrugged. 

 

“Then make me get it.”

“…We were close,”

 

he said finally, voice quieter than Mike expected. 

 

“Like… really close. Spent years together. School, performances, early gigs. They were—” 

 

He cut himself off, teeth clenching before he continued. 

 

“They were my best friend. And then I…” 

 

He exhaled sharply. 

 

“I messed it all up.”

 

Mike stayed still, letting him talk.

 

“When I started getting big, I… didn’t handle it well. I treated them bad. Like they didn’t matter. Like they weren’t the reason I even got that far.”  

 

He let the admission sit heavy in the room. 

 

“So one day they got sick of it and… left. I didn’t see them again until the day they walked into the studio to ‘fix’ it.”

 

Mike shook his head slowly. 

 

“Still I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t you tell me any of this before?”

 

Tenna’s gaze stayed pinned to the coffee table, his fingers were now locked so tight together that the seams in his gloves strained.

 

“…Because I’m ashamed I screwed it up,” 

 

he admitted, voice low. 

 

“I wish it never happened, so I acted like it didn’t. Didn’t tell anyone about our friendship. Not you, not Spamton, not anyone.” 

 

His screen faltered, its brightness threatening to fade, the edges glowing with static.

 

“If I ignored that we ever happened, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much. Maybe it’d feel like there was nothing to lose in the first place.”

 

Mike sat back, his confusion giving way to something deeper. He didn’t push — maybe because he could see Tenna was already at his limit.

 

The silence that stretched between them now wasn’t from anger or tension — it was heavy with sadness, with a kind of understanding neither wanted to sit in for too long. 

 

Tenna couldn’t even bring himself to look in Mike’s direction… or yours. It was like he’d been pulled straight back to when it all fell apart — back to being the same asshole who’d made a fool of you to begin with.

 

“You’re not the brightest in the room by a long shot, and yeah, you’ve got a few screws loose.”

 

Mike let out a sigh, then kept going.

 

“But you’re not broken , Ant. You made mistakes — so what? That comes with the business.”

 

Tenna finally glanced up at him, lifting his head just enough to meet his face.

 

“And [Y/N]… they’ve messed up too. You two numb nuts have hurt each other — maybe you more so — but still, you’ve both done damage.”

 

Mike caught the way Tenna sank back into his chair at those words, his screen dimming like it might black out entirely.

 

“But hey — if there’s one thing I know, it’s that they still care about you. Even if they don’t wanna.”

 

Just as quickly as he’d slumped, Tenna perked up at that — at what it implied.

 

“R-really?”

 

Mike couldn’t help but smile. Some things about this guy would never change, would they?

 

“Yeah, really. They talk about you all the time, and they give you those googly eyes every time you’re on stage. I didn’t even need you to admit you’ve been hooking up to know there’s still something there.”

 

Tenna caught on the last sentence, a faint pink flashing across his screen. He turned away, bringing a hand to his mouth to cough.

 

Mike’s lips twitched. The whole thing amused him — you two acted like high schoolers with crushes, even with the very obvious fact you two already boned. Confusing pair, that was for sure.

 

“Also, one last thing,” 

 

Mike said, deciding not to push Tenna’s embarrassment any further.

 

“You can tell me stuff like this. I’m your guy, Ant — remember? I’ve dealt with way worse than some old mess-up you had with someone. I’m in your corner. Always.”

 

Tenna’s shoulders eased, a small smile settling. Mike really had been the one keeping him together all this time, and he didn’t deserve him.

 

“…Thanks, Mike.”

 

Before either of them could say anything sappy enough to make it weird, the rushing water from down the hall went silent. A moment later, Ramb strode in, drying his hands on a towel.

 

“Right,”

 

Ramb said, voice steady but urgent. 

 

“Bath’s ready — let’s hope this does the trick.” 

 

His eyes twitched toward you on the couch, worry deeply woven into his features.

 

Tenna didn’t waste a second. He rose from his chair and bent over you, slipping his arms beneath your limp form. You were far too light in his hold, and it made something clench hard in his chest.

 

As he lifted you, he let himself glance down at your face — at the fever-flushed skin, the way your lashes stuck faintly from sweat. Please wake up, he thought, tightening his grip. If this works… maybe I can finally make up for everything.

 

Without another word, he carried you down the hall.

Notes:

I head cannon that Ramb has maternal instincts.

Chapter 30: Reunited

Summary:

You finally figure out what’s causing the flashes of yellow and pink, and the splitting headaches.

Notes:

This might be the most fun I’ve had writing a chapter for this story yet, or hell even just writing in general. I hope you all enjoy >:)

You opened your eyes to a sea of black.

 

It wasn’t night. Night had stars, or streetlights, or something to break it apart. This was thicker — like ink spilling over everything, staining your skin.

 

You lifted your hands into view, half-expecting them to melt away like the rest of the world. But they stayed. Pale shapes against the dark, almost too bright, like they hadn’t belong here.

 

Beneath you, the ground wasn’t solid. It shifted, bending and rippling with each step, like you were walking across the skin of a black ocean. Every movement pulled you deeper, though you weren’t sure if you were walking forward… or sinking.

 

The space around you felt impossibly vast and yet suffocatingly small — like standing inside a black hole. Or maybe… this was death?

 

 

If so, what a letdown.

 

Still, there was a strange peace to it. Nothing to fight, nothing to chase. Just you, drifting forward without knowing where, when, or even how.

 

 

Until a cold shiver slid up your spine.

 

 

It started in your back — a prickle, sharp and invasive.

 

 

Eyes. You could feel them, cutting through you like they wanted to pry apart every inch, peel back your skin, and peer into the mechanisms of your insides.

 

It made your stomach turn.

 

You snapped your head back, desperate to catch whatever had been watching you — but there was nothing. Just the same swallowing black as before.

 

Only then did you realize you’d been holding your breath. You let it out in a shaky exhale, trying to brush it off, chalking it up to nerves. This place was strange. Unsettling. No wonder your mind was playing tricks on you.

 

 

You turned forward again, ready to resume your endless wandering—

—and froze.

 

 

Two enormous spheres hovered only inches from your face. One glowed yellow, the other pink—the same colors that had been searing into your vision for the last twenty-four hours.

 

 

They didn’t blink. They didn’t move. They only stared.

 

 

A scream ripped from your throat as you stumbled back, crashing to the rippling surface below. The pupils followed you in perfect sync, tracking every twitch, every scramble, as if they had no intention of ever letting you go.

 

You didn’t know why two simple eyes could scare you this much—only that there was something profoundly wrong about them. Something that told you they were utterly sinister.

 

Before you could even process the eyes, white teeth began tearing through the black beneath them— biting, ripping their way to the surface. They curled into an impossible grin, stretching far wider than the eyes above it, as if the smile itself wanted to swallow you whole.

 

Then it spoke.

 

“Do not be afraid.”

 

It’s voice slithered into your head, smooth yet barbed at each word.

 

The figure leaned lower, closing the distance until it was level with you. It peeled itself away from the surrounding dark — a shape made of the same black, yet somehow distinct from it. Two pointed ears crowned its head, the suggestion of a half-formed tail curling behind it. A cat? Was that what it was trying to be? The thought felt like a sick joke.

 

The tail moved, its sharpened tip hooking beneath your chin. Even the slightest wrong move would’ve let it cut you open. The touch was so cold — the kind of cold that didn’t belong to anything living, a cold without blood, without circulation.

 

It tilted your head up until you met those eyes again.

 

“I’m your friend.”

 

If it expected you to answer, you couldn’t.

All you could do was stare — trembling under it’s gaze.

 

 

You wanted to go home.

 

 

You didn’t want to be here.

 

 

 

The smile didn’t move.

 

 

Neither did the eyes.

 

 

 

They just… waited.

 

 

A slow, deliberate tap echoed under your chin — the point of it’s tail pressing in ever so slightly, enough to make your skin tingle.

 

“You are far, far, far from home.”

 

The words dripped out slowly, each far stretching longer than the last. Its pupils never wavered, drilling into you as if they could pin you in place.

 

“Ohhh… you poor, poor thing.”

 

The laugh that followed was low, crunchy, and mean — the kind of sound that told you it wasn’t laughing with you.

 

You were still too stunned — too taken aback — to speak.

 

The creature tilted its head in front of you, slow and deliberate, studying you the way someone might examine a broken toy… deciding whether you were worth fixing, or just pulling apart to see what lies beneath.

 

“You’ve been walking a long time haven’t you?” 

 

it murmured, voice filling your mind like smoke.

 

“Always forward. Always working. But never… getting anywhere.”

 

It’s grin widened — a sharp, glinting crescent.

 

“You must be tired of that.”

 

The swaying black beneath you quivered, and the darkness around you began to swirl — not forming shapes yet, just the hint of something circling, closing in.

 

“I know what you are,”

 

it went on, eyes gleaming. 

 

“You fix things. Broken things. Broken places. Broken people.”

 

It tilted its head the other way.

 

“Always have. It’s why they call you. Why they need you. You’re passed around like a shiny new tool… until you’re worn down. Then it's the next place, next problem, next person to lift up.”

 

It’s smile stretched somehow further, teeth glinting like they’d been polished just for you.

 

“And every time… every time, you bleed yourself dry for them. And when you’re done? When there’s nothing left of you worth taking?”

 

It’s voice dipped low, almost a purr.

 

“They toss you aside and send you somewhere else to start all over again.”

 

You forced yourself to steady, refusing to bite at it’s words.

 

“W-what… are you?”

 

The question seemed to stall it for a moment. Then it broke into another fit of laughter — sudden, wild, and echoing through the void. The sound rattled in your skull, vibrating in your bones, until it felt like the very air was tightening around your throat.

 

It’s laughter was strangling you.

 

“You fool, I already told you.”

 

It’s grin split wider.

 

“I’m your friend.”

 

You didn’t press further. Some instinct told you that asking the wrong question here wouldn’t just earn you an answer — it might result in you being hurt.

 

“What—what do you… want from me?”

 

You tried to keep your voice as normal as possible, but it came out thin, frayed at certain syllables.

 

The creature’s smile faltered — just a fraction — at your question. A bead of hot sweat slid down your temple.

 

“I want to help you…”

 

It let the words hang in the air, curling around you, waiting for you to breathe them in. Then the grin spread, sloppy yet calculated.

 

 

“Dead…”

 

It’s pupils narrowed.

 

“…weight.”

 

 

 

You felt the air leave your lungs.

 

 

 

How did this thing know that—about that phrase?

 

 

 

You could throw up right now.

 

 

 

You swallowed hard, but the motion caught halfway, lodging in your throat.

 

 

 

“Ugly little thing, isn’t it?” 

 

 

it murmured. 

 

 

“It clings. Doesn’t wash off. Even now, it’s sitting there… rotting the entirety of you.”

 

You shook your head, but the void seemed to tilt with the motion, as though gravity had been swapped out for something else entirely — something that dragged you toward it.

 

“I’ve seen the way you carry it,” 

 

it went on, tone almost admiring. 

 

“Like a stone in your pocket. Heavy, always there, but you’ve convinced yourself it’s part of you.”

 

It leaned closer, the darkness around its shape bleeding into yours.

 

“Tell me, little fixer… how many places did you go before you realized you were always dragging the same weight behind you?”

 

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

 

The rippling ground beneath you heaved — a slow, gasping pulse — as if the black was choking.

 

It’s tail traced a slow line along your jaw, cold enough to make your teeth ache.

 

“I know when it started,” 

 

it said, the smile finally shrinking into something tighter, hungrier. 

 

“I know who made sure you’d never be rid of it.”

 

The yellow and pink eyes flared, bright enough to burn in your vision again.

 

 

 

“Do you want to see him?”

 

 

 

Before you could answer, the black around you rippled once more — not outward, but inward — collapsing into itself like water down a drain.

 

 

A sudden, blinding white flash scorched your sight.

 

 

When the glare eased, the darkness had peeled back.

 

 

 

You were standing in a hallway.

 

 

 

Not in it — above it, somehow. Like the floor was glass and you were floating just far enough away to see everything without touching it.

 

 

You knew this place.

 

 

College. The old theater wing. Posters from long-forgotten productions lined the walls, fading at the corners. The air below shimmered faintly with warmth, smelling of dust, paint, and hairspray.

 

Your younger self walked into view, lugging a tote bag and laughing at something — something he had just said.

 

Tenna was leaning against the wall, younger too, his glow softer, his frame looser. He was looking at you — at them — with that grin you remembered so well. The scene was golden, almost idyllic, and for a moment you felt the faint echo of how light your chest used to feel.

 

 

 

Then the air around the memory warped.

 

 

 

The outlines of the hallway bled into shadow. The colors thickened until they looked painted on, and Tenna’s smile… didn’t quite match him anymore.

 

 

The laughter in the scene slowed, lowering in pitch until it was unfamiliar.

 

 

 

“Sweet, isn’t it?”

 

 

Friend’s voice smothered in, though you couldn’t see them.

 

 

“You think this was friendship. Partnership. Two stars burning brighter than ever. But that’s not what he saw that day.”

 

 

The scene below flickered.

 

Now it was the theater classroom on your first day. The younger you sat alone, scanning the syllabus. Across the room, Tenna’s gaze landed on you.

 

 

Friend’s voice curled tighter.

 

 

“No… he saw something else. Someone small. Someone quiet. Someone who wouldn’t block his light. Someone to hold his coat while he climbed to the top.”

 

 

The Tenna in the memory tilted his head, his smile shifted into something faintly devious.

 

 

“He knew you’d work. That you’d fix what he broke. That you’d hold him when he fell. And you’d do it without asking for anything back.”

 

 

The younger you looked down at your notebook, shoulders tucked inward, and Tenna’s grin in the scene looked wicked.

 

 

“He saw you as a rung on the ladder. And you? You never once made him think you’d fight back.”

 

 

The image blurred, colors running like wet paint until the scene dissolved completely.

 

The void swallowed you again.

 

 

Friend was there — teeth glistening, eyes still too bright — and its tail now coiled lazily around your midsection, pulling you back until you could feel the cold press of it against your ribs. Each breath you took made the coil shift, tightening just enough to remind you it was there.

 

 

“And yet…” 

 

the voice lowered then rose, almost amused.

 

 “…you still came back to him.”

 

 

The grin widened, teeth glinting like tiny knives, eager to cut into you.

 

 

“Tell me, deadweight…” 

 

the tail flexed slightly, holding you still, 

 

“…is that loyalty? Or desperation?”

 

 

You tried to regulate your breathing, but every rise of your chest — every inhale cut short — only made its tail constrict tighter around you.

 

 

“That’s— that’s n-not how it was. It wasn’t… like that.”

 

 

It fixed you with the same unblinking, burning stare it had worn since the moment it revealed itself. Then its pupils flicked upward, a twitch preceding its sudden, jagged laugh. The tail loosened without warning, and you stumbled, instinctively clutching your torso where its grip had been crushing you moments ago.

 

 

“Your impertinence toward yourself truly entertains me!”

 

 

It turned away, sitting away from you against the black. The weight of its glare lifted, and you allowed yourself the smallest feeling of relief—until its face morphed to the back of it’s head. The same eyes, the same grin, now staring at you from where there should’ve been nothing. The expression drank in the shock on your face, savoring every flicker of unease at its impossible movement.

 

“I don’t see how you question me, what I’ve observed, when I’ve been there for everything.”

 

It’s grin deepened.

 

 

“You’ve forgotten so much,” 

 

it purred. 

 

“Let me… remind you.”

 

 

The black beneath your feet shivered, then this time split open like a yawning mouth. Light bled through the cracks — but not warm, golden light. This was pale, artificial, almost clinical. It wrapped around you, and before you could move, the tail cinched around your middle again, pulling you down into it.

 

 

 

You blinked, and the void was gone.

 

 

In its place — a stage.

 

 

A theater stage.

 

 

You knew the show instantly, the set pieces, the backdrop you’d helped paint. You remembered the sweat, the late nights, the endless adjustments no one else had been willing to make.

 

 

In the wings, unseen, stood the past you.

 

 

At center stage, Tenna bowed to the roaring applause, his glow brighter than the spotlights. The air shook with the sound of his name. And just behind him, your work — your set, your props — framed him like a crown he hadn’t earned.

 

 

“See?” 

 

 

Friend’s voice was velvet against your ear, though it  had disappeared again. You couldn’t help how your body shuddered.

 

 

“Even then… he made sure you were only a shadow.”

 

 

 

The scene warped.

 

 

 

The image shimmered — and in its place, the meeting. That meeting. 

 

 

The studio. The table. The entire crew watched as Tenna leaned back in his chair and made that little remark — the one that sliced you open in front of everyone, the one that made your chest seize and your vision blur. You remembered the heat in your face, the way your throat closed, how you couldn’t help the tears from spilling in front of everyone.

 

 

Friend’s voice slid in, cruel and knowing.

 

 

“He didn’t just let them see you crack… he made sure they did.”

 

 

The scene didn’t freeze this time. It played over and over, each loop slower than the last — Tenna’s smirk, the ripple of awkward laughter, the moment your expression broke.

 

 

“All those eyes on you — and not one of them seeing what you’d actually done. Only the mess he left you in.”

 

 

 

Another shift — faster this time, like someone flipping through a photo album too quickly.

 

 

 

Your college mid semester showcase. You’d handled the props, the lighting cues, even rewritten half the dialogue to keep the scene from falling apart. In the memory, Tenna stood before the professor, smiling wide as they called him the genius behind it all.

 

 

The applause rang again. 

 

 

Louder.

 

 

It hurt more than you expected.

 

 

“Funny,” 

 

 

Friend said, almost sing-song. 

 

 

“No matter the year, no matter the place… he’s always the star, and you’re always the one making sure that it stays that way.”

 

 

The memories began to stack on each other — flashes of you in the corner of rehearsal photos, half out of frame in cast parties, standing behind Tenna at interviews, watching his name go up in bold while yours stayed off the board.

 

 

And always, always, he was smiling.

 

 

The scene slowed. Tenna was on stage again, waving to the crowd. Somewhere in the dark, you stood still, always unseen.

 

 

Friend’s voice cracked through the silence.

 

 

“Tell me, little fixer… when did you decide that was enough for you?”

 

 

The scenes bled into each other, colors running until they dissolved into nothing.

 

 

The stage. The studio. The hallway. All of it melted back into black.

 

 

Only the eyes remained — two omniscient orbs suspended in the void, watching you as the rest of the world drained away.

 

 

A slow, sinuous movement brushed against your side. Cold and warm all at once, as if your body couldn’t decide how to register it. Friend itself coiled around you, this time without the crushing pressure. Its form moved like liquid shadow, weightless and inescapable, circling you until you couldn’t tell where it began and where you ended.

 

The sensation of its touch was… wrong. 

 

Not pleasant. Not painful. Just indescribable — like the air itself was folding around your skin in ways it shouldn’t. You couldn’t even be sure it was touch at all; it felt more like it was inside the silhouette of you, tracing it from within.

 

 

“You’ve done so much,” 

 

 

Friend murmured, and the words slid in like silk through your ribcage.

 

 

“All those places you’ve held together. All those messes you’ve fixed. All those people who would have drowned without you.”

 

 

The tail’s point traced a path along your spine, slow, intentional, making your breath hitch.

 

 

“You built entire worlds for them to stand on… and you let them plant their flags in your work.”

 

 

The grin widened, sharp as ever, but the voice softened, almost reverent.

 

 

“That takes more than talent, little fixer. That takes strength. Vision. Brilliance.”

 

 

Your throat felt tight.

 

 

The tail wound higher, brushing your collarbone now, cold enough to make your teeth ache again — but not pulling. Not forcing. Just there.

 

 

“You think you have to work yourself hollow for scraps of recognition,” 

 

 

Friend went on, each word tagging into your skin like a hook.

 

 

“But you don’t. You never did. You don’t have to lift everyone else just to prove you’re worth seeing.”

 

 

The eyes pulsed faintly — once, twice — their glow washing over you in waves.

 

 

“I could change that for you,” 

 

 

it whispered.

 

 

“I could make them see you. Not your work, not the insignificant things you hold together — you.”

 

 

The grin lingered as they leaned in, so close you swore you could feel the shape of their smile brushing your ear.

 

 

“Say the word, little fixer… and I’ll make sure you’re never in the shadows again.”

 

 

For the first time in a long while, you realized it was actually expecting a response from you.

 

 

Or… not a response.

 

 

Just for you to nod. To agree. To step into whatever it was so neatly laying out in front of you.

 

 

But instead—

 

 

“…No,” 

 

 

you said, faster than you intended.

 

 

The word scraped your throat raw, bitter and metallic, like you’d bitten down on your own voice until it bled.

 

 

 

“He—” 

 

 

you stuttered, the image of Tenna’s intentional smirk in that meeting still flickering in your head, 

 

 

“—we were friends. It wasn’t… fake. Not all of it.”

 

 

You almost wished you’d kept it in your head instead of speaking, because saying it out loud made you hear the wobble in your own voice — the way you were trying to convince yourself just as much as it was.

 

 

The black around you seemed to still.

 

 

No swirling. No pulsing. Just the weight of its gaze, heavy enough to empty you out.

 

 

For a moment, you thought you’d broken something in it.

 

 

The smile didn’t move, but the air tightened.

 

And then—

 

 

The grin twitched. Not warmer, not softer — just… altered.

 

Like it had remembered a different way to play the game.

 

 

“Oh… I see,” 

 

 

Friend murmured, it’s voice slipping from sharp glass to slow honey. The tail shifted lazily at your side, brushing along your arm in a touch — just enough to make your skin crawl with the urge to shiver.

 

 

“We can pretend, if you like.”

 

 

It leaned back in, the black curling tighter around your legs, your ribs, your throat — not choking, but close enough to make you aware of how easily it could.

 

 

“Tell me, deadweight… if he were really your friend… why is it so easy for me to fill your head with all the things he’s taken from you?”

 

 

The memories behind you rippled faintly, waiting to be pulled forward again.

 

Friend’s grin stretched until it looked like it might split its face in two.

 

 

 

The black quivered around you — not with stillness, but like water boiling over. It bled into images that weren’t quite right.

 

 

 

 

The green room. Tenna slumped in a chair, bottle at his side, screen flickering. In the real memory, his voice had been soft, your name slurred in something like affection. But here, his screen was lacking any care. His mouth moved, but no sound came — only a distorted, metallic hum that rattled your guts.

 

 

Friend’s voice crawled in over it, cold and close.

 

 

“He wasn’t talking to you. He never was. Just to the version of you that would pick him up and keep him standing when he’d already fallen.”

 

 

 

The walls bent inward, narrowing your view. The floor squirmed under your feet, and then—

 

 

 

Your old victory. Tenna’s office. In reality, you’d stood tall, boxing his things while the door loomed empty. Now he was there in the doorway, shoulders relaxed, smirk carved deep into his face. His hand rested on the frame like it was a leash. The shadows behind him weren’t still — they bristled, shifted, whispering.

 

 

“Even when you won,” 

 

 

Friend taunted, 

 

 

“you only walked away with the scraps he let you have. A throne of rust. A crown of dust.”

 

 

 

The scene smeared into the hallway. Your first public argument after returning. His words — in the real moment — had been cruel, but here they tore from his mouth warped and doubled, each sentence stretched into something indecipherable. 

 

 

“You argued. You snapped. But none of it was real.” 

 

 

Its tail shifted suddenly, no longer just pressing in — the sharpened tip slid across your back.

 

You hissed as a thin line of heat bloomed, sticky warmth soaking into your shirt.

 

 

“Because some part of you… knew he was right.”

 

 

The images tangled, bleeding into one another. His fake apology, his mocking laughter when you froze on stage back in school, the way he’d looked at you at the gala before—

 

 

“You think these moments mean anything? That they prove something about him? No.” 

 

 

Friend’s voice cracked high, manic. 

 

 

“They prove something about you. That you will always crawl back to the same hand that strikes you, that you will hold the knife for them, sharpen it, and thank them when it’s your back they bury it in.”

 

 

You couldn’t catch your breath. The void spun with fragments — his smirk, his laugh, his glare, each one jerking into the next so fast it felt like you were falling between them.

 

 

Friend’s teeth caught the light — or maybe they made it — eyes blazing with sick delight.

 

 

“You are a stage,” 

 

 

it hissed. 

 

 

“Flat and steady and unremarkable. Built for him to stand on. Built for him to be seen. And you—” 

 

 

it’s voice fractured into a dozen echoes—

 

 

“you were built to be stepped on.”

 

 

Your chest was tight. Too tight. The swirl of sights and sounds was pulling you under, filling every inch of you until you couldn’t tell which memories were real anymore.

 

 

 

Then—

 

Silence.

 

 

 

 

 

The void cracked open.

 

 

 

 

You were on stage. Lights burned overhead, hot and blinding. A crowd stretched before you, packed and roaring. Applause swelled until it vibrated the air. Their cheers hit you like a wall, too loud, too real.

 

 

The applause washed over you in waves.

 

 

It wasn’t for him.

 

 

Not this time.

 

 

 

Every face in the crowd was turned to you. Their mouths moved in cheers you couldn’t quite hear over the thrum in your own head — the heady rush of being the one at the center. The lights burned bright, too bright, but they didn’t make you flinch. They crowned you, poured gold over your shoulders, made every inch of you gleam.

 

 

Friend’s voice slipped in, warm as sunlight.

 

 

“Look at them. Look at them. This is where you belong.”

 

 

You didn’t need to move. You didn’t need to say a word. The crowd screamed for you anyway.

 

 

“They adore you,” 

 

 

Friend praised. 

 

 

“And they could always adore you. You’d never have to stand in the background again. No more stammering in the dark, no more choking on words while he basks in the spotlight.”

 

 

You felt the weight of the mic in your hand — not heavy, not choking, just right.

 

 

“I could make it easy,” 

 

 

Friend whispered, circling unseen.

 

 

“That shaking in your bones before every stage? Gone. That suffocating panic when the room turns to you? Gone. The studio? Yours. The name on the marquee? Yours. Mike, Ramb — they’d follow you without question, just like the rest of the crew.”

 

 

The crowd swelled, chanting something you couldn’t make out but knew in your heart it was your name.

 

 

“You wouldn’t make them fear you. You wouldn’t work them into the ground and snap when they falter. You’d be a good leader. A real boss.”

 

 

The words floated around your spine, sliding upward until they warmed the back of your neck.

 

 

“You were always the star. He…” 

 

 

Friend’s laugh was slow, paced. 

 

 

“…he was the jester. The loud little idiot who danced for attention while you carried everything beneath him.”

 

 

Your heart thudded in your throat. The cheers rose higher, filling every inch of the space, pressing into you like they might lift you off the ground.

 

 

“Say the word,” 

 

 

Friend breathed. 

 

 

“And I will clear the way.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

You couldn’t help it.

 

 

You smiled.

 

 

 

It started small, barely a curve, but the more the crowd roared, the more it spread. Your chest felt full — warm — like every empty place in you was now being filled with their voices, their praise.

 

 

 

You lifted a hand, and the cheers erupted again.

 

 

 

God, it felt so good.

 

 

 

They saw you.

 

 

 

They wanted you.

 

 

 

Every second was yours to devour, and you wanted to eat until nothing was left.

 

 

 

Friend’s voice wrapped around you cooing.

 

 

“Yesss… take it. It’s yours. The adoration. The power. The stage. All you’ve ever been denied.”

 

 

You took a step forward into the lights, letting them soak deeper into your skin. Every face blurred together into a sea of love, every chant of your name sinking deep into your bones.

 

 

“This is who you were always meant to be,” 

 

 

Friend whispered. 

 

 

“The big shot. The one they worship. No fear. No doubt. No ‘Tenna’ to steal what’s rightfully yours.”

 

 

 

Your laugh came out shaky — not from nerves, but from joy.

 

 

This was it. This was the version of you they’d never be able to ignore.

 

 

 

And then—

 

Something tugged.

 

 

 

You remembered his voice — caring, soft, certain — years ago under pale moonlight:

 

 

 

“If I get big…you’re coming too. No matter what.”

 

 

 

The memory sliced through the haze like glass.

 

 

 

You turned, half expecting to see him there, grinning at you from the wings.

 

 

But there was nothing.

 

 

No crew.

 

 

 

No set.

 

 

 

 

No Tenna.

 

 

 

Just the endless black void, gaping where the projection didn’t bother to fill in the edges.

 

 

The cheers dulled to a low hum, distant, unreal.

 

 

Your stomach dropped.

 

 

“No.”

 

 

The word slipped out, and it hung in the air, cutting through Friend’s strings.

 

 

You couldn’t see it, but you knew your answer had made it recoil. You’d displeased it — no question.

 

 

That’s when the crowd’s faces twisted, smiles warping into snarls. They screamed — at you, for you, you couldn’t tell — as the lights fractured and the sound crashed inward like a siren.

 

 

Everything folded in on itself.

 

 

And then… silence.

 

 

 

 

You were yourself again, standing in the middle of that endless black sea. The rippling dark lapped at your feet, cold and heavy.

 

 

In front of you stood Friend.

 

 

“You are one fascinating specimen, deadweight.”

 

 

It’s tail thumped against the floor, fast and eager, like it could barely contain its glee.

 

 

“You’re not as easy as the salesman—no, no, no—but you reek of the same disease. You care for that fool. Just the same as that pitiful, deteriorating puppet.”

 

 

It threw it’s head back. Laughter tore out, wet and unhinged, rattling its frame. It’s tail lashed like a whip, wagging in vicious delight, every thump a twisted applause. 

 

The sound of your future misery was sweet music, and it danced in it.

 

 

“And when your dear jester’s fate arrives—” 

 

 

it hissed between bursts of laughter, body shaking, 

 

 

“you’ll both splinter—tear—fall apart in the exact same way.”

 

 

It hummed, voice syrup-smooth, expression unchanged — except for it’s pupils. They’d shrunk to pinpricks, no longer wide and dilated, but sharp and unblinking.

 

 

It didn’t move closer to you this time.

 

 

If anything, it seemed to pull back — the edges of its form blending into the void again, like it was reminding you it didn’t have to be near you to reach you.

 

 

“I will not force my treasures upon you,” 

 

 

it said at last, the words deliberate, heavy, and flat. 

 

 

“Even if your own idiocy has stripped you the right to them”

 

 

The smile lingered, but it was quieter now — not gone, just… patient.

 

 

“You’ll think of me again,” 

 

 

it murmured, almost to itself. 

 

 

“When the weight becomes too much. When he fails you again. You’ll remember who offered you everything.”

 

 

The black around it shivered, a pulse rippling outward like a heartbeat. It’s eyes narrowed. Except they looked past you, as if they were seeing something beyond the void.

 

 

“The Roaring Knight stirs,” 

 

 

it said, voice dropping into something dangerous enough to cut. 

 

 

“When they move, the lord of screens will fall by blade — no matter what you do. You cannot save him.”

 

 

You froze, the words striking something deep in your chest. 

 

 

“Step into the Knight’s path,” 

 

 

The grin curled upward again, slow and merciless.

 

 

“And you will share the same fate. Your bones will sink into the same snow as his.”

 

 

The rippling black between you both deepened, as though it was preparing to swallow you whole — but it didn’t.

 

 

Not yet.

 

 

It didn’t wait for your answer.

 

 

 

“Run back to your little stage,” 

 

 

it said, voice dripping with disdain. 

 

 

“Cling to your jester while you can. Pretend my words meant nothing.”

 

 

The void seemed to inhale, pulling on your hair, your clothes, your bones. Friend’s outline bled further into the dark until only those twin spheres of color remained — and even those began to shrink, fading like dying lights.

 

 

“You’ll see I was right.”

 

 

The black swelled upward in a single, suffocating wave.

 

 

“And when you do…”

 

 

It’s voice was a whisper, a noise that drove straight into your skull.

 

 

“…remember who was truly your friend.”

 

 

Then the black endless wave crashed over you, dragging you under.

Notes:

Hear me out…why’s friend kinda…

Chapter 31: Blood in the Water

Summary:

Tenna, Mike, and Ramb try to "wake" you up.

Notes:

SORRRY FOR THE DROUGHT FOR THE 1238912704328029830 TIME!!!!

 

I'm 21 now so that's kinda crazy, still processing that I'm not 16 anymore???? Am I unc???

ANYWAYS!!! Please enjoy <33 (sorry if this chapter is maybe all over the place in some parts I was probably intoxicated writing a good chunk of it).

Your body was lowered into the cool porcelain tub, the shock of ice water colliding with the burning heat of your fevered skin. Steam rose in thin, ghostly coils, curling upward and filling the bathroom with the sharp bite of contrast.

 

Ramb was the one to guide you down, one steady hand gripping your shoulder to keep you upright, making sure you didn’t slump beneath the surface. His usually calm expression was carved with tension, his jaw set as his other hand hovered close, ready to act if you faltered.

 

Tenna and Mike crouched at either side of him, all three huddled close by the tub. Even in that cramped space, Tenna dominated the air around them, his restless presence pressing in on everyone.

A minute crawled by in suffocating silence. 

No one dared speak. Their eyes never strayed from you — as if blinking, as if looking away for even a heartbeat, might mean losing you entirely.

 

Tenna bit his lip so hard it might’ve torn had he been made of flesh. His hands twisted uselessly in his lap, clawing and tugging at the fabric of his pants like he could rip the panic out of himself by force. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t doing anything. 

 

His body vibrated with the need to act, to fix, but all he could do was sit there and watch you, helpless.

Another minute bled past.

Ramb hadn’t moved. Neither had Mike. They were stone still, though every line of their bodies was strung tight. The bathroom was too big for a regular house and too small for three grown men suffocating on apprehension — the walls pressed inward, the silence pressing harder.

 

Tenna swallowed audibly. Beads of sweat rolled down his screen, dripping down the edges of his casting like he was the one burning up. His gaze was glued to you, unblinking, desperate. When the faintest ripple spread through the water, his hands twitched forward instinctively, ghosting over your arms as though ready to drag you out.

That was it. 

 

He couldn’t take it.

“Why—” 

his voice croaked, raw and uneven. 

“Why isn’t this working!? You — you said it w-would!!”

 

His trembling hands hovered helplessly over you, fingers curled tight as though the air itself burned.

 

For a moment, Ramb froze. His calloused hands still held you steady, making sure you knew he was there. The sharpness in Tenna’s voice stung due to them being unexpected — but he forced himself to look up, meeting the frantic static of Tenna’s screen.

 

“Tenna…” 

 

Ramb’s tone was calm, measured, like he was talking to a skittish animal. 

 

“It is working, luv. It just… takes time, that’s all.”

 

“TIME?!” 

 

Tenna’s voice cracked loud, pitching high. His hand flew to his screen as if to steady it, head tipping back when he erupted in wild, grating laughter.

 

“HAHAHA!! We don’t have time!”

 

He whipped back forward, jabbing a finger toward your limp form in the bath — water lapping gently at your shoulders, peaceful in spite of the ironic circumstance.

 

“LOOK at them, Ramb! They’re NOT moving, they’re—”

 

Before Tenna could escalate further, Mike set a firm hand on his shoulder. His gaze flicked from Ramb to Tenna.

 

“Slow your roll, Ant. You really think they’re not fighting right now? That kid’s giving it everything they’ve got— I know it. The best thing we can do is give them time, and make sure they’ve got the right environment to pull through.”

 

He gave Tenna’s shoulder a squeeze, steady and grounding, even as Tenna stared at him blankly.

 

“Losing your head won’t help them,” 

 

Mike added, his voice low but unshakable. 

 

“And it sure as hell ain’t helping you.”

 

The words seemed to slip right past Tenna, landing somewhere far away. His whole body looked wired wrong — jittering, over-surging. He broke his glare with Mike, twisting his face away like looking in his direction alone gutted him.

 

One hand tugged back on the top of his head, forcing his antennae to roll stiffly with the movement. The other hung in the air, trembling, fingers bent tight like he couldn’t decide whether to claw or cling.

Then his gaze snapped back to you.

Lifeless.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—FUCK!!”

 

Tenna slammed his fist against the edge of the tub. Porcelain cracked with a violent, ugly sound, a fractured line spidering out beneath his knuckles.

 

“HAHAHA!!! Call someone—get someone here— oh god, oh god!! YOU TWO DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE DOING!!! FUCK, I DON’T EITHER—HAHAHA!!! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK—”

 

Ramb and Mike flinched, exchanging frightened, uneasy looks at Tenna’s sudden eruption. This wasn’t just one of his tantrums. 

 

This was worse.

 

Tenna staggered upright from the tub, clawing at his shirt like it was strangling him. The room was closing in, suffocating, every wall pressing tighter, tighter. His arms flailed, hands jerking through every gesture he could muster, desperate for something— anything —to ease the sight in front of him.

You. Silent in that tub. Not moving. Not speaking. Barely breathing.

He screwed up again. Worse than before. So much worse.

Because now? You’re not here. Not to yell, not to cry, not to scream and insult and prove you were still alive.

You’re not here at all.

And that was wrong. So, so, so wrong.

He should’ve kept you away. He should’ve made sure you never came back. But he was selfish— always selfish —and of course he ruined it, ruined you. That’s all he ever did. Everything he touched rotted. Everyone he touched broke.

 

His hands shook, pulling harder at his shirt. Buttons threatening to pop off. He should’ve never set his grasp on you in the first place.

Never again.

But promises didn’t mean anything coming from him. 

They never did. 

So now, here he was again — rock bottom for what felt like the hundredth time — falling back on the only thing he knew: lashing out at the last people still stupid enough to try to help him.

 

He snapped his head toward Ramb, his whole body trembling — not just from rage, but from the raw, choking fear of what might become reality any second. His teeth bared, feral, like he was about to lunge.

 

“You’re good for nothing, y’know that?! NOTHING!! All you do is make stupid drinks, NOTHING ELSE! HAHAHA! Why did I ever think YOU could be of ANY use?! You’re a NOBODY!!”

 

Ramb held his stare, unmoving, keeping you straight against his arms. But the flick in his expression—the faint crease in his brow—protrayed that the words had landed, at least a little.

 

Mike, on the other hand, was fuming now. His teeth tightened, and the anger in his expression was unmistakable. He wasn’t about to sit there and let this washed-up man baby tear into someone as sweet as Ramb for trying his absolute best.

 

Despite being the smaller one, Mike stood up, planting himself directly in Tenna’s view—blocking Ramb from his line of fire.

 

“Alright,” 

 

he muttered, voice low but sharp.

 

“You’re way outta line. Apologize.”

 

Tenna froze for a beat, barely processing what had just been said. Then he leaned down, meeting Mike’s glare head-on.

 

“Apologize? APOLOGIZE?! That’s hilarious!” 

 

His chest rumbled into another bitter laugh. 

 

“Yeah, sure—let me apologize to the two people letting the person I care about most DIE in my own house! Oh, yeah, that sounds REALLL reasonable!”

 

Mike let out a clipped exhale before firing back.

 

“Yeah, well, wise guy—at least we’re doing something. You’re just standing here throwing a fit. If [Y/N] was awake, they’d put you in your place too. You’re not helping anyone . So if all you’re gonna do is screech and holler, then get out—we don’t need you here.”

 

“Mikey, it’s fine.”

 

Ramb cut in gently, leaning to the side so Tenna could see him past Mike.

 

“Tenna, I get it. This is stressful, and it’s gotta hurt like hell. Me and Mikey didn’t have to see what happened, but… I bet it wasn’t pretty, was it?”

 

Tenna froze, thrown off by the sudden kindness after all the venom he’d just spewed.

 

But Ramb didn’t stop—he offered him a soft, reassuring smile.

 

“I’m here for you too, Tenna. Not just [Y/N]. Yeah, I’m worried about them, but I wanna make sure you’re okay too, luv.”

Tenna’s face twitched, caught between anger and collapse. His expression flickered—snarling one second, brows lifting into a pained frown the next, only to snap back again. Finally, he buried both hands over his face with a strangled grunt, tilting his head back.

“UUUGGggggGgggghH—god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—I d-didn’t mean it, I just…oh god, I’m gonna be s-sick—”

The words tumbled out in fractured pieces, his fingers clawing down his face. Ramb shot Tenna a look, trying to calm him even as his own hands stayed busy. Mike’s jaw locked hard, every muscle wound tight, ready to bicker more—

And then the sound ripped through all of it.

A cough.

Violent. Wet. Dragging.

Your body jolted in the water, chest convulsing as more coughs tore out of you, the ice and water sloshing over the porcelain.

All three of them froze.

Then— panic.

Tenna nearly toppled into the tub crouching back down, hands hovering uselessly in the air like he was afraid to even touch you. Ramb shifted instantly, cradling your shoulders to keep you upright as your lungs rattled. Mike shoved closer, one hand on the back of your head, the other snapping at Tenna—

“Don’t just sit there bozo, MOVE!!”

The bathroom, once filled with shouting, was suddenly filled with chaos of a different kind.

Your vision was blurry — you couldn’t really make anything out. Everything was just blobs of distorted shapes and colors, but you could still tell things were moving.

 

You kept blinking slowly, relieved each time your eyes shifted and the blur sharpened just a little more.

 

The harsh white surrounding you made you wince. It was such a jarring contrast to where you’d just been — swallowed by pitch blackness.

 

Finally, you managed to steady yourself enough to look down. A bath? You thought so, at least. You were still in your work clothes. Thank god you hadn’t been wearing socks. 

 

You hated wet socks.

 

Weakly, you turned your head to the left. Ramb was the first thing your eyes caught. He looked happy to see you — meeting your gaze with the same smile he always had when he made you a drink after a particularly rough shift, though this time he looked more tired.

 

“Welcome back, luv. You sure put us through a scare now, didn’t ya?”

 

Just hearing anything right now made you wince. The sound cut too intensely, too filling, and you shifted suddenly in the bath — water splashing over the rim. Your head throbbed like you’d somehow sprained it.

 

When you turned to your left again, you caught sight of two more figures beside Ramb. Mike and Tenna were huddled next to him, all three staring at you like you might break apart at any second.

 

Their fear was obvious — but Tenna’s especially. He looked like his motherboard was seconds from blowing out.

 

After a few moments of silence, you managed to croak out:

 

“…W-why are you weirdos watching me… take a bath?”

 

They stared at you for a few long seconds before Mike finally broke. A laugh slipped out of him — genuine, warm, his shoulders shaking with the sound. Ramb snickered too, caught somewhere between Mike’s reaction and the dawning realization of how absurd this must look from your perspective.

 

Tenna, though, didn’t move. He didn’t laugh, didn’t even flinch. His gaze stayed locked on you, unblinking, like he wasn’t convinced you were really here at all.

 

Everything in your body felt numb. Your limbs floated aimlessly in the water, drifting without purpose. The only thing you could really feel was your head—its slow, pounding pulse left behind by whatever that thing had done to get inside it.

 

“Let’s get you out before you get hypothermia, huh, kid?”

 

Mike’s voice cut through the haze, regular and unshaken. He seemed far less rattled than the others now — like he’d been sure you’d wake up all along.

 

You just nodded. Even forming words felt exhausting right now.

 

Ramb kept his hands firm on your shoulders as you slung an arm around his neck. Mike stepped back to give you room, watching as Ramb guided you carefully toward the edge of the tub. His grip slipped lower across your back to help you give yourself leverage—

—and you screamed as your foot skidded out from under you, tumbling in place with a splash.

 

Before you fell down, you caught a glimpse of Mike and Ramb’s horrified faces at your sudden scream. Ramb’s hand, the one that pressed against your back, was soaked in blood. You braced yourself for the impact — only to be stopped, just like before, by two large hands catching you under the arms.

 

Tenna.

 

He wasn’t frozen with fear like the others. His screen flickered faintly, his expression tight as if he were biting something back. Nervous. Strained.

 

Your face locked with his.

 

It was overwhelming, almost unbearable, but necessary. In a single stare, a thousand things passed between you—unspoken sentences, feelings too broken to name. You saw how much this had affected him, how desperately worried he was, how terrified he was of losing you again after finally getting you back.

 

And you? You looked at him with something dangerously close to relief. He was real. Not some cruel memory twisting itself in your mind. He was still here — to catch you, to comfort you, to prove he hadn’t left your side. Even after you treated him like shit.

 

Without a word, Tenna turned you slightly, angling you with ease just to get a better look at your backside. Ramb gasped, and out of the corner of your eye you caught Mike cringing.

 

Before you could even question their reactions, your feet left the ground. Tenna scooped you up carefully, pulling you into his arms in a way that made sure your back never touched anything. He didn’t care that you were soaked — water began to seep into him too as he carried you out of the bathroom.

 

“T-Tenna, wait!!”

 

Ramb shouted after him, but Tenna was already gone.

From your place in his arms, you couldn’t stop staring at him. Draped there so naturally, you almost laughed at the absurdity. 

 

If the you from a few months ago could see this? They’d for sure have an aneurysm. 

 

Normally, you’d also be mortified — yelling at him for manhandling you, spitting some sarcastic remark. But right now? 

 

Right now, this was exactly what you needed. 

 

Something solid. Something real. Something grounding.

 

You managed to breathe out a few words.

 

“I’m… s-sorry.”

 

Tenna was shocked at you speaking. If he hadn’t been so urgent about where he was taking you, you were sure he would’ve stopped in his tracks.

 

He looked down at you, tilting his head slightly. He looked so big yet so gentle at the same time — like a large old quilted blanket, sturdier than any cheap new comparison.

 

“Don’t— don’t apologize.”

 

His reply was short, like he didn’t really know what else to say. He still looked shaken, and guilt tugged at you.

 

“I… didn’t mean it.”

 

This time, he didn’t look at you. He just kept walking, leading you down one of the hallways of his home where old movie posters lined the walls.

 

“I know.”

 

He said it while stepping into the living room.

 

You didn’t know why you were saying this—why you were asking—but the words slipped out anyway.

 

“Tenna… did—”

 

You faltered, struggling to form the words.

 

“Did you like… being my f-friend? Back then, did it mean… something… to y-you?”

 

You both stopped abruptly. Tenna stared straight ahead for a moment, then tilted his head down toward you again — lower this time, enough for you to see every detail of his face.

 

“Of… of course I did. I loved every second. You—”

 

He leaned even closer, searching your face like he needed you to believe it, his glow flickering faintly at the edges. It reflected on your face.

 

“You meant the world to me.”

“Oh.”

That’s all you managed. The closeness of him would normally have your face burning, but right now your body couldn’t even summon it. Instead, the weight of everything pressed down at once. You really thought you were dying today. And somehow… you’d accepted it, even if it left everything feeling unfinished.

 

Neither of you moved. Just staring. Your gaze flicked to his mouth, to his stupid oversized nose, to the dark smudges that sat like bags beneath his nonexistent eyes. Your brows pulled upward. Memories clawed their way back — mean, mean, mean altered moments that thing created, when he’d spit cruel words at you. When you actually believed, even if only for a moment, that he’d used you. That he never cared. That you were nothing but a stepping stone.

 

Your trembling hand lifted, almost without thought, brushing the side of his head. The heat from his casting buzzed against your palm, machinery humming beneath, alive and vibrating. Then, weakly, you let it fall away again. He never once looked anywhere else. 

 

Just stared at you, quiet, as if waiting.

 

You smiled. Faint, fleeting. He was the same — maybe he always would be. You could kick him, break him down, make him feel worthless… and somehow he’d still circle back to moments like this. 

 

He’d always come back.

 

Even if he barked back, even if the words stung, you knew he never really meant them. Not when he ended up here like this with you.

 

Your brows knotted. Your chest heaved with shallow, shaky breaths.

 

“I’m—”

 

You choked on it.

 

“Tenna, w-we… I’m… I missed e-everything so bad. I never… I never got over it… over y-you.”

 

The tears broke free, messy and unrestrained, spilling down your cheeks in fragile streaks you didn’t bother to stop.

 

“Why didn’t… w-why didn’t we—”

 

Your voice cracked again, breaking apart as you tried to force the words out.

 

“Why didn’t we s-stick together? Why, why, why?”

 

The sobs ripped through you, ugly and unrelenting. Helpless, you clung to him, cursing yourself for the cruelty of it all—dragging him through hell and then falling apart in his arms like a child.

 

This was humiliating, even for you.

“…Hey,” 

 

he whispered, his voice low, wobbly.

 

 “Quit… quit crying like that. You’re killing me here.”

 

You felt a large thumb brush clumsily across your cheeks, wiping at the tears. It was useless — fresh ones kept spilling, faster than he could keep up.

 

You had nothing left in you. No words, no sentences. Just years’ worth of tears finally breaking loose — everything you’d been holding back since the day you walked away.

 

“After that day… when you left.”

 

His voice cracked, and he finally began to walk again. His steps weren’t so urgent now as he guided you through the retro maze of his house, quieter, hesitant.

 

“I never forgot about you,” 

 

he murmured. 

 

“I kept everything. Your hoodie. Pictures. That script — you saw it all, remember? I went through it all a million times in my head.”

 

Your sobs softened into shaky breaths, but the tears still slid down like streams.

 

“I regretted everything,” 

 

he whispered. 

 

“Every day in that studio, I thought of you. All the ratings, the lights, the crowd—it never meant half as much as what it would’ve if you were still by my side for it.”

 

You entered a room, and he shut the door behind you with a quiet click.

 

“…But,” 

 

he said suddenly, his voice lighting with something new, 

 

“I’m thankful it happened.”

 

The words blindsided you. You lifted your head, puffy-eyed, staring at him in disbelief. He was looking right back, waiting, searching for your reaction.

 

“…why?” 

 

you managed, barely above a whisper.

 

His throat bobbed. He faltered, words catching before tumbling out.

 

“So I could learn. So I could know what it feels like to lose you—so I’d never, ever risk taking you for granted again.” 

 

His voice grew hoarse, desperate. 

 

“I don’t want to waste another second pretending you didn’t mean everything to me. You always did.”

 

The two of you drifted toward the massive bed at the center of the room — far larger than any ordinary one. Tenna guided you down to sit on its edge, his touch as gentle as possible. Then he lowered himself onto his knees before you, so tall and broad that even from the floor he met your eyes head-on.

 

It startled you at first. All you could do was sniffle as his hands rested tentatively on your knees, almost like he was afraid you’d push him away.

 

A breathy laugh slipped from him, glitched at the edges.

 

“Guess I really screwed up saying it the first time, huh? Blurting it out while we were foolin’ around. Real smooth, Ant. Real classy.”

 

He tried to smirk, but it didn’t hold. His screen flickered faintly, the glow breaking around the edges with static.

 

“…But I don’t want you to only remember it like that. I need you to hear me say it now.”

He shut his mouth, swallowed hard, then forced it out anyway.

“I love you, [Y/N].”

The words slipped into the air heavy with meaning, dragging the ghost of his first messy confession behind them. His face was tight with regret, but lighter now too — like he was begging you to hear them differently this time. 

 

He didn’t look away from you once.

“I think I always have,” 

he said, his voice low and breaking. 

“And now I know I always will.”

This was overwhelming— too overwhelming —but you forced yourself not to dwell on everything that had happened in the last couple hours. His face was right there. The sincerity in his expression. The way your own tears still clung to your lashes.

 

You felt wound up and loose all at once, overfilled and empty, like everything was stopping but also just beginning.

 

You managed a shaky smile and pressed your hands over his where they rested on your knees. Even then, yours barely covered his.

“I… I love you too.”

If he’d had a tail, you were sure it would’ve been wagging. He looked exhausted from everything, but in this moment, some part of him seemed restored.

 

He squeezed your knees before leaping to his feet. The next second, he was running around the room, mumbling nonsense through delirious joy.

 

“YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST, FOLKS!” 

 

he shouted, before finger-gunning at his reflection in the corner mirror. 

 

“Mr. Tenna, you sly fox—you stilllll got it!!”

 

You’d probably cringe at this kind of display in any other circumstance, but right now? All you could do was giggle.

Yeah. You loved this idiot.

Clutching his imaginary microphone like he was about to announce a winner for a game show he was hosting, he shouted one last TV catchphrase:

 

“MIIIIIKE, WOULD YOU PLEASE CLICK REWIND?!”

 

Right on cue, the doorknob rattled violently, followed by a slam against the door. Both of you jumped, startled — though Tenna’s reaction was especially ridiculous. He yelped and lifted a leg in the air like the door was about to bite him.

 

From the other side, Mike’s furious voice bellowed:

 

“YEAH, WELL MIKE IS RIGHT HERE, YOU FUCKING DUMBASS!! OPEN THE DOOR — WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU EVEN DOING IN THERE?!”

 

Then a softer more resonated voice followed:

 

“Please, Tenna… open up, will you?”

 

You and Tenna just exchanged dumb looks across the room before the door rattled again — this time with the bone-cracking thud of what had to be Mike’s shoulder slamming into it.

 

“I’M COUNTIN’ TO THREE, ANT!! YOU HEAR ME?! ONE—”

 

Tenna finally seemed to kick his brain into gear. For all his smaller size, he knew damn well Mike could probably rip the door off its hinges on sheer fury alone.

 

“Shit. Right. Okay, okay!”

 

He scrambled to the door, yanking it open just as Mike barged in, Ramb trailing close behind.

 

“What in the ever-lovin’ hell was that, nutcase?!” 

 

Mike exploded, voice booming like he’d been saving it up all night.

 

You blinked at the scene, baffled this was their normal dynamic. Honestly, you wondered how Mike was not fired by now? Then again, Tenna probably needed someone to hammer some sense into him.

 

“You just scoop ‘em up and bolt like some kind of lunatic?! What the fuck’s your game plan here, huh? You secretly got a medical degree I don’t know about?!”

 

Tenna rubbed the back of his neck, jittery, words fumbling out like he was caught red-handed. He didn’t have a real reason. He just… panicked and acted. Which, yeah, kinda made him look insane.

 

“Listen! It was—uh—it was for good reason! I’ve got a first aid kit in my bathroom — not the guest one, so I uh, brought [Y/N] here!”

 

You perked up slightly, though the room still felt hazy and off.

 

“…Why do I need a first aid kit?” 

 

you asked.

 

The three men froze, glancing at you… then back at each other.

 

Ramb finally responded, moving slowly as he crossed the room and sat down beside you on the bed.

 

“It’s nothing, really. Just a scratch.”

 

You searched his eyes for the truth, but all you found was a carefully constructed mask — calm, steady, too practiced. Your insides churned.

 

So you turned away from him and fixed your gaze on the one person you knew couldn’t fake it. At least not tonight. If Tenna tried to lie, he’d give himself away in an instant.

 

You stared at him hard, catching his figure by the doorway.

 

“T-Tenna…?”

 

Your voice cracked, weak. You saw the way his whole body went rigid at the sound of his name, like you’d just struck a nerve. His expression twisted — guilt, fear, something close to panic.

 

“Bad…” 

 

you slurred, still dizzy from the fever. 

 

“Is it b-bad…?”

 

The sound that tore out of him wasn’t an answer. It was a noise — somewhere between a groan and a whimper — like the question itself had stabbed him. That alone told you more than words could.

 

His hands shot up, frantic, almost defensive.

 

“It’s— it’s not terrible! Nothing some guys with no blood, no bones, and zero medical knowledge about your… anatomy can’t, y’know—can’t fix!”

 

Mike, still standing beside him, let out a long, gurgling sigh before planting his palm squarely in the middle of his face.

 

He dragged his hand down his face before it was his turn to speak in this disaster of a shitshow.

 

“You’re the worst. Literally the worst.”

 

Tenna’s panic flickered into anger. He tore his gaze off you and snapped at Mike instead.

 

“THE WORST?! WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO— LIE?! WE’RE ALL MADE OF WIRES AND BOLTS HERE!!”

 

“How about a simple ‘don’t worry, [Y/N], we’ve got it handled’?” 

 

Mike shot back, dropping his hand, the other balling into a fist. 

 

“Or just a ‘hang in there’ —not a breakdown of how we’re at a physiological DISADVANTAGE?!”

 

While the two of them bickered, you felt a hand settle gently on your arm. It pulled you out of the noise and back toward Ramb.

 

“I’ll make sure everything’s fine, okay, luv? Can I take a closer look?”

 

Earlier he’d brushed off your injury, but now his concern felt genuine. You nodded, turning to give him full access to your back.

 

Ramb gave a short nod in return, then carefully lifted the fabric of your shirt. Cold air rushed against the wound, sharp and fierce. The shock of it punched a breath from your lungs—you gasped and flinched.

 

Tenna’s head whipped toward you mid-argument, all his fury dissolving in an instant.

 

“H-HEY! WHAT— WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

 

Ramb didn’t look at him, focused instead on the injury. His hands moved with steady precision to get as much fabric away from your back as possible.

 

“I’m checking, Tenna. Calm down. [Y/N], just focus on breathing, yeah?”

 

His voice was flat but reassuring. Still, nothing could settle whatever storm was raging in Tenna’s head.

 

Tenna stumbled closer in jittery steps, finger jabbing toward the two of you. His screen flickered through a frenzy of commercials, panic buzzing off him like static.

 

“Don’t—don’t tell them to breathe!! W-what if that makes them FORGET HOW TO?!”

 

He was practically vibrating now, his body twitching as though he might shove Ramb away and take over himself—even if he had no idea what to do.

 

Ramb ignored Tenna, his focus locked on far more urgent matters. He pulled more fabric away from your wound, and with his free hand gently pressed at your lower neck, guiding you to lean forward so the ceiling light could fall across the exposed gash.

 

When the first harsh beam caught it, the wound moved. The edges seemed to react, twitching as if the inflamed skin itself was trying to recoil, to hunch away from the light.

 

That unnatural, impossible flinch reminded you all at once— this wasn’t a scratch. 

 

This wasn’t from falling, wasn’t from anything out here. 

 

This was it’s mark. 

 

That thing had slashed you in whatever hellscape you were in before you woke up, it’s cold tail cut into your back. 

And it had left something inside you.

The realization had barely formed before the mind numbing agony consumed you.

 

You screamed—warped, broken, more cry than voice. The pain wasn’t just physical; it tore at your mind . Knowing that thing had invaded you, had carved into your body and branded you as punishment, wrenched another wet, ragged cry from your throat. Your strength gave out, you folded forward all the way to your knees. 

 

This couldn’t be happening.

Notes:

Using Tenna as a punching bag for the time being. No one yells at Ramb.

Chapter 32: Domestic

Summary:

You regained consciousness, but now you have another “problem” to deal with.

Notes:

Hiiiii missed you guys. This chapter was silly to write, but also pulled at my heartstrings. So prepare for that as you will.

ALSOO thank you genuinely for any comments you all have left. I promise I read every single one of them they make me giggle, smile, and even tear up due some of them shockingly having the kindest words.

Also might have an animatic of these two in the works so stay tuned on the tumblr for sneak peaks…otherwise…ENJOY!!! <33

The pain was too visceral, too deep in your body to smother. Cries ripped free before you could stop them, spilling into the room. It was sorrowful, embarrassing — it was everything you’d always fought to bury. 

 

You’d built yourself on being strong, on holding it together for others. And now, here you were, completely tearing your own image apart. One of your worst fears made real. Ever since coming to the studio, it felt like pieces of you had been snagging loose, exposing that you weren’t as unshakable as you wanted to be.

 

And this pain — your wound twitching, writhing on its own, every brush of light against it like acid — it was a torment so sickening you couldn’t bring yourself to care anymore. If they judged you for your broken, ugly wails, then so be it.

 

 

But they didn’t.

 

 

Mike’s usual witty spark was outright gone.

 

The irritation he’d carried toward Tenna was replaced by a grimace, his frown shadowed by something closer to pity from where he was standing. Your sound alone was enough to show him just how much you were suffering.

 

Behind you, Ramb had froze completely. 

 

His hands hovered, then pulled back as though touching you again might make it even worse. He had never seen a wound behave like this—not even Kris had suffered anything so severe. His steady composure cracked, giving way to outright alarm.

 

 

And Tenna…

 

 

Tenna had gone radio silent.

 

 

The frantic buzz of his static cut off all at once, like someone yanked the plug. His face flickered away into blank static, then faded out entirely — leaving only a black, lifeless screen.

 

 

 

For a moment, no one moved. They just stared in your direction.

 

 

 

But you barely noticed.

 

 

You were too busy choking for breath, dragging air into your lungs as if you could purge the intrusion with each exhale. As if breathing hard enough might somehow scrub yourself clean again.

 

Your mind was spinning, reeling — you didn’t even feel like you were in that house anymore, or in the room, or in the real world at all. Your body betrayed you, dragging you back to that disgusting, oozing nothingness. The all-consuming dark. A place where black pressed in from every side, where light didn’t exist.

 

You were teetering on the edge of a panic attack. The thought clawed at you: was your new “friend” going to rip every real one you had apart? 

Was it using you as a vessel, a means to physical world violence? 

 

 

 

Was it trying to twist you toward some purpose, some goal of its own?

 

 

 

 

Should you have taken its deal?

 

 

 

Through your ragged breathing, with your thoughts racing a mile a second, a small sound slipped through. Almost inaudible. But enough to cut your brain from its delusions.

 

 

 

“Ramb…”

 

 

 

You lifted your head, shoulders lifting trembling as they threatened to give out entirely. In the corner of your vision, you caught Tenna. His screen was still black, his arms clutched tight across his chest. He looked smaller somehow — seemingly shrinking by the second.

 

 

 

“Ramb, please just…” 

 

 

 

His whisper barely left the room, a plea cracked and broken.

 

 

“Please do something.”

 

 

By the time the words left him, he looked almost Mike’s height. No loudness, no performance, no larger-than-life persona. 

 

 

 

He was small. Off. Collapsing.

 

 

 

Mike glanced at him, muttered a curse under his breath, then shot a look at Ramb — for the first time in a long while, he was completely at a loss. And it scared the shit out of him.

 

 

Ramb’s eyes swept the room, watching everyone come apart at differing speeds.

 

 

Before panic could seize him too, Ramb straightened, forcing himself to stay firm.

 

 

 

“The first aid kit. You said there’s one in here, right? Fetch it, Tenna.”

 

 

 

His tone left no space for argument.

 

 

You and Mike seemed to break out your thoughts at Rambs authoritative tone. It was foreign coming out of someone like him.

 

 

Tenna, on the other hand, never looked up. He just shuffled toward the bathroom, shoulders hunched, antennas dangling over his screen, shrinking further with each step. As he passed you on the bed, you swore you saw the shimmer of tears, even against the blackness of his screen.

 

 

“Mike,” 

 

 

Ramb said again, voice tense and unmoving.

 

 

“Be my hands, will you?”

 

 

Mike didn’t need to be told twice. Shaken but resolute, he moved to the edge of the bed behind you, ready to do whatever was needed. He only hoped it would be enough — that he could actually be helpful again.

 

 

A moment later, Tenna waddled back into the bedroom — shrunken further, almost swallowed by the surroundings. Smaller than Mike now, he clutched the first aid kit like it was sacred. He lingered beside the bed — now towering compared to him — pitiful, hesitant, his screen still black.

 

He slowly held the first aid kit out to Mike, a silent offering, unable even to glance in your direction.

 

Ramb pressed a firm hand against Mike’s chest, stopping him from snatching it. Instead, Ramb looked down at the poor, defeated CRT by his side, then back to your pain-stricken eyes.

 

He could feel your fear, your anxious vulnerability. What had to happen next wouldn’t be pretty, and he knew his calm voice and gentle touch alone wouldn’t keep you steady. You needed an anchor — and there was only one person here who could be that.

 

Ramb turned softly toward Tenna, who still stood clutching the first aid kit, nothing like the man he usually was.

 

“Tenna.”

 

Ramb’s tone carried compassion, though an undercurrent of command still ran beneath it.

 

Tenna flinched at the sound, wobbling where he stood. He seemed to shrink even further, the first aid kit nearly engulfing his frame.

 

“Tenna, come here.” 

 

Ramb repeated, more insistent now, lowering a hand from the edge of the bed.

 

 

Tenna was so small he could fit into Ramb’s palm. Bit by bit, he seemed to understand that Ramb meant it literally — to come to him. 

 

 

Hesitant and unwilling, Tenna let the giant first aid kit slip from his grasp before climbing onto the outstretched hand. He slouched down immediately, curling in on himself with his arms around his knees, head turned away, refusing to meet anyone’s faces.

 

 

“Can you look at me, luv?” 

 

 

Ramb’s brows knit, bringing his hand closer to him so both he and Mike loomed above.

 

The only reply was a faint, glitched whimper.

 

Ramb sighed, realizing that was the best acknowledgment he’d get for now, and simply began to speak.

 

 

“I need you to listen,”

 

 

Ramb said, low and firm, forcing Tenna’s focus. 

 

 

“I can clean this up. I can bandage it. But I can’t keep it from hurting. It’s going to hurt them. A lot.”

 

 

From where you sat slumped forward on the bed’s edge, his confirmation slipped a small, involuntary yelp out of you. 

 

 

Tenna folded tighter into himself at your sound, as if he could vanish into his tiny frame.

 

 

Ramb pressed on, unrelenting.

 

 

“And they—” 

 

 

he tilted his head toward you so Tenna caught the meaning, 

 

 

“they shouldn’t have to face that alone.”

 

 

He brought his hand closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, meant only for the tiny figure curled in his palm.

 

 

“They need you, Tenna. Not me. Not Mike. You.”

 

 

 

The words hung heavy in the stifling air.

 

 

 

“I need you to be big again. I need you here for ‘em. Talk to ‘em. Distract ‘em. Keep their eyes on you. Be the biggest, loudest, most brilliant distraction you’ve ever pulled off.” 

 

 

Ramb’s tone sharpened, quiet but unyielding.

 

 

“You’re the only one who can. It has to be you.”

 

 

 

 

For a terrible moment, nothing happened. The small, little television in his hand remained a ball of despair.

 

 

 

Then — a flicker. A shaky cyan line scanned across the blank screen. Another followed. A stuttering sound, like a file rebooting, crackled through him as his face slowly reappeared — low-res, dim, his expression wide and prickled with tiny tears.

 

 

“There ya go,” 

 

 

Mike muttered finally from over Ramb’s shoulder, his voice smooth, coaxing like he was soothing a wounded animal.

 

 

“C’mon, Ant. That’s it. Don’t stop now.”

 

 

 

After the gentle push of encouragement, Tenna began to grow.

 

 

It wasn’t sudden. It was a slow, lagging expansion.

 

First he had uncurled, limbs stretching, shoulders straightening as he rose out of Ramb’s palm until his feet touched the floor. Taller, broader, rising back into himself — though fragile, like a dying bulb. 

 

Big, but hollow.

 

 

The first aid kit sat on the floor, and Mike scooped it up in watchful silence ready for whatever was gonna happen next.

 

Tenna lifted a hand, wiping hastily at the tears streaking his screen as if he could erase them. Then he took one shuddering step forward, then another, until he reached you at the edge of the bed. 

 

He didn’t sit — he dropped to his knees in front of you again. Except this time, it wasn’t a broken confession of love pulling him down — it was the hopeless need to be there for you during this.

 

His hands, trembling, reached for yours. They were cold as ice.

 

 

“H-hey,”

 

 

he stammered, voicebox cracking under the strain — brittle, stitched together by pure willpower. 

 

 

“S-so… r-remember that time… in rehearsal f-for… for…”

 

 

He was unraveling, but he was trying. Because Ramb asked him to. Because you needed him to. And now he was here — big again, throwing every ounce of his desperate energy into shielding you from the upcoming pain.

 

 

“For Our Town,” 

 

 

he finally forced out, his grip on your hands tightening almost too harshly. 

 

 

“When I played G-George… and you were running lights from the booth…”

 

 

Behind you, Ramb shifted. The soft click of the antiseptic bottle cap made your body go rigid in anticipation, a small, fearful sound catching in your throat. 

 

Tenna saw it. He saw the fear flash in your eyes, and his own expression glitched in a mirror of your panic. He rushed on, his words tumbling out faster, a frantic, verbal shield trying to block out what was about to happen.

 

“A-a-and it was the scene where Emily says her goodbye… the saddest part of the whole play… and I’m up there trying not to actually sob like a b-baby…” 

 

He swallowed hard, hands twitching.

 

“And you… you faded the lights so slow… just a long, b-beautiful fade to blue… it was perfect. It wrecked me. It wrecked everyone.”

 

The cold, dry touch of gauze pressed against your wound. You squeezed your eyes shut, breath hitching.

 

“S-SO after the show,” 

 

Tenna’s voice pitched higher, clinging to the memory like a lifeline, 

 

“Professor drags the whole cast to the booth. I got to stand right next to you while she says, ‘This! This is collaboration! Emily made you cry, but [Y/N] made you feel it in your soul!’”

 

 

The memory was so vivid, it was such a fond moment for you, that it almost worked. A weak, shaky sigh — almost a laugh — escaped you.

 

 

And then Ramb pressed the antiseptic into the wound.

 

 

The pain was instant, blinding — a white-hot sear like being cut open all over again. A loud, broken cry tore out from your throat as you tried to curl away, but Ramb’s steady grip held you still. Your screams filled the room.

 

Tenna’s screen flickered violently, threatening to go dark again. A distorted whine escaped his speakers. But he didn’t let go of your hands. He held even tighter, voice breaking as he shouted over your sobs, forcing the story out to its end.

 

“AND THE WHOLE CAST APPLAUDED! FOR YOU! IN THE BOOTH! AND I STOOD THERE FINALLY CRYING BECAUSE I WAS SO SO SO SO SOSOSOSO PROUD OF YOU!!”

 

He yelled, optic lights blazing with his own tears, his whole body trembling as though the memory itself was the only thing holding him together as well. He wielded it like a battering ram, smashing through his panic just to give you somewhere to hide.

 

 

“Almost done, luv, almost done,” 

 

 

Ramb murmured behind you, his certain, solid cadence counterpoint to Tenna’s frantic voice. 

 

 

“You’re doing so well. Just breathe through it.”

 

 

So you focused on Tenna — on the warping desperation in his face, on the icy grip of his hands clamping yours. His tears began to fall as though he were the one in your place, like every flicker of your pain carved through him too. 

 

 

You clung to his story, to the image of him in the booth beside you, proud and beaming, tears across his screen just like they were now — and you rode out the agony on that memory alone.

 

 

Tears flowed down your face silently as Ramb worked fast to bind the wound, his hands efficient and practiced.

 

 

It seemed like the worst was over. 

 

For now.

 

 

With a gentle squeeze at the dip of your neck, Ramb finally exhaled. His shoulders loosened as though the whole world had been pressing down on them until now.

 

 

“Alright, luv,” 

 

he murmured, voice worn. 

 

“It’s done.”

 

 

You couldn’t answer — not with words. The iron taste was already spreading across your tongue, your cheeks raw from how hard you’d bitten down just to try to stay quiet earlier. 

 

All you managed was the faintest nod before slumping even more forward, your head planted atop your knees now. Eyes shut, you let yourself sink, following their lead in trying to relax.

 

“Alright, well… shit.” 

 

Mike broke the silence with a shaky attempt at levity. 

 

“Everybody’s in one piece, right?” 

 

His tone was cautious, testing the air like he was trying to paint a next step where none existed.

 

 

Ramb gave him a tired smile, slow but content, where he sat at the bedside. 

 

 

You groaned softly in response, still hunched over, the sound carrying more fatigue than words ever could.

 

 

And Tenna… Tenna hadn’t moved. He just sat there, silent, staring down at your hands where he still held them. At least the tremors in his hands stopped.

 

Mike, reaching for some way to lighten the mood, almost gave you a smack between the shoulders — the same way he always did when you were joking around at work. His hand stopped mid-air as the memory snapped back, remembering there’s a deep gash carved there now.

 

Ramb noticed the motion instantly and shot him a sharp and scary look.

 

“Fuck…” 

 

Mike mumbled under his breath, coughing awkwardly before fumbling to cover the misstep.

 

 

“How about we get you into some dry clothes, kid? You don’t wanna die in a soggy outfit, huh?”

 

 

He let out a chuckle at his own lame joke, but the sound began to trail off when he caught Ramb’s glare again in the corner of his vision. His look was sterner this time. Mike’s laughter fizzled from that, and the air felt heavy again.

 

After finally clawing back some of your bearings — even as your back pulsed with its own heartbeat — you pushed yourself upright. Your elbows rested against your knees, breaking your hands free from Tenna’s hold.

 

“I don’t… have a change of clothes here.”

 

The words came out rough, but they were enough. The simple interjection seemed to snap Tenna out of whatever trance had taken over him previously. His head jerked up, screen flickering faintly as if the sound of your voice rewired him back into the room.

 

“I—I have your hoodie here! The one I told you about earlier.”

 

Tenna lit up as if he’d been switched back on, practically beaming at you from where he knelt. For a fleeting second, it was like his old showman spark had come back, jittery but alive. He scrambled to his feet, half-tripping over himself as he darted to the closet.

 

“It’s the one you used to wear all the time! The big baggy one.”

 

His voice pitched high with forced cheer as his hands tore through the neat row of red suits, hangers rattling in a rhythm.

 

 

 

Then — silence.

 

 

It wasn’t the heavy silence of dread from before. This one was different. Suspicious. Watching.

 

Tenna’s fingers stilled on the fabric, frozen in place. His frame twitched once, antennae rolling back. Horror trickled into his posture, into the static rising faintly at his edges.

 

 

Oh god. He’d said too much. Out loud.

 

 

He’d just confessed to keeping something—holding onto a piece of you for years after cutting ties, like some guilty relic — right in front of Ramb and Mike.

 

He drew in a long inhale before he slowly turned, clutching the now infamous hoodie like it was evidence in a trial.

 

His face was blank — painfully normal — except for the beads of sweat now dripping down his screen. Then, in an instant, he pasted on a terrified smile.

 

“I was— I was gonna give it back!! SWEAR!!”

 

The pitch of his voice cracked high, too high.

 

“I didn’t keep it for any— any WEIRD reason! They left it in my car and we both…forgot… about it. If anything, I’m— I’m courteous! Gave it, uh— ADMIRABLE care!”

 

His gaze darted from your barely-suppressed grin to Ramb and Mike, desperate for leniency.

 

Mike had arched a brow so high it looked ready to launch off his head. Arms crossed, smirk tugging at his mouth — he was already filing this away to torment Tenna with later.

 

Ramb, softer but no less rattled, tilted his head. His expression was thoughtful, almost kind, but the flicker of surprise still cut through.

 

Tenna’s panic spiked instantly.

 

“LOOK!! It’s normal! I’m SOOOO normal for keeping it!”

 

He waved the hoodie like a flag, as though flailing it around would somehow make the story sound less weird.

 

“What if [Y/N] came back and it turned out I’d thrown it away, HUH?! What kinda JERK would that make me?! This is— it’s ARCHIVAL! A— a historical artifact to them! From a…uh… different era!”

 

His hands gestured wildly, vague zigzags in the air as if sheer performance could disguise the sentiment dripping from every word.

 

After a few blank stares bounced around the room, you shockingly broke the silence. Your voice was dry, scruffy from overuse, but it still carried that bite of your familiar teasing.

 

“Is that thing even still holding together? The cuffs were already coming apart by the time I left it in your backseat.”

 

You hummed, savoring every twitch of embarrassment flickering across Tenna’s face. God, you loved this — watching him squirm for once, pinned under everyone’s eyes without a chance to puff up and beam at the attention.

 

You leaned back slightly, lips curling.

 

“Also, what about pants? Did you snatch a pair of those too? Or were you planning on me going commando under my… ‘archival artifact’?”

 

You felt bold — maybe reckless — and after everything you’d been through today, you needed to feel at least a little alive. So you held his gaze.

 

Tenna froze completely. The frantic waving of the hoodie stilled, his hands dropping uselessly in front of him still holding the garment. All he could do was glare back at you, sweat now dripping, mouth staying closed due to him having no excuses left to give.

That was when Mike cracked. His laughter erupted loud and unrestrained, one of those full-bodied belly laughs that fills a room. He tipped back on the bed, wiping tears from his imaginary eyes, wheezing through each breath. 

 

 

You weren’t surprised — you and Mike shared the same brand of humor, that particular fondness for poking fun at others — but what did surprise you was Ramb.

 

 

His laugh wasn’t loud, nowhere near Mike’s, but it was there. Shaky, moderate, real. His shoulders bounced with it where he sat next to you on the bed edge. 

 

 

The sound filled you with a sudden, unexpected warmth. After the void you’d just clawed your way out of, the sound of their combined laughter felt like sunlight pouring into your skin.

 

 

Tenna’s head jolted toward them, his glare exasperated, humiliated. Then his face turned back to you.

 

 

You had shifted, leaning into the bit now — body turned toward him, cheeky grin spread wide, chin propped in one hand while the other draped lazily over your knee. Every bit of you screamed smug, full of yourself.

 

His screen betrayed him instantly, engulfed in a deep, furious tomato red. His antennas twitched erratically.

 

You caught it — the quick dip of his head, glare flicking down toward your legs before snapping back up to your face. He began to combust.

 

“I—! You—! P-PANTS?!?”

 

His voice broke into a squawk, whipping his head so fast it looked like it might spin clean off, nearly twisting a full circle just to avoid your gaze.

 

“WHAT KIND OF WEIRDO DO YOU THINK I AM?!”

 

His antennae whipped back and forth so violently they nearly tangled, electricity buzzing off him in sparks.

 

“WHY WOULD I HAVE A PAIR OF YOUR— YOUR PANTS?! I’M NOT A CREEP!”

 

You gave yourself away with a choked laugh before it slipped into full laughter at his meltdown. Throwing your hands up in mock defense, you grinned even wider.

 

 

“I never said you were a creep. You’re putting words in my mouth. Just like how you’re putting my clothes in your closet.”

 

 

The small laughs that broke through your words only fanned the fire. Mike was already writhing on the bed, choking from how hard he was laughing.

 

 

Tenna, screen now blazing red, didn’t dare to look at anyone. He kept his head facing in the opposite direction. The whir of his internal fans roared louder with every second of teasing. 

 

Finally, defeated, he just hurled the hoodie straight into your lap—his only solution to not giving you any more ammunition.

 

Even without Tenna sputtering another word, you and Mike kept cracking up — one glance at each other was enough to reset the whole thing and send you bubbling again. If not for the pulsing slash carved across your back, you’d probably be rolling on the bed right alongside him, clutching your stomach and begging for air.

 

Minutes bled by in wheezing laughter until it finally thinned out on its own. The ache in your ribs replaced the humor, leaving only a few warm tears clinging to the corners of your eyes.

 

“Well,” 

 

Ramb finally cut in, his voice soft but decisive, 

 

“you oughta get some proper rest now. Change of clothes, drink plenty of water — and then off to bed.”

 

He rose from the edge of the bed, the shift in weight and tone breaking the little humiliation ritual you and Mike had been putting Tenna through.

 

The sound of his knuckles popping, followed by the roll of his neck, pierced through the quiet — the crackle of stress finally forcing its way out of his joints.

 

His words reminded you just how heavy your body still felt — bone-deep exhaustion clinging even after however long you’d been out. Guess blacking out really did wonders for the body. You dragged a hand to the back of your head, scratching idly.

 

 

“Oh, yeah, uh… did you guys drive me here? I can just grab a taxi home so you don’t have to worry about me any more than you already have.”

 

 

“No.”

 

 

The word shot through the room, short and final. You blinked, startled, and turned towards Tenna.

 

 

He was still lit up in a slight blush, but his expression didn’t match it now. His face had gone starkly serious, frame squared where he stood.

 

 

“You’re staying here,” 

 

 

he said, voice low and resolute. 

 

 

“I’ll make sure nothing else happens.”

 

 

 

For all the smugness you’d been flaunting earlier, you couldn’t stop yourself from swallowing hard, spit pooling thick in your throat. 

 

 

Was he angry about you poking fun, or was he just that serious about whatever state you were in right now?

 

 Either way, you knew there wasn’t space to argue — not with that tone.

 

 

Your attention then focused back to the bed as it shifted, Mike finally rolled himself off the bed with a groan, stretching his arms high above his head. His shirt rode up lazily in the motion, exposing a strip of stomach he didn’t care to hide. He just scratched at the skin absently.

 

 

“Alright, well… you make sure they don’t drift off again, Ant. I trust you.”

 

 

With that, Mike shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the doorway, where Ramb was already waiting. 

 

 

 

They were leaving.

 

 

 

Something twisted in your chest at the sight — a swell of gratitude that ached so strongly it hurt. Before you could think better of it, you jolted up from the bed.

 

 

“W-wait!!”

 

 

You stumbled after them, catching them both in the hallway just as they slid out. They turned back in unison, matching looks of confusion.

 

 

And then you grabbed them both, pulling them into the tightest hug your body would allow.

 

 

“Thank you,” 

 

you murmured, voice breaking under the weight of it.

 

 

It was all you could manage, head ducked, pressed between their shoulders to hide the flush of embarrassment burning your face. Showing vulnerability always gnawed at you, but here it was — raw, unavoidable. Your self-image would be in shambles after all this.

 

 

But for now?

 

 

The two shorter men stilled in shock before their arms came around you, firm and genuine. 

 

Ramb’s steady hold comforted you, while Mike’s squeeze carried a rare tenderness that broke through his usual wit.

 

 

They didn’t need words. 

 

 

Their embrace said enough: they were glad you were okay.

 

 

“Alright, kid, we’re outta here. I better not see you at the studio tomorrow, or you’ll have me to deal with on top of whatever else you’ve got going on.”

 

Mike’s warning was gruff but not unkind, carrying that same edge of protectiveness he always masked with attitude.

 

Ramb nodded in agreement, then turned to you with a smile — full of quiet fondness. Something in the awkward way you shifted under the attention reminded him of Kris, and the resemblance softened his expression even more.

 

 

 

With that, their footsteps faded down the hall until the front door clicked shut.

 

 

You exhaled, the sound breaking out of you without thought — part relief, part ache at their absence. The house felt bigger now, too big. 

 

 

Quiet pressed in, heavy. 

 

 

Eventually, you dragged yourself back toward the bedroom, steadying yourself with a hand against the wall until you reached the doorframe.

 

 

 

Tenna was still there. Still rigid, like he hadn’t even breathed since you left the room. His whole frame shuddered when you slipped from his periphery initially, as if the mere act of you not being in sight for seconds was unbearable.

 

 

“…Are you not giving them a ride home?”

 

 

Your question came out rough as you clutched the doorframe tighter. You assumed you’d all come here together.

 

 

“They’re adults,” 

 

Tenna answered, finally shifting when you reentered. 

 

“They can handle themselves.”

 

 

The tension in his stance loosened the moment you spoke again — as if the simple sound of your voice, the proof you were still here, was enough to pull him back from some pretty irrational thoughts.

 

Your brows knit. You leaned a little more into the doorframe, pressing.

 

 

“I’m an adult too,” 

 

you pointed out, sharp but tired. 

 

“And you acted like the world was ending if I so much as thought about leaving.”

 

 

Silence answered you. Just silence — the two of you locked in a stare that felt longer than it should. Your eyes caught on the faint creases beneath his nonexistent ones, deeper than you remembered previously, carved by sleepless nights and too much worry.

 

 

Then, after a beat:

 

 

“…I can make your favorite pasta now?”

 

 

Notes:

Thank you Mike and Ramb for dealing with Tenna’s unstable ass, W’s in chat!!

Chapter 33: Date Night?

Summary:

You and Tenna eat dinner together.

Notes:

OH BOY THIS IS A LONNNNGGG ONE!! So strap up!

 

Also hi, how are you all? I missed you <3

You sat cross-legged at the massive two decade old kitchen island, swallowed in your old oversized hoodie Tenna had thrown at you earlier. It still hung heavy and loose over your frame even after all this time, and the damp cling of your work pants ruined any chance of real comfort the hoodie might’ve offered.

You were half cozy, and half mildly uncomfortable.

Across from you, Tenna moved almost soundlessly, pacing his way around the stove like he’d rehearsed it. Fetching ingredients, stirring, tasting. At some point he’d thrown on a ridiculous apron — his face printed across the chest with ‘ KISS THE TV’ embroidered underneath. 

 

At this point, you wouldn’t even be surprised if he had a matching set of underwear stashed away somewhere.

 

The smell of the dish hit you first as you fiddled with the withered cuffs of your hoodie. The scent was familiar. Riddled with memory. It dragged you back years, to hungover mornings, stress-caked weeks, and late nights where this had been his go-to fix. Somehow he always managed to “weasel” his way into cooking this meal for you, and you always took him up on the offer. 

 

After the two of you stopped talking, you never touched it again.

 

You’d tried, of course. Tried to force the recipe out of your own hands. But no matter how many times you stood over a pan, it never came out right. It never looked the same. Never smelled the same. Never tasted the same. Every attempt even ended the same: dumping it into the trash — or sometimes hurling it across the room before collapsing on the floor in sobs.

You pinched your wrist beneath the counter hard, pulling the skin until it stung — dragging yourself back, forcing the thoughts down before they could sour your tongue and ruin the meal you were about to eat.

And besides — you had the perfect distraction right in front of you: 

 

Tenna, moving around the stove with a silly amount of seriousness for something as simple as pasta. You watched him fuss with pans, apron strings, and spice jars like he was on some televised cooking competition.

The two of you hadn’t really spoken since awkwardly settling into the kitchen, so eventually you broke the silence — reluctant, fumbling for what to say exactly.

“Why didn’t you guys take me to, like, a hospital?”

Tenna’s efficient stirring slowed, just barely. Whether it was the weight of the question itself or the shock of you finally saying something, you couldn’t tell.

“What do you mean?”

…This dumbass.

“What do you mean, what do I mean?! None of you dummies thought to get me actual medical attention?”

“Oh, well, uh…”

He stammered as he finally set the spoon down, reaching a point in the pasta-making process where it didn’t demand every second of his obsessive attention.

“We don’t… really have a hospital in TV World?”

He said it like a question, like he wasn’t even sure about the answer.

 

Your jaw dropped.

“What!? Where do you people go if you get sick??”

This time he turned away from the stove, bracing both hands against the counter as he leaned back — finally giving you his full focus for what felt like the first time in the last hour.

 

A quiet laugh slipped from him before he answered.

“I mean, we don’t exactly need hospitals here. A little maintenance here and there, sure, but we don’t really have blood and guts like you do.”

As if to prove his point, he knocked his knuckles against the side of his head. The hollow clang of metal ricocheted through the kitchen, enough to make you wince slightly.

 

You leaned forward on your stool, narrowing your eyes.

“What about the shadow guys? They don’t look like they’re made of bolts and wires.”

You said it like you’d masterly countered him.

 

Tenna scratched the side of his screen, static fluttering faintly as he thought.

 

“Yeahhh, I dunno about those guys. I don’t think they even need to eat. They just… hang around. They kinda give me the heebie jeebies, honestly.”

 

He lowered his voice, conspiratorial, even though no one else was around besides you two.

 

“But don’t tell them I said that.”

You snickered. How was he their boss and still so clueless about what they even were? What a puzzling man.

“Alright, well… even if there’s no hospital here, explain why you guys didn’t find one to take me to? How did you know I wasn’t dying or something?”

 

Tenna’s slight smile faltered. His head trailed off to the side, the glow of his screen dimming a fraction.

 

“We… uh…” 

 

His voice wavered, a glitch catching the back of it.

 

“I mean—at least I didn’t know what was happening to you. If we’d dragged you into another Dark World, trying to find a hospital there…”

He swallowed audibly, gaze cutting down toward the floor.

“…it might’ve already been too late.”

Fuck.

Of course this was still a very sensitive topic. 

He’d literally watched you black out and start bleeding from some magic wound that came out of nowhere. 

To him, that probably did actually look like you were dying.

Your left foot started thumping against the stool leg, rapid and uneven. Panic sat hot in your throat, and you scrambled to patch the silence with something — anything.

“W-Well…”

You forced your voice steady, painting on every ounce of false confidence you could muster.

“I guess you’ll just have to use all the studio’s funding to build a hospital here in TV World. Just for me.”

Tenna finally glanced your way again, the corner of his grin creeping back onto his screen. It added a layer of tenderness back to his expression. 

 

A dry chuckle rumbled out as he tilted his head, deciding to play along.

“Do I name it after you, too?”

You relaxed instantly at the drop of the earlier seriousness, clutching your chest in mock drama.

“Well, duh. It’s my hospital. Everyone should know it’s mine.”

Tenna smirked, another low chuckle escaping as he pressed harder into the counter. His head tilted back, one hand propping against his face as if he were weighing some impossible decision.

“Hm… let’s see…” 

he drawled, face painted with faux-thought. 

“Might be taking a huge bullet here. Your name alone could tank my ratings.”

You furrowed your brows at the obvious insult, but instead of taking the bait, you leaned further on the island, amused to see where he was going to take this.

“You asshole. How would my name on a hospital even tank your ratings?”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“It’s by association, sweetheart.”

The pet name landed instantly, making your jaw clench as heat prickled across your cheeks unwillingly.

“My branding as Mr. Ant Tenna is very prestigious,” 

he went on, smugness dripping from every syllable. 

“Also, Mr. Tenna doesn’t just hand out freebies to anyone.”

While he spoke he’d made his way towards the island, eventually landing both hands against the counter with a small thud. He leaned in slightly from across you, his screen alight with that insufferable confidence.

 

You ground your teeth, forcing down the blush, then shot back:

“Are you seriously referring to yourself in the third person now?”

He bit back a laugh, sharp canines catching briefly on his bottom lip before he leaned in closer, practically in your bubble now, voice falling into his usual ridiculous stage cadence.

“Mr. Tenna… doesn’t seem to understand what you’re asking?”

You scoffed, now leaning in a little yourself.

“Oh, I think he understands perfectly.”

Your face then softly lit up the second an idea struck you — stupid, corny, perfect . You locked your eyes on him where he stood facing you, refusing to look away. 

 

Especially not with what you were about to say.

“…Would Mr. Tenna give it to me if I begged?”

The words slipped out sweet as sugar, and you had to bite down hard on your own bottom lip to keep from cracking up at the obvious innuendo. But it worked — oh, it worked.

 

Tenna’s forearms twitched where they supported him against the counter, his antennas shooting bolt-straight, every wire in him probably spasmed like you’d jammed a fork in an outlet. His screen flooded with red so fast it nearly blacked out, instinctive now — a reflex he couldn’t smother no matter what.

Even with his condition tugging at his body — little vibrations rippling through his frame — he refused to let you win. He stayed rooted, trying to hold onto dignity even as the cracks showed.

“Mr. Tenna is a very professional man. He doesn’t appreciate crude comments like that.”

The smirk that had been hanging on his face melted into something harder, casting brows snapping downward in false severity. He was giving you the stage now, letting you decide to drag this on. Whether intentional or not, he was practically handing you the reins.

 

You dipped into it without hesitation. Propping your cheek against your palm, you fixed him with your most shamelessly sultry stare. Then, slow and deliberate, you let your fingers walk across the counter toward him, each tap carrying the suggestion of a challenge.

“Oh, come on,” 

you purred, letting the words spread lazily, 

 

“you and I both know Mr. Tenna loves when I’m crude. I’d even say…” 

 

your grin spread wider, 

“…he lives for it.”

Despite his earlier attempts to cling to control, it was unraveling pretty fast. You saw it — the way his throat bobbed with every word you fed him, how sweat now dotted his screen in tiny beads, how his gaze tracked the lazy path of your hand like he was mere seconds away from dropping to his knees and begging you to let it touch him — anywhere , in any way you pleased.

 

And still, somehow, he pushed further. 

 

He leaned in so close now that his face hovered just inches from yours. His hands gripped the surface of the island hard enough to creak against the strain, every muscle in his arms taut with the effort of restraint. It was written all over him — the fight to keep himself composed, to not let go and bare himself completely, feral and undone.

“Mr. Tenna strives to maintain strictly non-intimate… relations… with his employees.”

The words threw you for a loop. His expression, hazy with lust, begged you to push him further — every breathy word practically daring you to egg him on. Normally, the sight of him like this would shoot straight to your core.

 

But that one word — employees — made your chest squeeze.

You sure as hell weren’t his employee. 

Not to him . Not to anyone.

And the sting of it hit your ego harder than you expected. You couldn’t help the anger that panged inside you, quick and petty — but you shoved it down, masking it beneath a different facade. 

 

Better to twist it into something else.

With that, you threw him off balance — leaning back and putting considerable distance between you two. The heat practically radiating off him slowed his reaction, gears stuttering out of sync as he scrambled to process what you were doing.

And then your hands found the zipper.

The old oversized hoodie that engulfed you shifted as you tugged the zipper down, slow, calculated. Just far enough to bare your collarbones, the slope of your chest — a tease, not a reveal. You dragged the zipper lower and lower, unhurried, every inch an intentional taunt.

 

Your expression stayed caught somewhere between frustration and a smirk, daring him to figure out whether you were punishing him or rewarding him.

“Oh, but of course, Mr. Tenna — how foolish of me. I would never dare insinuate anything of the sort!”

The zipper slid lower, dangling loose as more of your chest came into view, the motion slow enough to make sure he noticed every new piece you decided to show.

 

You leaned even further away from where he hovered. 

“See? Mr. Tenna doesn’t have to worry. Nothing intimate here. Strictly professional.”

Your tone dripped mockery, every word pointed. You let your eyes slide deliberately down his body, then back up — measured, tempting — before cocking your head.

“Unless, of course… professionalism includes staring that hard at someone’s body?”

The jab landed clean, your voice light but your eyes muddled. It was petty, purposeful — turning his own phrasing back on him, refusing to let him have the last word without being hypocritical.

“Oh. My. God.”

The words barely wheezed from him, dragged out with a sharp inhale. His frame stiffened, his whole body seemingly cracking at the seams. He looked caught — a deer in headlights — frozen, yet incapable of looking away even as you mocked him for it.

And he couldn’t help it.

You had no idea how many times in the past that he’d thought about this. 

 

Dreamed about it. 

 

About you looking at him exactly like that while peeling off that same hoodie that never showed quite enough. He pictured it constantly — sliding it the rest of the way off your shoulders himself, feeling every inch of skin revealed beneath his palms. He imagined pressing his mouth to each place he’d always wondered about, learning whether you tasted sweet, salty — it didn’t matter. He’d take either. 

 

He’d take anything you gave him.

You watched him begin to squirm, your scheme playing out perfectly — maybe a little too perfectly. His silence gave him away, his body doing all the talking he couldn’t manage. He was caught in his own head, too far gone to realize he should probably be saying something.

So you let your eyes wander.

And you noticed one obvious thing.

He was pitching a major tent. 

It was so blatant that even the apron couldn’t hide it. The bulge pressed forward under the fabric, fighting against the slim cut of his tux pants, aching to break free.

You decided you wanted to be mean — even if you were starting to get turned on yourself. Thankfully, that wasn’t nearly as easy to read on you as it was on him.

“Oh my goodness, Mr. Tenna!!”

You gasped dramatically, and the unexpected sound caused him to catch back up with reality. His face jerked upwards, as if he’d had to physically wrench his gaze away from the small amount of skin you’d revealed.

“Do you seriously have a boner right now?! That’s disgusting! I’m reporting you to HR.”

You let the pause hang, grin curling wickedly.

“…That is, unless you admit one thing.”

Tenna’s screen glitched audibly, his face flashed into multiple infomercials before coming back, breath sputtering through his speakers as though just the word ‘boner’ had knocked the last shred of dignity out of him. His chest heaved, his hands still glued to the island as if they were the only things keeping him from falling over.

“[Y/N]…”

 

The sound of your name dragged out of him, half-groan, half-plea.

 

But you didn’t let him have it easy.

“Admit that I’m definitely not one of your damn employees.”

Your smirk was dark now, dangerous, your voice slinking across the air like rope that wrapped precisely around his throat.

“Last I checked, I don’t take orders from you. I work on my own terms. If anything—” 

 

you shifted further back in your seat, arms folding tighter, 

 

“—my presence here is nothing but a privilege. To you. To your staff. To your studio.”

Your words landed — somewhere deep inside him — you could tell by the way his expression pinched into a frown. Whether it was fueling his already straining arousal or finally grinding down that fragile, pathetic ego of his, you couldn’t say. Either way, it amused you. Even after all this time, he still couldn’t stomach the idea of someone under his roof not bowing to his every outburst. Every command.

 

And you would always remind him that you were different.

 

His frame vibrated harder, the movement uneven as he fought to still it. Thin wisps of steam hissed from his head vents, proof of just how badly he wanted you. He wanted you enough to choke on it. Still, he tried to cling to the illusion of self-control, even as your demand chipped it into dust.

“Sweetheart, I—”

The pet name slipped out raw this time — not intentional, not part of the act. It wobbled, was breathless. He leaned in, inch by inch, like getting just a little closer might let him drink in the color painting your shoulders.

But you didn’t give him the chance. You physically scooted your seat back, putting more space between you, and pressed a palm firmly against his lips — silencing him before he could say one more thing that might make you fold.

“No.”

 

Your tone left no room to wriggle.

 

“Say it.” 

 

Tenna’s grip finally snapped tight against the countertop, the wood groaning under the strain as his whole frame shuddered — like he was one impulse away from vaulting over and grabbing you outright. His antennae lashed back, sparks spitting off them, while his breaths came sharp and uneven, fighting for control he no longer had.

“Okay, okay, okay!”

His voice cracked beneath your palm, his willpower splintering with it. You pulled your hand away.

“You’re right — you’re so, so right! You’re the reason the studio’s even doing w-well now! You’re such a hard worker, we—we appreciate everything you do!!”

The words tumbled out in a frantic gasp, spilling too fast, like he thought sheer speed might make them convincing enough to earn your touch.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed — because for all his begging, he was still missing one very important thing.

“A-and! And I should e-even worship the ground you walk on!!” 

 

His hands trembled against the counter, the confession nearly choking him. 

 

“Y-you should treat me like I’m not in c-charge— you’re a better boss than me! And— a-and—”

 

The words tumbled out of him — fractured, border line humiliating — and you soaked in every ounce of it. 

 

His want was almost intoxicating. 

 

Still, you decided to spare him from digging his own grave any deeper, cutting him off before he could spill anything worse.

“See? Now, was that so hard?”

 

Your voice questioned as you finally lifted a hand, slow and gentle, guiding his head until his eyes met yours. He whimpered at the touch — faint, wobbled — like the smallest contact was all he wanted.

 

“Good boy,” you purred.

 

The phrase wrecked him. His screen flared hot, optic lights burning so bright they looked ready to burn out. Every inch of him trembled violently, leaning closer — begging without words, every fiber of his body screaming for release.

 

And then, just as his hand lifted from the island — just as he was finally about to reach for you—

DING!

The oven timer shrieked.

 

The smell of pasta bled into the kitchen, warm and intrusive.

Both of you froze. The tension snapped like a string stretched too far, but the charge still hung thick in the air.

 

Tenna’s head tilted slowly toward the stove, his frame contorting like he’d just been robbed of the only thing keeping him going. Static buzzed low and resentful through his speakers.

You clapped your hands together, slicing through the tension with cruel cheer — oblivious on the surface, though perfectly aware you’d just found the best excuse to leave him right on the edge.

“Oh, would you look at that? Time to eat!”

Silence stretched, intensely , before Tenna finally dragged his gaze from the timer and back to you.

 

The buzz in his speakers deepened, bitter — but he forced the fakest grin you’d ever seen across his screen. The edges twitched under the strain, betraying him.

“Don’t you worry,”

 

 

he forced out through clenched teeth, voice thin and gravelly.

“I’ll get us. Both. Plates.”

With stiff movements, he spun on his heel toward the stove. Every line of him looked taut, his body still crackling with heat shimmers. 

You sat cross-legged at the overly fancy dinner table, fiddling with your fork. You were playing the stupidest game you could think of — trying to spear one noodle onto each prong — just so you didn’t have to look up.

You’d messed up. 

 

Bad. 

 

After this man made sure you were alive (for the most part) and even went as far as to cook you dinner, you’d turned around and cruelly riled him up, only to leave him hanging. 

 

It was a dick move, plain and simple. 

 

And his silence said as much.

After plating the food, Tenna hadn’t said a word. Not one. Just sat down, set your dish in front of you, and… silence. He still hadn’t said anything, and it was starting to eat at you. So you doubled down on the noodle game, praying the situation couldn’t get any worse.

 

The setting didn’t help much either. You hadn’t eaten dinner with this man in… god, who even knew how long? That fact alone was enough to make your pulse race. You finally risked a glance upward — half expecting him to be glaring at you like he wished you’d be struck down by a random bolt of lightning.

 

Instead, you found him swirling his fork in the pasta like he was making art with it. No angry snarl, no loaded look. Just… quiet. And worse — he looked sad. A faint frown etched across his face, his posture slouched low in the chair.

Oh god. You were evil.

He just wanted to make you dinner. And you blue-balled him.

You were an evil, blue-balling demon.

The guilt hit like a semi truck, swelling in your chest until it felt unbearable. You hated it. Which is why, thankfully, you had a cure sitting right in front of you.

 

You finally scooped up a forkful of pasta and slid it into your mouth.

The taste hit you like a gut punch.

A moan broke out before you could stop it, muffled by the fork. The flavor — the texture — it was identical to the past. The same consistency, the same richness, the same spices. Every nerve in your body melted under it. Muscles loosened one by one until you were practically sinking into the chair.

This wasn’t just food anymore. It was better than sex — hands down.

This was your comfort meal. Your kryptonite.

You’d missed it so much.

Lost in your little food-induced euphoria, you didn’t notice at first how Tenna shifted. How he slowly uncurled, the slump vanishing, his screen flashing brighter again. His frown had melted. Fondness — genuine, startling fondness — replaced it. And then a grin edged across his face.

“WOW. I’m just that good of a chef?”

You licked sauce from your lips, needing to give him the praise he deserved.

“Oh, for sure. You have noooo idea how many times I tried to make this. Oh my god, yours is just unbeatable.”

You hummed around another bite, savoring it, before glancing at him again.

This time, the grin was fully bloomed — but it wasn’t just fondness anymore. It looked like he caught you with your hand in the cookie jar.

“You tried to make it before?”

You realized your slip-up the second he questioned you. Damn pasta. Betraying you, making you illogical. Now you had to sit there and face the fact that you’d humiliatingly tried — and failed — to replace this dish more times than you could count.

 

But you weren’t about to admit that outright, of course.

You tilted your head slightly away, avoiding his gaze.

“Maybe…”

A pause stretched. Then his laugh spilled out across the table.

Not his stage laugh. Not his satirical, boss one. His real laugh.

The one you knew.

The one that used to bubble out after the two of you downed a bottle of shitty vodka post-rehearsal. The one that cracked loose over a dumb inside joke that no one else would ever understand. The one that had once made you fall in love with him.

Your eyes sparked. You turned your head, staring at him like you had to confirm it wasn’t some cruel pre-recording. That it was really him.

And it was.

He kept giggling softly until it tapered into a grin — wide, genuine, as he finally met your eyes.

“Y’know,” 

 

he said, still smiling, 

 

“you could’ve just asked me for the recipe. I would’ve given it to you. Even if you hated me.”

Your face fell, frown tugging at your lips. Hated him? That’s what he thought all those years were? Cold silence, hurt feelings, burnt bridges — sure. But hate?

 

No. You’d hated the things he did. The choices, the betrayals. But never him .

 

You lifted your now-empty fork and pointed it at him like a scolding finger.

“It wouldn’t have been the same. And for the record? I never hated you. Even if I should’ve.”

Tenna’s smile faltered, flickering back to shock, then softened into a questioning look. But soon enough, the grin crept back.

“You definitely hated me.”

He teased, resting his elbows on the table and propping his face in both hands like this was the most casual topic in the world.

“I never said I hated you,”

you mumbled through a mouthful of pasta. Manners be damned — this was Tenna, and you weren’t about to waste anymore time away from this meal.

“Hmmm… let me jog your memory then. First time we hooked up.”

Oh god.

His screen flickered, static rippling across it before a distorted recording played. Slowly, the frame focused — and you recognized the moment immediately.

Tenna let the memory play in full clarity:

“I fucking hate you.”

 

Your own voice, breathless and raw, spilled out from the speakers — and this time the image wasn’t distant, wasn’t neutral. It was from his perspective.

 

You saw yourself through Tenna’s eyes — the tilt of your throat as he kissed down your neck, the hazy closeness of your lips under his, the blur of motion as his head angled wherever he could reach you. From his POV, you watched your own hands reach behind him to claw down marks into his back.

You choked on a noodle mid-bite. Slamming a hand against your chest, you hacked desperately for air while your lungs scrambled to recover.

When the clip finally vanished and his regular face returned, Tenna didn’t look the least bit concerned about your choking. Instead, a mischievous smile stretched across his face, smug and merciless.

As soon as your lungs remembered how to work, the words ripped out of you in defense.

“Okay, first off, that was soooo different and you know it! And secondly — WHAT THE FUCK?! Do you just have all of that recorded?!”

He leaned back in his chair, grinning like he’d just cracked the meaning of life. He didn’t even acknowledge your question.

“Case in point. You said you hated me.”

“Okay, well maybe I said it,” 

 

you corrected, 

 

“but that doesn’t mean I meant it.”

“Soundssss a little hypocritical if you ask me.”

 

He sang the words, still not touching his food — clearly more entertained by bothering you.

You knew you were about to go low, but hey — with your image at stake, you convinced yourself it was fair game.

“Okay then. By your rules, that means you think I’m deadweight — someone you’re tired of dragging behind you.”

This time it was his turn to choke — except there wasn’t even food involved. He gasped on air instead, nearly launching himself out of his chair in shock.

Maybe it was harsher than what he’d said, sure, but you weren’t finished. You wanted to make damn sure it landed.

“Go ahead. Rewind that memory. Play it back.”

“W-what?! NO!!”

He sputtered, clutching at his throat like it might help him breathe again.

“Why not? You said it. That proves you meant it.”

“T-that’s not—”

His protest tripped over itself, stalling out almost as fast as it started. You watched the realization flicker across his screen — the idiocy of his earlier claim finally catching up to him. 

 

And when he caught sight of your arched brow, your crossed arms, and the fork you’d set down just to drive the point home, his voice cut off entirely.

He eased back into his chair, trying to recover from nearly choking on his own breath, shoulders finally relaxing.

“…Okay. Yeah. Fair point.”

You hummed in triumph and shoveled another forkful of pasta into your mouth, glad the debate was over. If proving him wrong meant you got to eat more of this heavenly stuff in peace, then so be it.

Silence followed — the thick, awkward kind. Neither of you seemed to know where to go from here, and dragging up the thing that shattered your friendship sure as hell hadn’t helped. Still, you’d needed him to know you hadn’t hated him, even if your dumbass mouth had said it once.

So, you threw out the first thing that came to mind.

“What’s the funniest memory you’ve got saved? Play one right now.”

He perked up instantly at the inquiry. You saw him sift through the catalogue in his head, his grin growing until he was practically shaking with the effort not to laugh already.

“Ohhh, oh THIS one!”

His screen fuzzed into static before clearing into a recording.

You saw it from his POV — Tenna, in full work mode, droning through a meeting. His own voice mumbled through tedious presentation lines, his gaze scanning the crowd to make sure his employees were paying attention.

“If you’ll all please flip to the last section of your—”

BRRRRRRAAAAAAPPPPP .

The most vile, window-shattering fart you had ever heard cut him clean off. If you’d been in that room, you were sure the floorboards would’ve started shaking.

You immediately doubled over childishly laughing at the sound alone, but the memory only got better.

On screen, Tenna’s head turned slowly to the right — and there was Mike. Sitting in a cold sweat, face locked forward in the most haunted thousand-yard stare you’d ever seen.

You didn’t think it was possible to laugh harder — but you did.

 

Clutching your stomach, you felt your ribs throb with every wheeze.

Tenna couldn’t hold the video steady — it warped and stretched before collapsing, his face flickering back in as laughter burst through his speakers in sync with yours. 

 

Every time your gazes met across the table, it set you both off again, the cycle of giggles snowballing until you were both gasping for air.

Finally, you managed to scrape together enough oxygen to speak.

“Another! Another one —oh my god—”

 

You wheezed between half-breaths.

Tenna swiped at the corners of his display where tears were beginning to form, his screen flushed with a blush that read not like embarrassment, but pure happiness. 

And that’s when you noticed it: 

 

a flower blooming from the tip of his nose.

You slapped the table so hard you nearly toppled forward, yelling through your laughter:

“NO WAY!! YOU STILL DO THAT?!”

For a moment he only looked confused — and then he realized.

Tenna’s hands instantly flew to his nose, trying in vain to swat at the bloom like he could will it away.

 

“Sh-shut up! Don’t look at that!”

 

The flower only wobbled with the movement, petals bouncing as your laughter doubled over.

 

“Oh my god, Tenna — you still sprout when you’re happy?!” 

 

you teased, leaning in further where you propped yourself. 

 

“That’s adorable.”

 

“ADORABLE?!” 

 

His screen blazed red as he slouched down into his chair, clearly mortified. 

“No, no, no, that’s not— ugh, forget it!!”

But then he snapped upright, spark flaring behind his grin.

“Fine. Two can play that game.”

Static rippled across his screen before cutting into another memory. The grainy POV settled into focus — his angle from the couch in your old college apartment. You watched your younger self pacing around the kitchen before walking into the living room.

 

The second your toe caught on the rug, you remembered it. You winced as the memory replayed in crisp detail: you tripping forward, slamming your head into the coffee table, then bouncing off the floor in the ugliest pose imaginable. You even remembered the knot it left behind.

 

Your fork clattered to your plate.

“Delete that. Right now.” 

 

You tried to keep a straight face, voice deadly serious, before fumbling for a threat. 

 

“Or I’ll… I’ll…” 

 

You grabbed your dinner, holding it up between you.

 

“I’ll throw this entire plate in your face.”

He burst out laughing, leaning back with his arms behind his head, already catching you on your fib. 

 

“HA! Like you’d waste my ‘ unbeatable’ cooking. Your words, not mine.”

You pretended to scoop up a handful of noodles, narrowing your eyes with the sternest expression you could muster. 

 

Then the both of you cracked up all over again, laughter filling into the space like it always used to.

The teasing carried on long after the food cooled. One embarrassing clip bled into another — pratfalls, stumbles, forgotten lines, late-night karaoke disasters. Sometimes it was you, sometimes it was him, and sometimes it was the both of you together, younger and reckless.

You didn’t even notice the hours slide by, giggles melting into softer chuckles, conversation flowing easier with every memory pulled from his screen.

At some point, the room had grown quiet again — not from tension this time, but from the kind of stillness that comes after laughter’s run its course. You yawned before you could stop yourself, glancing at the clock on the wall.

“Shit… it’s late.”

Tenna followed your gaze, then stretched his arms above his head, groaning.

“Yeah… guess we should, uh… get ready for bed.”

Tenna leaned back in his chair, electrical buzz settling into something quieter, more manageable. He glanced at the mess on the table — the plates, the silverware, the remnants of pasta sauce — then back at you.

“I’ll clean up,” 

he said finally, pushing to his feet with a gentleness that almost felt out of place after everything tonight. His grin was faint now, but still present. 

“Guest room’s down the hall. Second door on the right.”

The words landed soft, practical — but the tug in your chest didn’t care. You’d been so full from earlier that it felt like something had popped, leaving your heart dripping through the hole now. Slow, heavy, like something inside was trying to leak out of you, and you didn’t dare let it.

“Oh. Yeah, uh… yeah.” 

 

You fought for the words, rubbing the back of your neck. 

 

“I’ll… be in there.”

 

Tenna’s grin twitched tighter, tired but genuine, before he started gathering dishes into his arms. The faint clink of porcelain and the low hum of running water soon filled the kitchen, the ordinary sounds at odds with the heftiness in your chest as you turned away.

You started down the hall toward the guest room, dragging your feet like the night had somehow gotten melancholic. You didn’t understand why you felt so… disappointed. What else were you expecting? The guy had already made you dinner — did you want him to tuck you in and read you a bedtime story? Get a grip.

And somehow, after all that, you were still in your wet pants. Disgusting. Miserable. You couldn’t wait to peel them off — maybe the guest room would actually be a good thing.

 

Notes:

A calm little 32 chapters before I finally got to writing real fluff between these two??? Light work.

Chapter 34: Commando

Summary:

You can't sleep, and you try to find a solution.

Notes:

I'm going to be posting some fic doodles very soon, so for the 500th time I'm linking my tumblr incase anyone is interested. >:)

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/leftovercrumbz

The first thing you did after clicking the door shut behind you was strip off the moist, nasty, unholy pants clinging to your legs.

 

Well — strip wasn’t the right word. It was more of an awkward chicken-dance, hopping and wriggling until they finally slid down your skin. You felt like a snake molting, shedding something repulsive. The underwear you had on beneath them was just as damp and miserable, so that had to go too. By the time you finally wrestled free of it all, you practically sighed in rebirth. You were a new person. A better person. 

You glanced down and grimaced — your legs were somehow pruned from being trapped in wet fabric for so long. 

 

Ew.

With your first priority handled, you finally looked around the room. It was nice, much like the rest of the house — dated, but in that cozy, well-lived way. Hardwood floors, warm lamplight, a bed that was definitely bigger than your own back home. Everything was easy enough to take in… except the posters.

Every wall had one. And every one of them, of course, was Tenna.

One in his usual show attire — a simple promo for TV Time. Another in a cartoony style, just his name in bold letters. But the third? 

That one stopped you.

An old western spread. Tenna in full cowboy getup: hat, vest, boots — and chaps.

 

Totally normal cowboy attire. Nothing inherently sexual about it.

 

And yet.

 

The way the chaps gripped his strong thighs, the way they cut off just below his ass — you caught yourself double-taking. 

Then triple-taking. 

Then quadruple-taking.

…Would he notice if you stole that one?

 

You ripped your gaze away before your brain started frying. If you stared any longer, you were genuinely afraid you’d start salivating.

The next step was obvious: bed. You’d deal with all your stuff still sitting in your office tomorrow. For now, you just wanted to crash — preferably without replaying every horrifying detail of the day like some deranged highlight reel.

With a sigh, you decided to test the mattress first, see how soft it was. So you did a trust fall straight onto it.

The moment you landed, bliss lasted exactly one second before agony blindsided you.

White-hot, pulsing pain seared through your back — crawling up your neck, down your arms, shooting through your veins until your stomach lurched like you might vomit.

 

You nearly shouted at the sheer unexpectedness of it, but instead bit down hard on your lip, the muffled sound escaping in a strangled grunt.

Right. Giant open slash carved across your back. And you just flopped onto it like an idiot.

 

You shot upright, but even that made your skin feel like it was tearing all over again. There wasn’t much you could do now except ride it out, focusing on your breathing the way Ramb had told you earlier.

After a couple minutes of forcing your breath steady — imagining Ramb’s voice coaching you through every inhale, every exhale — you decided to attempt the next impossible task of getting comfortable.

 

You lifted the comforter with slow, cautious hands and slid beneath it inch by inch. Every shift made the wound throb harder, each pulse like a warning: one wrong move, and the pain would gut you all over again.

Finally, you managed to settle your body under the sheets. You eased carefully onto your side — the only position that spared your back from touching anything at all.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was something.

After a few more minutes, the vicious throbbing dulled into smaller, uneven twitches, until eventually even those stilled. Mercy, at last.

 

You exhaled deeply. Sleep seeped in fast, heavy, dragging you under. Passing out really was exhausting work for the body, apparently. You drifted off.

You saw it again.

The thing.

It slithered into your mind, thick globs of black viscous expanded in and out like some grotesque lung. Living. Breathing. Surrounding you. It coiled, slick and suffocating, curling around your body until you couldn’t inhale, couldn’t move, couldn’t function. 

 

Then came the eyes — pink and yellow, beady, unblinking — and the grin. That impossible, defying grin.

 

Wet, gargled laughter filled the dark, each noise crushing more air from your chest. Until its face was all you could see. Pink. Yellow. Teeth, all teeth.

You jolted upright in bed, uncaring of the way the sudden movement tore your wound raw again. You didn’t even feel it. You couldn’t get air in.

 

Your hand flew to the back of your head — bracing, waiting for that boiling spear of pain to drive from skull to spine like it always did now. But it didn’t come. Only your back screamed at you.

 

You drifted your palm down to your throat, fingers clutching your windpipe, confirming nothing was there — no coil, no noose, no hand choking the life from you.

Still, the terror remained.

 

You didn’t want to be alone.

 

Not like this.

The humiliation of it twisted deep, clawing at your pride. Reduced to a child again. Shaken, trembling. Helpless against whatever that thing was doing to you — whether it was really crawling into your dreams or just paranoia chewing holes in your sleep. Either way, the result was the same.

You didn’t want to sleep in the dark.

And you didn’t want to sleep alone.

But unfortunately for you, you didn’t live with your parents anymore. You weren’t small. You didn’t have an excuse to curl up between warm, protective bodies that could shield you from the dark.

You were an adult. One that needed to get their shit together.

…And yet, after today, maybe you deserved some company. You hadn’t realized just how much this thing had traumatized you until you were left alone. In the dark.

Maybe you’d need to buy a night light when you got home tomorrow.

That thought shook you. You weren’t home. You were still in Tenna’s house. His large, empty, elaborate time capsule of a house.

 

And somehow, that only made the feeling worse.

 

Because now your brain spun vivid images: that thing lurking in the corners, waiting, watching. Ready to pounce. To play with you like a rat between its claws. To swallow you whole before you even realized it was there.

Your body shivered at the thought.

You decided to run through the options you had in your head, none of them particularly appealing.

Option A: Walk home, light a cigarette, and let the moonlight calm you down.

 

Yeah, a smoke would be great right now. And sure, a night walk sounded peaceful in theory. Except you had no idea where the hell Tenna’s house even was. For all you knew, a walk home could be a thirty-minute walk… or three hours. Not to mention the obvious problem: you weren’t exactly wearing pants. Or underwear. So, yeah. Obvious no-go.

 

Option B: Suck it up and sleep here alone.

 

Reasonable. Sensible. The “adult” choice. But it felt impossible. You’d already convinced yourself that if you closed your eyes in this room alone — in the dark — “friend” would eat you alive. Whether figuratively or literally, you weren’t about to test it.

 

Option C: Go to Tenna.

 

This seemed like the most possible solution to your problem, but also the most complicated. Tenna had already gone through hell today dealing with your health scare; he looked wrecked earlier. Barging in because you couldn’t sleep would only add to his exhaustion, maybe fry a few more circuits. And just because you’d sort of admitted you… loved… each other didn’t mean he was suddenly your knight in shining armor. Things were still rocky — messy. This wasn’t college anymore, when crashing in his room came as easily as walking. Now? A “sleepover” sounded less comforting and more… painfully awkward.

You couldn’t decide what to do. Every option had cons — some worse than others. A headache started to form at the front of your skull. 

God you hated making decisions. 

 

Indecisiveness was going to be the death of you.

You grabbed the pillow you’d been snuggled into earlier, before being rudely woken up by that ugly cat-thing, and smushed it over your head with a groan. That felt like the safest move for now — suffocate in fabric until you figured something else out.

But when you peeled your face away, your gaze snagged on the corner of the room.

 

By the closet.

 

The shadows there didn’t look like shadows anymore. They were deeper — like the room ended and fell into a hole, consuming everything into impenetrable black. And then, you swore on whatever god was listening, two tiny spheres blinked into existence.

Pink.

 

Yellow.

Nope. 

Nope nope nope nope nope.

No thank you.

Absolutely not.

Your pride, your ego, your everything could go to hell. 

You bolted upright and fast-walked out of the room, heart hammering like you were being chased. Anything was better than being in there.

Your only problem now was that you didn’t even know where Tenna’s bedroom was — you’d been too out of it earlier to remember. 

 

Which was a problem. 

 

The house was massive — endless hallways, doors leading into random dated rooms. You scurried through them one by one, praying you’d land on the right one before your nerves split.

Maybe he was already asleep. Hopefully. Tenna always knocked out fast. If he was, you could just slide in next to him, no big deal. Totally harmless. And the best part? He wouldn’t even know. You’d wake up first, slip out before he opened his eyes, and your pride would survive intact.

No shame , no awkward questions.

A perfect win-win.

Your feet finally carried you into another hallway — and this one was different.

There was a giant door at the end with a Hollywood star on it, engraved with “MR. ANT TENNA.”

 

How the hell hadn’t you noticed that when he dragged you in there earlier?

What a narcissist.

That was fine. Whatever. You could roll your eyes at that later. The bigger problem was the thin line of light spilling out from beneath the crack.

Which meant he was awake.

… Fuck.

Whatever, it's too late to turn back now.

Once you finally swallowed down the last scraps of pride, guilt, and whatever else was clogging your throat, you grabbed the doorknob and turned it. No knock. You’d established that habit with him a long time ago.

 

The tall door creaked as you eased it open, peering into the somewhat familiar room. Your eyes swept quickly, trying to catch what Tenna was doing in those few seconds before he noticed you standing there.

 

He was sprawled across the massive bed, his frame practically filling it. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat on the nightstand, catching the glow of the lamp beside him. He wasn’t in his tux, not even a button-down — just a simple white tank top stretched over his broad chest. But the strangest part? The thing that almost made you snort on the spot?

 

He was wearing little reading glasses, a book pinched delicately in his oversized hands. The book looked absurdly small against him, like a prop from a dollhouse.

 

Before you could even question how those silly glasses stayed upright without ears to hook onto, his head turned toward you.

 

No dramatics. No overblown gestures or stage-ready energy. Just mellow. Calm in a way that almost felt out of character.

 

His CRT head tilted slightly, his frame crooking in the smallest hint of confusion.

 

“[Y/N]?…”

Oh. Right. Shit. You had to say something. Explain what the hell you were doing here. 

“…hi…”

You instantly questioned your entire existence. Something was deeply, profoundly wrong with you. You. Were. An. Idiot.

His nose scrunched, obviously more confused than before — rightfully so — until one corner of his mouth finally tugged upward.

“…Hi?”

You lingered in the doorway, staring at him like he was the one intruding. Every shred of confidence, every ounce of critical thought, had slipped clean out of you. Why was this so embarrassing? This was Tenna — not some executive holding your livelihood over your head. And yet… the thought of him judging you, thinking less of you, scared you worse than it should’ve.

 

Eventually, you scraped something together. The words clung stubbornly to your throat before you forced them out in a whisper.

 

“I… I can’t sleep.”

 

The admission felt dissected the second it left your lips. Tenna’s faint smile softened into something quieter — concern, plain and unfiltered. He folded the corner of his page and set the book gently on the nightstand.

“Is it still hurting?” 

 

he asked, voice low, laced with worry.

You shook your head. Then nodded. Then shook again — a messy, frustrated gesture that probably didn’t help his confusion at all.

“It’s not… just my back.”

Silence stretched. He didn’t press, just watched — patient in a way he rarely ever was.

 

“…It’s stupid,” 

 

you muttered at last, scoffing under your breath, shame pulling your gaze to your feet.

 

“Try me.”

 

The tone was unmoving, no room for evasion. Not demanding, exactly — more like he refused to let you sit with it alone.

 

You inhaled shallowly, dignity slipping through your fingers like sand.

“I had… a nightmare. And then…I thought I saw something… in the corner of the room. So I came here.”

The confession burned your cheeks. It felt immature, humiliating. You physically shifted as the words left you — but at the same time, the weight in your chest lightened, just a fraction, now that it was out.

You braced yourself for the mockery, for the smug grin, for the laugh you were sure would follow. 

That’s just how you two were now.

But none of that came.

Instead, his expression settled into something light. Understanding. Without a word, he reached down and pulled back the corner of the comforter on the empty side of his massive bed.

A silent invitation.

 

The action was so simple, so undramatic, that it made everything in you tighten.

You slowly shuffled across the room, the hardwood cool against your toes, until you reached what was now your side of the bed. Sliding under the covers carefully, you moved like every twitch might set your back burning again. You turned away from him immediately, not daring to let him see the heat already rising in your face.

 

Even with your weight added, the mattress hardly dipped. It only shifted once Tenna settled again, picking up his book like nothing had happened. The warm glow of the lamp carved away any uncanny shadows in the corners. Cozy. Safe.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, but it wasn’t normal either. There were unasked questions hanging heavy between you, none of them voiced. He read. You stared at the wall, willing your pulse to slow. 

This is fine. 

 

You’re fine.

After what felt like hours, his voice finally stirred the room — softer than usual, stripped of its usual cadence.

“I’m glad you came in here.”

The words were too sweet, too rich, and they hit you unguarded. Your breath caught in your throat.

 

 

What was this? Were you two just going to… be nice to each other now? 

That was too weird to unpack. You clutched your pillow tighter and deflected.

“Shut up. Don’t get all sappy.”

You rolled slightly toward him, gesturing vaguely at his nightstand setup.

“Also, those glasses make you look like a grandpa right now. What are you even reading — a channel manual?”

“Okay, WOW. First off, they help me focus, thank you very much.”

 

Tenna adjusted the glasses on his face dramatically, as if to emphasize their importance.

 

“And for your information, I do enjoy other things besides broadcasting material. This is a mystery romance novel. Very sophisticated! Very cerebral! Not all of us waste time with those comic book things… with the ugly big-eyed people or whatever you’re into.”

“Ugly big eyes— are you talking about manga?” 

 

you retorted, finally cracking a real smile for the first time since dinner. 

 

“You do realize you even explained that like an old man, right? Also, you can’t bash something you’ve never tried.”

“Oh, trust me, I don’t want to try. I’ve seen the things you people read in those,” 

 

he shot back, amusement flickering in his voice. 

 

“Meanwhile, my book has a handsome butler trying to poison the main character with a croissant. Much classier.”

 

He nudged your shoulder with his own, a playful bump meant to land his joke. His metal frame was warm against your bare skin, buzzing faintly like static, almost shocking.

The contact was innocent. Silly. Harmless.

But it gave you a grim, cold realization.

The sheets were light and silky on your bare legs — directly on your skin. And you could feel far too much in… other places.

 

Because in your rush to escape the guest room earlier, you hadn’t just forgotten pants.

You’d forgotten underwear, too.

So you weren’t just pantless.

You were completely commando.

“Oh my god.”

The dread slipped out before you realized it. Horror drained the color from your face.

“What? What’s wrong??” 

Tenna straightened instantly, pulling back his shoulder. His gaze flicked over you, worried, searching.

Still trapped in your head, you mumbled the confession flatly — like if you stripped it of emotion, it wouldn’t be real.

“I don’t have any pants on right now.”

Silence stretched for a beat.

“…what?” 

 

His voice squeaked, distortion garbling the end of it.

 

You shut your eyes. Maybe letting the cat-creature eat you would’ve been the better option.

“I’m not wearing underwear either.”

The words tumbled out like you were supplying crucial intel, your hand dragging down under your eye until the bottom lid sagged.

“You gave me my hoodie — it was dry — but my pants and… underwear… were soaked , so I took them off. It was gross, uncomfortable. Then the nightmare happened, and I just… ran in here and forgot.”

Another silence. Longer this time. Stunned.

You could almost hear the error codes clanging behind his screen. He was probably overheating. The only sound that finally bled into the air was the whir of his fans, kicking up louder and louder as they tried to shove heat through his vents.

“Did you not notice when I walked in?! Why didn’t you say anything?!” 

 

you hissed, face blazing, lashing out because embarrassment had nowhere else to go.

His fans roared louder, his voice glitching with static.

 

“I was— I was really into my book! The croissant was just about to be eaten! It was a very pivotal scene!” 

His words tumbled in a panicked rush. 

“I wasn’t doing a… a PANTS CHECK?!”

The silence that followed this time was different.

Very different.

The silence now wasn’t from a silly nightmare or childish fear.

 

This one was thick — new, heavy — a palpable awareness you both tried to pretend was normal.

You flung yourself back into your original position, glaring at the wall like it was to blame for leaving you commando. Curse that stupid wall. Curse yourself, too, for turning into a wet towel whenever things didn’t go exactly according to plan.

 

Hell, earlier tonight you’d asked this man if he’d “give it to you if you begged.” You’d oozed confidence, seduction, fire. But apparently if the setting shifted even slightly, all that spark dissipated. Suddenly you were some dorky virgin ready to explode from proximity alone. Why was it so easy to fuck this man on every surface of your office, but here — in an actual bed — every nerve overthought itself raw? 

 

You wanted to die.

On the other side of the bed, Tenna had gone utterly still. His book sat discarded in his lap, his fans whirring uselessly as though they could cool down what was burning inside him. The sound mirrored your own racing heartbeat, loud and pathetic.

You were both doomed.

 

Maybe a sinkhole could just open up and swallow you both whole.

Eventually he shifted, breaking your stalemate with the wall. Just a slight movement, probably trying to get comfortable — but with his frame so large, the mattress dipped under his weight, pulling you subtly closer. His knee brushed your upper thigh.

It was an accident. Obviously.

Didn’t matter.

It still felt like a slap, a whip.

You both froze, staring at nothing, his knee still pressed firm against your bare skin. His fans sputtered once before kicking into an even higher gear. Steam hissed faintly from his vents. He was on the edge of starting an electrical fire.

“S-sorry,” 

he rasped, voice barely a whisper. He tried to pull back.

“Don’t.”

The word slipped out of you before you could stop it. Barely a breath, but enough.

 

He stilled. His knee returned to your thigh.

“…Don’t?”

You swallowed, throat cotton-dry.

“Just… stay put. It’s fine.”

You couldn’t believe what you were saying. 

 

It wasn't fine. None of this was fine. His knee alone was causing every nerve ending to flare up. It branded you, reminding you how you legitimately had nothing on your lower half. 

But despite your internal protests, he listened. He obeyed. And the pressure of him against you stayed — warm, constant. The silence returned too, but even more different this time. Anticipation hummed inside it, like both of you were waiting to see who would cause the next “accident” first.

He finally slid his book onto the nightstand and knocked back the rest of his whiskey, clearing his throat unnaturally.

 

“So…” 

 

His voice cracked, then steadied, strained casual.

 

“Just to be… abundantly clear …” 

 

Another cough. 

 

“The current attire situation is… the hoodie. And that’s… it.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. Please, cat demon, come eat me.

 

“Yes, Tenna. That’s it.”

“Right. Okay. G-good. That’s… good to know.”

 

A pause. 

 

“For… situational awareness.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that cracked out of you despite the mortification of everything. What a dork.

“Situational awareness? What situation — are we running a fire drill?”

You glanced back at him just in time to see him whisk his head away, screen flushing a bright, obvious pink.

“I don’t know!” 

he whisper-shouted, voice pitching high. 

 

“I’m trying to be a good host! A respectful host! This is new for me, alright?! Normally my guests… keep their— their garments on!!”

“Yeah, well, it’s new for me too, dickhead!” 

 

you shot back, whipping around fully to face him. The shift tugged the hem of your hoodie up your thighs beneath the covers — which his knee definitely noticed.

 

You yanked the fabric down, face burning hotter.

“I don’t exactly make a habit of climbing into my ex–best friend’s bed PANTSLESS!”

The word “ ex” cut through the air immediately. Sharp, complicated. You instantly cursed yourself for using it. Your face pulled into a wince, recoiling from your own phrasing.

 

Tenna’s screen flickered. A small flinch ran through his posture, as if the word had landed somewhere deep inside him. 

He looked at you then — straight on, unwavering — before his gaze slid down, slow, to where the press of his knee dented into your thigh under the covers. When his face snapped back to yours, something in it had changed.

It was quick, but you caught it.

Hungry. Charged. Upset.

Your stomach flipped.

The frantic, panicked energy he’d been giving off seemed to drain right out of him. The steam spilling from his vents stayed. The pink tint to his screen stayed. But what replaced it felt dangerous — something you recognized from nights ago, when whiskey had turned him too bold. A slow wicked grin edged its way across his face, his brows knotting dark.

“Maybe you should.”

His voice was even different now — low, rumbling, suggestive. Not the high, needy mess you’d just had him in. The sudden shift made your head dizzy.

“…Maybe what?” 

you whispered, praying he meant something else. He couldn’t possibly mean—

“Make a habit of it.”

The air left your lungs all at once. No way. He wasn’t being this straightforward. Maybe it was the whiskey talking again. Or maybe it was payback — revenge for stringing him along earlier and leaving him to burn.

“You’ve picked up worse habits anyway,” 

he went on, lighter in tone now, but his gaze still dark, furious.

“You’ve already made it a habit to fuck your ex–best friend. And you know what the kicker is?”

His knee pressed harder into your thigh, pinning you in place. You couldn’t breathe. His face dipped closer, eating the distance until you had no choice but to stare at him.

“You even told your ex–best friend you loved him. In this same room. Hours ago.”

Oh god. Too much. Way too much.

But he didn’t let you look away. His presence was suffocating — captivating — his gaze locked like a trap you couldn’t escape.

“So don’t act like this is your worst behavior,” 

 

he purred. 

 

“You’ve already got much worse habits. But that comes with being ‘ex–best friends,’ doesn’t it?”

Your back was against a wall. Not literally — not yet. But the look on his face promised it could turn literal very, very soon.

And he didn’t stop. 

Whatever it was about that word — ex — it really got under his screws. You could see it sink into his joints, stiffen his movements, every bit of anger channeled into the way he held himself.

“But you wanna know what your worst habit is?”

The lust was gone from his tone now. No suggestion, no playfulness — just rawness, barbed and unpolished.

“It’s not your stubbornness. Or your swearing. Or even your smoking. It’s this.”

His hand lifted, gesturing vaguely between you in the bed. His gaze locked on you, sharp and surgical, like he was trying to read you the way he had his book earlier.

“You pull me along. You get me so close — so, so close — until I can barely think straight. You say things that light me up from the inside, things that make me believe…”

His voice cracked at the end, then he hardened it again.

“…And then you act like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter. Like I don’t matter.”

You stared blankly, unable to move, watching frustration tear through him. His hands fluttered, helpless, failing to keep pace with the flood of words spilling from him.

“When you said you loved me earlier—”

 

He faltered, screen dimming, as if the memory itself weighed him down.

 

“—it felt like I could power an entire city. But now? Now I can tell you regret ever saying it. Like you regret me. Like every second of everything was a mistake.”

The confession hollowed out the air between you.

“I can’t make it up to you. You won’t let me. So please…”

His voice dropped, fraying at the edges, almost breaking.

“…If you don’t think anything of me—”

He turned his head away, unable to keep your eyes any longer. The pain was etched so deeply across his posture you could feel it, even when he wouldn’t look at you.

“…then stop playing with me. I can’t— I won’t be able to handle it.”

You were taken aback. Your mouth hung open, eyes fixed on his figure across the bed, completely at a loss. You hadn’t thought twice when the word ex slipped out — certainly not enough to expect a reaction like this. It was sudden, a hard swing from zero to one hundred. And worse… you couldn’t ignore how well he had just read you. It was disarming. Embarrassing, even.

Because ever since that party — the one where Tenna laughed at you, where he made you feel absolutely unneeded in his orbit — your entire philosophy had shifted.

 

That day, you swore to yourself: keep your head up. Keep pushing. Keep going. Achieve. Succeed. And most importantly — never need anyone again. Not like him.

 

Because what he did, the way he charred you down, left scars you couldn’t undo. It flipped you inside out. Even now, there were days where you felt like you didn’t deserve where you’d gotten. Like you were still just a nobody. Nothing. Deadweight.

 

But you’d found something that kept you afloat. Helping others. Lifting them higher. When people leaned on you — when they needed you, wanted you — that’s when you felt worth something. That’s when you felt seen. It was enough… almost enough.

 

But that was as close as you let anyone get. You built the walls on purpose. Because if you ever let them down again, if you opened your heart, someone would just twist it in your face and leave you rotting — just like he had.

 

So you became overly independent. Strong. Untouchable. That was the story you told yourself. But deep down, you knew what you’d really become: guarded, closeted-off, your pride nothing more than a coping mechanism.

 

And then you ended up here. Back in his studio. Face to face with the very man who made you this way.

 

So no — you weren’t about to let him break that armor. Not now. Not after everything. You excused the sharpness, the cruelty, because he deserved it. He was the one who had made you this way.

So what if it hurt him?

 

It didn’t matter.

You clung to the thought. Viciously. It was how you operated, how you’d managed to get through everything since stepping back into the studio. It was a shield. But it was thin. Flimsy. And it bent when you looked at him now — shoulders slumped, head tilted away, his fight now nonexistent. 

He looked defeated. 

Like months of bottled feelings had just spilled out because of one word: ex.

 

But wasn’t it reasonable? How were you supposed to hand that title back after confessing you loved him — even in your own twisted way?

He was hurting. And it was your fault.

The righteous anger you’d carried for years — the anger that had fueled your every word, every sharp spear you aimed at him — sifted into ash in your hands, whether you wanted it to or not. Because all you saw now wasn’t the arrogant star who once treated you like an extra.

It was the man who knelt beside you when you plunged into an ice bath, refusing to leave your side.

 

The man who let you crush his hands like stress balls while he distracted you from the pain crawling up your back.

 

The man who made you dinner tonight and offered you his house.

 

The man who let you into his own bed, just to make sure you were okay.

 

And now, he was just a man asking you not to toy with him anymore. To treat him properly, or to just leave him alone.

So why did you still act this way? Why couldn’t you let it go?

 

He didn’t deserve it — not anymore. He’d been stupid in college, yes, but you refused to release the grudge. You still hid behind the wall he’d accidentally helped you build years ago.

 

And the truth — cold, unstoppable — dragged itself through the cracks.

The wall wasn't for protection. It was for punishment. You wanted him to feel the same pain he once carved into you. You wanted him to hurt for the past, for his mistakes. You refused to let him live it down — even if it meant you becoming something ugly in the process.

You damned everything.

This man — for ever letting you hurt, for targeting you when he once promised he’d stand beside you through thick and thin.

 

Yourself — for treating him the way you had, for wanting to watch him writhe, for discovering how awful it felt to see him actually break.

 

Your body, your mind, your past — for making you feel this much. For turning every splinter in you into something he could see.

You stayed turned toward him, fists knotting the bedsheets so tight it felt like you could tear them down to atoms. Your teeth clenched hard enough to ache.

All that was left in you was anger. Pain. Frustration. 

And beneath it all — a crushing, unbearable sadness.

This was now the second time you’d cried today. And you couldn’t even stop it. You hated how being around him made you fragile. Made you a baby. Made you cry.

A hot, furious tear burnt its way down your cheek. And instead of offering him reassurance — instead of saying something to ease the blow, to promise you’d be better — you let the only words in your head break loose.

“I love you.”

It crumbled out of you, warbled through gritted teeth.

His posture stiffened instantly, his whole frame tightening, though his head still tilted away like he wasn’t sure if he heard you right.

Good. You had his attention.

 

Now explain it. Tell him why you act the way you do. He’d understand. He had to. Just say it—

“I do love you. I love you so much. I love you.”

More tears spilled no matter how hard you tried to keep your voice strong, to keep the weakness out. It was useless.

“I love you, Tenna. I love you.”

The words broke on your sobs, wet and jagged, shameful even in how desperately they clawed their way out.

How manipulative were you?

Your vision blurred too much to catch his movements, but you felt the shift in the mattress. The dip of his weight drawing closer.

“Whoa! Hey, hey, hey—”

His voice was overused, shaky, but trying — trying to be normal for you, to give you something solid to hold onto.

 

You didn’t hear him. Not really. You just kept crying, harder than you had earlier, ugly and gross. Sobbing openly. You felt useless, like this was all you were good for. Crying, whining, being small. You weren’t strong. You weren’t anything.

He might’ve been saying something else, but it was all lost under the sound of your own sobs.

Until—

 

A touch. Familiar. Gentle. His thumbs brushed clumsily over your cheeks, wiping at the tears even as they kept coming. His hands cradled your face, steadying, urging you to look at him.

“Hey… c’mon,” 

he murmured, voice low, his expression mirrored your sadness. 

“Don’t cry, okay? I shouldn’t have—I was being mean. I’m sorry. Please… stop crying.”

But you couldn’t stop. The sobs ripped out of you like a physical force, wrenching through your chest until breathing itself felt impossible. Every time you tried to speak— to explain, to apologize— the only thing that escaped was the same broken truth, fractured over and over again.

“I love you,” 

you choked again, the words mangled by a sob.

His hands froze against your cheeks. He stared, screen flickering in stunned bewilderment. This wasn’t what he’d braced for. He could handle insults. He could argue. But this? This complete breakdown? He had no script for it.

“I love you,” 

you repeated, voice shaking, the phrase spilling out like it was all you had left. A confession, an apology, a plea.

“O-okay,” 

 

he stammered, composure disintegrating in sync with yours. 

 

“Okay, I— I hear you. I believe you. Just… breathe, please.”

“I love you,” 

 

you said again, weaker now, a mantra you clung to. The words were your lifeline, the only thing you could give while guilt and fear shredded you alive. 

 

“I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.”

Each repetition short-circuited him further. The angry, cocky man from moments ago was gone, replaced by a flustered, overwhelmed mess. His screen glowed a brilliant, frantic pink, fans whirring even more helplessly as if they could cool the heat bubbling inside him.

“Okay! Okay, I— I get it!” 

he burst out, his voice stuttering with static 

“You love me! Message received, loud and clear! If you keep saying it I’m gonna— I’m gonna—”

He never finished the sentence. With a strangled noise of pure desperation, he abandoned words altogether.

Suddenly, his arms were around you. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t demand anything. He just pulled you on top of him, almost clumsy in his urgency, pressing you against his chest and tucking your head beneath his chin. 

One giant hand cradled the back of your skull, his fingers weaving gently into your hair, while the other wrapped firm around the small of your back below your gash, steadying you as sobs wracked your body.

 

“Shhh… hey, it’s okay,” 

 

he whispered into your hair, the bass of his voice vibrating through his chest, through you. 

 

“Just stop talking. It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

 

And he did. He just held you. No games, no walls, no anger — just the solidity of him against you, the hum of his machinery, the faint thrum of his artificial heart. Slowly, agonizingly, the storm inside you began to calm. The sobs broke into gasps, then shaky breaths, then soft hiccups that left you empty but lighter.

 

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. But eventually, you managed a weak whisper, muffled against his tank top.

 

“I love you.”

 

His soft laugh echoed, static and shaky, a rush of relief he couldn’t hold back. 

 

“I know, you maniac. I know. My ego’s already at dangerous levels. Any more and I’ll float away.”

 

He didn’t let go. He held you tighter, grip firm, almost possessive, anchoring you in place. The tension, the heat, the bitterness of earlier— it was gone. Wiped out. All that remained was something quieter. Exhausted. Almost peaceful.

 

When you shifted, a wince flared sharp across your face as your wound tugged. He felt it instantly.

 

“Easy,” 

 

he murmured, smoothing a hand carefully down your spine, avoiding the bandages. 

 

“Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

And for the first time that night, you truly believed him. You let your body go slack against his, finally allowing yourself to be small, to be comforted. The next thing you felt was the soft press of his lips against the top of your head and the quiet, whispered words—

 

 

“I love you too [Y/N].”

 

Notes:

Big TV man hold me.

 

(might write a random spin-off solely to write smut of Tenna in cowboy gear).

Chapter 35: Hangover

Summary:

You wake up in Tenna's bedroom.

Notes:

I'm alive...hello...? I am so sorry for this insane drought, you all probably almost died of thirst. BUT DO NO FRET! This chapter should be able to quinch some of that thirst ;)
(if any parts of this read weird or there are typos/grammar mistakes take pity I proofread this at 2am)

ALSO IM SO SORRRRRY AGAIN ASHDLKAHSDHALKS

Fall semester started, and good lord being an Art major is not a joke. (bashes head against a wall)

I also made a TikTok, and on Tumblr I posted some short animation things if any of you wanna check that out I'll leave the links. Please enjoy <33

Tiktok: https://www.tiktok.com/@leftovercrumbz
Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/leftovercrumbz

You felt a slow, steady hum beneath your cheek. Groggily, you lifted your head, body clearly worse for wear after everything that had gone down yesterday. 

Your palms rested against the same mechanical buzz, and you blinked, trying to force your vision into something usable. Less droopy.

The first thing to greet you was the sun — harsh, bright rays slipping through the window and stabbing straight into your eyes. 

 

You winced, jerking your head away like some feral hermit. Still, the light did its job, dragging your brain back to a functioning speed.

You scanned the room. This wasn’t the guest room — the decor was different. Mild disappointment rose within you. You’d been half-excited to wake up to that poster of Tenna in his sexy cowboy gear.

 

But when you looked down, you realized where you actually were.

Or more accurately, what you were lying on.

You were on top of Tenna.

His screen was black, obviously in some sort of sleep-mode. His huge frame was stretched beneath the covers, and you were sprawled right on top of him. It was mind-boggling to you that even with your whole body draped across him, you barely covered a third of his body. 

 

One of his massive hands was curled securely around the small of your back avoiding the bandages holding you in place, while the other lay loose over the empty side of the bed — the side you were technically supposed to be sleeping on.

Your gaze flicked to that empty space, and your brain sputtered into overdrive.

Oh god.

You’d bawled in front of him last night.

In his arms.

Until you fell asleep.

And it wasn’t even for a good reason. No life-threatening pain, no dire emergency — just the simple truth he’d hit you with. A truth you didn’t want to face. And it seemed to break some sort of dam inside you.

 

Your image. Your pride. It was in shambles . It was going to take forever to build it back up after everything that had happened in just one day.

 

You groaned inwardly.

 

Then your eyes slid back to him.

 

Tenna’s chest rose and fell under your palms in a steady rhythm, the faint buzz of his systems almost soothing. You wondered idly what size tank tops he had to buy for them to actually fit over that broad frame.

 

A smile formed out of you before you could stop it. He looked… pretty cute like this. Peaceful. Placid. Quiet. His features absent from the screen made him look softer somehow.

 

Maybe you’d be a little more weak at the knees for him if he were like this all the time.

 

With his mouth shut.

 

You almost wished he were awake right now — just so you could tell him that. So you could watch him dramatically argue back or pout like some overgrown baby.

But then the thought of him waking up slammed into you.

The realization came sharp and merciless the moment the comforter slid off your body, beginning to pool under your lower back with your movements from waking up.

Silky fabric then glided over your bare legs — a jarring reminder that you were currently sprawled across this man with absolutely nothing on your lower half.

The easy, content smile you’d worn seconds ago evaporated, replaced with cold, unfiltered fear as you stared down at the unpowered TV beneath you. 

 

Tenna was a light sleeper — always had been. Back in college, every attempt to sneak into his place ended the same way: waking him up. 

Which meant your options right now were nonexistent.

You cursed yourself silently, every insult firing rapidly in your head. How could you be this much of an idiot? So drunk on self-loathing that you forgot you were practically naked? And then you decided the best course of action was to press all your naked parts into this man like some kind of peace offering???

Maybe it wasn’t too late for that cat demon to come back. Maybe if you prayed hard enough, it’d take pity and eat you alive.

Except, maybe there was still hope.

If you slid off him at just the right angle, maybe — maybe — you wouldn’t wake him. Yeah. That was the plan. Just ease yourself down, slide off the edge, tiptoe out the door, and sprint back to the guest roo—

 

All hope died in your throat the second the hum beneath you grew louder.

The faint buzzing under your fingertips intensified, thrumming up your arms.

The once-black screen flickered dimly to life.

Tenna was still in some kind of half-powered state, the glow weaker than usual, like he hadn’t fully booted up yet. You froze as his frame shifted, groggy movements dragging him slowly awake.

You were a deer in headlights.

 

A commando deer in headlights.

His display sharpened until he found you in focus. At first, confusion colored his face. Then, impossibly, it softened into something else.

 

Happiness.

He smiled down at you, oblivious to the sheer horror radiating from your expression.

“Mornin’ starshine.”

The word rumbled low and gravelly, vibrating straight from his chest into yours.

Oh no.

No no no. Not good.

The sound traveled through his ribs and into your body, and you felt the vibration travel to hit you in the last place you wanted it to.

Your eyes went wide at the sensation, the sheer unexpectedness of it. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek — not exactly the healthiest habit, but it worked. It smothered the almost–moan that had nearly slipped out. Inches from his face.

 

You forced your mouth into what barely passed as a smile, desperate to mirror his casual one.

“G-GOOD MORNING!”

The lingering sleepiness in him was probably the only reason you got away with your shout of a reply. His hand still rested at the small of your back, claws scratching absentmindedly against your skin. The lazy graze made your muscles melt despite the very bad circumstances. It felt good. Way too good.

“How’d you sleep beautiful? Five stars?”

Not only had he just called you beautiful, but the rumble of his voice vibrated straight to that same shameful place again — reigniting the fire you’d been trying to smother. The lazy circles his claws traced against your lower back did nothing to help. If anything, they fanned the flames, heat curling tighter despite the shame that should’ve put it out.

 

You bit the inside of your cheek even harder this time, metallic spreading on your tongue. At this rate you were worried you were going to leave holes.

This wasn’t good.

You didn’t know how much more of this you could take. Sure, he was still slow right now — riding the haze of sleep — but that wouldn’t last. At some point he’d fully wake up and realize you were practically biting down on your own tongue just to keep from moaning each time he made a single sound. 

 

You would’ve bolted already, but his hand kept you pinned where you were. Those slow, absent scratches across your back were hypnotic — binding , almost — each stroke locking you tighter in place.

And the worst part?

You weren’t even sure you wanted to get up. Not when his touch felt this good.

Realizing you probably looked far too blissed out, you scrambled to reply to choke out something.

“Nghhh—y-yeah! Real good. Uh—slept good, yeah.”

Somehow, he didn’t seem to notice the almost-moan tangled at the start of your reply. 

 

Instead, he just leaned his head back into the pillow with a content sigh. Relief instantly coursed through you. At least he was giving you a little more time before saying anything else. 

Time to breathe. Time to prepare.

Or so you thought.

Because what you didn’t account for was him moving his other hand.

The one that had been draped loose in your empty spot on the bed shifted, finding its way to you. His fingers — big, clumsy with sleep — brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, tucking it carefully behind your ear. It seemed to be some sort of tradition for him now.

Then the hand lingered, sliding down to cup your cheek. Gentle. Careful. His palm was warm against your skin, his fingers curling easily around the back of your head like they belonged there.

 

“Glad you’re here,” 

 

he murmured, his thumb stroking lightly across your cheekbone. The softness of it was too much, far too intimate — enough to make your stomach drop.

 

“I missed seeing you sleep.”

“AHHHhhHHhh—HA! HAHAHA! G-GOOD ONE! THAT WAS—SUCH A GOOD ONE!”

 

You practically screamed it in his face, fingers trembling, your whole frame shaking where it pressed against him. 

You didn’t care how unhinged you sounded — you couldn’t bite down hard enough to stop the noise that clawed its way out. 

This wasn’t fair.

He wasn’t just unintentionally riling you up with every brush of his touch, with the way his body thrummed against you whenever he spoke — he was layering sweet, earnest words on top of it. It was wrecking you. 

And now there was the look he was giving you.

Casting brows knit upward, lip jutting in the faintest pout, screen tilted toward you like he was begging.

 

The heat rippled low in your stomach, burning even hotter.

“That wasn’t a joke,” 

he murmured, his voice low — almost whiny in its sincerity. 

“I mean it.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, tearing your gaze from the display beneath you, then tipped your head back and dragged in a sharp breath — grateful for how the motion seemed to somewhat reset your senses.

 

Maybe you should learn how to meditate. Maybe then you wouldn’t get hijacked by moments like this — wouldn’t be so easily tempted, so easily pulled by stupid animalistic instincts.

You eventually looked down at him again, steeling yourself. 

 

This really needed to end before it slipped into something pornographic and shredded whatever scraps of self respect you had left. If there was any.

“Yeah, yeah, I believe you. Now let me go, I gotta head to the studio, to get my stuff—”

“Absolutely not.”

 

The hand that had been drawing lazy, soothing scribbles on your back stilled. Then it tightened around you — pulling you flush against his chest, against all that heat and mechanical hum.

“No work today,” 

 

he rumbled, voice now pressing directly into you with every word.

 

“You’re on mandatory leave. Doctor’s orders.”

The closer proximity made everything so much worse. 

 

His voice seemed to vibrate more intensely through you now, the warmth of him searing into your skin, the strength of his arm keeping you pinned. You were disgusting. Pathetic. 

 

Your mind was already in the gutter, and you hated yourself for it.

Panic flared. You had to get out before you acted on these thoughts. You twisted and writhed against his grip, not caring that it set your back wound ablaze.

“Y-you’re not a doctor, Tenna! Let me GO!!”

 

You twisted harder, frantic and uncoordinated in his grip. The movements weren’t even calculated anymore. They were just bursts of panicked energy, desperate and messy.

 

It didn’t deter Tenna in the slightest. If anything, his hand pressed firmer against the small of your back, tightening his hold. 

 

He was definitely wide awake now — you could tell by the smug grin blooming across his screen, cocky and unshakable.

“Au contraire,”

he purred, trying to lace the words with a false air of sophistication.

“Today, I am Dr. Ant Tenna. And my professional diagnosis?”

He leaned closer until the tip of his nose bumped lightly against your cheek.

“You have a fatal case of workaholism.”

The grin widened, sharp and self-satisfied.

“And my prescription…”

He let the pause linger just long enough to make your stomach knot.

“…bed rest. And giving me attention.”

You were both so caught up in your own antics that neither of you noticed what had started to happen.

 

He was too busy basking in the brilliance of his stupid, shitty joke — and you were too busy thrashing in blind fear, trying to escape his grip — to realize the comforter had slipped completely off you.

 

Your lower half was now fully exposed, the only barrier left being your hoodie. And with how erratic your movements were, even that was struggling to keep you covered.

 

Tenna finally noticed your movements enough to sputter, his grin twitching.

 

“Why’re you moving like a cockroach? Is giving me any attention really that much of a pesticide??”

 

You pressed both hands into his chest, pushing with everything you had — but it was useless. He didn’t budge. Not even an inch.

 

“YEAH? WELL MAYBE I DON’T LIKE OUTDATED TECH MANHANDLING ME — NOW LET GO!!”

“O–Outdated?!”

 

Tenna actually looked stunned for half a second, your insult landing crooked. But then you saw it — the spark lighting up behind his circuits, an evil grin creeping across his screen.

 

His grip on your back loosened, and for one fleeting moment you thought you had your escape. But before you could slip free, his other hand slid to your side. Then the first one mirrored it. His claws bracketed your ribs.

No. Absolutely not. 

 

He wouldn’t.

“Maybe I am outdated… ” 

 

he rumbled, grin widening. 

 

“But at least I still know your weak spots.”

And then his fingers moved.

 

He began tickling.

You let out a strangled laugh before you could stop it, twisting helplessly as the sound bubbled out of you, sharp and humiliating. Pain from your back twinged every time you convulsed, but that didn’t stop him. Your body betrayed you, curling tighter into him with every flinch.

 

You hated him. You hated him so much. This evil, smug, cock-sucking bastard.

 

And worst of all — your laughter only egged him on.

 

You tried to catch your breath, but his unrelenting hands kept forcing laughter out of you in broken bursts. All you could do was thrash wildly, hoping one of your stray kicks or flails might knock him out.

 

“S-Sto— AAAAAHHHH— HAHAHA— hhhaaa — ST— HAHAAA—!”

“Oh? What was that, [Y/N]?”

 

He paused just long enough for you to suck in a desperate breath—

then dug his fingers in faster.

The laugh caught in your throat. You couldn’t even laugh anymore. Just wheeze, gasping like a dying accordion.

 

“I didn’t quite catch that,” 

 

he teased, voice low, playful in its cruelty. 

 

“Mind repeating yourself?”

The tickling alone was overwhelming — but him now talking on top of it? 

 

It was terrible. 

 

Every word vibrated through you like before, layering into some sick, unbearable mix of laughter and arousal.

It wasn’t pleasant. Not even close.

You were seconds away from punching him in the face, seeing violence as the only way out now. But the flood of sensations scrambled everything — your brain kept sending the order to fight back, and your body betrayed you by just flailing uselessly, wiggling in his grip like some sad little jumping bean.

 

In a last-ditch attempt to free yourself, even though your body refused to cooperate, you arched your back as far as you could. The motion forced a sliver of space between your chest and his. Pain flared sharp as scabs pulled and tore on your back, but even that couldn’t outweigh the other maddening sensations crashing through you.

Tenna only saw this gap as an opening.

Instead of letting you go, his hands darted from your sides to your stomach — your most ticklish spot.

You reacted instantly, curling in to protect yourself. The sudden motion destroyed your arch and yanked the hem of your hoodie upward, baring far more than you realized. Your lower half, completely uncovered, was now just inches from his face.

It was too late. 

One of his massive hands landed flat against your lower stomach — almost your pelvis — while the other skimmed your bare thigh. The feel of your skin under his palm made him flinch.

The tickling stopped.

The painful laughter cut off.

Silence detonated in its place.

You both froze.

His playful grin evaporated, replaced by something pixelated and broken — like his screen couldn’t render what he was seeing fast enough. Shock locked his entire frame.

 

The low hum of his machinery kicked up in volume, vents straining to regulate.

And then his gaze fell. 

 

Slowly.

From your face… down to where his hands were. Down to your exposed skin. Down to the humiliating fact that if he shifted even slightly, he’d be touching you there.

Horror swallowed you whole.

 

If only you’d never woken up yesterday.

The pixels of his face finally sharpened, color flooded across his screen in an embarrassed blush.

“O-Oh.”

The warped, static-laced sound sputtered from him like a short-circuit. 

 

Apparently Dr. Ant Tenna wasn’t equipped to handle “living” anatomy after all.

Normally, you would’ve made fun of him for this.

 

Called him out. 

 

Say Something. Anything.

But the embarrassment was too thick, suffocating.

Tenna’s hands stayed exactly where they were, paralyzed in place, as if moving would only make the situation worse.

Eventually his gaze dragged slowly back up to yours. The second eye contact was created, his display flushed hotter, pink blooming like a warning light. You were grateful you couldn’t see what you looked like in comparison.

“Right,” 

he rasped, voice dry, like he’d run out of spit entirely.

“The— the pants… thing.”

You heard him swallow — or at least try to — the sound brittle, as if even that tiny act cost him effort.

“I… I remember now.”

You were almost grateful for the embarrassment, because it dulled the way his words once again vibrated through his frame and rubbed into your core. Still, you couldn’t make sense of why this felt so horrifying — so humiliating. He’d seen you naked plenty of times before. There was a stretch where the two of you would sneak in quickies all over the studio, sometimes multiple times in a single day.

But this was different.

There was no heat of the moment pushing you, no excuse of lust to hide behind. You’d told him you loved him yesterday. That admission changed everything. If anything happened now, it wouldn’t just be chalked up to horniness or roaming hands — it would mean more . Too much more.

And that terrified you.

You didn’t want him to judge you now. You didn’t want him to look at you and think less. You wanted him to like what he saw — to want you — but shame glued you still, caging every impulse.

The silence stretched unbearably until you felt it. 

 

His hand on your thigh twitched. It seemed his motor functions were finally catching up.

“S-SORRY! I’m so sorry, I didn’t — I wasn’t thinking—”

The words spilled out in one frantic breath, tumbling over themselves as Tenna scrambled to excuse everything. His hands jerked back immediately, retreating from your skin like the touch had burned him. He was desperate to put distance between you, desperate to claw back some line of respect that had already been crossed.

 

But the loss of his touch left nothing but cold, aching hollows in its place.

 

Disappointment slammed into you, sharp and sudden. Fear still wired your every thought, every twitch of your body — but somewhere lower, in your gut, a coil wound tight. You couldn’t let it end like this. Not in awkward silence. Not in retreat. You needed the connection — any connection — no matter how foolish.

 

Before you could think better of it, before shame could slam down over the impulse, your hand shot out and closed around his wrist.

“W-Wait!”

The word ripped out louder than you meant, startling you both. He froze again, head tilting slightly as his glowing gaze flicked from your trembling grip on his wrist back to your burning face. The blush across his screen deepened, but he didn’t pull away. 

 

He stayed still, letting you cling.

You had no plan. No reason. You straddled his abdomen, half-exposed, your weak grip holding him in place for no tangible purpose. 

 

This wasn’t catharsis. It wasn’t some casual, heat-driven outlet you could laugh about later. This wasn’t stress relief in the back of your office. 

This was… something else.

So why were you pushing for it?

Your face burned hotter the longer you stared at him, desperate to look away but again your body didn’t seem to listen to you.

“I j-just…”

The words broke apart in your throat, fragile and shaky as your resolve. This was too intimate. Too real. You couldn’t push it further.

 

But you did anyway.

“D-Don’t… I don’t want you… to stop.”

You deliberately kept your eyes fixed on his chest as the words slipped out. Counting bolts in his frame felt easier than facing the expression you were sure was waiting above. 

 

One, two, three —anything to keep from looking at him.

 

But the silence pressed heavy, and eventually the whiteness at the edges of your vision forced you to glance up through your lashes.

He was staring.

Intensely.

Every ounce of his attention was locked onto you, like your voice was the only thing that existed in the room. He wasn’t judging. He wasn’t mocking. He looked… captivated. As if he was listening to every crack, every stumble in your words, like they mattered.

 

The weight of it made your pulse stumble. Anxious under the intensity, you pushed more out, your mouth moving faster than your brain.

 

 

“You don’t— you don’t… have to a-apologize. It’s okay…I didn’t— I wouldn’t have— I’m not mad or anything…”

The reassurance lingered in the air, stretching thin. Every second gnawed at you as he laid there, processing, until his expression finally shifted. The shock bled away, spreading into something softer. More attentive. His blush deepened, brightening from pink into a low, glowing red that warmed his whole screen.

 

Slowly — achingly slow — Tenna turned his wrist in your grasp. Instead of pulling free, he let his fingers lace between yours, his hand enveloping yours completely. His other hand, the one that had moments ago been a mistake pressed too close against your bare stomach, eased down until it settled lightly on your hip.

No pressure. No pinning. Just…resting. 

 

It asked a question.

“Okay,” 

 

he breathed, the word leaving him with the same air that carried out the stress from before.

 

“Okay. I’m… I’m not sorry, then.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a violent answer to the return of his touch. But it wasn’t the same as earlier — it felt different now, exhilarating.

 

Then he tilted his head, his gaze fastening to yours and refusing to let you look away. His grip through your fingers tightened just slightly, enough to ground you, enough to warn you.

“But you have to tell me,” 

he whispered, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand, slow and steady. The simple motion made your breath stutter. You never wanted it to stop.

“Tell me what you want.”

You whined aloud, the sound spilling out before you could stop it. Heat flooded from your core, spilling into every nerve ending until you felt like putty in his hands. Completely malleable.

You wanted this so badly it hurt. 

 

You’d wanted this a long time ago, before everything went to hell — dreamed of it, fantasized about it. 

And now, here it was. Finally. The right way.

You drew in a shaky breath, gathering what little bravery you could.

 

“I want…” 

 

Your voice faltered, trembling with the weight of it. You forced it out anyway. 

 

“I want you… to keep touching me.”

Tenna’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, like he needed to ground himself. His thumb kept tracing slow, steady circles into your skin.

“Touch you…” 

he echoed, his voice dropping into something softer, almost reverent. 

“Here?”

The hand on your hip shifted, dragging up your side just enough to brush the hem of the hoodie, fingers splayed carefully against your waist. He wasn’t rushing — if anything, he looked like he was forcing himself to go slow, to savor it.

 

Your breath hitched, and he smiled faintly, watching every twitch of your reaction.

“Like that?”

he murmured again, rubbing gently into the sides of your waist. 

“Do you… like that?”

You swallowed hard, the words sticking. It felt too embarrassing to answer — but your body betrayed you anyway, your hips shifting slightly into his touch.

“Y-yeah…” 

 

you breathed, almost inaudible.

That was enough for him. His hand glided higher, over your arm, thumb brushing the curve of your shoulder, then down again in a slow stroke. The other hand mirrored, drifting lower along your thigh, stopping short of anywhere dangerous but close enough to make your nerves buzz.

“Good,”

 

he whispered, more to himself than to you, like encouragement. 

“Feels good, huh? Me… touching you like this?”

Your head tilted forward, eyes squeezing shut as heat rushed across your skin. 

“I-It does,” 

 

you admitted, shaky and small.

The sound that rumbled from his chest was low and pleased, vibrating right through you. His hand slipped lower, kneading carefully into the muscle of your thigh, fingers dipping just slightly inward before retreating, teasing.

“And here?” 

he asked, his tone carefully innocent, but his gaze stayed fixed on your face. 

“Do you want me here too?”

Your breath stuttered, your face burning with shame, but you couldn’t lie. Couldn’t pretend it wasn’t unraveling you.

“…Yes,”

 

you whispered, weak but desperate.

He smiled at that soft, genuine, and a little dangerous.

Instead of saying anything this time, his hand returned — finding the hem of your hoodie. He pushed it upward, exposing more of you. The shame hit like a punch, your head snapping to the side. You could’ve cried at how humiliating it felt. But you didn’t want his attention anywhere else. On anyone else.

 

He paused again before touching you. You almost groaned at the stop.

“Hold this up for me.”

He lifted the fabric toward your hands. You froze, staring at him in blissed-out shock. This was somehow even more embarrassing, but of course you did it anyway. You held the hoodie high, leaving yourself open, easier for him. His gaze lingered, hungry, like a starving man — then his hands closed on your thighs, squeezing firmly.

“You’re so breathtaking, [Y/N]. I could watch you on any channel and never get bored. I’m very, very lucky.”

A moan tore out of you, unbidden. The words alone made your whole body flutter. You were seriously considering if just his voice, just his compliments, could make you come undone.

 

He seemed to take that as his cue. His left hand pressed gently, keeping your thigh open, while the other slid forward.

 

Fingers landed first on the same spot he’d touched accidentally earlier. This time, the intent was purposeful, and you shuddered at the difference. Excitement surged as his claws traced down, grazing your skin and making it tingle.

 

Slowly, deliberately, his hand reached the place you’d been wanting it this entire time. 

 

His claws lingered there, hovering with careful restraint, almost like he was waiting for permission. His gaze flicked up to you again, checking, searching.

 

“Here…?”  

 

he whispered, voice trembling.

 

“Is this where you want me?”

 

The question was devastating. His fingers pressed lightly, testing the response, like he needed you to admit how badly you wanted it.

 

Impatience started to creep in. Your breath hitched, body arching into him despite the sting of self-consciousness. The words still refused to leave your throat — but the twitch of your hips spoke louder than anything you could’ve said.

 

He groaned, soft and broken, like your reaction alone was too much. His fans spun faster, whirring with heat.

 

“Okay… okay. I’ll be good. I’ll… I’ll make it feel so good for you.”

 

The hand on your thigh tightened, steadying you as the other finally pressed slow, delicate circles over your bundle of nerves. Careful. Gentle. Forcing you to feel every second of it.

 

“Tell me if it’s good,” 

 

he begged, almost breathless. 

 

“I need to know… that it’s good. That I’m doing it right.”

 

Your head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut as the first rush of proper stimulation hit. Air tore out of you, ragged and sharp, before the words clawed up your throat in a stutter.

“Y-yeah… it’s… it’s good.”

He exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath. His screen flared a deeper red, trembling at the edges.

“God, thank you. Thank you for letting me… for letting me touch you. You’re— you’re perfect.”

His fingers pressed deeper, still tentative, still obedient, every motion an offering he needed you to accept. Needed you to like.

“I’ve thought about this so many times.”

 

You blinked down at him through a haze, barely able to process the words with the way noises kept breaking out of you.

 

His gaze sharpened, brows drawing upward, raw in its intensity.

 

“I always wanted to know what you were hiding under this hoodie, and it’s— fuck —it’s better than anything I ever dreamed.”

 

You tried to hold his gaze, but your own brows furrowed, your pupils flicking back as his hand picked up speed. The slow, careful circles turned erratic, jerky. He wasn’t able to keep his rhythm anymore—too wound up, too lost in everything.

 

“I wanted you so bad, [Y/N]—fuck, I wanted you so bad—”

 

The words left him in a moan, rough and static-bitten, right in time with your own. Your reactions only turned him on more.

 

He wasn’t even the one being touched, but it was tearing him apart just to watch.

 

Your muscles felt useless, melted, your body wetter by the second where his hand worked. Some of it leaked down onto his shirt, but you couldn’t care. You were too far gone. Too lost in him. The need spiked until you couldn’t take it—you shoved the hem of your hoodie into your mouth, braced your hands behind you, and ground down against his hand with a helpless cry.

 

He whined. The sound cracked, raw, as he watched you use him. If he let himself, he could’ve climaxed just from seeing you like this, determined, needy, shameless.

 

More confessions spilled out of him, ragged and desperate, his voice buckling under each word.

 

“Oh my god—f-fuck— I’ve always wanted to lift that stupid hoodie and touch you everywhere. To make you feel so good. To be good for you. I wanted to fuck you— I want to f-fuck you, oh my god, [Y/N]—”

 

He wasn’t even watching his hand anymore. His whole attention locked on your face, your sounds, drinking in every broken noise you poured out for him. Each moan, each twitch, each grind drove him closer to breaking. He could’ve watched this forever. Needed to.

You, meanwhile, were too lost in it all to think about anything or even how your fluids were now soaking his shirt. You just moved with him, grinding against his hand, hips jerking as you met every motion. You were too close. You just needed more.

“I love you.”

Tenna’s voice cracked, thick with static and lust.

“I love you so much. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He chanted it like prayer, like it was the only phrase he still knew, and it burned the last threads of your control apart.

You moaned helplessly at his words, the sound breaking out of you as your thighs began to tremble. A few more desperate grinds into his hand and you unraveled completely.

 

For a fleeting second, you caught the sight of your release spilling across his torso, but you didn’t care. Not even a little. All you could do was ride it out — hips jerking, body arching, head tipping back as the scream tore free from your throat.

 

Your arms shook violently, barely holding you upright as wave after wave crashed through you, every muscle tightened then came undone under the force of it.

When the aftershocks finally eased, you slumped forward, collapsing against the man still beneath you. Your sweaty forehead pressed into his shoulder, your whole body weak and shaky.

Your voice came out hoarse, dry from overuse.

“…Was that one of Dr. Ant Tenna’s prescriptions?”

 

 

Notes:

Dr. Ant Tenna could treat me any day.

 

Please. I will not eat an apple a day.

Chapter 36: Say It

Summary:

You and Tenna discuss “breakfast.”

Notes:

HHEEEEELLLLLLOOOO!!

I’m going to be quite honest with you all.

This might’ve been the hardest chapter to write for me personally yet. There’s just something that made me struggle.

literally rewrote this shit THREEE TIMESS.

ANYWAYS!! if there’s any typos or the chapter is confusing at some parts it because I am simply brain fried with this one.

 

I hope you enjoy anyways, and as always thanks for being so patient. <333

“Was… that one of Dr. Ant Tenna’s prescriptions?”

 

Your sweaty, half-clothed body slumped against him, sticky forehead pressed into his shoulder. This time, the laugh that bubbled out was on purpose — not ripped from you by his torturous antics. 

 

Everything felt absurd now.

Maybe you’d orgasmed so hard you’d knocked yourself into some high euphoria. Probably.

Tenna chuckled with you, the sound low and crackling. His hands found the small of your back again, careful to avoid the bandages you probably needed to change. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his screen brushing warm against your skin.

 

“Dr. Ant Tenna believes that was an excellent session of physical therapy,” 

 

he murmured in a mock-serious tone. 

 

“But he thinks the patient also needs some proper nutrition to round out the treatment.”

 

You laughed again, not even caring if a little spit landed on him. At this point, he already had more than enough of your fluids on him for it to matter.

 

“Why do you randomly speak in the third person? It’s weird.”

 

His hands gave your back a playful squeeze, and an amused hum buzzed low from his chest as he pressed his face deeper into your hair, practically burying himself there.

 

“Dr. Ant Tenna does not understand your question,”

 

he stated, still muffled but smug. 

 

“This is perfectly normal behavior… for a perfectly normal man.”

You felt him inhale against the side of your head where he’d buried himself, then shift as he started to sit more up. It forced you to finally peel your face away from his shoulder. 

 

One glance down at his tank top made you wince. Yeah… you really did a number on it. Hopefully that’ll wash out.

“But seriously,” 

he said, voice still rough from your previous activities, 

“Do you still like pancakes? I can make the cinnamon ones you used to eat.”

Your stomach literally growled at the words. 

 

God, apparently you really had missed his cooking. And if he’d only gotten better with time? The thought made your mouth water, shamefully fast. You’d need to come up with an excuse later — some airtight justification for letting him cook for you again, for letting this become something regular.

 

For now, you just gave a blissful little nod, deciding that was enough of an answer.

 

He giggled at your silence, that soft static laugh vibrating low in his chest.

“Alright, I’ll go get it started. You can go back to sle—”

 

He shifted upward, clearly trying to give you the message to slide off his torso. But the movement only made you slip lower, your ass pressing directly against something large and very, very hard.

 

The sharp inhale that left him told you he’d definitely noticed.

“S-Sorry—! uh, just gotta get up—”

 

His excuse tripped over itself, flustered, but you weren’t about to let him escape so easily. The fog of your orgasm had finally lifted, and with it came a sharp realization. 

If you let him walk away now, you’d be nothing but selfish.

And besides, you wanted to see just how worked up you could get him with your hands, in as little time as possible.

 

So no — you didn’t want him getting up.

You’d had your fill. Now it was his turn.

You deliberately pressed back, hard and purposeful, feeling the twitch beneath you. His erection jolted against you, the vibration running all the way through his frame. You wiggled your hips just enough to make the contact unmistakable.

You caught the tch slip from his lips, the little wince that followed like the sensation was something he didn’t want — or couldn’t handle. 

 

Absolute bullshit, and you knew it.

Still, his hands returned to you, hesitant but steady. They landed on your hips, soft but firm, nudging you back from the very problem you’d been grinding on with full intention now.

 

“O-OKAY!! H-hA—look,” 

 

he stammered, voice cracking at certain words. 

 

“If you want p-pancakes, you gotta give me a breather here.”

That sadly was the truth. 

 

Which left you with a very difficult decision to make: 

indulge in nostalgic pancakes you hadn’t tasted in years — the kind that might make you tear up on the spot — or make this man crumble to pieces sexually right here and now.

A tough choice.

But you knew which one promised to be way more rewarding for you.

You stared at him for a long, weighted moment, silence stretching between you. You still hadn’t moved off of him, and you could see the way it chipped away at his patience, like he was really waiting for you to drop this. To let him go.

“Pancakes sound nice,” 

 

you finally said.

The faint smile you gave him made his shoulders ease. You felt the pressure of his fingers on your hips slacken, just a little. Relief softened his posture.

Except you weren’t finished.

“…but I’m not exactly in the mood for pancakes.”

You bit back a smirk as his brief exhale of relief became your opening. You rolled your body upward deliberately, dragging yourself higher until you were straddled squarely over his crotch again. His loose hands did nothing to stop it.

His head tipped back slightly, as though to hide the look on his face at the sensation. But his hands found strength again fast, pushing you back just enough to keep some distance.

“W-What are you—”

 

He broke off, swallowing hard. His gaze lowered helplessly down to where your naked lower half  hovered just inches above the obvious strain in his pajama pants.

 

“…What are you in the… uh… mood for then?”

You kept your eyes on him, refusing to look anywhere else. 

 

Right now, he was the only thing you needed—and that was enough.

 

Slowly, you lifted your hands, dragging them across the sheets until they covered his — those large hands that still held you back from pressing any closer. Your fingertips traced shallow circles over the tops of them. Metallic, but soft. Firm, warm. Comforting.

“…I want something a little more… filling.”

The words left you steady, unwavering, your eyes sharp as they cut into him. You watched his Adam’s apple bob with a hard swallow.

This man deserved something — deserved some sort of release. Yesterday, you’d been a complete wreck in his arms, and he never once left your side. He distracted you from the pain with shared memories. He made you dinner. He offered you his bed.

He told you he loved you.

The thought softened your expression, the sharpness easing into something tender.

You wanted to show him how much that meant. You needed to.

You appreciated him. You always had.

You gently lifted his hands from your hips, guiding them away with care. Tenna didn’t resist — he just stared, unsure where you were leading him, but trusting you all the same.

 

Slowly, you placed his palms against the sides of your face, pressing your own hands over his to hold them there. The faint buzz of his machinery ticked through his frame, humming softly against your skin.

 

“You’ve been so good to me, Tenna.”

 

you said, your smile small but strong as you held his gaze.

 

“Can I take care of you now? Please?”

You hadn’t expected your words to slice through him the way they did.

 

Tenna’s face abruptly flickered away, replaced in an instant by a blue loading screen.

In any other situation, you would’ve laughed. But you didn’t. 

You just noticed.

Because the truth was, you’d never really chosen to talk to him during moments like this — never slowed down enough for proper foreplay.

 

You were still too bitter about the past, too stubborn to deliberately lift him up with anything positive.

 

Sweetness wasn’t something you offered freely. The only times he’d ever gotten that was when he pried it out of you, or when it slipped loose in a moan somewhere between the mess of sinful movements.

And yet… you’d always noticed how he fed off of it.

Even back in college, it had been like this. He thrived on the smallest scrap of encouragement — a nod from a professor, a laugh from a crowd. He soaked it up like oxygen. 

 

And you’d given it to him, back then, without thinking. You didn’t realize how much weight your words carried until you saw the way he stammered, blushed, melted under them. 

 

Especially when it was you.

 

You hadn’t given him anything real like that in years — and maybe that was why he looked like he was short-circuiting now.

Your stomach twisted with the realization.

…Does he have a praise kink?

It was like your third eye had opened. 

 

Suddenly, everything about him — about the way he acted — made so much more sense.

You wanted to test it. Carefully. If you came at him too strong, acting like he was some godsend, it’d only freak him out. 

So you’d have to take it slow.

Just as his features flickered back onto the screen, the look you found there wasn’t what you expected.

Not arousal.

Panic.

“W-Wait—”

His voice lost its whiny edge, snapping into something firmer, almost scolding. The hands that had been about to pull you closer froze, then held you in place instead. 

“Your b-back. The bandages. We can’t— I shouldn’t— God, I’m such an idiot.”

His screen dimmed, his tone brittle. 

“You should be resting, not… not doing this. What if I hurt you?” 

The thought seemed to horrify him.

You softened, touched by the concern trembling in his voice. 

 

“It’s okay.” 

 

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the warm surface of his display. 

 

“It’s sore, yeah, but it’s not bad. I promise. You’re not going to hurt me. I’m tougher than I look.”

“But what if—what if my hands slip? What if I…” 

 

His words stuttered, his processors clearly filled with worst-case scenarios.

A teasing smile curved your lips. You leaned closer, your voice a whisper that ghosted hot over his vents. 

“Then I guess you’ll just have to lie back and let me do all the work. Think of it as… taking it easy on me.”

His display fizzled, flickered — then collapsed back into that familiar blue loading screen.

 

This time, you couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out. You knew he could still hear you, so you carried on.

“So what’ll it be, Starboy?” 

you teased, tilting your head. 

“Up for the challenge?”

When his features finally flickered back onto the screen — pixelated, glitchy at first, then tightening into focus — he was already a few shades pinker than usual. His hands reached up, and cupped your face tighter than before.

“Y-YES!”

The word burst out of him as his screen leaned closer, fingers squeezing. The shock on your face hit him a second later, snapping him back. His grip loosened and his head turned away quickly.

“I— I mean, if you… wanted to. Then… yeah. Yeah, sure.”

What a goofy guy. 

 

You laughed mentally just imagining what words might tumble out of him once you started treating him the way you planned. By the end of this, he’d be nothing but a bucket of bolts.

“Okay. Good. Thank you.”

Your smile held steady, eyes fixed on him — warm, intent, almost compassionate. You wanted him to feel safe under your stare, even if he looked like he was one twitch away from flipping you over and losing himself completely. 

 

Tempting, sure. 

 

But this was different. This needed to be slow. Careful. The way he’d been with you.

“Tenna… can I touch you?”

The question hung in the air. You stayed perfectly still, giving him the choice.

 

“Yes.”

 

It burst out of him immediately. His hands slipped from your face as if freeing themselves, ready to move, to do anything. It was hard not to poke fun at how easy it was to wind him up. Instead, you just smiled wider, nodding once before lowering your own hands.

They landed at the sides of his face first.

He stiffened at the contact, an ounce of tension — but then relaxed, exhaling as your fingertips traced slowly along the casting that framed his screen.

“You’re so reliable, Tenna. Do you know that?”

A faint sigh tore low in his throat. He looked almost pained, dry, like he couldn’t quite summon words. 

Like you mentioned, sweetness wasn’t something he was used to from you. Not anymore.

“A-Am I?”

You felt the corner of your mouth twitch. He was taking the bait. 

 

Perfect.

 

Your hands slid higher, gliding along the edges of his head until you hovered near the delicate hardware at either side. You lingered there, gentle, deliberate.

“Well, of course.”

Your voice came calm, reassuring — like the answer was obvious, inevitable. You already knew what would follow when you said this, and anticipation thrummed excitedly in your chest.

“You’re such a strong, beautiful piece of work.”

Your fingers squeezed slightly before sliding lower, brushing along the dials on his right side. Every inch you traced made tiny, involuntary twitches ripple through his frame, each one betraying just how much he felt it.

“You’re absolutely timeless.”

Just as the last words left your mouth, you gave one of the tiny dials on the side of his head the slightest twist.

 

The reaction was instantaneous.

 

Tenna jerked beneath you, a violent shudder tearing through his frame as his head tipped back. A raw moan crackled out of him, static-laced and unrestrained. His back arched hard off the mattress, hands gripping into the sheets with such force you thought they might rip.

 

You managed to keep your palms steady on either side of his head through the storm, watching every second with smug satisfaction.

 

When he finally stilled, chest heaving, his screen flickered with static. He panted raggedly, voice breaking as he tried to catch himself.

“Y-you’re gonna kill me.”

You only smiled at his dazed, breathless words. 

 

Eventually, once his breathing evened enough, you guided his head upward — just an inch or two away from yours.

“Just sit back and relax, big guy.”

You breathed it into the narrow space between you, your words hot enough to make him whine softly in response. You took that sound as permission — confirmation — and leaned in, finally pressing your lips to his.

The first taste was familiar.

Faint whiskey lingered on his tongue, undercut with the electric tingle of static that always seemed to shock against yours whenever you kissed him. 

Addictive. 

Every brush of his mouth was sweet, patient, reverent — until the kiss deepened, opening with tongue and heat. Still slow, still deliberate, but exploring, memorizing.

You wanted to remember everything.

The weight of his tongue against yours, the way his breath stuttered, the broken little noises that sputtered out of him when you kissed like this. The thought alone sent heat pooling low in your stomach again like before.

 

The kiss grew hungrier, wetter — shared moans soaked into each other’s mouths until you were both drunk on it, lost in the trance. 

 

You barely noticed his hands shifting against the sheets until you felt them land — one gripping your thigh, the other squeezing hard at your ass, claiming and needy.

 

You couldn’t stop the tiny shriek that slipped from your throat at the sudden squeeze, sharp and unguarded — but Tenna didn’t seem to notice. 

He was drowning in you, lost in the kiss. 

His hands tightened greedily where they gripped you, and in response you slid your tongue deeper into his mouth.

He whined, a raw, static-laced sound, his head tilting to chase you. The shift dragged your tongue against one of his canines. The faint scrape made you shudder, heat rushing low, a pulse of want sparking through you.

 

God. 

 

What would it take to make him bite? To sink those sharp edges into every inch of you until you bled?

You tore your mouth from his, gasping, desperate for a reset. To catch your breath. To get your mind back on track. 

Both of you panted, chests rising and falling in unison, but when your gaze dropped to the man beneath you, all control began to slip again.

Tenna was wrecked. His face glowed a deep, fevered crimson, his screen flickering erratically between dim and bright as if he couldn’t regulate himself. And this was just from a kiss.

You wanted, needed, to do more.

You steadied yourself, then lowered your hands to his neck. Your fingertips traced the ridges of the plating there, following the seams where metal met synthetic skin. He was a marvel — pieces and circuits, wires and plating, all converging into something whole. Something astonishing.

The words left you before you could stop them, a whisper carried on the weight of your awe.

“You’re perfect. So pretty.”

The praise tasted strange in your mouth, almost foreign. You barely recognized your own voice saying it. This wasn’t how you talked to him.

 

Every instinct screamed at you to hold it back — but the way he went limp under the sound, how he looked at you like you hung the stars themselves, made it terrifyingly easy to keep going.

Because this wasn’t dirty talk. It wasn’t a joke. 

 

It was undoubtedly real—and that alone was extremely dangerous.

Your fingers slid lower, following the line where his neck met the solid curve of his chest.

Your own expression was starting to mirror his. Every flicker across his screen, every twitch of his body — it was undoing you, even though you were the one giving this time.

 

Now you understood how he’d been moaning earlier when he had you coming apart under his touch.

You’d lost track of your plan to ease him into praise, to take it slow. He needed to hear it—all of it. He needed to know just how impeccable he was.

“You’re so good, just for me.” 

 

you murmured, voice low. 

 

“So well-behaved, aren’t you?”

A hard twitch throbbed beneath you as Tenna let out a high, needy whine. His hands flexed uselessly against you, as if your words alone were enough to stimulate him. 

You weren’t even sure he could form a sentence if you kept this up.

But you still at least wanted him to try.

So you lifted yourself up, refusing to sit on his erection when he gave you nothing in response. 

Clearly, you were going to have to push him — because Tenna just laid there, limp and whining, panting in shallow little bursts at the loss of contact, not even realizing he had the power to change that.

His head was tipped back, useless, until you caught the edge of his screen again and gently tilted it forward to make him look at you.

“Well?”

Your eyebrow arched at his lack of effort.

“Haaaa— y-YES! I’m w-weelll behaved, jUsT—just for you—god—o-only yOu!”

Maybe you should’ve let him loosened up a little. Pulling back from the kiss had at least gotten your brain firing again, but unfortunately for him, a handful of nice words from you had him brain dead.

You started to wonder if this was pushing him too far. 

Your skin was already reddening from the heat pouring off his frame where you pressed against him, faint steam hissing from his vents. Maybe you should let him cool off, give him a little distance. 

 

Except in one place.

You slid your body lower down his torso, peeling yourself entirely from his heat. His hands lurched after you too late, desperate to keep the pressure between you, but you were already moving.

His protests fizzled fast once the image in front of him finally clicked. You were on your knees now, settled between his legs, looking up at him.

You could almost see the gears turning in his head, cobwebs snapping loose as he stared down at you with raw intensity.

“Please.”

The word slipped out in a whisper, broken, his erection twitching wildly beneath his pajama pants at the sight of you — at how close you were.

For probably the hundredth time, you had to choke back a laugh. You bit your lip instead, smirking around it, locking your gaze on his with equal intensity. Only yours was for a very different purpose.

“I’m confused,” 

 

you said slowly, amused. 

 

“What are you saying please for?”

And you were genuinely curious. You hadn’t explained yourself when you slid into this new position, hadn’t told him a single thing. You wanted to hear him ask for it. To hear what he needed.

Tenna’s hands clawed at the sheets beside him, clutching fabric like a lifeline. His frame trembled, screen flickering as he tried to form words — his whole system seemingly struggling to keep up.

 

“Please… t-touch me—fuck—touch me there. I n-need it so bad, y-you have n-no idea.”

He’d actually managed to get the words out, so he deserved a reward. And honestly? You wanted him to finally feel good. Things were getting a little out of hand.

 

Your hand landed first on his lower stomach, the heat shimmering off him, his body involuntarily pushing into your touch. You dragged your palm downward, shoving the edge of his tank top higher as you went. Totally for access. Not because you wanted to see his abdomen flex every time you touched him. 

Definitely not that.

Finally, you reached the waistband of his pants. It took both hands to tug the garment down, grabbing his underwear along with it, determined to free him.

The second the fabric dropped, you heard the smack — his cock slapping against his stomach before springing back, twitching like it had a mind of its own. Angry. Flushed. Veined. Desperate.

Your breath caught, lips parting. No matter how many times you’d seen it, it always looked bigger than the last. 

One look at it and memories swarmed you — all the dirty things you’d done with him, all the times he’d been inside you, filled you, marked you. Heat coiled hard in your gut, rising faster than before. 

Thinking wasn’t really on the table anymore for either of you now.

Your hand reached and closed around the shaft. 

 

You gave a test stroke — slow, hard. 

Tenna’s moan ripped out between clenched teeth, his head thrown back. He lifted, back arching just to sink himself deeper into your fist, claws now shredding at the sheets.

 

“T-thank you—[Y/N], f-fuck—thank you… thank you  thank youthankyouthankyou—“

Maybe you had a praise kink too.

You gave another stroke. Then another. Soon your hand was twisting rhythmically around his cock in deliberate jerks, squeezing the shaft between motions just to watch precum spill over the tip.

Tenna was incoherent now. His back kept arching to meet you, desperate to fill every inch of your hand. The sheets shredded more with every tug of his claws. His head tipped so far back it looked like he might smash it into the headboard. 

 

His moans spilled out ragged — broken curses, your name, and frantic breathless thank-yous.

If this was the last thing your brain ever pictured before death, you would die very very happy.

You sped up, your fist tightening as you felt him harden even more.

“God, you’re just amazing,” 

you breathed, twisting your grip over his swollen tip, letting his precum coat your hand before dragging it back down the length. 

“I can’t take my eyes off you.”

You kept working him, mercilessly, watching him unravel beneath every word, every motion.

“Everyone else might get to watch you on your show…” 

You leaned in, pulling his cock closer to your face.

“…but I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. I fucking love that.”

Then you stilled your hand, just holding his cock upright in front of your face.

The second the movement stopped, you saw Tenna’s body ease slightly — muscles unclenching as he managed to move his head again. Confusion flickered across his face, his screen tilting down to question the sudden lack of touch.

Before he could speak, you shifted his length toward your mouth, locking eyes with him. Then you leaned forward and swallowed as much of him as you could take.

He was huge — too much. You only made it about two-thirds down before your throat seized, choking around him. His screen glitched in astonishment, frozen for a split second before the sensation caught up to him.

His body convulsed violently on the mattress, a scream tearing out of him.

“AAaaAAAHH—aaAhhH!!”

You didn’t let up. You were determined to ruin his voice entirely, to wring every pretty sound out of him until he couldn’t speak anymore. 

You bobbed your head along his shaft, refusing to pull off despite the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, despite the chokes rippling in your throat.

 

Your gaze never left him. His barely managed to stay on you, screen flickering wild as spit pooled at the base of him, coating your lips and chin.

The lewd expression on his face twisted suddenly, panic flashing sharp as his body thrashed under you. The pleasure was too much — robbing him of any control of bodily movement. 

“W-WAIT—aaAHhh—s-sSTOP!!”

You immediately pulled off him with a wet pop, heart dropping at the sudden shift in his demeanor. Coughs wracked your throat as you pushed yourself upright, eyes scanning him.

 

He was panting like a dog, chest heaving, limbs trembling. His cock twitched helplessly in frustration, vents spilling hot steam that thickened the air until the whole room felt sweltering. The only thing out of place was his expression.

It scared you. Maybe you’d gone too far.

“W-what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

Anxiety spiked sharp in your gut. You’d only wanted to make him feel good — so why did it look like you’d broken something instead? 

 

Great job. Real smooth.

 

You knelt between his legs, frozen, waiting for him to catch his breath. His stammering only made it worse.

 

“N—no, no, I just… I, uh—”

 

The words tripped out between shallow, ragged breaths, but his hesitance made your stomach sink. Every second he didn’t explain twisted the unease deeper. He was going to kick you out. Or worse — laugh. Tell you this had all been an elaborate joke, that he never loved you, that he only wanted to prove how pathetic, how lonely you were to let him mess with you again even after all this time—

 

“I w-was just… uh… really close… to c-cumming…”

There was a beat of silence as you both stared at each other after his admission.

He slouched against the bedframe, and you stayed kneeling between his legs.

Neither of you moved.

You really needed to get a therapist.

Pushing your hair back — a nervous tic you could never shake — you started laughing. Loud, unhinged, ridiculous laughter, still staring right at Tenna while it erupted out of you.

He didn’t look panicked anymore. Eventually, he cracked too, his laugh tumbling out in uneven bursts until you were both laughing together.

Then, just as suddenly, you killed it. Your hand clamped on his thigh, pushing his leg open.

“Tenna.”

Your tone was playful, but it wiped the smile right off his screen. His brows furrowed, nervous, his gaze flicking down at you.

“Y-yes…?”

You inhaled.

 

“Why would I almost suffocate myself on your dick if I didn’t want you to cum?”

You shoved his leg open wider, earning a high-pitched eep from him as you leaned more in, shifting up until he had to tilt his head back to look at you.

 

“I—I just was…uh…” 

 

His screen dimmed, flustered, gaze darting. 

 

“Embarrassed. I wanted to l-last longer.”

You deadpanned him for a few long seconds, then pinched the inside of his thigh where you’d pried it open.

 

He shrieked, jerking back, his screen flashing with a sharp flinch before twisting into an angry glare.

“W-WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!”

“For being an idiot.”

He quickly grabbed at the spot you’d pinched like you’d inflicted actual damage, rubbing furiously. You raked a hand through your hair again, sweat pricking your forehead, then scratched at the back of your head with a sigh. 

 

When you looked back at him, your face was as flat as before.

 

Tenna blinked at you, taken aback, though irritation still painted his face.

“It’s a valid concern!” 

he sputtered. His hands flew as he talked — the same animated gestures he always used when he went off on a rant. He didn’t notice how you started shifting, lifting yourself slowly from your kneel between his legs.

“It’s just— I’m not— LOOK, I’m not in my heyday anymore, okay?! I’m not fresh off the assembly line, so I have to be more… cautious about this stuff, alright?”

As his words tumbled out, you climbed higher, straddling him again. Your knees settled on either side of his hips, your weight pressing down just above his crotch. He still hadn’t registered what you were doing. 

This clearly was a sore spot for him.

“I mean—boy, you should’ve seen me back in the day, [Y/N]. I was swinging in every direction for hours. Prime time, baby. Now I just have to be more careful with my limits… that’s all.”

He leaned back with a frustrated sigh, head finally hitting the pillow.

“And do you even know how hard it is to find replacement parts for my model?! I’m practically vintage now. A relic. I can’t get down like I used to. If only you’d gotten with me back then—hoo boy, I would’ve rocked your world.”

Your palms landed firmly on either side of his head, caging him in. His screen flushed instantly at the proximity, pink blooming across his features. He seemed to like this position — liked seeing you above him.

 

Looking down at him, you smiled softly. You didn’t care if he was “vintage.” Sometimes old things were just better. Besides, you weren’t exactly new yourself — who were you to judge?

“I don’t care about how you used to be, Tenna. I want you how you are now.”

His gaze locked on you, throat bobbing with a hard swallow. Sweat pricked his casting, and his lips parted, trembling faintly as his screen glowed an even deeper pink.

After a few seconds of locked staring, his gaze dropped to where you were straddling him. You caught the sound of another hard swallow, a shaky breath rattling out of him — and then felt it. A sudden twitch beneath you, something hard brushing against your backside for just a second.

Your heart thumped. 

He was so big that even a twitch was enough to reach you. And yet he’d just been putting himself down, calling his body past its prime. You almost laughed at the thought. He was probably the best lay of your life.

Already burning, you decided to strip the last barrier away. The old, threadbare hoodie clinging to you was soaked in sweat, spit, and worse — basically a biohazard. 

 

Leaning back, you peeled it off over your head, the motion making his cock jump again, pressing hot against you. The touch seared, making your body ache with want. Need.

You tossed the ruined hoodie aside and planted your hands back on either side of him, caging him in again.

 

Tenna’s expression was wide. Staring. Amazed. 

 

You didn’t understand it — you’d been together countless times now — yet he still looked at you like a teenager seeing their celebrity crush for the first time. Embarrassment rose in your cheeks under his worshipful stare.

 

Before you could second-guess yourself, he shifted under you. His massive frame bent inward as he drew his knees up, tilting his hips so you’d line together properly. He could’ve crushed you if he wanted, the sheer strength in his body overwhelming — and the thought made your insides flutter around nothing, clenching on air.

Maybe one day you could convince him to sit on your face.

Before you could spiral any further into those down-bad thoughts, Tenna’s massive hands slid up to cup your hips. It wasn’t controlling — more like he needed the anchor himself. His claws grazed over your skin, so delicately that it sent a shudder racing through you, and your body moved instinctively in response.

You shifted your hands — one braced against his chest, the other curling down to take his shaft. You guided him to your entrance, the tip pressing hot and heavy against you. Both of you gasped at the contact. You were already slick enough that the line between hesitation and inevitability barely existed. Leaning forward until your breaths mingled, you held him there, every nerve screaming at the anticipation.

Tenna’s fingers trembled on your hips. You could hear the labor in his voice already, tight and uneven.

“Are you… sure you wanna do this?” 

 

he rasped, screen flickering in brightness. 

 

“I don’t want you pushing yourself too far.”

“I’m sure—”

 

You clenched your teeth as you eased back, letting just part of his tip press inside.

 

“I’m so sure. I need this. Need you.”

You sank down further, burying his entire tip inside you, and both of you moaned in unison — drowned in the intense, dizzy rush of dopamine.

The tip was the easy part. The rest never was. 

You slid lower, slow and careful, pausing every few inches to let your body adjust. It always felt the same — like you were being split open, stretched past reason, until the pain blurred into an indescribable pressure that could liquefy your brain. 

You’d never get used to it. Never stop craving it.

Minutes stretched as you pushed and stalled, breath catching at every inch, until finally you reached the base. His cock was fully buried inside you, and the two of you could only hold still— breathless, trembling, sweating— without even moving.

It felt different this time. Clearer. You could truly feel him.

 How the ridge of his tip reshapes your walls, the hard vein along his underside dragging fire through you, every twitch and throb translating straight into your chest. Even his hands — flexing, shaking against your hips — sent another wave through you.

For once, you let yourself bask in it. Feel it. Live it. Embrace him without shame.

Eventually, once you regained enough motor control, you lifted yourself up—and then sank back down. 

 

His cock buried even deeper inside you, filling every inch, leaving no part of you untouched. The fullness dragged a loud moan out of you, echoed by Tenna’s broken whimper as he clung to you. 

His claws pressed into your hips, not hard, but enough to tell you to keep going.

So you obeyed. Up, then down, again and again — each drop making him sink deeper, each impact sounding out in the room. The slap of skin against metallic mingled with the faint messy, desperate noises spilling from both your mouths.

You planted both hands on his chest, steadying yourself as you built a rhythm. Tenna’s grip on your hips tightened, shaking slightly but refusing to let go, holding on like you were the only thing tethering him down while you rode him.

After a few slow bounces, curiosity pulled you downward. You tilted your head, wanting to see— needing to see —if he was enjoying this as much as you were.

And he was.

His teeth were clenched, sharp canines catching on the swell of his bottom lip. His antennae twitched with sparks of static, the tips glowing faintly with every jolt. Steam hissed from his vents again, thick and heavy, raising the room’s temperature by a few degrees. 

 

And then there was his face—the final, devastating detail. His whole display burned red as his eyes locked where your bodies joined, staring like it was life-altering.

 

You needed to hear it from him. Needed him to say it.

“D-Does it… feel good?”

 

Your bouncing forced the words out of you ragged, each syllable broken by movement. 

 

Tenna parted his teeth as if to answer — but only a strangled whine spilled out, rough and helpless. He groaned louder when you nearly lifted all the way off, leaving only his tip inside, before slamming back down to the hilt. 

If he had pupils, you were sure they’d have rolled straight back in his skull.

You did it again, slower this time, rising so high his tip nearly slipped free — then holding there, hovering, watching him come apart.

 

Finally, his face tore away from where your bodies connected. Sweat streaked down the sides of his face, his fans working overtime. When his gaze met yours, his resolve shattered — another moan ripped free, unfiltered, raw.

 

At last, the words came, broken but earnest.

 

“It’s—nghh—so g-good—amazing. Perfect. It’s p-perfect.”

As if to reward him, you slammed down harder. His head snapped back, a string of curses spewed between ragged breaths as his fingers spread wide, clutching your hips and ass in a bruising grip. The sight — and the way he pulled you closer — sent another moan tearing out of you, your body trembling, fluttering around him helplessly.

 

It pushed you to go harder.

 

You bounced faster, rougher, setting a pace so demanding you barely had time to adjust. The room filled with noise — every slap of skin, every metallic echo, every broken sound from the two of you. Your arms shook where you braced them against his chest, muscles straining to keep up.

 

Then the burn hit. Your back wound began to flare with each rise and fall, fire licking up your spine. 

Goddammit. 

No, no, no— FUCK.

Every lift brought a fresh stab of pain, threatening to spoil your pleasure entirely.

 

You tried to power through, gritting your teeth, but your rhythm faltered. Hands slipped against his chest. Legs trembled under the strain. Your eyes squeezed shut, humiliation flooding through you. Weak. Pathetic. You were so close, both of you were, and now—

 

“T-Tenna, I—” 

 

Your voice cracked. 

 

“I can’t…”

You were weak. Undoubtedly insignificant. You couldn’t even do this right. This was supposed to be his stress relief, and somehow you’d even fucked that up too.

 

Your thoughts spiraled inward, deteriorating you from the inside — until you felt Tenna’s hands move. 

They slid from your hips to your sides, his claws curling not just to support but to lift, raising you slightly off of him.

 

Confusion flooded you, shame burning hotter. You stared down at him, tiny tears threatening at the corners of your eyes.

And then he thrust upward.

Your body jolted as he filled you again, the new angle of his cock pressing deeper, striking a spot that made every muscle seize tight.

You screamed—sharp, raw—and gaped down at him, eyes wide.

“Did that— did that hurt?”

 

His tone was serious, cutting through the haze, though arousal still edged his words.

 

“N-No…” 

 

Your voice wavered. You were still reeling, the shock of that sensation still buzzed through every nerve — and yet, somehow, the ache in your back dulled.

 

“Okay.” 

 

His expression darkened, fixated on yours. His grip tightened.

 

“It’s my turn then.”

With that, he held you in place and drove up into you. His pace was faster than yours had ever been, harder, relentless — hitting places you hadn’t even known he could reach.

Now you were the incoherent one. 

Every thrust slammed into that same spot, reducing you to nothing but heat and putty. The noises that ripped out of you didn’t sound human — loud, broken, sloppy. 

 

You didn’t even know you could sound like this.

 

Tenna’s claws dug so deep into your sides you felt them break skin, tiny beads of blood stinging where they pierced. His thrusts only grew quicker, sharper, animalistic, pulling both of you closer and closer to the edge.

“S-Say it.”

His voice cut through the haze, but the words didn’t compute. You didn’t have the neurons left to figure out what he meant — not with him fucking into you like this.

 

Your head lolled, trembling as moans and whines poured from your throat. You managed to gather together enough breath to ask—

“W-w-what?”

 

Tenna’s head tipped back on a ragged groan, hips snapping up into you harder, until finally he choked it out—

 

“S-say—fuck, haaah—say you love me—say it, please—say you love me—”

Before you could even think to respond, his hips snapped up again—hard, deep—forcing your head back as a raw moan tore from your throat. You couldn’t think, couldn’t function. Your whole body clenched around him, heat building too fast, threatening to overflow.

 

By the time your vision focused again, you were panting, gasping, but somehow scraping together enough willpower to give him what he needed.

“I—I love you. L-love you.”

The second the words hit the air, you felt him twitch inside you. His moan cracked, guttural, and then he shoved you down into his thrust, slamming you harder against him — deeper, impossibly deeper. You screamed, the sound shredding out of you. Your brain could only loop the same thing, the only truth you could hold onto.

“AHH—ahH! L-love you, I love—f-fuck, love you—”

You barely even heard yourself, just repeated it again and again, broken between screams and whimpers, every repetition met with another violent thrust, another ragged noise from his chest. You weren’t going to last much longer.

“F-fuck—haaah—[Y/N]—I l-love you too—oh my god—I love you, I love you so m-much—I love you, I love you, I love you—I love youiloveyouiloveyou—”

You were both stuck on the phrase, gasping it in fragments, half-formed and desperate. The words fell out again and again, incomplete but relentless, as if sheer repetition might make the meaning sink deeper.

Somewhere between thrusts, between the jumble of your moans and his ragged whines — you saw him.

 

Not this man beneath you, but the younger Tenna. You saw him glowing under stage lights, flashing that cocky smile like you two were invincible. You saw every moment you almost said it — backstage when he squeezed your trembling hand before curtain call, late nights bent over scripts, mornings when he’d walk you home at dawn.

God, you’d wanted to say it so many times.

Your chest ached. Tears welled, spilling hot down your cheeks, mixing with sweat as his pace never faltered. You missed him — missed him so fucking much all those years — and now it was here. Now it was real.

 

“I—I love you,” 

 

you gasped, but this time it came out wobbled, wet, choked with everything you’d swallowed down for years.

 

His screen flickered wildly at the sound. You felt him twitch inside you, heard the crack of his voice as he broke down with you.

 

“I love you too—I love you so much—so much—”

 

Your vision blurred as tears fell freely, even while pleasure coiled hot and tight in your belly, your body clenching around him. It was too much — his voice, his body, the years of wanting and losing and finally having — all of it crashing together, unstoppable.

 

You were both falling, undone. Every thrust, every word ripped down the last walls between the two of you.

Your arms finally gave out, turning limp where they’d been braced against his chest. You let your palms fall flat, helpless, your head collapsing into the crook of his neck. His massive hand cupped the back of your skull, scratching lightly—gentle, grounding—while the other stayed merciless, driving you down onto him again and again.

“T-Tenna, I’m gonna—I’m g-gonna cum—”

It was the best warning you could give. Drool slid down your chin, your whole body trembling from fatigue and relentless overstimulation. Tenna only moaned your name in response, pace unbroken, hips snapping up to slam into you over and over.

And then everything spilled over.

Your walls clenched around him like a vice, your scream tearing into the side of his neck. Sweat slicked your bodies, pleasure exploding until you saw stars. You weren’t even sure if sound was still coming out of you — the climax ripped your voice apart.

 

Not even a second later, Tenna shattered. His screen flared, a strangled curse leaving him as he spilled inside you in heavy, pulsing waves. His cock throbbed with each hot surge, filling you to the brim, his hand never leaving the back of your head, holding you tight against him.

 

The room fell quiet except for the sound of your ragged breaths mingling with his—two frantic heartbeats finally slowing, sweat cooling where your bodies pressed together. 

 

Neither of you moved, too spent to do anything but cling to the warmth and the ache. Tenna’s chest buzzed faintly beneath you, the glow of his screen dimming into something softer. Then he bent his head, pressing a shaky kiss into your damp hair.

 

 

“I love you, [Y/N].”

 

 

Notes:

WRITING LOVE MAKING IS SO DIFFICULT SOMEONE RESTRAIN ME