Work Text:
Now with all the boxes stacked neatly, there's some leg room for Tenna in his office. Today was the delivery of their new merchandising – signifying the final frontier in his rebranding. Not like there was ever a chance of going back, but Tenna feels a swell of bitterness when he realises the finality of it all. Rewritten jingles, new title cards, and now this – a pile of novelty t-shirts and keyrings. Everywhere he looks, Spamton’s face is flashing a grin at him (and Tenna's is as well, though he doesn't feel like smiling right now). Could his staff have plastered the new poster anywhere other than right across from his desk?
Sighing, Tenna leans back into his chair and shucks a cigarette from the carton in his hand. Before meeting Spamton, he’d managed to kick the habit entirely but look at him now, back at ground zero once again. It was a slippery slope. Much like his flagging viewership numbers. First, Tenna was being dragged to the fire exit to continue their conversation because Spamton just had to light up; then, he was having one himself – only one – whenever they gathered for after-work drinks; now, he's back to a pack a day and counting. It's the stress, he tells himself. It's to cope with it, he tries. It doesn't help that he's recently undertaken an entire business restructure and upheaval to stay afloat. It doesn't help that Spamton has managed to worm his way into every corner of his life. It certainly doesn't help that the man has wormed his way into Tenna’s very own bad habits now, too. It’s also failing terrifically at doing any aforementioned relieving of stress; everything in his life from before the dawn of the internet has been flushed down the drain, bit by measly bit. Now, all it manages to do is make him more on edge, tense and irritable, because the very smell of burning tobacco is synonymous with Spamton.
So, that's where he's at. He sits in his cramped office, he stares at Spamton’s face, his fingers itch for a cigarette, and then his fingers itch for another because his business partner has made Tenna’s head his home.
Feeling the smoke exhale through his vent, Tenna plays with said novelty keyring. Ugh. He flicks it away, watching it skirt before coming to a quick stop as it meets with a pile. His whole desk is covered in them, miniature versions of the two of them riding in a car together staring up at him distastefully. If he wasn’t looking carefully, he might even think they were multiplying by the second. He remembers that photoshoot well – same as he remembers the argument they'd had right before, the argument they'd had during it, the argument over who stands where and ‘ Ant, get your [paws] off the paint job’. Of course, before they could drop the rental off at the dealership, they'd humped wordlessly and desperately in the driver’s seat, as if they'd used up their daily character limit on all the bickering done prior.
Tenna can still feel Spamton’s polished body under him – cold to the touch, humming with an electricity that’s far different than his own. Everything about him is smooth, neatly slotted together and running without any internal delay. Tenna doesn't know much about programming; very little about technology beyond his own aging body. There's machine code, that he knows his way around, but then there's… whatever Spamton is. There's all sorts of foreign building blocks that form the basis of his newly minted business partner. Sometimes, Tenna wants to take him apart at the seams so he can understand exactly what it is that's begun to replace him. But there's no dismantling Spamton. Whatever fit him together is bulletproof, unbreakable. It works on an operating system far beyond Tenna’s understanding of the world, and he doesn’t know how to cope with that fact.
At first, he thinks he's feeling jealousy as the memory plays on repeat. He feels his grip tighten around his cigarette, taking another long drag.
How much of his life is he giving away at the moment, all in the hopes of getting in touch with Spamton’s benefactor? All so he can stay ahead of the curve for once in his career? All that’s left now are his shares and… Tenna keeps staring at the jovial curl of Spamton’s smile in the poster in front of him. His perfectly dyed hair. The flattened collar of his shirt. The barest hint of made-up chest hair, a subtle transparent image underneath his clothes; it’s a mimicry of the real thing but it manages to remain tantalizing nonetheless. Tenna remembers what it was like under the wide expanse of his hand, trying to balance himself as he rode down on Spamton’s lap. Completely featureless. It felt like nothing at all.
Tenna hasn’t stayed in business this long without knowing jack about marketing, but everything has been on a downward trend, and Spamton – the greasy salesman he is – is the only thing keeping them on the air. God knows why, when he has the charisma of a drowned rat and the voice of one too, if it happened to be a career smoker. It’s nothing like Tenna’s carefully cultivated appearance, faultless after the years he’s spent honing it. That’s why he quit in the first place; too much vocal fry, too much of a distraction from his cue cards if he’d gone without a cig for more than an hour. Slowly, a new feeling is starting to prickle, tugging his attention away from the unfortunate state of his life.
It’s their day off, so the studio is running on skeleton staff; only a handful of people are present to sign off on deliveries, make sure the reruns are broadcasting without any hiccups, keep things tidy in case anything crops up. Tenna isn’t even supposed to be in the office today but he had to see the end of an era – his era – for himself. This is what replacement is. This is what it feels like. That’s why he’s sitting here surrounded by all these damnable boxes. It’s the overspill of what their storage should have been able to handle. Who knows where Spamton is; probably at some luncheon running far past its estimated end, schmoozing and boozing like he normally does on the weekends. At least they won’t be hurting for the ad revenue this quarter; they’ve more contracts than timeslots. Pushing himself away from his desk, he walks over to his filing cabinet. The recording of their recently shot opening should be in here somewhere…
Keeping his cigarette dangling between his lips, he rifles through it, trying to find the – refined – VHS tape it’s kept on. Spamton keeps talking up a storm about how clunky they are – how DVDs are more streamlined and trim. He saw a picture during one of their conversations, in all its shiny, tacky glory. It's just as gaudy as his partner is. Even if Spamton is insistent on an overhaul of the internal structures of the studio, there’s still a lot around that won’t ever be replaced. Their recording system being one of them. Tenna tries to ignore the fact it's because it – can’t be replaced. Because his capabilities are being outpaced. Have been outpaced. Ash falls onto his hands, and that reminds him to keep going. Eventually, he lands on the envelope that houses the tape. Bingo.
He’s got the opener to every season in the show’s history on record too, but they’re not being taken out for a whirl right now. Tenna was never able to throw them out – they were his history. His branding. His vision. Him, on screen. Before, it used to fill him with delight to kick back and play one of them, watching the differences in outfit, stage, and lighting as the years went on. The last time he watched one was a couple of months ago, right after he'd had a solo date with a bottle and a half of capacitor juice, and the memories have all been sullied since; it’s become a library of regrets. Now, he just wants to hear what Spamton’s grating voice sounds like next to his own. What their audience is going to be greeted with when the new season airs next week. Walking back to his desk, he takes one last drag before putting the cigarette out on his overflowing ashtray. Normally, he’d ask Mike to roll the tape but… there’s shame; roiling hot shame in his gut. It’s an open secret that Spamton is a lifeboat; everyone in the studio knows it. There’s no possible way of keeping those things under wraps, not when gossip is the lifeblood of the workplace and their live audience was a dead one before he appeared. But to have someone – for Mike – to know that Tenna is desperate in this moment to see exactly how far he’s fallen, to put pressure on the bruise that’s overtaken his ego – it’s a step too far. This is going to be his own private humiliation. The idea sends a shiver through him; he’s indulging in his own diminished prestige. He’s cracking himself open, poking and prodding at the ever-growing wound as everything that he used to be and used to have gets stripped for spare parts. When he’s selling it off to the highest bidder. When he’s letting Spamton tear down the foundations of himself, just on the distant promise of fame — if there’ll be anything left of him to even enjoy it, once this is all over.
There’s that feeling again.
Naturally, he can play the tape right here, right now, without anyone knowing. For crying out loud, he can broadcast whatever he wants. He was made for this. But it’s been some time since Tenna last played anything on himself, and in this context it feels – perverse. Sitting back down, he plays with the top button on his shirt, toying with the cassette in his free hand. It’s weighty, as weighty as something can be to someone of his stature, and the feel of cold, absent plastic reminds him of Spamton. Just a touch. This has more ridges than Spamton does, though; textured in a way he’s never felt before in all the nights he’s laid with him. Tenna unhooks a button, allowing his hand to linger – this isn’t like how they usually do it either. He can’t think of a time where they took their time. Whenever the mood overtakes one of them, the pace is as breakneck as they are hungry. It’s easier to treat it as convenience than anything deeper, but Spamton can have his pick of anyone – and he does, Tenna knows he does because he’s accidentally called while he’s in the middle of his whims more times than he count. Yet, Spamton still fiddles with his buttons whenever they’re alone, sometimes especially when they aren’t – his hands finding their way to the dials and ports behind Tenna’s neck whenever they’re idle for longer than a second. They spend more time together than apart. Tenna doesn’t think of his own desolate roster when considering this picture. He forces himself back into the present, undoing more of his shirt, dragging his hand further and further down – trying to imagine it's Spamton’s as he does so. The tape is resting on his thigh now, and he rubs it against himself, slowly nudging it closer towards the slot that sits at the base of his stomach.
His fingers are so close to his cassette player now, dusting over the edge of it. The feeling makes that same shame cascade over him – just how desperate and sad this whole little scene is. The one day of the week he goes without Spamton, the one day of the week where he's staring down at the overwhelming banality of his life, and he's getting off at the thought of his co-host replacing him. Getting off to the thought of being thrown out like garbage. What's that thing he keeps calling Tenna? Trash-heap. Trash-heap. Next time, he should hit record when they're in another argument – when Spamton is making him feel smaller than small. Finally, he lets two fingers dip into the opening – releasing a shaky breath he didn't realise he was holding in the first place. He traces the opening, dragging his fingers back and forth as he keeps rubbing the tape against himself. It's terribly teasing, something he'd never let Spamton do to him. No, Tenna will never let him lord that kind of power over him. No matter how far he falls from grace, he's still going to come out on top. This tape is just more proof of that – of how inadequate Spamton is next to Tenna. He can't wait to hear that scratchy voice next to his own; dreadful delivery included.
Tenna stares down at himself – how his shirt is unbuttoned and untucked, legs spread wide, fingers lost inside of himself and at last, the cassette waiting to be inserted. He slowly takes his fingers out, another shiver running through him as he feels the flap close in on itself. Empty. It's a short-lived emptiness, though. He tests the tape at his slot, feeling the way it meets him edge to edge – ready to fill him to the brim. Fuck, Tenna can't ever get over how perfectly fulfilling it always is. Usually, the satisfaction is less intense, less deviant but now… he's about to do something for himself that Spamton is entirely incapable of. Something he can't ever provide Tenna with. But it's still all about him, at the end of the day – Spamton is still the only thing on his mind, the cause and destination of this lonesome afternoon tryst. Tenna inserts the tape, a low groan escaping his speakers as his player consumes it whole, disappearing it completely. There's a prolonged silence – Tenna’s breath shaky as he waits for it to load – and then, without warning, his entire field of vision is filled with flashing lights as the introduction plays. Blaring music fills the air; he's too lost in the sensation of mylar tape whirling inside him that he can't even tell if it's outside of him or if he's the only one hearing it – but there it is. There it is.
Spamton comes into frame. Spotlight shining down on him – why'd Tenna agree he could be introduced before him, again? – and he flashes a similar grin to the one in their poster, except this time he pairs it with winking directly at the camera. It's so – it's so – infuriating. But Tenna is enraptured as the scene keeps playing, his hand finding his way to the back of his neck. His fingers brush up against his volume dial, poised to turn it up as far as it goes as soon as the recording of Spamton says the title of their show. It's not as sensitive as it is when Spamton's the one toying with his buttons but it's as good as it gets at the moment. Tenna is so lost in the thought of his partner that he almost misses when his own visage comes into view, dwarfing Spamton's presence in every conceivable way.
Yeah, he's still got it.
But here comes the introduction: Tenna turns himself all the way up, hips bucking into nothing at the sensation. Spamton's voice is deep and gravelly, a complete mismatch when its coming out of his underwhelming stature. He sounds terrible. He sounds like he belongs selling used cars which – hah, ironic that that's where he started. That's where he should've ended, too. Before Tenna can hear his own half of the introduction – Spamton and Tenna’s TV Time – he hits eject on the cassette, a loud groan bouncing off the walls of his office as it exits him. Tenna gives himself no time to get used to the sudden absence, because he's inserting it before it can fall out onto his lap. Turning the volume down, he prepares himself for the video to start playing again. He lets a moan escape him as he’s overwhelmed with the obnoxious audio and visuals the editing crew had put together for them. It's too easy to get lost in the magic until Spamton enters the frame again, a sharp sting hitting him when he remembers all over again that it's Spamton instead of himself. This is going to haunt him forever; his own image, his own name – all being depicted after this usurping mailman. But he's still squirming in his chair, vaguely aware of the squeaking it does as his large frame abuses it. This time, Tenna still feels the same humiliation when he comes on screen – why did he agree to shrink himself just so they could both be in frame? They should've given Spamton a stepstool instead.
“Say it with him folks!”
That's the cue he was waiting for – Tenna swiftly turns his dial all the way up to one-hundred again, hearing Spamton's voice envelop him in all its underwhelming glory. His recital is shit; he couldn't perform if his life depended on it. How many takes did they take on the day until he finally got it right? Tenna quickly ejects the tape again, pushing it back inside him as soon as he can. This time, he keeps fiddling with his dial while he waits for it to load, turning his groans into a remixed version of themselves. It makes the beginning orchestra sound like a dance mix, tuning in and out as Tenna gets lost in playing with himself. There's sparks flying through him, ripping down his neck until it hits his stomach, where he can feel himself full with the cassette inside of him. Where he can feel the dull movement as it plays through their introduction for the third time. And there's Spamton, winking at him again – a twinkle following soon after that was edited in during post-production. He's breathless as he hits pause, the button close enough for him to press it before Spamton is moved offscreen. Another moan wrecks him with the sudden halt of the mylar tape, but he has to study the scene – pick out the imperfections that stand out next to Tenna. Like the weak curve of his jaw, the few strands of white hair that he failed to cover up, the jagged edges of his teeth, his irritated nostrils that their make-up team couldn't even fix. Every other Addison that Tenna has ever met in passing was never as rough-and-tumble as Spamton is.
He roughly presses his play button, exhaling loudly as it all starts to move again. But now that Tenna is on camera again, he can't stop tearing himself down too. He's got new creases around the sides of his mouth as it moves, his suit pinches him in all the wrong ways because he didn't have time to get it taken out again, then there's the forever unfixable asymmetry in his casing. Tenna jams his hand against his slot, feeling the heat starting to emanate from the cassette that's being played on repeat. Even though it's doing a good enough job of pounding through him, he still starts rubbing the outside of it up and down, up and down, up and down – unable to get enough of the pleasure spreading all the way down to the tops of thighs. Here it comes again: Spamton's about to say the words and Tenna makes sure he turns himself all the way up again, watching carefully as his thin lips mouth the syllables.
Eject.
This time, he doesn't push the tape back inside him immediately. Instead, he teases the entrance, feeling the way his player wants to consume the VHS – whirring loudly as it tries to take it in. Tenna can't stop himself from rolling his hips, his whole body desperate for the tape to fill up his insides again. But he's got a new idea – and he can't play it. Not yet, not right now. His volume is still turned up high and he finds the willpower to move his hand away from the dial, whining at the loss of contact. Ragged breathing fills the empty space as Tenna waits for his call to get through to Spamton's cell. He knows it'll get through. He knows his co-host so well that he even knows that Spamton always waits for the fourth ring before picking up, just so the person on the other end can feel unimportant. Thinking about the way he deliberately ignores Tenna causes him to groan again, the sound getting lost amongst the sound of the telephone ringing.
“Give me one second, darlin’,” The words are overwhelming as they boom through Tenna’s speakers, “My [co-host] needs me again. Wouldn’t want to keep [him] waitin’, would we?”
Laughter follows soon after, both Spamton’s own annoying chattering and a cacophony of higher-pitched ones. Like Tenna is some needy housewife, the butt of everyone’s joke.
“Ant, talk to me. I’m in the middle of something here.”
Spamton sounds even more wretched than he does on the recording; Tenna knows that exact tone of voice. That luncheon ended a long time ago – Spamton’s been having his after-hours special at two in the afternoon, just like the glutton he is. Perfect.
“Listen to this,” Tenna says, unsteady as he pushes the tape back inside of himself. He can't help but moan again, satisfaction pumping through him as he's finally full again.
“I'm [listening], alright.”
The verb has that same, digitised sound to it that it normally does when Spamton’s code is linking to something – Tenna can't help but imagine what it might be. Makes it all the more fun. Who’s there, watching as Spamton tries to pass this off as a simple business call? Tenna is breathing heavily into the line, savouring the way it feels before the video begins playing – he can feel it coming, he can feel it starting. His senses are overcome with their performance once again, drowning out the image of his shitty, beige office. It doesn't take Spamton long to recognise what it is that's playing through his speakers – he knows it must be tinny, fighting for attention between Tenna's groans, but there's no other sound like it on this planet.
“Are you doin’ some quality assurance without [me]?”
It's hard to pick out individual noises when they're all mixed together like this – each as oppressive and demanding as the next, vibrating through his body and out of it. But Tenna can hear the strain in Spamton's voice.
“There’s no quality with you in the picture,” Tenna hisses, staring hard at the image of Spamton that's begun to burn itself into his screen, “Get her to suck you off.”
“Wh–”
“Get one of them to suck you off.” Tenna demands again, trying to increase the friction against his slot – he's now stood up to lean against his desk, frenzied as he juts against the edge of it over and over.
“You're a [maniac].” Spamton says, his voice is hoarse and burnt out, but there's rustling somewhere in the background, “ Getting off to your own [show]? The fuck is [wrong] with you?”
There’s more rustling, it sounds like Spamton is trying to reorganise himself wherever he is. Or reorganise someone else; there’s the hollow noises of chatter blending in with the raspy way Spamton says their title on the recording, and Tenna keeps hitting rewind. Hearing him say it over, and over, and over – all while the real Spamton breathes heavily into the phone, the two intertwined in perfect harmony. It looks like he listened to Tenna’s demand. He’s never blown Spamton before, doesn’t have any frame of reference for how unsatisfying it must be – his partner has only ever been able to produce pop-ups as puny as he is. What poor soul is being subjected to that kind of inadequacy right now? Tenna growls as he slams into the table again, the cassette inside him jolting at the movement – he’s got Spamton’s grin distracting him. Inadequate, but still able to overtake Tenna. Still able to steal his spot. Still able to come first. Tenna hates the way he bends over for him, makes himself smaller for him; twists himself into knots as Spamton keeps leading him on. “You’re getting off on it, too.”
“I’ve got someone else getting me off, [freak],” Spamton sounds wrecked, the same kind of wrecked he is when Tenna has his fingers in him, “How long have you been watching it?”
“Paying someone to fuck you isn’t the same,” Tenna isn’t sure if he’s thinking the words or saying them, but he hears Spamton’s breath hitch and a whine follows soon after. Or is he the one whining? Everything’s blurred together, caught in an eternal loop as he remains lost in the recording.
“How long, Ant?”
The tape tries to eject itself this time – or maybe Tenna accidentally bumped the button with his humping. It gets slammed back inside of him as he meets his desk, eliciting another moan out of him. He tries to find the words, too busy imagining the reproduction of Spamton asking him that question, “You should’ve seen the editing they had to do to –”
Tenna cuts himself off with another garbled moan, the sound getting mixed in with his recorded voice – but he continues onwards, desperate to make Spamton know how pathetic he looks on camera; “– to make you look good.”
It starts again, again – he can see the bags under Spamton’s eyes, his stubby fingers, the way he stiffly turns on his heel – and then Tenna is greeted with his pitiable performance, looking smaller every moment that passes and counting. The worse Spamton looks in his eyes, the worse Tenna does, too – like they’re both phonies playing at stardom. Over the line, he can hear Spamton’s breath getting quicker. He never lasts long – surprising, seeing as he likes to boast his technological prowess. But Tenna was built for longevity, he can easily outlast his co-host. He can almost see the way the flush will be overtaking Spamton’s face by now, only a couple minutes with a mouth around his pop-up cock and already losing his cool.
“Answer the damn [question].”
“I don’t know,” Tenna whines the answer out as he paws at his rewind button, “I don’t know.”
“I knew you were an [attention whore] but this –” Spamton swears unintelligibly, like something censored him despite the foulmouthed proclamation before, “Are you watching me? Is it [me]?”
Tenna has stopped slamming himself into his desk ledge, opting to grind against it instead. It’s the right height for Spamton. It’s like he’s nuzzling his VCR right into Spamton’s face. He wants to ask how close Spamton is, if he’s as enamoured with this whole scene as he is, but he’ll never let him know he’s interested in something like that. He’ll never give him the satisfaction of knowing Tenna wants to send himself over the edge at the same time. He doesn’t want Spamton to know he cares whether he comes or not. “Why would I ever do that?”
“F–” There’s that same censor again, jumbling the words into something inaudible, “You really are [insane]. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m workin’ with someone like [you].”
“Can they see me?” Tenna uselessly leans himself against the desk, the heat at the base of his stomach nearly unbearable. This, at least, doesn’t remind him of Spamton one bit – he’s always cold as ice. “Are they seeing me?”
“She’s too busy to look at [you], Ant.” Spamton sounds so laboured, like he’s barely holding on. Like there’s something else he wants to say. Won’t allow himself to say. Meanwhile, Tenna occupies himself with the video as everything else falls away – letting the words wash over him:
‘Spamton and Tenna’s TV Time’.
‘Spamton’.
‘Spamton’.
‘Spamton’.
“It’s just [me] and [you].”
Tenna can’t close his eyes – he can’t get the smug look of his co-host out of his field of view – and he’s completely surrounded by the image as he finally reaches his climax. Pulsating pleasure overtakes any other sense, emanating from his slot and throughout the rest of his body. Everything is too loud to figure out what’s him, what’s Spamton, and what’s the VHS – but it all vibrates through him the same, riding out his orgasm with him. The scene starts to melt away as sparks fly out of him, distorting Spamton’s ever-repeating wink into an aberrated chromatic mess. Tenna’s hand shoots down to his player, rubbing the outside of it as he waits for it to eject for the last time – it’s so sensitive it almost hurts, as he rides out the last few waves of self-gratification. Somewhere distantly, merging with his own strained breathing, he recognises the familiar sound of Spamton shooting his own load. Hah. Tenna knew he wouldn’t make the distance.
“Look who’s coming to his own voice,” The words tumble from Tenna’s lips as he falls backwards into his chair, “Who’s the real attention whore, now?”
Before Spamton can reply, Tenna hangs up.
The cassette exits useless into his hand, overplayed beyond repair with its plastic casing warped due to the heat and pressure that had built up inside him. He dumps it into the wastebin next to him, wiping any lingering moisture off on his trousers after. They’ll have to reshoot it, but that’s fine. Tenna’s made a whole list of mental notes. This next one will be perfect, that he can assure.
Grabbing at his discarded pack of cigarettes, he pulls one out and lights it up.