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l0vebugss · 14 days ago

Note

aaa i’m obsessed with how you write the Bucciarati gang, i apologize in advance for the amount of requests i will be sending you <3

could i request headcannons for the Bucciarati gang (individually) with a writer darling? darling is the type of person you can just *tell* is a writer by observing them. they keep to themself in public, quietly observing and taking in the world around them, always having a notebook to scribble into and only speaking when they absolutely have to. since this reader is a sort of loner type, they only go out to gain inspiration/material but prefer to stay inside their cozy writing space.

tysm <3

quiet type, loud heart; bucci gang

synopsis — they live fast, you live quietly and yet, something about you makes even the most dangerous men of passione want to slow down and linger a little longer.

content warning — possessive/jealous behavior (mild), implied intimacy, reader is a reserved writer with introspective habits

♡ bruno bucciarati

— he notices you before you ever notice him. you’re not flashy, not loud. but bruno sees things others don’t—he always has. he watches you scribble in a beat-up notebook at the same café each morning, always sitting near the window, back straight, eyes tracking people like you’re collecting souls for stories.

“what’s she writing?” mista once asked.

“everything,” bruno answered, without even looking.

— he’s patient in his approach. bruno doesn’t flirt the way others do. he simply… makes himself visible. first with a nod in passing. then a coffee left at your table. then a quiet, “do you mind if i sit?” one rainy morning when all the other seats are “coincidentally” taken. he never asks what you’re writing, he waits for you to tell him.

— he respects your quiet but reads it too. the first time you talk about your work, you downplay it—say it’s nothing. but he doesn’t let you hide.

“i’ve seen the way you watch the world,” he says. “you don’t just write. you record. there’s value in that.”

no one’s ever said that to you before.

— he makes time for you—and protects it violently. once you’re his, bruno starts blocking off sacred pockets of time just for you. no meetings. no missions. just you and him, maybe reading aloud, maybe resting together while you draft. he doesn’t even allow his follow colleagues interrupt.

“don’t ever interrupt her again,” was all he said.

— he becomes fascinated with your inner world. your notebooks become sacred objects to him. he doesn’t read them without permission, but he’s endlessly curious.

“you remember everything,” he marvels once, flipping through pages.

“that’s the job,” you answer.

“no,” he corrects. “that’s the gift.”

— he tells his team to treat you like a queen. you’re not in the mafia, but you are bruno’s. which means narancia carries your groceries, mista runs background checks on anyone you mention by name, and fugo opens doors without complaint. they joke about it—until they see how calm bruno gets around you. then they all start offering you tea.

— you’re the only person who sees his mask fall off. you catch it once, when he thinks you’re asleep. his head’s resting near your thigh on the couch, and your pen is still moving. he exhales, deep. like he’s not a capo. like he’s not a killer. like he’s just a man and you know then—he doesn’t want to be remembered for his power. he wants to be remembered by you.

— you’ve always felt a little invisible in naples. too quiet, too still, a writer in a city of shouting and motion. you liked it that way, until bruno bucciarati ruined everything.

it started slow, like all the best trouble. the man at the café with the impossibly neat hair and the soft voice. the one who didn’t ask stupid questions like, “what are you writing?” or “why do you look so serious?” he just looked. nodded. left you coffee once and one day, sat across from you and said:

“people don’t notice the quiet ones until it’s too late. i’d like to notice you before then.”

you told yourself not to fall for him. but god, how could you not?

bruno doesn’t pry, but he watches. he memorizes your writing patterns—when your left hand fidgets with your sleeve, when you get stuck mid-sentence and mouth the words before they land. he notices how you trace buildings with your eyes like you’re sketching with your pupils.

he calls it your artist’s gaze, you call it survival. he doesn’t ask about the stories until you offer them and when you do, he listens like you’re reading scripture.

you learn slowly what he does, the suits, the codes, the late nights and occasional bruises. he never lies—but he does edit.

“i solve problems,” he says.

you never ask what kind, but once, when a man harassed you in the piazza, he disappeared the next day. you ask bruno if he had anything to do with it.

he only says, “did he touch you?” you shake your head.

“then i suppose he just got lucky.”

his team comes to accept you like an unspoken rule. narancia is loud but sweet, he keeps trying to guess the ending of your current story. mista acts like your big brother, constantly teasing. fugo is polite, a bit distant, but he respects you—probably because you’re the only one who doesn’t flinch when he loses his temper. abbacchio… well. he doesn’t like you, but he tolerates you. you take that as a win. giorno, strangely, treats you like a threat.

but bruno? bruno watches all of them when you’re in the room. he makes sure everyone knows where his loyalty lies.

it’s during one of your quiet evenings that you realize you’ve started writing about him. not just stories. not just metaphors. full scenes, monologues, dialogues pulled from half-heard conversations. he reads one entry over your shoulder and hums.

“am i really like that?”

you hesitate. “you don’t mind?”

“it’s yours to record,” he says. “just… write me kindly, won’t you?”

“i always do.” and you mean it.

because even if his hands are bloody, his love for you has never been anything but gentle. he’s careful with you, but sometimes, he scares you anyway. not with what he says, but with how deep his silence gets.

once, when you mentioned an old friend—a man—you swear you saw bruno’s eyes go cold. he didn’t comment. didn’t question. just wrapped an arm around your shoulder later and kissed your temple with a little too much pressure.

the next time you saw that friend, he was limping. you didn’t ask, you knew better by now.

still, you don’t leave. you stay because bruno never asks you to shrink. he reads your words like prophecy. he carries your books without mocking your sensitivity.

he reminds you every day that your quiet is not invisibility—it’s gravity and that he has already fallen.

one night, after reading to him for hours, you finally ask:

“why me?”

he’s half-asleep, head on your lap but his voice is steady when he answers.

“because the first time i looked at you, you weren’t afraid of what you saw in me.” his fingers trace your thigh, slow.

“you looked like you’d already written the ending… and loved me anyway.” your heart stutters.

“you make me feel real,” he murmurs.

“not feared, not respected, real.”

you don’t say anything else that night. you just close the notebook. kiss his forehead and pray he never gives you a reason to write a tragedy.

♡ narancia ghirga

— he notices your notebook before he notices your face. it’s true. you were sitting on a bench in naples, sun hitting your cheek, head tilted just enough to catch the light. but narancia? he sees the way your pen moves. not rushed. not random. deliberate. like you’re catching something no one else can see.

“you drawin’?” he asks. you shake your head.

“then what is it?”

“…dialogue.”

he blinks. “you mean like… talking?”

“yes.”

he’s silent for only a moment, then:

“can i be in your story?”

— he tells everyone you’re a real author—even if you’ve never published.

giorno: “is your s/o’s writing online?”

narancia: “no, it’s in books and binders and stuff.”

fugo: “so it’s private.”

narancia: “no, it’s IMPORTANT.”

you find out he’s been carrying one of your notebooks around, carefully pressed between a magazine and a piece of cardboard so it won’t get damaged.

“i don’t read it!” he swears.

*“just makes me feel like you’re near.”

— he loves your stillness—but it drives him crazy, too. you’re a quiet observer. you write more than you talk. narancia? he fills space. loudly. sometimes, when you’re too deep in thought, he lies on the floor like he’s been mortally wounded.

“you don’t even notice when i’m DEAD,” he groans.

you glance over. “you’re breathing.”

“…oh.”

but you always put your notebook down after. and that makes him beam.

— he reads your expressions better than anyone else. you never say you’re tired, but he knows. you don’t cry loudly, but he notices the way your pen pressure changes on the page. one time, he showed up at your place with hot food, a blanket, and a new pen. you hadn’t said a word all day.

“you looked like you needed something good,” he said with a shrug.

— he hates when people interrupt your writing. you once got bumped in a café, causing your coffee to spill on your pages. narancia nearly threw hands.

“you don’t TOUCH someone’s words!” he barked.

later, he tried to copy one of your ruined pages from memory, handing you a sloppy recreation written in sharpie.

“it’s not good,” he muttered.

“but it’s what i remember you writing. i didn’t want you to lose it.”

— he doesn’t understand what you write, but he feels it. he doesn’t always get your metaphors. your quiet heartbreaks. your heavy pauses.

but he’ll underline a line and say, “this one made me feel weird in a good way.”

or, “this sounds like something bruno would say, but prettier.”

— he gets jealous of your characters.

“who the hell is ‘dante’ and why does he have three pages of dialogue?”

“…he’s fictional.”

“he’s suspicious.”

you have to kiss him to shut him up.

“you’re the only real one in here,” you murmur, pressing your pen to his chest.

“you already wrote your way into me.”

♡ giorno giovanna

— giorno noticed your silence before anything else. he’s surrounded by voices—loud ones, desperate ones, obedient ones. but you… you said little. eyes tracking every shift of the room, pen dancing across paper like it had a mind of its own. you didn’t speak often, but when you did, your words felt like the final sentence of a powerful story: deliberate. clean. unforgettable. that alone made you impossible to ignore.

— he becomes curious—then captivated. giorno is used to people falling for him. you’re the first person he’s ever wanted to understand. he watches you scribble quietly in public spaces: restaurants, rooftops, once even in the passenger seat of mista’s car. you don’t gawk at him or tiptoe around him like others do. instead, you just observe. and that makes him wonder if he’s already been written into your pages.

— he makes himself available to your gaze. he starts standing closer. speaking softer. dressing in colors you once mentioned liking in passing. he doesn’t say it aloud, but he wants to be one of your metaphors. he wants to see himself in the curve of your sentences—wants to become something you can’t help but document. and when you finally sketch a scene in your notebook that mirrors one of his meetings, he says quietly:

“was that me?” you just smile.

“it was always you.”

— he guards your solitude like it’s sacred. no one bothers you once you’re in giorno’s life. not because you demand it—but because he does. you don’t attend meetings unless you ask. you’re not paraded around. you are, instead, gifted time. space. warmth. if someone speaks over you, giorno clears his throat. if someone teases your quiet, they don’t get a second chance.

“silence is a sign of intelligence,” he once said in front of the whole team. “you’d all do well to practice it.”

— he’s fascinated by what you choose to write down. giorno doesn’t read your notebooks without permission—but when you do show him a page or two, he’s mesmerized. not just by the words, but by what you choose to notice. he’s a man used to commanding attention. but you… you write about the way light hits tile. the way people hold their breath when they’re about to lie. the way he hums, absentmindedly, when he’s healing something.

“you’re not just a writer,” he says. “you’re an archivist of beauty.”

— he finds peace in your presence. he starts working near you. in silence. gold experience flickering softly nearby while your pen scratches across paper. he doesn’t disturb you—he just breathes easier. sometimes, he asks if he can hold your hand while you write. not to distract you, just to ground himself.

“you’re the only quiet thing in my world,” he admits once, eyes half-lidded. “i’d go mad without you.”

— he promises not to become your villain—then asks if he can still be your muse. giorno knows better than to love blindly. but with you, he finds himself hoping. not for power, or glory, or revenge—he already has those. he hopes for softness. for mornings where your head is on his chest and your notebook is in reach. for a life where he gets to read about himself in your prose, not as a tyrant or savior, but as the man you loved long enough to write about.

“can i sit with you?”

not unusual. not inappropriate. but still… strange, coming from giorno giovanna, capo of passione. the golden prince of naples, wrapped in silks and threats and diamond-cut ambition.

you’re sitting alone at your usual café—half-full notebook in front of you, tea going cold. you blink up at him.

“it’s your city,” you reply softly.

but he shakes his head. “it’s your table.”

you gesture to the empty chair. he sits without fanfare, legs crossed, back straight, hands resting calmly in his lap. for a moment, neither of you speak.

“you’re a writer.”

it’s not a question.

you nod. “i am.”

“fiction?”

“sometimes.”

he glances down at your notebook. “may i ask what you’re working on?”

you hesitate. not because you’re ashamed—but because you’ve never felt the need to share. not until now.

“…dialogue,” you say finally. “i collect voices.”

he smiles. slow. approving.

“that’s beautiful.”

you study him then. really study him. the curve of his jaw. the way his hands are too still, like they’re holding back entire monologues. the way his eyes—sharp and ancient and young—keep flicking toward your pen.

he wants to be written.

he doesn’t say it. doesn’t have to. you can see it in the way he leans slightly forward, like he’s trying to earn the attention of your next sentence.

so you write him. right then.

just a line.

“he speaks like he’s already been quoted.”

the second time he finds you, it’s on a rooftop. you’re sketching the skyline in metaphor. something about rooftops and regrets and hearts left open like windows. you don’t notice him until he’s beside you, offering a paper bag with still-warm pastries.

“you write in metaphors,” he says.

“you speak in them,” you reply.

he laughs. not loud. but warm.

“you’ve been watching me.”

“you’ve been letting me.”

time passes in paragraphs. he learns how to move around your silences. you learn how to listen to the weight behind his restraint. sometimes, he tells you about his childhood—not with bitterness, but with the calm detachment of someone who has weaponized every scar.

you don’t ask how many people he’s killed. he doesn’t ask why you prefer fictional pain over real connection. you both already know the answers.

you begin writing about him more. his voice. his shadows. his ability to be both gentle and frightening without ever raising his voice. he never asks to read the entries. he only touches the edges of your notebook with reverence.

once, you fall asleep with your hand curled around it. he kisses your fingers before pulling the blanket over your shoulders.

on a rare night off, you sit beside him in the greenhouse he restored. he brings your favorite tea, asks about the line you underlined three times in your last chapter.

“the most dangerous men are the ones who whisper,” he recites, plucking the words from memory.

“i didn’t write that about you,” you say softly.

he raises an eyebrow. “no?”

“but you fit it.”

he hums, “am i your villain?”

you look up sharply.

“what?”

“in your story,” he says. “am i the villain?”

you close the notebook.

“you’re the one i keep rewriting.”

his expression shifts. something tender beneath the gold of his gaze. he takes your hand.

“then let me be the one who never dies,” he says quietly.

“even if the story ends.”

you nod. you already knew.

he already is.

♡ guido mista

— your #1 hype man. mista brags about dating a writer like it’s the coolest thing anyone’s ever done. he’ll straight up tell strangers: “she writes books, dude. like real ones with feelings and stuff. isn’t that sick?”

— he’s emotionally too invested. he doesn’t finish your stories because every time he gets to a sad part, he starts talking out loud like your characters are real. “nah, that guy didn’t deserve that. baby, rewrite it. rewrite it or i’m gonna find him myself.”

— night owl schedule = activated. when your creative spark hits at 2am, mista is right there — sometimes rubbing your shoulders, sometimes passed out under your desk like a guard dog. the fact that you’re up and focused makes him feel weirdly peaceful.

— his secret little notebook. he keeps a notebook filled with lines you mutter in your sleep, quotes you say while brainstorming, and even dumb little metaphors you toss out casually. he plans to get it printed one day — your words in a real book, just for him.

— kissing ritual; he swears it helps your writing flow. forehead, lips, neck — wherever he lands, it’s mandatory before you sit down.

“you can’t write until you get your kiss. i don’t make the rules.”

— improv king of chaos; writer’s block? mista will recruit the sex pistols to act out the weirdest scenes from your stories. he voices all of them himself. somehow, it actually helps.

— fictional jealousy; you’ve had to explain multiple times that your male leads are not real people he’s competing with. you knew you loved him the moment he offered to shoot the antagonist in your story.

“who’s this guy? huh? ‘amber-eyed, cocky smile, hands that command’? this sounds suspicious, baby. he sounds like he wears cologne and knows it.”

“just say the word,” he grinned, feet kicked up on the coffee table, a meatball sub half-dismantled in his hands. “he hurts your main character again, i’m capping him.”

you didn’t say anything at first. just stared at him, heart pounding a little louder, unsure how to explain what that moment meant to someone like you — a person used to quiet observations and fictional heartbreaks. but guido mista… guido made the world loud again. vivid. obnoxious. alive.

you smiled down at your notebook, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“thanks, babe. i’ll keep you on standby.”

he wasn’t supposed to know your writing habits so well. wasn’t supposed to notice that when you curled your fingers into your sleeves, you were editing something tragic. that when you tied your hair back too neatly, you were gearing up for a confrontation scene. that when you muttered under your breath like a priest at confession, you were untangling plot threads only you could see.

but mista watched you like a hawk. always had. he knew when you’d stop making eye contact during dinner, eyes drifting toward your notebook like it was whispering to you. he never took offense. he just cleared your dishes and left a folded napkin beside your seat with write good shit scribbled in sharpie.

sometimes, he’d fall asleep on the couch with the tv low, pistols curled up like lazy cats on his chest, waiting for you to finish your chapter. you’d find him there hours later, mouth parted slightly, his notebook half-hanging from his hoodie pocket — the one filled with your quotes, little lines he said sounded “like cinema, baby.”

you didn’t even realize how serious things had gotten until he caught you crying in the laundry room one morning.

“hey,” his voice lowered, foot scuffing against the tile as he closed the door behind him. “what happened?”

you held up your phone without a word. it was a one-star review. a bad one. personal, too — “thinks she’s deep. she’s not.”

“it’s nothing,” you said too quickly, wiping your eyes.

mista didn’t read it. he didn’t have to. he crouched beside you and tugged you into his lap, legs folding like it was second nature.

“you’re deep to me,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours.

“guido—”

“i mean it. if the world read your words the way i do, they’d drown in ‘em. maybe that’s why they get mean. they’re scared of going under.”

you hiccupped. “that’s so dramatic.”

“so are you,” he kissed your jaw. “that’s why it works.”

you write best when he’s nearby. not touching you. not bothering you. just… there. feet draped across the desk. twirling a pen between his fingers. occasionally asking, “so how’s our girl doing? did she dump the guy yet?”

it’s always we when he talks about your characters. our girl. our villain. our plot twist. even when he has no idea what’s happening.

you once caught him practicing dramatic monologues in the mirror. trying to “get into character” as your latest love interest. it wasn’t his best work — he broke into a coughing fit halfway through and ended up shirtless for some reason — but you appreciated the dedication.

he makes you feel like your world matters. like your strange little brain is worth sitting through a million rewrites for. he makes the writing feel… lighter.

“why don’t you ever write a guy like me?” he asks one night, sprawled beside you, fingers playing with the hem of your sleep shirt. “like, cool, rugged, little unhinged but he means well.”

you laugh, resting your head on his chest. “because you’d get jealous of him.”

“you’re damn right i would.”

he reads your work aloud sometimes. butchers the accents. gets too emotional during breakup scenes. gasps too loud during reveals. you tease him for crying once and he pretends not to hear you.

“that’s not a tear,” he sniffs. “that’s plot-induced eye moisture.”

you kiss the corner of his mouth. “you’re such a good liar.”

“only when it’s romantic.”

your favorite thing? when he watches you write like he’s in love with you.

not you, even. but the you that comes out in words. the quiet intensity. the way your lips part when you find the right sentence. the creases in your brow. the way you talk to your pages like they’re old friends.

you catch him sometimes — eyes soft, mouth slightly open like he’s looking at something divine. you tell him to stop staring. he tells you to marry him.

“you ever gonna write our story?” he asks once, head resting in your lap, pistols sleeping in a pile of socks at your feet.

you think about it.

“maybe,” you say. “but i don’t think people would believe you’re real.”

he blinks. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you’re too good,” you murmur. “they’d think i made you up.”

he laughs like it’s the best thing you’ve ever said, then tugs you down until you’re nose to nose.

“well, baby,” he breathes, lips brushing yours, “lucky for them, you make things up for a living.”

and maybe one day you will write him in. not as a character. not as a caricature of love. but as he is.

the mess. the joy. the boy who sat through every breakdown and every rewrite and kissed every page like it was gospel.

the boy who called you genius with his mouth full of meatball sub.

who read your books like confessions, who made even writer’s block feel like a love letter.

♡ pannacotta fugo

— he noticed you before you noticed him. not because you were trying to be aloof — you just… didn’t talk much, but fugo watched the way your fingers curled around your pen. how your gaze stayed lowered and yet felt like it had seen everyone. the first time you scribbled something down after bruno’s meeting, he couldn’t stop wondering what it was. a plan? a poem? an observation about him? (spoiler: it was a metaphor about mista’s voice being “sunlight trapped in a tomato.” he’ll find that out later.)

— your silence makes him anxious — until it doesn’t. at first, he was convinced you hated him. you barely looked at him, never spoke unless prompted, but then one day, you complimented a theory he mentioned in passing — something about psychological triggers in interrogation.

you said, “you’re more intuitive than people realize.” and fugo hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

— he starts adjusting to your presence unconsciously. he softens his voice when you’re near. checks his temper before raising it. if you so much as shift in your seat, he glances up like your movement carries weight.

“you alright?” he’ll ask.

you nod. “just writing.”

and somehow, that means more to him than a hundred conversations.

— he wants to understand your writing process — but it’s alien to him. fugo is academic, structured, methodical. your process is chaotic. messy. strange. you scribble in margins, cross out full pages, rip them, then tape them back in. he watches you for hours sometimes just trying to decipher the logic.

“how do you know when it’s good?”

“when it stops hurting to write it,” you say.

it floors him. absolutely destroys him. he writes it down in his planner under things that made my heart do that thing again.

— he gets shy when he sees himself in your work. you never use names. but the tone is unmistakable. the temper held in check. the boy with guilt tucked into the corners of his words.

“is this… is this about me?”

“if it is?” you ask softly.

he doesn’t speak. just blushes and presses a kiss to the back of your hand.

— he thinks your mind is a better book than any he’s read. this is coming from someone who reads dense texts for fun. but you — you fascinate him. the metaphors you live in. the way you describe pain. how easily you see through people. sometimes he catches you watching the world like it’s an unfinished chapter. and he wants to ask, “how do i look on the page?” but he’s afraid the answer will be more honest than he’s ready for.

— he never knew quiet could be this safe. with you, silence isn’t failure. it’s comfort. it’s shared space. it’s something sacred. when he holds you while you write, forehead resting against your temple, there are no words. just breath. warmth. and when you finally speak — soft, barely above a whisper —

“i think i write better when you’re here.” —he doesn’t say a word. he just pulls you closer, and lets that be the new truth you both write together.

you meet him in a café. not because either of you are there for coffee — god no — but because bruno said it was “a neutral public place for first contact.”

you barely remember the meeting. most of the details were shadowed under the clatter of ceramic mugs and the ambient hum of tension. but what you do remember is how he watched you.

fugo didn’t interrupt. didn’t talk over you. didn’t try to finish your thoughts like so many men with power do.

he just… studied you. eyes dark, intelligent, measuring. not in a threatening way — in the way someone reads between lines. like your silence had depth. like your voice, when you finally chose to speak, might be something worth writing down and somehow, that made you feel more naked than anything else.

he doesn’t speak to you again for a while. he’s not unfriendly. just distant. precise. you admire the way he moves — deliberate, careful, like his temper is always three seconds behind him, dragging its heels and waiting for permission.

you don’t talk much either, but everyone’s already figured that out. it becomes a running joke with narancia — how you scribble in your notebook mid-conversation, how you blink slowly before responding like you’re filing away quotes, but fugo never jokes about you.

he notices your pen first, then your handwriting. then the moment you pause before answering — not because you’re hesitant, but because you’re translating the world into something writable.

“do you write about people you know?” he asks one day, seated beside you on a bench near the sea. he doesn’t look at you when he says it. his gaze stays forward.

you close your notebook.

“i write about what i notice.” he exhales like that was the answer he hoped for — but didn’t know how to interpret.

you scribble again.

he asks, “what are you writing now?”

you glance up.

“your shoulders tense when you feel misunderstood.” his lips twitch. not quite a smile. something heavier. more real.

“…and you notice that?”

“i notice everything,” you murmur.

and you do.

you notice how his hands twitch when he’s trying not to speak. how his gaze flicks between your face and your notebook like he’s desperate to be part of your internal monologue. how when you sigh, he sometimes holds his breath, like he’s trying to catch the same air you let go of.

you start spending more time together. not in a loud, chaotic way. just… proximity. he’ll sit near your window when you’re writing. you’ll brew his tea without him asking. he’ll correct your grammar once and you’ll tell him, “i don’t write to be correct.” he never corrects you again.

sometimes, you’ll read to him. nothing elaborate. just soft prose about longing or grief. you always pause before your favorite lines, he never interrupts. but once, when you finish a paragraph about someone aching in silence, he whispers:

“does it ever stop hurting?”

you look at him, notebook balanced on your knees.

“no. but it starts to make sense.”

and he nods. once. like that’s the closest thing to peace he’s heard in years.

he kisses you after a fight. not with you — with someone else. someone who called your work “cute.” fugo broke a chair over it. maybe a wall too. you’re not sure. you found him afterward, breathing hard, knuckles red, muttering about “disrespect” and “condescension” and “they think you’re soft — they don’t get it. they don’t get you.” you didn’t say anything. just touched his cheek.

he flinched.

but when you whispered, “i’m not soft. i just bruise prettier,” he looked at you like he might combust on the spot.

and then he kissed you. open-mouthed, open-hearted, like he’d been storing up all that fury just to hand it to you, weaponless and shaking.

you didn’t write that night.

you lived it.

he has his flaws. he’s too angry. too volatile. too easily wounded by the world, but he holds you like you’re fragile and powerful all at once — like you could write him into oblivion or salvation and he’d let you, and you’re quiet, yes. reserved. introspective.

but fugo finds fire in your silences. he stares at your lips when you’re thinking. holds your fingers like they’re made of ink and spellwork.

once, you cried during a story. not your own. someone else’s.

he didn’t say a word. just held you and asked, very softly,

“was it beautiful?”

and you nodded.

so he kissed your temple like it was a holy place.

you give him your notebook once, just for a moment. he reads a scene you wrote the night after your first fight. in it, there’s a character with bloodied hands and an apology clenched between his teeth. and another character — unnamed, unreadable — reaching out anyway.

you don’t tell him who it’s about, you don’t have to. he closes the notebook carefully, hands trembling.

“am i that angry?” he whispers.

you nod.

“am i that loved?”

you nod again.

you teach him patience, not because you ask him to — but because loving you requires it.

he learns how to sit in stillness. how to share silence. how to speak less and feel more. he learns that some stories aren’t meant to be fixed — just heard. and some people aren’t meant to be solved — just trusted.

you never ask him to be softer, but slowly, he becomes it anyway.

for you.

he proposes without saying the word, just hands you a new notebook. leather-bound. your name pressed into the spine.

inside, the first page reads:

“write the rest with me?”

and you don’t say yes, you don’t have to. you just open the book. and start.

♡ leone abbacchio

— he noticed you because you didn’t notice him. you didn’t flinch under his glare. didn’t rush to fill silence. didn’t laugh too loudly at mista’s jokes just to be polite. instead, you sat in the corner, sipping tea with your head bowed, scribbling into a battered notebook like the world could wait. abbacchio doesn’t like people. but that? that made him curious.

— he pretends not to care about your writing but he listens. he’d scoff when narancia asked what you were working on, but he’d still listen to your answers. once, you compared heartbreak to a cathedral being condemned from the inside. he didn’t speak for an hour after.

“that wasn’t about me, was it?”

“depends. are you a crumbling church, leone?”he didn’t answer. but he looked away fast.

— he leaves you tea when you forget to eat. doesn’t say anything. doesn’t hand it to you. he just places it by your elbow, walks away, and mumbles something about “don’t pass out on the damn floor.” you know it’s his way of saying he cares. you write it down in a margin like it’s a character trait: gruff but loyal. rough hands. softer heart.

— he starts reading your work in secret. he finds a printed draft one day while you’re sleeping and tells himself he’s just checking for typos. four pages in, he’s sitting on the kitchen floor, cigarette half-burnt, heart pounding over a scene that reminds him too much of himself. he puts it back where he found it. never says a word. you find the corner creased. you smile.

— he doesn’t like when you write about death. he gets tense. irritated. you can feel him behind you, arms crossed, jaw locked.

“don’t romanticize it,” he says once. you don’t answer. just rest your hand over his.

“i won’t. not yours.”

— he keeps his grief private, but your silence invites it out. when he’s sitting next to you and you’re writing with your head tilted and your eyes far-off, he sometimes talks. not much. not loudly. just stories — old ones. broken ones. you never write them down. they belong to him. but you remember every word.

— you teach him how to feel safe again. it’s not a dramatic healing arc. it’s quiet. slow. you fall asleep on his chest one night, ink on your fingertips. he kisses your forehead and mutters, “how the hell did you get under my skin like this?” you don’t wake. but your smile deepens.

and he decides not to fight it anymore.

he doesn’t ask at first, just watches. you’re always scribbling in your notebook, eyes distant, pen dancing across the paper with a rhythm that’s only yours. you sit on rooftops. on kitchen counters. curled up in dusty armchairs no one else touches. half the time you don’t hear anyone call your name. the other half you do, but ignore them anyway.

not him, though. never him. you always look up for leone. he acts like he hates it. he doesn’t.

the first time you fall asleep on him, he doesn’t breathe for a full minute. he should move. get up. complain. instead, he’s still. his arm’s half-asleep. your head rests on his chest like you meant to be there forever.

your hair smells like vanilla and old books. his pulse kicks into his throat. he stares down at you — and that’s when he sees it. the notebook.

open.

he’s never read over your shoulder. he’s tried not to care. but this time… this time, your name is in the sentence.

“he looks at me like i’m the last quiet place in the world.” he exhales. long. slow. wounded.

you shift and mutter something in your sleep.

he closes the book. carefully.

and holds you like you’re already gone.

“you ever write about me?” he asks one day, voice lazy, like he doesn’t actually care.

you don’t even glance up from your page. “all the time.”

“what, like… a brooding bastard with a death wish and a soft spot for people who drink herbal tea and don’t run their mouths?”

you laugh. “i didn’t say it was fiction.”

he smirks. lights a cigarette. “what do i do in the stories?”

you pause.“you stay.”

he goes quiet.

“…that’s unrealistic,” he mutters after a beat.

you shrug. “it’s my story.”

he starts noticing the little things. how your fingers tap when you’re thinking. how you chew the corner of your notebook when stuck. how your foot bounces when you write something emotional. how sometimes, you smile after finishing a sentence, like you just remembered a dream that once felt real and the way your eyes look when you write about him?

he doesn’t even need to read it.

he can feel it.

he comes home late one night — covered in blood that isn’t his, shoulders hunched, jaw tight — and you’re waiting on the couch. cross-legged. lamp on. notebook open.

you look up, but you don’t ask.

you just gesture for him to sit. hand him the tea you made. lean into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t know what to do with that.

not at first.

but he sits and lets you rest your head on his shoulder.

“where do you go when you write?” he asks you one night, voice low, words half-drowned in static from the old radio.

you blink. close your journal. “depends.”

“on?”

“the day. the mood. the person i’m writing about.”

he eyes you. “and if it’s me?”

you smile softly. “then i go somewhere safe.”

he doesn’t say anything.

but his hand tightens gently around your thigh.

he’s never been good at softness.

he knows how to be loyal. how to fight. how to bleed for what he believes in. but gentleness? peace? knowing someone sees you and doesn’t flinch?

it’s terrifying.

but with you, he starts to want it. worse — he starts to believe it could be real.

he reads your journal again once, when you’re out buying groceries. he knows it’s wrong. he does it anyway.

“i think he’s still learning how to be loved. and that’s okay. i’ll wait. i’ll write him soft until he believes it.”

he slams the journal shut.

drains half a bottle of wine and doesn’t speak for the rest of the night.

but the next morning, there’s a new pen sitting beside your pillow. it’s nice. black lacquer. gold trim. clearly expensive.

there’s a note under it, scrawled in messy all-caps:

“IF YOU’RE GOING TO WRITE ME INTO EXISTENCE, AT LEAST DO IT IN STYLE.”

you laugh.

kiss his cheek when he walks by.

he rolls his eyes.

but he kisses the top of your head anyway.

one night, you sit on his lap, your journal open on the table beside you, and say softly, “can i read you something?”

he tenses. “depends. is it romantic garbage?”

“yes.”

he sighs.

“…go ahead.”

you read aloud a piece where the man who can’t say “i love you” shows it by making tea, by guarding the door, by staying up to make sure the one he loves sleeps safely.

he’s quiet.

“you think that’s enough?”

you blink. “what?”

“tea. staying up. guarding doors. all the things i do.”

you study him. “it’s not about the tea.”

“then what is it about?”

“the fact that you care enough to do it.”

he exhales like he doesn’t deserve that answer.

but deep down, he’s glad you gave it anyway.

he doesn’t say he loves you often, but he calls you writer girl in that low voice that always makes your knees feel weak. he checks your favorite pen for ink levels. he buys you notebooks but pretends he found them lying around. he memorizes every time you say a character is based on him — especially the ones who die beautifully and when you fall asleep with your journal open, he reads it.

always.

every single page, because if you’re writing him into your forever, he wants to know what version of him you’ll keep.

the one you keep is the one who stays.

and for you? he always will.

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l0vebugss · 15 days ago

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working full time will have you thinking about f/os you havent thought about in 10 years

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l0vebugss · 19 days ago

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Clingy

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l0vebugss · 19 days ago

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imagine Tenna holding you and Spamton close in his sleep like you're just two stuffed animals. you two are just so small and soft (kinda) so ohhh how can he just not do it??

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l0vebugss · 19 days ago

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Cuddle pile with Spamton and tenna!

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l0vebugss · 19 days ago

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l0vebugss · 1 month ago

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misc tenna x reader hcs

tags: mostly nsft & a few sft headcanons about tenna!! featuring some analysis on how his kinks intersect with his mental state (and also his love of old films!)

w.c: like 2k ish?

header credit: bronzewasp!

also available on ao3! p.s. that version probably has better formatting too!

Dom v. Sub.

While I do think Tenna is a major switch who jumps between domming and subbing, I feel like in the beginning of your relationship, he'd suppress the side of him he deemed needy and pathetic and whiny and instead exaggerate the side of him that's served him best: his showmanship. His absolutely unflappable place as the leader and the head and the star of the show.

In other words, I think he's a control freak.

In the beginning, he'd want to prove to you that you'd made a good choice by loving him. He'd, in a way, feel compelled to "trick" you into needing him -- trying to give you a kind of pleasure and excitement that no one else can access, whether it be your hands or that little toy you hide or the (real or perceived) competitors trying to steal you away from Tenna.

He'd overstimulate you a lot. Wreck you until you're a babbling mess, chattering "I love you" and "it's too much!" and "don't stop!" like your circuits were on the fritz. He'd want to consume your attention -- if your eyes screwed shut in pleasure, he'd want to be the last thing they'd see. He'd use his huge size to overpower you and drown you in him, a piece of him everywhere you look. His antennae dangling in your face. His hands cupping your hip, your cheek. His toothy grin descending across your body. If you're a Tenna tail truther -- yes, he would use it against you.

All of this -- this performance -- is just another way Tenna begs to be validated. He wants you to need him. To rely on him. To love him the way he loves you -- like he might just drop dead if your attention faltered. If making you cum a million times over is how he secures that shiny podium in your mind, he'll do it.

Besides: he really does love it. Loves putting his long, skilled fingers to use, whether it be dancing them down your thighs in teasing shows or pressing them against your tongue while you look up at him with pitiful eyes.

He can be an adoring service top who weeps while fucking you and telling you you're beautiful. He can be a meanie dom who forces you to say perverted things while he folds you in impressive positions. He can be a gentle lover, too. Really: it's whatever you want. He only wants to see you happy, blissed out in his bed, leaning towards his touch.

...It takes a few emotional conversations and long sob sessions in your lap for him to admit that there's a part of him that aches, a part of him that yearns to feel tiny and coddled and cared for, and, strangely, sometimes that tiny version of him requests things he'd never allow on television. Sometimes he wants to be made into that version of himself -- broken into a fragment, proof of his worthlessness and his weakness, something you could do whatever you wanted with and he'd be too vulnerable to fight back.

This feeling, of course, is only healed by you proving time and time again that you don't intend on throwing Tenna away when he's weak or bashing him while he's down. When Tenna introduces you to that side of him -- the side begging to have its control ripped away, it's pain forgotten about -- you introduce it to tenderness.

Just like when he doms, Tenna's a shapeshifter as a sub. He likes to play the role of a pervert, pushed away by your heel as he whimpers at your feet; he likes to feel your hands mercilessly tugging on his exposed wires, sometimes even looping them around his wrists to guide him just where you want him to be; he likes when you sit on his face and order him to get to work while you twist his antennae like toys only designed for your entertainment.

More importantly, he likes to let go. Whether that's basking in depravity or finding safety in smallness, he feels immense love when he gives you a version of him less flashy, less entertaining, less "worthwhile" than his bombastic five-star persona, and you choose to stay tuned anyway.

★★★

Here’s a list of things I think he’s into! Definitely not a definitive list of fetishes, no sir, but more like… common threads, patterns you might notice if you were consistently blowing this bot’s back out.

Humiliation.

I mean, it takes a bit of humiliation to make a game show, doesn't it? Dropping the contests into situations they find themselves spooked or scandalized by, both their prize and their dignity at risk; whether they want to complete the challenge is just as much of a question as if they can. He likes making you say dirty things, likes seeing you tiny beneath him or below him or even atop his face.

He'll jerk off in front of you, inches from your open mouth, and refuse to finish until you get your lines just right.

“Say: I’ll look so pretty covered in your cum, Mr. Tenna!~ Go on! Show me what you’ve got!”

“I– I’ll look so p-pretty covered in your cum, Mr. Tenna.”

“This time, darling, really beg for it. Make me believe it."

"I'll look so pretty covered in your cum, Mr. Tenna!"

Over and over again, until he's satisfied his desire. Or maybe his curiosity -- just to see how far he can push you, the faces you'll make, the sounds.

"Say it like it's our wedding night.”

“Say it like you'll die if mean old Mr. Tenna doesn’t give it to you.”

“Say it with an accent--"

"Tenna."

Facesitting.

Idk! This is something both dom Tenna and sub Tenna would insist upon!

Touching on sizeplay, I think this is a great compromise for the two of you when Tenna’s resting at full height: he can wrap his ginormous hands around your comparably tiny waist and lift you up and down while he tonguefucks you mercilessly from below. He can maneuver you like you’re a little ragdoll, dependent on his every whim.

If you’re in the mood to tease or take control, you can grind against his faceplate and run your fingers along his nose. Better yet: lean forward and take control of his antennae, as if they were reins waiting to be seized.

Tenna likes looking up at you. The angle makes you seem godlike, descending to receive a bounty made in your honor. He likes it when you scold him for moving too recklessly, making a spitty mess of your clenching thighs. He also likes it when your posture falters and you start to whimper out pleas that you’ll be a very good pet if he stops the teasing and skips to the finale your body craves.

Roleplay.

I think he WANTS to be into roleplay. I think it would be very easy for him to accomplish -- his studio boasts a huge wardrobe, an impressive prop collection, and plenty of sets to utilize. But... he can't help but find himself flustered, too reddened to say his line; or impatient, too desperate to let the act play its course.

If you sneak into his office, clutching a clipboard and pushing up a pair of glasses and bashfully introducing yourself as the new intern to the Mr. Tenna -- he'll find the strength to go along with it for the opening scene, only to crumble when you fall to your knees in front of him and spread his legs for him. Then, he'll go bright red, start to sweat, start to mumble, bite his knuckles to keep himself from getting embarrassingly hard when he should be the one intimidating you.

“Ah– ah! You’re rather bold for a brand new face! We wouldn’t normally let– hah!-- you back here, but I guess we can make…” He’s panting, struggling to find a script worth acting out. “Please… just let me fuck you.”

Sizeplay.

When I first saw that Tenna was tall, that was a huge selling point for me. Then I realized he was not tall, actually, but giant, and if we stood next to each other I’d only reach his knee, and, um, I’m kind of terrified of whatever he might be rocking in his pants (if you’re a truther for Tenna!dick – I go back and forth on whether or not he’d have a synthetic humanoid cock or instead some ken-doll mound hiding hypersensitive bundles of wires.)

But… there’s still something really, really hot about a sizeshifter. When you’re playfully arguing and he inflates his height to tower over you and leer at you with an evil grin, reminding you who’s the boss? When, at full height, all it takes is a mere ounce of his strength to manipulate you however he pleases? How one of his hands absently-minded coiling around both of yours leaves you pinned and trapped? How it takes zero effort to overstimulate you with a finger or his tongue, all the while his bulge threatens to keep growing in his pants as he watches you melt beneath a fraction of his attention?

Additionally: a tiny Tenna who can barely handle your fingers grazing over him. His emotions correlate with his height, so I figure he’d almost always be boasting an impressive few feet above you; simply motivated by your words and presence and affection to summon his best, most shiny self. Especially during sex – there’s no way he’d be able to maintain a sour or gloomy mood when you’re reaching for him, whispering about your need, promising him that he’s the one to fill it. You don’t see much of Tiny Tenna. But he’s terrific for a short cuddle or a good tease.

Role Reversal.

Once I saw this piece of Spamtenna art where both of them had a thought bubble that said "lol this guy thinks he's topping." I actually think this is how EVERY encounter with Tenna goes.

Tenna wields a bold persona, but it cracks when you talk sweetly or touch him gently or... pay enough attention to him. Then: he's putty in your hands. Babbling and confessing secrets you didn't know he had kept and making promises you didn't ask him to make and ensuring that he loves you, really loves you. But the longer you tease him, the more you stretch his patience -- you risk reawakening the rabid side of him.

One too-long lingering touch will have him reminding you who's in charge. He'll flip you on your back, pin you to the wall, fuck up into you from where he rests beneath your body. And that weak, whimpering voice he sputtered out apologies and pleads in? Suddenly transformed into that suave, booming tone he charms the audience with.

"You didn't think I'd let you get away with that, did you? The show’s barely getting started!"

But stay firm in your dominance and you'll have another chance to reprimand him for talking to you like that, for having such an ego, for daring to be so ungrateful for your attention. That might trigger a few inches worth of height to cease, for his confident bravado to falter – but be careful. If he’s really desperate, there’s little you can say or do to rip away the fate he’s sealed for you: taking his cock until he truly believes you’ve learned your lesson for toying with him.

(Please toy with him. He loves it.)

Mild Pred/Prey.

Maybe not exactlyyyy but hear me out. He likes cornering you, seeing you shrink. Seeing your eyes widen slightly as you realize you're not only all alone, but completely without escape. He likes leaning in, baring his fangs. Swallowing up the space with his static buzz and his irresistible words and his reaching hands --

And, normally, this is just a way to tease, to excite! To say hello! He'll drop the act and plant kisses on your forehead, lean in casually for conversations. But... he can't deny just how much he likes it. The way you stare at him, desperate for answers as to what he'll do next. How little you can do about it.

Plus, he likes trapping you. Literally: practicing the devices invented for his show on you, binding you with his wires or his tie, holding your hands together with one of his own and pinning them above your head while the rest of you dangles uselessly. And less literally: holding your attention. Keeping you guessing. Invading your space.

He just... loves... capturing you, having you. If it means giving a chase, baring his fangs, reaching across the room to tug you back into his embrace, sure! Like I said, not all of it is erotic. Sometimes he just likes the spooked look on your face -- or, better yet, the excitement that replaces the initial shock, the way you squeal his name and loop your arms around him. He's always happy to reciprocate.

(And squeeze back while he lifts you off the ground and takes you where he pleases for your conversation -- or your "conversation.")

★★★

Other Little Random Bits.

I think he’s less of an orgasm denier and more of an orgasm insister. Even when you’ve had enough, you feel funny, you think you might pee – Tenna is all about a grand finale, or a stellar rerun, or, maybe, an appreciated-but-unproduced pilot pitch, if your body can’t muster one last performance. He’ll sigh and start to kiss the red off your face, offering you a sweet pout as he soothes you in your panting state: “Don’t worry, precious! You tried your very, very best. I give it a ten.”

I think he uses so many pet names – as if clipped and sampled from random shows across all eras – that it’s difficult to really pin down a “Tenna petname brand.” He loves to call you darling and sweetheart, most certainly – but it’s not long before he’s throwing in things like prince and princess, sweets and sugar, the occasional toots and doll. Sometimes he’ll call you random things like reigning champ! or little lovebug! – again, all so randomized and so quick, and yet so Tenna. He is also very, very fond of atta girl! and atta boy! Bonus points for anything that sounds cloyingly sweet but also slightly condescending.

Speaking of random shows across all eras: Tenna’s knowledge of the world (not just the Light World, but of like… everything, conceptually) comes from the content he’s consumed, projected, and replicated for his entire life. He’s a reference machine; no inside joke or old recurring bit will pass him by. Seriously! Ramble to him about any program or film – there’s a good chance he’ll take the conversation and lead it somewhere amazing, like informing you about behind-the-scenes trivia and the scriptwriting process. He also has a knack for dancing and repeating the long, convoluted dance sequences once seen by Gene Kelly; similarly, he’s memorized many a comedy routine, and can pull rabbits out of hats, repeat punchlines, or play the straight man whenever needed.

…However, since so much of his internal world orbits around… television… it does, in a way, warp some of his understanding of the world. Romance, too. When he’s good, he’s great – taking inspiration from all the great romance movies from the start of cinema to now, courting you with glamorous gestures and making you feel like a true starlet. Unfortunately, sometimes he is – not great? I think, in the beginning, he might not know much about intimacy or sex, considering that’s not something that ever featured in the programs the Dreemurr household watched, no sir! There’s a few programs he’s caught that certainly leave little to the imagination, but he’s still got a lot to learn about the real process. The good news is that he’s downright eager and maybe even obsessive to get his hands on you and really, truly show off what he's learned.

Tenna talks. A lot. When he cums. Sososoo much. If you gag him, he keeps talking – around your fingers, through your underwear, from where he’s squished into the pillow. He might even thank you for gagging him (in mumbles.)

#ITS SO PEAK…. PERFECT TENNA

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l0vebugss · 1 month ago

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hii can we get some headcanons for what kind of dates tenna would take someone on? thank you from someone who struggles with coming up with date ideas

Surely you can! These are a bit short, hope you don't mind- if you'd like to see how one of these dates would specifically go, you can request it once my RQs are open again! ...it might take some time, but it's because I'm cooking up things for you guys, okayyy? ^_^

Enjoy!!

Tenna x Reader - Date Headcanons

★ Tenna is unsurprisingly gentleman-ish and perhaps a bit old fashioned; he always opts for something classic for a first date, like a nice dinner at the fanciest restaurant he can afford at the moment, complete with kind gestures such as holding the door open for you and pulling your chair back so you can sit down easily.

★ He also quite likes the movies for your first dates in your relationship! Perhaps not as the absolute first, but on the second or third date he might suggest a drive in movie, fun and a bit more intimate than your usual cinema experience in a way. He might surprise you with a romantic movie, or something with a bit of light-hearted comedy in it, hoping that you enjoy it and that it gives you something to talk about later!

★ Once you guys are done easing yourselves into the relationship and you've gotten a nice pace when it comes to your dates, Tenna is going to become less tense around you and less nervous about how he presents himself.

★ He endearingly drops his showman persona and lets his goofy self just enjoy things in the moment; one day, he might feel like taking you to the bowling alley, and boy is he great at bowling! Strike after strike, he makes his way to the top…unless you manage to beat him! Either way, this is also your chance to see him dressed a little more casually; he usually opts for retro flavored clothes still, but forgets the jacket back at home.

★ On other days, however, he might suggest taking you to dance in the evening; he understands this is not something everyone feels confident enough to do, so if you're more for chill dates then he has no problem accommodating you. Or, if you're up to it, you can just dance at home, stereo blasting nostalgic songs you try to follow the rhythm of, messing up sometimes and laughing about it.

★ Something fun about Tenna is that, although he's quite bashful and easily flustered around you, he's not as shy in public, and more often than not he ends up being in some kind of spotlight if you're doing something like playing a game or dancing around others. This can be a blessing or a curse, depending on if you like attention on yourself or not, because he definitely wants other people to acknowledge that you're there too, and you're just as great as he is, if not even more!

★ One last cute idea that he might have is taking you out for an ice cream and a nice stroll; the Dark World doesn't quite have the right scenery for this, he longs for a walk in the park on a sunny day, after you're done enjoying a shared ice cream cup or a smoothie…although really, you being there makes it better and more than enough for him.

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l0vebugss · 1 month ago

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'Ant' Tenna x Reader (Deltarune)

Notes: Horror undertones, but they're for things Tenna also does canonically. Happy ending...? I keep seeing people saying that this guy is going to be the new Tumblr sexyman, but I don't see anyone being feral about him yet. So. Here you go.

You’d gotten the TV from Toriel, practically for free. She’s well-known in the little town you’re renting a single-room apartment in, and had practically insisted you take it. (“My son… Is also a student, but he moved out. If he needed something, I would be happy knowing he got help from someone too,” she’d told you with a smile.)

Because, yeah, you are a struggling student, with a commute lasting about 4 hours a day, but you couldn’t afford any other place and were desperate enough to get away from home to take it. The town is beautiful and quiet, the rent is dirt cheap and the people are nice, though you can tell it’s not the same compared to if you had grown up here.

Your half a day long commute prevents you from doing much socializing, you’re always thinking about what time you’ll be home, how busy it’ll be on the roads and what the hell you’re going to be eating for dinner that night. Though, to be fair, even without that added hurdle you’ve never found approaching people the easiest. Like, ever. So, you spend a lot of time in your apartment, alone, doing homework or being online, either on the couch or in bed (which, considering they’re in the same room, kind of feel like the same thing). And, now, you have a television to add for entertainment.

It’s old. Toriel had warned you about ‘images that wouldn’t leave the screen’, and as soon as you turn the thing on there’s clear burn-in from the logos of kid’s tv channels and other things, an unfadeable memory. You can’t do a whole lot with it except watch cable… It doesn’t even have a HDMI port.

Still, you’re thankful for it and the old game consoles you’d brought with you from home out of pure nostalgia. Now you can finally dust them off and use them, remember what you loved about those games you played for hours and hours, on your own, as a kid. It feels warm and you find yourself smiling, face illuminated by the screen’s light.

But it always comes to an end. You turn it off, eyelids drooping, and the stress of your day-to-day with its rising expenses, loneliness, student debt and an already dead future career, rushes back to you all at once. You don’t want to leave your room, sometimes. It’s crushing. You don’t have any say in the matter, though, so you get up and keep going, every day practically the same. With a flicker of hope that it will, eventually, someday, get better. That’s what you’ve always been told.

One night, you fall in sleep in front of your television and have the strangest dream, one that feels as real as reality but surely cannot be. There, you’re chaperoned by a man(?) named ‘Ant’ Tenna, treated like the star of the show, the contestant in a quiz that has questions tailored specifically to your personal niche knowledge, and you absolutely blow it out of the park.

You’re not used to being the center of attention like this… Even if the crowd seems more like a mass of moving audience members, rather than actual people. Your knees are trembling for the first five questions and, even after, you struggle and stutter from time, but the host never calls you out on it. It’s surprisingly… Nice. To get this attention, to feel like you’re being acknowledged.

You linger after the show is over, unsure of what to do in the Green Room. You’re not really hungry or tired, which makes sense considering you surely must be dreaming. You wander outside, led by red carpet, and almost run straight into Tenna. He’s huge, absolutely towering over you, easily twice your height. You pull and tug a bit at your clothes as you crane your neck and smile up at him. “I wanted to say—Um, thanks for having me, mister Tenna! It was… Really fun!” Bright, white teeth shine at you from the screen that is his face. He folds his hands behind his back and leans forward, just a little. “Oh, sweetheart, just Tenna is fine! We don’t have to be all formal with each other, do we? I already feel like I know you so well!” You feel a little bit of heat rising to your face. The quiz had been perfectly finetuned to your interests… But that all makes sense, considering this is all happening in the safe confines of your brain, and this man is just a figment of your imagination. It’s all good. Tenna claps his hands in front of his body and you’re jolted from your thoughts. “If you were having such a good time, how about another round?”

And you do. You play and win at a whole variety of games, until your head is spinning—The dream seems to drag on, and on and on. More than anything, you’re having a good time shooting quips back and forth with Tenna, feeling seen and listened to. You don’t think anyone has ever laughed this hard as something you’ve said… Ever? It’s certainly flattering, to say the least, to have someone be so interested in you.

All good things must come to an end, though, and eventually you do get tired, and the life that you had temporarily left behind starts calling to you again. In your mind, it’s inevitable, so you might as well get it over with.

“Leave?” It’s the first time Tenna’s smile wavers during your… Day? Session. “But we’ve been having so much fun—” He laughs, stuttering over part of the noise. “Why do you want to leave?” His hand drums on the back of his head, making a dull clanking noise. “I can think up some more games, some more fun quizzes?!” Tenna’s voice shoots up in pitch. “We can save that for next time?” You say with a smile. This notion, the thought that you’d like to return, seems to settle Tenna somewhat. His hand drops back to his side, swaying back and forth. “Oh! You’d like to return… I mean, of course you would!” He beams at you. “I’ll—I’ll have some more time to think things over, for them to marinate! It’ll be great!!” “Yeah,” you say, a little breathless. “Thanks. Again. This was fun. I don’t…” you trail off and swallow. “I don’t really talk to a lot of people anymore. So this was really nice. Thank you.” You don't know why you say it. Perhaps because you don't think any of this is real. You've never been this vulnerable around anyone in real-life. Before you completely realise what’s happening, he lowers himself in a crouching position and pulls you into a tight hug. “I know,” he says softly. “I know. Me neither.”

You wake up with a sore neck and dried spit on your chin. It takes you a while to will your body to move. It’s heavy and sluggish. Unlike other dreams you’ve had, it remains crisp in your mind as ever. The world around you seems more gray-toned than ever in comparison to the bright colours and flourishes of the world you’d entered as you were dreaming… One where you didn’t have to worry about anything, with someone who has eyes just for you. Well, if he has eyes at all. Maybe that kind of saying would be considered offensive.

When you fall asleep that night, you do it on the couch in the exact same position, as if that were the reason behind the dream you had the night before. It takes ages for you to drift off. Embarrassingly enough, you’re so excited that your heart keeps racing. You fall asleep, going there again and again, a personal little place of peace you return to every single night. Maybe it’s all some kind of illusion your brain has conjured up to help you to cope and, if that’s the case, you could still have peace with it. You drag yourself through the days for the nights that offer relief.

“Why don’t you just stay here?” Tenna asks, eventually, uncharacteristic in his stillness. He’s an entertainer by his very nature. Even when he’s not on the stage, he’s always moving, always loud, always working to keep your attention on him. Now, he grabs your interest with nothing but quiet. “I know you’ll come back. You have so many times, but—Why even leave? What’s still waiting for you out there? A bleak future? People who don’t appreciate you? Stay with me…” For the first time since you met him, Tenna physically shrinks down in size, becoming close to your height. His head is hung low. “Please. I’d like, no, love for you to stay.” You reach up and stroke the glass of his face. “Me too. I’ll do it.” “You promise?” “Yeah. Definitely.” He swoops you up and you screech as he suddenly increases in size once again, carrying you high up in the air all at once. As he breaks out in silly, impromptu dance moves, laughter bubbles up from your throat and fills your entire body. This is a happy ending, you tell yourself, though a little lingering bit of doubt retains. (Is this the easy way out? Have you chosen stasis over a life of infinite possibilities?) But… Well, if it’s lazy or weak or too easy, you decide that you deserve an easy life.

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l0vebugss · 1 month ago

Text

POST PRODUCTION ・・・・・・・・・

What: 5 Headcanons of Tenna X Reader

Who: Tenna, from Deltarune (By Toby Fox)

How Much: ~1500 Words, ~8 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Toby Fox, Divider -> @strangergraphics

Warnings: None

Tenna is a textbook overworker and near-constant entertainer. He is often seen giving 200% effort to just about anything he does, and that includes courting you. Before you were even sure that he was interested, he was haphazardly leaving binders full of minigame ideas lying around, some of which were... suspicious. Sometimes you'd take a peek when he was out of the room, and they'd all be related to things you had mentioned liking in passing. Like fish? There's a crudely-drawn blueprint for a fishing minigame. Did you once say that you always enjoyed those carnival games where you throw a ball to knock a stack of bottles over? It's present in the roster, verbatim. You pretend that you weren't doing anything when Tenna returns in a hurry and grabs one of his binders off the table before urgently hurrying off. You don't think you'll tell him, just to spare him the potential embarrassment. "No need to hold in a LAUGH around me! I know I'm funny!" If only he knew.

Tenna often runs around trying to please you when he's not busy with his show. He always brings you coffee in the mornings--despite his showman flair, it is not smooth nor cute. It is frantic. He sprints to the cafe and bursts inside, leaning on the counter from exhaustion as he orders a coffee with the cadence of a man begging for his life. "Yes--yes, they like it with that lavender foam on top, they say they don't when I ask because it costs more that way, but I know they like it, I KNOW these things, please HURRY UP THEY'RE GONNA BE BUSY ALREADY IF YOU DON'T BREW FASTER! DON'T... DON'T YOU KNOW I OWN YOUR CONTRACT?!" He swipes it out of the hands of the Shadow Man working the counter and bolts to where you are, not noticing that he's slowly shrinking as he starts to doubt his timing and his memory. It was lavender, wasn't it? By the time he reaches you and skids to a stop, he's shorter than half your size. "H-hey, looks like I caught you just in time! I got a coffee for you." When you thank him and ask him how he knew exactly what you liked, he lets out a long sigh of relief as he slowly regains his size. "That's what you got two weeks ago, obviously. Oh, is this a memory game? I'll have you know I'm highly skilled!" You tell him that if he wants to get you a coffee, he doesn't have to pay extra for that sort of flavoring... You'd be happy with whatever he got for you. In fact, you'll get him one next time. "...Is that so. Ha! OK! Well! I'll take you up on that! Anyways, heh, the show's not gonna run itself!" The Hope-O-Meter is filled to the brim with fireworks.

TV Time's host is pretty horrible at hiding his adoration for you, yet at the same time, he'd never come out and confess. You think it's probably because he's worried that you'll say no (you wouldn't). His underlings feel kind of bad for him and try to clue you in as if you didn't already know. In passing, a Shadow Man tells you, "Da Boss really likes ya, if it wasn't obvious already. I don't really see why, but I'm into flatter folks anyhow. Either way, he's never gonna tell ya, so you may as well rip da bandaid off. Or make his day." You start thinking about how to best return his affections without scaring him away. He's obviously terrified of rejection, so you'll have to be subtle about it. As you walk away, lost in thought, a nearby Pippin chatters with the Shadow Man who encouraged you. "The boss is alright and all, but he can be a little scary sometimes, can't he?" The Shadow Man nods. "Yeah, but he's on his best behavior when they's around. I think we'll be in da clear once they's together."

You call Tenna to tell him to meet you in person so you can share some ideas that you came up with for his show. Little did you know, he was just ending a game show segment when you called, his antennae intercepting the signal you sent out. He paused for a moment before offering a comedic aside to the crowd. "When I said 'phone a friend', I didn't mean me!" The audience let out a short bout of laughter as Tenna listened to the signal. He gasped. "Oh! This call is--Them. They want to meet... with me?" The crowd responded with a conspiratorial "ooh". Tenna turned to the crowd and blushed. "Hey! Um, thanks for the vote of confidence, folks, but show's over! I gotta get going! Thanks for tuning in to TV Time! OK, see you next time!" After an animated wave, the show's host was quick to draw the curtains and leap off the stage to go meet with you. You're set up at a table when Tenna finds you, and he's eager to settle his giant body into the a chair which is hilariously small by comparison before twiddling with his thumbs anxiously. "It's so good to see my GREATEST fan again! I'm kind of surprised that you remembered my frequency." Of course you remembered! You also mention that you saw his show today and that it was as riveting as it always was. Tenna seemed to glow a little brighter and fill a little more space after you said that. You then, perhaps in a moment of mischief, asked why the crowd thought it was so funny that you were calling him. "W-wha? I mean, pheh, how should I know!? They're WILDer than TV Times's WILDest prizes, that lot! My fans, ever hungry for RIVETING drama! They're obviously a little... heh, mistaken? On our... relationship?" Tenna gritted out the last part like he was testing dangerous waters. You said that the audience didn't sound mistaken at all as you reached out and squeezed his cartoonishly gloved hand. You liked him a lot. It's why you wanted to see him today. "You--you're not saying--you're--your hand--whoah mama!! You're not saying...?!" You are. You think you're in love with him. He has no idea how to react to you returning his affections. He's elated. He's terrified. "I'm reeling from the feeling!! I--I still don't have those minigames for you done yet! What am I doing?! I bet I'm looking so glooby right now! And the video game isn't ready for you yet, and I still have to--" You shush him and say that he doesn't need to prepare all this stuff to get you to want to be with him. He just needs to bring himself. Tenna gingerly takes your hands in his, which are huge compared to yours, as his screen flickers off with seriousness. "...Okay! Okay. Just myself..." A pause, and then an anxious whisper. "I really want to believe that I can do that."

So, you and the host of TV World are dating now. A lot of it is old hat; even though Tenna acknowledges your sentiment that he's good enough on his own, he's very much a textbook people-pleaser and overworker. You don't work for him, nor are you really a cohost for him, since he asked you if you would want to be and you said no. Before he could shrink, you specified that nobody could do a better job than just him, and he seemed to be OK after that. Still, you tune into every show that he does, and you swear you're not a narcissist, but you're pretty sure you keep finding Easter Eggs referencing you just about everywhere. If you have a favorite accessory you're always carrying around, expect it to appear in some form within a TV Time bumper. Tenna often uses brief asides to allude to you and lightheartedly brag about "winning" you. "Isn't love a WONDERFUL thing?! (I would know, after all!) Luckily, that's the subject of this next quiz: Romance! I'd be a bad host if I didn't know the answers, wouldn't I?" (Which is hilarious--aren't you the one who got lucky?) If you have a theme song, the show's little jingles have your motif in them. And if you ever show up as a contestant? There will be bias--safety nets which don't exist for the others and made-up rankings that Tenna ad-libs on the spot. "I've never seen a score so high! You get... Gamma Rank! I know you don't get paid, but if you did, you'd deserve a rays! Anyone? Anyone?" At the end of the show, the truth is that you won the greatest prize of all, and the love that you both scored is enough to give Tenna the strength to just... be. You both find each other perfect, no post-production needed.

A/N: The day has come to post something unrelated to ENA. A return to form is in order, no worries; I just wanted to make something for this guy. I like him. I... relate to him? I'd be down to write more for him... Honk.

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