Jack-hambjer - Sem Título

silly lil j

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The other one

BLACKOUT : destroys all light

so have you all been keeping up with Scarlet Lady 👀

Something I've always been curious about with your amazing Changeling AU, can everyone see the transformations the changeling kids go through in the comics? Or is it like something only those with special eyes/some level of awareness of what the fae and changelings are can pick up on?

•☽────✧˖°˖ GOODNIGHT HAWAII ˖°˖✧────☾•

(COMMISSION)

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Reader Who Suffers With Dissociative Episodes

★ Commissioner: Wishes To Remain Anonymous

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ She writes your name on her arm in marker. It was after the third time you forgot where you were, or worse—who she was. ENA had been in the middle of a passionate tirade against “the modern marketing mythos” when your eyes glazed over like glass, and you blinked yourself into some distant fragment of unreality. You said, “Who are you?” She didn’t yell. She didn’t even twitch. Instead, she pulled a marker from her cap like a magician might, uncapped it with her teeth, and scrawled your name across her forearm in an all-caps blocky font. “THIS IS YOURS,” she said proudly, holding it out like a trophy. It didn’t fix anything. But it felt like it could.

☆ Salesperson ENA tries flashcards. You open your eyes in her room one evening and don’t recognize a single thing. Not the bed. Not the ceiling fan that’s spinning in stilted, fractured time. Not even her. “Oh! You’re awake! Hang tight—commencing memory recovery protocol.” She whips out a little stack of index cards with hand-drawn doodles: A triangle. A cracked megaphone. A stick figure labeled “YOU.” Another labeled “ME.” She flips them one by one with such speed and enthusiasm that it makes your head spin. You forget your name again by the fourth card, but you remember her laugh. It’s enough.

☆ Meanie ENA yells at your dissociation like it’s an enemy. The first time you zoned out mid-conversation and didn’t respond for several minutes, she snapped. “HEY! HELLO?! EARTH TO MEMORY GLITCH! WHAT KIND OF SCAM IS THIS?!” You flinched—like she’d caught you doing something shameful. But then she quieted. “…I wasn’t yelling at you. I was yelling at the thing that stole you.” She sat beside you in awkward silence, gripping your sleeve like she could anchor you to now. “You’re not allowed to go on solo missions anymore,” she mumbled. “Take me with you next time, idiot.”

☆ Her business metaphors get painfully heartfelt. When you get overwhelmed and feel yourself slipping, Salesperson ENA will rattle off a strange pitch, like: “You’re an asset under temporary recession, but your emotional capital remains intact!” “I’m projecting a 12% rebound in your cognitive presence, just give it time.” It’s ridiculous. It’s corporate nonsense. But it’s her nonsense. And the sincerity behind the words is so fierce it almost hurts.

☆ She starts narrating your life when you go nonverbal. When your words vanish like fog at sunrise, ENA’s voice fills the silence. “Today, our protagonist finds themselves amidst an internal coup, the memory department on strike again. Will they recover their agency? Or will the villainous void claim another victory?” Sometimes she makes you a hero. Sometimes she makes you a fish. One time you were an onion with a tragic backstory. But always, always, she ends with: “And yet, against all odds, they persist.” You mouth “thank you” through the static in your brain.

☆ Meanie keeps a logbook—just in case. She never admits it out loud, but tucked under her pillow is a tattered notebook full of messy scribbles. Things you’ve told her. Things you’ve forgotten. Things she wants you to remember, but knows you might not. There are entries like: “They laughed today. I don’t know why. But it made me feel less gross inside.” “Tried to yell when they forgot my name. Didn’t help. Will try quieter next time.” You found it once. She slapped it out of your hands. “HEY! THAT’S NOT FOR YOU YET!!”

☆ She builds you a ‘reality anchor’ box. One day she arrives with a cardboard box full of the most useless junk. A cracked plastic clock. A plush that vaguely resembles her. A page torn from a magazine with your name spelled wrong. “I call it the HERE AND NOW box!” she beams, adjusting her hat proudly. You stare at her. “…That’s just a spoon.” “It’s a symbolic spoon, okay? Grounding! Therapy stuff! I researched it on the shady side of the internet.” You touch the spoon when your mind feels foggy. It’s warm from her hands. It’s not a cure. But it’s a reminder.

☆ Meanie learns to stop blaming you. At first, every memory slip made her feel like you were betraying her on purpose. “Why do you always disappear when it matters?! I’m not nothing to you!” But one day, when you forgot her name entirely and said it in tears—“I don’t want to forget you”—something shifted. She just sat down. Quiet. “You’re not doing this to me, huh?” She apologized. Clumsily. “S-sorry for acting like your symptoms had intent. That was…dumb.” You said, “It’s okay.” She said, “No. It’s you. That’s why I care.”

☆ Salesperson ENA leaves you voice memos. She installs a strange little recorder on your jacket collar that plays whenever it senses you spacing out. “Ping! You’re still here! You’re doing amazing! I know you’re scared, but your brain is not broken—it’s just… buffering!” Another message is her reading you a poem about ducks. The next is her explaining quantum physics very, very wrong. You never know what’s coming. But her voice, bouncing in your ear like a lifeline, always pulls you back.

☆ Both sides learn that being earnest matters more than being perfect. They try so hard. And most of the time, they get it wrong. Salesperson ENA overwhelms you with charts and graphs about recovery rates. Meanie ENA tells dissociation to “go punch itself.” But they never leave. They never act like you’re a burden. And when you finally say, “Thank you for trying,” ENA looks stunned. “Of course,” she says, softer than usual. “You’re the only investment I’d never divest from.” Even Meanie turns red. “Ugh. You’re lucky I’m sentimental now.”

I know it’s not hard to point out reactionaries hypocrisy when it comes to like safe spaces or hug boxes or whatever but genuinely how much of an echo chamber do you have to exist in for you to think this is a reasonable thing to say

Stu, let me ask you a question: how did you not realize until then that you had too many eggs? Nobody sells eggs in a big cloth-covered basket, so you must have done that yourself. That means you spent god-knows-how-long opening up twelve whole cartons of eggs, carefully placing each egg one-by-one inside a big basket, and then covering it with a big picnic cloth… and at no point- at no point- did you ever stop and think “gee, there might be TOO MANY FUCKING EGGS HERE”

You really have lost control of your life.

Crows are the best birds in the world.

hello! i recently got into dream bbq ena and adore all your writing with her. it scracthes my brain so nicely im shakign her around in a jar

i was wondering how you think ena would be with a reader who likes to talk a lot? maybe they like to ramble about their home, things that reminds them of ena or whatever thought that appears in their head. a certified yapper if you will (this isn't meant to be a request, just a silly curiosity if youre willing to indulge me)

•☽────✧˖°˖ OVERABUNDANT WORD VOMIT ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Reader Who Talks A Lot

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ ENA does not interrupt you. She catalogues you. Mid-ramble, while you’re passionately explaining the significance of a weird statue back in your hometown (“and it kinda looks like you from the back, I swear!”), ENA leans in, nods once, and chirps: “Interesting. You correlate me to public art. Does this reflect societal placement or aesthetic longing? I’m flattered either way.” She doesn’t understand all of it. She wants to. Meanie, on the other hand, squints. Taps her temple like it’s full of bees. “You talk like you’re auditioning for a friendship contest and flunking the quiet round.” But she never leaves. She stays. Always.

☆ You’ve rambled about your favourite cloud shapes for seven minutes straight. ENA, taking your words with the solemnity of a divine pact, starts pointing out clouds shaped like you. “There. That one resembles your hair curl pattern. Mark it. That’s ‘Talker Type VII.’” You laugh. ENA smiles softly and spins her sales cap backwards, like she’s about to sell you a sunbeam.

☆ Sometimes your chatter overwhelms her. Not in a bad way. Just… Too many words. Too many feelings. You’re talking about your grandma’s cooking and how the smell of burnt sugar reminds you of safety and then of death and then of her, and she gets this faraway look. Her voice lowers. “Ping me in some moments.” She walks off. Breathes. Comes back fifteen minutes later and wraps you in the world’s most complicated hug. Arms askew. Head tilted. “Repeat the part about safety. I want to write it down.”

☆ When you talk about her, ENA listens with one side while pretending not to with the other. Salesperson beams and poses: “Yes, yes, I am devastatingly cool in moonlight! Say more!” Meanie growls: “STOP MAKING ME FEEL ALL…TWINKLY! That’s a violation of workplace boundaries!” You assure her there is no workplace. There is only love. She glitches mid-scoff. Blushes in binary.

☆ You once compared her laugh to the sound of a broken music box mixed with a champagne cork pop. ENA immediately adopted it as her LinkedIn bio. “Broken music box. Champagne cork. Let’s pop off, business darling.” She starts practicing her giggle. Not to impress you—To match your poetry. To deserve it.

☆ Your voice grounds her. That’s the weird part. She expects to be annoyed. She isn’t. You’re babbling about the shapes of shadows or how this dream-sky tastes like mint and wet marble, and she—She lets go. Salesperson chuckles and says: “The ambience you provide is profitably therapeutic.” Meanie mutters: “I could nap in your sentences and forget the Boss exists.”

☆ Sometimes you talk too fast, and she can’t follow. So she starts mimicking you—word for word, tone for tone, like a glitching parrot. “AndthenIsaidnoandtheywerealllikeBOOM—BOOM—andIwas—” “BOOM! And I was! And you were!” You both collapse into giggles. You’re never embarrassed. She never wants you to be. Your joy is the only thing she doesn’t try to “optimize.”

☆ During “quiet” missions, she physically covers your mouth with her clawed hand. “Shh. Hush-hush. There are spies in this hallway. We’ll get audited by existence itself if you keep discussing lentil soup.” But she forgets to let go. You’re talking into her palm. She’s blushing through her hat brim. You whisper: “…I’m still talking about you.”

☆ You speak like your voice is trying to rebuild the world. She stares at you like she’s reading a map of a place she’s never been. Sometimes you ramble just to fill the silence. She knows. And she lets you. Always. Because silence to ENA isn’t absence. It’s danger. It’s static. But your words are anchor codes. They keep her here.

☆ Eventually, ENA starts mimicking your chatter habits. She fumbles at first—“So. Uh. My favourite chair is…also kind of about you. Because it’s broken but still very…very present. I-I don’t mean you’re broken, just—AH—STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT—“ You grin. She frowns. Then smirks. “Fine. We’re both broken. And beautiful. AND obnoxiously talkative. High-five me, noisebox.” She loves every syllable you spill. Even the ones about toothpaste brands and your neighbor’s dog. Especially those.

Study of Michelle Yeoh for The Sunday Times Style Magazine