Stu, Let Me Ask You A Question: How Did You Not Realize Until Then That You Had Too Many Eggs? Nobody

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.

•☽────✧˖°˖ 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

Hello! I Recently Got Into Dream Bbq Ena And Adore All Your Writing With Her. It Scracthes My Brain So

☆ 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.

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jack-hambjer

1 month ago