Number Yaoi. And Yuri. It Is Both

Hey since it's implied four was an og bfdi fan, do you think he also would go absolutely insane over new episodes. Would also be making fan theories and fanart. Do you think he was secretly fangirling inside when he first got to host - being around his favorite "characters." He probably had favorites right? In my heart book and leafy were definitely up there. Did he also absolutely flip out when book got drilled in at the end of bfdia 18? Would x have to have juice boxes ready just in case each time a new episode came out? The idea of Four also being a bfdi fan is so funny to me. He definitely has merch.

day 1 - 5 for 4x week 2024!!!!!

songs i picked for the drawings! day 1: car lights - james marriott day 2: i will - mitski day 3: from the start - good kid day 4: bonnie - vylet pony day 5: little soldiers - the crane wives

more of these three

Save me from these algebras

Really loved this duo, they're like medicine to all my problems 4️⃣✖️

i am so sick rn but at least i managed to finish this <3

wholesome 4x comic 12: funny video

Sweet Dreams, Four...

First time completing an animation thing like this! Sorry if the quality is a little low... --;

I had fun making this! And I had fun revealing some later story stuff for this au...and giving emotional damage to my friends hehehehehe >:)

Do u love two time like I do (say yes and I won’t jump you after school)

i’ll think about it

•☽────✧˖°˖ SUMMER MEMORIES ˖°˖✧────☾•

(COMMISSION)

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Reader Who Likes To Draw

★ Commissioner: @namosaga

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

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ You doodle when you’re bored. You doodle when you’re sad. You doodle when ENA’s talking about a “high-risk divestment strategy involving artificial soap and stolen cafeteria spoons.” And at some point, you started doodling her. It’s not just her whole self—though that too, many times. Sometimes it’s just the curve of her clawed hand reaching for a megaphone. Sometimes it’s her striped suspenders tangled around a heart. When ENA notices, her Salesperson side lights up like a SALE sign. “Ohhhh. What’s this? That triangle is my face! Do you find me marketable? Beautiful? Business-presentable?” You nod. The Meanie stares. “Gross. Now we’re a MUSE? Ew. I’ll be charging you royalties for my likeness.”

☆ She finds the sketchbook one day when you’re away—left on a folding chair by a half-eaten pastry and an unopened bottle of fizzy coffee. She’s not snooping, no, not at all. Salesperson insists she’s “simply browsing local investments!” The first ten pages are filled with swirled lines, nervous clutter, random eyes. But then she sees herself. Over and over. Her bent legs, her hair curling wrong in the wind, her Meanie side squished into a heart-shaped frame. She freezes. Then she flips the pages again. Faster. Slower. Backward. She eventually whispers: “I look like someone’s safe place in here.”

☆ After that, ENA starts posing. Not directly. That would be weird. And vulnerable. So instead, she just happens to linger in dramatic stances longer than necessary. Flinging her arms toward the sky like a puppet cut loose. Curling on a desk with a fake frown. Standing by the megaphone with her head tilted at exactly 37 degrees. “My right angle is better for composition, by the way,” she mutters, fake-casual. “Stop telling them that,” Meanie snaps. “You look like an expired crayon.”

☆ You doodle her in the margins of receipts. On the back of pamphlets. In the corner of forms she begged you to fill out (“Sign here to legally acknowledge the weight of our friendship.”) ENA doesn’t get mad. Not really. She just starts leaving blank forms around on purpose. Sticky notes with “FOR DRAWING PURPOSES” scribbled in all-caps. One day she hands you an envelope. It’s empty except for a note inside that says: “Put more of me inside, please. Thank you for your service to the brand.”

☆ She watches you draw one day. Quietly. Which is rare for her. You’re sitting against a wall by the noise garden, sketchbook on your knees, tongue poking out a little from concentration. ENA crouches beside you and doesn’t say anything for a whole minute. Then five. At the six-minute mark, she finally mumbles: “You only draw the good parts.” Her voice is all Meanie. Soft. Sincere. And she won’t look at you when she says it.

☆ She starts giving you feedback. “Bigger shoulders—make me more powerful! Like a tank top model with clawed ambition!” “YOU MISSED THE HAT. DRAW THE HAT OR SO HELP ME I’LL SUE.” “You made me look too nice in this one. I look like I forgive people.” Despite the commentary, she keeps them. Every doodle you give her—ripped-out pages, napkin sketches, whatever—gets tucked neatly into a growing portfolio. You caught her one night whispering to it like a bedtime story.

☆ You try to draw her when she’s upset. Not meltdown upset—just quiet. Twitchy. Detached. Her mouth stuck in a not-smile. You sketch the tension in her shoulders, the downward tilt of her hat. You don’t show her those pages. But she finds them. Of course she does. “Is this how I look when I’m breaking in half? …Accurate.” She tilts the sketch. “But you drew me like I’m still loved, even then.” She doesn’t tear it up. She folds it gently and puts it in her cap.

☆ One day, she draws you. Sort of. It’s lopsided. Chaotic. The head is too big and the hands are just rectangles. But she gives it to you proudly, declaring: “This is YOU. You’re holding a flower and a sword and a bottle of ink and also a stress ball shaped like my face.” “You look pathetic,” Meanie mutters. “Pathetically important.”

☆ She asks you what each doodle means. You explain: That one was when she made you laugh so hard you choked. That one was when she got you out of the shadow hallway. That one was after she called you “a limited-time offer worth investing in.” ENA stares at you for a long time. Then says, “So I’m…a record? A message? A monument?” You blink. “You’re a muse.” She grins. “I’m also a tax deduction.”

☆ Eventually, she lets you draw her on her. You get a marker. A red one. She offers her arm with theatrical flair. “Brand me. Immortalize my essence. Turn me into a living portfolio!” You doodle a little heart on her clawed hand. Just one. Meanie stares at it, blinking fast. “…Dumb,” she mumbles, voice like cracked glass. Then quietly adds: “…Draw another one.”