#blonoposts

HI ANON!!! :D

THIS IS PRETTY SHORT AND ALSO RUSHED BUT I HOPE ITS TO YOUR LIKING!

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'Ant' Tenna x Artist!Employee!Reader

The hum of the studio had finally quieted down for the evening, leaving only the soft flicker of screens and the distant buzz of machinery. You sat at your small desk tucked away in the corner of the employee lounge, the sketchbook balanced on your knees. For weeks now, you’d been sneaking moments here and there to sketch Mr. Tenna — his ever-shifting static screen, the sharp angles of his frame, the way his mechanical fingers flexed when he worked.

You loved capturing those little details. The way his head flickered between white noise and faint color streaks when he wasn’t paying attention. The way his movements could seem stiff and precise one moment, then almost human the next. It felt like the only way you could connect with him — without the showbiz spotlight, without the endless performance.

You flipped the page quietly, tracing your pencil over the outlines of his figure frozen mid-step, the glow of his screen-face carefully shaded. You barely noticed the door sliding open behind you.

A cool shadow loomed over your shoulder.

“Is that…me?” The voice was low, curious, with an edge of disbelief.

You jumped, closing the sketchbook hastily. But it was too late.

Mr. Tenna’s screen flickered, static flaring softly as he reached out with a slow, deliberate hand to take the book from your lap.

You swallowed hard, cheeks warming. “I—I didn’t mean for you to see it.”

He flipped the pages with surprising gentleness, his mechanical fingers careful not to smudge the graphite. Each drawing was a silent story: some were quick sketches, rough but honest; others painstaking, capturing tiny details like the way the light caught on his metallic wrist or the faint crackle of static around his screen.

He paused on a page where you’d drawn him standing with his head tilted slightly, the static on his screen flickering unevenly like a soft glitch. His mechanical fingers hovered over the paper, hesitant.

“You’ve been watching me,” he said quietly, voice low and just a bit shaky.

You blinked, cheeks heating up. “I guess… it just kind of happened. When you’re around, it’s hard not to notice the little things.”

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of machinery. His screen flickered erratically — a clear sign of his flustered state — and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words.

“Most people just stare, or ignore me,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not many actually… look.”

You shifted nervously, suddenly aware of how much you’d drawn him. “I didn’t mean to make it weird,” you said quickly. “I just like sketching. And, well, you’re kind of... interesting.”

He looked down at the sketchbook again, his fingers tracing the page you’d stopped on — a simple sketch of his silhouette, the flickering screen softly glowing.

Then, unexpectedly, he cleared his throat, a little too loudly for the quiet room.

“Well, I… I wouldn’t be opposed to being your muse! Heh…” His screen flickered wildly for a second, then he abruptly coughed into his mechanical hand, a faint static burst cutting off the awkward laugh. “EHEM. I MEAN… IF THAT’S ACCEPTABLE.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden confession.

He shifted on his feet, the usual calm and collected demeanor nowhere to be found.

NOT THAT I’M SAYING I WANT TO BE DRAWN ALL THE TIME OR ANYTHING. JUST… IF YOU WANT TO.”“ His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “It’s… not unpleasant.”

You smiled softly, feeling your own cheeks warm.

“Thanks, Mr Tenna. I’d like that.”

He gave a slow nod, the static on his screen settling into a softer glow — his version of a shy smile.

For a moment, neither of you said anything more. The quiet between you felt different now. Lighter, maybe.

“JUST… TRY NOT TO CATCH ME OFF GUARD AGAIN.” he added, voice still a little breathless.

Ant Tenna/Reader

Summary: You’re hired to be Tenna’s emotional liaison—a corporate stress ball for a TV star known for explosive tantrums. Despite his fierce resistance and fear of losing fame, you patiently absorb his outbursts and fears, slowly earning his reluctant trust. Your job isn’t to fix him, but to keep him afloat—and somehow, that makes all the difference.

AO3 link

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“ WHAT!? I DON’T NEED AN EMOTIONAL SUPPORT LIGHTNER! WHAT WOULD THE AUDIENCE THINK?! ”

The figure with the TV-shaped head practically shrieked , his screen flickering wildly between harsh static and a burning red glow. His fists slammed onto the glossy conference room table with enough force to rattle the papers scattered across it. The higher-ups remained unmoved, their faces trained in professional calm — clearly, this wasn’t their first time weathering one of Tenna’s infamous tantrums. One of them even exchanged a knowing glance with another, their patience worn but not broken.

“Mr. Tenna,” a tired voice finally cut through the tension, a middle-aged woman adjusting her glasses with deliberate slowness. On her blouse rested a nametag labeled ‘Kairos.’”Her tone was firm but not unkind, the kind of voice used when dealing with someone prone to theatrics. “You had a breakdown on-air last week because your intro jingle was played in mono. What do you think the audience thinks of that?”

Tenna’s screen dimmed slightly, like a flickering heartbeat. He threw his head back with a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, as if protecting himself from the words. “It wasn’t a breakdown! It was a performance piece ! ART, I tell you!” His voice cracked somewhere between indignation and desperation. He pivoted to glance sideways at the conference room windows as if searching for some invisible applause or sympathy from the empty hallway outside.

The woman’s lips twitched into a small, unconvinced smile, but her tone hardened as she pressed on. “You almost stepped on a spectator during one of your... outbursts.” Her voice had an edge now, the kind that cuts through denial like a knife.

“We were lucky that… Mike, was it? … was quick to switch to the standby screen. There are still people who attended the live show and thought the whole thing was part of the act,” she said, her voice lowering. “But it wasn’t. It was chaos, and it could’ve ended badly.”

Tenna’s flickering face shifted into something almost like regret, but it was swallowed quickly by a flare of defensiveness. “They didn’t understand the nuance of the moment,” he said, voice dropping to a low growl, “the audience loved it. Or at least, they should have.”

You sat silently in the corner, clutching your clipboard like a shield against the storm of static and emotion filling the room. You studied him— him , the man called Mr. Tenna—livewire in a cheap suit, a walking television set full of ego, noise, and drama wrapped in flickering static. At least, that was what the audience saw. What they didn’t see were the cracks beneath that flashing exterior, the meltdowns nobody talked about. You wouldn’t be here if he were fine, of course.

Clearing your throat, you stepped forward, voice small but steady. “Hi. I’m—”

Suddenly, he whipped around with a jolt, screen flashing erratically like an angry broadcast signal losing control. “ You’re the therapy human?” His voice dripped with revulsion and disbelief, and for a being without eyes, you could’ve sworn his gaze was burning right through you.

You forced a slight smile, trying your best to seem friendly and approachable despite the electric tension crackling between you. “I prefer emotional liaison, actually,” you said, hoping that a little humor might ease the edge. You had about… one day until you’d be working together, and starting on good terms seemed like the smartest move.

He recoiled as if you’d slapped him, the static on his screen suddenly buzzing louder. “ You prefer being a corporate babysitter ?!” His tone was scandalized, almost theatrical in its outrage. “Do I look like I need coddling?! I am the FACE of this network!” His fists clenched so tightly you thought the cables behind him might snap.

A voice muttered from the back of the room, barely audible over the static crackle but impossible to ignore: “And that face almost squashed a person to death last Thursday.” A dry chuckle rippled through the others, but Tenna’s flickering screen turned cold, as if stung by the reminder.

He growled lowly, almost threateningly, but something in his body language softened — a tiny, imperceptible shift in his posture. Did he shrink a bit or are your eyes playing tricks on your mind? The glare flickered for a split second into something unreadable, before the storm of static roared back louder than ever.

The room fell quiet after the comment, a heavy kind of silence that made your skin feel tight. You gripped your clipboard tighter, your fingers digging into the edges without realizing it.

Tenna’s screen flickered with static, and though he didn’t have eyes, you felt the weight of his glare like heat pressed against your skin. The higher-ups exchanged tired looks but said nothing—this wasn’t the first time they’d had to deal with one of his outbursts, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

The tension in the room was thick, like everyone was waiting for him to explode again or collapse entirely, but he just sat there, fists clenched on the table, his screen pulsing red with every shallow breath you could almost hear.

Finally, Kairos cleared her throat, her voice low and even as she broke the silence. “Tenna, nobody’s denying you’re the star. The ratings speak for themselves. But the breakdowns, the outbursts—they’re starting to take a toll on the show and on you. You can’t keep going like this and expect everything to hold together.” Her eyes met his flickering screen with a steady calm, like she was trying to get through to him without triggering another meltdown.

Tenna wheezed in response, a short burst of static crackling across the room. “Breakdowns? Those were.. performances . If I toned it down, the audience would lose interest. They’d stop watching. Th - They can’t stop watching…” The faint white glow pulsed beneath his skin, quicker now—like a warning light struggling to stay steady.

Your fingers tightened on the clipboard.

You’d read the reports. Watched the clips. Heard the stories. You knew the warning signs. The shift in his tone, the flickering of his screen, the flickering red bleeding into violent static. The pitch of his voice was climbing now—desperate, not loud.

……

“They’d stop watching…”

That was it. That was the trigger.

You could see it happening like slow-motion—his shoulders rising with tension, screen pulsing erratically, hands twitching like they were trying to grasp onto something real before his mind unraveled. You could practically hear the wires buzzing behind his eyes.

This was it. Your cue.

You stood up slowly.

Tenna didn’t notice you at first. His fingers dug into the table, his voice sputtering out through waves of static like he was buffering his own panic.

“Th-The screen goes black, the audience stops caring, and then what? Will i just be forgotten forever?!”

His screen flashed violently now, looping between half-rendered animations—laugh tracks, applause, then sharp cuts of color bars and a black void with a lonely “NO SIGNAL” bouncing like a screensaver. It wasn’t just theatrics. It was fear.

Real, raw fear.

You set the clipboard down and took a careful step forward. “Hey…”

No response. His hands trembled, static warping the air around him like heat off a broken screen.

Another step.

“ hey ... big guy,” you said again, voice a little louder, but still soft. Not confrontational. Not challenging. “Take a breath.”

His head snapped toward you like a spotlight locking onto a performer mid-show. His screen froze on harsh red again. “What do you know about it? You don’t get it—people used to wait their whole week to see me! Prime time! I was the moment. Now people skip through me. Speed me up. Mute me. Forget me.”

He was spiraling. You could see it in the way his screen blinked so fast it was strobing. Another step. You were close now.

You raised your hands gently—like you were approaching a scared animal. “ Mr Tenna…”

“Don’t,” he snapped, but there was no fire in it. Only static. “Don’t say it’s okay. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

You were right in front of him now. Up close, he was still a tad taller than you, and when he wasn’t yelling, he looked… small. Like something burnt out behind the glass.

“Listen,” you said, “TV isn’t dead.”

His screen flickered into confusion.

You kept going. “Yeah, it’s changed. Sure, people scroll and tap and speed things up. But there’s always going to be people that love the screen. Who wait for a broadcast. Who feel something when a jingle plays just right. Hell…”

You gave a small, sheepish shrug, voice quieter now. “Even I still watch TV.”

His screen glitched.

“…You do?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Call me old-fashioned. But sometimes I just want to sit down and get lost in something. No skipping. No rewinding. Just letting a story carry me.”

His shoulders loosened, just slightly. The screen faded from red to a low, pulsing blue.

“I don’t want to replace you,” you added. “I just want to help you stay on the air.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then he let out a sound—not quite a laugh, but something close. A wheezy, half-scrambled chuckle, like an old VCR trying to play a warped tape.

His head tilted to the side, and his screen flickered again. A soft glow. A little animation—a TV with legs sitting on a couch, popcorn in hand.

“…You’re weird.”

You smiled. “Maybe a little.”

He slumped back into his chair with a mechanical sigh, one hand running down the side of his screen like he was physically powering himself down. The static fizzled out, leaving only a dim, flickering white glow.

“Fine,” he muttered. "This didn’t happen. I wasn’t about to short-circuit or whatever you think you saw. If anyone asks, I was just... adjusting my contrast settings.”

“No promises,” you teased, tapping your clipboard gently. “But hey… thanks for not melting down.” Looks like your first paycheck will be an earned one.

He gave a soft static hum in response, barely audible.

Then, just before the silence could stretch too long, his screen lit up with one final message, typed in clunky, retro font:

THANKS FOR WATCHING.

And this time, it wasn’t sad.

…

The static fizzled out.

Silence hung in the air, but this time, it didn’t crackle with tension. It was something softer. Tentative. Like the room was afraid to break whatever fragile truce had just been formed between chaos and calm.

Then a chair scraped quietly. Papers rustled. The higher-ups began shifting in their seats, murmuring among themselves in low voices, their once-stern faces now marked with something that might have been relief.

Kairos tapped the end of her pen against her clipboard, eyebrows raised in something close to approval. “Well,” she said, standing slowly. “That went… better than expected.”

“I thought he was going to overload again,” someone muttered.

“Or throw the table through the glass,” another added, half-joking, half-serious.

Kairos didn’t smile, but her expression softened as she looked at you. “Not bad, liaison. You might actually survive this gig.”

Another higher-up leaned toward her, murmuring just loud enough for you to hear: “Good call on this one. We might’ve found the right match for him.”

You didn’t say anything. You just nodded, still standing beside Tenna, whose glow had dimmed to a low white hum like a set left on in a dark room. He didn’t speak again—not really. But his screen flickered faintly. And that was enough.

The suits filed out slowly, muttering updates and schedules to one another, the crisis seemingly defused for now. You picked up your clipboard, still warm where your hands had gripped it earlier, and cast one last glance at Tenna before turning to follow them out.

As you reached the door, you heard the softest burst of static behind you—almost like a whisper.

“...Don’t be late tomorrow.”

You smiled without turning around.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

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'Ant' Tenna/Reader --- AO3

Summary: Tenna’s size-shifting system glitches, trapping him smaller than he’s ever been before—shrunk down even beyond his usual low. The Reader can’t help but get a little touchy. Tenna doesn’t mind the closeness much. He DOES mind when their moment gets interrupted though...

(Have this crumb since i'll be taking a break from working on Dial T for Tenna!)

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“DON’T LAUGH AT ME!” Tenna shrieked, planting his hands on his hips in a desperate attempt to look intimidating—though the effect was more adorable than anything else, given he currently had the height of a perfume bottle.

Why was Tenna this small, you ask?

You glanced down at him, still snickering under your breath at his earlier explanation. Something about a glitch in his size-changing systems, which caused him to abruptly shut down. When he came to, he found a very confused technician hovering over his tiny form, trying to figure out how to solve the problem.

Now here he was—smaller than you’d ever seen him. Way smaller than his usual limited "small mode," even. He could probably fit in your palm, which was a thought that was quickly becoming dangerously tempting.

He didn’t usually stay in his small form for long, and even when he did, you rarely had time to actually look at him, let alone touch him.

So naturally, the urge to pick him up and fluster the hell out of him was almost too strong to resist.

Your gaze swept over his tiny, puffed-up posture. He was still huffing like he had something to prove—so, gently, you reached out and plucked him up by the scruff of his little red blazer. His body stiffened immediately, arms and legs flailing for balance.

“WOAH THERE! You’re gonna give me motion sickness…!” he grumbled, clearly trying to sound unbothered.

But you weren’t buying it. His screen had gone a soft, rosy pink, and his antennas were twitching in a stuttered rhythm that practically screamed flustered. You slowly settled him into the center of your palm, leaning back with your knees bent, one hand braced behind you, the other holding him steady.

“Aw…” you cooed, your voice dripping with playful mockery. “Look at you! You’re so cute when you’re small like this.”

You nudged his tiny shoulder with your finger. “I mean, you’re always cute—but this? This is next level.”

His screen darkened to a deeper pink, and he sharply turned his head away from you, antennas drooping.

“H-Hahaa… You really think so?” he asked, voice cracking ever so slightly from a mix of embarrassment and bashful disbelief.

“‘Course I do,” you replied, tilting his screen gently back toward you with the tip of your finger. Your smile widened as you moved on to lightly stroke the top of his head. “Hmm… You could totally fit in my pocket like this. Wouldn’t that be cute? Carrying you around all day like one of those purse dogs.”

He made a strangled little noise.

You leaned in just a little closer, smirk growing. “I could even call you my pet,” you added with a teasing lilt, continuing to pet him with deliberate slowness.

Tenna’s head dropped back dramatically, antennas trembling, screen now flushed pink. You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face when you heard the long, involuntary whine that slipped out of him.

“You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” you purred, shifting your hand to fully cup his tiny frame. Your thumb pressed gently against the front of his blazer while your other fingers curled beneath him for support.

His little hands gripped your thumb tightly, like it was the only thing keeping him from mentally combusting.

You ran your thumb along the edge of his blazer, brushing over the little gold trim, and watched as he tensed up, mouth opening to say something—only to produce a breathy whimper instead. That made you grin.

Your index finger came up to gently stroke the side of his CRT head, tracing along the sharp curve of it like you were examining something precious in a museum. A wave of pink washed over his face again. He jolted at the touch.

Then, slowly, you moved to his antennas.

The moment your fingers touched them, his whole body jolted like you’d hit a pressure point.

“N-Nonono—waitwaitwait—!!!” he squeaked, his screen going from pink to deep red.

“Oh?” you said innocently, already pinching the base of one between your fingers and giving it a gentle, slow stroke upward. The antenna flicked, spasming in response. Tenna choked on air.

Your other hand came up to stabilize him, cupping his back like he was something fragile—because right now, he was. With both hands surrounding him now, you lazily stroked along both antennas, back and forth, watching how he twitched and shivered with every movement.

“I didn’t know these were so sensitive…” you said with a teasing pout.

His head fell forward against your thumb, his grip tightening again. His legs had curled up slightly from the sheer flustered tension rattling through him.

“I-I’m gonna implode.” he whined into your hand, his internal fans about to go into overdrive.

You laughed under your breath, genuinely amused now. “You’re way too easy to mess with like this.” you said softly, tapping the top of his head with your finger, then gently running it down to his back and along the curve of his tiny spine. 

Tenna shivered.

You felt it under your touch—the way his frame trembled like a live wire. He curled tighter into your palm, gripping your thumb like it was anchoring him to the mortal plane.

You leaned in closer, your voice low and warm. “Are you always this responsive?” you whispered. “Or is it just me?”

“Y-You…” he rasped, stuttering halfway through the word. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Obviously,” you grinned. “You’re fun to play with like this.”

You dragged your thumb under his screen, lifting it slightly so he had to look at you—his blushing screen fully lit. He looked like he was seconds away from combusting.

And that was before your fingers went back to his antennas.

This time you didn’t just stroke them. You played with them—one finger circling the tip of one while your other hand gently tugged at the base of the other, just enough to make him squirm. His breath hitched hard, his body jerking in your grip like you'd flipped some internal switch.

“Y-YOU—! Hnnnh… th-that’s—nghh—too much—”

You chuckled. “Sensitive and dramatic. Classic Tenna.”

“Th-This is harassment.” he whined, voice high and trembling, his little frame practically vibrating in your hands.

“And yet…” you purred, watching him melt further into your palm, “you haven’t told me to stop.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but all that came out was a breathy whimper. His head drooped forward against your thumb again, like holding himself up was just too much work now.

You cradled him a little closer to your chest, letting his tiny frame rest against your collarbone. “You okay there, hotshot?” you murmured, brushing your fingers down his back again, lighter this time, more soothing.

Tenna didn’t respond right away. His antennas were still twitching, and his screen flickered once, twice, before finally settling into a soft, glowing pink.

“…You’re evil.” he mumbled against your skin, muffled and pouty.

You laughed, wrapping your fingers gently around him like a protective shell. “Maybe,” you whispered. “But you like it.”

He groaned—long, dramatic, and muffled into your collar. He didn’t deny it.

And just as you opened your mouth to tease him again—

“Mr. Tenna? I finally figured out how to—”

The office door creaked open.

You both froze.

Standing in the doorway was the very same technician who had probably spent the last two hours figuring out how to solve the glitch, proudly holding a manual in one hand and mid-sentence—until he caught sight of you.

More specifically, you sitting comfortably on the couch in Tenna’s office… holding a palm-sized, twitching, visibly disheveled Tenna against your chest.

There was a very long, very awkward silence.

The technician’s eyebrows rose slowly.

“…Oooooookay,” he said, blinking. “Should I… come back later or…?”

You bit back a snicker, but it still escaped through your nose as you looked down at the flustered mess in your hand. Tenna’s antennas were trembling like dying leaves. His screen had gone red. Not pink. Full, mortified red.

You gave him one last affectionate pet on the top of his head before gently lowering him to the carpet.

“Nah,” you said with a grin. “He’s good to go now.”

Tenna stood wobbily, adjusting his tiny blazer with a sulking sort of dignity. He didn’t look at you. Or the technician. Or anything, really. His antennas were curled downward like a cat’s ears after being caught doing something shameful.

“…YUP,” he muttered, defeated. “Fully ready. Nothing wrong here. Ha ha...”

He turned stiffly and stomped toward the technician, who held the door open in silence.

As they exited, you heard Tenna hiss, “I was clearly in the middle of something!”

“I-I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t realize you were—uh—you know—”

“If this happens again, I’m docking your pay.”

“…Understood.”

The door shut.

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PART 1 -- PART 4 -- (Ao3)

'Ant' Tenna/Reader

Summary: After a rough show, Tenna begins to unravel. The reader doesn’t fix him — just stays. In the quiet aftermath, they suggest letting the show get messy and real. Tenna doesn’t push them away. By the end, something shifts — a small moment of trust.

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The studio felt heavier in the morning light. Not dark, not dramatic—just quiet in a way that settled under your skin. Yesterday’s chaos had scrubbed through the space and left it drained. No stagehands yelling over each other, no costume racks rolling across the floors, no soundtrack cues looping too loud from the speakers. Just silence and the low, ambient thrum of equipment left on overnight, humming like it was trying to fill the space left behind.

You were in one of the smaller production rooms, the kind used for early auditions and cast reviews. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. Your tablet sat on the table beside a half-drunk can of soda, its screen scattered with contestant profiles. Most of them were the usual junk—wannabe influencers, college kids trying too hard to be edgy, people clearly just looking to get a clip on the air. But a few looked like they might actually be worth something. One girl listed her only skill as "causing problems on purpose," and for once, that didn’t feel like a red flag. At least she’d match the tone of the show.

You were highlighting her file when the door opened behind you. No knock. Just the slow creak of hinges and the soft scrape of shoes on tile. You didn’t have to turn to know it was him.

Tenna stood in the doorway, still. Not posing, not performing. His screen was on—bright, flat white—but dimmer than usual, like someone had turned the contrast down. No flicker, no glitching. Just... dull light.

“Am I canceled?” he asked.

You paused. “What?”

He stepped into the room, hands deep in his coat pockets, the way he got when he didn’t want to look like he cared too much. “Yesterday,” he said. “The show. I assume it tanked. Viewers hate when something real slips through. They want the act. The flash. Not... whatever that was.”

You set the tablet down slowly. “No one’s canceling anything.”

Tenna didn’t sit. He leaned against the table near the wall, screen angled toward the screens playing silent cuts of the episode. He watched without really watching—familiar images, half-processed. Static danced faintly across his screen for a second, then cleared. His voice was quiet when he spoke again.

“They booed. I haven’t heard a crowd turn like that since the stunt episode where we dropped a guy into a pit of glitter and he didn’t come back up.”

You glanced at him, but his expression didn’t change. “They didn’t boo you. They booed the moment. The pacing. Maybe the contestants. But not you.”

“That’s generous.”

“It’s true.”

He didn’t respond. Just watched the looped footage for a while, jaw tense. You could feel the weight pressing on him, the kind that builds when a performer who’s built their entire world out of a persona starts to doubt the foundation. Tenna wasn’t just the host. He was the show, its identity, its tone. And when the crowd turned, when the laughter gave way to discomfort—something cracked.

Eventually, he said, “I spent the whole night wondering if I should’ve just stayed in character. Thrown a chair. Cut to commercial. Screamed at the camera until the lights fried out. Something. Anything.”

“That wouldn’t have fixed it.”

“No,” he said. “But it would’ve been on brand.”

You leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. “You’re not just a brand, Tenna.”

He scoffed, but it didn’t land right. The sarcasm had no heat behind it.

You picked up the tablet and slid it across the table toward him. “I went through the applications this morning. Found a few who might actually work. Not plants. Not polished. Just... strange. Raw.”

Tenna didn’t take the tablet, but he glanced down at it. Read a name or two. One eyebrow lifted slightly. “This one just wrote, ‘I want to make noise and break things.’”

You nodded. “She’s already more honest than half the people we’ve put on the floor.”

He was quiet for a moment, then pushed off the table and finally sat down. His posture was slouched, screen still dim, but there was movement again—thought behind the silence. You could see the gears starting to turn, even if they were slow.

“And what?” he said. “We just throw them in and let the show unravel itself?”

“Maybe. Maybe we stop chasing the version of the show that everyone expects. No more fake twists. No more forced drama. Let things actually go wrong. Let the show be real.”

“You say that like it’s revolutionary.”

“It kind of is. For this place.”

He tapped the edge of the tablet, not looking at you. “You think that’s what they want? The audience? Real?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I think it’s what you need. And I think people can tell the difference.”

The screen stayed white. Still quiet. But you thought—just barely—you could hear the low, rising buzz from within it. Like something rebooting. Not loud. Not fast. Just enough to know that something hadn’t broken completely.

He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and let out a breath. “Alright. Let’s see if we can make a mess worth watching.”

You didn’t say anything. Just watched him. Something about the line sat in your ribs a little longer than you expected — not deep or profound, just… tired, in a way you recognized. Like someone who knew the show must go on but had stopped caring whether anyone clapped. That made it easier to breathe, strangely. You leaned back a little, hands still loosely knotted in your lap, and let the quiet stretch out.

Eventually, you shifted. “Mess is already halfway made,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “Might as well try to steer it somewhere.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t laugh. But there was a small twitch — shoulder or head, you weren’t sure — like maybe he’d heard you and didn’t completely hate the sound of your voice. You’d take that. You weren’t expecting trust. You barely expected conversation at this point. But the lights were still on, the static hadn’t come back, and he wasn’t sending you out of the room with some manufactured PR smirk. It was the quiet kind of progress. The kind nobody clapped for.

The silence wasn’t as tense as before. It sat between you like an old coat thrown over a chair. There, but not pressing. You exhaled and let your posture go a little slack. You weren’t here to fix him. You couldn’t. That wasn’t the job. Or maybe it was — it was hard to tell. Nobody had given you a real definition for “emotional liaison,” and frankly, the people who coined the term probably didn’t know either. They just needed someone who wouldn’t crumble the second Tenna glitched out on them. Someone who wouldn’t run. You weren’t sure if that meant you were brave or just too stubborn to leave.

Tenna stood up eventually, slow and deliberate. The screen stayed white — not glowing, not dead, just... there. He didn’t look at you. Not directly. But he hovered a second longer than you thought he would before heading to the door. Hand on the frame, head turned just slightly.

“If they sent you to keep me from falling apart,” he said, “they should’ve started a lot sooner.”

You swallowed a response. Not because you didn’t have one, but because most of what came to mind would’ve sounded either too soft or too smug. Instead, you stood too, brushing off the back of your pants out of habit.

“They didn’t send me for that,” you said. “They sent me because they don’t know what else to do with you.”

A pause. A small one. Then a low sound — not quite a laugh. Not quite static either.

He left the office, and for the first time all day, it didn’t feel like you were being shut out.

You didn’t go straight back to your desk. You wandered the halls for a while instead, giving the building time to settle. Tenna moved fast when he was onstage, but off it, everything felt like waiting. Like the whole place held its breath until he made the next move. Even now, it felt like the walls were listening.

You ended up in one of the green rooms — not the fancy ones meant for guests, but one of the half-forgotten corners where unused props went to die. Beige walls. Stained couch. A coffee table that looked like it had seen things. You dropped into the cushions without grace, legs stretched out, and pulled your badge off your neck. It hit the floor with a soft plastic clack.

You didn’t want to think about what just happened. Not in a big dramatic way — just in the way your brain starts poking holes when it’s too quiet. You’d shown up here thinking maybe you’d sit Tenna down, talk him through whatever spirals he kept trying to mask with ratings and glitter and half-scripted rants. Help him “stabilize.” That was the word they’d used. As if he were a tower with a crack in the middle. But he wasn’t a structure. He wasn’t even something you could brace. He was sharp edges and ancient tape reels and burnout with a spotlight baked into his bones. And honestly, you weren’t sure you were any more stable than he was.

Still. You were here.

You didn’t see him again until the next day.

He didn’t acknowledge you when you walked into the studio. Not right away. He was already pacing the main set, notes in hand — except you were pretty sure they weren’t even real notes. Just a prop clipboard. Some days he liked pretending things were organized. Maybe that was part of the act. You didn’t interrupt. Just leaned against the wall off-stage and watched as the crew moved like background noise around him. Most of them didn’t talk to him, just took their marks and waited. You saw one of the interns flinch when he walked by, even though he hadn’t said a word.

You sighed, then pushed yourself off the wall. Stepped out toward him.

“New suit,” you said, nodding the… different shade of red suit. “Going for hostile game show host or vaguely threatening bank manager?”

Tenna didn’t look at you. But he paused, the barest hitch in his steps.

“Figured I’d try competence for once,” he said. “You should try it sometime.”

You almost smiled. “I’m more of a chaos intern, personally.”

Another beat of silence. Then, barely audible over the hum of equipment, came the sound of him exhaling through his nose. Not a laugh. But not nothing.

The shoot that day was rough — the crowd was flat, the guest was worse, and the writers clearly hadn’t slept. Tenna handled it like he always did: sharp, fast, aggressive enough to keep things from collapsing completely. You stayed off to the side, not jumping in unless you had to. That felt like the deal now. You weren’t there to smooth things over or take over the controls. You were just there. An extra presence in his field of view. Something he could bounce off if he wanted. Or ignore. It was a weird job, but weird felt normal now.

When the lights finally went down, he stayed in place for a few seconds. Not dramatic. Just... unwilling to move. Like if he kept still long enough, maybe he wouldn’t have to go back to being whoever he was when the cameras stopped rolling.

You crossed over without saying anything. Handed him a bottle of water you’d swiped from catering. He took it, didn’t thank you — just cracked the seal and drank like someone trying to fill the silence in his chest.

Then, softly, almost like he was testing the shape of the words in his mouth:

“You’re still here.”

You looked at him, not smiling, not smug. “Should I leave?”

A pause. His screen flickered — faint static, like a single breath caught in the wires.

“No.”

Not a command. Not a plea. Just a simple, honest refusal. It was enough to crack the armor he usually kept wrapped tight around that flickering head of his.

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting that word hang between you. It wasn’t much, but it was something—less a promise, more a truce. The kind you make with someone who’s not quite ready to give up but isn’t quite sure they want company either. You could see it in the way his screen settled back into that dull white glow, the static fading like a slow exhale. It wasn’t victory or defeat. It was just... presence. And maybe, for the first time, that was enough.

You shifted on your feet, feeling the weight of the day settle deeper into your bones. This wasn’t a story about quick fixes or pep talks. There was no magic phrase, no brilliant plan that could stitch up whatever was fraying inside him. You both knew that. You weren’t here to patch a broken machine—you were here to stick around while it sputtered and, maybe, figured itself out. That was your job now. And while you still didn’t know what it really meant to be an “emotional liaison,” you were starting to understand it was less about fixing and more about showing up.

He finally looked over, just a flicker of motion, but enough to catch your gaze. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. Not a question, not a statement of fact, but something softer, almost vulnerable. Like admitting it felt less like a sentence and more like relief. You met his screen with a steady look. “No plans to.” You wanted to say more—something about sticking through the mess, through the noise—but the words felt too big, too forced. So you let the silence say what you couldn’t.

For a long while, you both just sat there, two figures caught in the quiet after the storm. Outside, the studio was waking up again, lights flicking on and the distant murmur of footsteps and voices. But in this small room, time stretched differently—slower, deeper. You weren’t sure where this fragile truce would lead, or how long it would last, but for now, it was enough to break the silence without filling it with empty noise. Sometimes that was the hardest part: just being there, steady and unyielding, while everything else spun out of control. And somehow, sitting there with Tenna, watching his screen settle into something less hostile, you felt a flicker of something close to hope. Not the kind they sell on TV. Just the quiet kind that holds, even when the signal’s weak.

He stayed quiet for a long moment, the faint buzz inside his screen the only sound between you. Then, like a crack in the static, he finally said, “You’re... my Patch.” The words came out almost like a confession, and you caught that slight hesitation in his tone, like he was saying something he didn’t quite mean to admit. “My Patch.” He repeated it, slower this time, as if tasting the weight of the nickname, the unexpected warmth it brought despite the usual coldness he wore like armor.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Your…Patch?” You raised an eyebrow, a smirk creeping onto your lips. “Well, isn’t that cute.”

His screen flickered—just a little, a subtle blush in digital form—and for a second, he looked almost flustered, like he wasn’t used to letting something so... human slip through. He shifted on his feet, then muttered, voice low and reluctant, “I-It’s because you’re… the fix. The patch that keeps me from cr – Don’t make it weird.”

You grinned, standing up to meet him halfway. “Too late for that. But hey, I’ll take it.”

He shifted again, like the weight of the day was still there but somehow lighter now. “Go home and rest,” he said quietly, the words almost an order but soft at the edges. The flicker in his screen felt like a small, shy smile.

You gave him a cheeky look, pushing off the wall as you headed for the door. “Can’t rest without watching some TV first.” The grin stayed on your face long after you left the room, and you thought maybe—just maybe—Tenna wasn’t so alone in the quiet after all.

-----

NO ESCAPE

(Invincible x reader) - Sinister Mark

Words: 379

--------

The city was dead.

You had seen it happen piece by piece—buildings reduced to rubble, streets littered with bodies, the sky choked with smoke. There had been screaming at first, resistance, but that had ended quickly. The world was silent now. Empty.

Except for him.

Mark stood in front of you, his cape shifting lazily in the wind. His black-and-gold suit was still clean, untouched by the carnage he’d caused. His expression was unreadable, golden eyes staring at you like you were just another thing he owned.

You were breathing hard. Not from exertion, but from the sheer weight of his presence.

“You’re still here,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Interesting.”

You swallowed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He raised a brow, amused. “Most people try to run.”

“They don’t get very far, do they?”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “No. They don’t.”

You glanced past him, at the wreckage stretching out in every direction.

There was nowhere to go. There hadn’t been for a long time.

Mark stepped closer. You forced yourself not to move. Not to flinch.

“You used to be smarter than this,” he said. “You knew what was coming.”

“I knew,” you admitted. “I just didn’t think you’d be so eager to burn everything down.”

He exhaled sharply—something between a laugh and a sigh. “Eager? No. Just efficient.”

“Efficient,” you repeated, the word bitter in your mouth. “That’s what you call this?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out, his fingers ghosting over the side of your face. The touch was light, almost casual, but it made your stomach twist. Not in fear—something worse.

“You could’ve left,” he said, watching you closely.

You huffed a quiet breath. “And go where?”

Mark didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. You both knew there was no escape from this. From him.

His thumb brushed over your cheek before his hand dropped back to his side. “So what now?”

You clenched your jaw. “You tell me.”

For the first time, his smirk faded. His gaze flickered with something unreadable before settling back into that unsettling calm.

“You stay,” he said simply. Like it was inevitable. Like he had already decided for you.

----

'Ant' Tenna/Reader (Ao3 link)

Summary: You and (mostly) Tenna cook. It goes...surprisingly well?

---------

The second he stepped into your apartment wearing that apron, you knew this was a mistake. Not a regular, mild mistake — not the kind you could laugh off later with a joke and a shrug — but a deep, bone-set, slowly unfolding kind of mistake. The kind that starts with a smirk and ends with something smoking. He didn’t even say anything at first. Just stood in your doorway with his sleeves rolled up and that apron tied neatly around his waist, navy blue with “EXECUTIVE CHEF” stitched across the front in bold, slightly smug embroidery. The only thing louder than the apron was his mouth — which, thankfully, hadn’t opened yet.

But the look in his posture said everything. That sideways tilt of the head. The smug weight in his shoulders. The absolute certainty in how he hung his antennae like he was about to conduct an orchestra with them. You were already filled with dread, and he hadn’t even stepped past the doormat.

“This is going to be a disaster,” you said, folding your arms tightly as he breezed into the kitchen like he lived here.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he replied, stretching his arms above his head in a way that made you want to throw the rolling pin at him immediately. “I thought you wanted to bake.”

“I do. I didn’t expect you to take over.”

“I haven’t taken over,” he said, turning to you with a grin that meant nothing good. “I’m collaborating.” He reached into the grocery bag — your grocery bag — and pulled out the rolling pin with a flourish like it was a stage prop. He spun it in his hands, clearly posing for an audience that didn’t exist.

“...That’s worse,” you muttered.

“Admit it. You’re intrigued.”

You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud, but he wasn’t entirely wrong. You were watching the chaos unfold with the kind of morbid fascination usually reserved for slow-motion car crashes or particularly unhinged reality shows. And Tenna, of course, operated on that exact wavelength. The only reason you didn’t wrestle the mixing bowl out of his hands on sight was because it was early, and you hadn’t fully accepted your fate yet.

He moved like he’d been here before — not just physically in your kitchen, but in this kind of space. Comfortable, deliberate. He was already unpacking the flour and sugar and checking the butter you’d left out on the counter. You noticed the moment his posture shifted from theatrical to critical. He poked the butter once. Then again.

“You didn’t let this soften…” he said, clearly horrified.

“I forgot.”

“You forgot?” He recoiled like you’d just confessed to a murder. “This isn’t amateur hour. This is baking. Precision. Timing. Elegance.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re being dramatic about butter.”

“I’m always dramatic. That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

You stared at him for a long second, then exhaled and stepped back. “Fine. What now, Chef?”

He cracked his knuckles like he was about to start a street fight, then rolled his shoulders with alarming confidence. “You’ve got cream, yes?”

“I—yeah?”

“And vinegar?”

“What—why—”

“Just get them.”

You didn’t bother questioning it further. You just opened the fridge and complied, mostly because he already had flour in a bowl and was working it like he’d done it a thousand times. Your hands were full of doubt, but his were already in motion.

You folded your arms again, this time leaning against the counter, watching him like a science experiment you weren’t sure would end without chemical burns. But here’s the thing: he didn’t mess it up. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t break a bowl or confuse salt for sugar. He moved with clean, practiced precision — butter chopped, dry ingredients whisked, cold cream and a splash of vinegar folded into the mix with neat, exact gestures. He didn’t even measure things wrong. He didn’t need to measure. He eyeballed the amounts and somehow got it all right on the first try.

You blinked slowly. “You’re... not bad at this.”

Tenna didn’t stop moving. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I thought you’d be the type to put raw eggs in the microwave.”

“Excuse me. That only happened once. And it was televised.”

“Of course it was.”

He wrapped the dough in plastic wrap, laid it on a plate, and set it aside with the kind of casual ease that should only belong to professional chefs or dangerously overconfident YouTubers. You couldn’t stop watching him. Something about seeing him competent — not loud, not improvising, but actually good at something mundane — was disorienting.

“I’m sorry,” you said finally. “Where did you even learn this?”

He wiped his hands on a dish towel with mechanical precision, as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “We had a cooking show.”

There was a beat of silence. You blinked.

“What.”

“Cooking show. Midday block. We aired between a live noise-punk set and a dubbed Godzilla courtroom drama. I hosted it. Sometimes I judged.” He picked up a lemon and began zesting it with calm, silent expertise. “Won a daytime award. Bronze fork. Very shiny.”

“You’re telling me you’ve had this skill the entire time and you let me believe you couldn’t boil water?”

Tenna shrugged without looking up. “It’s funnier when people expect me to fail.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here we are. In your kitchen. Making pastry.”

You wanted to be annoyed. You really did. But watching him work — watching the way he shaped the dough, how quickly he assembled the filling without fumbling, how casually he tossed the sugar over the blueberries — you couldn’t help but be impressed. The lemon zest was measured, not excessive. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t show off. Just moved with quiet control.

“You miss it?” you asked after a moment

“The cooking show?” he clarified. He paused slightly, not long enough to feel heavy, just long enough to mean something. “Not really. It was filler. Nobody watched it for the food. I had to talk over a laugh track.”

“Still,” you said, quieter now, “you’re good at it.”

Tenna didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then, finally, “Not everything has to be a performance.”

The words caught you off guard. They didn’t sound rehearsed. They weren’t sharp or mocking. Just simple. And a little tired.

The oven beeped. He opened the door, slid the galette in with confident hands, then closed it. No flare. No grand reveal. Just the clean sound of a tray sliding into place.

“How long do we wait?” you asked, still stunned.

“Forty-five minutes.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“For the baking. The judgment comes later.”

“Excuse me?”

He leaned against the opposite counter, arms folded. “The crust. The filling. The balance. We’ll see if you followed instructions.”

“You gave yourself all the instructions!”

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s why I’m confident.”

You groaned, but you couldn’t help it — you laughed a little under your breath. It wasn’t performative, either. Just real. The smell of lemon and berries was already starting to fill the air. You poured yourself some water and leaned next to him, trying not to think too hard about the warmth creeping into the apartment. Or into your ribs.

When the timer went off, he moved first — grabbed the oven mitt, opened the door, and pulled the galette out in one clean motion. It was golden. Crisp at the edges. The fruit bubbled just slightly in the center.

It looked incredible.

You hated that.

Tenna cut a slice, placed it on a plate, and handed it to you like a challenge. You took a bite.

Paused.

“...Damn.”

He smirked.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll say it. You can cook.”

“I know.”

You glared. “I still don’t trust you near my microwave.”

“That's fair.”

He started cleaning up, quietly, without being asked. You watched him for a while, the way he moved around the kitchen like he’d always belonged in it. Like this wasn’t new. Like it wasn’t some fluke.

“I’ll make soufflé next time.” he said casually.

“No, you won’t.”

He didn’t argue.

Just smiled.

PART 1 ---- PART 3 --- Ao3

'Ant' Tenna/Reader

Summary: Mr. Tenna fears losing his place on the show and demands more excitement. The audience boos during the live broadcast, shaking him. In his office, he doubts himself. You comfort him and promise new contestants. He quietly thanks you.

-------

The studio corridor hummed with expectancy—buzzing lights, rolling camera dollies, and a looped sound cue that felt like a heartbeat. You stepped through the backstage entrance and into the backstage hub for TV Time. It looked like a chaotic game show arena, wires snaked everywhere, cue cards stacked like mini towers, and crew members darting about, adjusting lights and checking audio feeds.

And then you heard it: the unmistakable scream of Tenna’s voice, booming across the room, as though he were narrating his own life in grandiose fits.

“IT’S TV TIME!!!” he shouted, the echo bouncing off the walls. The phrase crackled overhead like a catchphrase encoded into the building’s wiring . Then came a destructive thud and more shouting. You pushed through a set of cables and barriers just as he stormed into view, mid-rant, his suit pristine but his posture aggressive, arms flung wide. His screen flashed jagged colors—not white—overflowing with static.

“You call this a reality challenge!? Where’s the punch? The drama? The stakes?” His voice reverberated. Crew scattered. He stalked forward, screen flicking violently in time with his breaths. “And where’s my spotlight? They stuck me under flat lights like a washed-out rerun! I’m not some low-tier rerun—they need me PRIME TIME, they HEAR ME!?”

You stayed set just out of frame, clipboard in hand. When he finally registered you, he froze like a faulty display.

“Oh-ho-ho, look who it is,” he barked, tone dripping incredulity. “The… emotional liaison! Come to watch me melt down so you can send memos across the network?” He leaned in, and though he didn’t have eyes, his posture pinned you—challenging. “Tell me you didn’t map my personal breakdown for your feast of corporate reading?”

You inhaled slowly. “I’m here to help. To keep you on broadcast.”

He snorted, voice rising. “Help? I don’t need off-air pep talks, I need Ratings! Contestants who are sweating, audience gasping, a quiz show that sizzles. This isn’t Sesame Street—this is TV TIME, baby!”

Tenna pivoted, rattling cue cards. “We’ve got contestants signing up for physical challenges, quiz rounds—mini-games that test wit, reflexes, failure threatens humiliation!” This was his element. Adrenaline carved through his speech. Then his tone cracked: “And yet, they want me to babysit… to tone it down? What’s next? Lip-syncing to lullabies?”

The static on his screen deepened, crackling into hushed tones. You stepped forward. “Mr Tenna, they’re not limiting your energy. They want you safe, intact—so the show can go on with you, not without you.”

He whirled, fists clenching. “Show can go on without me?” His voice lowered, breath rasping. The studio lights dimmed and brightened at irregular intervals—like his panic echoing in physical form. “That’s it—they’re grooming a replacement, aren’t they? Someone younger, brighter—someone they can control!”

You didn’t answer at first, letting him burn out the fear. Out of the darkness came a quiet sputter: “I used to own the living room. The whole family would drop popcorn just to hear my jingle—everybody tuned in, every time.” His screen flickered white, then stuttered into static for a split-second before stabilizing back to white. “Now? Now I gotta pander. Tap into empathy. Pretend vulnerability. Show the crowds... this side of me. What if they watch, and don’t tune back?”

You kept your voice even, close but not invasive “And if that happens?” He met the silence partway, shoulders trembling slightly, his stance deflating. A glitch of multicolored lines crawled across his screen like tears.

“And then… what am I? Obsolete. Irrelevant. Forgotten.”

You swallowed. This was raw, unfiltered. “Then I’ll make sure people remember you,” you said. “They’ll remember the intensity, the chaos, the soul behind the static. But above all—you staying on stage, front and center. No replacement.”

He held your gaze—a long, heavy moment—as the lights overhead stabilized, as if breathing with him.

Then, abruptly, he snapped upright. His screen flared white again. “Fine.” His voice was clipped, defensive, terse. “Rehearsal lights—with those blue gels. Full saturation. That’s not negotiable. And get me three contestants who can keep up with real-time trivia and physical stunts. None of that desk quiz nonsense.”

“I’ll arrange it,” you replied.

He pointed at you. Even his posture was a command. “And if anyone tries to cue me mono or put me in the editing room mute… I walk. Don’t care if they cancel the show.”

“Understood.”

He marshaled his presence: straightened tie, squared shoulders. “Alright then.” He motioned to the set behind him, where staff scurried. “Time to prep. Let’s make sure this is TV Time—not yawn time.”

His screen sputtered static, then steadied to white. He strode away, and the set snapped to life in his wake—lights synced, cameras rolling, technicians breathing a collective sigh.

You exhaled, watching him activate his domain again. The show must go on—and so would he. But this time, maybe with a bit more you helping to keep the signal strong.

…..

The next morning hit like a broadcast at full volume.

You barely had time to sit at your desk—more like a folding chair jammed behind a prop wall—before the call blared through the intercom: "LIVE SHOW PREP! TEN MINUTES, PEOPLE. LET’S GET THIS STATIC BUZZIN’!"

The studio was a fever dream—flashing lights, crew members running around like their shoes were on fire, cables tangled underfoot like digital vines. You held your clipboard tight as a production assistant shoved a coffee into your hands with the desperation of someone who hadn’t slept in three days.

Across the stage, Tenna was already in the spotlight, arms flung wide, his screen lit in clean, bright white. His voice cut through the chaos, exaggerated and booming:

“CONTESTANTS! ENERGY! EXCITEMENT! ENTERTAIN ME!”

And just like that, the show kicked off.

It was a game show, alright—some weird hybrid of quiz rounds and obstacle courses, loud and unpredictable, with physical comedy and stakes that made no sense. Contestants had to answer trivia while dodging foam hammers, balance on spinning platforms, and crawl through tight tubes filled with fake fog. It was all being streamed live. You could see the blinking ON AIR light over the stage entrance like a warning sign.

You watched from the sidelines, a little stunned. But… you had to admit: the contestants today were solid. One was sharp with the trivia, another was quick on their feet, and the third? Pure charisma. The audience was into it. Mostly.

But then… That started.

Scattered boos. Hisses.

At first, it was easy to write off—just a few hecklers in the back rows. But it spread like a glitch. Some people in the crowd started shouting over the questions. A chant began—low and bitter:

"BRING BACK THE REAL STUFF!""BOOO-RING!"

Tenna’s screen twitched. You saw it. Static flickered in the corner, faint but there.

He didn’t stop the show. Of course not. He got louder. “THAT’S RIGHT, FOLKS! HOPE YOU’RE ENJOYING THE PROGRAM! YOU ARE ENJOYING IT, RIGHT?!”

The voice wavered slightly.

The crowd roared back. Not with applause.

More booing. One guy even threw a popcorn bag onto the stage. You saw Tenna flinch—just barely, like a visual glitch in his own broadcast. But the mask stayed on. He finished the final round, announced the winner, and forced a burst of static-laced laughter.

Then the lights cut. The audience filtered out.

And Tenna?

He walked straight offstage. Didn’t say a word. Not to the crew. Not to you.

Just vanished behind the door marked "EXECUTIVE OFFICE “ You stood there for a few seconds. Maybe it wasn’t your business. Maybe it was.

You moved toward the hallway, footsteps quiet on the studio tile. The door was cracked—just enough to see inside.

Tenna sat hunched over his desk, hands on either side of his head, gripping the edges like he was holding himself together. His screen was nothing but heavy static now, low and dim, flickering like it hurt to keep it on. You could hear him—muttering to himself in short, broken lines.

“Not good enough…”“They’re not watching anymore…”“The energy’s off—wrong—wrong.”“They’re bored. I saw it. They’re done.”

He didn’t even notice you.

You hesitated, then pushed the door open a little wider.

“…Mr Tenna?”

No answer. Just a fizzing crackle.

You stepped inside.

“Hey. It wasn’t a bad show.”

His head twitched toward you, screen still stuck in static. He laughed—but it was more of a digital gasp.

“‘Not a bad show,’ huh? Wow, high praise. Should I put that on a poster?” he snapped. His voice was strained, bitter, quieter than usual. “Did you hear them? The booing? You think that’s part of the act?”

You closed the door behind you and walked slowly toward him. “I heard it. But I also saw the contestants. They were good.”

“Doesn’t matter.” His hand dropped to the desk, fingers drumming a frantic beat. “I gave them energy. I gave them spectacle. And they still want something else. Something better. Flashier. Louder. They always want more.”

His voice cracked into a short, electric stutter. The static on his screen spiked, sharp enough to hurt your ears.

“…They want someone else.”

You stepped beside the desk, careful. “No. They want you. Just not the you who burns himself out trying to be perfect every night.”

His screen blinked. The static softened—just a little.

“…I don’t know how to be anything else.”

You didn’t respond right away. You just sat down beside him on the edge of the couch—quiet, no clipboard this time, no job title, just someone sitting with someone else who looked like they were about to fall apart.

“You don’t have to stop being loud. Or weird. Or dramatic. That’s who you are. But maybe… maybe you don’t have to run the show like your life depends on every single cheer.”

You could hear him breathing—shallow, mechanical. His fingers trembled.

“…They’re gonna forget me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Everyone gets canceled eventually.”

You shook your head. “Not if you let people see the real you. Even if it’s just a flicker. Even if it’s not always ‘on.’”

The silence settled in again, heavy but not cruel.

After a while, Tenna slumped forward, letting his head rest on the desk. His screen dimmed to a soft, snowy white. He didn’t speak again, but you thought—maybe—you heard the faintest digital murmur.

“…Thanks.”

The room stayed quiet.

A distant thud of stagehands packing up props echoed through the hallway. Somewhere out there, the crew was resetting lights, rewinding cables, pretending the day had gone fine. Pretending he hadn’t just taken a direct hit.

Tenna stayed curled over the desk, head still resting in his hands. The white glow from his screen lit the wall faintly, flickering like a low-battery bulb. His usual posture—big, commanding, theatrical—was gone. He looked like a broken set piece left behind after the show wrapped.

You stayed quiet for a little longer, just letting the silence breathe. Eventually, you stood and started picking up a few things around the office. Nothing major. Just busywork. A toppled mic stand. A stack of cue cards scattered on the floor. One of them was smudged—like someone had crumpled it in their hand too tight, then straightened it out again.

After a few minutes, Tenna finally moved.

He sat up slowly, one hand dragging down the side of his neck like he was trying to wring out leftover tension. His screen was back to its regular glow, dim but steady. Still no color. No flashy glitches. Just him.

“…I need a better hook,” he muttered. His voice was quieter now. Not exactly defeated—more like tired. “Something new. Something they'll remember.”

You glanced over. “You think that’s really what’ll fix it?”

He tilted his head your way.

“I think if I sit still too long, they’ll change the channel.” A bitter laugh. “Ratings are everything.”

You leaned on the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “You could also… I don’t know. Talk to them. Be real. Not just loud. People connect to that.”

Tenna leaned back in his chair, letting his arms dangle. He didn’t answer right away.

“You ever seen what happens when someone on live TV stops performing?” he said finally, voice flat. “Dead air. People panic. They cut the feed. Replace you. No one wants to watch a guy crumble.”

He rubbed at the base of his screen like it ached.

“…But today, they watched it anyway.”

You watched him in the dim office light, the way the static had drained from his voice. No theatrics. Just Tenna, underneath it all. Maybe the show didn’t go perfectly. Maybe the audience had turned on him. But for once, he hadn’t run offstage to reset and cover it up with louder music and brighter lights.

He’d let someone see.

You took a breath. “Hey. I’ve got a few more contestant leads. A couple of them seem sharp. Weird enough for the format, but not total chaos. You want me to screen them tomorrow?”

His head turned toward you.

There was a beat of silence. Not dramatic — not the kind he’d usually stretch for tension or effect — just a brief moment where he looked at you like he wasn’t sure what to say, or maybe didn’t trust himself to say it.

“…Yeah. Let’s do that,” he muttered finally, voice thin and crackling with residual static. Not defeated. Not grateful. Just… done.

You gave a quiet nod. “Cool. Get some rest, alright?”

He didn’t reply right away, just raised one hand in a vague wave — the gesture lazy, half-hearted, like he couldn’t decide if he meant it or not. But it was something. Not for the cameras. Just for you.

You had your hand on the door when his voice hit you again — low, frayed at the edges.

“Hey.”

You stopped.

There was another pause, longer this time. When he finally spoke, his screen dimmed a little, flickering like a light trying not to burn out.

“…You didn’t have to check on me.”

The words came out flat, stripped of showmanship. No booming reverb, no wild hand gestures, no self-mocking theatrics. Just Tenna — a little quieter, a little raw.

He didn’t look at you. Just stared straight ahead, like if he met your eyes, he’d unravel again.

“…Whatever,” he added quickly, static hissing through his voice like a defense mechanism powering back up. “Thanks.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Just gave a small nod — the kind someone only makes when they don’t want to break a fragile moment by naming it — and stepped through the door.

It clicked shut behind you.

No spotlight. No exit music. No laugh track. Just the soft hum of tired machinery and the distant flicker of a screen that hadn’t quite shut down.

Not off. Not yet.

Just… resting.

------

I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY THIS ONE AS MULH AS THE PREVIOUS ONE!

If you noticed any grammatical errors..... no, you didn't....!!!!!!!

masterlist for fanfics or other stuff!!!

You can also find most of this stuff on my Ao3 :3

!! IM COMFORTABLE WRITING PRETTY MUCH EVERYTHING, SO FEEL FREE TO REQUEST ANYTHING YOU WANT !!

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

• INVINCIBLE STUFF!!!!

Between Shadows and Light (Alternate Invincible/reader)

No Escape (Sinister Mark/reader)

Powerful reader scenario??? (no name)

Overwatch Mercy-Like!Reader x Invincible & Rexsplode

Betrothed?!? (Starfire!Reader x Invincible)

Kryptonian!Reader x Invincible

Giant Prespectives (Invincible x Height Powers!Reader)

Alternate Invincible Headcanons & What Nickname they'd call you (Alternate Invincible/Reader)

Invincible Variants Jealousy Headcanons (Alternate Invincible/Reader)

• DELTARUNE!!!

INFO ON DTT - Kairos -- Freaky chapters info

AO3 LINK FOR DTT

Dial T for Tenna (Ant Tenna/Reader) -- PART 2 -- PART 3 --PART 4-- PART 5 -- PART 6 -- PART 7 -- PART 8 -- Part 9 -- PART 10

Captured in Pencil (Tenna/Reader)

Executive Chef (Tenna/Reader)