Heya, call me Scum. She/her, 30, tired writer. 18+/MDNI.
This is a secondary writing blog of mine, hence the awkward URL. Primarily into Spamton/Tenna, and plan to write along those lines, as well as some reader insert. Please feel free to chat to me about them, I don't have anyone I know really into them....
Some of my posts are just personal notes to myself about these guys.
Writing Tag || Request Rules || Masterlist || About
╰❧ Latest: Left to Our Own Devices (Tenna/Reader) (Explicit)
I've been haunted by overtime and making personal stationery, and streaming, so writing has slowed a bit. I'd like to show the new stationery but I'm still trying to get it to work out properly.
Still gonna be writing just. Slowed. I need the extra money so i'm trying to do overtime whenever available.
I'm not sure if I'd rather work on some more old man perv tenna (truthfully, i want that to be a mini series with a few ideas ive partly written), a swap spam/ten drabble, or a (puppet) spam/reader thing.
The issue with the puppet spam is that idk what id write. Currently ive just had eating him out on the brain, but im not coming up with a good scenario or similar to excuse that. Also I kinda wanna do something else??
A silly, and amateur, tenna themed envelope for fun - not to be used as an actual mailable envelope. Write the giftee's name on his nose! Pretend he was sending a letter to you, or his favorite mailman! Dirty it up a little and pretend you found it in a certain puppet's belongings! You can do whatever, the options are endless (until its non-envelope related).
*Streaks on paper is due to my printer, not the image file. ya pal does not wanna drop $70 on printer ink right now lol
You can find it HERE. Free! Free!
Details Below:
This is made with an average every-day home printer in mind, so the measurements are to fit a normal sheet of printer paper (8.5 x 11 inches). The envelope prints out to about 3 x 4 1/2 inches.
Please keep in mind that every printer is a little different color wise, so colors may not match the file image to a T. Most printers will be a little darker, so feel free to lighten the image if needed.
To attach the antenna, after you've folded the top flap down as desired, cut a small slit in the center of the fold. The length should be enough to wiggle the bottom part of the antenna in at angels until the bottom part is in, but not easy to pull out. Or! You can glue it. The preview images show the slit method.
The mock seal is just something to cut out and glue on as if it was sealing sticker.
I recommend:
- Printing in landscape mode
- Setting the 'image' to fit rather than fill the paper
- For a slightly bigger size, you can mess with whatever word program that allows images to fidangle removing the margins and headers to fill the paper better, but this will only make it slightly bigger.
- **Cardstock is recommended for slightly more durability** (but if you're not careful the folds may crease to a point of ripping the print slightly)
pls don't be a jerk and claim you made this and upload it elsewhere....pls... thank you....
I like to think that Spamton wasn't originally a spam email - I think as a white addison he was just strange in comparison to the others, had usual bad luck and so on. In his desperation to try and change his life, he unluckily finds his benefactor.
Benefactor changes the code (?) of the game to have Spamton be more successful, but tells him he can't do xyz or else consequences would happen (code breaking). He does xyz anyway, and despite the benefactor likely having the ability to change things to allow xyz, they don't. Code breaks, and spamton gets turned into a glitchy mess, and that's when he's a spam email.
This would imply he has a different name originally, but eeeeh I like imagining that he never, ever, wanted to resort to scammy shit, and probably held a lot of personal values in regards to that. Only for it to get completely yanked away and has to resort to doing everything he hated, all just because he dared to love someone else.
Tags: Masturbation, Tenna's jacking off to the reader again, old man pervert tenna-isms, reader is gender neutral but is referenced to have a vag, reader is a lightner, au of tenna somehow existing in the light world
Outside of work and errands, it was rare for you to leave Tenna alone inside of your home. Being a Darkner, he was essentially limited to these walls, the both of you too nervous to know how other Lightners may react to even the idea of him.
Which, Tenna was fine with! He was used to performing to an audience of one! And how engaging you were, too. Always doing your best to rope him into whatever you were doing - even if it was just lounging together in the same room.
Just… it's a little difficult for Tenna not to feel lonely when you've secluded yourself in your room, stressing not to bother or worry about you. This, paired with loud music seeping through your door - well, he may have been regulated to playing only family friendly shows with his last fam- audience, but he isn't clueless.
It had only been fifteen minutes, yet he finds himself anxiously bouncing his knee, thumbs crossing over each other repeatedly. He shouldn't bother you, and really, he should have so much more self-control! How many months had it been since he started living here with you? Enjoying your company.
Tenna lets out a low sigh, remembering how little his impatience often rewarded him. There was just nothing to do when you weren't around. No chores to help with, no hobbies he built up… alone. What is he supposed to do other than just sit here, hearing the thumping music, and wishing he could be with you instead?
What was so important that you had to be alone? And for so long? If you were pent up, couldn't you just finally ask him for help? It's like you didn't even realize he was an option!
And gods, was he a willing one. It didn't take long after meeting you for his mind to wander, even ignoring the fact of how you were the entirety of his world right now. He was initially fine with just existing alongside you, keeping it PG, but…
It's like you're dead-set on teasing him! Getting comfortable enough to wear revealing clothing at night more often, inviting him to share your bed for the sake of 'comfort', and those damned clumsy moments of yours. Dropping things so often, giving him a snapshot worthy sight of your ass…
… No, he shouldn't be thinking of you like this.
And … is it wrong to be thinking like this? It feels like it's too much to risk whatever is between you. You've repeatedly explained just how safe you felt around him. If you stepped out while he indulged himself so openly on your couch, you'd surely regret ever having to house him.
God, he's so hard, though.
The guilt trying to plague him is fizzling to a murmur at best, drowned out by the sound of his chest thumping with excitement. Mindful of his size, Tenna sneaks over to your room, edging closer until he stands pressed against your door, listening.
After all, maybe you did just need to recharge your social battery. That wouldn't be too shocking, would it? But… Tenna's thoughts are working in overdrive to pick up anything that would fuel his fantasy; tuning into when the songs may change, or lower in tempo, to attempt to snag a glimpse of your moans.
Breathing in deep, quietly, he unlatches his belt buckle, revealing that the front of his briefs are already damp with his arousal. Tenna pulls out his cock to the cold air with a shameful trepidation; a shiver of shame mixing with excitement traveling down his spine. He shouldn't be doing this, but god damnit, he was so tired of pretending.
The more he takes what he's doing, the more precum dribbles from his tip freely, trailing between his glans and down his length, wetting his fingers while his hand moves faster - harder. Yet his only reaction is to shakily fumble with his volume controls, turning himself down but refusing to mute himself - hoping deep down, with a twisting in his gut, that you would hear him. That he could fuel your fantasies just as you fueled his.
Is your toy even doing it for you? Without straining, he hears the way your voice twists into desperate frustration. Is it big enough? How much bigger is he in comparison? Could you handle him?
Gods, if only he could see. If only you'd let him help… He'd even use the toy, if you asked. Just anything he could see- taste, if he couldn't feel it on his own. But angel above, does he want to feel you. To nuzzle the head of his cock into your warmth, feel how slick with excitement you are. The way your inner walls flexed, trying to accommodate for more. You'd whine- you did it playfully all the time, unaware of how much it made his cock twitch. How wonderful it'd be to rip a true cry of his name out of your throat, just in trying to get his tip to fit.
He wants to tease you with it first, to hear you plead for him, so he would know just how badly you craved him.
How long would it take for you to cum? You didn't seem to jerk off often, but maybe you were perverted like he was, sneaking off at other times to touch yourself - to murmur his name, wishing for his hands to fondle you.
… Do you jerk off to him?
His hips jut upwards against his hand, the thought of it sending a hot wave of excitement through him. Shakily, before he could consider otherwise, his finger fumbles for his mute button while he strokes himself faster, rougher, trying to hide the pathetic whine of your name.
He's so close, the thought alone nearly sending him over the edge… and then, your music stops.
Fuck.
Without a second thought, Tenna scrambles to the nearby bathroom, locking the door as he leans against it - straining to hear you over the sound of his heartbeat.
You almost saw him in such a state, standing outside your door like a common pervert.
It should riddle him with embarrassment, however… he feels that familiar itch across his skin. One that makes his hand slowly resume stroking himself. Would the sight of him getting off to your noises finally break down whatever wall the two of you sloppily put up between yourselves?
Ugh, he could feel his balls tightening, his cock aching for so much more. Sucking in a breath, he glances around the crowded space, looking for anything that could withstand his climax.
…Oh. Of course.
His gaze falls on a bright fabric resting on top of your other discarded clothes, tempting him to blur these lines further.
"…Tenna? Are you in the bathroom?"
Well… you wouldn't be paying that much attention to discarded underwear, would you?
Unmuting, but keeping his volume low to hide his labored breathing, Tenna shakily replies, "Y-yeah, I'll, ah, just be a moment!"
"… I thought you didn't need to…?"
"I thought I'd, mmh, freshen up a little. C-clean my screen, and all that-" oh god, just talking to you was making his cock twitch. Quickly, clumsily, Tenna fumbles with your worn underwear, the lace print rubbing deliciously against his sore cock.
With a strangled, muffled groan, Tenna desperately presses against the gusset of your underwear, shivering as thick spurts finally, finally, were able to soak into the cloth.
"Oh, uhm… okay, I'll see you in a bit then?"
As he regains his breath, your footsteps fade away. Probably going downstairs while Tenna is left to witness the mess he made; cum dribbling off of your panties, onto his hand and then the floor. Now is when the embarrassment starts to creep up on him, but the satisfaction of finally busting a load after being so pent up lately…
Just how long could he keep living like this with you?
After Shame, a few people wanted to see more pervert Tenna, so I've slowly came up with a few ideas. Since I'm pretty busy, it'll take a while to get them all out, since I'd like it to be a mini series of oneshots.
This one has been beta read and I'm very thankful for it! The others may be more spur of the moment type of oneshots, depending on time and inspiration.
In this AU, I've considered Tenna having gotten stuck in the light world somehow. Did the fountain suck him up in there? Did the reader's lust for this tv do it? Idk, you can come up with your own reasonings, I just want him in the light world.
If you've enjoyed this, please feel free to check out my other works. I also have an AO3 (Scummy) and a twitter/bsky (scummy-writes). I do mainly yap on those more than anything, though.
My next fic may be more spmtnna centered, since I have some half written fics for those two rotting away. we'll see how inspo goes.
I want a spamtenna conversation where it's long after they've had their fighting phase after reuniting. Of course, they still bicker. Of course, they've 'talked' about the elephant in the room. The poor choices made, the apologies.
But there's so much left unresolved still. So much left unsaid. Until they're sitting together in their shared home, on a rainy day, doing nothing much in particular. Tenna is drinking from a mug, Spamton reading or thinking to himself. For some reason, Tenna just breaks the silence with an uncharacteristically quiet voice.
"I hated missing you."
It's a simple enough statement. Spamton glances over at Tenna, who keeps staring away from him, but doesn't reply.
"Sometimes, I think that was the worst part of it all," Tenna thumbs the handle of his mug, continuing after a few strokes against the warm ceramic, "i could stay angry at you; it even helped motivate me at times! I could let myself be glooby at times too... but missing you? It wasn't restricted to it's own viewing slot, you know?"
Spamton knows, but he also knows better than to interrupt right now. Tenna's still rapidly repeating the same motion with his thumb, clearly lost in thought.
"I'd turn to ask your opinion on a script, like I had done hundreds of times before, and there'd just be an empty space. I'd absentmindly grab another coffee in the mornings, so many times I've lost count. I'd reach for your favorite cologne, I'd grab the pen you always left at my desk... it didn't matter what mood I was in, you were always...missing."
Silence stretches on, until Spamton scoots a little closer, crossing the sofa cushion between them to set a hand onto Tenna's arm. Slowly, Tenna shifts his mug into one hand, using the other to put ontop on Spamton's.
There's a lot Spamton *could* say here. His own moments like this, how he caught himself yearning for just the familiar whirr of Tenna, or missing how their cuddles always seemed to overheat him. But most of that was twisted into confused anger for him. Most of that he's still cautious to voice.
Tags: Big Shot Era Spamton, Big Shot Era Tenna, Self-Harm (mentions of bad habits, him hitting his head), self-hatred, self-worth issues, angst, that damn phone.
----------
There's a voice in the back of his head that lingers. Boxed into a corner. Persisting in its stubborn existence despite of it all. It rarely speaks, but Spamton can feel it crawling in desperation, trying to weave itself between the thoughts he tries to drown it with. Making the attempts to be heard.
Mornings are when it slips through the cracks with better ease, oiled with the strain of his nightmares. When he's bleary and struggling to regain control of his thoughts. Over the years, Spamton has shown he can match its bullheaded attitude with his own. Learning tips (drugs) and tricks (booze), if he even decides to sleep at all.
Last night, he did none of those. Stupidly blinded by the belief that he deserved some shut eye, a sunrise without a thundering headache. His reward is an incessant scratching in his skull, the familiar weight twined into his chest. Echoing as he trudges through his morning routine, covering the bags under his eyes with half-dried makeup, crooked ties and tampered down cow licks.
If he squints, keeps his eyes on the brushes and lapels, he doesn't run the risk of meeting himself in the reflection. Seeing whatever looks back at him. He just maintains the looks, hides the exhaustion creaking into his features, and gets on with the fucking show.
Under the blinding lights of the stage, he doesn't have to concern himself with whatever might be watching him. It's become second nature to spew off his lines with borrowed confidence, don the suit of another (better? more convincing?) man. His folly is off-stage.
Stepping off-stage, he feels his lungs constrict tight. Just for a moment. Enough for panic to lurch into gear until he can shove it back down with shaking - clattering? - hands, closing his eyes with a sharp inhale. Over time, the feeling of stepping back into his own skin has started to burn. Nerves alight with a pain that obliterates him for a flash of a second. Stall his thoughts. Making an inopportune spotlight for the voice to show.
Small. Shooting through his thoughts like a needle, yet still harboring that too gentle tone as it speaks.
Are you sure?
Bastard. The hinges of his jaw fizzle with how hard he clenches. Running his mind through what all doubts he could harbor, while stiffly walking… somewhere. Alone.
Is it his fault they fall for this horseshit? If you looked into his eyes you could see it, the scrambling of his thoughts, the lucidity of his actions. If they couldn't be bothered to look, why should he?
Spamton's head hits the wall. Hard. Enough to promise an ache tomorrow. In the safety of his dressing room, he does it again. Takes in a breath, and undoes his tie.
When all else failed, he turned to do what he did best.
Large hands manhandled him into a better position. Keeping his pace, fingertips digging deep, leaving memories for tomorrow the more the bedframe creaked.
In here, all Spamton has to do is let out the breath he's been keeping caged inside his chest, and bury his face and claws into the pillow before him. Tenna used to put on a tone. Hesitant, a mockery of care. But over time he finally got it through his thick casing that it's just how Spamton was. And like hell he was changing it this far down the line.
Tenna still tries, foolishly. Even during this, the greedy nibbling and biting of his body. Drawing blood, angling his hips to pound deeper, desperate and clumsy attempts to pull out a deeper reaction. Something Spamton can't help. But Spamton's learned to bite the pillow in response.
It's the best he'll get here. Surrounded by the smell of Tenna's cologne (modestly expensive, twinge of ozone) and sounds the CRT couldn't help but whimper out. A clean bed, the illusion of normality in every fucking crevice.
Makes it easier to shut his brain off. To sleep right after.
"Oh, Spammy! I-I love-"
Ugh. The headache is coming back again.
It felt like every office in TV World came equipped with these cheesy and cheap string lights, small stars twinkling about his room. When he first stepped into his 'office' (changing room and office seemed interchangeable to Tenna), the lights annoyed him, felt childish and stupid.
But now, sitting in the darkness of the room, propped up against the small table he kept for the phone, they gave him something to numbly stare at as he ran through his thoughts. One hand thumbing the cords, another bringing his cigarette to his lips. Some off-brand shit he can't stop buying even though he's long since been able to afford better.
The voice slips in and out of consciousness here. Unsteady on it's feet, struggling to maintain his attention. If he stares too long into the starry lights, it clings to his last thought, whispering, pleading. And so he inhales, deep. Feels the burns in his throat, hoping for his lungs to fizzle out one day.
"Wanted me to stay the night, like we haven't been fightin' all the other times we've tried that."
His fingers twine into the phone cord, tangling. Pulling it taut between his digits as he continued, the tension digging into his digits.
"He always acts like he gives a shit. Like my drinking, on my own damn time, impacts him somehow."
Tighter.
"'My Spammy,'" he repeats, the words tumbling out with a smoky exhale. It was something Tenna cooed at him after their hookup, grating into Spamton's already tense skin. What kind of 'self-made' prick has his boss call ownership on him? Like some sort of fucking object.
"Like some kind of item. Has that (cathode?) even thought one of his harebrained daydreams through? Who fantasizes about some fuckwad like me?"
Tighter.
Until the phone tips, pulled from the table with a clatter that sends a flash of fear clamoring up his spine. A swear dies on his tongue as his eyes fall upon the receiver, ears ringing as the dial tone leaks out. Louder, stronger, sapping the vitriol out of his throat the longer it rattles around his skull.
With an uncomfortable shuffle, Spamton listlessly corrects his mess. Table set upright. Receiver cradled gently back onto its hook with previously absent care. Spamton can catch a glimpse of his garbled reflection on it's ever-smooth surface, his breath catching before he pulls his eyes away.
"… shoulda read the [terms and conditions] before taking me on, I can't do this lovey-dovey shit."
--------------
I write Spamton to be a lot harsher than I think he'd actually be, to be honest. I just like the idea of a version of Spamton so overrun with self hatred that he twists everything into more fuel for the fire. Guilt for the occasional shitty ad or similar, getting too much like the addisons he used to know? Well, it's just the audiences fault for falling for that shit. Complicated feelings for Tenna? Well, obviously the CRT is just good at duping him; there's no way anyone could actually love Spamton, or vice versa. etc etc. I think it helps him pretend to cope better, instead of the obvious of fucking himself up further. (in case its not obvious, i do think tenna cares)
This one was another 'draft since august/september' that i'm forcing myself to post instead of keeping it in a perpetual draft state. I'm sure I could have done more with it, but right now, this is the most I can do. Thank you to friends for helping me finish this, I appreciate it a lot !
If you enjoyed it, feel free to check out my other stuff, or leave a comment if you're feelin kind. I have a bsky and twit under 'scummy-writes', but for fic only updates my AO3 is 'Scummy'.
Tags: Big Shot Era Spamton, Big Shot Era Tenna, Self-Harm (mentions of bad habits, him hitting his head), self-hatred, self-worth issues, angst, that damn phone.
----------
There's a voice in the back of his head that lingers. Boxed into a corner. Persisting in its stubborn existence despite of it all. It rarely speaks, but Spamton can feel it crawling in desperation, trying to weave itself between the thoughts he tries to drown it with. Making the attempts to be heard.
Mornings are when it slips through the cracks with better ease, oiled with the strain of his nightmares. When he's bleary and struggling to regain control of his thoughts. Over the years, Spamton has shown he can match its bullheaded attitude with his own. Learning tips (drugs) and tricks (booze), if he even decides to sleep at all.
Last night, he did none of those. Stupidly blinded by the belief that he deserved some shut eye, a sunrise without a thundering headache. His reward is an incessant scratching in his skull, the familiar weight twined into his chest. Echoing as he trudges through his morning routine, covering the bags under his eyes with half-dried makeup, crooked ties and tampered down cow licks.
If he squints, keeps his eyes on the brushes and lapels, he doesn't run the risk of meeting himself in the reflection. Seeing whatever looks back at him. He just maintains the looks, hides the exhaustion creaking into his features, and gets on with the fucking show.
Under the blinding lights of the stage, he doesn't have to concern himself with whatever might be watching him. It's become second nature to spew off his lines with borrowed confidence, don the suit of another (better? more convincing?) man. His folly is off-stage.
Stepping off-stage, he feels his lungs constrict tight. Just for a moment. Enough for panic to lurch into gear until he can shove it back down with shaking - clattering? - hands, closing his eyes with a sharp inhale. Over time, the feeling of stepping back into his own skin has started to burn. Nerves alight with a pain that obliterates him for a flash of a second. Stall his thoughts. Making an inopportune spotlight for the voice to show.
Small. Shooting through his thoughts like a needle, yet still harboring that too gentle tone as it speaks.
Are you sure?
Bastard. The hinges of his jaw fizzle with how hard he clenches. Running his mind through what all doubts he could harbor, while stiffly walking… somewhere. Alone.
Is it his fault they fall for this horseshit? If you looked into his eyes you could see it, the scrambling of his thoughts, the lucidity of his actions. If they couldn't be bothered to look, why should he?
Spamton's head hits the wall. Hard. Enough to promise an ache tomorrow. In the safety of his dressing room, he does it again. Takes in a breath, and undoes his tie.
When all else failed, he turned to do what he did best.
Large hands manhandled him into a better position. Keeping his pace, fingertips digging deep, leaving memories for tomorrow the more the bedframe creaked.
In here, all Spamton has to do is let out the breath he's been keeping caged inside his chest, and bury his face and claws into the pillow before him. Tenna used to put on a tone. Hesitant, a mockery of care. But over time he finally got it through his thick casing that it's just how Spamton was. And like hell he was changing it this far down the line.
Tenna still tries, foolishly. Even during this, the greedy nibbling and biting of his body. Drawing blood, angling his hips to pound deeper, desperate and clumsy attempts to pull out a deeper reaction. Something Spamton can't help. But Spamton's learned to bite the pillow in response.
It's the best he'll get here. Surrounded by the smell of Tenna's cologne (modestly expensive, twinge of ozone) and sounds the CRT couldn't help but whimper out. A clean bed, the illusion of normality in every fucking crevice.
Makes it easier to shut his brain off. To sleep right after.
"Oh, Spammy! I-I love-"
Ugh. The headache is coming back again.
It felt like every office in TV World came equipped with these cheesy and cheap string lights, small stars twinkling about his room. When he first stepped into his 'office' (changing room and office seemed interchangeable to Tenna), the lights annoyed him, felt childish and stupid.
But now, sitting in the darkness of the room, propped up against the small table he kept for the phone, they gave him something to numbly stare at as he ran through his thoughts. One hand thumbing the cords, another bringing his cigarette to his lips. Some off-brand shit he can't stop buying even though he's long since been able to afford better.
The voice slips in and out of consciousness here. Unsteady on it's feet, struggling to maintain his attention. If he stares too long into the starry lights, it clings to his last thought, whispering, pleading. And so he inhales, deep. Feels the burns in his throat, hoping for his lungs to fizzle out one day.
"Wanted me to stay the night, like we haven't been fightin' all the other times we've tried that."
His fingers twine into the phone cord, tangling. Pulling it taut between his digits as he continued, the tension digging into his digits.
"He always acts like he gives a shit. Like my drinking, on my own damn time, impacts him somehow."
Tighter.
"'My Spammy,'" he repeats, the words tumbling out with a smoky exhale. It was something Tenna cooed at him after their hookup, grating into Spamton's already tense skin. What kind of 'self-made' prick has his boss call ownership on him? Like some sort of fucking object.
"Like some kind of item. Has that (cathode?) even thought one of his harebrained daydreams through? Who fantasizes about some fuckwad like me?"
Tighter.
Until the phone tips, pulled from the table with a clatter that sends a flash of fear clamoring up his spine. A swear dies on his tongue as his eyes fall upon the receiver, ears ringing as the dial tone leaks out. Louder, stronger, sapping the vitriol out of his throat the longer it rattles around his skull.
With an uncomfortable shuffle, Spamton listlessly corrects his mess. Table set upright. Receiver cradled gently back onto its hook with previously absent care. Spamton can catch a glimpse of his garbled reflection on it's ever-smooth surface, his breath catching before he pulls his eyes away.
"… shoulda read the [terms and conditions] before taking me on, I can't do this lovey-dovey shit."
--------------
I write Spamton to be a lot harsher than I think he'd actually be, to be honest. I just like the idea of a version of Spamton so overrun with self hatred that he twists everything into more fuel for the fire. Guilt for the occasional shitty ad or similar, getting too much like the addisons he used to know? Well, it's just the audiences fault for falling for that shit. Complicated feelings for Tenna? Well, obviously the CRT is just good at duping him; there's no way anyone could actually love Spamton, or vice versa. etc etc. I think it helps him pretend to cope better, instead of the obvious of fucking himself up further. (in case its not obvious, i do think tenna cares)
This one was another 'draft since august/september' that i'm forcing myself to post instead of keeping it in a perpetual draft state. I'm sure I could have done more with it, but right now, this is the most I can do. Thank you to friends for helping me finish this, I appreciate it a lot !
If you enjoyed it, feel free to check out my other stuff, or leave a comment if you're feelin kind. I have a bsky and twit under 'scummy-writes', but for fic only updates my AO3 is 'Scummy'.
I have to think of a name for my au with tenna living in the light world. Its too much of a mouthful to try and explain it each time.
Hes not a lightner. Hes still a darkner. So saying 'lightner au' sounds so weird. Just weird shit happened and he lives in the readers house and cant really go back to the dark world, for now. Idk what to call it other than bullshit excuses for shenanigans
Obligatory full of guilt "yes I am writing i just keep throwing everything away" post. I feel bad that ive actually garnered followers here, I'm at such an awful point in my writing life where I'm convinced everything is utter garbage and so theres no point in trying. But i am still trying, slowly. I think it's likely better for everyone to follow my ao3 instead of this account, i keep trying to post 200-300 word drabbles but convince myself I do Not know these characters and just delete them.
I have to think of a name for my au with tenna living in the light world. Its too much of a mouthful to try and explain it each time.
Hes not a lightner. Hes still a darkner. So saying 'lightner au' sounds so weird. Just weird shit happened and he lives in the readers house and cant really go back to the dark world, for now. Idk what to call it other than bullshit excuses for shenanigans
For some reason, taking so long to complete that chapter took it out of me. I have other wips i want to work on, but i genuinely ended up hated that fic. I hate how I wrote them a lot.
I think I have to figure out how to write the two of them. Ive gotten sfw wips that will sound like hot garbage, but i'm out of ideas outside of that.
