#will probably post this somewhere else but here it is for now

[deesseshesca]

PAC :How will your future lover explore your body ? (18+)

I found a little name for all of y'all ... Bébé d'Amour. Vous etes maintenant mes bébé d'amour (Y'all are now my Bébé d'Amour).

Good morning pretty souls, I'm not a lovey dovey human but for y'all I am ready to do almost anything.

SALE 

Until October 31 all readings on my ko-fi is 30$, only

Choose the image that’s speak to you and allow yourself to soak ONLY what’s reasoning with YOUR SITUATION.

Rules and Disclaimer 

I am the type of tarot reader to say as it is. Nothing is sugar coated but everything is sent with good intention. If you are not ready to face some truth, you should vagabond somewhere else.

MINOR DON'T INTERACT WITH THIS POST 

MINOR DON’T READ THIS POST 

PILE 1 

Page pentacles, 2 swords (reverse), magician (reverse), page wands (reverse)

Their touch is going to make u reminisce about all the time u let someone else touch your body in ways u settle for. Like u never really wanted them to touch but you were to fucking lonely to refuse the act knowing damm well they were using u. Also they were not treating you correctly. They touch is going to make all the monster go away. All the time you were touch with little cares all forgiven to make place with memories of they’re caring touch. Some of y’all have self harm scars, suicide attempt scaring, they will caress it with so much love and thank u everytime for the fact that u stay even thought it was hard. They are grateful upon every stars that u’re self sabotaging behavior never got the best of u otherwise they would have never met u. Some of u don’t think you have a pretty pussy. Maybe u feel like u’re lips of too big or that they are not the same color as the rest of your cooch. Hey, they will to touch your pussy. Always munching with happiness. Others u are not circumcised, don’t matter they bumping their month on your dick with happiness in their eyes. Some of y’all have religious trauma, like your ex-environment made you think that sex is forbidden. Y’all don’t even like touching yourself. Even though u left a long time ago, u can’t seem to shake those fears off. They are going to take their time with u and respect which one  of your boundaries. At the end, you might still not like getting head but u are not going to feel as uncomfortable with the concept of it after their healing touch. Some of y’all have some vaginismus, I see them learning about it. So they can help u heal and respect the boundaries set by your body. I see them introducing the first toys before even going in themself. Until they are not sure u are ok, there’s no jumping the big boy. If you have endometriosis/PCOS, they will stop penetration sex and alter to fingering to make sure not to disturb the peace of the uterus before the big week. For all my pillow prince/princess today is your big day, they love leading. They don’t care if you spend the whole relationship on a pink/blue pillow. They love it for you. Their touch will still be playful. They will love to tickle u. Also they will love placing a hand on your stomach, even slepping on it. Especially my masculine energy, your pump stomach is literally their safe place. They will love giving you a good handjob while staring into your eyes (y’all probably have deep brown eyes) and caressing your stomach. 

💌 : Honestly Pile one, they are not going to be able to let go of you. Might be clingy, also they love language is physical touch. Will love updating you throughout the day. If you want to know more about that future love, you can always purchase my SOUL TRIBE membership unlocking all the extra content and extended PAC reading + the audio one.

PILE 2 

4 wands (reverse), King cups (reverse), Hanged man, 6 swords 

They love to have their hands on your private parts on all times, not in a creepy way. They would be driving and suddenly here u go, being a finger fucked passager princess. If you are an owner of a dick, u better drive with both hands on the wheel because at any moment, they may start giving u a blowjob . If you have boobs, they will have they hand on them all the time. Not even in a sexual way but because it becomes their habit. Y’all might not give a fuck at some point, until somebody stare at u in public. U end up apologizing while glaring at u’re partner making sure to get they hands the fuck out your top. They are very sensitive to your reaction. Let’s say they wanna give u a hug and u move slightly away … here comes the overthinking. If they try a new move on u in bed but u don’t moan as good as usual. They don’t reproduce it. If u give an excellent reactions, they will put that move on rotation. Also if you have painful period cramps, they will message you stomach. If you have to go regularly to the doc, they will always try their best to be there and hold your hand. Touch = love regarding your future lover. They will caress your face when u speak. Tie your hair when your hand is busy. To my burn out babe that are trying their best or my type B babe who is always so damn clumsy, they will always be behind u giving u a hand. Even when u give them head, they still worry about your well being. I’m hearing : ‘’ Baby I don’t care, if u care or not. I love when (moan) u are giving (whimper) head and are comfortable’’ before attempting to tie your hair. After a week of bad depressive episodes they will run you a bath. When they sense that u are starting to distance yourself, they will always have an hand on your waist, on your leg, shoulder any fucking where. Just to keep u from leaving with your bad thoughts. All this stand for my man in the audience, your next babe don’t play about you. Their touch heal making u realize how much you DO matter. 

💌: If you want to know more about that future love, you can always purchase my SOUL TRIBE membership unlocking all the extra content and extended PAC reading + the audio one.

PILE 3 

King wands (reverse), page wands (reverse), page cups, ace pentacles 

Straight from the beginning I’m getting a bad girl/boy from your person. They push everyone away but you. Actually they only see you. They don’t see any other women/men. They don’t even care about their own parents, the way they care about you. Your future person may have experienced deep trauma from age 8 - 10 years old, every night. Since is not the reading for and I did not ask for permission, I will not dive deeper into their lore. They touch = fire, when they lay their fingerprints on u, it is like your whole body is in heat. They enjoy mixing pain and pleasure. A fan of breathing plays because they get to squeeze your neck safely to give you pleasure. Loves squeezing you in general. If you have boobs, will love to squeeze them until it hurts. If you are a man, love to pinch your nipple until they see a little bit of blood even. They will also enjoy putting pressure on your balls while giving you a handjob. They are very experience lover. Probably have 15+ body. They love to play game with y’all. I’m hearing: ‘’ Let’s see how many times I can make u cum in a minute, princess…’’. If you are a man, they will love to eat your ass. If they lose you, they lose everything. They will probably haunt until they find you back again. They will NEVER raise their hand on u and  NEVER yell at you.  I see a vision of a text conversation. 

U : jhabwdbcaw

Them : hey babe, is everything ok …

U: auijdxja party hbduiAHBNDIL

Them: Can u give the phone (one of your friend).

U: But I wannnnnna takcfjawo to u 

Them: I know but I wanna see you. Can you please give the phone ? 

U: abxda yes hnqcfu

Them: Give the phone, love. 

Their touch is very gentle but very practical. Gently take your makeup off when u come back drunk. Gently draw into your tattoo if you are a man. Will casually lift up bridal style when they see dozing off while studying. If you are a guy, will softly wake you up and guide u to the bedroom. 

💌: If you want to know more about that future love, you can always purchase my SOUL TRIBE membership unlocking all the extra content and extended PAC reading + the audio one.

PILE 4

Knight wands (reverse), Lovers (reverse), Emperor (reverse), Strength (reverse)

Touch = understanding, will give u a tap on the shoulder to encourage you. Will caress your arm while y’all are arguing. There’s a use of: ‘’ Good girl/boy’’ in y’all relationships. When they see you grabbing the sheet, while they are down to town, that’s when they know you are on cloud 9. The only time they will stop munching even if you have already orgasm. They will love to caress your inner thighs. Pass a sneaky hand on your tits. Loves making you want more, like I see y’all making out and they are barely touching your tits while you are caressing their body. Have a very brat energy. Love to get on your last nerve because they know you will punish them. That’s what gets them going.  Has a high sex drive can go round and round in the same day but it will always start with some kind of teasing.

💌 : Y'all are going to have an amazing communication. I sense that both of y'all are yappers. Y'all are messy, you love to call each other at the end of the day and share the tea on what's going on. They will never let you go to sleep angry. I see a vision of you mad even at them but y'all still cuddling. You guy are in silence, they know they mess up but they refuse to leave on your own. Better they let you gather your thoughts with them. They may have a trauma about somebody that die on them in a middle on text con versation. That's why they can't let u go when u are mad. Don't get them wrong, they won't force u to hug them or talk. If you can't handle looking at them, they will tare at the wall, while u are in the bed thinking. If you want to know more about that future love, you can always purchase my SOUL TRIBE membership unlocking all the extra content and extended PAC reading + the audio one.

[nicholasgoodgirl]

could you make a jealous Nicholas smuttt???

request accepted!

crazy in love -nicholas

summary: you get jealous so you successfully make nicholas jealous in return and he teaches you a lesson.

warning: smut, pin v, unprotected sex (plsplspls use a condom), overstimulation (i think thst it not sure)

a/n: thanks for the request. pls keep them coming

nicholas wanted me to attend this red carpet event with him, and of course i was quick to accept but i quickly dreaded and pushed down the eargness i so suddenly felt to be able to attend such an important place. i started going down a rabbit hole of posts of him with other girls.

the comments collectively agreeing he looks better with the other women he has worked with in the past.

i cut my phone off and waited in silence for my boyfriends stylist to be done with the finishing touches on his suit.

i walk in the dressing room and he was laughing with his stylist, and of course she had to be a woman.

at the after party of the even i planned on getting pay back for the jealousy he probably didn't even know he had instilled in me.

--

we were here at the after party and I've seen a few recognizable celebrities there but wouldn't dare approach them.

nicholas' hand was comfortably placed around my waist "nervous?" he asks, his words coming out ever so subtly "nope, why would i be" he replied with a low hum; shrugging.

i left his side and went to go get drinks he dispersed off somewhere else as well.

not even 10 minutes later i found myself talking to some guy with nice brown hair that complimented his soft brown eyes but his looks didn't even compare with my man.

"do you have somewhere to be after this?" he asked and i just let out a chuckle "maybe" i looked around to seen nicholas eyes were already on us.

i swallow drly and try and wrap the conversation up "i think i gotta go" that was my abrupt attempt on ending the conversation.

"c'mon pretty lady i can make it worth your while" the man placed his hands on my hip trying to make me stay.

before i could say anything i was being dragged away from him to no suprise by my boyfriend himself.

"let go of me" my voice wobbles. i struggle to tug my hand out of his grip; trying to get free. "no, we're going home. now." his voice was stern and there was no question. we were going home.

-

in a hurry nicholas unlocks the door, we both walk in and he slams the door shut behind us "what the fuck was that!?" he shouts.

"suddenly we go to a party and you're single?" i feel guilty but then remember the pictures i saw of him with other girls; looking cozier then ever.

"tha-thats not what happend at all" i try to explain myself. "you need to be taught a lesson. wanna be taught a lesson love?" he asks, his hand firmly squeezing my cheeks too firm towards i could only nod

"yeah I'm sure you do" he scoffs and pulls me to our shared room.

once we reach the dimly lit room, the only light illuminating the room was the warm tone of the lamp.

Nicholas pushes me down on the bed and crawls ontop of me starting to place open kisses down my neck, to my collar bone.

going back up to my lips, grabbing my face kissing me roughly. i moan into the kiss giving him enough space for his tounge to invade my mouth, claiming me as his.

he stops what he's doing "take your clothes off" he demands. i comply and begin taking off my heels throwing them aside with a loud bang they hit the ground follwed by the other heel. then pulling my dress off painfully slow so he does it for me.

snatching the material over my head and tosses it aside kissing down my stomach, trailing down to my inner thigh.

"you're so perfect" he mumbles, his fingers mess with the hem of my lacey panties and pulls them down and off me.

he goes down on me and licks the arousal that leaked from my core. i bite my lip to suppress a moan.

another lick, and a pressured kiss against my clit. i was a mess. feeling his breath against me sent shivers all over. i let out a gasp when he swirl his tounge on me. i felt my orgasm nearing; the band ready to snap "close- oh fuck!" i shout

he pulls away almost immediately. "not yet you aren't. turn over f'me"

"please.. i just- m'sorry" i whine, turning over anyway putting my ass in the air "sweetheart this is a punishment you can cum whenever i say. alright?" he says with faux sympathy

i hear his belt fall to the ground and his zipper unzip before he positions himself behind me and lines his throbbing cock up with my entrance.

with a deep thrust, he buries himself far inside me. "you feel that? how deep im inside you?" i nod vigourisly letting out a whimper. his hips snap forward; each thrust giving pushing my body up the bed.

his hand moves down my back pushing my face into the bed allowing me to take him deeper.

nicholas leans down and whispers in my ear "could he fuck you like this?" everything was so intense i could harldy ever come up with a verbal response for anything he asked. so again i shook my head 'no'

he grabs my hair and makes a makeshift ponytail "could he?" ,,no" i cry out squeezing my eyes shut in relief when he lets go of my hair

he continues slamming into me at a relentlessly brutal pace. the only sounds that could be heard was lewed sounds of skin slapping together paird with my muffled moans

we discussed a safe word prior to moments like these and i would have used it in this moment but as intense as everything was it felt so good.

without warning i clench around him and realese the knot that had formed in my stomach bursting. his thrusts didn't slow down, "i didn't say you could cum" he disdainfully reminded

i hiss at the sensitivity. my vision began to blur with tears while I also realize this is him teaching me a lesson. "apologies" he demands "imsorry.. im so fucking sorry" i began sobbing

i could no longer keep my body up my legs began to shake but no matter the condition nicholas' hands kept me in place as he pounds into me. before i knew it he had finished inside me already

i was so far gone in a daze i didn't even realize it. he pulls out and lets my body flop onto the bed "are you alright?" he asks tucking pieces of hair that had fallen in my face behind my ear.

he gets one of the throw blankets and puts it over me. 'mm' is all i could muster up. i was fine but in the moment i just wanted to sleep

a/n: i wanted to add aftercare but i feel like this was long enough..

[explodingchantry]

OK I found the source and, genuinely, what the fuck?

Varric is apparently an important character within veilguard but we don't get to express whether the inquisitor left his best friend to die in the fade?

The wardens are a big part of veilguard but we don't get to express what the inquisitor did with the southern wardens?

MORRIGAN is apparently an important character in veilguard and we don't get to express whether 1. We had her have Kieran and 2. If she drank from the well or not?? You know this important decision that was meant to impact the rest of the drinker's life, and was meant even more vital when inquisition revealed Flemerh was Mythal? I literally just replayed that quest and they genuinely make a huge point out of this decision being life altering. But it's not, is it, if both characters who could've drank show up in the next game but the effects of the well aren't present.

"northern thedas is a blank slate" is such a weird take. What happens in ferelden and orlais (and the free marchés if we bring da2 into it too) absolutely matters to the rest of thedas. These things ricochet upwards. You literally choose who leads orlais, one of (if not The) most powerful and influencial nations in all of thedas. You get to choose the fucking DIVINE. Yeah sure that might not matter in Tevinter, but it matters everywhere else?? The rest of northern thedas follows the chantry even if they might not be as horny for it as the south????

And that's only speaking of inquisition choices. I already made a post somewhere about how very few of the decision input on the keep mattered in dai and how filling the keep often felt pretty pointless because of that. But at least the gender of the hof and who they romanced came up, and the leader of ferelden came up however briefly and flawed.

Honestly dragon age was never actually good at bringing up and taking into account old choices. Da2 had a good excuse for it (set in a completely different country whilst the choices the hof made were central to ferelden only, and hawke being just Some Guy who wouldn't get involved in a lot of influencial stuff the hof had a hand in. And even THEN there's plenty of background dialogue about ferelden that does mention it.) Dai does have a lot of nods to a few things; the ruler of ferelden shows up in in hushed whispers, or if you kept Alistair/recruited loghain they show up for here lies the abyss and might even have a discussion with Morrigan with whom they had a CHILD with. If hof romanced leliana she mentions them quite a bit. Morrigan can show up with the full ass child she can have in Dao and that's probably one of the biggest differences the choices you made make. Some other decisions from Dao are referenced; like who rules Orzammar. And as for da2 it's very true that a lot of the decisions made are much harder to reference due to being more interpersonal, so it does make sense to an extent that the decisions are referenced there through simple dialogue (though that dialogue is flawed as hell.) If it doesn't like some of your past choices it'll retcon it, like if you killed leliana in Dao. Or like, for example, just a random example, you got one of the Dao endings where Cullen goes mad, kills mages and runs away. Never mentioned again that one. Weird.

Bioware loves to give you big influencial choices to make you feel important only to turn around the next game and kind of shrug their shoulders as they do the bare minimum with them. And now, don't get me wrong - some of these choices are really hard to integrate. We basically can never go back to Orzammar because its king changes everything. It's too much to take into account and would change what quests and storylines the player experiences.

But then don't fucking write it that way to begin with lol. At least with Dao you can give the benefit of the doubt with things being meant to be part of a single story - but by da2 they knew dragon age was a franchise and inquisition was written and made with the knowledge there would be another game afterwards. They could actually plan things out and figure out if maybe a choice you could make would require too many resources to implement in the next game, and thus just not actually give you the choice in inquisition. Because the divine, for example, makes a HUGE difference. I fully get that it would be extremely difficult to take all three choices into account - reference them but make them not so integral that the story of the game can only happen if one of those was made.

But then don't make us fucking able to choose who the divine is. I'd rather not have as many influencial choices in a game, but have them referenced and have them matter, than... This.

Who you romance. Whether you disbanded the inquisition. And what you think of Solas. Nothing from Dao, nothing from da2, and only this from dai. That's a fucking joke. It's a joke. A spit in the face.

Many of the fans will have replayed the series in anticipation for veilguard, carefully crafted their choices to be their main world state. Especially with the nice little sales you've had during veilguard's promotional period. And now, only now, after they will have done all of that, you spit in their faces and say that none of what they did in the past games mattered. So why should I finish my inquisition replay? Why should I care?

Meanwhile, plenty of events from the books and comics will not only be referenced but be integral for the story. Fuck you for playing the main games, you're stupid for thinking they mattered. Obviously the static stories of our external media is more important. Totally respectful of the fanbase to do that.

[movingmusically]

Caught Feeling

Synopsis:

Tired of her quiet, predictable life, a woman takes a spontaneous detour into a gritty bar. What begins as a distraction becomes a night of rediscovery, as an encounter with a captivating bartender brings her face-to-face with her own fears—and desires.

Author’s Note:

I’ve never written anything before, though I’ve always had stories in my head. Seeing all the Caught Stealing set content this week finally pushed me to get something down. I’ve combined the original two parts I posted earlier into one updated story, adding in some details I couldn’t leave out!

Word Count: 8,712

The truth is, I don’t really know what possessed me to walk into Paul’s tonight. I’m not the kind of person who normally does things like this—spontaneous, bold, risky. That’s never been me. Or at least, it hasn’t been me in a long time.

There was a time when I was more comfortable in my own skin, when my shyness didn’t feel like a weight. It used to be a part of me, something I accepted, something I lived with rather than fought against. I could be quiet and still feel confident, blending into the background but never doubting my worth. But somewhere along the way, that shifted. The quiet I once enjoyed now feels stifling. I’m constantly second-guessing myself, overthinking every little action, every word I say, as if there’s some invisible audience keeping score.

The world feels too loud, too fast, and I feel too small in it.

Lately, the silence of my own company has become less of a comfort and more of a reminder. A reminder that I’m stuck. That life is moving forward, and I’m standing still, watching everyone else go on without me. I can’t even remember the last time I did something that made me feel...alive. Not just existing from one day to the next but really feeling like I’m part of something—part of the world instead of just a spectator.

Tonight, it feels like I’ve reached some invisible limit. I can’t take another evening of staring at the same four walls, of flicking through channels without really watching, of pretending I’m okay with the monotony. Work drained me, as it always does, leaving me too exhausted to think but somehow too restless to sleep. My mind feels like it’s stuck in a loop, clogged with the same old worries that circle endlessly, without resolution. They’re small things—most of them, at least—but they pile up, weighing me down until I can barely breathe under their collective pressure.

Normally, I’d push through it, fall back into my routine because that’s what I do. I know the safe route; I’ve perfected it over time. But tonight, the routine felt unbearable. The thought of going home, of slipping back into the same old patterns—it made my chest tighten with the kind of dread I couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t that I had a plan, not really. I just knew I couldn’t face another night of nothingness.

So instead of walking home like I always do, I took a different path, literally. One foot in front of the other, the sidewalk unfamiliar beneath me as I moved further away from everything that felt safe and known. It wasn’t intentional, not at first. But the farther I walked, the more it felt like I was being pulled—by something I couldn’t name, some need inside me that I’ve been trying to ignore for too long.

And that’s how I ended up here, standing in front of Paul’s, the bar I’ve passed countless times but never once considered entering. It’s not my kind of place. Never has been. It’s gritty, loud, with an edge that feels too rough for someone like me. The kind of bar where everyone seems to know each other, where conversations are shared over sticky countertops and half-drunk glasses of whiskey. The regulars here probably have stories they’ve told a hundred times, stories about the kind of life I don’t live—the kind of life I always thought I didn’t want.

But maybe tonight, I don’t want to be the kind of person who always plays it safe, who blends into the background without ever leaving a mark. Maybe tonight, I need to be someone else. Someone who isn’t so afraid to take up space. Someone who doesn’t spend hours dissecting every interaction, every conversation, until the memory of it feels more like a mistake than a moment.

I step inside, and immediately, the atmosphere hits me like a wave. The smell of cigarette smoke clings to the air, mixing with the sharp scent of alcohol and something else I can’t quite place. It’s dimly lit, the kind of place where shadows linger in the corners, and the faces blur together unless you’re really looking. There’s a hum of conversation, the low murmur of voices blending with the occasional burst of laughter, creating a background noise that fills the space without overpowering it.

I don’t know why, but the second I cross the threshold, I feel the weight of the room shift. Not in any obvious way. It’s not like anyone stops what they’re doing to look at me—most people are too engrossed in their own lives, their own stories. But I feel it. I feel different, like I’ve stepped out of my usual world and into something unfamiliar, something that makes my nerves buzz just beneath the surface of my skin.

For a brief moment, I want to turn around, to leave before anyone even notices I’m here. That familiar urge to retreat, to go back to what I know, bubbles up inside me, threatening to overwhelm the tentative boldness that brought me here in the first place. But I don’t leave. I take a deep breath, hold it for a moment, and then force myself to stay. To move further into the bar, even though every part of me is screaming to turn back.

I make my way toward the bar, my steps feeling both too loud and too quiet at the same time. My eyes flick around, taking in the crowd, but not really seeing anyone. I feel exposed, out of place, but at the same time, there’s a strange comfort in knowing that no one is really paying attention to me. I can be invisible here if I want to be—and that’s fine. I’m not here to be noticed. I don’t need anyone to see me.

I just need a break—from my own head, from the endless loop of thoughts and worries that seem to follow me wherever I go. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find here, or if I’m even looking for anything at all. All I know is that tonight, I couldn’t go home. I needed to be somewhere different, somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere that wasn’t the same quiet, predictable space where my thoughts would close in on me again.

That’s when I see him.

He was positioned behind the bar, leaning casually against the counter with an ease that suggested he was in his element, practically part of the furniture. His blonde hair, tousled and slightly unkempt, peeked out from under a well-worn baseball cap, pulled down just enough to give him a hint of mystery, shadowing his piercing blue eyes. Those eyes caught mine with an intensity that felt almost tangible, sharp and probing, as if he could peel back the layers of anyone who happened to fall under his gaze.

For a brief moment, the thought of diverting my eyes flitted through my mind, a reflex to escape the unexpected vulnerability I felt under his scrutiny. But I didn’t look away. Instead, our eyes locked, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face—a smile that seemed to see right through to the nerves I was trying so hard to mask. He held my gaze for a beat too long, creating a moment charged with an unspoken challenge before he turned his attention back to the drinks he was pouring.

A stir of something unfamiliar fluttered inside me—a cocktail of nerves, curiosity, and an exhilarating sense of daring. This wasn't typically me; I was not one to flirt openly, especially with bartenders, nor to sit alone boldly in such a buzzing place. But tonight was different. Tonight, I felt drawn to the unknown, compelled to explore whatever this could lead to.

As I approached the bar, each step seemed amplified, my awareness heightened as if every movement was a statement of intent. I slid onto a stool, feeling the coolness of the leather through my jeans, and my presence seemed to draw his attention once more. The bottles behind him caught the soft lighting of the bar, casting a kaleidoscope of colours across the polished surface. The room was steeped in the smells of smoke and aged wood, enriched with a hint of something musky, almost intoxicating.

He glanced up as I settled in, his earlier smile returning, expectant, as if he had anticipated the challenge I was about to present.

“What’ll it be?” he asked, his voice a rough blend of warmth and rasp, perfectly echoing the raw, ambient energy of the bar.

Under normal circumstances, I’d have a standard order ready, something simple and unassuming, designed to blend in rather than stand out. But tonight, driven by a newfound audacity, I hesitated, meeting his gaze squarely. “Whatever you recommend,” I ventured, my voice more steady than I felt.

His eyebrow arched, clearly amused by my response, and his smirk widened, adding a playful edge to his already compelling demeanour. “You trust me to pick for you?”

I nodded, the gesture firm despite the fluttering in my stomach. “Yeah. Surprise me.”

He chuckled, a low sound that seemed to resonate with a hint of respect, or perhaps challenge. Shaking his head as if in disbelief at my daring, he reached for a bottle. “Alright, you asked for it.”

Watching him work was like observing a skilled artist; each movement was fluid and assured. He selected ingredients with precision, mixing them with a practiced hand that spoke of years behind the bar. As he prepared the drink, I found myself stealing glances, drawn to the confident way he navigated his domain.

He slid the drink across the bar with a smooth motion, and when his fingers brushed mine, a spark of electricity zipped through me, startling and vivid.

“Here you go,” he said, his tone light, that easy grin playing on his lips again. “Let me know what you think.”

I took a tentative sip, and the drink was a revelation—smooth with an undercurrent of complexity that mirrored the night itself. It warmed me, loosening the edges of my anxiety, coaxing a sense of openness I hadn’t felt upon walking in.

“Not bad,” I replied, my own smile a reflection of his, a silent acknowledgment of the small adventure I had embarked upon.

His eyes studied me, a flicker of intrigue passing through them. “Good to know,” he said, his voice tinged with a subtle warmth. He momentarily excused himself to attend to another customer, his movements efficient and practiced as he refilled a drink without missing a beat.

As he worked, the familiar atmosphere of the bar wrapped around us—a comfortable hum of background chatter mingled with the clink of glasses and the occasional cheer from patrons watching the baseball game on the television above. Adjusting his cap, he made his way back to where I was sitting, his approach marked by an easy, confident smile that seemed to pull the dim light of the bar towards him.

Normally, I’d be tongue-tied, fumbling for words, but here, with him, it felt different.

“So, you come here often?” I asked, aiming for light-hearted but cringing a bit at the cliché.

He chuckled, a light, engaging sound that drew a grin from me. “I guess you could say that. I work here most nights. Name’s Hank, by the way,” he introduced himself, extending a hand across the bar.

Hank. It suited him perfectly—strong, straightforward, with just the right amount of rugged charm.

“I’m—” I began, ready to offer my own name, but just then, a regular at the end of the bar caught Hank’s attention, loudly requesting help with the jukebox that was stubbornly refusing to accept their money. Hank shot me a quick, conspiratorial smile that promised he’d return, and then he was off, his stride confident as he navigated the crowded space.

I watched him as he worked, noting the way his shoulders rolled with each movement, the casual confidence in his stride. There was something undeniably magnetic about him, something that drew the eye and held it. It wasn’t just his looks—though those certainly didn’t hurt—it was the way he seemed so completely at ease in his environment, as if he were as much a fixture of the bar as the shelves of liquor behind him.

As he adjusted the jukebox, his eyes occasionally flicked to the small television mounted above the bar. The San Francisco Giants were playing, and it was clear from his intermittent nods and muttered comments to another patron that he was following the game.

When he returned, the noise level in the bar had dropped a bit, and he leaned in slightly to resume our conversation. “Big Giants fan?” I asked, gesturing towards his hat and the screen above us.

"Definitely," Hank said, his smile broadening. "I played a ton in high school back in California, but a bad leg break sidelined me for good. Now, I never miss a game, it helps keep the spirit alive."

“From baseball player to master mixologist,” I observed, noting the transition from his past interests to his current profession. “Looks like you’ve got it all figured out.”

He let out a soft chuckle, a hint of irony flickering in his eyes. “Something like that,” he replied with a slight shrug. “Though life always has a few surprises up its sleeve, doesn’t it?”

As the evening unfolded, the bar had thinned out, not nearly as busy as when I first arrived, but still lively enough to keep Hank moving between customers. Between sharing a laugh, or tossing a rag over his shoulder with casual grace, his eyes would inevitably return, as though drawn by some unspoken pull. Each time he approached, it felt like we were continuing a conversation that had never really stopped, even if words weren’t always exchanged. It was more about his presence—the way he leaned in slightly, his focus making it seem like nothing else in the room mattered.

The warmth of the alcohol settled into me, quieting my usual reservations. It wasn’t enough to cloud my thoughts—I was still fully aware—but it gave me a newfound confidence. With each passing moment, the initial unease melted away, replaced by a comfortable rhythm between us.

“So, what brings you to Paul’s tonight? You don’t exactly blend in with the usual crowd here,” Hank inquired after a while, his tone casual but curious, his eyes searching mine for something deeper than the surface-level chit-chat.

I hesitated, the question more profound than I had anticipated sharing with a near-stranger. Yet, something about Hank’s straightforwardness, underscored by the honest curiosity in his eyes, made me want to open up.

I shrugged, glancing around. “Just needed a change of scenery, I guess. This isn’t exactly my usual kind of place.”

He chuckled, leaning against the bar, his blue eyes flicking up to the TV screen for a moment where the end credits of the game were rolling. “Yeah, I kind of figured. You’ve got that look—like you’re used to being somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else like… where?” I asked, curious what he saw in me.

He paused, his gaze momentarily drifting off as if visualising the answer, then locked back onto me with a reflective expression. “I dunno. A café, maybe? Somewhere quiet. You strike me as someone who appreciates peace.”

I smiled, touched by his perceptiveness. “You’re not wrong. I’m definitely more of a coffee shop girl than a bar regular.”

Hank’s eyes twinkled with a mixture of curiosity and amusement as he leaned in a bit, resting his chin on his hand, studying me as if he was putting together a puzzle. “Let me guess,” he started, his voice lowering to a warm, playful tone, “you’ve got that favourite little corner spot, don’t you? Always tucked away with a book or maybe a notebook for doodling or jotting down your thoughts. And I bet you drink your coffee black, no distractions—just you and your thoughts.”

The accuracy of his assumptions made me burst into laughter, more open and genuine than I expected in such a setting. “Okay, you’re close,” I conceded, still chuckling. “But, I do take a little sugar with my coffee—just a touch to sweeten the deal.”

His laughter joined mine, creating a light, easy atmosphere that seemed to set the tone for whatever was to come. “Noted,” he said, with a mock-serious nod. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

The lighthearted moment briefly subsided as he posed a more thoughtful question, his tone lowering to a gentle, inviting rumble. “So, what’s got you stepping out of your coffee shop comfort zone tonight?”

Glancing down at my glass, the swirl of liquid momentarily mesmerising, I acknowledged the underlying current of vulnerability. Yet, there was an ease in Hank’s presence that coaxed the words from me more freely than I expected. “I don’t know... I just didn’t want to be alone tonight. Work’s been overwhelming, I guess I just needed a break from myself for a while. From the routine, the quiet. You ever feel that way?”

Hank’s response was a nod, his eyes softening with a deep understanding. “Yeah, more than you’d think.” Curiosity piqued, I found myself more drawn to him, seeing him not only in his role here but as someone who genuinely understood the struggles people go through. “What about you? You seem like the kind of guy who’s seen it all here. What keeps you coming back?”

“The people, I guess,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes meeting mine again. “Everyone who walks in has their own story, their own reason for being here. I like that—it’s unpredictable. I can be part of the background or something more, depending on the night. Tonight feels different, though.”

“Different how?” I asked, my voice quieter now, the conversation shifting as his attention became more focused.

“Maybe it’s you,” he said, his tone teasing but his gaze serious. “You stand out. You’re not trying to blend in, like most people who come in here to disappear for a bit.”

I felt a shiver run through me, even though his words were light. “I wasn’t really planning on standing out,” I admitted, my voice softer now, a little shy.

He folded his arms on the bar, leaning in just a touch closer. The subtle intimacy of the gesture didn’t go unnoticed. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

I felt my cheeks warm, surprised at how much I liked hearing that. “Yeah… me too,” I said, smiling just enough to let him know I meant it.

He smiled back, his voice dropping lower. “Sometimes, stepping into something unfamiliar is exactly what we need to remind ourselves what we’ve been missing.”

There was a brief pause, comfortable yet charged with an unspoken acknowledgment of the connection forming between us. “And what do you think I’ve been missing?”

He leaned in, closing the space between us. “Maybe something real. Something that pulls you out of the everyday.”

I held his gaze, my heart racing a little faster now. “Maybe I am.”

“Well,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “you’re not alone in that.”

The air between us thickened, charged with an undeniable pull. Even in the quiet, there was no mistaking the connection forming between us—raw, real, and electric.

The last patrons trickled out, and the bar lights dimmed slightly, signalling the end of the night. The soft glow cast shadows that only made the space feel more intimate. A slow, soulful tune from the jukebox filled the room, amplifying the closeness between us.

Hank leaned in a little more, his hands idly wiping down the already spotless counter, though his attention was fully on me. The air around us felt thick with unspoken anticipation, a magnetic pull that neither of us could ignore.

"You’ve definitely changed the vibe in here tonight," Hank murmured, his voice a low, warm rumble that seemed to match the mood of the room. “Doesn’t happen often.”

I felt a flush of heat rise to my cheeks but found myself leaning in too, letting the moment take over. "Is that your way of saying you hope I come back?" I asked, my tone playful, though beneath it, there was something bolder, something daring.

A slow smile spread across his face, one that made my pulse quicken. “I’m definitely saying that. You’ve made tonight... different. And I like it.”

The room felt smaller, as though it was just the two of us, the rest of the world fading into the background. Our eyes locked, the tension between us humming with an intensity that felt almost tangible. Neither of us moved to break it.

Hank leaned a little closer. There was a question forming on his lips, one that seemed to dance in his eyes as he paused, giving the moment the weight it deserved.

His gaze flicked to the back door, then back to me, and I could see the question in his eyes before he said it. “You wanna get out of here?” His voice was low, the words hanging in the air between us like a challenge.

The invitation was clear, laden with possibilities and the thrill of continuing whatever was unfolding between us outside the confines of the bar walls. I blinked, my heart skipping a beat. Normally, I would hesitate, tangled in self-doubt and over-analysis. But tonight felt different. It felt like a return to an older version of myself—I took a deep breath, embracing the liberating shift, and met Hank's gaze with a quiet nod.

"Yeah," I said softly, "I do."

Hank nodded, a knowing smile spreading across his face as he moved towards the employees-only door at the far end of the bar. He gestured for me to come closer to where the bar ended, and I walked towards him, my heart pounding in my ears.

As I reached the end of the bar, I found myself separated from him by a pane of glass that partitioned off the employees’ area. Above Hank, the neon “BAR” sign bathed him in an ethereal glow, casting dramatic shadows across his features, highlighting the contours of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes, and the gentle curve of his full lips. He reached up to unlock the door from his side, his eyes locked on mine.

Our hands met through the glass, fingertips aligning in a moment charged with anticipation. The cool surface couldn’t lessen the warmth that radiated from his touch. With a soft click, he swung the door open, diminishing the barrier between us.

“After you,” he said, his voice low and inviting. I moved around the partition, stepping into his world behind the bar for the first time. There was an intimate thrill to being on his side, close enough to share his space.

Together, we walked towards the back of the bar, where a heavy door led to the alley outside. As Hank pushed it open the cool night air hit my skin, but it did little to cool the fire that had been burning between us all night. The alley behind the bar was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls, but I barely noticed. All I could focus on was him—the way his broad shoulders moved, the way his hands flexed at his sides as if he was holding himself back.

We stopped just outside the door, and before I had time to second-guess myself, he turned to me, stepping in close. The space between us disappeared in an instant, and I felt his hand at my waist, pulling me gently but firmly against him. My breath caught in my throat, and for a split second, all I could do was look up into those mesmerising blue eyes, my heart pounding in my chest.

Then he kissed me.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. His lips crashed against mine, urgent and hungry, like he’d been waiting all night for this moment. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me closer as his mouth moved against mine, and I kissed him back just as fiercely, my fingers instinctively finding their way to the base of his skull. His hair was soft, curling around my fingers as I tangled my hands in it, pulling him closer.

He let out a low, guttural sound, the kind of sound that sent shivers down my spine and made my knees weak. His hands slid up my back, his fingers digging into my skin as he pressed me against the brick wall behind us. The roughness of the wall was a stark contrast to the heat of his body, and I arched into him, wanting—needing—to be closer.

As he kissed me deeper, the sensation was overwhelming—like a storm that obliterates everything else, leaving only a beautiful, blissful blankness in its wake. It blew my mind how everything inside me cast into darkness, every worry dissolving in the heat of his touch. What a relief it was, not having to think anymore.

My hands stayed tangled in his hair, pulling him down harder as his lips trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jawline.

This wasn’t me. This wasn’t the shy, quiet girl who kept to herself, who avoided risks. But right now, with Hank’s body pressed against mine, his lips on my skin, I didn’t care. All I cared about was him, the way he made me feel—alive, bold, free.

And I wasn’t about to stop.

His breath was hot against my skin as his lips moved lower, trailing down my neck, and I could feel every nerve in my body igniting. I tugged at his hair again, just enough to pull him back to my mouth, and when our lips met, the kiss was even more intense—desperate, as if we both knew this moment was everything we had been building up to all night.

I could feel his body press harder against mine, his hands roaming over my waist, my hips, pulling me even closer as though the small space between us was unbearable. My back hit the rough surface of the brick wall again, but the discomfort only heightened the sensation. The world outside the alley faded away—there were no more sounds from the bar, no distant cars, just the pounding of our hearts and the shared heat between us.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, and he rested his forehead against mine, his blue eyes searching my face in the dim light. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with desire.

I swallowed, my breath still catching in my throat. “I think I do,” I whispered back, unable to stop the smile that tugged at my lips.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “I thought I had you all figured out, but… you keep surprising me.”

“I’m surprising myself,” I admitted, my fingers still tangled in his hair, feeling the warmth of his scalp beneath my touch. “But I like it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me fully, his gaze softening for a moment, as if he was trying to read me—trying to make sure I was still in control, still wanting this as much as he did. And I was. More than I’d ever imagined.

“What now?” His voice was a little quieter, a little less hurried, but still laced with that same intensity.

I didn’t need to think about it. I leaned forward, pressing my lips to his again, this time slower, more deliberate, savouring the feel of him, the taste of his mouth. “I don’t want this to stop,” I whispered between kisses, my hands sliding down to grip his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles as he held back.

He groaned softly against my lips, his hands gripping my hips tighter. “It doesn’t have to.”

The way he said it, so sure, made my heart race even faster. We were in an alley behind a bar, but in this moment, it didn’t matter. Nothing felt rushed or wrong. It felt like exactly where we were supposed to be. Like I had finally stepped into a part of myself I’d been avoiding for too long. And with him, it felt… right.

The intensity between us burned hotter, and soon, his hands were back on my waist, sliding under my shirt, his fingers grazing the skin there in a way that made me gasp. I could feel the roughness of the brick wall behind me, but all I could focus on was him—his touch, his breath, the way he seemed just as lost in this as I was.

But there was something else too, a sense of grounding I hadn’t expected. He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t pushing. He was waiting, following my lead, giving me the space to feel, to take in every second of this. And I knew, in that moment, that whatever happened next, it was because we both wanted it. Because we were both ready for it.

And as the world around us continued to disappear, the night taking over, I knew that whatever came next—whether it lasted for just this night or beyond—it would be the best decision I’d ever made.

But then, as if sensing a shift in the moment, Hank’s lips stilled against mine. He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against mine, our breaths mingling in the cool night air. His fingers tightened on my waist as though he couldn’t bear to let me go for even a second, but his voice was softer now, more grounded. “We should get out of here.”

My eyes fluttered open, meeting his in the dim light. He was still close, so close, his blue eyes darker now, full of unspoken promise. “Yeah,” I breathed, my heart still racing. “We should.”

Without another word, he gently untangled us from the wall, his hand sliding into mine as he led me out of the alley. The sudden openness of the quiet street hit me all at once, the world outside the alley much brighter, sharper, but I barely registered it. All I could think about was the way Hank’s thumb traced small circles on the back of my hand as we walked, like he needed the physical connection to tether us to the moment. I held his hand tighter, feeling the warmth radiating through his palm, the steadiness in the way he held me.

We walked in silence for a minute, the intensity of the night lingering between us. There was no rush, no need for words right now—just the sound of our footsteps echoing softly in the quiet night. I couldn’t help but steal glances at him as we walked, at the way his jaw clenched and relaxed, his gaze still fixed ahead, but every now and then flicking back to me with that same heat that had burned between us all night.

With every step, the cool night seemed to draw us closer, the world fading until there was nothing but the warmth of his hand in mine. Finally, we reached his apartment. Hank fumbled with the keys for just a moment, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, betraying a mix of nerves and excitement. The lock clicked, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet hallway, and the door swung open, revealing the inviting glow of warm light inside.

He stepped aside, letting me walk in first, his hand still wrapped around mine. The apartment was simple but cozy, a space that felt lived in but not cluttered. Warm light spilled from a nearby lamp, casting a golden hue over dark wood furniture, soft blankets draped over a well-worn couch, and a guitar propped in the corner. The air was tinged with a scent that was both woodsy and intimately familiar—perhaps cedar, or simply the essence of Hank—enveloping me in a sense of deep, comforting familiarity.

As he shut the door behind us, the soft click of the lock seemed to seal us off from the rest of the world. The moment was heavy with anticipation, yet it carried a tenderness that made the space between us feel charged yet safe. I stood still, taking in the room, and felt his presence behind me. Turning slowly, I met his gaze—intense, dark, yet filled with a softness that drew me closer.

The electric connection that had sparked between us earlier was not only still present but had intensified in the privacy of his space. His eyes momentarily searched mine, a silent question lingering in their depths, ensuring I was truly there with him, in this moment. Reassured by my subtle nod, his familiar half-smile appeared, sending a rush of warmth through me.

He approached me, each step measured and unhurried. Reaching me, he raised his hand to gently cup my face, his thumb tenderly brushing my cheek in a touch that grounded and calmed me. His fingers wove through my hair, and a shiver ran down my spine as his thumb delicately traced my lower lip, the gesture so filled with intent and tenderness that my breath hitched in anticipation.

For a moment, we simply stood there, barely inches apart, the stillness of his apartment wrapping around us. Then, driven by playful curiosity, I reached up and gently tugged at the brim of his cap, pulling it off. His hair, tousled and soft, spilled over his forehead. The golden lamplight highlighted subtle waves, which caught the light as they fell free. I smiled and let the cap drop to the floor.

“I’ve been wanting to see you without this,” I teased, my fingers weaving through his hair, exploring its texture—thick and surprisingly soft, curling lightly against my fingers. He exhaled a soft sigh, a sound of relief or perhaps pleasure, his eyes deepening into a more intense hue as they locked with mine.

“It feels better already,” he murmured, the timbre of his voice low and inviting. His hands found their way to my waist, his touch firm yet gentle, anchoring me close to him as his gaze stayed fixed on mine, conveying a depth of feeling that went beyond mere attraction.

We kissed again, but this time it was different—slower, more deliberate, as if we were savouring every second. His hands roamed over my waist, tracing the curves of my hips before gliding up my back, each touch sending shivers cascading through me. I leaned into him, my body pressing closer, feeling the firm warmth of his chest against mine.

His lips left mine only to trail down to my neck, soft and warm as he planted a line of kisses from my jaw to my collarbone. My breath caught in my throat, a flush of heat sweeping over me as his hands slid under the hem of my shirt, his fingers grazing the bare skin of my lower back. I arched into him, wanting more of his touch, more of him.

But he maintained a tantalising pace, not rushing the moment. His hands explored with deliberation, exploring the contours of my body as if he wished to etch them into his memory. His touch was gentle yet assertive, guiding without pressuring, and I felt the attentiveness in every movement, ensuring I was fully present with him. My hands wandered across his chest, tracing the defined muscles beneath his shirt, revelling in how his body tensed responsively to my touch.

He kissed me again, deeper this time, and in a quiet plea for more, I tugged gently at the hem of his shirt. He pulled back just enough to help me lift it over his head, tossing it to the side. The sight of him—shirtless, standing before me in the soft light—made my heart race even faster. His torso was sculpted and firm, his skin radiating warmth under my fingertips as I followed the lines of his muscles, feeling the slight tension there as if he, too, was holding back, letting the moment unfold slowly.

Hank’s hands slid up my sides, his fingers brushing over the fabric of my shirt as he slowly began to lift it. I raised my arms in silent consent, allowing him to pull the garment over my head. The cool air brushed against my skin, yet it paled in comparison to the fervour of his touch. His hands returned to the small of my back, drawing me in until our bodies aligned. I was now standing in just my bra and jeans, my bare skin pressing against his, the direct contact of our skin was electrifying.

His gaze swept over me, filled with a mixture of awe and desire, yet he maintained his deliberate pace. Leaning in, he kissed me tenderly, his hands rising along my back to trace the contours of my spine, finally pausing at the clasp of my bra. He hesitated, his breath warm against my ear, his voice a soft murmur, “Is this okay?”

I nodded, breathless, my hands running up his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palms. “Yes.”

He smiled against my skin, his fingers deftly unhooking my bra before letting it fall to the floor. His hands were on me again in an instant, warm and firm, sliding up to cup my breasts gently, his thumbs brushing over my skin in slow, teasing circles.

Hank’s lips grazed my collarbone, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to the swell of my chest. His hands explored me with deliberate care, his touch sending waves of heat coursing through my body. When his mouth found my nipple, he teased it gently, the sensation sparking something deep and primal inside me. I let out a soft moan, my fingers tightening in his hair. “God, that feels amazing,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

He let out a low groan as he lifted me with ease, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His hands tightened around my thighs, keeping me close, I could feel the hardness of his body pressing into mine, each step toward the bedroom intensifying my need for him, the heat between us nearly unbearable.

He laid me down gently on the bed, his body hovering over mine, his hands never leaving my skin. He kissed me again, slow and deep, as his hands moved down my sides, tracing the line of my ribs, my hips, before reaching the waistband of my jeans. His fingers lingered there for a moment, his touch light but full of promise.

My body ached for him, the need overwhelming now, and I reached up, my hands tugging at his belt. Hank’s breath hitched as I unfastened it, my fingers slowly working the buckle before moving to the button of his jeans. I eased the zipper down, each movement deliberate, and he quickly followed my lead, his fingers deftly undoing the button on mine. With one smooth motion, he eased both my jeans and underwear down. I sat up slightly, desire tightening in my core as I eagerly guided his jeans and boxers down. He groaned softly as I slid the fabric over his hips , and I couldn’t help but bite my lip, heat flooding through me as I took in the sight of him, feeling a mix of awe and raw need.

With nothing left between us, Hank moved closer, his weight slowly pressing down as he hovered above me, our bodies finally connecting. The sensation of his warmth and the solid press of his length against me was overwhelming, yet exactly what I craved. His lips found mine again, gentler this time, while his hands explored me with careful intention, as if he wanted to savour every moment and memorise every inch of me.

He paused for a moment, his forehead resting against mine as he caught his breath, his hands still cupping my waist, his thumbs gently brushing over my skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice rough with yearning.

I smiled up at him, my hands sliding up to cup his face, pulling him down for another kiss. “So are you.”

It was intoxicating—he was intoxicating. And yet, as his hand slid down my side, I felt a flicker of something else. This isn’t me, I thought, not for the first time tonight. The quiet, careful girl who played it safe, who kept her feelings locked away, wouldn’t have ended up here. But with Hank—with him—everything felt different. It wasn’t just the heat between us or the way his touch made my body come alive. It was the way he looked at me, the way he saw me, like there was no one else in the world but us.

And for the first time, I wasn’t afraid to let go.

His fingers traced lower, along the length of my thigh, caressing the sensitive skin there. He kissed just beneath my ear, and I could feel the soft brush of his hair as he moved, his breath heavy but controlled. Hank’s hand moved between my legs, his fingers parting me gently, slick with my wetness, exploring with a careful but knowing touch. My breath caught, and I let out a soft moan, my body arching into him, craving more. I could feel the tension building inside me, every nerve alight with sensation, and the way he touched me—so deliberate, so focused—made the moment feel even more intense.

He lifted his head, his lips brushing against mine as he met my gaze, his blue eyes dark and full of need. There was something in the way he looked at me, something that made my heart pound even harder—like he was asking for more than just permission. He was asking for trust.

And I gave it to him.

My hips shifted with his movements, my body instinctively responding as his fingers pressed deeper, working in rhythm with my rising need. His touch sent waves of heat through me, building toward a release I could feel just out of reach. His lips moved against mine, his breath ragged as he murmured my name, his voice thick with want. I could feel the urgency in every kiss, every movement, as he drew me closer to the edge.

This wasn’t me—this wasn’t who I normally was. I didn’t do this. I didn’t sleep with men I’d just met. I had always been cautious, reserved, taking my time before giving myself over to moments like this. But with Hank, none of that mattered. There was something different here—something raw and honest that made me let go in a way I never had before.

I wasn’t inexperienced, far from it. I knew what I wanted, and right now, I wanted him. It wasn’t the uncertainty of the newness that had me trembling beneath him; it was the way he made me feel like this was more than just the moment. It was the way he looked at me like he saw me—like I wasn’t just a passing encounter, but something real.

Without breaking our connection, Hank shifted, his mouth moving lower as his fingers continued their steady rhythm. My hands tangled in his hair as I guided him down, my body urging him on. Then his lips were on me, soft and insistent, sending another rush of pleasure through me. My hand moved to grip the sheets beside me as he sucked gently, amplifying the sensation while his fingers stayed firm, working me toward release. I gasped, my legs tightening around him, instinctively holding him there as I let go completely, my body giving in as the waves of pleasure crashed over me.

I’d never let go like this before—not with someone I’d just met. But right now, I wasn’t thinking about what was usual or expected. I was just thinking about him.

Breathless, I felt him move back up, laying the length of his body gently against mine. Before he could say anything, I pulled him into a slow, deep kiss, tasting the remnants of my release on his lips. When I finally pulled back, his eyes locked onto mine. “You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice rough, filled with both satisfaction and unspoken need.

My heart raced, still buzzing from the release, and I breathed out a soft, teasing reply. “Not done yet,” I murmured, my lips brushing his jaw. The warmth of his skin against mine only fuelled the fire that hadn’t quite faded.

With a shift of my hips, I surprised both of us, rolling him over beneath me. Hank let out a low groan, his hands instinctively settling on my waist as I straddled him, my confidence growing as I took control. His eyes locked on mine, dark with hunger, and I could feel the rapid beat of his heart under my palms as I pressed them firmly to his chest.

“You like that?” I whispered, his answer was another groan, deeper this time, as his hands gripped my hips a little tighter. “You have no idea,” he growled, his voice full of want.

I leaned down, letting my lips barely graze his, keeping him just on the edge of what he craved, knowing I was the one in control now.

I hovered just above him, our breaths coming fast, feeling the heat radiating from his body, knowing he wanted more—needed more. But I held back, teasing him with the lightest brush of my lips, making him wait, making him want it as much as I did. His grip tightened on me, his fingers pressing into my skin as he resisted the urge to take control again.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire.

I smirked against his lips, revelling in the power I had over him in that moment. “Good,” I whispered, barely audible, before pressing my lips to his in a deep, languid kiss that made his whole body tense beneath me.

Hank groaned into my mouth as I moved my hips ever so slightly, teasing him with the smallest amount of friction. His body reacted immediately, his hands gripping my waist with a new urgency, but I wasn’t ready to give in just yet. I wanted to savour every second of this, every sound he made, every look in his eyes.

“Please,” he muttered against my lips, his voice hoarse, laced with desperation that sent a thrill through me.

I pressed my palms against his chest, feeling the heat of his skin and the tension in his muscles. “I’m just getting started,” I teased, lowering my lips to his neck, letting my teeth gently graze the skin there, sending a shiver through him. The soft gasp that escaped his lips sent a thrill through me, and I knew I was in control now.

He let out a low growl, his control slipping just enough that I could feel the shift in his body, the tension coiling tighter, and it sent another rush of excitement through me. I rocked my hips again, this time giving him just a little more of what he wanted, and the sound he made—deep, desperate—was enough to make my pulse race.

He tried to move beneath me, but I pressed him back down, holding him there with just a look, my body hovering above his as I whispered, “Let me.”

His breath hitched, his hands stilling on my waist as he nodded, his eyes dark and filled with nothing but need. He was completely mine in that moment, and the feeling was electric.

Slowly, I lowered myself onto him, taking his entire length with one long, languid thrust. I began to move, letting the rhythm build between us, each motion deliberate, but this time, I wasn’t holding back. His hands tightened on my hips, guiding me as I set the pace, every sound he made spurring me on.

I didn’t think about anything except the feel of him. It was the not thinking I loved most, the not thinking that I never wanted to end.

“You’re incredible,” he breathed, his voice almost reverent as his eyes met mine, and the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down my spine. “I can’t… get enough of you.”

The words sent a surge of heat through me, my movements becoming more urgent, more desperate, as the tension between us spiralled higher. His hands roamed over my body, tracing every curve, every line, and I could feel the restraint slipping from both of us, the heat between us burning hotter with each passing second.

I leaned down, letting my lips capture his again, this time deeper, my tongue sliding against his, claiming him just as he claimed me. His hands gripped my hips tighter, matching my pace as the intensity grew, our bodies completely in sync, every breath, every movement pushing us closer to the edge.

“Hank,” I gasped, my hands gripping his shoulders as I rocked against him, my body trembling with the intensity of it all.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice raw and full of promise. And then, with a swift movement, he sat up, pulling me with him so I was still straddling his lap. His arms wrapped around me, holding me close as his lips moved to my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. I gasped as he left soft love bites along my collarbone and down the side of my neck, his breath hot against my skin, each kiss, each bite sending a new wave of heat through me.

I gripped the back of his neck, my fingers digging into his skin as I arched into him, every nerve alight with sensation as his mouth worked its way across my skin, leaving a trail of pleasure in its wake.

The tension between us spiralled higher, my release building fast as my body tightened around him, the pleasure growing more intense with each second. His lips stayed on my neck, hands gripping my hips as he urged me to move, guiding me to grind harder against him. That added pressure sent me over the edge, and with one final push, I shattered, the pleasure crashing over me in waves.

Hank’s name escaped my lips in a broken whisper as I came undone above him, my body shaking with the force of my release, wave after wave, my mind completely lost in him. I felt him follow soon after, his grip tightening on my hips as he buried his face in the curve of my neck, his breath ragged and hot against my skin as his own release overtook him. His body tensed beneath me, and I could feel the shudder that went through him as we rode the high together, leaving me breathless and trembling in his arms.

For a moment, we just stayed like that, our bodies tangled together, our breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as we slowly came down from the high. His lips brushed my collarbone once more, softer this time, tender, before he leaned back, his eyes meeting mine.

“You…” he started, his voice hoarse, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I don’t have words.”

I smiled back, my own heart still racing, but this time, it wasn’t just from the intensity of the moment—it was from the way he looked at me, like I was something more. Something important. “Good,” I whispered, my voice just as raw, “I don’t need them.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest as his hands slid up my back, pulling me close once again. I curled up against him, my head resting on his chest as our breaths slowly synced. I could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath me, feel the warmth of his skin, and for the first time in a long time, I felt completely at peace.

And as we sat there, tangled together, I knew that whatever this was—whatever we were—it was only just beginning.

[thesoulshyperrealaslacreatura]

O Concurso Anual de Tortas de 2023

– Começamos agora esta edição do nosso concurso de tortas com algumas palavras do nosso convidado especial!

Da plateia, emergiram enormes urros pela mensagem da anunciante (a qual, estando sob contrato terceirizado, não esperava tanta agitação vindo de um concurso de tortas de 7 envolvidos). Começando a gravação, mais berros. Assim que a equipe de realização do evento – também terceirizada – ligou o projetor, fugiu o mais rápido possível para trás do palco a ver se seus abafadores de som funcionavam mesmo. Começaram a entender o motivo de os terem recebido em primeiro lugar.

– Sejam todos muito bem-vindos ao Concurso Anual de 2023 Oficial da Comissão Mundial de Tortas. É uma honra ser o convidado especial desta edição. Como vocês bem sabem, eu estou, no momento, sob pena por homicídio doloso, então agradeço sinceramente que a minha presença tenha sido considerada tão importante a ponto de a Comissão montar toda uma infraestrutura pra eu poder discursar aqui. Todo mundo, uma salva de palmas para a Comissão!

Todos os participantes ficaram de pé para comemorar com perfeita compostura – inclusive o convidado, cuja cabeça não coube completamente na câmera. Logo voltaram a seus assentos, agora ainda mais unidos que antes.

– É… nossa, eu nem sei o que dizer. É…

O detento começou a chorar em risos de comoção – toda a audiência compartilhava do mesmo sentimento e, em seu próprio tempo, foram apertando os olhos e lacrimejando.

– É que… é… – agora ele já gaguejava sem mais força para completar uma ideia sequer, inspirando, na plateia, diversas mãos a serem levadas ao peito.

Ele respirou fundo, agora considerando retomar certa estabilidade em sua fala. Tentou acalmar suas tragadas de ar; desavermelhar o rosto; relaxar as sobrancelhas e tudo mais.

Começou a chorar profundamente, em uma tristeza miserável. A gravação subitamente parou enquanto ele se curvava em si mesmo. A plateia batia as pernas conjuntamente para celebrar o convidado como se faz para uma estrela de rock.

Passados dois minutos sob um ritmo surpreendentemente consistente em um chão de madeira que parecia prestes a explodir, uma assistente de organização novata teve que ser forçada pelo resto da equipe para fazer o anúncio final, já que ninguém mais queria fazê-lo. Com extrema hesitação, proclamou:

– Que comece a- a- é a avaliação das tortas! Sim, é... – Ao ouvir os mesmos urros, correu-lhe principalmente um pensamento: “Eles devem gostar mesmo de torta.”

Ela estava certa. Eles gostavam mesmo de torta.

Todos os presentes assumiram suas posições e se puseram a esperar – com visível antecipação no rosto – até às 10 em ponto. 9:59. 9:59. 9:59. 10 horas – como autômatos, voltaram a se mexer.

Os juízes se aproximaram das simples decorações da primeira tenda: alguns adesivos com desenhos de morangos virulentamente sorridentes os convidavam a desfrutar do que uma plaquinha de madeira chamava de “Torta de Morango Salgada da Vi”. Uma moça de avental se aproximou entusiasmada.

– É uma torta de morango, só que eu coloquei uma boa dose sal.

– Pera aí! Você é novata, dá pra perceber... – Um dos juízes, um senhor altíssimo e bem vestido, repreendeu já direto enquanto anotava em seu bloco de notas.

– Tem que se introduzir primeiro, viu? – Um outro juiz de sandálias de péssima qualidade explicou rindo.

– Ah, desculpa, claro. – Ela parecia ter ficado vermelha que nem um de seus morangos.

Para ultrapassar as tensões, o de sandália lançou mão de um comentário qualquer:

– Eu tô achando que você seja a Vi, não? Fica calma que é bem comum não pegar a pegada de primeira. Mas a gente aqui quer ver não só a torta, mas a experiência como um todo pra avaliar, viu?

– Queremos avaliar se há concórdia no momento de apreciação da torta. – Sua colega de galochas enunciou didaticamente.

– Mas é, a gente pede o nome de todo mundo, mesmo que já saiba. – O de paletó comentou acenando a cabeça, blefando quanto ao fato de entender o que era concórdia.

– Bom, é, eu- eu sou a Vi, de Vitória, e a minha avó também se chamava Vitória, só que com “i”. E como a receita era originalmente dela deu pra manter.

– Então seu nome não é com “i”?

– Não! – e, vendo os rostos confusos dos juízes, contorceu a direção de seus pensamentos a ver se sairia algo que soasse compreensível de sua boca – Não porque sim, no caso! Escreve com “i”, é...

– Então... – O quarto juiz, que até então esteve mandando mensagens no celular, tentava finalmente se atualizar com relação ao que tinha perdido.

– Então que eu não sei porque eu disse aquilo.

– Haha! Entendo. Gostei de você. – Ele falou, não tendo esclarecido nada, mas, olhando pela primeira vez as decorações, apreciando os desenhos.

Ela ficou ainda mais vermelha.

– Bom, como eu disse agora faz um tempo, é de morango com uma boa dose de sal.

– Ah, é? Fica bom isso? – o mesmo juiz, que Vi estava finalmente percebendo ter uma feição avoada por natureza, tentou chegar direto ao assunto enquanto brincava de balançar seus brincos. Era a hora de impressioná-los.

– Sim, uai. É receita de família. – E, estendendo aos juízes um conjunto de talheres e um pedaço bem decorado, completou o convite – Façam as honras.

Tentando se adequar ao fato de terem recebido pratinhos muito pequenos – e mentalmente descontando isso da nota de apresentação e serviço – os avaliadores partiram ao primeiro corte. Na tentativa de seccionar uma garfada que contivesse uma quantidade adequada de morangos, podia-se ouvir o singelo som do garfo perfurando delicadamente uma camada amortecedora de creme. Só de se estar passando pelo creme, a mente já se distraía ao pensar que em alguns instantes teriam um bom punhado dele preenchendo a boca assim como seu aroma já preenchia suas narinas, e–

TAC!

Acabada aquela camada, a força extra dos avaliadores repartiu com demasiada facilidade o resto da torta até o talher colidir com o prato de plástico – disso o som de tamborim. Curiosos, atentaram-se mais particularmente às fases da composição, a perceber que havia uma porção praticamente oca entre a cobertura e o fundo; em seguida, um som contínuo. Granuloso. Som de ampulheta? O correr do tempo revelava a verdadeira natureza da torta...

Vazava sal como se viesse de um pacote furado – sal pristino, inalterado – aglomerado no interior da estrutura da torta. Parecia que não acabaria nunca. De fato, os examinadores não esperaram o sal terminar de escorrer ao prato até colocarem a torta na boca. Remexiam com a língua os pedaços de morango enquanto sentiam todos os grãos se moldando ao redor de seus movimentos. Ao engolir, a distinta irritação na boca do sal puro que não tinha acompanhado o resto da comida pela garganta – acumulando-se embaixo da língua e em outros cantos. Os juízes olharam-se uns para os outros:

– A combinação do nome com a especificidade da receita já te dá de cara um certo destaque quanto a o que você está prometendo com sua torta. – A juíza de galochas apontou enquanto escrevia algo furtivamente em seu caderninho.

– É eu até gostei sim. – O juiz de paletó falou ajustando a coluna, já que se curvava para comer ao invés de só levar o prato até sua própria altura.

– Muito obrigado, senhores.

A competidora se virou para o único que não comentou nada, esperando que parasse de coçar as pálpebras para emitir uma opinião qualquer.

– Se eu puder, bem, perguntar o que você achou?

– O quê? Ah! Boa, até... É! Eu gostei, sim!

O de sandálias levantou a mão, e assim que recebeu a atenção da Vi retrocedeu o movimento. Lançou uma pequena dúvida:

– Posso só fazer um... adendo?

Ela acenou que sim. Ele prosseguiu:

– Seu creme estava muito úmido; se a sua apresentação não deixasse clara por si só a sua falta de experiência, isso já teria te entregado. Ele estraga completamente a temática e honestamente te faz parecer um pouco covarde por não se comprometer com a clara estrutura em dois atos – do normal ao absurdo – quando você tenta amenizar com uma cobertura aguada dessas. Ou a sua avó estava ocupada demais te mimando pra realmente fazer algo de excelência ou você impôs suas próprias inseguranças à receita dela e eu não sei o que te faria parecer pior. De qualquer forma é profundamente indigno, é o que eu quero dizer.

Contraindo todos os músculos que pudesse para não começar a chorar, Vitória procurou desesperada a reafirmação dos juízes anteriores. O de paletó começou, ajustando a coluna:

– É eu gostei eu só, não sei... também. Ele falou bem.

– Bom eu... uh. Eu achei legal, pessoalmente. – O de brincos falou com uma enorme dificuldade de focar nos olhos da mulher. – É... – Nenhum dos dois inspirou muita confiança.

– Mas muito obrigada por participar, querida. Foca aí no seu nicho que daí ano que vem você traz algo melhor, na certa! – E, com essa fala, a mulher de galochas gesticulou a todo o grupo para que fossem à próxima avaliação.

Vitória acenou que sim com a cabeça; de maneira alguma voltaria para o ano que vem. Voltou para um canto da tenda pensando se valia a pena conter o choro.

O bem-vestido, que tinha demorado um pouco para acompanhar os outros, se curvou novamente para lamber o dedo com um pouco do sal – que seguia escorrendo. Ao ver a moça no chão, se perguntou por um segundo se seria apropriado dizer algo, e concluiu que o melhor seria não falar nada. Infelizmente para ele, Vitória já tinha levantado o rosto e agora o encarava diretamente, à espera de ouvir mais algo desmotivador; ele teve que corresponder a essas expectativas com o que quer que lhe parecesse minimamente encorajador:

– Você fica bonita aí, assim.

Sentindo-se orgulhoso de ter acolhido a uma novata em sofrimento, passou os dez dedos pelo sal corrente ao mesmo tempo com os olhos fixos nela, a tentar preservar a atmosfera amigável que construíra. Antes que aquele rosto coberto de lágrimas esboçasse alguma reação que contradissesse a ideia de que estava fazendo um ótimo trabalho, o homem se aproveitou de sua altura em relação à tenda para cortar a linha de visão entre eles à medida que se descurvava, e começou chupar cada um de seus dedos da esquerda para a direita. Pegou o prato de sal ao sair, deixando escorrer por onde passava.

A tenda seguinte não tinha decoração temática. A cena era de uma barraquinha de feira comum com um papel marcado em texto Calibri: “Torta de Maçã Sapiente”. Galochas e sandálias, tendo avistado a placa, se apertaram juntas no passo – era um nome de levantar expectativas. Em seguida, balançavam pelo ar um par de brincos e uma gravata tentando não atrasar o andamento do evento.

– Então… – Olhando os dois homens que chegaram cansados de correr, a mulher operando a barraca estendeu pra eles copos plásticos d’água com tema de Halloween.

– Muito obrigado.

– Ah, eu estava precisando disso. Fofa. – Pegou seu copo e passou a lavar as mãos, cujas palmas estavam inteiramente lambidas com traços de sal que aparentemente teria conseguido consumir ainda que no meio de uma correria.

Ficaram todos à espera do brincos acabar com o copo, já que sua glote soltava uma aberração de ruído a cada gole. A apresentadora da vez ficou encarando diretamente o pescoço dele, o que originalmente era para tentar entender como seria capaz de produzir um som assim – “originalmente”, pois logo se distraiu com seu colar místico, que se parecia muito com o que ela tinha perdido na edição passada do concurso.

Tentando encaminhar a participante novamente, o de sandália fez de limpar a garganta e acabou se engasgando um pouco, forçando-o a se servir por conta própria de água também. A mulher seguiu mesmo assim:

– Bem, eu vou só começar mesmo… Vocês já devem ter lido, vocês sabem o que é. Eu realmente pensei nesse projeto como uma extensão das ideias do ano passado, sabem?

– Mas então ela é um ser vivo. – O juiz de sandália começou sua rodada de interrogações enquanto massageava delicadamente seu pescoço.

– É. Ela é profundamente contemplativa e especialmente preocupada com o fato de que estamos meramente em um texto. Mas ela é uma torta, só.

– Daí ela tem ansiedade?

– Sim, eu fiz com que ela tivesse.

– Tipo, na receita?

– Não, por trauma.

– Que trauma?

Ela ergueu os ombros e olhou pro lado, bocejando no ombro da própria jaqueta de couro. O de paletó bocejou logo em seguida. O de sandálias quis bocejar, mas apertou os lábios forte – soltou um pequeno “Desculpa” que ninguém ouviu – e retomou suas perguntas:

– Se a gente comer, ela vai sentir?

– Talvez. Não sei. Acho que não. Sintam-se livres; ela não vai reclamar de qualquer jeito, é só uma torta.

Após todos compartilharem um mesmo olhar, buscando permissão nos olhos dos outros, consideraram-se liberados para fitar a torta com vigor. Rapidamente enfiaram os garfos por entre a massa e recheio a trazê-los saborosos para a boca. Seus rostos davam a entender que estavam gostando. A torta não estava gostando tanto.

O de paletó balançava os braços de um lado pro outro, antecipando o que estava prestes a dizer:

– Tem um recheiozinho de doce de leite. Amei!

O de brincos embrulhou toda a boca, preparando-se para engolir algo grande, como se faz com um comprimido. Logo seguiu a cabeça toda em um arco para trás, endireitando a garganta. Assim que passou pelo pescoço, o homem comentou, em tom misto de curiosidade e tristeza:

– O meu tava com uma pedrinha...

– Ela faz isso às vezes.

Os juízes todos acenaram a cabeça em compreensão. Assim que engoliu seu pedaço, o juiz de sandália finalmente deixou solta a pergunta que estava formulando desde que viu a placa:

– Você parou pra pensar sobre as implicações éticas disso?

– Sim!

– Que bom! – E pegou uma garfada da borda, sua parte favorita na grande maioria das tortas.

A juíza de galochas segurou um pensamento por um tempo, até ter certeza de que sua contribuição fazia sentido.

– E, vem cá, não pensou em decorar com o Frankenstein, ou algo assim?

– O monstro?

– Não, o doutor. Vincular a torta com um ícone cultural forte já dá uma familiaridade, sabe? Primeiro que você já tem a estética de terror gótico. Daí o pessoal vê um cara meio merda que criou vida só pra fazer ela sofrer e você pode apelar para tipo, “você quer ser um merda que nem ele”?

– É, as pessoas querem ser merda hoje em dia. – O juiz de brincos apontou, mesmo com a boca cheia de torta, enquanto ligava o celular para tirar uma foto do pedaço que comia.

– Eu não... – O juiz de paletó fez esse comentário com o que parecia ser muita sinceridade, o que fez com que a própria moça se sentisse pressionada a colocar a mão em seu ombro enquanto ele pegava um bocado de cada uma das tortas em seu prato.

– Mas daí você não pensou da torta gritar não, ou essa sua compaixão feminina não conseguiu aguentar? – Ele questionou sem levantar seu olhar; estava ocupado tentando impedir que o sal – ainda vazando do pedaço anterior – se espalhasse pela torta atual.

– Quê? Uh… – Ela tentou ignorar o comentário e estender um prato novo, um que não tivesse sal jorrando dele, mas o avaliador nem percebeu seu gesto. Ao ver que a pergunta era de interesse dos outros juízes também – estando agora todos a encará-la com forte olhar de intriga –, recuperou-se para dar uma explicação. – A questão é que… elas costumavam poder falar direitinho, só que as tortas de quando eu tava acertando a receita rapidamente obtiveram acesso a um banco de dados compartilhado que formou meio que um subconsciente coletivo… o que significou que elas começaram a armazenar informações sobre quem as comeria para tentar aperfeiçoar sua habilidade de manipulação, então…

– Oh!

– É… eu tive que mandar minha mãe pra uma terapia por um tempo.

– E o gato, como é que tá lá o Torresmo? – a juíza fez questão de perguntar antes de terminar de anotar em seu caderninho temático de éguas (completo com uma capa de duas delas no meio de um salto ao cair da noite).

– Tá bem! Teve uma infecção urinária há um bom tempo mas já se recuperou!

Todos os juízes fizeram cara de compaixão pelo Torresminho. Mesmo sem perceberem, o fato de que não o puderam ver este ano já os tinha predisposto a descontar do fator de entretenimento. Em seguida, a juíza continuou com o questionamento:

– Mas então o banco de dados lá, elas ainda fazem isso?

– Sei lá.

Recebida a resposta, ela fingiu estar fazendo uma anotação, mas estava terminando de fazer um esboço de uma nova égua, tentando ajustar os músculos das pernas para fazer parecer menos com um cachorro. O de sandálias assumiu, e continuou a conversa:

– Devo notar, só, que o meu pedaço tinha um trechinho que parece que ficou preso na forma. Isso já começa a estragar a experiência de eu mesmo poder arruinar um ser vivo, entende?

– É... meio como uma banana, né?

– Mais ou menos isso.

Ela acenou a cabeça, indicando que entendeu as críticas, apesar de não ter nem prestado direito atenção a quem falou cada coisa; fez só uma nota mental indicando “mais banana”. Olhando para o de paletó, que parecia colocar um pouco do sal que saía – ainda – do pedaço anterior por cima da torta de maçã, quis perguntar:

– E você? O que achou no final?

– Eu gostei muito do seu vestido, fica justo em você.

– Ok? – Ela ignorou o comentário e focou no acessório que lhe parecia familiar – E você aí, do colar de cristal?

– Oi? – O de brincos olhou para baixo, em confusão, até perceber que era, de fato, ele mesmo que usava o colar. Quis corrigir e dizer que não era de cristal, e sim, por sua própria avaliação, um material policristalino, mas se reorientou a dar uma opinião sincera – Ah, eu. Eu não entendi a maçã... por quê?

– É, eu coloquei casca de banana, mas ficou com gosto de maçã. – Estava prestes a complementar sua frase com a hipótese de que ele teria, de alguma forma, pegado o colar dela na última edição do concurso, sobre a qual estava ficando mais e mais certa, mas antes:

– Ela perde pontos por isso? – o juiz olhou para o de sandália a esperar sua decisão. Foi respondido em pouco tempo:

– Saber que não foi por intenção dela é meio triste, já que maçã é bem pecado original, sabe?

– Se bem que maçã não é o pecado original, é outra fruta. – A juíza de galochas comentou, partindo a desenhar outro cavalo fêmea; tinha decidido que as duas estariam se beijando.

– Mesmo assim, culturalmente, entende? – O de sandálias reiterou seu ponto, não mais olhando para a concorrente diante de si.

– Então eu perco pontos ou não?

– Bom, isso a gente vai discutindo no caminho.

– Boa sorte! – Gritaram enquanto já se afastavam na direção do próximo confeiteiro a avaliar.

– Ei! – Ela foi em disparada até os juízes, tendo pulado por cima de sua bancada. Não foi impressionante. Era uma bancada curta. Mesmo assim, eles todos olharam fixamente para a mulher, apesar de continuarem seu trajeto como de costume, pois já se tinham removido mentalmente de estarem em conversa com ela. A moça, agora cansada demais para articular ideias minimamente complexas, só garganteou – Colar! Meu! – e o arrancou diretamente do pescoço do juiz de brincos, levemente o engasgando.

Na mente de todos, tinham acabado de observar um roubo à plena luz do dia, mas não se importaram muito – o engasgado tossiu um pouco, levantando a mão ao peito, porém logo se ajeitou e seguiu com os demais. A mulher, agora com seu colar de volta, voltou para perto de sua confortável folha de papel com texto em fonte Calibri. Vendo a pilha de sal que tinha se acumulado ao redor de sua tenda, ela se abaixou, colheu um pouco, e lambeu a mão como gato. Só naquele momento parou para pensar no fato de que, aparentemente, tinha acabado com uma estética de terror gótico completamente por acidente. Refletiu um pouco mais sobre como fazer dessa estética algo mais “banana”. Como estava cansada, parou de refletir. Sal bom.

Dessa vez, andaram todos juntos até a mesa do próximo participante, anunciando sua torta misteriosa de limão com um poster especial feito sob encomenda por algum artista hyperpop. O juiz de paletó parecia particularmente animado, pensando que desses dois outros confeiteiros ele podia esperar coisas de um nível mais profissional.

– Oi oi, sejam bem-vindos!

– Gostei do poster já. – O juiz de brincos chegou já animado para o que essa barraca traria, lembrando-se de quem a operava.

– Eu não. – A juíza de galochas disse desapontadamente, como se isso não fizesse parte de sua avaliação e fosse só um comentário pessoal. Absolutamente fazia parte de sua avaliação, ele tinha acabado de perder pontos na categoria de estética e apresentação.

O juiz de sandálias não sabia o porquê, mas sentia uma fúria primordial com relação ao homem apresentando tortas à sua frente. “Que doido.” Não se lembrava do ano passado o suficiente para entender como conseguia ter tanta vontade de socar alguém, mas continuou com sua postura descontraída.

– Bom, essa torta é minha, claro. Eu não estou aqui para plagiar tortas né, haha! – Ninguém riu. Já tinha acontecido antes e foi uma bagunça para todos os envolvidos. – Mas sim, eu fiz essa aqui de limão porque o azedo é até que importante para o que eu quero alcançar aqui com ela, sabe... assim... é, haha...

– Vejamos, então... – o juiz de paletó anunciou enquanto se esticava para servir a todos um pedaço. – Mas o que que ela–?

Caiu duro no chão antes que terminasse a pergunta. Com ele, o pedaço de torta com sal, que se espatifou por inteiro, deixou uma pilha de sal que parecia se reabastecer conforme se espalhava por aí, lentamente crescendo em volume.

– Ah, sim. A torta te mata quando você encosta nela.

E, com um olhar confuso, os outros juízes tentaram entender a situação. Após um bom tempo processando, a de galochas finalmente superou a má primeira impressão do poster e deixou seu entusiasmo pelo potencial do que testemunhava assumir o controle da conversa:

– Ah! Agora eu entendi! Cê vai abrir um negócio de vender essas tortas, né?

– Sei lá, eu até- ha, é, tava pensando meio nisso, mas não tenho certeza.

– Vende, vende sim! O mercado de suicidas tá crescendo, sabe? É um bom negócio.

– Mas você não acha que um produto de uso único assim não limita as próprias vendas?

– Você não tem cabeça pra ganhar dinheiro, não? Olha... – ela foi virando seu caderninho de anotações até encontrar uma página que não contivesse éguas. – Pensa assim: da forma que vem o produto, daria pra expandir para um comércio adjacente meio mercenário, entendeu?

O homem avaliado parecia ter expandido ainda mais seus horizontes. De pensar no quão valiosa tinha sido já a experiência, deixou cair uma lágrima na torta, que se vaporizou instantaneamente ao atingi-la.

– Que foi? – A juíza perguntou, afastando o caderninho para que o choro não tivesse nem a oportunidade de cair sobre seus cavalos. O de sandálias pensou em fazer alguma piada sobre tirar o cavalinho da chuva, mas não sabia como.

– Não, nada... Sabe, é que. Meu Deus! Vocês realmente... Nossa. Antes das tortas eu realmente sentia que eu não tinha nada, e agora toda essa... ai…

Os juízes assistiram impacientemente o homem, que se forçou a respirar fundo ao encarar os olhos sérios que o rodeavam.

– Eu pensei nessa torta quando eu tava passando por umas… dificuldades, sabe? Então eu espero que se eu possa vender isso, ela fique sendo um símbolo de recuperação – tipo, eu que mato as pessoas agora, olha só...

– Ah! AAAAAAHHH! – O de sandália gritou alto, em um estado de êxtase que parecia ter desencadeado uma leve taquicardia. – Eu lembrei de você! Você é... cê é o cara que eu achei que era tipo o oposto de um übermensch, né? É por isso que eu quero te socar tanto... Ok. Tá fazendo sentido o meu cérebro agora.

Ninguém sabia exatamente como reagir ao comentário, de modo que o próprio comentador se colocou a progredir a avaliação:

– Já que a gente já está falando disso, é a terceira vez que eu tive que perguntar isso hoje, mas cê já não pensou sobre a moralidade disso?

– Ah, sim. Eu tive uma aparição divina há umas semanas já e Deus falou que tava ok.

– Então você acredita numa moral única e objetiva? – O juiz riu para si mesmo: “É, bem coisa de último homem.”

– Não sei. Ver Deus complicou um pouco as coisas, acho.

– E como é que Deus se parecia? – O juiz de brincos aproveitou para sanar uma curiosidade que teve enquanto admirava o colar em seu próprio pescoço, tendo já se esquecido do fato de que não era para estar mais lá. Ao olhar para cima, percebeu que tinha feito o avaliado corar em um vermelho preocupante. Parecia que estava prestes a explodir.

– Meio como você, pra ser honesto. Ha ha...

– Legal. – Ele não entendeu o que isso significava. Para se distrair, pegou um pedaço da torta. Cremezinho bom.

Tentando se manter calmo, apesar de odiar profundamente quando algum de seus colegas interrompia suas interrogações, o de sandália tirou uma folha do cabelo, sem saber exatamente de onde ela tinha vindo. Ao perceber que poderia seguir sua linha de perguntas, fez exatamente isso:

– Você teve que planejar muito pra fazer ela matar?

– Não, na verdade.

– Como é que você fez então?

– Eu só, sei lá, quis bastante?

Por entre três éguas discutindo sobre seus problemas matrimoniais, a juíza de galocha se certificou de anotar que o terceiro avaliado tinha força de vontade enquanto traçava uma reta entre “terceiro concorrente” e “ligar para o tio Henrique” com um símbolo de caveira.

– Só uma coisa, vamos ter que te pedir para limpar por si próprio o pedaço que ficou no chão antes que alguém pise por acidente. Até porque a gente alugou esse espaço aqui, entende?

– Claro, claro.

Os juízes deixaram o confeiteiro com um aperto de mãos. Estavam começando a ficar cansados. O de brincos, com pressa de acabar já, tentou se lembrar do que seria o protocolo:

– Que que a gente faz sobre o Pinheiros?

– Queima o corpo, ué?

Completamente sem querer, os dois tinham dado a mesma resposta a uma oitava exata de diferença. Isso pareceu fazer com que o material do colar, que era basicamente 75% monocristalino, brilhasse ligeiramente, mas seu portador estava preocupado com outro assunto.

– Não não, sobre as notas que ele daria para os outros concorrentes.

– Ah, isso? – O de sandálias pegou um pouco do sal que estava se empilhando agora quase até seus pés antes de continuar sua fala. – Eu já tenho isso preparado, deixa eu colocar eles pra rodarem um dos avisos. Pode indo para a próxima torta que eu chego para avaliar junto.

O juiz de brincos acenou compreensivo.

– É, vai indo você na frente, só, que eu acho que a minha galocha ficou suja com o pedaço que caiu. – Ela disse, abrindo o zíper na parte de trás do calçado para ficar só com as galochas internas. Essas eram vermelhas; as de antes eram transparentes.

O juiz restante estranhou as duas desculpas diferentes, mas seguiu adiante até a barraca mais bem decorada possível. Tantos e tantos de cartolina e glitter em roxos e dourados se faziam convites a um novo mundo; sem dúvida um novo mundo de sabores. As tortas de formato inconvencional prometiam uma experiência sem igual, cada uma decorada com sua própria pétala lilás.

Ao olhar para o homem por trás das tortas, uma ruga de curiosidade se formou por entre os brincos do juiz.

– Você foi o segundo colocado do ano passado, não?

– Pelos últimos 40 anos. Inclusive, onde está o vencedor agora?

– Em casa. Ele disse que tava num episódio depressivo.

– Que chato pra ele...

O juiz voltou para o celular, fazendo planos para depois, apesar de o senhor estar muito disposto a continuar conversando. Fizeram um longo silêncio. Ao perceber que estava sendo encarado diretamente, e temendo faltar com o profissionalismo diante de um ancião da arte de fazer tortas, tomou a liberdade de apontar para a pilha de sal que agora se estendia desde seu companheiro caído até seus pés e perguntar para seu avaliado:

– Quer?

A resposta veio na forma de um restringido balançar da cabeça para os lados esboçando um “não”, com uma curta explicação:

– Pressão sanguínea.

O de brincos fez que entendeu. Assim se dispuseram a esperar quietamente que todos os juízes estivessem prontos. A de galochas, enquanto chegava, já se colocava como a primeira a falar:

– Desculpa o atraso! Mil desculpas – O de sandálias ainda aproveitou para levantar as mãos como se fosse alvo da polícia. – Mas o que que cê tem para apresentar? Tô vendo várias tortinhas.

– São tortas de bomba. – O senhor anunciou sorridente.

– A gente não baniu explosivos há uns 20 anos, 22 ou algo assim? – O de brincos perguntou, pois jurava de ter um motivo significante por trás daquela decisão.

– Tecnicamente explosivos são permitidos, a questão é ser reconhecido no noticiário como um atentado terrorista. – O concorrente disse, levantando de sua bancada uma cópia impressa do excerto do livro oficial de regras da Comissão que se referia ao assunto. Ele logo enrolou o papel de novo e prosseguiu com sua apresentação. – Mas não, não são explosivos. É que um amigo me convidou pra ver ele participar do concurso de alguma coisa chamada bomba de chocolate, que eu fui ver só depois que era pra ser um doce. E, no espírito de tentar trazer algo de novo aqui para o nosso concurso eu não parei de pensar naquilo lá.

– Então isso é pra ser algumas dessas tais “bomba”? – O de sandálias disse, chacoalhando um dos calçados para ver se ele se ajustava de novo, pois estava prestes a cair.

– Não, são tortas mesmo. Mas eu preparei como se fossem bombas. Ó, sirvam-se, que vocês vão entender melhor!

Os juízes já tinham provado tortas menores em suas vidas, mas, por algum motivo, apesar de serem muito mais diminutas que uma torta normal, essas tais “tortas de bomba” pareciam ser do tamanho adequado para o que eram. Antes de sequer pensarem em aproximar da boca, tatearam tudo o que podiam do estranho quitute. Profissionais em obra: uma vista sem igual! Como seguiam as instruções da Comissão, seu método de avaliação para OTNIs era sincronizada até os centímetros e milissegundos. Jogaram o doce para cima uma vez, avaliando seu peso, e logo cheiraram toda a superfície em zigue-zague. Da avaliadora de galochas, surgiu uma pergunta crucial:

– A gente come a pétala?

– Não, acho que ela dá caganeira...

– Certo.

Parecia ser algo perfeitamente adequado, porém os juízes seguiam nervosos. Olharam-se em comunhão: fariam isso juntos, na garra! Colocaram a ponta das tortas por entre os dentes e, fechando os olhos, deram uma mordida. Tendo sobrevivido, olharam entre si, com a comida na boca, e passaram a língua por todas as diferentes fases do pedaço amostrado. Deixaram a saliva dissolver um pouco a massa, virando mais e mais uma pasta doce, até finalmente engolirem tudo. Usaram o momento de trazer guardanapos aos lábios como merecido descanso, na tentativa de compilar suas opiniões. O de sandália sentiu a necessidade de começar uma frase, nem que só para forçar seu cérebro a terminá-la uma vez que já a tivesse introduzido às pessoas ao redor:

– Nossa, é bom mesmo! É... é como se...

Não foi suficiente. Era indescritível.

– É tipo uma torta, só que–

– Bom, é uma torta, não? – O senhor insistiu.

– É? – O de brincos estava perguntando legitimamente. – Você tá com o trecho aí que fala sobre o que é considerado uma torta?

– Não, infelizmente.

– E cê tava com o sobre explosivos!?

O confeiteiro desviou o olhar para a esquerda, escondendo uma risadinha ligeira em sua barba:

– Eu gosto daquele trecho, é humorístico.

Os juízes olharam para o senhor com fortíssimo estranhamento. Não entenderam se é porque já estava meio cego, ou se já não se importava mais, mas ele nem reagiu aos rostos de seus avaliadores. Deu um longo suspiro e começou somente a ruminar:

– Sabem, vocês, eu tenho participado desde a edição de 1973. Faz 50 anos exatos que eu comecei, e mesmo assim nunca ganhei! Já tá na hora, não?

O homem de sandálias, ao ouvir isso, se contorceu bem para coçar as costas enquanto pensou em alguma resposta vagamente apropriada.

– É, é. Vou ter que pensar mais, porque acaba que é bem... conceitual.

O senhor assistiu aos juízes se afastarem desconfortáveis – carregando para longe sonhos de mais de 50 anos – e manteve um semi sorriso inabalável.

– Muito obrigado pelo tempo de vocês.

Anotando o resto de seus pensamentos, os juízes se aglomeraram para enviar suas notas para o sistema de registro, que já determinaria o vencedor a tempo da cerimônia de premiação. Apertado o botão de confirmação do envio, o de brincos se voltou novamente para a bancada do confeiteiro para tirar uma dúvida.

– Pergunta, se um cara falou que viu Deus e que Ele se parecia com você, qual seria uma reação apropriada?

– Ah, eu acho que foi uma tentativa estranha de flerte. – A juíza respondeu, tendo se segurado todo esse tempo diante do que, para ela, era óbvio. Mas logo o concorrente complementou:

– Não, não, Deus parece com você mesmo. Eu posso confirmar.

– Legal.

Ela violentamente mordeu os lábios tentando aliviar o fato de seu palpite estar errado.

– Por sinal, eu quero te falar uma coisa. – O senhor falou.

– Falar com quem?

– A de galocha e sandália.

Os dois juízes aos quais essa descrição servia apontaram para si mesmos, confusos sobre com quem o concorrente queria falar, até se lembrarem que eram a mesma pessoa, e simplesmente usando um par de sandálias por fora das galochas vermelhas.

– Ah, o quê?

– Eu gostei dos seus desenhos de cavalos... Eu olhei alguns deles de relance e... achei eles bacanas.

– Ah, obrigada! Mas são éguas...

– O quê?

– São éguas.

– Certo, certo...

– Bom, às vezes são cavalos também, mas são principalmente éguas.

– Certo.

Ela começou a se perguntar se o homem tinha feito alguma expressão que não fosse aquele semi sorriso, até ele comentar:

– É que eu tenho um cavalo no meu sítio.

Ela já não sabia mais o que responder e meramente se afastou junto ao seu colega de trabalho. Sussurrou:

– Eu não vou muito com a cara dele.

– Homem estranho, né?

Ficou surpresa quando ele falou que precisava resolver algo com o confeiteiro que tinha matado o Pinheiros, mas a reação logo evaporou quando viu os dois indo juntos para trás de uma das tendas. “Ah, de fato é junho...” Aproveitou para mandar os desenhos de éguas para sua terapeuta, como tinha sido requisitado. As duas se entusiasmavam por esse tipo de coisa.

Passado certo tempo, assoviou para anunciar sua presença e convocou a gritos seu colega, indicando que voltasse para assistir à premiação. Assim que terminou, a oradora oficial do evento fez o mesmo para toda a plateia de antes 7, agora 6. Um a um, foram se encaixando nas cadeiras de plástico de frente ao palco.

– A gente tinha uma oradora oficial? – O de brincos quis saber.

– É que ela chegou há uns 3 minutos.

Ligaram-se as luzes. A oradora da Comissão, ainda um pouco ofegante, começou seu discurso:

– Sejam bem-vindos à cerimônia de premiação do Concurso Anual de Tortas de 2023. Primeiramente, como oradora oficial desta edição de 2023 do Concurso de Tortas, é com um grave peso no coração que anuncio a morte de um dos nossos juízes do evento, por favor, todos, um momento de silêncio por esse falecido profissional avaliador de tortas.

A apresentação passou rapidamente pelos slides já preparados para o luto dos outros juízes até chegar nas fotos do defunto. Por falta de opções, recorreram a fotos dele fazendo biquinho e em várias posições instigantes que a Comissão conseguiu extrair das conversas privadas dele com sua esposa. A plateia inteira ficou de pé em silêncio, por respeito à grande perda na comunidade mundial de tortas.

– Não imagino que precisemos descrever sua influência em como entendemos as tortas em seu verdadeiro potencial artístico para vocês. Por isso, não vamos. Mas planejamos honrá-lo de uma outra maneira. Recebemos, ao longo do tempo, diversas reclamações das mulheres participantes que seu comportamento trazia tendências inapropriadas. A Comissão gostaria de aproveitar para reiterar que sempre se propôs a construir um espaço de confecção de tortas acolhedor para todos os gêneros. Dito isso, decidimos honrar a memória do recém-morto por meio de um desconto simbólico de 3 pontos nas notas de todas as participantes femininas deste evento.

Uma mão se levantou na plateia. Era da que fez a torta que podia ser morta, que agora estava com sua atenção dividida entre a dúvida e um guia na internet chamado “Como deixar suas tortas goated e banana pilled em 5 passos simples”.

– Eu tenho ume amigue não binárie que às vezes participa, como é que elu ficaria?

– Ele não saberia o que significa, então provavelmente ele discriminaria contra, né? Elu pode perder 3 pontos também, que seja. – A oradora disse, não entendendo o que na arte de fazer tortas parecia atrair tanto desses LGBT. Estava irritando já. Ficou de perguntar para sua namorada depois. – Sem mais demoras, apresento a vocês o vencedor de nosso concurso, por favor, suba ao palco...

Na projeção para a plateia, o slide estava prestes a mudar, mas não sem antes fazer uma pirueta que o deixou picotado em mil pedaços espalhados pela tela como confete enquanto a animação de uma janela sendo aberta marcava a transição a um próximo slide. Vazio, claro. Ele primeiro foi preenchido de cor e modelos tridimensionais girando festivamente até aparecer, letra por letra, o texto: A – T – O – R – T – A

– Meu Deus, eu fiz uma torta, pode ser a minha! – Gritou o homem da torta de limão.

V – E

– Todo mundo fez uma torta, cala a boca! – Respondeu a confeiteira da que podia ser morta.

N – C

– Eu vou arrancar sua pele com um ralador! – Ninguém entendeu exatamente quem falou isso.

E – D – O – R – A – É – A – :

Efeitos sonoros de tambores rufando acompanhados de imagens de gatinho balançando baquetas.

– Torta de Morango Salgada da Vee! Nossa primeira vencedora mulher!

Vitória precisou ser convidada a se levantar, porque suas pernas, por si mesmas, estavam em firme dormência. Era ela mesmo? Então erraram o nome. Mais do que por felicidade, ela quis chorar de não fazer a menor ideia do que estava acontecendo.

A plateia, composta somente do resto dos concorrentes, aplaudia com compostura e dignidade.

– E agora, você tem direito ao seu desejo a ser realizado pela Comissão! Que seria...?

– Eu quero ir pra Disney! Eu posso ir pra Disney?

– Infelizmente, a comissão não permite o financiamento de voos desde 2001.

– Vocês podem matar o meu primo, então?

– Tem um motivo específico para isso?

– Não sei.

– Ok. Bom, espero ver todos vocês no nosso próximo ano de tortas.

Infelizmente, as operações da Comissão só continuariam até março de 2024, em que um escândalo internacional envolvendo um de seus maiores doadores provocaria uma investigação que revelaria atividades criminosas conectadas à Sociedade Global de Tortas e sua relação com diversas tentativas de golpe em múltiplos estados latino-americanos.

[afterthelambs]

PLEASE spill the Makoto cop tea. I'm always down to hear people's thoughts on that

Thanks anon! I do my best to keep this blog positive-vibes only, but since you asked I will answer. Warning: DO NOT read this post if you do not want to see any criticisms about Makoto Nijima from P5 + discussions of police. This is not hate towards the character or her fans. It's just criticism for the writing choices and their implications for her.

Makoto Nijima does NOT want to reform the police. There's a mandela effect in the fandom where everyone seems to think she does, but rewatch her rank 10. Reform isn't mentioned at all. I'm so serious. What she actually says is this:

Within her confidant, the context is the host that was preying on her friend Eiko. Wanting to stop situations like that is good and makes sense 👍 The writers framed her decision to become a cop as a response to the most clean-cut black-and-white situation ever.

But here's the thing though: what happens when the lawless and the victims are the same people? Because in the real world, crime tends to concentrate among the poor and marginalized. The real world is not black and white. And I try to separate my personal experiences with the law from the media/art I engage with, but that doesn't work here because the game at large doesn't portray society as black and white.

There are a number of people in this game that do wrong because they have been hurt or are marginalized or did not receive proper help. A lot of mementos requests are about 'lawless' people and yet many are portrayed as 'due to systemic issues' or a lack of support or developing mental illness. It's also not a coincidence that Akechi is the most marginalized of all the phantom thieves and he was the one who did the most crime. There is deliberate social commentary here. People do not become lawless out of nowhere. They are shaped by their circumstances. And the game itself sympathizes with these people, focusing on changing/ helping them. The game's conclusion is that providing support and rehabilitation is the solution. Rehabilitative justice > Punitive justice.

Police wouldn't achieve that. Police in the game are framed as corrupt and incompetent at their core. Our protagonist is one of their biggest victims to demonstrate how they are weaponized against the weak. Even Sae Nijima at the end of the story has shifted to become a defense attorney rather than attempting to reform it (best character arc btw) because she recognized that the system is broken. And you can't even blame it just on Shido controlling the police because we see that the problems persist beyond him. By the end of the story they remain useless or outright harmful. The police do not help or rehabilitate, they only punish.

So no, this isn't me projecting my personal issues with cops onto the story because within the game's own story, law enforcement is not the solution. If it were a question of reform, we could debate about whether police reform is possible, but again: Makoto doesn't care about reform. It never comes up. According to the writers, she wants to be a cop because she thinks not enough lawless people are being punished. You can argue that her wanting to 'head an organization' means she wants to be in a position of power where she can reform them, but remember that police only enforce the law. They do not make the law. If reform was her goal she would be a politician. (I honestly thought that's what she was set up to be, since she was student council president and all but I digress)

Also a small detail, but notice how she mentions destroying the lawless before she mentions helping victims? It's super minor but I think it's indicative of the cop mentality. There's greater priority on punishing than helping.

I also dislike this conclusion to her arc because it's net zero character growth. You're telling me the character that was rebelling against corrupt adults' orders is now becoming a cop, the biggest bootlicking profession of them all? She started the story being a well-intentioned pushover, and she's ending her story being a well-intentioned pushover. And it doesn't matter whether she as an individual is a good person or not. All cops comply to be active participants in a system that is designed to hurt the weak and prop up the powerful.

TLDR: You do not help victims by punishing the 'lawless'. You help victims by helping victims. Period. Makoto becoming a cop is a contradiction of this and her own character arc. Either the writers did her dirty by not thinking this through or this is meant to be who she really is, and both those possibilities upset me.

[hikayunas]

🫀

[sage-is-in-fact-very-tired]

I'm fighting a losing battle

*has a theory that has yet to be entirely debunked*

[kasarian]

aiyo wala na talaga reach ko sa tumblr when it comes to art :') toughie, but eh lets see.

[loveletterworm]

I think an issue i've developed is that every couple years my standards for blog organization seem to rise but I still don't change the way I run my blog, so now a little over 2 years after moving to this blog in part for the purpose of starting fresh with my reblogs organized by topic instead of the giant scary blob i had for the better part of a decade before that, I am now experiencing mild frustration over the fact that my reblogs aren't tagged for the characters in them so i can't look through an ordered list of pictures of Scrombly Blober or whoever the hell i have to sift through like 200 random text posts i also made about the thing Scrombly is from. but if i consider setting up sideblogs so that i could more reasonably do this without convoluting the tag system on my main by having to account for every single different thing in the world at once then i get too hung up on the various logistical difficulties of such an endeavor and don't do anything forever.

[pomefioredove]

now I'm actually invested in this idea. maybe I'll write a full length fic someday idk... for now I have short hcs

parts 1 | 2 | 3 | kalim | bad ending

summary: crowley decides to "give away" yuu to the highest "donation" for financial reasons type of post: headcanons characters: all nrc students additional info: can be read as platonic or romantic, except malleus is pretty romantic, second person pov, yuu is gender neutral, maybe a little ooc I wrote this as soon as I got up

crowley has had his fair share of "what the fuck" moments from you but this was really taking the cake

he acts so... casual about it?

swaggers into ramshackle one morning and says times are tough and your personal expenses are straining the budget so he's decided to "put you in someone else's care"

"The screening process will be vigorous to make sure you end up in good hands!" like you're a cat or something "Your expenses will be covered and you'll have somewhere to go during break!"

okay great. pretty obvious you have no say in this, so you don't even argue. what's the worst that could happen?

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Ace, Deuce, Jack, and Epel find you the next day to say they're pooling their money to buy you

"To what?"

Epel shrugs. "Oh, well Crowley said we need to offer a donation to prove we're capable of supporting you..."

(you think that if not for the laws of this land you would have slaughtered that old fart)

Jack goes on a really long tirade about how shady and underhanded this is, making sure to reaffirm that he believes you should be free to make your own choices

"So you'll let me go once you get me?"

"Uhhh..."

Ace thinks once they buy you you'll have no choice but to do all of his homework for him

Deuce says that's not really how it works- and even if he tried, Riddle would kill him

(they've already gone over this twice before finding you)

Epel happily volunteers to take you home with him over breaks, probably the only positive in this mess

even if he thinks the whole thing is kind of funny

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

incapable of keeping his mouth shut, Ace accidentally spills the plan to Riddle, who is understandably aghast

you can't just give away a person under your care like a toy!

of all the irresponsible things...

of course, he'll have to put up his offer, too

purely for your sake! with a nicer room and a brand new copy of the dorm rules, maybe you'll stop getting yourself into trouble

he's got some family money (doctors, naturally) and considers this a worthwhile purchase, for his sanity and yours

of course, Trey and Cater overhear and may or may not be pooling their own cash for a chance, too

going behind Riddle's back on this is a risky venture, but hey, someone's gotta be on your side, here, right?

I mean, between a bunch of sixteen year old boys, the housewarden, and them, who would you choose?

actually don't answer that

...not that it's much of a secret, anyway. Cater's already got their gofundme equivalent link in bio

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Leona initially plans to have you become a live-in lackey like Ruggie

but then he really starts thinking- and, hey, the possibilities are endless, right?

for one, you'd make a really good pillow

he might have to kick Grim out for your full attention, but you could learn to live with that

and malleus would hate it

...that's reason enough for him

plus, he's got money to burn, so why not?

either way, he sets his bid at a reasonable (maybe too confident) price and sits back to watch the chaos unfold as everyone scrambles for a piece of the pie

news travels fast around school, after all

then Ruggie finds out that you could dethrone him as Leona's #2 and is understandably a little annoyed

that's his cushy post-grad job gig, thank you! he's worked hard for that!

besides, why should Leona get to hoard you? the guy can barely take care of himself!

so, Ruggie ends up outsourcing to a few dozen classmates for the necessary funds at a steep I-owe-you price

he's gonna be eating nothing but dandelions for a while...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

now, Azul is annoyed

once the news goes school-wide, it's all anyone can talk about

talk about good marketing...

why didn't he think of such a brilliant scam? he could have negotiated with Crowley to have a café brand deal tie-in!

of course, he's already set his bid, with Jade and Floyd offering to pitch in as necessary

it's a risky investment, sure, but a worthwhile one

Azul tells everyone that with the prefect's "obvious" popularity, having them at the café a few nights a week would drive sales through the roof

though that's really just what he says to shirk suspicion

a likely excuse coming from him, though, really, it would just be nice having you around

and if not for his own affections, Floyd's incessant begging and Jade's subtly manipulative comments about "how nice" it would be having a new face around would be enough for him to cave eventually

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

"Kalim, no," is the first thing that Jamil says

"I strongly advise against this. It's another one of Crowley's silly scams and you could end up a target bec- are you even listening?"

hint: he is not

the second Kalim found out that he could get to take in his favorite magicless student like one of his treasures, he was all over it

(AKA infinite sleepovers)

and for what? a little optional donation to prove he's got the funds? he's got cash to spare!

he's already got your new room in Scarabia set up before he even puts his bid in

right next to his of course :)

and despite what Jamil insists, he himself might be working behind the curtain just a little to ensure he's the one who ends up with you

after all, why should Kalim get everything? this might be a valuable learning opportunity for him

You don't always get what you want

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

as much as Epel tries to keep the rest of his dorm from finding out, it's inevitable

he's actually a little surprised that the news didn't get to Vil sooner

with Rook around campus, surely he must have said something...

when Vil does find out, though, he just sighs

oh, of course. what next, will everyone meet each other in the arena and fight to the death over the prefect?

of all the silly, immature things...

oh? what's that? he's bidding anyway? of course he is, silly potato. he can't have some unwashed miscreant making you sleep on polyester bedding

(really, he's the only person on campus worthy of your time)

Rook has also been mysteriously absent from the dorm lately, though his initials on a poem and a strangely large sum of money end up in the donation pile

but really, that could be anyone... Rook would never dare betray Vil again, right?

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Ortho finds out directly from the other first years and sends Idia the details immediately

with a little note of encouragement, of course: "could be excellent for improving your social skills!"

Idia understandably freaks out

"WTF!!!! nooo way! this is a person, not a chatbot we're talking about here! I can barely keep virtual pets alive!!!!"

(liar)

(...but this is still different)

the conversation ends there, but semi-anonymous bid from someone named "gloomurai" gets cashapp'd directly to crowley

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

everyone in the room immediately turns to Malleus

"For the record, I think it's wrong to be bargaining over a human being," Silver says first. "But if anyone could handle it with grace, it's you."

Lilia laughs. "Oh, you're just saying that because you like the prefect so much!"

"Father, you're the one who likes the prefect so much,"

"Oh, right! carry on then. After all, I'm sure we could share,"

Sebek is the only one relatively against the idea, though Lilia luckily manages to get him to lower his voice after his third speech about how you aren't good enough for his liege

Malleus is rather quiet through the whole evening, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with any of the points made

he disappears for a short while, and when he comes back he seems a little more confident

though, of course, he goes to you first

seeing him at Ramshackle in the middle of the night is a familiar and welcoming sight after all of the chaos of your week

and he's in a great mood!

"Child of man! I've come with news," he says. "I have heard of your predicament and have come up with a solution!"

you immediately sulk. "Oh, no. You know I think this whole thing is terrible, right?"

"Yes, Silver mentioned you might not like the idea of being bought and sold like a trinket. But worry not, I do not plan on paying for you in money,"

you pause, at a loss for words, and then tentatively continue. "You're not...?"

"Of course not. What a primitive idea, I was baffled to hear it myself. My proposal will be more traditional: a modest sum of treasure, and a generous amount of livestock and the finest crop Briar Valley can offer,"

certainly he's not this naive, you think

"You really think Crowley is going to accept that over money? I'm pretty sure Kalim just bid away an entire country's worth,"

he laughs. "You speak as if this is some kind of business deal! I'm quite confident that my dowry will be best,"

huh. that was a strange way of putting it

but then again, you still didn't really understand how things work here, so you go along with it

and you allow yourself to relax. he seems confident in his offer, and he doesn't even see you as some kind of prize to win!

"Oh, well, alright. Thanks! I'm glad you're on it,"

he smiles. "Rest assured, child of man, you're in good hands. My dowry will far outshine the others, and the wedding will be even better,"

"I was honestly getting a little nervous for a momen- wait- wedding!?"

[bi-writes]

whats wrong with ai?? genuinely curious <3

okay let's break it down. i'm an engineer, so i'm going to come at you from a perspective that may be different than someone else's.

i don't hate ai in every aspect. in theory, there are a lot of instances where, in fact, ai can help us do things a lot better without. here's a few examples:

ai detecting cancer

ai sorting recycling

some practical housekeeping that gemini (google ai) can do

all of the above examples are ways in which ai works with humans to do things in parallel with us. it's not overstepping--it's sorting, using pixels at a micro-level to detect abnormalities that we as humans can not, fixing a list. these are all really small, helpful ways that ai can work with us.

everything else about ai works against us. in general, ai is a huge consumer of natural resources. every prompt that you put into character.ai, chatgpt? this wastes water + energy. it's not free. a machine somewhere in the world has to swallow your prompt, call on a model to feed data into it and process more data, and then has to generate an answer for you all in a relatively short amount of time.

that is crazy expensive. someone is paying for that, and if it isn't you with your own money, it's the strain on the power grid, the water that cools the computers, the A/C that cools the data centers. and you aren't the only person using ai. chatgpt alone gets millions of users every single day, with probably thousands of prompts per second, so multiply your personal consumption by millions, and you can start to see how the picture is becoming overwhelming.

that is energy consumption alone. we haven't even talked about how problematic ai is ethically. there is currently no regulation in the united states about how ai should be developed, deployed, or used.

what does this mean for you?

it means that anything you post online is subject to data mining by an ai model (because why would they need to ask if there's no laws to stop them? wtf does it matter what it means to you to some idiot software engineer in the back room of an office making 3x your salary?). oh, that little fic you posted to wattpad that got a lot of attention? well now it's being used to teach ai how to write. oh, that sketch you made using adobe that you want to sell? adobe didn't tell you that anything you save to the cloud is now subject to being used for their ai models, so now your art is being replicated to generate ai images in photoshop, without crediting you (they have since said they don't do this...but privacy policies were never made to be human-readable, and i can't imagine they are the only company to sneakily try this). oh, your apartment just installed a new system that will use facial recognition to let their residents inside? oh, they didn't train their model with anyone but white people, so now all the black people living in that apartment building can't get into their homes. oh, you want to apply for a new job? the ai model that scans resumes learned from historical data that more men work that role than women (so the model basically thinks men are better than women), so now your resume is getting thrown out because you're a woman.

ai learns from data. and data is flawed. data is human. and as humans, we are racist, homophobic, misogynistic, transphobic, divided. so the ai models we train will learn from this. ai learns from people's creative works--their personal and artistic property. and now it's scrambling them all up to spit out generated images and written works that no one would ever want to read (because it's no longer a labor of love), and they're using that to make money. they're profiting off of people, and there's no one to stop them. they're also using generated images as marketing tools, to trick idiots on facebook, to make it so hard to be media literate that we have to question every single thing we see because now we don't know what's real and what's not.

the problem with ai is that it's doing more harm than good. and we as a society aren't doing our due diligence to understand the unintended consequences of it all. we aren't angry enough. we're too scared of stifling innovation that we're letting it regulate itself (aka letting companies decide), which has never been a good idea. we see it do one cool thing, and somehow that makes up for all the rest of the bullshit?

[parfaitblogs]

peace ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you self isolate, and spencer knows better than to let it get too bad. 

pairing: spencer reid x reader genre: hurt/comfort tags: established relationship. suicide ideation? ("i want it to end"). depression. lots of stuff that coincides with that. brief mention of reader not eating/having no food. please be aware of your triggers. i think i mention reader as a girl somewhere? word count: 1.9k a/n: i finished this then relistened to peace (taylor swift) which was the og inspo for this, and added a section in the middle so if it feels weird its because i failed at integrating it! this was supposed to be out two days ago. all my relationship insecurities in a fic. lol how embarrassing here's my heart tumblr dot com!! anyways enjoy ily all

also posted here on my ao3 !

Three consistent raps against your front door was the only sound that got you up that day, pyjamas that you had not shed from your body in a week hanging off a frame that could probably be described as lifeless — with the nearly dead-looking face to match.

In fact, the only thing to prove you were still a living human being aside from your movement, was the pink hue around your eyes, on your nose, and above your lips, indicating how much you had cried recently. 

Usually, it isn't this bad. You just need a day or two of rotting in your apartment and doing nothing but scrolling on your phone until it died, staring at the wall, or — on the better days — watching reruns of a 90s sitcom that you don't really watch. 

But it was exceptionally bad this time around, for some odd reason, and not one part of you actually wanted to get up and out of bed for long enough to be productive about your day. Your phone had died again, after charging it two days ago, which meant you were on day six of no communication with anybody. Which might partly be why it was so bad now. 

You had a blanket wrapped around your body, dragging against the floor as you wiped your eyes and let out a small sigh, unlocking your front door and opening it, completely unsurprised by the person standing on the other side. 

He was the only one who ever paid enough attention to your disappearing act when you were like this. 

His eyes softened at the sight of you — which is kind of amusing, considering you thought you looked like death reincarnate currently. 

Neither of you said anything as you stepped aside to allow him in, the door clicking shut behind him as he placed down the leather bag he had slung over his body, turning back to you as he finally allowed the frown to appear — one you knew he would've had the entire way here.

"Have you eaten today?" was the first thing to break the silence — the question coming out so gentle you were sure you'd break down again at some point in the next few seconds. 

You wordlessly shook your head, and he nodded his own, saying nothing else as he walked into your kitchen, knowing you'd trail behind him no matter what. 

He opened your fridge first, before closing it when he was greeted with the alarming sight of nothing. Doing the same with your pantry, at which he turned around to look at you.

"Angel, you have no food," he said. And while it held no malice in the tone of his voice, you could tell he was slightly annoyed at the fact. Your heart ached. 

"I know. I'm sorry," you mumbled, and his eyebrows creased inwards. 

He didn't mention your apology — arguing with you about your vast use of 'sorry's' is futile. "Do you want a pizza?" he asked instead, and even though you, mentally, did not, you knew he wasn't actually asking. So you only nodded your head, and found a place at your countertop, the blanket falling from your body and pooling to the ground in a heap.

He ordered a pizza, and then he was nudging your knees apart, standing between them while you stayed sat on a stool, his chin atop your head, that was buried into his chest. 

And he said nothing, as he held you like that until the pizza arrived. And then he ensured you had at least eaten two slices, the remainders going in your fridge for the next meal you needed to eat. 

He was so kind to you, with his every movement, as he dragged you into the bathroom to help you shower. 

It was heartbreaking, the love you could see in his eyes. The tenderness in every stroke of his fingers against your scalp as he washed your hair, the softness in his touch as he did the same to your body. He gently dried you, told you to stay there, disappeared, and returned with one of his many t-shirts left in your apartment drawers. 

That was when you cracked. When he pulled the shirt over your head, that smelled so painfully Spencer and you. The mix of his clean scent and your own laundry detergent that you were so accustomed to, triggering something in you.

So, you crumpled to the floor of your bathroom, and he followed soon after, his arms wrapped around your body once more, firm enough to keep you still as you sobbed into his chest. 

You weren't sure how long you stayed like that for. Long enough for your head to hurt, and your eyes to sting, and hideous snot bubbles to stain his cardigan. 

When your sobs subsided, he spoke. 

"You wanna talk about it?" he said, quietly, and you shook your head. 

"Don't know what to talk about," you mumbled, and he knew that all too well.

He nodded his own head. "Did something happen?"

"Lots of little things."

"Yeah? You wanna tell me about them?"

You hesitated, because you didn't know where to begin. But then you nodded your head wordlessly, swallowing the lump — and, by extension, the sob — in your throat. "I fell down on the stairs at the train station in front of everybody. And then I missed my stop, and I was late to work. And I had a huge project due, but I didn't finish it, and I forgot I hadn't finished it, and I was anxious about it all day. And I think my friends are just pretending to be my friends, because I keep trying to make plans with one of them, and she keeps blowing me off for her boyfriend. And I'm just really sick of being sad all the time, Spencer. I want it to end."

With the onslaught of your bad vignettes throughout the past month coming back up, you broke down, again. Another sob escaping your lips as you pushed your fists down into the tops of his thighs.

If it hurt, he didn't say anything; simply continued to hold you against his chest, on the floor of your bathroom, that, if it were any other time, he would be having a field day rambling about the germs you both were currently sitting on. 

He also didn't say anything for a while as you sobbed, instead his fingers entangled gently in your hair, and he peppered kisses along the top of your head. 

"I don't want it to end for you," he finally said. His hands slid down from your scalp to your face, holding your cheeks with such tender, pulling you back so he could look at you. 

You sniffled. "I'm so exhausted."

"I know, my love. I know," he sighed, thumbs caressing over your cheekbones. "Ending it won't fix that. You know, logically, however you die is the state you'll be in, in the afterlife. So if you die while you're exhausted..."

"You don't believe in the afterlife," you answer, but his words still cracked through your tearful expression, and your lips twitched with a small smile. 

He returned the small smile, nodding his head. "That's true. But I also don't know anything about post-death. I could be wrong."

"How terrible," you mutter, and he laughed, quietly. 

"I know," he mused, falling silent for a few moments longer, with only both of your quiet breathing to break the silence. 

His fingers ran through your hair once more, and you sniffled audibly, your brain wandering away from the small content you had felt in that exchange, and back to one of the many reasons why you had isolated in the first place. 

"Why are you still with me?" you said, slicing through the silence all at once. 

You watched the smile fall, and his eyebrows furrowed, and his lips part as he went — and hesitated — to say something. "What do you mean?"

"I'm difficult." Your voice is impossibly small, and it breaks a crack in his heart as his eyes soften. 

"No. You're not," he reassured. 

"Yes I am," you breathed out — and then the tears came back. "I get sad and then I stop responding and stop seeing you, and you don't get any warning even though I know you should, and I feel so awful every time but then that makes me feel worse. And I'm sad all the fucking time, Spencer. I mean, I get upset when you aren't at home and you have to deal with all those messages and calls even though you hate texting, but then you get home and I'm isolating myself because I'm sad, on top of all the other things that make me sad, and you deserve better. You deserve someone who can give you their all and—and—"

"Hey," he cut you off, as did the sob that was ripped from your throat. "No. That's not what we're going to do. Do not sit there and tell me what I do and don't deserve." 

"But you do deserve better."

"No," he sighed, resting his forehead on your own, warm breath fanning across your face that usually made you scrunch your face up and pull away, now comforting you. "Do you love me?"

"What? Yes, of course I do. Why would you even—"

"—That is the only requirement I have for you," he said, oh so simply. When you didn't reply, he pressed, "Okay?"

"Okay," you murmured, and he relaxes a little.

More silence fell between you, your tears subsiding and your shaking body relaxing a little more. 

Then, "Did you hurt yourself when you fell down?"

You nodded your head, reluctantly pulling back from him so you could show him. You pointed to a yellowing bruise just below your knee, and the grazes on the bottom halves of your palms. 

"Oh, wow. Look at these," Spencer said, running a thumb gently over the grazes on your hands. "You're braver than me. These would've taken me out."

You laughed, and you saw his face light up at the progress he was making with you, and your mood. 

He then pulled you back into his chest. More silence, but less anxiety, and you sat comfortably in his arms for a few moments longer. 

"Did I worry you?" you say. "Not responding?"

You were so close to him you could hear his breath hitch, and you prepared yourself for a lie about how he wasn't worried at all. Except; "Honestly? Yes."

"Oh."

He exhaled, shakily, and you were kind of glad he couldn't see your sadder expression, half-buried into his chest. 

"You've never gone that long without checking in," he then explained. "The first two days I got what was going on. By the fourth I figured you still needed space. Today I just had a gut feeling."

"Just a gut feeling?" you echoed, and you felt his head nod against your own. 

"Thought you might need someone."

You sighed. "I hate that you're a genius."

"No you don't."

"No, I don't."

His fingers entangled in your hair again. "I also didn't figure you needed me here because I'm a genius."

"No? Then how?" you asked.

"It's simple," he murmured, tugging your head back oh so gently so he could look at you again — puffy eyed, and tear-stained cheeks and all. "I just know."

"That's the most illogical sentence I've ever heard leave your mouth."

He laughed, and you smiled again.

"Come on," he then said, untangling your limbs and pulling the both of you up to your feet, hands ghosting your waist to hold you steady. "I am willing to sit through whatever awful movie you want me to watch."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

[thesoulshyperrealaslacreatura]

The 2023 Annual Pie Baking Contest

– We will now start this edition of our pie baking competition with a few words from our special guest!

The announcer's message prompted huge roars from the audience (catching the announcer off guard in turn, as she – working under contract from an outsourcing company – did not expect such excitement coming from a 7-person pie contest). More yelling came as the recording appeared on screen. Therefore, as soon as the backup organizing team turned on the projector, they fled as quickly as possible for the backstage to see if their noise-cancelling headphones were to truly work properly. They began to understand the reason for receiving those in the first place.

– Welcome everyone to the Official Global Pie Baking Commission’s 2023 Annual Contest. It is an honor to be the special guest of this edition. As you know, I am currently under sentence for intentional homicide, so I am sincerely grateful that my presence was considered important enough for the Commission to set up this entire infrastructure for me to be able to speak here. Everyone, a round of applause for the Commission!

All attendees stood to celebrate with perfect composure – including the guest, whose head didn't completely fit into the camera as he raised himself from his chair. They soon returned to their seats, now even more united than before.

– Yeah... wow, I don't even know what to say. I- I mean…

The detainee began to tear up as he laughed, moved by the situation – the entire audience shared the same feeling and, in their own time, started to get teary-eyed themselves.

– It's just... it's... – by now he was reduced to stuttering, fully lacking strength to complete even one single, measly idea, inspiring several audience members to place their hands to their chest.

He took a deep breath, already thinking about bringing back stability to his speech. He tried his best to soften his gulps of air; unredden his face; relax his eyebrows and so on.

He thereby began to miserably bawl. The recording suddenly stopped as he curled in on himself. The audience stomped their feet to celebrate the guest like one would for a rock star.

After two minutes of a surprisingly solid rhythm coming from an explosive-sounding wooden floor, a rookie organizing assistant had to be forced by the rest of the team to make the final announcement, seeing as no one else was willing to do so. With extreme hesitation, she proclaimed:

– Let the- the pie evaluation begin! Yeah, uh... – Hearing the same screams, one thought came to mind: “They must really enjoy their pies.”

She was right. They really enjoy their pies.

Everyone there for the competition assumed their positions and began to wait – visible anticipation on their faces – until 10 o'clock sharp. 9:59. 9:59. 9:59. 10:00 – like automatons, they started moving again.

The judges approached the simple decorations of the first tent: some stickers with drawings of virulently smiling strawberries invited them to enjoy what a small wooden sign called “Vi’s Savory Strawberry Pie”. A girl in an apron approached excitedly.

– It's a strawberry pie, except I added a good dose of salt to it.

– Wait up! You're new, I can tell... – One of the judges, a very tall and well-dressed gentleman, reprimanded her directly while writing down in his notepad.

– You have to introduce yourself first, okay? – Another judge wearing cheap looking sandals explained, laughing.

– Oh, sorry, of course. – She seemed to have turned red like one of her strawberries.

To overcome tensions, the man in sandals tried his hand at some haphazard comment:

– I think you're Vi, right? Don't worry, it's quite common not to get the grip your first time round. But we here, we want to see not just the pie, but the experience as a whole to evaluate, okay?

– We want to assess whether the pie eating experience is fully concordant! – His colleague in galoshes said didactically.

– But yeah, we ask for everyone's name, even if it’s already known. – The one in a suit commented, nodding his head, entirely bluffing about actually understanding what she meant by that.

– Well, yeah, I- I'm Vi, as in Victoria, and my grandmother was also called Victoria, but with an “i”. And since the original recipe was hers, the name could be kept.

– So your name is not spelled with an “i”?

– No! – and, seeing the confused faces of the judges, she contorted her brain to see if it could make something understandable come out of her mouth – No, because yes, in this case! It’s written with an “i”, yes...

– So... – The fourth judge, who until then had been sending messages on his cell phone, was finally trying to catch up on what he had missed.

– So, I don't know why I said that.

– Haha! I get that. You’re cool. – He spoke, not having clarified anything, but, looking at the decorations for the first time, appreciating the designs.

She turned even redder.

– Well, as I said a while ago, it's strawberry with a good dose of salt.

– Oh really? Is that good? – the same judge, who Vi was finally realizing had a flighty appearance by nature, tried to get straight to the point while dangling his earrings playfully. It was now or never.

– Why yes! It's a family recipe. – And, offering the each of the judges a set of cutlery and a well-decorated slice of pie, she extended the invitation – Would you do the honors?

Trying to adapt to the fact that they had received very small plates – and mentally discounting this from the presentation and service rating – the evaluators started with the first cut. In an attempt to portion out a bite that contained an adequate quantity of strawberries, one could hear the simple sound of the fork delicately piercing a cushioning layer of cream. Just by cutting through the cream, the mind was already distracted from thinking that in a few moments they would have a good handful of it filling up their mouth just as its smell was already filling up their nostrils, and–

TAC!

Once that layer was finished, the extra strength of the evaluators reached the bottom of the pie far too easily as the cutlery collided with the plastic plate – hence the tambourine sounding noise. Curious about what had happened, they paid further attention to the phases of the composition, realizing that there was a practically hollow portion between the topping and the bottom; then a continuous sound. Granular. An hourglass? The passage of time was revealing the true nature of the pie...

Salt leaked as if it came from a punctured package – pristine, unaltered salt – agglomerated inside the structure of the pie. It seemed never-ending. In fact, the examiners didn't wait for the salt to finish dripping onto the plate before getting some pie in their mouths. They moved the strawberry pieces around with their tongues while they felt all those grains molding around their movements. When swallowing, the distinct irritation in the mouth from the pure salt that had not accompanied the rest of the food down the throat – accumulating itself under the tongue and in other corners. The judges kept looking at each other:

– The combination of the name and specificity of the recipe already makes you stand out with regards to what you’re promising with your pie. – The judge in galoshes pointed out as she furtively wrote something in her notebook.

– Yes, I actually liked it. – The judge in a suit said, adjusting his spine, as he bent over to eat instead of just bringing the plate up to your own height.

– Thank you very much.

The competitor turned to the only one who didn't comment anything, waiting for him to stop scratching his eyelids and express any opinion at all.

– If I may, well, ask what your thought were?

– What? Oh! It was actually good... Yeah! Yes, I liked it!

The one in sandals raised his hand, and as soon as he received Vi's attention, he reversed his movement. He voiced a tiny doubt:

– Can I just make an... addendum?

She nodded yes. He continued:

– Your cream was very wet; if the pie’s presentation didn't already make your lack of experience clear, that would have already given you away. It completely ruins the theme and honestly makes you look like a bit of a coward for not committing to the clear two-act structure – normality into absurdity – when you try to soften it with such watery toppings. Either your grandmother was too busy spoiling you to actually make something great or you imposed your own insecurities on her recipe and I don't know what would make you look worse. Either way it's deeply undignified, is what I mean.

Tensing up every muscle she could to keep herself from crying, Victoria desperately sought reassurance from the previous judges. The one in a suit began to speak, adjusting his spine:

– Yeah, I liked it, I just, I don't know... too. He spoke well.

– Well I... uh. I thought it was cool, personally – The one with earrings mentioned, with great difficulty on focusing on the woman’s eyes. – Yeah... – Neither of them inspired much confidence.

– But thank you very much for participating, yeah? Focus on your niche and next year you will bring something better, for sure! – And, with that, the woman in galoshes gestured to the entire group to head for the next assessment.

Victoria nodded; there was no way she was going back next year. She went back to a corner of the tent wondering if it was worth holding back her tears.

The well-dressed man, who had taken a while to keep up with the others, bent down again to lick his finger with some of the salt – still continuously dripping. Upon seeing the girl on the ground, he asked himself for a second whether it would be appropriate to say something, and concluded that it would be best to say nothing at all. Unfortunately for the judge, Victoria had already raised her face and was now looking directly at him, waiting to hear some other discouraging line; he had to meet these expectations with whatever seemed at least a little bit encouraging:

– You look pretty when you get like that.

Feeling proud to have helped out a struggling newcomer, he ran his ten fingers through the running salt at the same time with his eyes fixed on her, trying to preserve the friendly atmosphere he had built. Before that face covered in tears showed any reaction that could contradict the idea that he was doing a great job, the man took advantage of his height in relation to the tent to cut the line of vision that had formed between them by simply erecting his spine once more, and began to suck each of his fingers from left to right. He picked up the plate of salt on his way out, letting it spit out wherever he went.

The next tent had no thematic decoration. The scene was of a common market stall with a paper marked in Calibri text: “Sapient Apple Pie”. Galoshes and sandals, having spotted the sign, quickened their pace to a frenzy – it was a name that certainly raised expectations. Following that, a pair of earrings and a tie were made to dangle around the path, as the other two judges attempted to prevent a delay to the event.

– So… – Looking at the two men who arrived exhausted from their run, the woman operating the tent handed them each one Halloween-themed plastic cup of water.

– Thank you very much.

– Oh, I needed that. Cute. – He took the cup and started washing his hands, whose palms were entirely licked with traces of salt that he apparently had time to consume even amidst his rush.

They all waited for earrings to finish drinking, as his glottis released an aberration of a noise with each sip. The presenter was staring directly at his neck, which was originally in an attempt to figure out how it managed to create a sound like that – “originally”, as she was soon distracted by his mystical necklace, which looked a lot like the one she had lost in the last edition of the contest.

Trying to redirect the participant’s attention, the man in sandals cleared his throat, but ended up choking a little, forcing him to help himself to some water as well. The woman kept on anyway:

– Well, I'm just going to start… You must have already read my sign; you know what it’s about. I really thought of this project as an extension of last year's ideas, you know?

– So, it is a living being. – The judge in sandals began his round of interrogations while delicately massaging his neck.

– Yeah. It is deeply contemplative and especially concerned with the fact that we are merely in a text. But it’s just a pie.

– It has anxiety, then?

– Yes, I made sure it had some.

– Like, in the recipe?

– No, from trauma.

– What trauma?

She lifted her shoulders and looked to the side, yawning into her own leather jacket’s shoulder. The one in a suit yawned right away. The one in sandals wanted to yawn, but he pressed his lips together tightly – he let out a small “Excuse me” that no one heard – and then returned to asking questions:

– If we eat it, will it feel that?

– Perhaps. I dunno. Probably not. Feel free to do so; it won't complain anyway, it's just a pie.

After everyone shared a glance, searching for permission from others’ eyes, they considered themselves allowed to look at the pie with vigor. They quickly stuck their forks through the dough and filling to bring the delicious flavors to their mouths. Their faces seemed to show they were enjoying it. The pie wasn’t enjoying it as much.

The one in a suit shook his arms from side to side, in anticipation for what he was about to say:

– It has a little dulce de leche filling. I love that!

The one with the earrings clamped his mouth shut, preparing to swallow something large, as one would for a pill. His head then arched itself all the way back, straightening the throat. As soon as it passed the neck, the man commented, with a mix of curiosity and sadness:

– Mine had some sort of stone thingy in it...

– Oh, it does that sometimes.

The judges all nodded their heads in understanding. As soon as he swallowed his slice, the sandaled judge finally blurted out the question he had been thinking of ever since he saw the sign:

– Have you stopped to think about the ethical implications of this?

– Yes!

– Oh, all good then! – He said, as he took a forkful from the edge, his favorite part of most pies.

The judge in galoshes held one thought for a while, until she was certain of the fact that her contribution made sense.

– And, come here, didn't you think about decorating with Frankenstein, or something like that?

– The monster?

– No, the doctor. Linking the pie with a strong cultural icon already gives it a sense of familiarity, you know? Firstly, you already have the gothic horror aesthetic. Then people see a shitty guy who created life just to make it suffer and you can say, “do you want to feel like you’re as shit as him”?

– Yeah, people want to feel like shit nowadays. – The judge with earrings remarked, even with his mouth full of pie, as he turned on his cell phone to take a photo of the slice he was eating.

– I don't... – The judge a suit made this comment with what seemed to be a lot of sincerity, which made the girl herself feel pressured to put her hand on his shoulder while he took a bit from each of the pies on his plate.

– Did you consider having the pie scream out as it was being eaten, or was that feminine compassion of yours unable to handle it? – He questioned without looking up; he was busy trying to stop the salt – still leaking from the previous slice – from spreading into the current pie.

– What? Uh... – She tried to ignore the comment and hold out a new plate, one that didn't have salt spilling out of it, but the evaluator didn't even notice her gesture. Seeing that the question was of interest to the other judges as well – everyone now looking at her with some strong intrigue – she recovered in time for an explanation. – The thing is… they used to be able to talk just fine, but the pies from when I was working out the recipe quickly gained access to a shared database that formed a sort of collective subconscious… which meant they started storing information about who would come to eat them to try to improve their manipulation tactics, so…

– Oh!

– Yeah... I had to send my mom to therapy for a while.

– But your cat, how is little Crackling holding out? – the judge made a point of asking before finishing writing down notes in her mare-themed notebook (complete with a cover of two of them in the middle of a jump at nightfall).

– He’s fine! He had a urinary infection a good while back but has now recovered!

All the judges shared one face of compassion for good old Crackling. Even without realizing it, the fact that they couldn't see him this year had already had already mentally neutered how they evaluated the entertainment factor. Still, the judge went on to question:

– But then the database thing, can they still do that?

– I dunno.

Having received the answer, she pretended to be making a note, but was finishing a sketch of a new mare, trying to adjust the leg muscles to make it look less like a dog. The one in sandals took over, continuing the conversation:

– I should just note that my slice had a little section of it that might have gotten stuck in its mold. This is already starting to dampen the experience of being able to ruin a living being myself, you know?

– It's... kind of like a banana, right?

– More or less that.

She nodded, indicating that she understood the criticisms, in spite of not having even paid close attention to who said what; she just made a mental note indicating “more banana”. Looking at the man in a suit, who seemed to put some of the salt that was leaking out – still – from the previous slice on top of the apple pie, she wanted to ask:

– And you? What did you think of it in the end?

– I really like your dress, it looks tight on you.

– OK? – She ignored the comment and focused on the accessory that seemed familiar to her – What about you, crystal necklace guy?

– Huh? – The one with the earrings looked down, in confusion, until he realized that he was, in fact, wearing a necklace. He wanted to correct her and say that it was not made of crystal, but rather, by his own assessment, some polycrystalline material, but he reoriented himself towards letting out an honest opinion – Ah, me. I didn't quite get… apple? Why choose apple?

– Well, I actually chose banana peel as a flavor, but it ended up tasting like apple anyway. – She was about to complement her sentence with the hypothesis that he had, somehow, taken her necklace from her in last year’s contest, which she was becoming more and more certain of, but first:

– Does she lose points for that? – the judge looked at the man in sandals, awaiting his decision. He quickly had his query answered:

– Knowing that it wasn't her intention is kind of unfortunate, cause apples are very… original sin, you know?

– Although, that’s not quite apple either; that’s another fruit entirely. – The judge in galoshes commented, starting to draw another female horse; she had decided that the two of them would be kissing.

– Even so, culturally, you understand? – The one in sandals reiterated his point, no longer looking at the competitor before him.

– So do I lose points or not?

– Well, we'll discuss that along the way.

– Good luck! – They shouted as they already began moving towards their next baker to evaluate.

– Hey! – She dashed towards the judges, having leapt over her own table. It wasn't as impressive as it sounds. It was a short table. Even so, they all stared at the woman, continuing their journey as usual regardless, as they had already mentally removed themselves from being in conversation with her. The girl, now too tired to articulate even minimally complex ideas, just shouted – Necklace! Mine! – as she ripped it directly from the earring judge's neck, slightly choking him.

In everyone’s heads, they had just witnessed a robbery in broad daylight, but they didn't really care – the choking man coughed a little, raising his hand to his chest, but soon straightened himself up and followed with the others. The woman, now with her necklace back, returned to her comfortable sheet of paper with text in a Calibri font. Seeing the pile of salt that had accumulated around her tent, she bent down, scooped up some, and licked her hand in a cat-like fashion. Only at that moment did she stop to think about the fact that, apparently, she had stumbled into a gothic horror aesthetic completely by accident. She reflected a little more on how to make this aesthetic something more “banana”. She stopped reflecting, as she got really tired. Salt good.

This time, they all walked together to the next participant's table, who advertised his mysterious lemon pie with a special poster made via commission by some hyperpop artist. The judge in a suit seemed particularly excited, expecting stuff truly worthy of coming from pros out of the next two pastry chefs.

– Hi hi, welcome!

– I like the poster already. – The judge with earrings arrived already excited about what this tent would bring, as he remembered who ran it.

– I don’t. – The judge in galoshes said disappointedly, as if this was not part of her assessment and just a personal comment. It was absolutely part of her evaluation, he had just lost points in the aesthetics and presentation category.

The judge in sandals didn't know why, but he felt a primal rage toward the man presenting pies in front of him. "Huh, weird." He didn't remember the past year enough to understand how he could feel so intensely like punching someone, but still retained a relaxed stance.

– Well, this pie is mine, of course. I'm not here to plagiarize pies, right, haha! – Nobody laughed. That had happened before and it was a mess for everyone involved. – But yes, I made this one with lemon because the sourness is really important for what I want to achieve with it, you know... like... yeah, haha...

– Let's see, then... – the judge in a suit announced as he stretched forwards to grab a slice for everyone. – But what is it that–?

He fell hard to the floor before he finished the question. With it, the slice of salted pie, which was left completely shattered on the ground, gave way to a pile of salt that seemed to replenish itself as it spread around the place, slowly expanding in volume.

– Oh, yeah. The pie kills you when you touch it.

And, with a confused look, the other judges tried to understand the situation. After a long time of processing, the woman in galoshes finally got over her bad first impression of the poster and let her enthusiasm for the potential of what she was witnessing take control of the conversation:

– Oh! Now I get it! You're going to open a business selling these pies, right?

– I don't know; I was- ha, yeah, I was kind of thinking about that, but I'm not sure.

– Sell it, sell it! The suicidality market is growing, you know? Makes for good business.

– But don't you think that a single-use product like this kind of, like, inherently limits its own sales?

– You don't seem to have a head for entrepreneurship, do you? Look... – she turned over her notebook until she found a page that didn't contain mares. – Think about it like this: the way your product works, it could expand into a somewhat adjacent mercenary market, see?

The man had his horizons expanded even further. Thinking about how valuable this experience had already been, he dropped a single tear, which instantly vaporized once it reached his pie.

– What is it? – The judge asked, moving the notebook away so that the crying wouldn't even have the opportunity to get her horses wet. The one in sandals thought about making a joke about holding on to one’s horses, but he couldn’t figure out how to do that.

– No, nothing... You know, it's just. God! You guys really... Wow. Before these pies I really felt like I had nothing, and now all this... oh...

The judges impatiently watched the baker, who forced himself to take a deep breath as he stared into the serious eyes that surrounded him.

– I thought about this pie when I was going through some… difficulties, you know? So I hope that if I can sell this, it could end up as a symbol of recovery – like, I'm the one who kills people now, look...

– Oh! OOOOHHH! – The one in sandals shouted, in a state of ecstasy that seemed to have triggered a slight tachycardia. – I remember you! You're... you're the guy I thought was like the opposite of an Übermensch, right? That's why I want to punch you so bad... Okay. It's kind of making sense to me now.

No one knew exactly how to react to the comment, so the commenter himself returned to the evaluation questions:

– Since we're already talking about this, this is the third time I've had to ask this today, but haven't you thought about the moral aspect of this?

– Oh, totally. A divine intervention happened to me a few weeks ago and God said it was ok.

– So you believe in singular, objective morality? – The judge laughed to himself: “Yeah, a very ‘last man’ thing.”

– I don't know. Meeting God made things a little bit more complicated, I guess.

– Hey, what did God look like? – The judge with earrings took the opportunity to answer a curiosity he had while admiring the necklace around his own neck, having already forgotten about the fact that it was not supposed to be there anymore. As he looked up, he realized he had made the competitor blush in a worrying red. He looked like he was about to explode.

– Kind of like you, to be honest. Ha ha...

– Cool. – he didn't understand what was the significance of that. To distract himself, he grabbed a slice of the lemon pie. Cream good.

Trying to remain calm, even as he loathed his colleague for interrupting his questions, the man in sandals took a leaf out of his hair, not knowing exactly where it had come from. Upon realizing he could follow his line of questioning, he did just that:

– Was there a lot of planning required for it to actually kill people?

– No, actually.

– How did you do it then?

– I just, I don't know, really wanted it to do so?

Between three mares discussing their marital problems, the judge in galoshes made sure to note that the third baker must have quite a lot of willpower while drawing a line between “third competitor” and “call Uncle Henry” with a skull symbol.

– Just one final thing, we're gonna to have to ask you to clean up what was left on the floor yourself before someone steps on it by accident. We rented this place, you know?

– Of course, of course.

The judges left the pastry chef with a handshake. They were starting to get tired. The one with earrings, in a hurry to finish, tried to remember what the protocol would be:

– What do we do about Smith?

– Burn the body, no?

Completely unintentionally, they had both given the same answer an exact octave apart. This appeared to cause the necklace's material, which was basically 75% monocrystalline, to glow slightly, but its wearer was preoccupied with another matter.

– No, no, about the grades he would give to the other competitors.

– Oh, that? – The one with sandals picked up some of the salt that was now piling up almost to his feet before continuing his speech. – I already have this prepared, let me get them to play one of the announcements. You can move on to the next pie and I’ll arrive shortly.

The one in earring nodded in understanding.

– Yeah, you go ahead on your own, I just think my galoshes got dirty from the slice that fell off. – She said, unzipping the back of her shoes so that she was left with just the inner galoshes. These were red; the ones before were transparent.

The remaining judge found the two different excuses strange, but followed along to a tent that was about as well put together as it gets. Loads and loads of cardboard and glitter in purple and gold made for invitations to a new world; undoubtedly a new world of flavors. The unconventionally shaped pies promised an unparalleled experience, and were each adorned with their own lilac petal.

As he looked at the gentleman behind the pies, a wrinkle of curiosity took shape between the judge's earrings.

– You were second place last year, right?

– For the last 40 years, yes. In fact, where might the winner be today?

– At home. He said he was having a depressive episode.

– Sucks for him, I suppose...

The judge went back to his phone, making some plans for later, though the gentleman was very willing to continue talking. There was a long stretch of silence. Upon realizing that he was being stared at directly, and fearing appearing unprofessional in front of an elder in the art of pie baking, he took the liberty of pointing to the pile of salt that now extended from his fallen companion to his feet and asking:

– Want some?

The answer came in the form of a restrained shaking of his head from side to side, drawing a “no”, with a short explanation:

– Blood pressure.

The one with the earrings gave him an understanding thumbs-up. Following that, they were willing to wait quietly for all the judges to be ready. The one in galoshes, was already the first to speak as she arrived on the scene:

– Sorry for being late! Very much so – The man in sandals even took the opportunity to raise his hands as if he were a police target. – But what do you have to show here? I see several pies already.

– They're bomb pies. – The gentleman announced with a smile.

– Didn't we ban explosives about 20 years ago, 22 or something like that? – The one with earrings asked, as he could have sworn there was some significant reason behind that decision.

– Technically, explosives are allowed, the problem would be recognition in the news as a terrorist attack. – The competitor said, raising from his table a printed copy of an excerpt from the Commission's official book of rules referring to the subject. He soon rolled up the paper again and continued with his presentation. – But no, these are not explosives. It's just that a friend invited me to see him take part in a contest for something called a chocolate bomb, which, as I found out only upon arrival, is supposed to be some sweet treat. And, in the spirit of trying to bring something new here to our own competition, I couldn’t stop thinking about that.

– So, these are supposed to be some of those “bombs”? – The one with sandals said, shaking one of his feet to see if readjust one of them, as it was about to slip out.

– No, they're pies. But I prepared them as if they were chocolate bombs. Just help yourselves to one, you’ll understand things a little better!

The judges had already tasted smaller pies in their lives, but for some reason, in spite of them being much tinier than a normal pie, these so-called “bomb pies” seemed to be the right size for what they were. Before they even thought having these in their mouths, they absorbed everything they could of the strange delicacy. Pros at work; quite a sight! Following the Commission's instructions, their evaluation method for UPOs was synchronized down to the centimeters and milliseconds. They threw the candy up in the air once, assessing its weight, and then smelled the entire surface in a zigzag pattern. From the woman in galoshes, a crucial question arose:

– Do we eat the petal?

– No, I think you’d get diarrhea...

– Right.

It seemed perfectly appropriate, but the judges remained nervous. They looked at each other in communion: they were to face this together, with determination! They placed a small fraction of the pies between their teeth and, closing their eyes, took a bite. Having survived, they looked at each other, with the pastry in their mouths, and ran their tongues over all the different phases of the sampled piece. They let the saliva dissolve the dough a little, turning it into more and more of a sweet paste, until they finally swallowed it whole. They used the moment of bringing napkins to their lips as a well-deserved rest, in an attempt to compile their opinions. The one in sandals felt the need to start a sentence, if only to force his brain to finish it once he had already put himself in that position:

– Wow, it's really good! It's... it's as if...

That wasn't enough. It was indescribable.

– It's like a pie, except–

– Well, it's a pie, isn't it? – The gentleman insisted.

– Is it really though? – The one with the earrings was legitimately asking. – Do you have the excerpt that talks about what is considered a pie?

– No, unfortunately.

– And you had the one on explosives!?

The baker looked away to the left, hiding a slight chuckle in his beard:

– I like that part, it's humorous.

The judges looked at the gentleman with a very intense stare of estrangement. They didn't understand if it was because he was already half blind, or if he simply no longer cared, but he didn't even react to the faces of his evaluators. He took a long sigh and just began to ruminate:

– You know, I've been participating since the 1973 edition. It's been exactly 50 years since I started, yet I’ve never won once! About time, no?

The man in sandals, upon hearing this, bent his arm to scratch his back as he thought of some vaguely appropriate response.

– Yeah, yeah. I'll have to think more about this, because it ended up being quite… conceptual.

The gentleman watched the judges uncomfortably walk away, along with his dreams, bearing an unflinching half-smile.

– Thank you very much for your time.

Jotting down the rest of their thoughts, the judges huddled together in front of the tent to submit their scores to the registration system, which would determine the winner in time for the award ceremony. After pressing the confirm button, the one with the earrings turned back to the pastry chef's table for a query:

– Question, if a guy said he saw God and that He looked like you, what would be an appropriate reaction?

– Oh, I think it was a strange attempt at flirting. – The judge responded, having held this notion back all this time in the face of what, for her, was obvious. But the competitor soon added:

– No, no, God looks like you. I can attest to that.

– Cool.

She violently bit her lip in an attempt to alleviate the fact that her guess was wrong.

– By the way, I want to tell you something. – The gentleman added.

– Tell who something?

– The one with galoshes and sandals.

The two judges who fit this description pointed to themselves, confused as to which one the contestant wanted to talk to, until they remembered they were the same person, and simply wearing a pair of sandals outside their red galoshes.

– Oh, what?

– I liked your drawings of horses... I glanced at some of them and… I thought they were neat.

– Oh thanks! But they are mares...

– What?

– They're mares.

– Right, right...

– Well, sometimes they are horses too, but they are mainly mares.

– Right.

She began to wonder if the man had made any expression other than that half-smile, until he commented:

– I have a horse on my farm.

She no longer knew what to answer, and merely walked away alongside her co-worker. She whispered to him:

– I don't like him much.

– Weird guy, right?

She was surprised when he said that he needed to solve something with the baker who had killed Smith, but the reaction soon evaporated when she saw the two of them going together behind one of the tents. “Right, it IS June…” She took this opportunity to send drawings of mares to her therapist, as requested. They were both excited about this kind of thing.

After a while, she whistled to announce her presence and yelled to her colleague, telling him to come back for the awards ceremony. As soon as she did so, the official speaker for the event did the same for the entire 7-now-6-person audience. One by one, they all accommodated themselves in the plastic chairs facing the stage.

– We have an official speaker? – The one with the earrings wanted to know.

– She arrived about 3 minutes ago.

The lights came on. The Commission speaker, still catching up on her breathing, began her speech:

– Welcome to the 2023 Annual Pie Baking Contest Awards Ceremony. Firstly, as the official speaker for this 2023 edition of the Pie Baking Contest, it is with a heavy heart that I announce the passing of one of our event judges, Please, everyone, a moment of silence for this late professional pie appraiser.

The presentation quickly went through the slides already prepared for mourning the other two judges before arriving at photos of the deceased. Due to a lack of options, they resorted to photos of him pouting and in other intriguing positions that the Commission managed to extract from his private conversations with his wife. The entire audience stood in silence, out of respect for this great loss to the global pie baking community.

– I don't imagine we would have to describe his influence on how we understand pies in their true artistic potential to all of you right now. So we won't. But we plan to honor him another way. Over time, we received several complaints from participating women that his behavior carried inappropriate tendencies. The Commission would like to take this opportunity to reiterate that it is always engaged in building a pie baking space that is welcoming to all genders. That said, we have decided to honor the memory of the recently deceased judge through a symbolic 3-point discount on the grades of all female participants of this event.

A hand went up in the audience. It was from the one who made the pie that could be killed, asking a question with her attention divided between it and a guide on the internet called “How to make your pies goated and banana pilled in 5 simple steps”:

– I have a non-binary friend who sometimes participates, how would that go for them?

– He wouldn't know what that means, so he would probably discriminate against it, right? They can lose 3 points too, sure. – The speaker said, not understanding what it was about the art of making pies that seemed to attract so many of these LGBTs. It was beginning to annoy her. She thought about asking her girlfriend later at home. – Without further ado, I present to you the winner of our contest, please come on stage...

In the screen projected for the audience, the slide was about to change, but not before doing a pirouette that left it shredded into a thousand pieces scattered about like confetti while the animation of a window being opened marked the transition to the next slide. Empty, of course. It was first filled with color and three-dimensional models rotating festively until the text appeared, letter by letter: T – H – E – W – I – N – N – I – N – G – P – I – E

– My God, I made a pie, it could be mine! – Shouted the man with the lemon pie.

I – S

– Everyone made a pie, shut up! – Replied the baker whose pie could be killed.

T – H

– I'll peel your skin off! – No one understood exactly who said that.

E – P – I – E – N – A – M – E – D – :

Sound effects of drums beating accompanied by images of kittens swinging drumsticks.

– Vee's Savory Strawberry Pie! Our first female winner!

Victoria had to be asked to stand up, because her legs, by themselves, were firmly numb. Was it really her? They did get her name wrong. More than out of happiness, she wanted to cry because she had no idea what was happening.

The audience, made up only of the rest of the competitors, applauded with composure and dignity.

– And now, you have the right to a wish granted by the Commission! That would be…?

– I want to go to Disney Land! Can I go to Disney Land?

– Unfortunately, the Commission has not approved funding for flights since 2001.

– Can you guys kill my cousin, then?

– Is there a specific reason for this?

– I don’t really know.

– Okay. Well, I hope to see you all at our next pie year.

Unfortunately, the Commission's operations would only continue until March 2024, at which time an international scandal involving one of its largest donors would trigger an investigation that would reveal criminal activity tied to the Global Pie Society as well as its connections to several coup attempts in various Latin American states.

[obsessedwithceleste]

You’re Not Everyone Else

Lorenzo Berkshire x reader

Based on this request🫶🏽

Summary: Enz thought he knew everything there was to know when it came to wooing pretty witches, but it will take a lot more than the botanical gardens to win you over.

word count: 4.4k

©️ obsessedwithceleste. all works posted here belong to me and should not be reposted or copied in any way or form.

You glare menacingly at the offending bundle of flowers propped up perfectly against your pillow, practically glowing as the sunlight streams onto them through the window. As if it were a sign that the flowers were bloody heaven sent.

Daphne’s mouth is practically on the floor as she watches you dump the fresh bouquet of expensive looking tulips directly into the trash can.

The flowers had been waiting for you on your bed when you came back from class, and you didn’t need to read the note attached to guess who they were from.

You can tell that she wants to protest, but you cut her off before she’s able to even get a word in.

“Don’t. You know how I feel about Berkshire. It’s not going to happen.” You sigh, rolling your eyes at the mere thought of Lorenzo Berkshire actually managing to weasel his way into your heart.

That boy was no good. He had a pretty face and the charisma to go along with it. He was nothing but a womanizer and you had heard all the stories to prove it. In fact, there was probably an alphabetized list of all the girls that had fallen victim to Lorenzo Berkshire floating around somewhere. He practically had his pick of the litter when it came to the Hogwarts dating pool, and yet for some reason he had landed his sights on you.

You could remember the first time Daphne had brought you to the Parkinson estate, introducing you to all of her friends. He had been their. Young, but charming as ever. He had been kind then. And sweet. But that was just to lure you in. By Christmas that same year you had heard all about his escapades and wanted nothing to do with it.

Daphne, to her credit, had tried to dissuade you, vouching for her friend, but you could never quite see past the swirling whispers that seemed to damper the boy's shine. He was her friend. Fine. He had been her friend first after all, but that was all he'd ever be. A friend of a friend.

But it had been years at this point, of flowers being left in your dorm room, chocolates, even soppy love poems declaring his affection for you, but you were having none of it. And it seemed the more you pushed the boy away, the more determined he was to make you his.

“It’s so romantic though,” Daphne protests, looking like she’s debating fishing the flowers out of the trash can. It was the third bouquet this week. And it was only Tuesday.

“Pft. Manipulative is more like it. He only wants one thing Daph, and you know it,” you reply, collapsing onto your bed with an annoyed huff.

Your friend is silent for a moment, mulling over her words.

"You liked him at one point. You told me so," she says finally.

"Sure, when I was thirteen. He's only after me now cause he likes the chase. He'll get bored," you reply, rolling your eyes slightly and brushing off the girl's comment.

Your roommate lets out a sigh, wringing her hands as she takes a seat on her own bed across the room.

“Oh I don’t think Enz would do that to you. I’ve known him since we were kids. He seems so serious about this.” Daphne replies.

You’d heard Daph say that same thing what felt like a million times over since this whole thing started.

“Yeah, well. It’s going to take a lot more than the botanical gardens to win me over.”

Lorenzo Berkshire was infamously known around the halls of Hogwarts for his flirtatious tendencies. It didn’t bother him much, even though half the things being said about him weren’t true in the slightest. But really what was denying any of it going to do?

Let people think what they want was what he always thought. Only one person’s opinion really mattered anyway. Yours.

Lorenzo had always been the romantic of the group, not that there was really any competition for the title, but still. From the day he met you, he knew that you were the one. You were perfect. Funny, and smart, and kind, always playfully bantering with your friends.

He remembered the summer after third year when Daphne had introduced you to the group. All of you gathered at the Parkinson estate. You had swept Theo in chess and Lorenzo had just sat there staring at you. Completely mesmerized. After that everyone seemed to love you, and you seemed to get along with everyone too. Even him. At first.

The first few months were bliss. Lorenzo loved making you laugh, seeing you smile. He knew then that he was down bad. But then, halfway through your fourth year, it was like a switch had flipped. He didn’t have the faintest clue as to why you suddenly seemed to have a certain level of hostility towards him. But he knew that he missed you.

“What in Salazar’s name could I have possibly done wrong?” Lorenzo groans, head falling back, face in hands as he leans back on the common room sofa. “I thought I was doing everything girls want. I send flowers. I send sweets. I even wrote her heart felt poems about how I feel about her!”

“That is disgusting. Have some dignity,” Draco snorts from his spot across from Lorenzo who just sticks his tongue out at the blonde boy in response.

“Oh hush Draco. I think it all sounds perfectly reasonable,” Pansy remarks, giving Enzo a nod of approval.

“Well it would be perfectly reasonable if it worked! She won’t even give me a second glance. She’s so nice to everyone. Bubbly and sweet and talkative. But as soon as I’m around she clams up! Did you know she’s helping Mattheo with charms right as we speak? Bloody traitor he is.” Lorenzo laments.

To be fair, you had had an upstanding tutoring session with Mattheo for weeks now, instituted my Professor Flitwick, but minor details.

“Well she is pretty talented when it comes to charms,” Daphne says awkwardly, lips pursed as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, trying not to be noticed.

Pansy squints at her friend, squirming and fidgeting. It was entirely unlike her. She was usually the one with her head screwed on correctly.

“Hold on Daph. You know something. What is it?” She demands.

Daphne looks at the raven haired girl in alarm, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders not daring to utter a word.

“Daph, come on, look at this man. He’s utterly pathetic,” Draco adds, gesturing towards the distressed brunette. Enzo glares at his friend.

“Just spit it out,” Pansy orders.

“She thinks you’re just trying to use her for sex!” Daphne blurts out, crumbling under the pressure.

Lorenzo blinks once. Then again.

“What?”

Daphne just shrugs once more rather helplessly as the group just stares at her as if she would solve all of Enzo’s problems.

“To be perfectly fair, there are a lot of rumors about you that have been circulating for years. I think, you just might be coming off a bit- ah, disingenuous perhaps?” Daphne says finally.

She could practically see the gears working in Lorenzo’s head as he takes in her words. She’s a bit worried she’d broken him when he remains silent for what seems like forever.

“I have so much work to do,” he announces finally, standing up and marching off to his dormitory, a look of fierce determination sketched onto his face.

“Oh now look what you’ve done Daph,” Draco groans, looking at the retreating back of his friend.

“She’s the one who made me say something,” Daphne protests, pointing an accusatory finger at Pansy.

“Shush Draco. None of us wanted to hear him monologue about his undying love again anyway,” Pansy retorts.

To be quite honest, you were feeling a bit ambushed as none other than Lorenzo Berkshire plopped down beside you on the sofa that you had claimed in one of the rather abandoned corners of the library.

“Afternoon love,” he chirps happily, shooting you one of his famous smiles. The kind that normally made girls melt at the mere sight.

“Hello Lorenzo.”

“You never responded to my note,” the boy chatters on, ignoring your clear disinterest in his presence. You really weren’t sure if the boy didn’t notice, or didn’t care.

“What note?”

The boy blinks at you. “The note I sent with the tulips the other day?” He replies, as if it should have been obvious.

“Oh. I threw those away.”

“Oh, you threw them aw- what?” He asks, apparently caught off guard by your nonchalant answer.

“I threw them away, placed them in the trash can, sentenced them to eternal damnation. Do try to keep up Enz.”

“Wha- why?” He splutters, genuinely looking a bit hurt.

You look at the boy raising an eyebrow. "I throw away all of your flowers."

"All of them?"

"Are you daft?"

Lorenzo's jaw is practically on the floor, his ego clearly being knocked down a peg or ten.

"Yes- I mean no- I mean- why are you throwing away my flowers?" He splutters.

Growing increasingly more frustrated, you glare at the boy.

"Can you quite down? And if I can be quite honest Lorenzo, I'm not exactly your biggest fan. It's nothing personal of course, you understand," you sigh, trying to get back to your reading.

Enzo is having none of it however as he tries to replay every interaction he could think of between the two of you. He simply doesn't understand. He thought he'd never been anything but a gentleman to you.

"You don't like me? Me specifically? But- you like everyone!"

It was true. Lorenzo had never heard a bad thing about you from anyone. Not even Draco had a bad word to say since you seemed to go out of your way to show kindness to everyone around you.

"Yes well, you're not everyone else Lorenzo."

Lorenzo's mind races as he stares at you in shock. You looked awfully lovely today. Damn it, stay focused. He just wanted you to see him. Was that too much to ask?

"I'm not just trying to use you for sex!" he blurts out, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth, staring at you wide eyed. Real smooth Berkshire.

With a groan, you snap your book shut, closing your eyes in frustration as you realize that you're not going to be getting any reading done with Lorenzo sitting next to you.

Taking a slow inhale, you turn to get a good look at the boy beside you. Fluffy brown hair, warm, earnest eyes, only marred by the subtle pout adorning his lips.

“Let’s just say I were to give you a chance-“ you start.

“You won’t regret it. Pick you up at 8 tomorrow!” He replies, jumping in, the widest smile gracing his face.

Looking at the boy was like looking at a golden retriever puppy. You knew he was anything but, but how could you say no to that face?

“Alright Berkshire. One chance. Then, I never want to hear about this again.”

He was not going to blow this. He simply wouldn’t allow himself to. Everything that he had been working for these past months was leading up to this, he just couldn’t let it slip through his fingers. Enzo was giddy with anticipation as he lead you carefully down the cobblestone path.

“You better not be leading me out to the forest to murder me,” you call out to the boy behind you, his hands firmly in place over your eyes.

You were only half joking.

Before he even needs to respond, Enzo drops his hands and you’re immediately hit with bright sunlight.

“Where are we?” You ask in shocked amazement, staring around at the garden before you. It was straight out of a fairytale really. Bright, glowing green leaves, flowers of every color. There were even little, glittering sprites dancing about the flora.

“Hogwarts gardens. You never been?” Enzo asks, walking over to a spread on the lawn that you hadn’t even registered yet.

It was clear that he had put in some effort. The soft blanket laid out on the grass was littered with fruits and pastries, even a variety of little sandwiches.

“Didn’t even know this place existed,” you mutter, allowing the boy to guide you to a nice, sunny spot on the lawn.

“I’ve been working out here with Sprout for years. My favorite place,” Enzo tells you offhandedly, popping a strawberry into his mouth.

Under the warm sunlight, he looked unreal. Like an ethereal creature who took a wrong turn and somehow ended up sitting in front of you. You really could see what all the fuss was about when he was staring intently at you, a soft smile gracing his lips.

Wait.

Snapping out of your thoughts, you realize you’d been staring as well, but Enzo doesn’t seem to mind.

“I think Daph mentioned that you were some herbology buff,” you say in an attempt to recover a bit of your dignity.

Enzo smirks. “I suppose that’s one way to put it. I am top of the class.”

“I thought that honor went to Longbottom,” you reply, picking at the food in front of you.

Lorenzo's face turns to a grimace.

"He could be real competition if he weren't a such pyromaniac. Sprout is still giving him the cold shoulder after he almost burned her prized Cobra Lily. Thing deserved it though. Always hissing at me."

You don't know why, but you can't help but let out a laugh at the thought of the Lorenzo Berkshire having an ongoing feud with a plant.

"Haha, yeah. You laugh now, but that bloody plant has been antagonizing me for weeks. I'm one hiss away from dropping the damn thing off of the astronomy tower." He responds sarcastically to your laughter, only causing you to fall into a further fit of giggles. The brunette boy just sticks his tongue out at you in defeat.

"Oh come on now, that's no way charm a witch," you tease, pulling yourself together as you grin at the boy in front of you.

"Yeah, well I've tried every other way I can think of, so it was worth a shot," Enz replies, his joking smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Your grin falters as Enzo's eyes drop to the grass surrounding the both of you and you take in the sudden silence of the gardens.

"It's hard to believe someone actually likes you when you're just another face in the crowd," you say finally, not willing to meet the boy's eyes.

"You don't have to believe me now. I'll wait."

It was a moment of sincerity that you weren't expecting out of the boy. Usually he was all jokiness and smiles. Not a bad quality by any means, but you were never sure when you could trust the boy's words. You felt like you could trust him now though, in that moment.

After that, you find yourself quite enjoying your afternoon. You had forgotten how easily the two of you actually got on when you weren't avoiding the boy like the plague. He had so many stories about the gardens, and it quickly became apparent that the particular spot he had brought you to was his sanctuary. It was nice getting to hear him talk, without all the extra noise and whispers, and off-putting looks from your classmates. You had missed him.

In the days following your garden excursion, Enzo keeps his word- backing off a bit from his pursuit for your affection. He was still around of course as you shared a friend group, but the excessive love poems had stopped and the next bouquet of tulips that appeared in your dorm was addressed to both you and Daph which she was thrilled about.

Over the next few weeks, it did not go unnoticed by you that your eyes had seemingly become magnetized to a certain brunette boy, quietly observing. He'd caught you watching a few times, tossing you one of his famous, dazzling smiles.

Slowly, you find yourself seeking the boy out on purpose as you found that you rather liked the way he had been able to make you laugh so easily that day in the garden. You had forgotten how much fun he was to be around. How warm and happy you felt when he looked at you. And he was rather sweet when he wanted to be. You had known the boy for years at this point. You thought you could read him like a book, but he still managed to surprise you.

In fact, you were as surprised as anyone to find yourself seated next to the boy in your astronomy class. It was a relatively new seating arrangement, but you found that he made the late night class significantly more tolerable. You didn't know what time it was now, but it was late, and you were tired.

"If you fall asleep, I'm not going to catch you if you fall out of the tower," Enz whispers in your ear as you fight to keep your eyes open and trained on the night sky.

"Yes you would, you’re too obsessed with me to let me fall," you respond, still able to feel his breath on the back of your neck.

You couldn't remember when the two of you got so comfortable with one another, but it had happened so quickly you almost didn't realize. Almost.

He hums in response, backing away and scribbling down the name of some constellation before gazing out at the sky once more.

“Whose idea even was it to let sleep deprived teenagers take a class at midnight in a tower without railings. They’re practically asking for a student to fall,” you grumble, slumping against Enz dramatically.

He lets out a soft snort of laughter this time as he continues to chart different constellations onto his parchment. You had finished the night's assignment ages ago and now had nothing to do but watch him quietly, resting your chin on his shoulder as he draws perfect little stars.

“What’s that?” You ask, reaching over the boys shoulder to pull something out of the notebook.

The soft pink color had caught your eye, peeking out of the pages, and a gentle tug reveals the petals of a tulip, followed by a green step. The flower isn’t as vibrant as it should be, and is flattened like a book page.

Enzo pauses, looking at the flower carefully.

“That’s from the first time we met.” He says, trying hard to sound casual. He continues to stare down at his notebook, but the stiffness in his arm makes it clear that he isn’t focused on stars anymore.

You scrunch your eyebrows in confusion.

“Pansy doesn’t have tulips at the estate,” you reply, suddenly feeling more awake.

“No. But the greenhouse here does.”

Feeling even more confused, you tilt your head, waiting for Enzo to go on.

He carefully plucks the flower out of your hand, tucking it safely back into his notebook.

“The first time we met was in second year. We were learning the Herbivicus charm and I just couldn’t get it. But you got it so quick. You helped me, and that’s the flower we grew.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t even remember that day. It seemed so insignificant to you at the time.

“And you kept it?” You ask, your confusion amplified by your sleepy haze.

“I liked you,” is all you get in response.

You’re quiet after that, watching silently as Enzo scratches away at his parchment. His eyes flickering over to you nervously every so often. It was strange seeing him without his usual confident smirk.

As class eventually wraps up, the two of you slowly make your way down the winding staircase, quickly falling behind the other students who were racing off to get some much needed rest.

Your feet reach the final step with a muffled thud as you come to a hesitant stop. Normally this is where you and Enzo would split off for the night, but looking up at the boy, rays of moonlight glowing across his face, you can’t find it in yourself to move away.

With a sudden wave a confidence, impulsiveness, and probably a fair bit of deliriousness, you find yourself grabbing onto the collar of Enzo’s shirt, pulling down, and crashing his lips onto yours.

It takes a moment for realization to fully hit Enz, but you quickly find yourself back against the cold stone wall, Enzo’s lips still firmly on yours, deepening the kiss as he boxes you in. He moves against you with sheer lust, years of pining pouring out.

You vaguely feel his hand moving up your thigh, gripping tightly at your waist before moving up to cup your face, thumb brushing against your cheek softly tilting your head up further as his lips move against yours.

It’s hot, and dizzying, and just, right. You’re not quite sure how to describe it.

When Enz finally pulls away, you can feel his breath against your lips from his soft pants as he looms over you.

“I think a like you too,” you murmur, lips just barely brushing his with every word.

That’s apparently all Enzo needed to hear before he’s practically carrying you back to his dorm.

It’s a blurry haze as you find yourself pulling him onto the bed, lips connecting once more as your bodies move methodically against each other. It’s as if you’d simply turned off your brain, any worries or doubts scattering to the winds as Enzo’s warmth overtakes you.

The next morning a wave of icey cold fear washes over you as you realize what you’d done. What had you been thinking? All these years of avoiding him and for what? Rolling over in the tangle of sheets, Enz is still fast asleep, bathed in streams of sunlight peaking through the curtains. He really was gorgeous.

“Mornin love,” his voice shaking you from your thoughts.

“Hi,” you reply cautiously, turning to meet the boy’s eyes.

His eyes shine as he grins contentedly at you, pulling you closer so your noses are practically touching.

“I can tell what you’re thinking. Stop it. You’re stuck with me now,” he says, pressing a quick peck onto your lips.

Your face grows warm as he continues to pepper your face with kisses.

“I don’t ever want to leave this moment,” you sigh.

You can feel Enzo’s smile.

“I’m that good am I?” He asks cockily.

You snort. “Don’t want to have to admit to Daph that I can actually tolerate you for extended periods of time.”

“Aw, c’mon now love, don’t be like that,” Enz chuckles, tapping your nose lightly with his finger.

You can’t help but let out a small laugh as you feign annoyance, batting his hand away.

“I’m going back to sleep. I don’t want to deal with you anymore,” you tease, rolling over.

Enz just laughs, snaking his arm around you and pulling you close, pressing a kiss on the back of your head.

“Now that I have you, I’m not letting you go,” he murmurs as you allow your eyes to flutter shut once more.

“Wouldn’t want to be with anyone else.”

Did I start writing this way back in April? Yes. Do I remember what the original plot was going to be? No. Is this edited? Also no.

Anyway, Live Laugh Love Lorenzo Berkshire🤪

[gay-dorito-dust]

Will you do a scenario of how we’d meet Bill for the first time and what he would be like if you were sort of “friends”? 🙏

You were minding your business while walking through the woods of Gravity Falls, just needing a change of scenery and finding the woods to be the perfect place to do so with it’s mushrooms, flowers and the wildlife that crossed your path.

Everything was seemingly fine and not out of the ordinary until you started to feel like you were being watched from somewhere, you looked to see if you could spot anyone, but all you could see were birch trees that had markings on the bark that suspiciously looked like eyes. You were just about thinking of leaving until you heard a voice from somewhere.

‘Hey kiddo!’

You looked to the left, nothing

‘Other way kid.’

the to the right, nothing

‘Colder.’

Up? Nope, nothing.

‘You’re practically an human popsicle at this point.’

How about looking down? Still nothing. Now you were getting confused, scared and annoyed.

You heard the voice sigh and say ‘you’re starting to make me feel sad, here I’ll make this a little easier for you.’ Then before you could say anything, a small yellow triangle with one eye wearing a top hat and bow tie appeared before you.

‘It’s great to finally meet you y/n.’ It said and immediately you were freaked out.

‘Who are you and how did you know my name?’ You asked, uneasy.

‘The names Bill Cipher and I know lots of things, lots of things.’ Bill replied, shrugging. ‘Wanna see what I can do?’ He adds after a brief pause but before you could answer him, he held his hand out to a nearby deer as its teeth were taken out of its mouth and into his small hand in a neat pile. ‘Deer teeth for you kid hehe.’ He then chuckled as he dumped the pile of deer teeth into your hands.

You on the other hand didn’t find this funny and fought the urge to vomit as you offered Bill the deer teeth back. ‘Mind giving the deer its teeth back? I’m sure it has more use for them than either of us.’ You ask as Bill did as you asked and gave the deer its teeth back as it galloped off elsewhere, leaving you alone with the weird triangle in the woods. Everything that had happened within the past five minutes had been overwhelming for you, too overwhelming that you had to sit yourself down on the trunk of a fallen tree and put your head in your hands, muttering to yourself.

‘This isn’t real, this is all some weird fever dream or I’m tripping balls. There’s no other explanation.’

Bill only chuckled as he floated next to you and patted you on the shoulder. ‘There, there human I can reassure you that what you just saw was very much real.’

You looked at him from your hands, unamused. ‘You fucking suck at comforting people you know that?’

‘I think we’ll get along great!’ Bill chirped gleefully.

‘We absolutely will not.’ You replied but you had an inkling that your opinion on the matter didn’t matter.

Now onto how bill would be if you were sort of ‘friends.’

He’s got a weird way about showing his feelings in any capacity.

The little shit put rats, dead rats outside your door, spelling out your name on random ass occasions that made it look like to others that a) you were haunted or b) had a weird stalker who liked to form your name out of dead rats.

He doesn’t want you having friends outside of him because and I quote ‘I’m the only friend you need, why bother with anyone else. So don’t even try cuz I’ll be watching you.’

Will leave sticky post it notes anywhere and everywhere saying to get more silly straws or else he’ll find a way to possess you and make you do embarrassing shit. Ie: walk through town in your underwear, make you speak backwards, kick a child-

Bill was a brat and his pranks were often traumatic but apparently they were ‘light’ in comparison to the stuff he did to his other meat puppets. You didn’t ask any further questions about what he meant by that in fear that he’d show you one as an example.

You are probably the only person who bill has told about his secret technique with mascara and eyeliner, even seeing him do it once when he insisted that you had a ‘sleepover’ at your place. He even points the mascara brush at you warningly as he threatened that you were to never tell people about this or else.

His version of jealousy when he sees you spending time with others is to trash your house and try to act cute when you catch him in the act. You don’t fall for this and give Bill the silent treatment for the rest of the day as he practically lost his shit over your lack of attention.

Probably air horned you awake once.

Bill Wouldn’t tell you this but he make your enemies do stupid shit that resulted in their deaths, for fun he claims but he didn’t want his favourite meat sack to start leaking water from their eyes every time something went wrong in their life. So he just cuts them out in the most brutal way possible.

Bill was stuck to you like glue and there’s was no way to hide from him as he would ultimately appears where you are, even if you’re in the fucking shower, he don’t care.

Bill: *appears in shower* my favourite meat sack have you- stop screaming it’s only me, have you seen a king cobra anywhere, I must’ve dropped it somewhere here-

He probably once threatened you with the whole ‘steal your eyes’ thing like he did with Ford but you had witness enough of Bill’s behaviour to know that he was joking about that, to which he was proud and would magically make a cake filled with worms, bugs and other unpleasant things appear in celebration.

You may or may not have been sick that day.

Your and Bills friendship was weird, probably not the healthiest in all honestly and you should seek help and or maybe therapy for the shit he’s out you through.

You were his property, you were his pet, HIS MEAT SACK and you wouldn’t be allowed to go anywhere without him knowing and or being nearby in hopes of catching your eye.

Just a yellow triangle with one eye and a top hat and bow tie floating ominously in the background was enough to unnerve anyone.

You had no freedom as far as you were concerned in this ‘friendship’ but bill likes to claim that he has given you the most freedom out of anyone who has ever existed.