#a fuckin garlic bread one

[antisolanum]

why the fuck don't they make savory pop-tarts with like cheddar cheese and bacon bits, like cheez whiz in the same crust but instead of fruit it's savory. A biscuit and gravy one that's just white peppery equivalent to cheez whiz, throw it in the toaster, shelf stable. Why's everybody so fucking obsessed with sweets?

[pnchinbeez]

Not even joking I haven't seen a brother bear au that's natm soooooooo

I think teddy would be Sitka

Attila I think would be Denahi [I think he'd fit]

Honestly I think ahkmenrah should be kenia because his humor is just on point for it

Koda should be nicky [obviously]

Rutt and tuke [I think it's obvious] are jed and oct

And larry would be the mom bear [yes, sad ik, go cry about it]

[uwooyoungs]

//

[urhoneycombwitch]

mean mouth

sub!Eddie Munson x Reader Eddie likes when you talk a lil' mean to him. game over once you figure it out.

foreword: n e ways. just a little exploration of that boy's early-day sub tendencies. I generally write Eddie as older but since this takes place in some nebulous time before s4 u can think whatever u want +18. ‘unnamed freak’ is Jacob. punk band name was not thought of by me but isn’t it great <3

cw: gn!reader w/breasts + V, oral (R receiving), unprotected PiV, soft!dom(ish) R, Eddie subbing from the top 😎, gotta-be-quiet-when-we-fuck trope my beloved

wc: 3.7k

____

The first time it happens, it’s an accident.

Eddie’s a blur of motion in the little trailer kitchen, knocking against your knees where you’re propped up on the counter (not entirely helpful but, in his words, ‘much-needed eye candy for the chef’), closing cupboards with a bang and talking animatedly over the hiss of onions cooking.

Your boy is loud, always has been, and tonight is no different- he’s crowing and cackling, recounting a particularly genius foible that he’d orchestrated during last night’s campaign, wooden spoon dipping in and out of heated pots over the stove like some crazed frizzy-haired potions master. 

“And then.” He punctuates with a jab of the spoon towards you, a long drip of spaghetti sauce narrowly missing your leg- you flinch and squeak in alarm, but Eddie just grins wildly, eager to get to the punchline. “Red rolls a natural. Fucking. Twenty.” 

“Holy shit!” Your smile is wide, natural and easy for him- Eddie’s excitement is infectious. 

“I know!” Eddie spins back to the stove, plunking the wooden spoon back into the simmering sauce before opening the oven. Heat from the broiler rises in a mouth-watering cloud of herby smell, and Eddie reaches for the metal sheet of garlic bread, still talking. “Couldn’t fuckin’ believe it. And then I- shit!”

You don’t put the pieces together until Eddie’s spinning away from the open oven, whole body moving with the force of his hand being shaken in the air- he’d touched the roiling-hot metal with his bare hand.

“Oh, shit, babe-” Sliding from the counter, you nudge the oven door closed with a foot, reaching out to assess the damage- but Eddie’s a whirlwind, jumping up and down, swinging his injured hand around in jerky movements, howling in pain.

It’s kind of freaking you out, ‘cuz you can’t tell if he’s playing up or if he’s actually got a third-degree burn. The voice that comes out of you is commanding, one that you rarely use, firm and louder than his hollering. 

“Eddie, for fuck’s sake- stand up and let me see it.”

That seems to do the trick. Eddie’s eyes snap to you, pausing mid-hop, and you take advantage of his semi-stillness to snatch his wrist and drag him towards the sink. The water runs cool and you turn his palm over in both of yours, breathing a sigh of relief when the pink welt across the bridge of his hand doesn’t have any blisters.

“Under the water,” you instruct, pushing at his silver-link braceleted wrist until he gets the memo, letting the flow from the tap ease the burn.

Eddie hisses through his teeth, and then goes quiet for the first time in ages.

There’s a few moments of this strained silence as you watch his hand carefully, color leaching back into his palm until you notice Eddie’s looking at you sideways.

Your shoulders hunch in a bit, arms crossed over your chest as you take a step back, misinterpreting his look as wounded. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I just-”

“Hey, whoa, no-” Eddie’s hand automatically reaches for you, dripping water on the floor until he remembers his injury with a wince and plunges it back under the tap. “You don’t have to apologize for that. At all. Um.”

His left hand, the uninjured one, braces against the linoleum, ringed knuckles creaking as he shifts his stance. He sounds uncomfortable, and you’re about to start apologizing again until he lifts his head, eyes twinkling- “You were so bossy. It was totally hot.”

A shocked laugh burbles out of you, unsure if he’s joking or not- when he shifts his weight again, your gaze flickers down to the zipper of his dark jeans- he’s fully hard. 

“Oh my god.” Split between amusement and mortification, adrenaline from seeing him get hurt fizzing through your veins, you laugh again- this time, sardonic, into your hands, shaking your head. “Jesus christ, Eddie.”

“Can’t help it.” He’s close to whining, hips pressing flush into the cabinet, partly to relieve the ache in his groin and partly to toy with you. “Goddamn. Sound so sexy when you tell me what to do-”

There’s a teatowel hanging from a nearby rack; you snatch it up and whip it at Eddie’s shoulder, playful and irritated as you snap, “Shut up.”

“Oh, yeah, just like that, baby-” Eddie’s fake sultry voice earns him another towel-whip, this time at his neck- he squawks, ducking to avoid another blow while still keeping his hand under the water.

“Ridiculous. You’re ridiculous,” you announce with finality, slinging the towel over your shoulder and turning on your heel. “I’m gonna get the burn cream. Try not to cum or die while I’m gone.”

His bright laughter follows you all the way down the hall.

___

The next time it happens, it’s sort-of on purpose.

Eddie’s glowing with a post-show rush- a local business convention meant Corroded Coffin got to play for a nearly-packed room. Nevermind the fact that their Bruce Springsteen cover was the one bringing in the most applause; Eddie’s always been able to feed off the energy of a crowd, and tonight was a riotous success.

The Hideout is loud but your boy is louder, as per usual. There’s sweat curling the baby hairs at his temples, bright spots of flushed pink in his cheeks from the round of whiskey you’d bought the band as a congrats. 

He’s making a toast to his laughing bandmates, to beautiful you, to any nearby drunk who will listen, proclaiming his lust for life with one boot on the well-worn table in noble pose.

“And to Bev, the best of us-” Eddie tips his half-empty glass towards the nearby bar, shouting over the din of the jukebox and lively chatter, “-may your sharp-tongued wit live on!”

Bev pauses service to flip him off, and Eddie collapses back into the comfort of your arm over the booth’s top, grinning when the band trio of Jeff, Gareth, and Jacob nearly fall out of their chairs with laughter.

It’s always hot to see Eddie in his element, and tonight’s not an exception. He turns to lean into you, looking down the slope of his pretty nose like he knows why you’re staring.

A charming wink precedes, “Come here often?” but his flirting is interrupted when Jeff gets up for another round and bumps the table- whiskey sloshes over the side of Eddie’s cup and coats his hand in stickiness. 

He swears viciously, yanking out his bandanna to wipe at the mess while you laugh over the rim of your own glass at him. “Real smooth, babe. Good thing you killed it on stage, otherwise I might not take you home.”

Eddie’s eyes light up, inhaling for another cheesy line to wow you with when his gaze flicks past you and his face falls. 

Across the table, Jacob mutters, “Oh, shit,” and Gareth glowers.

Following their eyelines, you look over your shoulder to see Nico Hawley, frontrunner of Hawkin’s own punk band (the Scumshots), enter through the front door in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

When you turn back to Eddie, he’s already twisting the damp bandanna around his rings. The usual softness of his doe-brown eyes are now flint-sharp, and with a rush of panic, you remember the last time Eddie and Nico ran into each other; the night had ended with you back at the trailer, holding a cold pack to Eddie’s split lip, which he’d received from engaging in what he referred to as “friendly fisticuffs”.

There was nothing friendly about the way Eddie stood, then, to his full height, dark and imposing with his big mane of hair and leather jacket. The other Corroded boys won’t start any shit themselves, but will absolutely back Eddie up (fearless leader, resident shit-starter, instigator extraordinaire). 

Time’s running out for you to get a handle on the situation, Eddie already moving to slide past you out of the booth when you snag his left jacket sleeve in a tight grip.

The first yank you give stops him in his tracks; the second, more intentional tug gets his face level with yours, Eddie’s hardened stare giving way to confusion as you pull him into your space. 

In that same authoritative tone, you pin Eddie in place with a fistful of leather and command, low, right in his ear to be heard above the bar noise, “Don’t. Sit down and be good.”

At first, you’re not sure it worked, because Eddie’s just staring at you- slightly slack-jawed, pretty pink o mouth as his gaze flickers to your lips, back up to lock in your gaze again.

And then, by some miracle, Eddie obeys. Like a well-trained, marvelously-behaved dog. He’s back in his seat with a jolt to the booth, hand curling around his whiskey again. 

Curls spill and shift around jacketed shoulders as he shoots the rest of the glass, adam’s apple bobbing, other hand slipping to cup your thigh hidden from view. “It’s not worth it,” he announces to the rest of the group, sounding strained, staring at the bottom of his empty glass, knuckles white with force.

Jake sighs, relieved, but Gareth scoffs, tipping the neck of his beer across the table to point, goading Eddie with  “Since when have you been the one to take orders?”

“Shut up,” Eddie shoots back, blood returning and redistributing enough from where it had all rushed south, enough to defend you and himself against his drunk bandmate. “We’re already on Hop’s shit list, asshole, can’t be catching any more charges for stupid fuckin’ bar fights.”

Nico had disappeared into the throng of people at the bar while your group has been arguing- probably for the best that he’s out of eyesight. Unperturbed by Gareth’s comment (he likes you fine, he’s just grumpy from the alcohol and itching for a fight), you sip your drink and give him a shameless wink. 

Underneath the tabletop, Eddie’s palm flattens over your jeans, fingers dipping to toy with the denim seam hugging the fatty plush part of your inner thigh. You shift your hips, subtly, feeling flush with heat and power. Just a couple of words and you have him eating out of your goddamn hand. 

Jeff returns, setting a handful of beers in the middle of the table. “Saw that shitstain Hawley at the bar. What’d I miss here?”

Gareth swoops in with accusatory explanation, seizing another bottle out of Jeff’s hands. “What you missed is Eddie’s balls on a leash-”

“Jealous you don’t have someone at home to tie you up, Emerson?” Eddie’s dig comes swiftly, lips quirked in a smile around the rim of his drink. 

There’s a raucous burst of laughter, Gareth’s curly mop of hair gets ruffled playfully, and everyone eases back into celebration, all while Eddie’s thumb edges closer and closer to the apex of your thighs.

___

The next time, though? Totally on purpose.

There’s a sliver of gold from the hallway light spilling under Eddie’s closed door, left on in case Jeff or Gareth needed to use the bathroom during the night. 

And despite the fact that two of his bandmates are passed out on the couch and floor just a short walk away, Eddie’s hands are exploring the length of your body under the sheets like he’s got plans to map you with his tongue. 

“We- ah- can’t.” Your whispering scold is interrupted with a sharp gasp when Eddie nips at your neck. “No fooling around. Not when we have guests.”

His left hand drips over the swell of your breast, squeezing and kneading, your nipples perking to attention (traitors) underneath the bra you haven’t yet had the chance to take off.

Eddie adopts your quiet tone as he speaks between kisses that trail further down your body, not outright ignoring your weak protests but not doing much to combat them, either. “Mmm. Got me so worked up. Been driving me crazy since the bar, y’know that? ‘S cruel, baby, can’t just talk mean and expect me not to act on it.”

“Wasn’t mean,” you counter, hands shifting automatically to wind through the soft locks of hair tickling at your stomach as Eddie continues his path downwards. “Didn’t wanna have to patch up a split lip. Had to make you behave somehow.”

The vibrating groan Eddie gives against the soft skin of your stomach tickles; when you squirm, shushing him again, his hands slide to your hips, pinning you in place. 

Nose to your navel, warm breath fanning across the strip of skin just above the band of your panties, Eddie sounds strung-out already, close to begging. “Please, baby. I’ll be good. Make it so good for you. I’ll be quiet-”

His head snaps up at your sudden gasping laugh, chin perched on your tummy as he scoffs. “What, you don’t think I can keep quiet?”

“Eddie Munson, you couldn’t be quiet to save your life.” Your hands migrate to his cheeks, squishing them together fondly as he grins around your touch, his thumbs working circles at your bare hips. 

“Ye of little faith.” In the dim light of the room, Eddie’s teeth are a flash of white before his mouth dips to press against the wet patch at your underwear.

“Fucking… shit-!” The expletives fly out harshly, only because you weren’t expecting the wet stripe of his tongue against your clothed folds. Head dropping back to the comfort of your pillow, you get one hand in Eddie’s hair again, the other finding its way to twist at the sheets.

You can feel his smile, equal parts smug and sympathetic as he coos saccharine to your inner thigh- “Now, now, angel. Gotta be quiet.”

Not willing to lose the fight, you focus on clamping your mouth shut, eyes closed in concentration- even as Eddie slides your underwear down and off, a quick flash of blue fabric before it’s swallowed by the floor’s darkness. Even as he seals his lips over your clit, sucking hard like he’s been deprived of your taste for too long.

When his tongue breaches your entrance, a soft gasp escapes, one that has your head turning sideways to grab some pillow with your teeth. 

Eddie brings the wetness from your entrance up again, spreading it over your pulsing clit, nerve endings fizzing bright and hot in your stomach from the attention.

On instinct, your right leg kicks out, jolting with the spasm of pleasure- Eddie’s quick, though, taking advantage of the movement to find a new hold at the back of your thigh; rings biting cold, he pushes until you bend for him, your knee now pressed towards your chest.

“Gonna make it so good for you.” Eddie’s mumbling pussy-drunk rambles into your cunt that’s now on display, dragging his nose through the slick that weeps out of you, all for him- “So wet for me, angel. Fuck’s sake. This all for me?”

As if he doesn’t know. The hand that isn’t busy holding you open trails up your thigh, middle finger teasing at your entrance before slipping inside, no resistance thanks to the river of slick that rushes to greet it.

There’s a soft squelching noise as Eddie adds a second, curling them up, stroking against that tender gummy spot that always skyrockets your pulse. 

The noise is almost enough to give you pause; feeling wild and flush with heat, your hand tightens in the crown of Eddie’s hair, eyes popping open as you prop yourself up on an elbow to give a strangled hiss of warning through your teeth.

Eddie senses your unease, pulls his fingers and mouth out and off (a travesty), softening the blow by giving a placating kiss to the top of your mound. “Shhh, sweetheart. S’okay. You hear that?”

Past the noise of nighttime crickets from the nearby cracked window, past the hum of the kitchen, you hear it as Eddie crawls back up- distant, tandem snores from the boys in the living room.

“They sleep like the dead. Like rocks,” Eddie promises, settling his weight into his hands planted on either side of your head, hair creating a curtain around your faces as he leans in. “So we can get our rocks off.”

“That was awful.” You kiss him anyways. He tastes like you, earthy and warm and wet, saliva mixed with your arousal as the kiss turns sloppy.

Eddie rocks his hips forwards, the friction from the fabric of his boxers making you both gasp into each other’s mouths. He’s achingly hard, cock leaking and smearing precum through the cotton; there’s a hurried, manic shift as you both work to strip the last pieces of clothing from yourselves, his boxers and your bra following your underwear from earlier into the dark of the room.

And then Eddie is sliding his cock through the folds of your pussy, slicking up the sizable length as much as he can before the tip nudges at your entrance; Eddie’s arms tremble with effort as yours wrap around his shoulders, soothing with a kiss to his cheek- “Lotta talk about keeping quiet, Munson. That’s all it was? Just talk?”

Now that his mouth isn’t intent on making you fall apart anymore, you’ve got some breathing room to tease. To be the one to work him up. Tucking a curly lock of hair behind his ear, your fingers trace adoringly over his temple before sliding to grip the back of his neck. “Gonna prove me wrong, hotshot?”

With this new proximity, you can see Eddie’s eyes- fixed intently on yours, black pupils nearly eclipsing the soft amber of his irises. He looks slightly feral, sweat sticking his bangs in place, lips parted, spots of pink staining his cheeks. 

As if he doesn’t trust himself to speak, Eddie’s near-silent as he slides himself in to the hilt, jaw dropping as the warmth from your walls encompasses him completely.

The chained guitar pick around his neck tickles between the valley of your breasts. He pants, chest heaving, not daring to move yet; your breath stutters. You can feel him in your throat.

“So big,” you murmur, an honest reaction but one that has Eddie’s brows drawing together, a little whine escaping as his hips jerk forward, reflexive to your words.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck.” 

Eddie’s voice, strained though it may be, is on its way to regular volume. At the back of his neck, your hand flexes, a warning as he begins to rock steadily into your tight heat. 

“Gotta be good.” Biting back your own groan, you sling your leg over his waist. At this angle, you can press your heel to the dip of his lower back. “Be good and quiet for me and I’ll let you come in my p-”

His hips snap forward, audibly, subsequent wet noise obscene, filling the room. Eddie moans into the curve of your neck before your sentence is even fully formed- “Jesus, baby. Oh my god. Can’t say stuff like that, gonna come too quick-”

His cock fits along the contours of your cunt like you were made for him, ridged tip dragging against that same sensitive spot of your front wall with each pull and thrust.

Eddie’s forehead thunks into yours as he rolls it back and forth, mindlessly. All the tease has melted out of his voice: it’s been replaced with a lust-filled rasp, rock-salt and deep. 

Your voice, however, is all tease, still hushed but laced with mischief despite your mounting pleasure. “Yeah? Gonna come in my pussy?”

It’s almost not fair and you almost feel bad, seeing the way Eddie fights to make his gasp silent as the channels of your cunt clench in answer to his fucked-out expression. With his next thrust, Eddie loses the battle- a hoarse, blissful moan much too loud spills over and out into the quiet room. 

Moving quick, your hand slips from the back of Eddie’s neck to his mouth, palm flat over the plush of his lips.. The commanding tone comes easy this time (with practice, you’ll surely be a natural).

“Eddie. Be. Quiet.”

Usually, Eddie’s got stamina enough to prioritize your pleasure, making sure you’re taken care of at least twice before he even thinks of himself. Tonight, though, he’s already been straining in his jeans for hours, unbearably turned on from your earlier sharp words, pushing the limits of desperation.

Your words, once again, do the trick. Eddie’s cock pulses, and he comes hard, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your hand, chorus of whimpers successfully dampened. His dark brows knit together, eyes pinched shut, nostrils flaring with each stilted breath.

He’s so fucking hot when he comes, hair a riot around stormcloud eyes that open to take you in. Even prettier when he’s coming down, leaning into your hand for support before you take it away, guiding and encouraging him to lay down.

Eddie collapses, carefully enough that it doesn’t jostle you, but still with his full weight. The crown of his head radiates heat against your chin. 

His arms wrap solidly around your middle as he whispers (he’s learning) in croaky fragments, “Jesus fucking H. I think you just broke my brain. Smashed it into a million little pieces. Never come so hard in my life. I’m in love with you.”

The laugh you give him is quiet but golden, the rise and fall of your chest causing his head to bounce a bit (but Eddie could die happy between your breasts so he doesn’t mind). “See? It’s worth it to listen to me, sometimes.”

“You’re so smart. Gonna do whatever you say, forever and ever. Cart-blank.” And then he’s pushing up onto his elbows, keeping his face level with your left breast so he can suck your nipple into his mouth, gently worrying his teeth over the peaked bud.

Previously tangled in the sheets, your hand flies up to grab his shoulder, nails digging in. “Fuck. Fuck, Eddie. That’s good. And- ah- it’s ‘carte blanche’.” 

He leaves the comfort of your breast with a sigh. “Whatever you say, princess. Gonna let me fuck you some more? Your turn to be the loud one.”

[garbinge]

You, Me, and Italy

Michael Berzatto x F!Reader From these August Prompts:  Italy Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: All my fics are 18+, angsty, mentions of suicide, death, grief, loss, broken heart, drug use, addiction, being high, someone close to ODing, uncomfortable, sad, mentions of sexual situations, it's based on canon mentions of suicide and death and grieving, but a little more in depth. So just be weary of any triggers one might have in reference to these things.

A/N: This is not apart of my Richie Jerimovich multichap. This is heavy. I try and steer clear of fics like this because of my own triggers and trauma around drug abuse and addiction but this just was an idea sitting in my head probably because of all that trauma. The Bear Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @quixscentsposts @dadbodfanatic-x @adorable-punk-superheroes @lodeddiperrodrick @isalver @captainweasleybarnes @musicwithteeth @fancyvoidtragedy @shinebright2000 @knight4xmas

The kitchen was always your favorite place to be when you couldn’t sleep. Something about the ability to hear every single noise in a space where usually you’d be lucky to hear the person next to you speak at a normal tone. 

You had come in through the back, placed your stuff down in the locker that had your name written on a green piece of tape, your insanely patterned bandana was snug around your head just above your forehead, something you always wore when cooking. Now, the sounds of the water running as you washed her hands filled your ears and was followed by the clunks of pulling the knives out, the blade tinging as you set it free from its case. Now slicing, the quick quippy sounds of the thin slices of all the items you needed to prep. Basil, onions, garlic, fig, and parmesan cheese. All the ingredients you picked up from the grocery story that was still open this late. The chopping and the sizzling filled your ears in a similar way that music would fill someone else’s. It kept you grounded, kept you calm, kept you in the moment. 

“Late night snack?” A voice interrupted that tranquility but surprisingly, there was no reaction from your side. You kept steady as your hand tossed the garlic and basil in the olive oil, other hand equipped with a spoon ready to add in the parmesan ricotta mixture. 

“You’re lucky I don’t scare easily.” Your voice was steady as you focused on the pan in front of you. 

Mikey looked down and laughed before he made his way from the office over to his best chef and best friend. He leaned against the prep area, hands crossed as you had your back to him. 

“You should toast the breadcrumbs.” Mikey said as he took in what you were doing. 

Immediately, your head turned to look over your shoulder and shot the man a look. “I’m a one-woman show here, Mikey. I’m getting to it.” 

“You know, I can help you out.” He had crossed his leg over the other now as he waited for a response. “Only if you want to.” His arms were now uncrossed as he raised them in a surrender.

Your head tilted, the only invitation he needed to start helping out. 

“I’m making arancini, fig and garlic arancini.” You specified. 

“Rice balls. You’re making rice balls.” Mikey teased. “What inspired the fig?” He asked as he toasted the bread crumbs at the stove next to you. 

“Remember when we went to that bar the other night?” You looked up at him, despite being a few feet down from you, he still towered over you in height. “While you and Richie were off doing God knows what, I ordered shit from the bar. They had this fig, arugula, and goat cheese pizza.”

“Jesus Christ, what fuckin’ bar were we at?” Mikey laughed at the fanciness of how it all sounded. 

“That place, Porta. I’d say it was more hipster than fancy.” 

“God, I don’t even remember.” Mikey laughed before placing his attention back on you and continuing the conversation. “So the pizza was good?” 

“It was, and I just kept thinking what would go well with fig and landed at a rice ball.” 

“Arancini.” Mikey corrected you with the biggest grin growing on his face. 

A laugh left your mouth as you took the sauce off the heat, wanting it to cool down slightly before pouring it into the egg mixture that was already placed in the fridge. 

The silence fell over the both of you and you both continued to move around the kitchen. Mikey stood with the bowl of rice in his hands, resting it on the prep counter as you stood over and poured in the egg mixture. Mikey was whisking it around rapidly, that way the eggs didn’t scramble. The smell coming from the bowl was filled with savory scents of garlic and sweet touches of fig reduction. 

“You good, buddy?” Mikey was looking at you as he stirred everything around. It wasn’t so much in reference to your current state, which was focused as you concentrated on pouring the egg mixture in, but more in reference to why you were here late. 

Buddy. Such a Mikey term. The two of you knew each other for years, meeting when you were smoking in the back of the restaurant you used to work out. To put it in simple terms, he poached you. He had just grabbed a bite at said restaurant, with his brother Carmy, a detail you found out later since Mikey came alone to the alley in the back where you had been taking a break. He asked if you had made the slow braised beef and proceeded to tell you about his restaurant. You never walked back into that restaurant again and started at The Beef the next day. 

As time passed, things got close with Mikey. The two of you just fed off each other, you vibed effortlessly and one day that led to more. You spent a majority of the night locked in the office making a bed out of the table, the floor, the bookshelf, anything that had an inch of a flat surface, Mikey took you. That however, never amounted to more. It was always just sex. There was no label on what the two of you had, no real dates, no holding hands, just stolen moments around the restaurant, late nights in the kitchen, nights out at bars, and overnights spent at each others places. But that never made anything awkward because despite their being no label, everyone knew there was something between you two. It was impossible to miss. The way you two got along, the way you spent every waking moment together, whether you were at the restaurant or not. But what the real dead giveaway was, you two moved in the kitchen like you had perfected a choreographed dance, every, single, time. There was never any missteps, any arguing, no bumping into each other, you just glided by each other, calling out kitchen terms and directions. It was a sight to be seen, everyone thought so. Including the family. Sugar and Carmy were impressed when you came by for the first time maybe a month into starting at The Beef. Richie had already seen how the two of you worked together but both Berzatto siblings were shocked by it. 

“Hey, you good?” Mikey repeated himself and bent down a little to look into your eyes. 

“Yea, sorry.” You shook your head from your thoughts. 

“I don’t buy it.” Mikey pressed you again for more information. “What’s with late night rice balls?” 

“You ever feel stuck?” There was no point in trying to hide what you were feeling from Mikey. 

“Uh, just every day of my life.” You let out a breath through your nose in a sort of chuckle. “I just, wish I could get out of here.” The frustration was littered in your voice. 

“Where would you go?” He set the bowl down now that everything was stirred, and he turned to face you. 

“Anywhere.” You turned too so you were facing him. 

“So let’s go.” His voice raised, like what he said and meant didn’t need planning, didn’t need money, he spoke it outloud like it was the easiest thing to achieve. 

“Yea, where?” You were about to start naming off places around here in Chicago as a joke but he was quick to answer you. 

“Italy.” 

You frowned but a smile was growing on your face. “Italy?” You questioned. 

“Yea, let’s go to Italy, we’ll eat all the rice balls in the fuckin’ country, we’ll learn how to make ‘em like a true Italian. We’ll eat our way around Rome, Sicily, Naples, it’ll be great, just me and you and Italy.” He was so energetic in how he spoke, his hands were in the air, his voice was echoing off the kitchen walls. 

“You, me, and Italy?” You questioned him as your head nodded in agreement. 

“You, me, and Italy.” Mikey nodded with the biggest smile on his face. 

____

Time might’ve passed and a lot of things might’ve changed, but sometimes stayed exactly the same. You were pushing through the back door of The Beef, bag and kitchen tools in hand as the clock ticked past 1AM. 

“Mikey?” You called out, expecting to see him appear in the kitchen. You called out again and heard nothing. It was odd, but also maybe not. He had been distant lately, you picked up on that when most nights he didn’t come back to your place. You knew things had been tough for him, he was having money issues and as a result moved back in with his mother, he was stressed. Every time you did get the chance to see him, he wasn’t fully there, sometimes you’d taste alcohol on his breath, others you could tell his mind was caught in a thought or 20. 

Moving to the lockers, you saw the door open just slightly and the lamp on illuminating a ton of paperwork. You saw his hand resting on the table and slowly peaked in. 

Now, you had your suspicions, they were probably more than suspicions, you knew. You knew Mikey was hooked on something. But you didn’t want to accept it. But there it was, slapping you right in the face. It had been functional, he had been functional, which is what made it easy for you to question, for you to say nothing. After tonight, you’d regret it, you’d regret staying silent, not giving in to your suspicions, voicing them out loud. 

You took in the sight of him, he was so out of it, you could see his glazed over eyes even from the distance you were at. The giveaway as if everything else wasn’t so obvious was the pills scattered all over the paperwork in front of him. 

“Mikey.” The urgency hit you just as much as the the scene of him. You were next to him in seconds, shaking him awake. 

The smile that filled his face as he stared at you, the smile that warmed your heart, the smile that melted you, the smile of your best fucking friend was breaking you. 

“What–what’re you doin’ here?” 

“How much did you take, Mikey?” You moved forward to the table to search for a bottle, a pill count, see how many were on the table, but Mikey’s hands began to grab your arms. 

“No, no, no, no, no. Stop, you’re ruining the fun.” Mikey complained, his voice was slurred. 

You pulled back immediately, uncomfortable and unsure what to do. Your heart was beating fast and before your tears could even start falling, Mikey started yelling. “You’re ruining the fun!!” It was a repetition of what he had said before and all it did was secure your feet frozen to the ground. “That’s all anyone ever does anymore. Ruin the fucking fun.” He spun in the swivel chair like a child and when it stopped spinning he looked at the bookshelf and began speaking again, but this time more at a whisper. 

“Even my own fuckin girl. I can’t have anything.”  

You snuck out the door, searching for your phone in your pocket. The irony that in your hastiness, you spent more time looking for it than if you searched for it with purpose and patience. 

As you picked your phone up to your ear, your hand was shaking. “C’mon, pick up, pick up.” You mumbled, taking your other hand to pick at your lip. 

“It’s 1 in the fuckin’ morning, I’m neck deep in shit diapers, if this is you and Mikey asking me to go out, I’m blocking your number for eternity.” Richie seemed stressed in a completely different way. 

“Richie, it’s Mikey, he uh, I don’t know, there’s pills, he’s awake–sort of?, he’s angry, I don’t know how much he took but he, he uh, I just need help, I need you down here, can you get down here, please?” The shakiness in your voice was the dam holding back your tears. 

“I’ll be there in 10 minutes. Keep him up.” 

With that Richie hung up and you were moving back into the office, you squatted down and turned the chair so he was facing you. “Mikey, babe?” You tried to keep your voice soft. His red, glossy eyes met yours as he plopped his head down to look at you. 

“My girl.” A little bit of hope filled his face, he reached his hand up to cup your face. The impulse to pull away was strong but you stayed there, you stayed there with him and let him speak to you. 

“You’re so pretty, you know that? So pretty. And you’re so talented, you can throw down, you know that? Best fuckin slow braised beef I’ve ever fuckin’ had.” 

The amount of compliments he was giving you, it should’ve had you elated, floating, with butterflies but instead it was making you sick–uneasy. And you just had to sit there and let him say it, over and over again. You were counting in your head, hoping that once you got to the 10th 60th second count, that Richie would be here. 

“Hey hey hey, you listening to me?” Mikey moved slightly to look at you, even in his fogged state he could tell your mind was elsewhere. 

“Mhm.” You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes as you stared into his eyes. 

“You, me, and Italy, baby. You, me, and Italy.” The second time he said it, it was in a whisper like he was desperate for it to be true. Like if he said it low enough the world would grant him the wish. That’s when you really saw him, saw what was happening in his brain. Alongside that hopeful look was one of peace and happiness. The absolute gut wrenching emotion you felt in your heart when you realized it. How being high set Mikey free, set him free from his demons, in some weird twisted way this was the closest you’ve seen Mikey to his usual self. 

Before your heart could break anymore, you heard Richie’s voice behind you and he was slipping into your spot and picking Mikey up.

______

“You know I remember this one time, we went over to Mikey’s place, the one on Courtyard, me, Carm, and Richie, and it was Sunday, Braciole night. We walk in, Mikey’s got the game playing so loud in the background, we start prepping, cooking. I remember he told me not to put raisins in the braciole even though that’s how mom did it. And he just, he had this smile on for those first 30 minutes, like he had something planned, like he was in on the joke. But the thing is none of us knew what the joke was. And then, the door opened, we were all confused at who it was and then, this woman appeared. Mikey introduced her to us, he was so happy, and we were like shocked, cause Mikey, our big brother, the player, brought this girl over to our fucked up family Sunday night dinner. She didn’t care that the TV was loud, that we were even louder, that Mikey and Richie would tell the most insane stories, over and over again, and in fact, she moved around the kitchen like, well, like she’d known us all our whole lives. I don’t know if I ever saw Mikey so happy.” Sugar was sitting in bed, her phone on speaker while you sat silent on the other line. 

“You at the restaurant?” Sugar cleared her throat. 

“Standing right outside it.” You spoke up, trying to hide your tears from the story Sugar just told. 

“I’ll be there soon.” There was rustling on the other side of the phone, like she had started to get up and get ready. 

“Sugar?” You questioned, worried she was about to hang up. 

“Hm?” She hummed. 

“Thank you.” It was two words but sometimes you needed to hear it. How much Mikey loved you, he didn’t tell you often, but you felt it, you saw it. But now, that he was gone, that all that was left of Mikey for you was the things he left at your place, the memories you shared, you took the antidotes Sugar occasionally told you and kept them someplace special. 

“I’ll see you in the chaos.” Sugar replied back to you in which you did the same. 

For a few seconds after the phone call, you stood there, staring at the gutted restaurant, staring at the mayhem happening behind the glass, which was normal for the restaurant, whether it was in business or not. But right now, standing outside, in the peace of the quiet reminded you of those late nights in the kitchen, and you were destined to hold onto that peace for just a few more minutes. 

Eventually, you joined the chaos. Greeting everyone as you made your way through the renovation. Finding yourself getting swept up into something in the immediate first seconds you entered the front door. After an hour or so, when you wrapped up your job in the front, you made your way to the kitchen.  

“What’re you doing?” You placed your stuff down in the office as you walked past Richie, Fak, and Marcus who were gathered around someone’s phone watching a video, arguing back and forth. Natalie stood up from the chair in the office and placed a hand on your shoulder in a half greeting and walked over to the arguing men. Your eyes lingered on the office table and chair a little longer than normal, letting the memories flood into your brain for a short few seconds before you turned to put your attention back on everyone. 

“Scraping and painting and fighting over moving the lockers.” Marcus spoke up. 

You turned around and stepped out of the office, staring at them trying to attempt to move the lockers. Carmy had appeared now, yelling at them to keep it down and when the mention of Mikey’s locker still being locked was announced, that’s when everyone silences. 

“Just fuckin’ open it.” Carmy spoke up. 

A hat. June 5th, 2010. Taste of Chicago. The booth. 

You smiled at that. You weren’t there for the booth, but you heard all about it. From the family, but from Mikey, it was one of the many stories he’d tell you over and over and honestly, you’d do anything to hear him tell it 200 more times. 

Carmy handed the hat to Richie, and as he turned around his eyes fell on your. 

“Yo, uh, I got something for you.” He said and walked right past you into the office, searching for something. As everyone went back to working, you turned and took a few steps towards Carmy as he moved the papers around looking for something. 

“So, uh, we’re sending Ebra and Tina to culinary school, for them to stay sharp, learn some new shit, and uh, I–we, Syd and I figured you didn’t want or honestly really need that, so uh–here!” He proclaimed the last word louder than the rest as he found the envelope with your name written on it and handed it to you. 

You looked down at it for a second and then back at Carmy, you two didn’t talk much in general, but you definitely didn’t talk much about him. 

“You and Syd…” You started to say as you mindlessly tapped the envelope against your skin. “You uh,” You wanted to say that the two of them reminded you a lot of you and Mikey, the effortlessness in the kitchen, the way their ideas just bounced off each others and how they brought this new sense of life to each other. But it was that last thought that weighed heavy on you. There was a point that Mikey brought a new sense of life to you and you did the same to him but unfortunately that emotion, that feeling, had changed at some point, at no ones fault but it didn’t stop you from not cherishing it more. “Just, don’t take it for granted.” 

“Yea, yea.” Carmy nodded, getting where you were coming from but also not really wanting to get into it and you were okay with that because you didn’t want to get into it either. 

Carmy’s eyes moved down to the envelope and back to you. Taking the hint you nodded. “Right.” You said quickly and began to rip the envelope open. As your hand reached in and pulled out the papers in the envelope, you saw the word United and then followed by a seat and time and that’s when you saw the airports. 

ORD – NAP

Naples International Airport. 

“Carmy.” You looked up, eyes shocked. 

“It’s what Mikey would’ve wanted.” Carmy nodded and walked by you, taking his hand to rest on your shoulder and then tap it as he exited the office. 

You stared down at the tickets, trying to take in everything. 

“You, me, and Italy, Mikey.”  

[system-community-corner]

Hot take, it's perfectly okay for introjects to be at different levels of recovery. It's perfectly okay for someone to be source connected. It's okay if they don't want to source separate. Likewise, it's okay if they're not at all source connected - it's totally alright to change aspects about yourself until you're more comfortable with them.

I'll use myself (clyde/cedar) and mod tubbo_ as examples. I'm a c!dream fictive, i have little source connection nowadays, and that's. alright. I'm not affected by my old source related triggers, I can not give less of a shit about source if I tried. sure, I still use c!dream as a faceclaim, but that's out of laziness. I don't want to draw myself and make my own icon :/ I'd rather get blazed and eat garlic bread, man. I'm one step closer to my recovery, and that's great! My mental health is grand, and I love it.

Tubbo? He's very source connected. He misses his platonic husband and child at times. He misses his source house, his source in general quite often. He has no plans on changing his name, his identity, nothing. and that's also okay. His mental health is also flourishing. He has different needs than I do, and the fact his needs are being met and that he's doing well is the important thing here.

I think it's really... ah. horrible? I guess it is the word I'll use, lol. It's horrible to force people to source connect or source separate. It'd be so harmful to tubbo if I insisted he source separate. Likewise, it'd be so harmful to me if I connected back to the source to the level I was when I formed. I was miserable being treated as some evil, horrible, irredeemable man just because of the Canon Character I Sourced From.

I find it far worse when doing it to a complete stranger, too. Especially in like. A discord server, for example. It's fuckin weird to force an introject to present a certain way - even if overall it could be good for them. Forcing that shit long before that person is ready is always going to do more damage than good.

endos + supporters, dni i have severe trauma related to your community. This isn't an invitation to involve yourselves with our blogs.

[toxicbrothel]

Beefro👌🥩💜

POV

waitress x non-canon, chubby nwJoel ty @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog for the prompt 💕 and @beefrobeefcal for the gif & making the world go round

Working at Golden Corral, you’ve noticed the regulars and sometimes made polite conversation. Hypothetically, there’s a guy, Joel, who’s not bad looking.  He’s always worn PJs and smelled like weed, which made him less intimidating, despite his impressive physique and panty-dropping scruff. He’s been coming in with his brother every Sunday for a long time, and until recently, Joel was always in great shape – apparently a huge gym rat. A couple months ago, he had to have knee surgery, which really sidelined his work-outs. Shortly after that, you began to notice him gaining weight. He didn't adjust his portions at all to account for his lack of burning calories. Weight gain wasn’t uncommon to see at your restaurant, but you’d never seen someone round out so quickly. 

One night, Joel was going back for thirds. He was standing at the buffet line with his t-shirt stretched across his belly, and the garlic bread pan was empty. He looked disappointed, so you offered, “I can grab more.”

“Hell yeah,” he replied. "Attagirl." Your face got all hot.

“I’ll bring them to your table,” you offered. 

You had to deal with something on your way to the kitchen, and it took you twenty minutes to return with the bread. You began to approach his booth, then noticed he was sitting back with his PJ waistband below his belly. His happy trail was exposed, and he had his hand under his t-shirt, further stretching the fabric as he rubbed his belly. You thought you should turn around and give him some privacy, but it was too late, he must have felt you staring. His eyes lit up at the sight of you with a plate stacked high with garlic bread. With some effort, he managed to sit up straight and fixed his shirt, but not in an embarrassed way at all. You approached and apologized, “Sorry I didn’t get them out in time.” 

“What are you sorry for? I’m still right here, sugar.” 

His brother laughed at him. “You serious, man?” 

“Why not,” Joel replied. You retreated to your duties, wiping tables down, but you occasionally glanced over as he packed in every piece of that bread. By the time the plate was empty, he was holding his belly with two hands. When it was time to leave, he was slow to get out of the booth and held onto the table for leverage. He kept one hand on his belly as he waddled. They said goodnight to you on their way to pay, but you could still hear them in line as you cleaned the buffet pans. 

“I’m tellin’ ya, man,” his brother said. “Put on some real fuckin’ clothes, and you’ll see.” 

“These are real clothes, Tommy,” Joel scoffed. 

“You know what I mean,” Tommy said. “You gotta slow down, man. It ain’t healthy. A few more pounds and you may never get back to the gym.” 

Joel dismissed him with a, “Nah. I’ll be liftin’ heavy again in no time.” 

“I bet ya couldn’t fit into my clothes now if ya tried,” his brother taunted.

“Sure I can, man. You’re the one with that big, barrel chest.” 

You think you can fit into my clothes? Let’s put money on it. We’ll go trade right now and wear’em home.” The prospect of this made your chest flutter and you tingled between the legs. 

Joel replied, “I don’t need money, man. but when they do fit, you gotta smoke a bowl with me.” 

“Deal,” 

They went to the bathroom, and you tried not to stare as they came out. This plaid snap-button shirt was just absurd on Joel. As they walked by, you heard Tommy laugh, “You could just admit they don’t fit.” Every button was hanging on for dear life. The bottom two didn’t even button.  The jeans were unbuttoned, too. And, most striking of all, Joel was clearly sucking it in, and it looked like he was struggling. You tried to stop staring but couldn’t. The display of sheer indulgence was making  you throb. 

Eventually, Joel had to breathe, and when he exhaled, his belly expanded so far that every last button popped open, and Joel moaned in relief. 

“Told ya, man,” Tommy laughed next to him. “Look at this gut.” He jiggled Joel’s belly. “I’ll help ya get back in shape, brother.” 

Joel groaned and held his pot belly with both hands as Tommy paid. Joel looked down and lifted it up, let it drop, and winced. Tommy had to stop at the door and wait for Joel to catch up. You kinda hoped Joel wouldn’t get in shape right away. But he was always hot.

----

TY for reading!

practically written by @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog with a BIG thot. 💕. ILY BEEFRO!!! Ty for the gif! 💕

[lenkusov]

yo, real talk, why the hell all the edibles are sweets?

like, I'm not really a weed person but that stuff smells like a proper savory sorta herb, and every edible I've had would have tasted better if there WASN'T weed in it

but like, cannabutter garlic bread or spaghetti meat sauce or some shit would absolutely fuckin SLAP, like, especially if you pick your terpenes to be ones that taste good with whatever it is you're cooking. Imagine baking a lasagna, and then the lasagna bakes you. C'mon, way better than brownies that taste vaguely like paint thinner or gummi bears that are very noticeably not candy.

[super-unpredictable98]

Midnight Strikes (Robert Sheehan RPF)

Word Count: 1,1 k

Warning: strong language

a/n: Just letting everyone who left me a request know, I'm working on them and thank you so much for all the lovely ideas <3

(Masterlist)

I can't wait to get out of here, it's so fuckin hot!

Your boyfriend texted around seven. It was your one year anniversary, but he had to work. Of course you understood, his job was demanding, but he loved it and so did you. Robert was meant to be home by eight, so you had everything ready for the celebration. 

There was a lasagna ready to go in the oven, homemade garlic bread, and cake for dessert. You prepared the bathroom with candles and a bath bomb so he could relax after dinner, the whole flat was spotless and you picked his favorite dress to wear. 

Twenty minutes passed, you put your romantic dish in the oven and set a timer before heading to the bedroom to get ready. The dress was blue and looked like something Donna would wear in Mamma Mia, very light and flowy. The makeup you chose was very simple and discreet, and the hair was also not too extravagant. You even got a new set of lingerie matching the dress for the occasion. 

Rob's gift was waiting for him on the sofa, a few books he'd been talking about in the last few months.

You waited until the lasagna was done and turned the oven off, leaving it in there so it would be nice and warm. You checked if the champagne you got for the celebration was chilled and set the table. 

When it was all prepared, you looked at the time on your phone, it was 8:05. You grinned in anticipation, deciding where you wanted to sit to wait for your boyfriend who should be coming through the door very soon.

Unfortunately, that's not how it went... 8:05 turned into 8:45, turned into 9:20, turned into 10:00. By then the lasagna was for sure cold and it wasn't even time for dinner anymore. 

You sent texts during this time, but there was no response, which elicited a mix of worry and anger stirring in your chest, adding to the hunger that was pretty bad already. 

Finally, at 10:25 the door opened and Rob walked in looking like hell. He was sweaty (more than usual), his hair was messy, there was eyeliner smeared around his eyes and he grunted as he usually did when his back was in pain. 

"So nice of you to join..." you said, looking up from your book 

"Shit, I knew I was late but I didn't know it was that bad," he checked his phone. "I didn't even see it, I just ran as fast as I could when they said I could go home, the tube was packed."

"There's bath stuff in the bathroom, but the candles are probably all melted by now," you folded your arms, absolutely furious even if you knew it wasn't his fault. 

Robert left his shoes by the door, walked up to the couch, and sat on the floor in front of you. He had that puppy look on his face, but didn't talk at first, knowing you probably had more to say.

"I worked on this shit all day for us to have a nice time and celebrate, by the time you're done with your shower and everything else we'll have an hour left in our anniversary at best!" Your voice cracked as you spilled the words. "That isn't fair, I know it was work and you didn't have a choice, I'm just frustrated! I already have to share you with the world, I can't even get a proper anniversary dinner."

He listened quietly as you let out your anger and on your own arrived to the conclusion that there was nothing he could've done to make things different if he wanted to keep his job. He then made sure you were done before taking your hands in his and kissing each knuckle. 

"I understand how frustrating that is, I'm sorry things didn't work out."

"I know... I am too," you sighed, seeing him so calm kinda forced you to calm down as well, it was quite nice actually.

"If you wanna celebrate another day with something different, I get it. But if you'd like to try, I can shower really quickly and we can have our dinner. Tomorrow I have the day off and I'm not leaving your side. I'll even hold your hand as you go to the toilet."

You laughed, he just knew how to de-escalate the situation. He wasn't always like that, but the talent to make you no longer mad was definitely there. 

Robert took a shower and changed into something nice, not a suit, but nice by his hippie standards. He even put on a scarf and fixed his hair to look just the way you like it. 

"You look so handsome," you smiled, holding out the gift box for him. "I hope you like it."

He opened it and his eyes lit up. "Thank you, y/n! So comforting to know you're listening when I'm rambling about books and movies and shit," he chuckled. "Now it's my turn."

Rob opened his bag by the door and pulled out a plastic bag, not a very promising wrapping job, but when you opened it, you forgot all about that. Inside there was the white and blue coat Klaus wears for season two of Umbrella Academy. Every detail was perfect, even the embroidery work. 

"Robbie! This is so beautiful, I can't believe you did this."

"You always mention how much you love these outfits so I had a replica made in your size," he grinned proudly. "I was between this and the black furry one from season one, but I'll get that one for your birthday."

You pulled him into a fierce hug, he really put so much care into it, he certainly looked forward to this night as much as you did. Suddenly, the time didn't matter anymore, all that mattered was that he was there.

"Thanks for being understanding today," Rob murmured, taking your hand as he happily ate his dinner. He was clearly starved from waiting so long.

"It wasn't your fault, don't worry about it."

"Hey, can I tell you a secret?" He asked with a little smirk.

"What?" You chuckled, half expecting some joke or gag, but he just took your hand and brought it to his lips again. 

"It was past midnight when I asked you to be my girlfriend." 

"What? No it wasn't!" You gasped.

He nodded as he chewed, completely sure of what he was saying. "I'm serious, my bedside clock was wrong, I remember cause I had to change it after I was late for work the next day. So technically, it's still our anniversary."

"Oh... happy anniversary then." 

"Happy anniversary, love."

Tag List: @salvador-daley @seanfalco @elliethesuperfruitlover @firstpersonnarrator @badsext

[fuckkbrunch]

I thought this would be quick...

Please ignore my blurry headers, I swear I'm working on it.

So this is a two in one, since you need to make the sauce recipe from the back of the book as well. I hadn't banked on it still being 40°C outside, and as you may recall, my kitchen has no windows.

Luckily Tony says this sauce should take no more than 45 minutes, and ideally much less. The meatballs however, took quite some time.

I think this is entirely too much onion for meatballs, but maybe that's just me. I used some Sicilian oregano that I bought a few months back for my tiny, apartment style herb garden. Most of the herbs have died, but the oregano is still doing okay.

A pound each of ground veal, beef, and pork. Panko and eggs. Nothing fancy - oh, except my fancy garlic...

Look at these big honkin' cloves! Not shallots, garlic. I really got a deal at the farmers market last week. The guy wasn't lying when he said it's strong. Cook up the minced veg and herbs for a few minutes and cool them before mixing into the meat.

The formed meatballs chill for 15-60 minutes. I left them longer (2.5 hours) because I somehow threw my back out a little, and needed to take a time out. It kinda works out, since my fridge is working overtime in this crazy fucking 3 week heatwave.

Then, the sauce.

Of course, the week I need a bunch of Roma tomatoes, Costco is all out. Had to buy some depressing ones from the cheap grocery store. I let them sit at room temp for a few days so they could ripen as much as possible. Dunno if it helped, the skin was really hard to get off even after blanching and an ice bath.

Onward and upward. I splurged a little and got myself a case of San Marzano whole tomatoes. I think they helped make up for the sad Romas.

When the sauce is mostly ready, preheat your oven to 400° so that your apartment can get even more disgusting and unbearable. Now stick your head over an oily cast iron for a half hour and sear 27 meatballs on all sides.

The onions stuck to the pan and over cooked, so I had to clean the pan between batches. Not ideal.

Blitz your sauce with an immersion blender, then stir in 2 chunks of butter. Rip up your basil, stir, season and you're done.

I realized my roaster was too big for this many meatballs to sit deep enough in the wine and sauce mixture, if you can believe it. So I used the braising pan that I made the sauce in, and the cast iron that I seared the meatballs in. Both work just like a braising pan.

Don't believe the people who say you can't cook tomatoes in cast iron, they don't know shit.

Pour almost equal parts wine and pomodoro (a little more wine than sauce) around the meatballs and bake for 20 minutes. Yes, I was drinking white wine (with ice) from a whiskey glass while finishing this up. My entire being is just sweat and back pain at this point, I'm not fucking around anymore. We're in the homestretch.

Really good, fresh mozza, and some of that good parm I bought back in the winter. That wedge is probably going to last me the whole book.

His recipe says to put the bottom of the bun underneath the meatballs while they broil, but I'm not partial to burnt, soggy bread, and I hate when the top and bottom bun are fully separated. You need that back connection to hold the meatballs in! So I just broiled the balls with the cheese on top (my broiler fixed itself...?), and plopped them into the buns once the cheese looked nice. Add a bit of the reserved pomodoro to the bun.

Sure ain't beautiful, and it's hefty, but she's fuckin' tasty. Got a tiny bit soggy towards the end, but nothing fell or dripped onto my plate. Very clean meatball sub.

| Meatball Parm Hero & Pomodoro |

Taste is a 4 out of 5. The meatballs were pretty juicy, even though I hit a higher temp than Tony called for.

Difficulty is a 4 out of 5. The back pain may be clouding my judgment, but this is a lot for one day. Make your pomodoro in advance.

Time was hard to say. Without my extended break, I think this would have taken about 4 hours.

Tony calls for footlong semolina hero rolls with sesame seeds on them, split in half to serve two people each. The closest I could muster was 6 inch Italian style sausage buns with semolina. They got the job done pretty well, so I'm calling it. This recipe feeds at least 8 people.

[delinquentsharlene]

(( due to a couple people prompting me to think about it I've finally fuckin decided on what kinds of food Sharlene likes.

The thing is, she's not picky. At all. She can and will try anything you present her with. 'How do you know you'll hate it if you don't try it?' kinda mentality. Experimental home cooked curry? Fuck yeah. Pickles dipped in peanut butter? Sure! Why not!

That said! She does have a few things she likes a little more than others. She's really into spicy foods, and has a pretty good tolerance to heat and is a lucky piece of shit that doesn't get heartburn or deal with GERD LMAO. She's also really into breads and pastries, can and will eat an entire loaf of garlic bread in one sitting. Meats are good too, she enjoys fish but is more into red meats. Treat her to a steak dinner and she's yours LMAO /j ))

[zombiesama]

Here’s a tomato soup and grilled cheese recipe for you

We measure with our hearts here, generally you’ll need onion garlic basil and tomato. And oil

Recipes will tell you that you need “fresh sun dried tomatoes” but who fuckin caresss, throw those good ole canned tomaters in there. You live once. Hell add whatever seasoning you like. Oragano, basil, sugar! I recommend. Even add fuckin. Coffee creamer.

Put those bitch ass onions and garlic into your pot with olive oil, let those darn tootin things sauté for until they’re nice and soft looking.

Then add your fancy ole tomaters. Then get a bigger pot because you under estimated just how much is in one can o tomaters and don’t spill your tomatoe onion garlic concoction. Ahaha. Ahaha (please I had to redo this recipe once)

Let that damn thing cook until the spirits take you by the shoulders, you feel their gentle lips touch your ear, soothing and alarming. It’s cold, like water running over ice in the artic. You hear them whisper

“Hey that thing probably is starting to burn dude”

Then turn down the heat on your nice soup. Who’s toasty now.

And many say pour your soup into a blender. I don’t have a blender because my damn kids tried to make slime in it, and set the fuckin thing on fire. So I use a coffee blender because I wanted to go to culinary school and live my dreams, but here I am with a weird coffee blended thing. And a 9 to 5.

Mush your soup real nice.

And that’s your tomato soup! Now onto the bread to make those sons of bitches grilled cheese all you have to do is

…

I don’t have bread, the last of it I gave to my dog…

..

I can’t make grilled cheese…

But what’s tomato soup without grilled cheese, they’re a perfect pair. Like you and me Sandra, please, we were perfect just let me see the kids. Sandra we were like grilled cheese and tomato soup.

Sandra..?

Oh right, and that’s how you make homemade tomato soup!!!!!

SOUP WAS YUMMY! Thank you for silly recipe!

[eggs-can-draw]

Oh g-eetings is really gling through it now, it's so funny.

Unrelated who's your favorite of the OG Holy Quintet, and can you give an essay to answer why?

Fr lmao, in the time it took me to write this I thiiiink they just finished ep9? The one with Kyoko and Oktavia von Sekendorff

G-eetings, if you’re reading, this is where the post ends cause I’m about to spoil the SHIT out of Madoka Magica

For my favorite Holy Quintet member, It’s Homura by a fuckin LANDSLIDE!! Her entire existence gives the anime so much rewatch value, and she completely shifts the way you even WATCH the show. She is so so SO FUCKING WELL WRITTEN!! She’s fucking devastating and she has the whole ‘Super Cool and Aloof Girl who turns out to have a very sensitive and emotional motivation that she gives her all for’ AND JUST. AAAAAAGH.

Madohomu is the #1 doomed yuri to me.

The level of dedication she has is so admirable and just. Agh. Imagine having to watch the love of your life die over and over and OVER AGAIN and you’ve tried so so so many times to save her that at this point? You’re fine as long as she just LIVES.

The levels of despair and desperation she’s brought to is just fucking heartbreaking. AND REBELLION. REBELLION. MOVIE OF ALL TIME AND SHE’S THE BEATING HEART OF IT. hot take her devil moment was 100% in character and while not the best choice also a good one? TFW you save god from sacrificing her own happiness for the rest of eternity but to do so you must become her very antithesis but YOURE OK WITH THAT. YOURE FINE BECAUSE IN THE END SHE WILL BE ALIVE AND HERE WITH YOU AND THATS ALL THAT MATTERS TO YOU

She’s so tragic and lovely and I want to make her some garlic bread

[maddsmallow]

What's your favourite dish?

Favourite movie? What type of imaginary scenarios are most recent topics of your daydreaming?

Hi Mads :^]

hey wonder 👉👈

favorite dish is always a hard one to answer because there's sooooo much to choose from. so i'll just put what i've been craving lately: curry! like a really good tikka masala or butter chicken with rice and garlic-y naan bread 🤤🤤 fuuuuck yeah dude

favorite movie is also difficult lmao! i would say it's a juggle between ghibli's 'howl's moving castle', disney's 'snow white', and stargate (obviously the movie not the tv series since that's what the question's about). i'm sure i could list a few more that i love but i wont 😆

what am i daydreaming about lately? hankcon fuckin i mean who said that

[localplaguenurse]

K so I’m working earlier today right. Garlic breads are at the very end of the aisle, near the entrance/exit of the aisle. I park my cart of stuff as close to the actual shelf as I can so I can leave room for customers to pass. Go to put out some of the like long baguette style loaves and notice when I’m touching the ones on the shelf, they’re a little greasy. This isn’t exactly new for this brand, so I step away to go wash my hands and grab paper towels to wipe them down. I’m gone probably three minutes, maybe less.

Come back and am at the opposite end of the aisle when I see two things: 1. A customer has parked their cart next to opposite shelf and walked away, so there’s only a small gap in the middle, and 2. There’s a lady trying to get through that gap with her cart.

I watch as this lady fuckin pushes her cart into mine to get through the gap, which knocks a loaf of garlic bread off and turns my cart sideways so now it’s taking up more space. She sees me just Staring at her silently like “are you good” and she starts saying “it was the only way through” and “I would’ve put it back!”

Ma’am I watched you play bumper cars in the bread aisle instead of using your hands to push one cart forward a little bit. Like fuck whoever parked their cart and walked off (INSANE pet peeve of mine stg) but... bumper carts? Really?

[corvidous]

Man so my go-to low effort meal is rice with an over-easy egg, right? And it’s only gotten better with my acquisition of a rice cooker.

-1 cup rice, 1 cup water, in the rice cooker

-once it’s done crack an egg into the pan, cook for just a minute or two, until it’s solid enough for you to flip it

-flip the egg, cook for like one to one and a half minutes (you want the yolk to still be runny)

-rice in a bowl, egg on the rice

-SAUCE. Fuckin SLATHER that shit in whatever you’ve got. Soy sauce, sriracha, kewpie mayonnaise is a champion, teriyaki sauce, Worcestershire, regular mayonnaise maybe, fuckin A1 steak sauce, vinegar, literally whatever sauces you’ve got

-SPICE. Again, anything you’ve got but dump it on there. Paprika, onion and/or garlic powder, chili powder, black pepper, salt (if you didn’t load it up with soy sauce) if you have any purpose made japanese furikake rice seasoning that shit is absolutely baller. Maybe sprinkle some panko bread crumbs on there if you’ve got ‘em.

-Mix it all up and chow down. That shit is bangin’ and it takes like 5 minutes (plus the time that the rice is in the rice cooker, but you don’t even need to bother with that, even if you forget it entirely it’s fine for hours on the warm setting).