#makes for excellent grilled cheeses

[ukulelekatie]

buying a giant block of cheese from costco is all fun and games until you are humbled by the knowledge of just how quickly you are capable of singlehandedly consuming an entire giant block of cheese from costco

[cupcraft]

Some easy cooking/meal tips as an adult grad student:

You dont need to chop amazingly perfectly and meticuously. At the end of the day chop safely and however. If it tastes good its good.

Instant things can make things 1000% easier for yourself. Instant mash/instant mac/instant rice/instant pasta/etc. Add Frozen things. Add premade things. Your dishes don't have to be from scratch at all aspects ever. Do what is easiest for you and delicious!

You can use pre-ground spices. I know, yes, whole spices and roasting them and grinding them and using a mortar/pestle yourself is delicious and wondrous. But you can use preground spices to save time. You can use a food processor to blend spices/garlic/etc. together.

If you struggle with making too much food (ie food waste concern), try to make dishes you know will freeze well that way you can have leftovers that store for a long time (ie potatoes dont necessarily freeze well imo, whereas rice freezes just fine!). I also recommend just halving recipes and try to shoot for as many portions is suitable for you.

Uh oh made too much rice? What do I do and i dont want to freeze it? 1-2 days in the fridge and you have rice that is going to make an excellent fried rice. You always want to use old rice! And you can put whatever you want in it!

Canned food is okay. Canned food is okay. Canned food is okay. Eat canned meats, fish, vegetables, etc. Imo some canned veggies arent my favorite flavor wise but if you like it and it works USE IT.

Add mayo to each side of your bread when making grilled cheese. It'll make a great brown crust in a buttered pan.

American/processed/velveeta like cheese is fine. Its delicious it melts well its totally fine. Stop demonizing processed foods and "preservatives". Velveeta/kraft cheeses are going to melt so perfectly for your grilled cheese the end.

Instant pots & slow cookers & air fryers can make your life a lot easier, and at least for instant pots/slow cookers I find them easier to clean!

Meal planning will really help you. Plan what you want to eat every week (or as far ahead as it helps you). Pre-cut vegetables. Buy meat in bulk and freeze/thaw as needed. Etc. Prepping/planning will make your life easier!

You can often buy shrimp that is pre-peeled & deveined, and even pre-cooked. This makes cooking time easier and faster.

It's okay to order takeout if you dont have the energy to cook. Its okay to order takeout if you do have the energy to cook. Enjoy and treat yourself.

Preboiling your potatoes (tender but not fully done) then baking them can make a crispier roasted potato.

[gremlinmodetweeker]

König of the Icks

I’m sorry y’all, König is an ick magnet. He’s such an awful human being. Not because he’s genuinely vile or awful or morally fucked (okay a bit morally fucked), but simply because he does so many things that give the ick. He’s King of the Icks. He really is. He’s awful. So, with me breaking your bubble, let’s go over a few of the icks that I think are most prevalent. More posts of König icks to come.

König wears socks and sandals. Or socks and crocs. He’s awful. He only does it when he’s wading in the water, meaning he’ll walk around in wet socks for about an hour afterwards until they dry out. It’s so disgusting I cannot stress how awful it is. He tries to tell people that it’s safer and more comfortable, but he looks awful. It’s a fashion nightmare. No human should be wearing socks and sandals while wading in the water. In all fairness, he’s right, it does keep his feet safe, but does he really need the socks???

He wears clothes in the wrong size almost all the time. You tried to get him clothes in the right size, but he rarely wears them. He wears clothes too large because he says it’s ‘comfy’ but he looks like a slob. He’s so disgusting it hurts. He doesn’t even treat his clothes well because they collect spills and stains as he wears them for multiple days in a row. He’s had someone ask if he needs money for a bus ticket before. It was the one time in his life he realized how other people saw him. He’s since started to try to wear nicer clothing when going out. Around the house though? He looks terrible.

This wouldn’t be so much of an issue if he weren’t such a messy eater. He may look like a slob, but normally he’s very clean and neat in his habits. He cleans dishes immediately after using them, he sweeps and mops regularly, he has good personal hygiene and takes care of himself. He’s a generally clean person. That is until he sits down to eat. It’s awful because he takes bites that are too big and then it’ll fall out of his mouth and onto his shirt. He’ll then suck the stain to ‘get it out’ but it just makes things worse. He also uses his shirt as a napkin or towel, depending on the situation. He’ll also make pretty loud sounds when he eats, especially when he’s eating noodles or slurping a smoothie. If you think you’re lucky and these will be rare instances, he has a protein shake every morning and will have a bowl of buttered noodles at least once every other day (usually more).

Along this line, König got in deep shit for not having a white shirt when he was a new recruit. They asked him why he wasn’t wearing a white shirt, and he told them that it was, in fact, the standard issue white shirt. The sergeant pointed at all the other recruits in bleach white shirts, and then back at König’s grey shirt. They got into a huge argument, only for the drill sergeant to pale when he spun König around and read the tag because this grey piece of shit was a white t-shirt all along

König is an excellent cook. Why is this an ick? Because he doesn’t cook. He could, if he tried, but he’s too lazy so he just throws a day-old grilled cheese in the microwave and calls it done. He then has the nerve to complain that he’s hungry when all he’s eaten are old chips and candy bars. The only time he’ll consider cooking is if you ask him to cook or if he’s having company. Otherwise he will eat trash and you cannot stop him. He will, however, once a week or so lay out a full meal. It's beautiful and delicious, but you know he'll be eating leftovers for days, and then go back to a day of only junk food, then he'll finally force himself to cook again.

On the topic of food, König refuses to accept that food can expire. Just straight up. He doesn’t believe in expiry dates. ‘It’s a best by date, not an expiry date’ is his motto and he pays for it. At this point, he has a designated sick bucket because he gives himself food poisoning so often. All the others soldiers can’t believe that he’s fine with the MREs, but you know that when he comes home, he’ll be chowing down on stale bread he found in his fridge with moldy cheese. It’s disgusting and you have to regularly clean his fridge, lest he get sick eating things. He will also fish things out of the trash, so you have to be tactical in how you remove things. It’s a dangerous game.

This is just the tip of the iceberg of my König ick list. I’m telling you all that this man is a gremlin, and we love him for it. Part of the joy of dating König is dealing with his icks and suffering.

[copperbadge]

My answer was too long for the fried food post. I used to make grilled PB&J, just like you'd make a grilled cheese and my family always thought that was weird. I know, it's not deep fried, but I don't deep fry at home. Weirdest (and BEST) thing I've had was fried tacos, It was a very strange but awesome camping trip, where there was much weird food to be enjoyed. Anyhoo, they took a less sweet kind of donut dough, hollowed out a ball, filled it with meat, cheese and peppers if you wanted them, sealed the hole shut, rolled them in corn flour and dropped them into the kettle. They were served 3 to a bowl, with a scoop of salsa, guac, and/or sour cream. They'd sprinkle with cotija cheese at the end. We also had elote on the side, and hard cider. They took the last of the dough at the end of the meal and stuffed them with marshmallows and chocolate chips, and skipped the corn flour but I was too full of excellent tacos and elote to indulge. Man, the pandemic sucked in so many ways, but my camping group really came together in the spring of 21, and we've had so many awesome trips since then. And lots of deep fried tacos. The person who invented it is trying to do something with tamale batter to make them even more taco-y, but it's still a work in progress. The tamale batter is loose enough that it wants to fall apart in the fryer.

This was sent in response to my "What's the weirdest thing you've fried or weirdest fried thing you've eaten" post and I failed to respond in a timely fashion and was considering deleting it out of shame but then I read the recipe for FRIED TACOS and was like no. The world needs to know. My feelings are as nothing next to the glory of the fried taco.

I realize this is a lot of work for camping but if your friend is still looking for solutions to the tamale issue, I would suggest steaming the "taco balls" in tamale dough first, then cooling and frying -- the masa firms up a lot during the steaming process, and the amount of time it would take to get the exterior crispy and golden should be enough time to reheat the interior. (Or it might explode. Testing is needed.)

I might have to give this a shot -- I can think of a few dough recipes that would work, and I have some fajita seasoning that's going to go stale if I don't use it relatively soon. Hmmm.

[moonstruckme]

Hello my darling

I have returned with another Peter Parker request🤭

Imagine Peter and reader are really good friends (they've known each other since they were little) and Peter just looks over at reader one day and realizes he's in love with her. It just hits him suddenly

Thank youuu

-🔮

Thanks for requesting lovely!

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 801 words

Peter whistles as you open the front door, craning his neck to look behind you at your half-decorated apartment. “First solo place,” he says, kicking off his shoes. “Not bad, not bad.��� 

“For the rent? I think you mean to say excellent,” you correct him, moving into the kitchen. “You wish you had an apartment as sick as this, Parker.” 

Peter laughs, taking in the tiny kitchen, the fortunate south-facing windows spilling light across the space. “I just wish I had an apartment,” he agrees.

Your hum is half amusement, half apology. “I was about to have lunch,” you tell him, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Want something?”

“Sure,” Peter says, “I’ll have whatever you’re having.” 

You laugh. “I’m having peanut butter with honey and banana, I know you don’t want in on that.” 

Peter wrinkles his nose. Your sweet tooth never ceases to amaze him. “Freak.” 

You turn on the stove, unphased by his disgust. “I can make you a grilled cheese,” you offer. 

He leans his elbows on the counter, raising his eyebrows at you. “You’re stocking cheese? You hate cheese.” 

“No way, I totally forgot.” You’re both sardonic and fond as you roll your eyes, ducking into the fridge and emerging a moment later with a slice of cheese. “I knew you’d be here and hungry eventually.” 

That’s more touching than it has any right to be. 

“Good forethought,” Peter says, casually as he can. “Yeah, grill me a cheese, sweetheart.” 

You nod, smoothing butter over two slices of bread in easy habit, placing one in the pan to sizzle and making the sandwich on top of it. While the cheese melts, you get started on your own monstrosity, reaching up into the cabinet for the peanut butter. The honey’s on a higher shelf, and you seem to consider it for a moment before gripping the fridge for balance and hauling yourself up onto the counter. 

“Whoa, don’t do that,” Peter says, hurrying into the kitchen to help.

“I’ve got it,” you argue, but you’re already precarious, leaning back to open the cabinet further and nearly slipping off the edge of the counter in your socks. Peter sets a hand on either side of your waist.

“No, what am I here for?” He encourages you off the ledge, waiting until you’ve got your feet under you before letting you go. 

“You can’t be my permanent solution, though,” you laugh, taking the honey from him when he passes it down to you. “I’ll have to figure it out eventually.” 

“Then you should have thought ahead and picked a place without high shelves,” Peter chides, taking over grilled cheese duties while you cut up your banana. “Now you’ll just have to call me over anytime you want something. It’s the only way.” 

You shoot him a look that’s clearly intended to be mean, but you can’t manage it, the corners of your lips twitching mutinously. Peter bumps you with his hip to let you know he sees, and your smile comes out in full force, squishing your eyes and showing off the dimple in your one cheek. Even your nose gets in on the action, wrinkling slightly at the bridge when you let out a little laugh. 

That laugh echoes in your tiny kitchen, and something happens in Peter’s chest. His heart twinges. It almost hurts, but there’s an odd pleasantness to it. His body feels too small for this hugeness, this incandescent, aching fondness that feels like it should be visibly glowing inside him. 

You bend over your work, and Peter’s struck with the loveliness of you. You’ve always been pretty—Peter’s not blind, he’s noticed it over the years—but this is different. You’re…he feels different.

“Whoa,” your voice is soft, chiding but not really as you nudge him aside, taking a spatula from beside the stove and flipping his sandwich. “Jesus, Pete, I’d have thought you’d be more practiced at this. Too used to me doing it for you?”

Peter blinks down at the pan. The slice of bread you’ve flipped over is nearly black. 

“Hey.” You look up at him, eyes wide and wavering between bemusement and concern. Pretty. Peter can just barely see the faint remains of your summer freckles under each eye, faded after months spent indoors. They’ll come back in the spring, just like they have every year since you were kids. Like you’re synched with the flowering trees. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Not really. He feels like he’s been hit by a truck. “Yeah, uh, you want me to grab us something to drink?”

“Sure. Water’s in the fridge, I’ll get cups.” 

Peter digs through your fridge until he gets to the water, emerging to find you crawling back up onto the counter, reaching for cups on the top shelf. 

“Jesus Christ.”

[inclosedwalldelusion]

40 sentences that will teach you more about nutrition than a $400,000 medical degree

From Brett Boettcher @brettboettcher1

40 sentences that will teach you more about nutrition than a $400,000 medical degree.

1) Meat, eggs and animal organs are the most nutrient dense foods on the planet.

2) Bone broth is loaded in collagen and helps repair the gut so you can heal from the inside out.

3) Saturated fat doesn’t cause heart disease, insulin resistance does.

4) Your ratio of triglycerides to HDL is a great indicator of mortality risk; the lower the better. ·

5) Protein is the most metabolically active macronutrient and it isn’t bad for your kidneys.

6) There isn’t quality evidence to show that dietary cholesterol impacts the cholesterol in your blood. ·

7) There is even less evidence to support that total cholesterol is bad for your health since it is inversely correlated to mortality risk. · 4h 8) Walking before and after meals is a great way to improve digestion and reduce blood sugar spikes.

9) Fiber is the last thing you need if you have IBS or diverticulitis.

10) Dairy is great for your health and its saturated fat intake is inversely correlated to heart disease.

11) Most nutritional recommendations were introduced based on profit margins, not health outcomes.

12) Calories in and calories out is all that matter, but some calories make you hungrier (sugar/grains). Other calories (protein) help you burn more calories.

13) Multi grain just means they took 2+ different terrible sources of grain and put them together into one product.

14) Cereal and bread for breakfast will spike your blood sugar and have you starving before lunch. Try Greek yogurt or eggs instead. ·

15) “Intuitive eating” and “listen to your body” makes no sense considering 88% of people are metabolically unhealthy and addicted to food. No one would say “intuitive crack use.”

16) Eating is a stress on your body; The less often you can eat, the healthier you’ll be.

17) Plan your meals around the protein source (with its natural fat) and add a small side of carbs if needed.

18) Eating for satiety is more important than relying constantly on willpower. Find filling foods and avoid foods with addictive properties (ultra-processed).

19) You don’t have to know how to cook. Grill a meat, sauté a green vegetable, bake a potato. Mix and match a million ways.

20) Eating many of the same foods every week isn’t perfectly optimal but it’s likely your best path to consistency and therefore success. ·

21) Becoming more insulin sensitive should be the focus of any health-related nutrition plan.

22) Salad dressings are one of the worst things you can eat for your health. High in calories and inflammatory industrial oils.

23) Eating 5x per day won’t boost your metabolism. If you are trying to gain weight, it’s an excellent strategy.

24) Bacon can be healthy, just avoid the processing with nitrates.

25) Cottage cheese and Greek yogurt are two of the best sources of protein per calorie.

26) Carbs are beneficial around a workout. But many sources of carbs are processed and easily overeaten. Focus on single ingredient foods.

27) You can’t be healthy at any size no matter what your mother or liberal arts professor said.

28) Eat a high protein meal before attending social events that are filled with junk food.

29) If eating out, order the food with the highest protein content.

30) The #1 reason people fail is that they don’t prepare. Meal prep, meal plan, have ready to eat protein sources. · 31) The food you eat directly impacts your mental health and processed foods are correlated with depression and mental illness.

32) Processed foods have been engineered to be as addicting as possible. Your taste buds can be retrained with natural sources.

33) “Plant-based” foods are made in laboratories and are an easy way to sell overpriced junk to consumers at high margin.

34) Eating 1 gram of protein per lb of ideal body weight daily will do more for your body composition than spending 30 minutes on the treadmill.

35) When in doubt, if it comes from the center aisles of the grocery store or has more than 3 ingredients, it’s not good for you.

36) Many foods labeled as “keto” “paleo” or “high protein” are far from meeting the intended definition.

37) Your gut is responsible for 70% of your immune system; feeding it sugar and other inflammatory foods is making you sick now and later.

38) Genetics play a role but over 90% of the country has a resting metabolism within 500 calories daily. Being fit is possible for everyone.

39) Flipping the food pyramid upside down is closer to healthy eating than the traditional suggestions.

40) Eliminating drinking your calories is the first change to make when trying to improve your health.

[rotten7rat]

Batfamily + Cooking

Alfred:

He's the main cook, and has been since taking the job as the Wayne's butler. Classically trained in the culinary arts, and thankfully stillvery much enjoys it, though not as much as he used to. He likes baking more than cooking, and has gotten more of a sweet tooth as he's gotten older. Leans more on your classic British dishes, but is always happy to try a requested recipe. Prefers to cook either alone or with competent help.

Bruce:

No. Cannot even be trusted to make a grilled cheese, he always burns them.

Barbara:

Pretty good. Very much a 'throw something together at 7:30, eat at 8' kind of person, but everyone is always happy to have what she cooks. If it takes hours to make then its not worth it. A teacher suggested once that being raised by a single father, she must do most of the cooking and cleaning, and after that she refused to learn how to cook out of sheer stubbornness.

Dick:

An excellent cook. I think it comes naturally to him, he didn't spend much time cooking growing up but once he taught himself the basics he can pretty much throw anything together. Its by no means a passion of his, but he does enjoy it. However, he doesn't cook often due to being too busy and/or tired, so he gets a lot of takeout or just has something quick or microwavable very often. But if he's cooking you best be there. Anything can be a social occasion and he happily accepts help in the kitchen. Not great at baking though, he always manages to over-cook or over-mix.

Cassandra:

I'm sorry but she will throw rice, water, and and an unseasoned chicken breast in the rice cooker and call it a night. Either that or she'll have a protein shake and seven eggs.

Jason:

Quite good. Unlike Dick, it doesn't come naturally to him, but he is a fast learner and picked it up mostly from Catherine, Alfred, and YouTube. That being said, would he prefer tortellini en brodo or four boxes of Kraft mac and cheese? Tamales or something quick and greasy from Bat Burger? Its always the second option. I think he often cooks as a distraction or just something to do, and just gives it to the single mother across the hall or throws it in the freezer to eat a week later.

Stephanie:

Decent. She'll see a recipe on TikTok and will try it instantly, and she's always excited to try something new. Works best with a recipe but decides just to wing it mostly. Cooking with her mother has become somewhat of a bonding activity. Really good at baking, especially things like brownies and cookies. However, she will also throw pickles, peanut butter and ice cream in a blender and swear it tastes fantastic. Is learning to cook more because everytime she sees Cass eating a boiled chicken breast she takes psychic damage. Trying to sneak meat alternatives into Cass without her noticing. It worked once.

Tim:

Not great. Will follow the recipe to the letter and will somehow still fuck it up. He mostly sticks to simple recipes that are hard to mess up, and also just doesn't have the desire to spend heaps of time in the kitchen. He does make a mean sandwich though, every time someone tries to replicate one its just never as good.

Duke:

Doesn't particularly enjoy cooking but he's fine at it. Not as bad as Cassandra, he will season his food, but prefers it to be quick and not complicated. Loves heavier foods like pastas and other carbs but doesn't have the patience or desire to make them from scratch so he uses jar sauces, frozen potatoes etc. Will put taco seasoning on everything.

Damian:

Good eventually. Doesn't cook a lot now, but when he was younger he had a kind of 'well obviously its not difficult, its just cooking' mindset. He was humbled. By Dick. I think when he's older he is much better. Will still follow a recipe so it is perfect every time. It isn't a hobby, just a task that must be completed, but he'll be damned if he's eating bland food, he will spend an hour preparing vegetable tagine. Nobody can help of even be in the kitchen with him while he is cooking, because they are breathing all the kitchen air and taking up all the room. Get out.

[poppy-metal]

mdlb with art but as the babysitter. tashi booked a spa day but knows he can't be trusted on his own.

he's shy and sweet and blushy around you at first. you make grilled cheese and watch a movie on the couch but a kissing scene comes on and he's suddenly fidgety in his seat his shorts suddenly all pokey. he whines and looks at you with wet eyes as your fingers caress the bump and you're asking if he knows what to do with that...

my clit is rock hard rn I'm not gonna lie to you - tashi has the scene all planned out and you know everything beforehand, arts safewords and likes and dislikes ect. she wants him to have a more active role play partner because with her busy schedule she doesn't always have the time to play mommy. why not hire someone to play mommy for her? and other roles, later - if need be.

watching innapropriate movies with him so he's hard and stiff in his shorts - and because he's innocent - he doesn't know any better - what's cheating to a good little mommy's boy? some pretty lady coos at him and he's melting - letting you pull down his shorts and gasping when you swallow him all down in one go - your throat seems endless - so warm and tight inside and he hits all the way to the back and you don't even need to sputter and pull back - you're able to just keep him there - gently swallowing around him - and he's lost in the euphoria of it - legs coming up to hug your head, hands in your hair - cupping your head -

he thinks he'll have to beg tashi to make you babysit him everyday - you're his new favorite person -

and if the dynamic happens to stretch beyond just art and his cock is still twitching in your warm mouth when mommy gets back home - well. he always wanted to see his mommy play with another pretty girl.

maybe you excelled so well, better than tashi even thought, that you deserve some extra form of payment - a little tlc to that throbbing place between your legs you've neglected all day because you were so focused on pleasing her boy.

sigh <3333

[anistarrose]

taz balance one-shot recs!

I've been meaning to make this post for a while now, so here we are! The majority of these are from the past three years or so, because I love a fandom classic as much as anyone, but I particularly want to shine a light on some gems from after the peak of traffic in the fandom tags! There are of course also exceptions that are older, though.

Also, April 19th-21st are Just Leave a Comment Fest, so please show these authors some love!! They're all so deserving!

a recipe for home by @journalofimprobablethings: Taako tries to cook for the first time since Glamour Springs. When things go awry, Lucretia is there to lend a hand.

Gen (Taako & Lucretia), 3.5k. Early B.O.B. era hurt/comfort centered around cooking, with a delicious dollop of sentimentality and dramatic irony on top.

Seven Times Magnus Burnsides Gave Someone A Hug + One Time He Received One by @barry-j-blupjeans: Magnus wasn't really any good at— at words. He was more of an action man. Or, y'know, a "I'll take this hit so you don't have to" man. Talking to someone about their feelings was all kinds of weird, so usually he just left the space for someone else to talk. And, well... Magnus wasn't good at words. But there's a few different ways to get his support across.

Mostly gen with some Magnulia, 8.6k. You've all heard of the classic 5 Plus 1, but obviously Magnus deserves a 7 Plus 1! I don't know how to describe it without spoilers other than being full of incredibly sweet, gentle takes on so many fraught or bittersweet moments. Super underrated, do give it a read.

Embrace the Dark by @ceilingfan5: Bookstore coworkers Kravitz and Taako get more than they bargained for when Taako tries to use his powers to fix Kravitz's migraine. But it's okay--it's an excuse for them to spend time together until one of them can nut up and ask the other out.

Taakitz, 8.9k. Modern with Superpowers AU! Super sweet interactions between Kravitz and Taako, paired with lots of fun background worldbuilding. And, of course, a very special grilled cheese sandwich.

Break This Heavy Chain by Punka_Writes: In the immediate aftermath of Story and Song, Barry Bluejeans could really use a hug.

Blupjeans and misc. platonic interactions, 2.3k. The absolute epitome of comfort food in written form, with excellent Barry characterization (and of course, he does get that hug)!

birds of a feather steal sweaters together by @holdmecloser-gandydancer: When you're a big, burly guy it seems that your clothes just become free reign for all your friends. Normally Magnus is a reasonable guy, but everyone has their limits.

Gen (IPRE crew), 1.9k. Starblaster era fluff! Everyone is written absolutely delightfully, and every time I read it I snort out loud at least twice.

Security by @ceilingfan5: Barry has finally made it--his incredible scientific discovery has landed him a huge fortune...and a lot of problems. The only good thing that's come of it, honestly, has been his bodyguard, Lup. (And the science. That's good also.) He's just gotta stay normal about how nice it is to have someone like Lup around, and also not perish by way of press circuit, and everything will be fine.

Blupjeans, 6k. Modern with magic AU from Barry's POV, featuring equal parts anxiety and pining. Also, it's straight-up extremely funny.

Lonesome Dreams by @jerreeeeeee: Taako wakes up one morning from a nightmare, fast fading. There was a guy in glasses, and they were… somewhere high up? Something terrible happened, but he doesn’t remember. He wakes up in a wagon he’s never seen before, but it has his name on it. There’s tons of food inside, more than he’d be able to afford. And he’s alone. Thinking back to the last thing he remembers is difficult. College? No, he’d graduated. Top of his class, obviously, he remembers that. But what- what happened after? Where is Lup?

Gen (Taako & Lup), 10.2k. Everything starts out the same, except Taako remembers Lup, even if not how she went missing, and it's incredibly underrated and full of phenomenal characterization. I won't spoil how things shake out, but it's a great emotional ride and I genuinely reread it all the time.

it's my party and I'll mope if I want to by @holdmecloser-gandydancer: Taako's birthday is just another Thursday. A detective and an old friend have a different idea.

Gen (Taako & Lucretia & Angus), 2.1k. Short and so sweet! Fics about voidfished!Taako's birthday never get old, and this is one of my absolute favorites. Nailing the angst-to-wholesome ratio.

Tedious Familiarity by @barry-j-blupjeans: Déjà vu. Noun. A feeling of having already experienced the present situation. A tedious familiarity. Barry Bluejeans woke up in a cave, fresh out of a pod filled with green goop, and saddled with an unsettling feeling that he had been here before. If you had asked forty-year-old Barry if he would follow instructions left by a talking coin, he probably would have asked you what type of drugs you were on. But, y’know, fifty… two? Fifty-one? How old was he? Fifty-two sounded right. But, y’know, fifty-two years old Barry didn’t really have that many other places to turn, so this couldn't be all that bad.

Gen, 4.1k. Missing scenes based off Barry's decade alone, written in such an effective style, where all the little details truly make it. Mandatory reading for fellow Barry angst enjoyers.

Angus McDonald and the Wonderland Escape Rooms by coppersunshine: When Angus gets grounded from detecting, to keep his skills sharp he becomes a patron of the Wonderland Escape rooms, run by Edward and Lydia, who quickly decide he's their new nemesis. To their surprise, Angus and the collection of weird adults he's accompanied by decide otherwise.

Gen (Angus & Edward & Lydia), 7k. Modern with magic AU, putting Edward and Lydia in the absolute funniest possible job, at which a little boy detective torments... and maybe, even gives them a chance to turn over a new leaf. I am of the opinion that Angus and the Wonderland twins have a criminally underexplored dynamic, and this fic gave me everything I wanted.

If the Sun and Moon Should Doubt by Punka_Writes: Merle Highchurch, on the brink of a bad decision.

Gen, 1.6k. Merle character study immediately before running out on his marriage. Truly the incredible characterization that Merle deserves; this was a fic that really ignited my love for him.

Greensleeves by @sgrumby: Kravitz has never seen a lich like this before, and he's seen a lot of liches. Merle is just trying to save the universe, thanks very much.

Gen (Kravitz & Merle), 2.2k. A unique and also absolutely genius Lich!Merle AU where Kravitz inevitably comes after him, and Merle is... well, the Peacemaker, of course!

[estrellami-1]

If I Should Stay

Part 1 | . . . | Part 51 | Part 52 | Part 53

“You wish,” Steve teases, then looks wide-eyed at Robin. “What about all the pictures we have?”

“We’ll take new ones,” she assures him, then grins. “And hey, maybe Starcourt will be built, without the Russian base underneath.”

Steve hums. “Maybe then I could avoid one of the concussions from Billy.”

Robin freezes suddenly. “Steve,” she says, “is it a good idea for the party to meet Max? Because of the first concussion from Billy? That wasn’t Upside Down related, was it?”

Steve grimaces. “He’d been Flayed at that point, yeah. Even if he is a racist asshole, I can’t imagine him coming after us like that again.”

Robin hums. “But if he does-”

“Tell me,” Eddie says suddenly, “does he like Mary Jane? Because I can make sure he never sees her again if he goes after Steve.”

Robin blinks at him, then begins to grin. “Sorry, Stevie, Eddie’s my new favorite.”

Eddie laughs and fist-bumps her. “Likewise, Birdie.”

“Hey!” Steve says, faux-affronted. It’s ruined by the grin he can’t hide.

El pokes gently at Steve’s arm, then the waffle iron when he looks at her. “It’s done.”

“Ah,” he says, opening it. “Thank you, Ellie. Mind getting me a plate?” He grins at her. “Without grabbing it?”

El grins. Without moving, she opens a cabinet, floats a plate out to Steve, then shuts the cabinet again. She wipes underneath her nose, then grins at Steve. “No blood!”

“That’s great!” He celebrates with her, offering her a high-five. “You think you’re ready?”

“I’m still scared,” she tells him. “But yes. I do.”

“Y’know something else?” Steve asks. “Vecna needed four more years to be strong enough to do what he did. You needed two more days. I think you’re much stronger than he is right now.”

“Speaking of the big bad,” Eddie interjects, nibbling on a corner of his waffle, “shouldn’t we go over the plan?”

Steve sighs. “Probably,” he agrees.

“I think we should wait for everyone,” Alli says. “Let’s just have as normal a morning as we can for right now.”

Steve smiles at his sister. “Sure, Al,” he says, then rolls his eyes when she pulls him into a hug and ruffles his hair.

“Love you, Bubba,” she murmurs into his ear, and he can’t help but to melt into her hug.

“Love you too, Al,” he murmurs back, then grins at her. “How about grilled cheese when we all make it outta this intact?”

“I think that sounds like an excellent idea,” she nods, then steps away. “I’m gonna call Cass. Come and get me when everyone’s here?”

“Will do,” he nods, and she smiles in response as she walks off.

Eddie pulls his feet up onto the counter he’s sitting on, looping his arms around his knees. “So, Cassidy is Alli’s-?”

“Girlfriend,” Steve nods. He takes another waffle out of the iron and scrapes the last of the batter into it. “It makes me wonder how I would’ve ended up, if I had her the entire time, y’know? Cause I know I was an asshole. And I’m trying not to be anymore.”

“You’re succeeding,” both Robin and Eddie say at the same time, then excitedly point at each other.

Steve laughs and shakes his head. “Thanks. But I wonder, if I’d had her the entire time, would I have ever gotten as bad as I did? Would I have ever worked at Scoops or Family Video and met you, Robin? Would any of his have ever happened in the first place?”

He only notices his hand is shaking when Robin gently takes his fork and puts it down, then grabs both his hands in hers. “Squeeze,” she requests, and he does, letting out a harsh breath and resting their foreheads together.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Shuddup,” Robin says. He laughs.

After a few seconds, he pulls away to look at her. “Am I being crazy?”

“I think you’re being exactly as sane as taking this mission in the first place makes either of us, Dingus, I don’t think either of us were all there in the first place.”

Steve giggles. “I think you may be right.”

“Maybe you would’ve been different,” Eddie says. He’s taking the last waffle out of the iron. “Maybe you wouldn’t have. Maybe all of this would’ve happened, and maybe it wouldn’t have. Maybes aren’t gonna change anything that’s currently happening. All we can do is our best to get through it.”

El slips between Steve and Robin and wraps her arms around Steve’s waist. “I can do things you can’t,” she says quietly. “But I can’t see the future. I don’t know what could’ve happened. But I know I’m glad that you’re here now.”

Steve sighs contentedly and wraps her in his arms. “Me too.”

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[jonquilyst]

Day 2 - Challenge Day

It's the moment we've all been waiting for! Challenge time!! If you remember from our casting call, I said that the challenges this season would be based off of movie genres! So what's this challenge's genre? Culinary, of course!

The two teams must prepare a grilled cheese sandwich, and they must try to make the better grilled cheese sandwiches than the other team. The team with the highest number of high-quality sandwiches wins invincibility!

The Illustrious Star-Shines start out strong, with Hans unfazed from catching himself on fire earlier. However, it seems that the fire curse passed on to Coffee, because she put too much oil in the pan which resulted in an explosion!

The Renowned Big-Names fumble a bit more than the Star-Shines, as you can see with Enzo accidentally dropping the pepper shaker, but you can just see the determination in Toni's eyes as she tries to get her sandwich back in her pan!

THE RESULTS:

Illustrious Star-Shines

Ashlee: Normal

Coffee: Excellent!

Drew: Normal

Flo: Excellent!

Hans: Excellent!

Takashi: Excellent!

Tristan: Normal

Renowned Big-Names

Brody: Normal

Enzo: Normal

Liana: Excellent!

Neal: Normal

Paulina: Normal

Toni: Normal

Willabelle: Excellent!

It was close, but the Star-Shines take the cake with 4 excellent-quality sandwiches to 2!

THE ILLUSTRIOUS STAR-SHINES WIN!

Congratulations Star-Shines! Although nobody in particular did terribly (besides Coffee exploding herself, but good thing she's on your team!), you still made better sandwiches than the Big-Names!

The Illustrious Star-Shines have won invincibility and are safe tonight. I'll be seeing the Renowned Big-Names at the auditorium for the first elimination of Total Drama Sims: Season 2...

@riverofjazzsims @akitasimblr @ethicaltreatmentofcowplants @witheringscreations @stargazer-sims

@micrathene-w @simsinfinitylt @cowplant-ate-my-sim @aniraklova @nakasumi-sims

@seyvia

[creekfiend]

i like to make paninis in my waffle maker! it makes excellent crispy sandwiches. my favorite is inside out grilled cheese where you have a grilled cheese and put more shredded cheese on the outside so it’s all crispy and delicious but it’s also very hard to clean. yummy though!

omg that sounds like a NIGHTMARE for cleanup you are a far braver person than I........ 😱

[chronically-ghosted]

you got your claws in me honey, like a tiger in love

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 8K

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

summary: you arrive at your estranged uncle's door. what else is there to do but catch up over grilled cheese? well, if you have anything to say about it, you might end up doing a bit more.

warnings: dbf!dieter, grilled cheese as a way to guilt trip your dad's best friend/uncle into fucking you, drug use (weed), raising arizona that comes with its own warning, flirting with someone twice your age, no smut — that’s what part 2 is for, reminiscing, a cliffhanger? 👀

a/n: the original fic came out MONTHS before the mcu rumors, so either i have precognition, or the apocalypse is becoming predicable. happy valentine's day you filthy animals because nothing says romance like porking your dad's best friend

🤍AO3 Link

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From the voicemail of Mr. Paul Landeau, official Hollywood talent manager and agent to one Mr. Dieter Bravo . . .

Tuesday, 6:43PM

No, I’m not doing it. I’m not. 

There has to be something else out there. Look, I know Fire Monsters: A Cliff Beasts story didn’t do as well as we hoped, but Reddit says it could be a cult classic so why don’t you focus on making that happen, okay? Instead of giving me shit roles like this. I’m not doing it. 

– the sound of a door opening and the phone being shuffled – – a zipper rips –  – liquid pouring –

We fucking talked about this, man. I told you I needed something different, something new. Tiktok is just reels of me screaming and dying – it’s fucking bullshit – 

– more liquid –

I’m done playing the fucking bad guy. I’m not signing any more headless action figures for those little snot-nosed, little fuckers in line. I’m not asking to sign their moms’ tits, either – okay, maybe – but Jesus Christ, Paul, what you sent over is, like, the opposite of where I need to be. It’s for little teeny boppers with one or two B horror movies under their belt to finally break out into the mainstream – or where actors over forty go to cash in an easy paycheck. And yes, I fucking know we need something, but fuck – is this really all there is?

– liquid stops pouring – – zipper rips – – the sound of a toilet flushing –

Don’t fucking call me back, Paul, unless you’ve got something. Something real.

Tuesday, 8:23PM

OW! Motherf–

– a skillet clattering – 

Okay – fuck, that hurts – okay, Paul, what about this? It came to me in the bathroom. Remember Jack from the Christmas party at the studio’s place? So, he’s got those two Sundance films, right, but they’re in Spanish, so not appealing to an American audience. Nicki told me that he’s thinking about doing another project, one with a wider appeal, and I’m thinking I should totally give him a call. I think we could vibe. I really liked his stuff – reminded me of my old small town, fucking around with the neighbor kids, you know? Kinda hometown hero sort of thing. 

– sharp inhale then a cough – 

It’s not my usual thing, but I think we should give it a try. Gimme a call. 

Oh, do you know how to make a grilled cheese sandwich? Been craving one but I think I might burn down my house if I try again and UberEats doesn’t reach the good places further south. Oh, fuck, wait – 

Hey Google, how do you make a fucking excellent grilled cheese?

Tuesday, 9:21PM

No, fucking– 

Siri – how.do.you.treat.a.burn? 

Calling. . . Burger King . . .

No! Fuck!

Tuesday, 10:49PM

Paul-y! Baby! Paul-ito!

Don’t worry. I got an idea that’s going to make us a million dollars. 

A shop that makes only grilled cheese. But like – fancy grilled cheese. What do the kids fucking call it, ah – boogie – yeah, boogie grilled cheese. Like gouda and white cheddar, and butter churned by blind nuns or some shit. Tomato soups that have been blessed by the Dalai Lama. 

Big sign out front that says, Vegans Can Eat Shit. 

They’ll eat it up. 

Fuck yeah, they will. 

– silence for three minutes and sixteen seconds –

Fuck acting, man. Fuck this place. 

And fuck this fucking cheese that keeps burning – goddamn it!

Tuesday, 11:52PM

Paul, why don’t we hang out anymore?

When I got started, we hung out all the time, man. 

Hot dogs on the Santa Monica pier. Beer in the Pacific Ocean. 

You showed me all the cool spots that no one else in LA knew about. You got me my first bump and my first stripper. God, that was fucking wild, man, you remember? I was so nervous I thought I was going to throw up. Did I ever tell you that before? Coke probably didn’t help a kid from a small town in South Cali, but – fuck, it made me feel better. Like I could get my shit together if I really tried.  

What, are you too good for me now – is that it? Am I not good enough for you, huh? 

Look, I’ve got Raising Arizona on right now, so why don’t you come over with a six pack – 

Oh, shit, that’s right. You got a fucking family now. 

Not a good influence, ol’ Dee. 

Not a good –

 

Wednesday, 1:05AM

Fine, Paul. Fine. 

I’ll play Mr. Fantastic in the Fantastic Four reboot. 

Dieter’s thumb brushes the red End Call button and tosses his phone onto the kitchen island with a growl. He can feel himself coming down from the bump earlier – a thing he absolutely did not want to happen – and he shoves his palms into his eye sockets. 

There is more coke upstairs, but that would require him to walk through his very long hallways to get there. Very long, and dark, and empty hallways. 

He should have asked Maria to stay once she was done with the laundry. He would have done it right too – big bowl of popcorn, fully dressed, with a sign around his neck that said, I promise I’m not trying to sleep with you. 

He is becoming increasingly aware of how many erratic voicemails he just left for his agent, aware that behavior like that was libel to get him a sit down in Paul’s office with all the blinds and windows closed, Paul’s narrow face serious and using Concerned Emotion #5, as he asks, “do we need to go back to rehab, Dieter?”

We. 

There once was a “we”, now there was just “he” – in a house with seven bedrooms and a pool that could fit a sixteen wheeler in it. 

And TWO kitchens – why the fuck did he think he needed two kitchens – 

Well, he knew he didn’t need two, but it would have been cool to show them off to someone – If there was anyone to show them off to . . .

Fuck this downer mood.

Dieter snatches up his phone again, and the movement brings up his latest apps. UberEats is the second one. He taps in a few keywords, blatantly ignoring his latest call list. 

Goddamn Burger King . . . 

The front doorbell rings. 

Dieter frowns, pulling the screen closer under his big nose. Now, he knows he is high and he knows he should be wearing his glasses when reading but there’s no fucking way . . .

He goes out of the kitchen, the room still smelling of burnt cheese with the cast iron skillet in the sink and a black husk sticking to its bottom. He goes left, then right, his robe tightly wrapped around him as if he is some huffy housewife, then down a hall and across the marble entrance way – fuming – why is this house so goddamn huge – who thought this was a good idea?

And so he wrenches open the front door – to a girl, not holding a Burger King bag. No, she’s got a roller suitcase behind her, bright blue, and she and the case are dripping wet. Like, just sprayed with a hose kind of wet and her big bottom lip is trembling. Behind her, the sky pukes buckets of rain, groaning with thunder. 

Now, he likes his call girls (he always thought it was classier to call them that) a little more . . . vampy than this, but hell, he had been turned on by much less than this— than her with her big eyes, fat droplets rolling off her lashes, flushed cheeks – and oh, shit, her shirt is totally see-through – is that purple, he feels the back of his mouth flush with spit – wow, is this Paul’s way of apology because – 

“Uncle Dee?” 

And he’s mentally shoving himself back into his pants because no one in years has called him that and that was a very different time in place, when he was a completely different person and if this girl is the person he thinks it is, then – Jesus Christ, he’s bound and gagged straight for hell – 

He squeaks out your name and you smile, sort of grimace, at him and wave. 

“Yep, it’s me. Been awhile, right?” You finally give into the mortification of your stupid plan and you scrunch up your face, your hand wrapped around your elbow. “Look, I’m so sorry, this is too weird. I don’t have your number, but I panicked when my flight got canceled and my phone’s dead and you’re the only person I know in LA and –,” 

“No, no – you’re fine – sorry–,” Dieter blinks before stepping back and letting you through. You sigh in relief and yank your baby blue suitcase over the threshold as you walk in, dripping water everywhere. “Sorry, it’s been a weird night and for, like, two seconds, I thought . . . nevermind . . .”

I thought you were a fucking ghost.

You bite the corner of your lip, glancing at him, knowing it was probably unwise to piss off your one chance at not sleeping on the ground tonight — or if what you were about to say would piss him off in the first place. 

“Yeah, well, it’s been eleven years since we last saw you, Uncle Dee.” 

Early on in his career, he wanted to build up rep as not only an actor but a real tough guy, so he asked if he could do some stunts for an old cop show. For all his bravado, he ended up getting a real round-house kick to the face and it sent him reeling.

This feels a little bit like that.

“No way, it can’t have been that long. Besides, I know I left my number with your dad or your grandma before I left and —,” 

His throat closes up when very old guilt washes over him. It’s intensified when you give him an uncomfortable look.

“So your dad didn’t give you my number then.”

It’s not a question. You shake your head. You don’t tell him that your dad tried to call years ago and got a busy tone for the first few, and then a few years after that, was brusquely informed the line had been disconnected. 

He chews on his lip. 

You try to smile at him again but then another shiver takes hold of you and Dieter grimaces. “Shit, sorry, one second. I think this closet down here has towels.” 

He all but sprint-walks down one of the many halls branching off from the entrance, the ends of his robes flapping. You hear the creak of doors, several, as he digs around in the walls. 

“Why do I have so many fucking linens?” You hear him grumble and you smile to yourself. You feel like you need to wring your hair out but wouldn’t dare move from the spot where he left you.

After a thump and more grumbling, he comes back, rubbing the back of his head, but holding out a giant lime green towel. In the light, you can see the dark circles under his eyes when you take the towel and immediately go to stop your hair from dripping on the marble.

His brain is waffling, ping ponging, between his memories and what is standing right in front of him. This? This is the little girl, not his literal blood relative, but she’s Enrico’s kid – Enrico, a slugger and one hell of a outfielder since he was eight years old, whose mom made enchiladas like nobody else in the goddamn world – Enrico, whose house became like a second home, Ricky's family a better family than his own – this is the same girl who hoarded Skittles like a fiend, the same one who he took to the pool on the weekends in the summer, and the zoo during Thanksgiving break? This little girl – 

– is the same girl who is all legs under damp denim, eyes that could make Cleopatra fly into a jealous rage, and a fucking rockstar smile? 

And, holy shit, those tits –  

Dude, you cannot be checking her out. Dig deep and fight your fucking caveman brain. You’ve fucked up a lot in your life and you cannot do that right now. You cannot do that to Enrico. 

You cannot do that to her.

You notice him grimace as he squints into the light of the chandelier above you both. “So, uh, not that I mind, but, uh, what are you doing here? I mean –,” 

You laugh and it seems to echo in the empty house. “No, that’s a fair question. I was on a flight back from looking at colleges out east and my flight got grounded in LAX because of the storm. I absolutely don’t have enough money to stay in a hotel or rent a car and drive back home, so I needed a place to crash and call my sister to send me some money. And my stupid driver didn’t want to get flagged for harassing a celebrity, so he dropped me off at the corner, hence . . .”

You wave at yourself and inside his slippers, his toes curl, respectfully not looking at your damp legs and a definitely purple bra visible through your shirt. 

Your mouth suddenly capsizes. “Shit, is that okay, if I stay here for a night? I didn’t even think - I - I’m not . . . interrupting anything, am I?” 

Dieter chuckles, your expression undeniably cute, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his robe. 

“Nah. Not unless you call making the worst grilled cheese imaginable a party.” 

At that moment, your stomach chooses to make the most aggressive growl in your entire life and you flush deeper than the cold outside. 

“Apparently someone thinks that’s a good idea,” you chuckle weakly, horrified that your body is actively trying to sabotage a normal conversation. 

Did it matter that you had posters of him in your bedroom when you were thirteen? That you went to midnight releases of every one of his movies? 

No. Not at all. 

“I got some food, mostly leftovers.” He worries at his lip as he realizes the only thing by way of something green in his fridge is the jar of olives he got for martinis. Even then, he has a sneaking suspicion he replaced the olive juice with vodka, but the memory of that night is entirely butchered. “But, uh, I’m sure we can find something.”

You smile at him. “Actually, grilled cheese sounds great.” 

“Only if you do it.” He smiles, honestly, when you laugh. “What? Don’t laugh — I’m serious. I can’t make a sandwich to save my fucking life.” 

“Pretty sure I can manage two slices of bread and cheese.” 

His eyebrows jump as his lips press themselves together and you watch the thumb-sized bare spot on his beard twitch.

“Yeah, that’s what you think and then your goddamn kitchen is on fire.” 

“Lemme change, do some rocket surgery and brain science, and then I’ll attempt to crack this grilled cheese thing.” 

“Okay, but remember we do have Chinese leftovers and I can definitely crush a microwave. This way.” 

You follow him through the halls, his shoulders loosening underneath the off-green fuzz, and you try and not to stare at the immaculately beautiful walls and expansive, clean floors, so your eyes wander, and then you’re trying not to stare at the immaculately beautiful man in front of you. 

You push away the thought that this house looks nothing like you’d expect someone like Dieter to have, as he leads you to the kitchen — all black and chrome and steel, like what a Norwegian serial killer would have — and nods to a door towards the opposite wall. He’s digging around for the last slices of white bread when he says,

“Bathroom’s down there. I’ll get it all ready, but I’m leaving it up to you. Can’t afford to lose another pan.” 

Your eyes finally drift down from the bare walls, unsure if you should be offended that nothing of the family back home is here, or accept that there was just nothing personal anywhere. You smile gently at him and nod in thanks. 

He watches you go, that bright blue suitcase flashing as loud as a tornado siren, and he shakes his head. God, he needs a drink but drinking also makes him horny and he needs every mental facility available to him if he wis going to make it through this night with his sanity still intact. 

Had it really been eleven years? He always meant to call up Enrico and the old neighborhood gang. He probably forgot about that last fight anyway – even if Dieter hadn’t – even if it wasn’t more than a decade ago. Mama Gonzales always said there’d be a place for him, even after his own father said acting was for maricos and drag queens. It always hurt more when the postcards from the Gonzales family stopped coming than when Mom stopped calling. And he always meant to send back a proper return address when he moved out of that crappy loft after his first real movie premiere but that was the 90s, and much of the 90s was spent between working shit jobs and drooling on the floors of rave warehouses. It wasn’t them specifically he didn’t want to see him like that, but anyone. Anyone who knew him before Dieter Bravo. 

Certainly not anyone who called him Uncle Dee —

Something flashes in the corner of his eye and he realizes he’s always fucking hated the fact that the a) the back of his house is just one big window and b) he never bothered to put in curtains. Because, the thing with windows is they reflect things — things like his pseudo-niece taking her top off in his guest bathroom. Reflected and in full color right across his kitchen island like the sexiest hologram that will haunt his fucking wet dreams until the day hell freezes over. 

Yep, that’s definitely your hips, your ribs, and okay—

Nope. Absolutely not. 

Dieter’s knees give out and he crouches (more like slumps) to the floor behind the island, his palms so far in his eye sockets he can only see stars.

Yeah, only stars. Focus on the stars, not the image of the curve of your gorgeous tits that’s running around his brain like a child with scissors and a Thanatos instinct off the fucking charts. 

Fuck, and he just wanted to get high and watch Nicholas Cage in a mullet. 

“Hey, I’m done. Dee, you still here?”

He stifles a groan and stands up. You smile at him, the wet jeans and agonizing white tank top gone, only to be replaced by a black Fleetwood Mac tshirt and — fuck, where are your pants?

You lower the handle to your suitcase and go to stow by the bathroom door. And that’s when he realizes you are actually wearing pants, black shorts that are practically hidden by the oversized t-shirt and are comically, hilariously, painfully small. He can’t actually see the curve of your ass as you walk around the side of the island but he is absolutely not going to let his gaze linger long enough to confirm. 

He clears his throat as you come to stand beside him. He gestures to the four pieces of white bread and a stack of Crafts American cheese. 

“H-h-have —,” he clears his throat again and his forebearers groan collectively in embarrassment. “Have at it.” 

You smile and tuck your hair over your ear before picking up the knife. 

“D’you have mayonnaise? Butter?”  

No amount of irredeemable hotness can distract him from that. “What? What do you need mayonnaise for? It’s grilled cheese.”

You cluck your tongue, an eyebrow raised. “Brain science and rocket surgery, remember? Don’t question the master.”

He can’t help but chuckle as he goes to his steel monolith of a fridge. 

“Jeez, sorry, I asked,” he grumbles playfully.

He comes back with an (thankfully) unexpired jar and tub of butter and you get to work. Silence stretches a bit too long, something Dieter has never been good with, especially with beautiful women. He loves running his mouth and sometimes he's found that the women liked it too. He resigns himself to sit across from you at the island, watching you spread mayonnaise on both sides of the bread. 

“So, uh, how are the folks? How’s your, uh, dad?”

You nod slowly and even though he hasn’t been around in eleven years to pick up on all your tells, he swears your hackles go up.

“Fine. All good. Dad’s still at the car repair shop — owns it now, actually. Makes decent money, I guess.” 

“You guess?” He hadn’t made it his life’s work to mimic the human condition to not recognize cagey language. 

You glance at him briefly before flipping over the last piece of bread and dropping a dollop of mayonnaise on top. 

“Yeah. I — uh, we haven’t — I actually haven’t talked to them in a while. Though if I had, I probably wouldn’t be here right now.” You sneak another glance, this one ladened with a smile that had a secret curled up in its corners. “Serves me right, probably.”

“Yeah. Probably.” 

He can’t help but return the smile, one of a familiarity he hasn’t earned yet. You were smiling at him as if you two had years of secrets together, memories and inside jokes that were for the pair of you alone. For the life of him and all the water in his ridiculous pool, he couldn’t fathom why you were being so nice to him. Letting him off the hook. It had been eleven fucking years after all. There are a lot of things he takes guilt free from the world. Your fucking star-eyed smile is not one of them. 

So, he lets you off the hook. He doesn’t push it. If you don’t want to talk about your folks, he is happy to chatter aimlessly about something else. But, his brain winds up, what happened that caused you to fall out with your parents? Enrico, even back then, had been a hard ass, with you and your brothers. Always made sure to walk the straight and narrow. Detested drugs, always shined his shoes, thought tattoos were the devil, never kissed a girl on the first date — 

And here you are, making fucking mooneyes at his daughter. 

Well, one thing was for sure, he muses, something warm spreading in his gut, you are nothing like your daddy. 

The hiss of the bread hitting the hot butter in a pan (you didn’t even need to ask where another pan was, you just helped yourself to his cabinets and he couldn’t have been more proud) jerks him out of his daze and he realizes that annoying silence has set in again. 

“So, colleges, huh? Anything in particular spark interest?” 

You nod excitedly as he found a topic that made you glow. Clearly, no one had asked about your interests in a long time.

“Yeah, actually. Emerson in Boston was amazing. I loved the city, but not sure I’d survive the winter. Swarthmore sounds good, Amherst too, but again, cold.” You grin sheepishly and flip the sandwiches, pressing the spatula (he didn’t even know he owned one of those) into the bread, making the butter sizzle and the air fill with a smell that can only be described as mouth-watering. 

“It’ll be a nightmare, taking out loans for those places, but fuck, I think I’d be really happy there.” 

He leans against the counter, facing you with crossed arms. He smiles a smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What, your folks wouldn’t pay for it? Or at least help out?”

Something sharp flashes in your eyes, like a rabbit catching the scent of a predator, before you shrug your shoulders flippantly. A well-worn deflection, he notes, right next to the place where he’s got all the places you mentioned are about as far away from California as possible. If you had mentioned somewhere in Europe, he wouldn’t have been surprised. 

“Nah. I wouldn’t let them. Don’t want them thinking they get input into my life because they hold the purse strings over my head.” You turn off the stove and he moves to get the plates out from the cabinets – something to contribute as you made him a better meal than he’s had in ages. 

“So, uh, we eat in there?” You glance down the hall to the eerily clean dining room, a place he’s pretty sure he’s never once set foot in after three years of living in this goddamn mansion. 

He chuckles and shakes his head. “C’mon, I already have a movie picked out.” 

You follow him, plates hot, down carpeted stairs to clearly the only room in the house that Dieter actually lives in. The lights down here are low, much more bearable than the white spotlights of the kitchen. Against one wall, there’s a fully stocked bar, with most of the alcohol halfway empty and costing a fortune. Across from the stairs is a massive record collection, going up to the ceiling, next to a gorgeous old record player — all wood and black vinyl — with big, plushy earphones curled up on a black leather recliner. 

But the star of the show is the wall-to-ceiling television, with a brown, mouse-soft leather sofa that wraps like a giddy, up-turned grin in front of it. 

And of course, in between the superstar television and the cozy couch, is a low glass table where he had snorted lines of coke more times he could count and where a virgin joint sits, unsmoked and tempting. 

Dieter flushes as though he’d been caught by his parents with his pants down around his ankles. 

“Fuck, sorry–,” he rushes over, the plate clattering with the glass, and he reaches for the joint, ready to squish it into his pocket when– 

You laugh. “Relax, Dee, I know what a joint is. In fact, we are very well acquainted.”

You fold yourself into the couch, legs crossed, grinning at him as you bite into your sandwich. 

He swallows, unclenching slightly as he sits down next to you. He watches you eat for a moment, trying to think of something cool to say.

“Sounds like I’ve missed my calling as the fun uncle, getting you high for the first time and all that.” 

You snort and swallow your mouthful. “Yeah, by like two fucking years.” 

“Oh, what a fucking lifetime. You poor thing,” he says, pouting dramatically and you giggle again, bumping into his shoulder. It sends his sanity knocking around in his brain. 

You don’t notice, though, your eyes falling to the joint in the small ceramic bowl. The smile slides from your face. 

“Well, you might have missed my first joint, but I’d be more than happy to take this one as my next.”

His eyebrows practically bounce off his forehead. “You’re serious?” 

Your eyes slide away from the joint to his, something distractingly dark hiding there. “I mean, if the parties on your Instagram are anything to go by . . . And, well, when in Rome . . .”

You trail off, smirking, gesturing around you as if you had any idea the levels of debauchery that were obtained in this very room. Come to think of it, he halfway considers picking you up off the couch and putting a towel down underneath your perfect ass. 

This is how it went sometimes, with the slower hook ups. No wet clothes, or grilled cheese, or bringing up family trauma — but initial touches, curling smiles, and then drugs. Always drugs. As if there needed to be another hand that tore off the cap of the pressurized, fizzy soda bottle. He’d play music then, for them, to show off his vinyl collection and have a plausible reason to rub his dick between their ass cheeks while dancing slowly to something croon-y from the seventies. 

Not that any of that would be happening with you. 

He wasn’t a complete monster after all. 

With a playful grin that he had mastered over many press junkets, he snatches up the joint and lighter, and presents both to you in the flat of his hand. 

“First hit goes to you, since you were so kind to make dinner for an old fuck like me.” 

You snort and put your plate onto the table, wiping your hands free of crumbs on your black shirt. 

“Such a gentleman.” 

With deft and practiced hands, you take the joint between your index finger and your thumb, and sparking the lighter, brought the flame to your lips. 

Just for one second, one goddamn second, he swears he saw The Look reflected in your eyes. He glances away, his cock fluttering awake like goddamn Lassy hearing the calls of another well-begotten child. He picks up his own plate.

“Hardly. It was all a ploy to get you to admit you follow me on Instagram.”

You burst out coughing, smoke chugging from your nose and mouth. “Dieter!”

He cackles, his tongue between his teeth, as you shove him away from you — do not think about her fingers clenched around your bicep —  try to sit up and inhale again. You hang your head and groan. 

“Fuck, I can’t believe I said that.” 

“Yeah, and for that, I get two puffs,” he says out of the corner of his mouth, the rest of it full of the most perfectly cooked grilled cheese sandwich he’d ever had. He finishes chewing and swallows. “Hand it over, princess.” 

You hand over the lighter and the joint, the paper slightly greasy from your fingers, leaning back dramatically into one of the many plushy cup holder seats spread out along the very long couch. 

He chuckles devilishly again, far too satisfied, as he lights up and leans back into the cushions. 

“And, as gesture of goodwill, I’ll admit that’s a good fucking grilled cheese.” 

Your eyes snap open and a wide grin splits your face. “Hell yes! Mayonnaise on both sides, butter on the side with cheese. Best family recipe. Mwah!”

“Fuck, even I know that’s too much cholesterol for me,” he grunts and digs into the cushions, feeling around for the remote. 

“Well, that’s not enough cholesterol for me,” you wink as you take the joint from the hand on his thigh, eyes daring you to do something about it. Nowhere near high enough to take the bait, he just narrows his eyes at you as he clicks the button and the entertainment system comes to life with a primordial hum. 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, eyes wide, as the speakers roar and the lights dim further and the screen glows, “it’s like I’m in a fucking movie theater . . . in space.”

“It’s great, right?” Dieter moans like a loving father over his first child. This thing is his pride and joy, the only thing he could stomach in this goddamn house.

The DVD buffer for Raising Arizona begins and you squeal quietly, sliding onto your back, the joint dangling between your lips. 

“No fucking way, I love this movie.” 

Dieter stilled. “Really? You do?” 

The few times he felt nostalgic for his old life — his old, old life when he was still a kid from nowhere, a nobody, you couldn’t pick him out of a line up of his sweaty, grubby cousins when they were all cobbled together like crooked teeth in front of Abuela Josefina’s television that still had knobs and bunny ears to watch movie after movie of Nicholas Cage reruns. Even with knees in his back, elbows in his ears, Dieter could quote every single line, his heart swelling.

That’s gonna be me some day. 

“This movie is from, like, another century,” he mutters as he watches you settle in, something sickening like adoration clawing up in his chest. 

“Yeah and it’s great,” you say eagerly, ignoring the way he plucks the joint out of your fingers. “Put it on!” 

He resolutely ignores the pinch in his low stomach at your almost whine and presseS the play button with a little more force than necessary. Then, balancing the joint on the ceramic bowl, he sticks his fingers into his robe, pulls out his glasses, and puts them on without a second thought – just as he always did when watching movies. 

It is only when he realizes he doesn’t hear you breathing that he realizes what he has done. Slowly he pulls the square glasses off his face and looks at them, feeling as disgusted as the day his doctor put them in his hands. 

Near-sighted. Very common. Happens when people as they age.

“Got ‘em–,” his throat closes again, “got ‘em a few years ago. Only have to wear ‘em to see things up close and, uh . . . Well, I think they make me look old as shit.” 

He can’t quite look at you, unsure what he’ll see on your face and knowing for sure that he couldn’t stand it if it wasn’t the way you look at him before. If you just would tease him about it, then —

“No,” you say, your voice very soft and small. His heart nearly punches out his throat, his neck nearly snapping in half as his head whips up to look at you. You sit up on your elbows, the darkness of the room cushioning your soft cheeks and muting the glaze in your eyes as you watch him over the bend of your knees. 

“Nah,” you say, your nose scrunching, the weight of the high clearly settling into your skin, “they make you look . . . Uh, they’re cute.” 

Dieter sucks in the side of his cheek, nodding slowly and sliding the glasses back over his nose. Cute, he could work with that. 

“Jeez, would you start the movie already?” You poke his side with your toe. He doesn’t need to look at you to hear the faint blush in your voice. 

He turns the volume up and crosses his arms, smiling faintly. You’re warm next to him, he thinks vaguely, his own high finally starting to sink into his bones. 

Cute. Definitely not a word he’s going to obsess over. 

The movie goes on. 

Nicholas Cage is Nicholas Cage with a mullet.

Your laugh is the clattering of bells in his ears and he can’t remember the last time he laughed so hard his sides hurt. 

He’s coming up from bent over, knees almost to his chest, laughter nearly popping his ribs, when he realizes your feet are in his lap. The arches of your soles, the delicate bones of your ankles, the long smooth planes that run up to your gorgeous calves— 

They are there, in his lap, and you don’t seem to mind. Head turned towards the screen, face bright from laughing, your arm arched back over your head, pressing your chest up —  it’s like you meant for them to be there. 

It’s just one hand, right? Two at the most. Just putting his hands down where he had them a moment ago. Up and — down. 

You don't flinch. His palm is on the arched top of your foot, the other just above your other ankle. 

You do smile, but that might have been because of Nicholas Cage raging again. 

And then, during another bout of giggles, he clutches your shin bone, wraps his fingers around your heel, and laughs and laughs and laughs. 

You wipe the tears away from your eyes, the end credits rolling.

“Fuck, that’s a such a good movie.” 

He swallows, swiping quickly under his glasses before taking them off and chucking them onto the table in front. 

“You’re fucking right it is,” he says hoarsely, leaning forward and plucking up the last of the joint. He inhales, letting the smoke ease stifle the tears in the corner of his eyes, gulping down a breath before offering it to you.

You take it, distracted, eyes on the credits, the light from the screen glowing on your cheeks. 

He presses up under your ankle with his middle finger. “What? You knew what was gonna happen, you’d said you’d seen it before.”  

You nodded, still not looking at him. 

He goes for a more direct approach. He pinches your calf, and you scowl, the light back in your eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, a bit sharply. He’s not nearly done having fun with you, not nearly. You take another sip of smoke before setting the joint back on the table. 

You huff, settling onto your back, pinching at your nails. 

“Just . . . Nothing, it’s stupid.”

Dieter hums. He knows when to let him come to you. He taps the arch of your foot.

“How are you feeling?” His gaze nudges the joint on the table. 

You grin. “Really good. Tingly. Warm. Like everything else is a million miles away.” 

Just the two of us. 

“Enough to tell ol’ Uncle Dee what’s on your mind?”

You roll your eyes and sit up a bit, yanking a pillow behind you. 

“Just thinkin’ about the old days, I guess.” You glance up at him from under your eyes. “Not in a bad way. At all. I just . . .”

“What?” If you gave him hell for the last eleven years, then fuck it, he deserved it. He pulls at your ankle. “What?” 

With a big sigh, you lean back, something finally breaking and, with it, comes a great big smile. 

“Okay, remember when you’d put on those plays with the rest of us kids during those super lame family reunions o-o-or Christmas? Marissa would have everything written out, all the cousins cast and you’d beg her to let you play – fucking – Bear Number 5 or something ridiculous – and she’d fight you on it but she’d relent, always putting on a show of her own – as if a ten year old could be put out like that.” You giggled, biting on your thumb, a sparkling in your eyes that made something in his chest burn. 

Yes, he remembers the incredibly stupid fuzzy ears and the bear claw mittens. The fake roaring. TMZ would have a fucking stroke if those pictures of him, baby-faced, were to ever surface online. He smiles at you and basks in the warmth of those memories, his high making them brighter. 

“I think it would have crushed her little heart if you didn’t ask,” you said, heavy-lidded eyes on you again. “I know it broke her when you stopped showing up at all.” 

His heart actually pinches at that. He knows you’re not scolding him but fuck, maybe he’d feel better if you did. What a fucking idiot he was, for leaving all of that for empty mansions and meals from UberEats and all this fucking gunked up shit in his veins that made him feel older and older every year. Like he was chasing something that was never real in the first place. 

“Look, honey,” the pet name is out of his mouth before he can stop it. He’s twisting towards you, both hands under your calves now. “I should have called. Should have made sure that at least you knew where to find me, even if things between your dad and I were fucked.”

“Oh, God, Dee, no. I don’t blame you. I don’t even blame my dad, sometimes. You just were very different people. He’s fine living his life in the same small ass town in the middle of nowhere. But you weren’t. And, fuck . . . I’m not either.”

He frowns. You bite your lip and continue.

“You know, I thought about following you out to Hollywood. Because of those plays. I had the best fucking time doing them and Hollywood didn’t seem so scary . . . with Uncle Dee out here. But, uh, I dunno. I grew up, I guess. Figured I was better at telling stories than performing them. I just knew I didn’t want to end up like my dad. Dying where I lived. Unremembered.” 

His gut doubles in on itself. Please don’t say you gave up your dreams because I stopped calling. 

“Do you still think about acting?” He asks quietly, trying to fight the faint ringing in his ears. 

“Oh God, no,” you wave your hands, dusting away his near-panic that he’d somehow ruined your life. “I really do prefer writing stories, even if they exist only within the pages of a book. Or a really bad pamphlet, once or twice. I tried to continue the plays at home for a few years, after you left and Marissa took up cheerleading and thought she was too old to play with her little cousins anymore. But it just wasn’t the same without her. Or you.” 

He realizes all too late that he can feel your pulse under your ankle. Strong. Pounding. Pounding, hard. Like you’re nervous. So struck by the notion that he can feel something so personal of yours, the smoke trapped in his brain lifts only slightly when he catches your eyes looking somewhere you absolutely should not be. 

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck, he knows that look. You blink at him, then your gaze slowly slides down, down to his crotch, as smoothly you can beneath the weight of the smoke in your brain and he battles between the desire to throw your legs off him or pull you underneath him.

It’s The Look. 

Men, women, it didn’t matter. The look was the same.

When the possibility of sex first enters their mind, when that first bloom of lust rushes down their spine and the memory of the physical exertion of fucking – all the panting and the heavy breathing, aching muscles and sweat – comes back, as real as a song stuck in your head. When that spark of imagination threatens to sway from the hypothetical to the actual, it’s a look he knows so fucking well, he might as well be able to carve it from clay, blind-folded. 

And you’re giving it to him, right now. 

You haven’t really thought about seducing him yet, no, that part hasn’t crossed your mind yet. But you definitely are imagining what his cock would feel like inside you, and you and your imagination and your wide-eyed gaze at his lap all whole-heartedly agreed: that would be a great fucking thing. 

You, on your elbows, your heel dangerously close to his half-hard cock, the glaze in your eyes having something to do with what you were so shamelessly picturing, and your short breath having everything to do with what you were so shamelessly picturing.

He was quite sure you were completely unaware of the expression your face was making. Eyes hooded, mouth parted, breath short. Masking your emotions and filthy thoughts is a skill set mastered later in life and perhaps the last time you looked at someone like that, they simply bent you over the nearest surface and railed you till your knees buckled. 

What a fucking excellent idea, his libido trilled. Now get off the couch and do something about it. I’m foaming at the fucking mouth here, man. 

Dieter silences his inner horny monster, unintentionally squeezing his hand, the one that happens to be wrapped around your calf. 

The movement seems to break you out of your dizzying spiral and you blink up at him.

He swallows. With a half smirk on the edge of your lips that you try to not let him see, you take your feet out of his lap, then reach forward, your palm alarmingly high on his thigh as you take the joint from his fingers. Your eyes flash like warning signs.

DANGER. DANGER, WILL ROBINSON. DANGER.

“So, you gonna give me a tour of this place or what?”

End of Part 1 | Next

[maxwell-grant]

PIZZA TOWER Characters ranked by how good they actually are at making pizza:

Gustavo: 5/10, 6/10 if he really puts his back into it. 9/10 if he’s making chocolate pizza which he doesn’t anymore, since it’s bad for Brick

In theory he SHOULD be the best pizzamaker of the bunch, unlike Peppino he clearly isn’t undergoing ten mental breakdowns per minute and he’s got an actual apron, plus he’s the only one we see delivering pizzas to satisfied customers in-game in the Gnome Forest. But since nothing in the game currently seems to indicate he has a pizza business, I’m going with a headcanon that Gustavo actually specializes in pastries and sweets, which is why he can seemingly keep himself in the Freezer level where all pizzas freeze solid. He does enjoy eating pizza, but Brick eats all the cheese in the house before he can even think about making one for himself.

Mr Stick: 2/10

Mr Stick has been subsisting on cheap takeout for decades now and cannot be trusted near an oven, or near a grill, or near a kitchen period, Peppino just lets him into his to keep him away from the cash register. If you ask him to make a pizza, he will charge a stupidly high amount just for heating up frozen calabrese. Still ranked higher than other characters only because he probably still makes pizza that’s marginally edible, as he definitely won’t want to risk a lawsuit by making you sick.

Pepperman: 8/10 if you really like peppers, 1/10 if you have a pepper allergy or just don’t like them

Pepperman point-blank refuses to be anything other than completely and totally excellent at everything he sets out to do, others not agreeing with his vision of what excellence is (mainly himself) is quite frankly not his problem, and he ESPECIALLY refuses to let himself be outdone by that wretched brute of a chef. Pepperman taught himself pizza-making out of spite purely so he could outdo Peppino, and he’s actually kinda great at it? Spite IS the perennial driving force of most of Pizza Tower’s characters after all. But obviously he doesn’t know, and doesn’t care to learn, about making any kind of pizza that isn’t stuffed full of peppers. If he’s feeling charitable, he might bake you a pizza with his face on it, and then throw a tantrum if you defile it by eating it (only HE can eat his own face).

Vigilante: 1/10.

Vigi’s family business seems to specialize in dairy and I think for the most part he sees pizza as cheap grub for city slickers (getting beat up by Peppino was kind of a wound to his pride), the whole idea just kinda abominable. He’s also a sentient pile of cheese who wears dirty gloves all day, if he did try to make a pizza, it would probably taste like dust or gunpowder or even have bits of him in it. That being said, he throws a MEAN barbecue, if you can talk him into changing his gloves you should get him near a grill immediately.

The Noise: -100/10

Noise is not legally allowed to be in most pizza establishments by court order, and the Domino’s lawsuits were a massive pain to settle as is. The Noise just does not cook, period, but luckily for him he can eat basically anything. He’s paid to advertise food products and NTV has personalized energy drinks, but his main diet consists entirely of tequila and cigarettes 24/7, and dozens of doctors have diagnosed his insides as some kind of freakish medical emergency that should take effect but never will. He’s like Mr Burns, it just all cancels each other out.

Noisette: lmao good luck

Going by her comics in the wiki, Noisette is just completely incapable of making anything that isn’t sweets even when she tries, and the fact that she hangs around The Noise makes it so that she has no sensible parameter whatsoever for what’s edible or what’s gonna give someone explosive diarrhea. She does run a coffee shop with at least some customers in the cast, she’s probably fairly good at baking, but if you ask her to make a pizza, the best you can possibly hope for is that she just makes you unusually large crepes, and hope you don’t hear an ambulance in the distance before eating.

Fake Peppino: ?????

He’s about as good as Peppino, ironically enough, but it’s a 50/50 on whether you enjoy eating his pizza or his pizza enjoys eating you, but hanging around Peppino and the others at minimum has made the third outcome, that is him eating both you and the pizza, statistically less likely.

Pizzahead: 7/10 at first, score gets lower everytime you eat it again

He SELLS decent pizza, is the thing, but obviously he never has to make any of it himself, not when he has all these countless food businesses and mascots and cooks bending to his whim after he enslaved John and took over the tower. “Being good” at making pizza is a laughable concern to him, when he frankly never even has to try, when he can just sleep during your escape sequences while everyone else has to do the hard work. The entirety of the background in Don’t Make a Sound is a testament to his catastrophic carelessness, you literally find boxes saying the monsters were mail ordered by him, and how little consequences matter to him (I don’t buy the idea that he’s driven by any kind of jealously towards Peppino, so much as he just targeted Peppino mainly because he could).

Pizzahead’s pizza is the kind of pizza that you get hooked in at first, and then makes you feel kinda empty or sick afterwards after a point and makes you think you probably should have eaten something else, but you’re still coming back another day or week when you have no energy or money or time to cook or buy a decent meal, so pizza it is again, and it keeps tasting marginally greasier and shittier and more depressing everytime until at some point you can’t smell the damn thing without wanting to vomit, and you swear off pizza entirely until you wind up back there again and, hey, it’s tolerable this time, and then the process begins again, go ahead, eat Pizzahead's product, wageslave, maybe you’ll start liking it again soon enough, he makes all the dollars and you make a dime and that's why you vomit on company time.

Gerome and John: 10/10

Gerome is probably the only character in-game who keeps a clean kitchen considering his job, and John is some kind of weird god with teleporting powers and sub-dimensions tied to him, and also the secret ingredients Gerome has the keys to wind up resurrecting John, but mostly I think it’d be funny if the characters who would be the absolute best at making pizza would also be the ones who would most reasonably never want to have anything to do with pizza ever again. I like to imagine The Tower Brothers having these miracle recipes and magic touch that both Peppino and Pizzahead desperately want, able to make the most unfathomably delicious Anton-Ego-flashback-inducing pizzas ever conceived, pizza that tastes the way you thought it tasted as a kid but actually much better, and nobody will ever realize it and they will never even touch a pizza again after it ruined their lives and home.

Peppino:

5/10. 6/10, if he really puts his back into it.

Yeah, it’s okay, Peppino’s probably an okay chef. Peppino as a chef is kinda like Mario and plumbing: you know it’s what he’s supposed to do, he sells an identity tied up to it, but you never actually see him do it, you see him doing literally everything except his job and you just kinda have to assume that he's good enough at it. Peppino’s pizzas are probably the most normal thing about him, and maybe the only normal thing about him, really.

He does manage to convince the Bosses to not kick his ass in exchange for free pizza, which means said pizza has gotta be at least somewhat tasty, but also, his place is a dump in the middle of nowhere, he can’t afford proper kitchen wear, he scavenges ingredients in the wild without hygiene concerns and getting his greasy hands all over them, he doesn’t have any staff and runs himself ragged doing everything solo, everything he touches tends to be destroyed in some fashion, he has zero patience, and by now he’s gotta have some kind of pizza-related trauma or several hundred after everything that the game put him through.

I kinda like to think Peppino, in spite of everything stacked against him and how fiercely he fought to defend his business, is ultimately a mediocre but decent chef, who happens to be an unstoppably gifted wrecking ball of a fighter (and talented dancer), who really just wants to keep being a chef in peace, and peace is the last thing he ever gets.

[zmediaoutlet]

Hi Z!

Happy Wincest Wednesday!!

how do you see their soulmate relationship, especially in the later seasons?

hello, and a happy wincest wednesday to you and yours <3

hm, how do I see their soulmate relationship? As... canon? Like. The foundational basis of their characters and the show and the only thing that remained a supportive spine through those long (sometimes very long) 15 years?

But I guess that's a cop-out, haha. It's a little interesting -- I know there's a burgeoning preference for 'oh what a big tragedy supernatural is,' the kind of Family Horror element of it all. And yeah, it is, in one sense. Literally destined by literal actual fuck-off God to be the protagonist of this horrible story of blood and death and failure and everything always going wrong, and no rest, because in a serialized story there always has to be another horror -- another problem to fix, another crisis to live through -- and it was true in-universe much as it was true for the show itself, lol. Watch out, Sam and Dean -- it's sweeps, and someone's probably gonna get stabbed.

But especially once s11 came and their relationship settled into steel -- it just... isn't presented as a horror. It's just not. Sam-and-Dean-together is the correct answer, as presented in universe, and it's not being given as like a darkly ironic dessert for a lifetime of miseries, or the last shit cherry on a shit pie. It's a genuine source of joy for both of them. Not fluffy romcom style joy, but more of that hammered-thin gold of people who've been through the worst (literally, in both their cases, beyond the worst things ever imaginable), and have come through it, and in the end still choose each other as a place of safety, and happiness, and home. And it's not gothic melodrama necessarily, either -- it's making each other grilled cheese and making fun of each other's hair and just the humdrum everydayness of being alive, which is honestly where the show shines brightest for me. It's the being destined for each other, and all the nature/nurture that forces them together, but also the active choosing every day to climb into the same car (and, arguably, sometimes the same bed) and literally just want to be together.

Parks & Rec had that little motif with Leslie & Ben where they'd tell each other I love you, and I like you. Sam and Dean love each other, but that's kind of paltry beside the fact that they just really genuinely like each other; and they could leave (well, Sam could), and there have been dozens of very real opportunities, and despite everything -- they don't. They prove it in the post-15.19 montage, where they could've chosen not to hunt -- Sam could've gone off and got that "real life" he kept mentioning -- but of course they didn't, because: they just like each other. They just like each other, and they prove it, every day. I've seen real life marriages that work less well. That's soulmatism par excellence.

[romirola]

Headcanons for the Shaw Pack’s Favorite Carnival Activities and Foods

David: David’s favorite activity at a carnival is the Ring Toss. He knows that most games are rigged, but somehow, David always manages to excel at that game. He strikes the perfect balance of strength and finesse. When asked which prize he’d like, David always lets Angel pick something out for him because (since their mating), Angel suggests that they donate the stuffed animal they selected to the pups’ room in the Shaw Pack den, so lots of kids can enjoy. Their mere idea of using the prize for the young pups makes David’s heart melt. As for his go-to fair food? Fried dough with a generous sprinkle of sugar. There’s no such thing as nutritious fair food, and frankly, if there were, David would not want to touch it. After all, it’s not often that he goes to a carnival. While he’s there, he might as well enjoy and indulge!

Angel: Angel is a big Bumper Cars fan. They love to get behind the wheel and take down anyone and everyone they can. No one is safe from their bumper-car road-rage, even (especially) the pack. After their victory, they will track down a sausage sandwich with grilled onions and peppers to celebrate. 

Asher: Asher always looks forward to the Scrambler ride, because no matter how hard he tries, the pattern of movement always confuses him, which is what excites and thrills him. He habitually orders a large plate of nachos with every kind of cheese (or ‘cheese-product’) to share with the pack. Not only does Asher love nachos, but he also enjoys letting his friends have a bite. A bonus, his friends will usually let him sneak a bite of their food as repayment, meaning Asher gets to sample the whole carnival.  

Babe: Babe does not do rides because they get horrible motion sickness. They do, however, love playing all the games. Their favorite game to play is the Water Shooting Game, because they always do well. Since Babe saves money by not going on the rides, they are able to play almost every game and usually return home with many prizes of all sizes. Their favorite food to eat is caramel corn, because it’s somehow always better when eaten at a carnival than at home.

Milo: Milo makes a beeline for the Strongman Game whenever he attends a fair. He makes the bell ding every time, much to the surprise and chagrin of the employees. In fact, once, after Sweetheart declared that a stuffed gray wolf plush (which happened to reflect Milo’s own wolf form) was the cutest, best prize of the whole fair, Milo made it his mission to win. The plush, named Hammer, now resides on Milo’s and Sweetheart’s bed. (In fact, this is a headcanon I developed and discussed in an old fic, Cross My Heart.) Afterwards, Milo is hot to trot to get his hands on a nice, hot, salted soft pretzel. It’s filling, delicious, and quintessential to the fair experience. 

Sweetheart: Although one might expect Sweetheart to enjoy funhouses or horror houses, their favorite carnival activity is actually the Carousel. They walked up and down to seek out the perfect horse, ideally one with unique markings and/or close to the outer edge so that they can wave to their friends on each rotation. Sweetheart never leaves a carnival without eating a candy apple. They can’t resist the sweet treat, and love how convenient it is on a stick.

Darling: Darling adores a session in the Photo Booth. They ask (or sometimes, force) each of their friends to take a few pictures with them. Darling is a master at posing, always ensuring they get a wide range of shots showcasing all the fun they have. After the fair, Darling will copy the photos, keeping one set for themselves and giving the other one to the person. Having a physical reminder of the fun memories is so meaningful to Darling, especially if they begin to feel loneliness creep in. While at the fair, they usually opt for a corndog slathered in mustard. They have a very strong stomach. 

Sam: Sam may be reluctant about crowds, noise, and being forced to convert your money into ‘tickets’ to hide how expensive everything, but even he enjoys a slow ride on the Ferris Wheel. It’s a beautiful opportunity to see all the stars above and all the hustle-and-bustle below, especially when it’s Darling sitting next to him in the seat, holding his hand in theirs. Ever one with a sweet tooth (or sweet fang, rather), Sam usually gets a hot fudge sundae to eat, savoring each spoonful. 

BONUS!

Gabe: A bit of an adrenaline-junkie, Gabe always enjoyed the Roller Coaster. David clearly heard the familiar howl in his father’s voice as he dropped from the apex. Gabe always opted for french fries when it was his turn to order, but in reality, it was his job to eat whatever anyone else ordered and didn’t like or couldn’t finish. It was a job at which he performed efficiently. 

Marie: Marie never leaves a fair without getting her face painted. She usually asks for a wolf. Her favorite food is the pack of sandwiches she smuggled into the fair by hiding them in her large purse, because fair food is too greasy, too expensive, and (probably) prepared with too many health/cleanliness violations for her to even think about putting it in her mouth.