#I DON’T GO IN THE GARAGE/DEN I ALWAYS STAND AT THE EDGE

[seriial]

who up frantically googling how to stay sober 💯💯💯💯💯💯💯💯

[titan-fodder]

Prima Vista Part IV

[ previous ]

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.6k

Warning: a big helping of abandonment/daddy issues, lots of feelings, explicit sexual content A/N: y’all are gonna be so soft and then so mad lmao. 

The plan was to go to Mike's house then back to campus. You said you didn't have anything to do at your mom's, that a long phone call would suffice, which is why Mike is confused when you ask him if you can stop by before going back. It's an hour out of the way, but it's not like he has anything better to do, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about your humble beginnings. 

 The house is in a decent-looking neighborhood, small, nearly identical one-story homes surrounded by cracked sidewalks. He has to be careful not to trip as you make your way to the front porch, pots of dead or dying plants along the edges of it. You shove your key into the lock, twist and open, then motion for Mike to follow. 

 The den is dimly lit, ceiling fan above with only one working bulb. A crime show is playing on the TV but there's no one watching. There is, however, another light pouring from a back room, and as soon as you drop your bag on the couch, a head pokes out from the doorway. 

 "Baby girl!" A shrill voice cries, and Mike sees you grimace. "I thought you weren't coming by!" 

 A woman walks into the den wearing long, cotton shorts and an old tie-dye shirt then pulls you into a hug so tight that it makes you cough. 

 "Mom," you take a deep breath as if to refill your lungs with all the air that was pushed from them. "This is Mike."

 He holds out a hand and smiles, but all your mother does is stare with round eyes and blurt, "Oh, he's a big boy." 

 "My fucking god." You don't yell or whine, just pinch the bridge of your nose and mumble, "Just shake his hand please." 

 "Sorry, I'm sorry, just was not expecting… You didn't tell me how tall he was."

 "'Cause it doesn't matter. Why would I—nevermind," you cut yourself off, face falling flat just like your voice. 

 Mike isn't sure if he should be flattered or offended or embarrassed, so he just ignores the comment entirely and says, "Nice to meet you." 

 You make your escape to the back, dragging Mike with you before shutting your bedroom door and leaning against it. 

 "Mom is a little weird, but you'll always know where you stand with her," you tell him. "Also, sorry about the house. She’s a teacher, so she’s usually pretty beat at the end of the day. Not enough energy to do a lotta cleaning."

 "Didn't even notice," he reassures you. 

 Mike unpacks his bag next to you, and you gather the dirty clothes from both yours and his, balling them up and taking them with you out to the garage to throw into the washing machine. Mike should have done it at his parents', but as you were packing up that morning, his mother got all teary eyed and his dad just kept shaking your tiny hands and telling you to come back, so it just didn’t happen. 

 Back in the living room, your mom is sitting in an old rocking chair, and Mike thinks you'll take a seat on the adjacent couch, but instead you ask, "You need help with anything? Dishes or vacuuming or somethin'?"

 She looks up at you, fly-away hairs sticking out around her temples and forehead and responds, "It'd be nice if you could do the dishes. I just haven't gotten around to it."

 "Can do," you nod and walk into the kitchen, opening the dishwasher and making a displeased noise at the dirty plates and bowls inside. There's room for a few more, but once it's full and running, you just clean what's left in the sink by hand. Mike finds a towel, stands next to you, and holds his hand out for every scrubbed dish, drying it and placing it in the rack to hopefully be put up later. 

 "You hungry?" You ask when you're done and drying your hands. "It's almost one."

 "Uh, yeah. I could eat." 

 Truthfully, he's starving having only had a small breakfast at his parents'. He doesn't want to say that, though, doesn't want you making a big meal for him or apologizing for anything. 

 "Sandwiches okay?" 

 Something in your tone has him on edge. Your voice is too quiet, deflecting downward as if you're forcing each word from your mouth. 

 "Yeah," he nods. "If you get the stuff, I can make 'em." Mostly so that you can relax but also because there's no way he's gonna let you make him a fucking sandwich. 

 You shrug your shoulders, grab bread, lunchmeat, cheese, and condiments, then say, "You can make ours. I'll make mom's."

 He knows he's missing something, but he doesn't know what, and right now he's too afraid to ask. 

 He eats next to you on the couch, you and your mom watching TV as Mike tries to subtly glance around. Mounted shelves are decorated with dusty, mismatched figurines, cracks opening at the corners where the walls meet the roof. The brick fireplace is stacked high with plastic tubs and books, probably from your mother’s classroom, and the carpet has seen better days. 

 Mike isn't judging—not in the least—but he has a feeling he knows why being here puts you in a sour mood. The house feels lived in, cluttered and cozy and worn around the edges, but it's still empty somehow. 

 After the three of you are finished eating, you take the paper plates and dispose of them, then tell your mom that you'll be in your room. She gives you a soft smile that you struggle to return.

 It's a little more you in the bedroom, blue walls covered in old posters and collages, a quilt similar to the one in your dorm folded at the bottom of your bed. Your pillow cases are faded and covered in an old flower design that matches your sheets, and there's a small nightstand next to the headboard that's bare on top with wrinkled papers poking out of the bottom drawer. 

 "It's not much, but if you wanna snoop around like I always do, feel free." 

 Mike doesn't really want to, especially since you already seem so uncomfortable in what should be a safe space for you. The only thing he feels okay investigating is the old bookshelf next to your closet—mostly YA novels, some poetry books, an old set of The Lord of the Rings series, a textbook over rocks and minerals and another over volcanoes. Tucked away in the bottom shelf is a tiny booklet that looks like a photo album, and Mike has to fight the urge to pull it from its place and flip through the plastic pages. Anything to get to know you better. 

 You lay in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling, and Mike doesn't know what to do. There's a very small TV sitting on your dresser, an old DVD player next to it, so he figures he'll save both you and himself from talking by picking out a movie. 

 He fingers through them, not that there's a lot, just skims the spines until he pulls out a copy of Space Jam. You only glance at the screen when the intro starts, and Mike immediately zeroes in on the way your jaw sets and your brows furrow. 

 "I can pick something else," he tells you quietly. 

 You take a deep breath and shake your head. Slowly but surely your features begin to soften. 

 "'S'fine."

 "Are you sure?" 

 "Yeah. My, uh…" You swallow loud enough from Mike to hear, neck bobbing with the motion. "My dad and I used to watch it all the time."

 He doesn't know what to make of it or how to respond. In the months he's known you, Mike has never heard you mention your father a single time, and he's never asked in fear of what your response might be. 

 He moves your quilt to sit on the very edge of the bed, a little too tense as he heavily contemplates ignoring what you'd said and still switching movies. 

 "You can lay down, you know," you mumble. "I'm not gonna bite you."

 "You have before," he tries to act casual, but it comes out too stiffly.

 You laugh through your nose— "Suit yourself—" then get more comfortable on the mattress. 

 Michael Jordan gets pulled into a golf hole and the Loony Toons journey to retrieve his shoes from the real world. Mike is barely paying attention, more focused on the way your breathing evens out until it becomes slow and deep. 

 That's good. You could use a nap. 

 He watches you for a while, the way your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks and your lips part. You're all curled up on yourself, hands tucked under your chin, knees to your stomach, and Mike wants to slip behind you so badly, to pull you to his chest and lay with you until his heartbeat syncs with yours. 

 But first. 

 As carefully as he can, Mike stands from the bed and glides to the bookcase. He lowers himself in front of it, quickly finding what he's looking for and pulls it from the shelf. 

 It's a small little album, full of polaroids and old pictures cut in half. The first page sets the tone for the rest of the booklet, a photo of a very small you outside eating a popsicle next to a man that is most definitely your dad. You've got a similar facial structure as well as his coloring. Not to mention the expression he's wearing is one Mike has seen you make many times before. 

 The next picture is the two of you dressed up for an event. He's in a striped Polo and slacks while you're in a little checkered dress, a rose corsage on your tiny wrist. Some kind of father-daughter dance, Mike guesses. 

 Sitting on his lap at a fair, a chubby little boy a few years older than you standing close with a stuffed snake around his neck. A party where you're posed with an honestly frightening costume character. You in a bright, mesh jersey standing back to back with your dad, arms crossed, looking at the camera with your chins tilted upward. 

 They all look like good memories. The little boy in the fair picture appears several more times, and as he loses his baby fat, Mike sees the resemblance he shares with you and your father. It's too close to be a cousin—your eyes and mouths shaped the same—so he must be your brother. 

 Mike doesn't know how to feel about that because again, you've never uttered a word. As far as he knew, you were an only child, so why…

 He gets lost in the pages, watching you grow and pose mostly next to your dad. Smiles and laughs and silly faces with your tongues sticking out. Your mom is in some, brother in others, and then, you're in a cap and gown, grinning widely next to your dad who's beginning to gray at the temples. His own smile is barely there now, a ghost of what was seen in the previous photos. It's forced, it's sad, and it's the last picture in the book. 

 Mike's chest hurts. He wonders what happened, when exactly you'd lost him. Was it a quick goodbye, or had it been drawn out and painful? Had he been sick for a long time? He'd looked perfectly healthy in all the shots. Maybe a car accident that took both him and your brother…

 He flips to check for one last photo on the back of the page, but it's empty. However, tucked in a tiny, paper pocket is a folded up note that Mike stares at for a few solid minutes, debating the pros and cons of reading it. He knows he's already violated your privacy by looking through the album, and fuck, he's only been in your house for a couple hours at most—how has he already managed to tumble down such a humongous rabbit hole? 

 Your tiny snores reach his ears, and Mike gently pulls the note out, biting his lip as he unfolds it as quietly as possible. It's soft, like it's been read too many times, and the letters scribbled in all caps are beginning to fade, but the words are still legible. 

 It starts with your name, and then it's all apologies—sorry I can't stay, I have to leave, you don't understand how much this hurts me and so on. 

 Mike's eyebrows pull together the further he reads, blood pounding against the walls of his arteries, pulse picking up because he understands now.

 Your father wasn't in any sort of accident; he just left. 

 The letter ends with a gut-wrenching, You'll always be my little girl, and Mike nearly crumples the paper up to throw away. He resists somehow, simply folds it with shaky hands and slips it back into the pocket at the back of the album. 

 He's never been so mad at a stranger in his life. This must be it. This must be why you are—

 "Should've known you'd go straight for the photo album." 

 Your voice makes Mike's body jolt, his face heating as he turns to look at you with wide eyes. 

 "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

 You wave him off and prop yourself up on an elbow. "It's whatever."

 But, it's not. It's this huge part of you that still affects you to this day. Mike is no psychologist, but he has a pretty good feeling this is the main reason you hold everyone at arm's length. 

 "Why didn't you ever tell me?" 

 "What's there to tell?" 

 Sitting up fully, your gaze moves to the screen just in time to see Michael Jordan step off of the spaceship and onto the baseball field. I Believe I Can Fly is playing, and you're gritting your teeth. 

 "It's not anything that comes up in normal conversation anyway. I wasn't just gonna hit you with it outta nowhere. Also," you look back to Mike, eyes still sleepy, lips pulling downward in a frown. "I'm not the only one who hid stuff about my family."

 Mike sighs and quietly tells you, "That's different," as he closes the album and slides it back into the row of books. 

 "Is it, though? Is it really?" 

 "I..." 

 Mike shuts his mouth and actually thinks on it. He wasn't trying to lie to you about his home life or his heritage. He's only half Greek on his mom's side, after all, and he's only been to the country to visit family a couple of times—once when he was a child and once right before college. The culture is a little different over there, but it all seems so natural to him, especially after being raised to speak the language. 

 Honestly, he didn't ever tell you because he didn't think to, but Mike can understand the shock of walking into his childhood home and getting thrown through that loop. It must have been jarring for you. 

 It's a positive aspect of his life, though. It's not something that's damaged him or made him cold toward others. And, he hates describing you in such a way, but it's true.

 At least it makes sense now. 

 "I guess not," he shrugs. He's not about to fight you on it. 

 You stare at him for a while, waking up a bit more as you rub your eyes and stretch. 

 Then, you flop back down on your pillows. 

 "So. Any questions, Zacharias?" 

 He's surprised that you're asking, and though he doesn't want to twist the metaphorical knife in your gut, he still replies honestly: "Too many."

 A long exhale through your nose, and then you're patting the mattress next to you and grumbling, "Fine, I'll do my best, but you gotta come up here."

 "Why? You gonna need to cuddle afterward?" He can't help but tease. 

 "Fuckin' maybe, dude! We're about to get into my god damn trauma so—"

 Mike is up on his feet and flying toward the bed. He isn't about to sabotage the one fucking moment you're opening yourself up. 

 "Alright, what first?" You ask, trying to look bored, but Mike can clearly see that you're nervous. 

 "He left." 

 "Yeah."

 And then he gets the full story. 

 Your dad was pretty perfect during your younger years—a bit of a workaholic but still good. He took you to dances like the one you'd both dressed for in the photograph. You'd spend days at amusement parks where he'd carry you on his shoulders. He coached the basketball team you'd played on as a child.

 "Not saying he played favorites, but I was definitely closer to him than my brother was."

 The brother who developed a drug problem at fourteen, who was always either out with his little addict friends or at home where he would just scream at you and your mom. 

 "He went to rehab a couple times, but it didn't stick." 

 He left home at seventeen and hasn't gotten in touch with you or your parents since. 

 "I keep thinking one day we'll get a call from the police saying they found his wallet on a fucking corpse, but who knows. Maybe he got clean. Maybe he started a family somewhere else. He'd be twenty-five now."

 "Were you ever close with him?"

 You shrug. "We spent a lot of time together when we were really little, but even back then he was kinda a mean kid."

 It very quickly circles back to your father. Mike still doesn't feel like he has all the answers, so he asks through the skin of his lip, "Why'd he leave?"

 At this point, you've got your head in his lap as he sits against the wall. He smooths your hair back from your face every once in a while, something his mom used to do to him when he was very young that always soothed him. 

 He hopes it's having the same effect on you, thinks it might be considering you've had your eyes closed for a while now, humming now and then as you talk. 

 "Honestly, I don't really know. I don't think he and my mom were ever in love. Like, they just kinda settled for each other," you sigh. "They didn't have a lot in common. They had different upbringings. But, they didn't fight or anything—not in front of us. They were good at hiding the hard times from me and my brother. They just didn't… click."

 Mike bites his tongue, wonders if that was hard to watch or if you'd been too naive to notice. 

 Then, there's his second train of thought that's really just the voice in his head screaming, we click, though! You and I work! But he keeps it to himself. This isn't about you and him. 

 "I think maybe dad had, like, a 'stay together for the kids' mentality 'cause as soon as I graduated, he was fuckin' gone. And, I mean gone. We went to a graduation party the next weekend that lasted a few hours—just me and mom—and when we got back his truck wasn't in the driveway and his drawers were empty. He left that note you read on my desk."

 Mike breathes. Just breathes. He tries to make sense of it, how someone could just do that without a real reason. There hadn't been any explanation in the letter, only apologies. 

 "Have you seen him since?" 

 You open your eyes and reply, "Nope," popping the 'p'. "I don't know where he is, and he hasn't reached out. Mom made the drive to my grandma's—his mom—but she said she didn't know where he was either. Pretty sure she was covering for him, though. She was always kind of a bitch. You know, save for the whole paying for my college and all."

 Mike snorts at this, not that there's anything funny about the situation. It's just his first reaction. 

 You ignore it, moving on with an, "Anyway."

 "Anyway," he mimics. 

 "I don't know if you've noticed in the short time you've been here, but my mom is a little… off. Not super good at taking care of herself."

 "Is this why?" 

 "Clever boy," you show a bitter smile. "I didn't really understand since they weren't, like, in love or whatever, but… I think it was the betrayal more than anything. Like, it came outta nowhere, a big ol' slap in the face."

 "Plus, he left you behind," Mike adds, as if you don't already know. 

 Looking up at him, you raise your eyebrows and smirk. "And, now you know about my abandonment issues." The last part comes out in high-pitched, melodic syllables, a little song that would be funny if Mike didn't know it was a coping mechanism. It most definitely is, though. He can tell that you're the type to mask every issue with humor and sarcasm. It's how you've been dealing with him for the last several months. 

 "So, that's my story," you conclude on an exhale. "Now you know all my dirty secrets."

 "For some reason I don't think that's all of them," Mike pets your hair again. "But, probably the important ones."

 "Mm. I guess."

 The rest of the day is really just spent killing time. You cook an easy dinner that you refuse to let Mike help with, then sit in the den with your mom just like you did at lunch. A medical show is playing. Then a reality show. Then a game show. None of you say much of anything, and it's painfully awkward for Mike now that he knows what happened, but he can power through a few days of this if it makes you feel better. 

 Hours pass until you can retreat, and moonlight shines through your bedroom window, not that Mike needs it. He's memorized your body at this point, knows where to touch without even seeing. He makes sure to be gentle, to suckle and blow on your pebbled nipples as you card fingers through his hair and breathe faster and faster. 

 Leaving love bites down your chest and stomach, he sucks on your skin, gently grazing his teeth over every bruise. Mike wants you to see them all the next day—not a staked claim, just something you can't ignore when you look in the mirror, evidence of his feelings in every mark. 

 When you're finally nice and relaxed, he spreads your legs and licks into you, trying not to be too rough with his beard, but a few swipes of it over your clit leave you shaking in his grasp. You whisper his name, the common one that everyone knows him by, but then, rolling off your tongue like a prayer, you call him, "Miche," and he can't help the rumble that rises in his chest. 

 It should be strange. That's the name only his family uses, the one he was born with. He only simplified it so that kids in school wouldn't ask questions or make fun of him, and after that, it just sort of stuck. But, here and now, falling from your lips, it's so soft. So intimate. 

 You whimper when he sucks on your folds, making them swell, making them sensitive. And then, he's pushing his tongue inside of you and humming happily at the taste. His nose is bumping against your clit, and Christ, you even smell good to him—that ripe, tangy aroma that has Mike going a little crazy. He has to make sure he doesn't get too carried away. You can't make very much noise even with the rattling of the air conditioner, but as he slowly slides a finger into your pussy, he hears you moan around the fist you're holding to your mouth. 

 He stretches you just enough to get you ready, then he holds himself over you and pushes into your wet cunt. Your eyes are open, locked with Mike's as your brow raises and your jaw drops. It's erotic, something you've never done with him before. You typically either gaze somewhere other than his face or keep your eyes squeezed shut. 

 Tonight, though, you've been vulnerable and apparently want to stay that way for a little while longer. 

 He bends to catch you in a kiss, lips and tongues moving just as slowly as his hips, and when you reach to tug at Mike's hair, he pants into your mouth. 

 Those words are there again, stuck in his throat but slowly crawling upward until they're just there, pouring from his tongue, "I lo—"

 Until you cut him off with a sharp, "Don't."

 He makes a noise of frustration, wants to protest because he's so deep inside of you, and you're holding onto him like you want him—truly want him, but you mutter once more against his lips, "Don't say it, Miche."

 So, he doesn't. He bottles the confession up and keeps it locked away, hoping like hell that one day you'll let him tell you. 

 After you climax and coat his cock in slick and cream, he gives a few more thrusts and comes inside of you, filling you with himself and wondering why you're so willing to accept him in that way but not in any other. 

 He's hurting again, like he did at his parents' as you walked around like you belonged there. Except it's worse now. 

 If you don't want him to say it, that means you don't want to say it back. 

 He stays with you for a few more minutes before pulling out. You leave to clean up, and while you're gone, Mike sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands as he tries to get it all out of his system, whispering it out loud to himself: 

 I love you. I love you, I love you.  

 You still let him hold you as you fall asleep, gripping his hand until you can't anymore, and as Mike drifts off behind you, he has one last thought—Just let me.

* There’s only three weeks left of the semester when you head back to campus, and you intend to make the most of every passing day. 

 You pay better attention in class. You study harder in the library to prepare for final exams. You go to a few more Pi Alpha Kappa parties, making sure not to burn yourself out. And, you let Mike fuck your brains out every few days. Sometimes it’s late at night after those parties. Sometimes you're too tired after the nights of drinking and end up just going to bed only to wake up in the morning and have slow, sleepy sex. Sometimes it’s in the middle of the afternoon when you both have breaks between classes.

 Neither of you bring up anything that happened over the break—meeting families, details about your childhoods, how much you learned about one another in general.

 Most importantly, neither of you address that first night at your mom’s, the way Mike had basically worshiped your body, how he’d come so close to uttering the three words you least want to hear. 

 Thinking about it still makes your chest tighten, your heart beat faster. Sometimes when you’re sharing his bed with him, back pressed to his chest, large arm slung over your waist, you think about why it is you’re so vehemently against it. The two of you already act like a couple most of the time. You walk with each other to class when you can. You stick to each other’s sides at parties. You fuck like rabbits and don’t care who knows about it. 

 And, though you’re hesitant to admit it even to yourself, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t have feelings for him. Mike is your best friend at this point. He’s insanely hot. He’s goofy. He’s kind. Yeah, the frat boy persona he puts on around his friends is annoying, but you understand it a little better now. Plus, he always takes off the mask when he’s alone with you, giving both you and himself a break from it.

 You know your time with him is quickly coming to an end—for about two months, at least—and whenever you think too hard about it, it makes you pout and huff. You’re not looking forward to your summer classes without him, but he promises on several occasions that you can call him while he’s at his parents’ if you ever need help with the material.

 It’s impressive, the way he’s able to act like nothing happened. You know it must be troubling him, but it’s not like you can do anything to soothe him. If he was really upset with you, he would have stopped spending time with you, but he hasn’t. He just bottles it up, keeps smiling at you all crookedly, and keeps satisfying you in the bedroom (more than satisfying honestly. There’s really not a word to describe what he does).

 He’s back to getting along with everyone in the Pike house, everyone being Erwin. It’s a relief just because you don’t have to put up with the tension between them, but it’s also awkward. And, a little frightening. 

 The brothers have Smash Brothers tournaments and movie nights, a few date parties here and there, and it never fails that at some point during the evenings, you find your neck prickling as it always does when you feel someone staring at you. You always hope it’s Mike. Fuck, you wish it was him. But, when you glance up and around, it’s Erwin. Every time. His deep blue eyes are trained on you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward on one side. It doesn’t matter if he’s alone or if he’s got Maddie or some other girl sitting in his lap. He's fucking shameless, and it makes your stomach hurt.

 You keep your mouth shut for the sake of the friendship but also for the sake of Erwin’s pretty face. If he and Mike ever got into an actual fight, Erwin would probably be able to get a good few punches in, but you’re nearly positive Mike would end up destroying him in the long run. That could get him kicked out of school. That could get him thrown in jail. 

 Finals roll around, and you manage to pass all of them without issue, even getting grades above the class average. You feel fantastic, like your long term goals might actually be attainable. You have a long road ahead of you, but your GPA at the end of the year is more than enough to raise your confidence. 

 Mike asks you to come back to his house for the couple weeks between the end of the semester and the start of your summer courses, but you turn him down, too scared of what might happen while you’re there. Acting like a couple in front of his parents will only exacerbate his feelings as well as yours, and you’d like to avoid that as best you can. 

 Even now as you’re standing outside by the Jeep, he tries to persuade you one last time, almost pleading, “Are you sure you don’t wanna come?”

 “Miche, I’m sure,” you tell him, trying to stay stern, but it’s hard when his sea glass eyes light up at the sound of his real name. It’s a habit you’ve gotten into, a bad one considering how much he likes it. How much you like it. “I already told you I wanna spend the free time I have at mom’s. I need to check up on her and… Probably clean, honestly.”

 He lets out a little grunt of disappointment, then nods. “Yeah, I get it.”

 “You saw what she’s like,” you remind him. “Someone needs to drop in every once in a while to make sure she isn’t, like, wasting away or something.”

 “Makes sense. I’ll be bummed, though.”

 “Be bummed all you want,” you smile. “I’ll probably still bother you over break. A lot.”

 He sounds terribly sincere when he mumbles, “You never bother me.” It makes your stomach flip in the way you do not enjoy.

 Mike sighs, taking in one of those deep breaths that makes his broad chest rise then fall, calling attention to it and making you bite your bottom lip. 

 “Alright, I should get going,” he concedes, bending down to kiss you too deeply for simple friends with benefits. It doesn’t stop you from humming into his mouth and smiling against him. You hold him by the back of his neck as he pulls your body close to his, his voice muffled when he tells you mischievously, “Don’t forget to send pictures.”

 It makes you laugh, and you lean back to swipe your tongue over his lips so that he groans and chases after you. 

 “I promise I will. Perv.” The beating sun is nothing in comparison to the way your body heats at the thought. You’ve sent him nudes before, but the idea of him looking at them from hours away, fisting his cock as he admires your body through his phone… It makes seeing him off even harder.

 After a couple more softer kisses, Mike swings into the Wrangler and pulls out of the lot. You stand in his parking space and watch him until he’s out of sight, then walk back to your dorm, dragging your feet the whole way. 

 You only stay at your mom’s house for a week, and just like you predicted, you spend most of it cleaning. She thanks you the whole time but makes excuses in between. You just reassure her that you don’t mind even though you do. She really should see a therapist and sort out the depression she’s been stuck in for a few years now, but telling someone they need professional help is easier said than done. 

 Sleeping in your old bed is much harder this time around. You're all too aware of the weight that isn't behind you, and most nights you lay awake for at least a couple of hours trying to imagine it. 

 Like you’d promised, you send him a few pictures, some of them just lewd selfies with your tits pouring out of the cups of your bra, but others are of your naked body in the bathtub, sometimes a shot of you with your hand between your legs. It feels wrong to touch yourself in your childhood home, but it’s necessary, especially when Mike sends you a few pictures of his own—one with his torso on display, defined abs absolutely mouthwatering and the V of his hips suggestively leading into mesh shorts. Another is of him in the gray joggers he wears all the time, the ones that always show off his cock. 

 He’s so fucking hot it atually hurts, makes your pussy throb as you crave his touch. It’s an awful feeling honestly, but even worse than that is the way you miss him. You aren’t supposed to miss him. You’re just supposed to be friends who have sex. Nothing more than that.

 It's why you’re glad to go back to school. Your classes will distract you, keep you from thinking about him too much. The semester is shorter during the summer, so you have to work even harder than you do during fall and spring. You don’t really think it’ll be a problem since you’re trying to cram your brain full of anything other than Mike which is great motivation for studying. 

 Nothing is gonna get you off track, you tell yourself. Nothing will interfere with your studies. That’s the plan.

 Then, you meet Zeke Jaeger. 

* You're studying in the library. It seems like you spend most of your time here, nice and quiet and empty. The campus isn't nearly as busy in the summer as it is during the rest of the school year. No parties, no sporting events, just you alone with your books. 

 It's nice. Most of the time. A little boring but mostly nice. 

 Your eyes are getting tired, and when you check your phone, you realize why. It's almost eleven PM, meaning you've been studying for about six hours. You've had longer nights, usually spent on the phone getting quizzed on the information you're learning with a few breaks in between, but that wasn't the case tonight as Mike had to spend the day with family from out of town. 

 It's okay. You're supposed to be distancing yourself anyway. 

 Taking a deep breath, you pack up your books and slide your laptop into your bag, then stand and swing it over your shoulder. 

 The strap is too long. The bag swings too hard, and your heart sinks when you hear a little grunt followed by a, "Agh, hot!" 

 Turning with wide eyes, you immediately start apologizing, "I'm so sorry, oh my god, fuck, I'm so sorry!"

 A head of light blond hair looks up from the brown stain on his white t-shirt, icy blue eyes narrowed behind wire-rimmed glasses, but when he sees the mortification on your face, his own expression softens, and he chuckles. 

 "It's fine. You can calm down."

 You're still breathing heavily, guilt making your hands shake, but he really doesn't look angry. In fact, he's grinning now, eyebrows raised like he's amused. 

 The longer you stare at him, the more familiar he looks. You're pretty sure you've seen him before. Many times before, actually, and then it clicks that this guy is on the front page of the school website. You see him every fucking time you log in, looking much more stern than he does now. Baseball hat and jersey, mitt on one hand as he hides his other in it, and yeah, you know him. 

 "You're Zeke Jaeger."

 He makes a face, scrunching his nose up and squinting. "Yeeeeah, I guess I am."

 Best pitcher in the college league despite being a sophomore like you. He's beaten the records of some major league players. 

 You don't give a fuck about baseball, have never even been to any of the school's games, but you've been hearing about Zeke since the last season. You've learned to tune it out because, again, no shits given (and also you're much more partial to lacrosse now), but he's hard to ignore when he's staring you right in the face. 

 "Well, uh," you try to act casual. It's something you're pretty good at these days. "Cool."

 He snorts, picking his shirt off his chest to air it out like it'll help, then says, "I don't know your name, though."

 You run your tongue over your teeth, wondering why he cares, then introduce yourself. 

 "Oh, you're Zacharias' little girlfriend, aren't you?"

 Your stomach flips at the mention of him. 

 "We're not dating."

 Zeke cocks his head to the side. "No?"

 "No. Just friends."

 He hums but doesn't say anything, and your eyes are once again drawn to his chest as he fans over the stain. 

 "Okay, let me get you a new shirt or something," you try. 

 He laughs again. "I highly doubt you've got a men's shirt tucked in that bag of yours, sweetheart."

 "I—" you pout for a second, mumble, "Okay, yeah, fair point."

 "Another coffee, though," he muses out loud. "Wouldn't be the worst thing."

 You shoot him a finger gun and smack your lips. "On it. Where do you get coffee at eleven o'clock?"

 "I'll walk with you," he states more than offers. 

 Then, you're both leaving the library, leaving campus, and going to a little 24 hour cafe where you blow on lattes and cover the basics about each other—philosophy major, valedictorian of his high school class, playing baseball since age seven, etc. You should sleep. You should get ready for another long day of studying.  

 But it's hard to make good decisions when Zeke Jaeger is smirking at you from across the table like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen. 

* Zeke gets your number that night. You're not exactly sure how, but he does. 

 Then he doesn’t text you for three days. It doesn’t bother you that much. You figure he has other things to focus on. He’s on campus to take a couple courses and practice for the upcoming season, so he’s probably just busy. If that night had just been a one-off, it’s fine with you. It was cool to talk to him, but your heart isn’t broken.

 These are all the thoughts and justifications running through your head when you’re in class on Tuesday and your phone lights up during the PowerPoint lecture. You glance down, expecting Mike or Hitch, but it’s an unknown number instead. Eyes flicking from the projection screen to your much tinier one, you slide to open the message and chew on your lip. 

 Hey, it’s Zeke. You have classes this afternoon?

 You do not. And, you are too quick to tell him that.

 He takes you to a little Mom and Pop restaurant, too far to walk so you end up riding in the black Bronco he drives, trying to convince yourself that it definitely does not make him any more attractive to you. Because you aren’t attracted to him in the first place. Right?

 You sit at a table for two eating paninis and fruit. Zeke asks how classes are going, you ask about practice, and as you talk, he gets that look in his eyes again, like you amuse him or interest him or something.

 It confuses you, and for a moment, you’re taken back to last fall at that first Pi Kappa Alpha party, the one you met Mike at when he tried to get you to shotgun a beer. God, he had been so obnoxious back then, always following you around and flirting and—

 “You listening, sweetheart?”

 Your eyes refocus on the man in front of you, his raised eyebrows and little smirk. “Looks like you’re a million miles away. Sorry if I’m boring you.”

 “No, no,” you try to defend. “I just zoned out for a second. Realized I, uh, got an answer wrong on the quiz I took today.”

 “That sucks,” he hums. “Anyway, I can stop talking about baseball.”

 “It’s okay. Just go over the last, like, ten seconds,” you say with a laugh, hoping your cheeks will stop burning sooner rather than later.

 Zeke chuckles and does just that, doesn’t seem irritated or put out. He tells you about how he has a new trainer this year to warm him up and make sure his throwing arm is in top shape. “I hope he’s as good as my last. Colt was always on it, knew exactly how hot to make the warm compresses and how cold to make the ice packs. Stuff like that. He learned my needs.”

 You both laugh, and if it was anyone else, you’d have an innuendo sliding off your tongue, but for some reason, you don’t think Zeke would want to hear it, like he’d be unimpressed with your vulgar humor. 

 Back at the college, he drives you to your dorm, explaining that he lives in the apartments on the other side of campus and wouldn’t want to make you walk that far. Then, as you slide out of the Bronco, he stops you with a smooth, “Hey,” that makes you look over your shoulder at him. “Make sure you save my number in your phone, okay? I’ll text you soon.”

 The way your stomach flips is worrisome, a feeling you’re only used to when you’re with…

 “Yeah, okay.”

 He grins widely and nods, then waits for you to get a good distance away from the car before driving off.

 No distractions, you’d said. It’ll be good for your focus, you’d said. 

 What a fucking joke. 

*

Mike has to help you with some homework that weekend. You can hear his smile through the phone, snort when he makes his little nerd jokes, then sigh when he gets to the actual subject and explains it to you without a problem. His brain is incredible, and when you think about it too hard, it makes you warm inside. 

 “You’re so fucking smart. Why don’t you let people know?”

 “Maybe I just want you to know,” he chuckles. “You think I wanna spend my days tutoring every idiot who needs help?”

 “Miche, did you just call me an idiot?”

 You hear another breathy laugh followed by a sigh. “I have many, many names for you, but ‘idiot’ isn’t one of them.”

 “Oh yeah?” You play. “And, what might those other names be?”

 He lists a few, all of them making your face flush and your body tingle, and before you know it, you’ve got your pants off and your fingers between your legs. You can hear Mike’s heavy breathing on the other end, the wet sound of his hand stroking his lubricated cock, and when you reach your climax, you moan out your usual, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Miche.” 

 He tumbles down right behind you, panting and telling you in a voice of disbelief, “Jesus, it just keeps coming.” It makes the pulses of your orgasm even stronger, remembrance of all the times he’s painted you in white, and God, you are so ready for him to get back to the school.

 Then, there’s the voice in the back of your head that makes you think maybe it’s better that he’s gone for now, that he might not be too pleased that you’re spending time with another guy. But, it’s not like things with Zeke are going anywhere. You wouldn’t even call him a friend. You text on and off, have brunch or lunch or coffee depending on the time of day. 

 And, yeah, he calls you pet names, tells you that you look nice even when you’re just in leggings and a t-shirt, talks about his family and…

 Okay, it could potentially lead to something more, but it’s only been a week, and considering his golden boy status, he could have anyone he wants, so why would he even be interested in you in any way, shape, or form?

 Naturally, your thoughts circle back to Mike and the way he could have any girl on his arm, but he still chooses to spend time with you. To fuck you. To nearly confess his feelings to you. You have to wonder if you’re emitting some kind of scent or beacon, if there’s a sign hanging above your head with an arrow pointing down. Sports gods, come get a piece. 

 If only you’d never gone to that party. If you had just kept your head down like you had freshman year. Your life would be so much easier now.

 But now you’re in Zeke’s apartment listening to him rant about some philosopher you’ve never even heard of. He’s gesturing with his hands, flipping curling, blond bangs from his face, and whenever he pauses to think, he scratches his beard. He’s very fond of the white t-shirts and jeans get-up, sometimes switches it up and wears a button down under a sweater vest. Both looks are becoming of him no matter how much you try to deny it, but when he drops down onto the couch next to you and peers into your god damn soul with those piercing, blue eyes, you have to choke back a dreamy sigh.

 What is happening to you?

 “So, what do you think about it?” He asks, looking hopeful that you might have some insight on this matter.

 But, you simply laugh and shake your head. “Zeke,” you start. “I’m gonna be real honest with you here. I didn’t understand a fucking thing you just said.”

 You assume he’ll be disappointed, maybe tire of you since you can’t be as intellectually stimulating as he’d like you to, but Zeke exhales in a lighthearted sort of way, shows one of those amused smiles, and tells you, “You’re cute.”

 Anyone else and you would have snapped back, something along the lines of, don’t fucking patronize me, but with Zeke, all you can do is stare at him and let your lips part, silently asking for something you won’t speak out loud.

 His gaze moves to your mouth for a split second. That soft smile turns into one of his famous smirks. Then, he’s back on his feet and asking, “You wanna go to dinner?”

 You are more than relieved at the shift in atmosphere, but your heart is still beating too hard as you follow him downstairs and to his car. 

* Summer is passing quickly. Too quickly. The eleven week classes are kicking your ass, or are close to kicking your ass. Lucky for you, you have your own private tutor just a call or text away. Mike helps you, and you laugh and goof around, shoot off innuendo after innuendo, but the phone sex slows to a halt eventually. You tell him that you’re tired, and you are. It isn’t a lie. But, it also isn’t the full truth.

 Between classes when you could be resting, you’re eating out with Zeke. Or, watching him and the rest of the baseball team practice for the upcoming season. Or, sitting in his apartment, watching movies and chatting about all manner of things. Nothing important, of course—there’s no diving deep into your life story like you had done with Mike over Spring Break, but Zeke still learns the little things about you. Why you’re majoring in geosciences and how you became good friends with some of the Pike guys. You don’t give him the full details on that one—that you got blackout drunk and fucked Mike and just couldn’t stop. You don’t think Zeke would be interested in hearing about it anyway.

 You learn a bit about his dad and stepmom, the latter of whom he isn’t very fond of. He also has a little brother who’ll be attending the college starting this fall, and he’s interested in the Greek life. Naturally, you build PKA up. Even if there are some… Problematic people in the house, there are also a lot of really good guys. 

 “I’ll make sure to pass it along to him,” Zeke tells you one evening as you’re both sprawled on the couch, backs against the armrests as you face each other. It’s how he seems to prefer to sit when the TV isn’t on. When you asked him why, he had told you, “Just like looking at you,” and you didn’t know how to respond. You still don’t know how to respond.

 “Eren thinkin’ about joining any sports?” You ask now. “Does baseball run in the family or anything?”

 Zeke snorts. “Kid couldn’t hit a baseball even if it was on one of the t-ball stands.”

 “I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.”

 “I would say he’s more academically inclined, but,” Zeke sighs. “That would be a lie.”

 You can never tell if he actually likes his brother. Most of the time he complains about him, but every once in a while he’ll bring up something cute Eren did as a little boy, and you see a fond glimmer in his light eyes. 

 “Anyway,” Zeke waves off the subject and transitions to a new one—one that makes your stomach drop. “Are you gonna tell Zacharias about us?”

 You choke on your own spit, leaning forward to cough a couple times, then challenge him with a nervous laugh, “I wasn’t aware there was anything to tell him.”

 Zeke tilts his head, mouth pulling up as he raises his eyebrows. “Come on,” he chuckles.

 “Come on, what?” You frown. If you were with Mike, you both would have died at that. Come on my face, you can hear him say, and you have to fight a smile because there’s absolutely no way you could explain that to the man in front of you.

 “You don’t have to play coy, sweetheart. We both know there’s something going on between us.” He says it with such confidence that even if he wasn’t right you wouldn’t be able to argue with him. The assumption should annoy you, should make you scoff and leave, but instead you sit there staring, caught up in his gaze and cocky grin.

 “I—”

 “It’s okay, you know. Not like you’re alone in this.”

 Those questions swim through your mind again, all the insecurities that you’ve been sorting through with Mike, but now that voice is louder because that sense of trust hasn’t formed yet. You’ve only connected with Zeke over meals and movies. It sounds domestic, but despite your apparently obvious attraction to him, you still don’t feel like you really know him. 

 But, he draws you in, like a moth to a flame. You can’t help it. There’s just something about him that makes you want him to like you, like you want to impress him, like you want to be good for him. You’ve been trying to ignore those thoughts, but they’re much harder to fight now that you’re sitting in front of him, taking in his wavy hair and pale blue eyes, that ever present smirk on his face, the curve of his neck that disappears into his shirt.

 He could just want sex. He could just want a fling. Wait for everyone to get back on campus and drop you for another girl. You tell yourself you wouldn’t care; you’re good at keeping things casual.

 Wouldn’t it be fun to be his arm candy for a while, though? Let people look at you and whisper louder than they did when they’d see you and Mike together? You don’t care about status, about being in the spotlight. It’s more for the experience, dating someone who could teach you things.

 Mike teaches you things, that voice pops up again. He’s been helping you with your work for almost a year now. You can’t just overlook that. 

 “What, are you weighing the pros and cons over there or something?”

 You snort. “Maybe. We still don’t really know each other all that well, Zeke.”

 “Might I remind you that we’ve been hanging out all summer? Did you honestly think it wouldn’t lead to anything more?”

 “Honestly,” you mimic, “I never thought you’d be interested.”

 “Why wouldn’t I be?” His brow furrows like he’s genuinely confused. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re cute.” 

 God, you can’t even count how many times he’s called you ‘cute’, how many times it’s made you blush over the last several weeks, just like it does now.

 Then, he pushes, “Do you not find me at—”

 “Of course I do,” you cut him off. “I don’t know who doesn’t, which is exactly why I don’t know where this is coming from.”

 Zeke sighs like he’s annoyed, then turns the hand on his thigh palm up and beckons you with two fingers. “Come here.”

 “What?”

 “Come here.”

 Your blood pressure spikes, breaths coming in little puffs that have no way of getting to your brain. It’s probably why you obey, rolling to your knees and clumsily crawling over to him. You stop short, right between his bent knees, but Zeke sits up, straightens his legs, and pulls you into his lap.

 More of that precious air leaves your lungs as you exhale too sharply, staring at him with huge eyes. You don’t know what’s happening, can’t believe it’s happening. It doesn’t feel real even as you rest your hands on his shoulders, even when he holds your hips and pulls you so that your full weight is on him, but fuck, you can’t say anything. You can’t make a sound. All you can do is wait for him to make his next move.

 “Why do you look scared?” His voice is just above a whisper, but at this proximity you can hear him without a problem. 

 “I don’t have a lot of experience sitting in men’s laps,” you manage, trying to keep your usual careless tone, but you doubt it works.

 “For some reason I don’t believe that.”

 You rear back, actually offended. “Excuse m—”

 That ire, however, melts away as quickly as it arose. Zeke slides fingers up your waist, all the way to the back of your neck to bring your face to his—your lips to his. 

 He feels different, not at all what you’re used to. His kiss is more demanding, hungry, and God, you still can’t breathe, can’t think straight because his tongue is moving past your lips, and you’re letting it, letting him taste you as your fingertips dig into the flesh of his shoulders. You lift yourself from him just a little only for Zeke to pull you back down with the hand still gripping your hip. He makes sure you feel him when he grinds up into you, the zipper of his jeans rubbing you through your little shorts so that you gasp into his mouth. 

 You both stay like that for what feels like a fucking eternity, biting and sucking on lips, stroking over each others’ tongues until you absolutely have to break apart. You’re panting now, body still tense on top of his, and Zeke stares at you with half-lidded eyes and shows the ghost of a smile.

 “Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

 The statement sets you on fire, so much so that all you can do is whimper quietly and lean in for more. 

  And, as you get lost in Zeke Jaeger, you decide for yourself.

I need to tell Mike

[ next ]

[aion-rsa]

Creating the Family of Fast and Furious Spy Racers

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Fast & Furious Spy Racers, like the entire Fast & Furious franchise, is all about family. Not a traditional type of family but one of different people not always connected by blood who come together for the greater good. It’s the main appeal of the Fast & Furious franchise to many of its fans and one that was slowly built over time in the films.

But with Spy Racers a whole new family had to be created from the jump and the team behind it didn’t have the luxury of several movies to slowly (and somewhat accidentally) create one. They had to come up with not only a family that could stand alongside the ones from the massively successful films but also appeal to the show’s younger demographic. 

It wasn’t an easy task but it’s one we became interested in after we spoke with Spy Racers executive producer Tim Hedrick in October. In that interview Hedrick mentioned that Layla Gray, a reformed racer with a dark past, was originally created for a different project which he then inserted into this show. In the lead-up to season three, we sat down with Hedrick once again to get his insight into creating the rest of the Spy Racers family.

DEN OF GEEK: In our last interview you talked a little bit about the origin of Layla’s character, but I’d love to know where the ideas for the other characters came from, like Tony, Echo, Cisco, Frostee, all the main characters.

TIM HEDRICK: Okay. Well, let’s see. Tony was, when we, when we started coming up with the show, we knew Fast and Furious is all about family, right? Well, you have to have a Toretto in there. Who would be the ideal kind of Toretto to see in the show?

We wanted the characters to be young, we wanted them to be able to drive. So that kind of narrowed down your scope. We wanted them to be about 17 years old. So a 17-year-old Toretto from the streets of LA. I really wanted Tony to carry this burden of being a Toretto. Like he knows who Dom is. He knows that Dom is like this superhero character. He’s not just like his favorite uncle from around the block. He’s also this guy who’s traveled the world, who disappears mysteriously for years and then icomes back. There’s a whole aura about that that he has to live up to.

That was the core of what Tony is in the show, it’s just constantly trying to find himself. In season three Tony’s main storyline, is “Who am I? I’m a Toretto, but what does that mean? What does that mean for me as an individual versus trying to live up to the family name?” So this is actually the season where we kind of really hit that on the nose.

Echo was an interesting one who kind of evolved as we were developing the show because I thought when we’re talking about LA street culture, what would be cool things to see in the neighborhood? We got really into graffiti art and started talking to artists and wanted to see what would that be in the team because that’s something that we hadn’t really seen in the film franchise. Echo kind of evolved out of that. Initially she was a little bit more of a kind of hippie character with the electric car and the artist and it was coming off as a little too, I don’t know, soft I guess. It just didn’t feel like this is someone who actually would hang out with these people and drive around real fast and race cars.

So when we got Charlet (Chung, Echo’s voice actress), she came in with the voice that really nailed it for me. I was like, “Oh yeah, she’s kind of tough. She’s this like strong, silent type who enjoys the arts, enjoys the risk, likes hanging out with these guys and is finding herself.” That’s an interesting place to be for a character. I don’t really know who I am and I want to find myself. And so as we evolved writing the show bringing her to the four as maybe she’s the one who actually is the best spy.

Maybe she’s the one who really should be leading the crew and how do she and Tony kind of navigate that as these two friends where Tony is the name who has always been the leader? How does Echo step into that? That’s another aspect that in season three really comes to the fore. She actually becomes a leader of the crew and she has to lead the team and make the tough decisions. And she’s a better leader because she’s smarter and she can digest the information and evaluate the risk and decide whether or not we should be here in the first place and maybe it’s time to cut and run versus just doing this stupid thing and going forward all the time. She’s becomes = the brain but that comes with a lot of responsibility that she’s not used to. 

Frostee, I think actually came from an idea that Vin had that he wanted to have a character who was younger, who couldn’t drive, and who looked up to these people. This was in super early discussions. He wanted someone who kind of like, these were the heroes on the block that he would hang out with and look up to these guys. And then we thought, well, we don’t want him to just be standing there saying, “Gee, these guys are cool.” What can Frostee bring to the table? And so he became the tech guy, which makes complete sense because the older I get the less able I am to operate any technical devices. So we figured a 15 year old would be the guy who knows how to do everything the best.

Then we also wanted him to be riding with someone. And we thought that, that could be this kind of like a Mutt and Jeff (a long running comic strip) relationship with this big, strong character who became Cisco. In the beginning he’s the guy who is like combing through the junkyard trying to build up their cars. He’s fixing Tony’s old engine with bubble gum. He’s the guy who’s just a really down and dirty gear head. We had a lot more of that in early versions of the show, where there would be a lot more just working on cars and we kind of got away from that. There just wasn’t time to hang out in a garage and work on cars when you’ve got to go out on spy missions. That’s also something that comes out with Cisco in season three when he’s digging around trying to help the team building these cool gliders.

And then Layla, the outlaw who in this season we, again, see her meet the people that she’s seen in the past. When we first see her in season one Frostee knows who she is, we know that she’s this kind of outlaw who is hanging out with Shashi, but now we get to see, oh, here’s some stuff that she did before that’s going to kind of get the crew into trouble and also maybe help them a little bit. So she kind of brings the chaotic, wild card edge there.

I found her arc this season very interesting. A lot of the references to her trying to move on from her past and not really being able to because she has deep ties to this bad part of the world.

I think it’s interesting that she’s kind of the one that has relationships all over the world and the rest of these guys have never left LA before. She has been in trouble with all kinds of criminal crews. So you never know who’s going to pop up that’s like, “Layla Gray.” She’s kind of like the Han Solo of our team where there’s always some bad news coming with (her.)

I love that Frostee has two moms. Can you talk about adding them into the show?

You know for a show that talks about family all the time, we really only have one family on the show and that’s Frostee and his two moms and his little sister. It just seemed like a natural place to have that family dynamic and it was cool. They’re a female owned business in Los Angeles with two moms. It came pretty naturally. They were really fun to cast and they’re great. They come in with really fun comedy and it’s just a fun dynamic.

You mention there’s only one family but the Fast & Furious films, and by extension this show, has a much broader definition of family. It’s not always by blood, it’s by the people that you not only work with but have a connection with.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Exactly. It’s about choosing your own family and who you let in and who you exclude.

Fast & Furious Spy Racers: Sahara is now available on Netflix.

The post Creating the Family of Fast and Furious Spy Racers appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3aM0aqK

[shareyoursmile]

True Concessions: Our Movie-Snacking Behaviors, Ex...

New Post has been published on https://bestcook.makecookingfun.org/true-concessions-our-movie-snacking-behaviors-ex/

True Concessions: Our Movie-Snacking Behaviors, Ex...

amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit0"; amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "megumi09-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "search"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_title = "Shop Related Products"; amzn_assoc_default_search_phrase = "cooking"; amzn_assoc_default_category = "Kitchen"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "51fe4d035c7af8dc5928e6f5e5b79c4e"; amzn_assoc_default_browse_node = "284507"; amzn_assoc_rows = "4"; amzn_assoc_design = "text_links";

[Illustrations: Vivian Kong]

Serious Eats staffers work very closely together, if not always in the same room—but, as in all healthy long-term relationships, we somehow still manage to surprise each other, in good ways, bad ways, and purely head-scratching ways. A very long and aggrieved Slack thread unspooled once we discovered some potentially embarrassing gaps in each other’s eating histories: Until recently, Stella had never eaten a classic NYC bacon, egg, and cheese, and Niki was unclear on the proper use of a Panera-style bread bowl. The revelation that, despite repeated admonishments on this very site, only a few of us actually owned a mortar and pestle prompted similar outrage (from Kenji, at least).

One of the latest rabbit holes of confession and mock shaming we threw ourselves down revolved around our respective movie snacks of choice—not just the specific items we like to munch on in the theater, but where we get those snacks from, and whether we even snack at all. If that doesn’t sound like something to get all worked up about—well, it isn’t, but that’s never stopped us before. It turns out that we, and perhaps all moviegoers, divide pretty neatly into four distinct camps, with very little crossover: those who buy the typical popcorn, boxed candy, and big sodas at the theater’s concession stand; those who don’t eat at the movies, period (really!); those who sneak in their own modest, easily hidden snacks; and those who make a point of smuggling in the biggest or messiest or otherwise most outlandish spreads they can muster. (Of course, “outlandish” is a relative term—one of us seemed surprised to learn that a bottle of Champagne qualified.) Since it’s Oscar season, a time when lots of us try to cram in as many theater outings as possible, we figured we’d take the opportunity to share the shocking results of our internal survey.

The Sushi Smuggler

Growing up, I thought the phrase “dinner and a movie” was actually “dinner at the movies.” Sure, we’d occasionally sneak in traditional snacks, like cheesy popcorn and cans of soda, but if the movie happened to coincide with a mealtime, we packed accordingly. My family’s go-to movie theater dinner was sushi—something I didn’t contemplate much at the time, but I now see it as a stroke of unparalleled genius on my parents’ part. A prepackaged roll combo is, without doubt, the Platonic ideal of a stealthy movie theater meal.

Before you roll (no pun intended) your eyes, consider the following: It’s compact, and thus easy to hide at the bottom of a purse; it’s sufficiently odorless to avoid attracting attention or offending your neighbors’ sensibilities; it is, if properly selected, devoid of any crunch, making it a virtually silent, interruption-free dining experience; the pieces are bite-size and therefore can be eaten with your hands, minimizing the potential mess of eating, say, noodles, in the dark; and it’s a cinch to clean up and dispose of without attracting notice as you exit the theater. (I should add that I’ve also been known to bring along a cleverly concealed bottle of wine to wash things down.) My husband finds the whole sushi/sneaking-in-food thing gross and embarrassing, so these days we tend to go to theaters that actually serve all sorts of fancy food and alcoholic beverages above board. But, as the saying goes, when the cat’s away, the mouse goes to the movies and stuffs her face with sushi. —Niki Achitoff-Gray, executive managing editor

The Cherry Picker

The rest of the Serious Eats team judged me pretty harshly on my pick, but I stand by it: fresh sweet cherries. Sure, they’re messier than other snacks, you have to have somewhere (that isn’t the theater floor) to spit out the pits, and they’re not what one would consider an indulgent snack, but I’m hooked. A, they’re delicious. B, the act of eating them takes some time, so they last longer than the popcorn you mindlessly shovel into your mouth. C, they’re good for you! —Vicky Wasik, visual director

The Traditionalists

I’m not an avid movie theater–goer, but every so often, I will indulge in a little weekday-afternoon alone time in a near-empty, darkened room illuminated by brightly colored, flashing images, accompanied only by a bucket of ultra-fake-buttered and salted popcorn on one side and, on the other, a Coke in a giant plastic vessel that could fit a bathing infant. The expense I gladly eat, literally and financially, for the illicit thrill invoked by residual school-age guilt for “playing hooky” and doing something so luxurious and truant. Everyone’s gotta get their kicks somehow, right? —Marissa Chen, office manager

I have to start by saying that I’m a pretty fast movie-snack eater—so much so that when I was little, my dad would ration my popcorn by putting a handful in my lap at a time. Otherwise, it would be gone a few minutes after the previews. That said, as an adult, I am 100% dedicated to Milk Duds, and, while I hate paying for them, I do anyway. I know my colleagues may look upon my choices with disdain, but alas: I buy my Milk Duds at the concession stand, like a total sucker. Then I eat them all before the movie even starts. —Ariel Kanter, marketing director

I believe the majority of the fun of going to the movies is to hit up the concession stand. I’m that person who arrives 30 minutes early to stock up on overpriced cardboard boxes of Mike and Ike and Sour Patch Kids—because I’m convinced they taste better out of a box. I’ve broken up with boyfriends solely because they took the thrifty route and chose to buy snacks at the bodega across the street instead. However, I’m a strict non-eater once the movie actually starts—the snacks are all about the pregame, to nosh on while watching the previews and side eye–ing anyone who tries to snag the seats in front of me. —Sohla El-Waylly, assistant culinary editor

I love movies, but more than that, I love the experience of going to the theater. It’s not just that it offers me an excuse to opt out of social media and email for a few hours, nor is it really about the superior picture and sound (even a basic theater is better than my garage-turned-den). It’s not just the excitement of seeing a brand-new release, and it’s definitely not about sitting with fellow theater-goers (thanks, guy sitting next to me during Black Panther who felt compelled to read every single piece of on-screen text out loud). It’s about one thing, or rather, one greasy bag of many things: movie theater popcorn. I’m attracted to the smell of diacetyl and coconut fat—the secret combination of artificial flavorings that produces that distinct movie theater aroma—like my daughter, Alicia, is attracted to the dogs’ water bowl. I can make all the promises to myself I want about saving room for dinner, but those promises go out the window as soon as I step through those doors. My feet start heading for the concession stand, and the rest of my body has no choice but to follow.

This is not a secret. Movie theater popcorn is my go-to comfort food. That I get to watch a film every time I eat it is just the icing on the cake (or the diacetyl on the kernels, perhaps). —J. Kenji López-Alt, chief culinary consultant

The Cheapskates

Listen. Just last night, I didn’t prepare before going to the movies. I am now out $13.95 for a medium popcorn and a bottle of water. This is the polar opposite of my M.O., which is to shamelessly sneak my own bag of popcorn and seltzer into the theater. My usual strategy is to pick a theater near a Trader Joe’s, so I can stop in and get a bag of cheddar cheese popcorn, or their insanely delicious Cornbread Crisps, and a Cranberry Clementine seltzer. And those crisps make a bomb vehicle for transporting your homemade chili to your mouth. Trust me. No local TJ’s? A bag of Buncha Crunch and a Sprite from the drugstore will do. —Kristina Bornholtz, social media editor

Like all right-thinking Americans, I was raised to believe that sneaking food into the movies is as natural and healthy as a long walk in the sunshine, and that buying concessions at the theater is for chumps. It helps that I’m not wild about popcorn and instead gravitate toward Junior Mints, Combos, and Raisinets, all of which are conveniently available at the Dollar Tree that’s a stone’s throw from our default movie theater in Atlanta (and you know that location isn’t an accident). And, while I’ve never ventured to smuggle anything more elaborate than a deli sandwich into an indoor cinema, no rules of restraint apply when we visit the Starlight Six Drive-In, a blessed local relic from another time, where summertime patrons regularly tote in full coolers of beer and Weber grills for a tailgate/movie night hybrid. —Miranda Kaplan, editor

You will rarely find me in a concession line: I’m too cheap for those overpriced goods, and too paranoid about candy-induced sugar highs. Not the biggest fan of popcorn, either; my junk food needs an edge. My ideal movie date involves a quick bodega trip beforehand, where I procure seltzer and—wait for it—pretzel M&M’s. That is my junk-food staple. I tell myself they aren’t as bad as regular M&M’s, and they hit my requirement for a savory/sweet combo. The seltzer is key, too—like clockwork, a pending movie stirs a deep thirst in me for carbonated water. Sitting through a movie whilst thirsty and hungry is my personal version of a horror film. —Natalie Holt, video producer

I’ve discovered that using your kid as a candy mule is the white lie of retail economy. I wasn’t always like this. I used to be an honest, upstanding citizen, like you. For most of my adult life, I either purchased popcorn or, more often, didn’t eat at all. But, once we got married, my wife started sneaking candy into the theaters to quell her sweet tooth and—well, I’m not turning down Twizzlers. Who would?

When we first started bringing our daughter to the movies, we’d casually present the goods after the previews. Now that she’s older, she’s part of the scam/effort. We have a perfect record of sneaking in candy because, really, is the high school kid ripping stubs while he checks out Instagram going to stop a seven-year-old and poke her coat? I load up on a package of some chocolate-covered nut, my wife keeps it classic with M&M’s, and my daughter’s the wild card—sometimes it’s gummy bears, or it could be Reese’s Pieces. —Sal Vaglica, equipment editor

If it were just me, I wouldn’t be eating anything. I’m too cheap to even glance at the outrageously priced concession stand items, and too lazy and bagless to smuggle snacks in. My significant other is often not bagless, however, so when we go together, we sneak all kinds of things in. My favorite is the massive, Costco-sized bag of M&M’s: easy, clean, delicious. The most memorable snack we’ve ever brought was a full bag of Hurricane popcorn, which technically we smuggled all the way from Hawaii. The Li Hing–flavored version is vibrantly red, and we did not bring napkins, which made for a messy-fingered second half of the movie. Totally worth it, but word of advice: No matter what you bring, prep for the mess. —Tim Aikens, front-end developer

The Takeout Taker-Inner

When we were—well, I won’t say kids, since I was old enough to drive, but…younger than we are today, my brother and I were notorious for sneaking Chinese takeout into the movie theater. I’m talking pot stickers, egg rolls, spicy noodles, kung pao tofu, scallion pancakes, the works. We’d just stuff all the containers inside this gargantuan yellow puffer coat he had (ah, the ’90s), using it like an insulated pizza-delivery bag. As it turns out, those iconic Chinese takeout containers are just the right size to nestle down into a movie theater cup holder, so we’d set up a little buffet using four consecutive arm rests. Chopsticks made it easy to eat in the dark, and we’d pass the containers between us during brightly lit scenes.

In warmer weather, lacking the proper outerwear for smuggling, we’d stick to popcorn (extra “butter,” please) and Milk Duds. —Stella Parks, pastry wizard

The Killjoys

If I could ban all eating in movie theaters, I would. I don’t want to hear some sloppy-ass mofo smacking on popcorn in my ear when I’m trying to watch a movie. I’d give up all snacks for silence. All you movie-theater eaters can BURN IN HELL. (I have issues.) —Daniel Gritzer, managing culinary director

I’m cheap. I also don’t like candy. I’m not a big fan of popcorn, either. I smuggle in a water bottle, but then I drink from it only if I’m terribly, terribly parched, because the one thing I hate more than watching a movie in a packed theater is having to get up to go to the bathroom in a packed movie theater. Sometimes I’ll bring with me a small, smooth stone, which I will suck on from time to time, and sometimes swallow, if the movie is going long and I’m really bored. I’ve had that stone for 10 years now. —Sho Spaeth, features editor

I’m almost always on the do-not-eat team—I’d rather spend my $20 on better food before or after the movie (I see you, Battery Park Shake Shack!). But occasionally, I succumb and buy popcorn and a Coca-Cola Classic. Ideally, this happens at a theater with self-service “butter,” and, even more ideally, I’ll get a cardboard tray to help me shift the popcorn around, so I can properly spread said butter to the deepest reaches of the bag. —Paul Cline, developer

I only snack on chips and anything crunchy, but the sound of me munching distracts me from the movie. So, no snacks. —Vivian Kong, product designer

amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit0"; amzn_assoc_search_bar = "true"; amzn_assoc_search_bar_position = "bottom"; amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "megumi09-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "search"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_title = "Shop Related Products"; amzn_assoc_default_search_phrase = "cookware"; amzn_assoc_default_category = "All"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "b45319dac495d29e17b5eff312392025"; Source link

[cucinacarmela-blog]

True Concessions: Our Movie-Snacking Behaviors, Ex...

New Post has been published on https://cucinacarmela.com/true-concessions-our-movie-snacking-behaviors-ex/

True Concessions: Our Movie-Snacking Behaviors, Ex...

amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit0"; amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "carmela-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "search"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_title = "Shop Related Products"; amzn_assoc_default_search_phrase = "cooking"; amzn_assoc_default_category = "Kitchen"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "51fe4d035c7af8dc5928e6f5e5b79c4e"; amzn_assoc_default_browse_node = "284507"; amzn_assoc_rows = "4"; amzn_assoc_design = "text_links";

[Illustrations: Vivian Kong]

Serious Eats staffers work very closely together, if not always in the same room—but, as in all healthy long-term relationships, we somehow still manage to surprise each other, in good ways, bad ways, and purely head-scratching ways. A very long and aggrieved Slack thread unspooled once we discovered some potentially embarrassing gaps in each other’s eating histories: Until recently, Stella had never eaten a classic NYC bacon, egg, and cheese, and Niki was unclear on the proper use of a Panera-style bread bowl. The revelation that, despite repeated admonishments on this very site, only a few of us actually owned a mortar and pestle prompted similar outrage (from Kenji, at least).

One of the latest rabbit holes of confession and mock shaming we threw ourselves down revolved around our respective movie snacks of choice—not just the specific items we like to munch on in the theater, but where we get those snacks from, and whether we even snack at all. If that doesn’t sound like something to get all worked up about—well, it isn’t, but that’s never stopped us before. It turns out that we, and perhaps all moviegoers, divide pretty neatly into four distinct camps, with very little crossover: those who buy the typical popcorn, boxed candy, and big sodas at the theater’s concession stand; those who don’t eat at the movies, period (really!); those who sneak in their own modest, easily hidden snacks; and those who make a point of smuggling in the biggest or messiest or otherwise most outlandish spreads they can muster. (Of course, “outlandish” is a relative term—one of us seemed surprised to learn that a bottle of Champagne qualified.) Since it’s Oscar season, a time when lots of us try to cram in as many theater outings as possible, we figured we’d take the opportunity to share the shocking results of our internal survey.

The Sushi Smuggler

Growing up, I thought the phrase “dinner and a movie” was actually “dinner at the movies.” Sure, we’d occasionally sneak in traditional snacks, like cheesy popcorn and cans of soda, but if the movie happened to coincide with a mealtime, we packed accordingly. My family’s go-to movie theater dinner was sushi—something I didn’t contemplate much at the time, but I now see it as a stroke of unparalleled genius on my parents’ part. A prepackaged roll combo is, without doubt, the Platonic ideal of a stealthy movie theater meal.

Before you roll (no pun intended) your eyes, consider the following: It’s compact, and thus easy to hide at the bottom of a purse; it’s sufficiently odorless to avoid attracting attention or offending your neighbors’ sensibilities; it is, if properly selected, devoid of any crunch, making it a virtually silent, interruption-free dining experience; the pieces are bite-size and therefore can be eaten with your hands, minimizing the potential mess of eating, say, noodles, in the dark; and it’s a cinch to clean up and dispose of without attracting notice as you exit the theater. (I should add that I’ve also been known to bring along a cleverly concealed bottle of wine to wash things down.) My husband finds the whole sushi/sneaking-in-food thing gross and embarrassing, so these days we tend to go to theaters that actually serve all sorts of fancy food and alcoholic beverages above board. But, as the saying goes, when the cat’s away, the mouse goes to the movies and stuffs her face with sushi. —Niki Achitoff-Gray, executive managing editor

The Cherry Picker

The rest of the Serious Eats team judged me pretty harshly on my pick, but I stand by it: fresh sweet cherries. Sure, they’re messier than other snacks, you have to have somewhere (that isn’t the theater floor) to spit out the pits, and they’re not what one would consider an indulgent snack, but I’m hooked. A, they’re delicious. B, the act of eating them takes some time, so they last longer than the popcorn you mindlessly shovel into your mouth. C, they’re good for you! —Vicky Wasik, visual director

The Traditionalists

I’m not an avid movie theater–goer, but every so often, I will indulge in a little weekday-afternoon alone time in a near-empty, darkened room illuminated by brightly colored, flashing images, accompanied only by a bucket of ultra-fake-buttered and salted popcorn on one side and, on the other, a Coke in a giant plastic vessel that could fit a bathing infant. The expense I gladly eat, literally and financially, for the illicit thrill invoked by residual school-age guilt for “playing hooky” and doing something so luxurious and truant. Everyone’s gotta get their kicks somehow, right? —Marissa Chen, office manager

I have to start by saying that I’m a pretty fast movie-snack eater—so much so that when I was little, my dad would ration my popcorn by putting a handful in my lap at a time. Otherwise, it would be gone a few minutes after the previews. That said, as an adult, I am 100% dedicated to Milk Duds, and, while I hate paying for them, I do anyway. I know my colleagues may look upon my choices with disdain, but alas: I buy my Milk Duds at the concession stand, like a total sucker. Then I eat them all before the movie even starts. —Ariel Kanter, marketing director

I believe the majority of the fun of going to the movies is to hit up the concession stand. I’m that person who arrives 30 minutes early to stock up on overpriced cardboard boxes of Mike and Ike and Sour Patch Kids—because I’m convinced they taste better out of a box. I’ve broken up with boyfriends solely because they took the thrifty route and chose to buy snacks at the bodega across the street instead. However, I’m a strict non-eater once the movie actually starts—the snacks are all about the pregame, to nosh on while watching the previews and side eye–ing anyone who tries to snag the seats in front of me. —Sohla El-Waylly, assistant culinary editor

I love movies, but more than that, I love the experience of going to the theater. It’s not just that it offers me an excuse to opt out of social media and email for a few hours, nor is it really about the superior picture and sound (even a basic theater is better than my garage-turned-den). It’s not just the excitement of seeing a brand-new release, and it’s definitely not about sitting with fellow theater-goers (thanks, guy sitting next to me during Black Panther who felt compelled to read every single piece of on-screen text out loud). It’s about one thing, or rather, one greasy bag of many things: movie theater popcorn. I’m attracted to the smell of diacetyl and coconut fat—the secret combination of artificial flavorings that produces that distinct movie theater aroma—like my daughter, Alicia, is attracted to the dogs’ water bowl. I can make all the promises to myself I want about saving room for dinner, but those promises go out the window as soon as I step through those doors. My feet start heading for the concession stand, and the rest of my body has no choice but to follow.

This is not a secret. Movie theater popcorn is my go-to comfort food. That I get to watch a film every time I eat it is just the icing on the cake (or the diacetyl on the kernels, perhaps). —J. Kenji López-Alt, chief culinary consultant

The Cheapskates

Listen. Just last night, I didn’t prepare before going to the movies. I am now out $13.95 for a medium popcorn and a bottle of water. This is the polar opposite of my M.O., which is to shamelessly sneak my own bag of popcorn and seltzer into the theater. My usual strategy is to pick a theater near a Trader Joe’s, so I can stop in and get a bag of cheddar cheese popcorn, or their insanely delicious Cornbread Crisps, and a Cranberry Clementine seltzer. And those crisps make a bomb vehicle for transporting your homemade chili to your mouth. Trust me. No local TJ’s? A bag of Buncha Crunch and a Sprite from the drugstore will do. —Kristina Bornholtz, social media editor

Like all right-thinking Americans, I was raised to believe that sneaking food into the movies is as natural and healthy as a long walk in the sunshine, and that buying concessions at the theater is for chumps. It helps that I’m not wild about popcorn and instead gravitate toward Junior Mints, Combos, and Raisinets, all of which are conveniently available at the Dollar Tree that’s a stone’s throw from our default movie theater in Atlanta (and you know that location isn’t an accident). And, while I’ve never ventured to smuggle anything more elaborate than a deli sandwich into an indoor cinema, no rules of restraint apply when we visit the Starlight Six Drive-In, a blessed local relic from another time, where summertime patrons regularly tote in full coolers of beer and Weber grills for a tailgate/movie night hybrid. —Miranda Kaplan, editor

You will rarely find me in a concession line: I’m too cheap for those overpriced goods, and too paranoid about candy-induced sugar highs. Not the biggest fan of popcorn, either; my junk food needs an edge. My ideal movie date involves a quick bodega trip beforehand, where I procure seltzer and—wait for it—pretzel M&M’s. That is my junk-food staple. I tell myself they aren’t as bad as regular M&M’s, and they hit my requirement for a savory/sweet combo. The seltzer is key, too—like clockwork, a pending movie stirs a deep thirst in me for carbonated water. Sitting through a movie whilst thirsty and hungry is my personal version of a horror film. —Natalie Holt, video producer

I’ve discovered that using your kid as a candy mule is the white lie of retail economy. I wasn’t always like this. I used to be an honest, upstanding citizen, like you. For most of my adult life, I either purchased popcorn or, more often, didn’t eat at all. But, once we got married, my wife started sneaking candy into the theaters to quell her sweet tooth and—well, I’m not turning down Twizzlers. Who would?

When we first started bringing our daughter to the movies, we’d casually present the goods after the previews. Now that she’s older, she’s part of the scam/effort. We have a perfect record of sneaking in candy because, really, is the high school kid ripping stubs while he checks out Instagram going to stop a seven-year-old and poke her coat? I load up on a package of some chocolate-covered nut, my wife keeps it classic with M&M’s, and my daughter’s the wild card—sometimes it’s gummy bears, or it could be Reese’s Pieces. —Sal Vaglica, equipment editor

If it were just me, I wouldn’t be eating anything. I’m too cheap to even glance at the outrageously priced concession stand items, and too lazy and bagless to smuggle snacks in. My significant other is often not bagless, however, so when we go together, we sneak all kinds of things in. My favorite is the massive, Costco-sized bag of M&M’s: easy, clean, delicious. The most memorable snack we’ve ever brought was a full bag of Hurricane popcorn, which technically we smuggled all the way from Hawaii. The Li Hing–flavored version is vibrantly red, and we did not bring napkins, which made for a messy-fingered second half of the movie. Totally worth it, but word of advice: No matter what you bring, prep for the mess. —Tim Aikens, front-end developer

The Takeout Taker-Inner

When we were—well, I won’t say kids, since I was old enough to drive, but…younger than we are today, my brother and I were notorious for sneaking Chinese takeout into the movie theater. I’m talking pot stickers, egg rolls, spicy noodles, kung pao tofu, scallion pancakes, the works. We’d just stuff all the containers inside this gargantuan yellow puffer coat he had (ah, the ’90s), using it like an insulated pizza-delivery bag. As it turns out, those iconic Chinese takeout containers are just the right size to nestle down into a movie theater cup holder, so we’d set up a little buffet using four consecutive arm rests. Chopsticks made it easy to eat in the dark, and we’d pass the containers between us during brightly lit scenes.

In warmer weather, lacking the proper outerwear for smuggling, we’d stick to popcorn (extra “butter,” please) and Milk Duds. —Stella Parks, pastry wizard

The Killjoys

If I could ban all eating in movie theaters, I would. I don’t want to hear some sloppy-ass mofo smacking on popcorn in my ear when I’m trying to watch a movie. I’d give up all snacks for silence. All you movie-theater eaters can BURN IN HELL. (I have issues.) —Daniel Gritzer, managing culinary director

I’m cheap. I also don’t like candy. I’m not a big fan of popcorn, either. I smuggle in a water bottle, but then I drink from it only if I’m terribly, terribly parched, because the one thing I hate more than watching a movie in a packed theater is having to get up to go to the bathroom in a packed movie theater. Sometimes I’ll bring with me a small, smooth stone, which I will suck on from time to time, and sometimes swallow, if the movie is going long and I’m really bored. I’ve had that stone for 10 years now. —Sho Spaeth, features editor

I’m almost always on the do-not-eat team—I’d rather spend my $20 on better food before or after the movie (I see you, Battery Park Shake Shack!). But occasionally, I succumb and buy popcorn and a Coca-Cola Classic. Ideally, this happens at a theater with self-service “butter,” and, even more ideally, I’ll get a cardboard tray to help me shift the popcorn around, so I can properly spread said butter to the deepest reaches of the bag. —Paul Cline, developer

I only snack on chips and anything crunchy, but the sound of me munching distracts me from the movie. So, no snacks. —Vivian Kong, product designer

amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit0"; amzn_assoc_search_bar = "true"; amzn_assoc_search_bar_position = "bottom"; amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "carmela-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "search"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_title = "Shop Related Products"; amzn_assoc_default_search_phrase = "cookware"; amzn_assoc_default_category = "All"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "b45319dac495d29e17b5eff312392025"; Source link

[jmuo-blog]

New Post has been published on https://jmuo.com/true-concessions-our-movie-snacking-behaviors-ex/

True Concessions: Our Movie-Snacking Behaviors, Ex...

amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit0"; amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "fresh17-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "search"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_title = "Shop Related Products"; amzn_assoc_default_search_phrase = "cooking"; amzn_assoc_default_category = "Kitchen"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "51fe4d035c7af8dc5928e6f5e5b79c4e"; amzn_assoc_default_browse_node = "284507"; amzn_assoc_rows = "4"; amzn_assoc_design = "text_links";

[Illustrations: Vivian Kong]

Serious Eats staffers work very closely together, if not always in the same room—but, as in all healthy long-term relationships, we somehow still manage to surprise each other, in good ways, bad ways, and purely head-scratching ways. A very long and aggrieved Slack thread unspooled once we discovered some potentially embarrassing gaps in each other’s eating histories: Until recently, Stella had never eaten a classic NYC bacon, egg, and cheese, and Niki was unclear on the proper use of a Panera-style bread bowl. The revelation that, despite repeated admonishments on this very site, only a few of us actually owned a mortar and pestle prompted similar outrage (from Kenji, at least).

One of the latest rabbit holes of confession and mock shaming we threw ourselves down revolved around our respective movie snacks of choice—not just the specific items we like to munch on in the theater, but where we get those snacks from, and whether we even snack at all. If that doesn’t sound like something to get all worked up about—well, it isn’t, but that’s never stopped us before. It turns out that we, and perhaps all moviegoers, divide pretty neatly into four distinct camps, with very little crossover: those who buy the typical popcorn, boxed candy, and big sodas at the theater’s concession stand; those who don’t eat at the movies, period (really!); those who sneak in their own modest, easily hidden snacks; and those who make a point of smuggling in the biggest or messiest or otherwise most outlandish spreads they can muster. (Of course, “outlandish” is a relative term—one of us seemed surprised to learn that a bottle of Champagne qualified.) Since it’s Oscar season, a time when lots of us try to cram in as many theater outings as possible, we figured we’d take the opportunity to share the shocking results of our internal survey.

The Sushi Smuggler

Growing up, I thought the phrase “dinner and a movie” was actually “dinner at the movies.” Sure, we’d occasionally sneak in traditional snacks, like cheesy popcorn and cans of soda, but if the movie happened to coincide with a mealtime, we packed accordingly. My family’s go-to movie theater dinner was sushi—something I didn’t contemplate much at the time, but I now see it as a stroke of unparalleled genius on my parents’ part. A prepackaged roll combo is, without doubt, the Platonic ideal of a stealthy movie theater meal.

Before you roll (no pun intended) your eyes, consider the following: It’s compact, and thus easy to hide at the bottom of a purse; it’s sufficiently odorless to avoid attracting attention or offending your neighbors’ sensibilities; it is, if properly selected, devoid of any crunch, making it a virtually silent, interruption-free dining experience; the pieces are bite-size and therefore can be eaten with your hands, minimizing the potential mess of eating, say, noodles, in the dark; and it’s a cinch to clean up and dispose of without attracting notice as you exit the theater. (I should add that I’ve also been known to bring along a cleverly concealed bottle of wine to wash things down.) My husband finds the whole sushi/sneaking-in-food thing gross and embarrassing, so these days we tend to go to theaters that actually serve all sorts of fancy food and alcoholic beverages above board. But, as the saying goes, when the cat’s away, the mouse goes to the movies and stuffs her face with sushi. —Niki Achitoff-Gray, executive managing editor

The Cherry Picker

The rest of the Serious Eats team judged me pretty harshly on my pick, but I stand by it: fresh sweet cherries. Sure, they’re messier than other snacks, you have to have somewhere (that isn’t the theater floor) to spit out the pits, and they’re not what one would consider an indulgent snack, but I’m hooked. A, they’re delicious. B, the act of eating them takes some time, so they last longer than the popcorn you mindlessly shovel into your mouth. C, they’re good for you! —Vicky Wasik, visual director

The Traditionalists

I’m not an avid movie theater–goer, but every so often, I will indulge in a little weekday-afternoon alone time in a near-empty, darkened room illuminated by brightly colored, flashing images, accompanied only by a bucket of ultra-fake-buttered and salted popcorn on one side and, on the other, a Coke in a giant plastic vessel that could fit a bathing infant. The expense I gladly eat, literally and financially, for the illicit thrill invoked by residual school-age guilt for “playing hooky” and doing something so luxurious and truant. Everyone’s gotta get their kicks somehow, right? —Marissa Chen, office manager

I have to start by saying that I’m a pretty fast movie-snack eater—so much so that when I was little, my dad would ration my popcorn by putting a handful in my lap at a time. Otherwise, it would be gone a few minutes after the previews. That said, as an adult, I am 100% dedicated to Milk Duds, and, while I hate paying for them, I do anyway. I know my colleagues may look upon my choices with disdain, but alas: I buy my Milk Duds at the concession stand, like a total sucker. Then I eat them all before the movie even starts. —Ariel Kanter, marketing director

I believe the majority of the fun of going to the movies is to hit up the concession stand. I’m that person who arrives 30 minutes early to stock up on overpriced cardboard boxes of Mike and Ike and Sour Patch Kids—because I’m convinced they taste better out of a box. I’ve broken up with boyfriends solely because they took the thrifty route and chose to buy snacks at the bodega across the street instead. However, I’m a strict non-eater once the movie actually starts—the snacks are all about the pregame, to nosh on while watching the previews and side eye–ing anyone who tries to snag the seats in front of me. —Sohla El-Waylly, assistant culinary editor

I love movies, but more than that, I love the experience of going to the theater. It’s not just that it offers me an excuse to opt out of social media and email for a few hours, nor is it really about the superior picture and sound (even a basic theater is better than my garage-turned-den). It’s not just the excitement of seeing a brand-new release, and it’s definitely not about sitting with fellow theater-goers (thanks, guy sitting next to me during Black Panther who felt compelled to read every single piece of on-screen text out loud). It’s about one thing, or rather, one greasy bag of many things: movie theater popcorn. I’m attracted to the smell of diacetyl and coconut fat—the secret combination of artificial flavorings that produces that distinct movie theater aroma—like my daughter, Alicia, is attracted to the dogs’ water bowl. I can make all the promises to myself I want about saving room for dinner, but those promises go out the window as soon as I step through those doors. My feet start heading for the concession stand, and the rest of my body has no choice but to follow.

This is not a secret. Movie theater popcorn is my go-to comfort food. That I get to watch a film every time I eat it is just the icing on the cake (or the diacetyl on the kernels, perhaps). —J. Kenji López-Alt, chief culinary consultant

The Cheapskates

Listen. Just last night, I didn’t prepare before going to the movies. I am now out $13.95 for a medium popcorn and a bottle of water. This is the polar opposite of my M.O., which is to shamelessly sneak my own bag of popcorn and seltzer into the theater. My usual strategy is to pick a theater near a Trader Joe’s, so I can stop in and get a bag of cheddar cheese popcorn, or their insanely delicious Cornbread Crisps, and a Cranberry Clementine seltzer. And those crisps make a bomb vehicle for transporting your homemade chili to your mouth. Trust me. No local TJ’s? A bag of Buncha Crunch and a Sprite from the drugstore will do. —Kristina Bornholtz, social media editor

Like all right-thinking Americans, I was raised to believe that sneaking food into the movies is as natural and healthy as a long walk in the sunshine, and that buying concessions at the theater is for chumps. It helps that I’m not wild about popcorn and instead gravitate toward Junior Mints, Combos, and Raisinets, all of which are conveniently available at the Dollar Tree that’s a stone’s throw from our default movie theater in Atlanta (and you know that location isn’t an accident). And, while I’ve never ventured to smuggle anything more elaborate than a deli sandwich into an indoor cinema, no rules of restraint apply when we visit the Starlight Six Drive-In, a blessed local relic from another time, where summertime patrons regularly tote in full coolers of beer and Weber grills for a tailgate/movie night hybrid. —Miranda Kaplan, editor

You will rarely find me in a concession line: I’m too cheap for those overpriced goods, and too paranoid about candy-induced sugar highs. Not the biggest fan of popcorn, either; my junk food needs an edge. My ideal movie date involves a quick bodega trip beforehand, where I procure seltzer and—wait for it—pretzel M&M’s. That is my junk-food staple. I tell myself they aren’t as bad as regular M&M’s, and they hit my requirement for a savory/sweet combo. The seltzer is key, too—like clockwork, a pending movie stirs a deep thirst in me for carbonated water. Sitting through a movie whilst thirsty and hungry is my personal version of a horror film. —Natalie Holt, video producer

I’ve discovered that using your kid as a candy mule is the white lie of retail economy. I wasn’t always like this. I used to be an honest, upstanding citizen, like you. For most of my adult life, I either purchased popcorn or, more often, didn’t eat at all. But, once we got married, my wife started sneaking candy into the theaters to quell her sweet tooth and—well, I’m not turning down Twizzlers. Who would?

When we first started bringing our daughter to the movies, we’d casually present the goods after the previews. Now that she’s older, she’s part of the scam/effort. We have a perfect record of sneaking in candy because, really, is the high school kid ripping stubs while he checks out Instagram going to stop a seven-year-old and poke her coat? I load up on a package of some chocolate-covered nut, my wife keeps it classic with M&M’s, and my daughter’s the wild card—sometimes it’s gummy bears, or it could be Reese’s Pieces. —Sal Vaglica, equipment editor

If it were just me, I wouldn’t be eating anything. I’m too cheap to even glance at the outrageously priced concession stand items, and too lazy and bagless to smuggle snacks in. My significant other is often not bagless, however, so when we go together, we sneak all kinds of things in. My favorite is the massive, Costco-sized bag of M&M’s: easy, clean, delicious. The most memorable snack we’ve ever brought was a full bag of Hurricane popcorn, which technically we smuggled all the way from Hawaii. The Li Hing–flavored version is vibrantly red, and we did not bring napkins, which made for a messy-fingered second half of the movie. Totally worth it, but word of advice: No matter what you bring, prep for the mess. —Tim Aikens, front-end developer

The Takeout Taker-Inner

When we were—well, I won’t say kids, since I was old enough to drive, but…younger than we are today, my brother and I were notorious for sneaking Chinese takeout into the movie theater. I’m talking pot stickers, egg rolls, spicy noodles, kung pao tofu, scallion pancakes, the works. We’d just stuff all the containers inside this gargantuan yellow puffer coat he had (ah, the ’90s), using it like an insulated pizza-delivery bag. As it turns out, those iconic Chinese takeout containers are just the right size to nestle down into a movie theater cup holder, so we’d set up a little buffet using four consecutive arm rests. Chopsticks made it easy to eat in the dark, and we’d pass the containers between us during brightly lit scenes.

In warmer weather, lacking the proper outerwear for smuggling, we’d stick to popcorn (extra “butter,” please) and Milk Duds. —Stella Parks, pastry wizard

The Killjoys

If I could ban all eating in movie theaters, I would. I don’t want to hear some sloppy-ass mofo smacking on popcorn in my ear when I’m trying to watch a movie. I’d give up all snacks for silence. All you movie-theater eaters can BURN IN HELL. (I have issues.) —Daniel Gritzer, managing culinary director

I’m cheap. I also don’t like candy. I’m not a big fan of popcorn, either. I smuggle in a water bottle, but then I drink from it only if I’m terribly, terribly parched, because the one thing I hate more than watching a movie in a packed theater is having to get up to go to the bathroom in a packed movie theater. Sometimes I’ll bring with me a small, smooth stone, which I will suck on from time to time, and sometimes swallow, if the movie is going long and I’m really bored. I’ve had that stone for 10 years now. —Sho Spaeth, features editor

I’m almost always on the do-not-eat team—I’d rather spend my $20 on better food before or after the movie (I see you, Battery Park Shake Shack!). But occasionally, I succumb and buy popcorn and a Coca-Cola Classic. Ideally, this happens at a theater with self-service “butter,” and, even more ideally, I’ll get a cardboard tray to help me shift the popcorn around, so I can properly spread said butter to the deepest reaches of the bag. —Paul Cline, developer

I only snack on chips and anything crunchy, but the sound of me munching distracts me from the movie. So, no snacks. —Vivian Kong, product designer

amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit0"; amzn_assoc_search_bar = "true"; amzn_assoc_search_bar_position = "bottom"; amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "fresh17-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "search"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_title = "Shop Related Products"; amzn_assoc_default_search_phrase = "cookware"; amzn_assoc_default_category = "All"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "b45319dac495d29e17b5eff312392025"; Source link