cold molded

hedaoftheskaikru  asked:

Are you taking prompts? It's totally cool if you're not, but if you are, that sex toy prompts list also had "✥ this sculpting class is the bane of my existence and for the final project (where i’m supposed to use a non-clay medium) i’m going to troll my teacher and make a bunch of silicone dildos. will you donate your dick to my cause?" And that just seems like such a Bellarke situation.

Alright, I finally did it! It turned out a lot less smutty than the prompt suggests though and a lot more fluffy, I hope that’s okay. Thank you for prompting this - and yes, I do take prompt, always! 

[also on ao3]


“You need what?“

Bellamy can’t believe what he’s hearing. To be honest, he’s not entirely sure he isn’t hallucinating this entire conversation, tired as he is. The last few weeks have been brutal, and he’s barely managed to make the deadline for a paper that could make or break his career. So when he comes home after finally sending it off and then having to teach three classes back-to-back and reassure a bunch of panicking freshmen that they’ll get an extension on their own work, it seems perfectly plausible that he is in fact imagining it when he opens the door to find his best friend standing outside and exclaiming:

“I need your dick.”

It doesn’t sound any less crazy the second time, and Bellamy closes his eyes and pinches his arm, hard. But when he opens them again, Clarke is still standing outside his door, wearing tight jeans and a light grey, v-necked shirt and looking at him pleadingly. Not a hallucination then, even if the combination of that expression and that request – more like a demand, really, because Clarke is bossy as hell – seems to come straight out of one of the more vivid dreams he’s been having recently.

The thought must be showing on his face, because Clarke gasps and goes beet red.

“Not like that!” She pushes past him, smelling like the perfume he and Octavia chipped in together to buy her for her last birthday, and Bellamy takes a deep breath and then immediately feels pathetic.

“Well, what else would you need it for?” He snaps, a little defensive now because it’s hard to keep his cool around Clarke when he’s at his best, but dealing with her when he’s exhausted and she’s making nonsensical demands is damn near impossible.

“My sculpting class,” Clarke huffs, as if that would be sufficient explanation, then spots what he’s sure is a less than intelligent look on his face and keeps going. “We’re supposed to do a piece in a non-clay medium for our final project, and I want to piss my professor off.”

“The smug sexist one?” Bellamy asks, because even when his head feels like it’s filled with cotton balls, he apparently still remembers all the times Clarke ranted about the professor teaching her “Introduction to Sculpture”-class.

“Exactly. You know how he’s always showing us his “phallic art pieces” that are just plaster casts of his dick and making everyone uncomfortable?”

Bellamy nods. That habit in particular is one Clarke has been fuming about all semester.

“Well, I figured I’d give him a taste of his own medicine and make him look at someone else’s dick for a change. Or perhaps a whole bunch of dicks. A bag of dicks, so to speak.” She giggles a little at her own joke, then grins deviously. “So obviously, it’s got to be a better dick than the one he keeps shoving in our faces.”

Keep reading

Why should I love you?
Why should I love you
on melancholic rainy days?
Why should I love you
on light blinding rays on quiet summer days?
Why should I love you
when crisp refreshing breezes blow your way?
  Why should I love you
when your hands tremble to feed her a bit?
  Why should I love you  
  when your lips do not dry up, thinking about her?
  Why should I love you
  if you start to stutter a doleful name, her own?
  Why should I love you
  if your eyes turn away from her beauty? 
  Why should I love you
  if you hesitate to reciprocate the sultry sights?
  Why should I love you
  if you weren’t smiling at her joyful smiles made of amber honey?
  Why should I love you
  if you look away, saying that she’s gone? 
  Why should I love you  
  if you don’t even visit her stone cold old molded grave? 
  Though the storms rattled 
  and the rain drizzled, 
  at those times 
  your eyes sparkled
  geodes of iridescence 
  when you gazed at her, alive?
—  what have you become, now that she’s gone?// Dreams of You #3

wolf-queen  asked:

How do you know when you’re in love? (romantic or platonic)

“Of course this question would come from you. Love, for me, was guided by a different set of guidelines. I never felt it in my mortal existence, and Im not sure what I feel now is considered love. I do know, however, that what I feel has broken me from the mold of cold unfeeling Ebon alongside me. What I feel, for you, for instance. Has kept me at your side no matter the odds, no matter what we face. It is placing the well being of another above your own-”

The ebon reached a hand up absently, running a finger down a deep scar that ran along his throat.

“It is fighting for them. And suffering for them.” he murmured quietly. “And doing a host of things we hate, for them.” he finished, giving a wry grin. 

Making molds for the lower grip

With most of the molds for cold-casting completed, I’m moving on to preparing molds for the main components of the gun like the grip and front shell. These are fairly complex shapes so I’ll keep using two part molds.

Above you can see one drawback of using Lego for mold enclosures (as opposed to foam core or plastic sheets). The shape of the enclosure is restricted to rectangles which is great for making nice, square enclosures, but for non-uniform or abnormally shaped pieces, a rectangular enclosure is space inefficient, resulting in using more silicone than necessary. 

Despite this, Lego is still my preferred enclosure material due to it’s speed, uniformity, and the ability to build/deconstruct in modular layers.

I was particularly happy with this batch of molds. The interior faces are clean, with both subtle bevels and hard edges coming through the way I designed them. No bubbles, no fused mold halves, and a pretty clean casting overall (once I clean up the lego seams from the sides).

Coming up next is the mold for my biggest piece: the main grip that serves as the structural base for the entire gun.

Intoxication-J-Hope(Smut)

Originally posted by 7mpler

Just a little poison for the masses,  after all: insanity never kept him from a good time now did it?   

Req: American Horror Story spinoff with Hobi, any season is fine! 

~Written in varying lengths of sentence description. enjoyy~

//INSANITY WARNING PROCEED WITH CAUTION//


Keep reading

“He tasted like the devil

with hellfire on the tip of his tongue

seeping through the skin of the girls

he kissed and burning them alive

but his fingertips were ice cold

molding love into tombstones

and sending blizzards up

spines and into the skull

like a head rush

so God sent him an angel

and she ended up in his bed”

Give Me Love (Request #13)

PROMPT: “Please don’t toy with my feelings.” NamjoonXReader. Angst/Smut.
 
A/N: Sorry guys, this one got a little long…but I was just really feelin’ it. I hope you guys like it. ^.^’
 
Song Inspiration/Reading Music: Give Me Love by Ed Sheeran
 
Give Me Love

 

Being woken from a dead sleep is never pleasant, but being woken from a dead sleep at three a.m. by someone drunkenly pounding on the door is extra un-fun.

Rolling onto your side, you swear softly, tossing your glaring phone back on the bedside table. Storming into the living room, you swing the door open with a scowl and a: “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I am going to kick you’re as—Namjoon? What the—?”

Swaying in your doorway, he looks at you with glazed eyes, breath reeking of alcohol as he slurs, “I warnted ter tarlk ter yer.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, plugging your nose with two fingers. “I don’t speak ‘drunk’.”

He glares. Good, he’s at least functional enough to understand the common tongue. Helping him inside, you hook your elbow with his and set him onto the couch. The light in your roommate’s room flips on; she peaks her head out the door, “What’s going on?”

“Oh, just tending to the drunk and lonely. You are more than welcome to help.”

Yawning, she rubs her eyes tiredly, and peers into the shadows of the living room. “Pass.” Making out the slumped figure on the couch, she pieces him together by his shining white-blonde hair. “Oh, hey Namjoon. Rough night?”

“Hey!” He shouts happily, waving in the general direction of her door, though not directly at her. God only knows how many of her he’s seeing right now. You press a finger to my mouth and say ‘Shh’, which he mimics cutely, whispering, “Hey…irts gerd ter seree yer. Her yer beern?”

Stifling a laugh behind her hand, she says, “Good.” Then to you: “You’ve got your hands full with this one. Have fun.”

“Thanks a lot,” you say sourly as the door closes quietly behind her.

Namjoon looks hazily in your direction, and you turn on the table lamp with a sigh. “All right, Namjoon. It’s time for you to drink a lot of water and sleep, ok?”

He shakes his head furiously, mouth moving over incoherent nonsense. You press a firm finger to his lips before rising and padding toward the kitchen for a glass of water. Trudging back in, you find him staring blankly at the dark screen of the TV.

“Here,” you say, pressing the glass into his hands.

“No,” he says, shaking his head and waving the glass away with an angry hand. “Werters fer persies.”

You get the jist, and heave a frustrated sigh. Then, with a secretive smile: “It’s actually vodka. But, don’t tell anyone, ok? It’ll be our little secret.”

He presses his finger to his lips, repeating the gesture you demonstrated earlier. “Shhh…”

“Yes,” you say, mimicking him. “Shh.”

He gulps down the water, and you let out a deep, overtly patient breath.

It’s a start…

XXX

“Ungghhh…”

That’s the sound of the undead clawing their way back to life, or the extremely hung over trying to make the spinning room slow down. You’re betting money on the latter. Turning in your chair, you shut the laptop with a soft click.

“Ah,” you say. “So, you’re alive? Good. I was unsure how I’d explain the corpse in my bed to my next boyfriend.”

He frowns. “Ha-ha.”

“Asprin’s on the table. Water, too.” You fold your hands in your lap, adding, “And coffee.”

He inclines his head once, and slips a couple asprin onto his tongue, swallowing them with a swig of water. You watch him warily, foot tapping nervously over the rug. “So…”

“So?” he croaks, his fingers wrap around the warmth of the coffee mug.

Exasperated, you throw your hands in the air. “So, I think I deserve an explanation. Or, an apology. Or both? Actually, let’s go with both.”

His brows raise high, and he splutters, “You think you deserve an apology and explanation? What about me?”

“”What about me”?” You mock him dumbly.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, either out of frustration, or pain—maybe both. “Don’t toy with my feelings. You know why.”

“I don’t know what you’re—.” You begin innocently, tapping your index finger over your chin mockingly.

“Don’t,” he snaps loudly; a rubber band stretched to the max springing back painfully over raw skin. “Don’t you dare sit there and pretend. I’m really not in the mood to play these fucking games with you.”

Rising furiously, you tremble from head to toe, voice shaking on its way out, but you don’t back down. You don’t cower in fear of his anger; you stand straighter, taller than your body allows you. “Oh, you’re so tough, Namjoon. With your foul mouth and your debilitating hangover.”

He looks like he swallowed a thousand warheads at one time, like something truly sour slinks down his throat and into his gut. You point accusatorily at him, stomping closer until you’re stabbing his sternum. “You come to my apartment so drunk last night that you couldn’t see straight—couldn’t speak right—and expect me to grovel for forgiveness? You, who threw up all night, while I cleaned the mess and looked after you and worried over you sleeplessly, want me to explain myself? Maybe you’re still drunk—or maybe you’re just really that arrogant.”

His eyes glisten like glass—but they are opaque—fogged with red and suspicion and doubt. The voice that erupts from his throat is so raw and ragged, you wonder how he can even make any noise without screaming in agony. “Yeah, maybe I am arrogant. Or, maybe, just maybe I am the one fighting for this—.” He clutches at your finger, squeezing so hard you fear he will snap it in two. “Maybe I am tired of these games. Maybe I just want to know that I have you—all of you—and that you aren’t giving pieces to someone else!”

Tears splatter against his cheeks, rolling angrily down his neck, painting his heaving chest, and you rip your finger away. “There is no one else! Dammit, Namjoon. We’ve been over this.”

His chin wobbles with his tears, and he clenches his jaw in an effort to eradicate it. “You expect me to believe that? After everything that has happened? After what I have seen—what I have heard?”

“This is exactly what I was talking about yesterday, Namjoon,” you say, voice tightening, frustration boiling hotly beneath your skin, within your throat. “What’s the point of me explaining this to you when you’ve already made up your mind about it?! Stop putting me on trial, and just give me your damn verdict, and then leave me the hell alone!!”

He shoves his hands into his hair, hitting his breaking point, too. “Just tell me the truth,” he says quietly—hollowly.

“I am,” you say desperately, repeating the phrase over and over again until it hits a mighty crescendo, one that you’re sure the pedestrians on the sidewalk twenty floors below can hear. One that tears up and out of your throat, clawing and clinging and clutching at any piece of Namjoon it can. “I am! I am!! I AMM! I AMMMMMMM!”

He stares through those veiled eyes, the gaze that you cannot decipher no matter how much time you study it, speaking to you as if he were an adult dealing with a petulant two year old throwing a tantrum. “Screaming something doesn’t make it any truer than if you just whispered it.”

Gritting your teeth, you ground out a: “Thanks, dad.”

“Stop acting like a child, and I’ll stop treating you like one,” he says simply.

Turning away from him, you take a few deep, calming breaths, opening the window to let the symphony of the city ease some of the silent tension in the room. You lean your face into the blustering wind sliding past your window to try and clear your head. The anger subsides, and you duck back into the room, leaning casually against the sill.

His gaze is trained on you, observing you with clinical interest. You blink, and after several grueling moments of a western-worthy-showdown-staring-contest, you say, “Ok. Ok, we can talk now.” He shoots you a skeptical look, and you add with an eye roll, “Like adults. I promise. No more psyche-ward screaming.”

The corner of his mouth twitches up slightly at that. “All right then, same question.”

“And, what was that exactly?” You arch a brow his way.

“Tell me the truth—did you sleep with him?”

You shift beneath his scrutinizing stare, but do not flinch away. “No. No, I did not sleep with him.”

He doesn’t believe you. Neither do you. Because you know you’re not being completely honest with him. You press your back into the glass behind you, your shirt hem caught in the breeze just outside, billowing like a white banner. “But, I kissed him. I…I love him.”

All of the stars fade in that moment, all of the affection and admiration and blinded love is gone as you reveal the secret you’ve kept furled in your heart. You see his impression of you change, you see the switch happen, and you wish so badly that you could take the words back—that you could make them not true.

But, you can’t.

His golden skin goes gray, then splotchy with red. Poison slithers over his tongue as he snarls, “Liar. You lied to me. I loved you—only you—and you—.”

“You were gone, Namjoon. Always gone. What was I supposed to do?!”

“Oh, please don’t even go there!” He laughs darkly, rising from the bed, towering over you like a looming skyscraper. “It works both ways. I stayed true to you when I didn’t see you every day. I dreamt of coming home to you, of holding you—only you, dammit! I still do. I still fucking love you—and what’s the point? What’s my reward for any of this? I fight tooth and nail to win over the cruelest, coldest girl I’ve ever met, so she can betray me?! Where’s the justice in that?”

Sometimes you wished you were weaker, that you were gentler, that you were like your roommate—like any of the girls you’d met, really—but you weren’t. You were cold because life had molded you that way. You were cruel because you’d had your heart broken bit by bit into indiscernible fragments and dust. But, there was something about Namjoon, something that broke down every defense you’d built within yourself, something that made you think maybe you could be a soft, gentle, loving woman.

And, that scared the hell out of you. It really, really did.

“There is no justice in love, Namjoon. Just war—lots, and lots of bloody war,” you say tiredly. “Stop searching for what isn’t there. Stop waiting for it to make sense and to be fair, because all you’ll ever get is disappointment.”

“How,” he starts. “How can you be so cynical? Love is supposed to be beautiful. It is supposed to make sense.”

You shut your eyes on the memory of past loves, of closing doors, of locked hearts. “No, Namjoon, it doesn’t. It’s the one thing that you can’t read a damned book about and just understand it—your big brain can’t help you on this one—if anything it’s a hindrance.”

“What? Now you’re insulting my intel—.”

You sigh, pushing away from the window to look him in the eye—or to at least attempt to look him in the eye, you’d probably need a step ladder for that. “Not at all. I am stating facts.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, and you add, “Love is messy, Namjoon. It’s a lot like death. Think about it? It’s indescribable to those who’ve never experienced it. We have no idea where it goes or why it fades. And, we’re all both terribly fascinated and horribly afraid of it.”

“Ok,” he says, his lips forming a straight, impenetrable line. “Ok. While I appreciate this debate on what love is, we’ve gotten terribly sidetracked from the point at hand: You love someone else. You kissed someone else.”

You cross your arms, look away from those glass eyes, afraid that he will see the tears hiding just below the surface. His hands grip your shoulders, shake them gently forcing you to listen to his voice as he pleads. “Look at me. Dammit, look at me.”

Your eyes flicker listlessly over his cheeks, across his nose, narrowly avoiding the burning, unveiled stare he offers you. Trembling, he stands before you unmasked, vulnerable, and afraid, and for the first time you see the craving in his lips, and the desire on his tongue, and the depthless draughts of devotion in his eyes. “I’m sorry for my absence. I’m sorry for the love that you feel you’ve been missing from me—the love that you deserve—but it is not in him. It is right here—.” He presses your hand to his chest, pinning it beneath his, so that you can feel the steady, throbbing pulse of his heart. “It has always been here, and I am so sorry that you ever believed it wasn’t—that I have fooled you into thinking I could love another, or not at all. But—but let me—let me prove that I can love you better than any other man on this earth. Let me show you the love that you always—always deserved.”

His breath is ragged, like he just sprinted ten miles without pausing for air, and he asks through those frantic, panting breaths, “Can we make this work? Can we make things the way they used to be?”

The word blossoms over your lips. “Yes.” And then, the tears are falling past your eyes, over your cheeks, down his fingers as he cups your face, and you murmur, “I’m so sorry, Namjoon. I’m so sorry. I was just lonely and afraid and—and God—I’m so sorry that I let this happen to us.”

He doesn’t tell you it’s ok; doesn’t forgive you with pretty, petty sentiments—no, he tells you with the taste of his lips that he irrevocably, unequivocally loves you. He kisses you so hard that you forget the face of the man who nearly destroyed your relationship; you forget the city teeming with life just beyond the window; hell, you forget your own name. The only thing you remember, that you know undoubtedly, is the feel of his lips against your, and the way his name rolls past your lips, and that you love him—only him.

Fierce, bruising kisses give way to slowly discarded clothing, a shirt here, pants there, a sock, a bra, until you are both drinking in the nakedness of each other. His eyes devour you hungrily, and you repress a moan in your throat at the sight of him, basking gloriously in the steaming sunlight behind you. No one, you think, should ever look that damn good…

He sucks in a long breath, hissing, “Fuck…how am I supposed to be mad at you when you look like that?”

Your mouth curves into a wicked smirk, and you run your hands along his chest and over his shoulders, meeting behind the long column of his neck. “You aren’t.”

Biting his bottom lip, hard, you litter him with kisses once again. He groans, the hint of a laugh crawling up his throat, promising that you will enjoy this makeup sex far more than you expected. And, you expected to be in unadulterated bliss…

Teeth scrape your neck, nipping as your tongue swirls over your skin, marking you as his—only his. He swallows your pulse, leaving behind the imprint of teeth, and you arch into him, one leg wrapped around his slim, naked hip.

Those arms lift you with ease, your thighs wrapping around him, letting him make a home between your legs. Pressing you into the window, you feel your bare ass touch the sill and gasp. “Namjoon!”

He hushes you with a flick of his tongue over your nipple. Peering up through the valley of your breasts with sultry, sensual eyes, he says, “I want this entire city to know the way my name sounds on your tongue. I want them to know that you are mine.”

There is such a brutal savagery in the way he says it, that it makes you shudder—makes you ache with primal desire even more. You bite your lip hungrily, watching him suckle at each breast through hooded eyes. His name slips past your lips easily, quietly. “Namjoon…”

But, that’s not what he’s after. No, he wants to hear you scream and beg for him—for his love. The only love that ever truly mattered.

He lowers himself to the warmth between your legs, throwing your calves over his shoulders to access the soaking, aching prize beneath. Staring up at you, he watches your face twist and morph as he licks a clear path up your slit, circling the bundle of nerves resting there. Humming softly, he continues to lick and suck and swirl that prodigious tongue of his until you are a moaning, writhing mess. Satisfaction curves his mouth into a grin, and confidence lines his shoulders, but it is still not enough—he wants to hear you scream.

You rip at his head of thick blonde hair, kneading and pulling and yanking as you try to steady your bucking hips. He uses one hand to steady you, hindering your movement, as his other comes to circle around your clit, tongue dipping in and out of your entrance.

Your breath quickens, moans becoming an incessant, high pitched whine. “Namjoon-ah! You—you’re going to make me—!”

“Cum for me, baby.”

You do. And, he greedily laps up every bit of juice that you can give him. Barely recovering, you feel him shift from his knees to stand between your parted, quivering thighs, and without any warning, he buries himself deep inside you.

“Shhhh….iiii…tttttt….” He hisses, touching his forehead to yours, mouths brushing as he slowly pulls back out inch by terrible inch.

“Auuuugghhh…Namjoon!” He slams back in, eyes wide open, staring staright into yours, uncovered and translucent and on fire.

“Hmmmnn? What is it? What do you want?” He pulls back out, resting his tip against your thigh.

You whine uncontrollably, needing him desperately to fill you, to pump you full of him–of his love. “Fuck. Me.”

“Louder,” he murmurs over your ear, pressing the head in. “Or this is all you get.”

You try to wriggle the rest of the way over him, but he is strong, holding your hips easily away from his. Desperation and desire are a dangerous combo, one that has you screaming in wild abandon, “Please fuck me, Namjoon!”

Pumping all the way back into you, he rides you until you can’t see straight–until you are drunken with the desire for sweet, sweet oblivion. But, just as you near that cliff, he flips you around so that your breasts press against the cool glass of the windowpane, spanking you hard on your ass. You could have sworn you saw a pair of eyes watching you from the building across the street, but quite frankly, you couldn’t have given a damn if the entire city watched as he pounded into you—he was just that good–lining each thrust perfectly over your g-spot, inching you further and further away from reality into something white and hot and erotic.

You cum screaming his name, arching and moaning and trembling, and he follows after a few more hard thrusts of his own, calling your name roughly and slumping over your back.

His fingers brush back bits of hair from your neck, mouth pressing closer to your ear, breathing slow and steady. “I love you….only you. Can you say the same?”

Craning your neck, you whisper over your shoulder, “I love you, Kim Namjoon—only you.”

ficlet; strange bedfellows

“Watson, I have to unclothe you now.” He kept up a running monologue, collecting and cataloguing each vague hum and groan she gifted him in response. The increasingly breathless claims that she was fine had stopped around the same time she’d lost the ability to walk. “Obviously I’ll thank you not to consider this act in line with the more… spirited comments and hypotheses I’ve expelled in the past. At any rate, you’ve never been less attractive. Practically insensate, whiter than the actual snow, your hair crystallized to icicles…”

The soft sound she made through her nose felt not like permission, per se, but it encouraged him to keep going. The sodden jumper went first, carefully negotiated over her head and swiftly spread out on a patch of ground to dry while she lie motionless a few feet away. Her denim trousers proved more difficult. “Had you worn one of your voluminous tunics or short skirts, this task would have been long completed by now,” he remarked without ire. The more substantial clothing could have prevented her from tumbling headlong into fatal hypothermia when she plunged into that half-frozen lake. Now it maintained the dangerous conditions she’d extricated herself from.

Task thus completed, he rolled her on her side into the recovery position and made short work of disrobing himself, despite his fingers having gone intransigent from the cold. He molded his body around hers with no hesitation, necessity having driven away any shame he might have felt invading her personal space to a degree wholly unforeseen in their several years of partnership. Her skin was like soft marble. One hand stayed high on her chest, keeping careful track of her heartbeats.

“And I’ve long held the theory that you would prefer to be ‘big spoon’,” He pulled his coat over them both with a shaking hand. The wool was cold, partially transitioned from damp to wet, and their only option. “However, needs must.”

His mind conjured thoughts of disaster every passing second she remained silent. He would be a terrible eulogist, he decided. Particularly in this case. “Watson? For future reference, I refuse to speak at your funeral.”

Gradually her breaths deepened and increased in volume. An entire lifetime later, a shiver originated at her neck and shoulders and ran through them both, her first since long before they’d reached the cave. He finally allowed his eyes to close.

There was a twenty-three percent chance she would kill him in a few hours. She shivered again, and he brushed his cheek against hers. “That’s it, Watson. Well done.” Happily, the benefits far outweighed the possible consequences.

Voltron HDCNs #4: Cheese

so here is the squad as types of cheeses

  • Shiro is brie because brie is one of my favorites
    • brie goes through some shit to become the way it is (weeks of collecting mold in cold, slightly-humid dark places), and so has Shiro (um, alien jail is pretty cold and dark… now I just made myself sad)
    • he’s soft on the inside despite the moulding/molding he’s been through, and brie is also soft
    • also the taste of brie gets more intense with age and culturing but it still retains its softness 
    • where I come from, room-temp brie or baked brie is served on a plate with crackers and fruit at big family get-togethers and everyone loves it
    • so space dad brings everyone together even as cheese
  • Hunk is gouda because gouda is the most wholesome cheese and vry delicious on its own. It does not have an overwhelming flavor for the most part, but it is super buttery and memorable in its own way
    • gouda is just as GOODA as Hunk’s personality haha. Gouda is the cheese that doesn’t coat your tongue and make it impossible to eat another type of cheese right after it. It is the Hufflepuff of cheeses
    • the flavor is much more mild than you would expect from the color of the cheese
  • Lance is the queso of the group
    • the kind of queso that is served at Tex-Mex diners and is made of Velveeta and canned salsa and is MOST DEFINITELY BAD FOR YOU but is also delicious
  • Keith is manchego because it is the most stylish of cheeses imo with a flavor that either makes people go cray for it or makes people go “wow this is fucking dry.” like Keith, it looks good even if you just drop it on a plate
    • dry as hell and often needs a little olive oil poured over it if you’re going to eat it plain, which very much reminds me of Keith’s personality
    • more of an appetizer cheese than a mac-and-cheese cheese. Really good with peppers and figs and weird stuff like that
    • also it is secretly a dork just like Keith
    • it looks cool and tastes cool but is made of SHEEP’S MILK
      • who here thinks SHEEP ARE TRENDY/COOL
  • Coran is that weird kind of provincial French stinky cheese that has orange mold on it and smells like AUGH
    • truth be told, I have probably eaten and enjoyed a Coran type of cheese
    • I’m that weird
    • AH I FOUND THE PERFECT ONE
    • Epoisses de Bourgogne - from Burgandy France, famous stinky cheese
      • one step in making the cheese involves putting the cheese in BRANDY-INFUSED salt water/brine 
      • if Coran drank earth liquors I feel he would drink brandy and eat this cheese
  • Allura was extremely hard, because what exactly is the queen of cheeses???? I love them all??
    • OH
    • SHE’S SAINT ANDRE TRIPLE CREAM CHEESE
    • this is where this cheese is made
    • fucking monastery that looks like a castle
    • it is so creamy and rich that it is hard to eat a lot of it at once but it is SO PERFECT with sweet fruits and as a dessert. 
    • you sink your cracker into this soft cheese and it just scrapes off so prettily and is so light and heavenly tasting. 
    • I can’t eat tons of this cheese but I worship this cheese when I get the chance.
    • it is also expeeeensive (but not as expensive as Coran stinky cheese)
  • Pidge… hmmm probably an Irish brand of cheddar 
    • not the shitty fake cheddar that is as orange as a traffic cone, no siree
    • has a nice bite to it though it is served everywhere so you wouldn’t think it would be so feisty? cheddar just doesn’t look feisty on the surface to me and you don’t need a lot of of it to get a LOT of flavor
    • it’s also a really smart buy because it is not nearly as expensive as all these other shit cheeses I suggested (they’re delicious but $$$)
    • vry good with burgers and Pidge looks like she could pack away a burger or three (or maybe a veggie burger if y’all headcanon her as vegan/a vegetarian)
  • and that is it for the cheese headcanons
  • oh the ship is the cheese aisle that keeps all the cheeses together and cool
  • the ship is my favorite place
Peridot theory

Peridot has not summoned her weapon in the show yet, but this may not be just because she is a young gem.

This episode was very revealing to how home world gems treat each other, or at least low ranking technicals such as peridot.

Peridot is in a state of panic when she realizes her limb enhances are gone. She throughout the episode searches for ways not only to defend herself, but to inflict pain on others.

When she first reappears she is shocked to discover she can hurt Steven without her limb enhancers. Gem society has taught her that she in incapable of protecting herself and functioning as a gem without enhancements. Contrasting to the popular ideals of gems taught through the Chrystal gems, this tells me that homeworld gems are not taught to use their individual power within the gemstone, but to assimilate to popular gem society, and to use any means necessary to fit the cold merciless mold that homeworld society enforces upon gems.

Peridot cannot summon her weapon because she is not a soldier, like jasper. She is a “weak” gem, and therefor, she must struggle to appear strong. Because she isn’t embracing herself, she isn’t exploring the power within her gem.

I’m always so amused when my mother whips out this obscure bit of Cockney from out of nowhere. “Definitely a bit taters today!” she said in email, and I’m like “Okay I can infer what you mean because I’m now only ten minutes away from you so we share weather, but how the fuck did you get ‘taters’ from ‘cold’.”

Apparently the line is cold rhymes with mold as in “molding potatoes” which leads us to “taters”, and is itself a localized dialect called “Dock Cockney” from the dock area in the East End.

SURPRISE LINGUISTICS LESSON

5sos preference: there favorite things about you (tangible and intangible)

Hey loves! Here’s a preference for you!

|calum|

Tangible: his favorite thing about you is your Body, not just in a sexual way. He loved the fact that he cold mold his hands against your skin as you hugged or cuddled and he saw the way you stared at yourself in the mirror with doubt in your eyes but he loved your body whole and would wrap his arms around your waist and make sure to kiss away the doubt that you held

Intangible: he loved your sense of humor, you both never took things seriously, almost everything was made a joke and he enjoyed the fact that you guys could share that. When he would be having bad days he seeked for you to make his days better, just one sentence slipping from your lips with the right i tension would make him smile the brightest he’s had that entire day.

|ashton|

Tangible: he loved your lips, he loved how soft and beautiful they where, how they would kiss trails of love down his neck in the morning when you wanted to wake him up or how they would speak, he loved starring at them, knowing that he could just hold you in his arms and hold you and plant his smooth lips against yours creating heated chemistry, he loved your smile and the way your lips shapes up when you did, he loved the fact that you were willing with your lips just for him.

Intangible: he loved the fact you cared, he believed not many people cared in the world anymore but you cared about every aspect, you cared about the homeless and the well being of other people. You where never mean or rude; polite and kind is what you where,taking care about others and forgetting about yourself because you knew people where going through worst things then you and if you ever forget to regard yourself, ashton was there to care for you.

|michael|

Tangible: he loved your hands, they were smaller then his but soft and they where beautiful. He would kiss them during movie nights while you cuddled, he would take them inside his big palms and massage them softly as the movie progressed making you smile, he loved them with detail, every atom of them, how they would run through his hair and how they would smooth against your cheek as you shared sweet kisses, he loved the feeling of them on his skin, it made him feel safe.

Intangible: he loved how stubborn you where, if your mind was made up about something there was no going back. You never gave up no matter of complicated things where, which came to advantage when you were fighting but you would fight to make things better, you hated arguements and you would rather mend things, so as long as he was mad at you, you kept trying until he was right back into your arms, there wasn’t something you didn’t fight for, you loved the thrill of it, you loved to win and prove your points.

|luke|


Tangible: your back, he loved running his hand down the skin and your spine, how chills would rise on your skin once he made contact with it. It seemed like your most sensitive body part and he loved how exposed you where to him. You found it weird that he loved your back so much, he loved kissing it and pulling your bra strap, running his hands over the marks that the bra had left, his lips leaving small hickies down your spine, in some way decorating it. You would giggle and move around once he did, he loved the happiness he brung just by the touch.

Intangible: the fact that you where independent, you where shy but you could be loud and spontaneous only with him, you would be hyper and always have something new for you guys to try. He would find himself doing the wildest things with you but he didn’t mind because he never noticed the way you managed to think outside the box and he loved it how excited you got once you got a new idea and you both never got bored, he loved doing those things with you.


|hope you liked| 💋