sharp cooking

So, it hasn’t occurred to me that other autistic people might not know this, so I figured I’d make a post.

Shopping channel stuff.

If there’s household stuff that you struggle with, for whatever reason, you should probably check out the shopping channels.

A lot of the stuff advertised on those channels is designed for various disabilities, it’s just not advertised as such.

Like, I can’t really use sharp knives for cooking. I don’t have the fine motor skills to use them safely.

But my mum bought a Nicer Dicer from the shopping channel, and it completely removes any danger for me.

[image of the Nicer Dicer]

Of course, it pretty much can’t be hand-washed, and it’s big, so it’s a pain in the dishwasher, but if I can’t get pre-sliced veg, it’s great.

She just bought a new hoover as well that’s a lot more light-weight and maneuverable than the Dyson one we’ve got, and I can finally actually use it with my dyspraxic arms.

Plus it’s quieter, so my headphones block the noise better.

So, yeah, if there’s any household jobs that you really struggle with, there’s probably a shopping channel solution.

Pairing: Dean/Cas
Length: 2.5k
Tags: Fluff, Mild Angst, Pining, First Kiss, Canon Divergent
 
Read on AO3

A special thank you to @braezenkitty for being my awesome beta <3

“You just gotta get laid,” Dean said, reseating the burger beside the pile of fries on his plate, this time with a big bite missing. “Or a decent kiss, at least.”

He crumbled a napkin between greasy fingers, tossed it to the middle of the table. Shoved his shirtsleeves up one more time as he tucked his black fed tie under the table ledge and away from the plate. “It’d loosen you up, buddy. And maybe you’d quit tryna live vicariously through horny eighteen-year-olds.”

This was because of the door-to-door canvas. The couple at the park who’d been all over each other, that Castiel hadn’t been able to stop looking at—even after the old, blue-haired lady at 512 Bakersfield Court had made a comment. “Your partner likes to stare…” like she’d never in her seventy-five years of life seen someone curious about such a thing.

If only that was the first time I heard it, too,” Dean’d smiled back from her stoop, the sharp sun cooking them both in the stuffy Tennessee heat. A marked jab to Cas’ ribs, and a walk to the nearest pub later, and Dean was bringing it up again, because, of course he was. Why talk about the case?

“I only glanced at the couple in the park,” Cas sighed. “It’s not a recurring issue. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Dean laughed, lipped his beer bottle, and took a stout drink. “Sure,” he said. “Glanced at them. Glanced at those girls holding hands last week—though, I’ll give ya that one. I gave ‘em a couple once-overs too.”

“Dean—”

“Point is, it ain’t the first time, and you’re a damn liar.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “My being, or not being with people has nothing to do with anything—”

“Has everything to do with everything when you’re touch-starved.”

“I’m not starved. I’ve been… touched.”

Dean scoffed, swirled his beer bottle. “Sure, if you wanna count Reaper-Fools-Day.”

“I’ve kissed more people than April,” Cas bristled back. “How about we talk about what you know of touch starved instead?”

Dean snapped shut, cocked his head as a follow-up comment seemed to slip from his mouth quick. He replaced the words with a couple fries and averted eyes. “Fine,” he relented around the bite. “And?”

“And… What?”

He looked back up, eyebrows jumping. “Were they any good?”

“Who? The people?”

“The kissing, idiot. Was the kissing any good?”

Cas’ heart flopped. He slipped a hand down his beer bottle, and then back up again nervously. The motion pulled Dean’s attention in a glance, so Cas tucked the rogue thing back onto his lap instead. Fingers lacing together under the shelter of the slick waxed top where no one could see. “I don’t know. Yes?” he offered carefully.

“Are you tellin’ me, or askin’ me right now?”

“No—I mean… ” Cas cleared his throat, shifted in his chair, and listened to the wood slats groan. “They were fine. They were… wet.”

“Wet?” Dean repeated. “Cas, wet is how you describe a swimming pool… Oregon in the winter, maybe… Not a kiss. Never a good kiss.”

“Then how should I describe it?”

“No, I mean… if they were wet, then they were wet—”

“No, please. You tell me.”

Dean’s face suddenly fell wide in mock innocence. “What? You want me to describe a good kiss to you right now? In the middle of a restaurant.”

“If wet is insufficient—”

“Oh, yeah. It’s like, miles of not-sufficient-ness, dude.”

Cas chewed a smile down and gestured Dean’s way. Crossed his arms, and sat back. He watched Dean waffle before finally sliding back in his chair to think. He splayed wide, elbows up on the armrests and knees hugging the corners. His face caught the dim overhead lights, and the sun-kissed healthy pink of his skin shone back like warm earth.

He had white in the creases beside his eyes where his smile lines had shaded him from the harsh afternoon sun. A little cut of tan at the bridge of his nose where his sunglasses sat after he’d gotten sick of squinting through the reflections of every bright midday door.

“Okay, it’s like this,” he said finally, tapping an erratic finger on the neck of his bottle, and pausing to worry his lip. “A kiss is a kiss is a kiss, til it ain’t. If you’re with the right person, then the tension between you’s gonna be thick enough to cut. It’s gonna feel like you’ve got a firecracker in your gut, and that other person’s just flicking the Bic. The minute the two of you kiss, the fuse lights. That bastard explosive rips up through your chest, and pops behind your eyes, and I’m talking—screw seeing colors at that point—you’ll be so wrecked, you’ll know what they sound like.

Castiel smiled as Dean came back in with a languid look, and a tongue tip between his teeth. He peeled forward, hovering over the table, so much closer than before, that there was only the dragging smell of his burger all tangled up in his woody cologne for Cas to breathe.

“That’s a good kiss,” he said slowly, and maybe it was Castiel’s imagination, but the sun kiss on Dean’s cheeks had spread to his ears now. “Sounds good, don’t it?”

“It sounds very good,” Castiel agreed. “Very surreal.”

Dean let a long, animated sigh into the room and it mixed happy with the gentle murmur of the busy forks and glasses around them. “Oh, it’s very real,” he said. “Just not very common.”

He poked absently at the pile of cooling fries, and sucked the salt from the end of his finger. The gorgeous smacking sound it made curled red ribbons in Cas’ stomach. “Still, you find someone who’ll give you that, and it’s the kinda thing that’ll right some wrongs. Know what I mean?”

Cas took a long drink, smile falling as the carbonation from his beer prickled reality back into his tongue. “Sure,” he said quietly. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Dean’s mouth thinned, and his eyes ping-ponged away uneasy. He tailed and tacked down the waitress, kept locked on her as she floated behind the counter poking something into the mounted LED screen beside the register. “Doesn’t that rub you, though?” he asked, “not knowing for yourself. Don’t you… want that with somebody?”

Cas puffed surprised, and his mouth went dry. Try as he might, the beer wouldn’t wet it. “I mean, yes…” he said earnestly, and the admission ate holes in his stomach.

“Then… how come you ignore all the waitresses I send your way? You’re never gonna get it if you don’t even try.”

Cas was suddenly, and shamefully aware of his attention at Dean’s lips, and when Dean snagged a glance at him, Cas tore his eyes away, shoved them onto the table instead. Focused everything he had on the bleed of condensation below the cool, brown bottle to his left.

“Those people wouldn’t change anything,” he said to the ring. “Colors were never meant to make sounds for some.”

Dean fidgeted the fries again, finally pushed them aside, and brushed the salt off his hand this time instead of eating it. “I guess we better head out,” he said, flagging the waitress. “Sam’s waiting.”


They paid, and headed back out into the melty summer heat. It was sunset, but the air was still laying in the city thick as a wool blanket. Shadows stretched through the streets like plastic-capped Halloween fingers, crowding up in the alleyways and turns, painting the dingy brick walls black.

Cas flared his coat to check his back pocket for his wallet as they passed a couple people with hungry eyes, but just as quickly remembered that he’d dropped his last twenty for the meal, and let the impulse to feed them drift out. Still, he welcomed the brief breeze it gave him, and he wondered if maybe it was getting time to rethink the coat. Grace or not, he seemed to be touchier to the temperatures these days, and it was starting to seem like wardrobe was becoming more important—practically speaking.

Dean shed his own suit coat as if he’d just read Castiel’s mind, and slung it over his shoulder with a hooked finger. His shirtsleeves were still shoved up to his elbows under the blazer, as if he’d put it on after dinner, distracted. “Nothing fancy,” he murmured to his feet.

“Pardon?”

“Hmm—?” He looked over quick, eyes wide, before blinking them back down. “What?”

“I just didn’t catch what you said.”

Dean shook his head. “I didn’t—” But when Cas frowned, opened his mouth to contest, Dean relented. “Oh, you mean the, uh, thing I said out loud…” He cleared his throat, added “apparently” under his breath, and slowed down for some oncoming foot traffic.

“I was just thinking about the, uh, Nichols’ story,” he said, temporarily falling in line behind Cas as a group of people passed. He touched the small of Cas’ back out of nowhere, and kept his hand there. Cas’ chest snagged. “The alibi Brent was peddling didn’t feel right.” His voice was soft in Cas’ ear, almost breathy—but brief, and when he pulled up beside Cas again, sidewalk clear, Cas grabbed a shaky glance, but Dean wasn’t watching.

“You, uh, think they have something to do with the black magic we’re seeing?” Cas asked, and his voice managed to pour out level, despite his stomach coming off that quick rollercoaster dip.

“I mean, the house was a little much for a twenty-hour a week gas-slinging gig at the local area Gas n’ Sip, don’t you think?”

It was the most they’d talked about the case all day.

“Fancy,” Cas reiterated, then, “I certainly never would’ve been able to afford that place when I worked there.” For some reason, the comment pulled Dean tight at the joints. “But I couldn’t even afford hourly motels.”

“Well… the hourlies charge more.”

Cas frowned again, started to ask why when Dean squirmed past it. “But, you’re right,” he said. “Doesn’t add up no matter how you flip the numbers.”

“So, do you suspect they’re the source of the black magic, or victims of it?”

They hopped down the curb, checking the way for traffic, and ended up on the grassy side of Spring Street, just down from their motel. Dean popped a piece of gum in his mouth, balled the wrapper, and stuck it back in his pocket instead of tossing it away.

“I suspect there’s something screwy going on,” he said, “and that’s as far as I’ve got.”

He plucked the gum from his mouth a moment later, and flicked it to the bushes, ran a hand down his face. “Sam’s doing backgrounds as we speak. Here’s hoping there’s a smoking gun in there somewhere. But, ‘til we get that, we’re pulling straws.”

The streetlamps kicked on, buzzing like fireflies in the thick night, the light falling on the street in goldweave strings as they hustled past a defunct sporting goods store—hollow bones brick and mortar now. No one missing what used to be inside.

Dean scanned the streets, watched another few strings of dusk foot traffic pass on the left while he chewed his cheeks.

“Did Sam find anything at the morgue?” Cas pressed, because the silence seemed oddly unnerving.

“No—I mean, uh, I don’t know. Haven’t talked to him.”

“I thought we were meeting him.”

Dean’s attention caught up in a little alcove at the end of the street and he gripped his jacket tighter, tucked his chin and let a heavy breath out. “We are,” he said quietly.

“Not at the morgue?”

“Um, no, he’s at the motel,” Dean said, and he sounded nervous. “Waiting to take us.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and we’ll find a hex bag, or—”

Dean suddenly shoved Cas’ sideways, off the street and into the alcove, shadows tangling up in the corners of it, all those long witch fingers bleeding to flat black. Castiel grunted, surprised. “What’re you—” and his throat went dry as Dean pushed him into the stuccoed brick backside of a closed Chinese restaurant, hands curling up on both sides of Cas’ jaw, but fingers combing a soft arc “—doing?”

“Nothin’, if you don’t want me to,” Dean whispered, conviction skippy at best. His body was hot against Cas. Heavy and hard. Nothing like April’s… Meg’s… Hannah’s…

The question—and it was a question—coiled in Cas’ belly like a fever dream, but an answer never had a chance of bubbling back out. Because a response would’ve been moot before it ever left his lips. Castiel’s pause was too long to be a no, and his fingers had already found their way to Dean’s waist. They were making note of the way his blue button down clung to his sides, like the tee underneath had been soaking in all that sudden, nervous heat since before they’d ever even left the bar.

And so, Dean brushed their lips together, not a hesitation so much as dipping a toe, and a rush of butterflies went right to Cas’ head without mercy. Cas whimpered without meaning to, and Dean landed the meat of the kiss, hands falling down Cas’ neck and dragging that unruly sensation through. His lips were soft and his cheeks, five o’clock gritty. He worked Cas’ mouth open with a roll of his jaw, and a flirty burst of mint graced Cas with the pass of Dean’s tongue.

Castiel melted into it, fingers curling around the back of Dean’s head as he tried desperately to get a handhold on something. Their hips rolled together. Cas stole himself a handful of Dean’s ass. Felt Dean hard against him as he moved against Cas’ thigh.

Dean’s breath went rocky, like he was fighting some kind of tightrope walk of heavy and thin, and the sound he made was dirty enough to sin. Castiel nosed him, combed fingers through his hair as Dean pulled back. His eyes fell hot on Cas’ mouth. The shadows ate the flush from his face, but not the burning heat of it.

“Now tell me again,” he whispered, voice licking at Cas ear and coming out like gravy. “Tell me again what a kiss feels like.”

Castiel huffed, tried to catch his running brain. He couldn’t help himself, hands still at Dean’s waist, he held him there. The both of them were hard, and neither of them were in a hurry to do anything about it. “I would say… green makes a helluva sound,” he whispered back.

He watched a wicked smile crawl through Dean’s face. “There it is,” Dean hummed, dragging a chill with his thumb from the skin he’d bared at Cas’ side, and chasing it to Cas’ neck with a soft breath, a kiss. “An’ I’m just getting started too.”

Then, he pulled away, the absence of his sticky heat leaving Cas bare. The gravel chewed under Dean’s heels as he headed for the street, pausing only to stoop for the jacket he’d shed at some point on the way. He shook it off, straightened his tie. “Let’s go! We’re late!”

Castiel swallowed, hand to his stomach, and peeled himself from the brick.

I’m still salty that Hallow didn’t animate this scene

My girl Lou Fa being cute AF and finally seeing her crush after such a long time and being so happy!! And then there is Rikei and Lenalee

A crown has arrived in Los Santos. Not just a crown of course, a whole array of finery, gold and jewels and an ornamental sceptre, even a smaller secondary crown, but the true prize in the collection is clearly the extravagant domed affair, huge, bejewelled and topped with a hefty gold cross. It’s for a show of sorts, a traveling display of some ancient European royalty, and it couldn’t be a more obvious trap if the Fake’s had received a personalized invitation.

Los Santos doesn’t have a big arts scene, doesn’t have fancy museums or cultural influences; to bring so much wealth to the city, the crime capital of the country, to roll it right under the noses of the self-proclaimed royalty of organized crime and publically advertise its arrival is so laughably on the nose it can only be the LSPD’s latest pathetic attempt at a sting. An embarrassing police endeavour to draw the FAHC out, ludicrously obvious and yet, despite all reason, it’s working.

It might be offensively over the top but there are, of course, two members of the FAHC who live for offensively over the top, who can’t even focus on the obvious jaws of the trap, knowing all too well that the bait is poisoned but unable to help being hooked anyway. Geoff and Gavin, the big boss and his most ostentatious little snake, both lost the second there were crowns on the table, both shiny eyed and hopeless, full of longing as their hurricane of plans tips into the utterly preposterous.

Gavin keeps making puppy-dog eyes at Geoff, begging and pleading and carefully explaining exactly why he deserves to be the one who wears the big crown; everyone already knows Geoff’s the king, he doesn’t need it, and anyway it just wouldn’t suit his look at all. Geoff is batting off every argument, some with considerable difficulty but he’s determined to hold out, heart set on keeping the absurd thing for himself. Half out of affection, half out of desperately placating bribery Geoff’s instead promising Gavin the slightly smaller, more classically spiked crown; the fine filigree diadem obviously the lighter of the two, easier to wear and arguably more pretty, still obscenely ornate and look how gold it is Gavvers come on.

Boss and conman aside the rest of the crew aren’t quite so blinded by the frankly insulting attempt at a trap. Except, well. Except that they kind of are, in their own ways.

Jack and Lindsay spent a whole morning tracking down sources, ensuring that while the display was fake the actual items were authentic. And boy, the LSPD didn’t go halfway in their bid for stupidest plan of all time – not only is everything certifiably real, it’s worth an actual fortune. They aren’t kidding themselves about fencing the crowns, it’s important to be aware of one’s weaknesses and sometimes that means acknowledging that you work with egotistical children, but there is still more than enough extra gubbins in the display to make such a wildly ill-advised heist worth considering.

Ryan, Michael and Jeremy aren’t particularly hung up on the money end; it’s always nice, sure, but honestly the FAHC hasn’t been strapped for cash in a long, long time. These days the jobs they do tend to have some other purpose, amusement or revenge or displays of power with monetary gain a secondary factor, definitely not sufficient to barrel headfirst into a guaranteed trap. But then the trap is so clear to see it’s pretty much a dare, a middle finger, the suggestion that the Fake’s are too stupid to see what’s right in front of them. If there’s one thing the more rough and tumble side of the crew have in common it’s their inability to stand down from a challenge, their dislike of any insinuation that there’s anything they cannot do, any prize outside their reach. Screw the gold, Michael, Jeremy and Ryan are, as always, just out to ruin the LSPD’s day.

So they brainstorm, they plan, they get into more than one argument about the authority bestowed by fancy headwear and, in the end, after enduring numerous scornful complaints from members the Support Crew regarding always doing things the hard way, they simply call up one of Geoff’s rats on the force and have her unlock the door and look the other way. It is perhaps the most anticlimactic ‘heist’ of the FAHC’s entire existence – not that you’d know it from the way Geoff and Gavin swan about in their crowns. Not that you’d know it unless you were there to witness, actually, considering the hilariously inaccurate rumour that spreads like wildfire, the tale of an epic showdown between the police and the Fakes, the crowns simply the spoils of war in a greater battle that took out half a city block.

To be fair, that battle definitely happened, it just had literally nothing to do with any heist. Disappointed by the appalling lack of action Ryan took Michael and Jeremy for a leisurely drive down to the police station, car full of everything from flares to SMG’s to a full-blown rocket launcher, and the three of them had a little party. By the time the rest of the crew shows up, somewhat overdressed but still drawn as always towards the sound of senseless mayhem, the street is a warzone, a building is on fire, and the LSPD have completely sworn off ever again trying to entrap the FAHC.  

                                                      Let’s DIVE(rsity) right in, YA?

                           ‘It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity
                                                 there is beauty and there is strength.’

                                                              – Maya Angelou

      Welcome to our first ever discussion on the @sharpeandcook Tumblr. Are you excited? We are! So pull up a pew, grab a cup of tea and settle in for the ride. Today we are going to be looking at the importance of diversity in books. We’ll be talking about some of YA’s most loved characters like Magnus Bane, Augustus Waters, Maddy Whittier, and Ronan Lynch. All characters pulled from different types of Young Adult Literature with one very important thing in common. They’re individuals. You ready for this? 


What age were you when you started reading YA books?

Selene: Oh goodness, I was 11 when I started reading altogether. It’d never really been my thing at all. Too much like hard work. The first book I ever read was based on Doctor Who and I read that in about a weekend. That was before I discovered my Twilight phase. The rest is sort of history. 

Caitlyn: I can’t even remember, I think I was about 14 or 15? I’m not even sure what book it was. I was in Waterstones, looking for something new for my birthday when I stumbled across this section full of books for Young Adults. I had no idea there were areas like that. I was fresh out of my Harry Potter and A Series of Unfortunate Events stage and I picked up this book, I took it home. I think I read it in like two days? If I remember correctly it was rubbish  [laughs] it was a pretty bad book. However, I liked the elements in it, the supernatural, the adventure, and ever since then that’s been my main place. When I go to any bookstore that’s the section I go to first.


Who were the first diverse characters that you were introduced to?

Selene: For me, the first character that I ever met who stood out and was something I’d never seen before in that genre had to have been Magnus Bane from The Mortal Instruments series.

Caitlyn: Same for me, actually!

Selene: Really? [laughs]

Caitlyn: I’d honestly never seen anything like it before. I’ve read a lot of books with a huge variety of characters, but none of them were openly gay. It was a subject matter that none of the books I’d read had ever shown me before.

Selene: It’s shame really because it was something so refreshing and wonderful that I was surprised more writers hadn’t attempted it.


Why do you think LGBT+ characters are becoming more common?

Selene: Personally, I feel that a lot of authors have seen their mistake in isolating the LGBT+ community. It’s one of those things where a lot of us at that age are still trying to figure who we are and books can be a real help in discovering parts of who we are.

Caitlyn: I think it’s also about the demand.

Selene: Why do you think that?

Caitlyn: I think it’s like, you know, for young adults in the twenty-first century we’re more open about those kinds of topics. Yeah, there’s still a lot of work to be done in that area but we’re definitely more vocal about it. So, I think writers realise that we need that representation.


As a writer, do you find a certain wariness when it comes to representing someone who does not necessarily share the same experiences that you have had?

Caitlyn: Oh my God, yes! [laughs]

Selene: Isn’t that the challenge of being a writer? We write about people that can see ghosts and turn into wolves. I mean, those aren’t exactly experiences I have had. 

Caitlyn: I wouldn’t want to accidentally hurt someone or offend something with my ignorance. Of course, I’d research these things but having never lived through the experience of being gay, a different colour, etc. I would be wary about getting those experiences wrong.

Selene: It’s definitely something that carries a lot of weight and responsibility but if we were all scared about writing it then we’d never be breaking barriers like we are today. 


Why do you think representation is important?

Caitlyn: I just think it’s important that everybody no matter who they are or where they come from or what they identify as should be able to open a book and find someone like them. I think, you know, people draw strength from books and characters so if you see somebody who is like you that can really help a reader.

Selene: I agree with, Cait, but I also think that in today’s society that there is still a stigma around certain topics and those young people can be drawn into thinking being gay or whatever is something to be ashamed of. That’s not the case. Ever. Everyone is beautiful and special in their own way. Having that representation in books shows people it’s okay to be who you are, it removes the taboo. If you meet Magnus Bane, Ronan Lynch, or Diana Wayburn, you find these layered and complex characters that aren’t defined just by their sexuality, skin colour or beliefs. That for me is super important.

Caitlyn: I one hundred percent agree with, S.


Has there been a particular writer or character that you’ve been extremely impressed with?

Selene: Where do I even start? Cassandra Clare, John Green, Maggie Stiefvater, so many! All of them have dealt with disabilities, sexuality, and identity. I don’t think I could even begin to list all things that I’ve been impressed by in these peoples works but I will say that if more writers were like them then we wouldn’t need discussions like these.

Caitlyn: I was super happy with Diana Wayburn in Lord of Shadows by Cassandra Clare. I haven’t read a lot of books with transgender characters in them. I just thought it was handled so well. It was a beautiful moment.


Do you have any advice for teenagers out there trying to find themselves?

Selene:  I’m no expert, other than having been a teenager once upon a time, but my advice is, don’t change who you are to suit other people’s ideas.

Caitlyn: Exactly, don’t hide what makes you an individual. It’s not healthy to hide away. In the end, it won’t make you happy.

Selene: It might seem scary and there will be times when you will be judged and criticised for those parts of you but one day you’ll see the only person’s opinion that matters is your own.

Caitlyn: People who love you, truly and unconditionally, accept you for who you are. 

Thank-you for reading! If you’ve any ideas for our next discussion or have any opinions on this topic you’d like to express then hit us up in the ask box of our page!

anonymous asked:

Hi, would you be able to do a prompt of them cooking a dish together. Robert showing Aaron how to cut the meat so it cooks quicker and showing him his homemade chips and Aaron just wonders why he goes to all this fuss. But he loves that they spend this time together. And loves that he married an amazing cook.

They were trying to spend more time together. That was their new thing now they’d gotten back together, they were trying to spent more quality time together, just the two of them.

It helped, a lot. Aaron had to admit it helped, the two of them spending time just the two of them, no phones, no distractions.

That’s what they were doing tonight. They’d both switched their phones off, Robert had stuck some music on, filling the Mill with noise, and they were cooking together.

It was the kind of domestic bliss that should have made Aaron laugh, really, but it didn’t. He rather liked it, actually, rather liked the quality time he was getting to spend with his husband-to-be (they’d booked their wedding, a registry office event for the 15th of June, and they were actually planning it, planning what to wear, the flowers, the food.)

“You want a glass?” Robert asked, holding up a bottle of wine he’d just opened.

Aaron scrunched up his nose. “Is it red?” he asked, squinting at the unfamiliar label.

“We’re having steak, of course it’s red,” Robert rolled his eyes, pouring himself a glass, offering it to Aaron. He looked gorgeous, Aaron noted, sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows, the first few buttons undone, as close to casual as Robert got, most of the time.

Aaron padded across the kitchen, taking the glass from him. “S’alright, actually,” he said, taking a generous gulp. “I’ll have a glass of that.”

“I’ll make a classy fella out of you yet,” Robert smirked, reaching up for another wine glass, pouring some for Aaron. “How was your day?” he asked, busying himself with getting the ingredients for their dinner out of the fridge.

“Good,” Aaron took another sip of the wine. He’d never been much of a one for wine, really, he’d drink it if it was offered, but he had never been as into wine as Robert is, their drinks fridge full of bottles of white, and red.

At least Robert didn’t drink rosé, he supposed - it’d be harder to get on board with that.

“Just good?”

“Boring, really,” Aaron said, leaning against the kitchen counter as Robert busied himself washing the potatoes he’d bought. “You?”

Robert gave a slight shrug. “It was just meetings all day,” he said. “I’d rather have spent it with you. Get the potato peeler, will you?”

Aaron nodded turning to root in their cutlery drawer for the potato peeler he knew was in there. “Why are we making chips from scratch again?” he inquired, rolling his eyes as Robert refused to take it from him, forcing him to actually help and get started on the peeling.

“Because chips are nicer when they’re homemade,” Robert said, as though it was entirely obvious. “The point of us cooking together isn’t to just bung a microwave meal in the oven and snog like teenagers.”

“That sounds more fun than this,” Aaron muttered, scraping at the skin of the potato in hand half-heartedly.

Robert laughed, pausing to press a kiss to Aaron’s pouting mouth. “It’s bonding, remember?”

“We could be bonding by shagging.”

“You’re so romantic,” Robert laughed, busying himself by cutting up some vegetables, all of which Aaron knew he’d probably refuse to eat, much to Robert’s annoyance. “Come on, this is fun, right? The two of us, drinking wine - making dinner.”

Aaron shrugged, slowly but surely getting through the mound of potatoes in front of him in the skin, grateful for the overly fancy, stupidly expensive, garbage disposal Robert had gotten installed in their kitchen, over a year ago now, the cleanup easier.

“Cut them lengthways,” Robert said, voice sharp. “They’ll cook better.”

Aaron rolled his eyes. “They’re just chips, Rob.”

“They’re going to be the best chips you’ve ever tasted,” Robert corrected, moving to stand behind Aaron, hands coming to cover his own, directing Aaron as to how to chop the potatoes in front of him.

“You’re so fussy,” Aaron teased, letting Robert guide his hands, the warmth of his husband’s body comfortable against his, the two of them staying close together for far longer than necessary.

“You’ll thank me when these are done, and they taste amazing,” Robert said, pressing a kiss to the side of Aaron’s neck. “You smell good.”

“Used your aftershave,” Aaron admitted, carefully continuing to chop the potatoes as Robert moved away, getting everything else in order.

There was a strange look of wonder on Robert’s face as he took in Aaron’s words, pausing with his wine glass held halfway to his mouth.

“What?” Aaron raised an eyebrow.

“This is what the rest of our lives is going to be like, you know,” Robert shuffled closer again, giving Aaron one of those real, sincere smiles he only ever seemed to save for Aaron.

Aaron returned the smile, grabbing his wine glass and clinking it against Robert’s. “I’ll cheers to that.”

anonymous asked:

Hnghhhh demon Thomas ❤❤❤ Bless you thank you for bringing that to life sweet baby jesus ahhhh ❤ can we maybe have some demon Thomas headcanons? 👿❤

Sure thing!


😈his eyes are black, forked tongue and horns
😈don’t. touch. his. horns.
😈he can apparate / teleport
😈his sin specialty is Lust & Desire
😈he can sense special bonds between people
😈extremely sensitive to smell (he hates it when you cook)
😈sharp teeth and nails
😈gets rough cravings for sex
😈knows EVERYTHING about sex - and won’t disappoint - could literally go for eternity
😈the perfect size
😈loves being called Alpha
😈kinky as fuck
😈chains and collars are his favourite
😈can tell any impure thoughts someone’s thinking
😈doesn’t need to eat
😈constantly. drinking. wine. constantly.
😈is apathetic to cuddling, nuzzling and cute stuff but tolerates it for you - he never complains about it though
😈but he insist you sleep next to him -no matter what
😈can summon fire and smoke
😈he’ll never tell you, but you mean everything to him

being jin's girlfriend includes...

- yumMY MEALS WOAW
- hugging his big ass shoulders all the time
- cute lil nose rubs that you have to tip toe to reach
- big loud smooches
- lots of corny dad jokes
- “jagiya does my jawline look sharp?”
- cooking together, and ending up throwing flour and sugar at each other halfway through
- windshield wiping
- him forcing you to try his meals
- laughing about everything
- lazy, chill dates where you just sit and watch tv
- but also deep talks about your future, insecurities, problems, etc
- superrr nice kisses with those plump ass lips
- him only liking the same perfume you wore when you met him
- reassuring kisses of how pretty you look without makeup
- cute selcas (like cmon he’s such an attractive dude)
- playing nintendo together at like 2AM
- awkward hugs because his long arms could wrap two times around your body
- him sneaking in a lil bit of aegyo when you want
- but he wants to be considered your sexy man heh
- face masks together + an elaborate skin care regime that none of the other members understand
- small amounts of pda, like holding hands or cheek kisses
- blowing so many kisses ohmy
- making the other members quake in their boots with your relationship goals
- and so much happy vibes and love everywhere and wkkqkakkwaasjajaj
- KEEP HIM AND TREAT HIM RIGHT

-admin grace;)

Originally posted by bwiseoks

medium.com
Dear Chefs, (This is For You)

They won’t understand you. They won’t. I know this, because I used to be on their side, stuck in a dead end office, working a shitty job, making decent pay. My family and friends were convinced I’d lost my mind when I gleefully leaped into the unknown abyss of cooking. I suppose they thought it was a phase I’d soon grow out of. Could this be you? Maybe finishing high school and are contemplating a life in the kitchen, or are already in culinary school. Maybe its not you, but rather someone close to you. Whatever the circumstances, if you’ve gotten this far, I implore you to keep reading.

Regardless, keep reading.

Most will never know what it’s like to make a living as a professional cook or chef, and that makes me smile. It’s something of which I am arrogantly proud. No, not because I think we’re better than anyone, but because of the fact that to be a really good cook or chef it takes tremendous physical, mental and emotional fortitude. Most people don’t have, nor appreciate the gifts we’ve been given, and this often includes our front of the house counterparts.

Seven days a week, we show up willing to get our asses kicked. We sign up for this in exchange for an opportunity to express ourselves through food. There’s no such thing as weekends or holidays. We might get a random Tuesday off, and if we’ve put in the proper dues and happen to be in cahoots with the chef, we just might have the good fortune of being exonerated from working the dreaded Sunday morning brunch shift. No one wants to work Sunday morning. We work longer days than just about anyone. Days start early and end late, typically when the rest of the western world is changing into their PJs, brushing their teeth and hopping into bed. The length, isn’t the hard part though, its the depth. Fifteen hours on your feet is grueling enough to scare away some fence-straddlers, but on top of that, consider the kitchen atmosphere where everything is either excruciatingly hot or sharp as hell. Cooks scurry around cussing, the printer spewing out tickets as fast as it can, and for hours every inch of one’s body is physically tested. Emotions are tested, and sometimes you will fail that test. You’ll break into frustration mid-shift, relying on a teammate to help pull you through. Your mental strength will be tested — misreading tickets, overcooking steaks, undercooking pasta, or completely blanking the fuck out on any number of things, once again having to rely on a teammate to pull you through. You’ll do the same for him — it’s how we survive. Close call finger-nicks and tears shed while chopping onions don’t phase us, not even secondarily. Screaming hot 50 pound pots of salted water simmer away, not boiling fast enough most of the time. When the potatoes or pasta are ready to come out, chances are a dry towel is nowhere to be found, and lacking time to search, we somehow make do, most likely further searing the callouses up and down our already damaged hands. Pain is an after thought, it doesn’t phase us. It can’t, or the whole ship sinks. We owe it to the warriors next to us to keep going. There will also be a point mid-shift, when you’ll have to make a dash to the dry storage pantry, or the walk-in cooler. Darting across the obstacle course of the kitchen typically includes maintaining one’s sense of balance while leaping across oil-slicked tile, dodging pans flying in the vicinity of the dish pit, and having to weave in and out of fellow line cooks, then back into our place on the line. This is all to be done without dropping your supplies, or worse, disrupting the rhythm of the team. Disrupt the rhythm, and we all go down with you. This takes serious skills. To create the rhythm necessary for success on the kitchen line takes hours and sometimes years working together as a unit, in the trenches, slugging it out, together. Next to the military in full fledged combat, a group of guys and gals in the kitchen know teamwork better than anyone.

Let’s say you made it to the end of the service. By now several hours have elapsed since the first tickets came chirping through the printer, and the apron draped around your neck now resembles something your dog might have chewed to hell after having splashed through the mud. You are filthy, but pots are done flying across the kitchen, flames from the burners are dulled to mere pilot lights and for the first time all night, you have a minute to breathe. A Red Bull sounds pretty good right about now, or traditionally, a cigarette in the cool fresh air outside of the kitchen hits the spot for most chefs. The burns on your hand have probably blistered already, and now that you actually have a minute, the pain hits you. The slightest of breaks and its back to business identifying prep needs for the following day. It’s the easy part of the night, coasting home, after a dozen hours afoot. Now, the challenge is powering through when your mind is occupied with fantasies of beers, shots, the dive bar across the street and the pretty new waitress whose name you’ve already forgotten.

If there is one thing I’ve learned as a chef, it is that we are always learning to adapt —rolling with the punches. We put ourselves out there as artists and creators. Its a beautiful thing to have the opportunity to express ourselves through the creation of food, and the food we craft should be an expression of who we are. What we create is just as much of how the world has shaped us, as it is us shaping the way we see the world through our food. Unfortunately, most diners don’t connect with our perspective. They want their food, their way, and it pisses us the hell off. Chances are, if you aren’t a chef, this has been you, and we have undoubtedly bitched about you to our fellow cooks. If you’ve ever put your work out into the world, you know how much it stings to have your work not appreciated as you intended. This is what keeps us up at night asking ourselves how could I do it better, and what should I have done differently? It eats at us if we let it.

Don’t let it.

Chances are your family, friends and virtually anyone close to you will be unsuccessful in understanding the life you have chosen for yourself, but maybe this letter helps, just a bit. If so, they might understand why your mind is racing at 2AM after a 400 cover Friday night, and why you can’t celebrate Mother’s Day brunch with the fam. Perhaps now they might understand why every square inch of your body hurts most of the time, and how there really are no sick days in restaurants. They might understand why we settle for grossly underpaid wages, and hopefully they can read between the lines, and figure out why we bitch about customers upon getting off of work. They might understand how the stress from our jobs might lead us to have a few cocktails, which might be followed with a few bad decisions. Above all, if nothing else, maybe they will see that we can’t imagine our lives any other way.

I’ll take a hand full of burn blisters, some achy knees and the hankering for a cocktail at the end of the night, over ever having to sit at another desk miserably debating whether or not to shove needles through my eye balls. Living this life means we get to be creative. It means we get to showcase our skills in the heat of battle, feeling the adrenaline rush of sloshing through the trenches with guys to our left and right. These are guys we’re lucky to call teammates. It means we get to be creative and stand proud for something we believe in. We get to sleep with a certain piece of mind and awaken the following morning hungry for more. Even if it means suiting up for brunch every now again, we get to make a difference in the lives of people around us, in the best way we know how. We get to make them happy, and we get to through food.

Promise me this:

Show up every day looking to make the most of it. Learn from the best, seek to be the best, and once you are on your way, teach others to be the best. This life won’t be easy. It will be damn hard, but it will be worth it, and in the end you will have lived a life of which you are proud, one that’s yours, and in doing so, you get to make the world taste a bit better in the process.

Cook Your Ass Off,

Chef Chris Hill

Getting Drunk to Find the SIMBAlism

Deticated to @reifromrfa. I can’t thank you enough for helping get my blog started!

When the winery tour got rained out, Jihyun never expected you to suggest a drinking game at home… With disney movies… It was fresh, new, and involved wine. By any means, the idea greatly appealed to him.

“Okay, so here’s the rules. Rather than shots, we’ll go by sips, so we can get through more movies before we’re too smashed to take in what’s going on.”

Jihyun chuckled. “Alright.” He was rather amused.

“For the lineup we’ve got Hercules, and The Lion King, and The Emperor’s New Groove. If we can make it through that I’ll be impressed. We sip whenever there’s potty humor, another disney film is referenced, whenever a character sings, and every time the main character’s name is said.”

“Sounds good.”

💫 💫 💫

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Until you had reached the middle of The Lion King, and the end of the bottle. Both of you had loosened up a fair deal, but Jihyun was still quite a bit more tolerant than you. Although he was far more giggly than one would expect. “Ya know MC, I reaaallly liked this idea, I just wish there was a bit in the rules about whenever SIMBAlism was used in the movie.”

This dork. “You sound like Seven~” You guffawfed.

“I just want to make you laugh~” He could be so cheesy sometimes. But you absolutely loved it. “Next time we get drunk together, we should ~hic~ paint!”

“He he he ~hic~ he” You were both giggling messes at this point.

Meanwhile, Jumin Han had made the decesion to stop by his childhood friend’s apartment to drop off a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignion he’d picked out on his last business trip. Little did he know that this was the last thing V and MC needed at the moment. He knocked on the door, only to hear giddy laughter from inside just as Jihyun answered.

“Jihyun… Are you drunk?” He querried. “Oh, and hello MC. You’re both drunk? And is that The Lion King?”

“Jumin! Welcome! I’d offer you some wine but we just finished the whole bottle- Oh! Great your brought more!”

“I… Am I interupting anything?”

“No, no, we were just finishing our Disney marathon drinking game. There’s a lot of SIMBAlism related to Hamlet in this movie isn’t there hehe~ It was MC’s idea since the tour got rained out. Isn’t she great?” He placed an arm on Jumin’s shoulder and made a gesture towards you reminiscent of a singular ramen noodle being flung across a cafeteria table.

“Wanna shtay for dinner, Jumin? It’s the least we can do for you,” You implored. “Especially since you brought more wiiinee!”

Jumin figured he might as well… Also he harbored a sneaking suspicion that he probably shouldn’t leave you two alone with sharp cooking utensils and a stove.

Sincerely,

Admin Halley

8

Loaded Chicken & Veggie Omelette 

Ingredients 

4 large eggs, room temperature

Splash of heavy cream 

1 cup spinach 

½ medium onion, sliced 

½ carton of white or baby Bella mushrooms 

½ cup sharp cheddar cheese 

Cooked chicken 

Salt and pepper 

Sliced tomatoes 

Sliced avocados 

Salt, pepper, basil, and oregano & fresh herbs of your choice 

Butter or olive oil 

Directions 

In a large skillet, heat a few tbsp of olive oil over medium heat. 

Add in the onions and mushrooms, season with salt and pepper and cook them for a few minutes until they develop color and soften.

Once the vegetables have softened, add in the spinach and cook until the spinach just begins to wilt. 

Remove the vegetables to a clean plate or bowl. 

In the same skillet, add a few tbsp of butter over medium heat. 

Beat your eggs with a splash of cream and any seasonings you desire and add to the skillet, swirling to make sure that eggs touch each part of the pan. 

Let the bottom of the omelette cook for a minute or so. To test, try to lift a corner of the omelette. If it tears, it is not done. If the egg is slowly starting to brown and does not tear upon lifting, it is ready to be filled. 

Spread an even layer of cheese onto the omelette and fill one side with the fillings of your choice. 

Once the filling has been placed onto the omelette, carefully fold the omelette into three parts and finish cooking. 

Removing the omelette to a plate, seam side down. 

Top with the toppings of your choice and serve. 

Enjoy! 

Jonathan Toews Blackhawks Magazine (November 2017)

About Me

Go-to-karaoke song
“Forever Young” by Jay-Z

Least favorite fashion trend
Fidget spinners

Which athlete would you want to teach hockey to?
Brian Urlacher

Which fictional character would you like to meet in real life?
Peter Griffin from “Family Guy”

Either\Or

Cardio or weights?
Weights

Would you rather do laundry or dishes?
Dishes

Would you rather live without your phone or your car?
Phone

Pancakes or waffles?
Pancakes

Pick A Teammate

Which teammate should go on “Dancing with the Stars”?
Patrick Sharp

… “Worst Cook in America”?
Duncan Keith

… “The Amazing Race”?
Corey Crawford

Most likely to tell a dad joke
Myself

Most likely to lock himself out of the house
Keith

Worst person to get stranded with
Nick Schmaltz

Razors

(A/N): Angsty fluff?

Summary: Bucky doesn’t trust himself to use razors around himself anymore, not after what he went through with Hydra

Warnings: self harm, some swearing, angst


Originally posted by love-buckybarnes

     Bucky held his razor in his hand, eyeing the old blades warily. He hadn’t been able to shave properly in years, he never did trust himself around anything sharp anymore. He couldn’t cook, he couldn’t shave, hell, sometimes he couldn’t even fight without that urge to hurt himself bubbling up within him.  

   His nasty little habit had started the day he escaped from Hydra. He’d picked up some essentials, a razor in the mix. He’d found a secluded little place and made it as homely as possible but despite this he still felt a gaping hole in his life. He was free now, he had a home, food, he was allowed to walk the streets, do whatever he pleased and yet he was still sad. Sad was an understatement- completely and utterly depressed suited him better. 

    He had just taken a glance at the old razor and somehow he knew what he had to do. He popped the top off, grabbing on of the small thin razor blades, inspecting it almost thoughtfully before rolling his sleeve up, exposing the flesh of his wrists. 

    He’d heard about this during his time as the winter soldier, this release that some people craved. At the time he hasn’t thought anything of It but now, feeling as shitty as he did he was more than curious to try. 

    With a steady hand he lowered the blade to his skin and cut, just a small one at first. He watched as the wound began to slowly seep blood, the liquid slowly but surely starting to trickle down his arm. It had sated him for now but he knew that he’d be coming back later for more. And hell he came back for more. 

    Each time was for a different reason, another face he’d remembered, another mission he’d completed, another person he let down, all the people he’d ever hurt. By the time Steve finally found him Bucky’s entire forearm was covered in these scars, some longer than others, some small but deep. It nearly shattered Steve’s heart to see his best friend do such horrible things to himself but as much as he hated to admit it he understood his reasoning. 

     Bucky looked at his wrist now, completely scarred, not an inch left unscathed. One Steve had found out he made Bucky promise not to hurt himself again. 

      “You don’t deserve this kind of pain Buck,” he’d whisper to him as he wrapped up another nasty cut. “You never deserved any kind of pain,” And when Steve would show him such tenderness, such compassion he couldn’t help but believe him, despite what he thought or felt about himself, despite the things he’d done, despite the person he once was. 

      Unfortunately his habit was just that- a habit, and a hard one to break too. It was always a struggle not to give in, to not give himself that kind of pain because he knew he deserved it but Steve and everyone else didn’t want him to, begged him not to and so he tried, for them he tried not to give in. Every now and then he’d have a relapse, a momentary haze where he’d find himself slipping back into that habit. It was those times he’d call for Steve to come help him, to make sure he wasn’t going to hurt himself again. And that’s exactly what he was going to do now. 

    With shaky hands he dropped the razor, taking a few steps back and a couple breaths in. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth he marched out of the bathroom and into the hall, already calling for Steve. 

     "Steve?“ Bucky called out, his voice quivering just a bit. "Steve I need some help,” there was no reply however. Bucky ventured further into the hall, looking around curiously, his fingers itching at his sides, desperate to claw away at his skin, another form of self harm he’d taken up. 

    He ventured into the living area of the floor, stopping when he found (Y/N) perched atop the couch, silently reading a book while they listened to music. Bucky stared at them, most likely a bit creepily but he didn’t care, he was going to stare at them all day if he wanted.

     It was no secret that Bucky downright adored (Y/N), hell, the only person who didn’t seem to know was (Y/N) themself considering how oblivious they were to Bucky’s awkward nature around them. 

    He stared at them only for a moment more, having momentarily forgot about his problem before turning on his heel to leave. The sudden movement had apparently grabbed (Y/N)’s attention for in the next moment they perked up, taking one earbud out of their ear. 

    “Bucky?” They ask softly, not wishing to startle the man. Bucky mentally cursed himself but nonetheless turned back around, putting up a fake, albeit small smile. 

    “Hi,” He breathes out, the sound quiet and soft. (Y/N) gives him a little smile of his own, setting their book down on the couch they sat on. 

    “Whatca up to?” 

   “I’m just looking for Steve,” He wasn’t lying, it was true. More often than not Bucky was in the constant search for Steve, always wishing to be by his side. 

    “Oh- he’s out on an emergency mission with Nat and Sam, what do you need him for?” (Y/N)’s smile is so sweet and so pure that Bucky actually breaks out into a real smile, even if it was just a small one. Other than Steve (Y/N) was one of the only people he liked, one of the only people he felt comfortable around. 

     “Um- I just needed some help,” Bucky sighs, absentmindedly scratching at his covered arm. “It can wait until later though,” 

   “Well maybe I can help,” (Y/N) sits up a little taller, their entire demeanor changing. 

   Bucky felt his heart stop and his blood run ice cold. It’s not that he didn’t trust (Y/N), he really did, he just didn’t want to let them see him in such a vulnerable state. God knows everyone thought he was already a broken machine, he didn’t want to fuel their fire with his dirty little secret. 

    “Um- it’s with something kind of uh,” Bucky coughs gently, his eyes unconsciously falling to his flesh arm. “kind of personal,” He looks back up, just in time to watch the way (Y/N) slumps back down again, putting on a smile of their own. 

     “Well, he’s not gonna be back for a few hours,” They state, smiling at him as the go to pick their book back up. “You’re welcome to stay with me if you like,” Bucky smiles, nodding softly. If he couldn’t take care of his problem now he may as well put it off until he could deal with it later. So instead of going in and facing his problems he elected to sit beside them, smiling softly when they once again put their book down. 

    “So, we haven’t finished FRIENDS yet, you wanna watch an episode?” Bucky nods, turning his attention to the screen before them. With a click of a button Netflix appears on the screen and the famous theme song begins to play, with (Y/N) softly singing along with it. 

     The two had gotten through an episode with no problem, Bucky was actually rather happy to sit by their side and watch some shows with them. It took his mind off of his urge to cut and he got to spend time with his favorite person in the world. 

    Everything was going great until somehow something triggered Bucky once again. He had gone from happy to downright depressed in under a minute. It didn’t help that he knew that he hid some horrendous scars on his arm and he still had to face the prospect of shaving. He sighed softly, unconsciously curling around himself as the episode ended. This small action did not go unnoticed by (Y/N) who immediately grew concerned at Bucky’s entire attitude changing. 

    “Buck,” (Y/N) states softly, “You okay?” They reached a gentle hand out, resting it upon his arm in an almost comforting fashion. 

    Bucky was faced with a dilemma, he could either wait until Steve got back to shave and most likely risk giving in to a relapse or he could tell (Y/N)  about his ‘little’ problem and have them help, if they even wanted to. He contemplated both ends of the spectrum; Steve would be so hurt and disappointed and Bucky sure as hell couldn’t stomach that thought, but on the other end there was (Y/N) and the thought of having to tell them about what he did was nerve racking. What if (Y/N) pitied him more than they already must? What if they were disgusted by him? What if they were revolted by his scars or his nasty habit? 

     Bucky hadn’t even realized he whimpered until it was too late, the sound was out there for all to here, mostly (Y/N). 

    “N-no,” He admitted softly, his voice quivering a bit. “Not really,” Immediately (Y/N) scooted a bit closer, slowly wrapping their arms around his larger frame. 

    “Do you wanna talk about it?” (Y/N) asked softly, gently stroking over his hair, scratching at his scalp lightly. Most times Bucky would have said no, blamed it on his inability to communicate but not now, not when he needed safety and comfort. Bucky nodded meekly, hesitantly pulling away. (Y/N) stared at him curiously and sympathetically as he looked down to his lap, his metal hand reaching out to his flesh one.

    Sighing softly he began to roll up the overly large sweatshirt he’d stolen from Steve, refusing to meet (Y/N)’s gaze as his scarred skin was slowly starting to become visible. He didn’t stop until his entire forearm was exposed, the entirety of it covered in those awful scars. 

    No one spoke for quite some time, it was just the two staring at Bucky’s arm. One of them in shock while the other was shameful. 

   “Bucky this is-” 

    “Gross? Horrid?” Bucky asks sadly, his heart falling a bit when (Y/N) didn’t disagree. 

    “I was going to say horrible and heartbreaking but uh-” (Y/N) trails off as they reach out, their fingers barely grazing over on of Bucky’s nastier scars. “How long have you been doing this?” 

    “I’ve been clean for a few months,” Bucky whispers, mesmerized by the way (Y/N)’s fingers would dance along his skin with such softness and care. “I always get the urge to go back though, that’s why I was calling for Steve,” Bucky trails off, his heart hammering against his chest. “I can’t cook, I can barely function on some missions and um- I can’t shave my face,” He whispers timidly, once again hanging his head in shame. 

    “So Steve helps you?” (Y/N) asks in a soft tone, almost as soft as their touches. Bucky nods, the touches almost soothing his nerves, almost. “Do you-” (Y/N) pauses, licking their lips in trepidation. “Do you want me to help you? Just this once…?” Bucky snaps his head up, staring at (Y/N) with big doe eyes. Never once in a million years would he have thought that (Y/N) would offer to help him this way, they didn’t even seem shy about it at all, even Steve had been a bit awkward at first and he’d known him since they were kids. 

     “If you want,” Bucky mumbles, an almost smile rising to his lips. That’s all the invitation (Y/N) needs to grab Bucky by the hand and walk him back to his bathroom. 

    “Can you sit on the counter?” (Y/N) asks softly yet again, their tone keeping that consistent warmth and comfort to it. Bucky does as they ask, hopping up on the counter as (Y/N) grabbed some supplies. “Um…I’ve never had to shave a face before so I’m sorry if I do this wrong,” (Y/N) mumbles as they take some shaving cream, beginning to apply it to his longer than stubble. Bucky hums softly, his eyelids fluttering closed at the feeling of (Y/N)’s hands on his face, a much greater pleasure than he could have imagined. “Okay, I’m gonna start now,” They whisper, a razor clutched in their hand lightly. Bucky nods, his eyes fluttering open. They give him a small smile before getting to work. 

    They were gentle with their work, one hand clutching his chin gently while the other dragged the razor along his scruff lightly. They were much softer than Steve, which was saying something because that man was so gentle it nearly pissed Bucky off but now with (Y/N) being the one to deliver all these gentle touches he was more than okay with it. 

    He stared at (Y/N)’s face, the little look of concentration they wore as they tried their best not to cut him or hurt him. Their brow furrowed and they yelped a little when the razor caught on some skin. Bucky winced softly, going to bring a hand up to wipe away the blood when (Y/N) frantically started moving. 

    “Oh my god Bucky,” (Y/N) freaks, their eyes going wide as they grabbed some toilet paper to quickly stop the little bit of blood seeping down his chin. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m not very good at this a-and-” They stop when Bucky gently grabs their wrist, holding it loosely. 

    “I’m okay (Y/N),” Bucky replied, his gaze softening a bit at (Y/N)’s precious eyes. “A little scratch isn’t going to hurt,” 

    “Is there- is there anyway I could make it up to you?” Bucky was going to reply with a simple ‘I’m really okay (Y/N), you don’t have to worry about it’ but as he opened his mouth to do so a sudden idea sprang upon him. 

    “I don’t know,” Bucky whispers, trying not to smile. “Maybe a kiss would make it feel better?” He held his breath as (Y/N) stared at him, hoping he hadn’t just fucked this up. But as soon as that worry began to seep in (Y/N) was already pressing a gentle kiss to his chin, their lips softly fluttering against his skin. Before Bucky could even comprehend what had happened (Y/N) had pulled away, gently wiping their thumb along the small cut. 

     “Will a kiss make these feel better too?” (Y/N) asks, gesturing to Bucky’s still exposed flesh arm. Bucky hesitates, contemplating it only for a second before nodding. (Y/N) gives him a gentle smile as they lift his arm, their lips already pressing a small kiss to his wrist, to one of the many scars littering his arm. But they don’t just stop there, instead they trail their lips all the way up his arm, leaving little kisses along each scar, only stopping when they were satisfied with their work. 

     Bucky smiles softly, staring at his arm with an almost fond twinkle in his eye. Never once had he looked upon his arms fondly but now, after witnessing the way (Y/N) had so tenderly touched it and kissed it he was viewing them in a totally different perspective. 

     “You still have shaving cream on one half of your face,” (Y/N) chuckles, smiling up at him softly, “Do you want me to continue?” Bucky stares at them, at their twinkling eyes, and their soft lips, at their sheer beauty, before he too smiles, a huge, uncharacteristically bright one.

   “Yes please,” 

8

In 1802, Jereboam Beauchamp was born in Barren County, Kentucky. When he turned 18 he decided to study law. This interest in the law soon brought Solomon P. Sharp to his attention. Sharp had been elected to the state legislature twice and served two terms in the U.S House of Representatives. In 1820 Sharp fathered a child, who was unfortunately stillborn, with Anna Cooke, the daughter of a local plantation owner. It was a scandal, but Sharp denied the accusation and he came out of the ordeal relatively unscathed. Anna on the other hand would become a recluse, hiding from society which deemed her a liar. Except Jereboam Beauchamp, he was angered at the way Sharp dealt with the situation, shamed by the former impressive Sharp’s actions. Beauchamp decided to check in on Anna Cooke, and after some time the two would become friends and after some more time became even more. Beauchamp wanted to marry, but Cooke wouldn’t do it. She insisted he first had to kill Sharp to regain her lost honour. Resolved in his task, Beauchamp then spent the next few years trying to arrange an honourable duel with Sharp. Sharp, who was still a successful lawyer, wanted no part of this duel and avoided Beauchamp a number of times. Finally though, in June 1824, Cooke agreed they had tried long enough and the two finally married. They spent the next little while living their lives, until that is, an enemy of Sharp’s brought up the scandal from so many years ago to shame him. Sharp replied that Cooke had actually slept with a slave and the child was half white and half black. This denial was the final, long awaited straw for Beauchamp. Instead of a duel it would now be cold blooded murder. On November 7, 1825 he headed to Frankfort, Kentucky in search of Sharp. Finding him at a hotel, Beauchamp then disguised himself and waited outside Sharp’s home for him to return. When he did Beauchamp knocked on his door, claiming to be a friend. When Sharp opened the door he confronted him then stabbed Sharp in the heart in front of Sharp’s wife. Though she was present she didn’t get a look at Beauchamp, especially since he was wearing a disguise. But the authorities soon found their way to him, over the years Beauchamp had been quite loud mouthed about his urge to kill Sharp. He and Anna had planned to flee to Missouri but were arrested by a posse before they could escape. It took a while, but finally on May 8, 1826, Beauchamp was indicted and sent to trial. It took 13 days for the jury to find him guilty and sentenced him to hang. Anna too was investigated but never brought to trial for lack of evidence. Still though, the Beauchamps managed to stay together as long as possible. She stayed in his cell, bribed guards to try to get an escape plan going, nothing worked out though. On July 5 the couple took a large dose of laudanum in a suicide bid, but it failed. Finally the day of his execution came, and, on July 7, before the guards could come for him, Anna and Jereboam stabbed themselves in another bid for suicide. The guards quickly grabbed him and took him to the gallows before he could bleed to death. He became the first person to be legally executed in Kentucky. Anna soon succumbed to her wound and the two were put in a lovers embrace in their coffin and sent to Maple Grove cemetery in Bloomfield, Kentucky to be laid to rest. Sharp was only 38 when he was killed and he left behind a widow and four children. Pictured above: the victim Solomon P. Sharp, Jereboam Beauchamp, Anna (Cooke) Beauchamp, a depiction of the crime, a depiction of Beauchamps execution, the grave of Sharp, the grave of the Beauchamps and lastly a plaque about the crime.

MURASAKIBARA ATSUSHI: Headcanon Meme

- Sleep headcanon

Murasakibara is a heavy sleeper. If he falls asleep, anything won’t wake him up. He’s one of these people who you can’t say anything in the morning because he has a horrible mood. He will eat his breakfast looking nowhere with a murderer face.

- Sad headcanon

Food. If he’s sad, he’ll lock himself in his room with ice cream, candies, snacks, chips and any kind of junk food he has on his house. And he’ll be eating untill the sadness pass away. If he finished eating and is still sad, he would probably take a nap.

- Happy headcanon

Brownies make Murasakibara extremely happy. Jeezz brownies… It also makes him happy as a child finding new Pocky or Maiubo flavours. Spending time with his whole family eating is a go go.

- Angry/violent headcanon

We had already seen Mura being angry and violent in the anime: he will probably crush who has made him angry. If he can’t crush anybody (Mura you can’t crush people you crazy boy), he will behave like a big baby and make a tantrum. I guess he’ll be pouting all the time. He’s not the type to get in a real fight with fists and so, but if he feels really violent, he won’t need much to hurt his oponent, Mura is a big guy.

- Sex headcanon

Okay, the entire fandom agree that Murasakibara is the best eating out. Too lazy to take off all of the clothes (or wear a condom lol that’s how he had his children). Likes his partner to ride him, just seeing how they moves and has pleasure turns him on. And if it’s a girl: plus to the boobie movement. If his partner teases him like A LOT and really isn’t moving, Mura will take the control of the situation and, be careful, if he can break a basketball hoop, he can break the bed while fucking.

- Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

Obviously, he will leave all full of crumbs. The food would be missing at home. I think in his room, he has an order inside of the chaos. He knows where everything is and if his mother decides to put in order everything, he won’t found anything poor boy. If he has to live alone, he better have eighty alarms or he won’t wake up. He needs a responsible and patient rommie.

- Romantic headcanon

He will take his partner to a pastry shop and cafe (all in one) and they will do that cute thing of giving cake to each other awww. Also his romantic date idea is to stay in home (his or theirs) and make brownies! Or anything sweet-but brownies better. Besides Mura is the type of boy which confess with a box of chocolates and a card that reads “forgive me I like you very very much but I ate all the chocolates :c”.

- Family headcanon

He’s a very familiar boy, growing up with four older siblings. He’s the spoiled child of the house and enjoys spending time with his family. But not too much ‘cause his siblings tease him a lot. He’s the type of child who holds hands with his mother when his too old for it (well is there a age for that?) and too tall.

- Friendship headcanon

It’s complicated being his friend. You have to be patient and sometimes blackmail him with food (something like Himuro haha). But I think he’s not that childish in reality, and with his friends (at some point in his life he would make more friends than the emo-i-cant-enter-the-zone boy right?) he makes jokes with double meanings and those things that seem too much for him.

- Quirks/hobbies headcanon

The type who like tourism, but a gastronomic route in a city he doesn’t know. He doesn’t have interest in monuments thought.

- Likes/dislikes headcanon

Mura really likes autumn and winter, spending the afternoon in the kotatsu while watching the bad weather outside (and eating). Also he loves to dress warmly, put layers and layers of clothes, and going out to discover new pastry shops. But even if he likes to dress warmly, he doesn’t like being cold. He prefers winter instead of summer.

- Childhood headcanon

Pretty much as it is now. He only had more difficulty eating anything- but desserts. He gave his mother real headaches.

-. Old age/aging headcanon

Grumpy grandpa. As adult, a very sexy man with pastry flour in his face and his hair tied and a sharp look aaaah.

- Cooking/food headcanon

I’ve read a lot people who thinks that Murasakibara makes a mess when he cooks, but I think that if his alternative job is a pastry chef, he does it well. He doesn’t like cooking food that isn’t sweet thought. He experiments with food recipes.

- Appearance headcanon

Ahhhh Murasakibara smells like cookies and sugar (i bet my hand that he also tastes like cookies and sugar). I’ve seen him with dungarees and hats, so I guess he likes that. Baggy clothes, which also suits him very well (he has to shop it online).

- Random headcanon

He has learned the entire periodic table 'cause he’s a Physics freak just sayin.

- Any other question of your choosing

wanna be part of my personal harem??? nevermind you’re already in.

10

Poke In The Eye (With A Sharp Stick) ~ Backstage footage (Part 1)

In order: Michael Palin, Peter Cook, Terry Gilliam, Terry Jones, Graham Chapman, John Fortune, Dame Edna Everage, Peter Cook, Terry Gilliam, John Cleese