#The English Difference

[thefugitivesaint]

Bush Hollyhead (1949-2020), ''The English Difference'' by Paul Jennings, 1974 I think Hollyhead is probably most famous for the quick cover-up he did for the Hipgnosis cover for Led Zeppelin’s album 'Houses of the Holy' in 1973. The logotype that Hollyhead dashed off to cover up part of Hipgnosis' artwork became synonymous with Led Zeppelin. (I'm not a big Led Zeppelin fan so I didn't know until making this post that the cover of 'Houses of the Holy' was inspired by Arthur C. Clarke’s novel 'Childhood’s End', an idea from the mind of the designer Aubrey Powell and that the kids in that album cover are climbing Giant’s Causeway in Ireland. Or that it's just two kids, siblings, who "were photographed over the course of ten days at dawn and at dusk." Also, another related tidbit, one of Hollyhead's colleagues, George Hardie, who was part of the same artistic studio, did Pink Floyd's 'The Dark Side of the Moon' with Hollyhead adding an airbrush glow to the design.

[fairydrowning]

– Noor Unnahar, Instagram account "noor_unnahar"

[TEXT ID: / [Lemons] / My father's mother loved lemons. Years after her passing, / we run out of everything, but never / lemons. / Nothing else shelters grief / better than memory. / It's my father way of saying, / even in your absence, you will be / cared by me. / END ID]

[iwasbored777]

We're not appreciating the Weird Barbie enough. It's said in the movie that she helps everyone who need help while they always see her as someone who's not as good as them. She was friends with all dismissed Barbies and Kens, was there to offer support and safe shelter for everyone who needed it in Kendom, without her nothing in the movie would've been alright. When Stereotypical Barbie calls her "ugly and unwanted" she still helps her.

She was representing a woman in women's world who was pushed aside by other women because she didn't fit in but still had more wisdom and kindness than everyone who thought they're better than her.

[marigoldendragon]

The twins really took one look at Ernesto's flags and said 'red is my favourite colour'

[sparkoflena]

Random Headcanon

Dick: Tim, we need to talk about your relationship with Damian.

Tim: ...why? We have a normal Sibling Bickering relationship.

Dick: You are the only member of this family that he still calls by your last name. I know things were rough at the start but you need to bond with him more and-

Tim, already laughing: This is about my name???

Dick: Yeah, your last name-

Tim: Dick, my last name is Drake!

Dick: ...I'm aware.

Tim: And Damian's 13.

Dick: I don't see the correlation.

Tim: Drake translates to 'dragon.' And he's a kid.

Dick: So this is about... your name meaning?

Tim: Would you rather call your brother by a stuffy name like Timothy or by DRAGON

[vimbry-moved]

(*1995 and largely icon, personally.

the choice is meant to be what you say now.

couldn't decide on where to comfortably separate the age demographics in the end, so made the focus more on the split of which generations were born into mainstream internet use.

no "other" option, because that would skew the poll out of people choosing terms in other languages/swapping between all of above/indecision

did originally have a wider variety of options such as badge, userpic, e.g. but simplified it down to terms used the most currently by users on this website).

[witless-winion1]

“Father?”

Obviously, the first time Odysseus heard his son say that in ICHBW, he thinks it’s the sweetest sound he’s heard yet in this world. He treasures being called father of Telemachus, and more so from his son’s own lips.

As he settles back into home, however, he slowly starts to mourn what his son calls him. Penelope tells him Telemachus used to call her mommy, then Mom. He still calls her Mom. And he’s Father.

He tries to scold himself, to be thankful that his son is comfortable with him; they’re growing closer, Odysseus is showing his son how to carve and talking about his many adventures in the 20 years away from home (the least traumatic ones, anyway), and Telemachus is talking to him about Ithaca and how training with Athena is going, etc etc., but he’s always Father.

and he mourns that he missed the younger years where he would have been called daddy and Dad. He wants to be a Dad, not a Father.

He’s minding his business around the castle, thinking about whether Athena would like a carved mask or patch for her scarred eye as a gift, when he hears his son’s now familiar, memorized voice call him.

“Hey, Dad!”

He turns his head to see Telemachus, smiling (albeit a bit nervously) and waving for him to come over, pointing out at a bright pair of birds that are building a nest together. (Penelope definitely didn’t tell him that she’d heard Odysseus making miniature puppy eyes every time he called her Mom and Odysseus Father. Of course not.)

Telemachus nearly panics when Odysseus starts crying, figuring that he had some sort of trauma connected to birds (let’s be honest, what doesn’t he have PTSD with), and Odysseus just gives him a big ol bear hug, sniffling and muttering that he loves him.

Telemachus never calls him Father again.

[pakchoys]

i didn’t count on this before my very first kiss!

[durzyx]

Cynicism queen

[vriskan8or]

let her go

[keferon]

Did you think I was done? Ahahahaha no, I have more.

Because chapter 70 of MOMU gave me the very dynamic between them that I missed so much, I just blacked out and started drawing uncontrollably lmao

Also. ALSO. I noticed a while ago that Prowl has the habit of..like…constantly frowning. So. I did a bit of research and made this graph.

In 70 chapters, Prowl frowns rougly 104 times. And the intensity of this gesture is very clearly correlated with the development of his relationship with Jazz, as you can see ahahahahah It might be wrong tho don’t take me seriously I’m not good with graphs

[oddarette]

Tea Bee 🫖🐝

[livecrow]

Gundog!Soap's errand gets derailed when he catches your scent.

A retriever "retrieves" a plump bird.

Shifter/Hybrid Dark!Soap x fat reader

(cw: kidnapping)

Soap’s popping down to the shops.

He just needs to pick up an ingredient for dinner last minute. Ghost isn’t home yet, so he’s off the lead. Unsupervised. Normally, they’d get the messages together, but he only needs one thing. He could manage it. It wouldn’t be more than a wink.

But as he mills about, he can’t help feeling off.

Like he really is a dumb dog wandering around without his owner, his lead might as well be dragging on the floor behind him, collecting lint and stray bread ties—

It’s turning into one of those days where he feels far more mutt than man. 

Without Ghost’s firm hand grounding him, the place is a cacophony of input. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many colors, too much movement—all melding together into a murky emulsion of stimulus under the glaring LEDs. 

He squints down the vast row of isles for longer than he’ll admit.

Eeigit.

He should have written a note.

Thought he could have remembered one bleedy thing. You dinnae need a list for one thing—

Feeling frustrated and dafty, he resigns himself to traipsing down each aisle and hoping something jogs his memory. Pride wouldn’t let him call up Lt. He’d never hear the end of it. He’s a birddog for chrissake, proper braw at findin’ things—when he knows what he’s fuckin’ looking for. 

Least he can skip the sundries. He knows that much. Soap’s more than happy to avoid the detergent aisle. Stuff is bowfin. Stings his nose, makes his heid ache.

Lot of good his heid was anyway, feeling fuzzy, like it was packed with cotton. Might as well be. Nothin’ else between his ears. Certainly not the one fuckin' thing he pulled on his gutties and left the house for—

He let's loose an irritated huff and it's probably a bit too close to a growl than is wise.

Soap's trying to make good time, but he's a solid four isles in and hasn't had any luck. Eventually, he finds himself staring down a sea of tins. Fruit and veg, beans, and the sort. His eyes scanned the labels, but even readin' was a real Herculean task when he's feeling so out of sorts.

The canine part of him can't be convinced deciphering rows of little lines and squiggles is a proper use of his time. Especially when he could be usin' his nose instead.

Some wee bairn has starts greetin’ a few aise down.

—Green beans, peas, sliced carrots, corn, diced potatoes. Nae, that wasn't it—

....who in their right mind buys tinned tatties?

A passing trolley is making an awful racket. Discordant shrill squeaks and clunks of a stuck wheel scraped against his ear drums.

—It’s definitely not the asparagus—shites mingin’, and that’s fresh. Wouldnae faff about with a recipe that called for that. Cannae think how foul tinned would be… 

Soap sighs in exasperation. As he goes to abandon this aisle, he steps back to turn and bumps into something.

Soft. Soft, soft, softness presses into his hip—

The kind of softness that cradles, that molds around him. Softer than any of his toys. Soft an’ cozy as his own bed, maybe—nae, softer. His bed didn't have the same give, the same wobble. It was a softness that sent a literal shiver up his spine, saliva pooling in his mouth. That smell—

Not something, someone then.

An incidental collision, a bird had been trying to slip by him just as he stepped backwards.

The touch was there and gone in a second but he was mournful for its absence. The scent lingered at least, soothed the whine that crawled into his throat. There was no artifice to it, no acrid chemical edges that came with any fragrance found in a bottle.

You had actually managed to catch him off guard. The shiver that rattled through him began with a slight jolt of surprise at the two of your union. He must have been more out of it than he thought, he hadn't even noticed anyone else in the aisle. He'll never get used to being startled, but he wouldn’t hold that against you.

“Oh, sorry,” you muttered apologetically as you stepped back, embarrassment coloring your face. The contact clearly ruffled your feathers a bit.

Soap’s mouth shuts with an audible click, he hadn’t realized his lips were parted. He hurriedly swallows a completely unadvisable pant in your direction.

“Nae bother, hen,” he blinks. Finally finding his human voice, responding like he's supposed to when he's out and about on two legs. It’s a little breathier, a beat later than he should have responded, lower too. There's a rasp there that chafes the very air. 

...Maybe his head wasn't packed with cotton.

Maybe it was your soft, downy feathers that was muddling him up, making itself a sweet little nest in his cranium—

The bird sends him a polite, restrained smile as it scurries off.

His world narrowed, like he was watching through a spyglass. Or was it a scope? Regardless, everything else but you dissolved into blur, even his peripheral was swallowed up. Framed you in a vignette. Every tiny aspect of the minute interaction seared painlessly into his mind.

A pretty, fat partridge.

Wandering too close.

Game like that, ambling by all round and plump, right under his snout? Feathers close enough they almost tickle his nose—

It's instinct, ya ken?

Mind, for a dog that retrieves quarry, it’s in his nature. Cannae help it anymore than the shade of his coat. So, is it the dog's fault then, when he lunges? Snatches the bird up, into his warm mouth? Firm and soft all at once. The delicate control from a pup that can cradle a raw egg without fracturing the shell. When he brings it back to his master, tail waggin’ as he’s done a hundred other times?

Nae. Noone’d blame him.

He can already practically feel the pantomime thumping of your frantic heartbeat in his mouth—echoing his own excited pulse. 

Soap’s keen eyes never left his prey, even as your back was foolishly to him. His hind paws were already ahead of his brain, he followed, trailing at a distance. Stalking.

Thing should know better, he might have been a wolf. You’d have waddled straight into it's gaping maw, mistake the canines for stalactites and his tongue for a cozy spot to lay your little head.

But no, he’s no wolf. He’s safe. Won't take a bite out of you. He's a good boy— 

Good dog.

Bird dog. A Gordon Setter, Si says.

A jack of all trades, proficient at tracking, pointing, and retrieving. A soft-mouth breed. That’s very important. Most dogs cannae do what he can. Pick up a bird without pricking it. Ghost has been working with him, trainin’ him up. Helping him be more patient, learn new tricks.

Your scent—it was so hard to describe, but he luxuriated in it, nose twitching. It was warm, but not torrid. Sweet, but not cloying. Rich, but not heavy—

Familiar, somehow. Like a childhood lovey. Cheek-worn and supple as a lamb's ear. 

He’s struck by a piercing déjà vu.

It should have confounded Soap—but it didn’t. It just was. The strange mix of familiarity and unfamiliarity that shouldn’t normally coexist. He didn’t know you, nae. But it felt like he should. Maybe he’d seen you in a dream? Some sticky remnant from a past life? Nothing else could explain the strength of the reaction that gripped him by the scruff. Commanded him to “fetch”.

...He’s doin’ so well. Being so, so careful—game’s normally still, after all. Not wriggling about anymore. Is much more effort to control his grip on a bird thas tryin' to fly away.

Thing squealing like a squeaky-toy doesn’t help, zaps somethin' in his brain, even though he’s hardly pressing. Ghost will look at you an’ see there’s no teeth marks on you. He’s being good. Knows better. Not even a tiny nibble. 

Soap's so pleased.

Only wish he'd had his tail out, so he could articulate his excitement properly.

He’ll take you home and keep you. Rest a heavy paw on you when he wants you to stay put. Carry you round the house with him. Share his food with you. Show you his other toys. Only roughhouse gently, like he would a puppy. Bat you around a bit. Paw at you real gentle like. This soft, living squeaky-toy that he can nap with. Even let you nest in his own bed, tucked under his chin. He’d only ever mouth at you gently, you'd learn you wouldn’t have to fear his teeth. He’d rasp his tongue over you, help you preen yer pretty feathers.

He ached to sigh happily against you, rut his face against you. Wanted all the rest of his sighs to be against you, pressed into your skin. Nose at your crown, in your soft neck, on your squishy belly. He’s curious where on you that scent would be the strongest.

Ghost will be so proud when he sees, when he proudly lays you at his boots—

You'll like his owner. He'll pet you real nice. Ghost always knows the right spot, even before you do. Thoughtful.

So thoughtful that he won't even mind that he'll have to sort something else out for dinner.

[redstonedust]

im not a huge fan of genderbends but ive gotta say i do have a lot of respect for when you can tell someone has put actual thought into how a character would be affected by being raised a different gender. like some characters have gender related hang ups and toxic ideals and perform such a heightened ideal of their gender that you just know genderbending them would completely change their character design. and others its like. you could make this man a woman and it would change absolutely nothing.

[dkettchen]

she would've told them unlike her canon! version who decided not to be an ally smh

[cad-faoi-maeglin]

*grabs you by the shoulders and shakes you violently*

Listen to me, Irish spelling is logical and has rules. Your unfamiliarity with our language does not change that.

BuT tHaT's NoT tHe SoUnD tHoSe LeTtErS mAkE

Yes, it is! That is the sound those letters make! All you're doing is telling me you can't read!