Things

Marsapan and marshmallows. f/28. Finally fucking married 😊😊

[whitepeopletwitter]

[samshine-and-lollipops-deactiva]

Wait, it got better.

[libertineangel]

He does this a lot, to my deep surprise in undergrad:

For reference, the reason nobody likes this book and you can press tofu with it is that it’s about 1600 pages long.

[horizon-penblade]

It’s also, by all accounts, the origin of Cousin Throckmorton

[supreme-leader-stoat]

[skyberia]

was reminded of that youtube channel that records footage of that bridge that scalps trucks today. one of the fascinating developments that's happened since i last heard about it is that, in one of their many attempts to stop the trucks from being can-opened, they installed a traffic light that detects when a vehicle that's over the allowed height is coming and turns red so the driver can stop and hopefully notice the signage all around that's screaming "YOUR VEHICLE IS OVERHEIGHT TURN AROUND" and avoid an accident. However as a result sometimes drivers see the light turning yellow and IMMEDIATELY start flooring it to avoid having to stop, ensuring that the roof of their truck just gets fucking annihilated instantly. Really beautiful stuff you should check it out

[nieyao]

the comments have me in tears

[abowlofjellyfish]

[twiggies-draws]

@rogue-bard

It DOES have a sign. It turns on when it detects something too tall for the bridge. It even flashes. And the traffic lights will go red to get people to stop when it detects an over height vehicle so they read the signs. (note this lovely example where the lights are red, because the truck thought it was better than the lights)

[library-seraph]

every time I see this post I've forgotten how clearly signposted the canopener bridge is, and every time it hits me like a truck (hitting the canopener bridge and getting the top of its trailer ripped asunder)

[mcufam]

SHANG-CHI AND THE LEGEND OF THE TEN RINGS 2021, dir. Destin Daniel Cretton

[tanoraqui]

Neal Protectorofthesmall is great because it's like he accidentally wandered into Kel's Low Fantasy Tortall from the High Fantasy Tortall of the SotL & Immortals books. Nealan of Queenscove, eldest (remaining) son and heir of Duke Baird of Queenscove, a house which for generations has offered the crown more knights than almost any other. One of the oldest pages/squires/knights in Tortallan history because he was attending university before his two knighted elder brothers were both slain in the Immortals War, and now he's determined to carry on their memory and his family's legacy in their place. He has piercing green eyes, the same emerald color as his powerful magical healing Gift. He falls in love gets engaged to a close friend of the queen-to-be. He's literally Alanna's squire! How did he get here??

(A stubborn ten-year-old gave him the best lecture on chivalry he'd ever heard, so he decided to be her best friend/sarcasm translator/good right hand for the rest of their lives, that's how.)

[girlsjustwannahaveadegree]

Me at least twice a week

[readingworldwanderer]

You may think the phrase "He's just a little guy" comes from internet memes, but you would be wrong.

The true origin of the phrase belongs to celebrated author Tamora Pierce, in her 1983 novel Alanna: The First Adventure, when Gary says, "Still—what can Alan do for you? He's just a little guy"(49).

Thus, whenever we say of someone or some creature that they are "just a little guy," what we are really saying is that they are a short redheaded knight-in-training with some sort of Gender going on who will kick your butt given half a chance.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. May we all be the little guys we wish to see in the world.

Pierce, Tamora. Alanna: The First Adventure. New York, Random House, 1983.

[kkinkshamer]

[mhalachai]

“By the first world war, soldiers swore so much that the word “fucking” came to function as no more than “a warning that a noun is coming”. “

Guardian review of Holy Sh*t: A Brief History of Swearing by Melissa Mohr 

[jumpingjacktrash]

i would like to take this opportunity to present my headcanon about that infamous “language!” line: steve and the howlies had such dirty mouths that they had to be constantly reminded to clean it up for the reporters that followed them around. so steve heard a swear word over the radio and had a kneejerk stop that we’re being filmed for the folks back home reaction.

in other words, he said “language” not because he never swears, but because if he’s not on guard he swears way too much. :D

[halloweenatasha]

“the word ‘fucking’ came to function as no more than “a warning that a noun is coming”

[jenniferrpovey]

And the interesting thing about actually dealing with people who do swear to that degree, which I have, is that eventually your brain completely tunes the word fucking out.

You basically don’t hear it. It becomes unimportant noise.

[froborr]

I was actually just talking to someone last night about how when I was a kid (the 80s), no one said “fuck” or “shit,” ever, but people casually tossed slurs around like nobody’s business. Now people use “fuck” and “shit” like punctuation, but slurs are increasingly taboo–and that’s exactly how it should fucking be.

[jenniferrpovey]

You can tell we were kids in the 80s in different places…

[laylainalaska]

OH MY GOD I FOUND THE POST AGAIN!!

When I first saw this post go around, I was traveling, but I had something I wanted to say and I could never find it again.

Okay, so, this post isn’t wrong, but what the original gifset doesn’t take into account (though some of the commentary touches on it) is how incredibly situational swearing was in the 1940s.

So, yes, men swore a lot – around other guys, in certain contexts. But they were very heavily conditioned not to swear around women and kids.

I think this might be one of the big reasons why a lot of people my age and younger got the idea that people didn’t swear during the 1940s. Most of us fell into the “kid” or “female” categories, or both, and guys our grandparents’ age would never, ever say “fuck” around us. And those words weren’t usually used in media of the era for similar reasons, so we got the idea that people that age were very prim and polite, when it’s more that they were prim and polite around us.

I remember as a young woman walking in on groups of old blue-collar guys talking among themselves, with profanity flying freely, and then noticing me in the room and immediately clamming up and apologizing to me for swearing around me.

There’s a bit in the Douglas Bader biography I was reading a month or so ago that demonstrates this in a WWII context. According to the book, the squadron pilots swore freely in their radio chatter to each other in the field, to the amusement of the WAAFs (female service personnel) who were listening to the radio in an ops room as they moved counters around on maps (much like we see Peggy doing in TFA) and the embarrassment of their commander:

After awhile, to the regret of the Beauty Chorus [the WAAFs], Woodhall disconnected the loud-speaker in the Ops Room, feeling that some of the battle comments were too ripe even for the most sophisticated WAAFs. (“They laugh, you know,” he said, “but dammit I get so embarrassed.”)

… so, right, even in the middle of a war, pilots saying “fuck” over the radio was something the female staff had to be insulated from.

Say what you will about the baby boomers, but they largely demolished that wall between “swearing around men” and “swearing around women”. Most guys my dad’s age don’t do it anymore, at least not to that much of an extreme. By the time you get to my generation (I’m 40), people might swear or they might not, and they usually don’t swear around young kids, but swearing around men but not around women is just not a thing anyone does anymore. At least I don’t know anyone who does it specifically and consistently who’s not elderly.

It’s not really an individual-sexism thing, more of a socialization thing – sexist on a societal level, sure, but I don’t think Steve would balk at swearing around women, kids, or in a refined or professional social setting because he’s a sexist or a prude. It’s just something you didn’t do as a polite person. Like blowing your nose on the tablecloth in a fancy restaurant. I think he could and probably would unlearn that, but it’d take time.

So, to me, about half the examples up there work just fine (“now why the fuck would I do that” to Bucky – absolutely! Or “Is everything a fucking joke to you?” to Tony) and several jar horribly, because they’re not the right context (like the “there’s only one God ma'am” bit – noooo, you aren’t going to get “fuck” and “ma'am” in the same sentence! not for a Steve fresh from the 1940s! – or “we have our fucking orders” … in a polite, professional context like that, no). Steve would never. Or, I should say, someone from Steve’s culture – who tries in general to be a polite and respectful person, as Steve does – would never. Maybe after he’s had a few years to acclimatize to the more relaxed social climate surrounding swearing in the 21st century, but I think it’d take him awhile; he would sort of instinctively jerk himself back from doing it in all but the most relaxed sort of “palling around with your teammates” environment.

(Headcanon-wise, I could see Steve very quickly incorporating someone like Natasha into his mental schemata as “one of the guys” – not consciously, but on a subconscious level: like, he doesn’t hold back from swearing around her pretty quickly – but taking a LOT longer with someone like Wanda or Pepper.)

tl;dr disclaimer: not a historian, was not alive in the 1940s, so please correct me if I’m wrong on things here.

[glorious-spoon]

I’m so glad someone said this, because this is something I think a lot of the Steve meta about swearing misses. Situational profanity, exactly! He wouldn’t cuss in anything he’d consider ‘polite company’, because you didn’t do that. I’m absolutely sure he’s capable of having a very foul mouth in some circumstances (he was a soldier who grew up in working-class Brooklyn, so… yeah), but in the cultural context where he grew up, you sure as hell didn’t say ‘fuck’ in front of a lady, not if you had any manners to speak of.

/speaking as someone who cusses like breathing, even.

[phoenixtawnyflower]

This is the best explanation of Steve’s ‘language’ line I’ve ever seen.

[belleeebelleee]

Daryl Dixon (The Walking Dead) x fem!reader

Daryl Dixon knows how to do a lot of things. Hunting. Tracking. Killing. Surviving. So why the fuck is he stumbling over his words and fumbling when he's around you?

Daryl Dixon knows how to do a lot of things.

Tracking a deer through mud and silence in the dead of winter? Easy.

Splitting apart a walker’s skull in one clean motion without getting splattered? Routine.

Finding water in places most people would’ve already died of thirst in? Second nature.

Fixing broken crossbows, reading the wind, building traps from scrap metal and instinct? He could do it half asleep.

But you?

You make him feel like he’s seventeen again and don’t know where to put his hands.

It starts small.

At least, it does in his head.

You asking him a question and him answering too fast, voice coming out rougher than intended. You laughing at something Carol said and him missing half the conversation because he’s watching your face instead of listening.

You saying his name and suddenly he forgets what he was doing with his own damn hands.

The bolt he was tightening slips.

He mutters something under his breath that would’ve made Merle proud and turns away like the wall is suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Behind him, Glenn notices immediately.

“Oh my god,” Glenn whispers to Maggie. “He’s doing it again.”

Maggie doesn’t even look up. “Leave him alone.”

Daryl Dixon does not get flustered.

That’s the lie he tells himself.

He just… gets distracted.

Yeah. That’s it.

Distracted.

Not because you’re sitting on the tailgate of a truck with the sun hitting your face just right and your sleeves pushed up and your voice soft when you’re talking to Judith.

Not because you handed him a can of food earlier and your fingers brushed his for half a second and suddenly his brain went blank like someone unplugged him.

Not because you smiled at him when he came back from a run—like you were actually glad he made it back—and he had to look away so hard it almost gave him whiplash.

No.

Just distracted.

The first time he really embarrasses himself is at the fence.

You’re helping repair it, standing beside him with wire cutters and steady hands while he tightens a section of mesh.

It’s quiet.

Comfortable in that rare post-apocalypse way where nothing is actively trying to kill you for five whole minutes.

“You’re good at this,” you say casually.

Daryl snorts. “Ain’t hard.”

You hum, like you don’t fully believe him.

“Still. You make it look easy.”

That does it.

Something in his chest tightens so fast it almost hurts.

He shrugs too hard, misjudges the angle, and jams the pliers straight into his own thumb.

“Shit—”

He yanks his hand back instantly, cradling it like it’s betrayed him personally.

You turn toward him immediately. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he snaps automatically.

Too fast.

Too sharp.

You step closer anyway, because of course you do.

“Daryl, let me see.”

“I said I’m fine.”

You don’t listen.

Of course you don’t.

You reach for his hand anyway and that’s where the real problem starts.

Because the second your fingers wrap around his wrist, his entire brain turns to static.

He goes very still.

Too still.

Like a deer realizing it’s already been seen.

Your touch is gentle as you inspect his thumb. “It’s not bad. Just a cut.”

“Yeah,” he manages. “Told ya.”

His voice comes out wrong.

Thicker.

Lower.

You look up at him for half a second.

That’s worse.

That’s always worse.

Because now you’re close enough that he can see the small details he normally tries not to notice. The shape of your lashes. The way your expression softens when you’re focused on something.

The fact that you’re holding his hand like it matters.

His throat goes dry.

You let go eventually, patting his wrist lightly. “You’re allowed to admit when you’re hurt, you know.”

“Don’t need it.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Ain’t much.”

You smile.

And that’s it.

That’s the moment his brain fully shuts down.

He nods like he heard you, turns away too quickly, and walks straight into the fence post behind him.

There’s a dull metallic clang.

Silence.

From behind him, he hears Glenn lose his absolute mind.

After that, it only gets worse.

He starts avoiding you in ways that make no sense.

Not obvious avoidance.

Just… strategic repositioning.

If you’re in the kitchen, he suddenly needs to check the perimeter.

If you’re near the fire, he volunteers for water runs.

If you’re talking to him directly, he suddenly remembers a very urgent task that involves being literally anywhere else.

Carol notices first.

Of course she does.

She catches him one evening sharpening arrows he doesn’t need to sharpen.

“You’re running from her,” she says mildly.

Daryl nearly slices his own finger. “Ain’t.”

Carol raises an eyebrow.

He grits his teeth. “Just busy.”

“Mm.”

That single sound is worse than any argument.

The breaking point comes when you get hurt.

Not badly.

Just a scrape during a supply run—slipped on debris, caught your arm.

Daryl sees it happen before he even realizes he’s moving.

One second he’s across the street.

Next he’s right there, grabbing your arm without thinking.

“Shit—are you bit?”

“No,” you say quickly, startled more than anything. “It’s just a cut.”

He’s already scanning you anyway. Checking. Hands steady this time, all survival instinct and focus.

But then you look up at him.

And soften.

“I’m okay,” you reassure him quietly. “Really.”

Something in his chest twists hard.

Because you’re still holding onto his wrist.

Still letting him touch you.

Still not pulling away.

And he realizes—

He’s not afraid of you getting hurt.

He’s afraid of what happens to him when you look at him like that.

Like he’s someone worth trusting.

His grip loosens immediately.

He steps back too fast.

“Need to patch it,” he mutters.

“I’ve had worse.”

“Still needs patchin’.”

You watch him for a second. “Daryl…”

He turns away before you can finish.

Because if he hears his name like that again, he’s going to say something stupid.

Something honest.

Later that night, he’s sitting by the fire when you come over.

Quiet.

Careful.

Like you’re approaching something skittish.

You sit beside him anyway.

No pressure.

Just presence.

After a long silence, you say softly, “You always do that, you know.”

He doesn’t look at you. “Do what.”

“Run off.”

His jaw tightens.

You bump your shoulder lightly against his. “You don’t have to.”

That’s the problem.

He does.

Because staying means sitting too close to you.

Means hearing your voice.

Means risking looking at you again and forgetting how to function.

He finally glances at you.

Bad idea.

Always a bad idea.

You’re watching him like you’re not afraid of what he might be.

Like you’re not waiting for him to turn into something sharp.

Just… there.

Warm.

Real.

His hands flex once against his knees.

“Don’t know what you want,” he admits quietly.

It’s the closest thing to honesty he’s given you in days.

You tilt your head. “I think you do.”

He huffs a quiet, humorless breath.

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

Silence stretches between you.

Firelight flickers.

Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs.

Daryl swallows hard.

Then, like it physically costs him something:

“Can’t… think straight around ya.”

The words hang there.

Ugly.

Raw.

True.

You don’t laugh.

Don’t tease.

Don’t make it worse.

You just look at him like that matters.

Like it’s not something to be embarrassed about.

“That sounds like a problem,” you say gently.

He almost smiles at that.

Almost.

You shift closer, just enough that your knee touches his.

“You don’t have to be good at this,” you add.

His eyes flick to you again.

“Yeah?” he mutters.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

Then, quieter than everything else he’s said:

“…ain’t ever done this before.”

You lean in slightly. “Me neither.”

That finally gets him to look at you properly.

Really look.

Not through you.

Not away.

Just you.

His breath catches—not dramatic, not obvious, just a small betrayal of his own body.

You lift your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you.

He doesn’t.

Your fingers brush his cheek lightly.

And this time—

He doesn’t run.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

gif not mine

Daryl, aggressively shoves a freshly dressed, raw deer leg at Y/N like it's a bouquet of red roses: Here.

Y/N: Oh—wow. Is this for the group dinner tonight?

Daryl, grumbling while walking away: They don't get none’a it. S’your leg.

Y/N, holding a bloody venison leg: My—leg?

Carol: That’s the Dixon version of courting.

[catchymemes]

[blondejaneblonde]

Okay, but I would pay extra for this driveway.

[naamahdarling]

Um, can I please get every neighborhood kid and animal to come walk across my driveway? Can I get a cat to just run around on there? This flock of ducks did such an amazing job!

[goddamnshinyrock]

I was 18 months old when my parents built their house. After pouring the concrete slab for the foundation, my father, world’s most sentimental man, carried me down into the hole so he could preserve a single imprint of my little baby foot in the house he was building for me to grow up in.

Naturally, I wriggled loose, so what is actually preserved for posterity in my parents’ basement floor is my mad dash through this glorious new mud pit, followed by my father’s footprints in hot pursuit, a visible scuffle where the fugitive was captured, and then my father’s prints returning to the ladder.

[gallusrostromegalus]

I hope some future archeologist finds your parent’s basement floor because they’re going to lie down on the ground and cry about it.

[teashoesandhair]

I'm in a little local cafe and the women behind the counter started griping to each other, "Oh Christ, Stephen's back again," "It's him, is it? I thought he'd stopped coming," "It's definitely him, look, it's bloody Stephen on a Thursday morning," "Do you want me to get rid of him or are you going to do it?" and so I was peering outside, trying to spot this nightmare customer, this pestilence of a person, this pox upon the cafe trade, and then one of the women from behind the counter ran outside, clapping two trays together loudly and yelling "GET OUT OF IT, STEPHEN!" and it turns out that Stephen is an absolutely gigantic fuck-off seagull who hangs around outside, menacing people for crumbs

[daryling]

It's officially the one year anniversary of my Daryl addixon... at 1:17am on July 26th 2025 my tumblr for you page was flooded with pics of Daryl and that was the moment I decided to buy all of the twd seasons on dvd, I had only seen the first season many times because it was the only season we had on dvd, I refuse to watch shows on streaming services 🥲 but hey it only took me one month and two weeks to watch the whole show!

so that's basically my life story

[boiledeggg]

Daryl Dixon falling for you...

This is basically how I think your relationship with him would evolve. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did while writing this. I'm honestly in love with this. Enjoyyyy!

♡..♡...

Daryl is a sheep disguised as a wolf. He knows that he had a habit of trusting people easily and getting easily heartbroken when he loses them. And that's why he formed a wall, a wall thick enough to protect both parties. He would never let his guard off around you. His hand would be stationed near his crossbow while his eyes took note of your moves. It would be slow— the process of you gaining his trust. Each run, conversation, fight, they all count. You would know you have his trust when he feels comfortable enough to let you tend to his wounds, hold him at his lowest, and trust your plan.

He would place his hand on your shoulder, letting you know he can handle them and you should rest. His eyes would go right back at you after he's done tending to the problem. His eyes would glimmer, hoping that you saw it. This becomes a small habit of his that he finds hard to let go of. Every time he would accomplish anything with you around, his eyes would seek you.

He would often remember things you said from months ago and when he would spot anything related to what you said a small smile would form across his face. After you tell him your favourite flower he would seek that flower on runs. And whenever he would spot that colourful glow from afar, he would secretly wish it was that flower. If it happened to be said flower, he would keep it in his vests pocket till he reaches you.

He doesn't realise it's love. He doesn't really know what it means to feel butterflies or moonstruck. He would be confused by why whenever you are close he wishes to stay in that moment. Honestly, he is a loser in love. It's quite ridiculous that even Carol would know about his love before him, she would put you in situations so that the two of you have to work together. And the moment he finally realises, he is not the happiest. He believes that after all these years, after all the people he has lost that love is just "not his thing". He would start avoiding extra work with you as he believes that avoidance is the solution to such "problems"— ofcourse this man doesn't last long without thinking about you. From time to time he would very casually drop by Carol and ask about you. Very discreetly ask if you mentioned him. (And Carol being Carol would bluntly tell him to just confess already.)

Daryl is not one to confess with an "I love you" and a passionate make out. His "I love you"s are rare but one way he sure does express his feelings are by his actions. He would walk upto you under the moon's glow and hand you something you mentioned so long ago that you question how he even managed to get it. You would stand there in utter disbelief while this man prepares to confess just the way he practiced a million times in his head. "If you ever want anything else..tell me..." And there he stood, ears red, preparing to say I love you but those words never left his lips, instead he says something far better "Ye're very important to me y'know...very.". Even under the low glimmer of moonlight you could see his cheeks turning red.

.

.

.

If you have any specific requests on further exploration over this topic, do tell because I, myself am having a lot of fun writing these kinds of posts.(⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

gif @daryl-dixon-daydreams

Y/N, noticing a tiny bruise on Daryl’s elbow: Who did this to you? Give me names.

Daryl, twisting his arm to see the bruise: Must’a banged it on somethin’.

Y/N: What was it? I’ll burn it.

Daryl, genuinely stressed by the overwhelming display of affection: Stop lookin' at me like m’a baby. Don’t need coddled. Made’a tougher stuff than that.

Y/N, cooing: Yes you are! You're the toughest, most dangerous boy in the apocalypse! Yes you are!

Daryl, looking desperately toward Rick: Help?

Rick: Nope. You’re on your own, brother.

[islamprotestan-blog]

only 5 seconds

[zanyflowerpizzatrash]

i wasn't ready for that..lol

[suffer-no-humiliation]

Immediately recognized that look

[jeremy-ken-anderson]

The subtitles do really good work at conveying tone and mood here, but it's worth having sound on just for the noise he makes when she gets out of it.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

gif not mine

Y/N: If you had to pick between me and your crossbow, which one would you choose?

Daryl, without hesitation: The bow.

Y/N: Okay, but what if the bow was broken?

Daryl: I'd fix it.

Y/N: You are so cold! Kiss me.

Daryl, shoving her forehead away with one finger: Go eat your beans.

Y/N, huffing: No, thank you! I’ll starve!

Y/N: I can’t believe you won’t even kiss—

Daryl, cutting her off with a quick kiss: Now go eat your damn beans.

[bucky-issues]

can we have more black cat daryl x reader pleasee <<<3 i always saw him as a guard dog but now im seeing him as a black cat since reading your fics

Daryl is a black cat and here’s why.

You had mentioned it once to him and he flat out denies it, saying something like “I ain’t no pussy”

“I don’t mean it like that!” You exclaimed, “I meant it in a completely different way”

“Ya? Like what?” He grumbled, his eyes still glaring at you. You laughed at his demeanor.

“Well for starters, you hate showing affection in public. Whenever I try to hold your hand or lean my head on your shoulder—even kiss you, you would back away because you don’t like it when it’s around people. But when nobody’s paying attention you would come back to me to touch my hand, kiss my cheeks—you become more affectionate”

Daryl just simply looks at you as he hummed, waiting for you to continue.

“You also never ask if I have eaten, or if I’m hungry but instead—you would throw me a dead fish you caught and pointed it at me for me to eat” Daryl nodded softly, his eyes never leaving you as he stayed quiet.

“You get jealous if Negan flirts with me but you would never admit it—instead you would do petty things like tripping him or throwing a walker in his face to catch him off guard”,

“Wasn’t jealous, that’s stupid” He denied, looking away. You raised your brows at him knowingly, “He was pissin’ me off!”

“He didn’t even say anything to you” You stated.

“Are you defending him?”

See? Jealousy.

“You also follow me around everywhere”

“That’s more like a sad puppy rather than a black cat?” Daryl muttered, “Why can’t I be like a wolf or ‘somethin, you picked the most useless animal”

“That’s not true,” You gasped as you playfully nudged him, “Cats are great hunters and you know what you are?” You pointed out at him

“A wolf’s a good hunter too” Daryl claimed

“Oh my god” You exasperated as he gave you a small smile. You hit him again, getting frustrated at him.

“You know what you would be as an animal?” Daryl asked softly as you shook your head, “A butterfly”

“But cats eat butterflies!” You gasped.

“Exactly” He wiggled his brows at you playfully as your hands covered your mouth.

“You’re only like this because we are alone right—if someone was here you will be in the corner acting like I am the plague”

“You’re not… just shy s’all” He mumbled bashfully as you squealed, pressing a kiss on his nose and he flushed.

“You’re such a cute kitty”

“Stop calling me that, or I’ll actually eat you”

“Hey, don’t threatened me with a good time!”