Finishing the Hat
My first reaction was ‘Nice thought but there’s no way, Coulson is much younger than…’ and then I stopped mid-thought.
Because you know what.
You know what.
After Steve, the US government had to keep trying to recreate the Super-Soldier Serum.
And who
and who
would be the FIRST DAMN PERSON IN LINE to volunteer?
They told us it never worked again. And that was kind of true. They never again recreated the super-strength or the gleaming pecs. But other things, they got right. They got the vastly delayed aging. And the kind of reflexes that make a man able to take out two armed thugs with a bag of flour. And the talent for leading through example. And they got the most important part, Erskine’s favorite part: the magnification of moral fiber, taking the loyalty and selflessness of a loyal and selfless man and making him into something spectacular.
Coulson didn’t buy those vintage cards on Ebay.
He’s had them since he was a little boy.
That little boy right there.
Headcanon Accepted.
On my god my feels! WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THEM?!!!!
That canon…I LIKE IT. ANOTHER!
(Source: aboysbestfriendishismother)
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- Doctor Who fandom: WE ALL SHOULD EAT FISH FINGERS AND CUSTARD, SOUFFLÉS, AND JAMMY DODGERS JUST LIKE ON THE SHOW!
- Supernatural fandom: Pie and whiskey over here!
- Sherlock fandom: Just tea for me thanks.
- Hannibal fandom: ..................wat
9,686 notes (via coldcupofcocoa & sarahthepossum)
I just realized that “pun intended” is a pun on “unintended” and I’m literally about to gouge my eyes out I’m so angry
This. Changes. Everything.
102,749 notes (via fishingboatproceeds & the-blog-of-anne-frank)
sorry sorry sorry
not thy date
(Source: doormat-ethic)
27,664 notes (via coldcupofcocoa & doormat-ethic)
So, here I sit. Surrounded by stuff. My stuff. Stuff that needs to be sorted and put into boxes, thrown out, or assimilated into the catastrophe that is my room.
You see, this would all be very simple if it weren’t so emotionally draining. Here I am, a 22 year old college graduate, moving back home with my parents. Already, that smacks of some sort of failure—even when the logical side of my brain reminds me that it’s just for a year, that I’m already booked for a job stage managing in October, that I could probably get an unpaid internship at the theatre company where I used to work if I just asked, that I’m arguably starting a theatre company with my Dad, and that I’ve only been a college graduate for two days. Compared to a lot of other people, I’m in really good shape. Remarkably good shape. “Good God someone get that girl a medal” sort of shape. But the emotional part of my brain keeps saying that my life is…
(We actually use that acronym at home. It’s one of our favorites next to S.N.A.F.U. “Situation Normal All Fucked Up.” I’ve known it since I was twelve, in the polite form of “Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition.”)
(Yes, we use military slang around the house. No one in my immediate family has been in the military, except for my Pawpa, along with everyone else’s grandfather, during WWII. We just use this stuff because it’s efficient and my family’s kind of weird.)
Anyway, back on point… I’m sitting here surrounded by stuff ranging from kindergarten to senior year of college. Some of it’s my first writing work. I have two notebooks, a napkin, and the back of a receipt which contain the first formative drafts of a novels, two plays, and two short stories. And that’s just the stuff that saw the light of day after scribbling it down. I think I have at least six other short stories, one other novel, a couple of essays, and some poetry stashed in here somewhere.
Problem is this leaves me going through my room like this…
And with about the same amount of efficiency. Mrs. Hudson would be extremely put out by the mass of books and papers that is my room.
And so am I.
I’m going to write some fanfiction to try to make myself feel better. I need something fluffy right now.
