signechan:

Probably the most realistic take I’ve seen on the ‘meet the family’ trope. Phil’s family are neither too accommodating nor too harsh and there’s lots of variation between the various members. Clint and Phil are really sweet in this but at the same time it avoids them being too sickeningly in love. It’s just really good.

Added to my ClintCoulson longfic rec list which can be found here - http://signechan.tumblr.com/ClintCoulsonficrecs

♥ 3 — 5 hours ago on 25 Apr 2014 — via signechan
#phlint  #fic  #lovely  
rocketwalker:

kisleth:

infiniteeight8:

rocketwalker:

bonitabreezy:

#omg i think i hate myself#this s clint in phils office after the battle#it’s been emptied out#but the pencil holes from to many long nights#and clint keeping him company#getting bored and that’s what he’s intently staring at#all the times he could’ve said something#and now he cantIt’s too empty, and it’s too quiet. He should be kicked back on the soft leather couch instead of this crappy desk chair that most certainly was not the one that Phil had used. He should be listening to the scoffs and small noises of frustration that Phil made when he was reviewing mission reports and the quick clack of keys from his keyboard. It’s just about one o’ clock in the afternoon, and Phil should be sitting there with his tie tossed over his shoulder while he eats the lunch Clint brought him with one hand and flips through a file with the other. But now it’s all gone. Phil’s gone, and everything he ever worked for is gone too, because SHIELD has been eradicated. The only thing left of Phil Coulson is the broken man that loved him staring at holes in the ceiling of his office.

*sobbing*

Someone fix it? *hopeful*

His vision blurs from either staring too long or crying, but he doesn’t want to think on it too hard. He doesn’t want to know the right answer. He blinks the blurriness away and focuses elsewhere and he sees ghosts. He remembers verbal reports and post-medical visits and bringing Phil lunch, or donuts, or coffee.
He remembers teasing and flirting and office sex jokes that once became reality.
He shifts in the chair, aches coming alive in his back. He looks at the worn wood and can see every mark. Marks from the chair turning and banging against the front when Phil got up too fast—it had happened once too many times because Clint showed up hurt in his doorway more often than their of them liked. There were marks from him sliding onto it with his tac gear on, marks from that time he slammed a mole’s face into the corner, marks from his nails digging into the edge when Phil fucked his brains out…
Marks and memories and ghosts.
"Fuck." Clint’s voice cracks and he slams a fist into his thigh. It clears his head, dashes away the ghosts. Well, most of them.
He can still feel Phil everywhere, see him everywhere. “Dammit, Phil.” His next breath shakes so hard he has to cough. “Goddammit, Phil…” He wasn’t supposed to go like that. He was supposed to retire, Clint was the one young and stupid enough to be killed in line of duty. He didn’t even die when he was brainwashed.
He wished he had.
His feet hit the floor and he wants to bolt, but he can’t get his limbs to move. So, instead, he folds himself in half and wraps his arms around his thighs. He buries his face in his knees and sobs.
His ears ring with white noise and words. Everything Phil’s said, the good and the bad. The voices overlap and Clint digs with fingers into the rough denim, inhales the fabric softener and dirt, tries to push away the shaking and the soft, defeated sobs.
The voices don’t go, but one is clearer, louder. “Clint.” So simple. Just his name. And yet it has the power to shatter diamonds, to freeze lava, to break him completely.
But the loudest voice isn’t alone. It comes with the rustle of fine wool, with the scent of Phil’s favorite cologne, with tentative and gentle fingers threading into his hair. He freezes for half a second before snapping up and pushing back in the wheeled chair, but he doesn’t get far because the wall is behind him.
Phil’s crouched, just before where Clint had been. He has an arm in a sling, a cane resting against the desk, and a small, sad smile. The shaking gets worse and he can feel his face crumple and fall. Any mask he’s maintained is gone with no hope to get it back. “You’re…” His words lurch out of his mouth. “You’re just a ghost. Just like all the rest.”
The ghost looks hurt. “Clint…”
"You’re the best damn ghost, but you’re still one so get the hell out. I’m done with the lot of you." His voice is shaking and he wants to bolt, but this ghost is between him and any exit. He’d push through him except fr the fact that he really wants him to be real and if he can walk through him… well, that would make everything so much worse.
"Clint, I swear, it’s me." Phil straightens, bracing himself on the desk. It groans from the weight on it. Clint’s eyes snap to the wood and then up to Phil’s face. "I swear." He holds out a hand to take, swaying on his feet like he can’t balance well on his own.
"Prove it."
"Take my hand."
"N-no, prove it some other way." He doesn’t remember gripping the arms of the chair so hard, but he can feel his knuckles ache and if this were a dream he should be awake from the pain, right?
The ghost braces himself against the desk and slowly steps closer. Clint looks wary but he doesn’t bolt. Not even when the ghost rests a knee between his legs, or braces his good hand on the back of the chair. He can feel the warmth of Phil’s body and fresh tears well up. “I’m real.”
Clint swallows and a tear drips down his cheek. Phil leans in and Clint can’t stop the gasp when warm, slightly chapped lips brush the tear away. He does it again when another tear falls.
"Phil?" Phil nods and Clint’s mouth is trembling but twisting into a smile regardless. "Goddammit, you asshole."
"I know." Phil kisses him, his arm shaking until Clint stands, wrapping his arms around his waist securely. Clint leans agains the desk and Phil leans against him. "I know."

THERE’S ANOTHER ONE
raiining

rocketwalker:

kisleth:

infiniteeight8:

rocketwalker:

bonitabreezy:

#omg i think i hate myself#this s clint in phils office after the battle#it’s been emptied out#but the pencil holes from to many long nights#and clint keeping him company#getting bored and that’s what he’s intently staring at#all the times he could’ve said something#and now he cant

It’s too empty, and it’s too quiet. He should be kicked back on the soft leather couch instead of this crappy desk chair that most certainly was not the one that Phil had used. He should be listening to the scoffs and small noises of frustration that Phil made when he was reviewing mission reports and the quick clack of keys from his keyboard. It’s just about one o’ clock in the afternoon, and Phil should be sitting there with his tie tossed over his shoulder while he eats the lunch Clint brought him with one hand and flips through a file with the other. But now it’s all gone. Phil’s gone, and everything he ever worked for is gone too, because SHIELD has been eradicated. The only thing left of Phil Coulson is the broken man that loved him staring at holes in the ceiling of his office.

*sobbing*

Someone fix it? *hopeful*

His vision blurs from either staring too long or crying, but he doesn’t want to think on it too hard. He doesn’t want to know the right answer. He blinks the blurriness away and focuses elsewhere and he sees ghosts. He remembers verbal reports and post-medical visits and bringing Phil lunch, or donuts, or coffee.

He remembers teasing and flirting and office sex jokes that once became reality.

He shifts in the chair, aches coming alive in his back. He looks at the worn wood and can see every mark. Marks from the chair turning and banging against the front when Phil got up too fast—it had happened once too many times because Clint showed up hurt in his doorway more often than their of them liked. There were marks from him sliding onto it with his tac gear on, marks from that time he slammed a mole’s face into the corner, marks from his nails digging into the edge when Phil fucked his brains out…

Marks and memories and ghosts.

"Fuck." Clint’s voice cracks and he slams a fist into his thigh. It clears his head, dashes away the ghosts. Well, most of them.

He can still feel Phil everywhere, see him everywhere. “Dammit, Phil.” His next breath shakes so hard he has to cough. “Goddammit, Phil…” He wasn’t supposed to go like that. He was supposed to retire, Clint was the one young and stupid enough to be killed in line of duty. He didn’t even die when he was brainwashed.

He wished he had.

His feet hit the floor and he wants to bolt, but he can’t get his limbs to move. So, instead, he folds himself in half and wraps his arms around his thighs. He buries his face in his knees and sobs.

His ears ring with white noise and words. Everything Phil’s said, the good and the bad. The voices overlap and Clint digs with fingers into the rough denim, inhales the fabric softener and dirt, tries to push away the shaking and the soft, defeated sobs.

The voices don’t go, but one is clearer, louder. “Clint.” So simple. Just his name. And yet it has the power to shatter diamonds, to freeze lava, to break him completely.

But the loudest voice isn’t alone. It comes with the rustle of fine wool, with the scent of Phil’s favorite cologne, with tentative and gentle fingers threading into his hair. He freezes for half a second before snapping up and pushing back in the wheeled chair, but he doesn’t get far because the wall is behind him.

Phil’s crouched, just before where Clint had been. He has an arm in a sling, a cane resting against the desk, and a small, sad smile. The shaking gets worse and he can feel his face crumple and fall. Any mask he’s maintained is gone with no hope to get it back. “You’re…” His words lurch out of his mouth. “You’re just a ghost. Just like all the rest.”

The ghost looks hurt. “Clint…”

"You’re the best damn ghost, but you’re still one so get the hell out. I’m done with the lot of you." His voice is shaking and he wants to bolt, but this ghost is between him and any exit. He’d push through him except fr the fact that he really wants him to be real and if he can walk through him… well, that would make everything so much worse.

"Clint, I swear, it’s me." Phil straightens, bracing himself on the desk. It groans from the weight on it. Clint’s eyes snap to the wood and then up to Phil’s face. "I swear." He holds out a hand to take, swaying on his feet like he can’t balance well on his own.

"Prove it."

"Take my hand."

"N-no, prove it some other way." He doesn’t remember gripping the arms of the chair so hard, but he can feel his knuckles ache and if this were a dream he should be awake from the pain, right?

The ghost braces himself against the desk and slowly steps closer. Clint looks wary but he doesn’t bolt. Not even when the ghost rests a knee between his legs, or braces his good hand on the back of the chair. He can feel the warmth of Phil’s body and fresh tears well up. “I’m real.”

Clint swallows and a tear drips down his cheek. Phil leans in and Clint can’t stop the gasp when warm, slightly chapped lips brush the tear away. He does it again when another tear falls.

"Phil?" Phil nods and Clint’s mouth is trembling but twisting into a smile regardless. "Goddammit, you asshole."

"I know." Phil kisses him, his arm shaking until Clint stands, wrapping his arms around his waist securely. Clint leans agains the desk and Phil leans against him. "I know."

THERE’S ANOTHER ONE
raiining
♥ 334 — 6 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via rocketwalker (source)
infiniteeight8:

adamantsteve:

infiniteeight8:

rocketwalker:

bonitabreezy:

#omg i think i hate myself#this s clint in phils office after the battle#it’s been emptied out#but the pencil holes from to many long nights#and clint keeping him company#getting bored and that’s what he’s intently staring at#all the times he could’ve said something#and now he cantIt’s too empty, and it’s too quiet. He should be kicked back on the soft leather couch instead of this crappy desk chair that most certainly was not the one that Phil had used. He should be listening to the scoffs and small noises of frustration that Phil made when he was reviewing mission reports and the quick clack of keys from his keyboard. It’s just about one o’ clock in the afternoon, and Phil should be sitting there with his tie tossed over his shoulder while he eats the lunch Clint brought him with one hand and flips through a file with the other. But now it’s all gone. Phil’s gone, and everything he ever worked for is gone too, because SHIELD has been eradicated. The only thing left of Phil Coulson is the broken man that loved him staring at holes in the ceiling of his office.

*sobbing*

Someone fix it? *hopeful*

Clint sits there for far too long, til his ass is half numb, going over memories of this room and then over them again, trying to absorb every detail he can before someone else moves in. What tie Phil was wearing the time Clint surprised him with a year’s worth of finished paperwork wrapped up in an actual bow; what kind of sandwich it was the first time he came by with a spare; what day it was when he stopped bothering to knock before barging in. There are sounds outside - one of the admins come to ask if he’s alright, probably, ask if he needs anything. They always do that and Clint always bites back something mean, just pulls himself together and gets out. Tells himself it’s the last time. But then the door opens and it’s caught before it hits the wall, a practiced movement that’s indelibly burned into Clint’s consciousness. He doesn’t turn around, cause if this is a fantasy - and it has to be - Clint doesn’t mind dragging it out.A throat clears, and then a voice, bland as bored as anything says, “Barton, get your feet off my desk.”

Awwww.
I love that this got two fixes. :D

infiniteeight8:

adamantsteve:

infiniteeight8:

rocketwalker:

bonitabreezy:

#omg i think i hate myself#this s clint in phils office after the battle#it’s been emptied out#but the pencil holes from to many long nights#and clint keeping him company#getting bored and that’s what he’s intently staring at#all the times he could’ve said something#and now he cant

It’s too empty, and it’s too quiet. He should be kicked back on the soft leather couch instead of this crappy desk chair that most certainly was not the one that Phil had used. He should be listening to the scoffs and small noises of frustration that Phil made when he was reviewing mission reports and the quick clack of keys from his keyboard. It’s just about one o’ clock in the afternoon, and Phil should be sitting there with his tie tossed over his shoulder while he eats the lunch Clint brought him with one hand and flips through a file with the other. But now it’s all gone. Phil’s gone, and everything he ever worked for is gone too, because SHIELD has been eradicated. The only thing left of Phil Coulson is the broken man that loved him staring at holes in the ceiling of his office.

*sobbing*

Someone fix it? *hopeful*

Clint sits there for far too long, til his ass is half numb, going over memories of this room and then over them again, trying to absorb every detail he can before someone else moves in. What tie Phil was wearing the time Clint surprised him with a year’s worth of finished paperwork wrapped up in an actual bow; what kind of sandwich it was the first time he came by with a spare; what day it was when he stopped bothering to knock before barging in.

There are sounds outside - one of the admins come to ask if he’s alright, probably, ask if he needs anything. They always do that and Clint always bites back something mean, just pulls himself together and gets out. Tells himself it’s the last time.

But then the door opens and it’s caught before it hits the wall, a practiced movement that’s indelibly burned into Clint’s consciousness. He doesn’t turn around, cause if this is a fantasy - and it has to be - Clint doesn’t mind dragging it out.

A throat clears, and then a voice, bland as bored as anything says, “Barton, get your feet off my desk.”

Awwww.

I love that this got two fixes. :D

♥ 334 — 6 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via clint-you-dummy (source)
#meep  #phlint  

But I knew him

♥ 914 — 6 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via purple-chihuahua (source)

clint-you-dummy:

pennyroyalorange:

28 Weeks Later Premiere

[no but what is his hair here? ]
Oh Clint.

♥ 233 — 6 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via ralkana (source)
♥ 542 — 6 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via monocleenterprises (source)
To all the Tumblr users who tend to use tags very liberally:

thejadedkiwano:

Let’s play a game.

Type the following words into your tags box, then post the first automatic tag that comes up.

you

also

what

when

why

how

look

because

never

♥ 132467 — 6 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via ralkana (source)
agntq:

The Only Light in the Darkness.

agntq:

The Only Light in the Darkness.

♥ 37 — 9 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via selenay936 (source)

A guy who could pass for american and slip behind enemy lines or cross borders without raisin’ an eyebrow. 

♥ 945 — 9 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via mr-bogginses (source)
Why the Winter Soldier is Less an Embodiment of Soviet Russia Than I Thought, or: Bucky Barnes, American Cold War Anxieties, and You

puelhathnofury:

wizzard890:

As you might imagine, I walked into Captain America 2 ready to get my Soviet Russia on. The Winter Soldier run is one of my favorites in—well, in any comic, really, and from what I’d seen in the trailers and whatnot, it looked like we were going to get a heaping dose of what makes that series so special and so sobering: the bloodstained underbelly of Soviet international politics, a glimpse at the way men and women were fed into the meat grinder of the State, pulped for the greater glory of their nation. In Bucky we’d see a drafted soldier kidnapped, brainwashed, and streamlined into the perfect machine. Not an ideal Soviet man, far from it; but a tool, utilitarian and dispassionate, with the five-pointed martial star on his shoulder; the awful triumph of the State over so-called human frailty.

And we did, we got all of that—insofar that you can’t have a Winter Soldier without those things. But as I watched, it became increasingly clear that this movie wasn’t looking to talk about the Soviet Union. There is a reason Bucky only speaks Russian once in the entire film. There’s a reason he’s never addressed in it. There’s a reason his code name is drawn from an investigation into one of the ugliest chapters of American history. And there is a reason that the movie takes this snarling, mechanized, indiscriminate killing machine and explicitly sets him up as Captain America’s other half. 

I’ve seen some reviews going after the film for pulling its punches, of holding up the Greatest Generation as America’s past, and a polluted security branch as its future, absolving it of responsibility for its actions in both cases. It’s HYDRA now and “sacrifices for freedom” then; why aren’t we interrogating ourselves a little harder?

My answer to that is: we did, and the movie is named after what we found.

The Winter Soldier is concerned with security and international supremacy, and the moral compromises America has made (and continues to make) in pursuit of both. It draws a straight line from WWII America to the modern day, where “we did some things we weren’t proud of” becomes drone warfare and Big Brother. Steve is at one end of this timeline, Nick Fury at the other. There’s a chasm of about fifty years between the two points. That’s where the Winter Soldier steps in. 

This film is haunted by an American war, yes. But not the one Steve fought in. The Cold War was “a battle for the soul of mankind”, waged across millions of hearts and minds, and it’s a patched-over burn in the American psyche, barely healed and still tender to the touch. We emerged on the other side of forty-four years as the world’s one and only superpower. And it fucking cost us.

McCarthyism saw Americans turning on one another, fueled by snarling, indiscriminate paranoia. Operation Paperclip recruited Nazi scientists to keep German technology out of Soviet hands. Vietnam, with its thousands dead, was fought to keep the dominoes of Communism from falling across Asia. America, augmented by an unimaginable weapon and ruthlessly militarized, spied, ordered assassinations, irradiated its own children, and dragged the world to the brink of nuclear holocaust. All for the sake of security.  

The Winter Soldier is that America.

Inhuman, bionic, unfeeling, unthinking, the perfect weapon: a creature of progress, powered by pure ideology. The mind wipes? Decades of propaganda in its purest, most undiluted form, administered directly to the brain. The arm? I know a nuclear metaphor when I see one.

If Cap is the potential of America, what we should never stop striving for, the Winter Soldier is what became of us when we fell desperately short. He is what we did to ourselves.

In many ways this film is a ghost story, and like all good ghost stories, it holds up the tragedy of our mistakes and begs us not to repeat them. What SHIELD proposes—Project Insight—is assured destruction, a level of control over a population not exercised since we were staring Russia down over a launch pad. And so the Winter Soldier appears, the long cold shadow of America’s past, and crashes into the hope for its future with the ring of a metal fist against a shield.

Cap can’t destroy him, what’s done is done. Bucky can’t be unwounded, or given back his stolen time; the blood on his hands won’t be scrubbed out. But they can walk slowly together, one helping the other stand. 

Steve can’t progress without Bucky, just as, the film seems to say, America itself is doomed to fester unless it looks to its past and acknowledges what it has done; the things it has ground into dust in the name of a higher cause. In the MCU, the only way Captain America’s country will move forward is if it swears to never, ever go back.

Leave it to Emily to knock this meta out of the park. <3 

♥ 2285 — 9 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via voldiebuns (source)

texts-from-the-bus:

sclez:

durendals:

there is literally no difference between academic scholars discussing their interpretations of a text and a bunch of people yelling YOUR HEADCANON IS WRONG at each other

As a Masters student I can vouch for this.

As a scientist I can vouch for this

some debates are only settled when the one holdout scientist finally dies of old age and the other camp just wins by default

♥ 19965 — 10 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via iamchrissi (source)
♥ 1256 — 10 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via goddess-turned-warrior (source)

francescadarimini:

etriva:

Mark Ruffalo on social media is kind of exactly what I imagine Steve Rogers’ eventual social media presence would be like.

  

♥ 384 — 10 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via lapillus (source)
♥ 502 — 10 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via avengenerrds (source)
startrekgifs:

When trekkies, both old and new, agree on something… be afraid. Be very afraid.

startrekgifs:

When trekkies, both old and new, agree on something… be afraid. Be very afraid.

♥ 1254 — 11 hours ago on 24 Apr 2014 — via justamerplwithabox (source)