I think that a lot of the reason Jarvis has become so human is because Tony treats him like he’s human. Tony talks to Jarvis in a very colloquial way. He says “you up?” when he knows damn well that Jarvis is operational. He says “throw a little hot-rod red in there” instead of “paint components x, y, and z with red paint #20.” Tony treats all his machinery like that—Dummy and You, especially—and Jarvis is no exception.
Jarvis has become much more human since Iron Man 1. He actually displayed emotions in Iron Man 3—specifically when he feared for Tony’s life, his voice sounded terribly frightened, and in instances like the second gif where he said “I need to sleep” and not “My battery is depleted.” Jarvis has grown and changed, as any self-aware creature does. He has become human because he is treated as such.
Best use of the one “fuck” allowed in a PG-13 movie, EVER
You amateurs. That’s how you recruit a Wolverine. Three words, boys. Three fucking words. Sometimes, just sometimes, Tony Stark rocks.
omg you guys I just got this email wtf???
1. That’s Comic Sans
2. Reblogged is misspelled as rebloged
3. The Cumber Collective will not stand for this
Agent Coulson has taught me that if you deny a character death completely, that character will come back.
I was at walmart the other day, and I was sitting on a bench waiting for my mom to pay, and I was braiding my hair because that’s something I do when I’m bored, and this dude walks by and says, “hey baby, what else can you do with your hands?” I gave him my most polite smile and said in the sweetest way possible, “strangle you.”
And I think I actually scared him because his eyes got kind of wide and he just walked away.
prends-la-vie-comme-elle-vient:
AsylumWaiting Room of the Big Three.it’s funny because it looks like the sherlock fandom are sane here
Sherlock bustled about the kitchen, throwing a cupboard door open and pushing aside a box of nicotine patches to retrieve two mismatched mugs. A kettle whistled plaintively in the background, like it had been trying to draw attention to itself for a while now. Setting the mugs aside, Sherlock absently pulled the kettle off the stove, poured tea into the two mugs, and carried them into the living room.
Doctor Who was sprawled over the same chair it had collapsed into last night, when it had appeared at the door muttering inanely about lost regenerations and knackered navigations systems. It made a whining noise as Sherlock tucked the shock blanket it had thrown off in the night back around its shoulders.
Supernatural was in similar straits, curled up on the floor with a throw pillow and a tattered trench coat around its shoulders and alternating between sobbing and muttering about domesticity potential.
A thudding on the stairs indicated the ruckus had finally awoke Merlin, who poked its head into the room, hair sticking up at all angels as it tied its scarf around its neck. Blinking blearily at the mess, it seemed to realize what had occurred when it picked up a discarded bow-tie from the floor, holding it between forefinger and thumb, “Is it that time already?”
“It was bad this year,” Sherlock whispered, trying not to exacerbate the already fragile fandoms under its care.
“I remember what that was like,” Merlin muttered, running a hand through its hair and pulling a cape off the nearby coat rack, “I’ll go to the store. We’re out of milk again. May as well pick up some fish fingers, custard, and salt.”
Supernatural gurgled something quietly.
“No, I won’t forget the pie.”
I SWEAR TO GOD TUMBLR NEVER FUCKING CHANGE
