mykabering:

so i just met stephanie beatriz and chatted to her about the ladies on the show bc this is ALL I CARE ABOUT and then i mentioned headcanoning rosa as queer and she was like ‘yeah totally i think rosa goes and gets what she wants and isn’t bothered by things like gender’

i cried

(via hatteress)

ralkana:

fishcustardandthecumberbeast:

Hehe! #SDCC #VixInMurica #PetcoPark #Coulson

(I ficced on your picture. I’m sorry?)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Phil sighed with relief as the neverending flow of customers slowed to a steady stream, and then to a trickle.Business was always brisk — sometimes too brisk for his little barbecue shack — before and after the games, but it eased up while the game was in progress, giving Phil and his staff a chance to restock their inventory and prepare for the second rush.Darcy switched on the radio, and Phil snorted quietly, wiping down the counter."What? I want to hear if Barton keeps his hit streak going!""You’ll be able to hear by the way the crowd goes nuts, don’t worry."They were right outside the stadium, and they could always hear how the game was going by the crowd noise. A new owner and a new GM had breathed new life into the always dismal New York Avengers squad, and they were currently riding high on a combination of smart, young, homegrown talent and shrewd acquisitions. Leading the way was firstbaseman Clint Barton, a free agent signed just before the deadline, who was holding onto an eighteen game hitting streak.There was the crack of the bat, and the roar of the crowd rose to a thunder, followed by the boom of fireworks, and much closer, a thunk off the roof just above Phil’s head.Phil sighed, watching the ball roll toward the short, decorative iron fence that surrounded his outdoor eating area.He’d be much happier with Barton if the man’s home runs didn’t keep damaging his property. He’d have to climb up later and see if another tile had been dislodged.Darcy jogged out to get the ball, neatly avoiding Jasper, who was carrying in another tray of ribs."Barton again?" he asked."Who else?" Phil said as he took the tray."How many is that?""Five, so far. You think they’re ever going to learn not to let lefties pitch to him?""It’ll be better for your insurance premiums if they do," Jasper told him, pulling a tray of marinated chicken out of the walk-in."Don’t I know it," Phil said as he tossed the ball into the little bucket, to rattle around with the others.~ ~ ~ ~ ~Time passed, and Barton had his hitting streak snapped at 20 games, only to promptly start another one that was snapped at 16. He seemed to have settled happily into his new home with the team, leading the league in pretty much every offensive category — a triple crown contender, the team’s first in a decade and a half.The managers of the league never did learn not to let lefties pitch to him.It got to the point where the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the boom of the fireworks, and the thunk over Phil’s head became kind of a soothing routine, really.One Thursday, the team’s off day, Phil was by himself behind the counter — off days were always slow — listening to a Yankees game, when someone walked in.Phil looked up, and blinked — the glare of the open door put the incoming customer in silhouette — and then tried not to swallow his tongue at the sight of Clint Barton in a really nice suit."Consorting with the enemy?" Barton asked with a grin and a nod at the radio. "I’ll have to turn you in.""It pays to have intelligence on one’s foes," Phil answered mildly, and Barton laughed.The raspy sound arrowed straight through Phil, and he really hoped his sudden blush wasn’t visible in the dim restaurant.Given the man’s nickname, he doubted that was the case. “What can I do for you?”"I’ll take a pulled pork sandwich and some sweet potato fries, to go, please.""Okay, it’ll be just a minute."Phil put together Barton’s food, ignoring the way the man’s piercing eyes followed him as he moved around the little open kitchen.On a whim, Phil pulled out the little bucket of baseballs and set it on the counter with Barton’s food. Barton’s eyes widened."You think maybe you could try pulling the ball a little in the future? Just a couple of feet? My roof would appreciate it."Barton laughed. “I’ll do my best. Sorry for any damage.”"Gives the place character," Phil said wryly."How much do I owe you?""On the house for a local hero."Barton ducked his head and grinned, and Phil sternly told himself not to find it adorable.Barton grabbed a ball out of the bucket and slipped a pen out of his coat pocket."How ‘bout an autographed ball?" he asked, already signing it. "In fact, one day when I’ve got more time, I’ll come in and sign them all. You can auction ‘em off to fix your roof or something."Phil grinned, reaching up to catch the ball Barton tossed at him. “Sounds good.”With a nod and quick thanks, Barton strode out the door, already stuffing half the sandwich in his mouth. Phil unashamedly watched him go and then glanced down at the ball, eyes widening.In addition to his unmistakable signature, there were seven digits and a happy face. And the words, Call me.END

ralkana:

fishcustardandthecumberbeast:

Hehe! #SDCC #VixInMurica #PetcoPark #Coulson

(I ficced on your picture. I’m sorry?)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Phil sighed with relief as the neverending flow of customers slowed to a steady stream, and then to a trickle.

Business was always brisk — sometimes too brisk for his little barbecue shack — before and after the games, but it eased up while the game was in progress, giving Phil and his staff a chance to restock their inventory and prepare for the second rush.

Darcy switched on the radio, and Phil snorted quietly, wiping down the counter.

"What? I want to hear if Barton keeps his hit streak going!"

"You’ll be able to hear by the way the crowd goes nuts, don’t worry."

They were right outside the stadium, and they could always hear how the game was going by the crowd noise.

A new owner and a new GM had breathed new life into the always dismal New York Avengers squad, and they were currently riding high on a combination of smart, young, homegrown talent and shrewd acquisitions. Leading the way was firstbaseman Clint Barton, a free agent signed just before the deadline, who was holding onto an eighteen game hitting streak.

There was the crack of the bat, and the roar of the crowd rose to a thunder, followed by the boom of fireworks, and much closer, a thunk off the roof just above Phil’s head.

Phil sighed, watching the ball roll toward the short, decorative iron fence that surrounded his outdoor eating area.

He’d be much happier with Barton if the man’s home runs didn’t keep damaging his property. He’d have to climb up later and see if another tile had been dislodged.

Darcy jogged out to get the ball, neatly avoiding Jasper, who was carrying in another tray of ribs.

"Barton again?" he asked.

"Who else?" Phil said as he took the tray.

"How many is that?"

"Five, so far. You think they’re ever going to learn not to let lefties pitch to him?"

"It’ll be better for your insurance premiums if they do," Jasper told him, pulling a tray of marinated chicken out of the walk-in.

"Don’t I know it," Phil said as he tossed the ball into the little bucket, to rattle around with the others.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Time passed, and Barton had his hitting streak snapped at 20 games, only to promptly start another one that was snapped at 16. He seemed to have settled happily into his new home with the team, leading the league in pretty much every offensive category — a triple crown contender, the team’s first in a decade and a half.

The managers of the league never did learn not to let lefties pitch to him.

It got to the point where the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the boom of the fireworks, and the thunk over Phil’s head became kind of a soothing routine, really.

One Thursday, the team’s off day, Phil was by himself behind the counter — off days were always slow — listening to a Yankees game, when someone walked in.

Phil looked up, and blinked — the glare of the open door put the incoming customer in silhouette — and then tried not to swallow his tongue at the sight of Clint Barton in a really nice suit.

"Consorting with the enemy?" Barton asked with a grin and a nod at the radio. "I’ll have to turn you in."

"It pays to have intelligence on one’s foes," Phil answered mildly, and Barton laughed.

The raspy sound arrowed straight through Phil, and he really hoped his sudden blush wasn’t visible in the dim restaurant.

Given the man’s nickname, he doubted that was the case. “What can I do for you?”

"I’ll take a pulled pork sandwich and some sweet potato fries, to go, please."

"Okay, it’ll be just a minute."

Phil put together Barton’s food, ignoring the way the man’s piercing eyes followed him as he moved around the little open kitchen.

On a whim, Phil pulled out the little bucket of baseballs and set it on the counter with Barton’s food. Barton’s eyes widened.

"You think maybe you could try pulling the ball a little in the future? Just a couple of feet? My roof would appreciate it."

Barton laughed. “I’ll do my best. Sorry for any damage.”

"Gives the place character," Phil said wryly.

"How much do I owe you?"

"On the house for a local hero."

Barton ducked his head and grinned, and Phil sternly told himself not to find it adorable.

Barton grabbed a ball out of the bucket and slipped a pen out of his coat pocket.

"How ‘bout an autographed ball?" he asked, already signing it. "In fact, one day when I’ve got more time, I’ll come in and sign them all. You can auction ‘em off to fix your roof or something."

Phil grinned, reaching up to catch the ball Barton tossed at him. “Sounds good.”

With a nod and quick thanks, Barton strode out the door, already stuffing half the sandwich in his mouth. Phil unashamedly watched him go and then glanced down at the ball, eyes widening.

In addition to his unmistakable signature, there were seven digits and a happy face. And the words, Call me.

END

(via raiining)

Anonymous asked:

Towards the whole "pronouns hurt people's feelings" topic. Am I REALLY the only person on the planet that thinks people are becoming far to sensative? Nearly to the point that they shouldn't leave their little home bubbles in the case that a bird chirps next to them in a way that sounds like a mean word. Maybe, JUST MAYBE, we're becoming a little TOO coddling and people need to learn to deal with simplistic shit like words. And yes, I've been insulted and made fun of. I got over it. So can you.

thefrogman:

Supposedly invented by the Chinese, there is an ancient form of torture that is nothing more than cold, tiny drops falling upon a person’s forehead. 

On its own, a single drop is nothing. It falls upon the brow making a tiny splash. It doesn’t hurt. No real harm comes from it. 

In multitudes, the drops are still fairly harmless. Other than a damp forehead, there really is no cause for concern. 

The key to the torture is being restrained. You cannot move. You must feel each drop. You have lost all control over stopping these drops of water from splashing on your forehead. 

It still doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. But person after person, time and time again—would completely unravel psychologically. They all had a breaking point where each drop turned into a horror. Building and building until all sense of sanity was completely lost. 

"It was just a joke, quit being so sensitive."

"They used the wrong pronoun, big deal."

"So your parents don’t understand, it could be worse."

Day after day. Drop after drop. It builds up. A single instance on its own is no big deal. A few drops, not a problem. But when you are restrained, when you cannot escape the drops, when it is unending—these drops can be agony. 

People aren’t sensitive because they can’t take a joke. Because they can’t take being misgendered one time. Because they lack a thick skin. 

People are sensitive because the drops are unending and they have no escape from them. 

You are only seeing the tiny, harmless, single drop hitting these so-called “sensitive” people. You are failing to see the thousands of drops endured before that. You are failing to see the restraints that make them inescapable.