Do fangirls ever become fisting fetishists? (yes)

#potentially hot for nerds

Mid-twenties, lab tech, Australian, fangirl.
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Posts tagged "fanfic"





we have all read fanfiction that we shouldn’t have

just a few favorite tags





just open up tag viewer on this post and settle in with a snack cause ain’t nobody sleeping tonight, friends






installing tag viewer for this was the best decision i ever made

(via misandryad)

Asker tinykaiju Asks:
Picture: Steve shyly asking Sam to be his fella
tawghasa tawghasa Said:


want to, would love to, but tragically cannot (unless we’re talking an AU), because with the canon as it stands, i see the steve/sam transition from friends to benefits going one of the following ways:


"So, uh," Sam says, "did you want to share the bed, or should I take the floor?" 

Steve gives him an exasperated look. “Yeah, Sam, take the floor. It’s the least you can do, especially after taking a leave of absence from your job to keep me sane while I hunt down my brainwashed best friend. Actually, you know what? I think you should sleep in the hall.” 

Sam rolls his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eases, and he drops his duffel on the bed. “The hilarious Captain America, folks. Sharing, then?” 

"Sure," Steve says easily, heading towards the shower. Then he grins, wicked, and adds, "Unless, of course, you’ve got some sort of panicky heteronormative idea about the acceptable boundaries between male friends, a concept enforced by the patriarchal structure of — " 

"I am never," Sam groans, collapsing back on the bed, "letting you listen to NPR again. I pick the music for the rest of the trip. I pick the music for the rest of my life.” 

Steve, the irritating bastard, starts humming Trouble Man as he shuts the bathroom door, and just laughs when Sam yells, “You learn too fast! You learn too much,” over the sound of the shower spray. 

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a man wrote an article about this mysterious new Fan Fiction craze, and oh boy did we all learn a lot from it.


tawghasa said: Steve stays the night and next morning he pulls on a tee and it’s one that Skye had left in Phil’s room to be ironed. Phil tells him that he looks very pretty. Steve hates everything.

Steve detangles himself from the blankets on the bed and stumbles slightly, he grabs clothes along the way, not really caring if they are his or Phil’s and makes his way into the bathroom to relive his full bladder. Once he’s done he takes a look in the mirror.

Steve’s bed head - sex hair his mind correct him and he grins - is crazy so Steve works about fixing that first before squirting some toothpaste on his finger and works on getting rid of his morning breath. He’s feeling a little more awake, so he’s suddenly aware that he’s pulled on a pair of Phil’s boxers and a brightly colored shirt that he never actually imagined Phil would ever own. He looks at the cartoon character on his shirt, vaguely remembering it from one of his classes, and shrugs. Phil’s into comics, he probably got into cartoons as well when he took in Skye. 

He makes his way through the two bedroom apartment and into the small kitchen where he see’s Phil standing at the stove, frying bacon to go with the plate of scrambled eggs on the counter. It’s a Saturday which means Skye won’t be up till noon and the two have some time alone together before she wakes up. 

Steve makes his way behind Phil and wraps his arms around the older man’s waist. “Smells good.” 

"That was the plan." Phil turns around and leans in for a kiss, but stops with an amused expression on his face. 


"You look very pretty in that shirt, I didn’t figure you for a Princess Bubblegum fan though." Phil has his "I’m not laughing at you face" and it takes Steve a moment to slot all the pieces together. 

"Fuck I’m wearing my student’s shirt, aren’t I," Phil bursts out laughing and Steve scowls. "It’s not funny Phil, this is…" 

"My shirt," A voice calls from the back of the kitchen and Steve rests his head on Phil’s shoulder and groans. "I didn’t know you were a fan of Adventure Time Steve.” 

Steve would have taken off the shirt right then and there, but Phil had left some impressive hickies all over his body last night and wearing his student’s clothes was better then letting them see that he has hickies. 

The Coulson’s were going to be the death of him. 



You ever notice how there are no cute asexual self-discovery stories?

Like, there are tragic self-discovery stories with every sexuality, and queer sexualities in particular - I’m not trying to make light of how many people face major personal and life crises in figuring out their sexuality - but there are also usually some fun ones thrown in the mix; the ‘I realized I liked girls when I fell in love with April O’Neil as a kid’ kind of stories. 

Asexual self-discovery stories are always ‘I thought something was wrong with me for years and couldn’t really talk about it with anyone without them suggesting I seek medical/psychological help and had no resources because A is the boring sexuality nobody talks about. Then I found out A was a thing and was relieved.’

It’s really pretty depressing.

i got sad so i wrote you one and i hope it’s happy (happier???).


That’s when you knew? When you were seven?” Jim’s head is propped up on his hand, his hair mussed from a long, toss-and-turning nap between Alpha and Gamma shift. Spock had joined him halfway through, so the mussiness was probably 35% his fault. Maybe less; Jim always seemed to settle down into sleep whenever Spock joined him in his bed. 

But it was this, the quiet words between two people—one of whom had just woken up and was still rubbing sandy, human grit from his eyes—that Spock liked best about their recent arrangement. 

"Vulcans do not consider sexuality as stringent and defining as Humans," Spock points out. "So yes, at seven I was well aware of my inclinations. I had never considered the possibility before that, but when I did I knew." 

"Hm." Jim sticks out his lips in thought, his eyes dancing upwards. Finally he says "T’Pring?" with all the myriad questions such a name could encapsulate. 

Spock nods. “I told my mother that I would endure the bonding, but I had no wish to mate with my betrothed.”

"Let me guess." Jim’s fingertips play through Spock’s hair. His bangs fall back above his brows. "She said you would when you grew up."

"That is correct." Spock allows Jim to see an almost-smile, a small crack in his controls. "I replied that it was not a question of age or time. I had no language for what I was trying to tell her; Vulcan is not as stringent, as I said, and therefore does not have a word that means asexual."

"So what did you say?"

Spock thinks for a moment, his eyes on the ceiling. “I pointed toward Gol, to the east, and I said,” he lifts an eyebrow, “that I was the opposite of the mountain.” 

If Jim is surprised, he hides it well. “Not the mountain. As in, small and squishy?” He knows he’s wrong, his lips quirk self-deprecatingly. “Help me out here.”

Spock gave him a faux stern look before doing so. “All mountains on Vulcan were volcanic, or had been. All the words for ‘mountain’ literally mean ‘filled with fire.’ The words for ‘fire’ of course also mean mating, as you know. I told my mother I was instead filled with air, that I was atmosphere.” 

Jim’s hand slips from his hair to his chest, which is still covered by the blue uniform tunic. “Why does that not surprise me? And what did Amanda say to that?”

Spock lays his hand atop Jim’s, resting on his silent chest. “She was quiet for a period of time. Then she smiled and said I was her little sylph. And she understood.”

"Sylph." Jim rolls the word around in his mouth. "I like it. Can I use it? Or would that be weird?"

Spock pulls the bedclothes higher around Jim’s shoulders. They have 22.4 minutes before they are needed on Gamma. “You may, though it is,” he says, and they settle back into sleep. 

skimmons - matching soul marks
tawghasa tawghasa Said:



"…and it’s not as if there’s been any conclusive study on the validity of the markings," Jemma goes on, babbling at this point really.

Skye, pressed up against one of the larger windows on the Bus with her ankles crossed and knees pulled up to her chest, scoffs. “Well, obviously. They can’t even pinpoint where the marks come from. No one’s going to bother testing the strength of the bonds until they can figure out the science mumbo-jumbo behind the marks themselves.”

Jemma tangles her fingers together behind her back, taking a deep breath in through her nose to stop herself from fidgeting from foot-to-foot. “Yes, well, and there’s a decided air of magic and fairy tales involved, which the scientific field is more often than not above believing in—”

"Yeah, I get it," Skye cuts in. "It’s just a coincidence, they don’t mean anything.” She gets to her feet jerkily, yanking her sleeve down over her wrist and the tan symbols that now reside there. The interlocking circles—identical to the ones on Jemma’s wrist—look like an intricate birthmark, but they’ve only been noticeable since Agent Coulson agreed to remove Skye’s tracking bracelet.

Jemma’d noticed her match mark weeks ago, now, but she’d put it out of her head, convinced the marks had been triggered by some random meeting somewhere out in the field or at the Hub. She’d not been interested in trying to track down some elusive stranger who would supposedly become her soul mate when she’d already met someone she was more than passingly attracted to, and now she was screwing it all up in her usual bumbling fashion when it came to anything involving normal social interaction.

"Wait, no," Jemma exclaimed, her voice more squeak than anything else really, and reached out to stop Skye from walking away. She grabbed Skye’s hand, and with a gulp, she laced their fingers together, pulling their wrists—their match marks—flush against one another. "What I was trying to say, is that, well, I like you.”

Skye just looks back at her, and Jemma can’t describe her expression as anything other than boggled. “I mean, I have liked you,” she continues nervously. “Before any of, uh, this, came to light, so it’s more just a delightful bonus.”

Jemma is certain her face must be smoking, she’s blushing so much. Skye only regards her silently, blinking her distracting brown eyes intermittently, and Jemma has to bite her lip to keep herself from opening her mouth again and making this horribly awkward situation all the more worse.

But then Jemma’s eyes are pulled down to their joined hands where Skye has just squeezed her fingers tight, and when she glances back up at Skye, a smirk is stretching across her lips. Jemma would very much enjoy licking it away, and Oh dear, no, you can’t go around thinking these things in polite company!

"You’re kind of ridiculously adorable, you know that?" Skye teases. Jemma has some manner of response to that—they’re flirting after all, or at least Jemma assumes this is what flirting is like—but Skye’s tongue slips into her mouth when she opens it to retort, pushing the words back down her throat, and Jemma can only clasp Skye’s hand between both of her own and hold on for the ride.



i really love the second to last one

Phil lives because he is a merman and his anatomy is different (basically Nick throws him in the ocean, tells him to heal his ass, and he comes back and it basically goes into AoS) 

"I know you are there," The splash of water comes without warning, but Nick isn’t too surprised to find himself soaking wet. "Was that really necessary?" 

"Is confining me to a lagoon in the middle of Tahiti necessary?" Phil glares at him from the water, the effect slightly ruined by his flyaway hair being plastered all over his head in awkward places. 

"You know why you’re stuck here Cheese, don’t even try to argue with me on this. I’m not going to loose you again." Phil sighs, but he doesn’t deny the allegations. The problem with his species is that they are always drawn to the ocean, and Phil’s been human for so long he isn’t quite sure if he would return if he were to fall into his most basic instinct. 

"The longer I’m in here the harder its going to be for me Marcus," Phil lifts up a hand and Nick helps haul him out of the water so they are sitting side by side on the docks. "I’m forgetting things." 

"You’ll finish healing and will be on two legs again in no time." Nick sounds so determined that Phil almost believes him. "For extra incentive to come back on land, I’m going to finally give you your own team." 

Phil is quiet for a while, his silver tail swishing in the water slowly. “Do you mean it?” 

"Of course." Phil smiles softly and makes an odd cooing noise under his breath. Nick’s learned over the years, ever since he first met Phil all those years ago, that mermaids require very little to be happy. All it took for Nick to convince Phil back then to come with him was the chance to fly, and its still one of the things Phil loves the most. 

Giving him his own plane was a guarantee that Phil would come back. 








A 3D Printing system that can create forms without the hindrance of gravity.

Well fuck, someone taught Dummy to sculpt. 


Steve didn’t feel this could accurately be called his fault. 

After all, Tony was the one who’d given him access to the workshop after Steve had asked (perhaps one too many times) to be let in to use the grinder — he was experimenting with metal sculptures, and wanted to smooth down rough edges. It was expedient, wasn’t it, to just let Steve have access whenever he wanted, since he never touched any of Tony’s works in progress or got in the way. 

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You should all read this fic of Steve unintentionally teaching Dummy how to art.

kaguya-yoru requested a fic of “how an Avenger (or more than one if you like) would respond to a psychiatry session”. Pepper may not be an Avenger, but I think this one still manages to fit the prompt.


"You’re going to fall off, Clint."


Phil you need a bigger couch.

Phil looked up from his book as he heard Clint stumble into the living room, and frowned. “You should be asleep,” he said sternly.

 Clint gave him an unimpressed look, made slightly more severe by his general grumpiness at being awake. “You should be dead,” he returned, and Phil rolled his eyes.

 “You’re the one who fell off a building,” Phil returned. “I just got a little bit shot.” 

 Clint made an incoherent grumbling noise, and shuffled past him into the kitchen. Phil heard running water and a cup being filled, heard Clint taking large, slow gulps of water before filling the cup again and walking back out to the living area. “Where’re the goods?” he asked from the doorway.

 “Yours are on the bathroom counter.” When two people who lived together shared the bad habit of acquiring injuries, it paid to keep their medications separate. That didn’t keep them from taking one another’s painkillers on occasion, but it did limit the number of unintentional incidents of medication pillaging.

 Clint padded back through the dark bedroom and into the en suite, flicking the light on and then making a small, annoyed noise as the bright lights hurt his eyes. They had been intending to change out the bulbs for something gentler for months now. They’d both gotten used to brushing their teeth in the dark and the idea just kept slipping away from them.

 Phil held his book up once more, but didn’t return to the story. He kept an ear out through the small sounds of Clint delicately picking up bottle after bottle and then placing them back on the little shelves in the cabinet. Then there was the sound of one of them tumbling over, Clint fumbling to catch it, and then the whole contents spilling out. Phil sighed, and shifted into a slightly more comfortable position.

 He’d been clipped in the arm by friendly fire, and holding his book up was getting harder and harder. He didn’t like to complain though, not when Clint had cracked ribs and a compacted wrist and a fractured knee. Especially not when Clint had needed to stay overnight in medical to have his concussion monitored, while Phil had gotten his stitches and slipped away to spend the night in his own bed.

 (Clint could sulk all he wanted about that, but he couldn’t deny that he’d done the same thing on enough occasions.)

 There was a loud, lonely clatter that sounded an awful lot like Clint had kicked one of his various bottles of pills and it had rebounded off the wall and tumbled into the tub. When Phil left medical, he got painkillers. When Clint left medical, he got antibiotics, vitamins, painkillers, a different kind of painkiller that would probably make him less woozy but might also give him ulcers, iron tablets, and gummi vitamins because the staff never quite believed that Clint would take the hard grey tablets they’d already given him.

 Clint shuffled back out into the living area, and held a little white container out to Phil. “Childproof lid,” he said by way of explanation, and Phil frowned in sympathy. Those lids were hard enough to get off when both hands were fit for duty. In the past Clint had cracked and prised the bottles open to get to the pills, but that technique led to lost pills and Clint occasionally swallowing shards of plastic. Phil lay his open book down on his stomach and opened the little container for Clint, wincing as the movement caused his stitches to pull.

 Clint tipped a cluster of pills out onto his palm, picked two out and popped them in his mouth, then tipped the rest back into the container. He washed the pills down with some water, and then put the container and his glass on the coffee table. He scrubbed a hand over his face, then squinted down at Phil. “You should be wearing your glasses,” he said. After all they’d been through, he still worried about Phil getting eye strain.

 “Didn’t want to wake you up looking for them.”

 Clint snorted and shuffled back towards the bedroom. “Didn’t want to look like a nerd,” he corrected, calling the words over his shoulder as he disappeared into the dim room. There was a soft clatter of Clint fumbling with the thin metal frames – because of course they were resting on Phil’s bedside table in plain sight, of course Clint would have spotted them earlier and made a note to get Phil to wear them. Clint claimed that Phil looked sexy when he wore his glasses, but Phil suspected that Clint knew that he didn’t like wearing them and had just rolled that piece of information into his arsenal of little ways to annoy Phil.

 Clint handed the glasses to Phil, and sat heavily down on the arm of the couch while he waited for Phil to put them on. “You coming to bed?” he asked, when Phil was appropriately equipped for his literary quest.

 “It’s four in the afternoon,” Phil replied.

 Clint gave Phil a look that showed that he didn’t see the problem, and then scratched the back of his head with a thoughtful air. “Okay,” he said at last, and proceeded to clumsily slide over onto the couch and crawl his way up Phil’s body.

 “You’re heavy,” Phil complained.

 “I’m hurt,” Clint replied. “Be nice to me.”

 Phil made a show of grumbling, but when Clint raised himself up a little Phil shifted to get more comfortable rather than shove at Clint to get him to move. “The couch is too small for this,” Phil warned as his wrapped his aching arms around Clint’s shoulders.

 “Mm,” Clint hummed as he settled himself down, his feet hooked on the arm of the couch. “We should get a bigger one.”

 “We should,” Phil agreed, settling his book so that he was merely keeping it steady while Clint’s broad shoulder held the weight of the novel.

 “One that’s bed-size,” Clint continued, his voice a warm mumble.

 “I see where this is going,” Phil said, a playful note in his voice.

 “We could put pillows and blankets on it,” Clint continued. “Maybe we could even sleep on it sometimes.”

 Phil went to poke Clint in the ribs, reconsidered, and settled for flicking his shoulder. “If you’re going to fall asleep on me, do it quietly,” he replied.

 Clint let out a soft, wheezy snore that was mostly for show, but his breaths were deep and slow and his vocabulary had been reduced to contented hums at the way Phil rubbed his palm back and forth over Clint’s shoulder, or ran a hand though Clint’s messy hair.

 Turning pages was much harder with one hand, and Phil gave up reading when he got to the end of the chapter. Clint had drooled a little on Phil’s shirt. And despite the couch being too small for two grown men to comfortable laze on, they stayed there in a warm tangle for another hour.