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Brendon relaxes on his couch, still in in scrubs, after a long shift of being annoyed, waiting for his sweet girlfriend, you, to arrive.
Truthfully, you have been waiting all week for this moment. With the stressful week from patients coming in noticeably not wearing their retainers or not brushing their teeth, you needed help from Brendon.
Brendon waits some-what patiently, bouncing his leg and checking your location every few minutes, or seconds.
Once you finally arrive, Brendon ushers you to his room.
“M’kay. c’mon, strip.” Brendon watches you excitedly slide off your clothes. While you lie down onto his bed, he’s pulling out a pair of latex, blue gloves and a stethoscope. He puts the stethoscope around his neck like it’s a second nature.
Once you’re comfortable on the bed, you watch him pull on the gloves. Your hips squirm, anxious but excited.
The gloves snap comfortably against his hand. He sighs at the familiar feeling. He glances over at you laid down.
“No. You know how this goes. Sit up on the edge with your feet up.” Brendon grunts out, impatient. You scramble obediently to listen, now exposed. Brendon gives a short nod, approving. He walks back to his closet, pulling out a short sliding chair. He sits down with a small grunt then slides right in front of you.
He eyes your wet cunt and slowly reaches out, spreading your folds like he’s examining. You let out a small whine, watching his sharp eyes. Brendon presses against your clit, letting out a small hum. You gasp upon feeling the cool rubber touch your most sensitive spot. Brendon keeps one hand still spreading you open. The other hand that was touching your clit slides down. He uses two thick fingers and slides them into your weeping hole. He curls his fingers, like he’s searching for something.
Your hips buck up and squirm immediately. you let out a choked sob that is immediately cut off by Park.
“Uh uh. Stop moving. I’ve got to check.” Brendon’s free hand goes behind your thighs and holds your hips down. You seemingly whine louder, already nearing the edge. “Why are you so squirmy? I’m examining. This isn’t meant to be sexual.” Your walls clenching around his fingers.
You come with a loud cry, your hips squirming finally. Brendon sighs happily and slides his fingers out of your hole, wiping them onto a napkin on his bedside.
I'm gonna say it, I do think that even the laziest person imaginable should have a roof over their head, food in their stomach, and access to healthcare
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I know you’re sad, so I won’t tell you to have a good day. Instead, I advise you to simply have a day. Stay alive, feed yourself well, wear comfortable clothes, and don’t give up on yourself just yet. It’ll get better. Until then, have a day.
Alright I have been enabled so I’m gonna say somethings.
Fatalistic sarcasm is a thing, however, it usually hides deep feelings of insecurity, and whether you consciously recognize this or not, it validates them. Seriously, I used to constantly make jokes about how other people’s work was better than mine, and it did nothing for my self-esteem, it was a tool to deflect from my own feelings of inferiority and it actively worked against me thinking critically about my own and other people’s work. If it was a joke I could put myself down instead of analyzing why someone’s work was better and trying to incorporate that into my own
As someone who took creative writing courses I was constantly surrounded by other brilliant people, if I hung my head in shame every time I read something as good or better than mine I never would have lifted it.
As someone who has watched a lot of writers with very good idea’s crash and burn I mean it when I say you either develop a healthy sense of respect for your own work or you stop writing.
There’s three things I really wish more people consider
1. Do you think their work is better because it’s a different style, one that you like? There’s an element to ‘the grass is greener on the other side’, I have seen people work in some amazing styles that I wished to god I could replicate, some I managed, some I never did, but there’s nothing wrong with either. having a different style Is Not the same as having a bad style, each has their own strengths and you can admire one without putting yours down
2. Knowing someone who is a better writer is a blessing and if they knew you were using their work to bring yourself down they would not be happy, mooch off that friend, analyze their work, ask them to edit your shit, as long as you’re not annoying them be shameless about it. the best thing creative writing did for me was give me the confidence to ask people to critic my work and shamelessly better each other for that sharing
3. People need to normalize being confident in their work, the quality of your work has literally nothing to do with your worth as a person, the quality of your work has nothing to do with your worth as a writer. You can write something really shitty and the only thing I’d say to you is that your trying and I respect you for that
I also don’t like comparing my work to others’ bc it starts to feel almost competitive in a way. It turns to asking “which of these is better?” instead of “what do I like about each of these?”
We’re not competing against each other to see who can bake the best cake, we’re all bringing dishes to a potluck. It’s the community and love for the craft that matter
Needed to draw Castiel from this refenece photo I’ve seen going around~ ✍🏽✨
Drawing Castiel has really inspired me and fueled my creativity these past few months, drawing with oil brushes, charcoal brushes, etc!! This Angel has truly helped me improve and push my limits when it comes to studying art, light, shadows, textures — everything.
I gave this piece a more warm tone and some different versions for you all to feast; I hope you like this, take care!! 💜🫂🪻🥰
ID: A youtube comment with 11 likes by Niceone, it says "I've lived 46 years without knowing this. How nice of life to save some of the best bites for later." End ID.
Normally, people tend to get frustrated, even jokingly, if they miss out on something. This comment was on a song from 1974 and it made me smile quite much. Simply appreciative. Like a dessert after dinner.
It is genuinely mind blowing to me just how many Tumblr posts have changed my life for the better and taught me to be happier. Not all of the thoughts originate on Tumblr, but the way people collect and frame them has literally changed my brain chemistry.
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𓂃 ࣪ ࣪⋆✩˚ ༘ [thee avengers]: The Concept of ‘Fucked’ in Different Contexts
— in which! you somehow found yourself in the middle of chaos in debris-filled NYC with no recollection of how you got there in the first place.
OR soulmates exist and you were the lucky egg tethered to the Earth's Mightiest Heroes (but here's the catch: you have zero fucking idea).
word count: 1.3k
content! cliché, very crackfic-adjacent, NO DEFINITE TIMELINE YET, idiots being idiots, reader's dealing with an existential crisis, reader judging alien's guts, maybe mildly improper use of research & mathematics terminologies (tho i'm pretty sure it's not, but just in case), SOULMATES AU!, questionably executed poly bcuz i'm greedy n i want them all to fall for you, not beta'ed we die like my will to live when my goat sacrificed himself, eng not my first lang, did i write this while high? feels like a fever dream
“WHAT IN THE EVER-LOVING FUCK..?” You whispered to yourself, mildly incoherent. Your head throbbed, and you could barely feel your damn body—it felt like the plug connecting your brain to your physicality was damn near severed, with the way that your body refused to cooperate. Abhorrently so.
All you could remember was falling, and the vague feeling of crashing into a nearby ten-story building. Which—in theory—is fucking impossible considering you were just rawdogging your solo thesis and overdosing on caffeine less than ten minutes ago. Fuck chatgpt, you have a fully functioning brain (that you intend to use to the full extent, even if it’s barely cooperating) and a spanish latte addiction—you can do everything.
Your eyes opened due to sheer willpower, because, apparently, nothing truly works until you put your whole mind into it. No, you don't think that's quite how the quote goes, but yes, you'll take what you can get.
And, well, if waking up to chaos, destruction, and friendly fire was what you’d get, you’d gladly demand a refund. Even if, hypothetically, you have social anxiety—you’d even do it with a smile. Because seriously, what the fuck?
“Cap, civilian on your six o’clock.”
“Impossible. There was no one there two minutes ago.”
“Yeah, well, check again. I can see her still as a statue.”
Now, you were about to resign to your poor, unfortunate fate. You saw something faintly reminiscent of an alien with a sword-thing bulldozing straight towards you, aiming for your untimely demise, and you thought oh! great, i wouldn’t have to embarrass myself in front of the panelists.
Well that would’ve been the plan, if not for a certain super-soldier-serum-infused captain sliding over to save your ass and a lone arrow whirling straight to the alien-thing’s brain—blowing it cleanly off with a loud baam!
You saw guts. Purpley, goey, guts.
Were those intestines?
Oh my god, why the fuck was it chunky?
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
“Do not ask me the color of anything.” You whispered, brain still too pretty to function, staring at the person carrying you into… safety? You don’t know anymore. At some point, you thought cyan and turquoise were the same thing—and you used to be very particular with colors. Like five minutes ago, when you hadn’t seen an alien’s flying guts in 4k resolution.
Then your eyes drifted to your—for lack of better terms—now-unmasked-carrier.
Damn, why does he look like that—in a good way, but like why?
He looked insanely familiar, too. Mhmn…
It wasn’t until a debris-filled road made him slightly trip, almost loosening his grasp on you—shaking your insides. Not the good kind. “Oh god, I think I’ll hurl my dinner.” Whispering, your grip involuntarily tightened on his neck, heart immediately dropping to your ass as it pounded heavily in your eardrums. Hey, at least you got your senses back. Barely. But a win is a win.
It was afternoon. 2:54 pm, to be exact.
Meanwhile Steve Rogers just thinks he (unfortunately) picked up a mildly pathetic chick. And he would’ve brushed it off, if not for his soul-mark—coincidentally placed below your frozen-in-fear hand—burning like a bitch. It’s the only reason why he tripped; after all, nothing could deter the captain when he’s saving lives. Not even a lone pebble deliberately placed to screw him over (the pebble did nothing, it was innocent).
“You’re safe, don’t worry.” Steve couldn’t help but reassure the stranger. His instincts automatically made his mouth spew the words without thinking of the consequences—if there were even consequences. It’s normal to comfort strangers, he thinks. More so if the stranger was his soulmate, he thi—no, he backtracks. “I got you.”
“I mean, I would hope so.” You replied without thinking, eyes trailing to stare ahead of you, blinking once, twice—then whimpered involuntarily when you caught a glimpse of a heinous-looking gigantic alien that looked exactly like it was pulled from your worst nightmares. “Okay, no matter what you do, do not look back. Please.”
Normally, he would’ve listened. Because Steve treats warnings with careful precaution—he’d learnt that from his military days. But he hadn’t been doing things as he normally would for the past ten minutes. You’re the anomaly. He’s actively choosing to blame you.
“What?” Steve momentarily stopped, confusion coating his features as he subtly tried to turn.
When he did, what he saw was an ugly fucking alien beelining straight to where he was currently standing—all towering and fucking ugly. “What the fuck.” He whispered, staring at the god-awful centipede-like creature. Well, if the centipede was 10x angry and 10000x bigger. Did he mention ugly?
Subtlety be damned, you still felt the light shift—and, swear to god—you felt him freeze. “Do not look ba—I told you not to look back!” You panicked. And panicked was an understatement as your painted nails dug into his soft flesh.
And then he’s sprinting. Oh god, he’s sprinting.
Not away, no. Oh no, you would’ve fallen for that handsome, bulky stranger if he was.
He was sprinting towards it. With the sole intention of killing it off with his well-painted shield and brute force.
You think he had forgotten the fact that he was still carrying you—the quote-unquote innocent civilian he was supposed to rescue. He didn’t. He very clearly whispered a hold on tight—I’ll make this quick, while shifting you securely in his hold. And then you thought you met god.
Not that god, the other god. The one who screams another! while breaking a mug-god. The one who preaches those who are worthy could lift the hammer-god. The one who—yeah, you get the gist. It’s damn Thor Odinson, the God of Thunder-god.
You were hammered, but not hammered enough to the point that you’d forgotten Chris Hemsworth gorgeously portrayed that handsome male specimen—that’s, well, currently standing in front of you, striking that god-awful fuck-ass creature-thing. “Are you alright?”
You would’ve swooned. Really, you would’ve. If only you weren’t—you know—creating impossible hypotheses you never thought would’ve been created, due to the sheer absurdity of ever thinking about it, like, at all.
Great, now you don’t even know what the absolute fuck you were thinking.
At least now you’re assured that you aren’t made by A.I. Because if you don’t even know what you’re thinking, what makes you think a chatbot would?
But to simplify:
The one carrying you + painted shield + reassuring phrases + very captivating plump ass = Captain-America-slash-Steve-Motherfucking-Rogers
The one who bitch-slapped a creature + gorgeous long blond locks + hammer god = God-of-Thunder-slash-Thor-choke-me-with-those-bulky-biceps-Odinson
(America’s Ass + Golden Retriever God) + Chaos n’ Destruction + n = The Avengers
Now this leads to three utterly substantial statements of the problem—with their mind-fucking, corresponding hypotheses. Let’s delve deeper, shall we?
01. You had gone clinically insane, hyper-realistically imagining impossible scenarios from ypur severe lack of sleep.
Ha₁: You don’t need to defend your research no more; you’re insane.
Ho₁: You’re more prone to being admitted to the mental asylum, saying goodbye to your family and the friends you’ve made along the way.
02. You had somehow been transported into a parallel-slash-alternate reality due to the sudden clockwise shifting of the Earth’s axis.
Ha₂: The professors who laughed at you for proposing this as your research title can now suck your juicy fuckin’ ass.
Ho₂: They literally can’t; you (accidentally) altered a timeline (or universe, rather) you weren’t supposed to be in.
03. You died, finally biting the dust after an umpteen number of all-nighters and caffeine-induced psychosis.
Ha₃: You died. In theory.
Ho₃: You died. In practice.
With those written (in your head) SoPs, you arrived at approximately three (3) conclusions. Either you’ve gone insane (unlikely), or Earth said fuck you in tagalog then spun in reverse (maybe likely), or you’ve died from caffeine-induced overdose (please don’t be likely).
Either way, one thing’s for certain: you’re fucked.
okay hear me out, in my defense, i got lazy editing my masterlist okay. making banners (although satisfying) sucks the soul outta me (like how i wish leon would). so then i started writing like a drabble, then the drabble became a story, then the story became a chapter, then i started making a banner, then the next thing i knew, this post was already drafted lololol. Leon will be making a comeback soon, i have like *checks notes* 10 wips of that guy he's not going ANYWHERE.
anywhoo, i truly do miss these guys so i thought, why not make a classic avengers polyfic? rbs & comments for kisses, as always, ily
Meet Leon. A cunning, hard-working reporter with good intel to trade. Leon is as charming and self-indulgent as he is ambitious, and probably too curious for his own good.
🍸 Meet Leon and the rest of the cast in our free Demo 🍸
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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