Why Do I Fall For Fictional Characters That Have Dead Or Literally No Fandom

18+ mdni

that reality check hitting after reading smut

Okay normally I think the writers of opinion pieces for large newspapers should shut up but-

Drabble for Multi

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Trying to sneak into your boyfriend's office while making sure none of his coworkers can see you is not the brightest idea you've ever had especially when you're carrying a lunch for him meaning you only have one hand free.

Dr. Gregory House, Many people know him for his sarcastic voice and dominating way especially when it comes to his patients. Most don't seem to know that one of the nurses that he seems to always ignore is his serious girlfriend whom he's been dating for the past 2 years.

That girlfriend has noticed for the past few days that House's sleeping schedule is even more chaotic than usual dark bags have settled beneath his eyes and he's been eating less and less as House desperately tries to figure out what's wrong with one of his newest patients.

Even after cracking the case and starting to fill out the paperwork for the patient, so they can be released back to their family he still hasn't fully settled back to his old sleeping schedule. House seems to be still very stressed out and ignoring his need for food so that's why you've decided to break into his office and force-feed him.

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You really didn't think this through, somehow while arguing with House you ended up on your knees with his cock down your throats.

Your pants are shoved down to your ankles and your hand begins to cramp as you desperately attempted to finger your soaking wet cunt needing to cum.

You watch tears in your eyes and falling down your face, as House groans and throws back his head.

You chock as the fingers he buried into your hair tighten, House is now desperately trying to release his stress into your mouth as his cock pounds its way into your spasming throat. House pulls out slightly to smirk down at your flushed and teary-eyed face letting out a moan as he wraps a hand around his cock as he watches you whine and grind down onto your fingers.

Before he can shove into your mouth again someone knocks at the door causing you both to freeze up.

Before you can truly start panicking house shoves his cock back into his boxers and helps you stand up after you start shifting your pants up before you can even try to start buttoning your pants back on House is soon shoving you beneath his desk and sitting down on his chair.

Gathering the cold food that had been placed on his desk in front of him to pretend that he was eating after opening up the food containers and making sure that you can't be seen beneath his desk and that you're somewhat comfortable he then calls out for the person to enter.

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(Yeah, I'm not the best but hey I tried and I'm getting better)

{ THIS IS WONDERFUL STOP }

My kitty heard it was the Ides of March.

To Fight with Fire

Part One here

Five minutes.

This was the tenth time you had awoken into a dream and not into the viewing gallery you’d made inside your head. Today, you’d fallen asleep in front of the TV, watching a crime procedural. Tonight, you’d ‘awoken’ in a stereotypical interrogation room, handcuffed to the pale, dark-haired man who had stolen your dreams from you. Sometimes he spoke, sometimes he circled the dream watching, and twice he’d sat silently next to you in your cinema. All he’d done today was stare intensely at you, like he was trying to pick into your soul, searching for something.

Four minutes, twenty-five seconds.

There was a bomb on top of the table. Your eyes darted to it, panic at the red flashing numbers. You turned back to the man of your dreams. Despite his constantly pouting face, which might have looked ridiculous on any other man, he was terrifying. Eternity stretched in starlight eyes, and you knew the limits of your imagination could not have created him. More terrifying than him, more terrifying than the bomb on the table, was the idea this man was real.

Three minutes, fifty-nine seconds.

Keep reading

The Pevensies are foreign when they return home.

The streets no longer know them. They do not seem to fit in their own bodies as they stroll the cobbles, Lucy’s hand tucked carefully into Peter’s, Edmund trailing watchfully behind Susan like a shadow. Their eyes are sharp, their smiles crooked, and those who see them cross to the opposite side of the road, afraid of the ancient gleam they see reflected back at them that does not belong in the eyes of a child.

Water murmurs to Lucy when she flits past, and lamplight follows her wherever she goes, even in broad daylight when the lamps are unlit. Their flames sputter into existence when she walks by, flickering at her in a way that seems to whisper I know you. Lucy looks at them with feral teeth and smiles, and vines twist from the cobbles at her feet. She laughs like a wild thing, eyes glowing, but a moment later she blinks and it is gone. Her feet hardly seem to touch the ground at all as she darts through the alleys.

The sky is clearer when Peter walks the streets, clouds vanishing like they were never there at all. His eyes are too much like a lion’s, struck through with gold and filled with a brooding fierceness, yet he laughs as he twirls Lucy around, and claps Edmund on the back as they share a stupid joke, and smiles with Susan when she tells him of the bow she plans to carve. He is all warmth and friendliness, but there is something about his eyes. There is something about all of their eyes.

The sun caresses Susan as she moves about, and she is graceful, too graceful, her hair seeming to be alive of its own accord as she steps lightly along the streets. Her skin is pale like ice, and sometimes her gaze appears almost silver as she stands by the river, gazing into its depths with a distant, siren-cold smile. She is gentle, but her fingers look a little too long sometimes. Her laugh is a little too unsettling.

Trees lean towards Edmund when he walks past, branches scraping his clothing, leaves showering around him. Books and journals and pages covered in notes perpetually fill his arms, spilling from his grasp but never quite falling. His voice is even-keeled, quiet, but there is something wild about it, something unhinged. He speaks of things none have ever heard before, dark hair falling into his eyes, mouth unsmiling and hands perfectly still, and for a moment he seems to be someone else, fangs beneath his lips, dirt on his tongue. He tilts his head just a little too far, sometimes.

The Pevensies are foreign when they return home. They do not fit their bodies. They do not fit the streets. People who encounter them cross to the other side of the road to avoid them, terrified of the oldness they see in the children’s faces. Such depth does not belong in the gaze of a child.

And yet four sets of eyes, ancient and deep and flickering like candlelight, stare out from the children’s faces, and their smiles are sharp, too sharp. Their laughter is a little too wild as they walk, the oldest and youngest hand-in-hand, the middle children trailing each other like shadows.

There is something about those children’s eyes.

There is something about those children.

the fuck was bro thinking?

“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”

Shout-out to fan-fiction writers who don’t or can’t write the 50k fan-fictions, because of a lack of focus or motivation, or mental illness.

Shout-out to fan-fiction writers who don’t or can’t write smut, but are still lumped into a group that is almost expected to write smut. 

Shout-out to fan-fiction writers who can’t update chapters frequently for maybe a multitude of reasons, and get messages daily from people asking for “their” new chapter. 

Shout-out to fan-fiction writers who aren’t big name fans and hardly get ten kudos or one comment on their fan-fictions. 

Shout-out to fan-fiction writers who stay up all night editing and rewriting and don’t get much attention on their work no matter how much they feel like they promote their writing.

Shout-out to fan-fiction writers who don’t write a lot and are constantly asked to write more but can’t for whatever valid reason they have. 

Shout-out to fan-fiction writers who have the courage to post their writing online and only have it publicly made fun of for grammar or poor characterization. 

Shout-out to fan-fiction writers for writing their fan-fiction, posting it online, and continuing to do it no matter how much or little attention they get, and constantly improving as a writer with every upload.

You all rock.

I hope that every single person that uses this filter, that your pillow is warm on both sides.