to the stray dogs.

Like 85% of tumblr users hate and loathe embarrassment based comedy with every fiber of their beings, but never in my life have I ever seen an author reassure their audience that the embarrassing scenes are skippable.

Lots of people dislike tragedy but never in my life have I ever seen an author reassure the audience that the death and grieving scenes are skippable.

Stop trying to pass off self-censorship as “accommodation.” Stop trying to pass off pandering as “inclusivity.”

I spent several minutes just staring at them (and trying to convince them to bite my fingers.) When my sister’s violin lesson ended, her teacher came out to the yard and explained that these goldfish were the same small creatures that were often unfortunately sold in plastic bags at state fairs. They were only about two inches long apiece, when she bought them and put them in the new, empty pond. In essence, they were like every goldfish I had seen before, but they had been given a much larger, much richer environment in which to flourish. As a result, they had grown into some of the most remarkable, vibrant creatures my twelve-year-old self had ever met with. All because of a pond. 

✶ HE'S A GOOD BOYFRIEND!

masterlist ⠀! ⠀ do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites. ✶

He loves you so much. So so so fucking much. So much it hurts.

Like physically一like a hot knife twisting in his chest every time you blink those pretty eyes at him.

You could hand him a razor and point at his throat and he'd say thank you, he'd fucking thank you with his last breath because you're an angel and he's just the dirt under your nails.

He's not a bad guy, okay??!

He's a good boyfriend.

A devoted boyfriend.

He'd die for you. He'd kill for you. He'd crawl inside your chest and live between your ribs if it meant being closer, and that's romantic, that's soulmate shit, not creepy. Dont say its creepyー

But then he hears you crying through the door, and his stomach drops.

Is someone hurting you? Did something happen? Was it himーdid he fuck up again?

He's already digging his own grave as he rushes to you, ready to do anything. anything, just make it stop—

Oh...

Your shoulders are shaking. Your hair is messy and unbrushed because you've been too sad to care, your cheeks are flushed and wet and rosy, your nose running just a little, your mouth—god, your mouth一is pouty and swollen and suckable, like you've been biting your lip to keep the sobs inー

He's supposed to comfort you. He knows that. That's what good boyfriends do. That's what he does.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulls you close, whispers "shh, shh, I'm here, I've got you." into your tangled hair. He's so good at this. He's so gentle. He's so一

Oh fuck.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

You're crying harder now, and your body is trembling against his, and he can feel every little shudder through his chest, his stomach, hisー

He's hard. He's so fucking hard and he didn't mean to, he swears he didn't mean to.

He's a monster, a disgusting horrible boyfriend.

Who gets turned on when their girl is crying? Who does that? Who—

But you're so pretty when you cry.

And you're so needy right now, so broken and fragile and his, leaning into him like he's the only thing keeping you together, and he just—he just needs a little friction, just a little, he'll be so gentle, you won't even notice—

He shifts his hips. Just barely. Presses himself against your lower back through your thin sleep shirt and his sweatpants and breathes.

"It's okay," he whispers, rubbing slow circles on your stomach while he rubs himself against you, just a little. just a tiny bit, he's still comforting you, he's still being good, he's still—

"I've got you. I've got you."

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He's a fucking creep.

A disgusting, pathetic, perverted piece of shit.

He hates himself. He hates himself so much it makes him even harder.

He's so fucking sorry. He's grinding, slow and subtle, biting his lip so hard it bleeds, using your sobs to cover the shaky little breaths he's taking against your hair.

You're crying more and more, and his pre cum is soaking through his boxers.

He's a good boyfriend.

Of course he's a good boyfriend!

He'd die for you. He'd kill himself if you found out, if you turned around and saw the wet spot on his jeans, the desperate, leaking outline of everything he's trying to hide.

Please don't notice.

Please don't hate him.

He loves you more than anything, he's just—fucked up, okay?

He's broken and sick and his balls are aching and you smell so good when you're sad, salty and warm and vulnerable, and he wants to lick the tears off your chin while he fuck—

Oh god.

You just sniffled and arched a little and his dick jumped so hard he almost came right there, grinding against the fabric of your shorts like a dog in heat.

Please. Please let him cum first. Then you can hate him. Then you can scream at him and call him a freak and he'll go swallow a bottle of pills like he deserves.

But please— please— just let him rut against you for one more minute, just let him sliding into you while you're still hiccuping and broken and his.

And if you could just pretend not to feel it一just this once—if you could just stay still and cry and let him use the sound of your pain to get off, he promises he'll never ask for anything again.

He'll comfort you properly in a minute, he swears.

He just needs to一just needs to一fuckー

He's a bad, bad boyfriend.

He knows.

But you still love him,

Right?

If you want to be in my taglist let me know :)

A/N: Thank you for your request! I couldn’t resist writing before I focused on my exams. I’m glad people loved that post :) I really loved making it. I hope you guys like this one too!! I find Game!Michael very interesting. I hope I’m writing him just right. :)

A Quiet Place to Come Home To (Fic Vers.)

Word Count: 986 words

Original Post

CW: mentions and depictions of depression and trauma, if you feel like you may be triggered, please skip this.

Reader is Gender Neutral.

Michael doesn’t announce himself when he comes home.

He doesn’t even call your name. Rarely does.

You hear him anyway. Keys clinking too loudly, the door opening slower than usual, shoes kicked off with no real aim. One hits the wall, the other lands somewhere near the couch. There’s a long pause after that, like he’s deciding whether he has the energy to take another step.

The pizzeria clings to him. Dust. Old carpet. Metal. And something bitter you’ve come to associate with the pizzeria. Regret, maybe. Exhaustion, definitely. It had this kind of smell that doesn’t wash off easily, no matter how hard he scrubs.

You turn the stove down low and dry your hands.

As you turned to face him, you see Michael just… standing by the doorway, shoulders slumped, jacket still on, eyes unfocused.

You don’t ask how his shift was.

You stopped doing that a long time ago.

You walk over, gently tug his jacket off his shoulders before he can protest. Michael blinks, like he’s surprised you’re there, like he forgot he wasn’t alone anymore. He exhales, long and shaky, like he’s been holding that breath all night.

“Come on,” you murmur, guiding him inside with a hand at his back. “Inside.”

He lets you guide him to the couch before he sits heavily, elbows braced on his knees. His fingers tremble faintly. You pretend not to notice, because you know he hates being fussed over, but you notice everything anyway.

By the time he looks up again, there’s a bowl of food in front of him and a glass of water nudged within reach.

“You cooked?” he asks, quiet.

“Of course.”

He hesitates. “You didn’t have to.”

You meet his eyes. “I wanted to.”

That’s all it takes.

He eats slowly, methodically, like each bite requires intention. Halfway through, his shoulders ease down, tension draining out of him little by little. He murmurs a soft thanks that was barely audible, like he’s not used to saying it out loud.

You sit beside him until he finishes. When his eyelids start to droop, you gently take the bowl from his hands before it can slip.

“Bath,” you say gently.

You help him undress, slow and careful, giving him time when his hands hesitate. When he finally steps into the tub, he grips the edge like he’s afraid his legs might give out. You steady him, then guide him to sit. The water is warm, just how he likes it.

You crouch in beside him. “Mike.”

His gaze flickers to you.

“You’re safe,” you remind him. “I’ve got you.”

Something in his expression cracks—not enough to break him open, just enough to let you in.

When you start washing his hair, he flinches just a little.

You pause instantly. “Too much?”

“No.” he says quickly. “I’m— I’m sorry. Just… keep going.”

So you do.

Your fingers were gentle, working shampoo into his hair, rinsing it clean. Slowly, gradually, his shoulders drop. His eyes slide shut. The tension drains out of him in waves, like he’s finally allowing himself to stop bracing for impact.

For a moment, he looks almost peaceful.

Afterward, you wrap him in a towel and guide him back to the bedroom. He dresses in soft clothes and collapses onto the bed like gravity finally won.

You curl around him instinctively, and he responds immediately, arm wrapping around you, pulling you close like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip.

His forehead presses into your shoulder.

His breathing evens out.

Physical touch grounds him. It always has.

Your fingers trace slow, mindless patterns along his back. His grip tightens for just a second, like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I’m here,” you murmur.

Sleep takes him faster than usual. His breathing deepens, grip loosening as his body finally surrenders to rest. You stay awake a little longer, listening, counting his breaths like it’s the most important thing in the world.

Sometime later, he jerks awake.

It was sudden. Sharp inhale, hands shaking, eyes wild and unfocused. He sits bolt upright, chest heaving, looking around like he doesn’t recognize where he is.

“Hey,” you say immediately, sitting up and reaching for him. “Mike. It’s okay.”

His gaze lands on you. Recognition flickers.

Then he breaks.

He doesn’t sob. Michael never sobs. But tears spill silently down his cheeks as his shoulders shake. He presses his face into your neck, clinging to you like a lifeline.

“I don’t know how to stop feeling guilty,” he whispers, voice barely there.

You hold him tighter.

“You don’t have to figure that out tonight,” you say softly. “You’re safe. You’re here. I’ve got you.”

You whisper grounding truths into the dark. Sometimes he nods. Sometimes he just holds on tighter.

Eventually, his breathing steadies and he’s quiet for a long moment.

Then, softly, “You don’t have to stay.”

You tilt his chin up so he has to look at you.

“I’m here because I want to be,” you say, firm and gentle all at once.

He shifts his head back down, ear pressed against your chest, listening to your heartbeat like it’s proof that the world is still turning. That he’s still real.

Sleep comes gently this time.

In the morning, the light is soft and pale. Michael wakes slowly, disoriented for half a second—then he feels you there. Warm. Solid. Real.

He relaxes instantly.

You’re still asleep, curled toward him, breath soft and even. He watches you for a long moment, something tender and terrified in his expression. Loving you still feels like a fragile thing. Like it could be taken away at any moment.

Carefully, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

You smile without opening your eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, Michael Afton feels like this quiet, gentle moment he’s in is something he’s allowed to keep.

MADE BY TARO.ᐟ any translations, reposts, and usage of my written works are strictly prohibited. reblogs are appreciated.

Let Me In

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pairing: Phillip Graves x ex-wife!reader

synopsis: Phillip Graves shows up at your door like he never left. Like divorce is just a technicality. You’re supposed to say no.

A/N: Im a weak woman.

word count: 1.6K

Part Two ish

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The house is too quiet in that way it gets when you’ve finally gotten used to your own company again. It’s late enough that you’ve stopped expecting anyone to knock, late enough that you’ve stopped checking your phone like it might buzz with a miracle. So when the doorbell rings, you freeze with your glass of wine halfway to your lips, television playing a rerun of an episode that you stopped watching long ago.

Your head turns towards the door, eyebrows knitting as you check your cell phone. No texts. No calls. Your son is still at a birthday sleepover and you haven't heard anything from the parents. So who could possibly be bugging you this late in the day?

Then the doorbell rings again, loud and clear, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t worried about being polite.

You set the glass down slowly on the coffee table, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor as you cross the living room. Your eyes scan out the window at the driveway briefly before heading to the door. You suck in a breath when you see the looming truck parked on the edge of the street. Big, dark, clean. Of course it is. He doesn’t do messy. He doesn’t do half-ass. He doesn’t do anything without intention. The patch of grass under it still sparse from him routinely parking over it despite the years that have passed.

Un-fucking-believable.

he grins, all pearly whites, quarter-deep dimples, and false arrogance that makes your belly flutter. the same smile that won you over, years ago. but it’s different this time, muted, subdued in a way that doesn’t suit him. he looks tired, you think, lacking his usual swagger. there’s a small, loathsome part of you that worries about him. “since when do i need an excuse?”

he raises his hand, holding a six-pack of bud light with two fingers, an expression teetering between confident and desperate playing on his face. you should slam the door, turn him away, protect the peace he’s so keen to take from you. if you were smart, that’s exactly what you’d do.

instead you step outside, barefooted and resigned, and shut the front door behind you. “you ain’t comin’ in the house.” it’s a minuscule sort of defiance, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. still, you take pride in it, because you remember a time when you couldn’t have told him no to anything.

the tension in his shoulders loosens somewhat at that, and he lowers himself onto the creaky old porch swing you found at a garage sale in the spring. you hate how much space he takes up, like it’s his to claim and keep, like the centre of the universe is wherever he wants it to be. “fine by me. it’s nice out, anyways, it’d be a shame to miss it.” he isn’t wrong. it’s cooler than usual, this far south, and the sun’s just starting to set, painting the lawn in pink and gold.

you sit beside him with a sigh, the scarce space between you electric, dangerous. you have to purse your lips to resist the urge to chide him when he pops the top off your bottle with his teeth—it isn’t your place anymore.

“i’ve missed you, baby,” he tells you, and you swallow hard in order to keep from saying something stupid like me too. the beer’s bitter, and the taste makes your nose scrunch. you don’t drink much these days. not like you used to, when phillip was the one filling your cup, at least.

“what’s goin’ on, phil?” you know it’s something, it must be, because he’s got that same look on his face that he did when he told you he’d been screwing your hair dresser. mournful, ashamed, his age making itself known in the line of his brow.

he doesn’t look at you, like he didn’t that night, or any of the nights it came time to fess up that he’d done you wrong. he’s a coward. you’re not much better. “just shit with work. nothin’ you gotta worry about.”

that could mean anything. you know all about his work, the shadows, the awful things he’s seen, that he’s done. he’s not a good man, your phillip, despite what you might’ve believed when you were young and in love. he never wanted you to know what you do, tried so hard to let you think he was something different than he is, but the truth always comes out, in the end.

“you hurt someone?”

“more than just someone, honey.”

“you have a good reason?”

“i thought so. it’s looking like not.”

this is the part where you’re meant to head inside and call your mama to tell her all about his audacity. showing up here, like he has the right to exist where you do, seeking sympathy like a damn stray looking for scraps. you shouldn’t feel bad for him. he’s in a hell entirely of his own making, after all.

yet, you shuffle closer, you let your head fall to his shoulder, and relax as his arm wraps around you. he’s warm, like a bonfire in the fall, solid and unrelenting. he’s still wearing that same cologne you bought him for christmas two years ago, the last holiday you guys spent together.

“you can’t keep doin’ this to me.” you say, though you lament the day he quits. the day he gives up on you, the day he stops coming back to remind you that he still loves you, still needs you, that he still has the ring tucked away in his nightstand, waiting for you.

“i know.” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead. “i just can’t keep away from you. god knows i’ve fuckin’ tried.”

you laugh, despite yourself. god’s a busy man, you think, he does not have time to waste on devils like phillip graves. god doesn’t know shit about him, but you do.