⠀ . 𝑯OMECOMING
FNAF GAME CANON — MICHAEL AFTON X F!READER
⎨ 𝐖𝐂 ⎬ 949 . drabble
⎨ 𝐂𝐖 ⎬ michael afton x female reader . mentions of divorce , brief mentions of death + alcoholism . smut : dacryphilia , oral ( f receiving ) , dry humping , worship , munch michael , michael overall being pathetic <33
⎨ 𝐀𝐍 ⎬ very very self indulgent my bad . i saw fnaf 2 yesterday night and I’m not gonna get into it but i forgot how much i love fnaf and how obsessed i am with michael afton . i am actually tweaking out over him . anyways quick drabble ! i wrote this in like less than an hour so . mwah !
This isn’t how you remember him.
A boy; hiding pain behind a red fox mask and bruises beneath a gray shirt. That grin he shot you when you held two bottles of vodka in your hands or bummed him a cigarette. How close he had leaned in when you lit it for him. It feels like an eternity ago.
You weren’t much better, but he had been the only reason you stayed when given the option to leave with your mother. This town, this place, its history carved its way onto your bones that screamed to get out - but how could you? How could you leave him?
You’re troubled, that’s what they said, when blood stained your red shirt and the Bonnie mask you wore shattered into a million pieces below your boot. You, you, so uniquely affected by the divorce. You were just a silly girl, young, naive; who would listen when you told them you’d watched the bear be built - that you knew it wasn’t supposed to bite down so hard - that someone tampered with it.
And then Charlie died, and your father took up drinking, and suddenly Michael’s issues weren’t the biggest care you had. You were dealing with your own demons, your own guilt and shame that threatened to claw its way out of you each time you let a tear slip. And the best thing for you to do was leave.
College had been fun, a change of pace. You were someone different, someone new. The blood on your hands didn’t stain anymore, classes and parties kept your mind occupied, and you were close enough you could see your mom, see Sammy.
And then you graduated; and a choked up phone call from your father sent you running back to that place, that town. Your room still exactly how you had left it all those years ago, the house still far too quiet for comfort. Everyone else was gone, except for him.
Maybe it was those eyes that drew you back in, the dark, sad ones that made him look like a kicked puppy, or how awkward he was when he came around - your father being the only comfort now that his family was gone. Tall, lanky, bags under his eyes that told you he hadn’t had a good nights sleep in days.
A catch-up, that’s all it was supposed to be. Explaining where you’d been - apologizing for how you’d moved on from him so fast after you went to college.
So how is he nestled between your legs?
Wet kisses press against your inner thigh, dangerously close to the fabric barrier between his mouth and your clit. Quiet tears mix into how he presses his lips onto your flesh, as if he’s revering you; worshipping you.
Your head rests back against the pillows you hadn’t touched in years, staring up at some tacky 80s poster you had managed to tape on your ceiling. It’s all too much, but the feeling of his tongue swiping over the base of your panties takes your mind off it.
“You’re so - god. I missed you so much, please, please don’t go again - I need you.” A whine, soft and delicate as he looks up at you, bottom lip pouting out and nose and cheeks rosy from all the crying he’s done.
His pleading doesn’t stop, but it trails off when he manages to bury his face between your thighs as you squeeze them together at the sudden feeling. His tongue prods, pokes, nuzzling himself against your warm core.
Michael’s fingers come up to slide the fabric to the side, ring and pinky fingers keeping it in place; tongue licking a stripe up your core. Your fingers tangle in his messy hair, nails pressing firm against his scalp as he practically mewls into it.
“Please, please.” He repeats like a mantra, pleading over and over with you to not leave him again - to stay, to allow him to bury his tongue between your folds and just live here. To eat and breathe you and only you.
A content sigh passes from your lips as he begins a rhythm - no longer sloppy, eager movements - a calm, gentle lapping that his hips mimic. Pressing against your bunched up blankets, rocking his poor weeping cock against them.
It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve done this; sixteen years old and figuring out how to stop that aching. But this feels far more intimate, like it means something to the both of you.
His tongue continues its movements, the speed picking up with the movement of his hips, which jerk and rut against the bunched up blankets. Your legs quake slightly, when his nose brushes up against your clit over and over again.
And all too soon your eyelids flutter shut, that coil tightening in your core snaps, and his tongue slows as he laps up your climax. His hips don’t stop, and when you finally gather the strength to look down at him again he’s crying again.
Tears brim at his eyes as he mindlessly humps your blankets, desperate and needy, his cock achingly hard against his jeans. What can you do other than feel bad for him? You sit up slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows.
“Do you want to fuck me?”
You can barely finish your sentence before he’s nodding eagerly, climbing up to slot his clothed cock against your still slick core. He fumbles to wipe your juices from his mouth and chin before he captures your lips in a kiss; his tongue prodding against yours and you can taste yourself on him.
It’s not how you remember him, needy and pliable, but you won’t complain.
