game compliant — michael afton x female ! reader
⎨ 𝐂𝐖 ⎬ reader has ocd ( compulsions + contamination ) . spiraling thoughts & behaviors . mentions / depictions of child harm & death . guilt and shame . childhood trauma . mentions of underage substance usage . old man consequences referenced ?? SMUT : dry humping , premature ejaculation , pathetic ! michael . dacryphilia , p in v , riding , safe sex ( yay ! )
⎨ 𝐀𝐍 ⎬ this is part 2 to homecoming , as promised ! and a belated christmas present . i spent way too fucking long writing this but it is my longest fanfic chapter to date ! i never really write part 2s unless I’m really feeling it but god i love michael afton . I’m planning on writing a more oc focused fanfic with Kaz Brekker cause i got into shadow and bone after the fnaf 2 movie so . also i am not diagnosed with ocd but i tried my hardest to write what I thought was an accurate depiction so please don’t kill me ): ok love you byeee xx
Your fingertips grip the switch on the light socket, flicking over and over. He’s going to kill your father - the only family you have left. He’s going to kill Michael, and he’s going to get away with it just like he did with Charlotte if you don’t turn the lights off in the correct intervals.
Irrational, maybe, but it makes perfect sense to you.
Everything feels suffocating, and despite how you insist nothing will happen, that he’s dead and can’t hurt anyone anymore, the thoughts still race in your mind. Because what if you don’t flick the lightswitch three times and something does happen? It’ll be your fault, and you can’t handle any more death on your conscience.
The basement is messy, unorganized, bits of scrap metal and abandoned blueprints scatter around the floor. It's claustrophobic, pairs of mechanical eyes staring back at you. Your gaze skims the walls, taped up plans and scratched out drawings, but a certain area catches your eye. Bright colors dance off the cold bricks; blues and yellows and pinks. You recognize them immediately as drawings you made when you were little, some by yourself, some with Charlie when she was old enough to hold a crayon properly.
An inch closer, raking over the amateur doodles. Charlie had loved using the brightest colors in the box, snapping them in half with a grip she didn’t quite understand yet. You had been so mad at her at the time, when your pristine set of sixty-four crayons ended up halved and scattered around the living room floor.
Your fingertips graze the old paper, not bothering to fight back a smile at the bunny drawing, a strange blue-ish indigo you distinctly remember being your favorite color at the time. You had been so proud, and your father had surprised you with the Spring Bonnie animatronic based on that very drawing, which you correctly pointed out was not indigo.
He still has it hanging up all these years later, still decorating the walls of his makeshift workshop. A sweet surprise, and all you had come down here for were batteries; which sit in a box underneath his desk.
Closing the cardboard flaps of the container after you’re done, your gaze lifts to be greeted with what appears to be a version of Freddy. The metal is all black, however, with a red top hat instead of a brown one. Its jaw isn’t completed, slack and falling off. It looks just like how Fredbear did after they tore off his hinges to get the youngest Afton’s head out.
Your heart races in your chest, suddenly, rabbiting as if it's attempting to break out of your ribcage. The slightest thing is setting you off; your flesh feels as though it's burning off your bones. You’re back there, laughing and following after Michael as he hoists his little brother into the bear’s mouth.
How had you ignored those cries before? They’re deafening, now, ringing through your skull and penetrating your ear drums. He screams, wails, begs to be put down; but you don’t listen. Why don’t you listen? Why hadn’t you realized how tight the springlocks were until it was too late, why didn’t you try harder to tell Michael about it? Why didn’t you go up and get him yourself?
Not that it matters, because once again, the springlocks snap and a sickening crunch rings through the pizzeria. You stand there, wide eyed and shocked next to Michael, a darker crimson staining your already red sweatshirt, splattered over the indigo mask atop your head. It continues to stain your skin.
Your footsteps echo against the stairs leading back up to the main floor before you have a chance to realize what’s going on, before you can rationalize your trauma to yourself. The faucet in the kitchen drowns out the echoing cries; cold water splashing against your hands as you cup them to your face, scrubbing.
You have to get it off, get rid of the blood, you have to be clean again - be yourself again. And you don’t stop, not until your hair is drenched around your face and your palms are red and angry, sore, scrubbed raw and screaming at you to stop. The pain feels good, the pain means you’re still here.
An exasperated sigh passes from your lips, leaning back against the kitchen counter. The top is cool and grounding, allowing your fingernails to scratch atop the surface three times. Your gaze lifts, meeting that of your father, whose own reflects concern. Nauseous, pity always does that to you, it's how people looked at you after Charlie's death - it's how Henry looked at you after the divorce.
He leans against the kitchen counter next to the fridge, bringing a cup of coffee to his lips. The mug is stained in some places, around the rim and bottom. It’s gross to look at, and your hands - already scrubbed raw from the extensive washing today - itch to take care of it for him.
“Did you take your medicine today?”
“I’m out. The prescription is getting transferred here but it won’t be ready for a little bit.”
He doesn’t respond, a simple nod. He’s trying his hardest not to coddle, you can tell, not to loom over you or treat you like the child you hardly got to be. He’s quiet for a moment, bringing the cup to his lips and focusing instead on some mail sitting on the kitchen island in front of him; a gentle hum at the bitter taste.
“Michael seemed happy yesterday morning.”
If you had been eating anything you would’ve choked, and maybe you still do, the lingering nausea that seems to be ever present rising a bit more. Your cheeks flush, darkening to an almost comical degree as you cross your arms and shake your head. You always were petulant, it's almost reassuring to Henry that you’re still his daughter.
“It’s nothing like that, dad.” It is, but you don’t quite know what the two of you are at this point, if it had been a one off thing - despite the fact the oldest Afton child had spent the night before curled beside you, hugging you in his sleep like you were going to vanish.
“Well, he seemed happy, I don’t think I’ve seen that kid smile that wide in ages.” The thought of that twists in your gut, just more guilt to add to the overflowing list. You should’ve stayed, should’ve been here for him - but you weren’t; and he’s suffered for it. But it's not just him, Henry, too, seems to be doing better since you’ve moved back in.
You grab a towel from the drawer by the sink, pressing it against the front few strands of your hair that had gotten soaked from when you had washed your face earlier. Your fingers still itch to press under the water again, and your eyes flicker over to the stove one or twice, just double checking that it's turned off.
Despite the screaming in the back of your head that something is wrong, that you have to find out what it is before it creeps up on you, it all feels normal. Or, as normal as being home with your estranged father in this town can be. You fold the towel neatly, setting it down on the countertop. You had left the door to the basement open in your rush to wash the imaginary blood off of yourself.
Fingertips grasp the brass handle, turning it once, twice, and then three times before allowing the door to close. Before you can even think to stop yourself, you’re back at the sink - because that handle has been touched a million times before, and when's the last time it's been disinfected? When’s the last time the door has been cleaned for that matter? What if he had chemicals on his skin the last time he touched it and now it's on yours?
But the rushing of water once more feels good, despite how your raw skin protests against the coolness. Henry says nothing, he’s never been particularly good at dealing with your unmedicated OCD; it had always been your mother who knew how to console you.
“What are you building down there?”
Henry’s gaze finally lifts from the now almost empty coffee cup he holds to his lips. He doesn’t need to ask what you mean, because the way you had reacted told him all he needed to know. Old endo skeletons lined the walls, a workshop he hadn’t touched in years, until now.
But what can he say to you? How can he tell you he’s trying to help your sister? You never believed in the ghosts that haunt the animatronic suits, you had told him as much in a particularly heated letter response in your first few months in college.
“Its just something I’m tinkering with, keeping myself occupied.” He doesn’t like lying to you, the words feel bitter and slimy as he speaks them, but telling you the truth may only alienate you further from him.
“You’d tell me if you’re thinking about opening up another restaurant, right?”
“You don’t have to worry about that. I’m too old to be running a restaurant, anyways.”
It’s not an answer. Not a yes or a no, you can tell. He’s being purposefully vague, but your father has always been a bit cryptic when it comes to his animatronics, so you say nothing else on the matter. It isn’t your place to pry, you’ve been gone for so long, of course he is going to need something to get his mind off everything - and your dad has always found solace in tinkering with his creations.
“Okay, well. They said my medicine would be ready at one.” It’s only just past eleven, you have more than enough time but the thought of staying in this house, under the pity in his gaze, feels suffocating. You step over to the door, reaching for your keys, before your father stops you.
“I don’t want you driving, bunny. I can take you.” It’s a sweet offer, one given because he knows how you get without your medicine, that agonizing feeling that you’ve just hit someone with your car, that you’ve hurt someone while driving. It’s not conducive for being safe on the road.
But the use of that nickname makes the nausea double down. Bunny, you haven’t heard him use it in ages; not since your adolescent teenage years when you decided a nickname from your father wasn’t cool - not since before Charlie’s death when he would console you when you were sick or sad.
You’ve missed so much, you left in seemingly such a hurry, and now all those memories are tainted by your overwhelming guilt. You cannot look back on something happy without realizing how much you messed up. It’s ever present, swirling around the back of your mind like a growing cancer, but it does get better with your medication.
“No um - it’s fine. I’ll go see if Michael can take me.”
You don’t want to argue with him about driving, it's for the best that you stay off the road for now anyways. Your gaze doesn’t meet his, because somehow he looks more like a kicked puppy than usual. You love him, he’s your father, but you can’t be around him right now.
Setting the keys back on the rack, you once again take hold of the doorknob, twisting it three times before allowing it to swing open. You don’t step through, not yet, leaning back to triple check that the stove has been turned off before you give a gentle wave to your father and close the door behind you.
You pluck the hand sanitizer from your bag, applying a generous amount to your palms and wincing as the cooling sting finds its way into a little cut you hadn’t known you had. It isn’t necessarily washing them, but it’s the best you can do right now and it helps in quieting the fears of catching an unknown disease just by touching something in your own house.
The old Afton house isn’t far from your own, about a block walk, and the sun feels nice on your skin. You’ve been inside far too much recently; because what if every person that passes in their car is looking at you? What if they recognize you from all those years ago, what if they still hate you?
It wouldn’t be unjustified, you remind yourself. Why do you get to live when he’s dead? Why do you get to move on and go to college and start a whole new life when you helped kill him? But you haven't moved on; and being back here means you haven’t started a whole new life.
It’s sickening, remembering this path to Michael’s house. You’d bike here before you got your car, because you were a stupid teenage girl in love with a stupid teenage boy. Passing the trees you and the others used to hide behind, snickering beneath mascot masks as the youngest Afton walked past before inevitably jumping out to scare him.
You knew it was wrong, you always had that awareness in your gut, that you were tormenting the poor child - and the idea of someone doing that to Charlie or Sammy upset you to no end; but you didn’t stop because Michael liked doing it, you didn’t stop until it was too late.
Shaking those feelings from your mind, you find yourself on his porch. It’s a bit dilapidated, old leaves and helicopter seeds catching in spider webbed corners and underneath the mat that no doubt hasn’t been changed since his father died. You don’t blame him, you still haven’t taken down those old posters and cleaned your teenage clothes from your drawers.
Pulling your sleeve over your hand to negate skin contact with the door, you knock three times. It’s quiet in the house, punctuated only by what sounds like static from a television. Once again, you knock three times, before the sound of something falling startles you a bit. What if he’s hurt? You’re spiraling again, picking at the threads of your sleeves in a nervous habit before the door opens.
There Michael stands, brown hair messed up and deep blue eyes tired; but they light up the moment they see you, as if he were a dog greeting his owner when they got home from work. He steps aside, allowing you to enter the dim house.
“Hey, I wasn’t expecting you - sorry, just step over that.”
Your gaze flickers down to the living room floor, a bowl flipped over on the rug in front of a lonesome armchair and a few popcorn kernels scattered alongside it. The television is in fact running nothing but static, and the sunshine clock above it ticks monotonely.
“Sorry for coming over suddenly. Oh, you have popcorn on your shirt.”
He looks down at himself, the Circus Baby’s Pizza World uniform he was too lazy to take off from the night before has a few stubborn kernels clinging onto it and a full popped piece stuck on his collar. Sheepishly, he brushes them off and runs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it - to look good for you.
You can’t help but grimace at how freely his hands touch everything. It is his home, his right to do whatever he wants, but you keep your own shoved in your pockets; just in case.
“Are you taking your medicine?”
Suppressing an eye roll, you sigh softly. How is it that you seem to be an open book? First your father picked up on it - not that you were really hiding it, it would be strange if he couldn’t tell from the way you practically drowned yourself in the sink - and now Michael? You hadn’t seen either of them in years, but in the few days you had been back they picked up on everything; had you really even changed? Were you truly as different as you felt?
“I ran out two days ago. I had to switch my prescription here.” You hesitate when he makes a soft ‘oh’ sound, looking down at your fraying sleeves. “That’s actually why I came - I was wondering if you could take me? I mean, it should be ready at like one but I was thinking we could get lunch or something? Only if you want to?”
God, you feel like that stupid teenage girl asking him if he wants to hang out by the prize counter without the two others. You hate how flustered you feel, how you can’t quite get the right words out. It isn’t like you’re asking him out on a date, right? And that anxiety looms in your stomach, why would he want to take you?
“Yes.” He answers way too fast, clearly a bit embarrassed by how quick the word slipped from his mouth. He nods meekly. “I mean, yeah sure I’ll take you. Just let me go change.”
He nods once more, all awkward limbs like he hasn’t quite grown into them as he steps away, up the stairs and leaving you to linger in the now empty living room. It’s a bit sad, the couch clearly unused, favoring the solitary armchair better. How often did he fall asleep down here? Is that why he had been so keen to stay the night with you?
He’s lonely, that much is painfully obvious. Despite how close your father is in proximity to him, he doesn’t feel it's his place to come over and visit unless he’s checking up on the patriarch. His father had no doubt killed not only Henry’s youngest daughter, but all those other missing kids as well. And god - does he look like his father.
It feels strange being here. William had never allowed you to come over unless it was a dinner attended by your whole family as well. How many times did you have to throw pebbles at Michael’s window to alert him the two of you were sneaking out for the night? Definitely less often than he did to you. Annoying, at the time, how he’d wake you up at three in the morning on a school day; but part of you would give anything to go back again - to not only linger in those memories but to change what would come after.
Old family portraits line the walls,a few front and center. A wedding photo from the late sixties. Michael had confided in you at some point that he was actually already born when his parents got married, that his mom had to beg his father to take responsibility for him. And look where that got her. A few others were flipped around, ones with his younger siblings in them. You can’t blame him, it’s unbearable to see Charlie in the ones at your house.
He comes downstairs a moment later, clad in the same sweater he had shown up to your house in a few days prior. You say nothing as the two of you walk out to his beaten up car; and he reaches out to open the door for you before you can so that you don’t have to touch the handle.
How you hate the butterflies that pick back up in your stomach at the gesture. So small and inconspicuous, something that perhaps anyone else wouldn’t have looked twice at, but to you it means everything. Driving with him means everything. It feels incredibly intimate, being here with him, sitting in the passenger seat and staring out the window at all the buildings and cars and people that pass you by.
“I’m not picky, I just need to eat before I get my medicine.”
“Sparky’s is still open.” He looks over at you for a fraction of a second, a stupid grin on his face at the idea of the diner. The two of you had spent countless nights there, when the scent of weed followed after you and you were starving. It was a wonder, with how often you got kicked out, that they never enforced a lifetime ban. “And the Old Man’s still there.”
“No way, he’s still kicking? He’s gotta be like seventy at this point.”
The line cook and owner - affectionately nicknamed Old Man by the two of you in your younger years - was ever present at the diner. Honestly, you had never seen him take a break from the place and all these years later you figured he would’ve either died on that line or retired. Though, you suppose, that there’s still time for him to do the former.
He was something of a grandfather figure to the both of you; wise in his demeanor and always just a tad grumpy. It added to the charm. Michael turns into the parking lot, a few cars lingering here and there. Business definitely has dwindled, but everything seemed to die off after those kids went missing.
He opens the door for you, a rare sight compared to how he would occasionally intentionally close the door on you when the two of you were younger. A few patrons stare, some you recognize as old regulars, some you don’t. Their gazes fixed on Michael, because god does he look more and more like his father now that he's older.
The two of you find a booth, sitting across from one another and you fight a grimace at the plastic feeling of the seats. Just how you remember it, though probably not a very good thing. Your fingers pick at the peeling vinyl; before gazing up at the waitress as you order your drink - who addresses Michael by name, but not you.
“I don’t think anyone really recognizes you.” His voice breaks the silence that had been lingering between you two, deep blue eyes giving off that doe effect once more. He’s just happy to be here with you, happy the two of you are out on a pseudo-date. “I didn’t recognize you.”
Your fingers don’t stop picking at the booth seats as you shrug ever so slightly. He doesn’t seem to notice how awkward this is for you, how overwhelming it is to be back here. He’s like a lovesick puppy, following you around wherever you wish to go. You’re growing more and more accustomed to those butterflies, hating them far less now.
“Well, yeah. I don’t think I ever went out in public if my hair wasn’t dyed.”
“It isn’t just that.” His words catch you off guard, suddenly more serious and somber. “I mean - you went off to college. Henry bragged about that to everyone, how you studied robotics like he did. I think people see a bright future in you.”
His words die off when the waitress returns, setting down your respective glasses. You fiddle with the straw that drags along the inner walls of your cup, gaze staring down at the liquid. You don’t have time to linger on the worry that someone could’ve spit in your drink or when the last time the soda machine was cleaned because now you’re busy worrying about the expectations for you.
“I don’t know, Michael…” Because what else can you say? How can you describe how you feel without sounding like a whiny child?
“When people look at me they only see my father. They only see the things he’s done. So, I’m just saying - it could be worse.”
His words don’t reassure you, and despite how much you hate pity it seems that you freely give it to him. His blue eyes flicker down to his own glass, the silence stretching once more between you two. He’s been alone for so long now, and despite how long it's been since his fathers death people still look at him as if he’s the one who caused it.
“Well well, aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes. Michael - you look like hell. And you, I heard you were back in town.”
A gruff voice pulls you from your shared sorrow, gaze flickering up to meet the Old Man. His white apron is stained with grease and oil and condiments, ketchup making a prominent appearance. He looks noticeably older, his face wrinkled and reminding you like that of an alligator with how his nose points.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m staying for a while.” You don’t meet Michael’s gaze as you say that, keeping firm on the Old Man’s. You’ve already told him you aren’t leaving again, at least not anytime soon, but every time he hears it he gets a bit more giddy.
“Ah, good. Enough time for this one here to finally get the courage to ask you the question, yes?”
A dark blush spreads over both of your faces, creeping up your ears and the back of your neck as you finally tear your gaze, looking between the two men as if this were some secret you weren’t privy to. Michael sputters a few times, shaking his head awkwardly.
“Isn’t it? You two always seemed to be in here, huddled in this corner booth and whispering like star crossed lovers.”
You stop peeling the vinyl, now. The memories are heavy and carefree all at the same time. High out of your minds on awful weed you got from some kid behind the school, starving and the only place that happened to be open past midnight was this cramped diner on the township line. The two bicker for a moment, before the Old Man steps away to his kitchen.
Silence spreads back over the two of you, though no longer quite so awkward or tense. You continue to circle your straw around the glass containing it, biting back a stupid smile.
“So, you gonna pop the question?”
He blushes, playfully - and rather pathetically - brushing you off. “Shut up.”
They hadn’t lied to you, at least, when they told you your medicine would be ready around one in the afternoon. While the line was longer than you would’ve liked and the medicine always seems to take forever to kick in, there is some kind of placebo effect in just having them. The anxiety doesn’t leave fully, but it never seems to, and your compulsions aren’t at the top of your mind.
You still don’t touch his dashboard as the two of you drive, nor do you let go of the little hand sanitizer bottle you’re practically squeezing within an inch of its life, but it doesn’t feel as heavy or overbearing.
And you don’t mention how his gaze flickers over to you when stopped at red lights, how those pathetic blue eyes stare you down like you’re some kind of ancient goddess, like you were carved and crafted out of the most precious stone all for him to adore. The butterflies linger, but you’ve made peace with them.
“Do you want me to drop you off at your house?” His words are quiet, as if he doesn’t want you to hear him ask. He wants you to come over again, to stay with him and maybe allow him to tangle you in the sheets once more; but he doesn’t want to be pushy, especially since you’ve only been back a few days.
He has to remind himself that he isn’t yours and - more gratingly - that you aren’t his. He doesn’t own you, despite the possession that creeps up his being when he's around you, that he cannot cage you like some pet bird. You two are allowed to be apart, have to be at some point, but he hates even thinking about it.
You think for a moment; because going home to your father when the two of you in this car are finally reconnecting feels like a poor idea. A cop out. And whatever remains of that idiotic teenage girl with a massive crush screams at you to stay, at least for a little while.
“Um. Well, I was thinking maybe we could just go back to your place, if that's okay with you?”
Michael’s grinning like an idiot now, if he didn’t think it would make the moment awkward he would’ve been celebrating. It finally feels normal between you now, finally feels how it did all those years ago before every awful thing that could’ve happen did just that.
He pulls in the driveway with all the enthusiasm of a dog arriving at their favorite park, hopping out of the car and opening the door for you before you even have the option to. He’s a bundle of excited energy, something you haven’t seen from him since you were kids. And how are you supposed to say no to a face like that?
He practically pulls you up the stairs and into his old room, which has changed a lot since you last remember it. Compared to yours - that you’re still in the process of getting the emotional courage to take care of - it's more mature and a bit sad. Barren walls, a messy bed he hadn’t even slept in the night before, and a dresser.
Somehow, someway, you’re in the same situation as before. It feels like you had just blinked and he was hovering over you on the bed, a stupid grin plastered on his face. Bright and eager as you lay against his pillows, while his fingers trace you like he's mapping your body, committing you to memory.
Your fingertips manage to press against his scalp through the mess that is his brown hair; tangling in strands as his own catches on the belt loops of your pants, dragging your shirt up to catch the flesh of your lower stomach with his lips. Soft and sweet kisses, distracting you from the way he unbuttons them; the way he dips lower and lower but never quite reaching that spot that aches for him.
He’s more confident, today, almost cocky; yet he still doesn’t take any lead. He only lingers where you guide him, only stills where you want him too. He’s teasing, sure, but you could very easily make him do anything you wanted to.
You scold him, reprimanding that gets his gaze back on yours. Blue eyes searching, scanning, deciphering what you want as you stare down at him. His lips travel upwards, now; soft and sweet until he reaches your neck.
His fingers stay on your thighs, grasping at your flesh as he carefully slots himself between your legs, pulling them up against his waist. A pathetic position, one that allows him to bury his head in the crook of your neck and suck hickies as he grinds himself against your core.
The bulge in his pants catches on your underwear, pressing firm against your aching clit. He whines, moans against your flesh as if the combination of your scent and the feeling of your clothed folds are enough to make him cum.
It is - or, at least - he’s already close. He’s embarrassed, you can tell, biting his bottom lip to hide the way he’s panting against your flesh, hips grinding against you firm and desperate. You can’t help your grin as his whines get louder and louder.
His cock twitches painfully, strained against the confines of his pants before ropes of cum drip from his tip almost achingly. It isn’t the orgasm he had intended, stuttering and weak and leaving his cock painfully hard all the same; and he didn’t even make you cum.
“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His words are soft, pulling away from your neck. Tears prick at his blue eyes again, sniffling as he looks down at you. You feel cruel, the way your smile etches onto your face.
“Don’t apologize, it’s okay.” You guide him onto his back, unbuttoning his pants and slipping him down his legs along with his boxers. His cock head, angry and red but beautiful all the same, twitches against the cool air of the room.
You don’t think twice, leaning down to lick up the ropes that cascade down his shaft, marring his lower stomach and upper thighs. You’re sure you look almost pornographic, eyes closed as your tongue maps out his pelvis; only opening to look up at him as he moans between choked sobs.
Sitting up, after a moment and he’s all clean, you lean over to reach into his nightstand. Condoms, ones he’s bought recently - it seems. A crumpled receipt showing the date you moved back in, he looks sheepish.
You don’t allow him to finish his sentence, capturing his lips in a kiss. The first one in forever, since you were dumb teenagers making out wherever you wouldn’t get caught. You unwrap the package while he’s distracted, pulling away after a moment.
A string of saliva connects your lips, still. Breaths mingling before you slip off your own neglected underwear and carefully pull the condom over his needy cock.
His breath is heavy, watching how you maneuver yourself atop him. Blue eyes big and pathetic, pupils blown wide before he screws them shut as you lower yourself onto him. Slowly, almost painfully so. Your fingernails dig into his sheets, allowing yourself to get used to his size. You’re by no means a virgin, but it’s been a while and Michael is bigger than you would have anticipated.
A choked sob escapes him when you begin to rock yourself over his cock, desperate and clingy as his hands attempt to grasp onto your waist. Tears welling in his big eyes slip down his cheeks, making him look somehow even more beautiful. Your own fingers grab his, pinning his wrists down to the bed as you pick up the pace.
He adores being pinned, he realizes. Allowing you to take control of the situation, giving himself fully over to you. He’s obsessed; though, he always has been. Jerking himself off to thoughts of you for years. And now that he finally has you here, he worships you. Reveres you, like some kind of saint.
He won’t last very long, squirming against the bed in an attempt to stop himself from bucking his hips into you. Though, neither will you. Anticipation and the way you manage to maneuver his cock to hit that particular bundle of nerves.
His cock throbs inside of you when you squeeze around him, gummy walls milking him dry as his tip leaks cum in the confines of the condom. Your own legs shake, gripping his wrist tighter as your orgasm washes over you.
He grins like an idiot as you collapse beside him, head resting on his pillow and staring at the ceiling, both breathing heavily; chests rising and falling in rhythm. Blue eyes meet yours after a moment.
“You’re beautiful.” He says it as though it’s the easiest thing in the world to him, like it’s a proven fact. A blush coats your face, shaking your head.
“You’re prettier, especially when you cry.”
“Ah-“ It’s his turn to blush, sheepish once again. “You like that, huh? Well, I can’t really help it. That was my first time.”
You blink, convinced you haven’t heard him right. Something stupid and possessive aches in your gut, the knowledge that you’re his first.
“Yeah. I always wanted it to be with you. I didn’t mind waiting, I’d wait years more just to get pinned down by you again.”
Michael’s grinning like an idiot, now. Bright and carefree; like that teenager you knew before everything happened. Before his brother, before Charlie. You won’t let yourself linger on those memories, not here, not now. Not when everything's finally going right.
“Well, you couldn’t top to save your life.”
“Maybe. But you’re so hot above me that I really don’t want to try.”
He’s stupid, you think, irrevocably idiotic to wait for someone like me. But warmth blooms in your stomach and those butterflies thrive and for once, perhaps, it’ll finally be okay.
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
annaxmalina
dededos
areudirty