#taro's library

[eritaro]

Can I request movie Micheal?

Where he has a nightmare about you leaving him and he cries in his sleep and you wake him up. He sobs in ur arms and you promise him you will never leave him.

A/N: Thank you for your request, anon! Is it bad I love fics about Michael that are like this? Probably.

Midnight Breath

Word Count: 1.1k words

CW: slight depiction of trauma & panic attacks

Reader is Gender Neutral.

The first time it happened, you thought he was just tossing in his sleep.

But the second time you noticed the muffled sounds. The small broken sobs, the quick hitch of his breath, you realized something was wrong. Michael was dreaming. And this wasn’t a simple dream.

You sat on the edge of the bed, watching his shoulders shake under the covers. His face was buried in the pillow, fists clutched tight against it, and you felt that familiar pang in your chest: the knowledge that he never asked for help, that he rarely let anyone see him like this.

“Michael,” you whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. No response. He didn’t stir. His brows were furrowed, lips trembling.

“Michael,” you repeated, firmer this time, letting your hand rest against his jaw.

Slowly, painfully, he cracked his eyes open. The dark circles were deeper than usual. His chest rose and fell unevenly, like he’d been holding himself underwater. And when he saw you, something in him broke further.

“I… I…” His voice was strangled, quiet, almost a whimper.

You shushed him as you moved closer, gently lifting the blanket off his shoulders and letting your hands cradle him. He curled into you instinctively, arms wrapping around your waist as if clinging to a lifeline.

“Shhh,” you murmured, pressing your cheek against his hair. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here.”

He shook slightly, muffled sobs against your shoulder, the sound raw and jagged. “You… you’re gonna leave me, aren’t you?” he choked out.

Your chest clenched. He’d always said the words like this. It really isn’t easy to get used to hearing.

“No,” you whispered firmly, rocking him gently. “Never. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to leave you. Not now, not ever.”

He pressed his face harder into your neck, hands clutching your shirt like he could physically hold onto you and make it real. His tears soaked your collar, but you didn’t care. You’d been waiting for him to let it out, waiting for the dam inside him to break.

“I—” His voice cracked again. “I’m… scared. I’m… I can’t… I can’t lose you. Not you… Not you too.”

You tightened your arms around him, letting him feel the strength of your presence. “You won’t. I promise. You don’t have to be strong all the time, Michael. You don’t have to be invincible for me. Just… be here, with me. That’s enough.”

He hiccuped against your shoulder, quiet whimpers mixing with the occasional shudder. “I can’t… I just… I just can’t…”

“It’s okay,” you soothed, gently stroking his back. “You’re not alone. Look at me.”

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifted his head, the tears glinting in his eyes catching the lamplight. You cupped his jaw with one hand, brushing your thumb along his cheek.

“I won’t leave you,” you repeated, voice soft but unwavering. “Even if the world falls apart, even if everything goes wrong, I’m not going anywhere. Do you hear me?”

“I…” His voice faltered. Then, small and broken: “I hear you.”

The trembling in his hands began to ease as he let himself settle against you. You wrapped the blanket around both of you, holding him close, letting him lean on you, literally and emotionally. For a long time, neither of you spoke. Just the quiet rhythm of his breaths against your chest, the subtle beat of his heart gradually finding a calmer pace.

“You’re… good to me,” he finally murmured, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Even when I… I don’t deserve it.”

“Michael, listen to me,” you said, tilting his chin so he could look at you. “You deserve every bit of love. You always have. And I’m giving it to you. I’m not taking it back. Ever.”

His lips trembled, a small, shaky smile breaking through. “I… I don’t know how…”

“You don’t have to know how,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “You just have to let me in. Let me be here for you. That’s all I need.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, he exhaled fully, long and shuddering, and leaned into you completely. No walls. No pretenses. Just raw Michael, trembling in your arms, and you holding him like he was the most fragile thing in existence.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured after a while, voice hoarse, “for… for being like this.”

“Don’t be,” you said firmly. “This isn’t a mistake. This isn't a weakness. You let me in… this is trust. And I’ll cherish it. Always.”

He closed his eyes, finally letting himself rest against you, small sobs fading into quiet sniffles. “You… really mean that?”

“Every word,” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never leave you.”

And in that quiet, imperfect night, Michael finally felt it: a home he didn’t have to escape from, a safety he hadn’t let himself hope for, a love so grounding it quieted every demon chasing him.

He fell asleep curled against you, forehead pressed to your chest, hands clutching your shirt like he could anchor himself there forever. You stayed awake for a while, just listening to him breathe, counting each sigh and heartbeat, memorizing the small miracle that was Michael Afton letting someone hold him. Truly hold him.

And when he slept, the nightmares didn’t matter anymore. Not tonight. Not while you were here.

Because you had promised. And he believed you.

You shifted slightly, making sure he was fully settled against you. His breathing had evened out, soft and rhythmic now, but you could still feel the tension in his body, the tremor in his fingers. You pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head and whispered, “I’ll be here in the morning, too. And the next night. And the one after that. Always.”

Michael murmured something incoherent, a tiny, muffled, “I love you…” that made your chest tighten in the best way. You smiled softly and rubbed his back in small circles. “I know,” you whispered. “And I love you too. Every messy, broken piece of you.”

After a few more minutes of silence, you carefully shifted so that he wouldn’t roll off the bed, tucking the blanket more securely around him. He sighed in his sleep, and you watched him for a long moment, watching the dark shadows under his eyes, the way his lips twitched as he dreamt, the small rise and fall of his chest.

You realized something: Michael Afton didn’t just need you to soothe his nightmares. He needed to know he could be safe without having to earn it, that someone could love him without conditions, without fear. And tonight, for the first time, he had that.

You stayed by his side until your own eyelids grew heavy, letting yourself drift into a light, careful sleep, one arm still draped over him. When you woke in the morning, he was still there, curled against you, and for the first time in a long time, the thought of facing another day didn’t make your chest ache.

Because some nights are dark, and some dreams are cruel, but he wasn’t alone anymore. And that was enough.

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

[eritaro]

hello! you're a really good writer!!!

can i request a michael afton x female reader fic? your choice if movie or game Version! reader and michael have a heart to heart talk and he finally finds comfort once in his life. thank you so much if you consider writing this!!!

A/N: Thanks for the compliment and your request, anon! I hope you like it :) I love fics like this. :) Michael is a bit OOC here considering he's the movie vers. Fic happens after the events of the 2nd movie.

Soft Enough to Ruin Me

Word Count: 2.4k words

CW: mentions of abuse, trauma, and depression. if you think you may be triggered, please skip this.

Reader is Female.

Michael and you have been friends since you two were kids. Your family was fairly close with the Aftons. Neighbors, casual acquaintances, close enough that dinners overlapped and doors were never really locked.

You were close with Vanessa, too. But due to circumstances you didn’t really care to pry into, you two grew apart. Especially when she left their home. 

You weren’t stupid. You noticed the Aftons were dysfunctional. Hell, yours was too. Certain mannerisms William and Mrs. Afton had mirrored your own parents, and the way the siblings shrank or stiffened around them mirrored you. The reason you never asked wasn’t ignorance, it was a choice. You wanted to be a safe space for them. A temporary escape. Somewhere they didn’t have to explain themselves.

It was late at night, you were up watching some obscure, over the top soap opera you stumbled upon while mindlessly surfing through channels. You still lived in your childhood home, it became livable once your parents were gone. You’d found a decent job in town. You were… comfortable. Or at least pretending to be.

Headlights cut across the street outside your window, followed by the sound of a car pulling to a stop in front of the Afton house.

Michael, you thought.

You knew he still lived there, too—but for different reasons. He’d always been attached to his family. Especially his father. When the rumors started—when people whispered that William Afton was a murderer—you were the one who sat with Michael through his spirals. He ranted about defamation, about people not understanding his father’s vision. And then William died. After that, Michael disappeared. Reclusive. Hollow.

You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d seen him outside—until a few days ago.

You turned off the TV, slid on your slippers, and stepped outside.

He’d mentioned the job enthusiastically then; a security guard at the old Freddy’s building. The attachment made your stomach twist, but you smiled anyway. At least he was leaving the house again.

He turned.

His face was swollen. Bruised. Wrong.

And when he noticed you staring, he smiled that same practiced, unsettling smile anyway, and waved with his free hand. Concern hit you all at once.

“Michael, what the hell happened to you?!” you asked, rushing over to assess his state.

He shrugged, “Some intruders got into Freddy’s. It’s nothing.” His smile strained. He dropped it when the pain became too much.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Mike. You have got to be more careful. Are you the only security guard there?” You took his wrist, gently pulling his hand away from his jaw to get a better look. “You’re practically sleeping in that damn restaurant.”

“It’s Michael.” he corrected, voice dropping. “I’m fine. This was… a miscalculation.” 

You didn’t know what that meant, and you didn’t care to think about it right now. You dragged Michael back into your house, pushing him down your couch before you started patching him up. 

It was silent the whole time you were fixing him up. He went quiet while you worked. Too quiet. His gaze fixed on the floor, eyes glassy, distant. Like he was somewhere else entirely.

“Michael,” you called out, making him look at you. “What’s up with you, really?”

“What do you mean?” He asked, eyebrows knitting together.

“I’m asking what’s wrong with you.”

"Excuse me?"

“Mike, I’m se–” Michael cut you off. He stood abruptly, pain forgotten. Rage took its place. “I told you, it's Michae–!”

“Mike, Michael, what’s the difference?!” you snapped back, standing too. But your anger dissolved almost immediately. “Mike… Michael… whatever,” you stumbled with your words, “I’m your friend. I’ve been that since we were practically 7.” you pleaded with him, his eyes still looking at you with silent rage. 

“Your dad died, and your response is to disappear?” Your voice trembled. “Do you think I don’t care? I worry about you. I stayed quiet about your family because I didn’t want to hurt you.” Your eyes burned while you looked at Michael. You were striking a nerve, but you knew you had to.

“I knew,” you continued, voice breaking. “Every time you came over here. Every time we stayed in the attic for hours. Do you really think I didn’t know why you were so eager to be with me?”

You grabbed his hand.

“Do you think I didn’t know what you were running from?”

Silence.

Then Michael’s shoulders sagged.

He pulled his hand back. Not harshly, just tired. Then, he laughed once, hollow and humorless.

“You always knew, huh?” He murmured.

You nodded. “I just didn’t want to make you say it.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then he turned toward the hallway.

“Come on,” he said quietly.

You didn’t need to ask where.

The attic was exactly the same—dusty, cramped, lit by a single crappy bulb. The place where you’d both hidden when the world got too loud. Where secrets sat in the air without being named.

Michael sat on the floor, back against a box. You followed, settling beside him.

“I hated it there,” he said suddenly. “The house. Him. Everything felt… heavy. Like I was breathing wrong.”

You leaned closer.

“He always chose Vanessa,” Michael continued. “She was smarter. Better. Worth saving.” His voice cracked. “I tried so hard to be what he wanted.”

Your chest tightened.

“And when she left,” he whispered, “it was just me.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you. No smile. No armor.

“I didn’t want to become him,” he admitted. “But I didn’t know how to be anything else.”

You rested your forehead against his shoulder.

He stayed still, shoulder warm against your temple, like he was bracing for something fragile. Like he knew whatever came next wouldn’t be loud, but it would be heavy.

You stared at the dust motes drifting in the attic light, throat tight.

“My dad,” you started, then stopped. The word felt too big. Too sharp. “He was… a perfectionist.”

Michael’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Everything had rules,” you continued. “Every movement, every word. If I messed up—if I hesitated, if I wasn’t fast enough, quiet enough, good enough, I got yelled at. Not hit. Well, sometimes I get hit.” You let out a dry laugh, “ But usually it was just…” You swallowed. “Being corrected. Constantly.”

Corrected until you didn’t know how to breathe without permission.

“He said it was love,” you said bitterly. “That he was preparing me for the real world. That if I couldn’t handle him, I wouldn’t survive anything else.”

Michael stared off to nothingness again. He didn’t interrupt. He never did when it mattered.

“My mom was different,” you said. “She didn’t raise her voice much. She didn’t have to.” Your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve. “She decided everything for me. What I liked. What I wanted. Who I was supposed to be.”

Your chest ached.

“She’d say things like, I only want what’s best for you. Or after all I’ve sacrificed.” A hollow laugh slipped out. “Debt of gratitude. Like my existence was a debt I could never finish paying.”

You leaned back against the wall, eyes burning.

“I couldn’t rebel,” you whispered. “There was no room for it. If I pulled away, they pulled harder. If I complied, they praised me just enough to keep me trying.”

Hot and cold. Love and punishment braided together so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended.

“I learned how to read moods before footsteps,” you said. “How to apologize before anyone accuses me of anything. How to disappear without actually leaving.”

Your voice cracked then.

“I didn’t know how to be a person. Just a daughter.”

Michael turned fully toward you.

Not looming. Not intense. Just there.

“I used to watch you,” he said quietly. “At school. At your house.” His voice softened. “You were always so… put together. I thought you had it figured out.”

You shook your head. “I was terrified all the time.”

That did it.

Something in Michael’s face broke. Not dramatically, not all at once. Just a quiet collapse. He reached out, hesitated, then rested his hand over yours.

“They train you to stay,” he murmured. “Even when leaving would save you.”

Your fingers tightened around his.

“I thought if I did everything right,” you said, “they’d finally let me go. Or love me without conditions.”

Silence filled the attic again—but this time, it wasn’t empty.

Michael leaned his forehead against yours.

“They never teach you how to live without them,” he said. “They just teach you how to survive for them.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t even know I was allowed to be angry.”

He huffed a quiet, sad laugh. “Yeah. I know that one.”

You stayed like that for a long time. Two people who had learned to make themselves smaller, pressed together in a place that had once been the only room big enough to hold them.

Eventually, you spoke again—softer now.

“I think that’s why I stayed here,” you admitted. “In this house. In this town. Because leaving felt like betrayal.”

Michael squeezed your hand once. Gentle. Grounding.

“You’re not betraying anyone by wanting peace,” he said.

You closed your eyes.

For the first time, the attic didn’t feel like an escape.

It felt like a beginning.

You shifted first.

Not away from him—never that—but enough to look at his face. Up close, in the dim attic light, Michael looked younger. Tired in a way that sleep didn’t fix. Like someone who’d been holding a position for too long and forgot he was allowed to stand down.

“Mike,” you said quietly.

He flinched at the nickname, just barely. You didn’t correct yourself this time. Surprisingly, neither did he.

“You know you’re starting to talk about your dad the same way I talk about my parents, right?”

His eyes flicked away immediately.

“That’s different.”

You sighed, soft and patient. “That’s what I told myself too.”

Michael shook his head. “He had a vision. He wanted something bigger. People don’t understand that.”

You leaned back against the wall again, but you didn’t let go of his hand.

“I used to say my dad was just strict,” you said. “That my mom just worried too much. That they meant well.” Your thumb brushed over his knuckles. “But intent doesn’t erase damage.”

He swallowed.

“They taught us the same lesson,” you continued. “That love has to be earned. That if we stop performing, it disappears.”

Michael’s jaw tightened. “If I don’t carry on what he started, then what was the point?” His voice wavered despite himself. “He didn’t just—” He cut himself off, breathing sharp. “I’m all that’s left.”

You turned fully toward him now.

“No,” you said firmly. “You’re what survived.”

That made him look at you.

Really look.

“You don’t owe him continuation,” you went on. “You don’t owe anyone your life just because they gave you one.”

He scoffed weakly. “Easy for you to say.”

You smiled sadly. “I stayed trapped in my parents’ house for years because I thought leaving meant I was ungrateful.” Your voice softened. “We were taught that loyalty meant self-erasure.”

Michael’s shoulders slumped a fraction. Just a crack.

“They told us we’d fall apart without them,” you said. “But we didn’t. We just… didn’t know who we were yet.”

He stared at the attic floor. At the old boards you both used to lie on as kids, whispering about escape like it was a fairy tale.

“I don’t know how to exist without him,” he admitted. “Without… all of it.”

You squeezed his hand.

“Then we learn,” you said. “Slowly. Badly. Together, if you want.”

He let out a shaky breath. “What if I become nothing?”

You shook your head. “You’re already someone. You just never got to choose who.”

The words settled between you, heavy and undeniable.

Michael leaned back, head knocking gently against the wall. He closed his eyes.

“I thought following him would make everything make sense,” he whispered.

“And did it?” you asked.

Silence.

Then, barely audible: “No. Not really. Not always.”

You rested your head against his shoulder again.

“Then maybe,” you said, “it’s time to stop asking what he wanted and start asking what you need.”

Michael didn’t answer right away.

You hesitated, then let the words slip without thinking.

“You know,” you said softly, “sometimes it feels like we were never really ourselves. Just… property. Belonging to someone else.”

Michael’s eyes, half-lidded, flicked toward you. He didn’t speak. You had no idea how close you had hit the mark.

“Like everything we did, every choice, every step…” you continued, voice cracking slightly, “…it was measured, controlled. There was never space to just be.”

He swallowed hard. “I– I thought that too,” he murmured finally, voice trembling. “That I was… his. That my life wasn’t mine. That if I stopped being his… I’d vanish.”

Your chest ached at the honesty in his tone. That pure, raw confession you weren’t even expecting.

“You’re not,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “You were never anyone’s property. And you’re still here. You’re breathing. You’re alive. You’re yours.”

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The attic, the dust, the old light, the boards you’d sat on as kids, everything felt suspended, like a heartbeat stretched too long.

Michael’s lips trembled. He let a single tear slip, silently, unashamedly. He buried his face in your shoulder.

“I don’t know how to do it,” he admitted. “To be… me.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you said, voice shaking. “I’ll stay. We’ll figure it out. Piece by piece.”

He pressed a shaky kiss to your shoulder, you hugged him tight. Not romantic. Not yet. Just… grounding. Safe.

“I think,” he whispered, voice muffled, “that I’ve never been held like this before. Not by anyone who didn’t want something in return.”

“You can stay like this for as long as you need,” you replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that attic, where the weight of all the parents’ expectations, all the control, all the fear and manipulation had tried to bury you both—something shifted.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fixed. But it was real.

And for the first time in years, both of you felt it: a little spark of freedom, a little ownership of yourselves.

You didn’t need to be anyone else’s.

You didn’t need to belong to anyone else.

Not tonight. Not ever.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

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

[eritaro]

Hello, I love how you write both Michael afton in movie and game.

I was wondering if I could request for both? (sfw and nsfw) If ever they met each other and both have liking towards reader romantically and how they act each other?

I feel like game Michael afton would beefing towards his evil counter part lol.

A/N: Thank you for your request, anon! It's good to be back to writing after my exams :) I really love this idea of the both Michaels meeting, so I really enjoyed making this! This is a bit long too, I got a bit carried away lolz.

Two Ways to Wear the Same Face

Word Count: 1.2k words

CW: contains NSFW, you may skip those portions if you are not comfortable/interested in it.

Reader is Gender Neutral.

— MOVIE MICHAEL 🎬

SFW HEADCANONS

His interest sharpens the moment he realizes there’s competition. You stop being just appealing, you become important. Not because of who you are, but because someone else wants you. Especially someone he sees as weaker, guilt-ridden, “wasted potential.”

He turns the charm up. Not warmer, but louder. More compliments. More proximity. More confidence. He starts performing affection in ways meant to be seen. Laughing a little too hard. Touching a little too often. He wants Game Michael to watch.

He over-prepares for everything involving you. If he knows he’s going to see you, he rehearses. Conversations. Reactions. Facial expressions. He practices smiles in reflective surfaces. A part of all this is of course, manipulation, to make Game Michael think he's in the lead, but another part of this is his never ending search of approval and need to be chosen.

He watches Game Michael constantly when you’re around. How he stands. How he speaks. How relaxed you seem around him. Movie Michael quietly adjusts himself in response, trying to mirror what he thinks makes Game Michael “better.”

He needles Game Michael deliberately. Calls him cautious. Broken. Too careful. Implies that you’d be bored with someone so restrained. He wants to provoke a reaction—proof that Game Michael is unstable, unworthy, unsafe.

NSFW HEADCANONS

Touch is deliberate and lingering. His hand rests too firmly. Fingers curl like they expect you to stay right where he puts you. Hand resting on your thigh or near your crotch area. Forehead against your temple. Occasional squeezes on your waist or ass. Smelling your hair or neck. If you don’t pull away, he takes it as confirmation that he’s right to be there.

He likes reactions. The way you respond matters, but mostly as feedback. Proof. Validation. He watches your face closely, to see how he’s being received.

When jealousy devours him, you are his outlet. Any frustrations or insecurities he has about Game Michael, or anyone for he sees as a threat for that matter, he will take it out on you. Sometimes, it takes form of a make out session at the back of the pizzeria, sometimes it's him relentlessly ramming into you, biting and marking you on places he knows people will see, continuously muttering words like "Mine" until your legs give out.

He lives for your praise. Movie Michael burns for your words. Every moan, every whispered request, every time you tell him he’s the only one you want, he drinks it in like air. Your praise awakens that dark, insatiable hunger in him, the craving that never fades and only grows stronger with each moment you give in to him.

Aftercare. Fingers brush your hair, rub your back, trace your arm. He’s obsessive in a gentle way, holding on just enough to reassure himself and you that you’re both still okay. It’s possessive without being suffocating—he’s learning to channel intensity into care just for you.

HIS THOUGHTS ON GAME MICHAEL

Immediate comparison. The first thing Movie Michael notices is that Game Michael exists. Calm. Steady. Comfortable with you. Present without effort. That drives Movie Michael insane, because every bit of his life has been about proving himself. And here’s someone who doesn’t seem to need to.

Envy wrapped in fascination. Movie Michael can’t stop watching him. The way he touches you lightly, smiles at you calmly, makes you feel grounded without even trying. Movie Michael envies it and resents it at the same time. It’s infuriating that it comes so naturally to him.

Acknowledges patience and strength begrudgingly. He notices how Game Michael doesn’t overreact. Doesn’t snap. Doesn’t compete overtly. That makes him uncomfortable because it’s so different from how he’s always had to operate, constantly performing, constantly striving.

— GAME MICHAEL 👾

SFW HEADCANONS

Around Movie Michael, he positions himself subtly. Never obvious. Never aggressive. Just… present. Sitting beside you instead of across the room. Standing close enough that you can lean into him if you want. His body language says you have an exit, without saying a word.

He doesn’t flirt to compete. That’s important. He refuses to turn you into a prize. If he shows affection, it’s consistent with how he always treats you, soft, grounded, real. He lets Movie Michael expose himself through excess.

Protective in a calm way. He’s not aggressive or overbearing, but he positions himself subtly to ensure you’re safe, both physically and emotionally. If he notices someone being inconsiderate or invasive, he doesn’t yell, he just shifts, stands near you, and radiates quiet confidence that makes you feel protected.

Immediate wariness. Game Michael quietly keeps a watchful eye on Movie Michael whenever he’s near you, never confrontational, just a steady, protective presence, because he doesn’t trust him not to push too far. He sees the way he provokes him.

Jealousy shows up as restraint. You can see it in his jaw, the way his hand curls briefly at his side when Movie Michael touches you without asking. But he doesn’t lash out. He waits. He trusts you. That trust costs him something, and Movie Michael hates that.

NSFW HEADCANONS

Touch is slow, grounding, intentional. When his hand finds you, it’s warm and steady, never sudden. Fingers resting at your waist like he’s asking permission without words. If you lean into him, that’s when he exhales, like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

Breath and proximity as a weapon. He leans closer, body hot against yours, chest pressing into your back, hands roaming your sides, the subtle slide of skin over skin. His warmth, the rhythm of his breathing, the heat in his chest, every element is deliberate, a way to mark territory without words. Movie Michael’s presence doesn’t scare him; it fuels him.

He marks you subtly, privately. His hands linger, sliding over hips, shoulders, thighs, just enough to remind you of his claim. Sometimes a soft bite to your shoulder or neck, just barely enough to leave a heat imprint, or a hickey on somewhere only the two of you can see, it reminds him and you of the need simmering between you.

Subtle but deep dominance. He doesn’t need to force; the heat comes from the weight of his presence. Just holding you, pressing his body close, murmuring low, demanding soft responses—it’s enough to make your heart race.

Aftercare. As you calm down, he might ask if you’re warm enough, need water, or want a blanket. Even small gestures matter—he’s trying to make sure your mind and body both feel safe and cared for.

HIS THOUGHTS ON MOVIE MICHAEL

He notices the darkness immediately. Movie Michael’s intensity is… sharp. How ready he is to be violent into certain situations, how he wants attention, how he craves validation. Game Michael can sense it in the tilt of his shoulders, the way his voice edges toward insistence. It's why he's so wary and guarded.

A mix of pity and caution. He sees the insecurity that drives Movie Michael. The need to prove himself. The way he can’t just… be anymore. Game Michael feels a twinge of pity, he knows what it’s like to be desperate for approval, but he also knows how dangerous that desperation can be if it’s unchecked.

Moral compass holds him steady. He reminds himself: he can’t be like him. He can’t respond with the same intensity or recklessness. He has to stay calm, patient, deliberate. Not anymore. His steadiness is his advantage and that's what you need. That's what you deserve.

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

[eritaro]

Hii! Can I have a request for Movie Michael and Game Michael? (Seperate)

What would their reaction if their crush (reader) gave him a drawing of him like how she saw in her eyes as if it was like a love confession towards him?

Reader is an artist and a coworker working along with him, ofc she secretly has a crush on him too but doesn't know how to say it.

A/N: Thank you for the request! We're on a Michael roll rn lol. (not complaining, I love Michael so much. I prefer movie!Michael but I love writing for game!Michael too). I have way too much time on my hands tonight, but this'll probably be my last work before I sleep for the night :) I'm so happy you guys are here!

Through Their Eyes

Word Count: 662 words

Reader is requested as Female, but headcanons are written as Gender Neutral.

— MOVIE MICHAEL 🎬

His first reaction is… stillness. Is he shocked? Flustered? You're not sure. It was a pause that lasted just half a second too long. He takes the drawing from you carefully like it was fragile. Then he smiles. That unnerving, pleasant smile that reaches from ear to ear.

He asks questions that feel too perceptive. “What made you want to draw me like this?” Not accusatory. Curious. Soft. Almost intimate. He wants to hear you explain yourself; wants to know how deep it goes. Validation is his oxygen, and this? This is premium fuckin' grade.

He pretends to assess the art seriously. Tilting his head, murmuring artistic-sounding things. But really, he’s analyzing your attention, how you looked at him, and how you felt about him. Every compliment is a subtle fluster disguised as intellect: “The shading… it’s very… intentional. I like that.”

He keeps it. Of course he keeps it. Somewhere private. Somewhere important. Not displayed. Protected. It becomes proof. Someone sees him. Someone chose him. Someone admires him without him having to perform for it. That realization digs in deep. He looks at it everyday. he's mesmerized.

He rehearses how to act normal around you afterward. Smooth small talk, leaning slightly closer, casual touches on your arm or shoulder. Internally, it’s a disaster. He wants to kiss you, hug you, make some grand declaration, but he cannot ruin the dorky “I’m fine, just confident and calm” facade.

If you ever mention the drawing again, he pretends he forgot it existed. “Oh, that? Yeah, it’s… very good. You’re talented.” Slight chuckle. Slight blush. Heart racing. He’s 90% embarrassed, 10% thrilled, 100% in love.

Internally, it feeds something dark and hungry. The drawing becomes a mirror he likes too much. He doesn’t just want your affection, he wants it secured. Controlled. Something that can’t be taken away the way his father’s approval or attention always is.

IF he does confess... Flustered and slightly dorky, he corners you after a shift, grinning like he’s joking as he says the words: “I like you… and if anyone ever tries to take you away, they’ll regret it.”

— GAME MICHAEL 👾

He thinks it’s a joke at first. Not because he doubts your talent, but because he can’t imagine being the subject of something so gentle. He blinks at the drawing, then at you, like he’s misread the situation entirely.

He's immediately caught off guard. He hesitates for just a moment before taking it, like he’s afraid it’s too personal, but quickly composes himself. There’s no panic, just a quiet awareness that he’s unprepared for being seen in this way.

He doesn’t joke. Unlike Movie Michael, he’s awkward verbally, stumbling slightly: “I… uh… didn’t know… you felt that way,” or “I mean… wow… this is… really good.” He avoids as much as he can to mask his nerves with humor.

He asks if you're sure. Not fishing. Genuinely uncertain. He needs reassurance that this wasn’t a pity gesture, that you weren't mistaken.

He keeps the drawing near. Like Movie Michael, he might keep it somewhere private for a couple of days, like in a drawer or on his nightstand. But eventually, it might end up in his pocket or wallet (if the drawing was small enough to fit).

His affection shows in subtle gestures. Not words at first: helping you with tasks, walking slightly closer, offering to carry something for you, making sure you're safe or comfortable. Quiet but deliberate.

He's trying to process his affection deeply. While he may seem reserved, the drawing and its meaning linger in his thoughts. He reflects on it, trying to reconcile it with his past trauma, his guilt, and his desire to be seen as more than his actions and family.

IF he does confess... It's deliberate and serious, but still awkward. He'll gently take your hand while the pizzeria hums around the both of you and whispers: “I care about you… more than I should, but I can’t hide it anymore.”

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

[eritaro]

Hello, can I get some hcs of some domestic fluff with michael? stuff like taking care of him, helping him relax after work in the pizzeria, cooking for him, helping him bathe and cuddling him because he probably doesn't know how to take care of himself and he needs help with that, i feel like this might apply more to game Michael Afton not movie (because I like game mike better) but maybe it can apply to both? Either way, thank you!

A/N: I wrote this in a way that applies to both, but some are more game!Michael specific :) I like that I've already gotten a request for game!Michael and movie!Michael. Thank you for your request!

A Quiet Place to Come Home To

Word Count: 603 words

Fic Version

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

Reader is Gender Neutral.

He usually comes home utterly wrecked. Like, shoes kicked off halfway through the door, slumped posture, thousand-yard stare type of wrecked. He doesn’t complain. Michael never complains. But you can tell the night took something out of him. He smells like grease, dust, old carpet, and regret. You stopped asking him “rough night?” because the answer is always yes. You just take his jacket and guide him inside.

Cooking for him as a love language. He insists he’s “fine” with instant noodles or cold leftovers, especially since he lived with that before you were ever in the picture, but the second you cook something warm? He melts. Simple comfort food is his favorite: soups, rice dishes, anything hearty and grounding. He eats slowly, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he rushes. Occasionally mutters a soft thanks, and for you, that's enough.

He forgets basic self-care unless someone reminds him. Eating regularly, sleeping properly, drinking water, bathing? Optional, apparently. You quietly make it routine. A plate appears. A glass of water is nudged toward him. He gives you a tired little look like oh… right. Food is a thing. When bathing, some nights he’s so tired he just sits on the edge of the tub, staring at the floor, dissociating a little. So you help him undress, help him step in, check the water temperature. He closes his eyes when you wash his hair, shoulders finally dropping like he’s safe enough to stop bracing.

Physical touch grounds him. Michael isn’t clingy, but he is… anchoring. When you cuddle, he wraps an arm around you like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, breath evening out. Sometimes he just needs to feel another heartbeat to convince himself he’s still real. still here.

He shuts down when he feels like a burden. The second Michael thinks he’s “too much” he withdraws. Gets quieter. Less expressive. You counter this by being deliberate. Checking in, choosing him, staying. Saying things like, “I’m here because I want to be.” makes his throat tighten every time.

Reassurance is something he needs repeatedly. Not because he doesn’t believe you, but because no one ever told him he was good, or worthy, or allowed to rest. You remind him anyway. That he’s not his father. That he’s not responsible for everything. That he deserves peace. Sometimes he nods, sometimes he just holds on tighter.

He falls asleep faster when you’re there. Alone, he sleeps light. Always half-awake, always listening. With you? He finally lets himself rest. His grip loosens. His breathing deepens. You’ll notice he sleeps longer, too. Like his body is catching up on years of exhaustion.

He cries quietly. Usually late at night. Usually when he thinks you’re asleep. You pretend not to notice at first, then gently pull him closer. He doesn’t sob. It’s just silent tears and shaky breaths. If you ask what’s wrong, he’ll whisper, “I don’t know how to stop feeling guilty.”

Nightmares are frequent and vicious. Animatronics. His father. His brother. The past looping endlessly. He wakes up gasping, disoriented, hands shaking. You don’t ask him to explain. You just pull him close, let him press his face into your neck, whispering steady, real things. "You’re here, it’s over, I’ve got you."

He learns how to care for you, too. It’s clumsy at first. He mirrors what you do for him: asking if you’ve eaten, if you’re tired, if you’re okay. It matters to him that the care goes both ways. It’s part of him rewriting what love looks like, piece by piece.

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

[eritaro]

Movie Michael afton x FTM reader? Reader is a blogger/paranormal investigator who is researching Freddie’s and him and Michael end up falling for eachother in the process. I have this idea of reader recording Michael and it’s this cute bit hehehe

A/N: Hello! Thank you for being my first request! :) I loved the idea so much, I immediately began writing it. Though disclaimer, i haven't actually watched the 2nd movie yet, so it might be a bit OOC, but worry not! I've done research :) I'll be watching the movie on Tuesday, so fics after that will be more accurate. Anyway, thanks again!!

Same Time Next Week?

Word Count: 1.6k words

Reader is FTM.

The first rule of investigating abandoned places at night was to arrive early enough that you could still pretend it was a normal decision.

You were a horror blogger with a niche popularity on the internet. It was a good livelihood, you were able to pursue your passion while having a small, loyal cult following that supported you. They’d been requesting you to investigate the infamous Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria for so long, and although a bit hesitant, you finally decided to bite and give in. 

By the time you pulled into the gravel lot, you felt as though the facility looked like it had already decided what it thought of you; it wasn’t impressed.

You grab your camcorder and your EVP recorder, shoving it in your pocket while you made sure your comcorder’s battery was full. After slinging a backpack with your equipment on your shoulder and taking a flashlight out, you got out, turning the camcorder on once you had everything set. 

“Testing. One, two—okay.”

You cleared your throat before talking again. A small smile curved your lips. “Hi guys.”You greeted, waving at the camcorder. 

You began to walk towards the building, flaying your flashlight around as you talked some more to calm your nerves a bit. “I caved in, I’m exploring this damn pizza place you guys’ve been nonstop bugging me about!” You laughed, wondering if that came off the way you hoped to. 

“I gotta admit, this place is sorta fuckin’ creepy…” Your eyebrows furrowed, your small smile widening in an awkward manner while you flashed your flashlight at parts of the building. 

You undeniably knew the infamy that surrounded the pizzeria and you were totally sketched out, but this was the kind of thing your supporters loved to consume.

And what’s life without a little risk? 

“It’s just— Oh Jesus!” You were cut off when you turned and illuminated a tall man you failed to acknowledge the whole time. It was the night guard. Michael. 

You turn the camcorder off, placing your hand with the flashlight on your chest while you try to get the rush of adrenaline out. “Jesus Christ— you scared me—“ 

“My bad.” Michael smiled, unmoving as he watched you calm yourself down. He had his hands behind his back, his hair was kept, his posture was… unnervingly straight. It felt like he shouldn’t be a night guard at all. Maybe a butler, you thought. 

“No it’s— it’s my bad.” You managed to say once your nerves were eased. “You’re early, I appreciate the punctuality.” Michael basically cut you off. “I guess you’re really interested to explore this place.” 

“I… guess you can say that.” You raised your camcorder, pointing at it. “I can record you, right? It’s just for my blog.” You turned the device back on, illuminating his face once again, but just enough that he wasn’t blinded by your flashlight. 

“Just state your name and role for the blog, please.” You instructed, finally getting a good look at the man. 

“I’m Michael, the night guard of this place.” He placed a hand on his chest, his smile widening. His gaze at your camcorder stayed for a while before looking at you. His eyes linger a second longer than necessary, curious, measuring. “Do you always record everything?”

“Only what might kill me later.”

Another smile. Slower this time. “That’s wise.”

You should feel unsettled by that. Instead, you feel… entertained. Which is arguably worse.

“And you’re the sole night guard assigned to the facility?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“A while.”

“That’s not very precise.”

He shrugs. “Time works differently here.”

You laugh instinctively, but then stopped when he didn’t. The breeze hummed between the silence, delighted.

‘Note: subject has a dry sense of humor. Or none at all.’ You thought. 

“Come on, let’s take this conversation inside. I’ll tour you around.” Michael leads you in the restaurant, and you followed. You, of course, recording your surroundings automatically.

-

You glanced around at the darkened dining area. “Freaky…” You muttered under your breath. You took the chance to bring out your EVP recorder and turned it on. Instantly, it picked something up. Yep, definitely freaky. 

“Have you ever experienced anything… unusual during your shifts?” You decide to ask. 

Michael’s gaze were on the animatronics. His expression doesn’t change. “Define unusual.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the stories. Movement after hours. Sounds. Missing time. Animatronics staring directly into your soul.”

“That last one is just how they’re designed.” He turned the lights on, finally making you pack your flashlight back in your bag. 

“Fantastic. Love that.” You pouted. 

“And the children’s voices people report hearing?” You ask again. 

Michael shrugs. “Residual audio.”

“At three in the morning.” 

“Yes.” 

You felt your eyes practically roll to the back of your head. Strike one. Sketchy place with a sketchy guard. How fun. 

You lower your camcorder a bit, “You’re very calm about all this.”

“I work nights.”

“That’ll do it.”

You two move deeper into the pizzeria. Michael walked slightly ahead, keys at his belt clinking softly.

“So,” You say, stepping on some abandoned party hats on the floor, “Any restricted areas I should avoid?”

“Yes.” Michael quickly responded. 

“Which ones?”

He glanced back. “You’ll know.”

“That’s ominous.”

“That’s policy.”

You move on to another question, “Do they move often?”

“Only when ignored.”

You laughed again, then stopped again when he doesn’t.

“…You’re kidding.”

He tilts his head, still smiling. “Am I?”

Something shifted behind the curtain. You feel it before you see it—a scrape of metal, the whisper of movement.

You stepped closer to Michael without thinking.

He notices. Doesn’t comment.

Protective instinct, or territorial reflex? Hard to tell.

“You ever feel watched?” You ask, quieter now.

“All the time.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

He meets your gaze. “It would bother me if they stopped.”

Strike two, you think, your heart thudding pleasantly and uncomfortably all at once.

You two continued to explore the place, your guard up astronomically high. Michael opted to take a break on a random hallway you two were on. 

-

Nobody was talking. You were replaying that moment with the curtain earlier over and over in your head while Michael was just… staring at you. He thought you looked attractive, honestly. Easy on the eyes. 

You decided to break the silence with another question. “…People online say guards don’t last long here,” you say, leaning on the wall while you looked at the dark hallway you haven’t gone through yet. 

“People online say many things.” He answered in a low tone, his eyes shifting on the tiled floor. 

“Most of them leave after a week.”

He shrugs. “They weren’t a good fit.”

“For the job?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t meet the standards.”

You scoffed, looking up at Michael. “You like it here, don’t you?” You ask. 

Michael looked up to meet your eyes. Something electric lingered between your stares. Recognition? Danger? Sometimes those feel identical.

“You can say that,” he corrects.

“I have a purpose. It’s why I’m doing what I do in this place.” 

“What a weird purpose you have; guarding animatronics in a haunted restaurant.” 

Michael doesn’t argue. It feels like he wants to say something more, but chooses not to. 

You finally shut your camcorder off after hours of exploring. You decide to reach for your tumbler inside your backpack filled with coffee and offered Michael some after sipping a few. 

“You ever think of leaving?” You decided to ask something personal. 

“Did you get everything you wished to get?” Michael asked back, dodging your question while handing your tumbler back to you. 

“Well… I guess. A bit anticlimactic, but I think you’re enough to make this story scarier.” You laugh, Michael just smiles wider. 

“I don’t.” He answers your question previously. “Like I said, I have a purpose here; business I have to finish.” 

“Can I know what that purpose is?” 

Michael thinks for a moment, “No. It isn’t for you to know.” 

You looked at Michael. He shouldn’t be this charming in your eyes. Not when he looks at you with those eyes and flashes you that smile that taunts you because he knows something you don’t.

There’s something wrong with him. Obviously, glaringly so. But when you look at them, it isn’t hunger or threat. It’s… recognition. Like he’s been alone a very long time and didn’t realize it until now.

You should be scared, and to give it to you, you are scared.

And yet, standing here with him, coffee cooling between you two, you find yourself thinking…absurdly, dangerously…

I trust you.

-

After chatting a bit more, the exploration winds down and Michael escorted you back to the front entrance.

“Well,” you say, stepping outside into the cool night air, “that was… enlightening.”

“Satisfied?”

“Very,” you reply. “Though I have questions.”

“You always do.”

You pause, hand on the doorframe. “I think I’ll need to come back.”

Surprise flashed across Michael’s face. You were… coming back? You wanted to come back and see… him? 

You grin. “Same time next week?”

Michael meets your eyes. Behind him, the stage lights flicker once, approving.

“I’ll be here,” he says.

The door closes gently. He watched you walk back to your car up until your vehicle was gone from his view. 

You were warmer than you should be in a place like this. That’s the problem.

He tells himself it’s curiosity, that you’re just another investigator passing through—but he’s already memorizing the way you tilt your head when you’re thinking, the way your voice lowers when you’re trying not to sound afraid.

And gods help him—he’s already counting down the days for when he finally sees you again. 

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