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Michael could feel the blood slowly draining from his muscles the longer he held his arm up. So, for the fifth time, he switched the flashlight to his other hand.
His father sighed past the cigarette hanging from his mouth, elbow-deep in Fredbear’s chest cavity as he growled, “Mike, hold it still .”
“‘M sorry, my arm’s tired.” He mumbled.
He was really starting to hate this place. It wasn’t fun like when he was little - he’d gotten sick of the crappy pizza, the music, the bulging plastic eyes in the animatronic heads. Even the arcade games were too easy now.
After hours, it was different. Definitely not better. It was too quiet. Not like their creepy old house at night, when you could hear the pipes in the walls creaking, or the grandfather clock in the hallway ticking (Michael fucking hated that clock, and so did his dad, but it had been his dad’s dad’s so it had to stay). Here, there wasn’t anything at all. No creaking, or bumping. No noises in the hallways. It didn’t seem natural. Never even heard a car outside, even though the diner was situated right by the road.
When he was little, he’d get scared at night. Whenever he could hear breathing in the closet, or someone knocking on his window, his dad would sit at his bedside and knock it all down with logic. Silence produces auditory hallucinations, often indistinguishable from real sounds. Take away sight in the form of darkness, and you’ll see things that aren’t there. Take away sound, and you’ll start to hear things. Because without all five senses, your brain can’t distinguish between imagination and reality.
That was the house. But the diner wasn’t like that. Michael never heard a thing. His brain must’ve been broken.
The place still creeped him out, though. Every day, the second the last family left, he’d stick to his father’s side like glue, because he’d rather get his hair yanked for being too clingy than be eaten by ghosts.
After what must have been almost ten minutes, his father pulled his arms out of the yellow bear, placing his screwdriver on the table next to him. He wiped both hands off on the pants of his jumpsuit, leaving grease stains, then he pinched his cigarette with his oil-stained fingers and took a long drag.
Michael switched off the flashlight, placing it on the table as he watched his father. The man’s dark hair was a little damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead. When he exhaled the smoke, he held his hand out, offering the cigarette to the boy.
Michael glanced at it, then quickly took it before his dad changed his mind. “...I can smoke it?”
His father stood up off the stool he’d been sitting on, reaching for a rag and wiping his hands off properly. He didn’t look at him, “Yes, Michael. Take a few drags.”
And here he was thinking that the man would kill him if he so much as looked at a fag. His dad started closing up Fredbear, and Michael kept his eyes on him as he moved the cigarette to his lips, just in case he changed his mind and slapped the shit out of him. But he didn’t even look over, so Michael took a drag, maybe a little too quickly, and he immediately broke out into a coughing fit.
His dad looked at him and laughed, eyes creasing at the edges. “Oh, Mikey. Try again.”
Michael held a hand to his throat, a little embarrassed. He’d smoked a lot with his friends, and he knew how to do it, but his dad being right there made him nervous. He moved it back to his lips, taking a slower drag this time.
His father nodded as he exhaled, reaching out to rub the back of the boy’s neck. “That’s good.”
Michael handed the cigarette back, head buzzing, and his dad took it.
“That’s it?”
“Feel a little sick.”
His dad laughed again, “It’s a lot, hm?” and then he pulled the teen over as he reached for his keys. Michael thumped into his side, immediately overwhelmed with the familiar smell of tobacco, sweat, and his father’s aftershave. When he spoke again, the humour was gone. “You’re not to smoke without me.”
Michael forced a nod. “Yeah, okay.”
His father let him go, working at the zipper of his work jumpsuit. Then he slid it off, leaving him in just his slacks and dress shirt, and suddenly it was obvious why he’d been sweating so much. He never seemed to take much care of himself when he was focused on the machines.
He tossed the jumpsuit over a chair, pocketing his keys and heading to the door without a word. Michael followed him.
The dining room looked a lot bigger than it did in the day. The opposing walls were shrouded in darkness, as were the tables further away, and it reminded Michael of one of the games in the Arcade, 8-bit and bird’s-eye, the monsters off-screen hidden by vignette. He moved his feet faster, trying to stick close to his dad. His father’s legs were a lot longer, and he was always leaving him behind.
He wasn’t scared or anything, he just didn’t wanna get in trouble for not being quick enough.
They skipped the front doors, which were already locked, and headed past the prize corner to the side door. There were giant gift boxes stacked against the wall - Henry’s newly-finished project. Inside the big one was the Marionette , and Michael hated it, but not as much as his dad did. He watched him shudder as they passed it.
It was kind of funny, the thought of his father being scared of something. Growing up, he’d always thought his dad wasn’t capable of it. Now, knowing that he was afraid of a puppet, despite all that rational thinking he practically bragged about, had Michael smiling to himself. It made him seem more human.
Michael didn’t blame him, the thing was creepy as fuck. He’d never say it in front of poor Henry, though - his uncle was so proud of it.
His father stopped at the exit door, pushing it open and stepping aside, placing his hand back on Michael’s nape as the boy stepped out into the alleyway.
The air was cold and dry, a stark difference from the usual Utah heat in the daytime. Michael shivered, still dressed in nothing but his work polo shirt and slacks. The sky was dark.
“What did I tell you about bringing a jumper?” His father asked from behind him, locking the door.
“I forgot.”
His father was a little rough when he slung an arm around Michael’s shoulders, pulling him close again as they headed through the alleyway and out into the parking lot.
It was hard to walk with his dad holding him at his side so tightly. It always confused him - his dad was so touchy in the sense that he always wanted Michael close to him, but at the same time, ever since the boy hit puberty, he seemed so irritated by his very existence. It was like the older Michael grew, the more aggressive his dad got. It didn’t even seem like he meant it.
They walked towards the only car in the parking lot - a 1978 magenta Chevy Caprice - his father’s favourite child. Michael didn’t realise how tired he himself was until the keys were in the ignition and the engine was sputtering to life. They pulled out onto the road, the scenery outside limited to street-light illuminated douglas fir and potholes, and his father winded down the window to flick his cigarette away.
“Going to sleep?” He asked, looking over when Michael closed his eyes.
The teen nodded. “Yeah.”
His father touched his neck again. Four fingers at his nape, thumb gently stroking over the boy’s Adam’s apple. It felt nice.
Michael woke to the car bumping on a rough road.
He rubbed his eyes, sitting up from where he’d been uncomfortably slumped in his seat. It was still dark outside, and he saw nothing but trees and dirt.
“Where are we?” He mumbled, voice a little hoarse with sleep.
His father reached over to pat the boy’s knee. “Just taking a little detour.”
“Was there roadwork?”
His father didn’t answer.
Michael kept his head up, watching out of the windscreen. He couldn’t recognize any landmarks in the dark. There weren’t even any street lights anymore, they had nothing but the car’s headlights illuminating the dirt road in front of them.
After a few minutes, they pulled into a small dirt parking lot, a sign up ahead. Lake Amadahy. A trail went through the trees. Mike shook his head, a little annoyed. He just wanted to go to bed.
It wasn’t the first time his dad had made sudden, inconvenient decisions like this, not even bothering to consult others beforehand. Michael wouldn’t describe him as impulsive, exactly… but he really didn’t seem to care about how others felt about things.
His father unbuckled his seatbelt and grabbed the boy’s neck again, this time fingering his muscles, forefinger behind his ear, rubbing at his scalp. Michael furrowed his brows, tilting his head away.
His ear was pinched roughly. Michael winced. “ Don’t move away from me.”
He swallowed. “Sorry.”
For a long time, his father sat in silence, touching the boy’s neck. Michael was starting to squirm, because he could feel the man’s eyes glued to his side profile.
Usually, when people stared, all Michael had to do was meet their eyes and they’d quickly avert their gaze. It wasn’t polite to stare, so people didn’t want to be caught staring. But, as he’d discovered over the years, his dad did not give a damn. Michael was convinced that if the man really wanted to, he would keep staring at his son while standing in the middle of a house fire. And if he didn’t know any better, Michael would think his father was entirely incapable of feeling an ounce of embarrassment or awkwardness.
Maybe when it came to his kids, that was true. He’d already made it plenty clear in the past that he didn’t exactly view his son as a person as much as he viewed him as an extension of himself.
Michael refused to look back at his dad, no matter how relentless the man’s gaze was, instead opting to stare out of the windscreen. It was so dark outside. It was clear they were a fair bit out of town, away from all the light pollution. The scenery was creeping him out.
After another long moment, he glanced over at his dad’s knees, still too pussy to make eye-contact with him. “What are we doing here…?”
“What, you don’t want to sit with your father?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Finally, his father let go of him, moving to open the car door. He stepped out, slamming it shut behind him, and assuming he was expecting him to do the same, Michael opened his own door and stepped out.
Fuck, it was cold. His dad was leaning on the hood, staring at him expectantly. Michael walked around the car and stopped in front of him, hugging himself. His father reached out, rubbing his large, warm hands up and down the boy’s arms.
“You’re so skinny.”
Michael’s cheeks flushed, a little offended. “What…? I’m not...”
His father grinned. It was hard to make out his facial features in the dark, and Michael could only really see his silhouette and teeth. “You are. You’re a bit like a girl, aren’t you?”
Michael blinked, brows knitted together. “What?”
“I’m not trying to insult you, darling.” His dad leaned forward, simultaneously moving his hands to Michael’s ribcage and pulling him closer. Their faces were an inch apart, and Michael resisted the urge to put the distance back between them. “You’re too pretty for a boy.”
Michael took in a heavy breath, embarrassment hitting him like a truck, and his head snapped down immediately because there was no way he could look his dad in the eye now. His father never complimented him, the extent of his affection came in hugs and cheek kisses, never words. This was fucking weird. Was he going to drop some tragic news on his head? Did his mum die or something? Why were they even here?
Michael stared down at his dad’s lap, cheeks and ears burning when his father laughed at him. It was a real laugh, different from the laugh his father made when he was talking to customers who mistook themselves for comedians. It was loud, and Michael briefly felt worried someone might hear him.
He didn’t know why that worried him.
His father’s large hands squeezed around the boy’s ribcage, and Michael winced as his grip started to hurt. “Sometimes I look at you and wish I could just crush you.” The man’s voice was low. “You’re so cute, Michael. So precious to me.”
Michael didn’t know what to say. After a long moment of silence, in which he could feel his dad staring relentlessly at him, he was pulled into a tight hug. His father’s strong arms were around him, squeezing him a little too tight, and Michael’s chin was propped on the man’s shoulder.
He didn’t know what to do, so Michael wrapped his arms around his dad’s neck. As rare as it was lately, he’d always liked hugging his father. He was a good hugger. Warm, and he smelt good, or maybe not good but comforting . And of course, why wouldn’t the smell of his own father be comforting?
The man moved his head, pressing his face into Michael’s cheek, smelling him. Michael flinched away at the loud sniff, and accidentally let out an abrupt laugh, similar to how he laughed when he was getting a vaccination. He’d always gotten the giggles when he was nervous.
His father laughed too (not seeing his son’s discomfort, or maybe just not caring), and pulled him back in, kissing his face.
Michael was starting to feel even more creeped out, and it wasn’t because of the dark and the woods.
“Dad, can we go home?” His voice came out wobbly. He didn’t know why he was so afraid - it was just his father.
His dad squeezed him tighter. “Mmm.”
Relief hit Michael hard as his dad pushed off the car, thinking they were going to leave this place. Instead, the man turned, pressing his son into the hood, right where he himself had been. Michael grunted at the impact.
His dad leaned down to him, breath hot on his cheek. Michael thought he was about to say something, to explain, but instead he moved his hips forward, rubbing against him.
There was something there. Something hard, poking into Michael's thigh, then rubbing up and over to poke into the boy’s crotch. Michael realised that it was what he’d seen in his dad’s lap earlier. He hadn’t acknowledged it. He’d assumed it was his wallet.
“Dad,” he whimpered. His father pushed down on him, until he was laying flat on the hood of the car. He repeated: “Dad?”
His father was staring down at him, just an inky figure in the dark. He wasn’t speaking, and it terrified Michael. He couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him. Just saw the barely-there silhouette of a man as the wind picked up.
His heart raced. He reached out, grabbing onto his dad’s shirt, trying to pull himself up off the hood and against the man, so he could get warm, so he could hear him breathe at the least. But before his back came off the hood, his father’s hands landed on his shoulders, and he was shoved back down roughly.
Michael shuddered violently, jerking against the car when his dad dropped his whole weight on him, humping him.
“Dad?!” He yelled, squirming. He could barely move under the weight. He gripped the man’s shoulders, his muscles quickly aching from the strain of trying to push him off, like he was trying to move a brick wall. “What are you doing?!”
His father groaned, still grinding against him. “Shh.”
Michael’s head reeled. He gasped involuntarily when his father grabbed under his knees, lifting his legs to rub directly against his clothed junk.
Michael instantly began crying, for the first time in over a year.
There was something wrong with his dad. Something had happened to him. He wouldn’t do this . Maybe he was on something. Or- or maybe he was having some kind of psychotic break.
“Get off me!” He screamed, voice cracking. His skin burned like it was on fire. “Stop it! Stop it, dad-”
His father pulled off, and in the same instant slapped him across the face, palm cracking against his cheek bone. His head snapped to the side, blood instantly filling his mouth. He let out an incomprehensible groan that was meant to be ‘dad’ .
His father’s mouth was against his cheek, and he was panting: “Bitch.”
He was still grinding his hips against him, faster by the second. His breathing grew heavier, and right when it sounded like he was about to cum then and there, he yanked himself away, hands going to Michael’s belt.
Michael couldn’t move very well, even with his father off of him. The world was spinning, and his ears were ringing, and he didn't think his dad had ever hit him that hard in his life. If he lifted his head, he was sure he’d fall off the car.
His pants were quickly yanked down, bunching around his knees, and his dad’s head disappeared out of view. And then there was wet heat around his cock, and Michael realised it was his father’s mouth.
His back arched, and he let out a sound he’d never made before. He didn’t mean it. His father hummed around him, and the vibrations were too much. It was disgusting, because it wasn’t just another man, it was his father.
His father would never do this. He disliked gay people as much as the next guy. There was no fucking way.
His father’s mouth slipped off, and Michael let out another throaty sound as his dick left the suction of his lips with a pop .
When he leaned back down, working at his own belt, lips at Michael’s cheek again, he spoke like he hadn’t slapped his teeth out just a moment ago. “Mikey, forgive me, it’s going to hurt.”
Michael sobbed, squirming. The blood that had been pooling at his molars poured out of his mouth, down his cheek, towards the hood of the car.
His father slipped three fingers into Michael’s hand, and with his other, forced the boy’s fingers to curl around them. Michael squeezed them tight.
His father took his dick out, chewing his lip as he moved, trying to get it somewhere. Then, Michael felt it prod at his asshole.
He let out a whimper, flinching, letting go of his dad’s fingers to push himself up off the hood, to get himself back and away from him. He was grabbed quickly, shoved back down against the car, once again unable to move as his father stared down at where he was trying to shove his cock somewhere it wasn’t supposed to go.
Michael scrunched his nose and bared his teeth, tears in his eyes, spitting with the effort of his words. “I’m not a girl!”
His father didn’t seem to care. His cock left briefly as he stuck his own fingers in his mouth, then moved them back down to grab himself, and when he put his dick back to the boy, it was wet.
He started to push in. Michael fought, squirming and writhing, trying to get away. His father held him down, the muscles in his forearms flexing, completely ignoring his son as he stared down at his own dick.
It popped inside, and Michael threw his head forward, agony shooting up his spine at the sensation of being penetrated. He cried, “Ow, ow, daddy, take it out!”
“Oh, fuck.” His father’s eyes were still glued between them, watching with some kind of amazement as he pushed further in, so slowly. His voice sounded strained: “Fuck, baby. Too tight.”
Michael dropped his head back again, staring up at the night sky, back arching like a bow, like all the air had been punched out of him. All the while, his father’s hand continued feeding that massive girth inside.
He cried, unable to speak words anymore. It was still going in, too slow, he didn’t know when it would end.
Then it started to stretch him wider around some thicker part of his father’s cock, and the painful pinch made him jolt, his hands coming up quickly to shove at his father’s chest, trying to push him off. “Dad, you’re hurting me!”
But he just kept going. Like his son wasn’t speaking to him.
When Michael was little his dad would get so upset when he was hurt. He’d kiss him better, sing lullabies to distract him from the pain. But now, he didn’t even care, even though it was one of the worst pains of Michael’s life. He was the one making it hurt.
It felt like forever that it just kept moving further into him, filling him up, inch by inch. Then, finally, it was all put to a stop by his father’s pelvis.
Michael knew he was bleeding. He had to have been ripped to shreds inside.
His dad stood up straight and let out a long, rattling breath as he stared down at where their bodies joined together. Then he fisted the hem of his dress shirt, pulling it up above his stomach so he could see better where he’d violated his fifteen-year-old son.
After a moment of silence, he started to thrust in and out.
Michael couldn’t catch his breath. It was too much, too painful. His shirt rode up his back as he was rocked back and forth on the hood of the car with the force of his father’s thrusts. He opened his mouth to beg him to stop, but instead he moaned.
His father was breathing hard, and he sounded so excited, “Oh, I know, darling. It’s good.” He grabbed Michael’s knees, lifting them up to fold him in half. His pelvis slapped against his ass on every thrust.
Michael sobbed, shaking his head. His father dropped down to crash their lips together, tongue invading the boy’s mouth, blood smearing over both their lips. He groaned loudly into his mouth, fucking into him rough.
Michael couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make a sound, as if there was something blocking his throat. He could hear the thumps of his body rocking up and down the car’s hood, and his father’s panting. He stared up at the sky and saw the tops of trees, but they seemed to smudge together the longer he looked, until spots of black were dancing across his vision. He remembered a story he heard on the news when he was younger, of a man taking girls into the woods to rape and murder them. Their bodies would be found in the dirt, hidden under leaves. God had been in the sky, watching it happen.
He felt full. Every time his father pulled out, then slammed back in, it felt like there was more of it. Would his dad kill him? It sounded impossible, but so would the idea of his dad raping him if he’d thought about it just a few hours ago.
His father began grunting, pace slowing, slamming into him a little harder. Michael felt the pulse, and the new heat, and his body shuddered.
After a moment of stillness, his father leaned down, the energy drained from his body. As soon as he was within reach, Michael threw his hands up, clutching onto him, arms wrapping around his neck. His voice cracked as his mouth ran: “Daddy, I wanna go home, it hurts, can we go home?”
His father hovered above him, chest heaving, hands braced against the car on either side of the boy, resisting Michael’s efforts to pull him down further. He didn’t respond, like the boy’s voice was just background noise, his pleas unimportant. He wasn’t even looking at him, his chin pointed forward, looking out into the trees behind the car.
“Are you going to kill me?”
His father adjusted on his hands, then finally, looked down. “Am I going to kill you?”
Michael’s eyes were wide and blood-shot as he stared up at him, arms loosening from around his neck.
After a long moment of silence, the man pushed away, standing up. Michael laid still, too sore to move as he listened to his father doing up his belt-buckle. Then he grabbed Michael by the wrist, dragging him up off the hood of the car.
He was manhandled, made to lean on his dad with his pants still bunched around his knees. One of the man’s arms held him tight to his chest while the other groped at his ass, two fingers swiping between his cheeks. With his head crooked over Michael’s shoulder, he hissed, rubbing his blood-slick fingers together. “Should’ve brought lube.”
Michael’s legs shook weakly as his dad kneeled in the dirt, pulling his pants back up around his hips and buckling up his belt. He kept his hands on the man’s shoulders to keep himself up right, not trusting his own sense of balance to fight against gravity right now. Then the ground slipped away beneath his feet, but it was only his dad picking him up.
Without a word, he carried him around to the passenger side of the car, opening the door and slowly lowering the boy into the seat. Michael winced at the pain of having to sit. His dad buckled his belt, then momentarily left him alone as he shut the door, walking around the front of the car to the other side.
Michael fell asleep on the car ride home, or maybe he’d just blacked out. He was made to walk to the front door, trailing behind his father, every step sending sparks of pain up his spine.
“Wait there,” his dad told him quietly after he’d opened the front door. Michael stood on the porch, shivering, staring at the floorboards as his father toed off his shoes. Then he came back over, lifting Michael up and quietly nudging the door shut behind them.
He carried the boy upstairs princess-style, probably so the boy wouldn’t trip over the steps on his way up and wake up the whole house. Michael clutched onto him. He couldn’t think about what had just happened, even if he wanted to. His brain wasn’t exactly functioning correctly. It hurt to even attempt to remember what his favourite colour was, let alone the events of the last hour. All he knew was that it hurt, and things would be bad now.
They passed Lizzy’s room, and then Ev’s. His mother was fast asleep in the bed she shared with his father, the door cracked open. His father carried him further, to the room at the end, took him back into darkness.
Michael saw nothing as he was gently lowered onto his mattress. Then there was a click , and dull yellow lighting filled the room, his father’s hand curled around the base of the lamp.
The mattress dipped as the man sat on the edge of the bed, dragging over the strewn blanket Michael had left bundled in the corner that morning. “Sleep. In the morning, you can tell me how bad it hurts.”
Michael saw the man’s face in the corner of his eye, blue eyes burning into his skin. He didn’t want to look back at him.
In the morning, he might off himself.