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Michael's dreams were an unpredictable dice roll. He figured it was normal to have random ones, and some nightmares too; but he hadn't met someone who dreamt quite like him. All or nothing, waking after a lifetime of fear, or an endless river. That night, it was the latter. Where he could drift through his own mind with ease.
Like it was nothing, and nobody could hurt him.
He wasn't even sure if these sorts of dreams had any visual element. If they did, he didn't remember it. They were more like a feeling, with only his consciousness intact. Michael liked those way more than the insane nightmares which usually dominated his sleep. The ones that made him wake up exhausted and damp all over. He floated on, taking in every bit of that airy lucidity that held him within itself.
But something was wrong– It was changing. His body had suddenly come back, and Michael felt an aching inside him. A dull burn, quickly ripping up through his stomach. And everything materialized like watercolor on a page. He twitched, a gasp drawing out from his throat as white hot pain seized his entire body.
His eyes shot open, a strangled whimper alerting his tormenter.
“Shh..” Came William's gravely voice from behind, and Michael became aware of the calloused fingers around his neck. Lightly squeezing around his adam's apple as he began to thrash. “I didn't mean to wake you.”
He trembled, every nerve shot as he tensed behind his father's grip. His own hands quickly moving to try and pry him away. The dim morning light had just barely started to peek through the curtains.
“I-It hurts–” That was all he could muster, as he became fully aware of his predicament. He was getting fucked of course. William's hips ground up into his ass, almost on cue. As if it was to clue him in. The pain that'd woken him was clearer now, and Michael felt every inch stretching him open. Tears welled up in his eyes as he balled up his sheets in one fist, his free hand pushing back against his father's hips in vain. It hurt. It hurt so fucking much.
But it was the usual for them, wasn't it? He couldn't ever get peace, ever.
William only chuckled, dry and mean. Michael could smell the alcohol on his breath. He wondered what led up to this before he was broken from the void. Michael knew his father enough to guess: He was up late in his office, lazily sketching, sorting through files. Palm around a bottle of liquor, drops of amber dripping down his stubbled chin.
A long night. One that left him in need of stress relief, his vice.
Despite the drinks, his movements still felt coordinated. Free hand trailing from Michael's thigh where he held him open to grab around the boy's wrist. Pushing it back against the bed, while the other tightened around his throat. Uncomfortable, unfair. But Michael squirmed still, trying to pull away from the cock inside him.
“Dad– Y-you.. hhf..!” His voice rose slightly, which he quickly regretted, feeling William's dick suddenly drill deep into his gut, and he arched his back with a cry.
“Quiet, Michael.” His father growled, fingers digging into his skin enough that he was sure it'd leave bruises. Ugly ones that Michael always prayed others wouldn't notice, but always did.
“Don't be difficult, you're a big boy. You wouldn't want to wake up your siblings, would you?”
A rebuttal stuck to the inside of his throat, caught behind mucus and a bitter laugh. Of course, it was always about them, he should've seen that coming. And William kept at it, harder than before. Forcing a giggle from behind his son's clenched teeth. One that carried a hiss of pain as he was stretched thin, again and again.
Always about them. No matter what pain he was in, it didn't matter.
“Don't bother Evan, Michael.”
“Don't have a temper with Elizabeth just because you're angry with me, Michael.”
“You're ruining the day for everybody, Michael.”
It didn't matter the circumstances. If Evan cried over the littlest thing, if Elizabeth chided him until he snapped— If he had a black eye and bloody gums. It never mattered, ever. William's short breaths were hot against his neck, fingers scaling up to his jawline, squeezing.
“No.”
He closed his eyes. His father's cock dragging out of him, pounding back inside. Over and over, harder. Michael's body tingled. It was almost over. He felt his own dick bobbing against his stomach. He needed it to just be over. It felt like bolts of lightning were knocking around inside him, and his eyes clenched tighter, so close. But the bolts fizzled out, and it was over. His head spinning, trying to get back the time before it warped, and feel the satisfaction; the fruit of his tolerance. But it was finished. He was alone on the sheets again, sore and exhausted while dull gray eyes studied him.
“What a mess.”
-
Michael couldn't sleep, he tried. He'd been trying since William sent him to bed like the dumb little boy he must be to him. It was past twelve now, but he just couldn't rest.
He stared at his alarm clock, glowing red numbers flickering with each minute ticking by. He turned his back to them, cupping his hands over his eyes, already finding them wet.
It's not fair. It's never fair. Michael didn't ask for much. All he wanted was to sleep, and just get rid of this feeling that'd been prying at him since that morning. Discomfort, anger. He thought of his siblings asleep in their rooms, and how nice it must be to just.. power down. No capacity in their mushy brains to think like he does, or have an empty pit that can't be filled no matter what he puts inside it, or pushes out. Nothing mattered to them, those brats.
Everyday was another in the wonderland of their daddy's creation. And the funny thing was that one of them didn't even appreciate it.
Michael rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling with knit brows. His nails dragged up his arm, the sting accompanying his disdain. He remembered being little like Evan, running around the workshop eager to see all his father's and uncle Henry's new toys. Drawing up new ideas with a worn down crayon, and being pat on the head for his creativity. “You're gonna be a prodigy someday, buddy.”, praise which made him light up back when his uncle's words meant anything real to him.
When he really believed he was worth a damn.
He was grateful for all of it. Even when things got bad those same sorts of days, he toughed it out. And uncle Henry would give him a special prototype to take home, with his hair still crusted with the remnants of the day. The routine. He squeezed his palm over the raised scratches in his skin.
Not Evan, though. He never had to endure a bit of that. Maybe Elizabeth was something untouchable, who'd never defy her father even if he led her off the edge of a cliff. But Evan wasn't anything special. And such a delicate thing, wasn't he? Always bitching. Scared of everyone and everything. You couldn't show him a jumble of gears, he didn't find anything exciting or interesting about what their father worked so hard for. He'd only cry and cry until daddy whisked him away. And Michael was supposedly in the wrong for teasing him a little.
Fuck that— he needed to toughen up. He's the one who needs to be a big boy. And nobody seemed to think so besides him.
He wiped at his cheeks with the heel of his palm, glancing towards the clock. 1:44 A.M glowed back. He couldn't just sit around and wait. He needed release. Something to make him feel better, and he already knew what that was.
He pulled himself out of bed, grabbing hold of the plastic mask dangling from his bed post and snapping it onto his tear stained face.
The halls were quiet apart from the ticking song of the grandfather clock, seeming to mark each step Michael took. Bare feet padding against creaky floorboards. He was sure nobody would wake up, not if he was careful. He braced a hand against the wall, feeling his way through the dark as he put his other hand over his crotch.
Through his pajama pants, his dick was firm. Swollen against the fabric begging to be freed. His mind wandered to Evan, creating a picture of the baby in his bed. Pampered and safe with his pillows and plushies and all things good. No idea about the thing lurching just by his door, pulling it ajar and sticking its nose through the crack. There, Evan slept soundly in his bed. Similar to how Michael imagined, only sucking his thumb instead of having the covers up to his chin. His prized plush tucked under his arm.
“Evan,” Michael's voice didn't feel like his own. It sounded deep, bottomless. The boy stirred only slightly, pulling his duvet over his shoulder. “I know you're up, It's me.”
Finally, Evan brought a hand up from under the covers, rubbing his eyes as he propped himself up. He blinked in the dark for a moment, looking in confusion towards Michael, where his expression quickly dropped. Seeing his older brother looming behind the door in the shadows.. or at least what he assumed to be his brother. The Foxy mask made him appear unsure, holding Fredbear tight.
“S-stop it,” he already sounded like he was going to cry. “I wanna go back t'sleep..”
Michael growled, inviting himself into Evan's room and locking the door behind him. “I bet you do.” He slowly shambled towards the small cot, watching his baby brother back himself against the headboard, holding his plush like a shield. To which Michael sprung onto the bed, snatching it from his hands.
“No!” Evan shrieked, yelping when his brother slapped a hard hand against his mouth, shushing the boy as he hovered inches from his face. Sharp white teeth in the mold threatening to tear the boy to pieces. Tears quickly welled in Evan's honey brown eyes, while he stared through the holes in the mask into his brother's. Dark like the depths of the ocean, ready to hurt him again.
“You want this back?” Michael taunted, waving the plush in front of Evan's desperate wet face. The boy made muffled pleas behind Michael's hand, reaching his hands out when the toy was pulled farther away. “Then shut up. I'll kick your ass if you make a sound. And I'll throw your little Freddy bear straight into the sewer. Got that?”
Evan's noises quieted; and he clutched his hands to his chest, Nodding. And Michael pulled his hand away. Tossing the plush into the far corner of the bedroom, with another whine from Evan. Fredbear didn't need to see this, and he didn't want to give Evan the chance at comfort anyways. He crawled over the boy, so tiny in his bed. His pajamas were crudely buttoned up, striped in shades of blue. Michael pulled the sheets off of him completely, staring at his brother's legs. At how the pants were slightly too long, and hung over his feet.
So small. Wrapped like a gift in silky pajamas, perfumed with lavender shampoo. It wasn't fair.
Michael let out a shaking sigh, hot as it bounced off the plastic over his mouth. He began to yank down the waistband of his pajama bottoms, and the instant he did so, Evan's eyes got wider.
“N-no, no no no—” He begged, pulling his knees to his chest in some pathetic attempt at keeping Michael away. “Don't– I don't wanna!”
“Shut up.” Of course Evan couldn't follow one fucking order. Michael yanked his pants all the way down, holding the outline of his cock through his briefs, making Evan's jaw clench as he covered his eyes. “You can't hide now, scaredy cat. Strip, or I'll do it for you.”
Evan hiccuped as he lowered his trembling hands, tears streaking his chubby cheeks as his stubby fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Moving as quickly as possible, until the baby blue fabric slipped down his shoulders, and he wiggled out from his pants. Michael stared down at his brother's soft body, skin blemished with bruises yet to heal. In that respect, they were equal. He rubbed over his cock, feeling it twitch under his grip. He'll feel better, it's the only thing that'll help.
He helped Evan the rest of the way, peeling off his patterned briefs. He snickered. His brother trembled, in part from fear and the cold night air. He didn't look up at Michael, his gaze fixed down at his own tiny dick. Hardly as big as Michael's thumb, if that. He yanked his brother's hips towards him, feeling no sharp edges beneath baby fat. Michael was skinnier at his age, maybe easier to break.
He squeezed, and finally pulled his cock free from the confinement of his briefs. Clear fluid trickled down the head, and Michael's heart raced. He spread his brother's legs wide and spat from the opening in the bottom of the mask, earning another whimper from Evan. He needed to be quick, he didn't get caught last time. He won't get caught now.
“Don't scream, and it won't hurt.” Michael lied, rubbing his spit against Evan's hole with his thumb. The younger boy squinted, hands over his mouth. A pained cry escaping in a muffled mess as Michael pressed in. Immediately, he was seized with guilt, but kept going. It didn't matter if he cried, so did he. And that never saved him. He wiggled his thumb in deeper, Evan squirming against his grip with panicked gasps. It couldn't hurt that bad, but he was just a baby.
One with no clue that someday their father would probably do the same thing Michael already had, what he'd started to do to him when he was around Evan's age. He couldn't wait.
He angled his hand slightly, hooking his thumb inward and prying Evan open. The same garbled cries came from the boy, his insides pulsating around Michael's thumb. He couldn't wait to feel it around his cock, and he didn't care how sick it made him.
He rubbed his pre around his shaft, scooting closer on his knees as he angled his hips to Evan's. His brother let out another pleading cry, before the swollen tip of his cock replaced his thumb. Sinking inside of his baby brother's puffy rim with a wet squelch.
But Evan didn't cry. Michael was ready to gag him with whatever clothes were closest, but there was no need. Evan's pink lips hung open, frozen in a silent scream as a tiny, scratchy cry clawed from his throat. Last time, Evan wailed. And the time before that he cried a little less.
Now, there was nothing. Michael felt pride swell behind his ribs.
“Yeah..” He moaned, letting his cock nestle deeper inside him. “d-damnit..”
Evan felt far too tiny– his walls too narrow, clamped around Michael's dick like they were threatening to crush it. Burning around him as he rocked in and out, pulling moans from his baby brother, groaning when he finally got balls deep. It felt like Michael hit a wall, and if he pushed, he'd break Evan apart. But it didn't feel like he was in control anymore. Something darker had hold of him, and didn't care if Evan broke. Something Evan could see head on.
The boy was panting, trying to adjust to the stretch; and being given no time to do so. His eyes were squeezed shut, Legs hanging up in the air to try and relieve the pressure within him. Michael grabbed hold of his ankles; hoisting them up until his thighs were against his soft belly, and began to thrust. Unable to hold back his groans of bliss.
Everything felt so hot. So fucking good. His hips pressed into Evan's ass, with such a striking contrast between his brother's milky white skin, and his own. Tanned from days in the sun and trying to forget this place. Evan's quickly reddened as Michael rammed into him, slapping on impact and making the poor boy sob. Albeit quietly, just like Michael asked.
He moaned, “Uh huh, don't move. Don't fucking move.. I'm close..” and William's voice echoed through his emptied mind. All the times Michael cried he had to pee, all the times that his father mocked him for being so easy. Always able to soothe him. Pressure built in his abdomen, angry and ready. Threatening to blow every time he reached the hilt. He leaned his head backward, completely engulfed in the smell of his own sweat inside the cheap plastic mask. He could hardly breathe. He couldn't even think. Evan felt wetter, rim stretched thin around his cock, and still throbbing in a desperate attempt to push him out. Nothing could feel better than being able to have somebody so weak, nothing.
It dawned on Michael suddenly; the subtle realization that he may understand his father more than he thought. He was just like him, right to the core. He'd be so happy if he knew.
“Ohh–” Michael choked, squeezing Evan's ankles as he held them apart, sweat burning at the scrapes on his arms. “Fuck, please..”
The dam opened. Ropes of cum coating his brother's battered guts, and he hardly did so much as flinch. Eyes wide and staring upward, bloodshot as tears and drool tracked down his chin. Michael ground against him, feral. Riding out his orgasm until the throbbing finally ceased. His body trembled and jerked, trying to bring air back into his lungs.
His head dropped down, as did Evan's. Soft brown hair sticking to his flushed forehead. Just as his snot clung to his lips. Swollen and glossy, bloody from biting. Michael almost wanted to lick him clean, to do something to make it okay. But he didn't need to, because he felt empty. Hit with a wave of exhaustion as he pulled his cock out from Evan's torn entrance, streaked with blood and cum. He almost couldn't believe it really fit, it looked impossible as it hung over his baby brother's crumbled form.
Evan sobbed quietly beneath him, voice broken up in hiccups and sweet, tiny moans. Maybe he enjoyed it. Maybe somewhere in his core, it felt good. Just like it did for Michael when he finally learned not to fight. He felt dazed, and he didn't want to look anymore.
It struck him then that he wasn't sure what to do. Automatically, he pulled his pants back up and redressed Evan. Securing every button as he was stared at through clouded, lost eyes. His brother silent, a doll with no voice box. Something in his expression looked peaceful, or maybe Michael just told himself that. His dick stuck to the inside of his briefs as he retrieved Fredbear from the corner, giving the toy a little squeeze just to fill the silence. It let out a chipper squeak, and he tucked it next to his brother, whose eyelids were beginning to droop back down into sleep.
Michael pulled the mask up, cheeks cold despite the bloom of red. Watching as Evan's gaze met him again. Though his expression didn't change, something in his eyes did. He reached out one of his tiny hands, thumbing over the marks running up Michael's arms. He swallowed hard.
“I'm sorry.” Michael whispered, only to get no reply. Only Evan stroking his skin, somehow, someway, understanding. That's how it felt to Michael, anyway. What he let himself believe. And he leaned towards his baby brother, pressing his lips to his dampened hair. Cradling the back of his head.
“I'll make you breakfast tomorrow, and.. And I'll play with you, and everything. I promise.”
Evan pulled back and wrapped his little around his plush, closing his eyes as Michael sat back. Watching over the child for a moment before he rose, roaming back to his room. The clock ticked on, fading until he clicked his bedroom door shut.
He got back in bed, vision splitting into two as he stared up at the ceiling, eyelids heavy. Still empty, yet weighed down. He let his eyes close, focusing on each breath leaving his worked lungs.
That night, Michael didn't dream. Waking up the next morning by the abrupt beeping of his alarm. And it was another day.