⠀ . GOT YOUR HEART
movie compliant — michael afton x female ! reader
⎨ 𝐂𝐖 ⎬ mentions of blood / cleaning blood . mentions of younger sibling ( charlotte ) death . stalker - ish ! michael , walking red flag ! michael . SMUT : mutual yearning . mutual masturbation . fingering . male moans ( yay ! ) . whiny ! michael . mutual orgasm .
⎨ 𝐀𝐍 ⎬ also lowkey a drabble ; i wrote it on here so i have no clue how many words there are . NOT BETA READ btw , i write at like three am so it’s an occupational hazard . IMPORTANT NOTE : i know / think michael is technically supposed to be younger than vanessa in the movies but fuck that i changed it so he’s older . okay bye bye love you xx
“You look like hell warmed over.”
His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours, back pressed against the cracked siding that lines your small front porch. A crumpled tissue rests against his nose, red coating the once white surface; his fingertips stained with the same crimson. God, he’s sulking, like a kid who just got their favorite toy taken away from them.
“Yeah, it’s good to see you too.”
A grumble, pushing himself off the siding of your front porch and slipping past you as if he owned the place, as if he were entitled to entry without your permission. Spoiler; he isn’t, hasn’t been since the two of you were children.
Fingertips wrap against the doorknob, something akin to anger scratching its way up inside your chest; but then he turns and grins at you and suddenly it feels silly to be upset at him. How can you be? With those blue eyes that always seem to look past you - through you - to your very soul. He always seems to know things before you do, despite how reclusive and arrogant he is.
The door closes behind you, arms crossed as you watch him linger in the entryway, his eyes flickering over old photos, a happy family. His nose is still bleeding, still trickling down his pale skin and dotting the carpet below him, raising a small grimace from you.
You step past him, past those old framed portraits that have been dusted meticulously, as if they’ll disappear without it. Your gaze doesn’t linger on it, on the way she smiles so happily, as if nothing in the world could go wrong. Your should’ve been there more, should’ve watched her, listened to her, but instead you left her. So instead you don’t linger on those photos, you don’t even spare them a glance - he notices.
The faucet runs with warm water, paper towel roll losing a few pieces as you rip them off, allowing them to soak up the moisture, and when they’re perfectly damp the water is shut off. Wringing them out. He leans his back against the kitchen island, arms crossed as you step up and take the soiled tissue away, tossing it out.
“He’ll kill you if he sees you here.”
A huff, pressing the damp paper towel to his nose for him. He grimaces at the touch, at the pain, but he allows you to hold it. Only you. And god, you try your hardest to ignore how old butterflies you had thought to be long dead suddenly flutter up inside your gut when he smirks at the proximity. You want to puke and kiss him all at the same time.
“You let me in.”
“I did not. You just walked in.”
“But you let me. You could’ve stopped me, closed the door the instant you saw me standing there if you really hated me so much.”
Ignoring his words, frustration lacing your gaze as you focus on stopping the dripping of blood. Your tone is soft, though not gentle, as if you don’t want him to hear you. “I never said I hated you.”
For once, it seems he has no response. It’s been ages since you’ve been this close; proximity and relationship wise. He had dropped off the face of the earth a year or two ago, not that you had been counting the days, but you knew he was close with his dad and assumed he took the death hard.
It was that closeness that tore you two apart in the first place. How could you tell your father you hadn’t been watching Charlotte because the two of you were making out just behind the prize corner curtain? How could you look at him when grief twisted itself with the lust you felt towards him. The best day of your life quickly becoming the worst.
And how could you speak to him when no one else did? When everyone whispered about how it was his father - no doubt about it - and your father cut ties with his business partner over it? No proof, but you knew; you could tell. Just like you can tell how bad the bruising around his nose will be.
“God - did you run into a pole or something?”
He tilts his head ever so slightly, like a cat observing a mouse under his gaze, or a fox stalking a rabbit. You’re an idiot, letting him linger here, but after so long you’ve forgotten how sharp his fangs are - how good they would feel against your neck.
“Something like that.”
The fake gold of the badge on his purple shirt reflects the dim light over the kitchen sink; catching your attention for the first time. Eyebrows furrow, gaze flickering, a soft frown.
“You’re working there? Really?”
“Is that a problem?”
“I mean - no. I just didn’t think you’d ever want to step foot in there again.”
He scoffs, as if surprised by your words, like you should have moved past the death of your little sister by now.
“I didn’t, not for a long time. But then I thought of you, how sad you always are.” He stops, your confusion grows. You haven’t seen him in ages, how can he possibly know how sad you are? “So I found her. I brought her back, for you.”
It’s not funny anymore. This cute meeting after years of being apart and staring at each other like teenage lovers is suffocated by the coldness you feel. He’s done bleeding, you’ve been lingering, but now you step away and throw the paper towel in the trash.
You don’t step back over to him, you can’t face him. Something tightens in your chest at his words, so uniquely sincere and real - he sounds like your father, convinced that Charlotte could still be alive somehow. You had seen the stab wounds in her back, had held her body when the paramedics arrived. You knew better.
And you didn’t believe the rumors about Freddy’s.
“Don’t say stupid things like that, Michael. You know none of that is real.”
Michael stands up straight, now, grabbing your wrist a little too tightly. “I did it for you.”
“Well I didn’t ask you to, did I?”
There the two of you stand, his fingertips wrapped around your wrist almost painfully; with nothing but the moon outside the window and the dim nightlight over the sink illuminating the kitchen. That petulant look that’s never quite left him returns tenfold, morphing into something almost angry.
“I’ve seen you. How you sulk around - how those first dates never quite work out. You’re still hurting, I can fix that.”
He won’t say how the box under his bed is filled with photos of you, how he’s spent more hours than he’d like to admit following after you like a lost puppy. He’s gotten better at it, much better, you can’t even tell he’s there.
“Michael. Let go of me.” You feel as though you’re talking down to a child who’s gripping a toy that’s not theirs.
“No. No no no, I’m never letting you go again.”
He’s almost maniacal with his words, shaking his head desperately as he grabs you with both hands now, pulling you taut with his body. You can feel the tent growing in his pants, how he pants like a dehydrated dog before kissing you roughly.
And you, you’re no better than he is. Those feelings you thought you’d never experience again bubble up tenfold, and you kiss him back with as much urgency as you can - like he’ll disappear if you stop - breathing be damned.
He’s a walking red flag, perhaps you should’ve lingered on his words a bit longer, asked what he meant or how he knew your dates never worked out; but now his hands are on your hips and he’s setting you on the countertop and suddenly it doesn’t really matter.
Subconsciously, all you’ve ever wanted was him, and now you have that.
Michael’s desperate, hands roaming your body to map out every inch of your skin. His tongue has slipped past your lips, now, drifting dangerously close to the beginning of your throat. His hips slot themselves against yours, rocking his poor cock through the fabric.
It’s almost practiced, as if he’s thought of this scenario in his head over and over again. And he has. How many of those pictures under his bed has he ruined simply from jerking off onto them? From wrapping his hand around his cock and biting on his knuckles to silence his moans? Because Michael Afton is loud; and you pick up on that rather quickly.
One hand tangles into his hair, ignoring how greasy it is; and the other finds its way down his chest - down to the hem of his pants and slipping under it. He’s already hard, straining against boxers with a wet dot on the fabric where his cock weeps precum. You grasp him through the cotton, using the friction to your advantage.
And god does he moan. Mewling and panting against your lips (pulling away because the two of you have to breathe at some point.) His lips trail down your neck, kissing and sucking between his sounds, before eventually burying his face in your shoulder.
His hips rock against your hand, chasing the feeling of your grip while his own trails down in a manner similar to yours before it. Undoing the button of your pants and easily snaking against your panties. Swiping two fingers to catch on your clit.
You’re not quite as loud as he is, it’s almost comical how the lightest of touch still draws a whine from his lips. Perhaps you would’ve laughed, if you weren’t so enamored by him. His whining, his moans, they only aid in making the pad of your panties slick.
Michael bites and sucks on the flesh that meets between your shoulder and your neck, though it does little to hide his perverted noises. He wastes no time tucking your underwear to the side, running his fingers between your folds and relishing the jolt he gets from you when he reaches your clit.
He grins, biting harder on the base of your neck as he focuses his attention on that little nub. He rolls his fingers, capturing it between them and rubbing up against it - encouraging quicker movements with your own hand against his cock.
“Please please, cum on my fingers.”
He whines out, pulling away from your skin to look you dead in the eyes. He doesn’t stop as he speaks. Instead, two of his fingers slip inside you, feeling your gummy walls while his thumb continues its assault on your swollen clit.
He eats up the way you gasp and whine, rocking your hips against his hand as your grip tightens on his cock, hand moving up and down in a piston motion; which only serves to rile him up more.
And all too soon, that coil tightening in your core snaps. Your legs tense up, shaking ever so slightly as you do exactly what he had asked - riding out your orgasm on his fingers.
The bliss that overtakes you is almost too much to notice how his own cock is shooting thick ropes, reaching his climax simply from how you tighten and shake against his fingers.
You pant, attempting to catch your breath before his lips are on yours, kissing you hungrily like he could get something out of it. Your lungs scream for air but you do not pull away, not until he does so. You can’t help the way you bite back a laugh at how fucked out he looks.
“We should shower, I’m all gross now.”
“We could… or I can just use my tongue.”
“We’ll shower. Your nose is bleeding again.”
