Michael Afton X Reader - Blog Posts
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moving into a house together after college wasn’t exactly the smooth transition you’d hoped for. the idea sounded nice in theory: both of you finally out of the chaos of dorm life and finding some semblance of normalcy in the real world. you quickly realized that your expectations had to shift. everything about this new chapter in your lives felt different from what you imagined, and not in the easy, carefree way you’d hoped. it was messy. in more ways than one.
the first sign things wouldn’t be a walk in the park was when you both arrived at the house, a modest two bedroom tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. the previous owners had left behind remnants of their lives, old furniture, strange smells, and more dust than you’d care to acknowledge. it was the kind of house that had potential, sure, but needed a lot of work. you could already see michael’s hesitation as he stood by the door, scanning the space with that distant, unreadable look he always wore. he didn’t say much, as usual, just shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "it’ll do," was all he muttered. and that was that.
the first day of unpacking was a mix of frustration and awkward silence. you both had a lot of stuff, old books, clothes you probably should have thrown out years ago, random trinkets and mementos that didn’t make any sense. michael didn’t say much, just quietly took boxes from the car and brought them inside. you tried to talk, tried to make small conversation, but his replies were short and detached. when he did speak, it was almost like he wasn’t really speaking to you at all. the words were more of a distant observation. "this stuff’s not going to fit in here." "we’ll need to fix that." he wasn’t unhelpful, but he wasn’t exactly engaged either. it was like there was this invisible wall between the two of you, and every time you tried to climb over it, you realized it was sturdier than you thought.
and then came the furniture. or, rather, the lack of furniture. michael had picked out the couch, a ragged, secondhand thing that seemed like it had been through at least two decades of college parties. but the rest of the house was bare. you went to the store together to pick out a few pieces. it should’ve been a fun experience, but it turned into a disaster. michael was overly picky about everything. he didn’t want anything too “fancy” or “flashy,” and while you understood that, you started to get frustrated by his refusal to even consider anything that might bring a little color into the space. every time you found something you liked, he would shoot it down with a single look, a soft grunt of disapproval, or, worse, silence.
"what about this one?" you’d ask, holding up a throw pillow that was soft and vibrant, the exact opposite of everything he usually gravitated toward.
"it’s fine," he’d respond, barely glancing at it, like it didn’t matter at all.
"you don’t even like it, do you?" you would press, your voice a little sharper than intended.
"it’s a pillow," he’d shrug.
you knew better than to push too hard. michael wasn’t someone who took kindly to being told what to do. so, you tried to pick your battles. but the mess kept piling up, and the tension never quite dissipated. on days when the house seemed especially chaotic, when the boxes were still scattered across the floor, when the furniture still hadn’t found a permanent place, when it felt like nothing was in order, he’d retreat into his own space. it was like he couldn’t deal with the noise, the mess, or the feeling of being trapped in this house that wasn’t quite "home" yet.
the first real argument came on the third night, when the kitchen was a disaster and you were tired of cleaning up after him. you hadn’t even meant for it to escalate, but something in the way he carelessly left his things all over the counter, again, broke something in you.
“michael, seriously?” you asked, your voice low but edged with frustration. “you can’t just leave your stuff everywhere.”
he turned to face you, his expression unreadable, a mix of annoyance and something deeper. "i’m not the one who’s making a big deal out of nothing," he said, his voice quieter but sharp.
"it’s not nothing! it’s about respect!" you snapped, your hands gesturing wildly toward the mess. "this house is a mess, and we can’t even get anything done because you won’t help with anything!"
the silence that followed was thick, suffocating. michael’s eyes darkened, like he was suddenly somewhere else, his thoughts miles away from the moment. "i’m doing the best i can," he muttered under his breath, but it was almost like he wasn’t talking to you at all.
you didn’t know what to say after that, and you both just stood there in the kitchen, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. you knew he wasn’t the type to open up, to tell you what was going on in his mind.
after that fight, things were quieter for a while. you both settled into a routine, kind of. the dishes still piled up, the boxes still went unpacked, but somehow, the house started to feel a little more like home. there were still awkward silences, still moments where michael would disappear into his own head for hours, but there were also moments of calm. times when he would sit next to you on the couch without saying anything, but you knew he was there.
ask
btw i’ve decided michael afton wears glasses. he doesn’t like wearing them. in fact, he’s self-conscious about it. and he only wears them occasionally to work and when he’s alone with you!
see drabble below ↓
the clock on the wall ticks past 2:45 am when you hear the faint sound of the door creaking open. michael’s home. you don’t need to ask how work went; the tired shuffle of his boots is enough to tell you it’s been a long night.
you’re sitting on the couch, a worn-out book in your hands that you’ve probably read a hundred times already. the house is quiet, save for the distant hum of a fan, and the way the dim light from the hallway filters into the living room. the air feels heavy. when michael steps into the room, you can tell he’s exhausted. his hair is messier than usual, his shoulders a little more slumped, but what catches your attention immediately is the pair of glasses perched on his nose. the same glasses he rarely wears outside of when it’s just the two of you. he looks... a little too good in them. "hey," you say, glancing over the top of your book. “haven't seen those in a while.”
he gives you an unreadable look, but you can see the subtle awkwardness in the way he gently pushes them up his nose, like he's trying to make them disappear. "yeah, well, i don’t really like them," he mutters.
you raise an eyebrow, setting the book down in your lap, "they're cute."
he doesn't respond. crossing the room, sinking heavily down onto the couch next to you. you can smell the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and sanitizer on him, his technician’s outfit looking a bit rumpled. he keeps his gaze fixed on the carpet, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. “long night?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. he sighs heavily, slouching back against the couch. he rubs at his face with one had, glasses pushed up onto his forehead. “the longest,” he mumbles.
you hum sympathetically. he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, his gaze flicking over your face. "how was your day?" he asks, though his words are more of a formality than a genuine question. you know the day doesn’t really matter to him, but you tell him anyway. about work, about the book you’re reading, the mundane errands you ran, whatever pops into your mind. michael sits there quietly, just listening. he’s been so tired lately; it’s been weighing down on him heavily. “you doing ok?” you ask abruptly but gently, after a long pause. he gives a noncommittal shrug, still looking at the ground. “m’fine,” he mutters, though he’s anything but. you study him closely, and you can see that the bags under his eyes are more prominent than usual. his shoulders are tensed. you set your book on the coffee table, shifting your body and kissing his cheek.
michael leans a little into the touch. the tension on his expression eases just a little, though there's still a frown on his face. he glances at you. “that all i get for coming home so late?” he says, his voice teasing. you laugh breathily, almost like a sigh. kissing the corner of his mouth. he can’t help but crack a small smile as you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, the action so familiar to him. he lifts a hand, gently brushing your cheek with his thumb. “missed you,” he murmurs, the words slipping out before he can stop them. "mm. missed you." you kiss him in a slow way, a lingering press, more comfort than passion. he lets out a soft sigh as your lips meet his, he kisses you back, gently and unhurried, as if the world outside the walls of your home didn’t exist. he tastes faintly of nicotine. he deepens the kiss, his mouth moving against yours in a familiar rhythm.
he shifts on the couch, angling his body towards yours, and pulls you closer. he kisses you a little harder this time, his hands skimming over your hip. he’s always been affectionate when he’s tired, and the exhaustion from his shift just makes him all the more needy. he breaks off the kiss, his forehead resting against yours. he’s so close that you can see the tiny freckles across his nose, the tired bags under his eyes. “stay with me,” he murmurs against your lips, hands finding their familiar place on your waist. his thumb rubs idle circles on your body. he sounds tired. “i don’t want to be alone right now.” you pull away slightly, your thumb tracing his cheekbone as you study him closely. he can’t bring himself to meet your gaze, eyes averted, and you can tell there’s something weighing on his mind he’s not telling you.
(okay this is a sidenote but omg imagine the SL ending when mike opens his eyes and he has glasses on...... like he just got scooped but i #needthat....... i think i'm ovulating.)