𝑷𝑯𝑶𝑻𝑶𝑮𝑬𝑵𝑰𝑪 // Michael Afton x Reader//

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A/N: I just want to reiterate the fact that I rewrote some of the story, so if this doesn't make sense to some of you, go back and reread.

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I thought I had seen the last of Michael Afton for the day, but obviously, I was wrong because a few minutes later when I exited the supermarket, groceries in hand, I was met by his voice.

"Sup."

I jumped, yelping as I whirled around. The sun had set by this point, the faint outline of stars in the sky, the moon peeking out on the edge of the horizon. The small parking lot was practically deserted, the only cars being that of the employees and teenagers looking for a place to have sex or get high without getting caught by their parents.

I let out a sigh of relief when I saw it was only Michael; a letterman jacket pulled over his plain white shirt and black jeans with huge rips where his knees were. He was leaning against the wall beside a rack of propane tanks, the two little kids from earlier beside him. The ginger girl giggled at my reaction.

"She screams funny," she said to no one in particular.

"My screams are lovely, thank you," I retorted playfully as my heartbeat steadied.

"Yeah, so are your mother's when I go down on her," Michael said with a smirk, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep puff.

I stared at him for a moment, speechless. "I... I walked into that one. That was solid."

Michael blew a stream of smoke into the air. "I know." He smiled cheekily.

I breathed out a laugh, but my eyebrows furrowed as I watched the cigarette smoke dissipate into the night sky. Michael was my age: fifteen. I didn't care if he smoked - his body, his choices – though I was a little confused. "How did you get cigarettes?" I asked, giving him a quizzical look.

"Well," he started, snuffing out the cigarette against the brick wall before riffling through his pocket. "It turns out looking practically identical to your father comes in handy sometimes." He handed me an ID, and when I looked at it, it showed a man with thin, brown hair swept against his forehead. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties, but then again, this ID seemed quite old. He looked scarily similar to Michael, the only thing standing out being his wide, silver eyes and large, almost sinister-looking, grin.

I squinted at the ID. "It says he was born in nineteen-forty. Do people really believe you're forty-two?" I asked, raising a brow.

Michael shrugged as he took the ID back. "I don't know. Honestly, I don't think the employees get paid enough to give a shit. They'd probably sell alcohol to a twelve-year-old just to get an extra buck."

He was right. Employees were severely underpaid, and in their position, I probably wouldn't care either. I nodded. "You're probably right."

Michael pushed off the wall, his grocery bag swaying as he stepped forward, siblings in tow. "Which way do you go?" he asked.

"Oh, I go right."

He smiled. "Same. Well, not to get to my house, but my dad is at Fredbear's right now so I have to go back there." He rolled his eyes in annoyance as he spoke, a slight scowl on his face.

"Our house is that way!" the ginger suddenly spoke up, pointing forward down one of the dimly lit neighborhoods.

"Wow, way to give out our personal information to strangers, Elizabeth. Who knows? Maybe she'll sneak in through your window late at night and kill you!" Michael exclaimed theatrically, bending down slightly to her level with a smirk.