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“God- Goddamn.” Mike hissed between breaths, saliva dripping from his bloodied, busted lip. He wiped the thick, glossy beads of sweat from his brow with the back of a bruising hand. As he swung the moisture away from his red-hot face, the droplets splattered across the beaten pile that was Michael Afton.
Once again, that fucker had ambushed Mike after getting him alone in an alleyway. He’d strutted right on up, seeing as Mike was oh-so-conveniently cornered, and muttered something snarky and condescending to announce his arrival. So cocky, so sure he once again held the upper hand in this interaction.
Unfortunately for Michael, his target wasn’t fucking having it today, thank you very much.
As soon as Michael opened his big mouth, Mike jumped around to meet his eyes, clearly shaken and desperate, twitching like a feral chihuahua. The next thing Michael knew, there was a security-guard-shaped dust cloud where Mike just was, and a man at his wits end right before his eyes, ready to beat the shit out of him.
And beat the shit out of him he did.
Mike tackled Michael to the ground, an easy feat despite the height difference not leaning in his favor. Michael’s head hit the gravel, the bits of rock digging past his greasy hair to poke and prod against his head. The wind was knocked right out of him, resulting in Michael gasping excessively as Mike landed punch after punch. Mike’s knees pressed into Michael’s abdomen as he punched down again. And again. And again. Fever-hot blood rolled down from Michael’s right nostril, coating Mike’s knuckles and spreading across his battered face.
“Fucking… I’ll fucking kill you.” Mike, enraged, swore between his blows. Michael went from wincing with every hit to letting out empty, wheezing coughs to falling completely limp, his face flat and eyes softly shut. Mike’s punches lessened in speed and intensity until he was only flipping Michael’s limp face back and forth and back again. Mike looked - finally, really looked - at the man below him. Michael was sharp, thin, hollow, beaten, and covered in his own drying blood; he almost looked beautiful.
A deep breath, and Mike leaned back, the fog in his brain beginning to clear. Was it overkill? Sure, but no one could have possibly convinced Mike that Michael didn’t deserve it. In order to have gotten him cornered at such a perfect time (not once, but twice) Michael would have had to have been stalking him, and stalking Abby by proxy. The thought enraged him again. That’s what he fucking gets, Mike thought, that’s exactly what he deserves. Michael was a threat, and he needed to be neutralized for Abby’s safety. Mike rose to his feet before the guilt of his actions could take grasp of his heart.
Once he stood, Mike finally noticed his own disheveled appearance. He swiped his hands over his jeans to clean away the settled dust and gravel, but only succeeded in wiping blood across his thighs. The rough jean fabric burned and stung, and Mike realized his knuckles and part of his palms had split open in the scuffle.
“For fucks sake…” Mike whined aggressively, stepping away and kicking the fragmented ground in anger. He hoped that piece of shit Afton didn’t have any bloodborne conditions; if he did, Mike was absolutely fucked.
He shook his head to ward off any paranoid thoughts and looked down at Michael. Mike didn’t want to be horribly sick and charged with murder, so he figured he’d better do something about the one he could control.
After taking a few deep breaths, Mike stepped back towards Michael’s body and leaned down to wrap his hands around the man’s chest. Michael was frustratingly easy to carry, and Mike propped the man into a sitting position against the alley wall. His eyes were still shut - clearly still knocked out - but Mike was relieved to see Michael was breathing, albeit rapidly.
Mike sat down across from injured Michael and looked at him - really looked at him. Despite his full awareness that this man had to have been stalking him, Mike couldn’t help but feel what had to be a deep twinge of sympathy. Like this, quiet and limp, Michael almost seemed peaceful. Serene, like one of Abby’s stuffed animals she propped up to hold tea parties with.
Mike shifted, the gravel below him making any position on the ground uncomfortable. He hated being out alone at night like this, but Abby had begged him to help find her friend’s missing cat. If he didn’t go, she threatened to sneak out while he was asleep and find the cat herself. So, again, Mike found himself alone in a dark alley at night, but he found a slight comfort in knowing that Abby would be safe with her friend as long as he was out doing the dirty work.
He gasped and tensed up, jarred from his thoughts, as he heard a soft groan come from Michael. Though his eyes still hadn’t opened, the man was clearly beginning to wake up. Mike rose to his feet, hissing as he used an injured hand to push himself up from the ground. Though, all things considered, his pain really wasn’t so bad. You should see the other guy.
When Michael’s eyes finally fluttered open, Mike was looming above him, arms crossed and expression sour. Michael seemed confused at first, as if he wasn’t exactly sure where he was, nor how he had gotten there. Mike squinted in disgust. Seconds later, a flash of recognition swept across Michael’s expression, and he softly moaned in pain as his body shifted atop the gravel.
“D-Don’t move.” Mike ordered, louder than necessary, the stutter in his voice loud and clear in his ringing ears. Michael grumbled softly and lifted an eyebrow, as if to ask, or what?
Angered, Mike lifted his right leg as if he were to kick Michael when he was down. However, instead of swinging, he opted to use his foot as a barrier to keep the man on the ground. Mike’s heel sat atop Michael’s stomach, not yet applying any real pressure, but merely there as a threat. Michael’s eyes bore into his shoe, then slowly traced themselves up Mike’s bent leg and up to his face. Another subtle shift in Michael’s expression sent a wave of dread rumbling down into the pit of Mike’s stomach. The man below him opened his mouth to speak.
“Whatever snarky comment is about to leave your mouth,” Mike interrupted, hissing the words through his clenched teeth, “can it, and again, don’t move.” The words froze Michael where he sat, and for a few moments the alley magnified only the sounds of their restless, heavy breaths. Then, Michael disobeyed.
With speed neither man thought possible, Michael jutted his hips upwards to surprise Mike into applying pressure. As he anticipated, Mike pushed down with his foot, which now pressed right up against Michael’s groin instead of his abdomen.
“Mmfph-” Michael hummed, his voice betraying a slight wince. Mike felt his blood grow ice cold, and upon realizing his mistake, brought his foot down to the ground in front of Michael. Eyes shut tight, Michael’s face displayed a pained, but victorious, smirk.
Mike wished he could say he turned and ran at that point. By then he had made sure Michael was upright and alive, and had successfully punched the ever-loving shit out of him enough to make sure he wasn’t a threat for at least a week.
But Mike didn’t leave.
Instead, he shifted his weight into the foot Michael had just grinded himself against, and pressed his hands into the brick wall behind the guy. All around the bloodied, beaten Michael was Mike, encapsulating him, not giving him anywhere to escape, anything else to think about. Noticing this, Michael chuckled to himself, a wheezing sound that spurred a question from Mike.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Mike asked, as if he couldn’t already tell. Though he was mostly cooled down from the fight, Mike felt warmer than he had the entire evening, and his skin prickled at the thought that Michael might rub up against him again.
“What do you… think?” Michael muttered, no longer looking up, but confident enough to call Mike out on his bluff. His strength seemed to slowly come seeping back, though Mike would have been more than happy to have his snarkiness been beaten out permanently.
“I think,” Mike replied with a frustrated confidence he wasn’t aware he possessed, “that you just humped my foot like a goddamn dog.”
Blunt, sure, but Michael wasn’t mad.
“Am I a good boy?” He asked in a low whisper.
“You’re about to be.”
Mike ran his hand, still caked with blood, through the front of Michael’s hair, gripping it tight and pulling him up against his poised leg. Michael quickly wrapped his lanky arms around Mike’s thigh, adjusting himself as Mike let his hair slide out through his fingers.
“Easy, boy.” Mike whispered, shocked by the situation he was actively putting himself in, but doing nothing to stop it. “Not until I say so.”
“P-please…” Michael whispered, successfully submitting to Mike’s order of patience, denying himself his pleasure until Mike said he could chase it.
“Please what?” Mike replied, his jeans now uncomfortably tight in the groin.
“Let me use…” Michael shuffled and leaned into Mike’s leg, clearly still weak. “Please let me use you, please.”
“And why should I?” Mike teased, his mind too occupied with the distance between Michael’s mouth and the zipper of his jeans to stop himself from playing into it.
“Because I can make you feel so good,” Michael begged breathily, gently dragging one of his hands from around Mike’s thigh up to his crotch. “I’m a good boy, I can be, I promise.” He cupped Mike’s bulge with his hand and licked his lips hungryly, trying and failing to silence a yearning groan.
Mike looked down at the man he hated, the man he had just punched and punched until he could no longer move. This was Michael Afton, for fuck’s sake, the sociopathic freak that Mike would see in his nightmares if he still had them.
But Mike, now too overcome with lust to care about the morality of the man pressed against him, nodded.
“Alright. You can do it.”
With those words setting him free, Michael gave all his energy to rubbing himself up and down Mike’s outstretched leg. He leaned his entire weight into Mike, desperate, and slotted Mike’s knee between his thighs and against his bulge. In an instant Michael was letting out louder and louder desperate moans. Mike could only stand and watch, mesmerised by the show of Michael lifting himself up and down, and up and down again. The friction from his humping was relentless, fueled by a fervour Mike had no idea the other man was capable of. And he thought that he was pent up!
“F-fuck!” Michael keened, losing his rhythm, shutting his eyes, and tossing his head back. “I’m so close, I need-” His voice trailed off and became a strangled cry, still jutting his hips as he whined.
“What do you need?” Mike asked, intoxicated, hanging on to every word and sound Michael made.
“I need you to tell me if I can…”
Damn, Michael really, really relied on praise and instruction. Perhaps selfishly, Mike hoped he would be able to use this observation for his own benefit in the future. Michael’s eyelashes fluttered as he whimpered out the prettiest little moans Mike had ever heard. He could get used to this.
“Okay, Michael.” He laid a gentle hand atop the desperate man’s head. “You’ve been such a good boy for me.”
“I have,” Michael insisted, wiping sweat, saliva, and tears against Mike’s leg, “I’ve been good for you.”
“You have,” Mike agreed, fearing it would be far too cruel to edge his pretty boy on any further, “now show me just how good you are.” Michael’s wet eyes sparkled in ecstasy. “Cum for me.”
With that, Michael keened louder than he had all night, and pathetically rode out the rest of his orgasm in disjointed thrusts against Mike. His pace slowed as he began to crumble into his own pleasure, which eventually resulted in Michael leaning back against the wall behind him. His eyes were shut, his expression relieved, and Mike knew instantly that the man had fallen back asleep.
Which left him with quite the dilemma, actually. Thanks, Michael.
Mike wasn’t greedy enough to care that Michael had passed out before getting him off; Mike knew full well that he was the cause of that… for more reasons than one.
He was, however, concerned about what his next move would be. He couldn’t carry Michael out of the alleyway and take him home. He didn’t trust Michael in his house and had no idea where the fucker lived. Besides, what would people think if they saw him carrying around a limp, beaten man soiled with his own cum through the neighborhood?
That reminded Mike - he should clean the blood off of himself as soon as possible, if he could.
With no other choice but to leave Michael, passed out and satisfied, in the alley, Mike turned and ran off into the night.
…
Well, not before grabbing the conveniently found sticky note and pen from his pockets and scribbling out ‘that was fun. be a good boy and pay me back soon.’, then leaving the note in Michael’s clenched hand.
Now, to find that cat…