whumpafton

The Michael Afton Torture Chamber.

[nightmaregas]

Made another arbitrary blog. This one’s for fnaf stuff. Mainly that of the depressing sort.

byf: this blog is probably going to deal with all manner of fucked up subjects, namely murder, abuse of all sorts, violence to children, et cetera. i will try to properly tag everything. tell me if I slip up.

i would appreciate if people who sexualize incest and csa stayed away from here. that is not the purpose of this blog and will never be. i’ll probably block u if u post about that stuff.

[nightmaregas]

post sl michael constantly clutching and guarding his stomach, when he flinches he instinctively blocks there instead of his face

[nightmaregas]

im crine 😭😭😭 he thinks he will escape the crimes of his father.

[nightmaregas]

Jeremy fitz x Mike afton with foxy/mangle being the bite of 87 perpetrator and jeremy as the victim.

michael having nightmares of the foxy mask melting into his skin, becoming his face

michael having nightmares of flesh between his teeth and the crunch of bone. of his jaw aching with the force of closing.

michael afton having nightmares of his clothes heavy with blood with no clear origin. blood that seemingly wells from the fabric itself. blood that follows him wherever he goes in a lazy, thick trail.

[nightmaregas]

my last post got mature contented. okay.

[nightmaregas]

Michael Afton whump thingy;

Child death, child murder heavily implied. its a fnaf fic guys.

MikeAccomplice, Charlie87, Michael Afton & Charlie Emily

With Charlie, Michael felt like he had a chance to restart.

At first it felt odd. To have somebody look at him like a person— a person to be trusted no less. They were both outsiders, shunned by their neighbourhood for being inextricably linked to the bloodied tiles of Fazbear’s.

He’d do all the things he didn’t do with Cassidy back then. All the things it was too late to do for Elizabeth. All whilst guilt gnawed in the back of his mind, nascent— coloring his thoughts but not loud enough to he named.

When he was called to ‘help clean up after an incident’, he didn’t want to come. But fear of his father carried him to the godforsaken restaurant like waste in a strong breeze.

The body in the alleyway, the stench of death and rot exacerbated by the damp, post rain air. He barely remembers anything aside from kneeling in syrupy blood and the ache in his shoulders as he carried the garbage bag, limp over his shoulder.

For a second, he was taken back to a similar scene, a red-faced sobbing child kicking and screaming in his arms. The scent of metal, then blood— the two so similar one would be hard-pressed to tell the difference.

In that moment, it would become clear what he was. His fingers forever stained with red, those around him doomed to the same fate. Over and Over and Over again.