Michael was well acquainted with break-ins. It was his favorite method of gathering information on his victims and he practiced it like a craft, an art form, even.
A house says a lot about the person who lives in it. It hides the deepest, most intimate parts of themselves that they might not even show to their loved ones. With his years of experience, Michael had made a mental list of all the different aspects of his targets' homes and how they could be correlated to their personalities and habits. He loved it, it was like solving a puzzle.
He made sure to never leave any evidence of his presence, but he knew there were always hints.
That's why he looked around before unlocking his own front door, taking the time to check if anyone was hiding within the darkness that engulfed the driveway. He closed the door behind him and made sure to lock it using the three different mechanisms he had seen his father install when he was young. Just to be safe, he remembered the man saying.
The house was perfectly clean. The kitchen was organized, the warm cover on the sofa was meticulously folded on its surface, clearly having gone unused, and the dining table was devoid of any homely decorations or cutlery. The place was devoid of any sign of life. Michael Afton didn't like to make his presence known, even in his own home.
The security guard took off his shoes and jacket, placing them neatly by the door, before heading to his bedroom on the first floor. The house was large, meant to hold a family, but he had become its only inhabitant. The unused bedrooms had been locked a long time ago, those belonging to Vanessa, his parents, and even his own childhood bedroom. Locking them in the physical realm helped him lock them away in his mind. It was better that way, he thought.
He had chosen to skip on dinner, like he did on most days. He spent most of his time at Freddy's or obsessively trying to come up with a scheme to get revenge on his sister and her new friend. By the end of the day, he was exhausted and didn't want to deal with dishes. He just wanted to go to bed.
As he entered his room, he could immediately tell something was off. One of his shirts was on the floor and his closet door was ajar. Anybody else would've written this off as a small, inconsequential mistake that they might've made the morning before while getting ready, but Michael Afton made no such mistakes.
Hit by a stab of anxiety and paranoia, the security guard methodically checked the entire house for any sign of an intruder, carefully checking closets, under beds, every nook and cranny in the now-abandoned workshop that served as his late father's office. Yet, nothing.
He returned to his room and picked up the shirt. He inspected the garment for any stains or signs that someone else might have used it. When he brought it up to his nose, however, he smelled something. A floral, artificial scent that could’ve been attributed to cologne or perfume. He wasn't one to care much for his hygiene beyond basic needs, but perhaps it was simply that new laundry detergent he had bought, the one he kind of hated but still bought because it was the only one left on the shelves, he tried to rationalize.
He checked the entire house two more times for any unwelcome visitors before going to bed.
His thoughts kept him from falling asleep. He was so careful about keeping everything clean that he was convinced he wouldn't have made a mistake like that, especially since it had never happened before. But what if he did? He had been so exhausted recently, he didn't do anything except sleep and go to work. He even put off eating and only really ate when his body started complaining about it.
He fell asleep to a childhood memory, vivid images of his father yelling at him for his messy room, telling him to make more of an effort like his older sister. He failed to push the thought away and fell into a restless sleep.
When he awoke, the previous night's discovery replayed in his mind on a loop. He, again, attempted to convince himself that it was a simple, harmless mistake of his own. After all, he was taught to be paranoid about prying eyes and stalkers. He had turned his house into a stronghold with multiple locks on every door and window that led to the outside world. He had even tried to break into his own home in order to test its security. There was simply no way for someone to enter it without his knowledge.
That day, he went to work with simmering anxiety in his stomach. What if it wasn't really him? What if someone had been stalking him without his knowledge? Would that even be possible? He was so used to being the one who did the stalking that he never really considered what it would be like to be on the other end of it.
Most of the day was spent dissociated, doing his work on autopilot. He wasn't one to let things get to him, usually shoving them into the back of his mind, but someone had found a way into his home. The only place where he could feel somewhat safe. Sure, the spirit of his father still loomed over his head like a guillotine, but it was the only place he felt like he could breathe in.
Before entering his house, he double, triple-checked that no one was hiding within the shrubbery that surrounded the house. Michael looked through his own windows. The opaque curtains hid most of his view of the interior but a small gap let him see part of his living room. From an outsider's perspective, he probably looked like he wanted to break into his own home. Thankfully, no one was around to see the scene at this time of night.
He heard a sound as he entered. Was it the sound of the door or was he really not alone? Cautiously, he approached the large, open living room area without taking his shoes and jacket off. He couldn’t allow himself to get comfortable when he didn’t know who, or what, was hiding in his home. Only one light was on in the entire house, the spotlight right above the dining room table. This time, he knew it wasn't him.
Something was on the table. He couldn't make it out, the light was far too bright in comparison to the obscurity of its surroundings. He felt for his pocket knife, quickly unsheathing its sharp blade and holding it out in front of him.
His brow furrowed as he approached the object, senses sharp and ready to attack. But when he got closer, he paused. It was so strange, so unexpected that it took him a moment to register it. It wasn't a bomb, some sort of detached body part, or anything threatening or terrifying like he had imagined. It was...
Food?
Michael's expression turned to one of utter confusion. Was this some sort of prank?
The food seemed normal, so normal it made him even more suspicious of it. Heat radiated from it, indicating that it had been made not long before he came home, and if that was the case, that person knew his routine.
It was a plate of pasta, fusilli with cream sauce and some chopped up chives as a decoration atop the rest. A simple dish, but his stomach rumbled loudly at the sight. How long had it been since he had last eaten a warm meal? Days? Weeks? He couldn't recall.
Shaking his head as if trying to dismiss his hunger, he carefully inspected the dish. Silverware had been carefully placed next to the plate. He took the fork and moved the pasta around, searching for poison or some sort of sharp object within the meal. His stomach rumbled again, louder this time. Its sound echoed in the stillness and silence of the house.
"Are you gonna keep staring at it like some sort of weirdo or are you gonna eat it?"
Michael jumped back at the voice, dropping his fork in the process, making a loud clanking sound on the tiled kitchen floor. His eyes widened and searched frantically for the source of the sound. He could see the silhouette of a person leaning against the wall near the bottom of the stairs. How long had they been there?
"Wh— Who the hell are you?," he stuttered out pathetically, unable to conceal his surprise. He squinted, trying to make out the silhouette.
You were wearing a dark, oversized jacket. It took Michael a moment to realize it was his, one of the jackets he wore when his usual one was in the wash. He struggled to make out your face, but he could see a playful glint in your eyes. Were you some sort of murderer that enjoyed playing with their victims? What if you just wanted to make him suffer? Worse, what if you didn't want to hurt him at all?
"So? I put a lot of effort into cooking this for you, you know," you stared at him when he didn’t respond, waiting for him to try out the dish.
He looked back at the plate. Nothing was wrong with it visually. Under your heavy gaze, he felt like he didn’t have a choice. He tentatively picked up one piece of pasta and looked back towards you. You were closer now, your features more visible. You wore a smile that sent shivers down his spine. In any other situation, he might've found it charming or even reassuring, but here, it felt out of place, unsettling. You stared at him in anticipation.
He gulped and put the pasta in his mouth. At that moment, he half-expected to drop dead, yet, he found himself... enjoying it? The food was tasty, better than anything he had eaten in years. It wasn't reheated pizza or canned food with no taste, it felt homemade, well, his home. His body immediately craved more. He went in for another bite.
For a while, his gaze switched between your face and the food, feeling the need to check for any oddities before each bite.
At some point, he stopped looking at you altogether and started eating mouthfuls like a man starved, which he was. He kept going until every single piece of pasta had been eaten. He licked some leftover sauce on his lips and sighed in satisfaction.
When his gaze switched back to where you were standing, he was greeted by eerie nothingness. You were gone. How?
Michael was back on high alert. He turned on the large light in the living room, the area now lit up in a warm hue. He scanned the entire ground floor before moving to the rooms on the first floor. You had vanished. For a moment, he almost thought you were a ghost, or he had finally gone insane and you were some sort of hallucination, but that food was real.
Then he remembered: his jacket. You had taken his jacket. He rushed to his closet and searched for the dark garment. It was gone. He considered searching the house again, but he knew it would be fruitless. Being on a full stomach for the first time in weeks, he could feel his limbs grow heavier by the minute. With a frustrated groan, he decided to call it a night.
For the next week, he came home to a warm meal every night. There was still no sight of you but he had started to almost look forward to getting home at night. The meals had quickly become the highlight of his day and were the only part of his routine he actually enjoyed, as depressing as the thought was.
He still obsessively checked every plate before eating it, poking around with a fork until he was (mostly) sure it was safe to eat. Logically, he knew that odorless, invisible poisons existed, but he just had to hope you didn't know how to get your hands on them.
This day was different though. From the second he woke up, Michael felt a weight on his chest, one that wanted to keep him glued to the bed. He lay there for over 30 minutes, blankly staring outside the window. He hadn't bothered to close the blinds the night before. He watched the rain pitter patter on the glass, the dark clouds keeping his room dimly lit. For a moment, the rain kept his thoughts at bay. He had grown to enjoy rainy days, much more than he did sunny ones.
His mind was reeled back in when he heard a sound outside his bedroom door. Light footsteps could be heard in the hallway. On any other day, he would've panicked and reached for the pocket knife under his pillow, but he already knew who it was. You.
The door soon opened. Michael finally had a clear view of your face. He remembered how off-putting you were that night, but your features seemed much softer in the light of day.
It took you a moment to register that Michael was still in bed. Your eyes widened in surprise. By now, he would have left the house two hours earlier. Michael Afton was a man that followed his routine like it was law and he never deviated from it, but here he was, in his bed, looking about as energetic as a cold, abandoned corpse.
"Why are you here?," you asked simply. You weren't one for small talk or leading into things softly. Michael liked that.
He looked up at you. The defensiveness he had shown when first meeting you had completely evaporated into something much more vulnerable. He looked despondent, not entirely there.
"It's—," my father's birthday, he wanted to say, but the words died on his tongue.
You sensed his discomfort. Normally, you would've pushed and tried to get the information out of him, but his demeanor told you that he needed tenderness and care. In truth, you didn't know much about him or his past. You had only been able to make hypotheses based on what you had found while snooping around his home; He lived in his family's house alone. His other family members seemed to be completely absent from his life. He was likely into some shady business based on the deadly machinery, weapons, and experimental drugs you had found in the basement. And he was very bad at taking care of himself.
As you thought, Michael couldn't help looking away from you and curling in on himself. He felt pathetic. He knew his father would've been disappointed to have such a weak son, not capable of leaving his bed, not even capable of keeping an intruder outside of his home and just letting them roam around. On days like these, his thoughts adopted his father's voice. The voice that scorned him throughout his entire life, the voice that kept him up at night.
At some point, he must have gotten lost in his thoughts, because he didn't see you move from your spot at the door. Suddenly, you were kneeling in front of his bed. You stared into his eyes, slightly awkwardly. You placed a reassuring hand on his cheek, your thumb gently caressing his face. You stayed silent, but the gesture spoke for you, "it's okay, I've got you."
Michael closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. He felt weird, being touched by someone who had literally broken into his home, but you were warm, grounding, safe, nothing like the cold, painful slaps from his father.
Your scent was stronger than when he had first smelled it on one of his shirts. Usually, he disliked strong smells, but this one was an exception. He found comfort in it, like it made your presence more real, more tangible.
When your legs grew uncomfortable and you shifted your position on the carpeted floor, Michael quickly grabbed your hand to keep it in place. He saw the smallest sign that you might leave and just panicked. You responded with a sad, compassionate smile and tightened your grip slightly, assuring him you were still there.
He breathed out shakily. If you weren't paying attention, you might've missed him whispering a small, vulnerable "Thank you," under his breath.
At some point, Michael must've fallen asleep. When he woke up again, you were gone. The house had returned to its lifeless stillness. His room had grown darker, but not pitch black, leading him to believe that he had slept until the evening. The soft, consistent pitter patter of the rain persisted against his window.
He got up with a groan, feeling all his joints pop from being immobile for so long, and headed downstairs. He was greeted with a sight he had become accustomed to; the spotlight over the dining table turned on, illuminating a plate filled with food.
This time though, it was different. You had prepared chocolate chip cookies for him. Each cookie was unique, with every one having a slightly different shape and amount of chocolate. It emphasized the fact that they were homemade. Michael smiled as he tasted them. Someone had put effort into making something for him without expecting anything in return.
When he ate the last cookie and picked up the plate to put it away, he found that you had placed a pink sticky note on the table under the plate. Brief but straight to the point, punctuated with a smiley face.
"(XXX) XXX-XXXX
Call me if you ever need it :)”
—✶✶✶
A/N: I didn't mean for this to be so long oops! I love putting Michael in Situations
Movie!Henry Emily x GN!Reader | Tiny Blurb, Fluff, Holidays
—❅❅❅
Henry Emily who goes all-out for holidays with you. Decorations, delicious home-cooked meals, and presents, all for you.
It's a way to atone for his past. Before losing Charlotte, he'd get so caught up in his work that he would skip out on Christmas, New Year's and even her birthday. He sees his negligence as the cause of her death and he refuses to make the same mistakes.
He doesn't mind putting in effort for just the two of you. In fact, he feels more comfortable when it's just you. He loves showing how much he cares about you and will spend hours preparing elaborate meals. At first, he'd prepare the parties on his own and you felt bad for doing nothing, but after a bit of convincing, he lets you take care of decorations.
The day is spent setting up the party, and then you eat dinner together, enjoying each other's company. It's a bit much for just two people, but you know it's healing for him and you're more than happy to spend quality time with him. When he looks at you, he can't help but think about how lucky he is to have someone so kind and considerate.
—❅❅❅
A/N: Fluffy blurb to celebrate the new year. I hope 2026 treats you well :>
HIII MOOT 💜💜 !! a very HAPPY NEW YEARS TO YOU, and may this year treat us better 🥹🫶🏻🫶🏻💞💞💞 i hope you know that your michael fics are always amazingly written and will FOREVER be cherished by me 💗💗💗 !!
Omg this is so sweet!!! HAPPY NEW YEARS
Thank you so much for all the love, I'm so glad you like my writing! I can't wait to read more Michael fics from you in 2026 <3
Movie!Michael Afton x GN!Reader who has scars | Tiny Blurb, Implied Self-Harm/Abuse
—✧✧✧
When he first notices your scars, he doesn't say anything because he can tell you've been trying to hide them with oversized clothing and accessories. Instead of being worried or sad for you, he feels happy. Happy that your scars look like his, happy that he's finally met someone who understands him.
When you grow closer, he'll start showing his own scars more often in order to make you feel more comfortable around him. Since he's socially inept, he might try to use them as a conversation starter, not understanding that it could be a sensitive topic for you, but he'll back off if you seem too upset or uncomfortable.
Eventually, he'll start viewing your scars as a form of comfort. When you start sharing a bed, he'll mindlessly run his fingers over them hundreds of times to ground himself and remind himself that he's not alone anymore, he finally has someone who understands him, who takes care of him, and who loves him.
Movie!Michael Afton x GN!Reader | No use of Y/N, Implied Child Abuse, Crying, Hurt/Comfort
—✧✧✧
You knew Michael was traumatized, but you never fully grasped the extent of it.
You had been working with him for a little over two months. At first, he kept you at a distance, sometimes even leaving you on your own for hours on end when you hadn’t learned the job yet. Being close to anyone for too long made his skin crawl, like he wasn't made to be social, but with time, he learned to live with you around.
With his strange demeanor and unnatural facial expressions, you could tell he had gone through something. You made sure to give him space, to be patient with him, in fear that he'd get scared off if you tried to pry into his personal life. He was like a stray cat, in a way; you wanted to approach him and get to know him, but you knew he'd run away if you weren't gentle and patient with him.
For your first month as coworkers, he rarely spoke to you beyond a quick, artificial greeting at the beginning of your shift and cryptic statements that he wouldn't elaborate on. Sometimes, he'd sneak up on you, wordlessly watching you work from a distance. No flashlight, no warnings, just standing in a darkened hallway or behind a corner. At first, you'd look back and jump when he appeared behind you as a dark silhouette. With time though, you learned to listen for his near-silent footsteps and gave him a warm smile whenever he came to visit you. You saw it as a sign that he had become more comfortable being around you and that he was warming up to your presence, as creepy as his behavior was.
Eventually, he started talking to you. At first, they were short conversations, if you could even call them that. He asked some intrusive question about yourself, you answered, and he wouldn't follow up or share his own answers. Michael Afton was a secretive man, he couldn't trust you with anything that you could end up using against him. You never pressed him further, figuring that he was simply socially inept or untrusting. With a little time, you became more daring and started asking seemingly innocuous questions of your own.
Truthfully, you were trying to gather information on the mysterious man you worked with, because you really didn't know anything about him except his name. Of course, he could see right through you but he found it almost charming that you were interested enough in him to speak to him. He'd started to share details about his life. His favorite animatronic was Foxy, he grew up around Freddy's, he lived in his family home on his own (and refused to elaborate further when asked about it).
You still didn't know much about the night guard, but you could tell he became overly cautious whenever you asked about his family. Did he have a family member involved in one of those freak accidents at Freddy's you had heard about? Were his parents absent? What if he never had a family in the first place? You didn't want to ask such personal questions, but you were intrigued by the way his expression changed to something more somber whenever the topic of his family came up. You mentally wrote down that it was a sensitive topic for him; you didn't want to mention your own family and accidentally make him uncomfortable or upset.
Your schedule shifted around weekly to different tasks to "keep you entertained," as Michael had put it. To you, it seemed like he just didn't like spending all his time monitoring the old, barely working cameras in that humid, stuffy office. It made sense, you didn't like it much either. Being in that office always felt like something could jump out at you at any moment. This week, you had been put on animatronic repair duty while your coworker roamed around the pizzeria, checking for any break-ins or break-outs.
You approached the Toy animatronics with a groan, already seeing what needed repair. Chica's beak was missing, again. She had the habit of losing her beak every time she moved around the old pizzeria. And of course, it was always left in the most inconvenient, hard to see places. It was almost like she did it on purpose.
You had never actually seen any of the animatronics move, but Michael had informed you that they sometimes liked to move at night, and that they apparently "didn't like adults." Whatever that meant. He had warned you to stay away from them if you ever saw them move. You remembered the way he said it, almost like he was trying to protect you.
You searched every nook and cranny of the abandoned pizzeria for nearly an hour before finding the lost beak. You had found it on a small box among a pile of boxes. You had walked past it three times before seeing its signature plastic shine with your flashlight. You grabbed it carefully, not wanting to break it, and you returned to Chica. You looked for a way to re-attach the beak to her face, preferably in a permanent way. Every time you tried sticking it back, it would fall right off. That terrifying mouth of hers got revealed every time the beak came off. It almost felt like she was mocking you.
"You're doing it wrong."
You jumped. You were too focused on getting Chica's stupid beak back on that you didn't hear Michael practically breathing down your neck.
"Let me do it," he stated plainly, grabbing the animatronic beak from your hands.
He put down the toolkit he had brought. He seemed to know his way around animatronics and machines. Maybe he really cared about them, you thought. He seemed to open up to you more whenever you brought up the animatronics and the way they functioned. His movements were smooth, unlike his usual robotic, artificial demeanor. He pouted slightly as he focused, brows furrowed. You found it cute.
Michael made quick work of Chica's beak and started working on maintenance for her other parts, opening up her plastic casing to gain access to her endoskeleton. You stared in awe at his repair skills, leaning forwards to get a closer look at his precise movements.
"You're really good at this!," you exclaimed.
A pause.
Not long enough for you to say anything or look back at him, but a few seconds, enough to notice it. He kept working silently, this time more shakily. Did he have some sort of performance anxiety?
Eventually, he finished working on Chica and closed her animatronic chest back in place, its shiny surface now had faint fingerprint marks from where Michael touched it.
You looked back, into his blue eyes. They used to creep you out, now you found comfort in them, "Great job Michael! I don't think I would've been able to do this on my own," you smiled. "Your parents must be so proud to have raised someone as intelligent as y—," you stopped yourself. It was too late.
His eyes widened. His lip twitched. You knew you had messed up. In your excitement over his work, you had completely forgotten that family was a sensitive subject. You froze, trying to come up with some sort of apology that would defuse the situation.
Michael looked away, his features shrouded in the darkness of the old pizzeria. You winced, half-expecting him to hurt you in some way. Maybe a punch, maybe a pocket knife to your throat. He mumbled something, to you or maybe just to himself. You couldn't make it out, you asked him to repeat himself.
A small, whispered, "They weren't proud of me."
His voice was shaky, you could tell he was holding back tears. Out of all the reactions you expected, it wasn't this. He seemed small, weak. You almost wished he got angry instead. You wanted to come up with some sort of elaborate response, something like don't let other people's judgement bring you down that you'd see in those overly optimistic and tone-deaf motivational quotes.
"Well...," you paused, unsure of yourself. "I'm proud of you."
You tried your best to sound confident. You didn't know if it was the right way to answer, if answering was a good idea at all.
Michael looked back at you, tears threatening to spill out of his eyes, the sight made your heart shatter into pieces. You had grown to care deeply about your coworker. Hundreds of hours had been spent by his side, and you had learned to like his quirks. You didn't want to see him like this.
"You don't mean that," his voice broke on the last syllable.
He couldn't accept the idea of anyone being impressed by him, or proud of him, or just content with him. You didn't know the kind of childhood he had experienced, but this alone told you that he had been deeply hurt. He kept it all concealed behind a mask of confidence and indifference with his creepy, off-putting smile and you were fooled by it.
You leaned forward, looking into his glassy eyes for permission. He hesitated for a moment, debating whether he was allowed to feel this comfort, before giving a small, approving nod.
You tentatively wrapped your arms around his neck, making sure to be slow and gentle with your movements, predictable for him. He was stiff, frozen like a statue. He was afraid of moving, as if you'd disappear if he did. But you didn't, you stayed there, arms around him, waiting for him to reciprocate, to allow himself to be vulnerable.
You held him slightly tighter, a silent promise that you wouldn't leave him. That made him break down. You couldn't see his face from this angle, but you could hear his erratic breathing and sniffling. He was desperately trying to stay silent but he couldn't help the small whimpers that escaped him.
He awkwardly wrapped his arms around your waist. The movement was uncertain, shy, like it was his first time receiving a hug. Something about that pained you to think about. Unlike you, his hold wasn't gentle; he buried his face into your neck and grabbed at your shirt, scrunching it in his fists.
A broken sob, "Please, don't leave me."
"It's okay, you're okay," you whispered to him as you brought a hand to the nape of his neck, playing with his hair. You didn't miss how he stopped breathing when you moved, like he thought you were going to let go.
You held each other for what could've been 10 minutes or 45. You listened to his irregular breath until it became more stable, whimpers dying down into small sniffles, but he was still shaking. He had been through some traumatic things, that much was obvious. You wanted to show him safety and warmth. You wanted to hold him until everything stopped hurting.
Eventually, you heard Michael sigh in relief while still gripping your shirt tightly. He was getting more comfortable. His breathing evened out. You were still playing with his hair, still holding him. He felt safe.
By this point, you assumed he had fallen asleep. He was still holding onto you for dear life, but he had stopped shaking and you felt his muscles relax further. You smiled, an embarrassing blunder had turned into something unexpectedly raw and vulnerable. You still felt bad, but you knew you'd find a way to make up for it.
For now, you wanted to live in the moment with this Michael. The Michael behind the facade, the Michael who yearned for acknowledgement and safety, the real Michael. You focused on his slow breathing, warm against your neck.
You held him closer, "I'm not leaving you, I promise.”
—✧✧✧
A/N: Thank you for all the love on my Michael fics :>
omg can we get a part 2 for artificial smiles and nightmares that shit was GOOOOODDD
Tysm anon!
I've gotten a couple asks about this and I'm happy to say I have something similar to Artificial Smiles and Nightmares in the works! I love writing Michael's softer/more emotional side :>
Movie!Michael Afton x GN!Reader | No use of Y/N, Referenced Self-Harm, Referenced Child Abuse, Blood Drinking, Freak4Freak dynamic, Hurt/Comfort
—☆☆☆
Michael was uncomfortable.
After putting an advert in the local newspaper, a new employee had started working alongside Michael. He didn't enjoy the idea of having to share his space with someone else, but he thought that having you on the team would make his work at Freddy's seem more legitimate.
Initially, you seemed relatively normal. You shyly introduced yourself as you walked in, intimidated by his stature and unnatural smile. He kept his own introduction brief, suspiciously so, before moving onto half-assed instructions for the job.
Even though you appeared to be normal at a glance, he quickly noticed that you liked to stare, a lot. He supposed it was out of confusion or that you were subtly trying to ask for help. He found it weird. You were clearly intelligent enough to use the simple camera system, and you had quickly memorized the restaurant's layout. So why were you still staring at him? Your expression was unreadable, like you were staring straight into his soul, dismantling every part of his personality. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.
Sometimes, you tried to initiate conversations by asking him uncomfortably personal questions. Of course, he couldn't really answer any of them and he gave short, one-word replies. You didn't seem to mind though, continuing with the conversation as if he was an active participant.
Once you got the hang of the job, he would quickly leave the security office after coming in. He couldn't handle being around other people for too long. He saw the way they looked at him, how their faces dropped whenever he approached them, or their annoyed expressions as he kept up that wide smile of his. Part of it was purposeful; he preferred to keep others at arm's length, having been taught to never trust anyone. He was an Afton, after all.
While he walked around the old, decrepit building, he could almost feel you watching him through the cameras. For some reason, he grinned every time he knew he was showing up on the monitor while you were watching. There was something entertaining about having someone else in the building, especially since you were tolerable. Yes, the staring and the weird questions were slightly unsettling, but he largely preferred that over some clueless person. Michael had been raised to be intelligent and cunning, he couldn't handle the idiocy of the average person.
Some nights, you preferred to follow him around, "Holding this for so long must be tiring," you'd point to his flashlight. Of course, you both knew this was only an excuse to accompany him, but he'd play along and hand you the flashlight to see the smile you'd give him.
He could tell you often hid your emotions too. Most of the time, you displayed a neutral, unbothered expression. It was interesting; you hid your feelings behind the facade of neutrality, and he hid his with his permanent, creepy smile and unnatural behavior. In a way, you two were more similar than he would've originally thought.
He'd started to return the questions you asked him, not wanting to seem too interested by initiating conversation himself, but you quickly called him out, "You expect me to share my secrets with you when you won't even tell me your last name?," you had said with a giggle that made him feel flustered.
When you accompanied him, you were mostly quiet and only stopped here and there to take a closer look at something, but most of the time, your eyes were on him.
He still kept you at a distance, always a few feet ahead of you. Sometimes, he'd catch you trying to get a better look at his face. He couldn't tell why, but letting you get that close made him feel vulnerable. Too vulnerable. So he'd pick up his pace to create distance between you two.
One night, you had decided to stay in the security office. You found that alternating between being with Michael directly and watching him through the cameras kept you entertained. You could study the difference in his behavior, even if he knew you were watching. You were hunched over the desk, face only a couple inches away from the monitor. You watched as he walked around the restaurant before going to the back room with all the prototypes. He had taken off his jacket, showing off the purple shirt he had underneath, and was tinkering with the prototype Foxy animatronic. Without him telling you, you could tell Foxy was his favorite. He'd always put extra effort into keeping it in working condition and as clean as possible. Even someone as strange and different as Michael had preferences.
Deep in focus, Michael's ears barely picked up the sound of your footsteps. You must've gotten bored in that office. He got up to face you, because he didn't like having anyone too close behind him. You started asking him questions about the animatronic; how it worked, if it was ever used, if there was ever an accident with it.
He was never the type to be talkative around you, but he eagerly answered your questions about the animatronic with a small grin. You looked at him in the face, almost unblinking, as if blinking would make you miss out on something important.
Michael had stopped noticing the staring by now, in fact, he felt almost comforted by the consistency and regularity of it. This meant that he very quickly noticed when your gaze shifted downwards. He was momentarily confused by what you were staring at, until he realized.
His scars.
His scars from his father, his scars from himself, too. He froze, mid-sentence, wide-eyed, not knowing what to say. He had gone through so much effort to conceal them that he had never thought of a response or plausible excuse. I got a bit too intoxicated on a night out haha, that's dumb, it was obvious he hadn't had friends since he was 13. Be careful around those animatronics! More plausible, but someone like you was sure to see right through it. He could already picture you bursting out laughing at how weak he is, or looking down on him for being incapable of dealing with his emotions in a normal way.
"Michael?," your gaze snapped back to his panicked face, "I asked you if Foxy still remembers the pizzeria's layout."
He couldn't help how his brows furrowed in confusion. Why didn't you point out his scars? Did you just not see them? No, that's impossible, he was certain you had stared directly at them. And when you spoke again, he didn't miss the way your features softened slightly.
He shakily answered your question, waiting for that moment where you would inevitably ask about his injuries. By now, he knew that you loved asking weird, personal questions just like he did. At some point, you were going to ask.
But that moment never came. You pursued the conversation and ended your shift as if nothing had happened. For the next few days, he felt an underlying feeling of nervousness whenever you started talking to him, but you never brought it up. He knew you could tell how panicked and surprised he was in the moment, yet you still chose to say nothing.
Michael did notice slight changes in your behavior. You became slightly kinder to him, not overly so, but enough that he noticed the shift.
Once, he was sitting on the flimsy chair of the security office, monitoring the pizzeria through the old cameras. The display flickered every few seconds while he watched the Marionette. He didn't notice he had started to bounce his leg nervously until you put your hand on his shoulder and let it drift down to his upper arm, right where his scars were.
He looked back at you; your expression was as neutral as always as you looked into his eyes. He felt the urge to flinch away from the touch, but he chose to stay still for some reason, almost leaning into it. Perhaps this was your way of acknowledging what had happened, a way of showing kindness, or maybe he was just deluding himself into thinking you actually cared. He took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. Your touch was gentle but firm without being too overwhelming thanks to the fabric that separated his skin from yours. It was grounding, in a way.
The next few shifts went by as expected. Michael felt reassured, knowing that you were not going to make his scars into a big deal. To him, it wasn't. They were simply old scars from memories that were best left forgotten.
One night, you were watching him tinker with the animatronics through the cameras again. He seemed to put a lot of care into taking care of them, but you saw how he always put extra effort for Foxy. You found it charming. He was wearing his jacket again. Even though you had already seen his scars, he felt uncomfortable taking it off around you. It even made the job harder for him. It restricted his movements, he overheated quicker, and it would get dirty from touching those old prototypes.
Michael still worked smoothly, clearly having been around animatronics and machinery his whole life. That was, until you saw him freeze in the camera's feed, quickly followed by a pained hiss that rang through the monitor. The old display couldn't show much detail, but you could tell he had hurt himself.
You rushed to the backroom where he was crouched before the animatronics, holding his right hand with the other. You called out to him before joining him on the ground to assess the situation.
"Can I look at it?," you asked for permission. From all your observing (borderline-stalking), you knew that close proximity and physical contact made him deeply uncomfortable. For the first few shifts you worked together, he could barely handle being in the same room as you.
"It's fine, I'm fine," he tried to conceal a pained look on his face, his usual unbothered demeanor fading away. "I got cut by a piece of scrap metal," he glanced towards the offending piece of metal before extending his hand towards you.
A long wound stretched from one side of his palm to the other. It wasn't deep enough to cause long-term damage, but the blood had already started trickling down to his wrist, his jacket's sleeve becoming saturated with the crimson substance.
Michael winced in pain when you grabbed his hand. The motion was gentle, but the contact felt foreign to him. He was reminded of childhood memories where he had hurt himself playing outside, only for his father to yell at him for being weak and crying over a tiny scratch. He could hear his voice in his mind. The wound didn't hurt much, he had become pretty numb to pain, but the memories that came with it did.
You looked closely at the wound and frowned, "you're gonna have to get this cleaned," you thought out loud.
"We don't have running water here," Michael stated plainly. "I can just take care of it when I get home."
"What if it gets infected?," you shifted your gaze to his face.
"It won't," he tried to dismiss your worries. The attention felt alien to him, like it was something he wasn't supposed to experience. He didn't want you to fuss over him.
You still held his hand with both of yours, turning it around and analyzing the cut. You then looked at the piece of metal Michael had pointed to earlier. It was on the ground in a pile of metal and machinery meant for maintaining the animatronics. Everything in the room was dusty, dirty, and some pieces of metal had rusted from being abandoned for almost 20 years.
After a minute or two of inspection, he saw you look up at him, searching for something in his eyes. He looked back confusedly before seeing you bring his hand closer to your face.
Before his brain could register your movements, your tongue darted out of your mouth and you tentatively licked up some of the blood that had dripped out of the wound. He stifled a noise of surprise, but didn't make a move to stop you.
You licked your lips then started licking at the wound in earnest, getting into the cut itself. The injury stung from your ministrations, but he felt a warm feeling bloom throughout his body watching you lap up the metallic substance. Your eyes were focused on the task at hand, as if it required perfect precision.
You were a strange individual, sure, but he didn't expect such a bold move. His face grew red at the contact. Something about it felt intimate, but maybe that was only because he hadn't felt physical contact in years. He should've been disgusted by you, the way you were practically drinking his blood like some sort of animal, yet he could tell it was your way of caring for him.
For a few minutes, the only sound that could be heard in the dark backroom of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza was the occasional slurp from you licking up every last drop of blood. When you looked back up at him, his face and neck were flushed and his expression was one of vulnerability and trust. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes communicated that he trusted you weren’t going to hurt him.
You gave him a wide smile, lips and teeth covered in his own blood. It reminded him of a vampire.
"There," you exclaimed. "All clean now!”
—☆☆☆
A/N: More freaky Reader! This dynamic is really fun to write. Inbox open as always :>
Henry Emily helping sick reader? My stomach is killing me right now lmao
A/N: I hope you feel better anon! This is my first time writing Henry so forgive me if it's ooc
Sick
Movie!Henry Emily x GN!Reader | Fluff, Established Relationship, can be read as Game!Henry too
—✧✧✧
Henry would be extra caring towards his partner.
He realized that he had lost his daughter as a consequence of his overworking during the Freddy’s era, he had neglected his own family to prioritize the business and it ended up costing him everything. After Charlotte's death, he became isolated; he stopped speaking to his friends and family, and they eventually stopped reaching out in return.
When you two met and eventually grew closer, he became very protective and caring. He made sure to spend as much time with you as you'd let him, he often bought you flowers, and he was always there when you were down.
Today was one of those days. With winter came illness and you had caught something from a coworker. Your head hurt, your stomach hurt, your joints hurt, and your entire body felt like it was being weighed down by a ton of bricks. You were completely stuck to the couch, unable to move. On top of it all, you had to cancel your plans with Henry for the evening. He had invited you over to his house for a home-made dinner and having to cancel over text made you feel even worse.
However, you knew that Henry wasn't the type to simply leave you be when you were unwell, which is why you weren't suprised when your doorbell rang approximately 20 minutes after you had sent him the message.
You weakly called, "Come in."
Henry entered the house, his expression growing sadder upon seeing you on the couch. He didn't like seeing someone he loved be in pain like this. He gently took one of your hands in his, feeling how hot it was. You definitely had a fever.
"Hen," you croaked out. "You're gonna get sick too."
"Shh, it's okay baby," he reassured you and pressed a kiss on your forehead. "Let me take care of you."
You smiled at the affectionate gesture. You knew you couldn't talk him out of it. All the loss and tragedy he had gone through made him particularly protective and caring when you were unwell. Even if, logically, he knew you had simply caught the flu and that you were going to be back on your feet within a week and a half, his brain couldn't help but feed him the worst-case scenarios. What if it was something more serious than that? What if it got worse and you developed something dangerous when he could've helped you?
You weakly brought a hand to his cheek, letting it rest there. You could always tell when he was overthinking. Sometimes, it was like you could read his mind. He snapped back to reality and gave you a reassuring smile, "I'm gonna make you some soup, but don't worry about falling asleep."
You nodded. You did feel really tired. He left your side to go to your kitchen. He rummaged around your fridge and pantry looking for useful ingredients. He knew you enjoyed warm, comforting meals when you were sick, and thought that soup would be perfect. Broth, onions, chicken, noodles, you thankfully had everything to make chicken noodle soup.
While he worked, he looked back at you every few minutes to make sure you were still okay. He trusted that you'd speak up if you needed anything, but actually seeing you and confirming that you were safe with his own two eyes put his mind at ease. You drifted in and out of consciousness. You tried to stay awake just to keep watching him work in the kitchen but sleep would always take over.
After about 40 minutes, Henry approached you with a bowl of hot chicken noodle soup and sat it down on the wooden table in front of the couch you were laying on. You were asleep. Sweat coated your face, flushed skin from the fever, breathing labored, he felt a pang in his chest seeing you like this.
He hated to disturb your sleep, but nutrition was important to get better. He gently shook you awake with a hand on your shoulder, "Hey, it's time to eat," he spoke gently, not wanting to startle you.
You slowly opened your eyes and made an effort to sit up. Your body felt so weak, the smallest movements felt monumental. Henry noticed your struggle and guided you to a seated position.
He picked up the bowl of soup with the spoon he had set on the table. Your stomach growled at the sight. You didn't realize how hungry you were. With a light chuckle, he started slowly feeding you spoonfuls of the soup, making sure you had the time to swallow each one fully before the next.
It was delicious. For as long as you had known him, Henry was a great cook. He'd often spend hours making dishes just to see you enjoy them. It was a way of showing how much he cared, how much he loved you by spending his time making something for you.
You closed your eyes to enjoy the flavor. It was warm, comforting, and it made you feel loved in a way that you wouldn't have thought possible before meeting Henry.
Eventually, the bowl had been emptied and Henry put it back on the table. You laid back down while Henry watched you. His hand combed through your hair in a regular, predictable pattern. You yawned.
"Thank you, Hen," you whispered before drifting off.
Movie!Michael Afton x GN!Reader | No use of Y/N, Morally Grey Reader, Canon-Typical Violence, Freak4Freak dynamic
—❅❅❅
Michael Afton expected it to be just another night. He'd invite some dumb, clueless person to Freddy's and promise to give them a "tour" of the iconic location, only for them to end up as fodder for the murderous animatronics. It was a simple plan that had become routine, but it worked perfectly.
Naturally, people were curious to see how the pizzeria had held up over the years. Many of them would recount their memories at the location from when they were kids or rumors they had heard from a friend's friend.
However, things hadn't gone to plan tonight.
You arrived at the location five minutes before the time you had agreed upon on the phone. You eagerly followed Michael into the building. He led the way holding his flashlight while he explained the location's layout and gave you a little history lesson on every aspect of it. The stage where the animatronics used to perform, the dining area, the boat ride that was beloved by many. Everything was now destroyed and dirty, covered in dust. Someone had clearly put some effort into keeping the place somewhat organized. The tables had been set aside to make it easier to walk around, plushies and prizes were put in a pile at the prize corner to avoid anyone tripping over them.
Michael could see your eyes gleaming every time he turned around to let you take a closer look at something. Every time he would lure someone in, he’d recite the same script, give the same cues for questions or reactions, and make the same jokes, and that went on until he got bored and let the animatronics take care of the rest. You happily took in every word he said and didn't seem to mind the unsettling smile that he wore. Maybe you were so nostalgic about the place that you didn't even register how suspicious this whole thing was. How suspicious he was.
"So, where are all the dead bodies?"
What?
You wore a smile, one that was much warmer and much kinder than his, but your words felt as cold as ice.
"W—what?," Michael stammered. Multiple people had mentioned Charlotte's death. But you said bodies. Bodies, plural. There was no way for you to know. He made sure there was no link between those disappearances and Freddy's. He even kept the bodies inside the restaurant because he knew no one would come looking for them there, "There's only ever been one death tied to this location. You must be thinking about the franchise location not far from here," his smile wavered slightly.
You brought your hand to your chin in thought, "No, I'm pretty sure it was here. So many people have come to this place and never left."
Who is this person? How do they know? Michael knew he wasn't sloppy. His father had taught him to always clean up the evidence and to do it well. He thought you might have been an undercover police officer but you sure didn't seem like one. There was clearly no bulletproof vest under your simple clothes and it didn't seem like you were concealing a weapon. He frowned in thought. He couldn’t tell what you were thinking.
You spoke up again, "What about the animatronics? Do they have blood on them?," your eyes shone in excitement.
Michael stood there for a moment, flashlight in hand, debating whether he should immediately lead you to the Marionette and dispose of you or keep stringing you along for a bit. He chose the latter. He felt weirdly entertained by how unusual you were compared to the other people he lured into this place. He wanted to see more.
Choosing to keep you alive for at least a little longer, he led you to the animatronic prototypes. You giggled gleefully when you saw them, they were so wonderfully terrifying. Michael saw you poke at them, admiring all the wires and machinery inside them.
"Be careful," he smirked, "Wouldn't wanna end up looking like Foxy here," he pointed at the missing paw replaced with a hook. You laughed, as if he had just said a funny joke. He was taken aback by the reaction but it made him feel strangely warm.
In the supply closet right next to you were the bodies of those who dared enter the building. It was closed with a lock that only Michael had the key for. He knew you’d eventually end up in there too. For some reason, he didn't want to imagine you becoming part of that putrid collection of flesh.
He heard you gasp, "Oh! Is that blood on the ground?" you stared at the old carpeted floor and started scratching at the uneven brown stains that covered it, some of the dried blood flaking off.
Of course, Michael never expected to have someone make it this far into the pizzeria, so he never bothered to protect the floors during the "clean-up" process. He usually got bored of keeping the "fun Fazbear employee" facade less than 10 minutes into the tour and would signal for the animatronics to make their move. It was even more unexpected to have some weirdo come in and be so fascinated by all the gruesome things that had happened inside the very building they were standing in. Did you not realize you were going to become one of them?
After this, the night guard decided it was enough. You had already seen too much and it was clear you knew too much as well. He guided you back to the dining room and was left with a choice once again; he could let you leave the building alive, or he could bring you to the Marionette and make sure the information never got out.
You seemed to notice his inner struggle, "I won't tell anyone... About the prototypes I mean. I'm sure they mean a lot to you since your father made them," you gave him a reassuring smile.
So you knew. You knew he was William Afton's son. You clearly knew about the death that seemed to follow Freddy's around, "Why did you come here?" he thought out loud. If you knew about all of this, why did you choose to step foot into this building?
"Because I was curious," you answered as if it was obvious.
Michael didn't bother to answer, but he was intrigued. You didn't seem to fear his off-putting behavior or the stench of death that radiated from the location. He had made his choice: you were more interesting alive than dead.
He led you out of the building and you thanked him for the tour with a wide smile. He watched you walk towards your car. Before leaving, you turned back and shyly waved at him.
Well, that was that. Michael hoped you wouldn't say anything to the police, but even if you did, you would've probably sounded crazy anyway.
He went back into the pizzeria and continued his rounds for the night. There wasn't much to do, so he couldn't help his mind from drifting to you. The way you seemed completely unfazed, no, you seemed excited to see the creepy animatronics and bloody floor. Maybe you were just one of those weird True Crime fans or something. Maybe you didn't realize how real the deaths and all the suffering were.
Michael Afton's life continued beyond that. He would come in, walk around the building for a few hours, do paperwork, then leave. Sometimes the night guard would invite clueless outsiders and wannabe influencers if he got too bored but he could only handle so much of that. He wasn't made for socializing.
He had almost forgotten about you until something strange started happening. His things started going missing. That wasn't normal. He never lost things; his father would severely discipline him when he forgot his homework or lost a toy when he was younger. He always kept track of his possessions and he knew Freddy's like the back of his hand. So where was his stuff going? It started with small things. His Foxy themed pen that he chewed on while doodling or doing administrative work, a candy bar he had brought as a snack to endure the long shift, all the way up to the jacket he had brought on a chilly night. He knew this wasn't his doing, and he really doubted that the Marionette had the dexterity to steal Michael's possessions. Someone from the outside had to be the culprit.
The security guard took his rounds more seriously, checking every corner, under every table, and even the vents of the building, but he found nothing. He even checked the locked closets, searching for a live body amongst the rotting ones, but still nothing.
He thought he had finally gone mad when he started hearing things. Not the shrill scrapes of metal against the wall or loud thuds of animatronics moving around, he was hearing footsteps.
One thing was sure, he was the only (living) being at Freddy's. He got up and searched every nook and cranny of the old pizzeria once again. Of course, nothing. Defeatedly, Michael returned to the security desk with a sigh. He pulled out a pen from his pocket and picked the closest sheet of paper from the stack of paperwork left on the desk. He had developed the habit of doodling when he finished his work for the night, finding that it passed time better than staring at the cameras for hours on end. The purple ink flowed as he doodled animatronics and machinery, the only things he could draw without having to think too hard. He focused on his drawing, the consistent white noise of the pizzeria making him forget his surroundings.
Michael froze when he felt it. He was so completely immersed in his drawings that he didn't notice when something, or someone, entered the room. He wasn't alone anymore. He felt a hot breath on the back of his ear.
"Wow those look really cool!"
He jumped back at the voice, its volume seeming incredibly loud compared to the ambient sound of Freddy's. Your voice was recognizable as "that one weirdo who likes blood and death". He tried to stay calm and hide his surprise, still trying to keep his unbothered demeanor.
"Oh I'm sorry, did I disturb you?," you asked, cocking your head with the question. "I was just wondering what you were up to!"
Michael regained his composure and looked at you more closely. Your clothes were different than he remembered. Were you wearing his jacket? Specifically, the one that had gone missing the week before. It was much baggier on you than it was on him, he noticed.
You noticed him looking and pointed at the jacket, "Thanks for lending me this by the way, it's so comfy," you said, as if he gave it to you willingly.
He didn't even have to ask. He knew you were the one behind all the stolen items and the weird footsteps in the pizzeria. But why? He was perplexed. Usually he was the one in control, the game master who played with his puppets until he chose to discard them. You had put him in a position that stripped enough of his control that he couldn't predict your actions or your intentions.
Why were you toying with him? Were you an Emily that wanted to get revenge, was what why you also knew about this place? Were you some sort of private investigator? He asked you. A simple "Why?" And you answered.
"I just think you're cute," you smiled.
What? Michael's jaw went slack in surprise. Out of every reason he had thought of, none were even close to that. He knew for a fact that he was strange. Having been neglected and abused as a child, he never got the opportunity to learn how to socialize and build real relationships. The best he could do was hide all his emotions behind a creepy smile that made most people visibly uncomfortable. Cute. What a joke. His brows furrowed at the response.
"Do you really expect me to believe that?," his tone was sour and he glared at you. "Try to come up with a better excuse next time."
"That's not very nice," you frowned. "It's not easy to avoid getting mauled by those animatronics, you know. I wouldn't have done that just to mess with you," you defended yourself.
Admittedly, you were right. The only people who could freely venture into Freddy's without ending up in pieces were Aftons. No one in their right mind would be able to leave this place alive. Michael conceded with a sigh, making you promise to not steal his stuff again. And of course, you had to have a condition.
"Only if you let me see all the action next time you invite people here, I only ever get to see the aftermath," you fake-pouted.
It all made sense now. He remembered feeling watched when he had to hide the bodies. That feeling only started after the first time he had met you, but he hadn't connected the dots until now. Since that day, for weeks, he was being stalked. Usually, he was doing the stalking by following people of interest in their daily lives and keeping track of their routines, but this time, he was the one being stalked.
Reluctantly, Michael agreed. He could tell you were as stubborn as he was and there was no way he would've been able to convince you to just leave the building. He could've threatened you but he was willing to bet that you would've enjoyed the thrill of danger.
You beamed at him once again. Your smile was similar to his, but it was much more honest and pure. Weirdly, he reciprocated with a small smile of his own, not his usual grin.
"Thank you, Michael," he felt something in his chest hearing his name come out of your mouth. You approached him, so close that he had to fight the urge to take a step back. Standing on your toes, you brought a hand to his cheek and gave him a piercing stare before closing your eyes and leaning in to kiss his other cheek.
With a satisfied hum, you stepped away and turned to leave the pizzeria.
"What a freak."
—❅❅❅
A/N: Thank you all for the support on my last fic! Posts here will probably be irregular but I do have more Michael fics in the works :>
Michael Afton x GN!Reader | Hurt/Comfort, Referenced Child Abuse, No use of Y/N
—☆☆☆
Growing up, Michael was constantly under pressure. His father expected him to get perfect grades, to develop a passion for and excel in robotics, and to be nothing short of perfection. When he didn't live up to those expectations, his father would become colder and even stopped speaking to him altogether.
Vanessa was always the favorite. She was simply perfect. Even when she faltered, William would tell her that it was okay and that she'd do better next time. When Michael tried to play with her, he would quickly get reprimanded for being too loud and "bothering his sister". Sometimes, William would go as far as slap young Michael for his perceived bad behavior.
This all left a large, deep scar on Michael and the way he perceived social interactions and relationships. He hid his emotions behind an artificial smile that most would define as unsettling and creepy. He was aware that his unnatural demeanor pushed people away, but he used that to keep distance between himself and other people.
When he started working with you, the new night guard at Freddy's, he put on the same face as usual, hoping it would creep you out. However, you seemed to not mind it. In fact, you found it charming.
Seeing this, he began to start staring at you with that same smile. This time though, it was out of intrigue. He was fascinated by this night guard that wasn't scared of him, that seemed comfortable with his presence when everyone else tried to distance themselves from him.
Michael wasn't a very conversational person and didn't enjoy small talk, so his questions would seemingly come out of nowhere, "Why are you here? Would you have preferred another job? Are you scared of them, the animatronics? Where do you live exactly?"
As strange as the questions were, which felt more like an interrogation, you always answered honestly and tried to pursue the conversation. Michael was taken aback when he realized that someone actually wanted to know more about him, and his first instinct was to doubt your intentions. He was particularly good at dismantling other people's expressions, and his staring only became more obvious as he tried to decipher you.
At first, he'd only respond with short answers that didn't leave any room for further conversation. Never trust anyone, not even your closest allies, he could recall his father saying. Seeing that the new employee wouldn't let up though, he eventually started becoming more talkative. Michael still wouldn't say anything relating to his family or his reason for working at Freddy's, but he became more comfortable around you.
Something shifted in him when you touched him one day. It was innocent, you simply brushed your hand against the back of his by accident. The contact made him flinch and snatch his hand back, rubbing it as if he had just been burned. You immediately apologized seeing his discomfort, of course, but he was left more confused than anything.
Having been neglected his whole life, Michael never knew affection and love, and he only associated physical contact with pain. But the touch made him feel differently. Fear and discomfort acted like muscle memory, but he felt a peculiar warmth in his chest, one that he couldn't describe.
After this event, he became more interested in this young night guard. At first, he didn't particularly care if you ended up a pile of flesh by animatronic hands, but now, he was interested.
His intrigue grew with each passing day. Every time you spoke to him and smiled at him, that unexplainable warmth in his chest would grow stronger. He started to find excuses to be around you at work, "The floor here is unstable, wouldn't want to fall through," or "These animatronics sure are creepy, you'll feel safer around me," he'd say with a light chuckle.
You were aware that Michael was simply coming up with excuses to be around you, but you never bothered to point it out, simply going with whatever he said.
Spending more time together will help me gather intel on them, he'd try to justify. He observed you more closely, noticing that you had started to very carefully avoid touching him. The youngest Afton wondered if you had found out about his family history or his real identity, but you still seemed to be happy having him around.
"If they're happy to have me around," he muttered to himself while pacing around the security desk, "then why do they refuse to get closer to me?"
Then it clicked. You were avoiding any physical contact because you remembered how he had reacted to the slightest of touches. You were doing it out of respect and care.
The realization hit Michael like a truck. Having someone consider his feelings felt alien to him. You felt alien to him. He knew his only path was the one paved by his father, one that was lonely and violent. So why were you being nice to him now?
Michael's interest quickly became an obsession. He couldn't name or describe the feeling, but he wanted more. Seeing you for a few hours every night wasn't enough. He needed to study you, know your routine, who you talked to, which stores you frequented. Some would call it stalking, sure, but he was simply studying his coworker, normal stuff. He'd write down all the information he gathered and was surprised to see you had had a painfully mundane life. Wake up, do your daily tasks, go to work, go home, go to bed, repeat.
Michael had assumed you had to be some sort of freak or weirdo to be friendly with him. But maybe it was just that, friendly banter to pass time at your shitty job. Maybe you didn't really care about Michael's life. For some reason, Michael felt an ache in his chest every time he thought about it.
You quickly noticed the bags he wore under his eyes every night and asked him if he had been sleeping recently. Truthfully, he hadn't; he had been plagued with nightmares for as long as he could remember. Vivid nightmares of disappointing his father, or getting hurt by animatronics that towered over him. He was much taller now, almost as tall as the Toys, but he was short in the nightmares, minuscule, weak. He dreaded falling asleep, instead choosing to stay up until his body wouldn't let him anymore. He could only respond with a simple, "Just been a bit tired, nothing to worry about," he averted his eyes as his smile faltered. He did this a lot, avoiding eye contact when things got too personal, when you'd start dissecting him with questions. You could tell he was different from everyone else, and you just wanted to know more about him, but he could never let you get too close.
It happened when you were late for your shift at Freddy's one night. You had called Michael in advance, letting him know you had run into a problem with your car. No problem, Michael would take care of everything and wait for you.
So he waited, 10 minutes, 20 minutes, 30 minutes, 1 hour. His leg bounced nervously, impatiently. He didn't know why he cared. In fact, he should've been happy to have you out of the picture for a few hours. Instead, he waited. He waited at the old security desk for what felt like eternity. The room smelled old and musty, like long shifts and regret. He gazed at the desk in front of him. The paint was chipped and its surface was covered in dust, dirt, and unidentifiable stains. When he found himself overthinking things, he'd usually go on a walk around the pizzeria, its macabre atmosphere helping him keep his mind off things. He'd rather worry about possessed killer robots than himself. But here, he chose to wait, he didn't want to miss you coming into work.
Michael leaned his head on top of the desk, feeling his eyelids get heavier. He tried to fight it by looking around the room. He saw the dark vents and the half-torn posters, but he couldn't fight off slumber any longer.
When you finally arrived at Freddy's, at around 3am, you stopped dead in your tracks. You could hear a sound coming from the security office. Were those whimpers? Your body washed over in fear. Was Michael hurt? Did the animatronics get to him, like he had warned you about?
You rushed to the office, half-expecting a gory scene with your coworker's body in pieces, but you froze at the sight before you.
Michael Afton, the intelligent, scheming, untrusting man that always wore an unnaturally wide grin was shaking like a leaf at the security desk. He seemed so small, like he was bracing for impact or trying to hide. You approached him and, upon further inspection, you could see tears running down his face as he inhaled short breaths.
You knew he hadn't had the easiest life. No normal person ends up this socially inept and untrusting of others. But you didn't expect to ever see him so weak, so vulnerable.
You debated what to do for a second, not knowing how to handle the situation. But you couldn't leave him like this.
You took off the warm jacket you always wore in the cold halls of the pizzeria and carefully placed it on Michael's shoulders. It smelled like you. You leaned closer to Michael and studied his face. His breath was shaky and small cries escaped his mouth every few seconds. He seemed to be cowering in fear.
Silently bringing a chair next to the sleeping man, you sat down next to him and settled your hand on his shoulder. You remembered how he had reacted to physical touch, and you thought that having your jacket act as a barrier could make it more tolerable for him.
When his state didn't improve, you decided to go with a bolder approach. You let your hand slowly snake its way to his hair. It sat there for a moment, trying to let Michael get used to the contact. You didn't know if it actually helped, but the touch made him shudder.
You slowly started to rub his scalp. Softly, gently, like one would approach a stray kitten. His shoulders relaxed and he almost leaned into the touch.
Eventually, the whimpers died down. He still looked troubled, his eyebrows in a furrow, but the tears on his cheeks were starting to dry down. You looked at his face, his expression grew more peaceful at the minutes ticked by. You were happy to know that he was going to be okay, even if it was just for a couple hours.
—☆☆☆
A/N: First real post on here! This is from my AO3. Inbox is still open :>
