Hiiii!! Can you do a Michael Afton delinquent rivals to lovers that takes place in the 80s?? Thanks!! Love your stuff!!
Hi! Thank you sm!
You weren’t looking for a fight.
You were trying to make it through another shift at Freddy Fazbear’s, pocket your crappy paycheck, and maybe blow it all at the arcade downtown. But of course, Michael Afton had to be there—leaning against the claw machine like he owned the place, chewing gum like he invented the attitude problem you’ve been dealing with since sophomore year.
“Didn’t think they let trouble in after dark,” he smirks, boots propped up on the snack counter like a king on a busted throne.
You scoff. “Funny. I was about to say the same about you.”
There’s a pause—a beat. That electric, heavy tension that always hums between the two of you like feedback through a guitar amp. Ever since the great hallway brawl in ‘85 (someone broke a nose—no one snitched), it’s been an unofficial war. Pranks, sabotage, stares that linger way too long.
But you’re not just rivals. You’re foils. He’s a greasy mystery with bruised knuckles and a lopsided grin. And you? You’re fire wrapped in denim and a don’t-back-down attitude.
“You still working the graveyard shift at Freddy’s?” Michael asks, sliding a coin into the machine. He’s not looking at you—he’s pretending to care about the blinking lights and plastic prizes.
“Why, you wanna stalk me while I mop floors?”
He laughs. It’s low. Rough. Too close.
“Nah. Just wondering how someone like you got stuck in a dead-end place like that.”
The jab stings. Because he knows. You both do. Small town. Bad rep. Family messes that neither of you talks about.
You fold your arms. “Don’t act like you’re better, Afton. You live at that dump behind the auto shop.”
He freezes. For a second, you think he’s gonna snap. But instead he leans in—just a little too close—and says, “At least I don’t pretend I’m not dying here.”
You see red. He knows exactly where to hit. The fire in your chest rises—until suddenly he grabs your wrist.
And you freeze.
Not because it hurts. But because it doesn’t. Because his fingers are warm and calloused and… careful?
“You got real fire in you,” he murmurs. “Too bad you keep wasting it on hating me.”
You pull back like you’ve been burned. “Don’t flatter yourself, Afton.”
But his smirk is gone.
And so is your breath.
⸻
That night, as you speed away on your battered motorcycle, hair flying in the wind and heart thundering like a war drum, all you can think about is:
Why the hell did he look at you like that?
The Synthcade is buzzing tonight.
Floor sticky with spilled soda, neon lights flickering like they’re fighting to stay alive—like the whole place is one power surge away from going dark for good. You’re here to win, or maybe just forget. Something about the chaos soothes you.
Your fists are tight. Shoulders still tense from the run-in with Michael.
And of course—
He walks in.
Hair mussed from the wind, leather jacket zipped halfway up, expression unreadable. You feel him before you see him. That shift in the air. Like a storm blew through and decided to stay.
You’re already locked into a fight at the cabinet—Street Fighter II, naturally—and your fingers fly over the buttons. Your opponent swears when you land the KO.
Then a voice behind you says, cool and low:
“Didn’t know you still played that cheap.”
You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.
Michael Afton. King of side comments. Emperor of getting under your skin.
You sigh. “Didn’t know you still breathed.”
He steps beside you. You can feel the heat radiating off him. Like he’s been running maybe he’s angry or maybe it's something else?
“Double or nothing?” he asks.
You don’t hesitate. “Fine.”
You grab the second joystick. Round one starts.
⸻
The match is brutal.
Trash talk. Button mashing. You catch each other’s tells—he always hits the left combo too early; you fake right before unleashing your strongest move.
But somewhere in round three, the vibe changes.
It’s not the game. It’s the way he looks at you.
Like a dare. Like a secret. Like he’s begging you to say something neither of you can take back.
You pretend not to feel it.
Until he says, “You ever think about leaving this town?”
You blink. That’s not how this game works. He’s supposed to throw another jab, not drop a loaded question.
“Where would I go?”
He shrugs. “Anywhere. Away from Fazbear’s. Away from the bullshit. Start over.”
“You saying that for me… or for you?”
He doesn’t answer. Not with words.
Instead, he tilts his head, eyes shadowed by the flickering glow of the game screen. “I screwed up a lot of things,” he mutters. “I’ve been trying to fix something that can’t be fixed. Maybe I thought if I stayed, I could make it right.”
There’s a long pause.
Your voice goes low. “This about your brother?”
His hands go still on the controls.
And that’s how you know.
You’ve hit the part of him no one touches.
“…He didn’t deserve what happened,” he finally says. “None of them did.”
You want to ask what he means.
But you already know too much.
The whispers. The flickering power. The things you’ve seen in that damn pizzeria after hours.
The way some nights, it feels like something’s watching you from inside the mascot heads.
You sit down on the cracked vinyl bench beside the machine. “You’re not the only one stuck with ghosts.”
He glances at you. “No?”
You shake your head. “Nah. Mine just don’t wear fur suits.”
For a second—just a second—Michael laughs. Not the usual sarcastic snort, either. A real laugh. Like you surprised him.
You sit in that warmth, quiet, until it cools again.
Then he says, “You wanna get outta here?”
You hesitate.
You always do. Because the thing between you isn’t stable. It’s gasoline and sparks. And if you go with him, you might not come back the same.
But tonight?
You nod.
⸻
You end up behind the old bowling alley.
The one tagged with graffiti and broken hearts.
He lights a cigarette. You steal it.
It’s quiet except for the hum of distant streetlights and a soft click as he taps a ring on his finger.
You didn’t notice it before. A chunky silver band. Could be sentimental. Could be stolen. With Michael, who knows?
“You know the worst part?” he asks, voice hollow. “Even after everything I’ve seen… I still want to believe there’s something left to save.”
You stare at him.
And say the words before you can stop them:
“I’d save you.”
He looks up.
And for the first time, doesn’t have a comeback.
You don’t kiss.
Not yet.
But your fingers brush against his when you hand the cigarette back.
He doesn’t pull away.
It starts with a scream.
Not from you.
Not from him.
From inside Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza.
You’re supposed to be off-shift. The doors were locked. Power cut. No reason to be here.
But Michael had that look in his eyes again—haunted and hungry, like he needed answers, like he needed you with him. And you were too curious, too stupid, and too in love with the idea of him to say no.
Now you’re both crouched behind the prize counter, flashlights off, holding your breath while something heavy moves in the dark.
“You said this place was abandoned,” you whisper, heart pounding.
Michael doesn’t answer.
But his hand brushes yours in the dark.
And it stays there.
You’re not sure how long you stay silent. A few minutes. Maybe hours. Time warps in places like this.
Eventually the noise fades. Whatever it was is gone—for now.
Michael exhales shakily and sits back against the wall. You follow, shaking.
“I need to tell you something,” he says, voice hoarse.
“No shit.”
“No. Really.”
He looks at you like it hurts. Like you’re the last good thing in a world made of rot.
“My dad used to run this place.”
Your heart stops.
“…You’re lying.”
“I wish I was.”
He lets it spill. Quiet. Shaky. Like a confession whispered through static.
His dad—William. The man who started it all. The man whose name no one says aloud but everyone knows in whispers and funeral rumors.
The missing kids.
The mascots.
The bodies.
Michael looks at you with that raw, broken expression—like he’s been carrying this weight so long he forgot how to stand without it.
“I didn’t know what he was doing… not at first,” he says. “But I found out. Too late. And I… I tried to fix it.”
You think of the rumors. The fire. The abandoned animatronics. The way Michael never flinched when the power cut out or when the mascots twitched on their own.
He wasn’t afraid.
He was familiar.
“…That’s why you stayed,” you whisper. “You’re trying to bury him.”
Michael looks away. “I’m trying to bury me.”
You’re quiet at first.
“You don’t get to do that.”
He looks up.
“You don’t get to self-destruct when people still give a damn,” you say, and your voice shakes because it’s not just about him anymore. “You don’t get to disappear into this mess without letting someone pull you out.”
He stares.
And then—slowly, deliberately—he leans forward.
“Are you trying to save me?” he asks, almost teasing. Almost pleading.
You don’t answer with words.
You kiss him.
It’s rough. Desperate. All teeth and heat and years of tension snapping like a wire pulled too tight.
You don’t pull away until the building groans.
Like something in the walls knows.
You break apart. Breathing hard.
“…We need to burn this place down,” he says, staring into the dark.
Sooooo happy super late birthday for Jeremy and Mike! Jeremy's birthday is on August and Mike's Septemper! I was going to make arts to celebrate them but I was so busy with collage (u guys have no idea how messy it was at collage)
But now we can celebrate it! Their special day! Late but celebrating! But you know who else would like to make a celebration? Freddy and his friends of course! Besides, FNAF 2 movie is coming so....why not draw the gang? So lets wish Jeremy and Mikey a super late happy birthday!!! 🎉🎉🎉🥳🥳🥳
Balloon boy is a sweet child, but he breaks the rules often and it’s due to his upbeat personality!!
He's really energetic and does things he's not supposed to, most people find him quite troublesome and hard to control but Ms. Mari finds no harm in that!! He's just a young boy
Juli has a soft heart. She cries relatively easily but will never sob aloud, rather she would wait till the end of day and weep endlessly.
or run to Teddy expecting comfort, a bear who doesn't even know how to solve his own problems.
