Thinking about the silly and funny headcanon idea of William Afton being a huge fan of Michael Jackson since its the 80s
William has the energy of that dad who pretends to be “above” pop culture, but then the moment “Billie Jean” comes on, his whole façade crumbles. He’s gripping the steering wheel too tight, shoulders shimmying, and the kids in the back (Michael, Elizabeth, Evan..) are just staring like: oh no, it’s happening again.
He owns every MJ vinyl, cassette, and CD, but insists it’s “for the collection”. Meanwhile, at night, he’s moonwalking across the tiled kitchen floor in socks, trying not to slip.
Once, William decides he’s taking the entire family on a “road trip” out of Utah, but the truth is it’s not for family bonding… no no… it’s because Michael Jackson’s tour is stopping in Nevada. He pretends it’s a “business trip” but his suitcase has nothing inside except MJ concert tees, a sequined glove, and a camera with extra film.
Now imagine the man—serious, brooding, older than MJ himself—finally getting that handshake. For one tiny second, William Afton is not the terrifying purple man of internet legend. He’s just… a trembling fanboy whispering “hee-hee” under his breath. Inside? He’s screaming like a teenager who just got front row seats. The kids? Mortified. Elizabeth is sinking into her seat with second-hand embarrassment, and Michael is muttering: “Dad, please. Stop. You’re not smooth. Criminal.”
(Bonus: William practicing the “lean” from Smooth Criminal in his workshop, but he cheats by building a secret mechanical shoe latch system into the floorboards)
Picture him... now rotting in his bunny suit after decade years, still humming Beat It under his breath. In his head, it’s still the late 80s, and Michael Jackson is alive, moonwalking his way through pop history. Springtrap, once a mastermind of machines, is now just waiting for the next tour announcement.
Then Michael Afton, who has seen way too much, breaks the news:
“Father… he’s gone. He passed away. Years ago.”
For a moment, Springtrap freezes, like one of his animatronics locking up mid-show. His single glowing eye flickers. “...What do you mean, gone? He—he can’t be gone! I never got the Thriller handshake! He was supposed to release another album—I was saving up tickets—”
Michael just stares, deadpan. “Dad. It’s been… decades. You missed it. He’s not coming back.”
Springtrap lets out a wheezy, broken laugh—half grief, half denial. “...But the glove… the glove lives forever, doesn’t it?” He clutches at his clawed hand like it’s suddenly a poor man’s rhinestone replica.
And in that moment, William Afton—monster, murderer, machine—becomes the world’s saddest fanboy, mourning not just the King of Pop, but his own missed chance to squeal like a kid meeting his hero. Michael, meanwhile, is just thinking: Out of all the things you regret… it’s THIS?
