#springRAP

[somewhatidealname]

I'm now curious if it's safe to pet the springrap

highly unpredictable

[satin-polar]

About Blue Bonnie and Yellow Bear from New FNAF Help Wanted 2 Update

I think that's just Spring Bonnie and Fredbear. There was an idea back then in FNAF fandom. 

Fredbear was build with a Golden/Yellow colors. Springrap was Painted over with Golden Paint to fit with new Branding of Fredbear Family Dinner. 

That's why Springtrap color fades and rots much more over the years than Golden Freddy. Don't think about the corpse inside. 

That would mean that Henry and William run this business much longer than we thought. Or they get their hands on an old franchise. Because I refuse to think. That William wouldn't make Bonnie Purple if he could.

[genuine-wrestleboy]

the attraction (3/4)

words: 4,609

((here on ao3))

It’s a twenty minute drive from the hospital to Mike’s apartment, and you clutch your cup of sludgy cooling coffee like a lifeline the entire time. Maybe you’re an idiot to have agreed to this, but the two of you desperately need to talk, and Mike had seemed insistent that it would be better if you did it somewhere private.

“I’ll probably need to show you something,” he’d sighed. “It’s…complicated.”

So here you are, anxious and exhausted in Mike’s cramped kitchen, palms sweating against your slowly disintegrating paper cup. You’re too nauseous to actually drink it—a feat which would probably involve a distressing amount of chewing at this point—but Mike doesn’t offer to take it, and you don’t ask to throw it away.

“You want anything?” asks Mike, hovering by the cupboards, clearly unused to playing host. “I have, uh, not a lot, honestly.”

“I don’t think I could keep anything down right now anyway,” you tell him.

He looks at the cup in your hands. 

“Right,” he says, and drops into the seat opposite you. He spreads his bandaged hands along the tabletop, yellowing laminate that curls at the edges where it’s peeled away from the plywood beneath. Your fingers itch with the urge to pick at it.

“First off,” says Mike, “I want to tell you that I’m sorry.”

You hadn’t expected that. “What for?”

“That you got involved in this,” he replies, waving a hand, all this shit. “I should’ve known he’d try to make it someone else’s problem.”

You lean forward. “Why?”

“Because he’s a miserable old bastard,” seethes Mike, as close to angry as you’ve heard him. “And misery loves company.”

A miserable old bastard? That doesn’t sound like the man you met at all. Your Springtrap had been self-assured and a little smug, but he'd been fun, and—well, a lot of things you feel sort of dirty even thinking about in front of Mike now. His father. What a fucked-up position you’ve managed to get yourself into.

“Maybe he’s changed,” you suggest weakly.

Mike’s hands clench into fists against the table. “He hasn’t. I—gimme a second, I’m trying to figure out where to start, here.” 

He leans back and yanks off his hat to scrub a hand across his head. His hair, where he has it, is choppily cut, like he does it himself more on memory than in a mirror. It hangs in his eyes and down the back of his neck in patches, coppery brown streaked with grey. Big, haphazard chunks of it are thin enough to see down to his scalp or missing entirely, exposing skin that’s the same sallow purple as the rest of him. It’s a frankly baffling amount of attention to detail for an operation like Fazbear’s Fright.

Mike meets your eyes, and you realize with a guilty start that you've been openly staring.

“Maybe that’s as good a place as any.” He sets his elbows on the table, his hat dangling from one hand. He doesn't quite look at you when he speaks. “Here goes. My father is a brilliant man, but he—he’s ambition without empathy, he runs on, on fear, and ego.”

“Fear?” you ask.

“The idea of death terrifies him, I think,” Mike tells you. “And it…annoys him. ‘Someone like me should never have to do something as pedestrian as dying,’ that sort of thing.” His accent gets stronger for the impression, and you nearly slosh coffee all over yourself. It makes him sound almost exactly like Springrap.

Thankfully, Mike doesn’t seem to notice your reaction. “I was just a kid,” he continues, “I didn’t understand it back then, but for years he was doing these experiments, trying to figure out how to make himself live forever. He wanted—I think he was trying to locate the soul, I’m not sure. I have all his old research, but I can still only understand so much of it.”

Every hair on your body is on end, your skin clammy and prickling with electricity. “Did he do it?”

Mike levels a sobering look at you. “Yes. But it wasn’t what he wanted. And I don't think he fully understood it all, either. He started experimenting on himself at some point, but in the end what happened to him was an accident. What happened to me wasn't."

His eyes keep you pinned in place as he reaches up and pulls the surgical mask aside.

Time softens, treacle-slow, a long, precious pull of a moment where nothing has changed. It's not a surprise that Mike is painted under the mask, he's painted everywhere. The prosthetics are unexpected, sure, but only because they were hidden, which is a shame more than it's a shock. They’re stunning work.

"Did you do this yourself?" you ask in the second before impact. 

Seeing Mike's full expression is a novelty you have no time to appreciate, because his mouth opens with a stretch of visible tendon, and when he says your name, you can see his tongue move through his cheek, and the moment snaps with the force of a speeding car.

He isn't painted anywhere.

"I know it's a lot, just try to breathe." His voice is soft with a terrible care, and something that shares a border with regret.

Your mouth moves wordlessly. You feel like you’re staring at a window made of thick, frosted glass, and on the other side of the glass is something pacing, growling, waiting, your world about to be changed irrevocably. But on your side of the window is emptiness. Silence. Such utter, endless silence that the sound of shattering would be a relief.

"You should see the rest of me," Mike jokes thinly.

If the sound you make in response is a laugh, it's a very wet laugh. Still, the tension shatters, and relief floods you like waking from a nightmare.

"Does it hurt?" you ask.

Mike gives you a wan smile. "You recover fast—no, I appreciate it, I was worried there would be screaming. Yes, it does, but I've gotten used to it. You can get used to just about anything."

"Can I ask what happened?"

"I think it would be good for you to know." He crosses both arms across his chest, almost protectively. "For a while, my father was keeping prisoners for his experiments. One of them was my younger sister."

"God," you breathe.

"Naturally, they wanted out, and the way that they came up with went through me. Literally," he adds with a wry laugh.

"Your sister did this to you? Mike, that's horrible."

His attempt at a smile is a tight-lipped thing, closer to a grimace, or a wince. "It was and wasn't her. Death changes you. What my father discovered can capture consciousness, but only a shadow of it, and shadows are easily warped. Besides," he adds, shrugging, "I can't blame her. She thought I was him."

It's a lot to take in. "Your sister…was that, did your father—?"

"In his defense I think he regretted it," says Mike, bitterness thick in his voice. "At least until it served his purpose."

Blood starts to seep through your teeth from where anxiety is gnawing a hole in your lip. Through him, you think, does that mean—?

"You don't seem like a shadow," you venture.

"Do I not? I feel like one sometimes." Sighing, he loosens the bandages around his neck like a weary business man loosening a tie. "Remnant captures the dead, but it preserves the living. I got a dose of it before I died, and now I can't." He bites out the last few words with an ire that catches you off guard.

"Do you want to die?" It's too personal a question, you know that the second it leaves your mouth, but Mike just frowns thoughtfully.

"It doesn't matter what I want. If he's still alive, then I have to be here to stop him."

He lifts his eyes to yours, the piercing white pupils anchored in inky blackness, lays his arm out across the table. With precise, practiced motions, he strips the bandages from it, layer by layer revealing a taut stretch of desiccated, purpled skin. It clings tightly to the bones beneath, highlighting the shape of them with alarming apparency. Down by the bony wrist the skin parts here and there to dry, stringy muscle, fused to the scar-silk of the skin above.

Mike looks down at his arm almost like it’s unfamiliar to him. “My body keeps trying to heal itself, but it doesn’t remember how. Nothing really connects where it’s supposed to, but everything still works, more or less.  I don’t need to eat or sleep, I breathe out of habit more than anything else . I used to hope the Remnant would wear off eventually, but it’s been…a long time. I think maybe I could go on like this forever.”

Something nudges at your mind. “You used that word before, Remnant. What does it mean?”

It takes a beat; Mike seems to come to, as if out of a dream. He blinks, rolls down his sleeve. “Remnant is what my father called his discovery. It’s…the essence of life, in a way,  the energy a person creates and leaves behind. He found a way to distill it, to move it around in its purest form. He was injecting himself with it towards the end. That’s why I’m showing you this, so that you understand what I mean when I tell you that he shouldn’t be alive, and that what’s in that suit is never going to leave it.”

“Never going to leave it?” It’s a very good thing that you’re sitting down, because all the feeling has gone out of your legs.

“The Remnant in his system has been trying to heal my father for thirty years. If I had to guess, I’d say that that suit is a part of him now, or he’s a part of it.” Mike taps the tabletop for emphasis, then spreads his hands. “That line’s always been thin for him, anyway.”

Part of the suit. You can’t  even begin to wrap your head around that. The thought puts a hard, panicked lump in your throat that you laugh out nervously before it can turn into tears.

"You make him sound like some kind of monster.”

"He is a monster," says Mike instantly. "But he was a monster long before he got himself springlocked."

You remember your friends using that word, springlocked , but you don’t remember what it means. You’re starting to feel stupid asking Mike to explain every other thing he says, though, and if the mystery of it distracts you from the rest of his assertion, well, that’s nobody’s business but your own.

Mike starts to reach across the table, but stops just before he touches you, his hand shrinking back on itself. 

“I don’t want to scare you, for what it’s worth, but—listen, I can’t tell you that you shouldn’t be scared. Whatever reason my father has for wanting to find you, knowing him, he’s not going to stop until he does.”

You hope the thrill that goes up your spine at that looks enough like fear to pass any possible scrutiny.

“What am I supposed to do?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” Mike admits. “I’m sorry I don’t have a better answer for you. I promise I’ll figure something out, though, and you’re welcome to stay here until I do. I know it’s not much, but it might be safer for you not to be alone.”

You stare down into your coffee; you’re tired enough that drinking it is almost starting to sound like a good idea. “This has been the weirdest night of my life.”

Mike hides his laugh behind a hand. “For what it’s worth, you’re handling it surprisingly well.”

“I’m freaking out on the inside, I promise.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” says Mike indulgently.

Thin, watery light has begun to seep its way around the edges of Mike’s curtains, along with faint, warbled bird calls and the sinking sensation of a sunrise you hadn’t meant to see. None of it feels real, but then again neither do you, right now.

“Could I—?” You press your fingers against your forehead, kneading back a lurking headache. “Do you think that maybe step one of whatever we do could involve me taking a nap?”

“Oh, yeah, of course, I, uh—” Mike stuffs his hat back onto his head and slips the mask back over his face, pushing himself away from the table. “The couch is pretty comfortable, but honestly I’ve barely used the bed, you’re more than welcome to sleep there if you want.”

“The couch is fine.” You’re not sure you could make it much farther, anyway. Moving stiffly, you pour out the dregs of your coffee into the sink and drop the crushed cup into the trash.

Sleep drags you onto the couch with a firm hand and pulls you under before you can even think to kick off your shoes.

The room is bright with midday sun when you pull yourself back into consciousness. You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and almost immediately regret it. Your head spins, and you slump back against the cushions, swallowing audibly with a throat that feels swollen and raw. Most of your body feels achey and bruised, including a warm, guilty soreness between your legs. At some point while you were passed out, Mike must’ve brought you a blanket, and you gather it around your shoulders as you lever yourself to your feet. It’s a thin, tatty flannel, pilled and faded with age, and the only sign of life in the otherwise spartan room. For all the warm gold light, it’s a pretty bleak space, the bare bones of somewhere to live in the strictest of terms and not much more. Particleboard furniture and bare white walls, a tiny tv that reflects your face back to you in warped duplicate in its curved screen. How long has he been living here? How long was he planning to stay?

You cross the room back into the kitchen, fumble through the cupboards for a glass. It’s where Mike finds you, sipping lukewarm tap water from a chipped Chipper and Sons mug. He’s changed out of his uniform into an equally shapeless sweater and slacks and a new baseball cap with an insignia that might be for a sports team. His face is covered again, too, and you want to tell him that it doesn’t have to be, but a little voice at the back of your mind stops you before the words fully form.

“Good morning,” he says amiably.

“Morning,” you return. “What time is it?”

He checks the watch hanging loosely on his thin wrist. “A little after one.”

You pause for the mental math and wince. “Got my full eight hours, I guess. Sorry for making you wait.”

Mike shrugs. “I kept myself busy. Seemed like you needed the rest.”

“Yeah.” You honestly wouldn’t have been all that surprised to learn that you’d slept for longer, you‘d been all but dead on your feet after the long night, and Mike’s marathon of nasty revelations certainly hadn’t helped matters. Not that you blame him for any of it, or begrudge him the telling, but in the light of day, with a clear head on your shoulders—clear er, at least—your aimless distress has started to solidify into the sure shape of a plan. “Could I bother you for one more favor?”

“It’s not a bother.” Mike leans against the counter opposite you and tucks his fingers into his pockets.

“If I’m gonna be staying here a while, do you think I could get a few things from my place? Maybe my car too if there’s somewhere to park it around here."

"I don't see why not." Mike scratches his chin idly under the mask. “The lot’s technically only for residents, but a lot of the units around here are empty, and they don’t monitor it too closely. Did you want to go now?”

“If you’re not busy—”

“I'm not—just let me find my keys. You can leave that in the sink, I forgot I even had that old thing.”

Mike drops you off in front of your building with his blanket still wrapped around your shoulders. You watch him punch your number into an absolute brick of a flip phone with a sort of baffled fondness, then a guilt you have to clear out of your throat like phlegm before you can speak. 

"I, uh, think I'm gonna stop by the hospital on my way back," you tell him, hoisting your tone desperately upwards and hoping it sounds light. 

Mike looks up from his phone. He's wearing a big pair of black plastic sunglasses on top of everything else, so even the slim chance you might've had at reading his expression is gone.

"You're not responsible for what happened to them, you know."

"What? Yeah, I—I know, that's not why I'm going." Should you feel responsible? The thought hadn't even occurred to you.

"Okay." He doesn't sound entirely convinced. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No," you say a little too quickly. "No, you don't have to do that. It must be, like, one of the safest places I could be, right? Besides, I kinda got the vibe that you don't really love hospitals."

Mike huffs a dry laugh. "Your vibes aren't far off. Just…be careful. Keep in touch."

"I will," you assert. "Thanks, thank you, for the ride. I'll see you later."

He waits until you're inside to pull away, and the thoughtful gesture sits in your stomach like lead.

Home sweet home. 

You start stripping down as soon as you're through the door, set Mike's sweatshirt to soak in the sink with a lot of hydrogen peroxide, and take the hottest shower of your life. Moving on automatic, you dig your suitcase out of the back of your closet and stuff some clothes and random essentials into it. Then, remembering Mike’s cupboards, you toss in all the food that you think might survive the journey back.

Step by step, one thing and then another without stopping, because right now it feels like maybe momentum is all you have. At some point, you redress. At some point, you slam the car door shut. At some point, you pass the exit to the hospital and you don't slow down.

At some point, you come back to yourself standing in the front lot of the burned-out shell of Fazbear's Fright. The smell of ash is still thick on the air.

Glass crunches under your shoes as you approach. If a building could look hungry, then this one does, the gutted windows like gaping toothless mouths strung with fluttering yellow ribbons of police tape. Big chunks of the roof have collapsed inwards, jagged slats of concrete sending their reaching rebar fingers skyward. You pick your way around, searching for a viable point of entry. It’s eerily silent, no birds or bugs or traffic sounds, no other signs of life. You’d half expected to be turned away halfway down the road, but whoever left all this tape seems to want no more to do with this place than the wildlife.

The main exit door gives after three firm shoves with a horrible screech. You clear a neat semicircle free of debris as you fight it open, raising a cloud of black dust that tickles the back of your throat. You press a sleeve over your nose and mouth and step inside, wait for things to settle. Maybe you should’ve asked Mike to borrow a mask.

The silence presses in again, and you want to call out, but something stops the process in your throat, and no sound comes. The bruisey swelling. The black dust. The tiny, wailing part of you that knows that there’s no going back from the choice once it’s made.

Inside, Fazbear’s Fright is a maze of free-standing walls. Late afternoon sun slants through in mote-thick shafts of light, throwing the sad remnants into stark clarity. Most of the building is obviously inaccessible, crushed by its own roof or dropping away into blackness where the floor has given way, but you make it far enough in to make out the charred shape of the employees only door, blocked by a barrier of fallen beams.

You walk on a little further, turning the corner into the hallway that had been so painstakingly papered with adverts just hours ago. The fire fed well here. High black stalagmites of ash cling to the walls, their peaks lapping at a ceiling somehow miraculously still intact. You sweep your phone’s flashlight over the damage, perhaps quixotically–what can you actually expect to have survived?

Down along the scorched baseboards, something glints gold in your beam. You sweep by a second time and catch it again, the corner of something reaching out from under the twisted black debris. Crouching, you edge closer, testing out the floor in front of you by inches as it starts to groan beneath you. A little closer, a little closer—

 The wood cracks under your foot, wedging your boot between two saw-toothed slats, and you cry out in panicked surprise. You fall back, scrambling to free yourself and nearly losing your boot in the process. More of the floor gives way as you pry yourself free and propel yourself back towards the wall.

You sit there for a moment, sucking in shaky breaths, letting your racing heart return to its normal resting rhythm. There's a new, deep gouge in the leather of your boot, and a sluggishly bleeding slash along the skin of your leg. Is that going to be a tetanus thing? Is tetanus lockjaw, or is that something else?

The glint of gold winks in the corner of your eye. You turn towards it, then back down to your leg, then back again. Well, you didn't come all this way for nothing, and if—if what you came for isn't here, then what the hell. You scoot yourself along the wall, spreading your weight as far out as you can, stretching an arm out in front of you. The tip of your longest finger brushes something that, somewhat to your surprise, feels cold. You risk another inch and manage to hook the edge of it, but when you start to pull, you realize that whatever you’re trying to grab is much bigger and heavier than you’d anticipated.

“Oh, come on.” You lay yourself out as far as you dare, hugging the wall tightly, and manage to get three fingers over the lip of the object. You tug, once, twice, and it starts to loose from the junk piled on top of it and slide towards you. Your momentary celebration is halted as a low groaning sound rises from the shifting rubble, your meddling threatening whatever delicate balance the building has settled into. You freeze, waiting, still as stone. Then you readjust your grip and yank, ripping the object from its spot and rolling yourself up and backwards as the ceiling collapses with a screech and huge cloud of ash.

You lay on your back just outside of the radius, your prize on your chest, laughter rising wheezily from your throat.

Your prize turns out to be a frame, still somehow mostly intact. Inside is the stained purple bow tie you remember from your tour, half-unpinned, mounted next to the photo of someone wearing a yellow rabbit costume, waving to the camera. You touch the glass with delicate fingertips, a wonder, a recognition, rising in your chest.

It’s not a big frame, but it’s heavy, and lugging it out to your car is a sweatier endeavor than you’d have liked. Honestly this has all been so much messier than anticipated, you’ll probably need to shower again, not to mention what you’re about to do to the inside of your car. Then again, your parking spot is pretty well hidden—you’d chosen somewhere in a well-shrouded patch of trees a little up the road, where any lingering cops would be less likely to spot you. Maybe it won’t be such a big deal if you just change here really quickly.

First things first, you fumble through your glove box for some hand sanitizer and squeeze a glob onto your leg; it stings like a bitch, but that has to be better than an infection. You clean your hands a little that way too, before digging out a tshirt you can use as a rag to give yourself a cursory wipedown everywhere else. The smell of smoke sticks to you thick as if you were still in the building, and maybe it’s because you have all the fresh air and greenery contrasting with it, now, but it’s taken on a sweet rot smell, like burnt roadkill. It grows in strength as you start peeling off your soiled clothes, until you’re almost gagging on it. God, you’re just going to throw all these away, there’s no way that smell is ever coming out.

Behind you, a heavy footfall in the fallen leaves. Ice roots down your spine, fizzling out across your skin, gooseflesh and foolish hope.

“Well, well—” a wet, ragged breath “—what a welcome.”

Before you can react, a huge hand, more metal than mitt, seizes the back of your neck, forcing your face down against the upholstery of your backseat.

“Running Michael’s errands for him now, are you?” His voice is like an old recording of a purr, scratched and warped almost beyond recognition. Springtrap drags a claw against your hipbone, teasing at the band of your panties, and you feel the skin split at his touch.

“No, no, that’s not—I came looking for you.” Your neck is at an angle that makes it hard to catch your breath. “He doesn’t know I’m here, I didn’t want—please, I didn’t tell him. I don’t think he’d—it’s none of his business, right? I don’t, I wouldn’t —”

Springtrap chuckles lowly. “You’re babbling. Are you afraid?”

You let out a little, gasping breath. "No."

A long-eared shadow falls over you; Springtrap nuzzles against your cheek, your ear, that slow, struggling inhale, shallow and guttering. “Liar. I can smell it on you. And that isn’t all I can smell.”

Blood spills over and trickles along your thigh, and you shudder. “Please—”

“There, there, darling. You’ll get what’s coming to you.” He trails a hand along your back, up under your t-shirt, all those long, sharp fingers twitching like a spider in its web. Your skin burns in his wake, with need, with the long, bright scratches that he leaves behind. Up between your shoulderblades, a neat snkt that cleaves your bra in halves. 

“You know who I am now, don’t you?”

You squirm in his hold, but he’s iron, immovable. “Yes.”

“Why did you come back?” His voice is as sharp as his claws, tight against the curve of your waist. Here and there you feel him break skin, feel the sting where he bites into you. Your blood beads up at his fingertips, your blood rushes downwards, your blood sings through your veins and throbs in your heart until you can taste your pulse on your tongue.

“I had to," you say.

“Had to?” asks Springtrap. Sly curiosity creeps into his voice, and you arch your back, desperate for contact. "You're playing the fool, my dear, and you should know that I don't suffer fools."

You let out a cry of pained surprise as one of his fingers swipes a sharp path from waist to thigh, shredding any clothing in its path. 

Hot, foul breath on your cheek like a caress, Springtrap's tone indulgent and fond, "You came back because you know who you belong to, isn't that right?"

"Oh," you breathe. Just like that you're something helpless and needy again, eagerly molding yourself into whatever shape fits best in his hands. "Yes."

Springtrap urges your hips back with a growl. "Yes?"

"Yes, sir," you comply immediately, want burning in you with the same bruising familiarity as the the fingers on your neck. Like an anchoring star behind your breastbone, storm-wild and wailing to drown out the last lingering whisper of logic languishing at the back of your mind. 

Your breath is a solid knot in the hollow of your throat, and your hair catches and pulls in the pinching joints of Springtrap’s hand, and you want, and you want, and it’s a terrible, clutching thing. It’s the stench of rot and smoke, the dark, angry promise of his voice.

"Say it," he hisses. There's an open hunger in his voice, a knife's edge balance between his cool facade and the inferno underneath.

"I'm yours." You wish you could see him, but you'd be lying if you said this position wasn't doing something for you. "Please, please, I—god, make me yours."

Cool air rushes against you as Springtrap peels your panties to one side, and you're already so on edge that it's enough to make you cry out. You're dizzy with your desire and helpless under his hands, and Springtrap drags a knuckle through your wetness and chuckles.

"You really did come here with this in mind, didn't you? My needy little slut."

"I—ah!—you were looking for me." How can you explain that it's not up to you, anymore, that you'll come back again and again, always, for as long as he wants you?

"And now I've found you." Springtrap hums thoughtfully. "Tell me, darling, what do you think happens next?"

[tenebraevesper]

Five Nights at Freddy's: Salvaged, Night 14: All Is Hell

''I was lost and was afraid, I believed all of their lies. I believed that I was safe and that I would never die. Now I'm all alone, I've been hiding in the dark. I just want to go home, but my deeds sent me too far.''

– Afton Family by KryFuZe (Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria Simulator)

xXxXxXx

Sam was half-asleep as she heard someone entering the room, noticing a faint purple light. She rubbed her eyes, seeing the animatronic bunny staring at her silently.

''Springtrap?''

Suddenly, he lunged at her, grabbing her neck and pinning her down. She shrieked, unable to breathe as she struggled to free herself. She tried to pry his fingers away from her neck, but his grip was too strong. It felt as if he was crushing her windpipe.

''No…''

Suddenly, his empty eyes flared purple and he backed away, just as shocked and scared as she was. Sam sat up, coughing and trying to catch her breath. Her heart was racing.

''Sam, I…''

''DON'T TOUCH ME!''

Sam screamed at Springtrap as he reached out for her. He could see tears in her eyes as she backed away from him, shaking and looking completely terrified of him. Instead of a friend, she saw the monster that he was.

There was a loud bang, both of them getting startled when Emma suddenly opened the door. She looked both furious and mortified, rushing over to Sam and hugging her. Sam was crying as her mother whispered comforting words, trying to calm her down.

''Everything's going to be okay…''

Springtrap stood in the corner of the room, away from them. He was in a state of shock, not knowing what to do nor what to say.

I almost killed her…

That was the only thought in his mind, repeating over and over again. Sam's scream was still echoing in his head. Hadn't she screamed, he believed that he would've woken up with Sam's lifeless body in his arms. No…

Then, as Sam slowly calmed down, Emma looked towards him, showing pure hatred and disgust.

''I-I'm sorry…'' he mumbled.

''Out of my house, NOW!'' Emma yelled at him, completely livid. ''I said, GET OUT!''

Springtrap was startled, staring at her in horror, but then quickly exited the room. He was shaking all the way downstairs, unlocking the door and walking outside, his mind completely blank. He could still see the terror in Sam's eyes, feeling as if this whole night was just a nightmare.

As he stood there on the front porch, he realized that he didn't really have anywhere go. He sat down on the stairs, unable to leave. He lowered his head, leaning it against his knees, feeling completely empty. Even though he told Sam that he would leave the moment she didn't want him here, he couldn't.

Selfishness in its purest form, I guess.

His ears twitched and he half hoped that Emma or Sam would check on him, but he then realized this wouldn't happen, especially not after what he had done. They wanted him gone.

It's over.

xXx

Sam had calmed down, feeling as if she was dreaming, but it was real. She knew that Springtrap just had walked into her room and almost killed her.

''Sam, do you feel better?'' Emma asked her softly, looking at the bruises on her neck, with Sam nodding. ''Does your throat hurt? Should we go to the hospital?''

''No, I'm fine,'' Sam muttered in a weak tone. ''I just want to go to sleep.''

''Okay, sweetie,'' Emma said, nodding. ''If there's anything you need, call me.''

Sam noticed the look of fear and anger in her mother's eyes. She knew that Emma wanted go after Springrap, but she didn't want to deal with this. She shook her head and lied down her bed, with Emma, albeit a little reluctant, leaving and closing the door behind her. Sam turned on her side, staring at the wall. She still felt a little sore and dazed, but instead of going back to sleep, she had focused on what just happened.

Springtrap had stood over her, his eyes glowing purple, but the look he gave her was quite strange. Sam knew that what happened was him suffering from another hallucination, but it looked like he seemed to recognize her. For some reason, he looked unnervingly pleased with his actions, which terrified her. However, once he woke up, he was shocked and ashamed of what he had done.

Maybe we used the wrong approach in this situation. She turned on her back, staring at the ceiling. I should've seen that coming. I shouldn't have left him alone. It seems like something or someone pushed him over the edge and he maybe wasn't even aware of it? Or maybe he was, but refused to acknowledge it out of fear?

Sam took a deep breath, putting her fingers around her neck. It didn't hurt anymore, but it still felt sore. She stood up and looked at the mirror, noticing some red marks, but she figured that it would fade. Aside from being a little shook, she was completely fine. She then walked over to the window, looking through it.

Please, don't tell me that he left. That would be the worst thing he could do, especially in his state of mind.

She knew that this was a bad idea, especially with the fear of her mother discovering what she was about to do, but she felt that she needed to get it done. She felt that this was partially her fault, that she could've somehow prevented that. She knew that this sounded ridiculous and that she had no obligation to help him, but she still wanted to do something. She was sure that there was a way to solve this problem.

xXx

Springtrap's ears twitched when he heard the door behind him opening, anxiously awaiting Emma to scream at him. However, he was startled when the person put a blanket over him and sat next to him. He looked up, his eyes widening in surprise.

''Sam?! What are you-'' He cut himself off, staring at Sam, who was just smiling back. ''Sam, I'm so sorry! I didn't want this to happen! I didn't want to hurt you, I swear! You need to believe me!''

''Yeah, I know,'' Sam said, with Springtrap feeling a knot in his stomach when he heard her voice. It was quiet and sounded a little off. She coughed, trying to clear her throat and speak a little louder. ''I know that this was the result of you having another hallucination.''

''Or rather, a nightmare,'' Springtrap muttered, lowering his head. Sam titled her head, with Springtrap noticing that she was trying to look straight into his eyes.

''Is that blood?'' she asked, her eyes narrowing. He looked at her in surprise. She then took her phone out of her pocket and turned the front camera on, holding it up like a mirror. He looked at it, noticing that there was indeed blood in the corner of his eyes, not understanding how they appeared. However, it looked strangely like…

''Tears?'' He gave Sam a perplexed look, with the girl shrugging, just as surprised as he was. He grabbed the edge of the blanket and wiped his eyes. There were red marks on the blanket. ''I don't understand…'' He shook his head, sighing as he glanced towards Sam. ''I'm sorry. I know I cannot be forgiven…''

''Actually, I am willing to forgive you,'' Sam said, with Springtrap staring at her in shock. ''However, this is going to happen only under one condition – I want you to let me help you with this whole situation.''

''Seriously?'' Springtrap stared at her, completely stunned. ''Sam, no offense, but I doubt that this is a good idea.''

''I am aware that this is a bad idea,'' Sam replied. ''However, if I leave you now, I think that things will only escalate and get worse.''

''No doubt about that,'' Springtrap said. ''But, that just puts you in danger and I cannot risk that.''

''To be honest, I am glad that you still refuse to put me in harm's way,'' Sam said. ''What worried me the most was that you decided that you couldn't care less about me.''

''Are you crazy? I told you I was willing to do anything to keep you safe, even leave…''

''Which you didn't,'' Sam said, with Springtrap keeping quiet, looking flustered. ''I'm quite glad about that, because I'm not really in the mood to go search for you during the night in my PJs.''

''It's not like I have anywhere to go. I got used to the idea of staying here with you,'' Springtrap said. ''Besides, you are the only person who is willing to give me a chance and I'm thankful for that.'' He then lowered his head. ''Still, what should I do?''

''For starters, you could explain what the hell you're doing here.''

Both Sam and Springtrap froze when they suddenly heard Emma's voice. They both turned around nervously, seeing an annoyed Emma, who had her arms crossed and tapped with her foot on the floor, waiting for an answer. Sam and Springtrap stood up, exchanging glances and unsure what to say. Emma sighed, glaring at both of them.

''I want both of you back into your rooms,'' she said in a commanding tone, stepping away from the door and pointing at the hallway. ''It's 2 AM in the morning. If I once again find any of you roaming the house tonight, I will lock you up in your room and I won't let you out until morning. Understood?!''

''Yes, Mum!''

''S-sure, Emma!''

Sam and Springtrap quickly entered the hallway, with Springtrap feeling that Emma was glaring at him. Still, he was stunned that she let him back into the house. Why would she do anything like that?

The two quickly got upstairs, hearing the door downstairs closing. Springtrap gave Sam a quick, questioning glance. She shrugged.

''I think she eavesdropped on us,'' she whispered.

''She had a good reason,'' Springtrap replied in a hushed tone. The moment they heard steps, they quickly got into their respective rooms, closing the doors. The steps became louder, with Emma briefly opening the door and checking on them. Springtrap gave her an anxious look, with Emma just glaring back at him and closing the door. Once she left, he sighed in relief.

What a crazy night!

He noticed that he still had the blanket around his shoulders and just tightened his grip on it, feeling a little comforted. He wondered what Emma had in mind for him and, whatever it was, he wasn't looking forward to the confrontation tomorrow.

xXx

The next morning, Sam slowly opened her door, hearing clattering from downstairs. She figured that her mother was already awake, but since she didn't hear any raised voices, she concluded that her mother either kicked the animatronic out or Springtrap didn't dare to go downstairs and confront Emma without Sam by his side. She got her confirmation when she opened the door to the guest room, with Springtrap looking startled, only for his expression to change to a look of relief when he saw her. She quickly entered the room and and closed the door as quietly as possible.

''Are you okay?'' Springtrap asked her.

''Yeah, I'm fine,'' Sam said, rubbing her neck. The marks around her neck were faded, but still somewhat visible. ''You?''

''Not really,'' he replied, looking at the door.

''Things could've been much worse, and you know it,'' Sam told him, with Springtrap nodding, understanding what she meant. ''So, the only option is to either finally confront your fears or you're going to get paranoid and stressed out, and probably lash out again without wanting it or even being aware of it.''

''I understand,'' Springtrap said, lowering his head.

''Com'n,'' Sam said. ''The sooner we get over with this, the better.''

Springtrap followed her, already resigned to his fate. He had already figured that this wasn't the fear of confronting Emma, but actually having to confront his past once again. He wanted to prove that he wasn't a coward, but showing courage wasn't an easy thing to do. He still wasn't sure whether it was harder to talk to Henry or to Emma. So far, Emma was winning.

''Good morning!'' He winced when Emma greeted them, keeping quiet and deciding to let Sam talk to her mother. However, the look Emma gave both of them made it clear that both of them were in trouble.

''Hi,'' Sam said, with Springtrap being surprised that she was so casual. He was already feeling the anxiety growing inside him. Emma pointed at the chairs at the table, with Sam and Springtrap sitting down across her. Emma looked quite calm, which caused Springtrap's anxiety to skyrocket.

''I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name,'' Emma said, looking at Springtrap, who gave her a stunned look. ''Your real name, Mr....''

''William Afton,'' Springtrap said in a quiet tone, avoiding her intense gaze.

''Okay, Afton, are you ready to confess?''

''Confess to what?'' Springtrap blurted out, being too frustrated and too stressed to think straight.

''Confess to being a disappointment,'' Emma said in a disdainful tone, glaring at him. Sam's jaw dropped and she let out a chuckle, mouthing Damn!. Springtrap just stared at her in stunned silence. Emma smiled. ''So, are you still willing to talk?''

Springtrap stared at her, still a little stunned, then frowned, accepting the challenge.

''What do you want to know?''

''I would like to know why you're so attached to my daughter,'' Emma said, with both Sam and Springtrap giving her a curious look.

''That's kind of my fault…'' Sam muttered, but quickly kept quiet when she noticed both Emma and Springtrap looking at her, with both obviously not agreeing with her.

''It's a little complicated,'' Springtrap said, with Emma's eyes narrowing and her crossing her arms, ready to continue forcing answers out of him, but it seemed to be unnecessary. ''Essentially, I had no idea what to do when I returned and Sam helped me out, and I am really thankful for her help. That, and the fact that I promised to her that I wouldn't leave unless she wanted me to, is the reason why I'm still here.''

''I see,'' Emma muttered, glancing at Sam, who nodded. She then frowned, looking at Springtrap. ''What I still don't understand is why you are here. Why was someone, who was supposed to be dead, gone forever, someone who committed horrifying crimes, brought back?'' She glanced at Sam. ''I understand that you want to help him, giving him a second chance, and I think that's okay, even if I don't like how this turned out.'' She then looked at Springtrap. ''Still, why would you even be given a second chance? It makes no sense at all.''

''Honestly, I don't know either,'' Springtrap said quietly. ''I already told Sam that I had been in Hell and that I was supposed to stay there. I have no idea why I was brought back. Someone just told me that I would be allowed to return, but never really explaining directly why I would be brought back or what I was supposed to do once I was brought back. All I was told was that I was being brought back to finish what I had started and that I would face atonement or annihilation. Then, I woke up at Freddy's, trapped in this suit and…''

He trailed off when he saw that Emma was glaring at him. He knew that Emma wanted to know how exactly he met Sam. He figured that he should be honest, despite the fact that he felt quite uncomfortable about explaining to Emma what had happened. He lowered his head, staring at the table.

''I saw Sam watching through the window and I grabbed her, pulling her into the location. She had figured out who I was, managed to escape my grip and locked herself up in the security guard's office,'' Springtrap continued. ''She then started screaming and questioning me, pretty much doing the same you're doing now.''

''So, you wanted to make her your next victim,'' Emma said in an angry tone, glaring at Springtrap, who kept his head low.

''I did, but…'' He feared that he sounded as if he was trying to defend his actions, which he knew would make Emma only more furious. ''I know this sounds awful to you, but I'm not sure if I would've even went through it. It was just an idea, but I did consider the other option, that I wouldn't be taking another life away. Honestly, I don't know anymore what I wanted to do.''

''Okay, but how come you decided to work together?'' Emma asked, rubbing her temple. She looked at Sam.

''Will had some kind of hallucination and just walked away,'' Sam said, with Springtrap's eyes glowing in a faint purple. ''I got out and found him sitting on the floor, and he looked like he was completely empty, emotionally drained. I knew it was a stupid idea, but we started to talk and I persuaded him to actually try to do something with his second chance, something that didn't involve murder.''

''And you just had to bring him here?'' Emma frowned, with Sam giving her a sheepish grin, with the smile fading into a frown.

''Yeah, I'm an idiot.''

''No, you're not!''

''Stop saying that!''

Both Emma and Springtrap said almost in unison, staring at Sam. Emma then glanced at Springtrap, a curious look on her expression.

''So, what happened during the past week?'' she then asked. ''I assume that something interesting did occur, as we wouldn't be having this kind of conversation now had something went wrong.''

Sam and Springtrap exchanged glances, both aware that they would have to tell Emma about their discovery.

''During the past few days, Sam and I agreed to some kind of trial, with me answering her questions and trying to figure out what exactly I was supposed to do with my second chance,'' Springtrap said.

''We went to Freddy's, trying to find out whether there was something that would help us out with this, only to find a dead security guard in a room in the back,'' Sam added.

''What?!'' Emma stared at her, looking quite shocked.

''We decided to continue to investigate,'' Sam continued in a firm tone. ''He was security guard from Ricky's and we figured that we should go there after hours, hoping that we would find out what happened. It turns out, someone killed him in a room at Ricky's, then dumped his body at Freddy's. We think that the culprit was an employee who works at Ricky's.''

''Is that how you got injured? You went to investigate and one of the animatronics hurt you,'' Emma asked, with Sam nodding. ''Why didn't you call the police when you found the body? Even if you didn't want someone to find out about you being there, you could've done it anonymously.''

''Once again, I was kind of acting like an idiot,'' Sam said, with both Emma and Springtrap giving her irritated looks. She ignored them. ''Considering what we had figured out, I think there's something going on at Ricky's that the cops probably wouldn't know how to handle.''

''Afton?'' Emma looked at Springtrap.

''We found out that there had been some kind of incident with one of the animatronics, even before Ricky's had even opened and we went to the factory to search for clues. Someone is trying to build another animatronic, or even more of them,'' Springtrap explained. ''I'm not sure what they're planning with them, but I'm worried that someone might try repeat what I had done.''

''If that's the case, only Springtrap and I would know how to deal with the situation,'' Sam added.

Emma sighed, leaning against the chair. She stared at both of them, her expression unreadable. Both Sam and Springtrap felt anxious, worried about what Emma would say next.

''Why haven't you told me that earlier?'' she finally asked.

''I didn't want to make you feel worried,'' Sam admitted in a quiet tone. Emma then looked at Springtrap with a questioning look, with Springtrap feeling anxious, but he did look back at her.

''I'm sorry,'' he said. ''I didn't want Sam to get hurt. I tried to look after her, but obviously, I wasn't doing a good job.''

''Yeah, you didn't,'' Emma said in an agitated tone, suddenly standing up and slamming her hands on the table. ''If you didn't want to let her get hurt, why did you harm her last night? I saw those bruises! You tried to strangle her to death!''

''I didn't mean to!'' Springtrap replied, with Emma giving him a death glare. He lowered his head, a look of guilt on his expression. ''I had another hallucination and when I woke up when Sam screamed, I realized what happened and quickly backed away. I know it sounds like I'm trying to defend my actions, but that's what happened. I never wanted to hurt Sam!''

As he looked up, he noticed how frustrated Emma looked. She looked from Springtrap to Sam, who nodded, essentially confirming that he was telling the truth.

''Will would often have hallucinations during the past week, although I managed to wake him up from most of them,'' Sam explained. ''None of them were bad as this one, and honestly, we still have no idea what is up with them. We don't know whether they are really delusions, nightmares or even real events.''

''I would also hear some kind of entity talking to me. I don't know what it is, but it would constantly remind me of my past and it had even tried to persuade me to…'' Springtrap looked away, feeling frustrated.

''To what? Kill us?'' Emma glared at him. Springtrap nodded, with Emma looking like she was about to kill him. It didn't help that she was standing next to the counter with the knife stand.

''I refused,'' Springtrap said in a firm tone, looking at Emma. His eyes flared purple. ''I admit, I was frustrated and worried that I would lose Sam when you took her, but I wasn't going to destroy another family.''

''I assume that your own family suffered because of you,'' Emma said in a cold tone, with Springtrap nodding.

''My wife left me, and my children died because of my creations, even if I never wanted them to die,'' he said. ''It was all my fault.''

''So, you were a father,'' Emma said, walking over to him. ''If you were incapable protecting your own family, why do you think that I would let you take care of my own daughter?''

Springtrap kept quiet, with Sam feeling a little sick. It wasn't because of their conversation, but rather because of her fear that she would lose Springtrap. While neither of them felt comfortable with telling Emma the truth, they did feel a little relieved. They didn't care anymore about what would happen, as they were both willing to face the consequences.

''Okay,'' Emma muttered, taking a deep breath and walked back to her spot, still standing and looking at both of them. ''There are a few things I want to make clear.''

Both glanced at her, with a look of guilt on their expressions.

''First of all, I wasn't honest with you either,'' Emma said, with the two giving her surprised and confused looks. She glanced at Sam, with a warm smile. ''I'm sorry I didn't tell you this sweetie, but, to use your excuse, I didn't want to make you feel worried. Remember what I told you that I would be away for a little longer?''

''Yeah,'' Sam said, nodding, but still feeling slightly confused.

''I found an advertisement for some nice silverware and I texted the guy who was selling it,'' Emma said. ''I agreed to come to his place, check it out and probably buy it. However, when I went down the road which led to his house, I realized that it was quite isolated. It was a dirt path in the middle of nowhere.''

She noticed that both Sam and Springtrap listened to her intently. Both looked worried.

''I had a bad feeling and I told him that I would rather meet at the local coffee shop and that he should bring it there. He never messaged me back,'' she said, with Sam feeling chills going down her spine. ''I decided to stay at a motel for the night and return home the next morning. I checked the news and there had been a report about an abandoned car being found on the same road. Hours later, they had found a mutilated body of a woman in the nearby field. According to the report, someone assaulted her, stabbed her and then cut off her limbs. Her arms, legs and head had been found scattered in different parts of the field.''

Sam and Springtrap stared at her in shock. Emma nodded, confirming their fears.

''I checked the advertisement and it had been taken down. I also tried to call the man, but I was told that the number wasn't in use anymore,'' she said, sighing. ''If it weren't for the bad feeling I had, I could've been the one who ended up on that field instead of her.''

She gave Sam a compassionate gaze and then glanced at Springtrap.

''That's the other reason why I took her away. Not only because I wanted to keep her safe from you, but because I was scared that I wouldn't see her again if I made another similar mistake in the future,'' she said. Springtrap stared at her, then lowered his head, feeling ashamed about his hatred towards Emma. Had something gone wrong, Sam would've lost her mother. It's no wonder Emma wanted to spend more time with her. I would've done the same in her place.

''Mum, you…'' Sam was tearing.

''Don't worry, sweetie. I'm here,'' Emma replied, smiling in an encouraging manner. ''Believe me, I am not going to leave you so soon.'' She shrugged. ''However, this proves that I'm also a human. It shows that I don't know everything and that I make mistakes that might put my own life in danger. I wanted both of you to know that.''

She then leaned against the chair, looking at Sam.

''I also refuse to claim that, as a mother, I know what is best for you. A lot of parents do that, only to find that they were wrong and that they made the life of their beloved child more difficult than it already was, or that they had completely ruined it. Sure, I might've been right about certain things, but I do hope that I taught you enough about life, so you would make the right decision when it comes to it. I hate the fact that I cannot always protect you, but so far, you have been doing a good job.''

She glanced at Sam's injured arm and the bruises on her neck, frowning.

''Sure, this is not what I wanted, but honestly, I feared that it would've been even worse, and I feared that that the harm would come from the most obvious source,'' she said, looking at Springtrap. ''I was partially wrong, and I acknowledge that.''

Sam nodded, blinking away the tears. Emma then looked at both of them.

''Now, that that's out of the way, I guess I know now what your future career might be,'' she said, smiling. ''A private investigator, or is there something else you want to do?''

''What?!'' Sam stared at her, with Springtrap also looking surprised. ''What do you mean?''

Emma sighed, her eyes narrowing.

''You aren't going to stop investigating what had happened, right?'' Emma asked, with Sam looking flustered. ''I thought so. You always loved to explore whatever mystery caught your eye. It didn't matter whether you got yourself into trouble, you just had to satisfy your curiosity. I guess that becoming a private investigator would fit you.''

''I'm surprised that you don't work in law enforcement,'' Springtrap told Emma.

''No, I don't think that's for me. To be honest, I do have interest in human society, and I actually studied anthropology at college,'' Emma said. ''My store is just a stable source of income, but my real passion is studying human behavior. Rather than a job, it is more like a hobby to me.''

''I suppose that you're currently trying to figure out what makes certain customers act so entitled,'' Springtrap said in a deadpan tone.

''You nailed it,'' Emma replied, grinning smugly. ''I might make you my next project.''

''Is that a threat?'' Springtrap frowned, the two staring at each other and them turning to Sam as she suddenly spoke.

''Are you sure about this?'' Sam looked at her mother suspiciously. ''I mean, about what happened at Ricky's. I thought that…''

''You thought that I would forbid you from trying to investigate what happened,'' Emma said, with Sam nodding. ''Sam, I know you better than anyone. As I already said, I know that you wouldn't stop until you have satisfied your curiosity. Of course, I don't like the idea of you investigating this alone…''

She then looked at Springtrap, who stared back at her in surprise as he realized what she meant.

''Now, you said that you don't want her to get hurt, right Afton?'' she asked, with Springtrap feeling anxious. ''If you let her get hurt again, or even worse, try to hurt her yourself, I'll become your tormentor. You will wish you were in Hell again.''

''I understand,'' Springtrap said in a quiet, but firm tone.

''So, if you two are going to continue investigating, I want only two things – Sam being kept safe and I want an update on what is going on, so I would know what to do in a case of emergency. This is important to me and I hope you understand the responsibility you have been given,'' she added as she looked at Springtrap. ''Afton, you have been a parent, you have been given another chance, do not make the same mistake!''

''To be honest, I only care about Sam's opinion, not yours,'' he replied. ''Although, I do understand what you mean.''

''I see. I do hope, however, that you are not planning on replacing me as Sam's parent,'' Emma said. Springtrap looked freaked out, while Sam was flustered.

''N-No! I'm not trying to replace you! Why would I?!'' Springtrap had a nasty flashback to what Henry told him. He felt unnerved when he saw her grinning.

''Don't worry, I was just messing with you. I know it is impossible to replace me,'' Emma said in a smug tone. Springtrap had to agree with her, as it would be hard to find someone who could freak him out like this. Sam, on the other hand, was giggling. Emma gave her a loving gaze, while Springtrap looked quite glad to see her so happy. ''So, Sam, what do you say about this? After all, we both are interested in your opinion.''

''I'm okay with this,'' Sam said, looking quite content, knowing that she won't be losing her friend, but then she tilted her head, as she thought about something.

''What's wrong?'' Emma asked her. Sam turned to Springtrap, looking worried.

''About that entity, what if it lied to you about everything?'' Sam said. ''What if this never was a second chance, but just a different kind of Hell, a different kind of torture? Instead of experiencing death, you're dealing with the fear of losing someone you care about. You're told that you have a choice, but in truth, there was never really any.''

Springtrap lowered his head, thinking about what she told him. It made sense, as he was constantly, as he had been experiencing a constant stream of frustration, paranoia, anxiety, fear and bloodlust, all due to the one person he promised to care about.

''It is possible,'' Springtrap said, looking at Sam.

''You know, even if there is some kind of entity that is trying to manipulate you and cause you hallucinations, to me, it sounds like you might be also suffering from PTSD, that is, post-traumatic stress disorder,'' Emma said, noticing the confused look on his expression. ''I guess being trapped in Hell is quite traumatic and your behavior indicates some serious mental and emotional issues, making you lash out at other people.''

''I'm quite sure that the entity I talked to wasn't a delusion,'' Springtrap replied. ''Although, you're right about the mental and emotional issues.''

''I'm not saying that it is,'' Emma replied. ''But it is quite clear that you need a psychologist.'' Her eyes then narrowed. ''And probably an exorcist.''

Springtrap frowned, glaring at her. Emma just grinned slyly and walked over to the kitchen counter, taking out a bowl.

''Sam, do you want some cereal?'' she asked. Sam nodded, then reached for her pocket, only to realize she left her smartphone in her room. She quickly got up and went upstairs. Springtrap meanwhile looked at Emma, standing up and clenching his fist.

''Emma,'' he said, with her looking at him curiously. ''I wanted to thank you for letting me stay here.''

''Don't make any mistake, Afton, I still don't like you. However, I am willing to tolerate you for my daughter's sake. I have talked to her and I can say for sure that she's quite happy having you around,'' Emma said. ''She's also the most important person in my life. Keep that in mind.''

''She's important to me too,'' Springtrap said. Emma nodded.

''Then, I'm glad that we understand each other,'' she said as Sam arrived.

''I guess that some actions don't have to make sense, but they should have a meaning behind them, right?'' Springtrap told her.

''Sam told you that, didn't she? Well, I was the one who told her that,'' Emma glanced at her daughter. ''I'm glad to know that you are indeed listening to what I tell you.''

Sam grinned sheepishly. Springtrap noticed that she was quite pleased. To be honest, he was also quite content with the situation. Most of the tension was gone, and he felt relieved that he was allowed to stay, despite Emma having reservations about it.

Although, only because we managed to solve one issue doesn't mean that future issues wouldn't be less difficult to deal with.

xXx

It was afternoon when Emma left to check on the store, leaving Sam and Springtrap alone. They were in Sam's room, with Sam looking at something on her laptop, while Springtrap was sitting on her bed, replaying in his head what happened this morning.

''I still can't believe that Emma let me stay,'' he said.

''I can't believe that Mum decided to let us continue to investigate,'' Sam said, then grinned. ''I'm just glad everything went well.''

Springtrap looked at her injuries, feeling a knot in his stomach. Sam noticed his glance, shaking her head.

''I'm fine,'' she said. ''Although, we seriously need to figure out how to deal with your tormentor.''

''You said that you assumed that whoever brought me back may have been lying and that this is just another Hell,'' Springtrap said, looking determined. ''If that's the case, I am not going to let them drive me into pure insanity. My deeds sent me too far, but I cannot allow myself to let something similar to what happened last night happen again.''

''At least you're not alone this time,'' Sam said.

''True,'' Springtrap muttered, his eyes glowing purple, with Sam giving him a curious look. ''Last night, I have figured out that you're what keeps me from completely losing my mind.''

''I realized that myself,'' Sam replied, with Springtrap giving her a surprised look. ''We're both a mess, but that doesn't mean we cannot help and support each other.''

''So, do you have any plans for what we're going to do next?'' Springtrap asked her.

''Yeah. We need to find out what is inside that hidden room. Also, I want to back to the Machinations Factory and see what else is there,'' Sam said. ''However, this time we need to come up with a better plan rather than just walk around and explore. Then, there's also Ricky's actor…''

''Leave him to me,'' Springtrap said, his eyes flaring purple.

xXx

Connor fixed the collar around his neck, then took the head of the wolf mascot, planning to go out and entertain people. The animatronic himself was also in the room, leaned against the wall, waiting for his next performance. As he turned to the mirror, he suddenly heard banging from behind the mirror. He sighed, rolling his eyes.

''I really need to deal with this issue,'' he muttered, putting the head on. Ricky was looking back at him. ''He's getting noisy.''

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#Five Nights at Freddy's: The Untold Story (Masterlist)

[pcrplevenom]

"Oh, I'm sso scared." rolling her eyes, scoffing loudly. "I remember workin' at Fazbears' Frights, found the long work hourss boring." Soldan adjusted the grip on the cast iron frying pan behind her back for a couple more seconds and then swung it hard. Aiming directly, for the side of Springraps' face at an intensely hard speed. "My little friend wantss to ssay hi, in a very violent manner of coursse! Ha!"

Continued from this post [X] @pcrplevenom

Spring Trap narrowed his eyes at her words as he continued clanking forward. How offensive. Did she really think a kitchen tool could stop him? He'd show her.

He reached for her so he could grab her and roar in her face.

[adobe-outdesign]

What if Dave was just Burntrap in a uniform

Like

Random employee: hey Dave I thought you weren't coming for today's shift

Dave: I ALWAYS COME BACK

Random employee: yeah fair enough anyway do you know anything about the murderous endoskeletons in the basement

Random Employee: hey Dave! you get a haircut?

Dave: I'm a rotting corpse

Random Employee: so that's a yes then

[nastsand]

Fazbear Entertainment wishes you a Spooky Halloween!

Finally, after all the stuff we’ve gone through this year, Halloween is here! I’ve been working on this little drawing for a couple of days, so I really hope you all like it! Originally it didn’t include Plushtrap but I just had to make space for him when he was suddenly added to FNaF AR yesterday!

[immortalafton]

Danny Reacts #4 [FNAF SFM] - Five Nights at Freddy's Animations

Like, comment, subscribe, share! <3

Thumbnail and profile icon by: @kitty-chan-art-den​

[soupmanspeaks]

retconning stuff and adding onto this because i can lmao, AA 1 would probably be renowned defense attorney William Afton against up and coming prosecutor Michael Schmidt Afton, and the cases would for the most part be filler trials in scenario's which Fazbear Entertainment just sweeps stuff under the rug, The opening cinematic would probably show a man in a purple car on a rainy night saying something along the lines of "I....I really did it....that'll show him" and then transitions to the games title, The last case would be different as it would be finding out who truly was behind the MCI and law!Michael has somehow turned the accused position onto William, and the spirits gathering around him only add to his buckets of nervous sweating (his breakdown animation would be him getting springlocked lmao) AA2 would start with a cutscene of Michael getting scooped and then it would show Ennard just suddenly being thrust into the courtroom, with springrap on the defense table across from him (he always comes back), and Lizzie being like " What's wrong, 'Michael'? you don't look okay🥺" (because she's still salty about being kicked out of Ennard even after joining Michael,) so Ennard just nopes out of there and then we are suddenly back as Michael and have to learn the case as we go, and in true AA protagonist fashion, Michael somehow fumbles his way to victory The last case for this game would probably be Springtrap accusing Michael of the death of CC, so then Michael has to defend himself in court and somehow prove he wasn't at fault, with CC scrambling in the hopes to help him (he forgave him for that, its fine lol) uhhh random additional things lol The courtroom would be normal on Michael's first trial, but after William's first ever loss, in sheer pettiness, he buys the entire courtroom and then themes and reconstructs it to look like if a chuck e cheese threw up on the supreme court, (if this was a real game then this would be a sorta pizza-sim thing where Michael could redecorate his side of the faz-courtroom lol)

one of the filler trials for the hypothetical AA2 is the solving of the murder behind the 2 technicians in Sister Location, and Michael has the bright idea of calling Elizabeth herself to the stand, (she was at circus baby's for a bit and was there for halfway of the Ennard plan before she decided to side with Michael) so this either means that on the witness stand is a small British girl who seems to phase in and out of reality or a hulking 7ft 2" clown robot that is way too insistent about giving the court ice cream, (Springtrap would be like "you're doing great, sweetie!" in the most condescending tone and Lizzie would just say "Shut UP fathah") During AA2's last trial, the court is just so desperate for some solid evidence, that they get Fredbear himself on the witness stand, the problem though is that Cassidy just decides to become a silly little prankster and just says conflicting incriminating evidence which Evan tries to desperately remedy Judge: "So, Mr…err..Fredbear, you first said that Mr.Schmidt was not guilty because of the faulty wiring present in your jaw, but then you claimed that the wiring up to date and even upgraded, can you explain this?" FB, with CC manipulating him: "u h h h h….I forgor? I for gor hor hor hor?" and then the entire court just share a collective silence and Michael already starts designing the robot he wants to haunt if he were to get charged Its okay though because Evan panics and nightmare gases the entire courtroom which then forces the court to an abrupt recess, everyone would be running out the building but CC is just in the prosecution's corner being like "aha…ah…I got you some extra time at least? ^^" " and Michael and William are just staring daggers at each other with William being all angry and Michael being just smug it would go like "Now, Mr.Schmidt, earlier in your argument you said that Fazbear Entertainment should be charged under OSHA violation 1910.212(b) for the fact that the robots roa--HOLY F--- WHAT WH- WHAT- I- WHAT IS THAT THING" and everyone is just terrified of the mass hallucination of Nightmarionne Helpy is Michael's court record, he just got bored once and tinkered around till he had a pink and white bear in his hands that told him what the autopsy report was and what all the collective evidence is thats all I got lol

im so sorry I have this stupid au where its like Michael is a prosecutor, and Stringtrap is the defense (yes, Springtrap, not William, he is already dead n resuscitated and possessing the suit lol) N like, Elizabeth and CC are like, the Maya and the Pearl of this au or smth, but they're ghosts, so no one can see them, so it makes Mike look a little crazy when he consult's his prosecution team during a trial and no one is there and it looks like he's talking to himself 😭😭 Like, Springtrap probably has the most charisma in that entire court room or something, and he always ands up winning cases, and Michael has to make sure Fazbear Entertainment get's the guilty verdict for all the shenaniganry (cover ups) they did Idk its so sillaye <33

[justfreddyfazbearthings]

the internet’s reaction to the new springtrap design

[genuine-wrestleboy]

the attraction (4/5)

((here on ao3))

this chapter starts with a read more trust me

"You know," drawls Springtrap, teasing your clit in idle circles. He doesn't finish the thought, and you shudder and writhe beneath him, the attention bordering on overstimulation. You've already come once on his fingers, grasping between moans for coherent thought as he grilled you on everything you'd learned from Mike. You can't remember any specifics of what you'd told him, only that you'd answered every question without hesitation.

Now, every touch is a bellows to the embers in your belly, fanning a steadily rebuilding heat. Your limbs feel languid and loose, heavy with syrupy pleasure.

"What do I know?" Your cheek is chafed from the seat and tacky with your own drool, and you grin into it like an idiot.

“Do you know, I think you must be the only person to have gone through that tasteless little place with no idea of what a springlock is?”

“Really?” Your friends had known, but they were into this sort of thing. To be honest, right now you’re a little more interested in why his hand has stopped moving. You roll your hips, seeking friction, but he doesn’t react, even when he bends over you, even when you feel the thick, blunt shape of him at your entrance.

“Do you want to know?” asks Springtrap. Something about his tone sends an unexpected prickle of fear along your nerves. “I could show you. I’d bet you none of them have ever seen one.”

“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly, the cold cobweb of fear on your palms. Your heart gutters under your ribs.

"Oh but you've been so good for me. It's the least I could do."

The praise catches on the rising tide of unease in your chest, blunting the sharpest edges and flooding you with warmth. You whimper pitifully into the upholstery of your backseat, your pussy clenching on empty air. 

Springrap laughs. He ruts forward, and you feel the hot curving length of him slide against you, thick as four of your fingers and slick with shared arousal. A moan stutters up from your stomach and tumbles through your lips as you press back into his touch. 

Then, without warning, a hand slams down next to you, filling your line of sight. You startle, flinching away, but there's nowhere for you to go. Springtrap cages you in, heavy and huge and reeking—a sharp, burnt chemical smell; damp, moldering rot. The hand by your face twitches, sinks its fingers into the seat, and you stare in open horror.

Sad, scorched remnants of greenish fur, the sleeve of the suit hanging in ruined tatters. Exposed, a mangle of flesh and steel, raw red muscle trellising a frame of blackened metal and yellow bone. Wires knit through the carnage like veins, frayed beyond function.

Part of the suit, you remember with a thrill. Your heart is pounding so fast and hard you can no longer tell where fear ends and excitement begins.

That line has always been thin for you, anyway.

"Do you see?" Springtrap twists his arm, and the light catches several slats of steel that bite sideways through the bone like broad flat teeth.

"Yes—oh, oh, yes."

All the breath in your body leaves you all at once, a gasping, begging syllable of sound. Springtrap’s cock breaches your hole, sudden and sweet, and you feel your body immediately fight to pull him in deeper. A deep, snarling sound rolls through him, control clung to by the sharp points of his fingers. 

He thrusts once, shallow and slow. Your skin feels like it's on fire.

"Please," you beg, "please, god, please," and even as he ruts another shallow thrust into you he gives no indication of having heard.

"This is no ordinary mascot costume, you understand. Its design is almost perfectly unique, both suit and animatronic as the occasion requires."

As he speaks, he presses forward, fucking you open with agonizing, unhurried deliberation. You whimper helplessly, overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness. He feels huge inside you, carving himself indelibly into your body like something you'll never really recover from.

"An impressive trick, I think you'll agree. When the animatronic is in use, it uses a sophisticated endoskeleton for support. Naturally, while the endoskeleton is in place, there's no way for it to function as a suit."

 Springtrap's hips bite into you as he bottoms out, the pinch of metal joints, tiny pricks of pain fading into harmony with the pleasure.

"Fuck," you gasp, forgetting yourself.

A tsk of disapproval. Without missing a beat,  Springtrap rears back to swat a sharp blow on your ass. Without the skin on skin contact, it lacks the sting of a spank, but the intention comes across clearly enough.

"One of these days," he tells you, sweet as rotten fruit, "I'm going to have to teach you a lesson about that mouth of yours."

He pets your neck in little circles with his thumb, coarse fur catching your skin. You press back into the touch like it doesn’t choke you. Leaning forward, Springtrap picks up speed, finding a heady, relentless rhythm, grinding against your ass with every thrust. Slick wet heat paints your thighs and pulses through your core, wave after wave, wringing a string of high, thin keens from your throat. Thank god for the middle of nowhere, because if you ever had a head for how loud you’re being, it’s long gone now.

 "Now, where was I?” wonders Springtrap aloud. “Ah, yes. When the costume is ready to be worn, the endoskeleton isn't taken out—no, you see, it's wound aside and locked in place at the sides of the suit by a complex series of springs specially designed to hold its component parts in place. I imagine you can tell where this is headed, now, can't you? Can't you?" he adds when you fail to respond, the grip on your neck tightening. 

"Yes, sir," you insist emphatically, though you could not for the life of you guess where this is headed. 

Springtrap hums, pleased.

"It's not a foolproof process," he admits, "though heaven knows fools have attempted it. The springlocks can be…fickle, for those without the proper hand to use them."

He leans further forward, enough weight on your neck to send your vision swimming at the edges. Growling low and gravel-addled in his throat, he pulls back, then slams himself home, hitting something inside you that sends a shock of pleasure up your spine. You feel your pussy throb around him, and he lets out a harsh, scraping breath, hips stuttering.

"Good," he praises breathlessly. “You're taking me so well. How does my cock feel in that tight little hole?"

"God,” you gasp, “so good, it feels—ha!—please, you feel so good."

"That's right, darling," he soothes. "You understand, don't you?"

You choke out a moan and grope, thick-fingered, through your thoughts, but any sense of promised understanding eludes you. All you find is static—hazy, airless pleasure, the merciless pace of Springtrap’s thrusts shaking your mind to useless grey slurry. You can barely think past the drive of his hips, the sweet spreading ache of his cock filling you until there’s no room anywhere inside you for anything else. It's him, and him, and him like thick rising smoke, coiling through your body as you burn.

"I am so much more than I was, and not yet even all I could be. Look."

The pressure on your neck eases, and you pull in a breath that feels like glass in your lungs. Bruise for bruise, Springtrap fists his hand in your hair instead, and you gasp at the sudden pull of pain, the shiver of pleasure that comes with it.

“Look,” he repeats fiercely.

Your eyes flutter open to gristle and steel, that vivid, bloodless gore, as impossible as it is inescapable. The stringy muscle remnants flex and relax as Springtrap fucks you roughly into the seat, his breath fraying quickly at the edges. His cock feels like it’s pulling you apart, unspooling you with the ease of something dissolving out into a warm bath.

"That is total springlock failure, the compressive power of a hundred kilos of steel versus the infinitely fallible human form. It is a death sentence.”

He snarls it directly into your ear, a hungry, panting pride that throbs in the warm clutch of your core. His teeth scrape your shoulder, the harsh hiss of his breath drawing gooseflesh down your neck.

“And I have survived it twice."

He bottoms out, and your thighs clamp, trembling, shut as your orgasm rockets through you white-hot and screaming. Springtrap groans, low and loose, his pace unslowing but erratic, dragging you through the dregs of shuddering aftermath until you’re sobbing from pleasure.

"Still my sweet little slut," he hisses affectionately. "You just want to be filled, don't you?”

“Yes." Fuck, you have never wanted anything so badly. "Yes, sir, please, yes, I need it, please."

Weak, desperate tension coils in your belly, snapping suddenly free as you feel him start to come inside you. Springtrap pumps himself once, twice, hands snapping to your hips with fierce, unrelenting strength as he pulls you flush against him and holds you there. With a ragged moan, he empties himself into your needy hole, thick spurts of pooling heat. You whimper breathlessly at the sensation, too overcome to do more than lay there and take it.

Maybe you'll never have to move again. Maybe the rest of your life can be this single, blissed-out moment, facedown in the backseat of your car, sated and spent.

"What do we say?" prompts Springtrap, his voice still returning to itself.

"Thank you, sir," you manage in return, and he hums and runs an appreciative hand up your thigh.

"Good."

It hurts most when he pulls out, the bruisey tenderness between your legs causing your breath to hitch. Springtrap runs a knuckle through your folds, over your sensitive clit and up again. Discomfort blooms; you feel him press his spend back inside you with two thick fingers, twitching with the simultaneous urges to rock back and jerk away.

“What a remarkable thing you are,” he says quietly, almost to himself.

The space around your heart lights up, and you laugh, a little fuckdrunk. “You don’t have to butter me up, I’m a sure thing.”

“I’ve noticed.” Springtrap sounds thoughtful. He’s silent for a moment, and then the car lurches and shifts as he lifts himself out. Without the weight of him, without his hands on you, you feel shapeless and small, a crushed insect bleeding out on the sidewalk. Gingerly, you roll onto your side, catching your breath properly for the first time in what feels like hours.

When you trust your body to support its own weight again, you haul yourself into a seated position and reach for the nearest tshirt to clean yourself up a little. A beat passes, and then another, but Springtrap doesn’t come back.

Alone with the vacuum of his absence, your spinning thoughts spit out the possibility that maybe you’ve done something you shouldn’t have.

Then you hear the susurrus of heavy returning footfall through the leaves, and a palpable relief leans with him through the open door.

“Come here,” says Springtrap, holding out a hand. You rest your chin obediently in the crook of his palm, and he lifts your face up and to the side, examining the bruises on your neck with an air of delight. A lick of fear rises and dies in your stomach, and you realize you’re half waiting for the prick of fangs. 

Things would be so much simpler, you think, if he was only after your blood.

“What do you want from me?” Your voice is soft with fear and sandpaper-sore, and out of the corner of your eye, you see Springtrap’s head tilt to one side.

"Everything," he replies, as though it should be obvious. He turns your face, forcing the two of you eye-to-eye, and you squirm self-consciously under the silver spotlight of his stare. "You're mine. Would you offer me less?"

"No," you assure him, and mean it, "no, of course not, I just—"

Springtrap nods, all sympathy. "You're still afraid of me—no, I like it. You should be."

You don't know how to respond to that. You are afraid of him, but you sense it might not be entirely in the way that you should be. It’s a keen-cut gem of a feeling, something bright and gleaming you could turn and turn in your hands and never really see the true shape of, shadows thrown from every flickering facet. Something that could cut you straight to bone with one wrong move. You look at Springtrap and imagine blood in your palms, your mouth. There’s a question on your tongue that has its iron taste, and you don’t know how else to get it off but to ask it.

"What happened to your daughter?"

Springtrap freezes. Tension tightens the hand on your face.

"My daughter." His displeasure is a palpable thing, creeping and cold, and you rush to fill the silence as if you could ward it back with the right words.

“Mike said—”

Springtrap scoffs. “I’m sure he did.”

You can feel the narrow-eyed scrutiny he levels at you. He starts to pull his hand away, and you clutch at his wrist with both of your own to stop him. The open joint catches painfully on the web between your thumb and forefinger, but you don't let go. 

The scrutiny shifts, sharpens into a long look of appraisal that simmers under your skin. Then, slowly, Springtrap pulls his hulking frame along the seat until he’s crowding you against the opposite door. His shadow swallows you whole, the pad of his thumb pressing gently against the seam of your lips.

"Listen to me. It was a terrible tragedy, what happened to Elizabeth. Not a day goes by that I don't regret it. But when I realized what she had become—how could I have stood aside and let her death go to waste?”

“What she had become?” you ask thinly.

“Hmm,” he says, almost disappointed. “I take it Michael didn’t tell you about that?”

"He said you were keeping her prisoner,” you reply, and Springtrap bites out a sharp, frustrated sound. 

"I was keeping her safe. Children so rarely appreciate the difference. Did Michael tell you that I killed her?”

“He, um, sort of implied it,” you confirm.

"Predictable,” he sneers. “He's always had such a talent for martyrdom.” 

Springtrap pauses, head to one side, then adds, “Did he tell you what he did to his brother?”

"His—?” Something cold stirs at the back of your chest.

A tsk. "Neglected that particular detail, did he? Shame, it's quite a story.”

You'd honestly feel less scrambled if he put you in a bottle and shook you at this point.  You’re still trying to process the last three minutes of this conversation, flinging your brain in a dozen different directions just to keep it all up in the air. This new information feels like suddenly having a knife tossed into your already precarious juggling act.

“Will you tell me?” you ask hopefully.

His eyes find yours, sharp and bright. “No, I rather think you should ask him yourself. You’ve been here a while, he must be worrying.”

“He thinks you want to hurt me,” you say, guilt rankling in your gut.

"I don't suppose you've done anything to disabuse him of that notion, hm?"

Embarrassed heat floods your face. "I—no," you admit. “I haven’t.”

Springtrap strokes your cheek with his thumb, the metal warmed by its long proximity to your skin. “I wonder, does Michael think that I wouldn’t go through him to get to you? Or is he relying on the opposite?��

"I don't—you think he's using me as bait?"

“Does that surprise you?” asks Springtrap. “Why? You can hardly know him well enough.”

“I—right.” The idea sits sideways in you, but it does, horribly, make you feel a little better about lying to Mike. If neither of you were completely honest, then you’re sort of even. You force a laugh, a harsh huff of air. “Some bait I turned out to be.”

“Nothing is over yet,” says Springtrap. You can hear the grin in his voice.

Nerves prickle along your skin. “What do you mean?”

The muzzle of the mask follows the path of his hands, butting up along your jaw, grazing your cheek. Tension fizzles out of your muscles everywhere he touches, leaving behind a pleasant, pliant warmth. When he nuzzles into the crook of your shoulder, you melt against him, scritching a hand up to rest between his ears. Springtrap touches you gently under the chin, turns your face to his.

“You didn’t lure me to Michael,” he says, “but you can still lure Michael to me.”

His fur leaves a black residue on your hands, ash and grit and grease.

“You want me to bring him back here?” Damn it. Maybe you’re a soft touch, but you like Mike. Decency pours off the guy in waves; it can’t all be put on. “You aren’t going to hurt him, are you?”

Springtrap turns to ice in your arms. “He tried to burn me alive.”

You have no idea what to say to that. Part of you still wants to defend Mike, but part of you also wants to flick yourself in the back of the head.

Springtrap sits back, holding your face with both huge hands and studying it with knifelike precision, as if his eyes could peel back the layers of skin and watch the muscles that make your expressions.

“Perhaps it's too much to ask." He shakes his head. "This is a family matter. Michael should never have involved you.”

But it’s too late for that, isn't it? You're as involved as it gets. You reach out, touching the hinge of Springtrap’s jaw with hesitant fingertips. The suit is burnt here, too, fresh dark gashes where fur has curled away from the metal beneath—and beneath that, a glimpse of bone, punctured by steel and half-obscured by papery purpled skin. Fascination holds you with a fist, scarcely letting you breathe.

“I’ll do it,” you hear yourself say, and you watch with rapt attention through a tangle of loose wires as the corner of his lipless mouth curves up over his teeth. 

“My sweet thing. I knew I could rely on you.” He makes a sort of aborted nodding gesture, muzzle scraping your skin, then jerks away with a bitten-off snarl.

“Meet me at Fazbear’s. Try not to keep me waiting.”

The car creaks and sags again under his shifting weight, and it isn’t until he’s gone, slouching away through the rapidly darkening trees, that you realize he’d just tried to kiss you.

You stand barefoot in the dirt by your car for a long time, your heart doing cartwheels while your stomach sinks into your heels.

The drive to Mike’s takes twice as long as it should, partially because you can barely concentrate on the road, but mostly because your phone has vanished into the bowels of your car, and making your way back by memory is a feat that doesn’t exactly play to your strengths. By the time you pull into the lot, you're shaking with exhaustion and half-nauseous with the anxiety churning in your stomach. You can feel your heartbeat in your teeth.

God, what are you even doing here? How did it come to this? Caught between the wolves and the cliff, an unwitting participant in the plans of two immortal men trying to kill each other. Mike was apparently willing to risk your safety to keep his parts moving smoothly, but you don't want him to die for it, do you? You don’t know—there’s so much you don’t know. What happened here? Death and Remnant and secrets and accidents and you with your hands full of questions with no answers. It’s like trying to put together a puzzle in the dark, feeling your way along the edges in the mad hope that things will eventually start to fit together.

Only, you know what you want that picture to look like, don't you? The moment flashes again through your mind, piercing silver eyes and mitted palms cradling your face, metal hips pinning you down and your heart in your throat. Considering…everything, it's ridiculous to be this hung up on something so small, a kiss that didn't even happen, but here you are, grinning into your hand hard enough to make your cheeks ache.

A knock on the window startles you out of your reverie, and your elbow jabs the car horn as you jolt away. On the other side of the glass, Mike raises a hand, wincing apologetically. A twinge of guilt tests its cold teeth on your insides.

"Hey!" you say shakily. "Hold on, I'll—"

You fumble, suddenly clumsy, and all but fall out of your seat, biting down on whatever you can muster of a smile. Mike's forehead creases in concern, which you pretend not to notice.

"You weren't answering your phone," he says, slightly out of breath.

"Oh," you say, "sorry, I sort of lost it. Did something happen?"

He straightens, tugging at the brim of his hat. "Nothing important. How was the hospital?"

"Fine," you lie. "My friends were already gone, but that nurse from last time found me. We talked for a while, I must’ve lost track of time.”

“Nurse Gruesome,” confirms Mike. “I remember."

"Yeah, she really hates your guts," you tell him, and he laughs.

"I did get that impression. I’m sorry you missed your friends.”

You shrug. “I’ll see them eventually.”

The moment hangs awkwardly in the air between you, a strange sort of tension that reminds you, abruptly, that you and Mike are still technically strangers. You can tell that he’s looking at you, his eyes unreadable in the dim streetlights that buzz overhead, his shoulders set stiff and both hands shoved down into his pockets.

“I’m just gonna—” you begin, gesturing towards your bags in the backseat.

Mike lets out a breath. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

That catches you off-guard. “I—yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

He studies you for another wordless moment, the hair prickling on the back of your neck, your heartbeat in your ears and a brief, seeping certainty that he knows. He knows and—what? What do you think he’d do? Should you be afraid? Maybe it’s to your own detriment, but you can’t imagine being afraid of Mike. You can barely imagine him angry.

“Do I not seem alright?” you press, your voice pulled taut as catgut.

“You seem tired,” says Mike finally, and there’s no lie at all in your response.

“I guess I am. Today was, uh. It took a lot more out of me than I was expecting it to.”

He nods, scratching idly at the side of his bandaged neck. “Would you like a hand bringing anything in?”

An unexpected surge of tears roars up the back of your throat, your whole face suddenly tight and hot. You turn back towards your car to hide it, blinking rapidly and scrubbing a casual hand across your face.

“That would be great, thank you,” you reply thickly.

Mike takes the bag you pass him without comment, slinging it over his shoulder and glancing away politely. Your backpack got itself wedged under the seat during…previous activities, and as you yank it free, something falls from one of the flaps and clatters to the pavement with a horribly familiar cracking sound.

“Oh hell,” you mutter.

“Was that your phone?”

"Sure was." Hopefully it still is; you stoop to assess the damage, but aside from a new crack in the corner of the screen, it seems otherwise unharmed. The lock screen informs you that you have a couple missed calls and unopened texts, both from Mike, and from the looks of it also a dozen accidental pictures of the inside of your pocket. At least, they're probably just of the inside of your pocket, but you refrain from checking any of them in front of Mike, just in case.

"She's alive," you announce cheerfully, waving the phone in celebration. 

Mike offers a smattering of congenial applause, his bandaged hands muffling the sound, and you take a little bow. Something in your chest starts to loosen, comfort settling back in through the cracks of unease.

"Ready?" asks Mike.

"Lead the way." You hitch up your backpack and follow him inside. “So what have you been up to while I was gone? Anything fun?”

Mike gives you a sort of bemused look. “I don’t know if I would call it fun. I’ve been checking local news sites for the most part. A few of them have reported on the fire, but nobody seems to have noticed anything strange about it. Which is good for arson purposes,” he muses, “but it doesn’t exactly do much for me otherwise.”

You chew the inside of your cheek and make interested noises and think it would be so easy. He wants to find Springtrap, all you would have to do is point him in the right direction. 

The opportunity comes, and it passes, and you don't say anything. In the end, it doesn't matter either way. You get inside, and Mike flicks on the lights, and the double-take he does when he catches a proper look at you would almost be funny under different circumstances.

“Shit—shit, what happened?” He extends a hand like he’s about to touch you, fingers curling in on themselves. “I thought you said you were alright?”

"I look that bad?" You'd given yourself a cursory once-over in your car window, but your reflection had been mostly obscured by the coming dark. Still, you can feel the scrapes and bruises he’s seeing now, even if the worst of them are hidden by your clothes. The sting of déjà vu makes it hard to meet his eyes.

Maybe Mike feels it too; maybe it’s something else that gives you away. He sways on his feet, the bright pinpricks of his pupils slicing you neatly down to the bone. The déjà vu of that is another thing entirely.

“He found you.”

“He didn’t hurt me,” you say, maybe too quickly. “I know how it looks, I—it’s complicated.”

“It always is, with him.” Even with the mask, you can see Mike’s expression slam shut, his knuckles whitening on the strap of your bag. He says your name, and it isn't angry, it isn't even disappointed, it's just sad. “Have you been helping him?”

“No—I don’t know.” Does fucking him qualify as helping? He’s really only asked you for one thing, and you’re struggling to do even that.

“You can’t trust him,” Mike tells you softly. “He’d say anything if he thought it would get him what he wanted. If you believe nothing else I’ve told you, please, believe that.”

“I don’t want to,” you admit. Anger flares, ugly and sharp, but it goes as quickly as it comes. You’re too tired to maintain it.If Mike is asking you to pick sides, he’s not going to like your answer, but you can’t really harbor any ill will towards him.

He pulls in a quick, tight breath and glances away, his eyes glassy and dark. “Right. I think we should talk about this, but I sense I may be alone in that.” He pauses, like he’s giving you the chance to contradict him. You don’t.

“He’s at Fazbear’s Fright,” you hear yourself say.  It’s like you’re looking at your emotions through a thin sheet of ice, a cold, distant distortion that numbs your fingers when you try to touch it.

Mike’s eyes snap back to you. You stare down at your hands. 

“I’m sorry, I need a moment to think.” His voice is a thousand miles away. “Would you–?”

“Yeah,” you say, “sure, I need to clean up anyway.”

“Thank you.”

You slink off towards the bathroom with your tail between your legs. As soon as the door is shut behind you, you fling your backpack at the wall as hard as you can, leaving a scuff on the beige paint. Two grey, threadbare towels hang by the shower, and you all but stuff one into your mouth and scream. Your poor abused throat gives up quickly, abandoning you to hoarse hyperventilating and a taste like cheap soap on your tongue. You try to imagine the smell of rust, of smoke, sucking them down into your lungs like water until you’re in over your head, cradled in comfort, swimming and still.

You emerge some time later with your face washed and your clothes changed, every new injury scrubbed and stinging. Your bag is on the couch, but Mike isn’t. From where you stand, you can see enough to tell that he’s not in the kitchen either. The only other room in the tiny apartment is the bedroom, and you don’t want to go barging in on him if he still wants to be alone, but the door is hanging open far enough that it feels like an invitation.

“Mike?” Your knuckles meet the flimsy plywood hesitantly, barely a knock. “Mike, I can talk now, if you still want to?”

There’s no response. You open the door by degrees, ready for him to stop you at any second, but no word of protest comes. Peeking around the door, you’re met by a very small, very dark, very empty room. Mike is gone.

Tires screech out in the parking lot, and understanding yanks you by the scruff into motion.

[darkhatkid]

Mr Ted brings serotonin

Springrap brings ghosts

So after my interaction with @williamfnafton ... I decided it's about time for..

If Mr. Ted wins then Mr. Afton will be burned at the stake, If Mr. Afton wins then he will get Do not be burned at the steak. Choose wisely...

[kusanoki]

“ ¡Señor Golden! Soy tu fan secreto~!”

<3

[nitzynix]

The father/mother and their child FNAFSB FNAF House Party FNAF Springtrap and Deliah FNAF Springrap meets Mangle

[goldemas1244]

Transformers: Age Of Extinction

Rating: 4/5 stars

-

Good things about it:

Amazing storyline.

Pog character growth and development.

Good conflict.

Good fight scenes.

Bumblebee being the most adorable baby bee.

Dadimus prime.

Lore is understandable so far.

Dinobots, especially Spike are EPIC.

Every frame involving the Autobots can be used for valveplug reference.

Almost everything.

Optimus has tatas now.

Pogchamp character design.

Baldy is probably bi/pan and he's cute for that.

-

Not-so-good things about it

Not enough Optimus tata.

Not enough Galvatron involvement.

Seriously though wtf is that guy's name? The main villain guy? I named him Quincy because Quintesson/sa vibes.

FRAGGING EYEBALL ROBOTS HOLY SCRAPHEAP PRIMUS CHRYSLER ME FOUR-TWELVE GET THAT THING BACK TO FNAF WHERE IT CAME FROM OR SO HELP ME

Not enough Dadimus Prime moments.

Why has Prime never used his shin-jets?

Alien tongue scene.

The dogs reminded me of Springtrap (robo-fleshies) which reminded me of Springrap Lemons/Smut on Wattpad which reminded me of Springtrap's schlong which made me wonder out loud, basically... well, I mentioned it somewhere.

Optimus doesn't get enough hugs.

[liminalspaceintercom]

The Springrap to Elias pipeline . however, my pipeline started at Herobrine....

Being overly emotional over FNAF being ten now again because I’m pretty sure those games are why I’m the way I am now and I wouldn’t have it any other way.