oftenwantedafton

[oftenwantedafton]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGeHXJmYd/

This is literally me whenever you upload!!

This was adorable thank you 🩷

[oftenwantedafton]

Why did you delete chapters 6&7 of personal space? :(

There is a detailed explanation at the end of Chapter 5 on AO3.

[oftenwantedafton]

Hush - William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 2

Word Count - 3k

Rating Explicit

CW - implied/referenced character death, sexual content

Also available on AO3

Fanart used with permission @Alex_zlo on X and Instagram

William Afton can’t go home like this.

Not with hands that are shaking, stained…

So much of it. Why was there so much from such a small body?

A sickly shade of pink, the first patters of rain diluting the crimson on his fingers.

Warm, such heat, cold air…

He manages to get back in the car, fumbling for the keys he’d just had seconds before. He’s not thinking clearly, he’d put them back in a pocket after unlocking the door. Which pocket, pants or jacket or…?

There. The metal is slippery, everything sliding from his slickened grasp.

The rainwater in his eyes or tears or…?

He’d just narrowly escaped the worst of the deluge.

There’s an umbrella tucked into the molded pocket built into the lower frame of the car door, along with a Matchbox car—Michael’s or Evan’s, he couldn’t say—some forgotten toy belonging to one of his sons lodged there.

The restaurant owner forces his hands to cooperate. Ignition started. Hands on wheel. Destination?

The nearby bar. Already filling up with patrons. But no one pays the murderer any mind, engrossed in alcohol, in conversation as he enters, the umbrella now useless, busted, that sudden gust of wind had come from nowhere, a last breath of vengeance from an unseen spirit.

Haunted, now, or…?

He’d only intended on ducking quickly inside the restroom, hands shoved into pockets to conceal what he’d just done until he reaches the sink, grateful that no one is there to see. He scrubs until the skin is red and feels raw.

Only there to wash up, but a drink would steady him, he thinks, asking the bartender to toss the ruined remains of the umbrella into the trash, requesting a glass of whiskey. His hands are clenched into fists, trembling, and he wills them to relax, unfold, be still. He glances back towards the glass front entrance. The storm’s fury was increasing. There’d be no escaping it next time. He’d have to go back out into it, and then, and then…

Afton doesn’t know. He takes a large swallow of his drink, considering his next move. The depleted glass refilled. Better now. Nerves soothed a bit. Hands steadier. The killer becomes aware of the weight of someone looking at him. Someone that knows him? Will he be forced to make small talk, try to explain…

Had he been discovered?

Relief floods through him. No. It’s a young woman. A stranger. Dripping wet, the unusual downpour’s latest victim. His eyes drop back to his drink. He toys with the glass, looking into the depths of the liquid there as if it could divulge secrets, help him plot and plan his next course of action.

His eyes focus on you again. Contemplating. Considering.

You’re walking towards him.

***

You’re back in the bar.

Feeling foolish but unable to help yourself. Just out for a drink, nothing wrong with that, right? It’s been a couple of weeks. The sting of the breakup lessening.

You’re not going to let yourself feel disappointed that William is not present.

That’s your real reason for coming back, of course. And it’s absurd. Even if he had been present, it had surely been a one time thing. Two strangers comforting each other at random. Better than a relationship because it had none of the complications that came with it. No obligations. No commitment. Just enjoying each other and then moving on.

You’re not moving on.

This has rebound all over it. You should stop thinking about him. But you don’t. At random moments while you’re working. While you’re packing up your ex’s things. You’d left a message for him to come get them while you’re out. You don’t want to see him ever again.

This new man, though. Those eyes. The way his hands and his mouth felt. Being inside of you. Reckless, crazy. But good. So good.

The door opens and your head swivels rapidly. It’s him. Tall, dark, and handsome. Work clothes again. Jacket today. Dress coat. It looks good on him. Pausing when he sees you. A little surprised, maybe, the long lashes lifting, an arc of white above the steel colored irises. Then pleased. A little smirk on his features. He sits beside you.

“Hi,” you greet him softly.

“Hi. How’s everything going?”

You inhale and exhale deeply. “It’s going okay. Got my ex’s stuff out of my apartment.”

“Good.”

“What about you?” Margarita today. Sour. A little shiver when it goes down. “How’s work?”

“Busy. But fine. Everything’s fine.” William rests an elbow on the counter, his head propped on his fist. Watching you. Sliding your drink over and taking a sip. Well, I mean why not, right? It’s not like you haven’t swapped saliva before. “This is terrible.”

“They’re kind of gross. But they get you tipsy pretty easy.”

“Are you trying to get drunk again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t come here for—”

“—Why are you back here?” His eyes are glittering. He knows. He absolutely fucking knows and he’s teasing you. Enjoying this.

“Why are you?” You challenge, taking your drink back and gulping down another swallow.

“I asked you first.”

You run your fingers over the stem of the glass. “Looking for you,” you admit, darting a quick glance at him through your lashes.

“What if I didn’t show? What would you have done then?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Come back a different night, maybe.”

“Hmmm.” He hums thoughtfully.

“You’re in a good mood tonight.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You look…satisfied.”

“Not completely satisfied yet,” he murmurs, and another shiver runs through you, this one not fueled by the alcohol you’ve imbibed, but anticipation. He’s flirting. He’s interested in another dalliance. “If you want to enjoy a tequila properly, you should be doing shots. Salt, lime wedges, the whole bit.”

You consider the small amount of liquid left in the Magarita glass. Only your first. Why not get a little intoxicated?

“Alright.”

He straightens, signaling the bartender. You’ve never done shots before, but you got the gist of it. You wait for the older man to take the lead. Watching as he licks the curled crevice of his hand between his thumb and index finger, sprinkling a pinch of salt that adheres to the damp skin. Meeting your eyes when his tongue laps that salted patch, then throwing back the shot quickly, followed by a bite into a slice of lime and that bemused smirk appears again. Challenging you. Well, fuck. It’s on.

You repeat the process. Strong. You struggle not to cough, wincing a little.

“Good girl. You’ve got this.”

Another round for you both. Another. You’re getting accustomed to it. Your hand finds its way onto his thigh at some point. Not exactly discreet, but you’re kind of past the point of caring. You’re starting to lose count of what shot you're on. Five, maybe? Six. Definitely six. He grabs your hand and laps at it before sprinkling the salt. You return the gesture, diverting your attention to his thumb, sucking the pad gently, watching him through lidded eyes.

“Your place?”

No quickie in the car? Interesting. “Yeah.”

“I’ll call a cab.”

William lends you support when you slide from the barstool, leaving you clutching the counter heavily to make the call on the pay phone. You should have eaten something. Lunch was a long time ago. Or not done so many shots. Or…

He’s back. Looking a touch concerned. “You feeling okay?”

“I feel…great.” You frown. “How come you still look sober? Are you buzzed at all?”

“Quite. I’m better at concealing it, that’s all.”

He leads you outdoors. The cool air hits you sharply before you’re in the back seat of the taxi. You give the driver your address. William’s hand clutches yours. His left hand. No wedding band today.

“You knew I was going to be there tonight,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer.

***

Your ex’s stuff is gone when you get back to your apartment.

You heave a sigh of relief because honestly, that would have been beyond awkward to have him here with your new lover in tow.

You’re suddenly feeling shy. Awkward. After offering to take your companion’s coat and hanging his beside yours, your shoes and his tucked neatly side by side on the mat before the front door, you don’t know what to do next.

William is standing in the living room. Surveying your living space. “Nice couch.”

“My ex picked that out.” You scowl at the black leather furniture.

“I take it back. It’s absolutely dreadful.”

“See, now that’s why you and I get along so well.” He smirks. You suddenly remember the etiquette of having a guest over. “Did you want something to drink, a glass of water or…”

“Just you.”

Oh. A little sound you’re not even certain you manage to make. Perhaps just lingering in the depths of your mind when he steps towards you, seating his hand on the side of your neck, bending to kiss your mouth. Once. Twice. His tongue touches yours and you push against him, guiding him towards the nearest available surface. That damn couch. Well, might as well create some good new memories on it.

He sits and you climb on his lap. Hot. It’s hot in here, isn’t it? You should turn the heat down. The alcohol. Dilating your vessels. Bringing heat to the surface. William’s mouth is fire. Wet. Your fingers in his hair. It had been fun that night in the car, the frenzied rush at each other’s bodies within that confined space, but you like this location even more. Taking your time. His hands rub your back, your buttocks. You jerk the leather strap of his belt free from the buckle, sucking his bottom lip. Caressing his erection through the layer of briefs beneath the surrendering front of his trousers.

“I’m glad to see the alcohol didn’t affect this any,” you murmur appreciatively, teasing the hardened flesh, letting the tips of your nails drag over the fabric covering his cock. There’s a haze of arousal mingling with your intoxication now, a pleasant sensation tingling in your extremities as you ease yourself down to kneel on the carpet between his legs.

“You’re breaking the rule. Ladies first, remember?” He watches you pull the waistband of his underwear down, revealing the flushed sex beneath, his hips sliding forward a bit as he relaxes that long body of his, the new angle bringing him closer to the edge of the couch.

“We can make an exception just this once, can’t we?” You grin before you lean forward to lap at the head of his dick. Clean taste, faint soap. Light musk. Something a little salted leaking from the tip. It reminds you of doing the shots earlier. Your mouth engulfs the end, stretching your lips, sliding down part way. Your nails dig into his thighs. His breath hitches.

A car horn outside. You hate living in the city. You’re ex’s idea. You don’t want to think about him. You shove the man from the bar’s cock down your throat, holding it in place. His long fingers nestle in your hair. Your head lifts, thick saliva coating his erection. You wrap your fingers around the shaft and stroke up and down, massaging the frenulum, curling over the domed tip with each pass, alternating with more head bobs, sucking, sliding. His hips lift to meet your mouth, the hand curled over your head pulling you closer. Still unhurried, lazily fucking your mouth, the pace and depth varying. You gag and gasp for air and your eyes meet his. Those blown pupils an abyss. “Bedroom,” he says, and you push yourself to your feet, guiding him there, the loosened metal belt buckle jingling with each step, one hand clutching the waist of his pants to keep them in place as he follows you. “Off.” Another one word instruction that you obey, removing the blazer he tugs at, his fingers assisting you in pulling the blouse overhead, sliding underneath your bra straps while you unhook the back. You’re wearing pants today, the garment roughly dragged down over your hips along with your panties. He’s getting more impatient, pushing you back onto the bed before you have a chance to return the favor of divesting him of his clothing.

William grabs one of the pillows from beneath the comforter at the head of the bed, curling an arm around your legs and lifting you so he can slide the cushion underneath your buttocks. His hands part your thighs, his lips grazing the inside of one knee before he descends to kiss the sensitive place between your legs.

You’d had a sneaking suspicion that wicked tongue of his would be ideal for licking pussy and oh, you were so right. It curls around that bundle of nerve endings, flicking in firm, rapid strokes, building the pleasure and then backing away, sliding through the pink petals, teasing your entrance, kisses pressed in the crease of your groin, your mound, over your clit, sucking, teasing, leaving you whimpering and gasping. One of those large hands of his is splayed over your lower abdomen, applying pressure, stretching your pussy upward so he can perfectly access that throbbing pearl. You’re on the precipice of orgasm, pushed forward and then dragged back, a delicious dance between the two as he prolongs the sensation. Careening forward abruptly and you’re on the brink again, then the fury of his tongue lessens, gifting gentle taps, soft kisses.

“William…”

His mouth latches over your pussy. Rough again. Demanding. The pressure in your core builds. His tongue is relentless. Your hips arch up, mashing you against his face. There. You’re there. Your breath coming in quick, shallow pants. Gasping his name over and over. Your nails scrape his scalp.

The older man doesn’t give you time to recover. His body is already moving, climbing over yours. Shoving your legs back, his cock piercing your entrance. You gasp again. His torso drops down, hips rolling against you, mouth on yours.

You taste your juices all over his lips, his chin, his cheeks, his tongue. A hint of roughness along his jaw, the start of new growth of facial hair this late in the day. He’s buried in you. The languid way he’s fucked your mouth earlier forgotten. Sharp slaps of sound as his dick penetrates your cunt while his hands roughly knead your breasts. You wish he wasn’t still dressed, wish you could see his body. Touch it like he was caressing yours. You reach for a button of his shirt and he grabs your hand, pinning your wrist down. Repeating the process for the other. You’re trapped beneath him as he pummels you. That thick, long prick of his filling you, hitting you just right. His face hovers above yours. Watching you with those dark eyes. Still smudged underneath. A permanent fixture, perhaps, irregardless of the amount of sleep he got. His breath hot against your lips. You let saliva pool in your mouth, offering it up on your outstretched tongue that he sucks on greedily. You flex the walls of your canal, massaging him. Every part of you is throbbing, tingling, a post climax feeling that still hasn’t dissipated. Your pelvis matches his rhythm, your bodies rocking together. Perfectly in sync. He relaxes his grip on your wrists, his fingers slotting between yours. You feel him shudder. An echoing answer as your pussy milks his erection. He moans against your mouth. Spurts of hot liquid fill you.

William withdraws and flops beside you. You shift onto your side and he lifts an arm, allowing you to rest your head on his chest, that same limb now draped over you, fingers absently stroking your bare skin. You listen to the rapid heartbeat deescalate, the gasped breaths gradually deepening, their frequency decreasing. You still need to pick up your car. Get your clothes ready for work in the morning. Maybe you should just call out. There was no way you wouldn’t be hungover.

“Shower with me?” You offer, murmuring it against his chest.

“Another time. If you don’t mind I’ll use the restroom. Wash up…”

“Mmm-hmm. There’s a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.” You pause. “I had fun.”

“Good.”

Your head lifts as you raise your torso, shifting into a sitting position, looking down at the dark haired man. “Am I going to see you again?” It sounds needy in your ears. You wish it didn’t. You’d meant it to be more of a playful invitation.

“Very likely.”

“Very likely, hmm?” You comb through the errant tresses falling across his forehead. Think about him going back out into the rain just to kiss you goodbye last time. The start to this causal affair.

You haven’t had to share the narrow space in front of the bathroom sink for awhile now. William takes up so much room, those long arms of his jostling and colliding with yours. You like watching him get ready. There’s something pleasing about the movements of those deft fingers as he restores order. You impulsively grab the lapel of his suit jacket before he has a chance to rinse the toothbrush you’ve lent him, kissing the mouth that’s layered with mint and the persistent flavor of you just beneath it.

Back behind the bar, it’s time to part ways. He’s walked you to your car. Said goodnight, imploring you to drive home safely. Still standing beside you. Your lips part to speak. He captures them and whatever words you’d been about to conjure scatter. Then he’s gone, another dark shape lost in nighttime shadows.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #william afton smut

[oftenwantedafton]

Hush - William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 1

Word Count - 4k

Rating - Explicit

CW - sexual content

Also available on AO3

Fanart used with permission from Alex_zlo on X and Instagram

It’s one of those rare evenings in Hurricane where it’s actually raining.

Not just raining, either; this was a torrential downpour. Sheets of water spilling off of buildings, pummeling cars and unfortunate pedestrians, soaking earth and pavement. It’s a terrible night to be out, but you don’t want to be alone right now, the last words you’d heard you boyfriend—now ex-boyfriend—speak still ringing in your ears. We can still be friends. As if he’s doing you a favor, as if throwing away two years isn’t a big deal, all so he can shack up with someone else from work. Caught and not the least bit guilty. Acting entitled. As if it’s your fault he got bored and wanted something new. Someone other than you.

You’ve never sat at a bar alone before.

You curse the walk to the front of the building, the nearly full parking lot in the rear revealing that other patrons had all shared the same idea of going out for drinks. You’re instantly drenched, still wearing your work clothes, the office attire plastered to your skin as you duck inside the establishment and grab the first empty spot you see. You want to be numb, and you want it to happen fast. Vodka will do the trick nicely, tempered with a little club soda and syrup and lemon juice to balance out the bitterness.

You’re in the processing of securing some damp strands of hair back into some semblance of tidiness and order when you notice the man, just that slight dip of your head affording you a glance down the row of seats, a mixture of occupied and the occasional empty. Everything about him is lean and long —arms, legs, torso, everything a significant stretch. One foot is hooked on a rung of the barstool, the other easily touching the floor. He’s got some amber colored drink in front of him, the glass rotating over the beverage napkin on the counter with the aid of fingers that are also lengthy, clutching the mouth of the cup, turning it this way and that, staring contemplatively into those golden brown depths.

You’ve forgotten the fingers still resting in your damp tresses, the task already obliterated from your mind when the man’s eyes lift and find yours. Perhaps he’d felt your eyes lingering, studying you as the bartender places your order down in front of you. Beneath that thatch of dark hair—dry, you note absently, he hadn’t been caught in the rain unprepared like yourself—is a pair of the most intense eyes you’ve ever seen in your life. Gunmetal gray irises framed in lids with lashes you’re envious of, visible even at this distance, the shadowed bottom lids likely smudged from exhaustion looking like some sort of smoky eyeliner. You take inventory of his other features quickly—high cheekbones, full lips that are oddly pale, sharp nose and jaw—but it’s the eyes your focus keeps coming back to, demanding your attention in a gaze that could be anything from placid curiosity to a stern reprimand to a means of stealing your soul. Judging eyes, haunted orbs that have seen things, shaded windows that are temptation and danger all rolled into one.

He returns his attention to his drink and you feel as if you’re bursting through the surface of deep water, gasping for air, clumsily nudging your own alcoholic beverage and spilling a few drops before you can grasp it properly and take a deep swallow. A tartness fills your mouth, the level of sweet not what you’d been expecting. Heavy on the booze, though, which you appreciate as you mull things over, reflecting on what had gone so wrong with your ex.

Things had been going south for awhile in your now previous relationship, if you’re being honest. He’d never been overly concerned about getting you off, but at least he’d attempted at the outset. He’d used to suggest date ideas. Bring home flowers or chocolate. Surprise you with a bubble bath when you got home from work. There had been something there, right? You hadn’t imagined it. It was good before. Making it easier to be blinded and forgiving when it stopped being that good. Perhaps it’s like they say and hindsight is 20/20. Either way it still hurts and you don’t want to feel it. You finish the rest of the Vodka Collins and request another.

The dark haired stranger is looking at you again.

You can feel the weight of it dragging on your body. Too harsh to be considered a caress, but maybe you like the roughness of it all the same. You allow yourself to look in his direction again, appraising his features, always coming back to those eyes. What would it be like looking into those when you were fucking him?

The thought makes you set the glass firmly back on its makeshift coaster, jostling the ice cubes inside. What has gotten into you? Lusting after some guy you didn’t know, had never even spoken to, less than an hour after breaking up? On the rebound for sure. A good way to get yourself hurt even worse than you already were feeling.

The door to the entrance of the bar opens and a group of three men enter, all around your age, the cold air—it was late autumn, making the inclement weather even more unpleasant—immediately making you shiver in your damp clothes. There are more empty seats where you are, so close to the door, and it seems as good an excuse as any to move, offering up your spot, walking down the narrow aisle between the counter and the beginning of the booths and tables until you reach your goal, boosting yourself up onto the stool, your emptying drink less than a foot from the man’s on the polished surface.

It’s difficult to tell how old he is. Up close you can see the smooth skin is unblemished, largely free of any lines or creases. Still older than yourself, certainly, but maybe not by much, and even if he is, you don’t mind. You’ve never been with someone older. It’s a little intimidating. You’re usually accustomed to the consequence of being shy. But here you are. Making the first move. Being bold enough to sit beside this gentleman. No. Not the way to think of him. Some instinct tells you there’s nothing tame about this one. He’d be aggressive. Passionate. You bet he wouldn’t stop at making you explode once. A matter of pride with him. A generous lover.

You’re on you’re third drink and he’s on whatever number he’s on when your eyes meet again. He’s so pale. Even his mouth. Plush lips you want to taste.

They part but before he has a chance to speak you’re interrupted. The group of young men you’d vacated your spot for have made their way to you. What must be the leader, the more outspoken party member leans too close, his breath already smelling of booze.

“Why’d you run away? My friends and I here would like to buy you a drink.” The bearded man grins.

You shake your head, murmuring a polite decline for his offer. “No, thank you.”

“Come on. Let us help you out.” The smile widens. You find yourself unconsciously leaning closer to the suited man seated beside you.

“No, that’s nice of you, but I’m all set. Enjoy your night.” You turn away.

A hand closes over your shoulder but is instantly removed, the man with the intense eyes reacting swiftly. “She’s with me.”

His voice, the first time you’ve heard it, is low but still audible in the crowded room filled with talk and laughter, the television broadcast above the bar failing to compete with that declaration.

“Since when? You weren’t sitting anywhere near each other before.”

He clearly doesn’t hear the warning in the seated man’s tone. Trying to save face in front of his companions. You watch the long fingers dig in further, blanching the skin, his wrist twisting past a comfortable, natural angle and the youth gasps and tugs his arm away. No emotion on the dark haired stranger’s face at all during the entire exchange. Calm. His arm settling against the edge of the counter. Just looking, now. Waiting to see if he’ll be challenged again.

“Whatever. Let’s go get a table.”

The trio disappears and you realize you’ve been holding your breath for the last few moments, releasing it now with a heavy sigh.

“Thank you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I didn’t know they were going to cause trouble.”

The man shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a sip.

“I can move if you want…”

“No need.” He sets his drink back down.

You sigh internally. He wasn’t giving you much to work with conversation-wise. “You’re lucky, it looks like you managed to escape the rain.”

“I believe in being prepared. Even for things that seem unlikely. Unfortunately, it seems I didn’t think quite enough steps ahead.” He points and you follow the direction indicated, seeing a wastebin just visible across from where you’re seated, where a sad looking specimen of umbrella is poking out of, one of the metal braces bent at an awkward angle. “Gust of wind caught me unaware.”

“So now you’re going to carry two umbrellas, in case the second driest state in the country has another monsoon like this one?”

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. “Maybe.”

You signal for another drink. There’s a pleasant buzz thrumming through you now. A nice warmth in your face, a different kind of heat somewhere lower, deeper.

“So what brings you here on a night like this?” It sounds like a corny pickup line, but it’s the only thing you can come up with.

“The same reason most people are here, I expect. Distraction from unpleasant thoughts.”

“My boyfriend and I broke up today,” you volunteer a little breathlessly, pushing the words out. The first time you’ve acknowledged the split out loud.

“Condolences.” The next batch of whiskey he doesn’t swallow right away. You can see his jaw working, rolling the liquor over his tongue.

“I thought…I thought being numb would make it easier to get over.”

“So did I,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just can relate to that feeling. Something…happened at work today. I wasn’t even working. Wasn’t supposed to be there. It just…happened.”

The explanation sounds very vague, but you appreciate his attempt to commiserate. “So you want to forget, too.”

“Yes.” His eyes link with yours again. “But maybe there are better ways to cope.”

“Better than getting hammered and feeling numb?” He nods. “Like what?”

“The polar opposite. An over abundance of feeling. A tidal wave surge of it that drowns out everything else.”

Wait. Was he suggesting…?

The folded leg straightens and he slides smoothly off the bar stool, reaching into his pants pocket for his wallet. He withdraws a bill and tucks it beneath the glass he’s been drinking from. Eyes back on you. Waiting.

“It’s still pouring out.” You glance back towards the glass front entrance, where the deluge continues to pound the pavement.

“Yes, it is. No telling when it will end, either. Are you afraid of getting wet?”

Something in that query drags right across the place between your thighs as you face him again. “No.”

“Coming with me?”

Again. Another flare. You’d never anticipated this happening. You’d only intended on getting intoxicated. Just a brief stop before you went home to cry your eyes out.

But this, what the stranger was offering, sounded so much better. No commitment. No obligation. Just acting on instinct and mutual attraction.

You nod, digging cash out of your wallet to settle the bill before you ease off the stool, a little less gracefully than your companion had managed. He gestures for you to lead the way. You hesitate by the door. Bracing yourself for the deluge you’re about to experience.

Then you’re no longer just looking at it or thinking about it. You’re in it. A sobering flood. The man slips a hand in one of yours. The rain is cold, the droplets finding every exposed inch, seeking those that aren’t. Creeping down your neck. Inside the front of your blouse. You’re tugged along at a brisk pace. Your new acquaintance takes long strides. It’s difficult to keep up, especially wearing a narrow skirt and heels, but you’re anxious to be away from this and into some kind of shelter.

You’re led to a sedan, some older titanic model of a car from the previous decade, long like its owner who swiftly unlocks the passenger door for you. A beat of hesitation before you enter, one last unheeded caution about what you’re actually doing, and then your damp hand is squeaking on the vinyl seat as you settle inside, surrendering to your lowered inhibitions.

The door creaks as it swings shut. You wipe at your damp face, a little breathless as you watch the man run around to the driver’s side. You lean over and pull the lock up and he yanks the door open, hurriedly shutting it behind him.

A hand rakes through his saturated hair. There are water droplets clinging to those long lashes of his. He slots the key in the ignition. There are a lot of others on that keyring you note as he starts the engine. The opposite hand rests on the steering wheel. A wedding band is visible on the fourth finger.

The windshield wipers strain to keep up with clearing the window as he exits the parking lot, thumping loudly. A echo of your own pounding heart. There’s a vacant lot behind the bar’s, a relic from a strip mall that’s been abandoned for several years. He parks in the shadows, avoiding the direct glow of the street lamp that struggles to ward off the darkness. The brief burst of warm air from the vents departs as he shuts the car off, the green lighting on the dashboard extinguished. The defroster hadn’t properly gotten a chance to manage clearing the glass obscured with condensation. It feels private enough, you suppose.

You haven’t made out in a car since you were a teenager.

Funny how that all changes once you’re an adult. You get an apartment and you can fool around whenever you want. No longer having to worry about a patrol officer shining a light in a car window or a parent lecturing you about curfew and birth control.

Yet here you are. Two fugitives from the storm. A chance meeting leading to this. Whatever this was.

You’re still wearing the blazer of your suit. He’s neglected to bring a proper jacket, the suit one already removed, resting on the back seat. You struggle to shrug out of yours, finally shedding the damp coat and tossing it over his. The silence lengthens. “You’re married,” you say, cursing yourself as soon as you do. Nothing like stating the obvious. A good way to kill the mood, too.

“Yes.” He rolls the band with his thumb, the dim light from outside glinting on the gold. It’s loose. He’s lost weight since he’d first acquired it, you think.

“You ever do this before?”

“No.” Another clipped answer. The confidence he’d exuded inside the bar seems to have evaporated a bit. Maybe he was having second thoughts.

“Do you still want to do this?”

The rejection would sting, but it’s hardly the worst slight you’ve endured today. You’re a big girl. You’ll manage.

“Yes.” His eyes are still intense even in this wan illumination.

You reach for his hand. The one with the jewelry on it. Bringing his fingers to your lips. His skin is damp, cool. Your lips part to take the fourth finger inside your mouth. Teeth hooking around the metal. The flavor of it heavy on your tongue as you drag your teeth against it, easily shifting the ring up, up, up until its clutched between your lips, his finger now bare.

You remove the wedding band and set it on the dashboard, atop a thin layer of dust. The older man leans towards you and kisses your mouth. You no longer hear the rain pelting the alloy you’re encased in. You pry his lips open with your tongue. He’s a good kisser, not that you’re surprised. Those cushioned lips soft. He tastes like the rain. Like the whiskey he’d consumed earlier. His tongue strokes yours and your stomach somersaults. There’s a hand touching your cheek, your jaw. You reach for him, for the sooty hair and stiff work shirt collar and the expanse of one polyester clad thigh. Whatever you can rake your nails against, whatever flesh you can knead through the clothing. He’s got a handful of one breast, the other cupping the back of your neck. Mouth sucking and mashing along your jaw. You’ve finished the journey along his lower extremity, sliding along his crotch. Hard. Large. He huffs a small sound of pleasure, frustration, trying to get inside of your skirt until you abandon his pants just long enough to dig for the hidden zipper in the side seam, lifting your hips up so the loosened material has room to shift out of the way. There is still the barrier of your stockings and panties but that first feel of his hand between your thighs is bliss. You need him, need that dizzying oblivion that scatters your thoughts once he’s wedged inside, stroking your clit.

“Lever…side…” It’s all he spares for direction but you understand, reaching blindly on the side of the seat. It rocks backward faster than you’d expected it would. Further, too. Maybe there was something to be said for these older model cars. Certainly more space than what you had in your newer one.

You can’t imagine it’s comfortable leaning over the center console like he is, but if it bothers him he doesn’t reveal it. His mouth is back at yours, his hand working impatiently in the narrow confines, the clinging nylons restricting movement. You hastily aid him again, shoving at the offending layers concealing your sex, eagerly dragging the panties and stockings down to your ankles, letting your feet finish the job of removing them from your body.

Oh, this was infinitely better. Now the man can properly access your pussy, one thumb working in circles over your bud, his middle finger dipping inside of you. Your body’s already inviting him inside, arousal slickly guiding that violation. It’s the perfect touch, the perfect pressure. Only minutes of being intimate and this man understood your body better than your ex ever had.

“What’s your name?” This gasped beside his neck. He draws back to look at you, that solemn face hovering above yours. “Just your first name, just so I know…oh God, you’re so good at…what to say when I…”

“William.”

“Hi, William.” It suited him. You wonder what he preferred for a nickname. “It’s nice to meet you…fuck.”

“Likewise.” He’s added another finger to the repertoire of invaders, his thumb flicking and grinding your clit.

Your pelvis arches, seeking him even deeper. You’re on fire. Soaked, and not just from the outdoors. Your tongue is sloppy against his. You’re losing some finesse, lost to the pleasure he’s gifting you. The fingers inside you curl and touch that hidden space and you moan, clutching at his shirt.

“William….you're going to make me…”

Pressure. You feel ready to burst. The last thing tethering you to reality is that hand working inside of you, against you.

He kisses you. His face above yours again. Watching you. You’re lost in those eyes. Shaking violently. He’s got you there.

“William…I’m cumming…oh my God, I’m…”

Your pearl throbs and tingles, the muscles inside your canal spasming around his fingers as the back of your skull digs into the cradle of the headrest, your thighs tremoring, hips squirming restlessly against the seat. You’ve shattered, you’re broken, built up again piece by piece with gentle kisses, his hand leaving your sex, allowing you to recover.

“That was…” You don’t even have words.

“Good?” He supplies, eyebrows arching.

“No, beyond that. Amazing. You’re amazing. Thank you, William.”

“You’re most welcome.”

He climbs over you, the languid kisses and caresses growing more heated, driven, needy. His cock presses into you, stretching you back open. There is no longer the taste of rain or whiskey. Now he tastes like you, from the fingers he’d just sucked clean. The vinyl cushioned chair beneath you groans in protest at the weight being forced upon it. You’ve got a hand braced against the roof to shield his head from colliding with it. There’s just so much of him, that tall figure filling the space of the vehicle, the space inside of you. You keep coming back to his throat, to explore the taste of his skin there, easier now that you’ve loosened the collar and tie. Hints of aftershave from that morning, so many hours ago. The slight scrape of facial hair just starting to reclaim its territory rough against your tongue. Tracing the prominent arch of his Adam’s apple. You want to bite and suck his skin but you know you can’t mark a married man.

Your knee is wedged against the door. The other crushed between the console and somewhere near your new lover’s ribs. The steady, relaxed pace has quickened. Breath panted. It’s hitting deep and it’s good, like everything else with him. The way fucking was meant to be done. “William,” you gasp, and it is the first word spoken in a long time. His mouth hushes you, tongue insistent between your lips, nuzzling that wet muscle, his hips snapping against yours with more frenzy. You wish it was just a little more brightly lit, just enough to really see his eyes when he comes apart against you in a flurry of groaned motions, shaking as he fills you, flooding your insides with his seed.

His head drops between your breasts as he withdraws, his body resting on yours. It’s not the ideal place for any sort of post coital cuddling but you like it, like it when he’s back at your mouth again after he’s returned to his own seat, clothing somewhat returned to where it’s supposed to be, still leaning over and kissing you, like he can’t quite get enough of it, like he doesn’t want the intimate moment to end.

Maybe that’s it. The real reason for procrastinating. Because after this, it’s back to the real world. Sliding that ill fitting band back on his ring finger. Returning to face whatever had happened at his job while you continued to process the fact that you’ve been lied to and cheated on. Now you’ve aided and abetted this man, helping him commit the same sin. Even worse, because he was married.

You don’t regret it, though. You simply won’t allow yourself to. You enjoyed it. You needed it. Selfish, maybe, to use someone that way. Except it doesn’t feel like that either. You don’t know how to classify it, your mind still a little addled from the alcohol, from the chemicals still surging through your system. An alibi of impaired judgment is available if you need it, but you don’t think you will.

He drives you back to your car and you push the door open, the encroaching assault of damp and cold instantly reminding you that you’re going to get another shower as soon as you exit the vehicle. You’re not sure if you should thank him again. You’re not sure if you should say anything at all.

You can see his face properly, now that you’re in the bar’s parking lot, the newer bulb of this streetlamp bathing his features in artificial yellowish light, those remarkable eyes that pierce and captivate you sparkling. It’s so difficult to leave them. Your force yourself to step back outside, hurriedly shoving your car key in the lock, eager for shelter. You hear a now familiar creak of a door opening behind you. He’s left the car, coming towards you. Ignoring the downpour.

“William…”

His mouth on yours. Rainwater. The taste of someone new.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you

[oftenwantedafton]

What happened in the Kismet ending??? PLEASE, I MUST KNOW!!!! DID HE DO SOMETHING DRASTIC LIKE KILL US?!? I’M SORRY IF THIS SOUNDS RUDE OR ANYWHERE NEAR IT, I JUST MUST KNOW WHAT HAPPENED WITH THE READER AND WILLIAM/DAVE!!!!! WHAT PATH DID FATE BRING THEM?!?!

The ending was deliberately left that way for the reader to interpret. Given the level of emotion the reader was able to elicit from Dave/William in this story, I tend to lean towards the viewpoint that he would never harm the reader.

Dave was so haunted/tormented by the past in this story that it was impossible for him to ever fully let it go (hence still keeping things from his previous life, the restaurant, etc.) But I believe he evolves from using the Dave Miller persona merely as a disguise alias to wanting to actually be Dave Miller, the man you are falling for.

I don’t think he can ever truly be “fixed” or “healed”; there’s too much darkness in him for that, but the reader does bring about a lot of positive changes in him. Is it enough to allow you to be happy together? I hope so. But I leave that up to you to decide 🩷

[oftenwantedafton]

Kismet - Dave Miller/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapters 7 + 8 (finale)

Rating - Explicit

CW - sexual content, graphic blood and violence, child character death(Charlie Emily)

Also available on AO3 Chapter 7 | 8

Chapter 7

It is pouring in the dream.

He knows it is a dream, because he recognizes how much newer the pizzeria looks: the paint still fresh, the colors vibrant, the plaster and tiles and lights all in place and the latter in working order. The parking lot is clear of debris and weeds and potholes, the tar only a year old, recently paved again.

It is late, and he is not meant to be there, but destiny has made him forget the papers he needs to work on the budget, so he is back again, for what is intended to be a quick in-and-out venture.

He was not expecting to find his business partner’s daughter weeping at the side of the building—another intervention on fate’s part, as he’d parked in back but had forgotten to bring the keys to the restaurant with him, strange how many things he’d been forgetting, his mind constantly lapsing—and was cutting across to the front of the building to use the main entrance when he’d quite literally run into the young girl, standing atop a stack of shipping pallets, balanced precariously, trying to peer into the window of the kitchen, seeking a way inside.

“Uncle Bill,” she greets, sniffling.

“What are you doing out here, Charlie?”

“The mean kids locked me out here.”

He frowns, oblivious to the growing lateness of the hour, to the rain now pelting him, staring at Henry Emily’s daughter with a strange expression on his features. “You shouldn’t be out here. Alone.”

He reaches a hand out and she takes it, so tiny in his own, nearly tumbling from the wooden slats she’d been balancing on, but he catches the girl before she can fall, his other hand grasping her by the waist and setting her down.

She has been crying for some time, her eyes red and puffy, a trail on snot leaking from one nostril that she keeps attempting to inhale back into place. The rain plasters her hair to her scalp and she looks more like a half-drowned rat than a small girl. Pitiful. Yet he doesn’t feel pity in that moment. Instead, he sees an opportunity. A little payback for the slights he’s endured because of her father. Thinking he could just take over the Afton family, as if his having his own wasn’t enough. Replacing him when he wasn’t even gone.

And then there is the research. Those elusive details that his old college roommate comprehended but didn’t see the value of; that wasted knowledge, gifted on someone who didn’t even deserve it. He needed a push in the right direction, and this would be one hell of a shove.

He’s carried a knife with him of some variant since childhood, since camping trips and wilderness training with the scout troop, always a useful tool. He reaches into his pocket for his keyring and the girl stands there watching him with those same guileless, trusting eyes her father has. Was he really going to do this? She was innocent. None of this had anything to do with her.

But it does, he argues back in his mind. It has everything to do with her. Carving out a new path. He lifts her up under the pretense of carrying her back inside where it’s safe and warm and dry. The hand holding the knife tucked alongside her ribs. Shoved between them. Her mouth falls open in surprise. Just that, no sound as he repeats the stabbing motion again and again, punching into the fragile flesh. The downpour dilutes the crimson lifeforce painting his fingers, muffles the ragged gasps for air she’s making.

The body falls. He stares down at his victim. The keyring drops from nerveless fingers. He falls to his knees. The restaurant withers and decays behind her crumped form.

Dave Miller opens his eyes. You’re still sleeping, curled up beside him. He strokes your cheek gently. You stir, eyes lifting drowsily to regard your lover. A lazy smile curves your mouth.

“Is it time to get up?”

“No. You can sleep longer. As much as you want.”

“Did you get any rest?”

“A little.”

Your eyes are losing that gauzy appearance, clearing as you become more alert. “Are you alright? You look a little…I don’t know. Upset.”

“Bad dream. It’s alright. I have them from time to time.” He pauses. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” You turn to lie on your back and he rests a hand on your abdomen, softly stroking the skin.

“I still owe you breakfast. A debt I can’t seem to clear.”

“Mmm…I still want to eat outside.”

“We’ll do both today.”

He’d come home late the night he’d killed the Emily girl. Spending a long time washing at the sink in the downstairs bathroom. Scrubbing at the blood staining his hands until his skin was red and raw looking. Sitting stiffly on the living room couch. Intending to sleep there, though slumber never came. Still upright, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, waiting for dawn. Walking into the bathroom and entering the shower with those same vestments covering him. Stepping beneath the spray of water and letting it soak him. Oblivious to hunger, the start of his weight loss. Under eyes smudged from lack of sleep, a new feature that would forever mark his flesh. An end, and a beginning. Walking hand in hand.

It is a little past noon in the present and he has you, his second chance, trusting and affectionate, kissing his mouth and caressing the scars, oblivious to the sins of his past, helping him carve a new future.

Downstairs in the kitchen you cook side by side. Sausages. Pancakes. Evan’s favorite. A Sunday tradition, back before things had gone so badly, before life had soured. His youngest had a habit of drowning hot cakes in maple syrup. Somehow managing to spread that sticky substance everywhere. Never able to clear the plate he’d insisted on filling comically high.

It’s warm in the kitchen after cooking on the griddle cook plate on the stove. Warmer still outside. Beneath the trees that offer shade it is tolerable. Being with you making it more tolerable still. But he longs for a return to the indoors, to the darker, cooler interior of his home. Bringing you back with him into the shadows.

***

Dave has that look again.

That faraway look like he’s lost in some past memory. An occasional occurrence when you’re together with him somewhere else, a more frequent one when you’re both at his house, as if the past haunts him strongest here. You’d seen it that afternoon when you’d first woken up. Again in the kitchen while cooking together. You want to ask. You don’t want to know. Caught between the two.

You lend a hand in clearing things after a breakfast that has become lunch, hastily sliding the doors open so Miller can carry the tray of used plates and cups inside. You help him clear the counters, cleaning up the mess left from preparing the meal. You wrap your arms around his waist and press a kiss along his spine.

The faucet shuts off. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “I know I must sound like a broken record, but…” He turns and you step back, allowing him space to move. “I just want you to know.”

“I’m glad to be here, too.”

“Want to go for a ride?”

“Okay.”

You follow the older man into the garage. Remembering suddenly you still aren’t dressed appropriately. You really needed to do something about that.

“Maybe we should go pick you up some proper gear first.”

“Funny, I was just thinking about that.”

“Well, you know what they say. Great minds think alike.” He moves to the passenger door of his sedan, unlocking it and pulling it open partway.

“Thanks.” You rest your hand on the frame, intending to pull it open but he halts you, pushing against you, the door closing again.

“Maybe a little more of this before we leave,” he murmurs, nuzzling at your neck.

“That can definitely be arranged.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re in agreement. We get along so well…” His fingers are already on the fly of your shorts. “Maybe we should get in the back, or…no.” He tugs on your hand, pulling you closer to the hood. “Right here. Bent over for me.” Back at your shorts, dragging them and your panties down. Not all the way, just clearing your buttocks, leaving them somewhere over your thighs.

You let him guide you into position, turning you, pushing you gently down over the hood. The metal surface is slightly cool. Dave’s hand warm on your hip, the other unfastening his own fly before guiding his cock into you.

The air leaves your lungs in a hiss as he fully sheathes himself inside of you. You didn’t need the foreplay. You’re already dripping wet. Craving him. It’s still a stretch, still aching from last night. But you find yourself pushing your buttocks back against him, meeting each thrust with a lewd sounding slap of flesh.

It feels different in this position. Like he can hit you deeper. Your hands squeak on the alloy surface you’re resting on. Readjusting. You can’t move your legs much, still shackled by your clothing. A playful smack on one cheek. You make a sound somewhere between a giggle and a moan. Another slap, firmer this time. His hand snakes around to your front, stroking over your clit.

You curse, allowing him to lift your torso up, bringing you partly upright, massaging that bundle of nerve endings as he continues the push and pull into your canal. You’d thought the temperature in the garage was comfortable at the start but you’re getting hot already, leaving behind smudged streaks of condensation on the hood. Your head lifts and your eyes catch sight of a panel set into the wall beneath one of the workbenches. It looks like a door of some kind, well concealed but visible at this angle. You frown but it’s already out of your thoughts. Those expert fingers know exactly how to pull the orgasm out of you now, aided with the feeling of his prick pounding into you.

“That’s my good girl. Cum for me. That’s it…” You’re already there, quaking against his fingers, shuddering over the cock sawing in and out of you. He bends to kiss your back through your damp shirt. You reach back and find the hand still resting on your hip, squeezing it, willing him to follow you down the same path of pleasure. As much as you enjoy this position you miss his mouth, miss kissing him, miss staring into those hungry eyes of his. They must be nearly black now, just completely blown wide as he fucks into you fast and hard and you feel the instant he climaxes, that hot seed spurting into you, the ragged sigh of a moan leaving his lips.

You’re upright again, turning and dragging a quick, sloppy kiss along the corner of his panting mouth, sharing his crooked grin. “I had every intention of taking you out today,” he manages.

“I know. I don’t mind. We can go out another time.”

“Want to take a bath?”

“You have a tub? I thought you just had the walk in.”

“Different bathroom.” He nips at your bottom lip. “Come with me.”

“I just did.”

“Oh, I’m defiantly wearing off on you already. Let’s go get cleaned up. And then get dirty again. And then…”

He helps you tug your shorts and panties back into place. You can feel his load dripping back out of you. Amazed at the man’s stamina. Guys half his age were never able to keep up this pace.

You’re at the foot of the stairs when you think about the panel in the wall again. “Hey, Dave?”

“Hmm?” His arms around you again, his mouth at your throat.

“Never mind. Not important. Let’s go get in the tub.”

***

Dave Miller is supposed to be meeting you on campus.

That had been the plan, anyway, before his bike had suddenly decided to have its first issue since he’d bought it. Dying when he’d just gotten back into the city proper. He makes it to the side of the road, kicking the stand with more force than necessary. The worst possible timing. And now he’d have to leave it here. No service stations would be open at this hour.

He jerks the leather gloves off his hands and shoves them in his pocket, securing his helmet to the rear of the bike. It was much too hot to be wearing it. Hopefully it wouldn’t be stolen. He unzips his jacket, draping it over the seat of the motorcycle, then dragging aside his shirt sleeve to look at his wristwatch. He’d left early, so he shouldn’t be too late. He’d get a cab to take him the rest of the way.

Miller’s sweating by the time he’s finally in the back of a taxi, grateful to be in air conditioning. He tosses the first bill he finds in his wallet towards the driver—more than enough to cover the fare and a generous tip for him to wait—and starts the trek across your campus. It’s getting dark out. The temperature still oppressive. He needs something cold to drink. The iced tea he keeps in the fridge. Or a beer. He’s not a heavy drinker. He doesn’t like having his judgment impaired. But it sounds perfect right then. A cold beer and a cold bath with you.

His pace quickens. Yeah, definitely stopping for beer. That cab driver was going to make bank tonight. There. That was the building where the photo lab was.

You’re not outside, by the statue of the school mascot where you’d promised you’d be.

His steps slow. Still inside, maybe. Working.

Except he knows you’re not. He can feel it. Something’s wrong. His eyes dart around the grounds. No one else around. He shouldn’t have let you come by yourself. Not at night. He reaches in his pocket for his keyring.

For the knife that’s never left his side.

***

Your boyfriend is late.

You reposition your book bag on your shoulder, pacing a little in front of the statue you’d agreed to meet Dave at. It got dark a little earlier now, the season already changing, though you’d never know it with the intense heat that still lingers. You debate about retreiving your portable cd player from your bag. You hate wearing headphones in this heat. Dave would be here soon. You just needed to be patient.

A hand closes over your mouth and you’re jerked backward.

You instinctively rake your nails against the assailant’s hands and forearms, but they don’t budge. Your keys are in your backpack, meaning you don’t have access to your kubaton. Your mace is in there as well. Might as well be at home, for all the good it’s doing you now.

Stupid. So stupid to be so lax.

You shout for help but it’s muffled against the fingers barring your lips. You can smell motor oil. Sweat. Body odor. One of your tennis shoes is dragged off. You’re in the park next to the school. Pushed down next to a gazebo. It was still summer. Surely people would be there. Someone, anyone. The heavy weight of a pair of legs drops onto your own. The man is wearing a black ski mask. Hand still clamped over your mouth. Ignoring your flailing upper extremities.

A moment of terror as the man reaches for his belt and then he’s gone. Yanked clear of your prone form. You struggle to sit up, scrabbling backwards. Dave. It’s him. One arm curled around the man’s jaw. A knife—the one you’d seen in the laundromat, maybe—pressed against the side of the man’s neck. The temporary relief melts back into fear.

“Dave!”

“Run. There’s a cab waiting out front. Go!”

You’re afraid to leave him. Afraid of something else you don’t even consciously understand.

“Go,” he growls and you jerk to your feet, stumbling, running unevenly with one foot still bare, leaving the close cropped grass and finding the pavement again. Begging the man behind the wheel of the cab to get help. The police. A couple walking on the sidewalk stop, looking alarmed. You wonder if the words are even coming out in coherent sentences. Pleading again. You hear the man on the curb say something about a pay phone. You turn back in the direction you’d run from.

Dave.

***

“You’re lucky that I’m letting you live.” Dave digs the knife into the man’s thigh and twists. A muffled shout against his hand. Another futile struggle. There is no escaping the thin man’s grasp. “If you’d harmed her in any way, we’d be having a very different conversation right now.” A stab at the soft abdomen. Not hitting anything vital, not going particularly deep, but still puncturing all the same. Adults’ bodies were sturdier than children’s. He’s learned that the hard way.

The man’s blood is leaking over the security guard’s fingers from the laceration he’d gifted on the side of the attacker’s neck. He’s still so, so tempted to end this scum’s life right now. But there will be police. Questions. An investigation. He doesn’t want that much attention. So he forces himself to leave it at that, wiping the blade on the man’s shirt before sliding it closed, returning it to his pocket. He’s drenched in sweat. Shaking. If he hadn’t been there in time…

But he had been. Fate intervening once again. Spotting your shoe. Following the trail. Reaching you before you’d gotten hurt. He hears the sirens and his grip relaxes. He’s well versed in dealing with the authorities. He knows exactly what to say. How to behave.

Miller’s eager to return to you.

His hands cup your face when he’s by your side once more. The criminal apprehended. There are statements to be made. But right now all he wants is this frail creature he’s got between his hands. Cradling you. Seeing you alarmed at the sight of blood staining his skin, his clothing.

“It’s okay. It’s not mine. You’re okay. We’re okay.” A mantra to soothe you.

To reassure himself.

***

After the incident, you return to looking over your shoulder. Wary of the dark, of the shadows.

You know the stalker is behind bars. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t others. You make certain to always have your self defense tools in ready reach now when you’re alone.

Much of the time you’re with Dave.

The older man even more protective of you now. Clinging. You welcome the attention. You’re safe with him.

You don’t dwell on the memory of him holding the knife. On how easily he’d shifted someone twice his weight. Adrenaline, you think. Lending him extra strength. He’d done what he’d had to to protect you. You know how strong he is. You’d felt it. You know how gentle he can be, too.

You're at his house now. Morning. He’s going to be heading to bed soon. You’re going to attempt some schoolwork later while he sleeps. It’s become a routine. You here or him over your place. At the pizzeria. Behind the shelter in the back of his car. On the back of his bike once he’d gotten it fixed.

Always together.

Chapter 8

Dave Miller is lying in bed, fresh out of the shower, watching you with lidded eyes as you approach his naked body.

You crawl on the bed, working your way up to his mouth, planting kisses that start from thigh to hip, teasing just shy of his erection, sweeping over his stomach and chest, collarbone and neck and jaw before finally meeting his lips. He feels something when you kiss him, more than that hot flutter in his stomach or the throbbing between his legs. Something new. A kind of ache he’s never known and he’s reluctant to label. He has a sneaking suspicion of what it is. He just doesn’t know if he’s wants it. If he’s allowed to have this.

Your mouth departs his and you’re moving back down again, lapping at the liquid oozing from the top of his cock, watching him when you slide your lips down over him. His fingers twitch, burying in your hair. He feels words pressing against the back of his teeth. Not the usual filth that issues forth when he’s intimate with you, but something of a very different kind. You’re perfect. He’s told you this before. More than that. You’re for him. His. You’ve no idea how afraid he had been that night you’d been attacked. Losing you would be like losing himself. He couldn’t go through that again.

He can only rebuild his soul so many times.

Dave watches as you suck his dick, enjoying the feeling of your lips and tongue, the suction that drags the soft flesh of your inner cheeks, the narrowed opening of your throat, that pulsing gag as you force him deeper, abusing yourself with his length. His hand on your head is merely a gesture of affection. He doesn’t have to guide you, doesn’t need to force you. You take him as deep as you can, just like you do when he’s fucking your pussy, shoved in to the hilt, battering your cervix.

He doesn’t need to warn you when he cums, because you know his body so well now, already prepared for the next load, humming encouragement against him, working faster, eyes locked with his, pleading. He won’t deny you, spilling into your mouth, watching you gather it on your tongue, still holding that collection of fluid as you rise, letting him see you gulp it down, licking your lips to catch any stray drops that may have escaped. He knows how it tastes; doesn’t like the bitter flavor, your own is so much better, but he welcomes your kisses afterwards, sucking your tongue until the taste lessens, feeling the drowsy pull of the sleep he needs making each movement more languid.

”Stay with me until I fall.”

He means asleep, or maybe he means something else, that other thing, that feeling you’ve been steadily dragging him towards.

***

You shut your notebook with a sigh.

The words for your psychology paper won’t come.

You stand up and stretch, looking around the living room. Empty, of course. Just like the rest of Dave’s house. And with him asleep, you’re suddenly realizing how little there is to around here.

You’re bored.

The garage is probably the most interesting place you’ve seen thus far. The sketches and drawings on the workbenches. The strange metal contraptions. At least it would be give you something to stare at besides blank pages or empty shelves.

You turn the doorknob and descend the staircase. There’s a pull chain nearby for the light that you tug on as you walk towards the nearest table.

Cluttered. Dusty. He hasn’t touched this anytime recently. You don’t understand what you’re looking at. Too technical. Maybe not what you’d been expecting. You stub your toe on a box beneath the workbench and it jolts another memory. That weird panel on the wall beneath the desk.

You crouch down, reaching, your fingers falling short. You’ll have to crawl underneath. The garage is pretty clean as far as garages go but it’s still unpleasant kneeling down on the concrete. Your fingernails sink into the seam and you tug, finding the panel shifts easily. Dark inside. There had been a flashlight on the table. You crawl back out and retrieve it, switching it on and shining it into the hole.

It’s deep. Far larger than you’d expected. Piles of something. Journals? A box. And beyond that…you can barely make it out. You crawl closer, lifting the beam again and nearly cry out.

One of the animatronics. Except this one is in a terrible state. A rabbit whose color you can’t discern. Yellow? Green? Somewhere in between the two. Rents in the fabric and fur. Exposed wires. Rusting metal. An ear torn clean in half. The headpiece detached from the rest of the mascot, perched on the lap, facing you.

You shouldn’t be doing this. There had to be a reason why Dave has this stashed away, though you can’t think of a single one. But morbid curiosity has you in a vice grip. You reach for one of the journals. Dusting it off. Lifting the cover.

You know this handwriting. You’d seen it on the diagram the security guard had drawn for you when you’d been studying the cardiovascular system. Cramped cursive. The pen boring deeply into the pages so that they have texture you can feel as you turn each one, almost like a type of braille. So much writing. You see the name Henry Emily mentioned often. Dated entries. He’d kept a diary? They were all diaries? You close it and select another, digging further down into the pile. The writing rougher. More frantic, as if he couldn’t get the words out fast enough. Names you don’t recognize. Ranting about his family being stolen. Something called remnant. It’s as confusing as the things he’d left on the work station.

Now for the box. You hold your breath, listening. No sounds of movement. Miller was still asleep. You drag it into your lap as you settle on the floor next to his car.

Don’t do this. There’s no going back from this.

You don’t know where the warning comes from. You’re still not overly alarmed yet, just confused. But there’s a nagging feeling that’s about to change once you discover the contents within.

Cover removed. Framed photographs greet you. Nothing familiar. Children. Three, of varying ages. An attractive fair haired woman. Dave’s family? A token and a flyer from the restaurant announcing a grand opening. Newspaper articles reflecting that same announcement. You dig deeper. A wedding band. Plain gold. A man’s ring. More clippings from the news. A missing child. The date stirs a memory. Around the time your parents had stopped taking you to Freddy’s. More missing children. A laminated card with an obituary for a young boy. Another news article about the police investigation progress. There had never been any. A bearded man with glasses looking uncomfortable. The co-owner. The other a heavyset man with dark hair holding a hand in front of his face, blocking his features from view. Both interrogated. No evidence of foul play discovered. Both cleared of any wrongdoing.

You frown. Why on earth would Dave have all this? Had he worked there previously? Did he have some sort of strange fascination with Freddy’s? You’d always wondered about that relationship he had with the owner. As if they were friends. Another obituary card. Henry Emily. That was the end of the contents.

You begin replacing things, halting when you reach the grand opening article again. Squinting at the black and white photograph. You know who one of the men was, now: Henry Emily. The caption identified the other as William Afton. The heavyset man with dark hair. You bring the yellowing newsprint closer to your face. It wasn’t the clearest picture to begin with and the aging process made it even more difficult to discern. You’d have to magnify it. You could do it in the photo lab at school.

You carefully fold the page and put everything back, retreating to the living room. The news article is tucked between the pages of your psychology textbook.

You suddenly feel foolish. You should just ask. There had to be an explanation for all of this. You shouldn’t be going behind your boyfriend’s back.

But the way he’d hidden it. The mascot suit. The collection of manic ramblings. How to account for any of that? How would you even broach that subject? Hey, funny thing, I was in your garage looking through the stuff you have hidden in the wall—cool rabbit, by the way—and I was just wondering what the fuck all of this is? Care to shed a little light?

Dave’s nearly to the couch before you realize he’s awake again and you jump. “Oh my gosh, you scared me. I thought you were still sleeping.”

“Evidently.” He stops, glancing at your notebook sitting on your lap. “Making any progress?”

“Some. Not much.”

He tips his head to one side, one ear touching his shoulder and a large cracking sound issues forth, repeating the process for the other side. “Want some help?”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe later.” You pause. That uneasy feeling hadn’t left. “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.”

“Not unless you were playing around in the garage. I thought I heard something. You know the master bedroom is right above it.” Miller yawns and you give a nervous laugh.

“No. Nothing in there that would interest me.”

“Quite. Well, I’m awake now. Do you want to go out? Go do something?”

“I’m actually going to go to the library. Do some research for the paper. And maybe develop some prints while I’m at it,” you add.

The security guard shrugs and nods. “Okay.”

You put your notebook back in your pack, tugging the zipper shut. Dave’s still standing there, as if waiting for something. Kissing him isn’t the first thing on your mind right then, but you know you’re already acting suspicious as it is. You set the bag back down on the couch and twine your arms around his neck. “I had a nice time.”

“Mmm-hmm.” His mouth finds yours and your body responds as it always does, a flame beginning in your core. “You sure you don’t want to stay a little longer?”

“I do. Always. But I’m trying to be good about not proscatinating. I really want to make some progress on this paper today.”

“You’re a good girl. When can I see you again?”

“Tomorrow. I’m doing a quick four hours at the shelter in the afternoon.”

“I’ll come get you, then.” He kisses you longer this time, his hands sitting on your waist. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

“Dave,” you plead.

“Okay. Tomorrow. Go get some work done. I’ll try to take another nap, maybe. Call me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

“I don’t want to wake you up.”

“Call me,” he says again. “I insist.”

You nod, grabbing your backpack from the couch, hardly daring to breath until you’re back inside your car. You’d felt so safe with Dave. Especially after that incident at school. Now, though. Now you’re remembering the feeling you’d had that day you’d fled the security office. There was something off. Something wrong. And you were on your way to find out exactly what that something is.

***

The attempt to magnify the newspaper article is a flop.

The image quality is just too poor. You need an original. And that reminds you of going to the library. Microfiche reader. They were bound to have the file there. You haven’t used it that often, maybe once or twice in your entire life, but the clerk that’s working that afternoon is a kind, middle aged woman who’s only to happy to offer guidance. Cheerful until you mention what you’re looking for specifically.

Then her face darkens. “Why would you want to see that awful man? He’s gone now and Hurricane is better for it. It would be better still if they just tore that eyesore down, but the bastard won’t budge and sell. Sorry, dear, for the profanity,” she apologizes. “There are just a lot of us in this town that have bad memories of that place.”

You wave away her concern. “Did you ever see him in person? William Afton?”

“I’m sorry to say I did. It’s not a face you forget. He was a larger man. Tall, carrying extra weight. He was handsome in the early days. Charming. Easy, generous smile. Soft voice. Everyone liked him and his wife. Their kids. Then when things went south, well…he changed. And we saw him for what he really was. The absolute devil, that man.” She shivers. “Maybe the trouble started when he lost his youngest in the accident. Not that I’m excusing his actions, mind you. It was supposed to be a prank with his eldest, gone wrong. He was always causing trouble, that one. The typical rebellious young teenager. Showing off to his friends. Stuffed that poor boy’s head right inside one of those horrid anima-watchits. Bit it clean off.”

You cover your mouth with your hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry if I’m upsetting you. Like I said, it’s not something you really should be researching. Find another topic for your project.”

“I can’t. It has to be this.”

She shrugs. “Well, this is it. The date of the newspaper matches what you gave me. This dial moves the image from left to right. This one zooms in. Shouldn’t be hard to find. When you see a man with pale eyes that pierce through your soul, you’ll know it’s William Afton.”

“Wh…what?”

“His eyes. Definitely his most striking feature. Such a contrast with that dark hair of his.”

It can’t be him. “I think I’ll be good for now. Thanks for your help.” You suddenly need to sit down, a wave of nausea rolling through you. That nagging feeling you’d been having since you’d discovered the things behind that hidden compartment in Dave’s garage wall was getting stronger. No, you’d had it longer than that; since the first time you’d met him in the laundromat. That sense of danger.

And still you’d pursued him.

The older man had been nothing but good to you. You enjoyed spending time with him. The intimacy you shared unlike anything you’d ever known. You were falling for him and that feeling in particular had muted all of those doubts and misgivings, burying them under layers of affection and lust. But that was before. Before you had seen the things Dave was hiding.

If he even was Dave Miller at all.

The machine is warm in front of you. Your hands rotate the dials but your eyes don’t focus until a familiar picture skates by and you hurriedly reverse the slider. There. The same one. You can see the face more clearly now.

For a minute you can almost fool yourself into thinking it’s not the same person. The build is so different. All those sharp angles and lines you’re accustomed to softened. But the eyes. There is no mistaking those eyes. Those eyes that watch you. When you’re cooking together. Doing homework. Playing in the arcade at Freddy’s. Making out in the car, yours or his. Making love in the shower, in your bed, on his couch, in that master bedroom above the garage that you wish to God you’d never gone exploring in. Innocence is bliss, isn’t that what they always said? Now you were anything but.

Your eyes well with tears. The hands on the machine shake, your heart pounding. It’s him.

Dave Miller was really William Afton.

***

You struggle to fit your key into the lock on your apartment door.

Still fighting tears, still nauseous and afraid, you find the simple task nearly impossible.

“Need some help?”

You gasp and turn to see Dave—William—standing there behind you.

“Dave.” The other name. You can’t force yourself to say it yet.

“Couldn’t sleep. Was hoping you’d be home. Timed things well, apparently. You’re so jumpy today,” he murmurs, reaching for the keys in your hand. You relinquish them, shrinking back against the door.

“Yeah. I um…I think I’m just stressed from school.”

“Sure.” You hear the sound of the door unlocking behind you. “There you go. Dave to the rescue again.”

You try and fail at a smile, turning and pushing the door open. You don’t want to let him in. It’s the very last thing that you want.

“I was going to take you out, but maybe it’s better if we stayed in tonight. What do you think?”

Hesitating on the threshold. You might be safer in public. Assuming he was going to bring you somewhere with people. Maybe he wouldn’t.

He’d had so many opportunities to hurt you. He never had. He’d saved you from being raped, maybe worse. Maybe he wasn’t William Afton anymore. Maybe he really was Dave Miller. Your boyfriend. The man you’d been falling for.

“Yeah, let’s stay in.” You move forward, setting your bag down. Miller—Afton—you no longer know who to think of him as—follows, the door closing behind him. Deadbolt drawn. Locked inside with him.

“How did it go at the library? Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yes.” You realize you’re backing away and force yourself to stop, allowing him to close the distance between you.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“You’re sure?” He lifts your backpack, unzipping it and thrusting a hand inside. Flipping first through your notebook, then your textbook. His eyes darting back to you. “Where is it?” He tosses the bag aside, the notebook and textbook falling to the floor.

“Where’s what?”

“You know what. Let’s not play games.”

“I don’t…”

He’s on you before you even have a chance to react, a hand at your throat, pinning you back against the door you’ve just passed through. He shoves the other hand inside the pocket of your jeans, dragging the folded newspaper article out of it, waving it in front of your face. He hasn’t begun squeezing yet, just keeping you pinned in place. “This. What you stole.”

You swallow loudly. “Dave, I…”

“Why did you do it?” He lets the paper fall to the floor. “Why did you have to go looking? I would have told you, in time. When I was ready. Why did you…”

“I was just bored, I didn’t know I would find that. Any of it.”

“Boredom. That’s your reason? Why you just destroyed everything we had?”

“I wasn’t trying to…Dave,” you plead.

“Do you have any idea of how hard I’ve worked to keep this a secret? I trusted you. Let you into my restaurant, into my home. Into my heart,” he whispers. “How could you betray me like this?”

“I didn’t tell anyone. I would never tell,” you say hastily.

“I’m falling in love with you.”

”Dave…” The tears that have been threatening to spill finally begin leaking, tracking down your cheeks.

“I did everything I could to make you happy. To make you feel safe. Wanted. Loved. The things I’ve never had. I didn’t think I’d ever experience them. Until you.” He swipes at the tears on your face. “And now you’re taking it all back. You don’t really feel the same way at all.”

“I do,” you shakily respond. “I’m falling for you, too.”

“I sealed William Afton away in that box, in that wall. And you let him back out.”

“You don’t have to be him. You could still be Dave Miller. We could still...”

“How? How do I trust you, how do I…” His voice trails off, his face tucked against yours. “All I ever wanted was you.”

You reach for the fingers still resting against your throat. Not pulling them away. Merely lying them along his. “Dave,” you say. Waiting to see what man will answer.

What path destiny will lead you down.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #dave miller x you #dave miller x reader

[oftenwantedafton]

Kismet - Dave Miller/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 6

Word Count - 3k

Rating - Explicit

CW - sexual content

Also available on AO3

Dave Miller is on his knees in front of you.

You’re still nervous, doing this in the security office of the abandoned pizzeria. Wondering why the guard isn’t more concerned about what’s happening on the monitors behind him. Sitting at the edge of the swivel chair naked from the waist down with your legs splayed over the padded armrests, your buttocks dangerously close to the edge of your seat.

And that older man with the sooty eyes and dark hair right there between those spread legs, kissing the inside of your thighs, looking at your sex with a kind of feverish rapture, and you forget about where you are, whatever awkward misgivings you have vanishing. He kisses those other lips so tenderly you think you might expire, just become deceased right then. This cannot be real, this man that worships your body, this Adonis lapping at you, sucking, pressing his mouth so deeply against you that the sharp line of his nose digs into your mound, the angle of his jaw pressing flesh, those high crested cheekbones bumping your thighs all while he watches you, studying the part of your lips, the tongue that darts out to moisten them, the little pants of air that escape between them that evolve into moans the harder he sucks and licks and thrusts his tongue into you.

You bury your fingers in that nest of dark chocolate crowning his head, caressing it, tugging it, trying to wrench him even closer. His fingers invade you, those ones he’d bragged about, every promise a reality. You’re dangerously close to falling off the chair that squeaks in protest, supported in place only by the man kneeling at the altar of your body, worshipping your clit with sharp little strokes while his fingers curl inside of you.

“Dave.” A signal you’re close, your fingers tightening. Surely it stings his scalp. The concrete floor has to be murder on his knees. But he seems oblivious, completely consumed by you, consuming you, urging you on towards the path of release.

“Cum for me. That’s it. Good girl, good girl…”

His eyes burning, watching you as you come undone in his mouth, on his fingers, shaking violently, keening, your heart pounding so fiercely it’s nearly painful, tempered by the ultimate pleasure he’s gifted you, still holding you steady, planting kisses, crooning praise and soothing you until you no longer feel quite so battered and weightless.

You’re speechless as you manage to shove yourself back before you tumble, and Miller finally rises, stretching, joints cracking before he settles into the hardbacked chair you’d previously occupied. A satisfied little smirk twists his lips.

“You are…”

“I’m what?”

“I don’t even know. Dave!” He executes that little maneuver of his when he drags the office chair next to his, hooking his shoe under the bar that houses the wheels. You lean over to kiss him, tasting yourself.

“That’s more the reaction I was hoping for the first time I did that,” he murmurs.

“I was nervous.”

“Clearly.”

“I didn’t know you.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ve made up for it since then, havent I?”

“Somewhat.”

Your mouth drops open and he smirks again. “Teasing. Yes, you have. You taste like heaven, by the way. But I’m sure you already knew that.”

You shrug, blushing. “If you say so.”

“I do say so. Get dressed and I’ll turn the power on. You can have a go in the arcade.”

“Really?”

He nods, looking bemused by your enthusiasm. “For a bit. And then we’re going to study for your next exam.”

“Ugh.” You sigh, wishing you didn’t have your backpack with you.

“We’ve got a lot of time to kill. Might as well use it productively.”

He sets the folder back on the desk, the photographs tucked inside once again. The reason he’d started kneeling on the floor to begin with. You stash it securely in your bag. Your underwear and shorts have ended up on the control console, where he’d tossed them during your little moment of passion.

The security guard watches as you pull the garments back on, running a thumb absently against his bottom lip.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just admiring the view.” He stands. “Come over here.” A shiver runs through you as you obey, moving in front of him. You haven’t finished fastening your shorts yet. “I hope you realize that’s not the only time I’m going to go down on you tonight. I will certainly be eating that delectable cunt of yours out again.” He kisses the side of your neck, his tongue tracing the curve of your ear.

“Dave,” you gasp.

“And then I’m going to fuck you senseless. In my shower. In my bed. So be ready for a long, long night,” he whispers, his hands sliding down to cup your buttocks.

The older man steps back, looking a little smug at how breathless you are, as if he is keenly aware that he’s already inciting another wave of arousal in your core.

You trail after him, still a little dazed from the orgasm and the dirty talk, wondering how he transitions so readily from casual conversation to spewing filth to innocent chatter once again, watching as he flips the switches that awaken the slumbering pizzeria, reinvigorating it with a burst of light and color and sound.

He pauses in the kitchen to grab a dusty steel mixing bowl from one of the shelves, once again leading you back to the arcade. The keyring makes an appearance and you learn at least one more of the secrets that massive ring unlocks, the coin exchange swinging open, and he drags the piles of tokens inside into the bowl.

Locked securely once more. He straightens, handing you the bowl. It’s heavy. He’d made it look like it weighed nothing. “What do you want to play first?”

A good question. “Skeeball?”

“Skeeball it is. I have to warn you, I’m pretty good.”

You’re halfway tempted to make a joke about balls and holes but you keep silent, merely following him over to the row of lanes. You set the bowl down in one of the vacant ones, lifting a couple of the tokens. The familiar bear mascot is on the front. No cash value on the back. They have that feeling that old pennies have, that musty metallic stain that tends to linger long after you’ve stopped touching them.

You thumb the coin into the slot and hand your companion one. The red flashing scoreboard settles to zero, the wooden balls rolling down to rest in the open storage area where they’re retrieved from. You snatch the first one your hand settles on, feeling the weight of it, judging the distance. You hadn’t played in ages, but you had been decent at it. The trick was hitting the lane somewhere in the middle, starting from there, the momentum giving it just the right amount of lift needed to bounce into one of the smaller targets worth higher points near the rear of the game case.

“You ready?” You look over at the tall man next to you.

He nods. The ball looks so tiny in that massive hand. He’s probably going to put you to shame, but you don’t really care. It’s just for fun. Still, you’re going to make an honest effort. You can’t make it too easy for him.

You roll the first ball. Thirty. Okay, not great, but you needed to get warmed up. Another. Ten. Your eyes flick to the scoreboard beside yours. One hundred. A little competitive flare ignites. You’re going to aim for that fifty spot. Success. And again. Two in a row. You’re getting a feel for it once more. Aim a little more at an angle, trying to direct the ball into a one hundred slot in the top left corner. It bounces out. Again. You’ve got it. You’re not letting yourself look at Dave’s score. Focusing. Two forties. Another one hundred. A fifty. One hundred. Thirty. The rack is empty.

You’re surprised to see tickets still emerging from the slot beneath the coin return. Your grab at the train of perforated paper, finally looking at your partner. He still had one ball left. He tosses it, not even looking at the lane. His eyes on you. You dart a quick glance at his score. He’d beaten you, but not by much.

“Not bad.” His hands sit on your waist. “You wanna pick something out from the prize counter?”

Your hands twine behind his neck. “Is that a euphemism?”

“It could be.” He kisses you. “Legitimately I think there are still things back there. I don’t know what kind of shape they’re in, but…”

“Well you can’t get anything good with just a few tickets anyway. Have to save up. Rematch?”

“You’ve got it.”

Three more rounds follow. Then it’s air hockey. Shooting basketball hoops. Pinball. Whack-a-mole except it’s poor Bonnie’s head you’re thumping. A claw machine with a few forgotten plush that have been trapped in its plastic walls for years. You’ve never been skilled at these. Dave apparently is, maneuvering the flimsy looking device into position and deftly hooking one of the claws through the tag sewn on one leg of a yellow rabbit with a purple bowtie.

“There you go.” He hands it to you.

You smooth the plush ears and tuck it beneath your arm. “You really like rabbits, huh?”

“They’re the best.”

You’re in front of the video game cabinets now, trying to decide between Frogger, Qbert, and Ms. Pac-Man. Finally surrendering and playing them all. Dave joins you. Once again showing off his skills.

“You practice a lot? When you’re bored? I’m not going to tell anyone,” you reassure him, in case he thought you were implying you’d report him to the owner for neglecting his duties. As if you even know how to contact him. As if this was the most derelict thing the pair of you had done while he was supposed to be minding the monitors. Silly, really.

“Used to play more back in the day. Not so much now.”

You lose your last life and sigh. It always got to a point where using the joystick got kind of, not exactly painful, but uncomfortable. Straining your wrist at an awkward angle. “Man, I could go for a slice of pizza right now.”

“We can order out.”

“Will they deliver here?”

The Game Over message flashes on the screen in front of him, accompanied by a mournful musical sound. “No. But I can go pick it up really quickly. We should do it soon, though. I think the nearest one closes at two.”

“What time is it now?”

“One.”

“Okay. Let’s order.”

“What do you want for toppings?”

“I’m kind of boring. I like it plain.”

“Extra cheese?”

“Okay.”

“Coke?”

“Deal. Am I coming with you?”

“If you want.”

“I think I’d rather. I don’t know about staying here alone.”

“Let me shut things down. I’ll be right back.”

You nod. Your plush is still sitting on the arcade cabinet. Safe enough place for now, you suppose. The room suddenly darkens, going silent. You fold your arms across your chest, feeling a little anxious for the guard to return.

“Alright. Ordered. Let’s go. We can wait there. Shouldn’t take long. Here’s your bag. We can use that to put the soda in. The pizza’s going to have to go in front of me. Not ideal but we’ll make it work.”

“I’m still surprised your boss doesn’t mind you being away so much from your post,” you say, watching him lock the front entrance.

“Are you still worrying about that? Don’t. Trust me, he’s okay with all of this.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Stop. Worrying.” He boops your nose and you relax, smiling. “Here you go. We need to get your proper gear soon, seriously. You should not be on a bike half naked like that.”

“I wasn’t planning on this, to be fair.”

“True. Still. It’s high time. Especially since this is…”

“This is what?”

“Becoming a rather steady thing. Permanent.”

“Us being together, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Kind of like dating?”

“Something like that, yes.” He holds his leather jacket open and you slide your arms inside. He zips the front. “You look good in this.” The helmet is still clutched in one hand.

“Something like it, or actually it?” You persist.

That bemused expression is back. “You want to be my girlfriend?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe…or definitely?”

“Yeah. The latter.”

“You’re already my girl. Mine.” His fingers tuck into the slight gap where he hasn’t pulled the zipper up all the way, tugging you against him, his mouth colliding with yours. You’re suddenly wishing your stupid stomach hadn’t made you suggest pizza. You could be back inside the building with him, taking this further again. “Later. Like I told you.” He seems to know exactly what you’re thinking, drawing back reluctantly and securing the fastening of the jacket closed properly this time. “Helmet on. Let’s go get pizza.”

***

Dave Miller settles into the booth across from you inside the pizzeria.

Not his own, but a more modern, much more simplified version. Resting an arm on the red and white gingham patterned table. The scent of the inside of that establishment reminding him so much of the one he’d managed years ago. He doesn’t want to remember those days right now.

He likes creating the new memories with you.

He’d actually considered hiring someone, a proper replacement again. It would free up more time for you. But Freddy’s was so good at getting its hooks sunk in him. A little taste and he’s addicted again. Relinquishing his position doesn’t feel right, somehow. As foolish as that sounds. He wants to be there. There is still the work to do.

But there is you now, too. A project that has taken precedent. A temptation equally as inviting as his establishment, as what dwells within it.

He stretches his hand towards you and your fingers curl over it. Smiling. So happy to be with him. No other customers to see the display of public affection but he still detects the pride in your eyes. The contentment. You want people to see. To know. Asking to be his girlfriend. He’d told you it wouldn’t be a teenage romance, but it felt like it at times. Not in a bad way. Just the simple pleasure of it. Enjoying the newness. That giddy feeling. The endless cycle of thoughts centering around the other person.

Feelings he hadn’t anticipated experiencing.

Then there is the more adult side of things. The insatiable lust. The constant craving. Taking you apart with his mouth and his hands earlier. The sheer blissful rapture of that experience. Every discovery with you like that. Learning what your body desired. Becoming it for you. Successful. Unlike his previous failures. As a husband. A father.

“Dave, the pizza’s ready.”

He’d been lost in his head again. He smiles apologetically, reaching for his wallet. The warm cardboard box rests now resting partially on his spread thighs and on the front of the bike. Your warmth is wrapped around his back. Seated in the dining room now in front of the curtained center stage. Greasy slices stain the paper plates from the other shop. You don’t finish your crusts.

Lizzie had been like that.

Sipping soda from more borrowed paper goods from the newer pizzeria. Frowning over the heavy textbook on the table in front of you. He uses one of the paper napkins, attempting to sketch a diagram for you to label. It shreds and you laugh. Notebook paper now. Better. He sees how impressed you are. He’s accustomed to sharper edged things. Technical components. The interior organs of the human body are so different. Rounder. Wetter.

He’s drawn the heart. Ventricles, Atria. Chambers. Valves. Vessels. The blood supply, how it flows through the body.

So much blood. There had always been so much.

He lifts the cover of your textbook and folds it closed. Looking at you. Hungry.

You follow him back into the depths of the restaurant.

***

There is water spilling over you.

You’re inside of the shower at Dave’s house. A walk-in. Not a lot of space. His body crowding yours. Soap lathered onto you. Breasts, abdomen, hips, back, buttocks, thighs. Between them.

You take your time returning the favor. Shampooing his hair, massaging the tresses. Dragging sudsy nails over the scars, the firm muscle beneath the pale skin, over the trail of sparse dark hairs on his chest, his stomach, leading down to his erection.

Miller presses you face first against the shower wall, teasing your entrance, not entering yet, just stroking, dragging your slick that is different from the other wetness pouring down, gliding between your lips, his mouth on your shoulder, sucking, tasting.

You’d thought he’d be rough when he properly enters you, pushing you down beneath him onto the mattress, but he’s gentle, betraying none of the impatience he must be feeling after a night of teasing, hours of waiting for this moment.

The guard looks into your eyes as he impales you on his cock, watching, always watching, pausing only to capture the lips that fall open before his face hovers over yours again. Your fingers search for his, lacing between them and he pins those linked hands beside your face, sinking them down into the pillow.

A quickening of breath to match the increased pace of his thrusts. Your hips roll up to meet him. He’s reaching places deep inside you, a feeling you hadn’t known before. That ache. Unlike any other. The line of his jaw drawn taut, quivering with tension. He’s so, so quiet.

“Dave.” A shudder against you. He exhales heavily as if releasing all the air he’d trapped since the start of this interlude at once. Bending to taste your lips again. Moaning softly into your mouth. Your knees dig into his ribs. Moving faster now. Thrusting in and out. He’s got you there again. Wringing another climax from you just before his own. Your hands still clasped. Another heavy exhale. Something like a whimper. His body sinks onto the bed beside you.

Facing each other now. A short distance from his pillow to yours. Tired shadow of a smile. You’re exhausted, drained. But exhilarated, too. Drawn into his arms. Feeling sleep overtaking you.

Your backpack on the floor, the yellow rabbit plush peeking through the unzippered gap.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #dave miller x reader #dave miller x you #dividers credit @strangergraphics

[oftenwantedafton]

Kismet - Dave Miller/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 5

Word Count - 3.3k

Rating - Explicit

CW - sexual content, referenced character death

Also available on AO3

Dave Miller hasn’t had a guest in his home in years.

Not since before he started using the alias. Now with you lying stretched out across the length of the couch, his body hovering over yours, one knee wedged against the row of cushions at the back, one hand bracing your wrist against the plush arm of the sofa.

Longer still since anyone has touched him like this, your hands caressing the skin of his abdomen beneath his undershirt, eyes hazy with lust, noting the appreciative little lift of your lashes when you finish opening his pants and feel what he’s concealing there.

He enjoys kissing you, the tiny sounds that escape when his tongue strokes just right, teeth nipping at the tender skin of your throat, lips finding all the sensitive places to touch: behind your ears, the nape of your neck, the hollow at the base of your throat.

He likes your body, the way his large hands spread across the softness of it, stiffened nipples peeking between the slats of his long fingers as he massages your breasts, resting on the curve of your hip, tucking between your thighs to find the petals he wants his tongue between, something he’s going to indulge in at the next opportunity.

But for now you’re focused on his pleasure, stroking along his length, easing his briefs and pants down partway over the curve of his buttocks, pulling more of his hard cock free from its encasement. He’s looking into your eyes and he sees them dark like his own, pupils dilated not just because of the dim interior of the room but because of the desire pooling there. An eternity since he’d seen someone look at him that way, so accustomed to the fear and the disappointment and the hate.

Every instinct within him makes him want to take you right then and there, to violate that warm, wet pussy and pound into you, filling you full of his seed, but he won’t let himself go that far yet. He doesn’t want to startle you again. He’s amazed you’ve progressed this far with him as it is.

The fingers closed over his prick move faster and he ruts against that hand, gently at first and then with increasing need, the weight of his body dropping and crushing against you slightly, his kisses more hungry, his touches more frantic before he finds release, face tucking into your neck, moaning as he spills hot cum over your hand.

He knows there is something so broken in him, a fracture where emotions are developed. It had always been like that, hadn’t it? From as early as he can remember, going through the motions but not really caring about people as he should, not his parents, not his wife, not his children, except perhaps his youngest, whom he’d been more fond of than the others. He wanted to love and be loved, wanted to feel it blossom inside of him, wanted it gifted to him in return, but it was never quite right, always feeling like an imitation, pretending, that was why the spirits in the animatronics were so important, to finally find something capable of the devotion he craved, the blind trust and eternal affection, a proper parent at last with his devout offspring, perfect creations made with his own hands, with the magic of something else he still doesn’t understand. He still has so much research to do.

“Dave.” Your voice breaks through his wandering thoughts.

“I’m here,” he says, offering a little half smile, his body sighing against yours. “Sorry, am I too heavy?” He hadn’t meant to rest quite so much of his weight on you.

“You’re good. You just seemed a little lost there for a minute.”

“Just a little overwhelmed. It’s been a long time. You’re amazing.”

A pleased smile curves your lips at the security guard’s praise.

“You’re pretty great yourself.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm.” You lift your head up to capture his lips.

“You want to go to the kitchen? Get another drink, wash hands, all that?”

“M’kay.”

You take a moment to straighten your clothes while he climbs off of you, refastening his pants. He really wants a shower and he definitely needs to sleep. He’s tempted to invite you into both of those activities but he knows you have things to do and he can hardly expect you to want to sleep in the middle of the day anyway.

You stand beside the glass sliding doors that lead off of the kitchen after washing at the sink, looking out at the backyard while he empties the rest of the cold brewed tea into your glass.

“It’s so green. You’d never know you were so near desert country.”

Miller hates it. The popular one story homes with stucco exteriors and Spanish tile roofs. Front yards that are nothing but stones and cement. Everything always right out in the blazing sun. It was not easy maintaining what he had. City ordinances dictated restricted water usage given how dry the area was. But he’d found a way around it. Resourceful as always.

“You want to go outside?”

You nod and he unlocks the slider. You’re still barefoot. He watches you step into that emerald carpet, sighing appreciatively at the feel of it on your bare skin. “It’s real, right?”

“Yes.”

Your head tips back as you look up through the branches of the Bigtooth Maples and English Oaks shading the lawn. “I would love to have a picnic out here sometime.”

“We can do that.” The older man leans against the open doorway as you complete the circuit around the landscape.

“You’re tired, huh?” You’re standing in front of him, resting a hand on his chest.

“A little.”

“I should let you rest, then. You still have to drop me off. Unless you want me to call for a ride…”

“No. I’m bringing you home.” Dave straightens, stepping back to allow you room to reenter the kitchen. You slip your sneakers back on, leaving the ACE wrap off this time. Managing the stairs back down to the garage well. You really were healing.

“Thank you for having me over. I had a really great time,” you murmur when you’re back in front of the door of your apartment. You’ve exchanged phone numbers now, scrawled on a page torn from the notebook in your backpack, his own half folded and tucked away in his pants pocket.

“Me too. I’ll see you soon.” He kisses you, suddenly reluctant to part when your hands twine around his neck, drawing him closer. You’ve begun worrying out a hollow in him, a place that aches with your vacancy. Driving back home, leaving you behind, feels wrong. The quiet solitude he normally enjoys at home suddenly feels too empty. He sees your glass on the rack in the kitchen sink and the pillow that is not in its usual place on the couch and is reminded of you each time. He showers and lies down and he wishes you were there with him. In that shaded backyard, in his bed, in the cooler dark of the coming night, his secret, his own.

***

You’re behind the wheel once more.

Driving yourself to work and school. The deadline for your psychology paper is rapidly approaching. You haven’t even started it yet. Another anatomy exam is also on the horizon.

The itch to fill a roll of film in your camera has you back outdoors snapping pictures. Night photography this time. You want the practice of working with shadowed imagery, finding the best source of natural illumination, capturing each subject while preserving the dark. Downtown near your apartment. On campus. The news has gone quiet about the dreaded stalker. Perhaps he’s moved on. You’re less cautious now, more relaxed. You don’t find yourself disturbed by unexplained noises or looking over your shoulder.

Unaware that you’re being watched.

***

Sometimes the past comes back to haunt Dave Miller.

It happens at random moments. He’s in his kitchen after work eating a bowl of cold cereal, standing in front of the glass doors just as you’d done the other day, just as he’s done dozens of times, but what he’s seeing isn’t the neatly manicured lawn. There’s a swing set, one he’d put up himself. A patio area with a large table and lots of chairs. A grill for barbecuing. That’s where he’s meant to be in this recollection from the past, but he’s not.

He’s at the restaurant working, not as the guard he is now but as the former owner. He glares at the phone that keeps ringing, interrupting his work, finally shoving aside the animatronic components on the workbench and hastily snatching the handset off the wall.

“What is it?”

“You need to come home.”

His wife, of course. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tell Michael he’s not getting a shortened sentence for being grounded, I don’t care how much begging he does. I’ve told him a thousand times not to use that damn ball in the—”

“—Lizzie’s birthday party.” She interrupts. “Remember?”

He hasn’t. It had been completely buried beneath everything he was working on. “Of course I remember. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“With the cake.”

“Yes, with the cake.”

He hangs up the phone, glancing at his wristwatch. Already afternoon. He’d lost track of the time again. His eyes flick back to the surface of the table cluttered with steel and circuitry and wires and the many piles of his sketches and notes. He forces himself to switch off the lamp and leave the workroom.

The cake was all the grocery store had available last minute. The wrong colors. Yellow and green instead of pink and purple. The icing lettering on the top hastily done by the inexperienced weekend staff, lacking the more refined techniques from the full time bakers. He can see the disappointment on his daughter’s face.

He’s not the one to comfort her. His business partner is there, the tears she’d been about to shed instantly forgotten when he offers her a doll, not something store bought but something he’d made by hand.

Inside his wife has gathered the dishes. Scraping half eaten buns and potato chip crumbs and morsels of cake from the plates into the rubbish bin. Glaring at him after she’s finished, tossing the soiled butter knife angrily into the sink. “You promised me you wouldn’t mess this one up. She hated that cake.”

He remains silent. Hands in fists in his pockets.

“Thankfully Henry saved the day as usual,” she continues, jabbing at the faucet to turn it on. “And did you notice how well Mike behaved? He always does when he’s around.”

“Maybe you should have married him instead,” he says quietly.

She tugs on the handle and the supply of water ceases, a few drops still leaking from the chrome edge every few seconds. Another repair he’d neglected to make. Insisting there’s no need to call a plumber, of course he can handle it. Except he never does.

“Maybe I should have,” she agrees, her voice subdued. A stray piece of gold hair has fallen from where she’d pinned it back. In the old days he would have tenderly tucked it back behind her ear, asked her to forgive him, kissed her forehead and wrapped an arm around her.

Now he just stands there, looking out of place in his own house, while another man does the things he should have.

***

Miller’s walking in the hallway upstairs, the half finished bowl of cereal he’d lost an appetite for sitting in the newer sink that has never leaked and his eyes fall on the door to his youngest’s room. One of the worst days of his life, coming back into that room after the accident.

It’s empty now, but back then it had been filled with everything Evan loved. The train set he’d passed down onto him. The abundant pile of plush animals on his bed. The latest action figures that were all the rage—Gi Joes and Transformers and Voltron. The storage bin tucked under the bed full of Legos. His youngest son took after him in that way, loving animals, building things. Things that his oldest had never touched. Mocking him for being so sensitive, so prone to tears. He seemed to take particular pleasure from making his little brother cry, and that cruelty could only have come from his genes, as well.

It becomes a tradition to sit in that room every night since Evan’s death. Sitting on the edge of the bed, holding one of the stuffed animals or fiddling with one of the figures. Pressing the bear he’s holding that particular evening closer, inhaling his scent. For the briefest moment he can pretend it’s like holding him again. And then it’s gone.

“Bill.” His wife is at the door, sighing. She’d been a little more tolerant of him since the incident. Not a full reconciliation, but a sort of forgiving commiseration. “Bill, we’ve talked about this. You have to stop coming in here. Mike and Lizzie won’t stop arguing. They won’t listen to me. I need you down there.”

“Just give me a little longer with him.”

“He’s not here. He’s gone. You know that, right? You can’t bring him back.”

“What if I could?”

His spouse sits on the edge of the mattress beside him. “You can’t. I know it hurts. But being in here every day, pretending…it’s not helping things. You have two other children that need their father right now. I need my husband.” She pulls the bear from his fingers, setting it back at its place near the head of the bed. “We should close this room off. Permanently. I’m not saying get rid of anything yet, but…” She hesitates, reaching for one of his hands. The first touch of its kind he’s known in awhile. “Maybe we could try again someday. Maybe it would help heal things.” She brings the hand to her lips and kisses it.

He stares at her in disbelief. “Replace him? Is that what you think we should do? Hide his existence from sight and replace him?”

“Of course not. No one would ever replace our baby. But we have to grieve and move on. For the kids’ sake if not our own. Please, Bill.”

He withdraws his hand from hers. “I have to go into work.”

“Now? Why? You’ve already been there for twelve hours. I just told you Mike and Lizzie—”

“—I have to work,” he says again, standing.

“Don’t do this. Please, I’m begging you. Not tonight.”

He moves towards the doorway.

“This is our last chance. Please don’t throw it away. I don’t…I don’t know how much longer I can stay otherwise.”

He continues walking away without a glance back.

***

Dave returns to the present, surprised to find himself seated on the bare floor of that long vacant room. Resting his back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. He has not entered this space since he cleared it out and stripped it bare. There is nothing left of his son in here now; nothing left of any member of his former family. Just these terrible memories he needs to do a better job of suppressing.

He takes a long shower and settles into bed. Eyes going to the cordless phone he never has much occasion to use anymore. He has no friends or family to call. No one seeks him out unless it’s a solicitor. But now he has you. And he needs you then. The sound of your voice to keep him anchored in the present, away from the nightmarish past that chases him.

“Dave?” You sound surprised when you hear him speaking on the other end of the line. “You okay?”

“Yes. I just needed to hear your voice. Is that alright?”

“Yes.” You sound cheerful, happy. It’s exactly what he needs right now. “How was work?”

“Boring. Tell me about your day instead.”

“We got some new animals at the shelter.” You begin prattling about the latest additions and he sinks back against the pillows, shifting until he’s comfortable. His eyes slip closed.

“I miss you,” he says when you finally pause.

“I’m here.”

“Yes. You’re there and not here. I want to see you soon. Tonight? Will you be at work?”

“Yes. You can stop by.”

“Good. I’d like that.”

“I miss you, too. I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Have you?”

“Pretty much nonstop,” you admit.

“You can call me whenever you want.”

“I didn’t want to wake you. I’m surprised you’re still up.”

“I…had some things to do. I’ll be able to sleep now. I just needed to hear you.”

“Okay, Dave. I’ll let you get some rest. I’ll see you later. Sweet dreams.”

He can only hope they will be.

***

You're at the shelter with Dave Miller.

The kittens are long gone. Some of the older cats have been adopted as well. A Guinea pig and a pair of Dumbo rats have taken up residence. The rabbit is still there, enjoying some time stretching his legs in the visiting room, hopping around, coming to rest at the feet of the security guard. He lifts it into his lap, setting it on his thighs, fingers already working on the soft furry bridge between its ears.

“You’re so good with him. I wish you’d take him home.”

“I would. I’d just feel bad leaving him alone for so many hours when I’m at work.”

“Still better than being stuck here, though. Can you imagine him in that backyard? He’d be in heaven.”

“Nibbling flowers and digging holes but yes, he would.” Miller smiles wryly, then looks up at you. “Come to work with me tonight.”

You haven’t been back to Freddy’s since that night of the rainstorm. Not for any specific reason, the opportunity just hadn’t presented itself. You’re still baffled by those strange blurred photographs you’d taken. “Yeah? It’s okay?”

“Of course.”

A sudden thought occurs to you. “Hey, you never mentioned what happened with your boss. What did he say about you leaving early that day?”

His eyes drop back down to the rabbit’s splayed form. “He was fine with it, like I said he would be. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay. I’ll come visit.”

“Taking my bike.”

“I’ll be there the whole night with you, then.”

“Exactly. Then we have breakfast together. Then sleep. Together,” he adds, his eyes finding yours again.

Your pulse quickens. “Okay,” you agree.

***

It’s only the second time you’ve been on Dave’s motorcycle.

The feeling is different this time, now that your relationship has progressed so intimately. Winding your arms around his waist, tucking your body close to his. This time letting your hands wander when you’re at a traffic light, sliding down his thighs. His gloved ones reaching back to caress yours.

How different it was being back in the security office now, too. The last time you’d left, seeking to escape from the older man. Now you wanted to be close to him. Eyes flickering over the folder of photographs still resting on the edge of the desk. Miller swiveling back and forth, his attention focused on you. Rising and cupping your chin, lifting your jaw as he bends to kiss your mouth.

“I miss you,” he breathes, and it’s an echo of what he’d said on the phone the previous day. That voice in your ear making you shiver. Envisioning him still damp from the shower. Just getting into bed. Thinking about you and dialing your number. “I want you.”

The folder you’d been flipping through slips from your fingers, your hands reaching for him as the pictures scatter on the floor.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #dave miller x you #dave miller x reader #dividers credit @ saradika graphics

[oftenwantedafton]

Kismet - Dave Miller/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 4

Word Count - 3k

Rating - Explicit

CW - sexual content

Also available on AO3

Dave Miller is waiting for you in the campus parking lot outside of the building you’ve just had your anatomy exam inside.

You can see him leaning against the driver’s side door, his hands shoved into his pockets. Still dressed in his security guard uniform. It’s hot out. You squint against the glare of the sun as you exit, maneuvering your way down the handicapped ramp using the crutches he’d lent you earlier. They’re awkward, a little tricky to get used to, but they do help. Your ankle was actually a lot better today, but you’d also been resting it for awhile now, so you don’t want to push it and ruin the recovery process.

“How did it go?” He greets you when you reach his car.

You draw in a deep breath, then exhale. “I think I did okay. I hope. That was worth a quarter of my grade.”

”I’m sure you did well.” He opens the rear passenger door and you slide the crutches inside across the back seat, followed by your backpack. The vintage luxury sedan had a spacious interior, hailing from an era where things were built bigger, with the intention of showing off, ignoring things like fuel efficiency and compact sizing. Not what you would have envisioned him driving; it just didn’t suit his aesthetic. So at odds with the bike gear, with the sport motorcycle itself.

“So where do you want to go?” You’ve both settled inside the car. The vinyl seats are warm, clinging to the bare skin on the backs of your thighs. You’d worn denim shorts and a tank top today. You don’t know how the older man can stand being so covered up. Maybe something to do with those strange marks he has on him. You want to ask about them, the query nearly forcing its way past your lips on more than one occassion, but you’re still hesitant, uncertain if it was the right time to ask yet.

“You must be tired.” The smudges beneath his eyes still persist. You wonder when the last time he actually got some decent rest was.

“I took a cat nap while you were taking your test. I’m good for now.”

“Let’s go to your house.” You try to make it sound casual, surprising yourself when the words slip out. A little forward, inviting yourself over.

“My house?” A mixture of his own surprise laced with some amusement as well. “On a day like this I thought you’d want to be outdoors.”

“It’s too hot.”

“It’s summer in Utah. It’s always too hot,” he counters.

“Touché.”

“Seriously, though. Where do you want to go?”

You pretend to reconsider, biting your bottom lip, eyes fixing upward. “Mmmm…your house.”

“Okay. If that’s what you really want.” He turns the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life. “Seatbelt on, please.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You drag the nylon strap across your chest, shoving the buckle into place. The material digs into your bare shoulder, pressing between your breasts.

“You’re back to work on Friday, right?” He pulls out of the parking lot, heading north out of the city proper. The opposite direction from where you reside.

“Yes.”

“You think you’re going to be okay getting there?”

“I should be good.”

“Ill give you my number just in case. You should have it anyway.”

“Yeah, I should.” He glances over at you, smirking.

You fuss with the radio for a bit, rummaging with the cassette tapes stashed into the console. A lot of music from the eighties. Something else you don’t recognize shoved way in the back. A large plastic cartridge with a faded peeling label that’s water damaged, the paper wrinkled. “What’s this?”

“Eight track. A largely inferior way to listen to music.”

“So why do you keep it?”

“I had no idea that was there, to be honest.” The car rolls to a stop at the next intersection, the traffic light turning red. “Is this what you’re going to do at my house? Snoop through my things?”

“You said to get to know you. So, this is getting to know you.”

“Hmmm.” He doesn’t sound upset, exactly. Mulling the situation over, perhaps. Deciding what he was willing to reveal.

You toss the item back where you found it. “I know what you did.”

Dave’s eyes snap to your face. “What?”

“They got an anonymous donation of an AC unit at the shelter. That was you, wasn’t it?”

Something like relief washes over the guard’s features, the tense shoulders relaxing. “Oh. That. Yes, that was me. Couldn’t have the bun and the others suffering.”

“What did you think I meant?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. I don’t know.”

Another mystery for you to solve. You tentatively lift each leg off the seat. Sticking already. There was no air conditioning in his car. The windows were rolled down, but with the automobile at a standstill there was no air exchange.

“The downside to vinyl,” he murmurs, seeing your struggles. “There really isn’t an upside. In the winter it’s like sitting on ice.”

“You need a new car.”

“It serves its purpose.”

The light turns green and he shifts his foot from the brake to the gas pedal. At least it was an automatic. You didn’t even know how to drive a standard.

His right hand departs the steering wheel and finds its way to your knee once you’ve left the city behind.

Just a casual reach and drop, that long extremity having no trouble stretching until his fingers close over the bare joint, thumb tracing small circles.

Your body is already reacting. You squirm in your seat, shifting down a little, his hand easing further up with the movement. Now half on bare skin, half on the jean covering. Thumb now worrying at the frayed edges of the hole at the front. Tucking inside. Fingers pressing firmly along your inner thigh. You suck in a deep breath.

You can see the profile of a smile on his features. His eyes never leave the road as his hand meanders further along, stopping just shy of your crotch. Your heart is pounding. Waiting for him to touch the seam there, grind it against you clothed sex.

Instead his hand abandons you, reclaiming its position on the steering wheel and you look at him, mouth open in disbelief.

He shoots you a hurried glance. “What?”

“You know what.”

“There are a lot of turns coming up. I’ll need both hands. We’re almost there,” he adds.

You fold your arms. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Don’t pout.”

“Or what? What are you going to do about it?” Whatever retort he’s readied dies off when you reach over to exact revenge, digging your nails into his thigh. Raking along the inside. You have to lean, you don’t have the length that he does.

“You are…”

“I’m what? What am I?”

He brakes at a stop sign and thumbs the arm of the turn signal even though there are no other cars in sight. The neighborhood looks quiet, a good distance between the houses. Large yards. Lots of trees. Shade. Privacy.

“Unexpected.” He surprises you with how fast he moves, cupping the side of your face and kissing you. Your stomach somersaults, your core throbbing in response. “Addictive,” he adds, kissing you again before he returns his attention to driving.

***

Miller’s house is a three bedroom Garrison with an attached two car garage.

You’re in that garage now, gaining entry once he’d pushed the button on the remote slotted on the sun visor overhead. You see his bike parked inside and a lot of the typical clutter you’d expect. Workbenches. Tools. You’re trying to picture the guard working on a housing project, doing something mundane like mowing the lawn, an expansive front one that rests on an incline, the house set uphill and far back from the road. Finding it impossible to reconcile the image.

There are a few steps into the house. Dave unlocks the door and doesn’t hesitate to scoop you up in his arms again. You laugh, murmuring a little protest that you can manage the task but he persists. You’re carried into a living room and gently deposited onto the nearby couch. It’s dark inside the house. Cooler. A lot of trees surround the property. It’s a relief after the heat outdoors.

“Want something to drink?”

“Yes, that’d be great.” You adjust the pillow beside you, looking around the room while you wait. It’s very modern. Gray and black and white. No pops of color. No personality to reveal what the owner liked. Coffee table devoid of magazines. Bookshelves lacking literature or decor. No pictures on the walls. No plants. It looked like an artist’s unfinished sketch. Waiting to be filled in.

Dave returns with two glasses full of ice submerged in amber liquid. Tea, you realize, taking a sip. “Good,” you say, nodding. He sets a couple of beverage napkins down on the table. There’s already a copious amount of condensation on the side of the glass.

He sits down beside you with a sigh, toeing off his shoes. “You can take yours off if you want. I’m not fussed about where you leave them. And I’m sure you want a break from that bandage.”

You nod, setting your drink down to unlace your shoes, then removing the metal clasps that kept the elastic wrap in place, unwinding the clinging fabric. A little bit of an impression where it had been hugging your skin, but the joint was mostly free of the swelling and redness from before.

You lean back against the cushions, picking up your glass again as you settle back. “Your house is nice. I mean, judging from what I’ve seen of it so far. Empty, though.”

“It’s easier to maintain that way. I don’t need the clutter.” He takes a swallow of his drink. “I’ll give you a more extensive tour when you’ve fully recovered. Unless you want to be carried around,” he adds with a smirk.

“I’m not that crippled. I can limp around pretty well now,” you reply defensively. “What do you do when you’re not working? There’s a lot of stuff in the garage.”

He nods. “Yes. That. I like…building things. I was an engineer once.”

“Really?” You’re surprised. Something else you couldn’t picture him doing. “What do you construct?”

“Oh, this and that. I haven’t completed anything in awhile. I’ve been…occupied.”

“With what?” The cool liquid slips down your throat.

“Some pretty young college girl that came into my path one day.”

You blush at the compliment.

The dark haired man’s drink is already finished. He tucks his thumb and index finger inside of it, tipping it slightly to retrieve one of the melting ice cubes, popping it between his lips.

You can hear him rolling it around on his tongue. The soft click when it collides with his teeth. You can’t stop staring, hypnotized. He sets the glass on the table and rests an elbow on the back of the couch, the fist he makes supporting his head. Watching you. Waiting.

Your half finished drink is back on the table. Your mouth back on his. A little humming noise from him. Satisfaction. Your tongue spears his lips. Chilled from the ice. He offers the remainder to you. Pushing it inside your mouth. That wedge of networked muscles chasing back after it. Relinquishing it. Trading back and forth. You have possession of it now, letting it rest in the curve you create as you offer it back to him. His lips close over your tongue and suck, dragging it back into his own maw.

You’re both breathing heavily. That satisfied smirk is back on his lips again. He’s swallowed whatever remained of the ice, his Adam’s apple shifting with the movement. His eyes are solid black, the rings of gray completely obliterated by the overwhelming dilation of his pupils. There’s a pulse in your sex, beating to match your heart. Every time you’re with him, you find yourself forgetting more and more of the misgivings you’d had earlier. Smothered beneath this layer of desire.

“Ask me something.” His head is propped up on his fist again, back to the casual waiting that you know is a front.

“What’s under this?” You run your fingers over his shirt sleeve. You’re going to ask him now. “The marks. What are they?”

“You want to see them?”

“Yes.”

A pause as he considers. Then that lean form lifts from the couch. Fingers working on the buttons sealing the sleeve cuffs and loosening the knot of his tie. Buckle of pants unfastened, making room at the waist to drag the shirt hem from where it’s tucked inside. The row of buttons down the center now released, pulling each arm out of the sleeves, letting the garment fall to the floor.

You stare at this display of undressing, watching raptly. Your eyes lock onto the scars on his forearms. A pair of rings almost like bracelets encircling his wrists. Circles dotted along each scarred bangle. Jagged lines streaking towards the elbows. Another bracelet ring. More streaks. The rest covered by the undershirt.

“What happened?” You lean forward for a better look, running your fingers lightly down his forearms.

“An accident at work years ago.”

“Yeah, but doing what?”

“A failure in one of the…construction projects.”

He’s still being evasive. “What kind of project?”

“A mechanical suit, of sorts.”

“Are there more scars?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“A lot of them?”

“Yes. Do they bother you?”

You shake your head.

He sits back down and you take another sip of your drink. Dave lifts the glass from your fingers, draining the rest of it. Retrieving another ice cube. Outlining you bottom lip with it as if it was a tube of lipstick. The cold water leaks down your chin, your throat. He licks along that line, pushing you deeper into the cushions at the back of the couch. The fingers holding the ice disappear beneath the neckline of your top, letting it slide down your spine.

“Dave, fuck, that’s cold!” You try to reach the offending object, lifting the bottom of your shirt.

“You’re not, though,” he murmurs, one hand snaking behind to assist you. You can feel the ice drop onto the couch. He doesn’t remove his hand, instead pinching at the hook and eye closures of your brassiere to unfasten it. “You’re so, so hot.” Back at your front now. The ice cube somehow pinched between his fingers again. Slid along your abdomen, making you gasp. He shoves the front of your tank top up, moving the bra with it, exposing your breasts. Now circling your areola, your nipples instantly peaking.

“Dave…” It’s the only coherent word you can form. Your brain is short circuiting, the blood flow shunted elsewhere. There’s water from the melted ice cube all over your torso. Sliding down your ribs and pooling in your umbilicus. You absently try to reach him, any part near his groin you can locate, but he halts you, lapping at your ear before he whispers into it.

“Mmm-mmm. Ladies first.” The waist of your shorts is suddenly looser as he unfastens the button fly and pulls down the zipper. You’re trying to recall what underwear you’re wearing, hoping it’s something cute. You hadn’t really planned on this happening. Not this fast, anyway.

“One of the benefits of riding the bike,” he begins, leaning to retrieve another ice cube, “is that your fingers get a good work out using the brakes, clutch, throttle. A lot of strength built up. Power.” He’s beneath your panties now, his fingers dragging the dissolving frozen object over your clit.

Your spine jerks, your hips lifting up. Bringing him further down the length of your sex. You don’t even recognize the sounds escaping your lips. A calloused thumb circling your clit, middle and ring finger shoving at your entrance, the ice cube tucked firmly between the bridge of his palm. Another spasm. Your wrap your fingers around his forearm, nails digging into the skin. His digits reach so much further than your own. Stretching even more. He massages your g spot with the pads of his fingers. Planting little kisses on your jaw. Watching you with those dark, dark eyes as you writhe and grind against him. The last of the ice gone. The strong pair of fingers inserted into your canal working in earnest, your pussy making obscene noises as it greedily sucks him deeper.

“Is it good?” He knows the answer, of course. He can’t possibly not, with the way your body is responding, the sounds that you’re making, the frantic touches of your hands, your mouth.

“Yes,” you manage to gasp.

“You like my fingers inside this hot cunt of yours?”

“Dave…fuck, yes.”

“Are you going to cum for me like a good girl?”

A whimper. It’s all you can muster. You feel his smile against your neck as his thrusting fingers increase their pace, your unhooded bud flicked mercilessly. Your free hand digs into the pillow now resting against your thigh. It’s so overwhelmingly hot. You’re on fire. Sweating. Spots in front of your eyes, like when you’ve been out in the sun and go indoors, your vision trying to adjust. But it’s all from the man touching you. Burning you. A final searing kiss and touch and you’re there, moaning into his mouth.

His hand remains buried in your sex, resting now, cupping the natural curve, fingers motionless, feeling your walls contract around him, the lingering aftershocks of your orgasm still coursing through you. Softer kisses. Letting you drag air into your lungs in between them. Eventually removing his hand from your panties and you struggle to sit upright.

“That was…um…Jesus, Dave.” He’s got the fingers that invaded you in his mouth now, slowly sucking them clean.

“Delicious.” He grins at you. “Good?”

“Yeah, good. More than good.” You’re still coming down off your high, trying to collect your thoughts. You can still feel the nerves firing in your pussy, in your thighs.

“You want another drink?”

“Definitely.”

“I don’t know how much ice is left. I’ll have to refill the tray.” He winks at you and you shove at his arm. Your touch gentling, stroking down the length. Sated and yet you still want more of him. “I like having you here,” he says quietly, sensing the shift in mood.

“I like being here.” You kiss him.

He moves as if to stand but you tighten your grip on his arm. “The drinks…”

“Can wait.”

A soft smile before he’s back at your mouth again.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #dave miller x you #dave miller x reader #william afton smut #dividers credit @ saradika graphics

[oftenwantedafton]

Confession - Priest Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 1

Word Count - 1.8k

Rating - Explicit

CW - CAUTION - religious themes

Also available on AO3

taglist @charlottecutepie @robin-munson @ahsxual

William Afton thinks this is, perhaps, his best alias yet.

A man of the cloth, as they say, and though he subscribes to no religion, professes no faith himself, the diocese doesn’t need to know that. Just like they don’t need to know his real name, or anything about his past.

So he is now Father Steve Raglan, a pitifully easy role to adopt. He’s had years of practice forging documents and smooth talking his way through sticky situations. This was a piece of cake compared to the challenges he’d faced in the past. Guiding a small congregation in a dusty town still within close reach of his restaurant—he was hardly going to surrender that—naturally suited his needs. The words for his sermons spilled from his fingers easily. Lies interspersed with quoted scripture to placate the devout attendees each Sunday.

He’s lost none of his charisma as he’s aged; has even seemed to gain some, in fact. The old ladies constantly plied him with baked goods and crocheted items. The middle aged crowd donated heartily when the collection plate was passed around. There were endless invites to gatherings around dinner tables. The troubled sought his wisdom behind the slats of the confessional. Depending on his mood he’d add or subtract more than the standard amounts of prayers on the rosary. There were whispers among some of the women—and surely some of the men too, though he wasn’t specifically aware of this—of how handsome he was. He hardly needed his ego inflated any further, but they were only too happy to oblige. So here he was. A man of God who did not believe in a higher power, because he felt he himself was that absolute deity. Answering to no one.

He’d been enjoying his newfound success for a couple of months when a new member of the flock comes into the fold.

The bearded man’s used to letting his eyes wander during the delivery of his sermons, while pacing in front of the altar, or standing before the pulpit preaching the Gospel, never fixing on any particular parishioner or pew or stained glass window, yet he does a double take when he sees you for the first time.

Steve cannot say exactly what it is that draws you to him so suddenly. Something in your eyes, perhaps. Not glassy with boredom like the teenage youth in the fourth row who’s clearly daydreaming; not shining with hope like the mother with the sick daughter in the hospital; not evasive like the man Raglan knows for a fact is having an extramarital affair with the woman in the row in front of him. No, your look was something quite different. You did not just see his physical appearance: the graying dark brown hair and neatly trimmed beard; the crows feet and laugh lines on otherwise smooth skin, belying his actual age; the easy smile which never quite touched his pale steel eyes, set just a touch farther apart than the standard—no, it felt, when your gazes linked, as if you could see directly into him. Past the facade of a holy man. Into his very soul.

He nearly stumbles mid sentence but manages to recover, the years of deception once again rushing to his aid, and no one in his audience seems the wiser.

Except perhaps you.

When it’s time for the gathering to make their way up to the altar to take communion, he’s forced to confront you directly. So many people lowered their eyes in respect, or bowed their heads once receiving the Eucharist. But you do neither of these things. You meet his stare unfalteringly and part your lips and he seats the wafer on your tongue. An inexplicable heat floods through him, the tips of his fingers just lightly brushing that moist carpet at the base of your mouth. Your lips close so rapidly he doesn’t yet have time to move his hand—or perhaps he himself is at fault, lingering too long—and you close your mouth, capturing a taste of manicured nails and calloused pads before he snatches his hand back as if burned. No reaction from you. You turn and make your way back to your seat.

The rest of the mass seems to drag on. At last it is time for the final song. He cringes inwardly. The keyboardist is an aging, half-deaf woman who hits more wrong notes than correct ones, the melody jarring along. He himself has a decent enough singing voice, or so he’s been told. Even with the harsh tune in the background, the voices he leads do a decent job.

At last the hymn is finished and the mass draws to a close. Now Father Raglan assumes his customary position by the entrance of the church, bidding farewell to his visitors, making vague noncommittal promises to attend the many occasions he’s invited to attend. You are the last to leave. The false priest is determined to regain some of his authority, starting here and now.

“We haven’t had a chance to be introduced yet. I’m Father Raglan. Welcome to the congregation.”

You say your name. Steve is forced to raise a hand as a makeshift visor. He should have stood on the opposite side of the walkway. The sun is beating down fiercely and he can barely make out your features.

“Are you new in town? Or just new to our church?”

“Both.”

“And what do you do for work? Or are you in school, perhaps?” It’s difficult to determine your age.

“I’m a seamstress.”

“Ah. Well, that’s a useful skill.” Steve’s stomach is growling. He typically eats a light breakfast before mass, preferring to indulge in a generous meal afterwards.

“You’re hungry,” you observe.

“Heard that, did you?” He grins ruefully.

“Starving.” The smile slips from his features. He does not think you are speaking about nourishment in the traditional sense of food and drink. He has that uncomfortable sensation of being exposed again.

“Right. Well, it was nice to meet you. I’ve got things to attend to. I’ll see you next Sunday.”

He hurries back up the stairs, eager to be away from your intrusive stare. The oak doors slide shut and he’s forced to blink for a few moments, trying to dash away the lingering sun spots. He can feel his heart racing; something he has not experienced in some time.

Who are you?

***

Confession day.

The amount of visitors seeking to serve penance varies. Certainly higher volumes preceding holidays, when they are reminded of their religious obligations. Lately it has been fairly quiet.

Steve does not mind the narrow confines of the confession booth. It reminds him of being sheltered within his favorite animatronic suit. Close and comforting, albeit that residence came with the added danger of the springlocks, which he knew only too well, having fallen victim to them years ago, narrowly escaping with his life.

Here though, there was nothing to die of save sheer boredom, perhaps. He can smell the polish recently applied to the wood. The bench creaks slightly when he shifts positions. He does wish it allowed for a little more room height-wise; his six foot four frame was forced to fold and crouch a little more than he’d like.

He hears footsteps on the flooring outside. A woman’s walk. Lighter tred. The click of the sharp point of a high heel. Clearing his throat, he readies his hand to draw back the wooden clapboard on his side of the booth. The figure enters, the seat on the opposite creaking similarly as his had. He exposes the privacy screen dividing your faces and sucks in his breath sharply. It’s you.

You make the sign of the cross. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been six weeks since my last confession.” You pause. “I’m not the one who should be asking for forgiveness, though, am I, Father?” You say this honorific with a note of mockery.

“My child, I am afraid I don’t understand your meaning.”

“I am not your child. Not one of those poor unfortunates you’ve tortured.”

Steve’s fingers curl into a fist. “Who are you?” It’s impossible for you to recognize him. To know what he’s done. He has always been so careful. Deceiving the authorities. Concealing his crimes. You couldn’t possibly know.

“That’s not important. The name that should be revealed is your own: William Afton.”

His blood runs cold. The first fear he’s known in a long time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name is Steve Raglan.”

“Your name isn’t Steve Raglan, nor are you an ordained priest. So stop pretending. We both know better.”

“What do you want?” His mind is racing, trying to figure out the best way to dispose of you. Best to do it now, while the rest of the chapel was still unoccupied. He’s wracking his brain trying to think of what he can use as a weapon. Something from the altar, maybe.

“I want you to acknowledge your sins.”

He scoffs, some of his standard cockiness returning. “That won’t be happening.”

He sees you exit the booth and he drags the velvet curtain back, joining you outside the confessional.

“You should go lock the front doors. Wouldn’t want to be disturbed, would we?”

Afton frowns. He does want to lock the doors. The question is, why do you want them locked?

“I’ll wait here for you.”

Turning his back on you seems a bad idea. But he has no choice. He strides briskly to the entrance to the chapel, withdrawing the ring of keys from his pants pocket and hastily slotting the metal into the lock. When he turns back, he finds you standing exactly where he’d left you.

For a moment, your shadow cast against the white chapel walls changes shape. Arches stretch out from your shoulders, like the crests of an angel’s wings. Gone again so suddenly he’s convinced he imagined it. Just his nerves. He needs to regain control of the situation.

“Name your price. Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you. I have numerous resources available to me.” He walks towards you slowly. A wolf cautiously approaching its prey.

“My price?”

“For your silence.” William has no intention of letting you go, of course. He’s merely stalling. Trying to decide what item within reach will dispatch you the fastest and most neatly. He doesn’t relish the thought of cleaning blood off these pristine floors.

“I have no interest in revealing your secrets to anyone. I’m here to hear them from your own lips.”

“Not happening,” he snaps.

“I could taste your sin the other day. Heavy, so strong it drowned out the flavor of Christ’s body.”

The man jerks to a halt when he’s a foot away. “Who are you?”

“What am I is a better question. I can be your salvation and guide you to the path of redemption. Or I can lead you straight to hell. A route I think you’ve danced near on more than one occasion. Make your choice, William.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? That’s who you really are. I know what you really are,” you whisper, closing the final distance separating you from the false priest.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #steve raglan x you #steve raglan x reader

[oftenwantedafton]

In case anyone here has started to succumb to The Milkman (Francis Mosses) fever that’s been spreading all over social media from the game That’s Not My Neighbor, I have a sideblog @notmyneighbor with an ongoing series and I’ve cross posted on my regular I_always_come_back AO3 account as well.

Also go play the game if you can, it’s really fun!

#francis mosses x reader #francis mosses x you #thats not my neighbor #milkman #milkman x reader #milkman x you #francis mosses

[oftenwantedafton]

Kismet - Dave Miller/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 3

Word Count - 4k

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - none for this chapter

Also available on AO3

The rain hasn’t stopped.

You listen to the sound of it drumming against the pavement outside the pizzeria, rattling along the grimy skylights above. The ice cradling your injured ankle is already melting, reverting to a liquid state. Your saturated clothing clings unpleasantly to your body. You shiver, not for the first time, and not just from your body temperature dropping because of the wet garments enshrouding you.

It’s him. Dave Miller. Making your body tremor. Quivering like the plucked string of an instrument.

The night shift employee hasn’t left your side. Seemingly unconcerned with the security cameras. Watching you intently. The condition of his damp uniform doesn’t seem to annoy him nearly as much as you’re bothered by the state of your own outfit. His dark hair is still quite wet and rather mussed from when he’d raked his fingers through it earlier. He’s edged his chair closer to yours, sliding out still another to rest his own feet on, ankles crossed, slouching down a bit with his neck cradled on the back of the seat until his long, lean form is draped languidly. It can’t be comfortable, and yet, he looks very relaxed, such a sharp contrast from your own nervous tension. Your hands are tucked between your thighs, your shoulders hunched in a defensive posture. You realize you’re staring again, and you look away hurriedly, refocusing your attention on the view outside the glass front doors.

“It hasn’t rained like this in years. Not since…” his voice trails off. Talking aloud, but not really directing the conversation towards you. Reminiscing. Lost in a memory. One index finger absently runs back and forth over the silver tie bar clipping the black strip of fabric in place. His pale eyes flick to meet yours. He’s caught you looking again. He gifts you a little smirk. “I think we’re going to have to reschedule our breakfast for another time. We should get you home so you can get changed into dry clothing and get some rest. I’ll drive your car. You’re not going to want to be pushing on a pedal with that ankle sprain for a bit.”

Of course it had been the joint of your right lower limb that had been compromised. You hadn’t even considered how challenging that would make operating a vehicle. You’d mainly been worrying about the potential difficulty of walking. “What about work? Guarding—”

“—I’m sure the owner will understand an urgent situation like this. Make an exception,” he interrupts smoothly. “The shift is nearly finished anyway. What floor is your apartment on? Is there an elevator in the building?”

”Third. Yes, there’s an elevator.” You lean forward and remove the bag of melted ice, tentatively trying to flex your right foot. Still painful. It doesn’t look any better, but it doesn’t look any worse, either. Walking around campus was definitely going to be a hassle. At least you could rest until Wednesday. You’ll have to call the animal shelter later and tell them you needed a couple of days off.

“How does it feel?”

“About the same.” You’re thinking of the distance to the car. Miller carrying you. Lifting you like you weighed absolutely nothing. He doesn’t look like he’d be strong with that willowy frame of his. But you’d felt it. The secret power he hides. In the arms clutching you. The muscles in his neck, in his back as you’d frantically clung to him, so startled.

You’re curious about the mysterious marks carved into his skin, visible even now, the damp white material blending to reveal the flesh beneath. Had he been in some sort of accident? Maybe on the motorcycle? He’d told you he’d had worse injuries than the ones you’d tended to that night at the shelter. Were these what he was referring to?

You glance at your canvas shoe with the ankle sock tucked inside resting on the seat near your bare foot. There’s no way you’re putting that soaked garment back on. You decide to shove it into your jeans pocket.

The man straightens in his seat, his Oxfords striking the linoleum as he swiftly shifts positions. He insists on helping you put on your sneaker. His fingers work gently. Unfolding your pants leg. Adjusting the tongue of the shoe. One of the laces has come loose from the grommet. He rethreads it, then ties the laces. Tucking a finger inside the ACE wrap to make sure it hasn’t become too tight. You’re struck again by his actions. Thinking about him in the caregiver role. A husband. A father. Had he been doting? Devoted? Did he help with chores around the house? Assist with homework? Take turns driving the children to sports practice and volunteering to make dinner, only to take the easy route out at the last minute and order take out, something crowd pleasing like pizza that everyone liked? Maybe the kids argued over toppings. Maybe they debated about what size slice should go to whom. Fighting over who would help with the dishes after. Arguing over the television remote. Good natured squabbling like in any family.

Dave’s head lifts as he finishes and his eyes meet yours. “What is it?”

You shake your head, feeling damp tendrils of hair striking your cheek as you chew your bottom lip. If you were ever going to pursue this, you were going to have to be bolder. “I was wondering. About your past experiences. When you mentioned your children earlier. Being married. What life was like.”

He remains silent. There is only the <i>tap tap tap</i> of the storm outside. Quieter now. The fury subsiding.

“I do want to get to know you.” You had agreed to it earlier without really considering all the ramifications. Dating someone so much older. Someone with a lot of potential emotional baggage. You were virtually a clean slate. An open book. No secrets to conceal. But this man. He was anything but. The complete opposite. How much would he reveal? How deep could you actually explore?

The older man nods. “Alright.”

You move your lower extremity and Dave drags the other chair you’d been using out of the way before you stand up slowly, wincing instantly when you apply some body weight onto the injured joint. The guard reaches to steady and support you, one arm curling around your waist while you clutch his shoulder.

“I’ll be alright. I just need to get used to walking on it and bearing weight.” You step forward. He moves with you. Again. Another step. Suddenly the front door seems very far away, the car even further.

“If it doesn’t get better in a couple of days, you should probably have it seen. In case it is more serious than I thought. I’ll bring you if you need me to.”

A sudden thought occurs to you. “What about your bike? How are you going to get home after you drop me off?”

“I’ll call a cab. Not a big deal. My bike will be safe enough inside the garage in back. It’s not really pleasant riding in this weather, anyway.”

You feel a twinge of guilt. It’s your fault this happened. It had just unnerved you so much. The way he had abruptly dragged you so close like that in the office earlier. And he’d known you’d been staring at his picture. Awkward, being confronted. Why didn’t you just flirt back? How difficult would it have been to hang out with him for a couple of hours? Go out to eat, get to know him better? Looking back now it seemed so foolish. Immature.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“For what?”

“Putting you through all this. Making you leave work early. Going out in a torrential downpour. Having to drive me home and take a taxi.”

Dave tucks his fingers under your chin, lifting your face slightly. “I forgive you.”

You think he might kiss you then. You’d thought he was going to earlier. In the office. And again, after he’d tended to your injury. Little moments here and there. It scares you a little.

It excites you a little, too.

No kiss this time, either. He instead goes to gather his jacket from the locker in the office before you can leave. You sit back down, waiting for him. Chairs are tucked back into place upon his return. You hand him your car keys. He spins them around on his index finger. Apartment key, car key, the short black kubaton for self defense completing a circuit. Then rotating them back again. He does this often, you think. Something in the gesture has the look of eased practice. That heavy keyring on his belt his customary target, maybe. You wonder not for the first time what all those keys open.

Dave hands you his leather jacket to hold over your head to shield your body from the inclement weather. The rest of his riding gear is still tucked away back in the security office, waiting for next time.

“You ready?”

You glance outside, considering. “Yes.”

“Lean on me as much as you want to. I can carry you again if need be.”

“I want to try to walk. It feels like it’s stiffening up.”

You wait for him to lock the building, leaning on its exterior for support until he finishes. You try to hold the jacket overhead for both of you. The height difference makes it tricky. It’s at an awkward slope, propped up by one of your hands and one of your tall companion’s so it tents over your heads. Largely ineffective but better than nothing. His other hand is back at your waist and yours clutches his shoulder again. You’re struggling between wanting to hurry to the car and managing your injury. You step into a puddle and the water splashes onto your legs. Soaked again. There was just no escaping it. The pair of you finally finish the trek to your automobile. Miller hurriedly unlocks the passenger side door and you settle inside, sighing with relief, grateful for the shelter.

Dave slides behind the wheel. His jacket is on the seat between you. He grabs it and tosses it in the back, inserting the key in the ignition but doesn’t turn it, looking over at you.

Soft drops patter on the roof of the car. Almost musical strikes against aluminum and steel and fiberglass. He blinks away the moisture from the elements. How long his lashes look. Dark, dewy clumped threads you can see in the pale gray light of the coming dawn. A drop of water slides free from his hairline, tracking across his forehead and nose and finally settling over the wedge of his bottom lip. Your eyes follow that path, lingering where it ends.

You’re not sure who leans first, only knowing there’s a soft collision somewhere above the center console as you partially move out of your seat and he shifts over from his, lips meeting. It’s gentle at first, like those fingers that had so gingerly assessed your ankle.

And then it’s nothing like gentle at all. It’s parted mouths and exploring tongues and a fire that ignites in your core. Your hands are back at the nape of his neck, threading in his hair. He tastes like the rain and slightly sweet and firey, like some candy he’d indulged in earlier, perhaps. Cinnamon. That wet drag of his tongue in your mouth makes your stomach flip over and over. His hand is on your cheek, thumb slotted beneath your jaw, trapping you in the most delicious way. The chill you’d felt earlier is completely forgotten. There’s just this, this warmth flooding you as that possessive, firm touch keeps you in place, the frenzy of kisses eventually softening into staccato touches between ragged gasps for air, then fainter huffed pants, his face finally drawing back to look at you.

You’d wondered for a fleeting moment if he’d been disappointed with the kisses at all. What his experience was. Had his wife been his high school sweetheart? The only love he’d known? Or had there been others? Before. After. You are an after.

But now, looking into that thin ring of dark ash that surrounds his blown pupils, you know the truth. He’s not disappointed at all. You needn’t feel inadequate. You don’t have to compare yourself to some memory. You’ve seen the kind of wonder there. Hunger. A reflection of you. You kiss until the rain ceases, until the sun peeks behind the clouds, until you’ve clouded the windows with condensation and heat and he finally says he’s taking you home.

***

Your anatomy textbook is in your lap.

A heavy weight that balances on your thighs as you rest sideways on the couch in your apartment with your legs stretched across the cushions.

You had woken up feeling very stiff that morning, the day after you’d hurt yourself in the decaying, overgrown parking lot of the pizzeria. Wondering if you could even manage by yourself. But you’d gritted your teeth and forced yourself to move. Hasty shower. Dressing, deciding pajamas were the best option. Then back to the couch with ice and your textbook. A detailed outline of the skeletal system taunting you. It was difficult to concentrate.

You’re thinking about Dave.

About kissing the older man, specifically. If anyone had told you that you’d be making out in your car in the parking lot of an abandoned restaurant with someone old enough to be your father a few weeks ago, you would have called them insane. But there you were. Doing that very thing.

The sound of his motorcycle outside has you hastily shutting the book and placing it on the coffee table. He’d promised to come check on you. He was going to take you to class tomorrow, too.

You limp over to the door, waiting for him to knock.

There it is, that soft rap of knuckles. He’s going to know you were right there waiting for him. The interval between his announcement and the door opening was far too scant. But you can��t help it.

The scent of leather permeates the air as the door opens. He’s got his helmet in one hand, fingers hooked underneath the opening of the bottom. That crooked little smirk of greeting you were starting to enjoy parts his lips. Those lips you’d just been fondly thinking about.

“Hey, come in.” You step back, willing your foot to cooperate as the security guard enters your living room, closing the door behind him.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. It was really stiff this morning, but it got better once I started moving around. How was work? Do you want something to drink?”

“Not now. Go sit down. Work was fine,” he says, setting the helmet on the counter. He removes his gloves and then unzips his jacket and that joins the pile. You sit back down and he settles at the other end of the couch. “Let me see it.”

You rest your bare foot in his lap and he runs his fingers over your ankle, lightly pressing here and there during his assessment. His gaze flickers to the bag of ice on the coffee table. “Keep up with the ice. And you should take an anti inflammatory if you need to. We definitely should wrap it before we leave tomorrow. I’m fairly certain there are still a set of crutches around the house somewhere. I’ll have a look later. Should make things easier. No bike riding yet for you. We’ll take my car. I think you’ll be okay skipping the ER, but I’ll bring you if you want.”

“Thank you. I trust you.”

The probing digits grow still and he looks at you, an unreadable expression on his features. “Do you?” He asks softly.

You nod. Wondering if he isn’t simply talking about his judgment regarding your injury. Beyond that. You’re trying to mentally recite the names of the bones in your leg when his fingers move again. Phalanges, metatarsals, tarsals, tibia, fibula, patella, femur. His palm slides upward, dipping beneath the loose flowing fabric of your pajama pants. Stopping mid shin. Rotating to the back of your calf. Lightly massaging. Another lick of flame along your core and you can no longer conjure any more of your anatomy knowledge.

Then his hand abruptly vanishes and there is a soft sound of disappointment that involuntarily escapes you.

“I’ll stay later another time, I promise. You need to study and I need to sleep. I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re doing alright.”

You nod and reluctantly shift positions, moving your lower extremities back to the rug. He stands and offers you a hand as you rise. You follow him back to the kitchen, watching him shrug into his jacket, shoving the gloves inside his pockets, the helmet tucked against one hip as he walks to the front door.

”Make sure you lock this behind me. Be safe. I heard about the attacker on the news again.”

You had, too. Another young female victim at your school. Still no leads. The man’s face always disguised by a mask, and not even the same one each time. A statement from the police pleading for help, looking for potential witnesses and urging caution.

Caution is something you’re not about to exercise right now. You rest a hand on the door knob. Still not opening it. Reaching for the zipper of Dave’s jacket with the other hand, tugging it down the rest of the way. Your joint aches. You ignore it. His unoccupied hand seats against the side of your neck, his lips moving to your throat. The helmet drops onto the carpet. He’s cupping the back of your thigh, lifting your sore leg and bracing it against his own, letting you rest your weight on him. He pushes you back against the door, the stiff leather creaking as the hard line of his body presses into your soft curves.

“Stay,” you implore. “Just for a little longer. I know you’re tired. I know I need to study for the exam. I just…”

“For a little longer,” he agrees before his mouth finds yours.

***

Dave Miller pulls into his garage an hour later.

He switches off the ignition and nudges the kickstand with his boot, letting the sport motorcycle incline at a slight angle, the front tire resting along one of the many oil stains on the cement foundation. Across from it rests the vintage sedan that had been his previous primary mode of transportation. He’s actually glad he has an excuse to take that for a drive tomorrow, before the consequences of inactivity and disuse started affecting the vehicle.

The tired looking man sets his helmet and gloves on the cluttered workbench nearby. Tools, sketches, journals, the blueprints of unfinished projects litter its surface. He’s made no progress on any of it lately, so occupied between guarding his restaurant and spending time with you.

How difficult it had been to leave you just now.

Strange how quickly his relationship with you had evolved. The casual acquaintance shifting to something else. Wanting you, and you wanting him in return. The sudden escalation of it. Unexpected.

He leaves his boots on the mat by the stairs leading into the house. He’s weary, but there’s an edge of excitement coursing through him. Little sparks leftover from seeing you. Touching you. Kissing you.

Intimacy was something he’d dismissed long ago as an unnecessary distraction. It surprises him how readily he’s fallen back into craving it. The isolation taking its toll. Succumbing to that great failing of all humanity, making itself so reliant on the satisfaction of interaction with others.

He wonders what he’s going to tell you about his past.

The questions will inevitably come. The flame of curiosity has already been ignited. The complete truth was impossible, of course. It would have to be snippets here and there, interspersed among the deception and lies and secrets.

Even if he gave a full confession, you’d never believe it.

Miller mulls the dilemma over in the shower, opting for the abbreviated version of cleansing even though he preferred the luxury of a soak in the tub. It’s too late for that. He’s really feeling it now. The lack of sleep makes his limbs drag, the earlier excited flare diminishing, subdued. He hastily combs his hair and brushes his teeth afterwards. A different flavor of mint than the one you use that he’d tasted earlier. His scars look very dark today in the reflection of the medicine cabinet’s mirror. Violet more than crimson. He still hasn’t forgotten the feeling of obtaining those marks. He would never forget, he thinks. Impossible.

Dave sinks into bed. A different one than he’d used when his family had lived here. Some memories he simply wasn’t willing to keep. A lot of the house is like that. The renovations done not merely out of the necessity borne of aging, but a desire for a change. A new living space to accompany his new identity, paid for by funds he had invested and squirreled away long ago. Fresh coats of paint and a recent acquisition of more modern furniture and a rearrangement of its placement within each room. Altered decor. Memories removed little by little. Things concealed. That dent his eldest son had put in the wall tossing a ball inside the house even though he’d been reprimanded not to countless times now patched and painted. The oven that had baked many years of treats for his middle child’s sweet tooth long gone. An ivory vanity with a matching velvet padded bench that he’d gifted his wife for one of their wedding anniversaries early on had been set on the curb, a free offering that was quickly snatched up by some random opportunist. The touch tone corded telephone with the list of commonly used numbers secured under a thin sheet of plastic on the cradle now slowly rotting in a landfill. Henry Emily’s number was at the top of the list of those featured numbers. Not that he didn’t have his former business partner’s number memorized, of course. Something else—someone else—he struggles and fails to obliterate from his mind.

The man turns over. One arms stretches out as if to embrace someone. But of course the other side of the mattress is unoccupied.

Someday he’ll bring you home with him. He’ll lure you into this bed. And he’ll see if he can erase more of the past.

Wiping it away with every kiss and touch.

#dave miller x you #william afton x reader #william afton x you #dave miller x reader

[oftenwantedafton]

hey ! I just saw your post where one artist made an art for your William Afton fic and…….. OMG IM SO GLAD FOR U !! GOSH I LOVE THIS ARTIST SO MUCH, I saw their arts and they always amazed me…. and the fact they noticed your wonderful work is amazing! I’m glad your fic got illustration!!! its so beautiful. it’s prob the best feeling any writer could experience 🥹 your fics totally deserved that, the effort you put in them, your ideas are brilliant and I read all of your stuff gasping and screaming bc that’s how your writing makes me feel tbh. you’re talented for real, thank you for all your fics! you’re awesome!

OMG Beth I was so excited to see the queen of William Afton daddy kink post a new story! It was perfect as usual. Also I need to say thank you for the Steve Raglan audio files since *cough cough* I was the one that requested them all. I knew you’d do them justice. You have no idea the amount of screaming and clapping those elicited. I’m eager to see what you’ll come up with next. Thank you for all your kind words and your support 🩷 @charlottecutepie

[oftenwantedafton]

I’m in love with you<3333333

Nony!

What is happening? What did I do to deserve the love? You guys are spoiling me! 🩷

#also #welcome new followers #and thank you old friends #for your continued support

[oftenwantedafton]

you are easily my favorite author for william afton! your writing is so stunning and i’m always inspired by your insane ability to portray everything so perfectly. personal space has quickly become my favorite william fic and i’m trying to get better at quickly sketching out scene thumbnails so here’s one i did of the recent chapters with steve ironing his clothes in the vegas hotel room and the reader in her pjs (while he begrudgingly attempts not to notice her badonk)

You have NO idea how I gasped when I saw this. It’s so gorgeous! I am so honored that you chose to recreate a scene from one of my stories. It’s absolutely perfect. The colors, the lighting, the perspective. Stunning. I have always hoped someday someone would be inspired to draw something and this is beyond anything I could have hoped for. I adore it and I’m so grateful! 🩷 @lucig00se

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #steve raglan x reader #steve raglan x you #william afton fanart

[oftenwantedafton]

Hey! 

Just wanted to drop in and tell you that I absolutely adore your stories! Whenever you upload it's the highlight of my day and I get this really weird giddy feeling in my belly when I see the notification of your blog pop up.

Your writing is also the only writing that genuinely makes me feel things and I absolutely love it! 

(I even got a friend of mine to read your stories because I kept telling him about it) 

I hope people treat your works with the respect they deserve because you're absolutely amazing! 

Much love from germany and have a wonderful day<3

Germany, wow, that’s awesome! It’s so great being able to reach out to people internationally. Thank you so much for your kind words! They really mean a lot to me. I’m so glad your friend has enjoyed my stories as well. Thank you again for your support 🩷

[oftenwantedafton]

Personal Space - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 5

Word count - 4.5k

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - none for this chapter

Also available on AO3

That noise again, indicating it’s time to get up and begin the day.

Steve Raglan groans, reaching over your still slumbering form. Apparently you have no trouble sleeping right through the alarm. It’s a wonder you make it to work in such a timely manner.

He’s tempted to hit the snooze button again, but he knows you both need to get going. He gives your shoulder a gentle shake. You murmur and snuggle closer. Still clinging to his side. Face burrowed into his chest. He says your name, shaking you harder.

“Steve, quit it. I’m comfortable,” you murmur against his shirt.

“It’s time to get ready.”

“Let’s just stay here.” Head lifted briefly and then flopped back down again.

“Your parents paid good money for the room. And these speakers are experts. You’ll probably learn something valuable.”

“Can’t we just call it a vacation instead?”

“No, we can’t. Come on. Up, up, up.” He sits upright and you’re forced to move, groaning in protest. You drag a hand through your hair and rub your eyes, squinting at him. There’s a little daylight peeking around the curtain. “I’m going to make coffee if you want to go shower first.”

You huff, pouting, joining him sitting on the side of the mattress. Your fingers trail over his bare forearm, then snake up under the sleeve that ends above his elbow, tracing over the scars. “How far do these reach?”

“Everywhere. Nearly.” He smirks at the look you give him. “That’s not an innuendo. Just the truth. Enough stalling. Time to get ready.” Raglan stands and your fingers lose their grasp. He already knows he’s going to hate the hotel coffee. He’s very particular about what brand he uses. But any of that caffeinated beverage is better than none.

You pad barefoot into the bathroom with your suitcase in tow and he hears the shower turn on. The career counselor removes his clothes from the closet, deciding they are still a little more creased from packing than he’d like and he heats up the iron, unfolding the ironing board he’d retrieved from the closet. The coffee is ready by the time he’s finished pressing the first pants leg. He takes an experimental sip. Terrible, as he’d predicted. Not nearly strong enough. Maybe the offering at the conference downstairs would be better.

Steve finishes getting his clothes ready and flips on the local news, swallowing the last of his drink. You emerge from the bathroom, your eyes darting to the neat business clothes he has laid out on the chair tucked underneath the small desk at the far end of the room.

“You ironed? Ugh, now I feel really bad.” Your fingers push futilely against the creases in your skirt and tug at the wrinkles in your blouse.

“I told you to unpack last night.” He stands, setting the cup down. “You want me to press them for you?

“I’ll do it. You can go shower.” He nods, about to enter the bathroom when you voice halts him. “Thank you, Steve,” you say quietly. “For doing all this. Coming with me. Driving. You know, everything.”

“Sure. No problem.”

The mirror is still fogged when he enters the restroom. Your toiletries are haphazardly piled near the sink. He shakes his head, tucking them back into the zippered bag on the counter before opening his own. He’s got an undershirt and boxers in a neatly folded pile and a bath towel hung on the rack ready to use. He swipes at the mirror, his image still blurred.

What, exactly, are you doing, old man?

Letting you sleep in his bed. He’d liked it. Too much. Too comfortable letting those soft curves rest against him. Another boundary broken down. He was letting you get too close.

In the shower now and he’s halfway wishing you were in it with him. It’s a decent size. Plenty of space to…

Absolutely not. Cold water it is. Better to wake him up anyway. Supposed to be good for your health, shocking your system into a pseudo fight or flight response, getting your metabolism going, releasing hormones. Very pointedly not thinking about you. Instantly reminded when he realizes you’ve left your shampoo and body wash in the shower, declining the miniature samples the hotel offered. He’s brought his own supply, too.

The bearded man finishes washing and towels off. Less than ten minutes later he’s dressed in his under clothing, teeth brushed, hair combed, cologne on, and everything put away again before sliding his wristwatch on as he exits the other room. You’re seated on the edge of his bed, your clothing looking tidier than before.

“You smell nice. I forgot to put body spray on.” You slide off the bed onto stockinged feet and return to the restroom. The older man is glad your eyes didn’t linger too long on the scars on his legs. Ones you haven’t been exposed to yet. His mind wanders to the feel of your fingers on his arm, caressing the patterns. Not again. Don’t think about it.

You’ve returned to the bedroom again. He recognizes that fragrance. That fruity one. Some kind of sweet berries. The scent strong when you settle across from him, watching him button his shirt. Sinking down next to him after handing him his glasses from the nightstand and pulling an arm towards you so you can help him fasten the cuffs. Then you reach for the tie draped around his neck.

“You know how to do it?”

“Not really. My dad tried to show me when I was younger but I just made a mess of it.” You let the silk material slip from your fingers, your fingers dragging against his chest in the process. “Do we really have to go?”

“Yes,” he says softly.

***

The first hour is an allotment for a continental breakfast.

Steve opts for a blueberry muffin and another cup of coffee while you grab a croissant and orange juice. The place is very crowded. Loud. It’s going to be a long day. He nudges your arm to get your attention. “You can go talk to people if you want, you know.”

“I don’t know anyone.”

“Of course not. That’s why you go introduce yourself. Network.”

“You always make it sound easy.”

“You meet strangers for a living.”

“That’s different.”

He takes a sip of his beverage. Marginally better than the one he’d consumed earlier. “Why?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It’s different when you’re in control. When it’s just one on one. When you have the mindset that you have to do it, because it’s your job. Like it’s mandatory and your mind just takes over naturally. I don’t know how to explain it.” You tear off a piece of the croissant and a sliver of almond falls back onto the paper plate. “Besides, you don’t socialize and you do fine.”

“I don’t need to practice. I’ve already done all the networking I need to. It’s good for you to come out of your shell. Get comfortable being around strangers.”

“I want to stay with you.”

Steve sighs, dusting crumbs off his fingers and crumpling the muffin wrapper into a tight ball. “You should go. Chat. Meet people.” He waves a hand in the air.

“What if I say no?”

“Well, you’re an adult. I can hardly force you.”

“You’re always trying to get rid of me.”

“I’m not. I’m trying to foster some independence and growth. That’s my job as a mentor. I still have to do your review. It has to be completed by Friday.”

“So just say I still needs lots of training. And you’re willing to help. Problem solved.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” The fact of the matter was, in spite of all the joking around, he felt you could easily handle things on your own. He himself was really the only thing holding you back. Your feelings for him.

That obstacle he keeps having to contend with.

***

It’s a long day.

The seminars are on a variety of topics —ethics, managing private practice, engaging with different age groups, career mapping—honestly not a bad selection, if Raglan’s being honest. It really is a good opportunity for you. But his mind is wandering. He’s watching the hours slip away until lunch break, and then again until the last speaker wraps up.

Dinner time and he’s now walking the streets of Las Vegas with you.

He makes sure his wallet and your bag are secure. You’re not used to dealing with pickpockets. Keeping hold of your hand. Eyes flickering to either side, keeping aware of his surroundings. He doesn’t like the bustle of the city. The exposure. He wants to be back in that sleepy town he came from. Where he knows exactly where it is safe.

Where the worst danger is himself.

“How about pizza and beer?” You’re pointing to a small restaurant shoved in between buildings. Such a crowded downtown. He’s thinking of his shuttered pizzeria. Would you have enjoyed it? The stage shows and arcade games. Winning cheap prizes. You’d choose a plush for sure if you had enough tickets. “Steve?”

“Hmm? Sorry. Got lost for a second there. Sure, if that’s what you want.”

“We can do something fancy tomorrow night. I brought a nice dress…”

“Great.” He can only imagine. No. He shouldn’t imagine at all.

It’s hot inside the restaurant. Doors propped open. Crowded. They have to wait for a table to clear. Jammed into a booth fifteen minutes later. His knees bump yours under the table. You scan both sides of the laminated menu.

“What do you like for toppings?”

“Honestly anything. I’m not fussy.” His mood is improving slightly now that he’s got a cold beer in hand. He hasn’t had an alcoholic drink in awhile.

“The Margherita one looks good.”

“Alright, let’s do that.”

“Done.” You shut the menu and leave it on the edge of the table, ordering when the waitress stops by before taking a sip of your own drink. Some new brand of spiked iced tea that released last year that had been an instant hit.

“I thought you didn’t like tea.”

“Hot tea. Iced tea is a different story. Try some.” You push the bottle over to him. He takes a sip. Sweet, but not overly so. A nice kick after. “Good, right?”

“Yes,” he admits grudgingly. Maybe he’ll get one of those next. “Is that what you got at the bar that night? When you went out with the people from the office, I mean.”

“Nah. Tom Collins. That’s what my mom always used to have during holiday parties. Finally let me try some when I was sixteen. Only a little. I think she was afraid I’d get hammered. I stopped after a couple at the bar. Hit me harder than I thought it would.”

“They didn’t have anyone as a designated driver that night?”

“Yeah, they did. I just, I don’t know. I didn’t want to ride with them.”

“You could have asked me to pick you up.”

You take another swallow. “Seriously? You’d already fallen asleep. Don’t bother denying it, I know I woke you. I felt bad. And then you chewed me out just for calling you up.”

“I was concerned for your safety. I would have come if you needed me to.”

“I did need you to.” You pick at the paper label of your drink, tearing a strip away from the glass.

Steve finishes his beer. Unsure of what to say. Everything seems so unkind. He doesn’t want that. But then there’s the alternative. Encouraging you. Which seems even worse.

The pizza arrives. Another round of the hard iced teas ordered. It’s good. He hates to admit it, but it’s better than what he’d served in his own restaurant. Not greasy. Fresh slices of melted mozzarella. The perfect ratio of basil and crushed tomatoes. Crisp sourdough crust. He’s polished off two slices before you’ve even finished your first. You’re still quiet. He’s struggling to think of something to talk about.

“What did you do at the restaurant?”

Raglan’s eyes reflexively dart around. As if anyone was eavesdropping. Spying. Of course not. A touch of paranoia, but it’s how he’s kept his secret safe for so long. “A little bit of everything,” he replies vaguely.

“Did you work there for a long time?”

“Yes.”

“You really liked it.”

He takes a long pull from the bottle. “Sometimes. It had its ups and downs like anything else.”

“How come you left?”

“I didn’t leave. The restaurant closed.”

“How come?”

He sets the bottle down with more force than necessary, the glass striking the table’s surface loudly. “Because some things happened and the owner got blamed for them, and even though nothing was ever proven, people were convinced they knew better and the business suffered for it.” He tries to keep the bitterness and resentment from his tone, knowing he’s failing miserably.

“What ‘things’ happened? I heard there was a hypodermic needle in one of the ball pits at some fast food place, I forget which one now and—”

“—It wasn’t that. Let’s just drop it, okay? I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Were you friends with the owner? Is that why—”

“—Drop it,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Okay. Sorry.”

Steve crushes his napkin and drops it on the plate. It was only natural for you to be curious. You were just making conversation. You were completely innocent. You had no way of knowing the terrible history of Freddy’s.

Which is precisely why he wants to keep you away from it. Away from the person he’d been before. Safer with this fake persona he’s adopted. Better this way. But still so hard to escape the past. Little bits bleeding through here and there. The disappointed look on his daughter’s face the last time he’d seen her. Helping him clean up after the most recent incident. Asking him when it would ever stop. He doesn’t know. He’s trying. Really trying this time. That knowledge, though. That power waiting. Could he really turn his back on that forever?

“I apologize,” Raglan says stiffly, pushing the words out with difficulty. “I know it seems I’m being rude and short with you. It’s a touchy subject. I understand the curiosity. I just don’t have anything else I’m comfortable discussing in regards to my history there.” He looks at you, waiting for a response.

“I won’t tell anyone. You can trust me.”

“It’s better this way. For both of us.”

He signals for the waitress and asks for the check.

***

Steve takes another shower when he returns with you to the hotel.

You’ve gotten clothes ready for the next day when he emerges from the other room. Learning. Or maybe wanting to be better prepared so you wouldn’t rush so much in the morning. More time for…

He’s still not sure if he’s going to let you back in his bed.

Sitting propped up on pillows, flipping through channels while you take your shower. Another pajama set with shorts, and a tshirt that clings to your figure. His eyes dart away hastily. Feel yours on him. He leans over to switch the light off. You stand and walk over to the edge of his mattress. He scoots over wordlessly and you climb in next to him. Arm curling around you. His eyes close. “I’m sorry for earlier.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Looking at you now, the light of the television bathing your features until you reach for the remote and switch it off. Sliding down until you’re both lying in each other’s arms.

“Goodnight.” He can smell the mint toothpaste when your mouth comes close to his cheek. Nearly a kiss. You hand resting on his cheek, stroking over his facial hair. Brushing over his lips. He captures your hand, gently moving it down.

He can’t allow it. Can’t even tell you the reason why.

You wouldn’t want him if you knew the truth.

***

You’re awake early the next morning.

Steve senses it as soon as his eyes open. Still fairly dark in the room. Your breathing too rapid for slumber. Facing him. Fingers blindly stroking over the tshirt covering his torso. He lets a palm settle over your shoulder. Easily covering it. Sliding down your arm. In the darkness, it’s easier to pretend. A little secret to share between you before it becomes light. Before the day starts. Fingers threaded through your hair. Touching your cheek. That little hitch of breath. So much pent up desire. It’s too warm beneath the covers. Shifting top sheet and comforter. You reach for his hand. Kiss his knuckles. He presses his lips to your forehead.

“I wish I could give you more,” he whispers.

The alarm sounds.

***

Another day of seminars. Steve loses track of the speaker’s titles and educational and professional backgrounds and their speeches go unheard.

He’s looking at you.

That pantsuit that flatters your figure so well is partly to blame. More than that. He’s looking at your lips. He knows how they feel on his hands. He wants to know how they’d feel elsewhere. Kissing your forehead. How much he wishes he was brave enough to kiss your mouth instead. But that would be too serious a transgression. No coming back from that once it starts.

A brief respite before dinner that evening. Allowing you to get changed into a clinging black dress that makes him want to devour you. Tear it right back off. Spend the evening inside instead.

Raglan drives you to the restaurant. Someone at the conference had recommended it. Several someones. He’d made a reservation earlier. Classy place. Linen draped tables. Waitstaff in formal attire. Extensive wine list. European flare to the menu offering.

He wants red meat tonight. Steak. Something cooked until it’s warm and pink in the middle. You opt for the same but request it well done. Gray. Safely avoiding the juices that ooze onto his own plate. The wine brings color to your cheeks more than the drinks from the previous evening. Stronger alcohol content. At one point your foot abandons its shoe and slides up his shin. He tells you to stop, halting you before you can go further. Thumb stroking over the inside of your ankle. At odds with his words.

He doesn’t want you to stop.

Your fingers lace through his on the return drive to the hotel. Remain there on the walk to the elevator. To the room. You don’t bother unmaking your bed after your shower. He’s already moved over to make room for you. No television tonight. No lights. Last evening at the hotel. Heading back home tomorrow. His arms drag you possessively against him. You’re wearing some short nightdress that’s far too revealing. Barely covering your buttocks now pressed against his crotch. He’s resisting the urge not to tuck his hand under that hem. To tug down whatever panties you’re wearing.

“Steve, please…” You’re shoving back against him. Grinding your body.

He groans, breathing against the side of your neck. “We can’t, I told you…”

“You said you want me.”

A shuddering sigh. “I do. But I can’t let this happen.”

“I want you.” Your face turning, searching for his.

“I can’t.” He turns over, facing the window. Too much temptation the other way. Going way too far. Your hand snakes around his waist and he clenches it tightly, keeping it tucked higher up against the center of his chest. He feels your warm breath against his upper back. Lips pressed there. Your final argument before you surrender, going still against him.

***

Steve hasn’t slept well.

Neither have you. He can see it in your features. Puffy, bloodshot eyes. You groan in protest when he switches on the light.

He sits up and you mirror his movements. “Can we just…can we go home? Like, this morning?”

“You don’t want to stay for the rest of the seminar?”

“Not really. I just…I want to go home.”

He rakes a hand through his hair. “Yes, we can go home if that’s what you want.” He pauses. “Are you upset with me about last night? Because I wouldn’t…”

“It’s fine.” You try and fail a reassuring smile. “I’m okay.”

He can tell you’re not. He’s not really sure he is, either. It’s an awkward place the relationship is left in. To go from this, back to being apart. Sleeping alone. Only seeing each other during work hours. And he has that damn review he needs to finish. That should be his first priority when he gets back.

No ironing today. Regular clothes. Jeans, shirts. It doesn’t take long to get ready and pack up. He skips the coffee. He’ll just stop on the road. Grab you both something. Checks out and you’re back on the interstate by eight. Both quiet. Morning commuter traffic delays the travel time. The silence stretches.

Back at your apartment before noon. Steve insists on helping you bring your luggage inside. It’s not overly heavy. Nothing you can’t manage. You already have managed it. But it’s an excuse. Because now that the moment is here he doesn’t want to part. You’re lingering by the door. Hesitating. His mind screaming at him to say something, anything other than the generic declaration that he’d see you at work tomorrow.

In the end it’s all he says. Your door closes. He returns home, staring at your performance review, his luggage still packed, sitting by the front door where he’d left it.

He begins writing.

***

Steve arrives early to work Friday morning. He immediately begins making coffee, lingering by the window to view the latest antics of the avian wildlife while he’s waiting. Quiet this morning. Nestled on the grass. Offspring grown and gone. Parental duties fulfilled.

He’s completed your review. The first step towards getting back to the professional relationship between you. Shelving all the rest, the events of the last few days left to be a fond memory.

It had taken every ounce of willpower not to tear it up and write something else entirely. Keeping you with him. But that was selfish. There was absolutely no excuse for you to be beside him any longer.

The career counselor fills his mug with the freshly brewed coffee and turns to greet you as you enter the office. ”Good morning.” He immediately notices that something’s off. No smile. You toss an inter office mailer onto his desk. “What’s this?” He knows exactly what it is, of course.

“My review. That you left in my mailbox, instead of handing to me in person.”

He nods, taking a sip of his drink. “That’s the standard procedure for sensitive documents. So what’s the problem?”

You stare at him open mouthed. “What’s the problem? You said I was done training. That I’m ready to be on my own.”

“Because you are. You've done well. Exceeded expectations, which is exactly what I wrote. It’s a compliment, not a punishment. I’ve taught you everything you need to know. Enough for you to get started, anyway. The rest will come with time.”

“And you didn’t think you should tell me? You know, maybe at some point during the last three days we spent together?”

The older man moves hurriedly to shut the door. “Keep your voice down. You know now. What difference does it make?”

“You could have discussed it with me. At least given me the courtesy of a heads up. How can you just…throw me away like that?”

“I’m not throwing you away. We’ll still be working together. Just in different offices. Did you honestly think they were going to keep paying you to shadow me forever? There’s no reason for it.”

“You could have lied. Made something up. That’s what you do, isn’t it? What you’re good at,” you reply bitterly.

Raglan’s eyes flash. You’ve touched a nerve. “The only reason you got that time off was because of me. You realize that, don’t you? Because I went to bat for you. Convinced them. That a brand new employee with no earned time should get it off. For your education. An investment because you are worth it. I got you what you wanted. You should be grateful.”

“You know damn well that’s not why I wanted to go.” He can see the unshed tears welling up in your eyes.

“If you didn’t get anything out of it, that’s not my fault. The opportunity was there,” he says coldly. It hurts. Every word. But he has no choice.

“Do you not feel anything for me at all? How do you hold someone in your arms every night and not feel something?” You’re swiping angrily at the tears finally escaping, spilling down your cheeks.

“You came into my bed, as you’ll recall.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Steve sets the cup down so firmly the liquid nearly spills over the rim. “I warned you. Repeatedly. That nothing was going to happen between us.”

“Is that why you’re doing this? Retaliation because we got close? Would you have written the same evaluation if we had never gone on the trip?”

“It’s not a punishment, as I told you. And yes, I would have written the same one.”

You turn your face away, sniffling.

“Go in the bathroom and wash your face. We have a client coming in twenty minutes. And sign this and turn it back in to HR,” he says, grabbing the envelope back off the desk and thrusting it at you. You glare at him, snatching it from his hands before you wrench open the door and exit the office.

Steve exhales loudly. He reaches for his coffee mug and sees his hand shaking. He knows how terrible he’s being. And he has to. He’d been getting your hopes up. And that was far crueler than what he was doing now. Boundaries needed to be reestablished. No more touching. No more spending time together outside of work. All of it had to stop.

He slumps into the desk chair. He knows this is the right thing to do. The best thing for you.

So why does he feel so bad?

***

It’s the longest shift of Steve’s career.

You disappear for break and lunch without saying a word. Refuse to talk at all and he can’t find anything else to say to you. The tension thick in the air. Relieved when it’s finally time to shut down the office for the night. At least it’s Friday. A couple of days off away from each other will do you some good. Then you can start fresh on Monday. On your own.

Silence on the elevator. Again during the walk to the parking lot. Body held rigid, brisk strides. Inside your car before he’s even had a chance to open his. He sits behind the wheel. Glances over.

He shouldn’t have looked.

Your face is buried in your hands. Shoulders shaking. Fuck. He doesn’t want to see this. His eyes burn. No. He needs to leave, right now. Turning the key in the ignition. Rabbit’s foot agitated, swinging sharply as he reverses the vehicle. Nearly home before he pulls onto a side street and makes a u turn. Heading in the opposite direction. To your apartment building.

He refuses to process what he’s doing. Doesn’t allow himself time to. Thumbing the buzzer. Your voice on the intercom. Shaking. Full of emotion.

“Let me in. Please.” The longest pause. The door clicks. He pulls it open. Takes the stairs two at a time. Your door opens. He slips inside and shoves it closed. Gathers you in his arms before you have a change to respond. “I’m sorry,” he breathes into your hair. Your tense form melts against him, fingers curling into his shirt. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I do want you. You’ve no idea how much…”

He cups your face. Damp with tears. Because of him. He’s done this to you. Exhales. Surrendering. It’s no use. He can’t fight it any longer. Capturing your lips. Chaste, gentle, tentative. Still unsure. Your hand on the nape of his neck. Pulling. Kissing him back. Harder. Rougher. A little moan. Tongues touching. Instant heat. Something flips inside of him. Aggressive now. That pent up desire finally being unleashed. Kissing you until the warnings in his mind are silenced. Doubts purged. He wants this. He wants you.

None of the rest of it matters anymore.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #steve raglan x reader #steve raglan x you #dividers credit @ saradika graphics