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kettlequills · 2 years ago

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okay okay 26 mayhaps.... im very curious how would this go... 👉👈 for vira and elenwen ofc

tw: grief and death. kiss 26: "sure just interrupt me in the bath i was supposed to take alone, then."

Eleven days have passed since Lord Sinahl's death, and the house is too quiet. A pall has settled noticeably over the estate, muffling every voice and hushing every footstep.

Unbothered, the estate's glass towers sparkle in the light of the sun. Bright, glaring beams of light peel through the hallways like an interrogator's eye, searching for weakness. The air is sweet with the balmy scent of roses, and the plush carpets that pool like shadows over the sprawling floors are the rich red of flayed tongues. Everything is gold and crimson, like blood on fine elven armour. The mausoleum glows whitely out of every window. Lady Sinahl's sister has company there, now, and without Faseladil striding around his family home making loud demands on his wife's time, the estate is silent. It is an eerie, perfumed quiet, like the tense confusion of the audience when the velvet curtain rises, only to find the stage empty and dark.

Elenwen is not sure what to do with herself. She hovers awkwardly in the palatial house she has only ever visited and tries not to touch things too much. She isn't quite sure why she's there. Lady Sinahl hasn't explained, hasn't even spoken to her since brusquely telling her to present herself to the house staff for a bedroom. Her orders were, admittedly, difficult to misunderstand, but that doesn’t mean Elenwen grasps what she is supposed to do.

The Sinahl estate is imposing in its forbidding luxuries, and Elenwen hides in the bedroom she has been told to stay in. She is terrified of breaking something that cannot be stuffed in a drawer and forgotten about. Sometimes, she paces, digging her heels into the soft carpet and revelling in a room bigger than the barracks she's used to sharing with a dozen other recruits just for her.

It's a little lonely, by the second day. By the fourth, she starts venturing out, hoping to catch sight of anybody. By the sixth, she gives up on that and spends her days training in the grounds until her body goes numb and trembling. She stays within earshot of the house, in case anybody wants her to do… anything.

Nobody calls on her.

The servants duck out of her way when they see her coming, bowing their heads and shrinking back from the eagle on her breast. They know who she is. They know what she does. They want no part of her presence. The hall goes quiet whenever she enters the servants quarters to fetch her meals. They avoid her eyes, a polite but firm snubbing. She isn't one of them. They won't even talk to her in passing.

Except one.

Anisse bustles up to her on the eleventh day, a towel and a bar of soap in her arms. "You,” she says, and Elenwen starts. She wonders if Anisse knows her name.

“Ma’am,” says Elenwen, awkwardly, and Anisse gives her the flat kind of look that tells her she may as well shove her best politeness up her asshole, for all she cares.

“Go bathe," she orders, "Second door, fifth floor."

Elenwen manages to receive the soap and towel without dropping anything. She hesitates on questioning Anisse, but too used to her mistress' ways, Anisse simply turns around and hurries off without an explanation.

Left standing there in the hallway, Elenwen looks down at the bundle in her arms, and wonders if she has to listen to Anisse or not. It's possible she could be passing on a message from Lady Sinahl, but she thinks that Anisse would have said. Maybe she assumed that Elenwen would know. Elenwen hopes she did. The silence from Lady Sinahl is beginning to unnerve her.

With a sigh, she sets off in the direction of the fifth floor. She’s never been in that particular bathroom before, washing herself in the outside showers by the training areas she has used before, as a visitor. Her chest pangs anxiously; she feels that they all know she was too worried to use the indoor facilities, that she washes up in the nightstand of her bedroom before she goes out, like she was taught at home. But Lady Sinahl’s estate isn’t the barracks, and they expect finer things from her.

She really isn't sure where she stands in the hierarchy of the house, but she doesn't feel like pushing her luck today.

She isn't the noble family of the house, and she isn't a servant, but something else that doesn't have a name, between both. She wonders, again, what Lady Sinahl plans for her. If she has planned anything at all, or if she has just forgotten about Elenwen hovering in her house. It has been over a week. Surely, she will have a purpose for her, soon?

Elenwen tries not to pay attention to how plaintive the thought feels, even to her.

She opens the door to the bathroom quickly, like ripping off a bandage. Steam rushes out, warm and soupy in the way of very hot water left to boil for a long time. She edges her way in, confused; perhaps Anisse already drew a bath? She is beginning to wonder if she has seriously misjudged how positively Anisse feels towards her when she sees the foam of white hair across the water and freezes.

The bath is not empty.

Lady Sinahl breaks the water with a twist of her shoulders, combing her long, soaked hair out of her face. Her skin is flushed red from the water, and her hair steams gently. Her eyes are sharp chips of stone in her implacable face. She is as composed as ever, but Elenwen can’t help but think she just looks … tired.

There are bags under her eyes, like she hasn’t been sleeping. Her lips are thin, her face pinched. Even her posture isn’t as proud as it should be, her shoulders weighted by an invisible, incredible sorrow.

“I’m so sorry, Lady Sinahl,” Elenwen blurts, “I didn’t mean-”

She holds up one hand. It trembles slightly, but Lady Sinahl doesn’t appear to notice. When she speaks, her voice is rusted, creaking like she is out of practice, and so quiet Elenwen can barely hear her over her own breathing.

“Who told you to come in here, girl?”

“... Anisse,” says Elenwen, having very few compunctions about dropping Anisse in it. Her palms are sweating, and not from the heat. She can’t even think of how beautiful Lady Sinahl looks with the water lapping over her bare breasts. This is the step too far that is going to get her killed, she knows it.

Lady Sinahl’s faltering hand waves, like she does not care either way. She settles herself against the low seat at the lip of the bath, the water around her ribs. Dully, she stares down into the water. Lady Sinahl is always quiet, but it feels … different. Exhausted.

It has only been eleven days since the murder of her husband, Elenwen recalls, and feels her cheeks sear in a sharp, embarrassed flush.

She hesitates. She does not know what to do. Lady Sinahl hasn’t told her to leave, but she hasn’t exactly invited her to stay either. In fact, now her idle curiosity is satisfied, Lady Sinahl appears to barely notice her presence at all. Grief lurks like a terrible weight in her solemn face; it makes her look older.

Suddenly, Elenwen very badly does not want to leave her alone. She wonders if anyone has spent any time with her, at all, since Faseladil’s death. She wonders what Lady Sinahl has been doing all this time that Elenwen was hovering, unsure of her purpose; she wonders how many hours she’s spent slowly scalding her skin in a bath the heat of which she doesn’t even seem to feel.

She turns her back and begins to remove her clothes. Her heart is thudding very quickly in her chest, and she feels incredibly watched, though when she risks a glance over her shoulder she finds Lady Sinahl isn’t looking at her at all. Elenwen bites her lip, and hopes she isn’t making a terrible mistake that will just make everything worse.

She hisses when she touches the searing water, sharp spangles of pain juddering up her nerves. Lady Sinahl looks up. Her colourless expression does not shift, but her eyes skate up Elenwen’s body. Silently, she moves over, so Elenwen would have room to sit beside her on the bench.

Taking the silent invitation, Elenwen gingerly sits down, wincing at the heat. For a moment, she can’t focus on anything but wresting control from her screaming body, urging her to leap up away from the blistering water before she burns herself. She relaxes into the pain slowly, muscle by muscle, as she has been taught, and calms her heart with deep, smooth breaths. The temperature shock ebbs when Elenwen’s body realises she isn’t going to listen to it.

Beside her, Lady Sinahl inhales, opens her mouth like she is going to speak. When Elenwen looks at her, her words seem to fail her, and her mouth closes. Her eyes drop from Elenwen’s face and her shoulders curve inwards, like she is too tired to keep up the pretence anymore.

Muscles electric, Elenwen gently nudges their shoulders together. She closes her eyes, pretending not to feel Lady Sinahl against her, not moving away. Her heart is beating hard and loud, and her skin burns, but she still hears the catch in Lady Sinahl’s breath. It is the slightest hitch, not quite a sob, but when she sneaks a glance at her, she sees that Lady Sinahl is dull-faced and tearless.

She wonders if Lady Sinahl has let herself cry at all.

She is shorter, smaller, up close against her body like this. More reachable, mortal, with lines on her skin and bags under her eyes, naked without her fine clothes. It is harder to see her as she normally is, an imposing and powerful presence, godlike in the devotion she inspires. She is simply… smaller. She has freckles on her arms and wrinkles on the loose skin of her wrist. There is a scratch on her breast from an errant pin.

It strikes her as woefully insufficient, all they have done for her. Her husband is dead, and no one will come for her to help her make arrangements, write cards, send flowers, or make sure she has eaten, save her employees. Her son is gone, spitting abuse with his parting words, and she has no family to come and hold her until she cries herself out. She is Lady Sinahl. Her very self forbids such showings of emotion. But she is also Viraneminwe, a grieving woman, vulnerable in the bath, and all she has is Elenwen.

She can’t bring herself to quite be grateful to Anisse for risking her life like this, but a small, warm root of something soft is cracking in her heart, and she thinks maybe she is a little glad that someone is here. It may as well be her.

Pinning her courage to the sticking place, Elenwen raises her arm and drops it around her shoulders, tugging her closer. Viraneminwe resists at first, stiffening in outrage, but Elenwen avoids her gaze. She stays silent, staring out over the steam as if nothing is happening at all. She knows her well enough to know that she needs the pretence, now more than ever, that openly offering comfort would just be too much.

Elenwen wants her to take it. She wants to help.

Eventually, Viraneminwe bends - in increments. Inch by inch, she curls slowly into Elenwen’s chest, resting her cheek over her heart. Her long white hair tangles over her shoulders; she flinches when Elenwen touches it, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she shivers very hard, once.

Her tears are completely soundless. If Elenwen could not feel the way her breath is hitching and shuddering through the movement of her shoulders under her arm, she would think her utterly unmoved.

Gently, Elenwen presses a single kiss to the top of Viraneminwe’s head. She hopes to imbue the strange, soft feelings that settle so strangely in her chest into the movement, let her know, as burningly as Elenwen feels it, that she is not alone. She doesn’t know if Viraneminwe understands; she goes rigid and her hands seize into claws around Elenwen’s leg. Her nails are digging cruelly into Elenwen’s thigh, but Elenwen dares to think that for once, Viraneminwe is not trying to punish, but simply holding on.

Elenwen isn’t sure if this is exactly what Lady Sinahl had in mind when she told her to stay, but she knows without a doubt that it is why she is here. She has blood-stained hands, not gentle ones. She is a torturer, an interrogator, a servant of violence. But she knows that Lady Sinahl will not accept softness from any place that does not understand the bitterness of forging strength through pain. And she knows that Viraneminwe needs it, possibly more than she has ever done in her life.

So Elenwen holds her. She holds her through her silent tears and her proud grief, while around them their skin grows wrinkled, and the bath grows cold.

#viraneminwe sinahl #elenwen #ask games #soz for the delay besties #inkwrites #evil elf autumn #tes

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fandomwritingbit · 9 months ago

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Sweet Girl pt.5

dbf/William Afton x (fem) virgin/reader

pt.1 - here. pt.2 - here. pt.3 - here. pt.4 - here.

Synop: Bored of the lack of contact you and William decide to bring wanking to the 21st century.

Warnings: Smut, masturbation, obsessive behaviour/thoughts for the both of you, corruption, coercion. Virgin reader.

A/n: MATES, MATES, I FUCKING WROTE SOMMET. This is not a drill, I wrote something after weeks of nada and it's... well, it's mediocre. But it's something! This was not the part 5 I had planned but rather a dirty thought that ran away with me that I hope reads half decently.

Is this fuck proofread lmao, soz for any errors I'll try to fix them later on x

You wake very confused, squinting in the light from your bedroom window that was much too bright for 8 in the morning, so you lift yourself from your sheets to check your phone: 9:30. You’ve overslept. Siting up properly you glace at your side table clock through sleepy eyes, needing to confirm the reality of the time, you set an alarm, what the fuck? You have plans today that are now going to have to be pushed up.

You’re up like a whirlwind, messaging the friend you’re supposed to be having breakfast with that it’s now going to have to be a lunch, a late lunch ideally. Surprisingly they’re not too put out, they must be running late themselves. Crisis averted, you head downstairs to get yourself some coffee which will hopefully combat the awful feeling of having screwed your whole day up already. To be fair, it’s about time something like this happened to you, life’s been too easy for too long. Well, baring the odd relationship with your father’s friend, of course.

Not wanting to tackle the coffee machine, which you swear is as old as you, if not older, you go for coffee granules and the kettle. A simple man’s brew, and that’s certainly how you feel today. You hadn’t bothered with dressing or throwing a dressing gown on, it’s a warm enough morning that you can stand in the kitchen in your pyjama shorts and vest without shivering, the only cold you feel is your bare feet on the tile.

Your kettle clicks and you set about making your cup, ignoring the squeak of the backdoor opening, you’ll greet whichever parent it is when they greet you, if the interaction can be delayed it’s for the best. You pour your water, but the sudden and crisp sound of a wolf whistle makes you overspill onto the counter. Sliding your phone out the way of the spillage, you turn to see the sniggering face of William and your heart manages to soar and sink at the same time, something only this man is able to do.

Your annoyed expression melts into a flush, you know exactly why he whistled and you cross your arms over your chest accordingly, hard up to do anything about the shorts position high up your thighs.

“Sorry,” He says without any conviction, still grinning as the coffee begins to drip off the edge of the worktop. Adding slyly, “You wouldn’t mind making me one, would you?”

You neglect to answer, going for an embarrassed, “What are you doing here?” instead. The man’s been in your kitchen for less than a minute and you already feel like you shouldn’t be here, for your own protection. Last time springs to your mind, involuntarily quickening your heart rate. He’d caught you off guard then too, then used you up and wrung you out, and you loved every second of it. You hate him for that, and the way your pussy seems to know when he’s in the room, it’s not fair.

“Clearing out the garage with you dad.” He presents his palms in his own defence, the smug look of him shows his pride at begging her legitimately. “He told me you were out.” It’s phrased like a question, again making you feel like a trespasser in your own home.

“I’m supposed to be.” You explain without detail, averting your gaze from his and instantly remembering the mess on the counter, and now the floor.

“Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Especially in that.” He laughs meanly, making you frown. You look pretty all annoyed at him, the furrow of your brown not doing anything to hide the heat on your face from the invasive way his eyes drink you in. And as if that wasn’t far enough he steps forward, sliding his hand over the silky fabric coating your hip. “Almost as revealing as that pretty little bikini.” Your back hits the surface behind you, he has a knack for cornering you, but you suppose it’s not exactly herding cats if the prey doesn’t want to run away.

The comment hits home though and you remember exactly how easy it was for him to move that garment aside and-

You’re pulled from that thought as his hand slides further, over your hip to your arse. “Stop.” You say a little breathless, not liking how he just grins at the word. “...My dad could walk in.”

“That didn’t stop you last time.” His tone is mocking, riddled with amusement at how you can’t seem to refuse him.

“That was stupid… You make me stupid.” You mutter, pushing his hand away and trying to ignore how affected you feel already. “You need to stop.” You affirm, holding your voice steady to prevent the whine that threatened to accompany it.

William leans closer to you, a mean joy practically emanating from him when your breath hitches. He speaks lowly, a gleeful edge warming you for him and doing everything possible to add to that stupidity “Are you going to make me?”

You just look up at him, your chest rising quickly less than half an inch from his. “...Yes.” You finally manage, nerves and need in your core making you hesitant. Your eyes are wide in wait for response, and the man holds firm just long enough that you panic. He reaches behind you for something before obeying your word, you realise sharpish that he’s plucked your phone from the countertop.

Trying to take it back fails when he catches your wrist and flicks you away. You’re whining like a child, unable to help the discomfort flooding your veins at him holding something so personal. “William, give it back. What are you-” Your words die when he simply holds the phone in front of you and you hear the subtle click of your face ID unlocking it.

You watch angrily as he steps away with the device, internally fighting the urge to try and take it back by force.

He glances at your outrage, stoking it with, “You must have some dirty secrets on here to protest so much.” Shaking his head, he makes you wait whilst he does whatever he nicked your phone to do. Chuckling as he has to manoeuvre the screen from your sight when you try to at least see what he’s doing. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m giving you my number… You don’t want to entertain me now, then you can later.”

You find yourself nodding when he hands you the phone back.

Your day is spent, lunch and coffee with your mate over and done with, dinner with your parents finished. So you slip away to bed with your phone clutched to your chest, which is tight with forbidden excitement. Halfway through the day your checking of messages was fruitful, with one from William telling you that you’re going to ‘entertain him’ at 11pm tonight, and despite your naivety you know exactly what that means.

The only way to combat your nerves is preparation so you pick out a matching bra and knickers set, light pink and lacy, you know he’s going to like them, perhaps too much if anything. Then a white nightdress, just see-through enough to give a hint as to the underwear underneath.

Then it’s propping your phone up with a pillow and sitting cross-legged on your bed, checking to see it the view will be good, and it certainly will. From there, all you do is wait, your foot absentmindedly tapping away with the excess excitement, you’re aroused at the thought of it. A dirty video call with a bloke older than your dad, it’s everything you’re not supposed to do, a bad idea all around, but that just makes your panties that bit wetter.

He’s a little late, but the very moment he calls you answer, not even waiting for a ring. It makes him smirk, such a sweet thing, ready for him, no doubt waiting for him. Fuck, if he was twenty years younger he’d scale the window and see it in person.

You know you’ve given your want away by his sly expression, and he teases you by saying, “Eager, huh?”

You pout, now hating all the effort you went to and trying to explain it away. “Well, I was expecting-I knew you were going to-”

Somehow, even through your tiny phone screen he has enough presence to be able to cut you off. “It’s a good thing.” He pauses before adding with a snicker, “I doubt you’re as eager as me.” He shifts as he says that and your heart skips a beat at the thought of him touching himself already. It’s a power only he has ever given you, to know just how mental you make him and that power makes your core tighten.

“Now, sweet thing.” There’s a nonchalance to his words that contradict the fact he’s palming himself over his boxers, he can’t help it, he can see the strap of your bra peeking out and the curve of your hips suggested by your nightie. It doesn’t pass him by that he’s fucking pathetic. “Have you got headphones, or do I have to keep my voice down?”

You hadn’t thought of that, but you’re glad he did when you think how often you hear your parents tv through the wall. So you reach to your bedside drawer to retrieve your headphones, well aware that he’s watching you and trying to catch sight of whatever he can. And after a moment you plug them in and pop them in your ears, flushing when you realise that the sound feels a lot more intimate now. Maybe he knew that.

“God you drive me crazy with all the tiny fucking clothes you wear.” He’s laughing but you know he’s not joking. You’re not in a position to laugh, how exactly can you tell him that he drives you crazy with everything he fucking does. From the tensing of his jaw to the delirious sensation of his voice on your skin. All of it has your body begging for anything he’s willing to give you, regardless of what your mind thinks.

You can’t prevent a small smile on your lips though, “I don’t do it on purpose.” Even as you say it you know it’s a lie, you didn’t do it on purpose at first, now though, you want him to see you.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, sweetheart.” He knows you better than that. You giggle, it should be illegal for him to read your mind that easily. “I’d wager under that nightie you’re wearing something nice for me. Like a gift to be unwrapped.” The look on your face says it all, when you bite your lip like that he wants to bite it for you. “Am I right?”

You can hardly look at your screen, but you nod, barely able to sit still.

“Fuck, let me see.” Something about how he’s speaking now is very telling and you revel in the feeling for a moment before shifting to sit on your feet.

“Okay.” You sound so small and quiet you can hardly hear it over that arousal in your blood. Your fingers hook under the bottom of your nightdress, hesitant to begin the process and your eyes flick to the screen.

You catch his gaze and he smirks, “Come on, you know I’d do it for you if I could.” That you are certain of, sometimes there’s such hunger in his eyes you think he’s a breath away from ripping the fabric off you.

You do as asked, your panties straps revealed high on your hips guiding the sight up your stomach,then to the thin lace hardly covering your breasts. You were right, he does like it. Much too much.

“God, you are like a fucking present.” You grin at that, watching the hint of movement you can see towards the bottom of the screen, and you core pangs with the knowledge of what he’s doing. Now sitting on your feet, you press your heel between your legs and jump at the jolt of stimulation it brings.

Your lip is between your teeth again as you debate whether you’re brave enough to ask for what you want. “...Show me.” You manage in a surge of voice, you wish you didn’t sound as shy as you do.

You hear William’s scoff of disbelief, he hadn’t expected you to ask that but he supposes it’s only fair. “Yeah?”

You nod, watching eagerly as he moves a hand to change the angle of your view. The sight stirs you immensely, his boxers pulled down enough to let his cock free, he held it, touching himself at a slow pace. You rake the image for what you can see, his shirt pulled up to let you see the trail of dark hair that leads down to his length. A crazy part of you burns to press your nose against his trail, curiosity, or something dirtier you don’t know, but you know he’d let you if you asked.

It’s with near fascination you watch his stroke himself, not noticing how you’ve begun grinding your pussy against your heel, your knickers are clinging to your slick but all shame is lost.

“I didn’t expect you to want to see.” He sniggers, you recognise the thickness of his voice, remembering the pride in your core when you took him in your mouth, the heavy breathing of someone clinging on to their self restraint by the tips of their fingers. There’s precum on his tip smeared by each rise of his fist, it’s a dirty feeling and if you were in his reach he’d have it resting pretty on your tongue.

Soon your movement isn’t enough anymore, your heat whines for better friction, the attention on your clit that he does just right. It’s written in your posture and the pinch of frustration between your brows.

William’s voice affirms your need. “You can touch yourself, lovely. Don’t have to wait to be told.”

“I know.” You reply quickly, embarrassed at how easy he’d jumped to that conclusion. If you were harder to read maybe he wouldn't have such a hold on you.

“Or do you want me to ask?” There it is again, that mocking that shouldn’t speak directly to your slick, it’s condescending but you know in your heart that he knows better. You open your mouth to protest the teasing but you have no chance to. “Come on, show me how you play late at night, how you give yourself what you need.” He wants to seem like he’s humouring you but right now, with his cock in his hand, he’d beg to see just how you touch your perfect cunt.

You’re doing it, shifting your position so you’re sitting properly, legs raised to let you trace over your bundle of nerves. The fabric of your panties quickly proves irritating, so you hurry to take them off, glancing repeatedly at the view on screen, dying to match the rhythm of him stroking himself, not wanting to miss anything. At the sight of your pussy bare for him, knickers discarded, he hisses through his teeth; now that is the kind of thing that gets a bloke in serious trouble.

“And the rest.” He adds, and you’re so lost in your new-found touch it takes you a moment to realise what he’s referring to, when you do you push the bra straps from your shoulders, shimmying the garment down so that your chest is free. Your nipples are hard from your excitement, all parts of you aware of the growing need in your core, begging for the release your touch promises. It should be familiar but with William’s eyes on you it takes you time to remember what you like.

You rub your clit, the cues from your body calling for you to press your fingers inside your hole. You’re unable to reach like he does, but it’s enough to bring your end into sight and a soft moan from your lips.

He’s chuckling watching how weak you become, like he’s not moving faster with the taste of release on his tongue. It takes a lot for him to ask the question burning in his head, he already knows the answer but hearing it from you is going to be delicious. “Tell me, what you think about, when you play with yourself, sweet thing.” The words are stilted with his involuntarily quickening pace, he’s close and it’s fucking stupid how much he needs to cum.

“You.” You say instantly, voice cracking. Your head between my legs, fingers hooking inside, teeth on my neck as you line your cock up between my legs. You haven’t the coherent thought process to say that, it’s flicking images of past imaginings, you shouldn’t want to give yourself to this man as much as you do.

William grunts, speaking through gritted teeth to try and remain somewhat controlled, though there’s nothing controlled about his frantic movement, nor yours. “You’re so fucking lucky I’m not in there with you.”

It’s not a threat, you’ve seen the size of him, you’ve been delirious from just his fingers, but you want it. You want him in there with you. You want it all.

He loses it at your wide eyed look, fucking his fist ‘til his cum is dripping down his abdomen. You're not far yourself from the view alone, but you can hear his breathing, the groan right as he touches the peak. And your walls clamp around your fingers in stuttering waves of climax, you shiver with it, your legs unwillingly pressing together. You have to bite the inside of your cheeks to keep any noise leaving you, a startled thought of discovery hitting you out of nowhere.

“Fucking hell.” His voice makes you regain your senses, he’s chuckling and the hand not coated in release slips out of shot to rub the bridge of his nose; why is it so much better when a pretty thing like you is watching?

“William?” You’re shaky as you speak, weighing up what you want to ask, deciding that closed mouths don’t get fed. In response he tilts the camera up so you can see he’s listening, and you can’t help but hit screenshot at the sight of him so dishevelled. “Next time… I want you to be here with me.”

He laughs, “Anything you want, princess. I mean it.”

#fnaf #william afton #william afton x reader #william afton smut #fnaf smut #william afton x you #fnaf william afton #fnaf movie #steve raglan x reader #steve raglan x you

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