Work Text:
You couldn’t make a good decision to save your life, your mother said so all the time. Apparently in her eyes you had less sense than a billy goat. And, as much as you hated to admit it, she might have a point. But, dear god, if it was wrong why did it feel so right?
“So, do you still believe that this was a wise idea to pursue?” Mr. Afton asked lowly, his rough lips brushing against your ear, his fingers pressed to the back of your throat. “Are you happy where you’ve ended up?”
Unfortunately, you couldn’t say that you weren’t, and an attempt to answer his question ended in a gurgle, drooling welling up to your lips. His fingers jabbed harder against the wall of your throat, threatening to trigger your gag reflex. Reflexive tears filled your eyes as he growled for you to shut up.
The phone speaker crackled as Mr. Emily on the other end asked if everything was alright. You shuddered as Mr. Afton’s bony leg started to bounce under you, agitated as he quickly had to sweep your existence under the rug. “Of course. There’s probably just some interference. The damn security system’s acting up again.”
“What else is new?” Mr. Emily sighed. “We need to gut that thing and make a new system.”
The conversation continued, but you let their voices fade into static as you tried not to choke. Mr. Afton’s fingers were long and spindily, you could feel the curve of his bones lurking just under his skin. Your tongue lazily dragged across his fingers, swirling over his knuckle as he adjusted his grip on your face, keeping it so you couldn’t escape him.
His fingers were so cold against your skin, invading the warm sanctuary of your mouth. You lapped reverently at the digits, drool filling your jaw.
“It’s not a problem we need to worry about.” Mr. Afton sighed, massaging his temple with his free hand. His fingers pressed upward, dragging against the roof of your mouth, bumping over every ridge. “This is why we keep petty cash.”
That sounded important, too bad your brain was evacuating to outer space, sighing softly as his bouncing leg sped up, bouncing you along with it. You would have been surprised he wasn’t already bored with your presence had your mind been clear enough to think beyond I have to fucking cum.
One finger in particular, his ring finger you thought idly, twisted back down to pet your tongue, digging his nail against the spongy pad, prompting a gag. Your mouth fell open, drool spilling freely down your chin, as you desperately tried to jerk away from his hand.
Mr. Afton’s head snapped over to you, stealing his fingers away to slap his hand over your mouth, smearing saliva along your cheek. “Shut up, you brat.” He snapped quietly, both of you aware of Mr. Emily listening in on the other end of the phone.
“Maybe we should get a new phone system too. This one’s seriously making noise.”
“I’m sure once we replace the security system, plenty of other issues will fall into place.” Mr. Afton said smoothly. He pinched your cheek with slimy fingers, then tapped them against your lips.
You obediently opened, shivering as his fingertips dragged over your tongue, wandering over to your molars, feeling the dips and curves of your teeth. You moaned softly, trying to remain quiet lest he get tired of having to cover for you and simply kick you out instead.
Your mother should have house trained you more than she did. You had spent your entire life compulsively finding things to gnaw on. Pens, erasers, and just about every type of candy found its way into your mouth, but you doubted you could ever go back to your old crutches. Not with the memory of Mr. Afton’s fingers weighing down your tongue, satisfying that need crawling under your skin like nothing else ever had.
It was exhilarating and erotic and you wished he would grant you another finger, but he didn’t seem very interested in giving any further.
“You’re worrying too much about this, Henry.” Mr. Afton said dismissively, fingers drumming against the far back bumps of your tongue. You relaxed your throat, imagining that you were about to drink an ice cold lemonade rather than making way for your boss’s fingers to slide down. “If it’s not the security system it’s likely just a child causing a ruckus.”
Mr. Emily laughed dryly on the other end of the line. “Keep a lid on it, Will.” He said. “We don’t need another PTA mom starting up because you said something about little Timmy.”
Mr. Afton sighed, mock remorse seeping into his tone. He abruptly pulled his fingers from your mouth, a thick string of saliva following him. You hastily licked your lips, wincing as you realized how much you had spilled on yourself, and the string snapped.
“Don’t tell me something I already know.” He grumbled, hand falling to your hip where your uniform shirt slid up. He idly tapped his fingers against your skin, walking his fingertips across the band of your pants.
The Fazbear uniform had always been ill-fitting. It was a once-size-fits-all sort of deal all the while never fitting a single employee. For you, it meant a long day of feeling your pants slide over your hips only to yank them but up when the children weren’t paying attention, rinse and repeat.
It means that Mr. Afton’s hand slid with ease into your waistband, then down further into your underwear, leaving a cool trail of saliva smearing in his wake. His hand was cold, barring the fingers he kept warming in your mouth, traversing into your heat.
You shivered as goosebumps pulled your skin tight, your only body itching with need. His fingers pressed to your hole, prying a gasp free of your throat. Mr. Afton’s free hand covered your mouth, carrying the sharp taste of oil and metal to your tongue. Mr. Afton was a leftie. His thumb pressed your tongue to the floor of your mouth.
He didn’t look at you, but he smiled nonetheless as his fingers petted your warm walls. “Now then, where were we?”