Work Text:
The basement is dingy and dark, but I can still see her looking at me. She's sitting on the far end of the couch from me, watching me smoke, her expression willful and frightened in one. She keeps staring at my cigarette. The smoke wafts above me. The ashes fall into the ashtray balanced on my leg. And this pretty girl, this sweet new thing I've saved from the wicked man's life she was living before—she just keeps staring. Her silver eyes are what drew me to her to begin with. I saw her outside the busy children's diner she co-owned, venting on the phone to a wife that yelled back just as venomously, and knew I needed to rescue her.
I needed to make her my bride.
"What?" I tease, soft so she isn't startled. "You don't like the smell?"
She stares at me. William. Her name is a work-in-progress, just like the rest of her. She still has all her hair, dark brown against her arms and chest. The nighty I've got her in is still pretty. It fits her well. She has a slender frame, but is soft in the stomach and thighs. Soon, she'll be soft in other places, and be all the more delectable for it. I can't wait. She's the prettiest one I've picked up so far. Maybe I'll treat myself and shave her tonight. I'm impatient to bring her even closer to the woman she was obviously born to be—
"I—" She clears her throat. I had forgotten I'd spoken to her. Her appearance distracted me. "It's not that. I smoke too, you know. We have that in common."
I smile. "You're being a flirt," I accuse, overjoyed.
The girls I pick up aren't usually as easy as 'William'. Typically I have to dispose of them before I can do anything worthwhile, let alone make them my wife. They always push me until I lose my temper and do something we both regret. But 'William' has been on her best behavior since the night with the knife. She'd pushed past me towards the kitchen and grabbed one of the cooking knives. She stabbed me twice before I taught her a lesson with the same blade and dragged her bleeding body back to the basement. She's been a good girl in the days since.
Mostly. She still puts up a bit of a fight in bed, but it's only been a month. A man must practice patience.
She's just fucking staring. "Can I—" She clears her throat. Her gray eyes turn stony. "I want one. Pass me a smoke."
I can't help but laugh. How adorable. "Smoking isn't very lady-like, Miss Afton," I remind her kindly.
"I am not a woman." Her voice is hard and gruff. "I don't know what sort of delusions run through your head, nor do I believe it should concern me in the slightest. My name is William Afton. I'm a business owner—I run an entertainment venue. I have a lot of money. If you allow me, if you just take me home, I can put that money to use and we can find help for you—"
"Shut the fuck up." I flick my cigarette over the ash tray. "Listen, bitch. The silver tongue is cute. I like a girl that can talk pretty. But I'll only warn you so many times before you're punished."
She stands from the couch, her hands clenched into fists. She looks ready to fight. "Let me out of this fucking basement! I'll beat you bloody. You're still weak from when I—"
"You talk too much." I stand too and make myself tall. I begin to crowd her. Despite herself, she begins to cower, but keeps the tough facade even as she steps backwards. "Come here. I'll let you have your smoke."
She looks at the cigarette with an anxious glare. She's playing tough, but I can see the fear in her eyes, in the way she holds herself. "I've changed my mind. They're all yours."
"Girls never know what they want, do they?" I sigh. I grab her by the hair—too short, but long enough that I can still grab a nice fistful—and push her roughly to her knees.
"Please, wait—"
"Open your mouth."
"Please, I don't want to, not again—"
"I said open your fucking mouth!"
Her bottom lip trembles. All the fight has left her. She stares up at me with sweet doe eyes, shivering. When I pull her hair harder, she finally opens her mouth.
I hold the cigarette above her tongue and flick. Ash falls onto her tongue and she gags. She looks funny with her tongue out like that, eyes watering, like a dog choking on kibble.
"Good girl," I say, and let go of her hair.
She falls forward and tries to spit the hot ash out of her mouth without tasting it too strongly. I don't punish her for ruining the carpet. After all, she'll be the one cleaning it, not me.
"Can you say 'thank you'?"
She's panting. She looks up at me in misery and rage and fear and I can tell that, for a moment, she thinks about saying something far more unkind. But then she must remember her hungry nights chained to the grate in the floor, screaming into the pipe for help, because she mutters out a bitter, "Thank you."
"Good girl." I praise her again. The praise will go a long way to making her dependent on me. It feels thankless now, I remind myself, but in time, she'll be greeting me with a home-cooked meal and a soft kiss. "Now, why don't we do something a little more pleasant?" I open my mouth to mention shaving, but have a better idea. "Have you ever waxed before?" Just a bit more punishment will make her all the more well-behaved. It'll be more fun for me too.
"No," she says quietly. "No, I haven't."
"That's alright. I can help you with it. Take off your nighty, darling, and wait on the couch for me. I'll return with the supplies."
She could charge me. She was right—I am weakened. The stab wounds weren't deep, but they were still wicked, and the body needs time to recover. She could easily fight me with what strength remains in her and take the key to the basement off my body and run and run and run back to her life as husband, father, financial manager...
She doesn't. She begins to remove her nighty and sits on the couch.
"Good girl."