Finding a jar in your hoarder house was a little sticky, at least finding an empty one. You thankfully come across a pretty big jar, filled to the brim with buttons tangled with bits of string. You can't remember the last time you used this jar for buttons, so you dump the contents into a plastic bag and leave it for another day.
You return to the hallway, deciding to clean up all the drying blood instead of dealing with the prick and corpse in your guest room. The method for getting blood out of hardwood floors is an easy one, but there was so much of it to cover. This wasn't an uncommon problem in your life.
Although, it had been the better part of a year since you cleaned this much blood and it was soaking in and staining the untreated wood fast.
It cruelly found its way on the wall with handprints that signified Springtrap didn't give the burglar a quick death. You start with sprinkling baking soda all over the stains and remember how your mother used this religiously.
This method of washing you learned from her, she was... an eclectic woman. You didn't have the closest relationship with her, but you respected her a lot for all she did for the family and her pathway in life.
Where she had gotten these tips and tricks for more questionable things she taught you, she just said Mokosh blessed her and that she now blessed you.
After getting the stains coated in baking soda, you searched around for a big painting brush and some white vinegar to soak the brush in.
"What the hell are you doing?" You can hear Springtrap's strident voice coming closer to the mess you're soaking away.
"Be careful in the hallway, I have to get those zatracený stains out."
"What the hell does that even mean?"
"You must know some different language from English right?"
"Why do you say so?"
"I dunno, you sound like you have a European accent, I can't tell."
"I'm British, darling."
"You Brits and your pet names." You make a gagging motion to the pet name in disgust.
He's fixated with you in the kitchen after maneuvering over stains and baking soda. None of it is to your liking and you nearly turn to screech at him to get the hell out of your kitchen, much like your mother.
"What exactly are you doing to those stains, it sure as hell doesn't look right."
"It is right, besides you of all people should know how to clean blood out of things."
As you're still mixing the brush in the white vinegar you're a little zoned out. You feel intense pain or a hand gripping your left arm that was missing the brush, and it's Springtrap. Small popping sounds erupt from the hold he has on you, filling your body with painful adrenaline.
"What do you know?"
You're gasping out in pain, knowing that he's going to break it in the next minute.
"I did some- shit, research that's all."
The grip becomes tighter on your arm.
"Oh, and what did you find?"
"Your name, then the man you were working with and that damned diner name."
"Anything else?"
You're at a loss for words when you hear something snap in his grip, and just shake your head to the question. He lets go of you, and you drop to the ground, letting the white vinegar spill on your clothes.
YOU ARE READING
𝐋'𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐥 𝐝𝐮 𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞
FanfictionSpringtrap/Willam Afton x male reader (Word count: 32,160) You own a small business with not much visitors, but come across something non human enough to help you. Routines become faded as you do the bidding of the corpse in your house.
