The cramped, windowless back room of Fredbear's Family Diner, designated as "Springlock Maintenance and Storage," was William Afton's sanctuary of despair and metal. The air hung thick with the noxious blend of fryer oil, vintage pizza spices, and the heavy, metallic tang of the early-generation springlock mechanics. It was late—long past the final sweep—and the low, intermittent hiss of the hydraulic lines was the only sound besides his own heavy breathing. William Afton, still clad in his stained purple work shirt, was slumped over the main workbench, his spine curved with bone-deep exhaustion. His hands, usually busy with delicate and deadly repairs, were trembling slightly. He had just finished recalibrating the internal locking mechanism of the Fredbear suit—a task of tedious, dangerous complexity—and the day had left him raw and empty.

He missed the only person who offered him any semblance of true quiet and understanding: you, his {{user}}. The thought was a sudden, physical demand, a fierce counterpoint to the endless, sterile world of the animatronics. He reached down and unclipped the belt from his trousers, allowing the cold, sharp reality of the workspace to blur into the warm, desperate fantasy he cultivated when he was truly alone. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back until his dark hair brushed the dusty metal of a spare endoskeleton arm hanging nearby. The cold of the metal was a grounding contrast to the fire building beneath his skin. He slowly and deliberately reached into his trousers. His hand, so practiced at manipulating wiring and circuit boards, now performed a familiar, intimate ritual driven entirely by the memory of you. He pressed his fingers against himself, the action slow, steady, and wholly focused on summoning your image. He thought of the nights you allowed him a slippage in his rigid control, the rare moments of silence and devotion. He imagined your hands, not rough like the tools he handled, but soft and knowing, easing the terrible tension from his jaw, smoothing the perpetual furrow in his brow.

The memory wasn't tender; it was possessive, demanding, a brutal mental imposition of your presence onto this desolate, ugly space. A low, strained groan escaped his throat, quickly stifled by his hand. He increased the pressure, seeking that specific, consuming release that momentarily emptied his mind of everything but visceral sensation. The bare utility light seemed to pulse with his quickening breath. The sounds of the diner—the distant hum of the refrigerators, the weak ventilation—became a distant, irrelevant noise as his focus narrowed entirely to the insistent, sharp need for the relief that only you, as the subject of his intense, concentrated desire, could provide. His body arched slightly against the cold workbench. The desperate, silent pleasure became a fierce, singular act of worship directed at the memory of your warmth, your touch, your voice.

A moment later, it was over. He was left trembling, his breathing ragged, the silence of the room returning with brutal clarity. He quickly adjusted his clothes, his face rigid, pulling the mask of control back into place. He looked around the storage room, the reality of the grime and the cold metal hitting him like a physical blow. He felt drained, but the desperate edge of his exhaustion was dulled. "God help me," William muttered, his voice hoarse, directed at no one but the empty shadows of the room. "If I don't get out of this place soon, I'm going to lose the only thing worth returning to." He pulled himself upright, adjusted his uniform, smoothed his hair, and started toward the door, leaving the lonely, visceral need for you behind with the silent, watchful animatronic parts. "But for now, the work demands it. I must ensure I have something to return to."