Ragschmidt headcanon; William likes to just hold Mike's neck, like one would hold someone's hand. Mike thinks this is unsettling at first, but lets him do it anyway. Over time, he starts associating the touch with comfort and it's their cute but slightly weird couple thing
Pairing: William Afton/Mike Schmidt [Five Nights at Freddy's (movie, 2023)]
Song: "SPKOTHDVL" (I DON'T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME)
Word Count: 2,193 words
Synopsis: Mike can't sleep, so he tries to find another way to kill time on his shift. Of course, with his luck, this is exactly when someone chooses to let themselves into Freddy's.
Tags (of importance): some plot, voyeurism, orgasm control, edging, masturbation, coming untouched, implied/referenced drug use, and brief Vanessa Shelly mention [more specific tags on AO3]
Note(s): In which Mike channels his inner Josh Futterman and JOs for fun.
Check it out on AO3 here or under the cut.
It felt like Freddy's guarded itself sometimes.
Mike couldn't imagine any good reason to step foot on the premises other than to get paid, and it seemed like the general public had the same good sense. Other than the weird cop that he got a visit from, the most anyone ever did was drive by on the nearest road.
The pay he got was meager, but not so much so that the job wasn't worth it. Really, the most actual work that he'd done was cleaning - he swept up broken glass, stacked up scattered chairs, and tended to trash that previous guards had left behind.
Once he finished a fair amount, he always dismissed himself to his office, shutting the doors tight and rewarding himself with a nap. He didn't rest very well when his mind was so active, but sleep was sleep, and he'd take it whenever and wherever he could get it.
All things considered, it was nowhere near the worst job he'd ever had. He was basically getting paid to dream.
Until he couldn't, naturally.
Even with two pills down, Mike found himself fitful. He got sick of mopping clean floors at around 2am and turned in then, but he cracked his eyes open miserably to find that only an hour had passed on the clock. An hour of nothing but staring at the backs of his eyelids and listening to birdsong, thinking about how he wanted to sleep but never quite making it there.
With a grumble of irritation, Mike tossed his headphones on the desk, squinting at the cameras. As usual, literally nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed.
He still had a few hours left to kill, and the thought of spending it doing absolutely nothing sounded about as fun as a slow death. What could he do, though? He had a nagging feeling that the arcade machines would explode if he even tried to run them.
He did have his imagination to keep him company. For a cop, the one that had visited him was pretty good looking…
Mike palmed himself through the front of his jeans, closing his eyes and letting his mind wander.
If he was to break down his type, intense would probably be one of the top descriptors. On some level, he bought into the idea that opposites attracted; he liked the idea of a counterbalance to his own typically low-key nature. Sometimes that manifested in crushes on people who looked like they could and would beat his ass for stepping out of line.
Biting his bottom lip, Mike unbuckled his belt and tugged down the zipper on his jeans, relieving the aching pressure and fishing himself out. He leaned his face on one palm, curling his other hand around his dick and pumping experimentally.
A sharp, icy stare filled Mike's mind, and when he opened his eyes, a similar gaze met him.
"Oh my god," Mike blurted out, mouth going dry as his mind caught up with what he was seeing.
To his horror, the very man who had hired him for this job was sitting on the edge of his desk, watching him in patient silence. He was far, far too calm, given the situation.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Raglan, I didn't even hear you come in, I-"
When he was acknowledged, the man's face split into a hazy grin. "Well, don't stop on my accord. Things were just starting to get interesting."
"…what?" Mike blinked up at him, meeting his stare and scooting his chair back in a clumsy attempt to put more distance between them.
"I mean, I drove all this way," Mr. Raglan mused, "thinking I was going to have to wake you up and give you a talking to. Lucky for the both of us, you were putting on a better show than a nap."
Mike was half convinced that he had fallen asleep and that, as far as he could tell, he was having a sexy dream about his employer. There was a first time for everything, though, and the older man was attractive enough that it was worth considering - dream or not.
He was reluctant for a moment, but Mike's hand eventually started to move again, twisting and stroking over his cock. In the meanwhile, his eyes did a quick scan of the voyeur perched on his desk.
Steve Raglan, in his full six-foot-something glory, kept an intense focus on every motion. He was dressed down, at least in comparison to how he'd look in his own office, and Mike could see a glimpse of chest hair in the dim light.
"Good boy." Every word of praise came out like a hum. His body silhouetted by the screens behind him, casting him in an even more imposing light than before. "Keep going."
The words worked better for Mike than he thought they would - his toes curled in his shoes, hips canting upward into his own hand. If he didn't end up too embarrassed, he'd unpack it later. It had been far too long since he had engaged in a simple pleasure like this.
Far too quick, Mike felt himself reaching his peak, and Steve's hand was reaching out to still his wrist just as fast.
"Not yet." He sounded smug, and even more so when Mike whined in return. "I spent half an hour on the road, I deserve more than a few minutes."
As much as Mike wanted to judge this guy for being a pervert, it felt like he had no legs to stand on. He could barely even sit upright.
One of his hands was gripping the arm of his chair, and the other was shaking around the base of his cock as he was held still, precum weeping from the head and dribbling down to make his palm slick.
The wait felt longer than it really was, and Mike's hand was moving again the instant his wrist was set free. He tried to keep an even pace, hoping it would spare him from another rude interruption.
He started to fuck into his hand again, letting himself moan more freely. It was clear from just a glance at the man in front of him that Mike was putting on a good performance - there was a prominent tent in his pants to show for it.
To Mike's dismay, though, it was only minutes before his hand was held still again. His wrist was released eventually, but he was held back from his relief again in no time at all.
"Please." Mike was out of breath, his eyes wet and his face red.
"You're pretty impatient, huh?" Steve teased. "You want a little help there?"
"No- I- Yes?" Outside of immediate gratification, Mike wasn't actually sure what he wanted. "Please let me cum."
"Cute." He stood up, releasing Mike's wrist and gesturing for him to follow suit. "I'm done watching. If you want to cum, bend over."
Another man might've been put off, but bending over the desk might've been the least humiliating thing Mike had done in the past hour. It almost felt better to have power taken out of his hands.
Steve took a moment to search through one of the desk drawers, and he set a bottle of lotion on the desk beside Mike with a satisfied hum; hands wedged into the waistband of his pants, shoved the fabric down until it bunched around his knees, and then traveled back upward to grope and paw at his ass.
It made him feel less guilty for hooking up with his boss, he supposed, to know that the man didn't have any real affection behind his touch. He could convince himself that it was simple, and Steve, like him, was only in it for the gratification.
A slick finger traced along his rim, and his muscles tensed on instinct. With just the slightest pressure, though, and a groaned-out exhale from Mike, his body gave way and allowed the digit inside.
The movements revealed the extent of the man's impatience - it only took a minute or so of one finger thrusting before another joined it. "Have you done anything like this before?"
"What? Fuck my boss?" Mike asked breathlessly.
Steve laughed, shaking his head. He curled his fingers precisely, making Mike's body fall fully slack against the desk. "That's funny. No, not that specific. I meant men in general."
"Once or twice." Mike let out a shaky moan, planting his hands firmly against the desk in a bid for stability. It immediately failed, leaving him fully bent over the desk. "I dunno. Too busy for hook-ups."
"Right. I guess that's why you're so focused on your job." The sarcasm in his voice was biting, made even harsher when his fingers pulled out.
Mike opened his mouth to argue, but a humiliatingly whiny sound ripped out of him before he could stop it; Steve's cock notched on him, meeting no resistance as it pushed inside. The feeling was electric, rendering him wordless.
Mike never imagined finding himself in this position, but he would be a liar if he said that he didn't enjoy it. By sunrise, he would have bruises on his hips, and probably a limp in his walk, but he couldn't bring himself to do so much as care.
Besides, even if he was rusty, it was clear that Steve Raglan was not. The man's confidence and composure was almost startling, but reasonable for the skill behind it. Thrusts came hard and fast as Steve selfishly chased his own pleasure. He made demands and grabbed at Mike like it was something easy for him - as if he was entitled to it.
For better or for worse, Mike was needy enough to put up with those demands. If it meant that Steve didn't stop pounding into him, he would take what he got.
His stamina was running out quickly, though, whittled down by the earlier torment. Mike's hands balled up into fists, forehead pressed flat against the desk's cool metal surface, and he tried his hardest to hold back for just a bit longer.
When his orgasm hit, though, he felt far too good to be ashamed.
"You are seriously something else." Steve's voice was rough with pleasure, close to warmth but not quite there. Amused, maybe. "Making a mess all over the floor like that."
Mike's back arched as everything washed over him in crashing waves. His entire body felt like static, stinging and tingling, and his mind was moving too slow. The idea of retorting in a state like this felt laughable.
Thrusts kept coming, sharp snaps of the older man's hips that didn't relent. "Poor little guy. No wonder your performance is so lacking - you're so pent up! Just needed some motivation, huh?"
Mike's teeth grit together. The thrusts were getting sloppier, and Steve's hand struck his ass on every other pass. "Too much."
"Feels perfect to me." Steve huffed the words out, fingers sinking into Mike's hips for better leverage. "Keep squeezing like that, I'm so damn close."
With what little focus he had, Mike forced himself to breathe. It felt like his body was forgetting how to, struggling to function correctly as overstimulation struck him. Could he even relax his muscles if he tried to? He didn't bother testing it.
Finally, Steve seemed to find his own climax. Mean and rough as the thrusts were, it only took a few more before he hilted himself deep in Mike's ass; scorching heat pumped deep inside of him, and sharp teeth caught on the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Hands stayed rooted on his hips, holding him in place and keeping him still.
"I guess I needed this, too," Steve hummed. He was more affectionate, if only slightly - his weight blanketed over Mike's back, and he kissed his jaw. "I knew tonight would give me something good."
Mike grunted. The desk beneath him no longer felt cool and relieving, holding all of his excess heat and then some. "Glad it was good for you."
The man let out a sound like he was purring, and he finally pulled out, rising to his full height again and stepping away. "Likewise. Now, if you don't mind doing your actual job, you should clean up that mess before the clock hits six."
"…I'll get to it," Mike muttered.
"Good boy." Steve's belt jingled, and he lightly patted Mike's back before he turned to leave. He paused at the door, though, glancing over his shoulder. "I'll be seeing you again soon, alright, Mike?"
Footsteps sounded, quieter by the second, and Mike sighed through his nose. He paused, though, frowning and slowly rising to stand.
Wasn't Steve Raglan his career counselor? Since when was the man his boss?
The pain that shot through his lower back and thighs when he tried to stand up straight was enough to distract him, though, and he gave a huff as he wiped himself down with tissues and clumsily fixed his pants.
At least he didn't make that much of a mess. It wouldn't be too hard to clean, and he was definitely tired enough to successfully sleep now.
Mike's inner 'Steve Raglan monologue' in the movie novelisation is so funny to me. Like, it makes sense for the movie to have the phone call play over the following scenes like that - but in the book Mike literally just has Steve's job introduction memorized, word for word, playing in his mind at all the relevant times.
I think it's great.
Mr. Raglan's voice lives in Mike's head rent free.
Pairing: William Afton/Mike Schmidt [Five Nights at Freddy's (movie, 2023)]
Song: "Mx. Sinister" (I DON'T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME)
Word Count: 2,626 words
Synopsis: Mike gets a call from a mysterious man, and things get out of control fast.
Tags: dead dove: do not eat, voyeurism, stalking, phone sex, mutual masturbation, forced masturbation, threats of violence, ambiguous/open ending, mentioned Abby Schmidt + Max (but very briefly)
Note(s): Scream-inspired ragschmidt. I meant to post it on Halloween (oops)
Check it out on AO3 here or under the cut.
It was incredibly rare that Mike got a night to himself.
He had been working different jobs since he was seventeen, and serving as Abby's guardian since he was twenty. Even when he had enough money to pay the babysitter on his days off, he never had the energy to leave home. Bars and clubs were never really his style, anyways, so it would be a waste of his time and money.
Max was nicer than he deserved, though. When her brother was off on vacation, she offered to take Abby to her place for a sleepover - and with how excited Abby seemed at the idea, who would he be to say no? For once, he had a chance to be home alone and do whatever he wanted.
In the evening, he dropped Abby off at Max's house down the street, then took a detour into town so he could rent a movie. A trip to the theater was way too pricey, but a few scary movies on VHS and popcorn he made himself would give him just as good of a night.
Maybe better, actually. Mike was sure that his couch was way more comfortable than the chairs at any movie theater he could find.
The peace of an empty home was something to bask in, an unusual quiet that was only broken by the steady hum-buzz of the light in the kitchen. He fed a tape into the VCR, set the TV's sound to be a bit louder, and headed straight for his pantry.
Before he could find the popcorn, though, the phone started to ring.
Mike groaned, scrubbing a palm over his face as he turned around and grabbed the phone from the wall in the hallway. "Hello?"
"Hello?" A man was on the other end of the line, voice unrecognizable to Mike.
"Who is this?" Mike asked.
"Who am I calling?"
Mike frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "You don't know? I think you have the wrong number."
"Is that right?"
"If you don't know who you're calling, it's gotta be the wrong number." It was almost funny. Definitely absurd, but not enough so to ruin his night. "It's fine, man. You'll get the right one eventually."
Mike hung up, returning to the previous task with furrowed brows. It took a while of rifling through canned foods and boxes of pasta, but he managed to find the microwavable popcorn eventually. The movie was starting to play in the other room, but he wasn't in any real rush. He held the box in his hands, reading the instructions under the yellowed light.
Ringing cut through the air again, and Mike sighed as he grabbed the phone off the kitchen counter. The small screen on the phone's front wasn't giving him any hints; the number was being hidden from him, and it made his brows furrow.
"Hello?" Mike said.
"Hello, again."
"Still didn't figure out who you're trying to call, huh?" Mike asked.
"No. I wanted to apologize to you." The man was so strange, but he sounded calm as can be.
"For calling the wrong number?" It felt a bit rude to laugh, but Mike couldn't help it.
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"If you were really beat up about bothering me, you probably wouldn't have called again," Mike reasoned. "But I'll forgive you, if it makes you feel better."
"You're very kind. It's nice talking to you."
Hearing that was even rarer than a night alone. Mike snorted. "Sure, man. You have a good night."
The guy started to speak, but Mike didn't catch what he said, pressing the button to end the call.
As he unwrapped the popcorn and set the bag in the microwave, he hummed and allowed his thoughts to wander. His first night alone in years was getting weirder by the minute, but it was interesting if nothing else.
Mike leaned into the freezer as the microwave whirred, sighing in satisfaction as he dug a bottle of rum out from behind frozen vegetables and TV dinners. Before he could pour himself any, though, the phone reminded him of its presence.
"Why don't you want to talk to me?"
Mike rolled his eyes. That same voice - obviously disappointed, by the sound of it.
"It's nothing personal, man." Mike held the phone between his ear and shoulder, uncapping the bottle and pouring some of the liquor into a drink he had on the counter. "I haven't had the house to myself in months. I'm hardly dying to talk to someone I don't know."
"I'll tell you who I am if you tell me who you are."
"Nice try," Mike said, though he started smiling in spite of himself.
The man on the other end of the line laughed. Odd as he was, he wasn't wholly unpleasant to talk to… Mike capped the bottle and tucked it back into the freezer, swirling his cup to mix the liquid together and taking a long sip.
"I think I hear something." The man fell quiet, but only for a moment. "Are you making popcorn?"
"Mhm." Mike sipped his drink, hand back on the phone again. "I have a movie on."
Mike stood in the kitchen's threshold, taking a moment to watch the screen. He wasn't paying enough attention to know what was going on, not fully, but it seemed about as entertaining as the phone call.
That might've just been a bad sign about the movie, or maybe his standards. He wasn't fully sure.
A masked figure popped out from the shadows, and one of the characters on the TV shrieked like hell. Mike flinched at the suddenness, then chased the adrenaline with another mouthful of his drink.
"You like scary movies, then?" The man hummed the words out. He had plausible deniability before, but his voice had dropped to something that was blatantly flirtatious. "What's your favorite?"
Mike found himself more indulgent than he usually would be. Though he was sure that he would blame it on the liquor in the morning, he played along. "I dunno, it changes… A Nightmare on Elm Street's pretty solid."
"That's got the guy with the knives on his hands, right? Freddy something?"
"Yeah, that's right." Mike set his cup back on the kitchen counter, opening the microwave and shaking the bag of popcorn with his free hand. "What's yours?"
"Guess."
"How am I supposed to know? I've never met you." Mike felt himself grinning, though. "I dunno, uhh… Texas Chainsaw Massacre?"
"Ooh, that's a classic. I think I saw that when it came out."
Mike pinned the phone with his shoulder again, using both of his hands to dump the popcorn into a sturdy plastic bowl. Eyes squinted, he turned to search for something in the spice cabinet to give it extra flavor.
He couldn't deny that he was buzzing from the attention, if only slightly.
"So… you got a girlfriend?"
Mike couldn't help but laugh. "Not really my thing."
"A boyfriend, then?"
"Why?" Mike teased. "You trying to fill the vacancy?"
"Maybe." The voice on the phone sounded just as playful. "But you still haven't told me your name."
"Why do you need to know so bad?" Mike asked, raising his cup to his lips to take another drink.
"Because I want to know who I'm looking at."
Mike felt his blood run cold, and he nearly choked on the sip in his mouth.
Slowly, he turned around, peering out the window and into the small yard behind his house. Most of the light was provided by the window he stood in, though a meager amount was provided by the streetlight. Nobody could be seen.
"What'd you say?" Mike demanded.
"I want to know who I'm talking to. Is that so wrong?"
Mike grimaced. He reached out, pulling the cord and letting the blinds drop down to cover the kitchen window. "That's not what you said."
"Well, what do you think I said?"
"I-" Mike cut himself short. It was rapidly growing less fun to talk to this guy. "I gotta go. Sorry, man."
"Wait! Didn't you want to-?"
The caller was cut off abruptly again when Mike deposited the phone in its dock. He downed the rest of his drink and hurried to the couch, carrying his popcorn close to his chest and hoping that he wouldn't be called again.
Almost as soon as he sat down, the phone next to the couch began ringing.
"I thought you wanted to go out with me."
"Is that what you want so bad?" Mike huffed out. "A date?"
"I just want to talk."
"Well, go talk to someone else." Mike hung up, but the phone rang again almost as soon as he did. Irritation welled up in him, patience slipping, and he snatched it from the dock with a scowl. "Listen, jackass-"
"No, you listen to me, you little shit." Any hint of the light and playful tone he held before was gone, replaced by a snarling monster. "If you hang up on me again, I'll gut you like a fish. Do you understand me?" When no response came, he hummed. "Good. I think you do."
Regret hit Mike like a speeding train - both for indulging this freak and for drinking while he did it. "This isn't funny."
"It certainly can be. I'm pretty amused."
Mike felt his heart rabbiting, beating against his ribcage like it was trying to break free. "Listen, I-" he cleared his throat, trying to stop his voice from warbling. "I won't call the cops if you just leave me alone."
"Ooh, so scary." The sarcasm was biting. "I'm sure they'll drop everything to go help some trailer trash punk with a phone call."
"I'm serious," Mike said, trying his hardest to be intimidating.
"Well, if you really don't want to talk to me, I guess I can find something better to do. Your sister and her little friend might need company." The man paused to let the words sink in. "But you don't want that, do you? So you're going to stay right where you are, and you're going to listen to me."
Mike's chest seized up, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. Anger burned in his stomach, but he was scared enough to bite his tongue.
He stared through the window in front of him, glaring out at the street and making no move to shut the curtains. Even though he still saw nothing, he felt painfully exposed.
"Good boy. I've given you so much attention, you know." The man on the phone was much calmer, now, light and flirtatious again. "I like watching you."
Mike's breath returned to him in a painful huff, forcing itself from his chest. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"I've been giving you attention for weeks now. All I want is some of yours in return."
"I won't hang up," Mike finally promised.
"Very good. You're a bit overdressed, though. Why don't you take that shirt off, hmm?"
Whoever this bastard was, he was enjoying everything far too much. All Mike had done was show his fear, and it left the caller breathless.
Mike swallowed his disgust, though, setting the phone down so he could pull his shirt over his head. He squinted into the darkened street again, wishing he could find anything out of place - was the man hiding somewhere? Could he even really see Mike at all?
Hands shaking, he pressed the receiver back to his ear.
"You're such a good listener."
Mike bit his tongue again. He had never felt so uncomfortable in his own skin, held as a captive audience to a dangerous man.
"Now, take the rest of your clothes off."
"Are you getting off on this?" Mike spat.
"Not when you're all covered up like that, I'm not. Get moving."
Though he was nearly mad enough to let the fucker have it, Mike was tempered by the threat lingering in the back of his mind. Begrudging as he was, he lifted his hips, shoving his pants and boxers down and kicking them off his feet. "Fine. There. Is that good enough for you?"
"I could've done without the attitude, but you can make up for it." His voice was tighter than before. "Indulge me a little. Touch yourself."
There were few things Mike could imagine wanting to do less, but the stakes hung over his head, tightening around his throat like a noose. It wasn't safe to test the limits, so Mike did what he was told - he curled his hand around his limp dick, giving it an awkward, tentative stroke.
Another shriek erupted from the TV, refusing to let the movie Mike put on go forgotten. He yelped, nearly dropping the phone and pressing back into the couch below him.
"Aww. I bet you'd have a nice scream." Shifting fabric could be heard over the line. "I know just what I'd do if I was in there with you."
Mike bit into his bottom lip, averting his eyes to stare at the ceiling. He was deeply uncomfortable, but pent up enough that his body was starting to react.
"Well… if I'm being honest, all I've settled on is pinning you down. I can't decide on what comes after. Part of me wants to fuck you into those cushions."
Mike whimpered, hips subconsciously canting into the clumsy movements of his hand. The shame and horror wasn't enough to stop him from pumping his fist; maybe it compelled him, forcing him to comply just to get things over with. The buzz of rum definitely didn't help.
The TV shook with noise again, and the man gave a breathy laugh. "But goddamn, I want to mark up that skin. Almost feels like a knife wouldn't be good enough for you."
Mike's hand stuttered, nearly stopping entirely.
"Such a pretty picture. I think about it a lot. Catching you alone, just like this… cutting you to fucking pieces." Quick, harsh pants came through the receiver. "Sitting you in your bathtub and bleeding you dry."
Mike felt sick. Did he lock the door? Was the door locked? He stilled, sitting upright and fixing his gaze on the front door.
"C'mon, now, don't stop! Weren't we having so much fun?" The words came crowed out, just as breathy as they were mocking.
Though his whole body was trembling, Mike forced his hand to move.
"Atta boy… you close? I know I am."
Mike knew he was being taunted, and his drunken mind tried to convince him that it was all nothing more than talk. The caller was a peeping tom, and a sick-minded pervert, but once the call was over, it would be done with. It motivated him to pick up the pace, trying to find something else to focus on.
The man on the TV screen was handsome, but a significant part of Mike dreaded that their fate would be the same. It was hard to find a viable distraction when he felt so alert and afraid, and even harder so with those harsh breaths through the phone. He picked up speed, though, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning his head back.
As filthy as it made him feel, Mike finally managed to cum. He groaned, rutting into his own touch and wincing when the sticky feeling got overwhelming. A grunt through the phone's receiver brought him back down to earth soon after.
"Good boy. Such a good boy. Now, I just need to trouble you for one more thing - just a simple guess, that's all."
Mike cursed under his breath, words cutting through the haze of sensation. "What?"
"Your house has a few rooms," the man mused. "Which one do you think I'm hiding in?"
