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oftenwantedafton · 5 months

Text

Night Shift - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 5

Rating - Explicit

Warning for sexual content

Also available on AO3

Steve Raglan’s fingers are laced with yours.

It’s the sweetest kind of surrender; when he finally allows you to touch him and doesn’t resist or withdraw. His hand is so warm, so large against yours. You bring it to rest on your thigh and look at the union and oh, the somersault lurch inside of you hurts so good.

The interstate is empty, the highway yours, all those miles eaten up by the older man’s vintage sedan, bringing you closer to what you want.

Your unoccupied hand is lonely, craving more contact, tucking beneath the end of Steve’s sleeve, the smooth skin changing texture as you explore, idly at first and then with increasing curiosity. It’s not some random scarring; there are distinct shapes etched into his body. You drag the sleeve upwards to the crease of his elbow so you can see a little better, the illumination from the instrument panel confirming what you’d palpated.

“What are these?” Your throat is dry, the words coming out parched, dehydrated from the alcohol, from letting the man drink from your mouth, stealing away whatever moisture you’d had left.

“Work injury,” he says, glancing over at you, his eyes falling to the fingers that are tracing over the patterns so carefully, as if they are deciphering braille.

“From the social services office?” You ask incredulously.

“No. My previous job.”

“Which was…?”

“I owned a business.”

“I don’t suppose you could be any more vague.”

His lips twitch, but he remains silent.

“Did you ever work at Freddy’s?”

The hand in yours subtly tightens. “What?”

“You’re so familiar with the layout. Especially the back rooms that only staff had access to.”

“It’s part of my job to make sure new hires are performing well in their environment. Site visits are a requirement. The turn around for security at the restaurant has always been high. You get to know the place after awhile.”

You sense something’s off with his explanation but you decide to let the matter drop for now.

“Are you married?” The thought has been scratching at the back of your mind, an increasing worry.

“I was, once. Not anymore. She left.”

“Kids?”

“Yes. Also no longer in my life. It’s just me.”

His gaze is so carefully focused on the road. You wish he’d look at you; wonder if you’re being too probing with so many personal questions all at once.

“I’m sorry if I’m asking too many questions. I just don’t know anything about you.” You begin to tug the sleeve back into place but he halts you.

“You can leave it. Unless it bothers you. I should warn you now there are a lot more of those scars.” His eyes find yours.

“No, it doesn’t bother me.” You release your grip of his hand so you can maneuver his arm better, finding your digits warm and damp, nearly cramped from being interwoven for so long. His wrist bends and seats along your lips and you press a kiss there before you resume holding his hand again.

“Is this the infamous dress?” Steve seems to notice what you’re wearing for the first time that evening.

“What? Oh, yes.”

“That is wildly inappropriate to do chores in, your previous assessment was correct. I’d love to see you try, though.” He smirks and you squirm in your seat. The hand clutching yours relaxes and gently pulls free and moves to the slit of the ribbed knit fabric, which stops right above your knee. “Move this for me, so I can touch you.”

There’s an awkward moment of you lifting your hips off the cushioned seat beneath you, gathering the spandex laced fabric in bunches at the sides so it lifts past your legs and hips and gathers around your waist. You hesitate a heartbeat longer, then decide to pull your panties down to make it easier for whatever he’s about to do. You can feel the arousal already dampening the crotch as you tug them free, leaving them on the floor by your feet.

The older man lets you sit like that for a few moments, his eyes still focused on the road, your exposed pussy leaking onto his car seat, and then his right hand hooks neatly around your mound and he slides two fingers inside of your entrance.

Your body reacts instantly, hips already lifting to aid him to drive in deeper, seeking more friction from his palm against your clit. You clutch at the bicep of the arm probing your insides, feeling the muscles shifting beneath the skin. He lets you fuck yourself on his fingers for awhile, controlling the pace at which you grind up and down, feeling more of your fluids leaking past his digits and onto the seat beneath you.

“The seat,” you pant. “I’m getting it wet…”

“Do you think I fucking care? It’s vinyl. Can always lick it off after.”

Fuck.

Your lazy, stuttering pace quickens and the man notices, no longer letting his hand remain stationary, his middle and ring fingers actively punching into you and curling, the wet sounds of that assault interspersed with your gasps for air and moans of pleasure. Your fingers scrabble restlessly against his arm. You need him to look at you when he makes you explode.

“Please.”

The car leaves the road, Steve carefully guiding the passenger side tires over the edge of the asphalt, the change in elevation jostling the hand against you. He spares a second to throw the car in park and then he’s on you, mouth crushing yours, switching hands so smoothly you barely notice the transition.

“Cum for me, honey.” It’s an echo of a command from your first night together and it’s more than enough to make your walls clench and spasm over his fingers as you find release.

His forehead drops and rests against yours. There is the sound of your ragged breath easing as you come down off your high. His own is rapid. You’ve gotten him so worked up.

“Take me home with you,” you whisper, relieved to feel him nod. You’d intended on having him bring you home, had envisioned inviting him inside, and beyond that just disintegrating thoughts of lust. But you need more of him. You’ve gotten scraps of information tonight but it’s not enough. You want to see where he lives, what his home is like. You want to take him apart on his bed in these, the early hours before dawn.

***

Steve Raglan’s house is on the outskirts of town, in an area with a lot of new construction.

His own looks relatively new as well, a manufactured one story building on a wooded corner lot with an immaculate exterior, from what you see briefly in the headlights before he shuts the engine off.

“You haven’t been here long,” you murmur as you enter a living room, finding the interior as tidy as the outside had appeared. It doesn’t surprise you, given how organized his office had been. He flips the switch on the wall and a lamp on a table beside the couch lights. Every furnishing belongs to a family of dark colors - black leather couch and matching wooden tables, black entertainment center, soft gray walls, darker gray laminate floors. There are no pictures or plants, nothing to break up the color palette or give any clues as to the identity of the owner. It could be a hotel or a showroom floor display.

“About a year.”

You wander into the kitchen and he follows, flipping another light switch for you. Granite counter tops, stainless steel appliances, jet maple cabinets. Breakfast bar. Keurig on the counter by the double stainless steel sink. You tug the fridge open and glance inside, finding it’s nearly empty. “Yup, you’re single alright,” you laugh.

“I’m not home often. Don’t really have much need for a lot of things.”

You continue to explore, the older man trailing after you. Small laundry room. Two bathrooms, one with a tub, the other a walk in shower. You glance at the counter. “Purple toothbrush. You like purple.”

“Do I?”

“Mmm-hmm. You have a lot of purple ties, I’ve noticed.”

You find the first smallest bedroom has been converted into an office space. The second is used for storage, some boxes still sitting sealed on the charcoal carpet. And finally the master bedroom. Gray sheets, bed unmade, perhaps the only untidy thing you’d seen thus far, but he had rushed to rescue you, after all. A walk in closet, the door open. You step inside, brushing your fingers over shirt sleeves.

Steve leans against the bedroom doorframe, watching you with a look of bemusement.

You smile, sauntering over to the dresser, noticing a bottle of cologne. You bring the nozzle closer to your nostrils and yes, you detect that scent he always wears.

“So, what do you think? Does it meet your approval?”

“It’s very modern and clean. And empty.” You set the bottle down and walk towards him, letting your hands trail over his chest.

“Not as empty with you here.” You smile, wincing slightly when your head reminds you of the consequences of what you’d consumed so recklessly earlier. “How’s your headache?”

“It’s still there, but I really don’t care.” You struggle to swallow and remember how dehydrated you are. “I wouldn’t mind a glass of water, though.”

“That can certainly be arranged.”

“Have you ever had anyone over here before?”

“Never.”

You exhale a contented sigh.

“How about a bath? And you can borrow something of mine to wear.”

“Okay. After I use the bathroom. The drinks, you know…Do I still smell like booze?”

He smiles gently. “Terribly. And now it’s clashing with…” His eyes flick downward and you blush. “You’ll feel better afterwards, I promise.”

You're given some privacy to relieve yourself and then you open the bathroom door, watching as he gathers a plush looking towel from the linen closet set just inside the master bath, bending over to plug the drain and turning the chrome handles of both faucets. The mirrored medicine cabinet holds a spare toothbrush for you and pain medicine. Steve fills a glass of water and pushes down on the bottle with his palm, removing the cap and shaking a pair of tablets free.

“Open your mouth.”

You comply and he presses the pills against your tongue, then rests the edge of the glass against your bottom lip, gently guiding a stream of water into your mouth and down your throat. You have the oddest sensation that he’s done this before; maybe he’d administered medicine to his children at some point. He refills the glass and lets you finish it before he continues getting things set up for your bath.

He shoves the sleeve that’s still resting against his left wrist up, revealing a twin set of scars to the ones you’d seen earlier as he leans over to test the water temperature.

“Are you getting in with me?” You step out of your shoes and remove your shrug, letting it lay in a crumpled pile on the floor.

A soft smile. “Another time.” His eyes linger on your curves as you pull the dress over your head. “I’ll assist you though, if you’d like. In case you’re still unsteady.”

The alcohol had long ago burned through your system and you think he knows it, but you murmur an acceptance of his offer, turning and allowing him to unhook your bra. Every movement is gentle and unhurried. He’s taking his time with you and you love it.

“It seems we’ve forgotten your panties in the car,” he murmurs against your ear.

“I didn’t forget.”

You feel the smile against your skin as the fabric slides free.

“Alright, that should be full now.” Steve turns the faucets off and offers you a hand to support you as you step over the edge of the tub. You sit down, sinking into the warm water that’s verging just on the edge of scalding and it feels glorious.

“Good?”

“Perfect.” You cup some water between your hands and splash it over your face.

Back to the linen closet and he returns with a washcloth. Kneeling down next to the tub, he submerges the square while you reach for a shampoo bottle tucked into the corner.

“Do you take baths often?”

“Rarely.”

“I can’t remember the last time I did.” You let him pull the bottle from your hands as you shift your body, your face disappearing beneath the water’s surface, soaking your hair.

A dollop of a pink pearlescent substance sits in Steve’s palm, waiting for you when you reappear. It’s cool on your scalp when he smears it against your tresses. His fingers work up a lather, nails lightly scraping and it sends a pleasant tingle through your neck and shoulders. When he’s satisfied with the results he pauses to stand and retrieve the cup from the counter.

“Close your eyes.” You can hear him collecting a glass of bath water to pour over your head to rinse your hair, the process repeated many times, his free hand combing gently through until the suds have dissipated. “Okay you can open them now.”

You wipe at your eyelids, watching as he places a bar of soap in the center of the damp wash cloth, massaging until the cleanser has been worked into the fibers. He starts with your upper back and shoulders, rubbing small circles into your skin. You hum appreciatively, letting your eyes slide closed. It’s so soothing, having him touch you like this.

“You’re good at this.” You feel the motions now at the level of your lower spine pause.

“You think so?” He drags the cloth around to the nearest arm, working on the hollow beneath it.

You smile. “Yes.”

He finishes stroking along your forearm and you move, the now soapy water sloshing as you offer the other arm.

“You’re good at everything.”

He huffs a little at this unexpected bit of praise but you detect a faint smile before he plants a quick kiss on your forehead. The wash cloth caresses your neck and collarbones, dipping between your breasts before lingering perhaps longer than necessary on each, the nipples stiffening beneath his touch. So recently sated and already your pussy is tingling again, wanting more of him.

He works the lather against your abdomen and begins traveling across the top of one bent thigh, which unfolds, hitting the side of the tub gently. The cloth has been abandoned, his own hands now skimming across your skin, along the slope of flesh that leads to the fork of your hungry sex, stopping just shy of it. His eyes are on your face, going so dark. You tremble at the cooler ambient air striking your damp exposed skin.

Then Steve resumes his washing as if the activity had never been paused, a brief brisk cleaning between your thighs with the cloth in use once more before working down to your knees and calves and feet and then he uses the edge of the tub to push himself upright, wringing out the cloth and draping it over the side.

“Alright we should get you out before you prune up. Feel better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He nods, reaching to unplug the drain and the water begins flowing away as he helps you stand. “You probably want to rinse off. Towel’s right here. The dresser with the cologne has shirts you can borrow. I’ll be in the living room, okay?”

“Okay.”

He cups your cheek and kisses you softly before leaving the room.

***

You stare in your reflection in the mirror as you drag Steve’s hairbrush—it’s some expensive looking one with a wooden handle and fine bristles—through your damp locks. You still can’t believe just a few hours ago you were sitting in a bar drinking to forget, now standing in Raglan’s bathroom desperate to remember every detail, snapshotting the taste of his toothpaste, cinnamon instead of the customary mint; the scent of the laundry detergent he uses embedded in the fibers of the plush towel; that first feel of his clothing on your skin, when you bypass the drawers in favor of one of the button front dress shirts hanging in the walk in.

You are very, very carefully not thinking about Mike. You think Steve is very, very carefully avoiding mentioning him.

You find the homeowner seated on the leather couch, the position more of a drape with his long figure, jean clad thighs eased slightly apart, one arm resting across the back of the couch. You continue walking until you reach his knee and stop.

“Do you mind if I wear this? I just…” you can’t explain it, just know that you like the way the material feels against you, the stretch of buttons dipping between your breasts, the way the hemline flutters loosely over your hips and ass.

“Not at all. It looks a hell of a lot better on you then it does on me.”

“No, it doesn’t. But it’s nice to see you in something other than your work clothes.” You pause. “You look so good.”

“I’m glad you think so.” He reaches out, fingertips grazing yours. “There are so many years between us. I forget that sometimes.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifty three.” Three decades divide you, then. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” you reply. It really doesn’t. If anything it only added to the man’s appeal. You move then, climbing onto his lap, straddling the long thighs he brings together to support you. His rests a hand on your waist, the other seated against one ass cheek, bare beneath the shirt. You supposed you could have borrowed a pair of his boxers, but really, what was the point? You had no intention of putting any more barriers between you.

You stroke his graying hair, so soft beneath your fingertips, disrupting the neatly parted waves. His skin is still so smooth, so untouched by sun from careers spent indoors, just a few creases here by his eyes, those amazing eyes that shift from pale blue to dark ink every time he sees you.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks gently, his voice a soft rasp.

“You’re beautiful.”

He laughs softly, surprised by this declaration, the amusement fading when he sees how solemn you are.

“You really think so?”

“I’m so crazy about you. You don’t even know how much.”

You see him frown slightly, his lips thinning. He doesn’t want to hear this. You can’t stop.

“You don’t have to say anything back. I just…I just need to get this out. Just this once.”

You feel his legs stir beneath you. “There are things in my past…” he begins, then abandons the thought and starts anew. “I was trying to tell you earlier. It would never be a normal relationship. I can’t give you what you want. What you deserve.”

“I don’t care. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. Pretend if you have to.”

“I don’t want to pretend with you.” You sense there is something more he’s not saying, the implication that he is in fact pretending in some other regard threaded there, but he continues speaking and the notion evades you. “Sweetheart,” he sighs. “This was never supposed to go this far.” The hand seated on your waist tightens. “You’re going to hate me one day.”

“No. I could never.” You bend to kiss him. “My heart is so full for you.”

You feel the coiled tension in his frame ease as you kiss him again, his tongue now darting against yours. The fingers gripping your ass check dig deeper and the familiar warm ache resurrects inside of you once more. His mouth travels to your throat, the delicious abrasion of his beard made rougher at this late hour painting your skin in red swatches.

“Tell me something about you that no one else knows.” You’re pushing him so far tonight, but you feel as if you may never have this opportunity again, when he’s in this environment alone with you, almost vulnerable.

There is the longest pause, his mouth still, face tucked into the crook of your neck, and you wonder if he’s heard you or he’s refusing to answer or is simply mulling over the answer before he responds.

“My real name isn’t Steve.” The latter, then.

Of all the things he might have said, this was the one you were expecting the least.

You frown, moving back to look at his face. “What is it?”

A clear hesitation this time. “William.”

“Why are you going by Steve?”

He shakes his head. “It’s too complicated to get into. Suffice to say I have good reason to use an alias. I’m trusting you not to tell anyone else.”

“Alright. I won’t.”

“So now you know one of my best kept secrets.”

“Are there many more?”

“Yes, a fair few. But that’s not for discussing tonight, if at all.” His firm tone brooks no argument.

You don’t know how to feel about this. Does it really matter so much if his name isn’t Steve? Plenty of people went by other names. Is it really so strange?

Who are you falling in love with?

“William.” You try the name out and feel a shudder wrack his body, the limbs trembling against you. Oh, he liked that.

“Say it again.”

“William.” The name comes easier this time. You’ll get used to it, surely. You just have to be careful not to say it in front of anyone else.

“Again.” His hands reach for the front of your shirt, pulling down impatiently. You hear the buttons scatter, tiny bits of plastic striking laminate.

“William.” He takes one of your breasts in his mouth, teeth clamping on the nipple and tugging on the flesh. His hands are now braced under your thighs and he stands, holding you, your legs automatically wrapping around him. The strength in this man is incredible. There’s no way a desk job would make him this fit. Maybe he exercises regularly.

The air is pushed out of your lungs when he shoves you up against the wall in the hallway, holding you there, his mouth wild against yours. All of the tenderness and gentleness from earlier has vanished, replaced with this passionate aggression. You can’t decide which you like better.

“You want me to fuck you, honey?” His breath is ragged by your cheek. Your cunt is absolutely throbbing.

“Yes.” It’s not a want but a need at this point.

He carries you into the master bedroom and lays you across the bed. You watch him do that one handed maneuver that only men can do because their shirts are cut differently, grabbing a handful of material from between his shoulder blades and pulling it over his head in one smooth motion.

The scars cover his torso, too. So, so many of them, tattooed across every surface.

You admire the way the muscles beneath the skin move as he unfastens the button on his jeans. He might be middle aged but he’s lean, toned without being overly muscular, just some softness around the abdomen that you find insanely attractive. God, you wish you’d seen him naked sooner than this.

He drags the zipper down, hooks thumbs in the denim waistband and lets them drop naturally, already reaching for the boxer briefs that need more than gravity to ease down. More scars wallpaper his hips and thighs—what kind of accident had he been in?—and then he joins you on the bed, climbing over you. You feel the weight of his hand depressing the coils of the mattress near your head, a knee by your hip doing the same.

His face looms over yours, breath gusting over you in soft pants. “You remember when you came to see me at the office that day?”

You could hardly forget. You’d made a complete ass of yourself. Your cheeks flush and you nod.

“Remember how I told you I wasn’t going to be so lenient with you the next time?”

“Yes. But you always have been.”

“Not tonight. You understand, sweetheart?” He drags a thumb against your bottom lip, such a soft contrast to the violence he’s promising you.

“I’ll do anything you want.”

“Oh honey, I know you will.”

His eyes go black.

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