Death Of Me (William Afton X Reader)

ȻħȺᵽŧɇɍ Sɨxŧɇɇn

The next morning, you lay in bed, the stillness of your loft suffocating against the storm raging in your head. The soft morning light filtered through the blinds, striping the ceiling with pale shadows. The hum of the world outside only deepened the quiet that pressed against your chest, an unbearable contrast to the chaos of your thoughts.

You stared blankly at the ceiling, your body heavy with exhaustion, though you hadn’t done anything but think. How did this happen?

You hadn’t meant for it to.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him.

But somewhere along the way, you had. Slowly, insidiously, like the creeping frost of winter stealing over autumn’s last leaves. And now, as you lay there, you could feel the weight of it—crushing, suffocating, utterly immovable.

You tried, for what felt like the thousandth time, to pinpoint when it started. When had your feelings for him shifted from idle admiration to something so raw it hurt? You chased the thought like a dog chasing its tail, spinning in circles and getting nowhere.

Was it the way he’d spoken to you when the rest of the world seemed content to pass you by? The way he didn’t force you to fake cheerfulness or push you to be anyone but yourself? Maybe it was in the stolen moments, the rare instances where his icy demeanor thawed—just enough for you to see something softer beneath. The way his sharp gaze softened when he didn’t think you were looking. The faint curl of a smile that would vanish before you could even be sure it was real.

Whatever it was, it had seeped into you without permission, until one day, you woke up drowning in it.

Your fingers curled into the blanket, twisting the fabric as if that would somehow squeeze the ache out of your chest. He doesn’t feel the same. You told yourself that over and over, trying to beat it into submission. But it didn’t matter. The feelings were there, growing stronger with every passing hour, no matter how unwelcome they were.

You buried your face in the pillow, frustration building to a simmering boil beneath your skin. His name echoed in your mind like a taunt, a soft whisper you couldn’t escape.

William.

It clung to you, a reminder of everything you couldn’t have and shouldn’t want. You hadn’t known him long, but it felt like he had carved himself into your mind, one careful chisel at a time. There was something about him—something magnetic, something dangerous. He was a puzzle you didn’t want to solve but couldn’t stop trying to piece together.

“Stupid, British man,” you muttered, the bitterness in your voice a thin veil over the pain beneath.

The words offered no relief, and you flopped onto your side, staring at the wall in resignation. “Why am I like this?”

The silence in your loft seemed to mock you, amplifying the thoughts you were desperate to escape. You had liked people before—more than a few. But this? This was something entirely different. This wasn’t just out of reach. This was impossible.

“Stupid feelings,” you groaned, your voice muffled by the pillow as you buried your face again.

You could almost hear Alex’s teasing voice in the back of your mind, his amused chuckle when he inevitably found out. He’d call you predictable, laugh at your expense, and he wouldn’t even be wrong. You’d always been like this—attracted to the unattainable, a moth to a flame that would inevitably burn you.

But this flame? This flame could destroy you.

William wasn’t just unattainable. He was untouchable, closed off behind walls so thick you’d never get close.