Death Of Me (William Afton X Reader)

ȻħȺᵽŧɇɍ Ɇɨǥħŧɇɇn

(slight trigger warning. Had to cut this into two chapters- next part coming soon)

You stared at his name on your phone, the glowing letters twisting and blurring no matter how hard you tried to focus. Around you, the noise of the bar felt muffled, like someone had stuffed cotton in your ears, the chatter and clinking of glasses fading into a meaningless hum. Should you call him? Would he even answer?

The thought made your stomach flip, and you shifted in your seat, the sticky leather of the booth groaning in protest. The sound made you cringe, though a breathy giggle slipped out anyway, followed by a hiccup that made your head loll to the side. You pressed your phone against your cheek, the cool surface grounding you for just a moment before the room swayed again.

You shouldn't call him. You knew you shouldn't. It was his weekend off, his time to rest. He deserved that. He didn't deserve to be bothered by his drunk, pathetic apprentice who couldn't even handle herself for one night without making it someone else's problem.

But... there wasn't anyone else, was there? Not anyone you trusted. That thought settled heavy in your chest, like someone had tied a weight to your ribs and let it sink.

Another laugh bubbled up-high-pitched, shaky, and utterly humorless. If you called him, what would he even say? He'd probably be disappointed, the way he always looked when you messed up during lessons. That tight, unreadable frown that made you feel like you were twelve again, waiting for some lecture you wouldn't remember later. Or maybe he'd just be annoyed, his clipped tone cutting right through your haze, reminding you how inconvenient you were.

And why wouldn't he be annoyed? Why would he come get you? He wasn't responsible for you. You were just some girl he'd been forced to mentor, someone to pass the time with until you were out of his hair. He was nice because he had to be, polite in that way that made you forget, just for a second, how little he actually cared. That didn't mean he'd leave the warmth of his home, drag himself out into the night, just to deal with the mess you'd gotten yourself into.

You sighed, a long, shaky exhale that barely steadied the way the bar seemed to tilt around you. The floor felt wobbly, the air too thick, but you stayed still, clutching your phone like it might anchor you.

And yet, against all better judgment-against every tiny voice in your head screaming don't do this-your thumb hovered for only a moment before tapping the green phone icon. His name stayed bright on the screen as the ringing began, each tone like a hammer to your chest.

Your breath hitched, your heart racing faster with every second. Stupid. This is so stupid. The alcohol buzzed through your veins, amplifying the panic until it felt like your entire body was vibrating. What were you even doing? You weren't thinking. You never thought things through. You almost ended the call right then and there, your thumb trembling over the screen.

He's going to be so angry, you thought, your stomach flipping with dread. And yet...some part of you refused to pull away, that tiny, reckless sliver of hope clinging stubbornly to the possibility that he might actually pick up. That he might care enough to answer.

And then-"Bloody hell, Y/N-it's two in the morning. What could you possibly want at this hour?"

His voice, low and unmistakably annoyed, rumbled through the receiver. Your breath caught in your throat, heat flooding your cheeks and spreading down your neck. The sound of his accent always did something to you, made you fluttery and stupid in a way you hated but couldn't stop.

Oh God, what have I done?

Despite the rising anxiety clawing at your chest, the alcohol loosened your tongue, and a giggle escaped before you could stop it. "Willy! Hi!" you slurred, your voice lilting and unsteady. "I'm sorry! It's, like, late, hehe-did I wake you? It sounds like you just woke up-jeez, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to call-I mean, I did, but-uhm-"