Death Of Me (William Afton X Reader)

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William paced his kitchen, dragging his hand through his hair, the movement sharp and agitated. He barely registered the sting on his scalp, but he knew he must have done it a thousand times tonight already. His thoughts were a chaotic spiral, looping back to one conclusion: this wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

The plan had been simple. Pick your drunk ass up from the bar, drop you off, and retreat to the blessed, suffocating quiet of his home. That should’ve been it. Clean. Easy. But it wasn’t. Instead, it had turned into this—you, with your tear-streaked cheeks and shaking frame, were now a storm he couldn’t escape.

He shouldn’t have answered when you called. He shouldn’t have come. You weren’t friends. Weren’t anything but mentor and apprentice. But when your voice giggled over the line, light and carefree, something inside him twisted and refused to let go. He’d tried to tell himself it was just his sense of obligation, but even that felt like a lie.

Because he cared. And that infuriated him more than anything else.

The memory of the bar twisted in his chest, a sharp, searing pain that refused to leave him. That sick bastard had you pinned against the car, his hands everywhere they shouldn’t be, his lips forcing themselves on yours. William had seen red, felt it burn through his veins as his fist connected with the bastard’s jaw. The sensation had been satisfying—pathetically so. The sickening crunch of bone under his knuckles had almost brought a smile to his face. When he realized the guy had drugged you, slipped something vile into your drink with intentions far worse than what William had interrupted, his regret was instant. He should’ve done more. Should’ve dragged him into the shadows, slit his fucking throat, and left him choking on his own blood. Should’ve made him regret every sick decision that led him to you.

And yet, there was a part of him—buried beneath the violent haze—that burned with resentment. At you. Fuck you for being so reckless, for taking a drink from a stranger, for putting yourself in that position. Fuck you for crying as you clung to him, your sobs breaking apart something inside him he didn’t want to name. The way you trembled in his arms made him want to burn the entire world to ash just so you’d never have to cry like that again. And God, did he hate you for that.

The drive to his house had been nothing short of hell. You, restless and unpredictable in your drunken haze, shifting closer to him, touching his face, his hair—and then your hand on his thigh, your fingers creeping upward–fuck. His breath hitched just remembering it, the phantom weight of your touch sparking a wildfire beneath his skin. He clenched his fists, the memory raw, unbearable.

What you did to him was torturous. That simple, absent-minded touch had nearly ripped his control to shreds. The urge to pull over, to drag you across the console and bury himself in your warmth, had been overwhelming. He could already picture it—your body against the seat, his hands roaming every inch of you, taking what he’d been trying so desperately to ignore.

But he hadn’t. Because you were drunk. Not yourself. Vulnerable. And despite the storm raging inside him, he wouldn’t cross that line. He wouldn’t take advantage of you, no matter how badly he wanted to.

But damn, you made it so fucking hard.

Leaning against the counter, he exhaled shakily, his grip on the cool edge so tight his knuckles ached. He couldn’t let this happen. Whatever this was, whatever you stirred in him—it couldn’t be allowed to take root. Whatever it was you were doing to him, whatever dangerous, maddening spell you’d cast, it had to stop.

He told himself it was because he’d been down this road before. Marriage. Kids. Divorce. He knew how it ended, and he wasn’t about to invite that chaos back into his life.