Death Of Me (William Afton X Reader)

ȻħȺᵽŧɇɍ Ŧwɇnŧɏ-Ŧwø

William set the mug in front of you with quiet precision, the gentle curl of steam twisting into the air. The smell of tea—earthy and faintly floral—lingered between the two of you, unspoken words hanging heavier than the silence.

“Sugar? Milk?” His voice was low, deliberate, like he was testing the waters, unsure of what to say or how to say it.

You blinked, forcing yourself back to the present. “Uh—a little sugar.”

He nodded, reaching for a jar from the cupboard and setting it on the table with a muted thud. The metal scoop inside gleamed faintly in the kitchen’s light. “Help yourself,” he said, his voice neutral, though you swore there was something gentler tucked beneath it. He handed you a spoon, his fingertips brushing yours for a brief moment, and you flinched before you could stop yourself.

“Thanks,” you muttered, though the word felt weak in your mouth.

William settled in the chair next to yours, his own cup cradled in his hand as he took a sip, black tea—no sugar, no milk. Of course he drank it that way. Uncomplicated. Direct. You tried to focus on the warmth of the cup in your hands, on the scent of chamomile, but the tension in the air was suffocating.

You stared down into the tea, its rippling surface an inky void. A strange calm sat heavy in your chest, but it was chased by something darker—a flickering unease that curled around your thoughts like smoke. Your hands trembled faintly as you reached for the sugar, spooning just enough to cut the bitterness. You stirred, watching the granules dissolve like they hadn’t existed at all. You wished it were that easy to erase everything.

It was strange being here. In his house. His space. You never thought you’d see the inside of it, let alone like this—sitting in his kitchen with tea that he’d made for you. It didn’t fit. The place was... nice, though. A dark aesthetic, clean and sharply minimal, just like him. It smelled good—subtle hints of cedar and something faintly metallic—comfortable, despite the sterile edges. Of course his house would look like this, you thought. Impersonal, but lived-in enough to make you second guess.

You risked a glance at him. He looked relaxed, unnervingly so, his posture casual as he leaned back in his chair. Yet the way his eyes watched you—sharp, unreadable—made your throat tighten. A man like him was never just relaxed.

“Alright,” he said at last, breaking the silence. His voice carried through the room, smooth and unhurried. “I suppose it’s time we address the elephant in the room.”

Your stomach dropped, the words a cold blade twisting in your gut. The elephant in the room. You wanted to laugh at how casually he put it—like he hadn’t pulled you from some nightmare. The memory—or the absence of memory—rushed back to the forefront. That horrible, sickening emptiness where moments should have been. It clawed at the edge of your mind, taunting you. You could feel something had happened—your body remembered even if your mind refused to. The sick weight of someone touching you, the faint smell of stale cologne, the dread sinking into your bones. But it was fragmented, a puzzle you couldn’t force together.

It made you feel sick.

“Right,” you managed, biting your lower lip—harder than necessary to keep the tremor from your voice. You glanced up at him, and for a split second, you thought his gaze flickered to your mouth, his eyes darkening. But the moment passed so quickly you almost doubted it. His face smoothed back into neutrality, the perfect picture of control.

“Do you have any specific questions?” he asked. His voice was steady, yet too composed. He leaned back just slightly, arms folding across his chest, and the lines of muscle shifting beneath his sleeves caught your eye. You looked away quickly, ashamed by the heat pooling in your cheeks.