Death Of Me (William Afton X Reader)

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(this chapter might feel a bit bland- I struggled a lot to get it decent. Also- Jack does love y/n he just sucks at being a brother. Trigger warning- mention of suicide.)

William’s hands are firm on your waist, pinning you in place against the wall as his knee presses up against the heat between your legs, the friction sending sparks of heat coursing through your body. His touch is deliberate, commanding, and the intensity leaves you breathless. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, desperate for balance as his lips trail down your neck, leaving burning kisses in their wake. Each press of his mouth is rougher, more demanding, almost biting, as though he’s staking some silent claim on your skin.

Your breath hitches when his hand slides up your side, fingers brushing under the hem of your shirt, teasing at bare skin. The heat of his touch leaves you trembling, every nerve alive under his attention. He’s so close, his body pressed against yours, every movement deliberate and filled with a tension that feels like it might snap at any moment. His lips travel lower, grazing your collarbone, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

You tilt your head back, giving him more access, lost in the sensation of his lips and the maddening press of his knee. Every inch of you burns, every touch sending waves of electricity through your body. You ache for more, for him to go further, for him to close the maddening distance that still lingers between you. But just as his lips drift dangerously close to yours—

You wake up with a jolt.

Your eyes snap open, your heart pounding erratically in your chest. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving you gasping. Its still dark outside, the soft pale light of the mood filtering through the blinds, but it does nothing to settle the storm inside you. Your body hums with a lingering warmth, your skin tingling in a way that makes you want to crawl out of it entirely.

For a moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together what just happened. But the images come rushing back—vivid, unrelenting, and mortifying. William. His voice, his touch, the way he looked at you. The intensity of it all floods your senses, making you press a hand to your chest as if that could calm your racing heart.

It was just a dream. You know that, but it doesn’t make it any less overwhelming.

You groan, dragging both hands down your face, hoping to scrub the memories away. "God, what the hell is wrong with me?" you mutter, though the question hangs unanswered in the quiet room. The ache in your chest—and elsewhere—refuses to be ignored, a humiliating reminder of how deeply your feelings have burrowed into your subconscious.

Feelings you’ve been desperately trying to ignore. You were not successful so far. If anything it was just getting worse.

You glance at the clock on your nightstand. 4:06 a.m. Too early to be awake, too late to fall back asleep, not that you’d want to. Your face burns just thinking about the possibility of slipping back into that dream. It’s not like you can afford to waste time dwelling on something so ridiculous. And yet...

Another groan escapes you as you throw a pillow over your face, muffling a frustrated scream. The dream replays itself, no matter how hard you try to shove it away—his hands, his lips, the low timbre of his voice murmuring your name like it was something precious. The intimacy of it all leaves you squirming, not in discomfort but in embarrassment. You feel silly. Stupid.

Because he would never look at you like that. Not in real life.

It’s William—brilliant, cold, and impossibly out of your league. You know how you look to him: a messy, anxious wreck of a person who can barely hold herself together. A far cry from the kind of woman who’d catch his attention.