Death Of Me (William Afton X Reader)

C̷̷h̷a̷̷p̷̷t̷̷e̷̷r̷ ̷T̷̷h̷̷i̷̷r̷̷t̷̷y̷

(This was actually kinda hard to right, to think of the right things to say for it. So hopefully its... good or something.)

Walking up to your loft, a wave of dread settled over you, thick and suffocating, wrapping itself around your chest and squeezing until you could hardly breathe. Jack's car sat in the driveway like a glaring warning sign, a stark reminder that no matter how much you wanted to avoid him, you couldn’t hide forever. Each step you took toward the door felt heavier than the last, your legs sluggish, as if your body itself was resisting this confrontation.

You weren’t just scared to face him—you were furious. The sting of his betrayal at the family dinner was still fresh, the memory replaying over and over like a cruel loop in your mind. The way he’d casually thrown you under the bus, blurting out your relationship with William to your parents, fueling their judgmental scrutiny with the perfect ammunition. And then the audacity—the nerve—he’d had to sit there and look guilty, like he was the victim of his own actions. The sharp, bitter feeling in your chest had lessened in the safety of Williams home, but now it burned even hotter as you neared the door to your own.

You weren’t sure what you were hoping for when you walked in. Maybe you prayed he’d still be asleep, maybe you wished you could slip inside unnoticed, quiet and unseen, and collapse into the sanctuary of your own thoughts. Maybe, deep down, you even wished he’d just disappear, like the bad dream he’d turned your life into.

But of course, the universe wasn’t that kind.

The door had barely clicked shut behind you when you were yanked into a suffocating hug. The force of it knocked the breath from your lungs, his arms wrapping around you with a desperation so raw, so unexpected, that it left you frozen. His grip was tight, too tight, as though letting go would mean losing you forever. His scent enveloped you—sharp cologne mingled with something warm, something distinctly him. It was familiar, too familiar, but it only made the knot in your chest tighten further.

"God, I’ve been worried sick," he murmured into your hair, his voice trembling. His arms tightened around you, his heart thundering against your chest like a drum, fast and frantic.

You stood there, stiff and unmoving, your mind reeling as his words sank in. Worried sick? The phrase clawed at your insides, twisting the knot in your stomach until it was almost unbearable. You were worried sick after what you did? After you humiliated me, betrayed me? Anger flared hot and wild beneath the surface of your shock, but it was tempered by something colder—hurt. Deep, bone-aching hurt that he’d caused.

How does he do this? How does he show up here, clinging to me like he’s the one who’s been wronged? Like he’s the one who who should feel anything?

Your hands twitched at your sides, torn between pushing him away and letting him stay. You wanted to shove him back, to put space between you, to say something—anything—that would force him to face the pain he’d caused. But your body betrayed you, frozen in place, the words stuck in your throat like shards of glass.

The weight of his emotions pressed against you, suffocating in its intensity. His shaking breath tickled your ear, and you felt his grip tighten even further, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on hard enough. And for a fleeting moment, you wondered if this was guilt, or fear, or something else entirely.

But it didn’t matter. The damage was done, and no amount of hugs or trembling apologies could undo it.

And even though you could tell this wasn’t just a hug of relief. It wasn’t just a greeting or a show of affection. It was something more—a silent apology, a plea for forgiveness. you weren’t sure if you were ready for any of it.