william afton - smut one shots

4 vs 1 (Michael) pt 2

I had no idea how long I'd been lying there on the cold concrete—minutes, hours, it was all a blur. Time had lost meaning. My body trembled uncontrollably, wracked with sobs, as the events of just thirty minutes ago played on an endless loop in my mind. I could still feel their hands all over me, their touch burned into my skin like a brand. Their voices echoed in my head, every word, every vile insult and catcall, cutting deeper than any physical wound. Their hot breath on my neck, their cruel laughter—it haunted me, filling the silence around me, leaving no room for escape.

Each of them had taken something from me, had violated me in ways that left visible and invisible scars. I felt shattered, my body aching from their abuse, my mind crushed beneath the weight of the trauma they had inflicted.

Eventually, I forced myself to rise from the ground, every movement a struggle. My body was bruised, bloodied, and weak, but I limped forward, driven by a need to be anywhere but there. I made my way around the back gate, each step agony, until I reached my bedroom window.

I grabbed a pair of pajamas—a baggy t-shirt, sweatpants, and a fresh pair of underwear—before heading straight for the shower. I needed to rid myself of their touch, of the filth they'd left behind. Stepping into the bathroom, I could barely hold back the sobs as I turned on the water, letting it scald my skin in an attempt to feel clean again. I scrubbed furiously, my hands trembling as I tried to wash away the blood, the semen, everything they had tainted. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, how much soap I used, I couldn't shake the feeling that their presence was still clinging to me.

The tears came endlessly, falling silently as the water poured over me, and I cried harder, desperate to wash away not just the physical remnants but the pain, the shame, the horror. But it was futile. The dirt went deeper than my skin, into the very core of me.

When I finally stepped out of the shower, my body felt raw and exhausted, but the heaviness still weighed on me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and the reflection staring back was almost unrecognizable. Hickeys marked my neck and chest, ugly reminders of what they had done. My wrists and upper arms were bruised, dark purple fingerprints where they had gripped me too hard. Their handprints still stained my thighs, evidence of where they had forced themselves on me.

My head spun, reeling from the trauma, from the memories of their laughter, their mocking voices echoing in my mind. Their fake compliments, their teasing words—those moments played over and over, like a nightmare I couldn't wake from. I stood there, staring at the marks they'd left on my body, and realized no amount of scrubbing could ever make me feel clean again.

I wrapped myself in a towel and sat down on the cold toilet seat, staring blankly ahead, lost in the storm of my thoughts. The night replayed over and over, each moment as vivid and horrifying as the first time it had happened. Something inside me had shattered. I was completely and utterly ruined.

***

The entire weekend passed in a haze. I barely left my room, retreating into the safety of my blankets where I could hide from the world. I called out of work twice, my voice weak as I claimed I was sick. It wasn't a complete lie—I was sick, but not in the way they thought. My body ached, my mind felt broken, and I couldn't bear to face anyone.

My mother didn't buy it. She yelled at me from the other side of my door, accusing me of lying, of making excuses. She was right—I was lying, but she had no idea why. How could she? How could anyone? I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth. The words were too heavy, the shame too suffocating. I didn't have the strength to confess what had happened, and I wasn't sure I ever would.

When the dreaded Monday morning finally arrived, I stood in front of the mirror, desperately trying to cover the bruises on my neck. I layered on foundation, but no matter how much I applied, the marks still showed through, haunting reminders of what had happened. Frustrated and out of options, I rummaged through my mother's closet and grabbed one of her hideous scarves. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than exposing the bruises for the world to see.