Dont Think Ive Posted These Jeremichael Doodles

dont think ive posted these jeremichael doodles

Spoke too soon

RAAAAAH IT’S TOONA’S BLORBOS TIME !!! @toonamayo

HE HAS NOT BEEN ANYONE'S SON IN A LONG TIME. Hasn't been anyone to anyone in a long time: most people dead and gone or worse when Mike has been dragged back, unwillingly, once more from death to ruin his father's schemes. NO REST FOR THE WICKED, BOY: STAND UP STRAIGHT. DON'T SLOUCH NOW. MAKES YOU LOOK WEAK, A LITTLE KID. Draws blood with how hard his nails dig into his palm, hardly able to breathe even without the visage change from the other. His father. His own grey eyes not even widened, not even surprised, at the sight: glossy and dry with resignation. That's what you are, aren't you ? My son. " Maybe once, " he says, unwilling, blood run cold at the glitch's words; from forty to fourteen Mike will always be Michael, will never escape the role of the eager, reaching son.

Compared to the other's fluid, graceful movements, the man is robotic. Recognize his face anywhere, huh ? Mike hasn't known his reflection in decades. His body, stiff, lurches back when the creature that is his father learns, and suddenly, for all the noise and clamor of the Pizzaplex, he feels very alone. Eyes dart to the room opening, waiting for someone to come by, see the situation, save him from this: but there's nobody here but him. And his father. His father who looks like his father and for all his age and the own decaying decrepit form, Michael is a little boy again. Staring, helpless, at a role model a disappointment of a parent the bane of his existence a sad, unstable man who just can't let go Dad Michael feels something within him fracture. insides scooped out again, no sister to speak of. Is he proud of his son ? [...] Still standing after everything ?

Hey, he learned how to cling to life from the best.

" I have nothing to say to you. " The words come out with more fervor and less dignity than he'd hoped. A fox cornered. " Last time I checked, you're just a virus. Leftovers from an old man's overdue death. " His smile is flat and frozen, exposes chipped tooth from childhood and more scars from his scooping. " Yeah, last standing. And I'm gonna keep it that way. What is this? -- One more grab at immortality, huh ? Predictable. " Body creaks and groans when he stands straighter, squaring old, stitched shoulders. Make up for how small, how grotesque, he feels in the face of his father in prime life.

“Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore.” [hear me out: apprentice michael pulling away from his father’s clutches, only to be drawn back to spring/glitchtrap….]

🔧 @runeians !

"why?" is the faint answer of glitchtrap. arms raised, with palms upward on either side of widened grin. a grin which cocks to the side, jarringly. question sounding far too genuine even for his own liking. his wide, purple eyes blinking animatedly.

"that's what you are, aren't you? my son." his voice resembled springtrap's if not for the influence of his newfound digitization, now knock, knock, knocking at the door of his son's mind. inflected just so. all michael has ever wanted, was his approval. perhaps the big picture he had missed when withholding it too much as a flesh and bone man. but now, he sees all. hands gesticulating, and landing with a curious finger curled under his jaw.

hands flourish in to rest on one hip, the other finger extending to point with a sway. all fluid motions. "don't try and hide from it now, boy. you might have aged, but i'd recognize that face anywhere." he easily leans against a surface beside him, elbow propped with ankles crossed. nonchalant. "quite funny how things work out, isn't it?"

he glitches in and out. his form becoming more and more distorted, until the image of his old self appears stark before the man standing before him.

in the same position, teeth show in a lazily lidded-eyed grin. "the last afton standing." he says, chuckling lowly. foot bouncing as the image of the elder afton in his patriarchal prime stares back at the rotting visage of his boy.

IT’S NOT THE FIRST TIME HE’S DEBATED TRYING TO KILL HIS FATHER. Not like it’s a frequent thought — for all the blood on his hands, he still shies away as often as possible from the actual killing blow, as subtly as a twenty two year old can be in the face of paternal authority. For the most part, he’s content (ish) by his father’s side. Pleased to have a purpose, satisfied with parental warmth. He has nobody else, and he’s not sure anyone else would be anything less than horrified at his violent ways — why would he kill the one man that accepts him?

And besides, it’s a useless thought. Wishful thinking, whenever his bitter memories from childhood get the better of him, remembering the man his father used to be — because William has long outgrown his humanity, and stabbing him or poisoning him would be entirely unproductive.

…But this might be the first time he’s ever seen his father so weakened.

The command rings in his ears, and Michael jerks towards the shelf automatically, pausing while halfway there. Power: not often he has it unless it’s over him and his father’s victims. Powerless: not often his father is ever even close to it. He’s tempted, just for an offhand moment. To just smash the vials, in one vicious sweep. To make his father say please. Just for a second.

“What did . . . What did they do?” He asks, morbid curiosity settling like a weight over his bones, trying his best and delaying his task. “Holy shit. What pissed you off so much?”

Because it really is a horrific scene: if he hadn’t been so used to blood and bodies by this point, he’s certain he couldn’t have handled it.

     @bitterborne ★ ❛ you’ve lost a lot of blood. ❜

     It is not often that one of his targets would get a solid struggle in, enough to remove all semblance of control of his anger. Hell, this was the first time William had lost all control, enraged by his victim struggling far too much -- reminded him a lot of that boy who broke his jaw. But oh boy, this one pushed her luck. The actions were one thing, but the words were a whole different park.      When Michael finds his father, the scene is far more gruesome than anything before. William breathes are heavy, feeling light headed from the simmering rage and the fact a good amount of blood has been lost in the struggle. What could resemble a human body is torn to shreds, like a wild animal had gotten its claws on it -- all done with the wrath of a god and a single claw hammer.

     Slowly, his breaths grow into something normal, using the sleeve of his shirt to wipe some of the blood off his face, “I'm. . . fine. . .” There is a subtle shake to his hands, feeling the fatigue starting to take over. The amount of blood lost would have killed a man, but William still stands, even if on weakened legs.      He gestures towards one of the shelves, “Grab one of those vials, one of the silver ones. Bring it over. . .” It can be felt, the reserves of the remnant inside his body starting to drain. He must replenish it, before it runs dry. How finicky his immortality could be, but it is worth the prices, worth the risk.

SEEING  HER  FACE  FALTER  IS  LIKE  WATCHING  HER  SIGN  HER  OWN  DEATH  SENTENCE.  It  takes  everything  in  him  to  keep  his  own  expression  composed;  verging  on  kind  ( hah )  as  he  asks  questions  he’s  scared  he  might  already  know  the  answers  to.  She’s  the  nest,  he’s  the  exterminator;  a  boy  obeying  orders  because  it’s  all  he  knows,  from  a  man  who  knows he is  all  his son  has  left.  

In  a  way,  he  supposes,  Charlotte  Sheppard  is  the  same.  She  is  the  only  person  that  those  children  have  left  too.  

And  she  wears  it  openly.  Doesn’t  shield  the  contortion  of  her  features,  deflects  with  a  smile  Michael  has  been  trained  to  see  through.  He  knows  about  power,  and  he  knows  about  fear,  and  he  knows  about  keeping  secrets  –  and  when  she  heads  for  further  away,  his  heart  sinks  lower  than  he  thought  possible,  because  he  thinks  he  might  be  able  to  read  every  damn  secret  she’s  ever  tried  to  keep;  especially  this  one,  as  it  spills  out  of  her,  pools  on  the  ground  like  a  lonely  saint’s  blood.  She is  the  surveyor  of  his  father’s  empire,  collecting  those  discarded  and  deathly,  and  Michael  is  going  to  have  to  kill  her  the  moment  she  goes  too  far.

He’s  frightened  she  may  have  already  passed  that  point.  The  threshold  of  no  return.  Can  anyone  who  discovers  the  truth  really  find  peace  again ?  He  wishes  there  was  an  easy  answer  to  that.  To  anything.  

From  where  he  stands,  his  hands  curl  into  helpless  fists  at  his  sides.

“ Talk  about  ominous, ”  he  bounces  off  her  response  as  quick - wittedly and as obliviously  as  possible,  crossing  the  room  towards  her  in  three  large  strides.  Boots  rub  uncomfortably,  shirt  not  quite  fitting  right.  It  had  belonged  to  his  father  when  he’d  played  the  night  guard,  and  now  that  it’s  Michael’s  turn  to  take  up  the  mantel,  he  finds  himself  wanting,  unable  to  fill  the  expectations  and  trying  to  drag  Charlotte  out  of  the  crossfire  too.  “ This  place  is  only  spooky  at  night  ‘cause  it’s  so  empty,  y’know.  You  worked  day - shift  before,  right ? ”  Really  hopes  she’d  told  him  that,  rather  than  something  he’d  picked  up  from  his  father.  Slip - ups  are  inevitable,  but  the  haunting  flash  of  distress  on  her  face  is  a  phantom  is  Michael’s  own  mind,  and  he  wants  to  avoid  drawing  any  kind  of  suspicion  to  himself  while  she’s  rattled.  “ Look,  don’t  let  the  ghost  stories  scare  you  too  much.  The  most  evil  thing  in  here  is  the  pay . . .  And  the  cupcake  toy.  That  thing  gives  me  the  creeps. ”

For  the  first  time  in  a  long  time,  he  feels  out  of  place  in  the  pizzeria.  It’s  become  the  only  place  he’d  been  comfortable,  but  now,  with  Charlotte,  things  are  different.  Less  personal,  less  familiar.  Glancing  uncomfortably  in  the  direction  her  gaze  lingers,  Michael  shivers,  a  cold  breeze  whispering  down  his  spine.  “ . . .  You  know  that,  right ? ”  That  what  you  know  can’t  be  real,  for  your  own  sake  ?

“ are you alright ? you look like you’ve seen a ghost. ”

[ hear me out: i’m throwing my michael @bitterborne at charlotte while he’s helping his dad with remnant collecting & general pizzeria security bc yknow. nothing more fun than trying to play oblivious when charlotte is literally suffocated by the ghosts of his crimes ! !!! ]

halloween-themed starters | always accepting ! | from @bitterborne | “ are you alright ? you look like you’ve seen a ghost. ”

she feels like she's just been electrocuted. there's a buzzing under her skin, like her veins are honeycomb, like she's a nest. carrying around histories not her own, little bodies with tiny hands, memories crawling into all her empty spaces, filling the spaces that she couldn't afford to give. it's not exactly subtle. not a blink-and-you-miss-it sort of moment. not like the shivering silhouette of a small body that was just behind him, that flickered out of existence the moment she focused on it. there, then gone. hearing them is normal, feeling them even, but not SEEING them. doesn't know who it is, what upset them so, why they want to make themselves known in this way in this moment. but she doesn't take it lightly. it all crosses her face. she's never been one to hide things. ( it would've been pretty hard to hide anyways. )

his question is gentle. kind, if anything. she blinks, looks over at him. michael. wears the same costume, daces the same masquerade. the facade of security is well-worn on them both. she doesn't know much about him, doesn't even know if he's illegitimate like she is, but the question almost feels FRIENDLY. he didn't see them, didn't feel them, whatever it was. her answer is immediate. maybe a little too quick. her first instinct is always to deflect, always to hide. if anyone finds out about her, the reason why she's stuck with this godforsaken company for the last five years, it's all over. she sort of side-steps him, fills the moment with movement, a distraction to get him to not look at her face while she clears up the surprise, the fright. " who knows ? maybe i did. " when she smiles, it's a little forced, trying to cover with her signature wry humor. " you know how it goes, with this place. " and that's not quite as amused as the beginning of her sentence, a little dark with her feeling. bitterness. but she's still moving, the confusion, the worry, not quite gone from her demeanor, toward the space where she saw the little one a moment ago. the door on the other end of that space makes a fine excuse for her crossing the threshold.