(i Dont Believe In God Anymore. I Dont Believe In My Father Either): William & Michael. - Tumblr Posts

The Emilys & The Aftons

HE’S DIZZY AGAIN, BUT THIS TIME FROM RELIEF. Well, Michael thinks it’s relief. It could just be exhaustion, those long angry nights catching up with his emotions, or maybe surprise at having anyone (let alone his father!) on his side. But no matter, because tears nip at his eyes and Michael turns away to the cabinet indicated to hide them, scuffing roughly at his eyes with his bloodied cuffs. Any comfort, no matter how basic, is unfamiliar […] But in a situation like this, he could practically fall at his father’s feet in praise. A man of devout faith to a god.

“No, it was— it was slow,” he says, just as drawn out, like he’s not really there at all, “he— I didn’t even know him much, and I just heard him saying shi— STUFF ABOUT OUR FAMILY. Stuff about you and me. I just wanted to make him stop.”

The cabinet is opened, but his arms are occupied with dirty, bloodied rug. In this state — a little numb, a little dazed, Michael blindly copies his father, rolling up his already sullied sleeves and dropping the rug at the side of the room. Tunes out the repugnant tang of blood and the sight of the body. It’s the little things, the unthinking obedience, that helps him cope with the next words.

“I just… lost it, I guess. And I didn’t even realise ‘til halfway through, didn’t realise how bad I’d hurt him.”

Rug, discarded. Sleeves, pushed back. Michael falters briefly, and keeps his eyes firmly averted from the corpse as he opens the cabinet. He’d punched until the red mist cleared and the throbbing in his hands made him cry out, and then he’d panicked and floundered at the mess he’d made.

All of you Aftons, the boy had spat, you’re all monsters, and everybody knows it.

The queasiness returns at the memory, and Michael lurches over to his father with cleaning products like he’s forgotten how to walk. William is so nonchalant and vaguely pleased about the whole situation that he’s beginning to feel some of that sought-after delight of killing (alongside the disgust and dread).

Well. Of his father’s praise and attention. But he won’t realize the difference between the two for another couple of months.

William’s last words steady him. Breathe. His chest heaves up automatically, and it’s ridiculous how much easier it feels now that he’s been told to do it — breaths jerky, but less panicked, Michael shoots his father a look. It oozes more gratitude and more positive emotion than he’s aimed at the man in several years.

“Thank you. Thank you. I’m okay. I promise I’m okay. I just— didn’t know what to do, and I was so angry. It— It felt good.” A lie, but he’s seeking approval. It feels like the right thing to say. “To just… let it all out.” (Now that’s not a lie.)

CONTINUED. / @behindslaughter

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.

CONFIDENCE QUICKLY DASHED BY HIS FATHER’S WORDS, MICHAEL’S EYES FLICKER FROM THE MAN TO THE FLOOR. It’s hard not to feel like he’s being watched now, like the people in the distance can see inside his head, know they’ve successfully tricked him […] and, hair falling sulkily over blue eyes, Michael deflates. A childish petulance is creeping up on him, mingling discordantly with the sudden paranoia of his father’s warning — I still did good, right? He wants to say, but keeps that choked under his tongue carefully.

“Nobody seemed suspicious.” He murmurs, and his own accent sounds wrong on his lips. It’s a thrilling kind of rebellion, a dumb kind of private revolution, to switch to a bland, default American accent in front of coworkers (in front of Jeremy). Like he can hide the blood on his hands. But he’s uncomfortable speaking with his real voice now, and it makes his words off-key, flat. “They all sounded genuine. The ones I spoke with, anyway.” The instructions had been standard, routine — mixing with the other staff, overhearing any rumours about the disappearances, their employer. Michael had thought it straightforward . . . But can’t shake the feeling that he’s somehow failed a test for taking things at face value. William’s gaze is distant, and he knows he’s watching the employees ahead, more shrewd and more capable than Michael thinks he’ll ever be. "But they - there'd be no reason to lie to me. 'S not like they know who I am. " Another benefit of going undercover and using a fake name at work, this one more practical: keeping a low profile means he can overhear anything about his father without employees being suspicious of him. As shittily - improvised as ' FRITZ SCHMIDT ' is, Michael's grown fond of the persona.

Focusing back on the figure next to him, he sidles just slightly closer, frowning in the same direction like he's just as unbothered by the lack of eye contact or direct attention. " You really think they would've lied to me . . . ? "

     @bitterborne ★ ❝ No one suspects anything. ❞ [ have some michael !!! ]            ★ ☆ HALLOWEEN-THEMED FNAF STARTERS

     “How sure of that are you?” Silver eyes stare at his son, only a fraction narrowed in suspicion. Even when he tried to suppress the darkest desires inside his mind, William always knew when somebody was suspicious -- the way they stare, the look of their eyes. The eyes tell everything.      Michael is a quick learner, but there are still so many things he must learn. William lived decades with the unyielding desire to end lives with his own hands -- even before he knew about remnant. Seeing all those judgmental stares back in his hometown gave him experience, knowing how to tell if somebody trusted the mask he put on.

     “Let your guard down, and that could be the end. Remember that, Michael.” His voice sounds so impersonal, distant as his focus trails away to observe the masses in the distance, “You don't need to know what they are feeling, but you can tell if they are lying through their eyes.”

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.

The urge to redraw all my old fnaf art is sooooo strong

We used to play outside his office. I think because we wanted him to hear. And he would come out and he was so terrifying. He’d come out and he’d yell at us to be quiet. What he was doing in there was so important. We couldn’t conceive of what it was. You know, presidents, and kings, and queens, and diplomats, and prime ministers, and world bankers.

SUCCESSION (2018–2023) S04E09: Church And State

MICHAEL RECOILS LIKE HE’S BEEN STABBED. ACTUALLY, THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN KINDER: instead, buzzing fills his ears, loud and insistent static trying to block out the rabbit’s words. You can piss it off, a part of him whispers encouragingly, if you can do that, you can destroy it too. It’s nice thinking, but Michael — Mike — is busy shoving uselessly at the mounting horror in his chest to pay it much attention. As long as you are alive, he will come back. That can’t be true. And yet his eyes fix on the glitch, and its stupid, stupid grin tells him that it’s not lying.

Fuck.

“ Kept him trapped, though, didn’t I? It was pretty cathartic, watching him run back and forth in that old building looking for a kid that didn’t exist. ” He barely has the ability to force the words out, and they emerge from his scarred throat tired and gritty, but there’s a tone of derision in his voice too. Mike has no respect for what his father has become. None whatsoever. And he sees him as especially pathetic here. “ Sure, so maybe I didn’t kill him. But even if he comes back — if I don’t manage to stop you first — it’s not really him. ” The weary smile is only slightly bittersweet. “ You wouldn’t get it, ” he adds, “ ‘cause he made you. But the real William Afton has been dead since he died in that fucking rabbit suit, and everything else is a pathetic copy. I mean, look at you. ”

( Growing in energy and strength, Mike’s gaze fixes on the rabbit and finds itself disgusted. Contemptuous. Almost pitying. )

( Does his best to hide the lingering fear that maybe he’s exactly the tool Glitchtrap needs to save his father. Because there will always be some version of his father living inside his bones, and every day Mike is terrified someone realizes that. )

“ You’re a copy, and a shitty one at that. The thing you’ll bring back won’t be anything more than a weed in a garden. Do yourself a favor — do him a favor. Destroy yourself and let him rot in hell. ” Mike steps in, jaw clenching automatically at his own action. “ No amount of effort will bring back the man that created you. Only another piss - poor mimicry of him. ”

     @bitterborne from ☆

     The virus lets out a laugh -- grating as it becomes filled with static, its own form seeming to glitch out of reality as it does so. Glitchtrap had been programed to be loyal, crafted from a piece of its creator's soul. It knows no loyalty but to William Afton. Not to some company that tries to steal its creator's achievements ; not to the children of its creator.      Loyal to a terrifying degree. If it cannot find a proper shell -- if it cannot find its creator's old body -- then it will find a fitting vessel. . .      “I only listen to him. You may look similar, ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ, but you are not him.”      The remark about the child still standing when the father is dead, does get the virus angry -- so much like its creator. The rabbit suit tears in some spots, bits of inky blackness seeping out. Little rabbit-like faces that disappear as quickly as they appear out of the shadows. Then, in the blink of an eye, Glitchtrap returns to its unnervingly calm state, that grin ever wide.       “Every part of him? You didn't ki-- [ ᴇʀʀᴏʀ ; ɪᴍᴘʀᴏᴘᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀʀɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀ ]. Your hand did not do the deed,” it tilts its head to the side, never shifting its focus away -- dead set on the miniature version of its creator, “Haven't you thought about it deeper, little spawn of his? -- if you are capable of such a thing~” A snicker, “You are still here, just like me, and you're not the only one who can see me either~ oh no no no~” The virus has been busying itself, finding new followers, new puppets to play with. It has started to infect others, to remove the possibility of failure.      It knows all about the plans ; It is the failsafe, the method to find its creator and bring him back. It is as eternal as technology. As long as it survives, William Afton will return.      “As long as you are alive, ʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ.”

“And I think that’s what a father is / —a blade that never stops cutting.”

— Desireé Dallagiacomo, from “Origin Story,” Sink (Button Poetry, March 5, 2019)

I come from a long line of people with something wrong with them