runeians

[runeians]

Merry fnafmas to all and to all a fnaf night

[runeians]

mama's boy is a mayor now 💥🩸

#(o.verse): clay. #(i) mask of my own face: visage

[runeians]

IT’S STRANGE, SEEING SOMEONE LIKE WILLIAM LOOK SO OLD. She’s sure he wouldn’t thank her for the thought, but her eyes track over him curiously, and she sees it all: the lines of exhaustion, the greying hair, the delicate composition of his body. Even as spindly as her own physical form is, the Puppet hardly a creature of brute strength, he looks far more fragile. Dangerous, still, and the moment he scowls, she withdraws a little further into herself, but more tired. . . . Dare she say more human ?

“ You’re not really a monster, ” she says curiously, wandering just a few steps closer, and this is what had killed her before—TRUST—but still she finds herself moving, “ you don’t sound like one anymore, anyway. And you certainly don’t look like one. ”

The injuries help. Phantom though they are, Charlie knows they at least existed: has seen the man bleed out more than once. And it’s a comforting sight as much as it makes her sad and troubled — and now it stiffens her words with childish resolve, tilting the Puppet’s head at him. Those gaping black eyes on its porcelain head drilling deep into his face.

“ You’re not a monster in here, ” she observes, “ and I miss talking to people. The others… they’re not themselves anymore. ” Whether Cassidy has taken over them in some way, or whether they’re simply as hellbent on revenge as she is, Charlie can’t tell. But she’s been lonely! Despite her best efforts, a faint pout enters her voice when she speaks next: “I hate being alone. So I thought I’d come here. It makes sense, cause you’re alone too, right?”

(Well. When he’s not being mauled by animatronics and his own victims.)

CONTINUED. / @behindslaughter

#(( cries. them !!!! i love writing them too omg )) #(a.verse): charlie #a; behindslaughter #tw child death #tw child murder #tw death #tw murder #tw torture #( all mentioned ! )

[runeians]

big fan of these two specifically

#(a.verse): cassidy #(i) mask of my own face: visage #fnaf movie #fnaf spoilers #fnaf movie spoilers

[runeians]

THE PAPER BALL ACTUALLY HITS HER ! RUDE. Bounces off her head, landing next to her on the unforgiving linoleum tiles. If she could have scrunched her face up disapprovingly at him then she would have. Instead, her pale familiar voice emerges from her hollow form slightly indignant:

“ Ouch. I only wanted to say hi. ” Not entirely true. Of course she’d jumped at the chance to help Cassidy — of course she had ! They’d been vaguely familiar with each other when they’d been alive, and dying in similar fashions ( albeit Cassidy’s death had been . . . bloodier ) had only cemented a friendship. But being here is different. The smell of despair and death haunts the halls again and Charlie is so sick of the cycle repeating. She’s tired. She’s bored. In sadder moments, she just wants her dad.

She wants them to rest. All of them. William too.

. . . So no, she’s not here just to reminisce. Although seeing him now, her nonexistent heart tugs in her chest. He’s so different. He’s still so familiar.

“ If you want me to leave, I can. ” Already beginning to float herself in the direction of the door, uncertain if she’ll actually leave if he tells her. To say their relationship is still horrifically complicated is an understatement. “ I just thought you’d like some nice company after being killed for so long. ”

     @runeians ★ ☆ Charlie has entered the Office

     Breathe in, and breathe out. He must take his time, determined to remember what he can. Something far more dangerous is hunting him in these halls, something that defies the boundaries -- breaking through and far more intent on the others to kill him.      William takes a corner, shining the torch against the wall and then the doorway in front of him -- letting out a sigh. What next? Slivery eyes widen in surprise before narrowing with annoyance. Back in this damned office. His steps are light returning to his safe space -- if it could be called that considering he can still be killed here.      At least it is light in the office, the torch stashed away on his belt as he adjusts the vest over his shoulders, “Tch. . . At least I don't hear that thing coming.” He narrowly avoided that lumbering rabbit, but it won't be long before it finds him again.      Attention scans across the room, noticing some movement in the back. A growl rises out of William, picking up one of the crumpled up balls of paper and throwing it in the direction of the movement, “If you're here to attack me then get it bloody over with!”

#(( resists the urge to cry resists the urge to cry resis— )) #(( I MISSED WRITING HER )) #(a.verse): charlie #tw child death #tw child murder #tw death #tw murder #( all mentioned ! ) #a; behindslaughter

[runeians]

happy halloween!

#(( babies my babies 😭 … )) #(a.verse): michael #(a.verse): elizabeth #(a.verse): evan #(i) mask of my own face: visage

[runeians]

TJ MIKELOGAN’S HALLOWEEN EVENT 2023 day 19: an animated halloween movie

↳ CORALINE (2009)

#(c.verse): coraline. #(i) mask of my own face: visage

[runeians]

MICHAEL RECOGNISES ANGER LIKE AN OLD DOG RECOGNISES THE WHIP. It’s an emotion, at least, he knows how to deal with: when it comes to anger, that quick, riling, unpredictable emotion of his father’s, he’s had practice with it. Growing from an angry little boy himself into a slightly less little (but no less angry) man, Michael knows how to defuse situations, knows how to avoid and how to tiptoe around conversations, can placate and soothe almost anyone with his damn eyes closed. His body stiffens almost imperceptibly (might have gone completely unnoticed, if his father hadn’t been so close), and the sigh has instant alarm bells ringing in his head: back down, it shrieks, and yet Michael can’t. Not now, now that he’s come this far.

Anger is one thing. Disappointment is another. He’s struck dumb by the look William pins him with, and suddenly, he’s three feet tall, clutching a broken Foxy mask in his hands, and his father is giving him that same look. Michael’s stomach rolls. He barely flinches when the older man’s fingers hold his face more tightly: though he feels them bruising, burning, it is nothing compared to the sudden, childish urge to say meekly, I’m sorry. Tell me you’re not mad at me.

And finally, eye contact is unbearable. Michael drags his gaze downwards, shallow breaths making his head spin. Shit, saying this isn’t going to plan is an understatement. But he has no idea how to rectify it — can only stare at the floor, notice that the stupid tiling is misaligned, and that the blood splattered on his boots is already beginning to dry. He wants to run. Wants a hug. Wants his mom to press that soft kiss to his unruly hair like she’d used to, promise him that he was good.

He doesn’t get that. Michael hasn’t got that in a very long time. Instead he gets the sickening scent of death and his father’s gaze drilling into his skull and the words, cold, cautioning, that make him want to scream.

He sucks in a breath instead. Tries to be the man he should be instead of the child he is. “Cowering out feels better than continuing and— ignoring my guilt. Is that what you do? Is that what lets you sleep at night?” It comes out as a challenge. Though he has no idea of his father’s true nature — the understanding he does have is rooted in the oldest fond memories and deep seated denial of William’s depravity. Michael’s own hand comes up, wraps around his father’s wrist: though doesn’t try to pull away like before. Instead, it lets him pretend that he’s in control of the situation: like if he wants, he can push William away and walk out of this unscathed. “‘Cause let me tell you something! I haven’t slept in weeks. I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind here. I don’t— Do you even feel human anymore? I sure as hell don’t.” His chest heaves, his eyes stung traitorously. Michael turns his head away with difficulty. “I could be better,” he manages, and doesn’t even believe his own words, “I should be better.”

CONTINUED. / @behindslaughter

#(( michael vc i’ve learned well how to deal with dad’s anger :) *proceeds to do exactly the kind of shit that pisses him off* )) #(a.verse): michael […] self made man verse. #(a.verse): michael #tw Murder #tw guilt #tw blood #tw dysfunctional family #tw violence #tw death #a; behindslaughter

[runeians]

Broken And Torn

#(a.verse): charlie #:(( #(i) mask of my own face: visage

[runeians]

show of all times

#(p.verse): lisa. #(i) mask of my own face: visage

[runeians]

About loyalty and love.

Inspired by this post I see;

#(d.verse): drm. #(d.verse): drm & pnz […] rel. #(i) mask of my own face: visage

[runeians]

THEY ARE BESTIES YOUR HONOR 🫂‼️

#(a.verse): cassie #(a.verse): gregory & cassie […] rel. #(a.verse): gregory #(i) mask of my own face: visage

[runeians]

MICHAEL’S HANDS HAVE BEEN BLOODY FOR AS LONG AS HE CAN REMEMBER. Well, that’s not exactly true: he remembers the time before the incident well, remembers being young and dumb and free from the burden that he currently drags around with him . . . But even then, he remembers the thrill he got at the violence. Bloodying his nose, scraping his knees, terrorising his brother. Kids will be kids, their school had said sympathetically, sent a bawling Evan back home with a pat on the back and a stern warning to Michael about the dangers of bullying.

The party had been that weekend. Even now, twenty four years old, it makes his stomach lurch.

Christ, is he even still twenty four? With his father and remnant and shoving aside his humanity in favor of an approving gaze, it’s impossible to keep track of time, impossible to pretend like it matters. Michael’s world has grown and shrunk all at the same time. Understands life beyond death and death beyond life, but interacts almost solely with his father, thinks almost solely about his (their?) goals. Even now, hands bloodied beyond belief and swallowing thickly at the scene around him, Michael’s focus is fixed on his father: words emerging tentatively, but more bold than anything he’d said to William in a long, long time.

‘Cause yeah, sue him, he feels like shit. He hasn’t slept properly in weeks, can barely look another human being in the eyes without feeling the guilt write itself over his face. Evan’s death, he can admit, had been an accident he’d wanted to hurt, not murder but these deaths are different. Premeditated, cold, violent in a way Michael can’t bring himself to think about. He’s been working with his father and keeping his eyes half-shut, figuratively and literally, against the true nature of what he’s doing.

But his guilt refuses to be ignored. Makes itself known in the way Michael tries to wipe his hands pristine clean on a spare rag before realising his father is approaching him, at a much faster rate than he feels safe. There’s nowhere to back off to, no one else around to toss the attention to — no, Michael has William’s attention, and though it’s what he’d craved for the first twenty three years of his life, it makes him nauseous now.

Hands wiped clean, face bloodied with his father’s touch. He does actually step back here; tries in vain to keep some measure of distance between them both, but the look in William’s eyes freezes his legs in place. How many lives has he already taken? He knows exactly: has been keeping count in a trembling hand notching marks into his bedpost. Thirteen personally, assisted with more than two dozen: Michael’s face is ashen, clammy, at William’s touch.

“No, no,” he begins, and his previous brief strength has been dashed; in vain, he tries to work up that bravery again, “I’m not— This isn’t me, father. This isn’t me.” ‘Father’ sounds wrong on his lips, dry and desperate and out of tune, so Michael tries to reason with the man. “I’m not— denying what I’ve done. What we’ve both done. I’m not. But this, it’s—”

THIS: THE SINS OF THE FATHER, THE SINS OF THE SON. Michael’s crimes paint themselves red and silver in blood and remnant; splattered over tables and bottled in small vials. It’s hard for him to say which liquid makes him feel more sick to look at. His hands come up, pull his father’s hand from his chin, and his voice is a little more hysterical than he expects it to be when he insists:

“It’s so much. It’s too much. Nothing to do with Evan—” (Lies.) “—and nothing to do with you, or our relationship. I promise.” (Liar.) “But I can’t. I can’t keep doing this. It’s ruining me. It’s killing me too.” He feels like a selfish child just admitting it.

     @runeians ★ “I don’t think I can keep doing this. This is— It’s wrong.”

[ you said to give you an excuse so !!! have this from remnant apprentice michael / :) i’m sure this won’t end in manipulation or anything else awful :) ]

     It had been something William had a glimmer of hope that his entire bloodline was not a waste -- that either they ended up dead or far too normal to be taught his ways. Never one to care about a legacy, that changed when Michael spilled blood. His son had a similar spark to his father, a darkness. And William took that opportunity to teach his son. How to control it, how to feed the desires and how to extract remnant from the victims so unfortunately snatched up.      His hands are drenched in crimson, placing a fresh vial of remnant down on the table nearby when Michael speaks those words.

     “Oh. . .?” His voice is flat, turning to look over at his surviving son, “You are having second thoughts now. . .?” The gaze shifts, eyes narrowing and growing dark. Cowardice, unable to handle the pressure ( as some would call it ) of taking a life or having questions? Denying that he is exactly like his father, just as twisted.      William steps closer to Michael, tossing the bloody knife on the table with a loud clatter, “You've come too far to cower out now. Or do you wish to disappoint your father again after we've just mended our relationship?”      No. There is no backing out, no plausible outcome that Michael runs from this and live to tell the tale. This is his son, his legacy and he will not have a coward for a child, “Is it because you feel guilt, or do you see your little brother you so recklessly killed? Don't. This is who you are, exactly like me. Like father, like son ; the same monster.”      He gets up right in Michael's personal space, cold eyes staring him down, using his hand to lift his son's chin to stare him in the face -- leaving blood to coat skin in the process, “There is only one way out of this. . . how many lives have you already taken? Do you think it will go unnoticed after you leave? It would be so disheartening if it came to that. You are my child, all I want for you is a bright future without having to hide your true self.” At least if it came to that. . . he could preserve his child's remnant.

#(( jaw DROPPED at your last sentence )) #tw blood #tw violence #tw dysfunctional family #tw child death #tw child murder #( ask to tag. ) #(a.verse): michael […] self made man verse. #(a.verse): michael #(a.verse): michael & william […] rel. #a; behindslaughter #(( fave ever ))

[runeians]

damn that sucks clay

#(( this is soooo so so good )) #(o.verse): clay. #(o.verse): clay & orel […] rel. #(i) mask of my own face: visage

[runeians]

Fnaftober day 5: It was just a glitch!

#(( FAVE EVER !!!!!!! )) #(a.verse): mxes #(a.verse): cassie #(a.verse): william / glitch #(a.verse): vanessa #(i) mask of my own face: visage

[runeians]

blood “loss”? well it’s not lost. i know exactly where it went. right over there.

#(( 😭 )) #(x.verse): rilan

[runeians]

In the Blood— John Mayer // @lucidloving // @chaosinline on Instagram // Édouard Levé, Suicide // @futngina // @lucidloving

#Oh. #(x.verse) brei. #(iii) follow me!.... musings.