#alcohol as a coping mechanism | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

skyblueartt · 2 months

Note

Can you describe your William and Henry personalities?

OHH sure thing!! It’s like having OCs with less steps LMAOO because we honestly know so little about their personalities before all of the horrors happened! I just make things up lmaooo- kinda just taking my favorite things I’ve seen from the fanbase as well as me just makin up some stuff because why not. I’m still relatively new to this fanbase so ah whatever, fuck it we ball!! Here’s my own personal interpretations of the guys

I’m also at work rn shhhh haha

William- I feel like he is VERY very charming. Eerily charming, even. Smooth talker, can say things that make him appear very personable and likeable. Is it all an act? Probably. Especially after he takes up his new “hobby” after his son dies. I feel like the man is a natural born performer. I imagine that he has a flair for the dramatics and probably has a great stage presence. I mean, he is a performer at the restaurant after all! I also like the idea that William is very egotistical, but deeply insecure. Idk, just think that’s interesting! Also- this guy is VERY eccentric and just an all around like weirdo, like I’m sure he’s very known around town. That whacky British guy who co-owns that chuck-e-cheese place popular with kiddos who is also really fuckin intelligent cuz he makes robots. Like. What a fuckin guy. Even though he’s a bit of a weirdo, since he’s so damn charming, nobody would ever think it possible for him to become this notorious fuckin killer. Terrifying! I also like to think that William has a bit of a strange sense of humor. This is self indulgent because I love dark humor and funny villains 😭

Henry- ah MAN I feel so bad for this guy. I wish we knew more about who he was before the murders! From Fnaf 6, I gather that he’s remorseful, feels guilty, sad, exhausted, and just fucking done. But who was he before everything? Idk! Personally, I LOVE to make him a nice guy who just got every damn thing in his life taken away from him, because that’s just really sad to me LMAO. :( I think Henry could look intimidating sometimes, right, like he’s a bigger guy with a beard and whatever- but he’s actually a really kindhearted guy. To me :’) though he could absolutely beat somebody up and win everytime. For sure. somebody once described him as “the personification of a bear” with how he looks and that’s so fuckin cute. I feel like he’s also got a sense of humor, and I adore imagining that he’s the only Mfer out there to encourage William’s weird ass jokes. He balances Will out, I imagine! Like yin and Yang. Not as sociable as William, I’m sure he’d rather just chill by himself with his robots (bro fuckin loves building robots). But with his loved ones, he’s super kind and funny and just a cool guy- just like, a cool dad or uncle figure. Probably would hug me so tight that I couldn’t breathe, and tbh I love that. Although AFTER Charlie’s death….oh BOY. I headcanon that he has a lot of bad coping mechanisms (alcohol), definitely shut off from the rest of the world, the “color from his life” is gone. Depressed in every sense of the word. I could yap more but I think ya get the jist!! (In my head, it’s fun to imagine Henry and post scoop Mike reconnecting because damn their lives were both ruined by the same guy. Traumatized found family!)

Not my OCs but damn do I treat them like they are😭 they are very fun characters to write and draw!

#I also have bad coping mechanisms work sucks today I need alcohol #hi Henry I get it #asks #fnaf #henry emily #william afton #my ideas #that’s my headcanons tag I guess lmaooo whatever

24 notes · View notes

honeycollectswhump · 3 months

Text

Stay The Night

[masterlist]

CW: alcoholism relapse, past pet whump, drunkenness

It’s half past two when Atlas wakes up, staring dejected at his clock until the letters blur and only sometime later when he gives in to the urge to go downstairs, a process not worth calling a fight. He tries to rummage through his closet as silently as possible, desperation seeping through in his search for the bottle of vodka hidden somewhere under some scattered clothes. It doesn’t need to taste good —just work.

The wave of shame that hits him when his fingers grasp around the cool bottle only intensifies his craving.

By the time he reaches the living room downstairs, he has already taken a generous swig, ignoring how the liquid burns his throat. Hopefully, soon enough he will be too far gone to notice. During swig two he wonders what Aveline will say when she wakes up to him passed out drunk in the living room again and Atlas can only pray he will not see her disappointed face. Maybe he should relocate to the kitchen where the mess he will inevitably cause on his own will be manageable, even though it feels colder. And really, does he deserve a blanket when he isn’t supposed to be doing this anyway?

He almost calls it against the rules.

He doesn’t wait to feel the effects, doesn’t even stop when he feels the shaking stop and his muscles loosen. Instead, Atlas keeps taking long gulps until somewhere around five or six –he doesn’t care to count– he feels the fuzziness starting to grab at the edges of his mind. It’s not enough, not even remotely. Still, he has to pause, letting his stomach settle. He’s drinking on an empty stomach too, or at least the dinner he had in the evening couldn’t count for much now. Maybe the alcohol will last for two times.

What the fuck is wrong with him? Why is he planning to repeat this?

Knowing he has to wait or else it’ll all be for nothing when he throws his secret up before it can hit him the way he hopes for, it’s making his fingers itch. If only he could be gone already, skip the waiting time and go straight to what’s inevitable. With disdain, he eyes the hard liquor. It doesn’t even taste that good and he is tired of pretending. He could just get it over with, down it all at once and then wait for blissful nothingness –fuck the risks– but something stops him.

Not something. Someone. The Aveline in his mind that is always there even if the real one is dead asleep. The image that tells him If you must, please at least be careful. Atlas couldn’t care less what it does to him, alcohol poisoning be damned, but he can’t do it to the one person who carries his heart effortlessly in her hands. Not again. It would kill her.

And that is an offence he could never forgive.

Suddenly, there is a creak. The only warning the old house gives him, right as he is about to put the bottle to his lips again and it makes him want to sob. He knows what will happen and he is totally and utterly unprepared for it. Atlas is only tipsy yet but his mind fails to come up with anything to say, anything that’s appropriate or will make the situation better or at least will lessen the blow. All he can do is stare, as Aveline descends the stairs, looking around with bleary eyes. She is one of the few people he can read but for once he wishes he was oblivious to the way her sleepy smile falters when she sees him and the traitorous bottle clutched in his hands.

“Atlas… what…?” she says and he doesn’t even have the gall to apologise. But his cheeks burn hot and it’s all too much and maybe, he thinks, maybe she’d have mercy on him if he was already wasted and pathetic. And yet he is only on the road to oblivion, ignoring the streets that would end this like a disobedient dog, and isn’t that worth punishment?

Silence fills where his apology should have been, a promise to be better, and threatens to choke him. Unconsciously, his fist tightens around the bottle and Atlas knows he is clinging to his poison of choice like a petulant child.

When he finally looks away, there are tears in his eyes; whether tears of shame or desperation he doesn’t know.

“Attie, Schätzchen, what happened?” Oh, she must be really tired then and that is his fault too, only worsened by the fact that he cannot even think of a reason to explain this, not even a lie.

He just woke up. That’s that. And now he is here, only feeling the alcohol more by the second, and he didn’t even fight the urge like you are supposed to.

“I… I don’t… I don’t know.” He breathes out in defeat, his voice sounding just as pathetic as he feels. And God, he is keenly aware that this is the Wrong thing to say and it’s making his skin prickle, it’s a Bad answer. But there is nothing else he can offer and more silence would surely be his end before the alcohol can do its job.

Maybe this would be easier if he was drunker, his mind supplies and the thought isn’t even finished before more burning liquor is running down his throat, an unconscious move and fuck he was wrong, keeping quiet wasn’t the worst thing he could have done. This is.

You’ve dug your grave. Now lie in it.

Atlas hears her coming closer before he sees her, hears her sitting down on the chair right next to him and moving it closer, their arms almost touching.

He’d give anything to sink into her embrace. Anything except the cursed vodka in his hands.

“You can’t stop me, you know?” The alcohol is definitely loosening his mouth, making the words come out sharper than he means to. It’s just another slipup on his long list of mistakes of the past half hour and if he didn’t apologise for the worst one, this would be near worthless. Why start something he knows he can’t finish?

“Anything you do, anything you say is wasted on me. I don’t care, just go back to bed.” I don’t want you to see me like this.

Atlas buries his head in his hands, knowing it makes his sharpness seem exactly like the desperation it is. Aveline doesn’t leave though. Instead, he can feel her lay a hand on his arm.

“If you truly want me to leave, I will. But can you promise me that you will be alright if I do? That you will take care of yourself?”

No, he can’t. He can’t even bring himself to lie to her and even then, she’d know it to be a lie immediately. But perhaps–

“I’ve thought about it, that’s why I went to the kitchen. So I won’t ruin any furniture.”

“Oh, sweetheart. You know that’s not what I meant.” Somehow, despite all of this, her voice is still gentle and Atlas can only just about swallow a sob back down.

“I… I know. But I need this today. Please. I can’t– I won’t stop until I am brainless and gone and there is nothing you can say to stop me. So,” he swallows thickly, “You don’t have to watch me go down this hole. I’ll still be there in the morning, I promise.”

Aveline is silent for a while, and maybe his mind was right and he should have never said anything, but her hand never leaves his arm. She just looks outside at the moon and its stars.

“Can I stay with you anyways?” she asks, hesitantly, carefully like stepping on a frozen lake. “I won’t stop you, I just– I want to be there. Make sure nothing bad happens.”

Of course, she is nervous about something happening to him; she never stops. It’s the first time anyone has given a single shit about what happens to him, much less at this intensity. It’s overwhelming –sometimes– but he’d rather die than give it back.

“Please,” he whispers into his hands, hoping she will hear him anyway.

For a moment, she lets herself lean into him, wrapping her arms around his big torso. “Why don’t we get comfy on the couch, huh?”

She lets go again, standing up, and he mourns the loss of her warmth immediately, even though the alcohol in his veins is heating him from the inside. Moving to follow her, the world is suddenly moving a lot more than it was a second ago and Atlas has to grab the backrest for stability. He didn’t think he would be stumbling quite yet but then again, he hadn’t planned on moving at all.

“I’m fine, I can do this,” he tells Aveline, who is hovering beside him, prepared to steady him.

Walking to the couch tumble-free gives him something new to focus on, instead of the everpresent shame welling in his gut, and Atlas breathes in deeply, steeling himself. It’s silly, to want to keep this last dignity when he knows his plan is to get fucked up beyond recognition. But for some reason it’s important, maybe some last shred of ego he can fool himself with. As if she hasn’t seen worse. As if she won’t see worse today.

He does make it, albeit swaying somewhat, and lets himself sink into the couch heavily, the bottle gripped tightly. He follows with a big gulp as a reward, pretending not to see the twitch in Aveline’s smile as she sits beside him, curling into his side.

They sit together for a while, Aveline filling the room with distracting chatter. When she leaves to get herself a glass of water, she returns with two, which he decidedly ignores, rather taking another sip and letting the buzz wash over him, too slowly.

Through the comforting warmth of her voice, he barely notices his blurring vision until he turns to look at her and can’t make out the swirl of her eye colour. If all this worry was making her hair grey, he couldn’t even notice anymore and the thought makes him giggle.

Maybe, on another day, this is where he’d stop, letting himself drift in soft dizziness, But his fingers still itch and he hasn’t drank even half of the bottle so far and so before some not yet drunk part of his brain can convince him otherwise, he puts the bottle to his lips and starts drinking like a dying man, the liquor only burning half as much anymore.

Only when Aveline straightens and gasps “Atlas, please!” that he stops to take a breath. Now there is no turning back. If his sips before would get him drunk soon, this would fuck him up. Hopefully.

When he tries to go for another swig, Aveline puts a hand on his, almost pushing it down. He finds it harder to resist. “Fuck, please, Attie. At least wait until this hits you before you drink even more. You promised to be careful!” She sounds hurt more than anything. And she is probably right too. Thinking about consequences doesn’t seem to come to him naturally anymore.

Aveline guides his hand to the table, positioning it for him when he fails to get it to stand straight multiple times.

“Le’s just talk about something else, ‘kay?” Atlas murmurs as he sinks back into the cushions, into Aveline’s embrace, turning an ear over her heart. It’s beating wildly and he can’t imagine his own mirroring it, the sluggish rotten thing.

The conversation passes by him without really making an impact. He isn’t even too sure he is contributing anything of value –but when is he ever?– but at the same time, he wonders if Aveline even pays attention to what she is saying. When focuses through the cotton fog in his brain, he sometimes notices her grammar slipping, sounding just slightly off. Just another sign of exhaustion she is willing to ignore because of his fuck up.

Atlas wishes he could still hold the bottle, if only for the calming cold. Just to hold onto anything. His fingers tingle and he flexes them, open and close, open and close, feeling oddly distanced even though he knows they are right there, attached to his hand.

Something is petting him, he notices belatedly, scratching his scalp carefully, playing with his locks and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to understand it is Aveline. Hm. She has hands he can hold, right?

He has to focus, locating her second hand on his left arm, wrapped around his back, holding him in this embrace. Not that hand. If she lets go he might float away into the twisting dark, and he is distinctly aware that he would be too drunk to find his way home. The thought makes him shiver and he presses himself closer into her body. If only he could stay like this forever, but time seems to flow both too quickly past him and then not move at all.

Wait. There was something he wanted to do…

Right. Holding her hand.

His first attempt at grabbing it goes horrifically wrong, half of the signals getting lost on the way to his arm, and he ends up smacking into his own forehead, dropping his arm again like it has been burned. It only worsens his dizziness. Beside him, Aveline snorts, barely containing her laughter. He turns to look at her blurry shape with hazy eyes and a wide stupid grin on his face. He’d do anything for her, even crawl and beg if she wanted to. Maybe for her, it’d be okay.

Through right now he doubts he could do either of those. That thought doesn’t fill him with any emotion, it just is, drifting in his buzzing foggy brain, not really holding on.

The second attempt goes much better, though his arm sways dangerously as he lifts it slowly. Clumsily, he grabs her hand, not even noticing the strands of his hair he is about to pull when Aveline stops him with a giggle.

“Honey, what’s your plan here?”

“Hold” he answers, his tongue heavy and limp in his mouth. When did talking become so difficult?

She giggles again before carefully lifting both of their hands out of his hair and laying them on his thigh. Somehow the touch isn’t enough. His legs barely cooperate as he pulls them up to his chest, making himself small before turning even closer into her embrace, his entire right side up against her chest. He curls up like a dog in her arms, and the alcohol in his veins makes it easy to forget how much larger he truly is than her. She makes him feel small in the best way possible.

Being small means less place for hurt, for pain. Being small means you are worthy of protection.

If he were smaller he could curl up in her lap with ease, without any worries of hurting her. And she could carry him in her arms when he gets stupid and hurt and brainless.

“Would y–” a hiccup interrupts him and huh he is still getting drunker. He finds that he doesn’t care as much as he probably should. “Would ‘ou like me more…‘s your…your dog?” Even he can tell the drowning slur of his words but can’t find the energy to fight against it.

“I’d be sooo good ‘nd ob…obi…obedien’.” He looks up at her, a blissful warmth spreading through him at the thought. Through the dizzying spin of the world and the hazy blur, he can’t make out Aveline’s fading smile. Instead, he continues. “‘N I’d be fluffy! ‘ou could ashually pet me. I would fi–finally be–”

“I like you the very most as my Attie, you know.”

Hmm. He’d like that a lot. To just be her Attie.

He presses his head closer into the crook of her neck, breathing in the remnants of her perfume, ignoring the way it makes his stomach twist slightly. It’s the vodka’s fault anyway.

If only he could just be her Attie, forever perhaps. Even though it feels presumptuous to hope she’d keep him forever. Really, he isn’t even doing a good job at being her Attie. Because she is sitting in the living room with him curled up on her, wasted on some vodka he wasn’t even supposed to have in the house. And yet, she stays, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades as the thought mixes with the liquor in his blood and makes him tear up. Aveline just squeezes his hand, pressing a kiss on his forehead.

“I love you just as you are, I promise.”

Atlas squeezes his eyes close, letting himself drift in the swirling darkness, only for a moment, yet when he peels his heavy eyelids open again, he is not in the living room at all anymore.

His brain is both too fuzzy to understand where he is and to feel the fear that should follow that realisation. The room feels familiar, though everything is way too blurry to make out any discerning features. It’s all hazy and spinning and the moment his brain makes the connection that his feet are –in fact– on the floor, his entire body takes a dive to the side.

He can feel himself tumble into another person, just barely holding both of them up. He is safe. Safe. Safe. Safe. Safesafesafe. The world feels good in his mind, the repetition soothing him.

A hiccup makes his body jump, followed by a giggle he can’t even connect to his mouth. But it was his, right? Maybe, if his mouth works, he can use it? It’s worth a try.

“Shhhhh…” Atlas trails off, off-put by his limp tongue that just won’t form the sounds he wants. Distantly, he is aware of his body being sat down on a soft surface, someone holding his swaying body up. Thankfully. It might as well be made out of jelly, or just barely taped-together parts. All speaking a different language. What was that tower called again?

He tries again. “Shhhafe” and it makes his brain tingle. Yes! Again! “Sh–shafe. Shafe… sssssafe.” His body giggles again, as someone helps him lay down gently. He could sink into the cushions forever and ever and ever and he wouldn’t mind. Perhaps he could even sleep and not dream of… huh. He can’t even remember what. That must be a good sign.

“You’re feeling safe, huh?” A voice above him says, drifting through cotton and wool and the spinning world. That’s what he meant, Atlas realises. Safe. The voice lays him on his side, putting his limp legs in some position he can’t even visualise. When he tries to lift his head to see it, everything is so blurry he can’t even find his legs, his head dropping back into the cushions like lead.

The voice cuddles up to his back, stabilising him again, one arm wrapped around his torso.

Still holding his hand.

taglist: @octopus-reactivated, @sodacreampuff, @topsheepstudent, @clickerflight, @rabass

#i will never stop writing drunk caretaking #what can i say…..#im a predictable bitch and also ITS MY FAVORITE TROPE #EVER #Holding Up The Sky #atlas/mutt (oc)#aveline king (oc)#drunk whumpee #whumpee and caretaker #recovering whumpee #alcoholism relapse #alcoholic whumpee #unhealthy coping mechanisms #drunkenness #fluff #hurt/comfort #past pet whump #honey’s writing

23 notes · View notes