#there will not be a day of sobriety until after Tuesday | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mercy-burning · 4 years ago

Text

Fake Fiancée

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer is left waiting at a bar when he gets in some trouble, and meets a woman who offers to help him out in more ways than one.

Category: SMUT (18+)

Warnings: Language, virgin!Spencer, car sex/exhibitionism, handjob, brief mention of edging, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, degradation kink, minor voyeurism kink, dirty talk (If I missed anything, please let me know!)

Word Count: 7k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: Hi, there!! Most of you have been extremely excited about this one since I shared the idea for it a few weeks ago, and so I’m glad to finally get to release it for you!! There’s a playlist here for you to check out if you’d like some ~vibes~ and over on @mercy-midnight I shared a few visual inspirations last night, so check them out if you want! Thank you for all your enthusiasm over this fic, I hope it lives up to your expectations!! 🥰

***

I've always loved the rain.

And it was definitely going to rain soon. How soon, I wasn't entirely sure, but as I made my way into the bar, taking one final breath of fresh air before it would inevitably be taken over by alcohol, greasy food, and way too much cologne, I could smell it. Cool and fresh, waiting to serve as some type of fresh start, to wash away all the hard shit and give me a clean slate.

The gaudy ring on my finger was one of those hard things I wished I could wash away. At least, it had been for a long time. Patrick never asked for it back after he left, and I'd had every intention of pawning it off, but I started noticing—after a few nights out where I'd tried to get hammered and nailed—that it scared everybody off.

I guess no one wanted to fuck a married woman—and a drunk married woman at that. Even if she technically wasn't even married anymore. Which I found all particularly odd considering my experience with men in the past has proved to provide me with extremely low standards.

It'd turned out to be a blessing in disguise, though. Sure, it might have taken me longer to completely get over Patrick and the mess he left me, but rather than losing myself in the lonely company of strangers, I forced myself to reflect and move on, to take each day in stride and take time for myself. Could I have just taken the ring off and gotten laid? Absolutely. But being on my own like that was the wakeup call I didn't know I'd needed.

And now, almost a year later, the ring sat tucked away in my jewelry box until I wanted it— usually when I knew I was going to the bar with every intention of getting hammered and not nailed. There were the occasional persistent players, but they were few and far in between, and if all else failed I resorted to smiling sweetly at them and lying, saying my "husband" was a cop. That shut them up pretty quickly, and by that point I was ready to leave anyway.

Like I said, blessing in disguise.

After a long day at work being called in on a Saturday, a few drinks at Waterson's sounded like a perfect way to end the night. I'd gone home, showered, ate dinner, and got dressed before taking a walk down the block and crossing the near-packed parking lot. The air was quite muggy despite it only being around forty degrees, which was the first indicator of rain. The second was the smell, of course, which I'd always been fond of, and the cobbled pavement had some type of haze around it that served as the final confirmation of my theory.

Honestly, I was hoping to get caught in the rain on my way home. I couldn't tell you why, exactly, just that the idea of walking home in the rain gave me the most excitement I'd felt in a long time. Life was great at the moment, of course, but between work and my less than ideal commute there on the train every day, I think I was due for a little excitement.

That excitement, naturally, started once I opened the door to the bar, taking a step inside and quickly being smacked in the face with the smell of fried everything. A small smile crossed my lips as I went in further, jumbled conversations, glasses clinking, and music humming softly behind the sharp snaps of pool balls being shot forward with the cue completing the picture.

I walked up to the bar to find Carla standing behind it, and I smiled at her. "I didn't know you were working Saturday," I called to her as I approached.

The brunette looked over at me and beamed, her teeth as perfect as ever. "Y/N, I didn't know you came in on Saturdays! How've you been?"

I took a seat at one of the barstools, nodding as I set my wallet and my phone down. "Alright... Work's a bitch, of course, but when is it not?"

"Yeah, I hear that. There's only so much relentless flirting I can take." We shared a good laugh at that before she nodded. "What can I get you?"

"A beer?"

"You got it."

I turned around then, surveying tonight's crowd. Waterson's was decently sized— definitely not as big or popular as the other bars in the city, but it got enough traction on the weekends, and even on Tuesdays when they had open mics. As my eyes wandered, they passed over all kinds of people. Women in tight clothes and men all over them, large groups of friends over by the pool tables who were betting and yelling with large smiles on their faces, old men by themselves in some of the tucked away corners... Anyone you could think of, name it and they were there.

One scene in particular caught my eye, though, and I thought about leaving it alone, but my gut twisted when I noticed how obviously uncomfortable the person was and how there was no one around who seemed to care enough to say or do anything.

Sitting alone at a rather large table was a guy who... no offense to him or anything, but he didn't look like he belonged here, not alone anyway. With a formal button-down short sleeve, meek stature, and a pair of glasses sitting atop his nose, he was an easy target for the two men that were towering over him as he sat, eyes averting them while they conversed. It could have been nothing, but occasionally the man in the glasses would flinch or look around nervously like he was waiting to be rescued.

Not that I wanted to rescue anyone or anything tonight. But he reminded me of someone being stood up, and from experience I knew how embarrassing that was, especially in a space crowded with other people who could obviously see what was happening to you. I hated Patrick for standing me up time and time again, and it wasn't until this waitress once intervened and offered some advice that I started to understand just how fucked up it was. That didn't make it hurt any less, of course, when he inevitably said he was moving across the country and dropped divorce papers on my desk at work, but still... The talk gave me some clarity.

Whether or not this man was actually being stood up or not, it was obvious that he was uncomfortable, and I figured he could use some help.

And I had just the plan.

I watched the scene until Carla came back with my beer, at which point I turned to her with a smile and got money from my wallet.

"Hey, could I get another?"

***

"No, you specifically told me 8pm..."

"I'm pretty sure I told you 9..."

I sighed, glancing around briefly at everyone and everything around me before speaking again, almost yelling into the speaker over all the noise. "Maybe you meant 9, but you told me 8, so I'm here. Alone!"

"Hey, look, I'm sorry, Kid, alright? But we're not gonna be there until 9, so... keep yourself busy until then? Let loose, have a couple drinks..."

I could hear the smirk in Derek's voice just as easily as I could picture it in my head as I sighed out a, "Fine," and hung up. The whole situation significantly raised my blood pressure, not to mention my anxiety— It wasn't hard to see that I stood out here. Bars were most definitely not my scene, and the only reason I'd agreed to go in the first place was so that I could try something new. Expand my horizons, as Penelope had told me right before I caved and agreed to accompany her and Derek on their little outing. I'd even drove my car here, a move I rarely made, as a start.

But now I was sitting alone at a booth, a glass of water in front of me and this twisting sensation in my gut that usually came to me when I didn't know what was going to happen.

I leaned back in my seat and sighed, staring down the glass of water as my cellphone tumbled around between my hands. All I had to do was wait here for an hour and remind myself over and over that eventually I'd be with people that I knew, people that I felt comfortable around. Only an hour.

One hour...

One hour, one hour, one hour... It was a chant in my head that went through different pitches and speeds until it was interrupted by a loud, "Hey, you!"

It could have been for anyone, but it was right next to me, and I knew when I wasn't wanted somewhere.

Sure enough, I turned my head to see a rather large man, a football player-type if I had to guess, wearing a grey tee shirt that hugged every muscle. There was a beer in his hands, and someone next to him, another man slightly shorter but still definitely athletic, held what looked to be a glass of hard liquor. By the looks on their faces, it was obvious that they were looking for a fight.

And it was also obvious that I was the easiest target in the whole bar.

One glance at the clock across the room and above their heads told me that I still had 54 minutes until my friends showed up, and that meat I'd either have to give these men whatever they wanted, tell them I was just about to leave, or attempt to pull the "I'm a Federal Agent" card, which I knew would probably get more laughs from them than a simple, "Sorry," and an exit.

I was about to run through every outcome of tonight's events in my head when the bigger guy spoke again, making me jump.

"Hey, m' talking to you!" He was drunk, most likely toeing the line between sobriety and a fist fight if I wasn't careful.

"I—Is there something you need?" I asked, hoping that if I could get this over with quickly, they'd leave me alone and maybe I could get out of here...

He mocked my voice in a way I'd heard more than once while growing up, and though I knew it was childish of him, saying more about him than me, the action got to me more than I cared to admit. Call it intuition, but when a nearly-drunk guy two times your size starts picking on you like a kid and you know he's just looking for a fight, the odds aren't very good when you're someone on the smaller side like me— Federal Agent or not. And he wasn't an unsub. He wasn't someone I could pick apart and just hand over to my team once I pushed back his defenses. If I picked this man apart, he'd likely throw a punch at my face.

Of course, I could get him arrested for assaulting a Federal Agent, but... Obviously I didn't want to get punched in the face.

As soon as his mumbled mockery of my words ended, he punctuated them with his own. "Yeah, I'm thinkin' I need you to find a new place to sulk. Go to the library or somethin'."

His friend laughed beside him like he'd just said the best comeback anyone's ever heard, and that alone almost made me laugh. Though, I knew that might have gotten me into more trouble.

Speaking of, I probably should have just got up to leave. That would have been the perfect time to say, "Okay," get up, and drive home. Sure, Penelope and Derek would have probably given me crap about chickening out, but I'd have avoided getting beat around or ridiculed further by these morons, so it was overall a win, right?

But my stupid mouth didn't agree with what my brain was thinking. "Oh, well, um... I'm waiting up for some friends, they should be here soon—"

"You have friends?" the other guy retorted before I could finish, and he looked proud of himself for it.

"Look, I don't care who you're waitin' on, pal, Right now you're alone, so I want y—"

I didn't see it coming. I couldn't have seen it from a mile away, never dreamed of anything like this happening in a million years. It was certainly not one of the possible outcomes to the night that I'd had in mind. And actually, even if I'd had any time to prepare for it, seeing the woman walk up to us with two beers in her hand and the biggest smile on her face, I still wouldn't have believed what was happening.

She blocked me from the men's line of sight, sitting herself promptly on my lap as she set the drinks down. "Hey, babe, I'm back with our drinks," she chirped, leaning forward and stopping just under my ear, whispering. "If you play along, I can get them to leave you alone..."

She didn't even give me any time to process, quickly pulling back, but not before kissing me firmly on the cheek, leaving my face in a warm flush as she turned back around to survey the men, who I'd quite frankly forgotten about once she pressed her soft lips to my skin and set her hands on my chest.

What the fu—

"Who're you talking with?"

Her voice was so... low and smooth, and it sent a flood of warmth throughout my whole body. If I could have bottled up her voice to drink, I would have. But instead, I settled for the beer she'd brought, grabbing it and chugging down four big gulps even though I hated it.

"You're with this... loser?" the bigger of the two men said, and truthfully it was the first time all night I'd well and truly felt inadequate in front of them. Sure, I knew I'd stood out, that physically I was weaker than them, but I also knew that deep down they were just drunks looking for a fight. I was better than that, regardless of whether or not they'd almost bullied me into leaving the bar.

I didn't have a problem with who I was, but when it came to women, I was pretty much a total wreck. I'd only ever kissed someone once, and much like back then, this woman was absolutely stunning and completely out of my league.

The man was right to be suspicious.

"Excuse me?" my savior retorted, standing up off my lap and removing herself from me completely. I exhaled, trying hard not to look like I was just as shocked as they were as she tore them a new one. "This loser happens to be my fiancée. And I'd watch what insults you're throwing around— You're the ones going around some bar picking on someone you don't know like you're middle schoolers. Now grow the fuck up and back off before I take your drinks and shove them so far up your asses you'll still be able to taste them."

Truthfully I was surprised when they didn't back down. The bigger guy scoffed, his eyes raking the woman up and down with a wicked glint in them. "Y'know, maybe if you ditched him and got fucked by a real man, you wouldn't be such a bitch."

And once again, I was stunned by her ability to quip back quicker than lightening. "Maybe if you weren't such a childish prick, you'd actually get fucked in the first place. Now back. The fuck. Off..."

While I should have been more grateful that her words got them to scoff and turn away, a small, absolutely random part of me wanted to hear her yell at them some more. The longer she did it, the warmer my body got, and the second I started to put together why that was, I chugged more of the beer that was currently resting in my shaky hand.

It was even worse when she turned around to face me again, her radiance and beauty intimidating me in an entirely different way than those men. She wore a simple black dress that complimented her figure extremely well, minimal makeup and jewelry, and her hair was pinned back, showing off her neck and collarbone.

If she hadn't just helped me out, with the way she was looking at me I probably would have wondered if she was... trying to pick me up.

The thought made me all warm again.

"Y—You didn't have to do—"

She stepped forward and sat on my lap again, and I swallowed hard, the beer almost slipping from my hand entirely. "Don't worry about it. You looked uncomfortable, and those boys were absolute meatheads. But they are still here, so we should probably keep up the act, huh?"

I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. Either way, I set the beer on the table, though my hand still kept it firmly in my grip as I looked down at the ring on her finger. "I—I wouldn't want to get you in trouble... with your husband..."

"Oh! Uh, funny story," she laughed, leaning in and running her hands over my shoulders, most likely to keep up the façade. "I'm not actually married. Or engaged. I um... I wear this to deter people from trying to take me home."

I actually laughed a little, though my stomach still flipped at her touch and her proximity. "And that... actually works?"

She laughed with me, bringing her hands up to cradle my face as she tilted her head and looked me over. Her pretty, pillow-y soft lips quirked into a smile before her eyes flitted up to mine. She looked like she was entranced, like she was in a dream, and honestly I felt the same way. Because there was no way in actual Hell this was a real thing that was happening to me, right?

"Not always," she answered in a whisper, her face inching closer to mine. She smelled a little like beer, but mostly some type of fruit, probably pear. I didn't eat pears, but maybe I should start...

A gentle tug at the roots of my hair pulled me out of my thoughts, a soft sigh escaping me at the sensation. The woman laughed, brushing her nose against mine for a moment before pulling away and grabbing her beer. "So, since we're engaged, I feel like I should know a little about you. At the very least, your name?"

"O��oh," I laughed nervously, swallowing as she sipped her beer. And I tried not to let it get to me, but the way her lips wrapped gently around the bottle had my mind going a mile a minute, laser focusing on one image in particular of those perfect lips wrapped around something else. I wondered if she could hear the longing in my voice when I whispered my name. "Spencer."

With the beer still in her hand, she lowered it and rested it on my knee as she smiled. "Mmm, and what's my last name going to be?"

The thought of actually marrying this woman infiltrated my thoughts as I answered, louder this time, "Reid."

See hummed again, using the hand that was currently massaging the back of my scalp to gently tug at my hair again. "Y/N Reid... I like the sound of that."

I do, too, is what I thought, and I almost said it, but she started talking again.

"So, Spencer, what do you do?"

I would have gone into my entire spiel, but she was so pretty, and so close, I didn't want to scare her off. So, I simply stated, "I work for the FBI..."

Her eyebrows raised, and I felt her hand slide down my neck and settle on my shoulder. "Really?"

"Y—Yeah, I'm a profiler. We aid law enforcement in catching serial killers."

"So, Agent Reid, huh? That's hot..."

I should have just left it alone, because it was common knowledge that if a woman has any reason to call you hot, you just let it happen, right?

Well, like I said, when it came to women I was a complete wreck.

"A—Actually it's Doctor... I, um... I have 3 PhDs."

As soon as the words left my mouth I regretted them, but the hunger in her eyes deepened and her free hand roamed my shoulder and the front of my chest as she scooted even closer, her mouth coming up right under my jaw. "Mmm, even hotter..."

This time I didn't hold back, my voice audibly whimpering as I sighed out a simple, "Oh..."

Y/N pressed a featherlight kiss to my neck before dragging her lips to my ear again. And I'd been so hyperaware of her proximity to my face that I hadn't even noticed she'd set her beer down and took that hand to rest firmly at my hip, her palm pressing into my lower stomach. I only felt it when that hand moved over, the tips of her fingers hovering just above the buckle of my belt.

"Tell me something, Doctor," she whispered just under my earlobe. I was nothing short of putty in her hands as my brain tried to focus on what she was saying over the more prominent desire to focus on the way she pressed her whole body into mine. She was everywhere, taking up every ounce of air that found its way into my lungs, and I'd never breathed in anything sweeter. "Are you saving yourself for marriage?"

I found the question odd at first, but remembering the circumstances of our fake situation, my body suddenly flared to life at her implications. "N—No..."

Her hips shifted against my lap, and I swear I could have fainted on the spot as she hummed in my ear, "Good."

***

I certainly didn't expect for the night to end the way it did.

I mean, I knew I was going to be wet when I got home, but damn. We hadn't even made it out of the bar before my panties were soaked through at the thought of fucking my fake fiancée. Who worked for the FBI and called himself Doctor...

Not to mention he was fucking dreamy as hell with those honey doe-eyes and pouty lips... And his hands? I had taken one look at the one tightly holding his beer bottle for dear life and instantly went white-hot with desire, visions of them disappearing inside of me swimming in my head.

And then he had to fucking whimper when I called him hot.

Yeah, I definitely didn't expect the night to go how it did, but I wasn't mad about it in the slightest.

After explaining to him that I'd walked, and that my house was only a few blocks away, we decided to just hop in his car. Though, by the time we got there, I think we were both so eager to "get to know each other a little better," as I'd said before we actually left, that we didn't even make it out of the parking space.

Spencer fumbled around with his keys for so long, and he kept dropping them, so I just said fuck it and kissed him when he came up the third time. The sound of his keys hitting the ground for a fourth time excited me almost as much as his the way his hands trembled as they rested on my forearms.

"Pull the seat back?" I mumbled against his mouth, sliding my hands down the sides of his face and over his shoulders.

He let out a strained, "Uh huh," and fumbled around with that too, his urgency and nerves all rolled into one adorable spectacle that had the pit of my stomach in desirable knots. The seat sprung backwards, and I laughed lowly as I climbed over the center console and right into his lap, my dress riding up incredibly high.

The way Spencer looked up at me then, his eyes just as pouty as his lips as they practically sparkled with adoration and need, gave me this feeling I hadn't experienced in a long time— something that filled my bloodstream with fire and made me feel... wanted.

And that's not to say I hadn't slept with people since my divorce, but every time it happened there was hardly any connection besides the obvious need to get off. Here, with Spencer, it was different. And realistically I knew it was most likely the fact that a beautiful woman came to his rescue and pretended to be engaged to him just to get some morons off his back, but... In his eyes I saw this vulnerability that I'd never gotten with another partner. He was open and willing to take advantage of our situation to the fullest extent, sure, but within that was a pure longing to be close to someone after going so long without that connection.

I knew that look so well because it was exactly how I felt. We wanted to have sex with each other, that much was obvious, but less so was the fact that we could feel each others' loneliness. It was a shared bond that ran deeper than sexual desire, and in his eyes in that moment, I knew he could see it in me.

"D—Do you know... what it's like to feel alone, even... when you know you really aren't?" he asked as though he was reading my mind. His voice was soft, so curious and hinted with a little sadness that it made me want to hold him tight and rock him to sleep more than anything.

Still, I nodded. "Mhm... After my husband left I haven't... really been the same. I act like it's okay, and I... I really am better now that he's gone, but I just... I've spent most of my life with him, and now it's like I don't know what's out there beyond... loneliness."

It wasn't the most sexy conversation in the world, but Spencer reached out, his hands less shaky, and ghosted them over my bare arms. He looked up at me with those pretty eyes and let out a relieved breath before he spoke. "I kinda know what you mean... Not to that extent, but... I get it."

Seeing that he was more comfortable with me, I leaned in closer, bringing my fingers to brush the underside of his jaw. "And that's why you make the perfect fiancée."

I felt the laugh leave his lips before I kissed him, soft and steady, and reassured that I was in this for as long as he wanted me to be. Obviously we weren't actually engaged, but the connection that came with a real engagement felt pretty damn close to what we had going on.

And he conveyed that in the way he kissed me back, stronger than he'd been before and most certainly more skilled than he'd let on. His tongue expertly caressed mine with just the right amount of pressure and precision, and it made it easy for me to fall into him. Over time we grew more hungry, but for the most part our dance of mouth and tongue was so slow and intense, it felt like we really had known each other forever.

Eventually though, I did feel him grow harder underneath me, and the feeling kickstarted this more primal urge that caused me to groan into his mouth and rock my hips forward. Spencer's hands rested firmly at my lower back the whole time, though when I moved, I could feel him tense a little, like now that it was actually starting to happen, he was suddenly nervous again. So I brought my hands around my back to grab his wrists, gently sliding them down over my ass as I pressed myself into him and nipped at his bottom lip.

"Mmm, your hands are so big," I purred as I kissed my way over his jaw. "They feel so good all over me..." He relaxed a bit at my reassurance, but I wanted to give him more. So I helped him slide his hands underneath my dress, feeling him shiver under me when I assisted him in squeezing them into my skin. "You can touch me however you like," I whispered into his ear. "I'm all yours, Doctor..."

He squeezed my ass then, of his own accord, and I hummed happily before kissing my way back to his mouth, running my hands through his hair.. "Just like that, baby, whatever you want..." He swallowed my words with his tongue, taking a deep breath and inhaling me like I was his only source of air. Respectfully, I gave it all to him, happy to be of service as long as he wanted me— and in that moment, I hoped it would be forever.

Maybe that was cheesy. But he was an excellent kisser... And I was sure there'd be something equally as excellent waiting for me once I got the clearance to get my hands down to his belt.

Thankfully, that clearance came pretty soon. I would have waited as long as he wanted to, but with the way his hips jolted upwards and the needy whine that erupted from his throat at the contact it provided, I knew now was the time.

So I smiled over his lips and then kissed his jaw again, one of my hands staying threaded in his hair while the other snaked down his chest and lower, undoing each button on his shirt as I went down... "Forgive me if I'm feeding into the stereotype by asking you this, Spencer," I said, leaving small bites on his neck in between words. "But have you ever done this before?"

His hands continued kneading my ass as he let out a shaky breath. "N—No. But I've um... I've p—practiced..."

"Hmm, how so?" I wondered, sucking a big hickey into his neck. Meanwhile my hand traced along the waistband of his pants, not quite dipping underneath but teasing the skin just above the material.

"U—Um, well... I regularly t—try to edge... myself, just... I—I want to last longer, and... And I thought it would help..."

God, the images of this man lounging in bed, training himself to last longer in the event that he had sex with someone? I groaned into his neck, taking the initiative to move my hand lower and gently palm him through his pants. "Fuck, that's so hot..."

"Re—really?"

"Mhmm... You really wanna make a girl feel good, huh?"

"Of course..."

"So eager to please?" I cooed, starting to undo his belt. He gripped my ass tighter like he was holding on for dear life, like he'd some how fall out of the car if he didn't hold on to me tight enough. The way his fingers dug into my skin brought me almost the same amount of joy as the sound he made when I finally snuck my hand down the front of his pants and pulled his dick out, gently stroking it and getting a feel for him. "Obedient?"

"Y—Yes, Y/N, please, oh God..." he jumbled out, his hips bucking into my hand. I sighed into his neck, kissing him again as my hand slowly jerked him off.

"Is this how slow you go?" I asked, making sure to memorize how every ridge of him caressed my hand. "Hmm, you wanna draw it out? Feel every ounce of pleasure as you possibly can before you come?"

He didn't answer so much as he let out a loud, whiny breath that sounded very much like a broken, "A-hh."

"I'm clean... On birth control, too... So what do you say we trade this hand in for something a little more... wet..."

Spencer grabbed my underwear then, pulling at the fabric and bucking his hips again. Taking it as a good sign, I adjusted myself so that I could slide them to the side and hover above him. Meanwhile I pecked at his lips and he did the same, meeting me with urgency and anticipation.

And when the head of his dick finally came in contact with my pussy, he threw his head back and exhaled, exposing his neck and the front of his chest, which was lightly glossed over with sweat already. The only source of light in the car came from the neon bar lights and one single streetlight outside, which gave us this dark, aesthetic lighting that only made what we were doing even hotter.

I sank slowly onto him, letting out the longest sigh of my life until he bottomed out in me. "You doin' alright, Doctor?" I asked, pulling his shirt open some more to get a better view of his skin.

He sat his head up a bit and looked at me, breathlessness in his eyes. "F—Fantastic. You f—eel so good..."

I ground my hips in slow circles, nodding down at him with a wicked grin. "Feeling's mutual, babe... You stretch me out so good... It's like we're a perfect match."

The moment I started lifting myself only to sit back down, Spencer shut his eyes, his hands roaming my ass and my thighs as I rode him. It looked like he was concentrating on lasting, and I was going to tell him not to worry about it, but then he opened his eyes and started to speak.

"Will, um... Will you be m—mean to me? Please?"

I halted my movements for a moment, taking in what he just said, but then it came to me immediately. And my discovery turned me on way more than I would have liked to admit.

So I grinned and circled my hips again, leaning forward to practically crawl up the front of his body. My hands tangled in his hair as I studied his face, which was ridden with worry and maybe regret at what he'd just confessed. But I kept circling my hips all the same, clenching myself around him as I spoke against his lips.

"Ohhh, did hearing me insult those guys in the bar turn you on?" I drawled, gently pecking his lips.

"Uh huh," he breathed in response.

I smiled, rocking my hips a little faster and feeling him start to relax again— The worries he had about his desires faded into nothing as I gave into them, feeding them with an open palm and embracing them with great pleasure. "I bet you just couldn't wait for me to take you outside and fuck you after that, huh? For me to treat you like a needy little slut..."

With every word and every quick rock of my hips, Spencer started to pick up his breathing. He leaned back completely and let me take care of him, gave me every green light, every go-ahead... I never got to be like this in bed before, and the fact that it came so naturally sparked this confidence within me that was hard to quell once it got going.

"Is that what you wanted?" I asked him, picking up my pace and bouncing steadily back on his dick. "You were so desperate to get fucked, too, you couldn't even make it out of the parking lot before you gave into me... And now everyone in the bar could see us out here..."

He groaned out at that, his hands digging into the flesh of my thigh, which already burned from straddling him like this, but considering everything, a little burn never hurt anyone.

"Ohh, you like that too, huh? The thought of everyone seeing us?"

"Y—Yes... Y/N, yes... o—oh, fu..."

I took his face into my hands then, grabbing him by the chin and making him look at me. "And what about your friends, huh? What would they think if they showed up and saw their precious Doctor Reid getting fucked like the dirty little slut he is, huh?"

Even though his face was in my hands, he still managed to lean his head back with a loud groan. His hands were now sliding over to my waist, where my dress was bunched up. His nimble fingers slipped just under the fabric and explored the planes of my stomach as I continued riding him, and the feeling of it all coupled with the looks on his face and his reaction—verbal or otherwise—to my words grew the fire simmering in the pit of my stomach.

I wasn't sure how mean to him I could be anymore now, though, considering we were both so close to finishing, and the closer I got the more it became harder to focus on stringing together the perfect words.

Still, I tried the best I could, because it was his first time, and it's what he deserved.

I leaned in and kissed his neck and collarbone, simultaneously riding and grinding for extra stimulation. "You're doing so well, Doctor... Taking this pussy like a good little whore..."

Okay, so it wasn't entirely mean, but it was the best I could come up with on the spot.

Though, it seemed to have done the trick, because Spencer drove his hips up to meet mine, panting and whining out my name as his eyes fluttered open and he looked at me with the most desperate look. I almost fell apart right there.

"That's it, baby, take it," I cooed, leaning over and kissing him. One of his hands came out from under my dress to rub tight circles into my clit with an expert thumb, and it started to break me down immediately. "Ohhh, I'm almost there, honey, just like that... Show me what a good little slut you are, baby, c'mon... Just like... that... Ohhh..."

I kissed him hard as I shook and clenched around him, holding still as he drilled his hips upwards into me. His thumb kept up at my clit until I was whimpering into his mouth, and then he just held it there, a few grunts of his own rumbling in his chest before he stilled and filled me with his warmth. I kissed him through it, gently swallowing all his whines and sighs as he gradually came down from his high.

Immediately after we both settled, with his dick still sheathed inside of me and my hands rubbing gently over the planes of his chest as we slowly and softly made out, the unmistakable sound of raindrops hitting glass covered us on all sides.

I pulled away from Spencer with a small smile, resting my head on his shoulder and looking off to the side, out the window at the sea of cars slowly getting covered up by a multitude of rain droplets. "I hope that was okay," I whispered against his skin, willing myself closer by draping an arm over his shoulder and using my hand to twirl some of his hair around my finger.

"That was more than okay," he responded contently. His chin rested on the top of my head and I snuggled closer into him. "Thank you, Y/N... For... For everything."

"It was my pleasure, Doctor."

We sat in comfortable near-silence for a while then, letting the rain tapping gently over the car be the steady sound that grounded us and washed away everything we had until there was a clean slate.

That was the one bad thing I found about the rain. I loved it, yes, for all its cleansing properties, and as I came into the bar tonight, I looked forward to them— to clearing my head with alcohol and a walk home in the rain.

But as I laid there, breathing in every ounce of Spencer Reid, I watched the rain roll down the windows and actually dreaded the moment it would stop.

"I wish it would rain forever," I sighed wistfully, playing with one of the buttons on Spencer's shirt.

He drew patterns into my leg all the same. "How come?"

"Because... I have to walk home. And the longer it rains, the longer I can stay here with you..."

He chuckled. "That's a nice sentiment, but you know I can drive you home, right?"

"Yeah, but... I really don't want this moment to end."

He was silent then, and for a while I thought maybe he was just going to leave it be. But then his soft voice broke through the rain and cut into me like a piece of glass. "You know you're gonna be okay, right?"

I broke away and looked up at him. "How do you mean?"

He sighed, thinking before continuing. "I mean... I'm guessing it's been rough since your husband left, and... being here with me has given you some companionship and comfort, but... Even after we part ways, you're going to be alright... It's still going to feel lonely, sure, but if there's anything I know for sure after tonight, it's that you're going to get through it just fine."

My heart swelled, though it still broke all the same. "How do you know?"

Spencer smiled, bringing a hand up to gently brush the side of my face. "Because you're my fiancée and I know you better than anyone."

As I laughed at the joke, he looked back at me with sparkles in his eyes. And then minutes later, I was haphazardly cleaning myself up in his passenger seat with a wet-nap that I'd kept tucked away in my wallet while he fumbled around for his keys.

Even as I stood on my porch that night, under the rain as I watched him drive away with the lingering buzz of our final goodbye kiss on my lips, I wondered if I'd ever see him again.

And I wondered if he would ever notice or do anything about the sparkly diamond ring I left behind, sitting beside him in my place— a reminder of our time together, the comfort he provided me with, and the clean slate that always inevitably came with the rain.

***

If you would like to be added to or removed from the taglist, feel free to message me or leave a comment and I’ll get to it!

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

@elldell1204 @muffin-cup @calm-and-doctor @slutforthegubes @rainsong01 @yourmisosoup @liveloudwriteloud @reidsconverse @la-vie-en-amour1 @edgycowboy666 @averyhotchner @centiaaa @lizziechaseee @coffeeandendlesswords @usuck @spenxerslut @g0lden-cth @emilyprentisslittlewhore @reidyoulikeabook @spencerreid9 @takeyourleap-of-faith

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader smut #criminal minds fanfiction

1K notes · View notes

artificialqueens · 2 years ago

Text

Bitch Fight, Ch.16 (Multi; Adorney) - Lita

Welcome to the world of Femme Fatale Wrestling. The future is female, and we're here to prove it.

A/N: In this instalment, Courtney resorts to desperate measures to recapture her world championship, Manila makes her return to Femme Fatale, and everyone is sad. Enjoy, loves! <3<3

____

CHAPTER 16: YOU'RE AN IDIOT

Courtney is mad at herself for even entertaining the idea of listening to Bill’s crap, but that hadn’t stopped her. She toys anxiously with the end of her hair - neatly curled, down to her waist. She hasn’t felt this uncomfortable with going full femme in a long time. Maybe that’s because this isn’t about wrestling - it’s selling herself out to impress a fucking man, something she’d sworn to herself years ago she was finished doing. Whatever - too late to turn back now. She shifts uneasily from one foot to the other, waiting in the wings for a good moment to intervene.

Bianca and Adore are in the ring - the non-title match a prequel to Adore’s defense at next week’s show - and so far it seems to be a lot of nothing. The crowd seems hot for Adore, which is unfortunate given that Bianca is kicking her ass; she’s had her tied up in a brutal-looking fujiwara armbar for the last few seconds. She can tell that Bea isn’t staking a lot on this match - typically a high-flier, Bianca only really bothers with mat work these days if it’s a bout of little consequence. Most of her filler matches consist mostly of rest-holds and striking; only pulling out the big guns when there’s something worth fighting for on the line. Court can’t say it’s a bad strategy - work smarter, not harder.

She hasn’t said a word to Adore in nearly two weeks. She hadn’t bothered turning up to the last show - knowing she wasn’t guaranteed a place on the card and unable to face the disappointment. She’d barely switched her phone on for days now; the number of unread texts and missed calls keeps getting higher and higher, and the guilt overpowers her every time she looks. She misses her - she didn’t realize just how desperately she would miss her.

Bianca had shown up at her door on Tuesday, all but demanded a blood alcohol test, and then sat with her and tried her level best to help. Courtney wouldn’t let her. If she’d done one thing right in her entire time knowing Bianca, it was establishing that it was impossible to make her talk when she didn’t want to. She’d left after about an hour; having to content herself with the knowledge that Courtney was still alive, unable to get anything more out of her.

She feels rotten about what she’s going to do - to both of them. She couldn’t decide if telling them ahead of time would be better or worse. By the time she’d settled on better, they were already in the ring.

She doesn’t want to be here. She’s spent the last couple of weeks completely removing herself from everyone - working out in the middle of the night to guarantee the gym to herself, sleeping until four in the afternoon, barely eating or showering. She’d struggled to do anything besides sitting in silence and staring at the wall; if she had enough motivation to function, then she could just as easily drive to a bar, or the liquor store, and she couldn’t let that happen. It had been a constant fucking battle - what was the point in sticking to sobriety, keeping her job? She wasn’t getting work anyway, so why bother?

It was difficult. She wants to fucking choke Bill. She doesn’t know if he realises how badly he’s fucked her over - or if he does, and he’s doing it deliberately. Either way, she’s spent the last fortnight suffering.

She wasn’t sure if this is what he meant by doing something to make an impression, but after a week of chewing it over, this was the best thing she could come up with. If this didn’t force him to give a shit, she has no idea what will. She’s decided to forgo heels for practicality’s sake, wearing white Doc Martens and a pink sequinned cowl-neck dress - under ordinary circumstances, this was peak Courtney Act. Right now, it just felt yucky - Courtney Jenek really doesn’t want to fucking be here, and being dressed up like this is making her uncomfortable. Why did you leave your hair down, you stupid cunt? Do you really think that’s going to make a difference?

Screw it - if she spends any more time thinking about what she’s planning to do, she’s going to psych herself out. Courtney stuffs the wireless mic into her dress, picking up a metal folding chair. The steel feels cold and brutal in her hand.

The reaction she elicits from the crowd as she bolts to the ring sends a burst of unpleasant electricity down her spine - a series of audible gasps, peppered with ‘holy shit’s and ‘oh my god’s. Bianca is standing over Adore, holding her in a headlock. She doesn’t see her coming. Courtney cracks her over the back with the chair - the shot echoes through the arena. Bianca drops to her knees. Courtney can hear the air being knocked out of her lungs.

Bianca hunches over on the ground, pressing a hand into the small of her back and groaning. Courtney had put more metal behind that chair shot than she had really meant to. Bill is looking at her like he wants to fucking kill her. She can’t think about either of those things right now. She’ll apologize to Bea later - taking her out was a necessary evil, since she’d have never gotten anywhere near Adore if she was still in the game - and until she has to get through the inevitable confrontation with him backstage, Bill doesn’t exist.

With Bianca out of the way, Courtney lunges at Adore with the chair - knocking her to the ground and straddling her, pinning her down. She aims a number of - exceptionally worked - elbow strikes at her; Adore flailing and shrieking underneath her, trying to fight her off with her hands instinctively held over her face.

“Courtney, what the fuck?”

Courtney doesn’t say anything. She can’t. She punches the mat, hoping that it looks like she’d hit Adore. This really isn’t her finest work; it feels so obvious that she’s acting from pure desperation. She’s not actually hurting her - it’s fine. She can make this fine.

Courtney stands up - yanking Adore’s arm straight, and closing the chair over it. Adore’s body tenses up. Court grits her teeth. Adore is paralysed with fear - her eyes wide and unblinking; a quiet, wavering whine emitting from her.

She hadn’t anticipated exactly how much the sheer terror in Adore’s eyes would get to her. The guilt is sudden and overpowering. Is this really fucking worth it?

Courtney raises her foot over the seat of the chair. Adore whimpers, turning her face away and squeezing her eyes shut.

Bill’s rough hands grab her under the armpits before she can follow through on pillmanizing Adore, really sinking his fingers into her flesh. It hurts as he drags her away. Adore gets up to her knees, extricating herself from the chair and wrapping her arms around her body tightly. She has her back pressed up against the turnbuckles - defensive. Afraid.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Bill hisses in her ear.

Courtney shoulders her way out from his grasp. Fuck, she hates this.

“Making people give a shit,” she snarls through gritted teeth as she fishes the microphone out of her dress.

She turns it on - not able to get a word in edgeways through the irate crowd. Someone has started an ‘asshole’ chant. She can’t deny that she deserves it.

“I- hey! Shut the fuck up!” She turns to the audience. That doesn’t have the desired effect at all; the booing is so loud she can feel the vibrations beneath her feet. She fixes her face into a scowl, facing Adore with all the malice she can summon. Adore stares back at her with confused, wet eyes - she looks like a wounded animal. You did this - this is your fucking fault. “Did you honestly think that you could just wander in here, take that title from me, and get away with it, Adore? Think again, sweetheart. I’ve worked too hard, for too long, for some fucking loser like you to ruin this for me.”

She pauses for a breath, her voice trembling. Bianca is on her feet now - staring a hole through her, one arm around Adore. Real emotion has trumped suspending disbelief; Courtney has never seen Bea break character in the ring like this before. Adore is shaking like a leaf. Courtney gulps.

“This business is all about paying your dues - you don’t get to show up and disrespect me like that. You don’t get to disrespect the prestige that I’ve poured eighteen months of my blood, sweat, and tears into putting on that title. You’re a fucking nobody, Adore - you’re embarrassing yourself. Face it, there’s not a single person here tonight who gives a shit about you, or that fucking fossil,” she gestures to Bianca. “None of them knew who the hell you were until a month ago, and pretty soon, they’re all gonna forget.”

“What the fuck do you want, Courtney?” Bianca scowls. She sounds equal parts furious and disappointed, and Courtney can't decide which is worse. She’s wrestled a microphone from Kelly - the ring announcer, who’s standing in the corner with a look on her face somewhere between confusion and terror. Courtney has tears in her eyes, her hands shaking.

“What do I want? I want my fucking title back,” Courtney says. “I will do whatever I have to do to take back what’s rightfully mine. I will break whatever bones I have to - I will end whoever’s career I have to. I will make you regret ever showing your face in Femme Fatale, Adore. I want you - both of you - in a triple threat match next week, for my world championship.”

******

Courtney hasn’t shown face in the locker room yet. Bianca is well past the point of giving a shit. She grits her teeth; Dela behind her, securing a bag of ice to the small of her back with plastic wrap. The welt from the chair shot is already starting to bruise.

“I’m going to kill her.”

“Don’t do that,” Dela says with a nervous laugh.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t,” Bianca scowls, pulling her shirt down over the ice pack and tentatively sitting down.

“I’d have to fill out a shit ton of paperwork, and I don’t have the time or energy,” Dela sighs, slumping down next to her and crossing her legs. “At least wait until we’re out of the venue, that way it’s not my problem.”

“I don’t do weapons - she knows that I don’t fucking do weapons,” Bianca says pointedly. “You’re gonna let her get away with this?”

Dela doesn’t respond. She’s seemed uncomfortable ever since shit went down - meeting Bianca at the curtain and frog-marching her back to the locker room before Courtney got within range of her.

Bianca understands Court, to some degree or another. But she’d given her more than enough leniency in time gone by, and this was crossing a fucking line. None of them liked Bill; none of them agreed with his decisions - and none of them had done what she did in retaliation to the shitty hand they’d been dealt. If he’d backed her into a corner or put the stupid fucking idea in her head, which Bianca figured was more likely than not, she would at least have liked some warning first. It reeked of bad etiquette and desperation. There were other ways.

Bianca hadn’t seen her in this kind of state in a long time, but when the odds didn’t seem to be in her favor, Courtney’s first response was mutually-assured destruction. She receded into herself - not talking to anyone, doing stupid shit without thinking. In the past, ‘stupid shit’ tended to be binge-drinking, and Bianca at the very least knew that she wasn’t doing that. But hurting people has always been a component too. Usually it’s more indirect than this. She wishes she’d just talk to people, before nuking everything around her. The pull towards her - the recognition that something is wrong, and the desperate desire to help her - is only just beaten out by how absolutely fucking furious Bianca is.

Bianca shoots an uneasy glance towards Adore. She’s sitting in the corner of the room, gripping the title belt with both hands, her head bowed. She’s barely said a word since they got out of the ring. Seeing her this subdued isn’t right. That was another thing she was gonna have to have stern fucking words with Courtney about. Bianca was seasoned enough to take it - she was able to roll with the punches. Adore wasn’t. The fear in her eyes was something Bianca wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to forgive.

Manila walks across the room, sitting down next to Bianca. Her return had gone over far better than anybody had expected - seeing an old favorite had drawn a decent crowd, and while her match against Valentina hadn’t been anything to write home about, the audience had seemed happy enough with the outcome as Manila took the victory with relative ease.

She’d still been walking around all night with a face like a slapped ass. Which, from what Bianca could remember, was fairly par for course with her. She’d always preferred Raja out of that partnership - she was more easygoing, and her presence tended to mellow Manila out. She wonders how Raja is doing these days; last Bianca checked, mid-divorce and still barely recovered from that fucking concussion. Poor bitch.

“Long time no see,” Bianca says, nudging Manila gently with an elbow. She’d barely spoken to anyone all night either - going through the requisite small talk when she arrived at the venue, and then barely engaging with anyone beyond that, disconnected and strained. She’d gotten changed in the bathroom.

“Hey,” she says, her face flat, before she goes on the offensive. “Dela, I’ve got questions.”

Dela looks up from her phone, her face twitching.

“Look, tonight was a little weird, I’m really sorry-“

“No shit - when exactly did Courtney go insane?” Manila raises her eyebrows. Dela’s expression shifts into a discomposed grimace.

Bianca could tell that Dela was uneasy with the notion that Manila’s first night back would have her thinking that they were still payrolling another hair-trigger lunatic. It was bad enough that the numbers in the locker room were dwindling, or that they were struggling to pull enough matches together to fill out the show - or that Bill was wandering around the place with all of his usual obnoxious, big-dick bravado. He’d still been a referee when Manila was last around, and he’d had next-to nothing to do with any of the talent on an individual basis, keeping to himself and barely speaking to any of the girls - to anyone who hadn’t been there to watch it happen, it was totally fucking nonsensical to see him in the position he was in now. Dela had seemed both nervous and incredibly embarrassed all night.

“Long story,” Bianca rolls her eyes.

“Was that a shoot? Because it definitely looked like one.”

“In the name of saving face, I’m gonna say it was a work, but I’m pretty sure you’re not gonna believe me,” Bianca leans back, sucking her teeth.

“You’re right,” Manila says bluntly.

“I know this is embarrassing - please trust me, it’s a one-off issue,” Dela says, flustered.

“Sure,” Manila rolls her eyes, folding her arms into herself. She looks uncomfortable as fuck. “Just like it was a one-off issue the last time - and then she shot on two other people before you guys eventually fucking fired her.”

Magnolia. Again. Bianca resists the urge to roll her eyes. Especially being that she was one of the two people that Magnolia had gone off-script on - she’d tried and failed to wrench Bianca’s shoulder out of its socket, and then bitten her hard enough to draw blood. Bianca had decided that the match wasn’t worth it and had walked away, getting herself counted out. Courtney was number two - she’d taken the beating and then the title. Bianca couldn’t deny that it had been a horrific situation at the time. But that was two years ago now.

But then again, Manila had been gone for two years. That entire spectacular mess had been her final, and evidently lasting, memory of the promotion. And she’d had two years to let that anger and resentment fester unresolved. Raja had got hurt, and the person responsible - alongside the person she believed allowed it to happen, in Jinkx - could never be forgiven. Bianca remembered being surprised when she learned that not only were the two of them a couple, but both were - allegedly - straight, and married to two different men. Well, Manila did a better job of keeping up the facade; Bianca had never eaten her pussy, same couldn’t be said of her tag partner.

Bianca had always known Manila to be a little closed-off and distant, especially when Raja wasn’t around, but this was a different level of it. She’d seemed gassed in the ring; like she was just going through the motions, barely there.

Bianca glances at her ring attire. She’s wearing a high-necked catsuit that really doesn’t suit her, black with a few yellow accents - the inversion of her old colour scheme. The only skin she’s showing is her arms. That’s weird too; Bea had made Manila and Raja’s gear for as long as they’d been in Femme Fatale, and she’s never known her to wrestle in anything besides shorts and bras.

“By the way, I want a word with whoever the fuck is designing your ring attire these days - you still have my number, I wouldn’t have let you go anywhere in that,” she says with a half-laugh. The tension between the three of them is uncomfortable, and apparently her brain-to-mouth filter had decided to take a momentary vacation. Manila looks furious.

“Fuck off - you try having two kids and then wrestling in a fucking crop top. I don’t want the entire world gawking at my stretch-marks, if that’s okay with you,” Manila snaps, receding into herself with her arms folded around her midsection. Bianca pulls a face, glancing at Dela for support. She looks equally uncomfortable. Fuck.

“Shit - I’m sorry, Jesus…” Bianca says, unsure of how exactly to carry herself. “Is everything okay with you?”

“I’m fine,” Manila says, her words clipped. “I just…I’ve had a crappy day.”

“Crappy how?” Dela tilts her head.

Manila huffs an impatient sigh, clearly not particularly willing to give over the specifics. Once a long enough pause is left that the tension becomes unbearable, she eventually breaks.

“The only reason we were in Tampa in the first place is because Mateo and I had WWE tryouts. He got the call in the car on the way here; they want him in the performance center ASAP. My ass got rejected.”

“Shit - I mean, join the club,” Bianca gestures between herself and Dela. “What happened? Did they tell you why they weren’t interested?”

“Too old,” Manila scowls. “And apparently I’m ‘difficult to market’.”

Bianca purses her lips. She could see straight through that - it was politically-correct shitspeak for ‘over thirty and not white’, despite Mateo also being both of those things. It was a specific flavor of crap that tended to be reserved for women. Bianca had done that whole dance before, she could more than sympathize. They’d told her more or less exactly the same thing. Even in spite of the whole ‘women’s evolution’ thing, WWE still prioritized hiring bikini models over real wrestlers. After her last rejection when she was thirty-four, she’d more or less spent three days in a pit of wine-fuelled misery - showing up to work a show was the last thing on her mind.

“At least one of you got the deal - think about the money.”

“You make a good point,” Manila nods. Dela is sitting picking at her fingernails, not looking at either of them. “I just- I’m being honest, I’m trying not to freak out right now. Since the PC is here, we’re gonna have to move again. I need somewhere to work. I’d asked for a booking because I thought I was gonna come back if I didn’t get an offer, but I’m not sure this is really the place for me any more.”

“What do you mean?” Dela frowns. “The crowd loved you - we all miss you. Jinkx told you when you left, you’re always gonna be welcome here-”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, Dela - don’t play dumb,” Manila’s voice turns cold. “I’ve got the girls to worry about. I can’t be taking my life in my fucking hands every time I step into your ring. If you’re still letting people go off-script, that’s not safe and I’m not comfortable with it.”

“We didn’t let her- this isn’t like Magnolia.

Manila bristles at the mention of her name. “Court is having a rough time right now, I don’t know exactly what the situation is, but…“ Dela tries to formulate a response on the fly, her face uncomfortable and tense. Manila shakes her head.

“You should know - you’re supposed to be in charge here. Where the fuck is Jinkx?”

“Don’t,” Bianca shuts that down in a fucking hurry. “This isn’t her fault - and it’s not Dela’s either.”

“Well, whoever’s fault it is, deal with it,” Manila folds her arms. “I’m sorry, but I’d thought that after what happened, something would have changed. I’m gonna go - thanks for offering to take me back and everything, but you guys need to fix this shit if you want me on board.”

Manila stands up again, walking to the other side of the room to pack her things. Dela wrings her hands, looking at the floor.

Bianca watches Adore leave the room - her face not betraying much emotion and her pack of cigarettes in her hand. She wants to follow her - wants to do something. But Adore had been reluctant to accept any support, and Bianca wasn’t great at offering it anyway. The door swings shut behind her.

Courtney still hasn’t appeared in the locker room. Bianca thinks that’s probably something she should be concerned about.

******

“I am so sorry.”

“Courtney, I- I-“ Adore can’t get her words out right. “What the fuck? I mean- I don’t understand, I didn’t-“

“I should have told you. I didn’t mean to scare you - I would never do anything to actually hurt you, I promise.” Adore’s panic triggers much of the same in Courtney. She reaches out for Adore, and feels a little sick when she flinches away from her.

They’re in the hall - Courtney has been too scared to go back to the locker room, and she’s not sure where the fuck exactly Adore is going, but she’s cornered her while she can. The gravity of the stupid stunt she just pulled is weighing heavy on her; she’d thought that maybe this would have fixed some of this for her, but if anything it’s made it all worse.

“What did I do?” Adore has her back pressed flat against the wall, clinging onto the title belt with both hands. Courtney feels like an absolute fucking monster, in the worst possible way.

“What?”

“You haven’t talked to me in forever - everything was fine, and now I…I…” Adore’s eyes are glassy. “You really scared me, Court. I thought you were gonna…”

“Bill put me in a really shitty position, I have…” Courtney pauses, her voice wavering. This is tearing her apart. “I…he wouldn’t put me on the card. He said that nobody cares - that I had to do something to make the audience give a shit, or he was- look, I need this. I need wrestling, more than you have any idea. He told me I had to- I’m sorry I never told you - I’m sorry for ignoring you, I’ve been really struggling, and I…” Courtney’s voice gets caught in her throat. “I got so scared - I’ve dealt with too much shit for it to end like this. All I gave a fuck about was making an impression on him, I didn’t wanna know what would happen if I didn’t.”

“That doesn’t- I care about you, Court. I’ve been trying to figure out what I did wrong - I thought you hated me, and that fucking hurt.” Adore chews at her lip. “You can’t just throw that shit at me - if you’re gonna try and break my fucking arm, at least warn me first.”

“But I didn’t- I wasn’t going to-“

“I didn’t fucking know that!” Adore raises her voice, and Courtney winces. “Think about how that looked for me. I spent three years getting the shit beat out of me for real - what you did felt real, and it was fucking scary. You can’t do that shit to me. If you’re having a bad time, talk to me. I wanted to be there for you - I tried calling you like, every day.”

Courtney glances at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“I can’t- you freaked me the fuck out. I need a minute - just leave me alone,” Adore says, her voice hushed and shaky.

She walks off down the hall, the title belt dangling from one hand by the strap, dragging along the floor. Courtney feels like she’s going to cry. She’s been here before, and she hates it - her first move when she’s backed into a corner always seems to be burning her bridges.

Bill steps through the curtain, looking daggers at Courtney. She shrinks into herself, taking a couple of steps back from him instinctively. Fuck- no- she can’t do this. She doesn’t want to do this. Why did she ever think this would be a good idea?

“Get your ass to my locker room - now.”

#rpdr fanfiction #adorney #adore delano #courtney act #bianca del rio #bendelacreme #manila luzon #s6 #wrestling au #glow au #lesbian au #angst #bitch fight #femme fatale wrestling au #tw physical violence #lita

6 notes · View notes

lillian-nator · 4 years ago

Note

You want more shit? I can go all day (except for school and sleep, hm) but one day techno realises just how much trouble Tommy is getting into by hanging out with Dream and challenges him to a fight, that's how the dream and Techno duel comes about, techno wins and Dream is just like "Well, what did you want me to do?" and Techno goes "stop influencing boys younger than you or ill break your kneecaps next" - 💙

Oh shit - oh shit - oh shit

Man, Blue, you are really the mvp.

I feel as though we can understand eachother - I also need to sleep and have school in the morning lol.

Anyways, I would love to continue throwing ideas back and forth with you :)

Here it is [the scene]:

[So, for this scenario to happen, I imagine that Techno has to not know of the “Tommy being high off his ass” incident at first.

So, I picture for either Techno to sleep through Tommy’s lecture - or the more likely case (and the one I am going to write here) Tommy didn’t leave his room for the entire day after he got caught.]

When Tommy still hadn’t come out of his room at noon, Wilbur and Phil thought that Tommy was simply trying to evade punishment, but when they went to go check on him, he was still asleep. Like not even pretending to be asleep, like he was clearly out of it - and Wilbur, and Phil weren’t monsters, they would let him sleep as long as he needed.

They assumed that he would need a lot after only getting to bed at 4am, high as fuck, as well.

Tommy ended up sleeping until 6pm that Saturday (the weed incident happened on a Friday night). He only got up to puke in the bathroom and lay back down in his bed.

Techno, who had been gone for most of the day, came back and assumed Tommy was coming down with something. He went into his room, closed the door and din’t come out. Look - he loved his brother, he really did, but midterms were coming up, and he didn’t want to get sick. Besides, Wilbur being the sap he was, would totally be taking care of Tommy all day, if he was sick. He loved Wilbur really, but he could never had what him and Tommy had, Wilbur being the closest with the youngest, was over-protective at times, and a tad bit jealous of Dream, but he was a great brother really, and he was totally Tommy’s favorite, no doubt about that. He means, the two were stuck to the hip when Tommy was younger, and even now, sometimes it was like they were the same person.

So, Wilbur had been in fact taking care of Tommy. Sure, he was pissed out of his mind that his fucking 15-year-old brother came back home high as a kite, but he still cared about Tommy. Probably too much for either of their goods.

As soon as Wilbur heard Tommy get out of bed, he had been prepared to go upstairs, but when he heard Tommy vomit - he stopped. He wasn’t sure if he should help the boy or not. He knows that Tommy must have a killer headache, and probably stomachache from smoking weed on an empty stomach. So, he wasn’t sure whether or not he should let Tommy live the consequences of his actions - or if he should help ease his little brother’s pain.

Look, we’ve already discussed that Wilbur cared about Tommy too much for their own goods. SO, of course Wilbur fucking helped him.

When Wilbur got up to Tommy’s room, man was he not expecting to see Tommy in as much of a mess he was. He was still in his clothes from the night before, SapNap’s jacket hanging loosely around his arms, the multitude of blankets pulled up to his chin. There was sweat dripping down his forehead, and he looked green.

Taking a better look at him, Wilbur knew that it wasn’t the weed that made Tommy throw up - the kid had actually gotten sick from being outside without a jacket.

Wilbur was ready to throw hands with a member of the Dteam.

Anyways, the fact that Tommy was sick delayed the conversation a few days, and when it did happen - that Tuesday at 2 P.M, right after Tommy got home from school - Techno was still at the School studying for midterms.

Techno still didn’t know what was going on - but he noticed the subtle differences.

Tommy had to keep his door open when he had friends over, even with Purpled and Tubbo, practically two members of their family. Wilbur locked Tommy’s window, and when it was hot outside, Tommy had to ask Wilbur to open it. The air was tense. Techno felt like he was always walking on eggshells, and he felt as though he could physically see Tommy walk on eggshells. Tommy had started sitting with Wilbur and his friends at lunch. Tubbo obviously stayed with Tommy - really, Techno could see how glad the small boy was to spend time with his brother - but Purpled switched between Dream’s table, and Wilbur’s table almost everyday.

Tommy having to keep his door open only lasted a week and a half; Tommy was too loud, and the only kids coming over were Purpled and Tubbo (Phil completed trusted them). The window stayed shut though, and Tommy was not allowed to sit with Dream for the foreseeable future.

It was 3 weeks into Tommy’s new-found punishment when Techno had to ask Phil what was going on.

Techno sighed, “Phil, seriously, what has been up with Tommy lately. Did I miss something?”

Oh.” He had a look of confusion on his face. “Did Wilbur not tell you?”

“Did Wilbur not tell me what?” Techno scoffed, Phil could have not been more vague.

“Well, Wilbur caught Tommy come home high a couple weeks ago.” Phil threaded his hand through his short hair, he wasn't sure how Techno was gonna react.

Techno didn’t know how to react. His brother? Tommy? High? “Wait - but he was grounded a couple weeks ago?”

“I caught him sneaking back in. If Wilbur hadn’t woken up, I would’ve never known that he was high. He was good at hiding it.”

“Uh...” If Techno knew one thing, it’s that you aren’t good at hiding the fact that you are tripping balls the first time you get high. “Do you think that he had done it before?”

“I’m not sure. He said that he hadn’t. Wilbur believed him, but Wilbur would beleive anything that boy tells him. I have to trust him on it though.”

Techno mumbled, “That fucker.” And walked out.

Techno wasn’t thrilled bu the fact that his 15-year-old brother had been smoking weed.

Of course he wasn’t, it was his baby brother. Tommy was never supposed to do any of that crap. But, if Techno knew Wilbur and Phil well enough, he knew that he was getting enough punishment as it is. So he laid off him, even if Techno knew that Tommy had smoked at least one other time, he assumed he wouldn’t do it again - that part was right, however what Techno did not anticipate was to catch Tommy sneaking out again, or rather in.

It was late at night, the night before Techno’s last midterm. He wasn’t always the best at Physics. So he just decided to go over a few more equations.

Sure, it was almost 4 am, but Techno never slept anyways.

So, his head is in his hands just looking down at his Physics test book when he hears the clicks of the door being unlocked, and the kitchen being directly across the the house from the door - Techno had a crystal clear view of his brother attempting to sneak back in, from where he was at the counter.

“Hey.” Tommy stops in his tracks.

Tommy walks over to Techno, sits directly across from him at the counter, putting his keys on the table. Tommy sighs loudly.

“I will tell you anything. Please just don’t tell Wilbur and Phil.”

Techno, who actually really just wanted to know what was up with his brother, decided that he would take the deal. “Sure. You have to answer my questions though.”

Tommy let out an audible sigh. “Okay, deal. What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with the obvious.” He clapped his hands together. “Are you high?”

“No.” straightforward. Techno continued, “Are you drunk - did you drink?” “No.” Techno squinted his eyes, “Are you lying?”

“Do you need a fucking sobriety test? I’m not under the fucking influence.” Tommy gritted his teeth.

“Hey.” He was used to Tommy’s attitude, so he’s not sure why the hostility caught him off guard. “I’m doing you a fucking favor - I don’t need the attitude.” He smacked the blonde on the back of the head. In the process, he took a beanie off of Tommy’s head. Upon closer inspection, Techno realized that the beanie was not Wilbur’s. It was Quackity’s.

Techno started again, “Who were you out with?”

“The gang.” Tommy deadpanned.

“Who the fuck is the gang?” He was starting to get really pissed off at Tommy’s vague answers.

“I don’t know!” Tommy stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Last night it was Quackity, Karl, Tubbo, and -”

Techno sighed, “Dream.”

“Don’t cut me off. I’m giving you the fucking answers.”

“Don’t forget you’re the one in trouble here.” Techno closed his Physics book. This was gonna be a long night. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Dream asked if I wanted to meet them at the bridge, and I did. So, I went.”

“Even though you knew that you are not allowed?” Techno asked skeptically.

“That’s kind of the fucking point of sneaking out.” Tommy turned to go into his room. Techno grabbed hold of his wrist.

“Just tell me one thing, before you storm up into your room.” Tummy hummed in agreement. “How many times have you smoked weed?”

Tommy groaned; “Really? You’re still on this?”

“Just answer the damn question Tommy.” Techno growled back.

Tommy sighed, exasperated, throwing his hands in the air - also successfully freeing himself from Techno's grip. “I don’t know! 3 or 4 times - I mean it when I say, I won’t do it again.”

“I beleive you.” And he really did, although his little brother may have been sneaking around behind his back, he knew him. And Techno knew that Tommy sounded sincere. “But, you also lied about never doing it before. You also smoked weed. Here we are.”

“Whatever.” Tommy mumbled, pushing past Technoblade and stormed up to his room. What he didn’t realize is that he left his phone on the table.

Tommy’s phone buzzed - loud enough for Techno to hear it through his thoughts.

Techno shyly picked it up - look, he really didn’t want to invade Tommy’s privacy. He knew that no matter what Tommy did, he had a right to privacy away from his brothers, but, Techno couldn’t help but be curious to which of the assholes of the month was texting his brother.

It’s a text from Dream.

Dream: You dropped your student I.D. You wanna pick it up tmr night? Karl and SapNap found an abandoned mall a town over. They wanna check it out. You in - Purpled and Punz already said they were game?

Techno was about to beat the shit out of that green fucking bastard.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, nobody knew why Techno was waling down the hall with such determination.

But nobody stood in his fucking way.

As soon as he got to Dream’s locker, he saw the bastard. Standing there talking to SapNap like nothing happened last night.

Techno slammed Dream’s locker door shut, earning a wince from the tall blonde.

“What the hell dude?” Dream snarled, annoyed, and fucking too tired to deal with anyone’s shit.

“’What the hell dude?’“ Techno mocked. “Why the fuck are you helping my little brother sneak out?”

“Because he asked me too! It’s not my fault he wanted to hang out, and I’m not taking the blame for something he did.” Dream was tired of getting involved with Tommy’s brothers. He loved the kid really, but his brothers were a lot to handle.

“Tubbo, too! We both know he’s grounded.” Techno mused, hands raised to the ceiling.

Dream, swore he was never gonna get a break from this guy. "Tubbo asked too! I'm not gonna take responsibilities for their actions!"

"Then stop fucking inviting them." Techno growled.

"Look. If they want to sneak out - I'm not, not, gonna tell them when we are hanging out."

"Just stop fucking inviting them - then none of this would ever be your problem. You got it? Stop fucking around with my brothers." Techno stepped closer, pointing a finger in Dream's chest.

Dream looked at the pink-haired boy with a knowing look. He said 'brothers' - okay. So, Techno was talking about all 3 of the teens.

He dropped his head, he really didn't want to get into a fight right now, "Look, I'm sorry okay? I can promise you I won't give any of them alcohol. I can promise I won't let Tommy take a hit of Quack's joint. But, I can't promise I won't stop hanging out with them."

Techno laughed, "You don't understand do you? The point is that you let him do it in the first place."

"Do you really want to do this, right now?" At this point students had gathered around the pair. "You want to fucking fight?"

"If that will make you shut up and leave my fucking life; yeah."

Dream threw the first punch.

There isn't much to say about the fight. Techno won - but barely. Both came out with bloody noses, split knuckles, bruised ribs, bleeding lips, and tired arms.

Techno broke Dream's nose.

It was a good fight.

Most of the student body watched, 'oohing' everytime a punch was thrown. At some point, Tommy had seen the fight go down, and Karl had to hold the blonde back, from breaking up the fight himself.

"Alright," Dream admitted on the floor, tired beyond relief. "What do you want?"

Techno seethed, "I want you to stay the fuck away from my brothers." and walked away.

------------------------------------

Later, after school, when Tommy walked in on Calvin helping Techno clean himself up in the bathroom, Tommy brushed past Techno, bumping into his shoulder.

"Hey -" Techno grunted in pain.

"Good fucking luck explaining this to Phil. I'm going to Tubbo's. I won't see you later." Tommy growled, and continued walking.

#tommyinnit #wilbursoot #philza #technoblade #dream #dreamwastaken #quackity #karl jacobs #tubbo #purpled #punz #georgenotfound #sapnap #2270 words for you #hahah #k #Of Younger Brothers and Longer Nights #ybln au

356 notes · View notes

bobafetts-princess · 3 years ago

Note

Are you alright? You’ve been so silent for quite some time now

So I’m gonna explain my absence under the cut and be forewarned, it will be triggering. I’m okay, and the triggers don’t apply to me personally but a family member.

A/N: suicide, substance abuse

Tuesday morning my mom called me and informed me that my uncle, her only sibling, decided to end his life. He’s been struggling with substance abuse for the last 5+ years, no one is really sure when it started but we all have a general idea. It started small, pain meds after a work related injury but eventually it turned into a full blown heroin problem. He was stealing money from my grandparents in addition to the money my grandma was giving him. It got so bad and scary that my grandfather installed security cameras in their home and changed all the locks. They’re snowbirds and often head to Florida for chunks of time during the winter and refused to tell my uncle when they were leaving so he didn’t know they were gone and come over to break into their home. He’d be offered rehab, given money for his next fix, a home to stay in so he wouldn’t be on the streets, bailed out of jail, the whole nine and nothing was changing his behavior or helping him kick a nasty heroin habit. So my grandmother got fed up and went to the house she allowed him to live in with his two sons and decided enough was enough and he had to find somewhere to go because she wasn’t going to fund his drug problem anymore. My cousin who didn’t follow in his dads footsteps was getting his own apartment and my grandma was selling the house. I don’t know if it just didn’t sit well with my uncle or if he had a moment of sobriety and understanding of how much he’d hurt all the people in his life, but he decided to take his legally owned gun, write several suicide notes, and end his life in the backyard. My cousin found the notes, realized a gun was missing, and was the one to find his own father before he called my grandparents and police. I’ve been struggling emotionally pretty hard the last few days over this, he once was a good person and he adored me. I know he would have adored my daughter and I know he and my husband would have gotten along if he’d been able to pull himself out of his addiction. I’m heartbroken that he’ll never give me another bear hug and say “I love you baby” which he always did, even the last few times I saw him and he was strung out. I’ll never get to get mad at him for sneaking cups of Mountain Dew to my daughter when I’m not looking, like he did for me as a kid. I’ll never get to ask him what he did to make his bean dip taste so good, I think about it years after I’ve last had it. He’ll never teach my daughter to bowl like he did me, and he’ll never tell another lame ass story that only he thinks is funny. I’ll never see him at Christmas again, and he’ll never light off fireworks at Fourth of July with my dad. I’m never going to open a present from him that’s just a gift card in this miserable little puzzle that you have to solve in order to get it out. I’m just heartbroken and hurt and I wish he’d taken all the help he was offered, instead of taking his own life. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be taking a break, but it will definitely be until after his services on Saturday evening and probably honestly until the start of next week. I appreciate you checking in on me and reaching out, it means a lot.

#tw suicide #tw substance abuse #cw suicide #cw substance abuse #I just miss him #and the person he used to be #instead of the person he turned into #he would have loved his great niece the way he loved me #and he would have spoiled her rotten the way he did me #he only met her once #and it was right after she was born #so it doesn’t even count #I don’t have any pictures of the two of them together #and I just worry she’ll grow up only #knowing the worst of him

9 notes · View notes

ladyonfire28 · 4 years ago

Link

Noémie Merlant: "I remember very well the pride I felt on the red carpet."

One year ago, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, by Céline Sciamma, won the Best Screenplay Award at the Cannes Film Festival. The actress, who gives the lines to Adèle Haenel, looks back on the events that accompanied her contribution in this sensual, feminist film, made of glances, painting and flames. To be seen this Tuesday, May 19 on Canal+

Noémie Merlant remembers precisely July 14, 2018. That day, she went to her third audition for Portrait of a Lady on Fire, the new film of Céline Sciamma, in the presence of the director. At the end of her audition, the director said, "it's for you.” “My mind was so confused that I couldn't understand what she was telling me," said Noémie Merlant laughing. “I felt both a tremendous pressure and a tremendous desire because I measured the importance of the film and the role.”

The actress, who’s now 31 years old, seen in Curiosa, Heaven Will Wait and Paper Flags was thus chosen to be Marianne in Portrait of a Lady on Fire, and to play, with Adèle Haenel, two of the most beautiful film heroines of 2019, and certainly the most beautiful couple of women. Marianne, the painter in the carmine red dress who must secretly capture from memory the features of Heloise, who was promised to an arranged marriage.

In the staging of this incandescent lesbian love in the middle of the 18th century, the two actresses have irradiated the Cannes Film Festival. Contacted by phone while she was confined in her apartment in the 15th arrondissement of Paris ("in the street where I was born!") Noémie Merlant looks back on the few months that separated her from the ascent of the staircase, and the fever that gripped the Croisette after the film viewing.

"When I discovered the film, I couldn't talk. I felt dizzy from what I'd seen."

From the filming, which took place between Quiberon and la Chapelle-Gauthier, in Seine-et-Marne, Noémie Merlant keeps the memory of a special moment, suspended in time, "very cocooning. The atmosphere was very much like the one in the movie. We lived in a benevolent cocoon created by Celine Sciamma, a mixture of strong friendships that were beginning to emerge, of creation and artistic exchanges. I quickly felt a very strong sense of cohesion in the team." After seven weeks of shooting and several others of editing, Noémie Merlant discovers the result of their efforts. "I knew what we had done was going to make a great film, but when I found out, I couldn't speak, I felt dizzy from what I'd seen, what I'd participated in. A very strong sensation, which I could express later by walking down the street with Celine for a long time afterwards.”

In April, the team learns about the selection of Portrait of a Lady on Fire in competition at the Festival of Cannes, the first time for the director, who is a regular on the Croisette, after Water Lilies at Un certain regard (2007), Girlhood at La Quinzaine des Directeurs (2014) and My life as a Courgette, an animated film by Claude Barras that she co-wrote, also selected for La Quinzaine in 2016.

Looking back, Noémie Merlant realizes how "lucky" she was to be surrounded by people who knew the ins and outs of the world's biggest film festival, where all eyes would be on them. "Adèle is used to it, she was my guide. She keeps a certain distance from the event and its "big masquerade" side. If Cannes is also a place to have fun, we kept in mind why we were there. We knew what was at stake and the importance of this selection, and the fact that we were very close to each other made it easier for me to meet the Festival.”

"There was a burning feeling abroad about the film, a great expectation from the audience"

On May 19, 2019, the film crew, a magnificent band of women dressed in black or navy blue, walks the steps on the exhilarating female chorus that can be heard in one scene, composed by Celine Sciamma's lifelong friend, Para One, with Arthur Simonini. A moment of great intensity for Noémie Merlant. "I remember very well the pride I felt on the red carpet. The pride of having contributed to a film that speaks so well of love and sorority.”

At the end of the screening, the film was greeted by nearly ten minutes of applause, notably in front of Marina Foïs and Claire Denis. Noémie Merlant, her eyes filled with tears, embraces Adèle and savors this moment that will become unforgettable. "When the whole Grand Théâtre Lumière stands up and applauds, it's impressive, and I might only experience it once in my life," she whispers. Then comes the time of the party given for the film, and several hours of meetings with the press from all over the world. "Intense days. I'd never done interviews before, with a lot of small formats that tire you out before the longer meetings." The film was awarded the Screenplay Prize, a small disappointment for the director. "Céline made us come back to Cannes so we could live things together until the end. Of course, we would have liked to get more, especially in terms of directing. That's what struck me the most when I discovered the film. Its sobriety and elegance. But the trophy for the screenplay remains, of course, a very nice prize."

Portrait of a Lady on Fire was released in France four months after its screening in Cannes, and achieved an average score in theaters: it drew a little over 310,000 spectators, but was a real hit internationally, with more than 1.3 million admissions in 36 countries.

“There was something burning around the film abroad, a great expectation from the audience, seized by this love story. This film carries a different voice, and allows it to be heard. Before working with Celine Sciamma, I had never heard of "male gaze" and "female gaze". Portrait of a Lady on Fire allows these important discussions, without any violence, only as an invitation to an another point of view." The film has particularly ignited the lesbian community, which has finally been able to identify with an other imaginary, different from what is usually represented on screen.

On Adèle Haenel's speech to Mediapart in November or the last evening of the César awards, Noémie Merlant prefers not to express herself, even if she stills says that she "admires her courage", and thinks back on this evening as "a movement, a renewal, a reconstruction". Of which the actress is certainly a part.

#can't lie translator websites helped me a lot again #i tried to check and correct all the fuck up translations but i probably missed some of them #portrait of a lady on fire #portrait de la jeune fille en feu #noémie merlant #céline sciamma #noemie merlant #adele haenel #adèle haenel #cannes 2019 #sometimes i translate things #poalof interviews

279 notes · View notes

chao-lu · 3 years ago

Text

damb I really do be proud of myself these last three months

Academically, I’m doing surprisingly well. At the beginning of the semester I was really slacking I feel, but after sorta with dealing an emotional breakdown, it sorta got easier. I stopped smoking (again), and forced myself to just sit in the library every day after class for two hours and just study. It’s a simple habit that really should be a no-brainer, but y’know me, I just don’t think sometimes. Obviously as it would follow, my grades shot right back up. I even got an 102% on my midterm in US History, and even crazier than that, I really enjoy this class. I am really tempted to take the follow-up course just out of interest, even if it doesn’t add towards my masters degree. I can basically say the same of my other classes. I’m loving being a student again and just being in my twenties and shit.

Physically or at work, I’m doing equally as well honestly. I’m in really fucking good shape and can’t really explain that too well. I finally regained my body confidence after a solid year or so of developing a crippling self-esteem issue. That’s fun. I finally started taking photos of myself again even, which sounds stupid, but I really fucking hated being on camera this last year, but I’m happier now.

Mentally though I’m just so fucking exhausted. Besides all the general “oh im sad, depression time”, trying to balance everything out is tough. I work form 12AM-8:30AM, then I have an hour of traffic to my apartment, shower, drive for another 40 minutes to campus, etc. I’m just so damn tired. I’m doing it! I have work and school down, but I also yearn for my friends. It’s a set routine actually. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are my basketball and hangout days. Friday nights are my personal drinking nights, which I do look forward to dammit. I worked on my sobriety, I have a set routine. I don’t drink until the weekends, which is usually only Friday. I drink, play Mario Kart or some shit and knockout on the phone. As much as I yearn for a relationship right now, I just can’t fathom how I could do it. Truthfully it does weigh on me a lot, probably more than it should.

This is all basically me rambling on six shots of espresso, a red bull, and a 20-minute nap. I sound more enthusiastic through text than I do in person. It’s in my eyes, and in my voice, I’m tired. It isn’t all the work, or school, it’s the rollercoaster I’ve basically been on since late 2018. This is finally the time I can focus on myself, but all those years are finally catching up.

2 notes · View notes

curiousview-blog · 3 years ago

Text

In spite of, not because of: the myth of the ‘high functioning alcoholic’

For 18 weeks now, I have been sharing my writing: ‘How to stop drinking: A guide for normal people’. It’s a series in which I am sharing my reflections on living, and staying sober, in a fun, honest, down-to-earth way to show that an alcohol-free life is possible. Previous chapters can be found below on www.samwarren.net

For a long time I wore my ‘high functioning alcoholic’ badge with pride. It’s a term used in psychology and addiction sciences to refer to heavy drinkers who – as the name suggests – by and large, have functioning lives, and may even be over-achievers. I’d fall into that category for sure. My friends and I romped through our 20s and 30s being very successful, while lurching from drunken adventure to drunken dramas. During my most chaotic drinking years, I raised two teenage boys, achieved a PhD, a string of academic publications, teaching awards and research grants, which culminated in securing a tenured Professorship within five years of graduating from my doctoral studies. Finally, aged 40, I moved to a different part of the country for the first time in my life. No-one could ever accuse me of fitting the pattern of ‘the typical alcoholic’ down-and-out – crashing cars, losing jobs, shoplifting, being homeless and all the other wildly inaccurate assumptions we make about alcoholism.

The new Dr. Warren throwing her hat at graduation (2006)

Lots of my academic friends were/are heavy drinking high achievers, and if you’re reading this as someone who’s questioning their drinking choices, I have no doubt that you’ve also stacked up successes in your life while spending half your life (or more) drunk – career, family, even sports? And this is what stops us from stopping because nothing has got so bad that it gives us a sobering slap in the face. Never mind that all these achievements are marked by extreme pressure, chaos, remedial work, lies and the need to push through debilitating hangovers with violently shaking hands, and heads down toilets… We’re the high functioning gang, right? Hell, we NEED this mess to do our best!

I once got ‘accidentally’ paralytic the night before flying to Dublin to do a research interview. On the audio recording you hear me excuse myself to go to the bathroom to be sick. Later, the taxi had to pull over so I could dry retch into the gutter. High functioning? High functioning shame, more like. Another time, on the night before the first day of term, we had a lock-in at our local pub. It was a Tuesday night. I went out at 10:30pm ‘for one’ with the pool team to share their post-match sandwiches and don’t remember getting home. Somehow I managed to pour myself onto the train after 4 hours sleep max, still drunk, and take my opening class. I was more worried about the fact that I had hairy legs and was wearing a summer dress than I was about the fact that I was about to teach a class whilst intoxicated. I have SO MANY stories of conference benders, two hours sleep and throwing up minutes before I presented important work… crawling into work almost on my hands and knees to teach, or pulling all nighters to make up lost drunk time in the days and weeks before to meet my deadlines. It was addictively exciting. I told myself I loved it.

Art of Management Conference (2004) The night culminated in a tequila bar at 6am. I missed the whole of the next day’s sessions as I was so violently ill. I probably earned kudos for it.

I’m not telling you this to show off my stripes. I’m not recounting these tales as part of the glorification of getting pissed in our society. I’m telling them to myself (as well as you) because I need to remember how unbelievably shit it was. I’m telling them to counter the rosy memories I also carry with me, that in a funny old way I miss those days. It’s what I used to believe made me interesting. Wild and funny. As you’ll read in various ways in these posts, I am a person who enjoys intensity – the rush you get when you pull something off against the odds is incredibly seductive for me. Rather than standing as a clear lesson not to ever do that IDIOTIC thing again, instead my adrenalin pumps and I think FUCK YEAH!!, high five-ing myself and anyone in reaching distance. All I ever remember from that experience is ‘Ha! I can do this, no sweat… Now quick, get the beers in, my hangover is thundering in’…

I still have the same patterns in my life now I’m sober. I’m an accomplished procrastinator and replicating the same kind of frenzied deadline pushing. So its slowly dawned on me that maybe my achievements were in spite of the drink, not because of it. I need the excitement and pressure of having too much to do in a short space of time, and a big lesson from my sobriety has been to see that drink was just a tool of these behavioural traits and not the root cause. If you are the kind of person who puts everything off until it’s almost too late, taking on so much that its humanly impossible to get through your to-do list, or someone who works in erratic bursts of energy interspersed with long naps and faffing time, then you’ll still be this person when you’re not drinking too.

It’s been a while since I wrote these words and my reflex is to feel more than a little sad that over three years later this kind of procrastinating pattern is still happening in my life. Not least because I boldly wrote a post on this blog a few years ago declaring my procrastination habits were gone for good!! But maybe it’s just something about me I need to accept. I am a ‘just in time’ person, and actually I do some fucking brilliant work against the odds. And it was not alcohol that drove the great work, but me. Elizabeth Gilbert talks at length about how much she detests the ‘tortured artist’ stereotype in her book Big Magic – that somehow we have to be anguished, or behave like an utter c*nt to those around us in order for our creativity to fly. I think the idea of the high-functioning alcoholic is very similar and it’s yet another myth that ensures we continue to drink. I did great work, even though I continually put the most debilitating blocks in my own path to see how badly I could trip myself up. And what that taught me was to hurdle and swerve extremely well, I won gold in that race and it’s still paying dividends. This post is a day late because I left it to the last minute to edit. What beautiful synergy.

#alcoholism #alcohol culture #women and alcohol #academia and alcohol #heavy drinking #stop drinking #control drinking #quit alcohol #stop alcohol #addiction #high functioning alcoholic #control alcohol #women's writing #big magic #recovery

3 notes · View notes

marvelficrec · 4 years ago

Note

sorry if this is too specific, but could you recommend any fics where tony begins a journey to sobriety or is just beginning. preferably ones where tony hits rock bottom beforehand, or even ones where he slips up midway through. also, would prefer if they were stevetony, thanks

SteveTony + Alcoholism

Feel Whole Again - 7k

Steve turns to leave. It’s easier to talk, somehow, when he’s not looking at him. “If you need anything,” he says, “I’m just a few floors down.”

“Might regret that, Cap,” Tony says to his retreating back. “I’ve been told I’m needy.”

Steve doesn’t know who the hell said that to Tony. It’s probably for the best that he doesn’t.

“It’s an honor,” he says, a little helpless, out of his depth and out of his time. “It’s an honor to be trusted with something like that, Tony.”

Token - 5k

Tony wants a drink. So he calls his sponsor.

Two Stars, One Constellation - 25k

He’s hungover, or maybe even still a little drunk, and he has no idea where the hell he is - it’s just a typical Tuesday morning for Tony Stark. Until he opens his eyes and finds himself face-to-face with Captain America, that is.

Detours in Getting to Yes - 26k

Tony is trying hard to stay sober by throwing himself into his work and leading the Avengers. At the same time, Steve moves to Brooklyn Heights in an attempt to find himself after Sharon’s death.Which means it’s a great time for the two of them to get in an argument about Stark International’s new Brooklyn facility and for Steve to realize he’s in love with Iron Man.

almeno tu nell'universo - 114k

Tony drives off.

Well, he wants to.

But he can’t.

Because.

Steve Rogers is in front of his car.

Steve fucking Rogers. Is in front of Tony’s fucking car.

All-Time Low - 12k

Tony's lost his company to Obadiah Stane. He's lost it all: his money, his friends, his Avengers team... and his sobriety. Drunk, homeless, Tony is living on the streets, and when he runs out of liquor money, he sells the only thing he has left: his body. And one day, he has the exact wrong customer.

Take a Sharp Right at the Bottom of the Bottle - 2k

“I’m off the team, right? Just say it. Please.”

ask box is closed

#alcoholism #mental illness #asks #stevetony #Steve Rogers #tony stark #stony #ansgt

27 notes · View notes

bestillmyslashyheart · 5 years ago

Text

when a soul breaks pt 2

part one

Michael felt different after Caulfield. The first few weeks he was lost in the haze of meeting and losing his mother, in the trauma after Noah, after Max died. Once the haze started to lift and he really began to take notice, he thought it was all down to Maria. The woman had been by his side as he struggled. She’d been there when he’d needed her the most and he would never be able to repay that kindness.

His first day sober since Max died, since Caulfield, Michael woke up feeling warm and safe. Maria lay on his chest, her arms around him and Michael smiled. This is what it was supposed to feel like. This is what a real relationship, an easy relationship is supposed to feel like. Loved, not hated, safe not afraid, calm not angry. He loved Alex, he knew it like he knew his next breath was coming, but it had never been like this. That day, he didn’t drink so much as a drop of alcohol or acetone; he was too lost in the euphoria of knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was loved.

The feeling only grew as the days passed, mostly without him noticing. When he sat and thought about it it felt like a warm blanket or his favorite sweatshirt (an old Air Force hoodie he’d stolen from Alex years before). If he was being sentimental at all, he’d probably say he blossomed under it. He stopped drinking, because the drink muffled the feeling, and he started spending all of his free time with Maria. Her smile, her laugh, her kisses, they all lit a fire in him. It paled in comparison to the actual warmth blooming inside him but he chalked that down to his reaction to her as opposed to the way she made him feel. Either way, it was clearly Maria making him feel this way. Nothing else in his life had changed.

It was during the third week after Caulfield that Michael saw Alex for the first time since the night Max died. He looked awful, his skin pale and drawn, huge bags under his eyes like he wasn’t sleeping. His eyes lit up when he saw Michael but Michael held back. As much as he ached to go to Alex (he always ached to be around Alex) he couldn’t. He may love him, but loving Alex was painful. Too painful. Not like loving Maria.

Alex flinched when Michael grabbed Maria’s hand and Michael swore he felt it like a physical blow, a chink in the armor of warmth he’d become ensconsed in. Michael ignored it and focused on the issue Liz had brought them together to discuss. All throughout, he felt Alex’s gaze like a physical thing but Michael ignored it. He ignored the fact that the warmth surrounding him turned into an inferno under Alex’s gaze. He ignored it all and as soon as Liz was done speaking, he left. Maria was staying behind to spend time with Liz so Michael didn’t have any reason to stick around.

“Guerin.”

Michael almost sagged against his car at the sound of Alex’s voice. He felt like he hadn’t heard it in years. The warmth inside him grew until he felt like he was on fire. In a good way, but still on fire nonetheless. He turned his head to see Alex open his mouth to say something more but whatever it was, he knew he couldn’t handle it.

“I can’t do this with you, Alex. Not now. Not anymore.” He shook his head and got in his truck without waiting for Alex to reply. Michael peeled away and very carefully didn’t check the rearview mirror until he knew the house (and Alex) were out of sight.

Their second meeting a week and a half later went much the same way except Alex looked worse. Michael was beginning to worry that he was sick or worse but Valenti didn’t seem concerned so he brushed it aside. If the doctor, and Alex’s closest friend these days, wasn’t worried, Michael didn’t really have a right to.

Alex didn’t try to talk to him this time but he did follow him as Michael moved around. It was nothing overt but he kept finding excuses to be in whatever room Michael was.

They were there for almost two hours and Alex looked better by the time Michael and Maria left; his color was coming back and he didn’t seem nearly so shaky on his feet. As they drove back to the Pony, Michael couldn’t help but realize that though he was warmer than he’d ever been, that blanket still wrapping him up tight, he grew colder the further they got away from the house.

It was the first time Michael had seriously considered that Maria may not be the cause of this feeling.

No. That wasn’t right.

It was the first time Michael admitted to himself that he knew the feeling wasn’t coming from Maria.

While the first few days and weeks, Michael had only registered the feeling as safety and security and love, the more time that passed, the more he realized it for what it was.

Alex.

He didn’t know how and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out, but Michael knew his sobriety, among other things, was in thanks to Alex. As much as the truth made him want to down a bottle of acetone, he refused to give up this feeling. Whatever it was.

It was almost six weeks post-Caulfield that Michael realized something was dangerously wrong. The last week had proven that whatever this thing was it was coming from Alex. Half of the time (most of the time) it felt like Alex’s physical presence, like Michael was constantly wrapped up in his arms. Every day, that feeling grew until Michael had to keep checking that Alex wasn’t actually standing next to him.

“Have you guys seen Alex?” Liz burst into the Pony, Kyle and Isobel tight on her heels. Michael and Maria exchanged looks and shook their heads in unison, both bowing their heads slightly in shame. Their relationship had seriously damaged both of their relationships with the man in question and neither had really made an effort to fix that. Not yet.

“Is he okay?” Maria asked.

“I don’t think so,” Kyle answered. “I saw him on Monday and he looked really sick so I sent him home from the bunker and told him to take a few days off. I called him on Tuesday to check in but he didn’t answer and when I went out to the cabin he wasn’t there.” He stopped and shook his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have let him drive home that night. He was in really rough shape.”

“We just drove down every route he might have taken home but there was no sign of him or his car,” Liz told them. “And his phone’s going straight to voicemail which means it’s probably dead.”

“Did you check the hospital?” Maria asked. “If he was as sick as you said maybe he needed a doctor.”

“Oh he definitely needed a doctor,” Kyle agreed easily, “but he refused to even let me check him over. Kept saying he was fine.” He sighed. “I did check the hospital, though. He’s not there.”

“Alright,” Michael stood up and put his hat on. “Let’s go find him. Split up and search the town. If he’s not here, we track down his father and brothers and see if they took advantage of him being sick.”

“I’ll head downtown,” Liz offered. “I can ask around, see if anyone’s seen him. Maria, can you come with me? We’ll cover more ground.”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Maria waved down her bartender and let him know she was leaving.

“I’ll check the hospital again,” Kyle announced, “talk to the EMTs and first responders and see if there was a car accident reported. I’ll call my mom, too. I didn’t want to get her involved until I was sure it was something to worry about but…”

“I’ll head out to the ranches in case he got turned around heading home,” Michael grabbed his keys. “Iz-”

“Already got the word out at the club. Also called my Air Force contacts from when I set up his Welcome Home parade and the drive in fundraiser. If anyone hears anything, I should be the first to know.”

“Ok,” Liz took a deep breath. “Everyone stay in touch and text the groupchat the second you hear anything.”

Michael didn’t wait around for more team planning, he just pushed past Liz and hurried out to his car. When he pulled out of the parking lot, he turned west towards Alex’s cabin and the outlying ranches. There weren’t many ways for Alex to get lost going from the Project Shepherd bunker to his cabin but if he did, he would most likely end up out there.

Two streets later he inexplicably turned right. At the next intersection he meant to turn left to get back on course but he kept going straight. It was as if his hands were no longer listening to him.

Michael tried to course correct three more times before he ended up at Sanders’. He was about to pull a u-turn and head back out when he caught a glimpse of Alex’s car parked behind the Airstream.

“The fuck?” He muttered as he threw the truck in park and turned the ignition off. “Alex?!” He called as he got out.

There was no answer.

“Alex!?” Louder this time. Still no answer.

Michael shook his head and pulled out his phone to let everyone he’d found Alex’s car but no sign of Alex yet.

He yanked the door of his Airstream open and let it bounce back against the side as he stomped up the stairs. “What the hell are you do-” Michael stopped cold at the sight of Alex’s slumped form in his bed. Infuriatingly, the ever present warmth didn’t leave him. If anything, it was nearly tangible at this point. “Alex?” The anger and the frustration had disappeared from his voice and left only fear. Michael knew in that moment that every ounce of warmth he carried with him had come from Alex.

Alex was paler than Michael had ever seen him, his skin almost white. His face was gaunt and-

Michael stopped breathing. Except-

It wasn’t Michael’s chest that wasn’t moving.

#yknow the phrase careful what you wish for??#yall asked for more and i delivered....#malex fic #rnm #my fic #long post

87 notes · View notes

nervydamned · 5 years ago

Text

i don’t usually cry anymore. the medication and the crushing numbness that comes with 31 years of hard living and dead ends has created in me a cold grey stone, typically invulnerable to all but tragic movies and commercials that were obviously designed with surgical precision to ensure that at least a small portion of viewers will immediately log onto the website and purchase, like, boat insurance while crying so hard they can’t do the capcha on the first try. i used to be a dramatic cryer, responding to almost any intense emotion with deep and gusty sobs. then 2016 happened. i lost my father. my spiral into alcoholism intensified my incredible appetite for self destruction. the shame that ensued formed that grey stone like a grit of sand forms in an oyster-- slowly, slowly-- until the day i told my sister that i wasn’t sure i would ever laugh again.

so i sought treatment. fresh from admitting to my husband that i had 1) secretly relapsed and 2) repeatedly been unfaithful with some of the worst people, i put my phone number into a “need rehab?” webform. i received a call about three minutes later. scared out of my mind, i would have agreed to do basically anything to clear the dark menacing cloud of divorce. they said they had a pool! i wanted to go swimming! i wanted to be instantly forgiven for my transgressions, and rehab seemed the best way to me to demonstrate that by god, i was SERIOUS about this recovery thing! he said the only rehab i qualified for was in south bend, indiana. they would buy the ticket. could i leave tomorrow? i guess i could.

i showed up to a building that looked like a 90s middle school with a smoking porch. terrified out of my mind and drunk on the four pints of heineken i’d slammed at chili’s with a sympathetic bartender at 7am across from my boarding gate, and disoriented from the klonopin that i took almost subconsciously at any sign of emotional turmoil, i was a rag doll with button eyes. i entered, stripped, spread, and coughed. i vomited in the toilet while a girl with perfect cat-eye liner did her best to discreetly look away. i was there-- it was happening-- but WHAT was happening? all i knew was that rehab was like a shiny gold star on my behavior chart. if i did it, nobody could say i hadn’t.

rehab is the best place in the world for a vulnerable drunk. i mean it! you’ve never had more shoulders to cry on. i remember hysterically sobbing until my heaving shoulders locked up and the only sound i could make was tiny clicks from my frozen throat. i’ve never had my shoulders patted so authentically. it never occurred to me at the time that this display of raw, scream-it-to-the-heavens emotion was such a part of their daily lives as intake detox counselors that they probably could have done it in their sleep. but somehow they remained authentic.

the funniest part about the rehab was that it turned out to be run and staffed by die-hard scientologists! i guess we can get into that later.

rehab also brought out my “daddy please be proud of me” personality in full force. i joined the “peer counsel” which was essentially just in charge of taking nightly attendance and clapping for sobriety milestones. i befriended everybody, impressing them with my uniquely pretentious affectation of sarcastic intellectualism that only fools people less smart than i am. i was the queen of rehab! life was good! everyone there had forgiven me. the next step was me forgiving myself. the final step was my husband forgiving me. at the time, i still thought that was a completely realistic goal. all i can say to that, ineloquently enough, is: HAHAHAHAHAHA.

my husband came to visit me, once, on the sunday after easter. having practiced healthy communication and effective use of boundaries six hours a day for the last three weeks, i promised him that we could talk about anything he wanted in the two hours he spent with me on the grounds. he got there and shrugged his shoulders over and over again. determined to make his long drive worth the time, i enthusiastically dragged him around to meet all of my rehab friends, proudly introducing him as my husband to anyone who would listen. that day, i believed we had a chance. that night, i found out he spent half the drive home texting my phone, which was locked in a drawer in the rehab office, accusing me of ignoring him in favor of my friends and strongly implying that i was sleeping with at least one of them. this delusion continued for months after and may still fester in his brain. i just wanted him to meet the people who were helping shape my recovery. he could never see the point of that. he didn’t understand that to me, connection is such a fundamental part of who i am that i HAD to make friends there. all he saw was the potential for pain.

i nakedly vied for the approval of everyone around me to the point that my rehab friends petitioned for me to win “patient of the week” at my graduation. when i realized what they had done i was simultaneously flattered to my core and mortified. how obvious it must have been that i set this artificial award ceremony in motion?

my husband was late. he missed the whole thing. in the car ride home, i chain smoked cigarettes and listened to his music. i talked about finding my rehab friend jacob on facebook so that we could attend meetings together since he was the only one who lived close by, and he accused me of having an extramarital relationship with him. his evidence was that “i brought him up all the time!” jacob came out as gay six months after we graduated from the program. we never got a chance to be friends.

my whole family was waiting at my sister’s house to welcome me home; they were babysitting my son while my husband drove to pick me up. they were so proud! again, i felt raw and abashed. just more confirmation that everyone knew--everyone knew--everyone knew everything. my husband had made my infidelity no secret with his family, and of course i had told my mother and my sister.

being the family fuckup is like being naked under a microscope. like living your life in the invasive, creepy bodyscanner at the airport. well-wishes come with a tinge of pity; there is a frantic and all-too-apparent urge to avoid any conversation that might bring up my past transgressions. i’m used to it because i’ve been a drug addict since 2008. but coming back from rehab was the worst. there’s nothing like seeing what the future could be like-- bright, beautiful, beatific. the feeling of stepping out of a confessional booth and feeling the light on your face, reflected through the stained-glass window of the Virgin Mary and her son. but the comedown happens when you realize that the forgiveness you’ve given yourself stops with you. the crushing realization that your husband is either incapable of or unwilling to extend you the trust and forgiveness and freedom from shame that you’ve finally decided to give yourself makes you question everything.

i just don’t understand why he can’t admit that he doesn’t love me anymore. i’m glad i went to rehab. but now i know it wasn’t for him. i could give him anything in the world and i’d still be the adultress, the sly sociopath, the woman that enjoys torturing him with emotion and conflict. our relationship can’t ever work again and he won’t admit it because he’s scared to be alone. honestly, i’m starting to feel sorry for him. i know i could find some normie guy, one with an unkempt beard who makes that face-- you know that face! the nintendo switch face!-- in his twitter avi. he can quote every line from the office and he loves bar trivia, but makes sure to go to the bar and grab me a sparkling water before the beers arrive. he’s a bit boring, maybe not as smart as i am (or pretend to be), but he’s authentic, and he laughs at my jokes, and he always wants to know how my day went. he makes sure to find something thoughtful for christmas, and he sometimes goes out and gets my car detailed on the weekend because he knows how messy i am and how frantic it makes me when i have to face those messes. he has a group of friends who all like the same things he does and they hang out after work most tuesdays, but not when we have something to do at home.

but i know who i am and i know i am not fundamentally healed and i know i’d get bored and break his heart. and my husband would still be alone.

who even knows anymore? the status quo definitely has something going for it. i don’t have to apply for WIC or share a one bedroom apartment with my son or drive for Grubhub on the weekend to make sure i can afford peanut butter because that shit is expensive. we can sit, and sit, and then drift off to sleep and wake up in the same place that we were the day before. maybe i’m adapting to my husband’s sense that it’s better to just endure and stay quiet. i know that pattern because it’s how my family handled every bit of turmoil since i was a child. it’s never worked, but i guess it might someday!

this is my first blog post in 15 years. hopefully it won’t be my last.

1 note · View note