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mxstellatayte · 6 months ago

Text

fuck me up, florida.

warnings: angst for the majority of it, sex at the end though, legal use of alcohol (reader and logan are both 23,) mentions of gunshot wounds, minor character death, based on a taylor swift song, childhood (middle/high school) friends to lovers, idiots in love, "you came" "you called," reader is half mexican (mom's side), slightly inaccurate bc i know carola wasn't at the miami gp but just go with it for the plot, reader's last name is rodriguez,

author's note: y'all i apologize if any of the spanish grammar is a little weird. my spanish is rusty, pls don't hate me for it

logan sargeant x female reader

i need to forget so

tuesday, april 30th.

you scan your ticket, the screen displaying your name and seat number. 12A. at least it'll be easy to sleep, you think.

after shoving your suitcase above your seat, you shuffle your way to the window and buckle yourself in.

are you really doing this? flying a couple thousand miles to visit your childhood best friend who, up until recently, had you convinced that his newfound fame that he'd gathered by announcing his enrollment in the williams driver's academy made him too good for you.

the only thing that made you think otherwise was the instagram dm he'd sent you five weeks prior, asking if you'd be able to make it to the miami grand prix. instead of a simple yes or no, you responded with the heaviest three words you've ever seen in order.

can we call?

logan picked up on the second ring.

"hey."

"how's texas?"

you smile. "hot. sunny. flat. beachless."

"so... it's good?" you hate that you can still picture his facial expressions even after not seeing him for years except for on tv.

"'s okay, but it's not home, y'know?"

"definitely. it doesn't matter how much i decorate my place in england, it's never florida."

"nothing besides florida is ever florida," you sigh, looking out the window of your apartment. "how's the season been?" you don't exactly know why you're asking. you know exactly how his season's gone. you keep every single detail of every single race weekend meticulously catalogued in a journal that you take everywhere with you. no matter what, you've stayed up late or woken up early to watch every race, as if your hopeful energy would make its way across the world to him in time.

"honestly? it's been pretty shit. the car handles really badly and wasn't really even ready for the first few hours of testing in bahrain. i can't get it to perform and maybe that's just because i haven't linked with the car yet, but it still really sucks."

you sigh, hoping logan can't tell how disappointed you are with his team and engineers. "you need a better team, lo."

"i know." there's silence between you for a few moments, and every second that passes makes it grow heavier on your chest. "will you come to miami?"

there it is. the reason you called him.

"i don't know, lo. don't get me wrong, i'd love to, but it's really short notice and i don't know if i could afford the trip. i might be able to make it to austin, but i'll need the time to save the money for the trip."

"i'll fly you out," logan immediately says, his tone almost desperate. longing. "i'll pay for your flight, your hotel, everything. please?"

that last word hit you like a punch in the gut. you only had one more reason to not go and you weren't about to tell him that reason. it was a shitty excuse anyways.

you're not about to tell him that the reason you moved to texas was to give him the space he needed to be able to succeed in his career and for you to succeed in yours.

take me to florida

you're jolted awake by the force of the plane landing, if you can call the awkward limbo you were stuck in sleep. immediately, your stomach twists with anxiety. logan had offered to pick you up from the airport, but you refused.

"i'll just take an uber," you'd said. "i'm gonna want to relax a bit after the flight, y'know?"

his only trade-off? you met him for dinner. simple enough, right?

in theory.

now, standing in front of the full-length mirror in your hotel room, you debate between a floral sundress and a pair of denim shorts, a tank top, and a white button-up t-shirt with a colorful inkblot pattern.

you decide on the sundress.

fifteen minutes later, you're pushing earrings through your piercings, silver abstract shapes you'd bought on a trip to europe with your mother. you have to leave, but the situation you're in sucks. your hair won't sit right on your head, either being too frizzy from the humidity or losing any and all volume, and your makeup just doesn't seem like it'll last in the miami heat.

fuck it.

who are you dressing for, anyways?

logan's seen you at your absolute worst. he was the only one you let yourself cry in front of after your father died. he was the one that held you for what seemed like hours while you sobbed into his chest and he told you that none of it was your fault- that you never could have known that, when you hugged him before he left for the police station, told him you loved him, and slipped a note into his lunch box, the next time you would see him, he would be laying in a casket. he was the only one that could make you smile in the weeks following his funeral, dropping his entire schedule if you simply sent him a text that said "can you come over?"

the restaurant logan found isn't too far from your hotel, so you ultimately decide to walk. your walk is over before you're able to process that it even started and you're taking out your earbuds and putting them in your bag, taking out your phone instead to text logan.

i'm here.

i've got some regrets

were you always this breathtakingly beautiful?

logan's phone buzzes in his front pocket, but he knows it's you texting him. he doesn't even bother taking it out of his pocket before standing up from his seat at the bar and walking over to you, and when you see him, your smile almost makes his heart melt.

"hey," he says, and he hopes his voice doesn't waver from how nervous he is.

"hey. i missed you," you respond, dodging the hand he holds out and going in for a hug. "i've known you since middle school, logan, i'm not shaking your hand."

your arms around him and your body pressed against his almost makes logan short circuit. thankfully, he's able to regain control of his brain and hug you back, hopefully before you realize he isn't hugging you back.

when you pull back, the hug seeming way too brief for logan's preference, you're looking up and smiling with a sparkle in your eyes that makes him regret not making enough time for you. "thanks for bringing me out here."

"thanks for coming. do you want a drink?"

"sure. do you have a table yet?"

"i was waiting for you."

"in that case, lead the way." you gesture towards the restaurant, and logan shows you to a booth in the corner. soon enough, a waiter comes over to you and sets down two glasses of water and two menus.

"welcome in, y'all. do we need a bit of time to look at the menu or do we know what we want to get started?" his southern drawl is thick, and it reminds you of texas. but you're in florida now.

"i think we'll look at the menu for a minute, thanks," logan says, and the waiter nods and walks away. as you open the menu and begin looking, logan points out something you might like and you do the same for him. conversation begins to flow freely between you, and it reminds you of the times in high school when you would go out with friends.

eventually, you decide on a plate of nachos and logan gets a plate of wings. as you wait for your food, you catch up on everything: your move to texas, logan's racing career, your work volunteering with the austin philharmonic, his homesickness from living in england, and everything in between. you crack stupid jokes, share bites of food, and steal sips of each other's drinks.

it's like old times.

i'll bury them in florida

on wednesday, you and logan drive up to visit your father's headstone. it's difficult. it's only the third time you've visited him since he was buried three years ago. the first time you visited him was a year after he died. even a year later, you still carried so much anger and hatred towards the doctors and nurses that were operating on him, trying desperately to save his life after two bullets hit him- one in his leg, one in his torso.

he died on the table.

the second time was just a few months after, and you were still wearing your cap, gown, and stole from your graduation ceremony. by then, you had been able to forgive the doctors and had graduated in the top 10% of your class. four years of hell had finally rewarded you with a degree in instrumental performance and an internship at the south florida symphony orchestra.

now, the third time, you have a picnic blanket and lunch packed into the backseat of logan's car, the windows are rolled down, and your favorite playlist is shuffled on the aux. it's a beautiful day, too; it isn't too hot (even with the humidity,) there's a gentle breeze in the air, and clouds occasionally cover the sun. when logan pulls into the parking lot of the cemetery and you sling your tote bag full of food over your shoulder, your hands start shaking.

of course, logan notices.

his hand slides into your own, and you look up at him. his eyes meet yours and you smile. "thank you for coming with me," you say.

"of course. i didn't want you to have to do this alone."

you look back at the gate into the cemetery, the black bars menacingly sleek and very, very terrifying. you chew your lower lip in anxiety. "i don't know if i can do it, logan."

"i'm here with you. i know you. you're strong. you aren't the kind of person to let a gate scare you." you laugh lightly, looking down at the ground. the gravel of the parking lot, your scuffed, beat-up high top purple converse, and logan's nike dunks make up what you have to describe as a perfect picture. your phone is in your free hand before you know it, and you're lining up the shot. "still into photography, huh?"

"yep. i have some cameras in my suitcase at the hotel." when you pocket your phone and look back up at him, logan's heart melts. the shine in your eyes and the passion in your smile is enough to soften anyone's heart, but for him, as someone who's known you for years and has been there for you through thick and thin, it touches him in such a special way. "i'm hoping to get some good photos of the races. but enough delaying. let's go visit my dad."

the creak of the gates opening makes your ears bleed, and you laugh at how logan is making the exact same face as you in reaction to such a shrill sound. despite only having visited his headstone twice before, you remember exactly where in the cemetery it is and are able to find it within five minutes.

"hi, dad," you begin, your voice already wavering just the slightest and tears beginning to well in your eyes. logan's hand squeezes yours, though, and you're reminded that he's right there. he always will be. you take a deep breath and continue. "i miss you. we all do. i know i haven't visited you in a while, and i'm sorry about that. i really do have to come stop by every now and then. i moved to austin and have a volunteering gig with the austin philharmonic at almost every show and i have a job at a company that helps students with learning disabilities learn instruments. it's really fun." you pause to wipe the tears off of your cheeks, your nose beginning to drip. "sam is in his junior year of college, and he's majoring in engineering. he flew the coop, but he still comes home for the summers. he, uh, he actually got in to c.u. boulder, like he always talked about. that kid was always thinking about college, even in middle school.

"i'm actually here with logan, too, if you hadn't noticed. do you, uh, do you want to fill him in on what's going on with you, or should i keep going?"

"whatever you prefer."

"okay, i'm going to keep talking, because i think if i don't, i'm going to completely break down. logan finally signed with williams to drive on their formula 1 team last year, like i always said he would. i'm really proud of him and really regret not telling him that more, and now that i'm saying it out loud i'm promising both you and him that i'll tell him that more often. the race this weekend is actually here, in florida. miami, specifically. it's always a celebrity shit show that no one really wants to see, but it's the main opportunity for the celebrity sponsors to actually go to a race.

"what else has been going on? oh, mom is still a therapist. i can't tell you much about that because of hipaa, but she always comes home saying that she's glad that she could help someone. i'm gonna have dinner with her tomorrow night, and then i'm going back into miami to watch logan's practice sessions."

you pause your rambling, thinking about what there is to say next, but your thought is interrupted by your stomach grumbling. loud. you and logan laugh just as loudly, the sound echoing through the grass field and stone gravesites. "oh, yeah, that's another thing. we brought lunch. i also got you pink tulips, because i know they're your favorite." you delicately rest the bouquet on your father's headstone as you sit down, then pull out the different plastic containers filled with food you'd stolen from the williams hospitality. "you'd be proud of me, dad. i smuggled this entire picnic out of the wiliams motorhome without a hiccup. robin hood style."

logan laughs, and you turn to him. he's mirrored your position, sitting cross-legged on the grass. "apple?"

"nah, i'm gonna start with my sandwich. i did grab you some of the salt and vinegar chips i know you like."

the look logan gives you can only be described as pure adoration. "you," he says, pointing a finger at you in an incredibly sassy manner, "are an absolute goddess."

"i know," you respond cheekily, tossing some hair over your shoulder.

the banter between the two of you continues through your picnic, laughter and smiles erasing the dried tracks of tears on your cheeks and on logan's. you're almost able to forget where you are.

tell me i'm despicable

almost two hours later, the two of you are laying in a nearby park underneath a tree, peacefully observing the clouds that pass overhead and talking even more about any topic that comes to your mind. the question that's been gnawing at you since your plane landed in miami eventually bubbles to the surface, and it tumbles past your lips before you can stop it.

"did you ever wonder why i moved to texas?" you look to your left where logan rests, but he keeps looking up at the sky. you mirror him.

"i always assumed it was just because you needed a change of scenery. after everything that happened and your music career taking off, it would make sense that you would relocate to somewhere better suited for you."

"that's the thing, though. if i'm being entirely honest with you, lo, i hate texas. i hate the whole state. i hate how hot it is all the time without even being humid, i hate not being able to go to the beach. i hate how dry it is. i hate how flat it is. i hate the monotony of it. i hate not being here."

logan hesitates for a moment before speaking, and it's the longest moment you've ever experienced. "why did you move to austin, then?"

when he looks over at you, you're chewing your lower lip. it's a nervous tic, logan's noticed. he's not even sure if you know you do it. "honestly? i thought you moved on from our friendship. i thought everything with f1 suddenly got so big and important and famous that maybe i wasn't... enough? i thought that being a police officer's daughter from the same town as you that was studying to teach people how to understand and play music maybe just wasn't cool enough to be friends with a world-renowned formula 1 driver."

logan's heart almost shatters when he hears the weakness in your voice. you sound so broken and so alone. he knew that, when you lost your father, you isolated yourself from a lot of people, even your best friend from high school and through your first year of college. he was the only person outside of your immediate family that you spent a decent amount of time with, but when he was admitted to the driver's academy he had to move to england. he abandoned you.

"i didn't. i never forgot about you. sometimes i still look through the photos we have together because i miss you that much."

you sit up, tears pricking your eyes for the second time that day. "really?"

"yeah. maybe once a week?"

when you look down at logan, you're suddenly starstruck. you can't help but notice all of his little features that you wouldn't see if you didn't know to look for them. his freckles that are so light you'd have to squint to see them if you didn't know them like the back of your hand. the mole on his chin that he'd always been self-conscious about but you've always seen it as beautiful. the lines from where his eyes crinkle when he smiles. the annoyingly perfect flop of his hair that he's styled almost the exact same way since you started high school together. an urge you haven't felt in years suddenly bubbles, white-hot in the pit of your stomach, and it's boiling over before you can stop it. your eyes are closed and your lips are on his. finally. after years of wanting, of stares that lasted just a bit too long to be just friendly, of flushed faces and nervous excuses, you're finally kissing him.

but he's not kissing you back.

you pull back immediately, panicked that you read something wrong. you turn away, hiding your face in your hands out of shame. "shit, logan, i'm so sorry. i thought-"

"kiss me again." logan sits up, and when you turn around, the look he's giving you can only be described as completely and entirely fucked. you don't question his statement, just lean forward, placing your lips on his, and letting yourself melt. he moans softly into the kiss, his right arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you impossibly closer. when you pull away and open your eyes, your breath catches in your throat. he looks beautiful. his eyes remain closed, but when they flutter open, you see colors in them that you've never seen before. sure, you've always seen the darker rim of blue that outlines his irises, but now that you're so close to him, you can see the flecks of green and grey in them. it's the most stunning thing you've ever seen.

eventually, you break the silence between the two of you. "i've wanted to kiss you for so long," you whisper, so quiet you're not sure logan heard it.

but he did.

"me, too," he says, and after a beat of silence between you two, you both burst out laughing. the laugh he hears from you is the pure, bright laugh that logan's missed so dearly, the laugh that you only really let him hear. the laugh that has tears in your eyes and makes you snort because you're laughing so hard you can't even breathe properly.

eventually, when you're able to calm down, your head resting on logan's shoulder, your hand holding his, you're able to process what just happened. you just hope logan is processing it, too.

"we just kissed."

"yes. we did."

"how long have you held out on me?"

"since christmas of sophomore year. when you made me the chevron bracelet with my favorite colors."

you laugh, then lift your head to look at him. "i fell for you in october of that year. when you convinced your mom to drive two and a half hours for the marching band state finals. just so you could be there with me."

"god, we're idiots," logan laughs. you can't help but lean forward and press another kiss to his lips, lingering there and just breathing him in.

existing.

say it's unforgivable

the next two days fly by. thursday, you spend the day with your mother. she asks all sorts of questions as if she doesn't know the answers, and you answer each one with a smile on your face. when she asks about logan, you smile sheepishly. she figures out what the smile means.

"took you two long enough."

normally you'd still be in bed at 9:30 am on a friday, but today, you walk into the miami paddock clutching logan's hand for dear life. your neon green pass hangs from your neck, a white williams cap atop your head. you can't help but feel out of place, but someone calls logan's name and you both turn. your stomach drops when you see who's called his name. his hair is styled similarly to logan's, and he sports a papaya polo.

you'd know him anywhere. it's oscar piastri.

you're standing there a bit awkwardly as logan greets his friend, but your heart stops when oscar turns to you. "oscar, this is my girlfriend." he introduces you by your name to the mclaren driver and you wipe your hands on your denim shorts before shaking his hand firmly, exchanging "nice to meet you"s. the three of you chat for a few minutes before oscar is summoned by his pr manager.

"girlfriend, huh?" you look up at logan with a smile on your face, lacing his fingers with yours.

"i didn't mean to overstep, but i kind of assumed that's what this is now. is it?" he looks a bit nervous asking that, and if you thought your love for him couldn't grow any more, you thought wrong.

"that's absolutely what we are, lo. you're my boyfriend. i'm your girlfriend." you can tell just how hard logan's trying to not let the smile on his face show just how happy he is to hear you say that, and you stand on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips briefly. "you have a prep meeting to get to, don't you?"

"i do. come with me, though. i need to introduce you to alex and lily. she can show you around."

"sounds like a plan. i need to learn how to do all of..." you gesture around you, the white tents and media carts all seeming suddenly too intimidating. "...this."

logan laughs, placing a hand on the small of your back to guide you towards the williams hospitality. when you're next to him, though, despite the cameras around you and your proximity to some of the world's biggest stars, you feel safe and protected.

after meeting logan's teammate and the thai driver's girlfriend, who you quickly realize is one of the sweetest people you've ever had the pleasure of meeting, you're shown around the williams hospitality and, eventually, the paddock. lily introduces you to the other drivers' wives and girlfriends that have made it to the weekend, and when you hear a certain last name, your ears perk up.

"martinez? is she latina?"

"yeah," kika, pierre's girlfriend, says. "she's checo's wife. i'm pretty sure she's in the red bull hospitality right now, though."

"ah, speak of the devil," lily says. you see carola walking up to the five of you, alexandra ("please, honey, call me alex," she'd said, bringing you in for a kiss on your cheek,) having walked away to get a drink and escape into the sweet air conditioning. "carola, there's a new couple on the paddock."

"you're kidding," the latina answers, her accent apparent. "who?"

"logan found himself a girlfriend. allow me to introduce her." lily turns to you and introduces you by your full name, last name and all. it seems that carola has a similar reaction to your last name as you did to hers, and her head tilts to the side.

"ya no eres la única mexicana aquí," you say, and her eyebrows raise. (you aren't the only mexican here anymore.)

"hablas español, también?" (you speak spanish, too?) when you nod, her smile brightens. "hay, chica, creo que nosotras dos nos vamos a llevar muy bien." (oh, girl, i think we're going to get along very well.)

on saturday, you find yourself back in the williams motorhome, except this time, you wear a second badge, the neon green lanyard reading grid access in bold black lettering. like the day before, you clutch logan's hand for your own comfort until, much to your dismay, he's summoned for driver duties. you place a quick kiss on his cheek, and when you pull back, you aren't sure if the flush on his cheeks is from the affection or the miami heat. probably both.

"in case i don't see you before sprint. for luck."

"oh, you'll be in the garage. that's what this pass is for," logan says, holding your second badge in front of your face. "lily will show you where to go. i'll take a kiss anyways, though." you smile, stand on your toes, and kiss him, pulling back before he can wrap an arm around your waist. (that was a trick he very much enjoyed, as you'd learned the night before. there was something in him that needed you as close to him as possible, and it covered every nerve ending in your body in liquid fire.)

"off you go. you need to get race ready. i'll see you before you go out on the grid. don't worry." you gently shove him away with a smile, and you'd stare at him longer if your ankles weren't suddenly being attacked. you look down and squeal. "hi, leo! did your dad let you run free?" you squat down and scratch the mini daschund behind his disproportionally large ears, and he barks excitedly.

someone curses in french to your right, and you look up from the little golden ball of energy to see none other than charles leclerc frantically searching around. leo barks again, and the monégasque whips around, then locks eyes on you first, then his dog.

"merde, leo. you have too much energy for it being this early in the morning," he laughs as he walks over to you.

"i apologize, it appears i've unintentionally kidnapped your dog." you stand, and leo jumps at your calves again.

"ah, no harm, no foul," charles replies, picking up his dog and holding him close to his chest. "i will say, though, you look strangely familiar. have we met? my name is charles."

"we have not." you extend your hand and offer your name, and, when charles' eyebrows furrow and his head tilts in confusion, you realize that means nothing to him. "i'm logan's girlfriend."

"ah! yes, of course! he has a photo of the two of you at your high school graduation in his wallet. that's where i knew you from. well, it's nice to meet you!" that was news to you. logan has a picture of you in his wallet? either way, you just casually met one of the most famous people in the world like it was a standard tuesday.

if this is what i signed up for by being logan's girlfriend, then it is absolutely wild.

you're able to catch another good luck kiss with logan as he's almost fully suited up, and fuck, does he look good. his fireproof suit hangs low on his hips, the arms tied together in front of him. dark blue is a good color on him, and his facial hair is grown out in just the slightest. you can't lie, he looks hot as hell.

you cross your legs in an attempt to curb the heat that creeps down your tummy and between them. it doesn't work.

you amend it that night in logan's hotel room following his p10 in the sprint.

on sunday, you try to avoid thinking about the night before as you follow the same routine as the two days before- arriving early in the day, checking in at the williams motorhome, and then killing time until the driver's parade at 2:00 PM. you spend time with your new group of friends, spending the three remaining hours before the parade in the paddock club. rebecca, carlos' girlfriend, snickers at your shocked face when you see some of your idols and favorite celebrities casually walking around, gladly taking some photos for you as you're practically buzzing with excitement.

after the driver's parade, it's a whirlwind. you're swept back into the williams garage and find logan's driver's room relatively easily thanks to the help of some of the engineers and mechanics, but one of them stops you before you can venture too far into the depths of the hallways.

"could you tell him we have the pre-race strategy meeting in twenty minutes?"

"yeah, for sure." as you approach logan's door, you have to bite down on your lower lip to stifle the grin that wants to split your face. you knock on his door, and when he opens it, you know something's wrong. "lo, are you okay?" his eyes are red and his hand shakes on the doorknob. instead of a verbal response, he just opens the door a bit further to let you in, and, as soon as it shuts behind you, he sobs, and your heart shatters.

"i'm so scared. i'm so scared that something's going to happen and i'm going to let all of these people down and-" you gather him into your arms and he cries into the crook of your neck, your williams crewneck shirt now damp with his tears. you couldn't care less.

"you're going to do amazing, logie. i know you will." with your arms wrapped around him, it's almost like a weighted blanket of safety has encompassed him, and his sobs slow, his breaths growing deeper and more even. you continue murmuring words of confidence into his shoulder, and not a single word you say is empty.

"hey. look at me." you lean back and gently cup his cheek with your right palm, and when his eyes meet yours, you know that he needed to cry that one out. "do you feel a little bit better?" logan nods, tilting his head ever so slightly to kiss your palm, his own hand coming up to rest over yours. it's a cute, sappy, stupidly romantic moment that you from three weeks ago would've probably thought was the grossest thing known to mankind, but you can't help but bask in the moment. "is there anything i can do to help you feel better right now?" your voice is a soothing balm over logan's agitated nerves, and he slowly untangles himself from you and guides you over to the couch that's against the back wall, where he sits down and you curl up to his left side.

"can you just... talk? about anything?"

"are you seriously asking if me, the person with the most rampant adhd you've ever met, can talk about something? yes, logan, i absolutely can. what to talk about, though?"

as you talk, deciding to info dump about your favorite classical music piece, logan can't help but watch it unfold. he doesn't know jack shit about music theory, but listening to you ramble about something you're passionate about brings him so much peace. you're disturbed about fifteen minutes later by a knock at the door, promptly followed by a disembodied voice telling logan that it was time for the strategy meeting.

"aw, shit," he says, leaning his head back and rubbing at his eyes. "i have that to go to now."

"yeah, sorry. i was supposed to tell you about that but we had a bigger problem on our hands." your voice is sheepish now that your info dump has been cut short, but logan leans over to you and kisses you, soft and slow, just like the first time he kissed you properly in the park. when he pulls away, he looks so much calmer than he was twenty minutes before. "is there anything else i can do?"

"go have some fun in the paddock. and please drink some water." you roll your eyes and stand, bringing him in for another hug before you slip out of the door.

almost two hours later, you're back in the williams garage with a guest headset over your ears. your stomach twists with nerves as the national anthem concludes. lily's hand is clasped with yours.

"the first lap is the worst. after that, you lose a lot of the anxiety," she assures you, noticing how you chew your lower lip.

"thanks." you pause for a moment, contemplating another question. "does it ever get easier? seeing how they go out there and drive like absolute maniacs for fun?"

"it does. it took me a couple of months, but after alex showed me all of the safety features in the car and in his fireproofs, it definitely helped."

it's the moment you've been dreading.

one red light.

two.

three.

four.

five.

and then none.

the engines roar and the race has begun. lily didn't lie to you- the first lap is excruciatingly long, but when everyone's completed their first loop around the circuit, you let yourself breathe. your eyes are trained on the screen above you, and the laps are flying by so quickly that you barely process that the race is nearly halfway over.

but then logan's car is in the wall. fuck.

as you watch the replay of his crash, you can feel white-hot rage burning in your body. after the race stewards only declare a ten-second penalty and two super license points, though, you're fuming. "two penalty points and a ten-second penalty? magnussen caused logan's race to end, and they just let him go? they just forgive him and move on? how can he get away with that? this is bullshit!"

what a crash, what a rush

the first person logan looks for when he walks back into the williams garage, his visor still low over his eyes in shame, is you. when you see him walking towards the room where you and lily watch the race, you tear the headset off of your ears and run to him. the feeling of his arms wrapping around your shoulders and hearing his heartbeat even through your musician's earplugs soothes your agitated nerves. he's okay. he's alive. he isn't hurt. "thank fuck you're okay," you say, even though he definitely can't hear you through his helmet and over the roar of passing engines. when you pull away, you press a kiss to his knuckles and hope he understands how much love you're trying to convey through such a small gesture.

fuck me up, florida!

one of logan's best friends on the grid is oscar. oscar's teammate got his maiden win after almost five years of waiting in miami.

like any sensible person, you celebrate with him.

you have no idea what the name of the club is, much less how many drinks you've had so far, but what you do know is that lando has commandeered the dj station and logan is pressed against your back, his hands resting on your hips. the air is hot and thick, your heartbeat pounds in your head. the opening notes of bad bunny's tití me preguntó begin playing through the massive speakers, and you shoot a glare up to lando that he doesn't see, his focus instead on the equipment in front of him. when the bass hits, though, you let all apprehensiveness go and your genetics take the reins. your hips sway and swing to the beat, your hands wander up and down your torso, and logan simply follows your lead. it takes you a moment to realize that, if you want to get a rise out of him, you're going to have to spin around and face him.

with your hips swaying against his and how unbearably beautiful you look in the dim light, your skin glowing with sweat and your hair up in a high ponytail, logan can't help but lean down and kiss you when you finally turn around. you reciprocate gladly, your right leg slotting between both of his, and...

oh.

he's hard.

you pull away slightly, barely an inch between your lips. "slow your roll there, tiger."

"i don't want to." fire zips down your spine at the sound of his voice, low and breathy and so, so desperate. "need to fuck you."

"should we get outta here, then?"

"i thought you'd never ask." you smile and kiss him quickly, then take his hand and weave your way through the crowded dance floor. as the miami night air hits your face, you immediately feel cooler. you sigh, taking a moment to breathe and regulate your heart rate and body temperature, but you can't breathe for that long before logan wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you back against him and kissing your neck. you laugh, running your hands along his forearms.

"logan, not here. the hotel is two blocks away."

"i can't help it, baby, you just look so pretty," he hums, kissing the back of your neck once more before pulling away and stepping around to face you. "you look so pretty, and you're mine."

his possessiveness of you makes more heat zip down your spine, and you almost drool at how he's looking at you. his eyes, normally a beautiful mix between the blues of the sky and sea, ar"e almost completely dark, only a small sliver of his irises remaining, and the muscles in his jaw tick. "hotel. now."

by the time you reach the door to logan's hotel room, you're both out of breath from how hard he kissed you in the elevator and the arousal and need between your legs won't be stopped unless he replaces it. you stumble through the door and try to kiss logan again, matching the vigor he showed you in the elevator, but he stops you. "wanna take my time with you tonight."

"yeah?" you raise an eyebrow and inspect his face. the blinds are open but no lights are on, so all you can see is the side of his face that's illuminated by the lights from the streets of miami. it's an unusually beautiful sight.

"yeah. nothing about what i'm about to do to you is going to be fast. i'm gonna make you feel good tonight. how's that sound?"

"that sounds amazing, logan." you lean forward and kiss him gently, your lips slotting together as if you were made for each other. who knows, maybe you were. the next five minutes are a blur, but before you know it, you're laying back against the pillows on logan's bed and his face is buried between your thighs, his tongue working magic on your clit. the air in the hotel room is filled with your moans and the sounds of logan devouring you like a man starved, and it's the most beautiful mix of sounds you've ever heard. when he flicks his tongue oh-so-perfectly against your entrance, his nose brushing over your clit, you moan and pull his hair hard, which, in turn, makes him moan against you.

you aren't sure how much time passes or how many orgasms logan pulls from you with just his tongue and his fingers, but when you feel completely and entirely spent, your chest heaving and your hairline sparkling with tiny beads of sweat, you pull logan up to you by his shoulders, and he looks completely and entirely fucked. "need you inside of me," you mumble, wiping at the mix of spit and cum that coats the entire bottom half of his face with your thumbs. as if on instinct, you bring your hands to your mouth and lick them clean, and logan groans at the sight. "inside. now."

"as you wish, baby." logan's hands fumble at his boxers, the only item of clothing he was left wearing, and when he finally, finally pushes himself into you, you both moan. your hands scrabble at his shoulders and back, most definitely leaving red marks that will raise later, and his mouth latches onto your neck, biting down and then gently kissing over the red spot.

"nngh, lo-" your brain is short circuiting, logan's cock filling you up so perfectly and absolutely ruining you for any other man ever.

"yeah? you okay, baby?" he pulls back from your neck and scans your face for any sign of discomfort of pain, his sky blue eyes searching your own. the feeling of safety you get from just that one action is almost enough to make you sob from how good you feel because of him, both physically and emotionally.

"feels so good, lo. j'st... move, please."

"you sure? i don't wanna hurt you."

"positive. now please." you reach a hand up and pull him down towards you by the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair and pulling hard. "fuck me properly." without wasting a second, logan reaches a hand down and hooks it under your left thigh, bringing your leg up to rest around his waist, then pulling back and thrusting back in fast. the moan that rips itself from your throat is sinful, and your breath is being punched from your lungs at the downright brutal pace logan's setting. your right leg finds itself locking around his waist, only bringing him infinitely closer, and now, each time he thrusts back into you, your clit bumps against his pelvis. within minutes, you're embarrassingly close to cumming again, and through your garbled mumbling and clawing at his shoulders, he understands, reaching his right hand down to gently press against your clit.

"cum for me, baby, please, need to feel you cum for me just one more time, just let go, i've got you." it's logan's voice that ultimately sends you pummelling over the edge into an orgasm that makes your back arch and your vision fuzz at the edges, and you cum with a cry of his name. his hips slow and his fingers maintain a steady rhythm on your clit, but you can tell it's taking its toll on him. "where- where do you want me to cum?"

"i'm on the pill, lo. inside, baby, please," you whine, and it takes two more thrusts before logan groans, his hips coming to a shuddering halt as he cums inside of you. it's a beautiful sight, too- his eyes scrunched closed and his eyebrows drawn together, his hair a complete mess from where your hands had pulled at it. your hands run through his hair and along his back, and you patiently wait as he comes back to earth.

"hi," he murmurs, opening his eyes and smiling down at you.

"hi," you respond.

no other words need to be said. you know you love him, and he knows he loves you.

and you're both okay with that.

this took me way longer to write than i thought it would, but i absolutely love it! reminder that my asks and requests are open, and i always get excited when i get feedback! take care of urselves lovies <3

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extra-stout-stories · 3 months ago

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First Date / Creepy Cookies

When a BHM in Florida decides to take the plunge on a long-distance relationship with a witchy SSBBW FFA in New England, their first IRL encounter goes even better than he expected. (BHM to USSBHM, magical rapid weight gain, SSBBW feeder. Romantic, but spicy and mildly explicit. Lots of sexy descriptions of food. CW: Immobility, mobility aids.)

My first contribution to Feedist Kinktober '24! Reblog if you like it, and thanks as always to the mighty @fatguarddog for blessing us with an inspirational list of prompts. Last year I bit off more than I could chew and ended up with a folder of half-finished story ideas, so this year I'm only writing the ones where I feel inspired enough to knock a full story out in one go. Here's a sexy supernatural mutual gaining tale.

His belly hang bounced against the steering wheel as he stepped with a grunt out of the rental car. A compact car wasn't exactly comfortable for a guy his size, but it was a chance to save a little bit of money on the trip. If this works out it's going to be expensive, he thought to himself. Long distance sucks.

He adjusted his jacket against the October breeze. New England was a lot different from Florida. He wasn't sure how he felt about the possibility of moving to somewhere he'd have to shovel snow in the winters, but he had to admit that at this time of year, the yellows and crimsons of the autumn foliage were beautiful like nothing he had ever seen.

And his date was like nobody he had ever met. It would be their first time meeting in person.

Dating as a 320 pound man was difficult enough, dating as a 320 pound man with a feeding fetish was more difficult still, and dating as a mutual gainer felt like the hardest thing of all. He was grateful that his last serious relationship had ended amicably; she was a Miami Beach gym bunny who loved the way her toned, tan body contrasted with his, and she had helped him break through a plateau at 300, but she grew increasingly frustrated that he couldn't reciprocate her attraction to him. Fortunately, they had managed to part without drama and stay friends, and he was happy to watch her pair off with a guy close to his size who was a much better fit for her. There was a text from her waiting when his plane touched down in Boston: "Good luck on your New England date! If she turns out to be a serial killer, text me and I'll come rescue you, k?"

But he wasn't too worried about that. Mostly he was worried that he wouldn't be as fat in person as his date expected. He was fat, of course, but he was also good at using camera angles to highlight his big belly and doughy double chin, making him look like a bigger SSBHM than he really was. And a part of him worried that the date would go too well. Plane tickets and a rental car weren't cheap, flying at his size was cramped and uncomfortable, and the drive north from Boston added another two and a half hours onto the trip. If things worked out, it wasn't going to be much fun trying to make a long-distance relationship work.

Still, it's worth a try. Nothing worth having in life comes easily. That's what he told himself as he took one last look at the scenery, the golden autumn colors mingling with evergreens this far north, the peak of Mount Washington in the distance already dusted with a layer of snow.

The Waterwheel Brewery was an old brick building at the edge of a ravine where a cold, clear waterfall splashed and foamed down a crack in the mountain granite. The rusty iron wheel that gave the brewpub its name was still there at the side of the ravine, a nineteenth century relic from a time when the building had been some kind of textile mill during the early years of America's industrial revolution. But that was a long time ago, and now the small factory town in the mountains was a self-consciously quaint destination catering to hikers, skiiers and leaf-peepers from Boston and New York City. The buildings on its main street had been transformed into upscale shops and farm-to-table restaurants, and the nineteenth century mill owner's stately Victorian mansion had been renovated as an expensive bed and breakfast. He had suggested to her that he book a room there for the night of their first date, but she had vetoed the idea. The Wilkes House is a tourist trap, she had messaged back. If dinner goes well, you'll stay at my place. She was nothing if not forward. He liked that about her.

Nervously, he entered the brewpub.

It was a busy Friday night. Middle-aged yuppies in fleece vests and college-aged hippies in hiking gear were clinking glasses. People really are skinnier up North, he thought to himself. It must be lonely being her size in a town like this. The Florida coast was full of tanned and toned beach bodies, of course, so he understood the struggle. Still, even in Florida, the South had its share of fat folks.

And he wasn't nearly as fat as she was.

Then a little voice in his mind seemed to whisper: Yet.

He shivered, his nervousness suddenly replaced by excitement. Don't get too far ahead of yourself, he thought. This is just a first date. She's cool online but you need to know if you vibe in person before you let her feed you for real. He glanced around the brewpub. When his eyes landed on her, there was no mistaking the woman he had come all this way to meet.

She was seated at the corner of the brewpub, on banquette seating behind a movable table. She seemed as wide as the table, fat shoulders in a loose white cardigan seeming to flow like lava into her breasts and belly rolls in a snug red cotton dress. An elegant antique necklace, a chunky Victorian brooch on a thick silver chain, drew his attention irresistably to her cleavage, then to the triple chins that seemed to rest directly on her chest and shoulders, her neck gone entirely, the chain disappearing beneath soft, pale folds. His attention wandered up her face just as she registered his presence and their eyes met. Her eyes seemed to flash with anticipation behind a pair of vintage eyeglass frames whose red matched the dress. Her fat cheeks dimpled as she smiled. Her chins quivered.

She was fatter in person.

Dinner went as well as he could have imagined. She was as clever as she was fat, a quick-witted conversationalist with a bright laugh and a keen sense of humor. They had spent so much time messaging back and forth that he already felt like he knew her, but she was even more charming in person. She had an endless supply of funny anecdotes from her job as an instructional librarian at the liberal arts college outside of town, the kind of school where rich kids spent four years as ski bums cultivating their weed habits. It wasn't where she had planned to end up, but her Ph.D. in anthropology from Miskatonic hadn't led to a tenure-track job, and she had grown to love the quiet beauty of the little mountain town.

The brewpub owners were graduates of the college, and the waitstaff all seemed to know her. They weren't fazed when she asked to see the menu for a second round of entrees, and while neither of them wanted to drink too much -- it would be another twenty minutes' drive up windy roads to her mountainside cottage, and besides, it was a first date -- the waitstaff were more than happy to pour small samples of the microbrews that the pub brewed on site. He told a few tall tales about life in Florida, exaggerating for dramatic effect. She knew he didn't really have to fend off wild alligator attacks on his way to work, of course, and she gave him a little coquettish smirk when he admitted: "…and besides, I'm too fat to outrun an alligator anyway."

It was all he could have asked for on a first date.

Still, it was hard to keep his mind from wandering to more primal urges, especially when she shrugged off the cardigan and he got a glimpse of her pillowy upper arms, as wide around as some people's waists, spilling like rolls of dough over her elbows, swaying irresistably every time she raised a fork or a glass to her mouth. Cool it, he told himself, biting his lower lip. This is a date, not a hookup. We're here to get to know each other, not just fuck. But the more he watched her stuff herself with gusto, polishing off a steak followed by a lobster roll and a series of appetizers that just seemed to keep coming, the more he found himself imagining what the mountainous rolls of her naked belly might look like beneath that red dress, how wide and soft her naked hips and ass would be when he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her fat body against his.

"Distracted? They asked what you wanted for dessert." He blushed, suddenly realizing how far he had lost himself in the reverie. She gave him a wry smirk. "The bread pudding's good here. Get it with caramel."

The waitress looked at her, then at him, and didn't bother to ask him for confirmation. Soon he was tucking into the bread pudding. But by now, he thought to himself, the bill couldn't come soon enough.

He felt suddenly protective of her as she stood up from the table, reaching to steady herself on a stainless steel bariatric cane, face slightly flushed and breath slightly ragged from the effort of lifting her enormous body. He helped her slip the cardigan back on, and as he helped her navigate around the tables to the entrance of the brewpub, he found himself putting a hand on the small of her back to guide her, feeling her back rolls ripple with each step. She's really big, he thought to himself. But it wasn't his first time with an SSBBW, and he knew how to pace himself and help her feel comfortable, glancing and gesturing to signal to the other diners that they should pull their chairs in for a moment to clear a path. He caught one or two hostile stares from skinny couples eating salads, but when he glared back -- it helped that he was tall and stocky, muscular underneath his fat -- they looked away in embarrassment.

She smiled up at him as they reached the rental car. She was a few inches shorter than him, and the difference in height put just how fat she was into even sharper relief. "Think you can make it up the mountain?"

He laughed. "As long as you don't ask me to hike. That's what the car is for." He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close for a kiss, the fabric of his shirt whispering against the fabric of her dress as their bellies touched, a peck on the lips leading to a momentary touching of tongues before she withdrew.

"Good. Make sure you turn right at the covered bridge. Otherwise you'll end up in moose territory. They're even faster than alligators."

"Got it. I'll see you in a little bit." He smiled and lowered himself with a grunt into the rental car. Damn, he thought, exhaling suddenly as his belly hit the steering wheel and he reached down to scoot the seat back a little further. I'm really full.

Only the knowledge of how easy it would be to get lost in these woods on a wrong turn, and the thought that a tourist town like this would be full of speed traps, kept him from rushing even faster than he did up the road to her secluded cottage.

She had just gotten out of her own car when he pulled up, steadying herself on the cane as she reached into her purse for her keys. The cottage was picture-postcard cute, wood and stone, built (she had told him at dinner) by some now-forgotten artist who had moved up from Manhattan in the Fifties to get closer to nature. As the door swung open she saw that she'd had it fitted out with energy-efficient modern luxuries and rearranged to make space for her ample body, the open floor plan giving it a feeling that was simultaneously spacious and cozy. Through a wide picture window he could see the lights of the town and the college flickering down in the valley; he thought he could just barely make out the silhouette of the brewpub.

But what really enticed him was the smell of fresh cooking. She must have spent all day baking, he thought to himself. There were savory breads and sugary sweets, pies, cakes and turnovers, all mingling with the aroma of beef stew bubbling in a slow cooker and the scent of cinnamon from an enormous apple crumble.

He watched her enormous ass and thighs quiver as she slowly walked to the kitchen. All of a sudden all he could think about was sex.

She turned back to look at him, the folds of her chins quivering, her cheeks dimpling in that irresistable smile as she winked at him through her vintage glasses. "Hungry?"

He exhaled and patted his belly. It had been a lot of food at dinner.

He looked at her. She looked at him.

He smiled back.

"I could use a little something. That was a long trip up the mountain."

"Good boy." She ladled some beef stew into a dish, then reached to slip on an oven mitt and open the oven. He couldn't keep his eyes off of how her ass and back rolls jiggled as she bent slightly to reach past her belly, her breath quickening with the effort. She drew out a thick loaf of bread and cracked it open. Inside, it was still steaming.

Turning to face him, she locked eyes with him and smiled, setting half the loaf down and reaching for a knife and butter. Slowly, sensually, she buttered the bread. He watched the glistening fresh butter seep into the thick, soft dough. He watched her arms jiggle, her chins quiver, her belly ripple.

She dipped the bread in the beef stew and took a small nibble. "Try dipping it." She grinned and handed him the dish. "Go sit on the couch. I'll bring some desserts, too."

She rolled her own dish of beef stew in on a cart, accompanied by pumpkin pie, apple crumble, and a large tub of ice cream. She sat down next to him and began to eat. By the time they finished, he felt so full he could barely breathe.

Her belly seemed to engulf him as she rolled over to straddle him on the couch, slipping her arms around his shoulders and pinning him down with her bulk. He pulled her closer and slipped his tongue into her mouth. Soon she was unbuttoning his shirt.

They were naked by the time they headed to the bedroom. She had been teasing him underneath his belly, giving quick, eager strokes, first with the tips of her fat fingers and then with the tip of her tongue. But he gave as good as he got, his own fingers deftly exploring the sensitive undersides of her rolls, sinking in a fraction of an inch further every time he plunged them into the warmth where her thighs and belly met.

By now he was so motivated by desire that he barely bothered to glance around the living room as she led him to bed. If he noticed the shelves of books, the replica statues of paleolithic goddess figures acquired during her anthropology research, it was only as background decoration.

His eyes passed over it, but he didn't really see the altar. A circle of red candles, designs painted in luminous white on dark black velvet, a small stone figurine, this one not a replica. Fresh fruit and grain placed as an offering. Slices of each of the baked desserts she had made, another offering.

And by now he was so full of dessert that he really couldn't take any more. If his eyes glanced briefly over the plate of cookies at the center of the circle of candles, he would have registered them only as one more item in the blur of sweet tastes and textures, of a piece with the pies and the brownies and the turnover soaked in ice cream. He was so full.

He certainly wouldn't have thought to ask her why the cookies were still steaming as if freshly baked, even though they had been making out for over an hour and he hadn't seen her take them from the oven.

She guided him to her bedroom tenderly, but when she shoved him the last step into bed she was almost rough, her own lust evident now, her face flushed as she took off her glasses and unpinned her hair, long locks falling down past her breasts and the enormous rolls of her belly, moving slowly but deliberately, fat flesh pressing against fat flesh as she curled up next to him in bed and pulled him in for another kiss.

The sex was even better than he had fantasized. Both of them were crackling with lust, burning with desire, as if lightning was passing back forth through their skin everywhere their bodies touched.

There's nothing like the sensation of fat on fat.

He was dozing off to sleep, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, when he felt her stand up from the bed. He heard the clunk of her bariatric cane as she left the bedroom. After all the excitement, he was too sleepy to do much more than grunt.

"Still hungry, babe?"

He groaned. At any other time, those words from her lips would have been the most enticing come-on he had ever heard. But the plane flight and the drive had taken a lot out of him, the sex had drained the last of his energy, and he was still full.

"C'mon. Just a few bites." She was back at the bedside, lifting a cookie to his lips.

"Mmmph." The warm, fresh dough. The gooey chocolate. He let her feed him the entire cookie, then another, then another. Barely awake, his eyes closed, his inner eye was already seeing half-formed dream shapes.

"Good boy." She traced her hand across his belly. So full, so achingly full. This was the best night of his life.

"Just one more bite. You have to eat the whole plate." She watched him swallow the last of the cookie, reached across his chest to pinch a few stray crumbs between her fat fingers, stuck her fingers between his lips so he could lick them off.

He leaned his head back onto the pillow and was immediately asleep.

His dreams were as much sensations as visions. Sensations of warmth, softness. Heaviness. Candles and torchlight illuminating his body. Eating, eating, always eating. Heavy, so heavy. His belly swelling.

She was there, or was it one of the goddess figurines? Looming over him, lustful and loving. Hungry for him, hungry to feed him. The goddess was vastly bigger than him, impossibly bigger, filling the bedroom, filling a torchlit cave, filling the night sky until her rolls of fat obscured the stars.

But he was big too, so big. And getting bigger.

Gradually the sensations ended. The visions ended. He sunk into a deep, deep sleep with no more dreams.

It was a bright New England autumn morning. He could see clear blue sky and a riot of fall colors, the town in the valley below framed perfectly in the picture window of the bedroom.

He was hungry. He didn't want to get up. Surely she had left some food in the bedroom.

Yes. A blueberry pie. Fresh. He was suddenly aware that he was alone in bed. From the kitchen, he could hear the clatter of dishes and the thud of her cane.

He was suddenly seized by the urge to devour the pie with his bare hands. He was hungrier than he ever thought possible. He reached for it, and --

His arm was heavy. So heavy. Just lifting it was an effort. Rolls of fat cascading, heavy as gym weights, his arms never reaching quite so far that the spilling softness of his upper arms didn't still touch the equally soft and heavy rolls of his naked chest and belly.

My belly. He looked down. He could barely see past his moobs, and he couldn't see past his belly at all. He felt it against his --

Against his calves. His belly had become enormous.

He looked down. He reached, or tried to. He was as wide as the bed, his fat arms splayed wide against side rolls that were just an inch or two short of spilling over the sides.

He wriggled his hips, or tried to. He felt hundreds of pounds of fat -- how many pounds? -- quiver in soft ripples.

He didn't even bother trying to stand up.

He felt the rolls of his chins against his chest, the rolls of his chest against his belly, the rolls of his belly against his thighs. He felt his thighs meet to well past his knees.

He even felt his overstuffed fat toes.

And suddenly there was a hardness under all that softness. He gasped sharply, drawing in a deep breath, feeling himself quake with excitement. Feebly, he tried to buck his hips against his belly, full of desire now.

She was standing in the bedroom door, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate of pastries in the other.

"Hungry?"

She grinned at him.

He could barely speak. "W-what happ…"

She wore nothing but a silk robe, open at the waist. Slowly, sashaying her enormous hips to make her massive belly sway from side to side, she waddled towards him and seated herself as best she could at the edge of the bed. She traced her fingertips down his belly.

"Magic. Don't ask too many questions. Do you want the croissants first, or the pie?"

"The pie." At least he had a ready answer to that one.

"Good boy." She began lifting forkfuls of the warm, fresh blueberry pie to his greedy lips. She stroked his hair and gave a mock pout. "I'm not sure you're going to fit on the plane back to Florida."

"Not unless it's a cargo plane." He smiled. "You didn't have to do this, you know. I would have stayed anyway."

Her mock pout deepened. "But it's so fun this way! You should have seen the look on your face when you woke up." She gave his belly a playful shove. "And I had to know you weren't one of those feedee fuckboys. Lots of guys online talk a big game but won't commit."

He lifted an arm as best he could to squeeze her thigh. "Come on. You knew I was serious."

"Mmmhmm." She leaned across him, her belly spreading over his. She was the skinny one now. "But I'm even more serious."

"Is that so?" He polished off the last bite of the pie, then let his voice get a little fierce. "More food. Now."

She blushed and giggled. "Okay, you're serious. That's what I like to see."

"I know it is." He sighed with contentment, wriggled his hips to get a little bit more comfortable, and let her lift the first of many chocolate-stuffed croissants to his lips. "Am I going to stay like this?"

She smiled. "Only if you want to. The spell is reversible." She paused, a smirk on her face. "But I think you want to."

"You're right. How do you know me so well?"

He smiled. Then he pulled her in for a kiss, grunting with the effort, the softness of his upper arm sliding against her naked back rolls.

An afternoon of eating. An evening of sex. A day passed. Maybe two or three.

He heard his phone vibrate, somewhere in the pile of clothes that were now much, much too small for him. "Could you pass me that?"

She stood up off the bed and reached down to pick up the phone, moving slowly. Slowly due to her bulk, slowly because she knew his mouth was watering at the sight of her enormous body in motion. She placed the vibrating phone on his belly, then left for the kitchen.

It was a text from his friend in Miami Beach. "You doing okay up there? Should I call the cops?"

He smiled. His fingers were so fat that it took him a minute to correct all the typos, but he texted back. "Even better than I hoped."

A moment later, the reply arrived. "That's great. Anything you need?"

He glanced over his gigantic belly at the stupendously fat woman who stood in the bedroom door, carrying a tray of fresh blueberry pancakes glistening with maple syrup. Through the door he could see into the living room, where an empty plate sat on an altar surrounded by the stubs of red candles. "Yeah. If I Venmo you the money, could you hire some movers to box my stuff up and send it here? I'm planning on staying in New England for a while."

He put the phone down and opened his mouth to take his first bite of the pancakes.

#feedist kinktober #mutual gaining #weight gain fiction #wg fiction #feedist fiction #mutual feeding #mutual gain #mutual gain fiction #mutual gainer #fat ffa #fat feeder #gaining weight on purpose #getting fat on purpose #spot the shout-outs to some classic New England horror writers

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formulaforza · 1 year ago

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—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. autumn seemed to arrive suddenly this year. minors dni. nsfw warnings below the cut. 6k. part one part two part three part four part five

18+ because: cross continent booty call, shared shower, oral (fem receiving) overstimulation, biting, begging, teasing/dirty talk and lots of emotionally immature angst

It became normal after that, routine, almost. Like clockwork, the two of you finding each other. In your apartment, sometimes, but mostly at his. His apartment, his yacht, his gym, his car. There were days where it felt like it was all you did, Fridays where you would think that you’d spent five whole days underneath him.

Race weekends felt impossibly long, impossibly far away. You think that his apartment doesn’t feel like him because he’s never there, because he spends all his time on a track or a yacht or the streets of Maranello.

And you’re soft. You pretend not to be, because you wish you weren’t, but you are. You are, because you know that there is a spring in a national park in the States that looks just like his eyes, all blues and greens and browns that are so saturated they look fake. Because when you were at the club last week with your sister, someone had walked by and you knew they wore the same cologne as him. Because you see the color red and wonder what he’s doing, every single time.

He’s in Vegas this week, a big fucking party, Miami on the hard stuff. You’re home, going through life’s motions and waiting–though you’d never admit it– for him to come home.

You wake up in an empty bed, sprawled out in the middle of it, stretching against the white sheets with a groaned yawn. You can taste the cottonmouth on your tongue, smack your lips a couple times before giving up and climbing out from the cozy comforter and trudging into the bathroom, feet creaking over the hardwoods as you move through the apartment.

You phone chimes from your nightstand and you move back into the bedroom, leave the water running and the toothbrush in your mouth for your retrieval mission. Sitting at the top of a night’s worth of notifications is a text from him. Check your email. You roll your eyes, half-type out a witty response before an email notification flashes across the top of your screen. [email protected] No Subject.

You tap it, and inside the subjectless email you find two things. One, an attachment to a plane ticket to Vegas that leaves in… five hours. And two, a single Please?

You roll your eyes, toss your phone down onto the bed and return to the bathroom sink to spit out your toothpaste. He’s fucking lost it. He’s really done it this time, like, Jesus, he’s done it.

There is nothing you want to do less than pack a bag, find a ride to Nice, and hop on a plane all the way to Vegas just to see him in some messy ass hotel room.

(Sixteen hours later)

You’re sitting on the edge of the hotel bed when he gets back from media day, Ferrari polo and light wash jeans and a dumb smile greets you, grumpy with arms crossed over your chest. “Did you have to send me a fucking plane ticket?” You snapped.

He shrugs, kicks off his shoes and pulls his phone and wallet and pass from his pockets, sets them down on a coffee table. “You’re here, aren’t you?” There’s something masked with the smug tone in his voice, some kind of genuine relief that you’re here. It makes your stomach queasy.

You roll your eyes. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t deny the truth in his words, or the relief you felt at seeing him walk through the heavy door. As sick as it makes you, you miss him when he’s gone in a way you aren’t supposed to; all soft and innocent and young.

“You’re infuriating,” you say, but you’re smiling.

He nods, closes the distance between you, sinks down onto the edge of the bed beside you. “You know you love it,” he says, the corners of his lips upturned when he kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Until you’re turning purple in search of oxygen and mourning the fact that you need it, you’re kissing him.

“Why am I here?” you ask, half breathless.

“Are you asking me?” He replies, dodging your line of questioning with one of his own.

You smile, laugh a little under your breath. “Who else am I asking?”

“Yourself,” he shrugs, kisses you softly. His fingers dance along your jaw, move to brush a part of your hair to the side. You let him. Because he’s kind of cute when he does it.

“No, no,” you sigh, pull your leg up under you. “I’m asking you; Are you okay? Why am I here?” You ask, because, even for the two of you and your decades of knowing the other and the last… almost year of this muddled mess, this is weird. A first class ticket in your email is weird. You getting on the plane is weirder.

“I can’t miss you?”

Your lips purse. Somewhere in another world, they smile. “Not supposed to,” you kiss him again, hand on shoulders, because you want to smile.

“There’s a lot we’re not supposed to do.”

“Yeah,” you nod, fall back onto the bed with a huff. He chuckles. The white ceiling paint stares back at you. Fresh. Crisp. Clean. “No meetings today?”

“They’re done.”

“Ah,” you say. He stands up and the entire bed shifts with the loss of him. His heavy feet move across the echoey room. It’s silent but for the hum of the air conditioner, the tap of the pads of his fingertips against his phone screen on the other side of the room. “Charles?” You ask, prop yourself up onto your elbows.

“Hmm?” He hums, his eyes focused on his screen. “Sorry, um. Work… email.” You don’t envy his multitasking skills, but they do put a smile on your face.

“Did you fly me out here to fuck me?”

He scoffs, looks up for just a moment to meet your eyes. “No,” and then he’s back to typing away.

You sigh, make sure he hears it. You don’t handle not having his attention well, not when it’s just the two of you. “But you’re going to, right?”

You wonder if you can get him flustered enough that he starts to type what he says. He’s been good at wrangling you recently, at reeling you in. But, if you can get under his skin you’ll surely be in trouble with him. Surely. He smiles at the screen. “If you think you can take it.”

When you scoff, his smile grows. You’re playing right into his game. “I’ve taken it every other fucking time, haven’t I?”

“So well.”

You roll your eyes, drop back onto your back. “Why do you say shit like that?”

“I like riling you up,” he quips, and you can hear the smile on his face, the dimples digging into his cheek. God, those dimples, they might just fucking kill you.

“No!” You say, voice drenched in sarcastic awe.

“Yes!” He matches your tone, his phone clattering down against the table. You sit up again, pull your leg to your chest and rest your chin on it. His eyes are on you now, the email answered, his attention undivided. You love his attention.

“Alright… can we, like,” you gesture into the vast space between the two of you, “get on with it?”

“Can you, like,” he mocks you, “let me fucking shower?”

You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, bite the inside of your cheek, “Can I come?”

“Yeah, but I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Really?” You hate your tone, how childishly innocent it sounds, like your mother just said you could buy whatever toy you wanted at the store. You’d expected a hard shutdown.

“Yeah,” he moves past you, casual smile and strong hand pushing your shoulder, knocking you over like a glass of water onto the bed. “But, I mean it,” he warns, threatens to wag a finger at you. You’d bite it off if he did.

“Okay,” you say, rolling yourself off the bed and onto your feet, trailing behind him a few steps. He’s already tugging his shirt over his head and you watch his shoulder blades flex with the movement. You never remember just how broad he is. It’s always a lovely reminder.

“I’m serious,” he shakes his head. “No sex.”

You hurry forward to catch up to him, pat him solidly on the back as you squeeze between him and the door frame. “Whatever you say,” you hum. His hands make a move for your sides, to pinch the skin there and curl you over, but you dodge him with a loud giggle.

He says your name and his tone is flat. It’s almost romantic, you think, the plainness of it, the lack of urgency. Rather than face that, you dip your hand past the glass door of the shower, turn the water on and listen to him close the bathroom door somewhere behind you. It’s just the two of you, but he clicks the lock anyways.

You glance over your shoulder at him, hand held out into the stream of water to test the temperature. He comes up behind you, bare chest against your back, arms snaking around your waist, thumbs toying with the waistband of your pants. He works over the buttons with ease, says something about making things even against the skin just above your collarbone.

With a laugh, you push your ass back against him, bend at the waist and slowly pull off your pants and underwear. A fucking tease, he says, clears his throat and moves around you to lose his own jeans.

The shower is big, but the shower head is small in size, mediocre in water pressure. You know before your leg is all the way in that one of you will be fighting to stay warm. You also know you’ll stoop incredibly low to avoid having to stand shivering in the corner while watching him shower. Biting is not off the table. Neither is a right hook.

It goes on like that for some time, the haphazard cohabitation of the hotel shower.

“Would you–” you elbow your between him and the glass door, into the line of hot water. He reaches over your head, switches the flow of water to the wand, picks it up and brings it to his shoulders, the water flowing over the body, over his chest and through the muscles of his core. If you weren’t so fucking cold you’d jump him. “Charles,” you pout.

He laughs, the kind that requires a step back to stabilize him, and then he’s holding the shower wand inches above the crown of your head, hot water streaming down your face so quick that you have to plug your nose to relish in the heat of it.

“Thank you,” you say all nasally, voice muffled by the water that falls over your lips. He slots it back into the showerhead and adjusts the water again so you’re not being waterboarded any longer. You wipe your face with both hands, smooth your soaked hair back over your head and look up at him. He kisses you again, promptly, quickly, with childlike haste, just because he can—you suppose. “What was that for?”

He shrugs. You supposed right.

In your haste, both of you had forgotten to grab the tiny shampoo and conditioner bottles from the vanity counter, and after winning rock, paper, scissors—and Charles demanding best of three like a first-grader—you’d made the treacherous journey back across the ice cold tile to grab the toiletries. You’d used them first as compensation for your hard work, and rather than hand them to him when you’re finished, you reach around to set them on the corner shelf.

He rolls his eyes and you smile, lathering the shampoo into your hair.

Your head falls back under the water, eyes closed, fingers rinsing the shampoo from your hair. You hear him moving, fighting with the travel-sized shampoo bottle you’d more than almost used up. You wait for the smart comment that never comes. When you squeeze past him, switch so that he can stand under the water, your ass brushes over his leg, over him, hard and erect in a way it wasn’t five minutes earlier. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth and you laugh. “What happened to ‘no sex!’” you tease, do your best impression of his voice.

“This isn’t sex,” he replies all matter-of-factly. It makes your smile grow. “This is showering.”

You shake your head, roll your eyes and reach for the conditioner. “You always shower like this?”

He laughs under the water, shoulders shaking and flexing and making your life so much harder than it needs to be. You could draw maps on his back, trace from freckle to freckle until you run out. “Only when you’re not around.”

You reach out to touch him. If he can kiss you just because, you can draw pictures on his skin just because, especially after he finds the space to say something like that to you, to make you blush from the inside out. He reacts to your touch, to your fingers cutting through the smooth sheen of water that runs over him. It puts a coy smile on your face. “I’m around now, aren’t I?” You leave a kiss on his shoulder blade.

“You are,” he says, turns to face you, slinks his arms lazily around your waist and pulls you flush against him. “I’m not worried though. You’ll take care of me.”

You bite against your bottom lip, try to contain your smile. He’s right. You know he’s right and he knows it too. “Will I?” you hum.

He smiles so you don’t have to, moves his lips painfully close to yours, hovering so close you can almost feel the ghost of them. “You will,” he breathes.

You can’t bite your grin any longer. “I will,” you reply, and because distance has never done you two well, you kiss him, pull off his lips with an innocent smile. “As soon as you condition your hair.”

“Fuck conditioner.”

You laugh. “Fuck conditioner?”

“Mmhm,” he hums against your lips. “Fuck it.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I still have to rinse my conditioner, though.”

He groans like he’s just noticed your slicked back hair coated in the smooth conditioner, pushes you under the shower head, gives the top of your head a scrunch before letting you finish ringing it out.

You stumble out ahead of him soon after, feet wet on the cold tile floor of the hotel bathroom. The mirrors are fogged and the air is thick with steam, slowly being sucked away into the ceiling vent fan. You pull a fluffy white towel down from the bar, hastily wrap it around your body, tuck it shut with a knot at your chest. He tells you that you don’t need it while drying his hair with a hand towel and you laugh–tell him there’s not a chance in hell you’re spending the night sleeping in soaked, chilly sheets.

“You’re not going to do much sleeping,” he remarks, pats your ass over the cotton fabric. You squeal, practically skip forward at the contact of his hand and leave him behind in the bathroom.

“You tell that to all your girls?” You ask, fingers trailing over the edge of the bed as you move past. “Or just the ones who know you’re a liar?”

He reappears with a towel tied around his waist, the smaller one he’d used for his hair draped around his neck, damp hair stuck to his forehead and shooting out in every which direction. There’s something horribly beautiful about it. “Mm-mhm,” he clicks, “just you.”

“Oh,” you hum, turning to face him with a quirked brow and quizzical smile.”Well now I feel special.”

He opens his mouth to speak, parting his lips just so slightly before pursing them shut again. “Yeah,” he breathes out, and you barely hear it over the turnover of the air conditioner.

“Yeah,” you repeat, and somehow it’s quieter.

You sit down in the armchair perched in the corner and the silence lingers, heavier than the steam and louder than the air conditioner. He stares at you for a beat too long and you feel your heartbeat in your temples, stare right back at his stupid green eyes. He scoffs and walks back into the bathroom. “I’m tired of this,” he says into the mirror, wiping away the fog with a flat palm.

“Tired of what?” You ask, fear the threat of his answer more than the actual answer itself. You know what he’s tired of; you. This. All of it, he’s tired of it all, and you don’t blame him. It’s become exhausting.

You know what he’s going to say, and still. His words hit you like a sucker punch. “This fucking hotel room shit.”

Your jaw flexes and you nervously chew on the tip of your tongue. “You’re the one who called me.”

He doesn’t leave space for the words to linger. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, turning to lean against the vanity counter, can barely glance at you. Your stare holds strong. “You know that’s not what I meant.” The thing is—you don’t know. You haven’t a clue what he means if it’s not the obvious elephant sitting between you.

“Say it, then,” you tell him and your voice oozes a confidence you didn’t know you could possess. It’s a facade. A good one, and he still sees right through it.

“Oh allez, tu es trop intelligent pour ��tre aussi stupide,” Oh, come on, you’re too smart to be this dumb, he says, crosses his arms over his chest like you’ve done something he needs to defend against.

“Say it, Charles.”

He finds the nerve to smile. You wish a ghost would pull the towel hung over his shoulders tight around his neck. Maybe then he would feel more like you do. Instead, he uses it to dry off the back of his neck and tosses it somewhere out of sight. “You say it.”

“No,” you mutter, and then louder, you repeat, “No, I’m not going to.”

“You won’t?” He asks, pushes himself off the counter and stops in the doorway, leans against the frame and if he wasn’t so insistent on starting something right now, you’d take a picture before kissing every muscle on his body.

“Mm-mm.”

“Fine,” he replies all bluntly, but there’s nothing short about his tone. No, no, you know there’s no chance he’s dropping this.

“Fine.”

He sighs, eyes closed and heavy breath and head dropping to the sky like he’s begging—or praying— for some sanity or patience or whatever virtue he so badly needs when it comes to dealing with you. Eventually, he speaks to the ceiling, and the dramatic cringe and nose-bridge pinch that precedes his words makes him look more than pained. “I want more than this. I want—” he cuts himself off like he hasn’t already let it all boil over, like there’s any chance he’d keep it unsaid, that he’d be capable of stopping himself. “I want us.”

Your heart dives into your stomach, sends them both sinking through the floor. “You don’t.”

“I do,” he speaks, still to the white ceiling. You follow his sightline. The ceiling is textured.

“No, you don’t,” you think there’s a chance that your desperation to convince him this isn’t what he wants is really nothing more than a half-hearted attempt to convince yourself of the same thing. “You don’t, because then it’s all going to be fucked.”

Finally, he looks at you, or through you, or near you. Finally, he stops looking at the stupid textured white paint on the ceiling. “But what if it works? If we work?”

We.

“What if it doesn’t? If we try and then everyone gets invested and then it’s all ruined? Our parents and our siblings? We can’t ruin that.” You can’t. You won’t. You refuse to be the one responsible for any tension between your families, between your mothers. They’re the kind of friends that you don’t find more than once, and you wouldn’t dare to mess it all up after all this time, certainly not for a boy—for the boy.

“So, what?” He asks. There’s a terrible ribbon of torment laced through his voice. “We just ruin each other?”

You sink in your seat, reply to him meekly. He doesn’t usually make you shy. “Maybe.”

He says your name, that same ill-inducing tone to his voice. “If it was just us. Just me and you and nobody in our families had ever met,” he gestures between the two of you, always talking with his hands even when they’re half-limp and dejected. “Then what would your answer be?”

“I wouldn’t have to answer,” you dodge. Dodge, dodge, dodge. It feels like all you can do. “You wouldn’t want me.” Your words reek of haunting vulnerability, and you hope you’re the only one who picks up on it because it’s game over if he hears it. He’ll know it all; the lie and the truth and the debilitating fear of them both.

“You know that isn’t true,” he scowls, but his voice is soft. You hate it. You do, you hate it so much. You hate it. You’re tired of this conversation. You didn’t spend all those hours three seats over from a colicky baby and its miserable mother to argue with him about what you were. You just were, can’t that be enough?

You snap like a crunchy autumn leaf under a steel-toed boot. “Fine! Fine. Yes,” you concede to the fictional world, the alternate timeline with death and taxes etc, etc. To the universe where everything is different. To the world where everything is different, but everything is really just as it is; where the more things change, the more they stay the same. “My answer would be yes, let’s just say ‘fuck it’ and try because why the hell not? It’s not like we got along before all this.”

“Exactly. If we crash and burn, so what? We just go back to hating each other.”

“I can’t. I can’t, Charles. I care about my family too much.”

“You’re just scared. God, you’re like a child,” he speaks without thought, letting the words fly with reckless abandon. If you wanted to argue with him you’d latch onto that line. You don’t, though. You don’t want to argue, you never did.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” your voice cracks. It goes unaddressed by anything more than a shrug. “I don’t.”

“I want you to stop being a fucking coward and go on a date with me!”

“Charles,” you frown. Your nose burns. The gap, the gap, the gap. The impossible to bridge gap that you and he stand on either side of, waving aimlessly, begging the other with a silent plea—please. Please see what I see. I promise it’s better my way.

“One date,” he says, barely above a whisper, holding up a single finger. It’s his plea. “Nobody has to know we’re doing it.”

“I…” your breath catches in your throat, mind racing through potential responses. You lean forward in your seat, put your elbows on your knees and bury your face in your hands before you start crying. You won’t cry, you can’t. He can’t make you cry.

You sniffle, even though you aren’t crying—an audible reminder to yourself that you won’t be crying. That you’re eliminating the effects before they can even start. He must think you are crying, though, because the tension in the room deflates with every step he takes across the room. He lowers himself to your level, and you can feel the ghost of his hands lingering in a space just beyond your skin, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, fuck. I’m sorry,” his voice is so guilty, his hands finally touching your knees, thumbs moving in smooth, calming circles over your skin. You don’t have an opinion on the way you melt into putty under his touch.

When you pull your hands away from your face, they fall into your lap, find his and mold into some tangled mess of fingers. You take a deep breath—an attempt to steady yourself before finally speaking again, and with a subtle shake of your head, you’re able to silently explain to him that you’re okay, that his words are not the reason you’re so upset.

It’s so much more than that, than being a child or a coward of anything else he could possibly throw your way. With just as many words, he searches your eyes for answers, for a why that you couldn’t give him if you tried.

Everything with him is so unsaid.

“Okay,” you whisper echoes around the room. “Okay, a date,” you nod.

His furrow softens, the lines in his face smoothing over and the corners of his lips fighting a smile. “No,” he says softly, as if trying to give you an out, to free you from any perceived obligation. “You don’t have to do that.”

Your hand finds its way to his cheek, a gentle gesture of reassurance, and you lean in, pressing a soft kiss on those lips that want to smile so bad. It’s not about making him happy, though. It’s about letting yourself entertain the idea of satisfaction, of individual happiness.

He’s so. There’s no getting sick of kissing him, there just isn't. You sigh into his mouth and stand up, and you still want more. You still want more, towels dropping to the cold floor. Your knees bump against the back of the bed and it’s all giggly, and you still haven’t had enough. You maneuver onto the bed without separating, like the world might end if you’re not kissing him, and you’re convinced it might never be enough. That you’ll always crave more.

It’s all so comfortable, the way you two move around each other. It’s fluid. It’s calm. It’s soft, the look on his face when he’s slotted comfortably between your knees, His fingers trace your skin softly, almost ghostly in the way they graze through the valley of your breasts. You shiver. The goosebumps make you laugh against his lips.

He takes care of you, kissing you, trailing his lips down to your boobs, taking your nipple in his mouth, moving his tongue in sharp circles. Anything to elicit a reaction—get you all perky and poised for him. He palms your other tit with his big, strong hand, and your hands find a home in his hair, running through the curls, dragging your nails through the short locks at the nape of his neck.

You pull him up to kiss you and his hand slots comfortably on your jaw, sliding down slowly over your throat, applying a phantom pressure. It’s all bumping noses and sharing breath, him biting his bottom lip before swallowing yours again. He’s afraid to hurt you. It’s so fucking hot.

He moves you around so easily, hands on the back of your knees, pushing your legs against your chest before licking a long stipe through your cunt. You moan louder than intended, because it’s him doing it. Because it’s him doing it. He spreads them next, big strong hands inside your thighs, leaves a soft kiss on your clit. Out of necessity, your hands find something to grab in his own, spread flat over your stomach now, his tongue moving in quick, hard flicks over your clit. It makes you pant–writhe and pant and whine.

You search for grounding everywhere when his tongue sinks inside you, nose brushing against your clit—your palm your own breasts, white-knuckle the sheets and his shoulders and the sheets again.

His hands move up your sides and he curls his tongue around your cunt, pulls a pornographic moan from your lips. You write, moving up onto your elbows and he spreads your legs wider, wider, wider. Fuck. Fuck, he’s so good to you. An arm loops under your leg, around your thigh and over your cunt, sliding through your lips and opening you up for him all pretty. His eyes meet yours and he’s so pleased with himself, a genuine smile at the state he’s got you in and then he’s sucking down hard on your clip, pulling off with an audible pop. Your head falls back, your hole body tensing with pleasure when he doesn’t fucking stop sucking and licking and fucking. Your hands are on his again, gripping onto him for dear life, moving wherever he moves.

Your legs shake, fight against the hand on the inside of your thigh to close around his head, but he’s stronger than you. Fuck, he is. “So pretty,” he tells you, and you shudder, smile hard against the sheets and bury your hands in his hair.

“Right there,” you say through short, heavy pants, and then it’s all out the window. Game over, and you’re coming in his mouth and he still isn’t stopping so you just keep coming—so fucking hard, grinding against his mouth without any sense of rhythm. You think you could live in this high forever.

He kisses you, moves you—god, you’d be a ragdoll if he wanted, you think you really would. He moves you under him, up on your side and kisses down your shoulder, down your arm. He’s so kissy, can’t stay off you. It’s soft and romantic and it doesn’t make you ill at all, honest.

His words, though, they still want to keep up your little act. “You want me to fuck you, baby?” He asks, moving his dick through your slick, lining himself up to fuck you.

“Yes, yes,” you mewl, nodding hurriedly. He kisses you, sinks into you somewhere in the middle of it and you gasp into his mouth.

“Fff…” he trails off, bottoming out into you. “You okay?” he asked. You nod. You nod because you’re so full of him you can’t speak. The gesture is more than enough for him, provides him with the permission he needs to start fucking into you, to brace himself with a hand on either of your hips and thrust deep inside of you, bottoming out each and every time. “Fuck. Fuck, c’mere,” he groans, and then pulls you back against him, your back flush against his chest.

You crane your neck to kiss him, moan into his mouth when he’s cupping your ass and fucking you. You moan—gasp—and he fucking laughs. “Oh my god,” you whimper. “So good.”

He breathes sharp through his teeth, the bottom of his jaw rutting out with every thrust and then he’s biting your shoulder. He bruises the skin and kisses it better.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he says, and you want, so badly, to make him feel as good as he makes you.

“Wanna fuck you,” you say. “Let me fuck you.”

He doesn’t need convincing. “Okay,” he nods. “Okay, please.”

You’re half-hearted in your push back against his arm. He’s the reason he pulls out of you and falls back onto his back, makes space for you to straddle him and grind against him and kiss him and kiss him and let him kiss you.

With a cocky grin and dark green eyes he moves his cock through your slick, lets a smug laugh slip through his lips as he lines up with your hole so you can sink down on him, slow. Slow. Slow because the stretch burns every fucking time.

“Fuck,” you stumble, “s’big.”

He meets you halfway, lifts his hips up off the bed to minimize the time he spends not buried inside of you. He smiles all stupid and your stuttered whine. “Fucking took it all the other times,” he breathes out, fingers digging deep into the skin over your hips.

“Fuck you,” you laugh. He winces, and it only makes you laugh harder, lean down to kiss him so your chests are pressed against each other and grind your hips. His arms wrap around your middle, big and strong and pulling you impossibly close to him and the pace that he sets underneath you. They roam your body, his hands dancing over your sides and your back and knot into your hair, keep roaming until he’s grabbing at your ass.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he says. You don’t need his words to know that, the sounds of your cunt clenching around him audibly demonstrating just how wet you are with every single thrust. “Always so good for me.”

It doesn’t take long for you to come again, with the new angle and the new vulnerability. It never takes long with him, like he knows every inch of your body and just how to use it. “Mhm, fuck. Jesus,” you shudder, breath choppy and desperate. He’s relentless through your orgasm, like always, and it just extends it, draws it out painfully long. “I fucking l—ah—” you clench around him, legs shaking on either side of his abs. Your spasms aren’t calmed by even his strong hands, but he keeps them there anyway.

“I love fucking you, baby,” he says, nibbles on your ear, kisses nowhere in particular and everywhere at once. You’re filled with butterflied by his crude words.

“Do it, then,” you beg. “Please, fuck, please, Charles.”

In a single, swift movement, he pulls you off him and flips you onto your back. Immediately, without any semblance of hesitation, you’re reaching for his cock, to guide him back to where you want him, to where he belongs. You ache when you’re this close to him, when you’re this close and don’t have him, aren’t full of him.

His hands find both of yours, interlock your fingers and move them somewhere above your head, pinned against the sheets. “Don’t say my name like that,” he whispers.

You play dumb, but your cheeks are flushed. “Why not?”

“You drive me crazy,” he says, kisses you before you can even attempt to rebuke his claims.

“Me?” you laugh, fingers dancing over his abs. If his eyes weren’t so fucking green , you’re sure you’d find the reaction to your touch, the flexing of his muscles under the pads of your fingers, to be quite the show.

He smiles all soft. “You.”

Your hand pulls him to you by the back of his neck, something about you can’t say something like that and not kiss me after, and then you’re licking against his teeth and it’s all so hazy—the way he slides back inside you between gasped breaths, the way you bite down on his bottom lip when he fucks you so well, and the way your legs wrap around his waist when you come, trying to pull him closer, deeper, to feel him with every nerve ending.

“That’s right,” he says, a rare calming presence through your orgasms. He doesn’t do this often, not with you, at least. “Atta girl,” he laughs. “Make a mess.”

He fucks you through it, he does, but it’s slow and steady until you’re finished, back in reality, and then he’s the messy one—fast, hard, fucking into you with reckless abandon. Fast, fast, faster. It’s fucking blinding. Fuck, it’s good. It’s so good.

He groans against your shoulders, hips snapping against yours. “Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, because you’re so fucked at this point that English attempts to escape you. “You’re so fucking close, yes,” you moan, “please, give it to me, baby,” and then he’s coming, head buried in your neck. His body weight is heavy on you, every muscle tensing as you’re fucked full of his cum.

The two of you are so close, have never been fucking closer, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. “Fuck,” you giggle, and his whole body shakes with his own laughter, moving up to kiss you. You smile through the whole thing, through the hard kiss and the soft pecks that follow, through his fingers brushing the hairs from your forehead and the feeling of him dripping down your leg. Through all of it, you’re both smiling.

It’s giddy, almost, and God. God, you’re so fucking happy.

#charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc angst #f1 smut #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 #f1 x you #f1 x reader #ferrari #cl16

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unemployedhockeyfan · 6 months ago

Text

Not All Breakups Are Equal Pt. 2

Summary: Lando and Eloise deal with the fallout of their friendship after Eloise left Lando standing in his Monaco apartment.

Warnings: angst I guess and I'm pretty sure just one swear word

Notes: Hi! Thanks for the support on part one!! Sorry it took a few days for this part. I write for my adult job, too, so sometimes I'm just a little too worn out to write after work.

[2.33k]

Part 1

The days in New York are easy. Daily life is just fast enough that I don’t even have the opportunity to think of the friendship breakup that’s constantly trying to pull at my heart.

Days are nothing compared to nights.

New York has seemingly earned its title of “The City That Never Sleeps.” I wish I could say it’s because I make my nights as fast paced as my days, but that would be one of the biggest lies I’ve ever told — second only to all the years I told myself I didn’t love Lando… At least not that way.

My nights are filled with little to no sleep as I toss and turn in the bed squished into the tiny hotel room. All that fills my brain is his smile, his laugh and the look on his face as I walked out the door of his apartment.

I never want to forget the smile or the laugh, but that last look is one I wish wasn’t burned into my brain.

It’s been three weeks since I last saw or talked to Lando. He’s since won his first race in Formula 1.

A race I wasn’t there for.

I was supposed to be. I had a pass and in all honesty, I could’ve still shown up. If I did, though, I would’ve fallen back into the same pattern as before. The people-pleasing nature of my personality would’ve come out and I would’ve continued to let Lando’s new girlfriend talk ill about me.

My mind was overflowing with the memories I had of watching Lando celebrate in Miami while I sat 1,200 miles north. I knew I wasn’t going to sleep tonight. At least not anymore than the three hours I had already barely managed.

As I rolled over to grab my phone off the nightstand, the cheap digital clock was shining 3:30 a.m.

“Hm, Max is probably up by now. I can call him,” was the initial thought that crossed my mind.

Max wasn’t necessarily thrilled when he found out that my plane ticket landed me across the Atlantic Ocean, but he got over it relatively quickly when he found out I had friends from university in the area.

It took a while, but the line finally connected, welcoming me to one of the most comforting voices in my life.

“Eloise, long time no hear.”

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. I’ve been busy.”

“Really? Or are you just lying to me?” Max always seemed to be able to read my mind, no matter how much I wished he couldn’t.

“It’s a half lie. The days have been busy, the nights are just restless.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

The silence lasted for a few moments too long. It allowed Max just enough time to steer the conversation in a direction I was trying to avoid.

“He misses you, Elle.”

“I saw his win in Miami. He looked happy. I couldn’t help but watch.”

“He wanted you there.”

I know Max is telling the truth. He has no reason to lie, and I know that truthfully Lando didn’t want me to leave his apartment just over a month ago, but I did.

“You should call him, not me.”

“It depends, Max”

“On what? Whether or not he’s broken up with his girlfriend?”

“Actually, exactly that.”

“I thought you told him you were OK if they were dating as long as she was nicer to you,” Max pushed back.

“I am, I just don’t think she’s capable of changing in just a few weeks.”

My voice was getting louder and I didn’t really want to take my anger out on Max. He hadn’t done anything wrong — maybe just pushed the wrong button or two.

We sat in silence, the only noise being our breathing on either end of the line. It lasted well over a minute before I let out an exaggerated sigh. I was not only going to come clean to Max, but to myself as well.

“Max, it's just… It’s hard and it hurts,” I said as my eyes slowly started to leak fresh tears.

“I know, Eloise, I know. I don’t think anyone is expecting it to be easy for you or for him.”

“No, Max, I don’t just mean distancing myself from him. It’s hard to even be around him nowadays when I see how he treats other girls when all I want is for him to treat me that way.”

The pause in the conversation was deafening. With the phone pressed to my ear, I waited for Max to say something, to say anything.

“Max?”

“Well, it’s about time you admitted it to yourself,” he said with a rather large chuckle.

“Stop, this isn’t funny.”

I was laughing too, though. I couldn’t stop. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or the fact that for the first time in a month I felt comfortable in my surroundings, but I laughed for a good three minutes before Max’s voice finally came through again.

“You sure do laugh a lot for someone who thinks this isn’t funny!”

“Can’t help it right now.”

“I mean, I am pretty funny,” Max said with an audible smug look on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, well, looks aren’t everything.”

“Good one, Elle. I’m going to hang up on you so you have to call him.”

“I’m not going to, I need more time. Plus, he’s in Montreal right now, it’s 3:30 for him, too, and I’d imagine he’s asleep.”

“You’re stubborn, you know that, right?”

“Hm, I learned it from you.”

“Get some sleep, Eloise. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Maxy. And, I promise, I’ll call him eventually.”

It was nearly two months later before I decided it was finally time to talk to Lando again. Of course, by that point, I was well past sleep deprived between restless nights in New York and changing time zones as I returned home to the United Kingdom.

With my brain barely functioning, I decided the best bet would be to not call Lando, but show up in Austria at his next race. I had all the passes I needed to show up thanks to both myself and Lando thinking this falling out was never going to happen.

I managed to avoid all the areas I knew Lando would be during the days leading up to Sunday. I saw and anxiously watched as Lando raced Max for the lead. I sat and nearly cried as I watched Lando’s race come to an end just laps shy of yet another podium.

Lando is hard on himself. He holds himself to a level that’s nearly impossible to reach, and I know his mood after this race will be anything but stellar. He’s bound to be angry, and I start to fear what his reaction will be if he sees me.

As I stand lost and confused in the paddock, I hear my name being called by maybe one of the few people who could make me smile at this moment.

“Eloise! Elle, is that you?”

I whip my head around to see a smiling Daniel Ricciardo jogging my way. Before I could even respond, I’m wrapped in the embrace of one of my favorite members of the F1 world.

“What are you doing here? Does Lando know?”

“I’m assuming he’s clued you in on what’s happened?”

“Just a little, don’t know all the details.”

“Um, yeah, well he doesn’t know I’m here. Really, I don’t even know why I’m here. I should probably leave. There was part of me that wanted to talk to him, but after everything that’s gone on just today, it’s probably best I make myself just disappear. I don’t want to make this any worse than it probably already is for him.”

“Eloise, you’re rambling.”

I couldn’t help it, I was nervous. I was standing in front of one of Lando’s former teammates and just steps away from the McLaren garage.

“Do you want me to call him and get him down here? I really don’t think you off all people could make this moment worse for him”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Call him.”

Lando must’ve answered quickly, but it seemed to take some convincing from the Aussie to lure Lando out of his driver’s room. Eventually the word was that he was on his way down.

I wouldn’t let Daniel leave. I couldn’t let Daniel leave. Just over a minute after Daniel had hung up the phone, I heard a voice that I’d been missing for months.

The voice was so calming on the ears that I had a physical reaction to it. Everything seemed to calm down around me the second the first word came stumbling from Lando’s mouth.

“What’s up, Daniel? Really just not in the mood right now.”

He didn’t respond. Daniel just stepped out of the way, revealing me to the man who still held so much of my soul.

“Hey, Lan.”

The tension was palpable. Lando and I stood there staring at one another as Daniel slowly disappeared to likely return to his own driver’s room. I didn’t want to say anything until he responded, but I was scared that if I waited for him, it would be silent for hours.

“Sorry for just showing up and not calling. For some reason it seemed easier to jump on a plane than it did to pick up the phone.”

“You’re here? In Austria? You’re here, really here? I went back home, I called and nothing. Now, you’re just here?”

“Lan, I’m sorry. I needed space. I just didn’t know the best way to come back.”

I could tell Lando was trying to not get angry. His body language becomes so easy to read after knowing him for years.

His hand ran through the curls on his head after rubbing his face almost too hard.

“Um, let’s just go to my driver’s room. We probably shouldn’t have this conversation in public.”

The walk to his room was awkward. There were eyes glancing at us and some whispers, too. I knew it had been awhile since I had been at one of these, but this surely wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.

“Listen, Eloise, I’m not mad. I’m just confused. You left me in my apartment and then disappeared for months with nothing from you. I had to rely on Max to at least know you were alive.”

Lando took a seat on his makeshift bed after making room next to him for me to sit.

“I know, Lando. I can only imagine how much it hurt you for me to leave, but I had to protect myself. I was hurting so much.”

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

Lando was crying. With the events that had already unfolded today, this really wasn’t the best time for this conversation, but it didn’t look like I could avoid it any longer.

“Lan, I know you didn’t want to hurt me.”

Before I could stop myself, I was wiping the tears that were starting to spill from his eyes. He looked so vulnerable at this moment.

“And, really, Lando, I don’t think I ever really felt hurt by you. I just wanted you to hear me and it felt like you were blinded by some love.”

“It wasn’t love. It was lust or some shit like that. It just definitely wasn’t love.”

I’m not sure how I was really supposed to take that revelation. Was he still seeing her? Was it still too new that he was just describing it as lust?

My confusion must’ve been evident on my face because before I could utter a response, Lando was talking again. He was talking to me as he slowly grabbed both of my hands in his, running his thumbs over the back of them.

“She’s gone. She’s not in the picture anymore. The day after you left, Max and I had a heart-to-heart. Really, he kind of laid into me and wouldn’t stop. He kept saying that some fling was never going to be worth what you meant to me — what you mean to me.”

It was my turn to start crying. The tears didn’t flow as fast as they did the night I walked out of his apartment, but they were there. Lando quickly pulled me into his chest, placing a needed kiss on my temple.

“Eloise, I will spend every day for the rest of my life apologizing for allowing her to say those things about you.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” my voice slightly muffled but my head in his chest.

As I leaned back, I grabbed his hands once again and looked him in the eyes — those eyes that have held me captive since I was 13.

“Why didn’t you come find me after you broke it off with her? Max isn’t that strong, he would’ve told you where I was in a heartbeat if he knew it was over.”

“I knew where you were. I knew you were tucked away in a crummy New York hotel room. I just wanted to give you space. Telling you she was gone would’ve just rushed you, and I didn’t want to do that.”

“You really do surprise me sometimes, Lando Norris. Can we go back to being friends again? I can’t do life without you in it.”

“About that…”

About what? What could Lando possibly want to say to me? I thought this conversation was going well, I thought it was oddly healing in a way. Was he about to push me out the door this time?

“I don’t know if we can be friends again, Eloise.”

Oh my god this really is it. Our friendship is ending. After months of me not letting it die in my brain as I took my own space, Lando Norris was about to shatter my heart into a million unrecoverable pieces.

“We can’t be friends because it’s not OK for friends to love one another the way I love you.”

“Wait, what?”

#ln4 #lando #lando norris #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #lando norris imagine #lando norrs x reader #lando norris x oc #lando norris one shot

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octuscle · 1 year ago

Text

Fiesta de fin de año en Miami

Henry was actually just annoyed. He had been looking forward to a few quiet days in South Beach. To escape the damp cold of Chicago. Walks on the beach, excellent dinners under the stars, plenty of time to read the books he'd received for Christmas. But even checking in for the flight to Miami was hell. Everything was full of loud and undisciplined Latinos. Not just the have-nots in the queue for economy class. Also at check-in for Business Class. And he was envious to see that even in First Class, people who looked like members of a Latino boy band were checking in. This is going to be fun, Herny thought agonizedly. Especially when he was greeted in Spanish when he handed over his suitcase in his own country. Damn Latinos!

In the lounge, Henry grumbles loudly to himself while waiting for boarding. That all the tanned, half-naked guys here probably earned the money for the plane tickets as drug mules or gigolos. One of the few respectable-looking passengers sits down next to him, puts a Cuba Libre on his cocktail table. And says to him "¡Disfrute de la bebida y relájese! ¿Cuánta experiencia tienes como mula de la droga y gigoló?" Henry looks at him questioningly, the gentleman smiles and toasts Henry.

When the flight is called, Henry is a little drunk. Hehehe, these lounges are really cool. He wonders how he actually got in there. And he is envious of the passengers who fly business class and regularly enjoy this luxury. The queue for Economy Class feels like it's dos kilómetros long. Thank goodness Enry only has his small rucksack with him as hand luggage. He'll manage to squeeze it into the overhead compartment somehow. The ground crew guy is muy caliente. Enry smiles at him. He smiles back. Too bad, he would have been grateful if the cutie had done the in-flight service right away. But Enri is lucky: in his middle seat, he is squeezed between two hermanos with whom he can certainly have fun. The man in the window seat has smuggled a bottle of rum on board. His neighbor in the aisle seat can't fit anything into his compression pants except for his huge-looking boner. The three of them start talking about soccer. The guy in the window is visiting his family for New Year's Eve. The guy in the aisle seat, like Enriq, is simply on his way to Miami to celebrate. Damn, he can hardly concentrate, his bump looks so painful. Enriq climbs over him, rubbing his boner noticeably against his neighbor's and says that he urgently needs to go to the bathroom.

Enrique just manages to post a photo on Instagram. The caption is ¿Has follado alguna vez en el baño de un avión? Estoy listo". Then the door opens. ¡Divertíos, chicos!

Inspiración a través de @curioustoseewhatsup, foto encontrada @marechais

#male tf #muscle tf #inked man #race change #age reduction

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willowsnook · 3 months ago

Note

Whisky sprite in a wine glass please!! 💖💖

josh allen x riccardo!sister

you're mine, end of discussion

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

Accepting your dream job was one of the best days of your life, but it came with one catch: you had to relocate to Buffalo, NY. Having lived in Australia your entire life, the move was daunting. Luckily, your brother Daniel had a good friend in Buffalo who offered to help you move in.

Daniel didn’t say much about his friend—just that his name was Josh and they’d met through work. So, you were taken by surprise when a truck full of three giant men pulled up outside your building, ready to help. “Josh” turned out to be Josh Allen, quarterback for the Buffalo Bills.

He and his teammates were a huge help moving your things, and before leaving, Josh insisted on giving you his number "just in case" you needed anything.

It turned out you did need him—quite a lot. From restaurant recommendations to navigating the healthcare system and learning the ins and outs of American football, Josh had been your go-to guy. He even invited you to a Bills game, where you spent most of the time confused about the rules. That led to a weekly ritual of Josh coming over to watch old football games or movies to educate you.

After five months, the two of you had grown close, and you'd developed feelings for him. Too scared to risk your friendship, you kept your crush to yourself. Josh was in his offseason now, meaning he had more free time to hang out, which only made your feelings harder to ignore.

"By the way," you said casually one evening as you lounged together on your couch watching a movie, "I booked our plane tickets for the Miami Grand Prix next weekend."

Josh looked over at you, confused. "You got me a ticket?"

"Well, yeah," you replied, unsure why he was surprised. "I thought you’d want to see Daniel."

A grin spread across his face. "Just figured you’d ask first."

"You spend every weekend with me, dummy, so I knew you were free."

"Are you saying I don’t have a life?" he teased.

"If the shoe fits," you shot back with a smirk, and before you knew it, Josh had launched himself over the couch to tickle you. You squealed, trying to push him off, both of you laughing until he paused, realizing the compromising position you were in. He quickly moved away, his cheeks slightly red.

"Well, I am excited to see your brother race," he finally said, and you smiled.

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

Race day at the Miami Grand Prix was electric, and you were thrilled to be back in the paddock. Josh’s eyes lit up as he took in the sights, clearly fascinated by the behind-the-scenes of Formula 1.

"Y/N!" someone called out, and you were soon enveloped in a big hug from Lando Norris.

"Hi Lando," you said into his chest. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," he said grinning before looking to Josh who was just happy to be there. "Going to introduce me to your boyfriend?"

"This is my non-boyfriend Josh, Josh this is Lando," you introduced and Josh shook his hand.

"Non-boyfriend?" Lando teased in a whisper. "That’s not what the press thinks."

You rolled your eyes, well aware of the photos circulating online that speculated about you and Josh. Being Daniel Ricciardo’s sister meant you were used to media attention, but this was new territory.

Shoving Lando playfully, you glanced over to see Josh chatting with your brother, who was pulling you into a hug as soon as he noticed.

"My beautiful sister has returned!" Daniel announced loudly, causing you to bury your head in his chest in embarrassment. He didn’t stop talking, though, dragging Josh along to the RB garage while catching up with him.

Later, as you walked through the paddock, more drivers greeted you, some eyeing Josh with curiosity.

"I feel like Daniel’s not the only older brother I should be worried about," Josh muttered as you two found a quiet moment.

You laughed. "Please, you’re twice the size of all of them."

After the race, Josh wandered off to talk to another NFL player while you waited for Daniel. When he emerged from the garage, you hugged him tightly.

"Are we going to talk about how I sent him to be your friend, and now he looks at you like you’re the center of the universe?" Daniel teased, making you blush. "You know how many drivers asked if I was okay with your ‘boyfriend’?"

"I don’t even know if he likes me like that," you admitted, voice small. "He’s so nice to everyone, it’s hard to tell."

"Trust me, he does," Daniel said sighing.

"It's your fault buddy, you basically asked him to fall in love with me," you teased and Daniel groaned. Josh was waiting up ahead and you returned his big smile, thinking about what Daniel had said.

"I have to go do interviews, but I'll see you guys later tonight," Daniel said and you waved goodbye as he left.

"Hungry?" you asked Josh as you walked toward the exit.

"Starving," he replied.

Ten minutes later, you were seated across from each other at a casual burger place. As you scrolled through your phone, you asked, "Did you have fun today?"

"Yeah, it was awesome. Really cool to see how everything works behind the scenes. Do you miss going to races?"

"Sometimes," you said thoughtfully. "I’ve known a lot of the drivers for years, so I miss seeing them."

Josh nodded. "I could tell how much they care about you—especially by the way they treated me."

You giggled, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, we’re definitely not beating those ‘more than friends’ allegations."

"I don’t think I want to," he said casually, and your jaw dropped.

"What?"

His eyes twinkled with amusement. "I like you a lot, Y/N. After getting your darling brother’s blessing, I feel pretty confident saying that you’re mine. End of discussion."

"And you didn’t think to ask what I thought?" you teased, feigning outrage.

"Well, you’re with me all the time, dummy," he said, throwing your words back at you with a playful grin. "I figured you’d be okay with it."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Touché."

#josh allen imagine #josh allen #nfl imagines

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enriquemzn262 · 11 months ago

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I haven’t mentioned this publicly, but I honestly think it’s about time I do so:

Back in 2021, a whole bunch of family, myself included, got together and decided to apply for the American tourism visa, where we hoped to take advantage of the disruption in travel that the pandemic still posed just to see if it would be easier to get it.

And while it was relatively cheaper, the set date for the interview was August 2023, almost two years from the time we started, so that process was basically left in the back of our minds.

Well, come August, and we all travelled as a group to Bogota, got ready, and hoped for the best.

30 minutes of security screenings at the US embassy, 1 hour of waiting in line, and a 10 minute interview later

I got my visa! I can travel up to three months a year to the US now!

And as celebration, one of my family members, who recently had an insurance payout after an incident 4 years ago, gifted all of us plane tickets to Miami, taking advantage of how dirt cheap those are from here (barely a 4-hour flight), so this Tuesday I’ll be going to the United States of America for the first time in my life, a dream come true!

Its going to be a 9-day trip, we will be renting a car together as a group, and staying at both Miami and Orlando, hoping to visit as much as we can as cheaply as humanly possible, where we will also take advantage of the recent fall of the US dollar compared to the Colombian peso.

So yeah, I’ll finally get to visit the country that has given me so much over the years, not to mention, I’ll actually get to use my spoken English! Hopefully everything goes smoothly.

I wanted to go shooting, but looking at online prices those are criminally expensive, so maybe for another time, hopefully with my (future) wife on my side (since she’s Venezuelan and we’re still not legally married we couldn’t make her part of our group)

If any old mutual lives in the Miami or Orlando area, be sure to let me know, one of the items of my bucket list is finally meeting irl someone from Tumblr, and I’m hoping to cross that on this trip!

#text

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 8 months ago

Note

I often wonder what was that one particular thing, ingredient X, if you may, that made Harry succumb to Meghan in June 2016?

I understand that he had psychological trauma from his mums death, from his dad's bourgeois parenting style, from the very fact that he was Windsor male for that matter. I also agree that he is quite simple minded, so now in hind sight we can say he is increasingly motivated by resentment towards his perfect brother, his own greed and need for adulation etc. But back in 2016, he was on a good path. Settling into his job. Enjoying the perks of his popularity. And it's safe to assume that both William and Harry, were used to the fact that women threw themselves at them both. So they also had some sense to know that not everyone had good intentions.

It's also been speculated that Harry did meet Meghan a year before in 2015, at Soho Istanbul (according to many bloggers). And may even have met her in 2014 at Miami (according to Shauna, Vintage Reads). So he had enjoyed her company and still evaded her clothes then.

And not just her, he probably had come into contact with many wannabes who he hooked up with and managed to shake off.

So why 2016? When everything seemed to be going so well for him? His family circle was fairly well grounded. He had an independent profile of his own royal work. He had a good team and loyal, competent staff. He had a great, extensive friend circle. He could have anything and anyone he wanted. He seemed nice, engaged with people, showed empathy and some commonsense when out and about. So I am so perplexed as to how and why, that "blind date" at Soho in May/June/July/whenever led to his spectacular downfall.

I know this isn't really the blog or the platform where we can psychoanalyse Harry correctly and succinctly. But it's just a question that I'm fascinated by. In 3 years, he lost every single thing he had - his family, his relationships, his work, his friends, his honour, his glory, his legacy, his prospects at any royal relevance. How were mental defences so down, so ineffective, how was he so walled-in into his trauma that he had no chance at being saved? It sure couldn't be as simple as greed for more money or a Hollywood lifestyle?

And let's be honest, Meghan isn't that great a catch where someone like him would just lay down everything at her feet and be like "here queen, feed on my guts, eat my flesh raw". Urghhh

I'm so confused and so perplexed.

All of Harry's friends and cousins were getting married and settling down in 2015/2016. That's a lot of peer pressure and expectations on him, even if it wasn't overt and directly applied.

And when everyone around you is coupling up, settling down, getting married, and having babies, that can give you beer goggles because now you're rushing through relationships to catch up with them. We've all seen it happen in our own friend groups, I'm sure. I've got a few friends who were so bothered by being in their 30s without partners and families while the rest of their friends are planning weddings and having babies that they marry the first guy who shows interest. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn't.

That seems to be what happened to Harry. Everyone was settling down. He was feeling left out. So he met someone that suited his needs, said "to hell with the rest" and married her ASAP.

And also this: "He could have anything and anyone he wanted." isn't true. He wasn't getting the girls he wanted. He wanted someone like Kate - pretty, British, media-trained, from a good family, and well-off - and all those girls were staying far, far away from him. They knew what he was really like behind closed doors; needy, paranoid, cheap (he once made Cressida buy her own plane ticket for a trip he had invited her on), and heavily partying. The 'anyone he wanted' that Harry was going after wasn't into that.

Also, anon - if you haven't already, you might want to give Tom Bower's Revenge a read. Specifically Chapter 13, "A Troubled Prince," has a little bit of psychoanlysis of Harry that you might enjoy.

#sussexes #theories

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fireessie · 5 months ago

Text

Okay I've had the idea of Logan and Oscar reconnecting stuck in my head so badly that I just had to write something for it!

In case you missed the asks - this is a mini au of my Loscar abo series in which Logan was pulled from racing way back in 2017 and he and Oscar lost touch and now, at the 2023 Miami GP they meet again 🩷

“Your server is going to be Logan, he’ll be over in a second to get some drinks started for you.”

Oscar tensed up at the name, an unconscious response at this point but he forced himself to not get his hopes up. Just because they were in Miami and their server was someone called Logan didn’t mean it was his Logan.

His Logan who he hadn’t seen in over seven years and who had dropped off the face of the earth.

His Logan.

At one point his best friend.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have a half-hearted plan to try and track him down while they were in Miami but he truly had no idea where to start. Logan might not even be in Miami, he could be anywhere. The last thing he knew was that his parents had pulled him from racing when he presented, which was such a narrow minded, medieval thing that Oscar had almost begged his parents to buy him a plane ticket to go and rescue Logan because he knew that Logan was the same as him, they needed racing to breath. But he hadn’t. He wished he had but he hadn’t.

“Evening guys,” Oscar looked up at the soft accented twang and froze. “My name’s Logan and I’ll be your server – ompf.”

Being restrained hadn’t even crossed Oscar’s mind. Because it was Logan. He launched himself out of his chair, crossing the distance between himself and Logan in milliseconds and wrapped his arms tight around his friend. He heard murmurs of surprise behind him but he paid no attention to his mechanics. They’d give him so much stick for this but he didn’t care.

“Logan,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with the omega who looked shocked at the turn of events.

“Oscar?”

“Yeah mate, oh my god,” Oscar pulled Logan close again, trying to clam himself down. Logan was tense in his arms and…. Skinny. Oscar loosened his grip slightly because it felt like Logan would snap in two if he kept holding on. Logan shuffled back and Oscar let him go with a pang in his heart but he used the distance to take in Logan’s face. Like his body it looked skinny, pale and drawn with exhaustion, his eyes lined by thick dark bags and he held himself carefully, like he was afraid to really relax. Clearly the years had been tough on Logan but at the very least Oscar hoped that Logan was happy.

His eyes darted over Oscar’s shoulders and Oscar looked round to see the host walking over to them.

“Everything alright over here Logan?”

“Yes I-“

“Because I don’t see you at the bar getting drinks for your table. I’m not paying you to be sociable.”

Logan’s face somehow went a shade lighter and his body tensed even further.

“It was my fault,” Oscar jumped in, “I wasn’t expecting to see him and I’ve missed him. Totally my bad though, we’ll catch up later? When you’re off?” He prayed Logan accepted because otherwise Oscar may have to become a stalker.

A faint blush appeared on Logan’s cheeks and he nodded, “I’d like that.”

A wolf whistle sounded from the table and Tom called out, “Oscar’s got a date!”

Logan’s blush increased and he ducked his head, his hair falling to hide his face.

The whistles and claps continued as Oscar returned to his seat, brushing off the good-natured jeering as Logan started taking their orders but he didn't take his dyes off of Logan, almost afraid that if he did, Logan would vanish and it would be another seven years before he saw him again.

#my fics #my writing #loscar abo series

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backstabbingfarter · 11 months ago

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uhhhh…. guys don’t panic… but THE john Flansburgh is 6 feet in front of me trying to get enough quarters to buy a sugar free pink lemonade 😱‼️‼️

if only i could buy it for him. unfortunately all of my quarters are seconds away from being used to finalize plane tickets for 1-2 orphans so that they can witness the beautiful white sand beaches of Miami and dance in the water for the first time, with no parents because they are orphans.

If you would like to buy Mr. Flans his sugarless confectionery, do not hesitate. send me the front and back of your debit/credit card (visa, master card or discover) and i will tell flans that you have PERSONALLY opted to buy him a delicious treat so he does not have to continue fumbling with his pockets like a complete oaf. i am uncertain the amount of gratitude he would feel at this gesture, only that it is likely more than i have ever witnessed before.

save flans!!!! SAVE FLANS!!!

#john flansburgh #save flans #my baby boy flans you have to help him #oh god he’s tipping the vending machine #quick quick!!!#tmbg #they might be giants

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klaudia2646 · 6 months ago

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Work has been a bit slow today. I’ve had some of the people who park and talk to me for an hour about random things that have nothing to do with me.

We’re leaving next to go to Arkansas again. We’ll leave Thursday, drive half way, spend the night in a hotel and arrive early on Friday. Saturday we have a wedding at noon. It will go all the way until midnight but we’ll get out of there early since we’ll be leaving to go to the Dominican Republic on Sunday. Plane supposedly takes off at 6 am so we have to be in the airport super early. We’re trying to find a hotel with a shuttle that can drop us off that early at the hotel. I’ve already setup all the other reservations.

My problem is, after flying in March and having such a bad experience in Miami, I really do not want to fly internationally so soon. However, we will be going through Atlanta and we’re flying Delta instead of American. It gives me anxiety nevertheless. Poor David will have to drive from Memphis which is a little bit longer but if we get a shuttle he doesn’t have to get up quite so early.

We still have to fill out the immigration E-ticket to enter and leave the Dominican Republic but I have to waist for the rest of them since Andrew bought the tickets and we’re all flying together.

It’ll be very hot, that I know, especially in July. I’m just hoping we don’t have a hurricane nearby.

Once I’m done with this trip and an evening receptionist is hired, life may go back to normal, hopefully.

#7/1/24 #10:02 am #66 f and overcast #American Airlines employees suck #I will not travel American Airlines if I can help it #I will not travel through Miami if I can help it

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christinescupofcoffee · 2 months ago

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Quarter After Twelve

Chapter Four: Four Weddings and a Gunshot

Allison rolled over onto his side, away from Skylar’s willowy body. It was around midnight at that point, and he needed to rest. He needed to rest away from her in particular. Indeed, he lay there on the other side of the bed, so far in fact that the crests of his knees hung over the edge of the mattress. He needn’t touch her, especially not after that evening, not after yet another quarrel. It wasn’t until he caught the sound of her heavy breathing over there on the other side of the bed, and he knew that he was safe again.

At least for the time being.

It wasn’t being an expat on the west coast of Australia, especially when he strode out to the porch for a clear view out to the Indian Ocean and he expected to fall in without warning. It was what he had, and especially when Skylar had no intention on leaving that little bungalow for a bigger apartment, and one closer to Perth no less. It was this one small corner of Australia that not only looked out to the ocean but gave him the feeling that they could very easily go down to Antarctica from there: the winds were often downright vicious this time of year with the introduction of springtime, even though he swore that they would be well-acquainted with it.

Allison hailed from Birmingham, where Skylar came from even further away in Pennsylvania. The wind tunnel of Britain and the bitter cold of the Northeast.

However, this cold was something else, especially as the rains pelted down on the jetty not too far from where they lived. At least it finally stopped raining that evening, and he could relish in his time alone, away from her.

This was one of those nights where he asked himself “why did I ever get married.”

A young man of Portuguese and Spanish heritage who had broken free from the grungy, musty corners of Birmingham and escaped to America, where he had met Skylar in New York City. They had vacationed in Miami in the weeks following their wedding when the invasion happened. To take her to safety, Allison had put down most of his life savings for a small bungalow and a pair of plane tickets out to Australia, with the thought in mind that they could be as far away from America as possible. Be as far away as the ship was sinking right before their very eyes.

That was only a week ago. They had only been married for a little more than two months when he began to regret ever marrying her. It wasn’t so much worrying about her family because he worried about his parents and grandparents back in England, but she would argue with him over every last little thing, from the fact they lived on the coast looking out to the Indian Ocean to the fact that he liked extra pepper on his scrambled eggs and beans on toast.

A beautiful young man with long fine dark hair down past his shoulders, and when the southern sun hit the crown of his head just right, it seemed to make his hair look like wild honey. His tender brown eyes and pristine skin would make him a catch for any girl in the northeastern United States, much less in Birmingham or in Western Australia. He stood tall and slender, and he moved about as if he had been crafted out by a man on a mission to create the perfect boy. As if he had been mined out from those depths in the heart of Britain.

Skylar meanwhile stood short and stout with a cheesy hairdo which she had straight up told him came as a blast from her past.

“I had the same hair when I was five years old,” she so cheerfully told him.

Allison found it rather odd but endearing nonetheless that a woman of her stature could be so in touch with her childlike self.

But the bubble had burst, and now they were alone in the land down under with nothing to do than to fight each other: Allison did however have a job lined up with the bakery in town. He knew it was the only thing that kept him from tying a noose around his neck, especially as he had spent the rest of his money on paying their rent the day before. Given they were expatriates, they needed to wait until they could receive the full benefits of their neighbors.

The aurora was alive that night, much to his surprise. The veil of red, gold, and green proved to be his comfort, especially given the sheer brightness of the colors.

Maybe it was a sign, a sign to file for divorce and then make his covert return to England, or at least make his escape up to Perth, away from her and away from the immense winds of the Southern Ocean.

Allison sighed through his nose and watched the veil of lights beyond his window. Almost within the span of a single evening, the big bay window with the view out to the water had become his window. It somewhat reminded him of all the times that he had fallen asleep at his grandparents’ house in Dover, when he would gaze out the window to the swirling clouds from the rainstorms coming down from Scandinavia, all of them heavy and orange with snow and sleet.

Skylar could return to Pennsylvania as far as he cared.

But even when he closed his eyes, he could still hear the quarrel from before. The way she spoke so curtly and the way that her words were laced with utmost venom and anger, and yet he had long forgotten what she was angry about with him. She seemed to be angry with so many things when it came to him that he had completely lost track of what things she was angry about.

But as long as he had himself, as long as he was alone and away from the cold black venom that swirled underneath that little pug nose and squashed face, he could regain his composure and perhaps find a plan out of there and a hundred miles away up to Perth.

Allison had dozed off when he was woken up by the sound of shuffling. He was certain that it was nothing but then he felt something next to his head.

He opened his eyes, only to be met with the rounded black hole that was the barrel of a gun right in front of his face.

The fading glow of the aurora lit his way.

Allison gripped onto his murderer’s wrists with both hands and pushed them back. The person fell off of him no problem, and he pushed them back onto the foot of the bed. Grunting, he pinned them down and hung over them: he had a mouthful of hair at the moment, but he could care less.

The aurora picked up again in the brightest shade of green yet.

He could see her face.

Skylar pulled the trigger right as he forced the barrel of the gun away from his face.

The pain was too much to bear as it spread across his chest and down the entirety of his body.

Allison fell to the top of the mattress in agony. The bright light of the aurora helped him see her about to pistol whip him, but then he shoved her off of him with all of his might. There was a loud metallic clang as she dropped the gun.

He lifted himself off the bed and punched her, hard, with all his might.

Skylar didn’t move, and he knew he had knocked her out.

Scrambling to the other side of the bed, he lunged for the phone, and he realized that he couldn’t move his legs. Indeed, he couldn’t feel anything below the waist.

“Shit—shit—” He picked up the cordless phone from his nightstand and dialed for help. It only rang once.

“What’s your emergency?” The Australian woman’s voice had never sounded more comforting to him.

“Uh, yes, my wife just shot me in the chest and now I can’t move,” he stammered out. He could hardly believe that he could even still talk given she had shot him in the chest. In fact, he could hardly believe that he was even still alive.

“Oh, dear lord! Okay, help is on the way. Where is your wife? Is she in the house with you?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I punched her and knocked her out.” He groaned and grunted as the gunshot throbbed hard and deep in his body.

“She shot you in the chest?”

“Yeah… it felt like buckshot, too. It spread across my chest like—like a wave. Ah!”

“Okay, okay, sir—an ambulance is coming right now.”

“Okay. Goddamn it—ah. Ah, thank you.”

With a seething groan, Allison hung up and glared at Skylar. How he wished to punch her, over and over again, but his legs could not move in the least. Breathing hard, he struggled to keep his act together, but it was hard to when he was losing blood and losing control of his temper on top of that.

“You… you fucking…” Blood filled his eyes as well as the tip of his nose as well as around his lips. Breathing hard, he knew he was losing blood, and he had no idea he could ever walk again, much less live at a normal level again.

But one thing remained for certain and that was the fact that he could no longer move his legs for the time being, and he could hear the sirens coming for them. And it was here that he wished that he could go back out to the porch for a view out to the Indian Ocean and to feel the winds on his face again, at least for one more time. But at least he had the lights in the sky to help him, otherwise, he would have to write his own obituary.

#writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #new chapter #my writing #also on ao3 #text #original story #original series #original fiction #original character #quarter after twelve

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ladysophiebeckett · 7 months ago

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need to talk all of you about this amazing movie i watched after watching a couple of duds (sometimes we have to watch duds to find gold)--

and you think 'oh its another hallmark movie'--no. as u can see it's 'reel one entertainment'. dont confuse them. (its like the same thing)

anyway--'the marry me pact', starring Rejected Property Brother #19203 (i assume they have more of them in canada) and Brunette American Carey Mulligan--brings the drama in this 'my best friends wedding' rip off.

opens with rory (rejected property brother) on his 29th birthday reminding 'charlotte' of the pact they made at 21--(bc some girl dumped him) that if he wasn't married by 30 he could marry his best friend charlotte (american carey mulligan). and rory wants to cash in bc this is his face when charlotte says 'yeah but u weren't serious right?'

he was charlotte. he was.

so then she buys him a plane ticket out of miami to like, south america or something. as a present.

then its a year later.

charlotte visits a psychic for research purposes (she's a writer). the psychic tells her 'hey girl there's a man in ur life and also a pact to marry him'. she got all that fm tarot cards. but at no point does she actually do any book research. its over. now the idea of getting a man is in her head.

and boy does it. bc then at the end of the day shes like 'what if rory is the love of my life???' uh u didnt even want him a year ago....

psychic tells her one thing and she's all in.

then rory calls her and is like 'im back in miami' and says 'i have some things i need to tell you'

so they're at dinner (it's pizza at her sister's restaurant. bc a man wrote this so they just eat pizza its their favorite food blah blah blah) and he's like 'yeah i want to settle down. i started to envision that for myself', she's like---

thinking he's gonna say its her. out of nowhere.

but then rory says 'i met rachel!'

charlotte:

then rory's like 'oh yeah we're engaged. and getting married in 3 weeks. and also can u be my best man? and on top of that, can u help me plan my wedding, bc im absolutely useless'.

charlotte: uhh

rory: you're gonna love her. she's a nerd like you. she loves food, like you. she loves the green witch fm that musical, like you. in fact, why dont you meet her right now?

yes, why dont we.

this is charlotte and rachel hugging:

this is rachel in case you're confused.

and this all three of them having wine in his kitchen--

that's right. rory went to south america and found the first american brunette that looked like charlotte and called it a day.

this man is sick.

then charlotte's like 'damn it looks like u couldnt get rory to have better taste in art' and rory's like 'uhh that's one of rachel's paintings' and then rachel spills wine on charlotte. but it was an accident.

im not kidding that really happens and i laughed.

moving on to another hilarious moment--charlotte's finally checking her fan mail that's been sitting in her organized office for 6 months--and what does she see? a postcard rory wrote her from chile declaring his love for her and he says in it 'you dont have to reply and nothing will change between us if you dont feel the same way'

charlotte reading this like--

and what does she do after this? nothing. she just mopes. like a loser.

then later, somehow in a big city like miami, they all run into each other---

the woman in blue is charlotte's pizza sister, she has a boring ass romantic subplot of her own but it doesn't matter.

the script makes it a point to tell us that rory and charlotte love bookstores bc they 'make them feel safe' while rachel the fiancée complains that she likes hitchcock movies but rory falls asleep during them.

rachel is such a loser for liking 'psycho' meanwhile im pretty sure rory's lying about knowing how to read.

anyway he has the audacity to complain that charlotte hasn't been helping him plan his wedding to another woman, literally in front of her (rachel). bc apparently charlotte's been blowing him off. gee, i wonder why.

then he tricks her into going to find a tux and then he tricks her into trying out a wedding dress with the excuse of 'i just want to make sure i look good standing next to rachel in her dress'

we dont even know what rachel's wearing. but sure.

anyway, this little freak got what he wanted.

then charlotte's like 'can u get my shoe off, its stuck in the dress' idk how that even happens but whatever--

then that little freak got what she wanted. ect ect.

of course we get a scene of his brother saying 'hey we always thought you would marry rory lol' and then charlotte leaves immediately.

then we meet the psychic again who says she got a vision of a woman in a wedding dress leaving a wedding. and we think 'oh is she gonna run out on rory?' but the psychic says, what i think is a great line, 'my child, i dont get visions of the future. i get visions of the past'

charlotte and anyone watching this: what?

psychic: i dont make the rules.

this is the worst psychic in miami. she'll give you the lottery's numbers but it'll be the winning numbers fm like, a year ago.

so then its like 10 days before the wedding and we're doing cake testing with rory, rachel and his best friend charlotte.

rachel when charlotte shows up:

rachel (in private), is like ' wtf is she doing here??'

rory: shes helping us out.

rachel: i thought this was something we could decide together??

rory: i could tell her to go...she does find this all tedious..

rachel: no..i dont want to make things uncomfortable

rory: i think u should be happy someone like her is helping me tho bc im so stupid :\

rachel: yeah ur right :\

personally i think rory is getting away with too much.

so theyre tasting cakes but rory and rachel dont agree and ask charlotte and of course charlotte like's rory's choice, which leads to another hilarious moment--

rachel: well what do you know about wedding cake?

charlotte: i know you never ate your first one

and then rachel almost chokes on her own spit.

fast forward--rory's like 'what was that about?' and charlotte's like 'uh nothing'.

rory: do you mind cutting rachel some slack? its important to me that you two get along.

charlotte: i promise.

so now rory has two women apologizing to him for fuck ups he initiated.

let me remind you that a man wrote this.

then charlotte has to apologize to rachel and takes her to a Hitchcock retrospective. rachel's tells us about her failed engagement that happened 'years ago'. but then charlotte stalks down the ex fiancé and finds out rachel left him a year ago. not 'years ago'.

and if you think that's gonna come up later or be resolved--you're wrong.

then charlotte had to help rory find the location of his wedding and we find out that he hasnt written his vows.

rory: u know im terrible at writing. you'll help me right?

like,,,is there anything rory's good at? i dont think so.

now im fastforwarding filler scenes to get to the bachelor weekend--

the boys and charlotte go on some partnered up seeing sight hike and rory's sprains his ankle in his attempt at trying to win...something.

later that night, charlotte and rory have a talk.

rory: im sorry about the hike. i rushed into it--

charlotte: like you do everything--

rory: what does that mean??

charlotte: you rush into everything--today, the south america trip, this wedding--

rory: you supported me doing that trip--u basically bullied me into doing it--

(she did no such thing)

rory: u dont like rachel. that's the problem.

charlotte: that is not true. i dont think u should be declaring that you're gonna spend the rest of your life with someone u dont even know.

rory: why are you telling me this now? my wedding is next week.

charlotte: exactly! i dont want you making some huge mistake! maybe you need more time to decide if this is something you really want--

rory: i do want this

charlotte: does she?

rory: what are you talking about?

and then charlotte spills about rachel's runaway bride incident and shes like 'does that sound like someone who knows what she wants??'rory's like 'you went behind my back'. which is not true imo.

rory: i would have thought you had more faith in me, as my best friend.

charlotte: your best friend? you barely contacted me while you were away.

rory: i contacted you. i wrote to you. i told you i had feelings for you. that i had feelings for you for years. you ignored it.

charlotte: i never got the post card. not until recently.

rory:

charlotte: it's too late now anyway

rory, grasping at straws: i mean...do u feel the same??

charlotte: it doesnt matter now does it?

rory, still grasping at straws: doesn't it??

and then charlotte says what i think is the best line in this whole movie---

charlotte: no because you left the fate of our relationship to the postal service!

(i just want to say that it is no way the post office's fault. that fan mail bag was in her office long before that. so the USPS delivered. she just just never bothered to read her fanmail. USPS is a great service and we should continue to support it. thank you. )

rory, seeing that he's not gonna his shot with charlotte: so why are you bringing this up to me now? we had all of our 20's for you to tell me how you felt. now im engaged and im happy and you want to dredge all this up---

( he's the one who brought up the postcard!!! he also could have said something in his 20's!!!! )

Charlotte: all of this has been really hard for me

rory: so what do u want me to do? not get married? have you and i try and figure out whats going on?

(that's literally what he wants. he's still hanging on for hope)

charlotte: I can't tell you what to do.

rory: you know what? this is so selfish of you. i cant believe that you chose this moment to do this.

charlotte's face rn:

girl ur being gaslight !! get out!!!

rory: i would have expected a lot more fm my best friend. i think u should leave and i think its best you dont come to the wedding.

he's literally the worst. he didn't get his declaration of love and he's like 'okay get out. ur uninvited to the wedding i made you help me plan'

anyway shes back to moping when really she should have booked a flight out of miami to get away fm him.

she gets flowers and she thinks its fm him--

WRONG! its her agent telling her to get her ass up and get to work!!

and she's really happy about it. she's like 'i love work. work is never gonna uninvite me to its wedding or gaslight me or make me plan a wedding'.

then rory and rachel have a pizza dinner night before their wedding and they realize they dont dont know anything about each other and when rachel tells him to ask her anything, he has nothing to ask her.

yeah because he doesnt care about you rachel. ur were a charlotte replacement. wake up.

also this card is fm target. i know bc i have this same stack in my drawer.

its the wedding day and rachel's missing (the escalade broke down) and rory's panicking but he makes his brother call her. this man is useless. he has everyone else doing thing for him. can someone kill him?

so charlotte sees rachel running through the park and she's like 'i'll help u get to wedding on this scooter and i promise it wont look gay'

that promise was broken.

so rory and rachel make it down the aisle and they almost do get married until rory has his flashback thinking about charlotte and then at the same time rory and rachel stop the wedding. but instead of rory being a man and being the one to say 'i cant marry you bc i love someone else' --rachel is the one to stop it and take the blame. she runs out and gets charlotte.

rory tries to apologize for being a dick but charlotte doenst let him and then takes more blame.

you think theyre gonna get married but luckily that doesnt happen.

rory: you know i think you'd make a better wife than best woman

(so he's still trying to trap her)

charlotte: for now why dont we get a slice and watch some figure skating?

rory: i like that.

yeah, those are things HE likes to do. we dont really know what SHE likes to do.

and then they kiss--

i know i said at the beginning that this was an amazing movie and if you've read this far, you're like 'this wasn't amazing'.

i said it was amazing, i didnt say it was good. it was just incredibly messy and i think rory should die.

3\5 stars for being incredibly messy.

#the marry me pact #i did not live blog this and i wish i had #i recap a hallmark style movie--if u want to watch it afterwards well thats ur decision isn't it

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