816wdc - Tumblr blog

816wdc · 8 days

Text

Born To Run // i.

cowboy!max verstappen x reader // part i of ii.

Summary: Everyone, including Max, says he’s too much for you. You find yourself determined to prove them all wrong. Your summer on the ranch is set to be one to remember. 5.1k

warnings: sexual content (minors do not interact, 18+ PLEASE!), alcohol/ intoxication, strong use of language, implied unspecified age gap, public sex, oral sex fem receiving, and max is a little mean (oops). if you would like further clarifications on the warnings PLEASE send me a message!

title from Born To Run by Bruce Springsteen, but also from Springsteen by Eric Church, which references… Born To Run by Bruce Springsteen. for mood setting, see also: She Calls Me Back by Noah Kahan and You Should Probably Leave by Chris Stapleton

One of your favorite parts of the summer is the first couple days after you get to your uncle’s ranch. You spend your summers there, helping tend to the gardens and some of the animals in exchange for a breath of fresh air, some time away from the city. You’re in college, now- your last official summer break before real adulthood kicks in- but you’ve been coming here since you were barely able to walk, sometimes with your parents, sometimes without. This year, it’ll just be you. It’s freedom, the way you like it best.

You first see him out in one of the pastures, on horseback, helping round up a wayward bunch of cows. He’s laughing, head flung back, sunlight dancing on his skin. He even sounds pretty, you think, leaning on the fence and watching. You’ve changed into a dress for dinner, your muddy clothes washed and hung out to dry. The cows are being difficult. He doesn’t seem to show even an ounce of frustration.

You’re startled when someone speaks from behind you- It’s Maddy, one of the long term ranch hands.

“Who’s that?” You ask, gesturing at the man.

Maddy whistles lowly and shakes her head. “Don’t even.”

“Don’t even what?” You ask, blinking back at her.

“Get started,” Maddy says, waving a hand dismissively. “You know the saying, too much horse? He’s too much cowboy for you.”

You pout, turning back to look at him. “He seems nice enough.”

He’s climbing off his horse, chatting with another one of the guys. Maddy blows out a breath through pursed lips, and you lean farther on the fence, resting your chin on your hands. The man takes his hat off and runs a hand through his sweat damp hair, and the sunlight glints off the blond strands. You sigh, and Maddy shakes her head.

“Serious, sweets. You don’t wanna go down that road. Max is…,” she sighs and never finishes the thought. Max. It’s a nice name, short and sweet. “Why’d you come out here, anyways?”

“Dinner’s ready,” you say in a dreamy tone.

Maddy groans happily, then whistles loudly, the sound making all the guys turn their heads. “Suppertime!”

You meet Max’s eyes from across the field. The sun is low in the sky, white fluffy clouds dotting the blue above your heads. He grins just a little wider when he looks at you, you swear. He tips his hat to you and then he nudges his horse, taking off across the pasture, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them.

Every Friday, your aunt makes dinner for all the staff, with your help. You all sit down at tables in the backyard and fill up on home cooking and fresh food from the garden. They’re your favorite nights of the week. At dinner, you find that Max is sweet, just like you’d predicted. He says his please and thank yous, his sirs and ma’ams, he smiles kindly at everyone he talks to. He’s friendly, he takes his hat off before he sits down at the table, he’s a perfect gentleman. Maddy must be crazy. How could he ever be too much?

Ten minutes into dinner, you think maybe you know what she meant. You’ve ended up across the table from Max, a few seats down- completely on purpose, on your part. You want him to be able to see you. And he does- fork full of salad halfway to his mouth, he pauses, tilts his head at you, and smiles.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Max says, dropping the fork to reach his hand out across the linen tablecloths. “I’m Max Verstappen.”

You introduce yourself when he takes your hand in his. You see his eyebrows raise when he hears your last name- he’ll know you’re related to his boss, now, but he’d said his last name, so you’d felt the need to do the same. His hand is warm and calloused against yours, and your cheeks grow hot.

“You live here?” He asks.

You wiggle your hand side to side. “For the summer. I help out in the garden, do odd jobs around the ranch. Then in the fall it’s back to college.”

Max raises one brow, leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Knew you were a city girl,” he says.

“Yeah?” You ask, playing along. “What gave it away?”

He shrugs. “You’re too soft,” he says.

It’s not really an insult, but for some reason, it sounds like one coming from him.

…..

You don’t see Max again for a while, except from a distance, you in the garden, him out in the pastures on horseback. The way he rides is enchanting, like he was born to do it, like a natural. Some people just have it in them, your uncle had said.

It rains for three days straight, and the creek at the back of the property floods like it always does. When the water goes down, Maddy invites you out to a bonfire with everyone on a Friday night, a rare week when they’ve been given a Saturday morning off. You agree eagerly, and you head down just after dinner. You’re greeted by the people who know you, the ones who’ve been coming here for years, who’ve seen you grow up. Someone hands you a bottle of alcohol- you don’t ask what it is before you take a pull. Someone whistles lowly. You turn, and find Max’s blue eyes, lit up by the fire.

“Got something to say?” You ask, hand on your hip.

He shrugs and grins. “No ma’am.”

You roll your eyes and walk away, taking the bottle of tequila with you. Down at the river, Maddy’s floating in the current. You decide she’s a better companion than Max and head for her instead. You pull your dress over your head to reveal your swimsuit, and you slip into the water, sighing at the feeling. The bottle of tequila is abandoned on the bank.

It’s a good night for this- just on the right side of too warm, the water just the right temperature. You take turns swinging off the rope swing, and you laugh and joke and bask in the last remaining sunlight. When the sun goes down, you join the circle around the fire, ending up next to Max completely on accident.

He leans close and nudges his thumb against your arm. “You know, for a city girl, you fit in well.”

You huff and roll your eyes. “I’ve been coming here my whole life. You’re the outsider here.”

He hums softly. When you glance at him, he’s smirking. It makes your blood boil, but worse than that, it makes you want to kiss the smirk right off his face. You hate how easily he seems to get under your skin. To try and drown it out, you reach for the bottle of tequila again.

By the end of the night, Maddy’s gone, and the only person who seems to even notice you’re still there is Max. When you nearly spill the remains of the bottle into the river, he dusts his hands off on his jeans, reaches for your wrist, and starts to walk away with you in tow.

“Time for bed,” Max says, gesturing at you.

You blink, trying to clear your vision, stars swirling above Max’s head as the two of you pop out of the woods and into the open field. “Where’re you takin’ me?”

“I’m taking you home,” he says, almost gently.

Taking you home. You like the sound of that. You think. If he means it how you hope. Maybe you could get it out of your system. Just one good fuck and you could stop watching him when you should be tending to the garden.

“Are you taking me home?” You ask. “Or taking me home?”

“What?” He asks, voice wavering. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what ‘m asking,” you say, voice slightly wobbly.

Max stops in his tracks, eyes wide, brows furrowed. He drops his grip on your wrist. You’re halfway back to the house, standing in the grass of one of the fields. You’re too drunk to care about being seen, or what’s in the grass- you just want Max to answer you.

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” he says, firmly. “If that’s what you’re asking.

You let out a whine and nearly stomp your foot, your whole body growing hot just at the words. “Why not?”

He’s looking at you with an unreadable expression. He’s still in his work clothes, button up shirt and faded jeans, hat still perched atop his head. You could reach up and take it off him, if you wanted, if he’d let you. Maybe undo a couple buttons on his shirt. You wonder if his skin would taste like salt, like the sweat you’d seen beading on his upper lip earlier in the day.

“Because you’re drunk,” he says, scratching at his jaw, stubble scraping under his fingers.

“So what?” You say, blinking up at him.

His face twists into a scowl. “So what, you’re drunk?”

You shrug. Behind him, you can see the house. The kitchen light is still on, the glow pulling you in like a moth to a flame. You hope your aunt and uncle are asleep. He takes a lurching step towards you, and you lose your breath when he cups your jaw in one hand, thumb brushing against your skin.

“I’m not fucking you while you’re drunk,” he says. “I don’t know where that came from or who said it to you, but you deserve better than that.”

“Okay,” you reply, suddenly entranced by his blue eyes, bright even in the low light of night.

He manages to herd you up to the house without laying another finger on you, which is a huge disappointment, honestly. He hangs back while you walk up the steps, staying out of the light. He’s worried about being caught with you. Something twists in your stomach at the implication, at what they would think. Nothing happened- it wouldn’t be worth the humiliation, really. But the sitting room is empty, and so is the kitchen. You’re safe, probably.

“G’night,” you call out softly over your shoulder.

When you turn to look, he’s already gone.

…..

There’s exactly one bar within a 30 mile radius of the ranch, and you know it well. It’s near and dear to your heart. Maddy yells at you from the wide open barn doors one night and invites you out with them, and of course, you say yes. You’re in need of a stiff drink, some loud music, and maybe a little bit of dancing.

She picks you up at the house in her truck. The only seat that’s left is the back passenger seat, the others taken up by other ranch hands. The wind whips through the open windows as she peels out of the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust that you know will have your aunt clicking her tongue and rolling her eyes.

Maddy cranks the volume on the CD player. The first year she came to work here, the radio died, and she became reliant on CDs. Then the player stopped ejecting CDs, leaving her copy of Born In The USA trapped, doomed to spin and play through the half broken speakers forever and ever. Bruce Springsteen’s voice rings out over the rattle of the half broken bumper.

The bar is packed, as expected for a Saturday night. Ranch workers do long hours, longer weeks, but Sunday morning is always a time of rest, no matter how few of them bother going to church. Everyone’s here, from your uncle’s 72 year old neighbor Etta to the kid who works the cash register at the gas station. This is the place to be- the only place to be.

It means Max is here, too. It takes you a while to spot him, surprisingly- he blends in well, in his dark shirt, faded jeans, boots and cowboy hat, he looks like everyone else in this place, in this town, in this state. You’re two drinks in, another one in your hand, when you see him. He’s leaning against the bar, leaning close to some girl you’ve never seen before. She’s just his type, probably- long hair, dirt on her jeans, a real life all American girl. You hear his voice echoing in your head- city girl, too soft- and you take a swig of your drink. When you look back at him, he’s staring at you, smirking. You roll your eyes and turn away.

You have a good time, despite Max’s words bouncing around in your head, bringing with them a bit of a feeling of not belonging here. You mingle with the guys from the ranch that you already know, the ones who’ve been working there for years. You dance with one of them when he asks politely, accept a drink from another with a sweet smile, perch yourself on a stool and watch them play pool. You’re laying it on thick, because it’s fun, and because you can feel eyes on the back of your head. Max is watching from across the bar, even as that same girl hangs off his arm and grins up at him. You’re not sure what to make of it.

He doesn’t come near you, doesn’t speak a word in your direction. He just watches, like he’s lying in wait. It would piss you off if it didn’t turn you on so much. You wonder if he notices when you kiss one of the guys on the cheek after they win. You wonder if he sees the way you pull the top of your sundress down just a little bit. You wonder if he sees you pout at someone to buy you a drink, if that would work on him, if he’s checking you out the same way this other guy is.

He doesn’t come close until the end of the night, when they turn on the lights and you’re sure you smell like tequila and cheap beer. Maddy disappeared with a guy from another ranch and left you with her keys, but you’re definitely not fit to drive. You wobble a bit when you stand up from the barstool, and suddenly there’s a strong grip on your side, steadying you. You flinch and try to wrench yourself away.

“Don’ touch me,” you slur, twisting to face whoever it is. You come face to face with Max, and you scowl. “‘Specially you. Don’t you have manners, cowboy? Don’t touch a lady without permission.”

Max rolls his eyes and snatches the keys from your hand before you can blink. “Who the fuck was going to let you drive?”

“I wasn’t gonna drive,” you insist, scowl deepening. “Was gonna find someone to drive me. Give me the keys.”

He ignores you and starts to walk away. As he brushes past you, he reaches for your wrist and tugs gently. You follow, only because he has the keys and his grip is warm and you can feel his thumb pressing into your pulse point. Your breath hitches. He drags you out of the bar, and the cold air hits like a slap to the face, waking you up.

“Hey,” you snap, stopping and tugging your arm from his grip. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you home,” he says.

“What happened to the girl who was all over you?” You ask, too drunk to stop yourself. “She was giving you fuck me eyes, you know. You’re not gonna take her home?”

He scoffs and reaches for your arm again, and you tug it out of reach, crossing your arms over your chest. You know the motion pushes your tits together, and you see his eyes flicker down to sneak a peek. You grin. He rolls his eyes.

“No,” he says, jerking his head towards the parking lot. “Come on.”

“Did you already fuck her in the bathroom, is that why?”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “No.”

“You could take me home, you know-“ you start.

He fixes you with a stern glare that has your face heating up, your stomach churning. You’re coming on too strong. He doesn’t want you like that, and now you’re drunk and acting insane and- he’s just trying to make sure you get home safe. He thinks you’re some stupid city girl who can’t hold her liquor and was going to drive drunk, and you would never-

“I really wasn’t going to drive,” you say, and his face softens. “I would’ve slept in the truck if I had to.”

“I know,” he says softly. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

You nod. “You’re good to drive?”

He nods. You let him take your hand this time, instead of grabbing your wrist, and you try not to get used to the feeling of his calloused palm against yours.

By the time you leave the parking lot of the bar, there are three other people in the backseat, and a few in the bed of the truck, too. Max is a careful driver, though you’re sure part of that is because of the people in the back. He stops at another ranch and one of them climbs out, and then he stops at the bunkhouse at your uncle’s ranch before he steers the car up towards the house. It’s just the two of you. The CD is still spinning, playing quietly through the speakers. He puts the truck in park in front of the house, kitchen light glowing, and you feel like you’re going to be sick.

Instead, words slip past your lips. “I’m sorry. For being… weird. Forward.”

Max scoffs.

“I know. Understatement.” You shrug, reaching for the door handle. “I just. I read the signals wrong. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

You open the door a crack and then freeze when his hand falls to your thigh, gripping tight, burning hot even through the fabric of your dress. Your breath is caught in your chest. You turn to look at him, his face half illuminated, half shadowed.

“You didn’t,” he says.

You swallow. The air is thick with humidity and tension. “Didn’t what?” You ask.

“Make me uncomfortable,” he says, softly. “Or read the signals wrong.”

You pull the truck door shut and turn towards him in your seat. His hand never leaves your leg, his eyes never leave your face, not even when you lean towards him, just slightly. Your heart is in your throat.

“But you told me no, after the river,” you mumble. “And then tonight…”

“You were drunk,” he says. “And you’re drunk again. And you’re too good for me. You deserve better. But…”

“But?”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he says, and your skin lights on fire. His fingers dig into your leg, and you hope to god he leaves a mark. “Bet you taste sweet as honey, too.”

Blood roars in your ears so loud you barely hear the words you say next. “Maybe you should find out for yourself.”

He grins, and then he shakes his head. He releases his grip on your leg and exchanges it for a light smack against the outside of your thigh. If you were sober, you’d call him out for it, but right now, it just sends a shock through your system.

“Time for bed, honey,” he says, and in a trance, you open the door again and head inside.

In the morning, you wonder if you imagined it all. But when you bring coffee out to the cowboys on Monday, he blushes red as the tomatoes in the garden, and you know it was real.

…..

5 days go by. 5 days of watching out the window while he works, 5 days of pining, 5 days of avoiding him at all costs because if you’re being honest, you’re nervous. But then it’s Thursday afternoon, and he walks into the barn while you’re already standing there, and suddenly your heart is pounding in your chest.

He leans against one of the walls, crossing one foot over the other, arms folded over his chest. “You’re avoiding me.”

You shrug, leaning over to brush a bit of dust off your boots before you lean against the opposite wall. You don’t meet his eyes. “Wonder why that would be.”

He huffs. “If you want to be a brat, I can go.”

Your cheeks are burning, and you finally look at him, a glare set in your eyes. He’s smiling, the asshole, barely containing his amusement. Maybe you don’t want him, maybe he’s a jerk, maybe- he uncrosses and recrosses his arms, and you watch his muscles twitch under the fabric of his shirt. You swallow.

“I already told you what I want,” you mutter.

“Oh, good, you remember that,” he retorts.

“I wasn’t that drunk,” you snark back.

“Drunk enough to say it out loud when you can’t even look me in the eyes now,” he says, taking a step away from the door. “Come on, say it like a big girl. Ask me again, sober, like you did before.”

Your heart is in your throat, now. He looms over you, eyes sweeping up and down your body. It’s then that you realize how short your dress is, how close he is, how much you really do want him.

“Max,” you whine, almost petulant.

He tilts his head. “Can’t you ask nicely? Where are your manners?”

You blink up at him, once, twice, three times. His cheeks are rosy red, pupils blown wide. He smells like sweat and sunshine and man and you can’t get enough of him. His hat sits low on his brow, plush lips just barely parted, like he’s waiting for something. You can’t stand it anymore, can’t play this game with him forever.

You reach up and take the hat off his head, and he groans. When you put it atop your own head, he blinks slowly. His hand falls to your hip. It makes you feel like you’re burning up, even through the fabric.

“Fuck me,” you whisper, leaning up to put your lips close to his ear. “Will you do it if I say please, Max?”

His hand squeezes at your hip harshly, and his mouth falls open. And then he’s kissing you, shoving you up against the wall of the barn, and you barely have time to wrap your arms around his neck before he’s slipping his tongue into your mouth. He kisses like no boy you’ve ever kissed before, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, what buttons to press, just how to touch you to have you seeing stars before he’s even begun. He slips his hand lower from your waist and under your skirt, sliding up your thigh, and you whimper into his mouth. His other hand slams against the wall next to your head to try and steady himself. You arch your back, pressing your chest to his, melting when he shifts so one of his legs is slotted between yours, and you-

There’s a shout, then voices, headed your way. Max rips himself away from you, leaving you gasping for air, lips already parting to whine about it. He snatches his hat off your head.

“Max,” you pant, and he blinks harshly, taking another full step back from you. “Wait, Max-“

“Later,” he hisses. “Just- we’ll talk later, okay?”

Then he disappears from the barn, leaving nothing but empty air and a bit of beard burn behind him.

…..

You don’t talk later, really. Max is a rollercoaster. He kisses you in the barn and then ignores you for 24 hours. He sits next to you at the Friday night dinner and slides his hand up your thigh under the table, far too high to be anywhere near polite, and then ignores you the next morning when you bring out coffee, too busy talking to one of his buddies. He finds you in the barn a different night and wraps his arm around your waist, pulls your back to his front, and kisses your neck until you’re bracing yourself on the workbench in front of you, and then at the slightest noise outside, he’s gone. It’s maddening. It’s like he can’t make up his mind.

“You’re too young,” he says, one night.

The two of you are standing out in the fields, watching the sun sink low over the horizon. He has his hands in his pockets.

“Right, because you’re ancient,” you reply.

“Are you even twenty one?” He asks.

“I was in the bar the other night, wasn’t I?”

“College kids get fake IDs.”

“I’m perfectly legal,” you answer, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt. “In every possible way.”

He spins you around, presses you up against the fence, and kisses you. You’re amazed the grass doesn’t catch on fire from the heat of it all.

…

You meet him and the rest of the crew down by the creek another night, and this time you catch him watching when you wade in the cool water in your swimsuit. He doesn’t bother looking away, just keeps watching and grins, making your face heat up. He must know what he does to you, must know how he makes you feel, and it’s so unfair.

You dry off and slip back into your dress a while later. He lends you his flannel when the sun slips down and you shiver in your spot, sitting on the ground and leaning against his legs. He’s sitting in a camp chair behind you, and every so often, you feel his hand against your shoulder. You try not to read into it.

Someone pulls out a guitar and starts to strum. You turn to him.

“Can you play?” You ask. He shakes his head, and you hum. “Then what’s your cowboy party trick?”

He tilts his head at you, brows furrowed. “What?”

“You know, like… the guitar, darts, bull riding,” you say, gesturing at him. “What makes you cool?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and speaks softly, close to your ear. “The only guys who need party tricks are the ones who can’t pull a girl without them.”

You scoff and slap his knee. “Then maybe we should find you a trick, cowboy.”

He reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “Nah. I think I’m doing just fine.”

You glare up at him, hoping he can see it even in the dark. He laughs. You roll your eyes.

“But I am pretty handy with the rope,” he says, and then he winks.

You blink up at him, and his shoulders start to shake. You cross your arms over your chest and turn to stare at the fire again, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of asking exactly what he means, or if he’s offering. Behind you, his leg shakes with his laughter.

…

Another afternoon, he pulls up behind you in his truck while you’re walking down the dirt road and calls out a “hey, honey.”

This leads to you climbing into his truck with him, and a short drive to a more secluded area. Then he gets you in his lap, his hands on your hips, and kisses you senseless. You can feel him getting hard underneath you. It makes you ache. You chase after his lips when he starts to pull away, his hands still holding you tight.

“I don’t come back,” he tells you, lips brushing yours.

“Okay,” you mutter. Then you pause. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t come back,” he repeats. You huff. “I won’t be back here next year. I’ll be… I don’t know, but it won’t be here.”

Some cowboys stay at one ranch their whole careers. Others wander the Wild West and never go back to the same place twice. You should’ve known Max would be a runner.

“Okay,” you say, again. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He shrugs. “You deserve someone who’ll come back.”

And. He says it, but then he hauls you close and kisses you again, so. You choose to ignore it.

…

On a Saturday night, at the bar, you lean over to whisper “come on,” in his ear.

He’s nursing a gin and tonic. “Gonna have to be more clear what you’re asking for, honey.”

You giggle, draped over his shoulder in the dark corner of the booth. Nobody’s looking, and even if they were, they wouldn’t care. Your hand rests on his shoulder, your chin resting atop your hand, your lips brushing his ear. He shudders.

“Meet me in the bathroom in five?” You ask.

He groans, eyelids fluttering, and turns towards you, nose to nose. He’s so close you swear you can feel his breath. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek.

“You’re better than getting fucked in a bar bathroom,” he says. When you raise a brow and open your mouth to protest, he winces, and adds, “you’re better than this bar bathroom, and I’m not fucking you here, and you’re drunk.”

You sit back and cross your arms over your chest petulantly. You can see the smirk on his lips from the corner of your eye, but you don’t bother to call him out on it.

…

Max is a rollercoaster, but you grow tired of being stuck on the ride pretty quickly. He kisses you and touches you and then he pulls away. No matter what, he won’t fuck you. He’s always got an excuse. It’s driving you up the walls.

“You are driving me nuts,” you say through gritted teeth, three days later, when you look up and find him leaning on the garden fence, watching you pull weeds.

“Think it’s the other way around, honey,” he says, shaking his head. “You look pretty like this.”

You look down at yourself, at the dress you’re wearing, at the way you’re kneeling on the ground. Your face gets hot, and you wipe the dirt from your hands onto your apron.

“Then do something about it,” you snip, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist. “Or would you rather just stand there and stare?”

He whistles lowly, and you try to pretend the sound doesn’t send a shiver down your spine. “City girl’s got an attitude, huh?”

You huff, push yourself up off the ground, and gather your things. You’re not just going to sit here and let him ogle you, let him think up fantasies to get off to later like you know he’s probably doing. He knows what you want, he’s admitted he wants it, too, but he won’t give in, and you’re so over it. He thinks you’re the one with the attitude, but-

“Hey, honey,” he says, just before you start to walk away. You turn over your shoulder, squinting at him, the evening sun straight over his shoulder.

“Yeah, Max?” You answer, hating how anticipatory you sound.

He looks at his watch. “Meet me at the river in an hour?”

You blink. Your heart skips a beat. Then you nod. He nods back. You wait for him to walk away, picking a couple more tomatoes off the vine. Then, once he’s out of sight, you take off running through the tall grass, all the way up to the house. Your hands shake with anticipation the whole time you’re getting ready. It feels a bit ridiculous, but you can’t help it- something is in the air, some sort of current, crackling beneath the surface. You just hope you get to find out exactly what it is.

part ii. coming tomorrow @ 3pm EST!!

a/n: thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed! fair warning, part two kicks things up a notch in terms of +18 content. see you all tomorrow!

Taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @arian-directioner @racingheartsposts @sakuramxchii @mynamejeff5 @c-losur3 @casperlikej @the-navistar-carol @everyonesluvah @jsjcue @si1ver06 @nicole01-23 @arieslost

#fic rec

514 notes · View notes

816wdc · 8 days

Text

Born To Run // ii.

cowboy!Max Verstappen x reader // part ii. of ii

find part i here!

Summary: Everyone, including Max, says he’s too much for you. You find yourself determined to prove them all wrong. Your summer on the ranch is set to be one to remember. 6.1k

Warnings: sexual content (minors do not interact, 18+ PLEASE!), alcohol/ intoxication, strong use of language, implied unspecified age gap, public sex, oral sex fem receiving, and max is a little mean (oops). if you would like further clarifications on the warnings PLEASE send me a message!

Most of the crew are off at the bar for the night, so when you meet Max down at the river, there’s nobody else around to notice or bother you. Just you, and him, and the setting sun, the gurgle of the creek, the cold water wrapping around your ankles as you stand there, looking for rocks on the bottom of it.

You’re trying to distract yourself, is what you’re doing. The summer heat is ebbing away as the sun sets, which leaves you no excuse for the way you can feel your whole body burning. Maybe Max was just being friendly, inviting you down here. Maybe he expected there to be more people. But he has a bottle of wine-though it’s still unopened, sitting in the river to try and keep it chilled- and he’s laid out a blanket on the bank, and… you just don’t know, is the whole thing. You don’t want to assume what his intentions are.

Max teases you from the bank, though you know his eyes are watching your every move. “Your posture is awful.”

You roll your eyes and don’t bother looking up at him. “My posture is fine, thank you. I’m looking for rocks.”

“I know,” he says.

Now you look up- he’s leaning back on the blanket, propped up on his elbows, hat low over his brow. The hat ticks up and down with his line of sight, sweeping down to your ankles and then back up, slowly, like he’s drinking every detail in. You swallow. He grins and pulls a corkscrew from his pocket.

“C’mere,” he says, beckoning you with two fingers, and your heart is in your throat. “Grab the wine?”

You wander over, handing him the bottle and reaching down to dry your feet with a towel. He watches the whole time, fiddling with the corkscrew, drying the glass bottle on his shirt. You can feel your fingers starting to shake, can feel the anticipation coursing through your body. You stay standing at the edge of the blanket, hands on your hips, looking down at him. He whistles lowly, again, and you feel your face grow hot, trying to fight the grin that threatens your lips.

“Are you going to sit?” He asks, finally directing his attention to the bottle of wine, to getting it open.

The cork falls to the blanket next to him. You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what exactly you should do here. Sit down too far from him, and you might ruin the mood. Sit down too close, and you might be too eager. He’s so hard to read, it drives you nuts.

You let out a huff and step onto the blanket, walking towards him. He takes interest and pushes himself up on his hands, and when you settle yourself in his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, he sighs almost dreamily, and his eyes fall half shut. You run your hands over the skirt of your dress to smooth it out over your lap and his, and he hands you the bottle of wine.

You take a sip- it’s warm and sugary. He clicks his tongue when you repeat the motion.

“Not too much,” he says, quietly, voice mingling with the crickets making their debut for the night.

You scowl at him. “What’s the point? Take it slow? Can’t handle your alcohol, Maxie?”

He gives you an amused grin, eyes crinkling with it, but there’s some sort of electric current running beneath it. You’re buzzing already. You wonder if he’d shock you if you reached out and touched him. If he’d light you on fire the way you feel like you're on the edge of. Does he feel it too?

“I don’t want you to get drunk,” he says.

It takes you a moment, and then the ground drops out from under you. I’m not fucking you while you’re drunk. You take one last sip, a small one, and hand the bottle back to him. He takes a drink with one hand, and his other falls to your hip, squeezing softly. You bite back a whimper.

“Please, Max,” you say, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

Max sighs, takes another sip of wine, then sighs again, dragging a hand across his chin. “You’re insatiable.”

You hum in agreement, resting your hands on his shoulders, wriggling just a bit in his lap. “Please?”

“Fuck, honey,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. You giggle.

“I need you, Max,” you say, just to watch his cheeks grow red. Just to watch him struggle with the feeling. “Make me feel good? Pretty please-“

He reaches up and puts his hand over your mouth to muffle your words. You giggle against his grip and watch as he rolls his eyes. He shifts under you, pressing one thigh between your legs, and your laughter gets caught in your chest.

“Y’think you’re funny, huh?” He mutters, and your heart begins to go wild. “Think you can get whatever you want if you ask nicely?”

You shrug, reaching up to run your finger along the brim of his hat. “Mhm. It works on the city boys.”

Max’s eyes go dark at that statement. “Is that right?”

You nod. His hand falls to your knee, and your breath hitches. He smirks, dragging his hand up the outside of your thigh, rucking the skirt of your dress halfway up your leg in the process. His hand draws a trail farther up- over your navel, skimming your ribs, touching at the exposed skin of your shoulder. By the time he cups your face in his hand, you’re vibrating with anticipation. He brushes a thumb over your cheek, and you close your eyes, letting the sparks wash over your skin.

“Need you, Max,” you say, again, steadier this time.

“You deserve better,” he says, for the millionth time.

You purse your lips. “What, you think ‘cause I’m a city girl that I can’t take-“

He squeezes your cheeks together with his hand. Dumbfounded, you look up at him, heart hammering at your ribcage.

“I think you’re a city girl with a big attitude,” he says, leaning closer. You squirm just a bit underneath his gaze. “And that you’d better know what you’re asking for.”

He releases his grip on your face. You blink at him for a few seconds, take in the rosy flush of his cheeks, the way his brows are furrowed, the way his breaths come quick and heavy. And then you grin, wide and bright and, hopefully, oh so tempting.

“I know full well,” you say, rolling your eyes dismissively. “I’ve heard all these stories about you, about how you’re too much cowboy for me, and you know what I think?”

“What.” He says, flat and unwavering.

“That maybe I’m too much for you,” you say, fluttering your lashes at him. “Maybe you’re nervous. Maybe it’s you who doesn’t know what they’re getting into.”

And that seems to strike just the right nerve. That gets him fired up beneath his skin, that sends him over the edge he was teetering on. He grabs you by the waist, hauls you close, and takes. Max kisses in a frenzy, you know this from stolen moments behind barns and buildings, but this is on another level. It’s hot and heavy almost immediately, the way he bullies his tongue into your mouth, the way he bites at your lips, the way he cups one hand around the back of your neck to keep you right there. You arch your into him, writhing and keening at his every touch, at the way his hand slips up to your ribcage, searing into your skin. He’s barely done anything and-

“Look at you,” he says, voice teetering between awe and condescension. “You’re so desperate.”

Your first urge is to say I’m not, petulantly, which would only prove his point. You could point out that he’s desperate, too, but you don’t think it would really make a difference. Instead, you reach up and grab his hat from off his head, setting it down carefully on the blanket next to you, and he watches with eagle eyes. Cowboys and their stupid hats. You distract him from it by rolling your hips against his, the fabric of your skirt bunched up around your waist. His eyes flutter closed when you run your hand through his messy hair.

“Fuck me,” you plead. You’re getting a little tired of asking, and you’re past the point of asking nicely. “Max, please, just-“

He nearly shoves you off his lap, and for a moment you almost panic, until he’s rolling you down onto the blanket and following you down, hovering over you. When he kisses you, this time, it’s to shut you up. It’s harsh and all consuming and you can barely keep up, feeling feverish.

He reaches down with the hand not supporting himself and grabs at your skirt, the soft fabric shoved up and up so carelessly. You fumble with it, trying to yank the dress over your head, but he stops you, grabbing your hands.

“Leave it on,” he says, and you writhe underneath him just at the tone he uses.

“You don’t wanna see me?” You whine, and he groans softly, lips touching yours.

“Wanna make a mess of you and your pretty little dress,” he says, and your eyelids flutter at the words. “You’ll let me do that, won’t you?”

You nod fervently. When you look up at him, he’s grinning.

It doesn’t take long from there. You scramble to unbutton his shirt, and he lets you, lets it hang open, lets you run your hands up and down his torso while he kisses you senseless. His skin is feverishly hot under your palms. The sun is down, now, the sky inky blue, stars just starting to peek out behind his head, through the trees. He kisses you until your lips are raw, until you’re writhing and whining underneath him, until he’s got your dress bunched around your hips and he’s toying with your underwear. Soft pink, with a bow. He groans when he pulls away for a moment and looks down.

Then he slides lower on the blanket and settles himself between your legs, and you start to fall apart.

“You don’t have to,” you hear yourself say, as much as you really do want him to. “I don’t- you can just-“

He blinks up at you with a clouded gaze. His chest is heaving, lips parted, one finger hooked in the waistband of your panties. You wonder if he can see well enough to tell how wet you are, or if he’ll only figure it out when he touches you. You’re trembling with anticipation. He eyes you, the way you wait with bated breath.

“Do you want me to?” He asks, voice low. You close your eyes, and he reaches up to squeeze your cheeks, waiting until you open them again. “Use your words. Do you want my mouth on you?”

“You don’t have to,” you repeat.

“Not what I asked,” he says.

“I mean. You can. I… like it,” you say. He nods. “But you won’t get anything out of it, and, like, you don’t-“

“Oh, honey,” he says, like he feels bad for you, like he pities you. “Shit, and they say country girls are naive.”

You blink down at him as he gets settled again. “What?”

“Won’t get anything out of it,” he mocks, and your face grows hot again. “S’that what the city boys tell you?”

You whine. He starts to tug your panties down your hips. When he hooks his arms around your legs and buries his face between them, it’s all you can do to keep from screaming. Your first thought, as he does it, is that maybe he really is too much for you. Before you can have another thought, they all float away, and you melt into the blanket and the ground beneath it.

He takes you apart, methodically, messily. He twists his tongue around your clit, he hums against you until you writhe beneath him, he’s messy and loud about it, so into it, so much more into it than any guy you’ve ever been with. You risk a glance down at him and nearly sob at the way he’s got his eyes squeezed closed, blush sitting high on his cheeks, strands of hair falling across his forehead. His stubble scratches at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, but it only adds to the sensation. When he moves lower, tongue lapping at your entrance, his nose nudges against your clit, and your hands fly away from the blanket- one to your own mouth, to muffle your whimpers, the other to his hair, to hold on.

He pulls away slightly, gasping for air. When you look down at him, his lips and chin are slick and shiny in the moonlight. You bite the palm of your own hand. He’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat. He unwinds one arm from around your leg, lets it fall to the blanket, and when you feel him press his thumb to your clit, you know you’re doomed.

One of his fingers circles your entrance, slipping just the tip inside. You whine, again, and he groans. He leans his head against your thigh, stubble sending pin pricks up your spine.

“You’re so tight,” he says, incredulously. “So wet. So good for me, yeah?”

You nod frantically. He blinks up at you, wide eyed, almost innocent, though he’s anything but. His hand is gripping bruises into your thigh while he fingers you open with the other, and he looks so proud of the way you’re already falling apart.

“You’re close already, huh?” He asks. You don’t bother trying to lie or fight it, you just nod again. He nods back. “Then be a good girl, take your hand off your mouth,” he says, waiting until you do to continue. “And come for me.”

He disappears between your legs again, and within seconds, it surges up, white hot and fuzzy and seizing up every muscle in your body. You see more stars than there are in the sky, your back arches off the ground, and you tug his hair, harshly. It only seems to spur him on- he takes you through it with his mouth and his fingers until you’re kicking your legs and trying to scramble away from him. When he pulls away, out of breath, face soaked, your heart is racing. He leans back and sits up, on his knees between yours, and he sticks his finger in his mouth and sucks. You hide your face in your hands and whine.

“Pretty, sweet girl,” he murmurs, and you shudder. “Knew you’d taste like honey, honey.”

He waits a few moments, for what feels like forever, to do anything. He just hovers there, watching as the aftershocks wrack your body. You suck in air like you’ve been starved of it, letting the feeling ripple through you, wondering how much he’s going to ruin you if this is only the foreplay. You can hear him taking slow, steady breaths- on purpose, like he’s trying to calm himself down, too.

When you peek out from behind your fingers, he’s grinning, staring right at your chest. His gaze flickers up to yours when he sees you move, and the grin goes wider. He’s so satisfied, so smug, like he knows exactly what he’s done to you. You’re already aching for him.

“Are you gonna fuck me now?” You ask, trying to sound steady. Your voice wavers, though, and you’re still half out of breath.

Max laughs, and you whimper, fighting the urge to kick your legs. He leans over you, and you feel all encompassed, covered up. He’s grinning wide and bright. His hand slides up your thigh, and this time he sinks two fingers into you. You cry out again, pleasure spiderwebbing through your whole body.

“Brat,” he says, voice clipped. “I really thought that’d adjust your attitude, but you need more, huh?”

“Yeah, I need more,” you say, reaching up to press your hand to the back of his neck. “Or are you too scared you’re gonna come too quick?”

You choke on your words when he crooks his fingers, dragging them against that sensitive spot that has you seeing white and leaves you breathless. The sound that leaves your mouth is almost unrecognizable to you.

Then it really gets frantic. His other hand fumbles- he’s reaching in his pockets, you realize. The metallic packet he pulls out glints in the moonlight, and you gasp eagerly. Your hands fly to his belt buckle, the metal cold beneath your fingers, and he hisses when your fingers brush against him, where he’s so hard it must be painful. You make quick work of the buckle, and the button on his jeans, and the zipper, and then you shove your hand down them, wrapping your fingers around his bulge. His head drops, chin to his chest, and now he’s the one having trouble breathing. He slips his fingers out of you, and you’re too entranced with the look on his face to even care.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, dropping the condom on the blanket next to you and using his free hand to work his jeans and underwear down his hips. “Fuck. Need-“

You wrap your hand around him, his skin hot and velvety between your fingers, and he hisses. He’s wet and messy, precum soaking the tip, and your mouth waters. You shove yourself upwards, mouth open, and-

“No,” he says, reaching for your head and pushing backwards slightly. You pout, and he groans. “I wanna, trust me, but- fuck, want to get inside you first, okay? Just- behave, for once in your life. Lay back and let me-“

You do lay back, but you also reach for the condom. His shoulders heave as you take the foil in your fingers and tear it open. When you roll it onto him, he lets out a shuddery sigh. He’s big- you can barely get your hand all the way around him. He’s going to break you, you think, in the best way. You need him desperately.

He leans over you again as you trace a finger up the vein on the underside of his cock. “You’re sure you want this?”

You nod, and he cups the side of your face in his hand, the softest touch he’s ever given you. “Yeah,” you say, quiet enough for only him to hear. “So bad. Are you sure?”

He lets his eyes fall closed as he takes his cock in his hand, his knuckles bumping against yours. He leans down to kiss you, and there’s a sweetness to it. Like the calm before the storm, like the wind blowing waves in the grass. You breathe him in.

“Oh, honey,” he says against your lips. “I’ve been sure since the day I first saw you.”

He slides into you in one long, swift stroke of his hips, and you hold onto the blanket for dear life. He’s big, but the stretch feels so good, so full. He has his hands on either side of your head, and he kisses you through it, swallows your whimpers as he waits. You reach up, wrap your arms around his neck, and arch your hips up against his. He gets the idea.

He’s not in a rush, now, it seems. Things are much less hurried. He rocks his hips into yours, grinding deep with each thrust, making you see stars every time. He pulls his lips from yours and trails them down your jaw, just to bury his face in your neck. When he groans, loudly, it vibrates your whole body, and you shiver beneath him. You’re melting, you think.

“Is that good, honey? S’this what you wanted?” He asks, pressing the words into your skin. You whine and arch your back. “Come on, city girl, where are your big words, huh?”

You can’t find them, is the thing. You can’t do anything except cry out from beneath him as he hits that spot, over and over again. You feel him deep, you feel him everywhere, in every muscle and bone and nerve of your body. He leans down closer, his nose bumping against yours.

“Max,” you gasp out, when he nips at your jaw.

“So good, honey,” he groans against your skin.

Your nails scrape down his back, sure to leave marks. You hope you leave marks, that his friends tease him for it, that he wears them proudly. As if he’s heard you, he ducks his head to your collarbone and sucks harshly. Then he’s tugging at the neckline of your dress, pulling it down until he can see your chest, too, letting out a guttural groan at the sight. The whole time, he keeps up the rhythm- long, slow, deep. His hand gropes at your chest. You reach up, fist your hand in his hair, and tug his lips back to yours.

That’s how you come the second time- with his mouth muffling your wails, one hand tugging at strands of blond hair, your other hand slamming against the blanket beneath you. He works his hips the whole time, he takes you through it, his own groans slipping past his lips and into yours. He doesn’t stop. You’re not sure why you expected any different.

“Oh,” you say against his lips. “Oh, Max- I-“

“There she is,” he says, voice taking on a softer edge. “That’s a good girl. That’s it, honey. Fucked that attitude right out of you, huh?”

All you can do is nod frantically and let yourself finally crumble completely under his hands. He’s silhouetted against the night sky, but you can see his eyes, his smile, the way his shoulders heave. His thrusts grow frantic, and the arm he’s using to hold himself up starts to shake.

He kisses you when he comes, hips jerking, and you follow him over the edge. You’re sure you leave bruises with the way you hold onto him. You think his handprint is burned into your ribcage. He’s loud about it, moaning into your mouth, gasping for air when he finally pulls away.

“Fuck,” he mutters into the open air.

He pulls out, and you whine. Then he promptly collapses on top of you.

“Oof,” you groan, and he makes a non-committal noise. “Did I wear you out?”

He sighs. “Does the back talk ever stop?”

You shrug and card your fingers through his sweaty hair. “You like it.”

He hums, his face pressed into your neck. “Do not.”

You roll your eyes up at the sky. He takes your silence, his fingers dancing against your bare skin. Your dress is still bunched around your middle, chest and legs bare to the night. He’s not much better- shirt haphazardly hanging off his shoulders, his jeans shoved halfway down his thighs.

“We should get cleaned up,” he says. “Rinse off the… sweat.”

You whine. “I don’t wanna go back to the house yet.”

He laughs into your skin. “Honey, the creek is right there.”

You swallow. The water is cold, and it’s dark, and there are fish in there. There are rocks and sticks and any number of things to step on. You don’t mind the creek when it’s daylight, when you can see what you’re touching-

“Oh come on, city girl,” he says, and you groan. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

“It’s dark,” you reply, and he laughs again. “Don’t be mean to me.”

He pushes himself off your chest. You fight the urge to whine about it, to wrap your arms around him and pull him back into you. He kneels between your legs, grinning, and you sigh happily. He’s a sight to behold, all lean muscle and broad shoulders.

“Come on,” he says again, reaching for your hand. “I’ll protect you.”

He strips out of his clothes fully and leaves them on the bank next to your dress. The water is frigid, but when he wraps his arms around you and holds you close, it’s not so bad. He runs his hands along your body, under the surface, and you wrap your arms and legs around him so you don’t have to touch the bottom. You’re sure he knows- he laughs when you do it- but he doesn’t call you out. He just kisses you, the water lapping at your shoulders, stars reflecting off the surface.

There’s a part of you that knows this shouldn’t feel so romantic. That this will come back to bite you, that soon, you’ll wish you never had this. This moment, on a blanket on the banks of the river, stars above your heads in the dark of the night. I don’t come back, he’d said. This can’t mean anything. You can’t get attached. So, to cut the seriousness of it all, you break the kiss and the silence.

“You know,” you say. “I’m not even from the city. I just go to school there.”

Max laughs, his hand squeezing at your side. “If you’d told me that, this would’ve happened a lot sooner.”

…..

He tries to keep you from getting too close, tries to keep you out, but he always melts in the moments after sex, lets his guard down, lets you in. He tells you about his family, about how he never wants to go home but misses his sister, about all the places he’s been and where he wants to go.

In exchange, you tell him stories about the city, about classes and people and parties and how it all feels so silly when you lay under the wide expanse of stars, no light pollution to sully them. You tell him about the guys back at your college who would never hold a candle against him, though you don’t tell him that part. No need to boost his ego.

He points out constellations and teaches you how to navigate without a map, how to follow the stars, and you soak it all in. He teaches you what plants you could eat and which ones would kill you, he saves you from the poison ivy that riddles the ranch, and you spend countless hours together, any second you can steal away. You’ve never felt more free with anyone else in your life.

Sometimes, he pulls away. He gets withdrawn. He’s trying to protect you, he says- himself, too, probably. You remind him, time and time again, that you know he doesn’t stick around. You try to pretend it doesn’t stab you in the stomach to say it every time. No matter how much he pulls away, without fail, a few days later he finds you, pulls you into his chest, and kisses you senseless. You let him come back every time, because you’re not sure you could ever really resist him.

Your favorite night of the summer is the one where you meet him down by the bunkhouse and he steals you away for a whole night. You tell your aunt and uncle you’re going camping with Maddy, and you’re sure they don’t believe you but they don’t ask questions, either. You get in Max’s truck and he drives until you hit a state park. He has a tent, and a tiny air mattress, and a sleeping bag for the two of you to share. You make a fire and eat s’mores while you’re sitting in his lap, and for one night, it feels real. The air mattress is the closest thing to a bed that you’ve ever shared with him. He smells like campfire and tastes like marshmallows and he fucks you like he loves you, and if you stop to think about it it’ll break your heart. You know why he suggested this, why he’s doing this. It’s August. The end of the summer is breathing down your neck, the same way he does when he curls around you as he falls asleep, his lips against your skin.

A week later, you pack up your car with all your clothes, your boots, and one of Max’s flannels. He’d wrapped you up in it one night when you shivered, laying next to him in the bed of his truck, and you never gave it back. He’d never asked. Now you’re off to college, and when you come back next summer, he’ll be gone.

You think you’ll keep it forever, just as proof that he really did exist, that for one summer, you got to have him. You’d tell him he changed your life, but you’re sure he doesn’t want to hear it.

He watches you load your last bag into your car, leaning against the fence, chewing on his lower lip. When you close the trunk, he meanders over, his hat in his hands. You turn and lean against your car, hands on your hips.

“So,” you say, giving him a once over. “Guess this is goodbye, cowboy.”

He lets out a huff. “Don’t get all emotional on me now, honey.”

You blink. “I’m not.”

You’re lying, but he doesn’t need to know that. If he notices, he doesn’t call you out on it.

He’s thumbing at the brim of his hat, holding it in front of his stomach. He shifts on his feet, and you cock your head at him. You’ve never seen him so unsure of himself. It makes your heart clench in your chest. When he reaches out and places his hat on top of your head, you swear your heart nearly stops.

He’s smiling, now. “Looks better on you.”

You reach up to touch it, the brim low on your forehead. “I disagree.”

When you try to take it off, he pushes it back down on your head. “Keep it.”

“Max…”

“Every good country girl needs a hat,” he says, and you grin widely. He matches the expression.

You dig your hand into your pockets and come out with a piece of paper, folded nicely. He glances at your hands and bites his lip. You waver, for just a moment, but you need to do this. For your sake. You reach out and press it into his hand.

“It’s my address,” you say. He opens his mouth, but you shake your head. “For if you ever want to write. You don’t have to. I’m not expecting you to. But. You have it, if you ever need it.”

He closes his mouth and nods. He tucks the paper in his pocket, and then he reaches out, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, solidly, slow and steady and sweet. Like honey.

When you drive away, he’s standing in the yard, hands in his pockets. His hat sits on the dashboard for the whole journey, a constant reminder of what you left behind.

…..

The first letter comes a month later. It’s not a love letter, not an outpouring of emotion. You had never expected it to be- that wouldn’t be Max. But it’s a letter, all the same, and that’s enough. He tells you he’s been thinking of you, and that says more than you’d ever hoped for. He gives you a return address, too- he’s moved on, at some other ranch for the winter. You read over your reply a million times before you send it, and you wait and wait and wait for his reply with bated breath.

The second letter comes, and you breathe a sigh of relief. It becomes a weekly routine- his letters always seem to show up on Fridays. You sit down, read them, and then pen your response. Sometimes, he doesn’t say much- just that work is good, or slow, or tough. Sometimes he writes about the funny things that happen. He sends a picture, one week- it’s him, bottle feeding a newborn calf, an unexpected winter baby. You pin the picture to your corkboard.

You write to him about your classes, about your friends, about the bars and the parties and the city. You tell him you know he’d hate it there. He tells you maybe it wouldn’t be so bad with you. You don’t tell him, but you hate to think of him in the city, trapped in a too small apartment, wandering narrow streets. He belongs out in the open, under the wide expanse of blue sky. Honestly, the longer you stay in the city, the more you hate it, too.

You try not to let it all go to your heart. You know it won’t work- he doesn’t stick around, he’s a nomad, and you won’t change that about him. You would never ask him to change. You write the letters out by hand, and sometimes, you spray the paper with your perfume before you seal the envelope. You wonder if he notices until he writes about reading your words and swearing he could feel you in the room with him.

Four weeks before your graduation, he says he’s moving on to the next ranch for the summer, and that he’ll write with his new return address soon.

The letters stop, and they don’t start back up again.

You’d always known this could happen- he’s probably busy with work. He’s got things to do, more important things than worrying about writing to you. So you walk the stage at graduation, and when you pack up your apartment, you place the flannel, hat, and photo of him in a box, carefully. Just because it ends doesn’t mean you can’t hold on. You wonder where he is, now, if he headed off to the far west coast like he said he wanted to, or if he ended up closer to home. You wonder if his sister will visit him like he’d been hoping. You try not to wonder if he’s met a girl, but you do it anyways. Maybe he found a pretty cowgirl, one who fits him better than you ever could.

You put your stuff in your car and turn on the radio. Springsteen. Born to Run. The road blurs with your tears, and you wipe them away hastily.

You’re headed to your aunt and uncle’s for one more summer. You haven’t secured a job yet, and the sun and warmth have you aching to be back at the ranch. They greet you with hugs when you pull up, help you unpack your stuff, and your aunt doesn’t ask any questions when you hang Max’s hat on a hook near the bed. You wonder if Maddy’s back this year, if they’re planning on going to the bar tonight, if drinking will take away the bitter edge of it all. You’re here, but it feels different this year. Something’s missing. You hope the feeling goes away soon.

You pull the curtains open to look out over the pastures. The cowboys are out, roping cattle, the grass rolling in waves. A stupid thought crosses your mind- that maybe, one of them knows where Max is, that maybe they’d give you his address- but you shove it down quickly. If he wants to be gone, you have to let him be gone. He warned you. If he wants to get in touch, he knows where to find you.

You push the glass windowpane up to let the warm summer air wash over you. It’ll be dinnertime, soon, Friday night dinner with all the staff. Biscuits and burgers and fresh fruit galore. There will be weeds to tend to in the garden tomorrow, and the bar will still be the same as always. It’s just another summer like all the rest. The cowboys are already heading in for the evening. There’s one of them, out on his own, who moves like he’s one with his horse. It reminds you of… you blink, watching as he throws his head back and laughs. Your heart skips a beat. Without even thinking, you turn and run. Down the stairs, through the house, and out the back door in your bare feet. The long grass whips against your legs. You must be seeing things, but- you need to know. You have to go see for yourself.

They’re moving the cattle towards the barn, but he hangs back, face tilted up towards the sun. When he turns his head, you feel your heart lurch in your chest. He breaks away, directs his horse towards you. When he gets within ten feet of the fence, he slips off the saddle. You can’t bring yourself to move or say anything or even breathe. You must be dreaming.

“Hey, city girl,” Max calls out.

His grin lights you on fire all over again. Suddenly, you feel like you can breathe. It’s Max, it really is- your Max. He’s here.

“You came back,” you say.

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” He hums, reaching up to take his hat off his head.

“But you don’t come back,” you say, fighting the urge to bite your lip, or scream, or cry, or jump the fence and tackle him.

He shrugs and blinks at you, blue eyes sparkling under the hot midday sun. “Must’ve been something in the air here. Something called me back.”

“Something?” You ask, putting on a brave face. “Or someone?”

Max laughs, the same as he did almost a year ago from the back of the horse, the day you first laid eyes on him. Then he looks around, nods, and puts one hand on the fence, his hat hanging at his side in his other. He leans close and presses his forehead to yours, and you gasp and close your eyes.

“Come on, honey,” he says, brushing his lips against your cheek. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

…..

a/n: this is now the smuttiest thing i have ever written. will be unavailable for 3-5 businsss days thank you for reading!

taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @arian-directioner @racingheartsposts @sakuramxchii @mynamejeff5 @c-losur3 @casperlikej @the-navistar-carol @everyonesluvah @jsjcue @si1ver06 @nicole01-23 @arieslost

#i’m crying real hot tears #this is so so so good #fic rec

420 notes · View notes