Dark fic + - Minors DNI- if you don't like this or the warnings/themes make you uncomfortable. I can't stress this enough, DO NOT READ THIS
Summary: When Max wants something, he'll set out and make it happen. On this occasion he's just not telling the person who should really know.
Themes/warnings: Smut (dub-con due to birth control tampering/sabotage), baby-trapping, pregnancy
Word count: 1.6k
Max couldn't ever say what it was that drew him to y/n, just that he was obsessed. An unhealthy and dangerous obsession.
He'd never hurt her or want bad things for her. He just wants her.
But y/n is a free spirit, she doesn't like being tamed or held in the restraints of a relationship the way he wants.
There's only one solution.
Force her hand to change her mindset through a shared life event that binds her to him permanently for life.
"Max." Y/n cries out, dragging her nails down his back and he knows they'll be visible as evidence of just how good he makes her feel.
Because Max isn't such a selfish monster that he only thinks about himself finishing, he wants to feel y/n pushed to the state of delirium.
The less aware she is of her surroundings the better. It makes his job easier.
Max can't fight off his finish as y/n rides out her orgasm, panting, tears streaming down her cheeks and swallowing thickly as she tries to hold it back. His cum fills her and he shudders in satisfaction.
"That's it, baby. You take me so well." Max praises but y/n is sensitive even to him touching her waist.
Y/n and Max always had great sex but once he set his mind to getting her pregnant, y/n has hardly known peace. Her body is completely surrendered to him.
It took some doing but Max set everything up. He was picking up her actual birth control for a couple months before he swapped it out saying the pharmacy told him they'd changed brand and the pills might look different.
She didn't even question it for a second. Naively trusting every word he said. Because what reason did she have to not trust him.
Y/n hiccups as Max ruts into her a couple more times, like he can push it deeper into her and make it stick.
He holds himself in her as long as he can while y/n mumbles gibberish and passes out cold.
She whimpers when he does finally pull himself from her, the sight of her pussy being nearly raw with how often her's fucking her full of cum.
It's been 2 months since he switched her birth control. He's not surprised her period came the first month. Still getting the artifical hormones out of her system.
She's due on any day down if she is going to come on and the anticipation of it is killing Max. He's pretty sure he's done it and he's hundred precent certain y/n's not had enough time to think for long enough to consider that she's due on.
"You pretty so pretty baby." Max sighs softly as he reaches his hand forward and cups her cheek which she does leans into seemingly desperate for his touch in a softer nature despite not even being full conscious. He leans over and kisses her softly while y/n relaxes down.
-
Y/n was terrified, she was so scared and she went straight to Max. It wasn't even a question of whether she would or not. She was going directly to him.
Max, being the caring boyfriend he is, he took charge. He went out and got a few pregnancy tests (which were waiting in his car for this moment) and came back, sat with her which she drank excessive amounts of water. He reassured her and then he encouraged her everything would be fine when she started to feel the pressure on her bladder forcing her to take the tests.
In truth they didn't even need to wait the positive test result appeared on all the tests immediately. Y/n pales and Max has to catch her to stop her counter smacking her head off the counter.
"W-What are we going to do?" Y/n asks with her voice cracking in a squeak.
"I'm going to take care of my pregnant girlfriend and you are going to let me, baby. It's going to be fine." Max states while y/n blinks up at him.
"You're ok with this?-But-"
"It might not have been exactly as planned-" Max planned for them to be a bit quicker about it but he'd trust the process. "-but we can do this."
They will do this.
Y/n cries for a bit, not giving away her own feelings too much as Max gets them to just lie in bed.
"I don't understand. I took my pill every day. I never missed a day. You even set alarms for me."
"They don't always work baby. You're not the first or the only woman to get pregnant on them." Max states softly as she lies cuddled into him.
"And it really doesn't bother you?"
"No. It doesn't bother me. It could be good. We'll make amazing parents." Max smiles lightly finally making her look up at him to check that he's not faking his words. "I love you, and I wanted this with you one day." One day being code for as soon as humanly possible. "It doesn't make that much of a difference to me."
"I can't believe you don't...don't even care like...in a negative way." Y/n sighs then smiling. "I might actually be able to live with this."
"You can't baby, and if you can't, I'll do the living for you. I'll carry you however you need." Max promises then leaning down to kiss her.
And so it went on.
Y/n didn't even have a conversation wit Max about aborting the pregnancy because he never let her think it was on the cards. So the pregnancy went on and Max found it harder and harder to not feel the triumph of his efforts.
"Hello, baby." Max smiles as he returns home from another race weekend, this one y/n was feeling particularly nauseous and didn't want to fly.
Y/n has hit a point where clothes that fit are few and far between so she usually just sits naked. Which Max obviously loves and encourages as much as possibly. Especially since it means easy access for sex which she seems even more eager for at this point in her pregnancy and without the risk of more pregnancy she seems to be embracing the fact they don't have a need for protection.
She can't get pregnant again.
"Hey, Maxie." Y/n smiles as he sits down next to her and immediately pulls her over to straddle his lap then placing his hand on her bump which has grown substantially even in the few days he's been gone. "Your baby is being a pain."
"My baby?" Max chuckles then rubbing over her stretch skin gently. "How is she giving you pain? I'll have words."
"Keeps kicking me, I almost peed on the sofa."
Max looks over checking to see if she's lying and did in fact pee only for her to tsk and push his chin so he's looking back at her.
"Dick."
"Speaking of..." Max hums watching her get flustered immediately. She was already pretty responsive before the pregnancy but now he just has to insinuate the suggest of sex and she's clearing her throat and shifting uncomfortably since she's always desperate for him. "Doctor said we need to reduce a little."
"No." Y/n whines since Max really does all the communicating with the doctor. Obviously he wants that control to make sure she can't hide anything from him.
"How are you feeling?" Max asks softening his voice while y/n bites her lip a little.
"Naked...and very pregnant." Y/n sighs softly before she leans in and kisses him softly. "I missed you."
"I missed you too." Max smiles continuing to rub over her belly. "You didn't talk to your parents while I was gone did you?"
"No. Not after what they said last time." Y/n sighs shaking her head before she leans over and kisses him quickly. "Doesn't matter, I don't need them."
"No you don't." Max agrees loving the fact she's so willingly fallen into his trap. "You know you're prettiest woman I've ever met...and somehow being pregnant has never looked good to me until now."
"Maxie." Y/n grins then leaning forward and nuzzling into his neck. "You know I was so scared you'd leave."
Max smiles knowing she can't see his expression, she's so deep in it, she suspects nothing. Doesn't sabotage, doesn't suspect he did it on purpose, doesn't suspect anything. In fact she thought he would leave.
"I would never ever leave, baby. You're mine, so I'm not letting you go anywhere." Max states while y/n puffs out a breath. "I do genuinely love you so much, baby. I would never let you go."
"I love you too. I'd never let you go either. Especially not now we're gonna be a family...I do think I might struggle not walking around naked all the time though."
"You can walk around naked as much as you like." Max laughs lightly before kissing her softly. "Just makes getting you pregnant again easier."
Y/n laughs pushing at him, clearly thinking he's joking and that's good because he wants her to think he's joking. He's not. He'll make sure she recovers and they'll navigate parenthood but that's not going to stop at one baby unless something traumatic happens physically from the birth or post-birth.
Summary: how often do you find yourself roaming through Monaco, your dream holiday, a getaway of a lifetime, and be spotted by one of the best in motorsport? Max is in love with you, and if there’s one thing about Max Verstappen – he always gets what he wants, even if it means hiding you away from the world and keeping you all for his own.
Warnings: dark!max, 18+, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, dubcon! Breeding kink (sort of), smut, aftercare, NSFW content, minors DNI. This story is not a representation of the real person
Word Count: 3.5k
A/N: first time writing dark fiction, oh lordy. This is a product of being extremely single. do I now have a crush on max??
It had been exactly 476 days, 12 hours and 7 minutes since you disappeared. He wasn’t stupid, he had made sure that it went exactly as planned. He had handed in a fake resignation letter the day before, saying you were going to travel the world. Your parents were sent messages weekly of your ‘adventures’ that were perfectly photoshopped by a friend of his. Your phone was only allowed to be used with supervision. Which actually meant that he held it and you looked over his shoulder as he kept your accounts active with fake tweets and perfectly executed selfies. He had your belongings collected from the hotel the next morning.
But none of that was real. Because you had spent 476 days, 12 hours and now 10 minutes, trapped inside of Max’s Monaco apartment. He wanted you. He got you. And not in the traditional sense. No. There were no butterflies on the first date. There was no awkward brushing of each other’s fingers as you walked down the promenade. There was no first kiss where your noses bumped and you giggled until it felt normal.
Instead, it was waiting for him outside your hotel, when a blacked out Audi came to pick you up. Dressed up in the best black dress you had packed with you. You had saved up for a year to travel solo to Monaco. It was on your bucket list, one last thing to tick off before the year came to an end.
You slid into the back of the blacked-out SUV, the driver peering at you through the middle mirror. You shot him a smile, but he didn’t smile back, he just turned back to the road in front of him. That was your first warning. Was it normal that celebrities didn’t come to pick their date up? Was it normal that they sent a driver and did not come with them? You brushed it off, because after all, what would your girlfriends say when you came home and told them you had a date with THE Max Verstappen?
Except, you didn’t make it home. You stayed. And not out of choice.
The driver led you up into the elevator, nodding to the doorman as the doors closed in front of you. The elevator ride felt long and drawn out. You could feel the electric shocks running through your veins as your heart hammered against your ribcage. You had expected a romantic dinner in one of the finest restaurants that Monaco had to offer. Or even sat on his yacht, a dinner with candles lit under the stars. You had daydreamed of it when you were getting ready in front of the mirror.
But you walked straight into it. You walked straight into the lion’s den and now there was no way out.
Of course you tried. There was a day when he had left for a few hours and trusted you to roam the apartment, freely. The first time since the day you arrived. The first time you’d seen more than the four walls of the bedroom you were bound to. The cats had drawn to you, like Snow White. Animals had always been friendly with you, dogs would jump at you in the street for a cuddle and a kiss, cats would stop and wrap themselves around your legs with their tail. The comfort of having animals around you made you feel semi-safe. But as you reached for the door handle of the apartment, your bare feet tip-toeing gently as you planned your escape, thinking of how amazing it would be to see your family, your friends, finally feel the fresh air on your pale skin.
Until he stood on the other side. You stepped back, almost tripping over yourself. His height towered over you as you dived under his arm, a poor attempt at trying to leave. He effortlessly picked you up under his arm, held by only your torso as you squirmed.
“Please, Max.” you begged, “I want to go home.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you went on a date with a stranger.” he declared, dropping you onto the bed, back in the bedroom where you’d once been freed from.
“What about my parents, Max? Please?” you sobbed.
He sat on the edge of the bed, as you shimmed up towards the headboard. Max placed a gentle hand on your ankle, running his thumb along the bone as he continued.
“They messaged earlier, they’re glad you’re having a lovely time.” he said, “And they said not to rush home and enjoy yourself.”
Your head dropped into your chest. Of course they would’ve said that. The photos were believable, he had gotten good at writing exactly like you used to.
That was six months ago.
You had promised yourself that you wouldn’t succumb to his attempts to care for you. To look after you. You told yourself that this wasn’t what love was. But he had finally let you roam the apartment, he left you for more than just one hour, he let you sit with him in the lounge as you both watched reruns of sitcoms on the TV.
You didn’t feel it, not properly, until he sat down next to you as he handed you breakfast in bed. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to bring you breakfast in bed, it was however, odd for him to come and lay next to you as you tucked into your fruit and toast.
“Is everything okay, Max?” you whispered. Half scared you’d done or said something wrong.
“I have to go away for a few days. I have a race in Australia and I’ll be gone for at least two weeks,” he traced small circles along your arm as you continued to eat.
It wasn’t unusual for Max to leave for races. But when he did, one of his team would usually stay in the apartment with you, so you didn’t plan your escape. So why now did it feel like someone had ripped your heart from your chest? Why did it physically pain you that he was leaving?
“Will one of your bodyguards be staying with me?” you asked.
“Not this time, you’ll be here on your own.”
“Oh,” you replied, the disappointment in your own voice startling you.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. You’re not going to miss me are you?” He asked, a small grin appearing across his lips.
“I–I don’t know,” you muttered, unable to keep eye contact with him. “I don’t want you to go.” You admitted.
His grin had now fully turned into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Because Max knew exactly; he had finally broken you. It had taken over a year and yet here you were, completely under the power of Max Verstappen.
He took the tray for your lap, placing it on the floor below him and pulled you into a hug.
“I told you that you would understand one day.” He placed a small kiss on your temple as he continued, “You belong with me.”
You didn’t exactly know how, or why, or even when. But you felt it. You felt the gravitational pull that he had over you now. How it hurt to know he was leaving you and you couldn’t go with him. How you were going to spend two weeks on your own, in his apartment, with no human contact and only the comfort of his cats to keep you going.
“Promise me, promise you’ll come back?” You whispered into his chest.
“Of course, Mijn liefje.” He placed another kiss on top of your hair.
The next two weeks were painful. The furthest you have travelled was from the sofa to the kitchen, to the bedroom and back. Living the same routine daily.
Wake up, get dressed, run on the treadmill for 30 minutes, feed the cats, feed yourself, watch tv, eat, sleep, repeat. For 14 days straight.
Max had set up the TV so you could watch the race. And you couldn’t help but feel a small flutter in your stomach as you saw his car appear on the screen. Or when his interviews would show again. How you could feel his presence here with you. The faint smell of his aftershave wrapped around the apartment still.
On the last night you were alone, you found yourself wandering into his bedroom. You just wanted to wear one of his hoodies; you told yourself that you just wanted to feel his warmth. You picked a hoodie from his wardrobe, letting the hanger fall to the floor, and found yourself laying back on his bed, your head on one of his pillows. It smelt exactly like him. You pulled it in closer, pulling his hoodie over your knees as you brought them to your chest and slowly, yet peacefully fell asleep.
You didn’t hear the door click shut behind you. You didn’t hear Max place his bags by the front door. He looked around the apartment, one of the cats greeting him with a gentle purr as he stroked their fur. He peered into ‘your bedroom’ to find the covers still intact, a perfectly made bed still from this morning. He paced back into the living room, then to the kitchen, fear striking his body.
Had you finally made your escape? He thought. Had he trusted you too soon?
He sprinted to his bedroom, opening the door. And he felt the panic escape his soul.
You were there, still curled up in a small ball, wrapped in his hoodie and tightly wound against his pillow. He stared for a small moment, your legs were bare, just the small filly hem of your bed shorts that you had packed for Monaco over a year ago, he watched as your breathing was steady and calm. Like you had finally admitted defeat.
He leaned in closer, laying behind you and pulling you in. You stirred slightly, but the deep, peaceful sleep had gotten you. Weeks of being alone, loneliness. You thought you were dreaming it, that he was here, that he was finally touching you how you had daydreamed of for the last two weeks.
Except this time it was real. You felt his soft lips against the back of your neck as you woke from your slumber. You were careful not to open your eyes yet, you didn’t want to do anything to ruin this moment. Max finally touching you, holding you, kissing you.
His hands moved slowly, one holding your hip, as the other grazed your thigh, his fingers gently dancing across your bare skin. Until finally his fingers pulled your shorts to one side, slowly as two fingers entered you, the other circling your clit in a motion that made your head spin. You hadn’t been touched like this in a long time. You froze for a moment, feeling every nerve in your body spark like electricity.
“Max?” You whispered, raising your head slightly from the pillow.
“Shhh,” he replied, continuing to circle your clit. It wasn’t long before you came over his fingers. The coil burning deep in the pit of your stomach as you let out a moan so loud it vibrated your eardrums.
He wasn’t finished. Your moans only spurred him on more.
He stood now, stripping from his clothes, his jeans and t-shirt now a pool on the floor. He didn’t ask you to do the same, but you followed, pulling his hoodie over your head, your breasts hitting the cold air as your nipples hardened at the sight of him completely naked.
You lowered yourself back on the bed as he towered over you. His eyes were dark, his cock was hard and you were completely soaked. Slick dripping down your thighs as he used his knee to pry them apart. He held your waist, his grip tightening as he pushed into you. It wasn’t slow, it was lustful, like he had been waiting for you to succumb to him. To fall under his trap.
You were tight, clenched around him as your hands grabbed at the sheets of the bed. He was knocking against you thick and fast, he kissed you with force, your moans breathing against his lips. You were under his complete and utter control.
“Fuck–kkk” you moaned, he was fully pushing into your heat, the roughness of his movements, his teeth gnawing at your neck. It was overstimulating, in the best way.
He didn’t stop. His pace picked up rapidly. He took two fingers, tracing your lips before he shoved them into your mouth, making you gag slightly – his devilish grin plastered across his face as he fucked you through it all. He continuously pushed his cock against your G-spot, teasing and rubbing against you until you finally burst, your orgasm hitting again with full force as he fucked you through your high. Your eyes were glassy, tears streamed from your eyes.
“Are you going to take all of me?” He groaned, “I’m gonna fill you with my come, make you mine.”
He thrust into you, not letting up as you screamed his name. He finally spilled into you, his hips jerking against yours, his hand wrapping around your throat as he reached his climax. Max pulled out of you, his come covering your thighs.
He walked into the bathroom, bringing back a towel and gently dabbing and cleaning you up. A completely different treatment than you had from him before. He tossed the towel into the washing basket, and joined you back in bed, you laid there still for a while, unable to feel your legs. Your hands vibrating. Not from fear now, but from a high of pleasure you were unsure you’d ever feel.
He pulled the covers of you both, placing his arm over your shoulders and pulling you into a hug. Your hot, naked bodies colliding together again, but softly this time. Like this was where you were supposed to be.
“Max?” You looked up at him, your doe eyes still weepy.
“Yes, baby?” He tucked a small strand of your sweaty hair behind your ear.
“I–I think…I think I love you.” you mumbled.
“I love you too, schatje.”
You didn’t say it because you wanted out or because you were scared. Because you thought this was true. You did love him. Maybe it was because you had no choice. Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome. Maybe it was because you had admitted defeat. But either way, the chemistry you had, even if it was all orchestrated by Max, you had fallen irrationally in love with Max Verstappen.
A few months had passed since that day. He trusted you more and more with each passing day. And not because you had proven yourself, but because he could tell you were in love. The way you looked at him when he came home from a race or when he’d been working at the simulator, The way you cooked him dinner. How you now shared a bed together, shared slow mornings as a couple. Nothing was defined. No one had uttered the words, but you both knew.
One night, you were curled up on the sofa together, legs tangled under a blanket, a film flickering in the background. You had been building up the courage to ask him, scared of the outcome of the consequences of the question you had been practicing.
“Max?” You lifted your head from his shoulder.
“Yes, schatje?” He placed a kiss on your shoulder, sending a small shock through your body.
You swallowed hard. “When can I be your proper girlfriend?” You asked, fiddling with the seam of the blanket. “I want you to bring me to the paddock, to spend every moment with you.”
Your heart was beating so fast you could feel it vibrating through you. He stared at you for a moment, the cogs in his mind turning as he thought of what to say next.
“Please, Max.” You begged. “I love you more than anything, you know that.”
“I know,” he replied deadpan.
The silence stretched between you both for a moment. The only noise was the hum from the TV.
He finally spoke, “And you won’t try to do anything stupid? You’re not plotting some big escape?”
You shook your head, pulling his t-shirt and crashing your lips into his, “No, Max. I promise!”
It wasn’t a lie. You hadn’t thought of leaving, not for a long time. You just wanted to be with him. You wanted to be around him, you didn’t want him to leave, for him to be away anymore. It wasn’t about freedom at this point, it was about completely, irrevocably, in love with him.
“Fine, you can come to my next race.” Your smile could’ve lit up Monaco. “But–”
You fell back into your seat as you waited for him to finish. “–You follow my rules, my lead and you do not stray too far. Understand?”
You nodded, falling back into his embrace, pulling the blanket back over your shoulders as it brushed your chin.
That week he had ordered a plethora of beauticians, hair stylists, nail artists, all to the apartment – each of them paid off to ensure their discretion. He had made sure you were pampered, your hair dyed and cut, nails painted with french tips, just the way he liked them, toes painted white, your body spray tanned to distract from how pale your skin had become from not being out in the sun for an extended period of time. New clothes were hung in the wardrobe, beautiful, elegant dresses, expensive heels stacked in boxes, handbags that you could only dream of.
The day of the race came, Monaco. You both had agreed this was the best place to announce your relationship. You were allowed your phone back for the first time in a very long time. You placed it in your YSL clutch. The dress he had chosen for you was a black off the shoulder number that flowed long, white frills at the bottom grazing your ankles, the straps of your heels digging in slightly – this was the first time you’d worn shoes, proper shoes since that night.
He held your hand tight as you walked through the paddock. Whispers circled as you passed familiar faces. Lando and Oscar gave each other a look as if saying ‘who is she?’ You could hear people asking the obvious, “Max has a girlfriend?” “Who is this girl?” “Since when did Max have a girlfriend?”
You did exactly as he said, exactly as he made you practice. Be the girl that Max Verstappen would be proud to have one his arm. So you walked with grace, like you were floating above the air. Which, in all honestly, you felt like you were.
It was Charles who stopped in front of you both. Max’s grip around your hand growing tighter.
“Well, bonjour mon cher,” Charles gently took your hand and placed a kiss on it. You offered him a sweet smile, as his gaze met yours. “Max never told us he had such a beautiful girlfriend.”
You told Charles your name, and how you both wanted to keep it under the radar until you were ready to tell the world. You could see in Max’s eyes how proud he was of you for keeping the lie going and how well you were at telling it.
When Charles had walked away, heading toward the Ferrari paddock, Max led you to the Red Bull motorhome, and through to his private driver room. He motioned you to take a seat on the leather sofa, as he clicked the door shut behind him.
“Well done, my girl.” He took a seat next to you, placing his hand on your cheek, as he pulled you into a kiss. Deep and unforgiving. You fell into him again, falling into the embrace of Max.
“Remember our plan?” He asked, pulling away from your lips slightly, his hand still cupped around your cheek.
You nodded.
“When I’m on track, you stay in the paddock and speak when you’re spoken to. And when people ask how we met, what do you say?”
You rehearsed the lines in your head. “That I was travelling across the world, and you had swept me off my feet. That I had fallen in love with you from the moment we met.”
“Perfect. I love you. Remember that.” He stood, holding his hand out to you.
You took it, lacing your fingers with his as you rose from the sofa. “I love you too, Max.”
You knew two things in life now.
Firstly, Max was the love of your life, even if it was unconventional the way you met. And secondly, he was in complete control. No matter what, he was the one who would say what you would wear, who you could speak to, what you looked like.
Because after all, he’s the reason you’re here. The reason you get to live. And even though deep down, you knew it was wrong. You didn’t want anything to jeopardise being with the man you love.
Themes: dark!Max, youngest piquet!reader, jealousy, possessive thoughts, toxic!Max, unhealthy obsession, age gap (18 & 26), checo, max & reader love triangle?, stalking, max preying on reader, naive!reader, also some poorly translated and used brazilian portuguese (I'm learning, okay!), college student!reader, female!reader, sort of creepy checo
Notes: This idea has been brewing in my head for some time now. I am obsessed with dark Max fics, so I wanted to write one of my own. This one will also be a series. Easter break is ending, so I'll have to go back to school...I won't be able to post as often as I'd like, but I'll try not to completely drown in schoolwork, so that I'll have time to write.
---
Brazil 2023. Another win after win. 2023 world champion. I had never felt more on top of the world, more unstoppable. I looked down from the podium at Kelly. She was holding Penelope, both of them cheering for me. A sight that never failed to make me smile. You were there too. Something about seeing you there captivated me. You weren't wearing anything out of the ordinary. A Red Bull jacket that was too big for you. I remember the day you got it. Kelly had laughed at you for accidentally ordering a large instead of a medium. It almost swallowed you whole, but you still looked cute. Almost like you were wearing my jacket.
You were smiling. But you weren't smiling at me. Checo was right there, flirting with you. He had been flirting with you all weekend. You had turned 18 last week. Kelly had brought you to the Mexican Grand Prix, wanting you to experience your 18th with a real party. Checo flirted with you then, too. He offered you drink after drink at the after party. When you went to go dance with your friends, he stayed behind with me and Gianpiero. "Man, I got lucky meeting her now. Would've been difficult if I had met her a month ago." He had said, drunk of course. He had chuckled at that and then left for the dance floor as well. Gianpiero had looked at me. "He doesn't need anymore drinks." I couldn't have agreed with him more.
I had never paid much attention to you. You were always in the background, but never seen. I don't know what changed. Nothing happened between us. I just started seeing you in a new light and I didn't know why. And the sight of you there, smiling at Checo and not me...it pissed me off. I couldn't stop thinking about it. Couldn't stop thinking about you. Even when I was in bed with Kelly. I almost moaned your name. Every waking moment I wasn't thinking about racing, I was thinking about you. I stalked through your socials, trying to find if you had changed something, but no, nothing new.
I wanted it to stop. I was already with Kelly and I was happy. But my eyes would search for you in every room, my nostrils would only pick up your scent whenever you walked past and I had to restrain myself from touching you every time you were close to me. I had to have you. And I was going to have you. Only now, I had to get you the hard way.
---
Wednesday, early noon. My week off after Brazil and before Las Vegas. You sit by the dining room table, your computer in front of you, surrounded by textbooks and notebooks. You're wearing shorts and a top, typical for you in this São Paulo weather. Every time I see you I can't help but memorise every detail about you, even the smallest ones. They make you all the more interesting.
You look up when I walk in, say good morning and smile brightly when I give you a cup of coffee. "Thank you, Max. You didn't have to." I could hear you say my name for eternity. "I know how stressed you are about that entrance exam. Figured you could need it." I smile at you. My head turns towards the couch, where Nelson Sr. is sitting and watching television. "Well, she doesn't need to be stressed anymore. She got in!" He announces, getting up from the couch. "Pai! Eu queria ser a pessoa a dar a notícia e ele!" You reply, slightly annoyed but still happy. I understand a bit of portuguese, but I never took the time to learn it. "Desculpe, querida." Nelson approaches you, kissing your head like a proud father.
"You got in? To the International University of Monaco?" I ask you, and when you nod, your face beaming with excitement, I couldn't have been more happy. Happy for your achievement but also for my plan. Now that you'll be studying in Monaco, I'll be more closer to you. Monte Carlo's not big. I could keep an eye on you, make sure no one hurts you. Or flirts with you. "I even got my first choice, luxury management! I start in January!" You're so happy and excited, wiggling your legs underneath the table like a little kid. "That's great! I'm so proud of you." I go to hug you. I don't want to let go. Your scent, your touch, everything about you is like a drug. I want to hold on to every small thing.
"I still need to get a job and find an apartment before I can accept the place." A job and an apartment? Your family has all this money and they can't take care of that for you? "You could come and live with me." I utter before I could fully think it through. Both you and your father looked at me rather stunned. Kelly walks in, hearing it. I could tell she's surprised as well, but there's something else on her face. Almost annoyance. "You'd have a roof over your head and I'd provide you food and other necessities. You could fully focus on your studies." I explain. You seem so pleased with the idea. "Well, there you go. Problem solved." Nelson chuckles, tapping me on the shoulder before leaving the room. I guess that was his seal of approval.
"Are you sure? I mean, it would be a lifesaver, Max. I promise I'll get a job and-"
"Don't worry about it, sweetheart. I'm 100% sure." You hug me so suddenly I have to take a step back. I hold on to your waist and pet your hair when you look up at me, your eyes beaming so bright. "Thank you so much, Max. You have no idea how much this means to me. I have to call Checo to tell him the good news." You are so excited you can barely stay still. You take your phone and almost run to your room. But the mentioning of Checo makes me clench my jaw.
Kelly stares at me, her eyebrows up, holding a coffee cup. "Didn't think to ask me?" She says, walking up to me. "Why? It's my apartment." I look at her as she strokes my arm, kissing me on the cheek. I wrap my arm around her waist out of instinct, but I don't kiss her back. "I live in it." She insists. "Staying over whenever we're in Monaco isn't living in it. We're not living together, Kelly." Maybe I was a bit too harsh, because she looks offended. But it feels good. Placing boundaries. Kelly's been too comfortable lately. Assuming instead of asking. Making me look like an idiot in front of people.
"Is Checo her new boyfriend?" I ask her, changing the subject. She shrugs, rolling her eyes. "I don't fucking know. They've known each other for like two weeks I doubt it. But he's all she talks about, it's honestly driving me insane." She takes a sip of her coffee. I don't answer. She sighs, letting go of me. "I'll go check on P. But I'm telling you, Max. You'll regret letting her live with you." I doubt it. If anything, I'm regretting choosing Kelly. Yes, she's smart and beautiful and everything a man could dream of, but she's not you.
The more I think about it, the more I start to like the idea of you living under my roof. Then I could really keep you close. Monitor you, make sure Checo doesn't get too close. He's not good for you. He can't protect you. Not the way I can. Looks like my plan just got a little easier.
synopsis: you lead oscar around the chaos of the mclaren garage and let him take pictures of you and lando while filming something for mclaren,
includings: dark!oscar + photographer/journalist!oscar, mclaren driver!reader, obsessive/possessive behavior, osc is such a fanboy per usual, lando is a sweetheart but thinks osc is a little weirdo, jealousy, threatening stares/thoughts, a little bit of gaslighting
an: for my osc fans, ik this season dragged y'all through actual hell 😭
Oscar didn't even realize he was walking with his mouth slightly open until somebody from the comms team told him he was going to catch flies that way.
The garage was bright, loud, alive. Screens flickered with telemetry, mechanics in bright orange papaya uniforms, moving between tire stacks, engineers gathered around flowing monitors. The low hum of generators vibrating through the concrete. Orange and chrome bouncing off every polished surface.
He dreamed of being here, only ever seeing bits and pieces inside the garage but it was nothing compared to actually being in there.
And it was all because of you.
You pulled him into the garage so casually, like he'd been meant to stand beside you all these years, like this was normal, like you inviting some random photographer you met once to roam your workspace was just how things worked.
He trailed behind you, eyes wide and sparkling, his hands nervously adjusting the straps of his camera bag.
You glanced back at him, amused. "Everything okay?"
"I'm sorry...it's just that this...this is insane." He whispered, trying not to sound like a twelve-year-old boy seeing his first supercar. "I've only ever seen pictures but actually being in here? Wow."
You couldn't help but smile at his joy. "Yeah, it's a little overwhelming. I'll give you a whole tour after my meeting."
You saw as he perked up and you sighed. "I can't bring you along, they'll rip my head off."
His face fell. Instantly.
"But it's short!" You quickly added. "Ten minutes, tops! You can even wait in my driver's room so I won't lose you."
Oscar nodded as you lead him to your drivers room and you unlocked it before pocketing the key and you gestured. "It's not as cool as the garage but you can take photos of my old helmets from here and stuff."
He nodded again and you walked off, the door clicking shut behind you.
Oscar stood perfectly still for about two seconds.
And then?
He spun in place, taking in everything.
Your spare set of gloves tossed casually on the counter.
Race boots lined up neatly.
Your bag slumped against the couch.
The air even smells like you, warm, faint and expensive.
He inhaled shakingly.
"Oh my God." He whispered, he's like an unsupervised kid in a candy store.
He started taking photos of everything.
The helmets on the stand.
Your personalized water bottle with your number.
Your closet which you had multiple team kits hung up along with hoodies.
Framed photos of you with fans.
He took a picture of himself touching your balaclava like it's a holy relic.
He's grinning so hard that his face started to hurt.
And then he started snooping.
Opened drawers.
Peaked at the neatly organized shelves.
Read the sticky notes on your mirror, his favorite being "Remember to drink water dumbass."
And then?
His eyes landed on something small, near your mirror.
Your chapstick.
Lid half-twisted off, clearly used that morning.
Oscar went still.
Completely still.
He started at it like it was a forbidden fruit.
"No." He whispered to himself, shaking his head. "No. I can't..I can't be that creepy."
Silence.
He continued to stare at it.
Then he reached for it anyway.
It fit perfectly in his palm.
It smelled like a warm vanilla and he couldn't help but wonder if that was what your lips smelt like.
If that was what they tasted like.
He almost stopped breathing.
He glanced at the door.
"She won't miss it." He told himself. "She has a dozen of these, probably."
He pocketed it.
And the worst part?
He smiled.
A tiny, guilty smile.
Then he sat casually on your coach like he hadn't just stolen your chapstick to go home and use as if it's his own.
After a few minutes of him sitting there, no longer than six he assumed the door had swung open.
"Alright, I'm all done." You sighed. "You were good in here?"
Oscar nodded, jumping up from the coach. "Uh..yeah. I got a few pictures."
You nodded, your eyes scanning around the room with a hum and he felt his shoulders grow stiff.
Did you notice it was missing?
There was another moment of silence and him silently panicking before you spoke up.
"I don't know how you took a picture of anything, my drivers room is a total snorefest." You giggled, shaking your head and walking inside to grab your water bottle before nodding your head towards the door.
"Let's get you back to the garage so you can take actual photos instead of just this though."
He nodded, following behind you like a stray dog.
His thumb rubbing over the lip balm snuggly in his jacket pocket.
"Like I said, take a picture of whatever as long as it's not data. Get some of the crew, you'd be surprised at how much they love being on camera." You hummed.
Oscar finally moved his other hand from his pocket to reach for his camera and once it clicked into place it was like instinct had taken over. He began taking shots.
He got a few of your mechanics next to your car, you talking with your engineer as he handed you a smoothie, the social media girls who were taking pictures of the garage as well, he even caught a blurred shot of Lando who was running.
He followed you deeper into the garage, eyes wide and mouth slightly open as he took in everything.
"Oh my God." He whispered. "Are those the new uniforms and fireproofs?"
You turned to him, nodding. "I honestly can't tell the difference. They look the same."
He snapped a few pictures. "Well the DP Logo moved down and got replaced with the Mastercard logo. Then the Dell technologies colors switched. It's also has Mclaren on the right leg." He said. "And the fireproofs are definitely more of a jet black this year compared to last years charcoal."
It was silent.
Shit. He probably looked so weird for noticing for tiny details that you didn't even catch.
"Uh..sorry, I didn't mean to ramble."
You shook your head. "No, no, I love it. I didn't know you paid close attention to that stuff. It's cool."
He smiled softly, feeling the tips of his ears grow warm. "Uh..thanks. I just read a lot of articles so.."
"Cute." You hummed, before turning back around and he nearly choked on air.
Every few steps he raised his camera, snapping little moments that most wouldn't care to. Your hand brushing along a tire stacks as you walked, the sunlight catching you in a way that made you look ethereal, you chatting with your personal headphones on to one of your pr managers.
Real things. Not staged or polished PR photos everyone else took.
Others started to notice him as well.
One of the media girls he had taken a picture of whispered to another that he was very loud at the F175 event and must've made an impression.
One of the wondering cameramen almost mistook him for somebody new and apart of the crew.
He zoned it out though, his main focus being you.
The brunette snapped another photo just as Lando had walked up to you. His brows raised with joy as he looked at the camera, throwing up four fingers and Oscar snapped a photo of it without thinking.
"Your little photographer boyfriend is cute." Lando hummed after giving the brunette a small updown.
Oscar's eyes widened and he could feel a faint flush spreading across his skin.
"I know right?" You said without missing a beat. "Can we ask Zak if we can keep him?"
He chuckled. "You know he'll hire him in heartbeat if it makes you happy."
Oscar wouldn't have minded that at all.
Being able to be this close to you almost every single day? That was literally his dream.
"But I'd run mate, next thing you know she'll have you taking pictures of her on a random Saturday because she got a new set."
Set?
What kind of set?
Nails? Gym clothes? Lingerie?
You gasped, playfully pushing his shoulder. "That was one time and because [B/fn] wasn't picking up! It was an emergency!"
He rolled his eyes, playfully shoving you back as he glanced back over to Oscar with a warm smile.
Huh.
The photographer seemed a little more tense, like he was forcing out the smile he had on.
It unsettled Lando a bit if he was being honest but he only looked back over to you. "Oh! I was supposed to get you like five minutes ago, we gotta shoot a video for Mclaren."
"Another challenge?"
He shrugged as the three of you started walking, you didn't even have to tell Oscar to follow you at that point he was doing it like it was second nature.
Lando nodded. "You know it. One I'm definitely gonna beat oyou at."
You laughed in his face. "Oh like how you won the last one?"
"You cheated!"
★
Mclaren's media team walked around the room as they got everything into place, cameras were being set up, lights adjusted and you and Lando were being softly pampered by hair and makeup before filming started.
"Thinking about cutting my hair." He mentioned as one of the makeup girls touched up his eyebrows.
You tried not to move too much as one of the makeup girls applied a bit of clear mascara to your lashes. "How short?"
"Just like....a bit off the back."
You nodded. "Oh, yeah. That was really nice on you even though you're kinda rocking the mullet." You hummed, reaching out to toy with the curls along the back of his head and he chuckled, pulling away from the slight tickle it gave him.
Oscar watched the interaction between the two of you, taking a few photos. He read that the two of you were close and he knew that you were since you had been friends since your karting days but he didn't expect for the two of you to be this close.
It irked him.
Lando's brows furrowed slightly as he had a weird feeling, like somebody was staring but not the usually kind he had grown used to.
No, this one was the kind he couln't ignore. It felt weighted, strange. He glanced around the room before his eyes had landed on Oscar and he made direct eye contact.
It wasn't malicious, just intense. Like a lion preying on an unsespecting gazelle.
Lando swallowed, turning his head back to the front of the room once makeup and hair announced that they were finished and the head of the media team gave the two of you a countdown.
3...2...1...
"Hi, I'm Lando Norris." He smiled, tapping his microphone against yours.
"Hi, I'm Y/n L/n and today since we're in Australia we'll be seeing who knows more Aussie slang."
Lando leaned back a bit. "I've got this in the bag." He hummed confidently.
You made a face. "I was teammates with Jack for like three years."
He shrugged, waving his hand. "So? I was teammates with Danny for like two."
"So I've got a year more of experience on you." You teased and he rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, yeah, lets see if you actually paid attention."
First card.
"Arvo."
Both of your hands shot out to hit the bell but your palm hit it first and you held up you microphone with a smile as Oscar's camera clicked a few times.
"Afternoon!" You shouted.
A ding was heard as a sign that you were correct.
You pumped your first, bumping it against Lando. "Hah."
He rolled his eyes. "That literally the first one."
"And?"
Second Card.
"Sanger."
You answered first again. "A sandwhich"
Ding!
Lando through his hands up. "Okay this is rigged, who slipped her the answers beforehand?"
"It's not my fault you don't listen to Daniel."
You turned back to the main camera, giving it a smug smile and Oscar's finher tightened just barley on the shutter, taking another photo.
Third Card.
"Jumper."
Lando nearly jumped out of his seat to hit the bell. "A sweater!"
Ding!
"And speaking of, where is my Polo one you stole?"
You brows furrowed slightly. "What're you talking about?"
"The red one!" He exclaimed. "You wore it in Las Vegas last year and I need it back before April."
"Oh!" You said, memory finally clicking into place. "I'll give you sweater back when you give me back the Mclaren logo necklace you stole." You countered, poking him in the chest and Lando had chuckled, commenting how he forgot he even borrowed that
Oscar's brows furrowed. The two of you shared clothes?
Well, actually it seemed like you stole Lando's and he stole your jewelry.
He continued to snap pictures of the interaction between the two of you.
Fourth Card.
"Trainers."
You and Lando had both reached to tap the bell but Lando gently grabbed your wrist, moving it out of the way as he tapped the bell and while clenching onto the camera Oscar snapped a few pictures.
He narrowed his gaze at the male Mclaren Driver as he beamed while holding your wrist.
"Sneakers or tennishoes!"
Ding!
"Oh cmon, I almost had that!"
"Too slow, baby. Too slow." He hummed, letting go of your wrist with a small smirk as he looked back to the cameras.
Then he felt it again, what he could only describe as that piercing look from the young photographer.
He ignored it.
Fifth Card.
"A Kiwi!"
You tapped the bell, shoving Lando's hand out of the way with a giggle.
"Someone from New Zealand, like Liam."
Ding!
"I low-key can never tell the difference between him and Jack's accent." Lando mentioned and you made a face like you were thinking.
"Y'know...I don't really know. Jack sounds cooler just by default in my book though."
The brunette chuckled. "Gonna tell Liam you said that."
There were five more cards before the game had ended and in the end you won by one point.
Still, that was enough for bragging rights.
"I just wanna thank Jack for talking absolute nonsense during our three years as teammates. Wouldn't have won this without you, mate."
Lando playfully rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah. I'll win the next challenge."
You gave a look to the camera as if to say that you completely disagreed. "Thank you guys for joining us."
"And don't forget to tune in this week and wish us good luck this season."
McLaren cut the cameras after the outro and you and Lando seemed to relax just a bit, postures less straight as you handed back the microphones.
"Did you get some good shots?" You asked and Oscar's eyes widened slightly like he was surprised you were giving him attention again.
He nodded his head and you stood up, walking over him to take a look at what he had shot when your PR manager called your name and you sighed.
"Hold on, Osc. I'll go handle that then look." You said, walking across the room and his eyes followed you figure the entire time.
That was when Lando had drifted over, hands shoved into his pockets as he glanced down at the small screen.
He smiled softly at the picture of the two of you, you smiling softly as Lando had concluded the video. It was cute, soft and real. He almost forgot Oscar was there taking pictures of it all.
"Mate." Lando mumbled. "These are mint. You've got her good side every time."
Oscar's smile widened a bit. "She doesn't have a bad one, honestly."
Lando chuckled. "True. True. You made me look good too, I usually hate that angle of me. You're like a little miracle worker."
The brunette shook his head, a shy laugh slipping out, "You're very easy to photograph. Both of you are, you play off of each other in a way that makes it easy."
Lando snickered. "That's all her, nobody admits it but she has a way of drawing you in. Can't help but feed off her energy."
"Well, it works."
And the air felt easy next to Oscar again as he went through the photos with Lando, the driver watching with delight as he paused to debrief each one.
Then Lando, still looking at the camera said casually. "So earlier I thought I did something to you."
Oscar blinked, tilting his head. "What do you mean?"
"That glare thing you were doing." Lando said, looking up. "Thought I did something wrong."
Oscar then smiled, warm. "Hah..no."
Lando nodded. "Oh, good."
But then as Lando looked back down at the photos and Oscar's eyes dragged to one shot, you laughing softly and Lando's hand on your thigh like it was his personal armrest.
And before he could stop himself, Oscar muttered under his breath:
"You did."
It was quiet. Too quiet. Nearly swallowed by the other chatter in the room and the camera crew packing up.
Lando's head snapped up a little. "Huh?"
"Said you didn't." Oscar's smiled returned. "I just have a really intense face when I'm focused."
Lando laughed it off like it was nothing. "Right, right. Makes sense, I do the same thing."
He continued to go through the photos with Lando and the worst part was, he didn't completely hate his presence.
Lando was polite and he had this kind of charm to him, similar to you but not quite.
By time Lando was asking him about what camera he should get next you were walking back over with a smile.
"There she is, your boy has got some real talent." He announced proudly, patting Oscar on the back. "I see why you like him."
Your boy?
Yeah, Oscar was yours.
You gestured as if to say 'I told you so.' "I know, right? We need to beg Zak to keep him, halftime Mclaren photographer and halftime journalist with year round paddock passes."
You turned to look at the brunette. "You like the sound of that?"
Oscar could've dropped to his knees at the sound of that.
"I obviously wouldn't complain." He chuckled.
"Okay, Lando and Y/n please head over to the other photoshoot area for the new merch drop next week." One of the Mclaren staffers said.
You both nodded and Lando looked over to Oscar. "You coming, right?"
"Of course he is." You said, answering before Oscar could even open his mouth and without a word he followed the two of you.
He was trailing half a step behind, flicking through the photos he took during the challenge, his attention seemingly glued to the camera.
Land bumped your shoulder. "Do you really think Zak'd go for it? Hiring him, I mean."
You laughed. "I mean...maybe? He's good..like stupid good." Then you sighed. "But I'd have to fire Joey."
Lando winced silent. "Yeah, that's rough. 'Sorry mate, you're out. I found a better guy I met at the F175 event.'"
You groaned. "That's so rude! I wish he'd just...leave naturally. Or move to Ferrari or something."
Lando nodded. "Yeah, too bad that's probably not gonna happen. He loves Mclaren and working with you."
You sighed. "Yeah."
The two of you assumed Oscar wasn't paying attention, eyes lowered and so deep into his work that you had to yank him out of the way of a mechanic brushing by.
But you didn't see the way his thumb paused mid-swipe.
Or the way his jaw tensed just a little.
Or the faint curl of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth.
Because he heard every word.
And your innocent, offhanded comment lands in him like blood to a shark.
You wished Joey would “leave naturally.”
Interesting.
So you needed that problem solved.
He could solve problems.
As you and Lando continued joking about modeling poses, Oscar followed a step behind and already planning.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just…effectively.
Because if you wanted him there for good.
He would make sure there would be room for him.
taglist: @vanteel @dinoissupreme
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↳ A/N The best part about fiction writing is delving into the dark corners where people dare not to tread. This one was an interesting challenge! Special thank you to @theonottsbxtch and @lipstickandliveries for helping me brainstorm when I got stuck and to @oztri and @obsessedhoneycomb and T-Anon for supporting me in this crazy endeavour x
↳ Summary: George thought he had seen all the beauty of the earth until a woman as dainty and beautiful as a prairie rose moved into the ranch next door. He knew they were destined to be together and he was going to prove that. By any means necessary.
↳ Pairings: Dark!Cowboy!George Russell x Unnamed!Female!Character
↳ Word Count: 7.1k
↳ Warnings: 18+, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, non-con/rape, dark content, varying degrees of sexual abuse, unnatural use of cum, non-consenting voyeurism, stalking, kleptomania, home invasion, male masturbation, sexual coercion, sexist and patriarchal undertones, impregnation kink, restraining with hands, dacryphilia, unprotected sex, nonconsenting creampie, brief implications of abortion, mentions and descriptions of violence and death. THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. THIS IS NOT AN ACCURATE PORTRAYAL OF THE CHARACTERS' REAL LIFE COUNTERPARTS. PLEASE READ WARNINGS BEFORE DECIDING TO CONSUME THIS MEDIA.
George had lived on the grassy plains for as long as he had breath in his lungs.
He had trod the dry dirt roads and made friends with the distant mountains and learned to live in harmony with the wildlife since he was a boy. He had been raised in the hands of mother nature, thriving off of her bounty and kneeling before her beauty beneath blue skies and starry inked blankets. There was never a desire within him to follow the pull of manifest destiny for he believed that his corner of the world was the most divine, the most beautiful. There was nothing more he needed than what it could provide.
After all, it provided her.
She was wearing a soft pink dress the day he first saw her. The shape of her body was trimmed in modest frills and soft flowing fabric that swirled around her knees, the neckline cut straight across her bosom and tied snug with a dainty bow right in the front. Her wheat-coloured western hat matched her boots that clicked across the uneven wood flooring of the general store and she carried herself with a feminine grace that wasn’t often seen on the plains. She was as dainty and beautiful as a prairie rose.
His prairie rose.
George was entranced by her from that day forward, that the Earth had given him nothing as bountiful and generous as the fair woman whom he had laid eyes on that afternoon in the store. Something changed in him that day; tugging at his heart in an undeniable knowledge that she was meant to be his. It was nothing short of love at first sight. Fate, one might think. Especially realizing that the beautiful woman who had drifted by him in the general store, wafting past a breeze like springtime rain, was to then occupy the ranch to the south-west of his very own.
He brought her a house-warming pie just to be neighbourly, tying his horse to the pickets of her front porch and removing his hat out of courtesy once he knocked. When she answered the door, she looked even more ravishing out of the prying eyes of townsfolk, in the comfort of her front entryway, socked feet trimmed in little white ruffled lace around the ankles. George was cordial and as well-mannered as ever, introducing himself and welcoming her to town, offering the homemade cherry pie that he assured her was his granny’s most secret recipe.
When she smiled graciously in return, the clouds parted and rays of golden light shone down upon him. George had never seen the ocean but he could fathom that they wouldn’t hold a candle to the colour of her eyes; the blue of the water, the brown sandy beaches, the green of the lush shorelines. She was more beautiful than the elements. He was so transfixed by her and her radiance that he barely recalled her introducing herself, sharing where she was from. They had time. They had a lifetime. George was sure of it. The unmissable racing of his heart said so; like a sign from the heavens and earth.
However, it didn’t take long for him to realize she was married; the little gold ring on her hand tying her to the slender man whom appeared beside her in the doorway and set a hand upon her back. A skinny thing, the husband was, hardly any meat on his bones, looking as if he had hardly lifted a tool in his life and, now, was anticipating running a ranch. Not like George and his hands rubbed raw from years of labour, tugging on reins, and working to survive on the plains just as his father had and his father before him. Men were supposed to work the land, to provide, to give back graciously to the earth and pay it forward to their equals. No woman deserved a man who had been served by a golden spoon.
Her husband shared in passing—as if it were something to be proud of—that he was from the city but he had visited his uncle’s farm a few times in his adolescent years and so he felt prepared to start this new way of life. That somehow a few timid horse back rides around a fenced in paddock made him qualified to turn to the land to provide for a wife, for a family.
Poor prairie rose. Her husband was pathetic.
Of course, despite his internal judgement, George was no cruel man, and so he bit his tongue and carried on with the respect that he would give to anyone else. He made the new couple feel welcome in town; offering directions or tips, sharing his excess baked goods or dairy from his milkcow, and helping to guide the confused husband through very basic ranch work. She would watch them work sometimes as she hung up the linens on the clothesline or from the rocking chair on the front porch, indulging in another slice of George’s homemade cherry pie.
There was something about the way she let the fork linger between her cherry-stained lips after every bite, eyes locked on their pair of them, that sparked something fiery in his chest. She was looking at him. It was undeniable.
And George would tip his hat in her direction like a gentleman just to see her smile.
She always invited him for dinner after all his help on the ranch, insisting when he tried to modestly decline. Not that he ever truly wanted to decline, but he didn’t want to come on too strongly either. He had always silently wondered what the inside of her house looked like; that modest log cabin with the tin roof and stone chimney that she tended to so earnestly. The first night they had invited him to stay for supper, he lingered in their family room, hat in hand, admiring the shining rifle mounted above the fireplace and the framed photographs below it on the mantle. He lingered just a beat longer on their wedding photo front and centre.
It wasn’t a surprise that she looked breathtaking in white, as sweet as a dove bathed in soft lace. George could only imagine what she would look like the day she married him. Would she wear the same dress? No, he would buy her a new one…hire one of the ladies in town to sew one for her special so no one else in the world would have the same one.
Maybe they’d have to use extra fabric to fit around the swell of her belly, her engorged breasts, swollen with his baby inside her. Admiring her childhood photos on the mantle only proved to him that they would have the most beautiful children together. A true blessing to the Earth. It was what nature decreed.
She had been married to her husband for two years and they still had not had a child. How sad, George thought. There was no greater blessing than children. No greater honour of a man to plant nature’s most precious seed in his partner, and no greater honour of a woman to grow his children for him. The fact that her husband had not yet begun the process to fill their ranch with babies was beyond him. Oh, she deserved so much more than him. She deserved someone who could worship her for all her worth and make her into the most perfect mother the land had ever bore witness to.
George knew it was his destiny to be that person.
Without an ounce of hesitation, he snagged a small picture frame off the corner of the mantle, one that housed a pretty portrait of her, and he slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket for safe keeping. It had been tucked behind some other frame, a thin layer of dust along the wood, it wouldn't be missed. He had much more of a use for it; he would put it front and centre on his own mantle and worship her like she so deserved.
Over dinner, he sat across from her like they were on a date, hardly paying any mind to her husband who sat at the head of the table between them. The three of them conversed with ease like old friends, sharing tales and memories, and George managed to crack a few jokes that had her giggling into her water glass. He could have bottled up her laugh and sold it for a pretty penny, he was sure. What a glorious sound.
While her husband helped himself to the parlour after dinner to smoke his pipe and have a drink, George offered to help clear the table and wash the dishes. She was very appreciative. He would have done anything for her. They shared the time side by side at the sink while she washed and he dried, bathed in the dim light of the kitchen, talking and laughing. It felt immensely domestic. Sharing household chores, something as mundane as washing dishes, and yet, with her, it was enjoyable. It was how he wanted every day of the rest of his life to end: to be well fed, in a warm house, perhaps a few babies asleep down the hall, and sharing a quiet moment just the two of them.
He couldn't dream of leaving her to clean up all on her own, not like her husband who smoked away in the parlour and left her to it. In reality, he wasn't a bad guy, but he just wasn't what she deserved. He couldn't give her the world; not like George could.
It was a real tragedy when her husband died in a freak farming accident a mere fortnight later—kicked in the head by his own bucking horse, lights out in a split second.
George had seen it firsthand. The two of them had gone out to corral the cattle when the horse spooked over a gust of wind as the man stooped for a drink from the stream. The steed went mad, thrashing and kicking, and to keep from being bucked off his own horse, George had no choice but to shoot it between the eyes in a fit of desperation. Man and steed, dead on the riverbank.
The townsfolk were startled when George rode back into town with the gangly man draped, lifeless, over his back, limp arms swaying with every trot. He explained his story to the crowd who took pity on him and that poor cityman who had simply been in over his head out here. It was survival of the fittest out on the plains. George simply knew how to survive better than most.
George was the one to break the news to his beloved, hat clutched to his chest, words solemn. He watched his prairie rose wilt before his eyes, drooped by grief. And she collapsed into him for comfort and he held her while she cried, stroking her hair and soothing her tenderly.
“Shh, I’m here. Everything is going to be okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
Of course, he kept to his promise. He wasn’t going to leave her alone. Especially not since her husband passed and she was all alone on that ranch of theirs, left to tend to it all by herself. George did what any decent man would: he stepped up. He owed it to her—to himself—to be there, to support her in any way he could. Not just as a man, but as someone who had been there in her darkest hour, who had witnessed what she lost. She was his responsibility now. His to look after.
He helped her daily, tending to her acreage and livestock, and once she felt ready, he began showing her the ropes—the quiet necessities of managing land, the things her husband used to handle. She was a quick study, eager even, and he liked that. It gave her purpose again, steadied her hands, and he could tell she trusted him. Some day, he was sure, this land would be theirs, and they would tend to it with the pride of partnership. They were already sowing the seeds of such a future; the unspoken understanding between them, every fleeting smile under the brim of her hat, every brush of his callused hand against her soft fingers as he showed her how to hold a tool. Each moment proof enough that words weren’t needed. Words might spoil something so delicate. He knew it was real. She would know when the time was right.
There was no finer feeling than when she joined him to herd the cattle from pasture, tucked close against his back, dainty arms looped around his middle, holding onto him with a trust that went straight to his chest. That evening, when he returned home to the silence of his property, the thought of her lingered like perfume. He could still feel her hands on him, gripping him tight, feel the tickle of her hair against his neck and the scent of her against his flannel. It was maddening.
He stared at her framed portrait and took his hand to himself, stroking his cock in furious pumps as he imagined her beautiful body laid out before him. How she'd moan for him, cry his name, feeling her panted breath against his face and her hands scraping down his back. What he wouldn't give to unravel his beautiful prairie rose petal by petal, to see her bare, to bury himself inside her until their souls intertwined. Until he could plant a seed in her womb and watch it grow.
George came with a hitch of his breath and a strangled groan, spilling into the small shot glass in his left hand with careful aim. To not lose a single drop.
She had no idea what was in his homemade cherry pie that made it so delicious—it was certainly nothing that his granny had left in her worn recipe book. But watching his sweet prairie rose indulge in a slice when he brought her another fresh baked pie the very next afternoon made his heart race, made that fire off possession flare within him. She'd take a piece of him inside her and she wouldn't even know. He was sure, however, deep down, something in her would feel it. Something in her would know.
He wanted to know every bit of her; her ins and her outs, how she carried herself when no one was watching. And maybe a part of him was protective too. Maybe a part of him worried about her all alone on that ranch, all alone in that house once the sun went down. George wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened to her during the night when they were apart. She was his responsibility, after all.
So, on certain nights where the darkness crept over the mountains and settled a bit too heavily across the plains, he would make the short trek across his property and onto hers. Knowing the land like the back of his hand, George didn’t need a torch for guidance, and he crept carefully along the side of her house. A perimeter check. He never told her this was what he was doing—he didn’t want to embarrass her or make her feel as if he saw her as something fragile and unable to carry herself—but he took it upon himself anyway.
And, sometimes, during these checks, while making sure her property was clear, he would find himself outside her bedroom window, masked by the cover of sparse trees or shrubbery and concealed in the shadows of the nighttime. Her lamp would be on, causing the scene of her bedroom to appear like a glowing scene of framed artwork; her in her nightgown as the subject, front and center. In her blush pink silken nightgown, hair tucked up in matching rollers, his prairie rose went about her night routines without a concern that her drapery was open wide.
Perhaps she figured her property was large enough that it didn’t matter. Perhaps she simply forgot to pull them closed. Or, more likely, George thought, was that she knew he was out there and so she kept her drapes open purposefully.
George found himself there often, leaning against a tree, keeping his nightly vigil in the shadows just out of reach of the warm light that spilled through the window. He would watch her tie up her hair into rollers at her vanity or apply lotion to her smooth legs at the side of her bed or, if he timed it right, he would catch her changing, dropping her towel in exchange for her nightgown. Her body was a vision in the nude; natural and feminine.
She bore such perfect hips for childbearing with a bosom so round and full and just made for a babe to latch onto those small, pink nipples. George would stare at her with awe in his eyes, taking in every inch of her beautiful body that was carved for motherhood, carved for his hands to possess. From the precise angles of her collarbones down every divot of her spine to the curve of her rear and the full tuft of hair nestled between her slender legs. A perfect man-made woman.
Bless the land for bestowing upon him such a gift as divine as she.
His prairie rose. How he craved to nestle between her petals and inhale the scent of her beauty.
He told himself he was only checking in on her, that she was safe and sound in her home. But he never left until the lamp went dark.
The silly woman kept her back door unlocked at night, George soon came to realize. Did she not know the dangers that could lurk in the darkness of the mountains? It was clear that his perimeter checks were not enough; he was going to have to keep an eye inside her home too some nights. He never minded. He’d do anything to keep her safe.
What started as a once a week ritual soon occurred twice a week…then thrice. It was routine for George to tiptoe up her back porch steps and cautiously turn the handle of her unlocked backdoor and slip inside, knowing just which kitchen floorboards to skip over on his silent skim through the homestead. There was something comforting about being in her space in such circumstances; nothing performative or fake. It was real and true and honest. She couldn’t hide anything from him. Her trust was immense.
After all, why else would she leave her back door unlocked? She was practically inviting him in.
His fingers traced the spines of her books on her bookshelves in the living room, creased and well worn, and he fingered through the pages of the bookmarked novel that was left on her coffee table.
The glass bottle of her perfume was heavy in his hands as he sprayed it onto his wrist to inhale her floral scent in the darkness of her bathroom, letting the scent linger as he took it upon himself to straighten the tubes of her makeup and bottles of medicine in the cabinet above the sink.
And her pearls and diamonds winked up at him from her jewelry box in the corner of her bedroom, precious items for his precious girl, and he took a mental list of what she liked, just to know where he could help fill some empty spots when the time came.
But, as interesting as her house was, there was nothing that compared to the sight of her, fast asleep, curled up on the right side of her bed and tucked neatly under her quilt. The vacant left side of her bed did not go unnoticed by him—the empty space her husband once occupied—and his heart tugged with the desire to climb under the sheets to join her, to claim the spot as his own, to warm the cold mattress and draw her under his arm protectively, lovingly. Instead, he stayed put, resting back against her dresser, watching, admiring, yearning. Through the quiet he could almost hear her breathing, a rhythm he’d learned to measure his nights by.
George dared not overstay his welcome and so once he was satisfied she was safe, he left her home just as he’d found it, certain she’d dream sweeter for it. But, as he turned for her bedroom door on silent footsteps, he noticed her laundry hamper peeking out from behind her door.
It was full after a busy few days where household chores seemed to get away from her, rumpled clothes stuffed in a pile within, desperately awaiting a wash. George hesitated, eyes flicking between the full hamper and her sleeping form across the room. Her back was to him, as if that meant anything, and so he stepped forward and let his fingertips ghost over the clothing, exploring.
As if by accident or by fate, his finger hooked on a mere scrap of fabric, small and soft, something that would fit in his palm and keep the scent of her for nights when the fields felt endless. He folded it with a tenderness that would have made saints weep, tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, and told himself, once more, that it was meant to be this way. It was proof of their connection, a souvenir that represented how she belonged to him; something for only him to touch.
George held the composure of a general; waiting until he was safely in the confines of his own home to pull the fabric from his pocket once more. There, in the light of his bedroom, he stared at the lace trim of her soft panties he held in his hands, how the lamp seemed to backlight them like they were holy. If he thought hard enough, he could have sworn they were still warm from her body.
He slid his fingers down the fabric as if he were analyzing a scroll, pulling the fabric taut and angling it into the light to see the faint discolouration of the fabric right where it would be nestled against her beautiful flower. So natural, so real. George smoothly drew the panties to his face and shut his eyes as he inhaled deeply through his nose. The sweet, faint, mouth-watering musk of her grazed his senses. Human, real, a trace of closeness that lingered on the fabric. His blood rushed through his ears.
Movement came by instinct; stripping out of his clothes and lying back on his mattress as if he were preparing to bed her right in that moment. He could picture her there, her naked body in the dim lighting of his bedroom, looking so right in his space, staring at him with those beautiful eyes that begged and begged without words. The feeling of his fist around his cock, he knew, would feel so much more pleasurable if it were her hand instead, finger donning a little diamond ring inscribed with his name, strokes dainty and sweet and careful.
George doubted that her husband showed her how to properly engage in such acts. He would likely have to show her himself, to teach her how to touch and pleasure a man properly, how to submit to him like a good girl, a good wife. To give but, also, to take. To take and take and take. It was clear she was a quick study out on the ranch; he had no doubt that would carry over into the bedroom.
With her panties bunched in his fist, he raised them to his face again and closed his eyes, nestling his nose in the fabric, breathing her in while he pleasured himself. He could almost imagine her right there with him, the scent of her arousal clinging to her skin, to his, the fading remnants of her perfume lingering in the air with every passionate movement.
George’s expression furrowed behind the firm pumps of his hand on himself, eyes still screwed shut, knuckles turning white with how tightly he held her panties to his face until he was almost smothering himself. All he could think about was her; his prairie rose. What she’d feel like perfectly bare against his skin, what sounds she’d make as he fucked into her, what she’d look like when he released deep inside her fertile womb.
It wasn’t going to be long until he had her, he knew.
As much as he didn’t want to break away from her scent, George pulled her panties away from his face to hold them down over the head of his cock, shuddering at the graze of the fabric against his sensitive skin. His fist pumped faster, needy and urgent, red hot lust pulsing through his veins and nothing but the thought of her clouding his senses.
He came with a strangled groan, spilling himself onto the fabric of her panties, covering the worn crotch of them in thick ribbons of white. It was nothing short of symbolic; the closest they had been to joining themselves together in such intimate ways. In his come down, he stared at the glistening creaminess of his own pleasure streaked across the discoloured crotch of the worn lace fabric and he turned it into the light to stare some more. Them, together, how it should be.
George found her on her front porch steps the next day, face shadowed by her hat and the heel of her boot tapping restlessly against the bottom step. When he approached, she stood up quickly and strode to meet him, unmissable distress across her face, and he steadied her with his hands on her biceps, thumbs stroking over her plaid shirt as he asked her what was the matter.
She confided in him that something had happened the night before and she was so terrified. That she woke up in the morning to the rooster’s crow only to find a pair of her worn panties on the pillow beside her, stained in a man’s semen. Someone had come into her house while she was sleeping and violated her in her most vulnerable state.
She was beside herself, falling into George’s open arms and letting him hold her as she let out her panic into his comforting embrace. He allowed himself to press a lingering kiss to her temple, right under where her hat rested. The simple action had her melting closer to him, her trust in him unmistakable. He would never take it for granted, swearing to her as he held her close,
He knew it was time. She trusted him, and that only sealed their bond. He had to break her in, to show her who she belonged to, to claim her properly like he knew she wanted.
And so the next night, when he climbed her porch steps and silently turned the knob of her back door and slipped into the darkened house without a single creak of a floorboard, he knew what he had to do. Her bedroom door was left half open just as it always was and he lingered in the doorway for just a moment, watching her sleep. Peaceful, angelic. He was already half-hard with anticipation.
Without tearing his eyes away from her sweet face, George unbuckled his belt and popped the button on his jeans, moving slowly so as to not make too much noise. She stirred a little but did not wake. He silently set his jeans and belt, neatly folded, on her dresser. His shirt came off next, joining the pile. Shoes were set aside, socks tucked within.
Left in only his briefs, he lingered there, across the room, taking in the shape of her body under her quilt. His hand dropped down to rub himself over the front of his underwear. It felt as if his nerve endings were at attention, sensitive and burning. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip without tearing his eyes away from her.
Only once he was properly hard did he drop his briefs, added them to his folded pile of clothes, and then tiptoed across her bedroom floor. The hardwood was cold on his bare feet as he drew closer until his body blocked the light of the moon through the window, casting his looming shadow over her body and the vacant side of her bed that was just for him. George pulled the quilt back slowly and then slipped into bed with her.
The dip of the mattress and the rustle of the sheets as he moved closer roused her just enough to let out a sleepy, confused hum. Her eyes fluttered open and the shape of another figure in her bed caused her to gasp.
His hand touched her arm and he soothed her with a soft, “Shh, it’s just me.”
“George?” she spoke through the dark, her voice small.
“Yeah, love. It’s alright. You’re alright.” George cooed as he shuffled closer, delicate fingers trailing down her side underneath the quilt, following the line of her figure and curves of her body.
“What…What are you doing here? How did you—” her words were still thick with sleep, her brain struggling to process what was happening. It was cute, really, almost like she thought this was a dream.
George leaned in to press a lingering kiss to her cheek before answering, “You left your back door open, my darling. Just inviting any troublesome men to come in here and have their way with you if you weren’t careful. It’s okay. I’ve been keeping watch for you, making sure no one would lay a hand on my pretty girl.”
She moved quickly, starting to get up, to put more space between them, but his arm slid around her waist and he pulled her closer until they were chest to chest. Her shaky breath fell against his cheek. Again, she squirmed, trying to get out of bed, enough that George had to grab her tightly and yank her back down, pressing her flat onto her back by her shoulders as he got on top of her. He didn’t want to use such force with her but she wasn’t giving him much of a choice.
“Don’t fight against what you want,” George tutted.
Her breath caught when she realized he was naked, wide eyes staring up at him through the darkened bedroom, “I don’t—”
“Oh, but you do, darling,” he purred.
With her beautiful body trapped beneath him, pinned down by how he straddled her thighs, quilt forgotten down at the foot of the bed, George was buzzing. She was a feast laid out before him. All he could do was start to pull up the bottom of her nightgown, shoving away her hands as she tried to stop him.
“Stop. George, stop.” her voice was sweet, a little shaky with nervousness, “What are you doing?”
“Shh, darling, shhh,” George gathered both of her dainty wrists in one hand and pinned them to the pillow above her head. He was easily stronger than her and thus easily overpowering, as a proper man should be. Masculine. As much as she writhed and squirmed underneath him, he wasn’t deterred.
When he managed to get her nightgown up around her waist, he was privy to the sight of her bare legs, her round hips, and that perfect mound of soft hair nestled between her thighs. She wasn’t wearing panties under her nightgown. It was like she knew he was coming. Like she was asking for it.
“Oh, my love,” George slipped his thumb between her legs, sliding it through the hair and down between her folds, feeling the damp heat of her body, all for him. She flinched and thrashed and he tightened his grip on her wrists, squeezing her thighs with his to keep her in place. Unwavering, he spoke down to her sweetly, “You’re already a little wet for me, aren't you?”
She choked out a meek, pleading, “Please, George.”
“Yeah?” he purred, shoving up her nightgown some more until her breasts were revealed to his hungry eyes and he pinched one pretty pink nipple and then the other, “God, you are divine, baby.”
“Please, not like this,” she bartered desperately, hands straining where he held them pinned, “Maybe we can go and have dinner first or something? Just not now.”
“We have the rest of our lives for that, my love. The rest of time.” George slipped his hand into the tight clench of her thighs, fingers finding her cunt and feeling her out, “Just gotta take what’s mine first. I know you can be a good girl for me.”
She tried to squirm some more, legs trying to kick out from under his body weight, really making him work for it. Her fierceness was one of the things he loved best about her; how she always thought she knew best, even when she didn’t. It was like dealing with a stubborn steed, really. Just had to break it in, make it understand who was in charge.
George used both hands to gather her wrists now, pinning her down strongly, speaking right to her face in warning, “It’s going to hurt if you keep fighting me.”
“Please!” she begged.
Did she know that the sound of her voice begging like that was turning him on more? The shimmer of her eyes…the flush of her cheeks. He loved the chase. He loved working for his reward.
Years of working the plains earned him the strength to move her around like she was a bale of hay, manhandling her over onto her stomach with her hands pinned together behind her back and her face in her pillow. He had wanted to look at her face when he joined his body with hers, but this would have to do. They would have plenty more opportunities. Hundreds and hundreds more, he was sure.
She cried out into her pillow, almost as if she had given up her fight, as if she was submitting to his control.
“Shh, shh, shh,” he hushed softly, angling the head of his cock between her thighs with his free hand, “That’s my girl. That’s more like it.”
The squeeze of her cunt was tighter than he had anticipated. Maybe that came from the way her legs were still snugly side by side, giving him only a tiny gap to sink into. Even still, his eyes fucking rolled the second he pressed inside her, her muscles squeezing the life from the swollen head of his cock, just sucking him right in until all he could do was sink deeper.
“Oh fuck,” he gasped, leaning over her a little with a hand on the back of her neck, holding her right down against the mattress. Once his pelvis was pressed flush against the perfect curve of her ass, he paused, letting himself take in the incredible grip of her cunt, the hot confines that just squeezed the life out of him. She was better than any fantasy. She was made for him.
She let out a little squeak, her hands bunching into fists behind her back where he held her in place, and her body instinctively squirmed underneath him. The way she moved had him moaning, forcing his cock deeper, simply proof that she wanted it, she wanted more. And so he pulled out halfway before shoving back into her again. And again. And again.
The pillow that her face was buried in absorbed her whimpers as he found a steady pace, thrusting into her nice and deep but modest in speed. He wanted to make it last. He wanted to enjoy every bit of her.
She was so warm and wet, taking him so well, every inch. It felt like she was only getting wetter with every thrust, her hips wriggling and lifting from the mattress as if she wanted more of him. She was taking it so well too, every inch, letting him spit her open like this without a complaint. God, she wanted him so bad. She was just as needy for him as he was for her, that was clear.
And then, after one particularly deep thrust, she choked out a tiny, “Ow—”
“It hurts?” George cooed without letting up, speaking through the slick clap of skin on skin that filled her bedroom, “Ask me to stop, then. Say ‘please’.”
There was a pause as if she were getting her wits about her and then she muttered out a small, meek, “Please.”
George’s cock throbbed at the sound of her voice and he couldn’t help the way his hips jumped at the pathetic little sound.
“God, yeah, just like that.” he groaned, his body forcing him to fuck into her a little faster and she just whimpered out a sob in response. He pressed her harder into the mattress, “Oh, are you crying? I know…it’s too much, my darling. It’s so big. I know…it’s okay.”
His comfort had her melting into the pillow, dampening the fabric with her tears and sniffles.
George was dizzy. It was heaven. She was heaven. Her tears were so beautiful, her sobs so delicate, crying for him.
He panted out a strained, “Keep going, I’m close.”
The metal bedframe thudded against the wall with every thrust, the mattress creaking beneath them as he held her down and took what was his. In what was to be their marital bed, where these same sounds would bless his ears for the rest of their lives, they consummated their bond, together. How many times would he have her crying on his cock just like this? How many breakfasts would he bring for her in the mornings after? How many babies would they make in that bed?
Well, they could at least start with one.
George came inside her with a tight groan, shoving as deep as he could go so she could take everything he gave her. His body shuddered through the intensity of his orgasm, tight hands still holding her down into the mattress as he ground into her to milk himself of every drop. He wondered if she could feel him at her cervix, feel his cum leaking into her womb, knowing that it would take and she’d be bred and full in no time.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.
In the afterglow, he stayed and held her. He soothed her with kisses over her flushed skin and soft caresses of his hands on her body as he pulled down her nightgown into place. Her double bed now filled again by two, like it was meant to be.
George sighed, content and sated, and spoke his confession to her in a sweet whisper, “Aren’t you glad I got rid of that pathetic husband of yours? I saved you. Now we can be together for the rest of our lives.”
She was quiet. Her body was trembling in his arms.
“I love you,” George breathed, “You’re going to be such an incredible mother…my beautiful wife…my precious, delicate, prairie rose…”
She was pregnant by the turn of the seasons.
There was a sense of pride in that for George; that they were both so fertile, so meant to be, that one time was all it took. To him, it was proof that fate had chosen them.
She told him over dinner one night, her head bowed, voice flat. Her monthlies were late. She’d been sick that morning. The way she said it, without joy or fear, just a simple truth, was a cold breeze through the light of the fireplace. George didn’t shiver.
Instead, he leapt to his feet, grinning from ear to ear, and gathered her into his arms for a moment. Kneeling beside her chair, he pressed his palms over her stomach through the soft fabric of her blouse, his glee filling the quiet room. She didn’t react, didn’t smile, her hands still resting in her lap. Her plate had gone cold.
She didn’t speak much to him at all anymore. That was okay; it was clear she had just been trying to woo him before, talking his ear off just to get his attention. Well now she had it for good. For life.
He moved into her house not long after that night, bringing over bits from his ranch here and there—his boots by the door, his tools in the shed, his scent clinging to the sheets. Each thing he brought made it more his. More theirs.
He’d told the townsfolk they were engaged. He had let it slip in the feed store and then confirmed it again at Sunday service. It wasn’t exactly a lie. What else could people believe now? For them to separate after it being known they had been intimate would have ruined her name, dragged it through the mud. George couldn’t let that happen. He was doing what was right. What any good man would do.
Because his prairie rose was pregnant and they were to have a baby together. It was a dream come true that George could hardly fathom.
When he held her at night, whispering how he’d protect her and their baby, he never noticed how still she lay, how her breaths came shallow. To him, that silence was love.
It was a sunny afternoon when George returned from a few errands in town. He had left her home so she could keep her feet up, as he insisted she not over exert herself. She was only a few weeks pregnant now and they couldn’t be too careful. He treated her like glass.
Except, as he stepped out of his truck on the property, the sound of the screen door slamming open was hardly the gentle welcome he had anticipated. He glanced over to see her still in her nightgown on the front porch, hair coming free from her curlers, with a lit cigarette between her lips. She looked exhausted, eyes red-rimmed and sunken with dark circles against her unusually pasty complexion, but her expression was as hard as steel and her hands were surprisingly still as she held the hunting rifle in her surefire grip.
Before either of them could utter a word, his attention was drawn down her body to the angry red that stained her white nightgown and trickled down the inside of her leg. She didn’t seem bothered. Like she knew it was there.
She cocked the rifle.
And then suddenly the barrel was pointed right at him.
George had always thought her first husband hadn’t done right by her—hadn’t shown her what it meant to be a good wife, hadn’t known how to lead a woman properly. But as he stood there, a few yards back from the porch, staring at her wielding her late husband’s rifle, he suddenly recalled the one thing the useless man had in fact taught her.
He had taught her how to hunt.
And his delicate prairie rose was a perfect shot.
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💌: toxic ex! max x reader. nosy fans and protective max. overprotective actually and a possessive freak, jealous! max w sprinkles of hot temperedness. suggestive content but not direct smut
💌: the chapter was done after you and your formula one boyfriend had finally broken up but what happens when he wants you back, more than ever and less than never
You and Max had been broken up for 2 years now. That felt like enough time passed for you to be able to come a grand prix without media or fan attention. You weren't an influencer or anything, but when you dated Max, it felt as though everyone knew your business. Papparazzis followed you, fans commented about you, and news kept buzzing.
'Max Verstappen's girlfriend seen walking the streets' / 'Max Verstappen's girlfriend seen on a cafe with a random man. A second fling?' headlines like this trended among fans in social media. At one point, it got annoying. An invasion of your privacy. Hanging out with your friends felt like a chore. You hated people being invested in your business.
However dating Max felt amazing, it was like you had found your dream man. A man who listened to you, made sure your opinions were heard, and cared for you. That's what it felt like. At least at first. You didn't know where it went wrong but gradually, the relationship felt like it was turning into something ugly. The perfect persona of being the perfect boyfriend was cracking slowly. Suddenly Max wasn't the nice sweetheart guy anymore. He turned overprotective and fierce. It wasn't as though being protective was a bad trait, obviously it was something you appreciated but he took it to a whole new level. He wouldn't let anyone come to you or let you go to anyone. He discreetly made sure you were isolated from people.
Fans that tried to approach you? Max hired bodyguards to make sure they couldn't approach you anywhere. Of course, without your knowledge telling you it was merely for your safety. A fan maybe pushing too hard for a picture or autograph, guess who got yanked to the side.
You tried to plan hangouts with your friends? Suddenly, a new event popped up inviting you and Max. And those were the ones you couldn't skip since it helped Redbull get investors because in everyone's eyes, you and Max were the star couple of Formula one.
One time you decided to stay at Max's penthouse on a rainy day. After dinner, you both started talking and suddenly none of you could keep your hands off of each other. His hands kept tracing your body, rough hands slipping under your shirt. You didn't hold back either.
One thing led to another and after a long while, you both were laying down with sheets and legs tangled. Somewhere during those quite moments, you told Max you were craving chocolate ice cream. Like a good boyfriend you thought he was, he wore his clothes, gave you a kiss and took his key cars to bring a tub of chocolate ice cream. While you waited, you decided to take a tour of his house. Wearing one of his old shirts, you walked around until you reached his office. He didn't work from home but he had it built when he attended video meetings from home. His office contained a mahgony desk in the center, with one large window overlooking the city and a sofa that laid out a crazy expensive bottle which might have been more expensive than your entire month's rent. Your eyes focused on something underneath the glass of whiskey. A pile of papers. It was nothing but something about it made you curious. You leaned in to see and your heart stopped beating.
Pictures of you. In every page.
Pictures when you were a teenager.
Pictures of your graduation, your first boyfriend and last boyfriend.
Pictures of your childhood home, dog and parents.
What the fuck.
Your eyes scanned through the papers and they contained probably every information about you. The good, the bad, the ugly.
The awards you own at school.
Your insecurities.
Even the boy you lost your virginity to.
Recent pictures after you started dating Max were also there. A polaroid of you crossing the street last week with your guy friend, mind you he's gay, were also there. The next page contained that friend's information.
You wanted to throw up.
You put the papers down and like a sensible woman - you wore your clothes and left.
You didn't go back to your home, instead you went to a friend's home. At one point, you felt like he would have tracked you here. Because who the fuck does that? It made you sick. He knew every single thing about you, meaning those papers with extensive information would only be obtained thought the help of a professional personal investigator. The fact that he willingly paid money to get those information without informing you made you want to throw up. You couldn't believe you used to trust this man.
At first it started with a text message.
-'Schatje, where are you?'
-'Come on, stop hiding. I bought your ice cream.'
-'Stop playing. Where are you.'
Then he found the papers.
Then came the calls. Not one or two, but a total of 137 calls and 268 messages that night. You were glad you turned your phone off.
Later you got to know from your friends, that he attempted to contact everyone you knew in hopes to reach you. He even contacted your parents whom he never even met before. After a few days had passed, you sent the final message.
The breakup message and blocked his number.
You bought a new phone, a new number and just moved out of your apartment. You didn't bother going back to his house to retrieve your old items. Instead, you decided to move on. Sometimes it felt like even in your new life, someone was following you but I guess what's you got for being so paranoid. Apart from that, you didn't have an update on Max. You decided to notreport him to the police because you knew his lawyers were top notch so going to the court with proof won't do anything.
.
Now you were standing at the grandstands of the Monacco grand prix. The sun was beating down but not in a humid, scorching way but rather in a gentle way that was enough for you and others to not get heated up. Just because you and Max were over didn't mean that you couldn't watch formula one anymore. You did however watch Max win almost all grand prixs and go onto win two championships after you both had broken up.
Today, you decided to wear a short skirt that reached till your mid thighs pairing it with a fititng black laced tank top. You watched as the scoreboard revealed the same old results. Max won the Monacco Grand Prix with Charles Leclerc in P2 and Lando Norris in p3.
Between your conversation wiht your friend, you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned around and saw a man standing whom you assumed to be part of Redbull because of his team t shirt. He looked young and constantly kept fidgeting with his hands as if he was afraid to even look at you directly in the eyes.
'Um, miss. I-i hope you dont mind but I was asked to take you to the Redbull garage.' He stammered.
You pleasant expression had turned into a frown and the little movement in your facial expressions made him flinch as if you being upset was the worst thing in the world.
'NO, I didn't mean for you to get upset please!' the man pleaded. You and your friend side eyed each other wondering what the hell was even happening.
'May I ask who is asking for me?' you asked him in a gentle tone. Your soft tone made him visibly relax once he came to the conclusion that you were actually not upset.
'I was told by Christian to ask you to come.'
That made you raise an eyebrow. The moment you were about to decline, the man understood and immediately starting stuttering, basically borderline panicking.
'I-i please. You don't understand. If if i dont take you back, then I will be fi-ired. Please ma'am.'
You didn't know who he was but it didn't feel like he was lying. He genuinely looked terrified to be honest. You finally nodded, and his shoulders immediately relaxed. You told your friend to wait and to look for you if you didn't come back by 15 minutes.
You followed the man down the grandstands to the Redbull hospitality. You hesitated to enter but saw Christian leaning against one of the trailers, his eyes lighted up the moment he saw you.
He asked and you replied, having a little talk while you tried to keep your replies short and precise. Suddenly, he lowered his voice.
'So um, how are you and Max now?' He asked as he cleared his voice, trying not to make the conversation awkward but you already knew what was going to happen.
'Why? Did he ask you to call me here?'
'What? No. He doesn't know you're here. If he knew, I wouldn't get to look at you even less, talk to you. Whatever, you know how Max is, he's protective and overbearing. But I have never seen him act like this with anyone else. Before you, he didn't even hug back his girlfriends after winning a race. But when it comes to you, he's the most serious man in the world. I don't know why you both broke up but if you think he has found someone new, you are completely wrong.'
You frowned. You thought Max had already moved on, the rumours on tabloid snf gossip pages. As if sensing your question, he started speaking again.
'What, thinking about gossip pages? They are bullshit. Max made us look for you at every grand prix. We have crew members from redbull with a picture of you standing at different positions in the grandstands hoping to find you. Even before and after the race. I know it sounds bad but he's desperate. He just- he just wants to talk to you. Maybe apologise. I don't know.
And now he's. He's - I don't know how to explain.
He's unstable without you. He has short fits of rage. He gets angry at every little mistake. Doesn't smile. Doesn't do PR. Doesn't attend any event. Nothing. If he has a bad race, no one even dares to look him right in the eye, heck neither do I.'
He paused before sighing.
'I am not asking you to give him a second chance. But just talk to him, sort it out-'
Just then, he paused. And looked down before walking away.
'Christian, what's wron-'
That's when you felt it. You don't know how to even explain it. It was a strange feeling. A pile of emotions pooling at your stomach. The hairs on your body standing up. Your spine immediately straightening up. You looked behind. You knew who it was without even looking at him. The only man who could get a reaction like this out of you.
He called out your name. Softly. Gently. In a low whisper as if he was in a dream and saying it too loud might wake him up.
Max.
He did not look the same as before. Sapphire eyes that used to hold the joy of life, being void of any sparkle. Bags under his eyes. Hair messy and wild with random blonde strands sticking out.
Just like that, his fingers slowly touched your hand as if making sure that you were there. He caressed it before gripping it to remind him that yes, after two full years and 36 days, you were actually in front of him in flesh. Safe and sound. No, it wasn't the picture of you that he used to carry in his wallet, but you in real and in front of him looking as beautiful and radiant as ever.
Without saying anything, he hugged you. Tight. And buried his head in your neck.
You looked around and saw the redbull staff. Engineers and strategists. They looked with wide eyes, amazed but immediately snapped their eyes back to their papers once they noticed you staring.
Because they knew that if something made you upset, it would make Max Verstappen upset too.
You softly patted his back. He was still in his redbull fireproof, hair sweaty most likely cooling off. He hid his face on the crook of your neck. His grip on your waist tightened and his fingers twitched to caress the bare skin of your waist.
You heard the words 'I miss you', low and quiet in a whisper that felt intimate. You gulped, a familiar feeling pooling in your stomach. You had seen him after 2 years and despite the eye bags, he was still handsome as fuck. You came to the conclusion that he hit the gym way too often. His muscles were bulging from the tight fireproof and his hands that griped your waist had somehow grown larger with visible veins appearing. You clenched your thighs.
Okay. Not here. No.
Right then, you felt the harsh flash of a camera followed by a panicked 'shit!'. Before you could even react, Max's head snapped towards the direction. Behind the trailer, was a man of about 5'6, stout with a receding hairline. That's the most you could make out at that moment before Max's back blocked your vision as if he was protecting you out of instinct.
'Fucking hell' Max cursed in a low grumble. You felt the energy shift before the loud footsteps of Christian appeared.
'MAX, HEY MAN DONT LOSE YOUR TEMP-'
But it was already too late. One second, he was holding you and the next second, he stood beside that man. His camera snatched and under his foot, stepping on it and ultimately smashing it into pieces.
'Don't ever fucking take a picture of her. This is not a reminder, it's a threat. Try and your face is going to be next.'
Oh.
Wow.
Before you even realised what was happening, he took your hand and started walking inside before stopping at a isolated hallway.
'Max, you did not have to do that.' You admitted quietly.
A beat of silence passed. He didn't yet respond or even talk.
'Did you forgive me?'
'What?'
'Did you ever forgive me?'
'No.'
A long beat of silence.
He took a step forward and simultaneously you took a step back. Your back hit the wall.
'I'm sorry.' He said in a hoarse whisper, his voice heavy with guilt.
'What I did was wrong and I acknowledge that.
Take me back. Please. I will do anything.'
In simple words, he was desperate.
And for some twisted reason, you liked that.
'Anything?'
'Anything.'
A beat of silence passed.
'What if I ask you to leave Formula one?' You asked testing the waters, seeing what he replies.
Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed his hand twitched. An old habit of his. He didn't anticipate that.
'I would and I will. Only if you ask me to.' He said with a finality in his voice as if he was a hundred percent sure.
'Then get on your knees and apologise.'
A small smirk formed on your face and he didn't have to be told twice. You thought he wouldn't comply because generally from what you had seen, men in formula one had an awful lot of ego, too much for their own good but the moment you said it, in a blink of an eye, he knelt down with his face angled upwards, towards you.
'Eyes down.'
His eyes snapped down and he apologised.
'I am sorry for what I did. It was an invasion of your privacy. I was a dick. Take me back. Please.'
That made you happy, happier you had been these 2 years. Something in the whole interaction between Max kneeling and begging you to take him back satisfied the twisted part of your heart.
'I'll see what I decide. Don't follow me. I am going now.'
He knew better than to interrupt and you left. This is what you deserved and that was what he deserved. He made a mistake, he needed to earn his apology through you and you werent an easy person to please.
/
(A week later)
It was another lonely night. Well there was another thing keeping you company. Your trusty pink vibrator. Moments like this made you miss Max. Not that you only missed him when you were horny. You missed him more than you'd like to admit. Exes to lover was a trope you didnt appreciate having a comeback in your life but the amount of time your thoughts were consumed by Max was concerning and pretty pathetic.
You lowered the vibrator, thinking about Max. Him getting possessive when he caught the paparazzi taking pictures, his muscles almost bulging from that fucking tight fireproof, the way he listened to every thing you said. You bet he'd let you have your way with him if you asked him to. Maybe he could just slide one of his veiny fingers down your-
RING! RING!
Fucking hell.
You looked at the caller ID. Your friend. You tossed the pink vibrator and picked up the wall.
'Babe, what do you want? You know I was in the middle of something.'
She told you about the club in Monacco. That's right, you were staying at Monacco for a while. Honestly, you missed the posh place and decided to give it a chance. So what, you caught the love of your life being a full time stalker and then maybe tried to give yourself a pathetic orgasm after a 2 year breakup.
You know what. Fuck that. You were a hot, young and a beautiful girl. You jumped up and grabbed open your closet. That red dress that you never dared to wear? The one that was so short that a little bend might dangerously flash your laced panties, but that wasn't something that would bother you tonight. Your confidence sky rocketed and you swayed your hips to the beat of the music in the club. You had been dancing for what maybe 30 to 40 minutes straight before taking a break and sitting down on one of the empty barstools.
The moment you sat down, you felt a shiver down your spine. Was the air conditioning too cold? But then, you remembered this familiar feeling. Your spine straightened and you sat straight. And that's when you looked behind you, to find the only man who could get this reaction out of you only with their presence.
Max Emillian Verstappen.
He sat on the second floor on one of the luxurious navy blue sofas. The second floor was only reserved for the elite meaning that you had to have a membership of this club and boy, you had to work your ass off to get a membership or simply be rich and famous. That's what Max was.
A piercing gaze was how you would describe Max looking at you at that moment. A drink in one hand and simply staring. He didn't even look away when you looked back at him. No expression, nothing. Just a blank face watching you with darkened eyes before his eyes glanced down and took a full scan of you. Your skimpy outfit, the laced gartier, the flash and peek of a little fabric of your lingerie. You looked like you walked straight out of someone's fantasy.
If you did look straight out of someone's fantasy, then why did no one approach you? Everyone seemed to avoid you like you had reincarnated the black plague. Normally guys would hit on you everywhere, workplace, cafes and what not. Hitting on you in the club was the most common and appropriate place. Sometimes your friends would have to pry admirers away but tonight, even the bartender wouldn't make eye contact with you. You frowned at that. Did you look too poor to be here? I mean, you weren't as wealthy as those partying here but you weren't dirt poor either.
Just as you were thinking about it, a man probably in his late 20's sat down beside you. The bartender stilled while pouring you a drink and you missed the way he nervously glanced to the second floor.
The unknown man started small conversation with you. Your name, what you did, what you liked and gave you sweet compliments. You learnt his name was John and so far he seemed graceful and polite. You leaned towards him and gave him small replies. Before long, he started making jokes and you laughed, your fingertips brushing against his arm. But the wholesome interaction was interrupted by a tall man, maybe 6 ft ish, wearing a black blazer suit, he marched right up and grabbed the John's arm, yanking it right up. A little more twist given the angle of view and you were guaranteed that he would have to stay a month in a hospital bed. You gasped, standing up and rushing over to John in an attempt to stop the man. However the guy in the black suit stopped you.
'Ma'am please don't interfere. He is to be escorted out of this club this instant.'
Your eyes widened and so did John's.
'Wh-hat why?'
The man didn't offer you a reply and escorted John out. You tried to ask for help from the people around you but they pretended as if nothing had happened, only giving fake huhs and what. Even the bartender acted as if the scene of an innocent man being dragged out of the club so roughly was unreal and it made you feel like you either had way too many drinks or were currently experiencing a fever dream.
That's when it clicked.
You looked up and saw him.
Peacefully sipping from his drink, from the same position without moving a single muscle. Instead of a blank expression, he sat with a small smirk. You clenched your jaw. You marched straight up the stairs, your fingers gripping your bag tight trying to control your rage. The tall men in black suits who you assumed to be bodyguards did not dare to stop you but rather cleared the way for you. The upper floor was completely empty. Poker tables, gambling rooms, strip poles with seats being empty. Not a single soul except the devil itself was sitting on the center.
'Stop this.' You demanded in a strict voice, laced with anger.
'You think you can just do this and think I won't know? Of course I know it's you. You are the reason no one is looking me in the eye. You are the reason why he was escorted out of this club.'
'You shouldn't have touched him.'
That made you angrier. Who was he to tell you what you should do or not.
'Oh fuck off. We aren't dating anymore. I do what I want. I touch who I want.'
His eyes darkened and his lips pursed in a thin line. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his hand twitch. Oh so he was getting angry too.
He stood up and walked to you. Not too fast, not too slow. You couldn't predict what he was about to do and you never did. He walked like a predator circling his prey knowing there was no way out. You didn't take a step back, no you refused to be the prey. Rather you made direct eye contact with him to let him know you werent backing down.
He stopped right in front of you. Him being 6'1 gave him an advantage of hovering over you but you weren't intimated. (maybe a little bit but you tried not to show it)
His hand slowly lifted up and brushed your cheek with his knuckles. His knuckles felt rough and bruised up. He watched as your pretty face turned into a slight frown. God, he wanted to kiss you right then and there. How could someone be so beautiful. If you kicked him in the balls right now, he would thank you. Max was so down bad for you that he was ready to kiss the ground you walked on in front of the whole world.
'You fought with someone?' You asked softly feeling his bruised knuckles, forgetting about your fury.
He smiled. 'Everyone gets on my nerves nowadays.'
You sighed. Your hand grabbing his ones and putting them away. Instead, he just slid them down your waist, pulling you closer.
'Max.' You said with a hint of warning.
'Come back please.' He pleaded, his voice heavy and his eyes now held a shade of melancholy. Hot breath fanned your neck as his grip got tighter. 'I will never stop wanting you. I cannot bear to see you laugh with another man.'
'You need to change Max. What happened before cannot happen again.'
'No it won't. I won't keep things from you I promise.'
You sighed. Who were you kidding, Max was the love of your life. Dating other guys never made you forget him and probably never will. That was something you didn't want to admit, trying to make youself believe that there were other options but it never felt real.
The way your heart raced when you were near him, your eyes lightened up, your body leaned to him involuntarily - was something only he could bring.
'Okay. One chance. Just.. we don't date now. Let's just be as friends.'
Max nodded. God he was happy. He didn't care if he was as a friend to you right now. Just the sight of you made him relax. His eyes scanned your face before dropping to your lips.
Was it a good time to say how fucking ravishing he looked? You clecnced your thighs, you just wished his hands would travel down to your panties to see just how soaked you were. Not a good time to meet your hot formula one ex when you were peak ovaluating. He saw how your eyes darkened and how your hands crept up to his fitting t shirt to grab his biceps as an attempt to stabilise yourself. In response, his grip tightened and you felt him. God, he was hard. Hard was an understatement. It felt like it would literally bulge out. You imagined how it would look like, when he'd just fuck you mercilessly and decorate your delicate body with hickies. Was he thinking the same?
Wait.
This is your ex. The same guy you broke up with after he stalked you, invaded yoru privacy and acted like a possessive beast.
Get your mind together and stop making him think that giving you a good fuck would fix everything.
You tapped on his arm three times and that's all it took. He let go of your waist and straightened. Tapping was a method you both used during sex. Specially during rough sex after Max had a bad race weekend. One tap was a way of saying to go faster. Two taps would be to slow down and three taps meant stop. Usually you used two taps and the rest were very rarely ever used. Guess you both remembered it after all.
'Um, I will go home now. It's uh getting late.'
He nodded. 'Right. I can drop you-'
'NO, I mean no. Its fine.'
If this is how you acted when you guys got a little privacy then imagine what would happen if you both were left alone in a car.
You didn't wait for him to say anything before you walked away. You got into a taxi and it drove you back to your hotel.
What you didn't know was that Max drove his Porsche right behind the taxi, following it till he was sure you reached back to your hotel safe and sound.
-
Few days passed and guess what awaited outside your hotel door every day. Gifts. Constant gifts for 2 weeks straight. And you don't mean bouquets of flowers and chocolates. They were a staple but you received tons of jewellery, custom made to your likings. Cartier bracelets, Louis vuitton shoes, Hermes bags and what not. He even paid the hotel bills under your name which might have been too much.
What surprised you was the letter that arrived everyday. Tucked in the side of the bouquets. A little letter he wrote.
Schtaje,
I know it looks like I am doing too much but I am not. I am not doing this so you have to reciprocate my feelings. I am doing this to because you are the most important thing to me in the world. I know you think that the first time we met was in the restaurant in Montreal but it was not. The day I first saw you, I had one of the worst bad race days, p11 with an engine failure and furiously, I left everything and just walked out. It was raining heavily l remember and out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone dancing in the rain. Blissfully unaware, twirling their dress and dancing around in the rain. It was you. You had the brightest smile I had ever seen and eyes that glowed so preciously even im the dark. That made my heart race and I fell in love. I fell in love hard. You didn't know I was watching you and you didn't think anyone would but I did. That made me smile that day. I was so intrigued about you, I wanted to approach you but your friend took you away. But I heard your name when she called you. That's why those files were there. I couldn't stop thinking about you. That's how we unofficially met 2 years ago. During those 2 years, I didnt know how to contact you or how to meet you without making it looking obvious or making you think I am a creepy stalker. Then that day in Montreal, in that little restaurant, I saw you. It was like the universe had set us up and I have loved you ever since. I wanted to tell you but I was afraid that you'd think I am some creep and when you found out, it was one of my biggest secrets and my biggest fear had come true - you were convinced I was a creep. I have been a flawed person in the past, what I did was not okay and you were correct to leave me but please, I have reflected and changed. I will do whatever you ask me to. Give me a second chance.
I love you and I will continue to love you even if you say no. Accept these gifts please.
.
You and Max got closer after that. You lived with your friend in Monacco until you guys figured what to do. In your free time, you both went on dates in little cafes or maybe a picnic day in the parks. You both didn't kiss or lust after one another like before but rather talked. He would stare at you when you would animatedly with a soft smile on his face. About what you liked and dislikes now, how you found cats adorable but hated it when didn't arrive you after saying pspsps. He took his time and reflected on his flaws. And you listened to him. You both would laugh at everything you found silly and when the sun would start to set, you'd stare at each other before saying goodbyes.
Today was different. Today it felt a little heavy like there was something you had to desperately get out.
You looked around, Max sat wearing a navy blue polo t shirt and you wore a long sundress. He rearranged the items you had brought, packing the things up in the little picnic basket and putting your sunscreen and lip gloss in a different bag.
You smiled. This is what you missed. Not the materialistic, flashy love but the quiet admiration shared between each other.
Max was now gentle with you. He didn't rush, didn't act like a possessive fool but rather let you take your time. He waited patiently and tried to express his own feelings, not all the way up there but he was slowly getting there.
You both watched as the sun set and your hand crept to his.
'Max?'
'Yes schatje.'
Your hands slowly wrapped around his neck and you pressed your lips against his. He was shocked for a moment before he wrapped an arm on your waist and kissed you back. You craned your head for better access and kissed him hard until you both gasped for air.
'I love you' you whispered those three words, and he pressed his forehead against yours repeating those words again.
Relationship are never perfect. They are meant to be messy because we both reveal our flaws and insecurities to each other, but what's meant for you will come back to you and your heart finally was at peace knowing that this was right for you.
💌: DOESNT APPLY TO YOU OKAY. GIRLIES DONT GO BACK TO YOUR EX. THAT CHAPTER IS DONE. MAY MY FIC NEVER EVER INSPIRE YOU TO GO BACK. OUT OF A 100 PEOPLE, ONLY 3 HAVE ALREADY DATED THEIR SOULMATES AND YOU ARE NOT ONE OF THEM. MOVE ON AND DONT LOOK BACK OKAY.
At this point in the season, Max Verstappen needed a miracle. He had heard it all, at the start. That the car was so fucked he dragged it first to podium, then to the points, but what happened when this was not the case. Amateur theorists- that's what he called F1 podcasters- had predicted that it would be sooner than later. And he had shut them down in Japan. Suzuka was a dream. Fourth consecutive pole there in the last seconds of quali. Fourth consecutive win there, the return of the F1 outro, as the fans dubbed it. But the Dutch anthem didn't stick around the podium for long. There were a few hiccups after, but not for the McLarens. His 1 point behind Lando was gradually increasing. He was feeling like a fish out of water, for the first time in his career. The retirement jokes he so brazenly made during previous months were now met with hushed whispers. It didn't help that the Redbulls were down in the constructors championship too. They took Liam, and with the way Yuki was driving, Max could bet one of his cats that Hadjar was getting fitted for a seat soon, whether the rookie driver wanted it or not. Verstappen's fake Instagram even liked a few Helmut Marko as the 2nd driver memes, a bunch of Daniel cursing the thing too. But it seemed to be true now.
So Max Verstappen desperately needed to win the Miami Grand Prix. After a triple header that started promising and two weekends of pure hell, something needed to be done. Whatever. Literally anything. He remembered last year how Lando's first victory in the sunny state triggered this chain of events. This championship contender narrative that was heating up between the two since. Lando then, with his little nose scar, who had been partying in the Amsterdam canals before. A metaphorical lightbuls sparked up above Max’s head. If you can't beat them, join them. He was going to celebrate King's Day for the first time in a while.
Of course, he used to honor the holiday as a teenager. Which 17 year old doesn't go across the border to the Netherlands to drink copious amounts of alcohol in the streets. He was lucky that his mom and sister brought him in at the end of the night. It was a fun time. Lots of bad beer. Crowds of loud people dressed head to toe in orange. Music that everyone knew shouted at the top of one's lungs. Then, with the years, he was too busy racing for such frivolity. But now the calendar was smiling up to him, a nice little break between Jeddah and Miami. It was a nice opportunity for him to fly back to the Netherlands, try the "Lando method," and come back. Copious amounts of gin tonics and a few kebabs never hurt anyone. Especially on King's Day. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do. Nevertheless, Max did it.
Once his plane touches down on Dutch soil, he realizes this was a mistake. He's forced to take a train and be packed like a sardine in first class. "No, I'm not him, but I get that a lot," he says, ad naseum, eyes glued to the maroon seats around him. Once he makes it to Amsterdam, he all but scours the city, going from store to store, trying to see if there's any alcohol left. He piles premixed cans of gin and tonics into his Alpha Tauri backpack. He sure is an ambassador now. But his quest isn't just a way for him to grab some booze. No, he's strategically scoping out areas where he won't be spotted. Where the crowds were just drunk and rowdy enough to ignore him, but not thay quiet and sober that he'd be bored. One would try to rationalize that most people didn't bat an eye at Lando. Who knows, Max could even accidentally spot the Britton on his way, dj skills being tested on a party boat. And people wouldn't care. We'll that was a bit harsh, there would be many overjoyed fans. But not as many as Max's. It was the fucking Netherlands, we was treated as the second coming of Christ. Or the first, depending on the province. Amsterdam was definitely not on the Bible belt, so that was that. Still, the Dutchman took some precautions. He hid out, going over to long lost friends' houses. People who he had known since karting, all drinking together, wearing orange, and treating him like a normal guy. Yes, there were some offhand comments about F1 and the Redbull performance. There's a few people trying to get him to help them with their fantasy team too.
He offers them a pass at his own ranking if they beat him at a drinking game. And those he never loses, always choosing to go for reflexes or showing feats of physical strength. After all, those hours in the gym aren't for nothing. Max is more than pleasantly buzzed by the time they have to leave. It's past 10, and people are already plastered. Of course, this was strategic. It was more plausible that people got a mass hallucination of Max Verstappen after a few dozen beers. He steps out through the crowd, shoes already sticking to the pavement. The smell of sweat and vomit and beer is in the air.
Max reflexively pulls the orange army cap over his own face, especially when they play anything by Maxx Power. He grins when they play 5 remixes in a row, the dj shouting something about a 5th WDC incoming. Max is happy that at least the fans are happy they believe in him, albeit delusionally. He relaxes, the tension sliding off of him like dirty air. He's too relaxed, almost, and now his mind is wondering how. Yes, the 6 pack of gin and tonics helped. He almost sniffs the air and gets hit with a string smell, similar to the one from the house. He reluctantly takes a hit of this green electronic thing and coughs. It's good, but weird.
"Didn't know vapes were this popular here?" He shouts to his friend, who deadpan that it's weed. Of course, Max almost smack his forehead. He's contact high, just like half the grid was in Vegas. He remembers that day, letting the flashbacks warm over him. Yep, he was fucking fucked.
Max decided that he'd fight the weirdness and tingliness of his body by people watching. What better way to be distracted by analyzing others. He blends into the crowd, only because people are packed like sardines. Mostly friends, big crowds of people dancing, drinking and shouting with each other. He doesn't miss the rowdier ones. There's couples making out and dry humping all around him.
He feels like a teenager all over again, that awkward virgin 17 year old at house parties. Hormones not as contained as he'd like to, popping a boner at other people's activities. If he listened very hard, everything was sexy. He'd hear the little moans and groans of the couple, the pleas for more. Everything made his cock stand up and throb painfully in his pants. And now, 10 years later, it's the same. Max never pegged himself as a voyeur. But now, with every sensation in his body heightened, he couldn't help it. And with his dick needing release and fast, he sets out to find someone willing to do that. His gaze searches, he's like a hawk looking for a bunny. And his eyes land on you.
You hated King's Day. It was a stupid holiday, a Saw trap thing made to torture you. You hated the gaudy orange color. The public drinking. The stupid songs you didn't know as a foreigner. You should've stayed home. But here you were, freezing in a two-piece set. You hate the flimsy fabric of the thing. You only ordered it last minute to impress an ex, who you knew you'd run into. You didn't expect to find them with their tongue down the throat of a mutual acquaintance. But you made a vow that you'd make out with someone. So far, your lips only touched the bottle. Whatever they were drinking was strong, made you feel woozy and light. At least you were doing King's Day right, getting very intoxicated. You didn't even flinch when you felt a pair of hands glide dangerously close to your ass. The whole night, it kept happening, accidentally, sometimes not. It was the crowds, you reasoned, because you were practically sandwiched between many backs and elbows. Then someone did really feel you up from behind. God, his fingers were deliberate. Groping, touching, all short of clawing. Needing you, needing this, and it was gross. The man apologized, a faint sorry from under the rim of an orange hat. You had mentally prepped a joke about redbull giving him more than wings or an aggressive overtake. And then he does it again, this time his hands loop against your hips, seemingly trying to move you out of his way. His fingers hook against the straps of your orange thong and snap them. You want to scream, yell, to tell him to stop. But it's as if you've swallowed cotton. And the warmth of someone's touch against you was clouding your judgment. The stranger lets his fingers move up your bare stomach until your tits. He flicks at your already hard nipples, a little hum of appreciation. He comments that you're practically asking for it by not wearing a bra.
The voice is familiar, even though you can't exactly place it. Didn't all Dutch men all kinda sound the same. This one's hands were kneading your breasts roughly, more for him than for you. He was whispering absolute filth in your ears, the brim of the hat he won't take off digging into your shoulder. He smells like a gin brewery that was next to a coffeeshop.
"Look at you, just letting me touch you. Aren't you ashamed that a total stranger's groping your tits. Right in the middle of Amsterdam, mind you, with thousands of people around you. I think you like it. I think you're a little whore. Because if you wanted to, you could have asked for help. Look there, bimbo," he says as he grabs your chin and tilts your head towards the police at the edge of the crowd. "You want me to stop? Let's walk over there, and I'll let you report me. Hell, I'd even turn myself in. Yeah? Go tell the nice cop about me, I'm right behind you."
You try to move, and he follows. The stranger even lets his hands fall from your chest. But with every step you take, you end up going 3 steps back. It's a Sysyphean challenge. You stop suddenly, and the guy stops with you. You two are surrounded and pressed against each other. You're not sure who makes the first move again. You just know that you're rubbing your ass against his hard cock like an animal in heat.
He rolls his hips against yours, lifting your skirt with every movement. He can't help but knead your ass, feeling your skin prickle under his touch. When the stranger hears a low wolf whistle, you're dragged, literally through the crowd. He's taken his cap off and he's barking orders in Dutch and English, parting the people like they're the Red Sea. He ducks with you in an alley and you swear your drink was laced.
"Max Verstappen? What the fuck are you doing here?" You say, still unsure of what was happening. He shuts you up with a kiss, a bit sloppy and needy. You kiss him back, but then it all starts to be too much. He was a renowned athlete, a role model. Not someone who got a bit too handsy. That dawns on both of you at the same exact time.
"You could ruin my life. You could actually go to anybody about this, and they'll strip me of everything. It'll be Mazepin again, but this time with consequences." He says, and instead of stepping away, he begins unbuttoning his jeans. Sliding his boxers away and taking out his cock. Sizing it up against you. You plead with him.
He pretends to think as his hands go in your panties. He tells you how he's in deep shit as his fingers rub your clit. He goes on about how you should report him, how despite his celebrity status and the inebriated state you're both in, he's going down. You try to mention police injustice, how the odds are against you, even bring up Christian Horner. Your body betrays you as you talk. Your hips snap to match his movements.
"They'll come up with some bullshit excuse. That I was too wet or something. No signs of struggle, no bruises on you or something of the sort." You chastise, as he slides his fingers inside of you. One, then a second, in a hooking motion. He moves them with precision and you blush. In the small alley the sounds of your wetness echo. Max knows exactly how to press his fingers inside of someone to make them fall apart. You cum against him, despite yourself. You press yourself close to him, shut your eyes and let the orgasm wash over you. You're limp, letting him tap the head of his cock against your clit. Allowing him to thrust inside of you, burrying himself to the hilt. Telling you that "if he's gonna go down for this, at least he's gonna make it worth his while."
He tells you how good your cunt feels, how well you take his cock. He holds you down, muscles pressing into you, keeping you in place. He goes on this tangent about coming inside of you, leaving you something to remember him by. You don't have the heart to tell him he's the first and only man to fuck you raw. That his blue eyes and all of today will haunt your dreams. You can't express that what he's doing to you terrifies you, yet thrills you. That you just might be sick in the head for not hating this. Your warm wet cunt was drawing him in. Wanting him. Needing him. You bite your lips bloody. Yet he still catches your whisper of "please, come for me." His thrusts become faster, and he spills inside of you. If this were real life, he'd leave after that, blend into the crowd, and accept his fate. He'd wait for the other shoe to drop and get what was coming to him for being a disgusting pervert who touches women.
But it wasn't real life. Max was in a stupidly expensive Monaco sex club. Their new marketing ploy - get you in the door for a free visit and impress you so much you come back. He had to hand it to them, they followed up with him like a champ. Getting extras to play the drunk and disorderly dutchies. Even the set of the alley was good. Max casts a glance at you, his throughly fucked out girlfriend. You're sleeping with a grin on your face. He remembers the day you told him about your unusual kink. How the two of you would dabble in it, occasionally. He'd pretend to break into your shared apartment and rape you. You had been so loud and rowdy that night that your neighbors called the cops on you. But just before the sirens, you had come on Max's cock so hard, he swore he could marry you right then. After he was done politely explaining the misunderstanding to the policemen, he started googling. And a couple months later, here you two were. Completely immersive experience. And no sheets to wash. Max feels bad for the person who has to clean the floor after you squirt on it. In his defense, you didn't even know you could do that. He lets himself be photographed leaving the club with you in tow. Shoots off a few messages to his friends and the other drivers on the grid to also try it out. If he creates enough buzz, they'll give him a discount. And it's not as if his hefty paycheck doesn't allow him to visit sooner. Especially after he wins Miami. Because he has several bets going on - one with Christian, one with GP and one with Lando. He gets them all, collects the cash and says he'll invest it. He puts it on another night with you. Because the true key to Max Verstappen's winning strategy was a well fucked girlfriend.
꒰ ♡ notes ♡ ꒱ > To add on to the nervousness of posting my second Oscar fic, I just had to full send the dark!au version too. Well at least you can say that I don't half ass things. Also new banner format— not great, but okay.
꒰ ♡ warnings ♡ ꒱ > dark!au. dark!Oscar. I spellcheck nothing, ever. George jealousy. He an angry boy. Trying to manipulate the media. Oscar has a very intresting way of watching you in the form of stalking. No smut but he does want to be home inside of you.
Word count: 782
He’s never considered quitting more in his life, or at least swapping teams. Problems purely involving him don’t spark the match of anger, especially not enough yo encourage any drastic decisions. But now they’re involving you— he finds his restraint is torn to shreds when it comes to you.
A twisted spear of anger that strikes at him relentlessly, goading his reaction on. Striking and slashing with every moment, snowballing together.
A sharp slice against his side, each time George crosses the line first.
A beading of red against the line of his jaw with every electrical fault.
A stab again his thigh when he watches George openly having the time to indulge in his win and his love. A pain he multiples when he watches both of them, his teeth clenching at the shared affection.
It was his, with you. It’s always supposed to be his. Last season he was winning. He wasn't hounded by team meetings and this brand of frustration. He was free to watch over you, to protect you, to consume you.
Yet now it's all ruined. Through no fault of his own. His frustration bleeding out with every clipped radio message, with each violent thud of his fists against the steering wheel. His calm facade hanging on for dear life. Every acceptance of blame makes him want to explode, to lash out. They’re taking you away from him and he's powerless to do anything about it.
It’s not enough for them to demand that he spends more time working with them, more time in the sim, more time away from you. They take and they take from him. Planned weekends with you. Time he spends watching you sleep. Time he spends watching you, monitoring you. Time he spends protecting you from the lurking danger he feels every single second of the day, when he’s away from you.
There’s a perverse cruelty to it. One he can’t just take lying down. Blow after blow would make anyone snap.
There’s an attempt to cause problems, to twist the attention he receives from the media. To switch the angle of the trained daggers pointed at him. Comments dropped about the illegal nature of other cars. Errors made by drivers. Errors made by the team— ones he would usually gloss over in front of the microphones, deflecting the damage onto himself as usual. The shake of desperation in his hand, hidden by the media pen barrier. He needs this to work. To get back to you.
He held onto some form of optimism after the first race disaster. You’re his priority, not the car. Deluded into thinking that free time meant he could join you, stalking you— protecting you— through the paddock and hospitality. A warm, guiding hand on your lower back, nails sinking into your skin on the softest side of violent and claiming. Only to be met with a sharp tug on his wrist, dragging him to sit with the team.
It takes everything in him to not cause a scene, to settle for hitting the tip of his pen against the wooden table. Ignoring every glance sent his way, eyes flickering to the data on the tablet and the broadcast on the screen. The repetitive motion escalating with the rage in his chest. Constantly grabbing water to have the chance to pace himself, to calm himself with his heavy thuds against the floor. To get away from the act.
Fighting the urge to strike with the pen, physically lashing out at each tap of his shoulder. Each comment about him getting to relax and how it must be nice. Every smile that crosses anyone’s face— there’s no room for it. He needs the car fixed. He needs the situation fixed. He needs his time with you back. You’re vulnerable on your own.
You’re an animal he needs to protect from harm. Soft, precious, and so warm inside. If you’re here, there’s too many threats surrounding you. Men waiting to pounce, wolves circling your feet. If you’re at home, he’s away from you. Forced to trust that you aren’t lying to him about taking care of yourself over text. It's never to his own standards.
He needs his nails dug into the soft skin of your body. He needs his eyes fixated on every twitch of a muscle. He needs to be close enough to share his air with you, close enough to lap at you with his tongue, to taste your skin. He needs to feed you himself. He needs to be buried as deep as he can possibly reach inside you, with your limbs wrapped around him. That’s what he needs.
