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Born To Run // ii.
cowboy!Max Verstappen x reader // part ii. of ii
find part i here!
Summary: Everyone, including Max, says he’s too much for you. You find yourself determined to prove them all wrong. Your summer on the ranch is set to be one to remember. 6.1k
Warnings: sexual content (minors do not interact, 18+ PLEASE!), alcohol/ intoxication, strong use of language, public sex, oral sex fem receiving, and max is a little mean (oops). if you would like further clarifications on the warnings PLEASE send me a message!
Most of the crew are off at the bar for the night, so when you meet Max down at the river, there’s nobody else around to notice or bother you. Just you, and him, and the setting sun, the gurgle of the creek, the cold water wrapping around your ankles as you stand there, looking for rocks on the bottom of it.
You’re trying to distract yourself, is what you’re doing. The summer heat is ebbing away as the sun sets, which leaves you no excuse for the way you can feel your whole body burning. Maybe Max was just being friendly, inviting you down here. Maybe he expected there to be more people. But he has a bottle of wine-though it’s still unopened, sitting in the river to try and keep it chilled- and he’s laid out a blanket on the bank, and… you just don’t know, is the whole thing. You don’t want to assume what his intentions are.
Max teases you from the bank, though you know his eyes are watching your every move. “Your posture is awful.”
You roll your eyes and don’t bother looking up at him. “My posture is fine, thank you. I’m looking for rocks.”
“I know,” he says.
Now you look up- he’s leaning back on the blanket, propped up on his elbows, hat low over his brow. The hat ticks up and down with his line of sight, sweeping down to your ankles and then back up, slowly, like he’s drinking every detail in. You swallow. He grins and pulls a corkscrew from his pocket.
“C’mere,” he says, beckoning you with two fingers, and your heart is in your throat. “Grab the wine?”
You wander over, handing him the bottle and reaching down to dry your feet with a towel. He watches the whole time, fiddling with the corkscrew, drying the glass bottle on his shirt. You can feel your fingers starting to shake, can feel the anticipation coursing through your body. You stay standing at the edge of the blanket, hands on your hips, looking down at him. He whistles lowly, again, and you feel your face grow hot, trying to fight the grin that threatens your lips.
“Are you going to sit?” He asks, finally directing his attention to the bottle of wine, to getting it open.
The cork falls to the blanket next to him. You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what exactly you should do here. Sit down too far from him, and you might ruin the mood. Sit down too close, and you might be too eager. He’s so hard to read, it drives you nuts.
You let out a huff and step onto the blanket, walking towards him. He takes interest and pushes himself up on his hands, and when you settle yourself in his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, he sighs almost dreamily, and his eyes fall half shut. You run your hands over the skirt of your dress to smooth it out over your lap and his, and he hands you the bottle of wine.
You take a sip- it’s warm and sugary. He clicks his tongue when you repeat the motion.
“Not too much,” he says, quietly, voice mingling with the crickets making their debut for the night.
You scowl at him. “What’s the point? Take it slow? Can’t handle your alcohol, Maxie?”
He gives you an amused grin, eyes crinkling with it, but there’s some sort of electric current running beneath it. You’re buzzing already. You wonder if he’d shock you if you reached out and touched him. If he’d light you on fire the way you feel like you're on the edge of. Does he feel it too?
“I don’t want you to get drunk,” he says.
It takes you a moment, and then the ground drops out from under you. I’m not fucking you while you’re drunk. You take one last sip, a small one, and hand the bottle back to him. He takes a drink with one hand, and his other falls to your hip, squeezing softly. You bite back a whimper.
“Please, Max,” you say, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
Max sighs, takes another sip of wine, then sighs again, dragging a hand across his chin. “You’re insatiable.”
You hum in agreement, resting your hands on his shoulders, wriggling just a bit in his lap. “Please?”
“Fuck, honey,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. You giggle.
“I need you, Max,” you say, just to watch his cheeks grow red. Just to watch him struggle with the feeling. “Make me feel good? Pretty please-“
He reaches up and puts his hand over your mouth to muffle your words. You giggle against his grip and watch as he rolls his eyes. He shifts under you, pressing one thigh between your legs, and your laughter gets caught in your chest.
“Y’think you’re funny, huh?” He mutters, and your heart begins to go wild. “Think you can get whatever you want if you ask nicely?”
You shrug, reaching up to run your finger along the brim of his hat. “Mhm. It works on the city boys.”
Max’s eyes go dark at that statement. “Is that right?”
You nod. His hand falls to your knee, and your breath hitches. He smirks, dragging his hand up the outside of your thigh, rucking the skirt of your dress halfway up your leg in the process. His hand draws a trail farther up- over your navel, skimming your ribs, touching at the exposed skin of your shoulder. By the time he cups your face in his hand, you’re vibrating with anticipation. He brushes a thumb over your cheek, and you close your eyes, letting the sparks wash over your skin.
“Need you, Max,” you say, again, steadier this time.
“You deserve better,” he says, for the millionth time.
You purse your lips. “What, you think ‘cause I’m a city girl that I can’t take-“
He squeezes your cheeks together with his hand. Dumbfounded, you look up at him, heart hammering at your ribcage.
“I think you’re a city girl with a big attitude,” he says, leaning closer. You squirm just a bit underneath his gaze. “And that you’d better know what you’re asking for.”
He releases his grip on your face. You blink at him for a few seconds, take in the rosy flush of his cheeks, the way his brows are furrowed, the way his breaths come quick and heavy. And then you grin, wide and bright and, hopefully, oh so tempting.
“I know full well,” you say, rolling your eyes dismissively. “I’ve heard all these stories about you, about how you’re too much cowboy for me, and you know what I think?”
“What.” He says, flat and unwavering.
“That maybe I’m too much for you,” you say, fluttering your lashes at him. “Maybe you’re nervous. Maybe it’s you who doesn’t know what they’re getting into.”
And that seems to strike just the right nerve. That gets him fired up beneath his skin, that sends him over the edge he was teetering on. He grabs you by the waist, hauls you close, and takes. Max kisses in a frenzy, you know this from stolen moments behind barns and buildings, but this is on another level. It’s hot and heavy almost immediately, the way he bullies his tongue into your mouth, the way he bites at your lips, the way he cups one hand around the back of your neck to keep you right there. You arch your into him, writhing and keening at his every touch, at the way his hand slips up to your ribcage, searing into your skin. He’s barely done anything and-
“Look at you,” he says, voice teetering between awe and condescension. “You’re so desperate.”
Your first urge is to say I’m not, petulantly, which would only prove his point. You could point out that he’s desperate, too, but you don’t think it would really make a difference. Instead, you reach up and grab his hat from off his head, setting it down carefully on the blanket next to you, and he watches with eagle eyes. Cowboys and their stupid hats. You distract him from it by rolling your hips against his, the fabric of your skirt bunched up around your waist. His eyes flutter closed when you run your hand through his messy hair.
“Fuck me,” you plead. You’re getting a little tired of asking, and you’re past the point of asking nicely. “Max, please, just-“
He nearly shoves you off his lap, and for a moment you almost panic, until he’s rolling you down onto the blanket and following you down, hovering over you. When he kisses you, this time, it’s to shut you up. It’s harsh and all consuming and you can barely keep up, feeling feverish.
He reaches down with the hand not supporting himself and grabs at your skirt, the soft fabric shoved up and up so carelessly. You fumble with it, trying to yank the dress over your head, but he stops you, grabbing your hands.
“Leave it on,” he says, and you writhe underneath him just at the tone he uses.
“You don’t wanna see me?” You whine, and he groans softly, lips touching yours.
“Wanna make a mess of you and your pretty little dress,” he says, and your eyelids flutter at the words. “You’ll let me do that, won’t you?”
You nod fervently. When you look up at him, he’s grinning.
It doesn’t take long from there. You scramble to unbutton his shirt, and he lets you, lets it hang open, lets you run your hands up and down his torso while he kisses you senseless. His skin is feverishly hot under your palms. The sun is down, now, the sky inky blue, stars just starting to peek out behind his head, through the trees. He kisses you until your lips are raw, until you’re writhing and whining underneath him, until he’s got your dress bunched around your hips and he’s toying with your underwear. Soft pink, with a bow. He groans when he pulls away for a moment and looks down.
Then he slides lower on the blanket and settles himself between your legs, and you start to fall apart.
“You don’t have to,” you hear yourself say, as much as you really do want him to. “I don’t- you can just-“
He blinks up at you with a clouded gaze. His chest is heaving, lips parted, one finger hooked in the waistband of your panties. You wonder if he can see well enough to tell how wet you are, or if he’ll only figure it out when he touches you. You’re trembling with anticipation. He eyes you, the way you wait with bated breath.
“Do you want me to?” He asks, voice low. You close your eyes, and he reaches up to squeeze your cheeks, waiting until you open them again. “Use your words. Do you want my mouth on you?”
“You don’t have to,” you repeat.
“Not what I asked,” he says.
“I mean. You can. I… like it,” you say. He nods. “But you won’t get anything out of it, and, like, you don’t-“
“Oh, honey,” he says, like he feels bad for you, like he pities you. “Shit, and they say country girls are naive.”
You blink down at him as he gets settled again. “What?”
“Won’t get anything out of it,” he mocks, and your face grows hot again. “S’that what the city boys tell you?”
You whine. He starts to tug your panties down your hips. When he hooks his arms around your legs and buries his face between them, it’s all you can do to keep from screaming. Your first thought, as he does it, is that maybe he really is too much for you. Before you can have another thought, they all float away, and you melt into the blanket and the ground beneath it.
He takes you apart, methodically, messily. He twists his tongue around your clit, he hums against you until you writhe beneath him, he’s messy and loud about it, so into it, so much more into it than any guy you’ve ever been with. You risk a glance down at him and nearly sob at the way he’s got his eyes squeezed closed, blush sitting high on his cheeks, strands of hair falling across his forehead. His stubble scratches at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, but it only adds to the sensation. When he moves lower, tongue lapping at your entrance, his nose nudges against your clit, and your hands fly away from the blanket- one to your own mouth, to muffle your whimpers, the other to his hair, to hold on.
He pulls away slightly, gasping for air. When you look down at him, his lips and chin are slick and shiny in the moonlight. You bite the palm of your own hand. He’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat. He unwinds one arm from around your leg, lets it fall to the blanket, and when you feel him press his thumb to your clit, you know you’re doomed.
One of his fingers circles your entrance, slipping just the tip inside. You whine, again, and he groans. He leans his head against your thigh, stubble sending pin pricks up your spine.
“You’re so tight,” he says, incredulously. “So wet. So good for me, yeah?”
You nod frantically. He blinks up at you, wide eyed, almost innocent, though he’s anything but. His hand is gripping bruises into your thigh while he fingers you open with the other, and he looks so proud of the way you’re already falling apart.
“You’re close already, huh?” He asks. You don’t bother trying to lie or fight it, you just nod again. He nods back. “Then be a good girl, take your hand off your mouth,” he says, waiting until you do to continue. “And come for me.”
He disappears between your legs again, and within seconds, it surges up, white hot and fuzzy and seizing up every muscle in your body. You see more stars than there are in the sky, your back arches off the ground, and you tug his hair, harshly. It only seems to spur him on- he takes you through it with his mouth and his fingers until you’re kicking your legs and trying to scramble away from him. When he pulls away, out of breath, face soaked, your heart is racing. He leans back and sits up, on his knees between yours, and he sticks his finger in his mouth and sucks. You hide your face in your hands and whine.
“Pretty, sweet girl,” he murmurs, and you shudder. “Knew you’d taste like honey, honey.”
He waits a few moments, for what feels like forever, to do anything. He just hovers there, watching as the aftershocks wrack your body. You suck in air like you’ve been starved of it, letting the feeling ripple through you, wondering how much he’s going to ruin you if this is only the foreplay. You can hear him taking slow, steady breaths- on purpose, like he’s trying to calm himself down, too.
When you peek out from behind your fingers, he’s grinning, staring right at your chest. His gaze flickers up to yours when he sees you move, and the grin goes wider. He’s so satisfied, so smug, like he knows exactly what he’s done to you. You’re already aching for him.
“Are you gonna fuck me now?” You ask, trying to sound steady. Your voice wavers, though, and you’re still half out of breath.
Max laughs, and you whimper, fighting the urge to kick your legs. He leans over you, and you feel all encompassed, covered up. He’s grinning wide and bright. His hand slides up your thigh, and this time he sinks two fingers into you. You cry out again, pleasure spiderwebbing through your whole body.
“Brat,” he says, voice clipped. “I really thought that’d adjust your attitude, but you need more, huh?”
“Yeah, I need more,” you say, reaching up to press your hand to the back of his neck. “Or are you too scared you’re gonna come too quick?”
You choke on your words when he crooks his fingers, dragging them against that sensitive spot that has you seeing white and leaves you breathless. The sound that leaves your mouth is almost unrecognizable to you.
Then it really gets frantic. His other hand fumbles- he’s reaching in his pockets, you realize. The metallic packet he pulls out glints in the moonlight, and you gasp eagerly. Your hands fly to his belt buckle, the metal cold beneath your fingers, and he hisses when your fingers brush against him, where he’s so hard it must be painful. You make quick work of the buckle, and the button on his jeans, and the zipper, and then you shove your hand down them, wrapping your fingers around his bulge. His head drops, chin to his chest, and now he’s the one having trouble breathing. He slips his fingers out of you, and you’re too entranced with the look on his face to even care.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, dropping the condom on the blanket next to you and using his free hand to work his jeans and underwear down his hips. “Fuck. Need-“
You wrap your hand around him, his skin hot and velvety between your fingers, and he hisses. He’s wet and messy, precum soaking the tip, and your mouth waters. You shove yourself upwards, mouth open, and-
“No,” he says, reaching for your head and pushing backwards slightly. You pout, and he groans. “I wanna, trust me, but- fuck, want to get inside you first, okay? Just- behave, for once in your life. Lay back and let me-“
You do lay back, but you also reach for the condom. His shoulders heave as you take the foil in your fingers and tear it open. When you roll it onto him, he lets out a shuddery sigh. He’s big- you can barely get your hand all the way around him. He’s going to break you, you think, in the best way. You need him desperately.
He leans over you again as you trace a finger up the vein on the underside of his cock. “You’re sure you want this?”
You nod, and he cups the side of your face in his hand, the softest touch he’s ever given you. “Yeah,” you say, quiet enough for only him to hear. “So bad. Are you sure?”
He lets his eyes fall closed as he takes his cock in his hand, his knuckles bumping against yours. He leans down to kiss you, and there’s a sweetness to it. Like the calm before the storm, like the wind blowing waves in the grass. You breathe him in.
“Oh, honey,” he says against your lips. “I’ve been sure since the day I first saw you.”
He slides into you in one long, swift stroke of his hips, and you hold onto the blanket for dear life. He’s big, but the stretch feels so good, so full. He has his hands on either side of your head, and he kisses you through it, swallows your whimpers as he waits. You reach up, wrap your arms around his neck, and arch your hips up against his. He gets the idea.
He’s not in a rush, now, it seems. Things are much less hurried. He rocks his hips into yours, grinding deep with each thrust, making you see stars every time. He pulls his lips from yours and trails them down your jaw, just to bury his face in your neck. When he groans, loudly, it vibrates your whole body, and you shiver beneath him. You’re melting, you think.
“Is that good, honey? S’this what you wanted?” He asks, pressing the words into your skin. You whine and arch your back. “Come on, city girl, where are your big words, huh?”
You can’t find them, is the thing. You can’t do anything except cry out from beneath him as he hits that spot, over and over again. You feel him deep, you feel him everywhere, in every muscle and bone and nerve of your body. He leans down closer, his nose bumping against yours.
“Max,” you gasp out, when he nips at your jaw.
“So good, honey,” he groans against your skin.
Your nails scrape down his back, sure to leave marks. You hope you leave marks, that his friends tease him for it, that he wears them proudly. As if he’s heard you, he ducks his head to your collarbone and sucks harshly. Then he’s tugging at the neckline of your dress, pulling it down until he can see your chest, too, letting out a guttural groan at the sight. The whole time, he keeps up the rhythm- long, slow, deep. His hand gropes at your chest. You reach up, fist your hand in his hair, and tug his lips back to yours.
That’s how you come the second time- with his mouth muffling your wails, one hand tugging at strands of blond hair, your other hand slamming against the blanket beneath you. He works his hips the whole time, he takes you through it, his own groans slipping past his lips and into yours. He doesn’t stop. You’re not sure why you expected any different.
“Oh,” you say against his lips. “Oh, Max- I-“
“There she is,” he says, voice taking on a softer edge. “That’s a good girl. That’s it, honey. Fucked that attitude right out of you, huh?”
All you can do is nod frantically and let yourself finally crumble completely under his hands. He’s silhouetted against the night sky, but you can see his eyes, his smile, the way his shoulders heave. His thrusts grow frantic, and the arm he’s using to hold himself up starts to shake.
He kisses you when he comes, hips jerking, and you follow him over the edge. You’re sure you leave bruises with the way you hold onto him. You think his handprint is burned into your ribcage. He’s loud about it, moaning into your mouth, gasping for air when he finally pulls away.
“Fuck,” he mutters into the open air.
He pulls out, and you whine. Then he promptly collapses on top of you.
“Oof,” you groan, and he makes a non-committal noise. “Did I wear you out?”
He sighs. “Does the back talk ever stop?”
You shrug and card your fingers through his sweaty hair. “You like it.”
He hums, his face pressed into your neck. “Do not.”
You roll your eyes up at the sky. He takes your silence, his fingers dancing against your bare skin. Your dress is still bunched around your middle, chest and legs bare to the night. He’s not much better- shirt haphazardly hanging off his shoulders, his jeans shoved halfway down his thighs.
“We should get cleaned up,” he says. “Rinse off the… sweat.”
You whine. “I don’t wanna go back to the house yet.”
He laughs into your skin. “Honey, the creek is right there.”
You swallow. The water is cold, and it’s dark, and there are fish in there. There are rocks and sticks and any number of things to step on. You don’t mind the creek when it’s daylight, when you can see what you’re touching-
“Oh come on, city girl,” he says, and you groan. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”
“It’s dark,” you reply, and he laughs again. “Don’t be mean to me.”
He pushes himself off your chest. You fight the urge to whine about it, to wrap your arms around him and pull him back into you. He kneels between your legs, grinning, and you sigh happily. He’s a sight to behold, all lean muscle and broad shoulders.
“Come on,” he says again, reaching for your hand. “I’ll protect you.”
He strips out of his clothes fully and leaves them on the bank next to your dress. The water is frigid, but when he wraps his arms around you and holds you close, it’s not so bad. He runs his hands along your body, under the surface, and you wrap your arms and legs around him so you don’t have to touch the bottom. You’re sure he knows- he laughs when you do it- but he doesn’t call you out. He just kisses you, the water lapping at your shoulders, stars reflecting off the surface.
There’s a part of you that knows this shouldn’t feel so romantic. That this will come back to bite you, that soon, you’ll wish you never had this. This moment, on a blanket on the banks of the river, stars above your heads in the dark of the night. I don’t come back, he’d said. This can’t mean anything. You can’t get attached. So, to cut the seriousness of it all, you break the kiss and the silence.
“You know,” you say. “I’m not even from the city. I just go to school there.”
Max laughs, his hand squeezing at your side. “If you’d told me that, this would’ve happened a lot sooner.”
…..
He tries to keep you from getting too close, tries to keep you out, but he always melts in the moments after sex, lets his guard down, lets you in. He tells you about his family, about how he never wants to go home but misses his sister, about all the places he’s been and where he wants to go.
In exchange, you tell him stories about the city, about classes and people and parties and how it all feels so silly when you lay under the wide expanse of stars, no light pollution to sully them. You tell him about the guys back at your college who would never hold a candle against him, though you don’t tell him that part. No need to boost his ego.
He points out constellations and teaches you how to navigate without a map, how to follow the stars, and you soak it all in. He teaches you what plants you could eat and which ones would kill you, he saves you from the poison ivy that riddles the ranch, and you spend countless hours together, any second you can steal away. You’ve never felt more free with anyone else in your life.
Sometimes, he pulls away. He gets withdrawn. He’s trying to protect you, he says- himself, too, probably. You remind him, time and time again, that you know he doesn’t stick around. You try to pretend it doesn’t stab you in the stomach to say it every time. No matter how much he pulls away, without fail, a few days later he finds you, pulls you into his chest, and kisses you senseless. You let him come back every time, because you’re not sure you could ever really resist him.
Your favorite night of the summer is the one where you meet him down by the bunkhouse and he steals you away for a whole night. You tell your aunt and uncle you’re going camping with Maddy, and you’re sure they don’t believe you but they don’t ask questions, either. You get in Max’s truck and he drives until you hit a state park. He has a tent, and a tiny air mattress, and a sleeping bag for the two of you to share. You make a fire and eat s’mores while you’re sitting in his lap, and for one night, it feels real. The air mattress is the closest thing to a bed that you’ve ever shared with him. He smells like campfire and tastes like marshmallows and he fucks you like he loves you, and if you stop to think about it it’ll break your heart. You know why he suggested this, why he’s doing this. It’s August. The end of the summer is breathing down your neck, the same way he does when he curls around you as he falls asleep, his lips against your skin.
A week later, you pack up your car with all your clothes, your boots, and one of Max’s flannels. He’d wrapped you up in it one night when you shivered, laying next to him in the bed of his truck, and you never gave it back. He’d never asked. Now you’re off to college, and when you come back next summer, he’ll be gone.
You think you’ll keep it forever, just as proof that he really did exist, that for one summer, you got to have him. You’d tell him he changed your life, but you’re sure he doesn’t want to hear it.
He watches you load your last bag into your car, leaning against the fence, chewing on his lower lip. When you close the trunk, he meanders over, his hat in his hands. You turn and lean against your car, hands on your hips.
“So,” you say, giving him a once over. “Guess this is goodbye, cowboy.”
He lets out a huff. “Don’t get all emotional on me now, honey.”
You blink. “I’m not.”
You’re lying, but he doesn’t need to know that. If he notices, he doesn’t call you out on it.
He’s thumbing at the brim of his hat, holding it in front of his stomach. He shifts on his feet, and you cock your head at him. You’ve never seen him so unsure of himself. It makes your heart clench in your chest. When he reaches out and places his hat on top of your head, you swear your heart nearly stops.
He’s smiling, now. “Looks better on you.”
You reach up to touch it, the brim low on your forehead. “I disagree.”
When you try to take it off, he pushes it back down on your head. “Keep it.”
“Max…”
“Every good country girl needs a hat,” he says, and you grin widely. He matches the expression.
You dig your hand into your pockets and come out with a piece of paper, folded nicely. He glances at your hands and bites his lip. You waver, for just a moment, but you need to do this. For your sake. You reach out and press it into his hand.
“It’s my address,” you say. He opens his mouth, but you shake your head. “For if you ever want to write. You don’t have to. I’m not expecting you to. But. You have it, if you ever need it.”
He closes his mouth and nods. He tucks the paper in his pocket, and then he reaches out, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, solidly, slow and steady and sweet. Like honey.
When you drive away, he’s standing in the yard, hands in his pockets. His hat sits on the dashboard for the whole journey, a constant reminder of what you left behind.
…..
The first letter comes a month later. It’s not a love letter, not an outpouring of emotion. You had never expected it to be- that wouldn’t be Max. But it’s a letter, all the same, and that’s enough. He tells you he’s been thinking of you, and that says more than you’d ever hoped for. He gives you a return address, too- he’s moved on, at some other ranch for the winter. You read over your reply a million times before you send it, and you wait and wait and wait for his reply with bated breath.
The second letter comes, and you breathe a sigh of relief. It becomes a weekly routine- his letters always seem to show up on Fridays. You sit down, read them, and then pen your response. Sometimes, he doesn’t say much- just that work is good, or slow, or tough. Sometimes he writes about the funny things that happen. He sends a picture, one week- it’s him, bottle feeding a newborn calf, an unexpected winter baby. You pin the picture to your corkboard.
You write to him about your classes, about your friends, about the bars and the parties and the city. You tell him you know he’d hate it there. He tells you maybe it wouldn’t be so bad with you. You don’t tell him, but you hate to think of him in the city, trapped in a too small apartment, wandering narrow streets. He belongs out in the open, under the wide expanse of blue sky. Honestly, the longer you stay in the city, the more you hate it, too.
You try not to let it all go to your heart. You know it won’t work- he doesn’t stick around, he’s a nomad, and you won’t change that about him. You would never ask him to change. You write the letters out by hand, and sometimes, you spray the paper with your perfume before you seal the envelope. You wonder if he notices until he writes about reading your words and swearing he could feel you in the room with him.
Four weeks before your graduation, he says he’s moving on to the next ranch for the summer, and that he’ll write with his new return address soon.
The letters stop, and they don’t start back up again.
You’d always known this could happen- he’s probably busy with work. He’s got things to do, more important things than worrying about writing to you. So you walk the stage at graduation, and when you pack up your apartment, you place the flannel, hat, and photo of him in a box, carefully. Just because it ends doesn’t mean you can’t hold on. You wonder where he is, now, if he headed off to the far west coast like he said he wanted to, or if he ended up closer to home. You wonder if his sister will visit him like he’d been hoping. You try not to wonder if he’s met a girl, but you do it anyways. Maybe he found a pretty cowgirl, one who fits him better than you ever could.
You put your stuff in your car and turn on the radio. Springsteen. Born to Run. The road blurs with your tears, and you wipe them away hastily.
You’re headed to your aunt and uncle’s for one more summer. You haven’t secured a job yet, and the sun and warmth have you aching to be back at the ranch. They greet you with hugs when you pull up, help you unpack your stuff, and your aunt doesn’t ask any questions when you hang Max’s hat on a hook near the bed. You wonder if Maddy’s back this year, if they’re planning on going to the bar tonight, if drinking will take away the bitter edge of it all. You’re here, but it feels different this year. Something’s missing. You hope the feeling goes away soon.
You pull the curtains open to look out over the pastures. The cowboys are out, roping cattle, the grass rolling in waves. A stupid thought crosses your mind- that maybe, one of them knows where Max is, that maybe they’d give you his address- but you shove it down quickly. If he wants to be gone, you have to let him be gone. He warned you. If he wants to get in touch, he knows where to find you.
You push the glass windowpane up to let the warm summer air wash over you. It’ll be dinnertime, soon, Friday night dinner with all the staff. Biscuits and burgers and fresh fruit galore. There will be weeds to tend to in the garden tomorrow, and the bar will still be the same as always. It’s just another summer like all the rest. The cowboys are already heading in for the evening. There’s one of them, out on his own, who moves like he’s one with his horse. It reminds you of… you blink, watching as he throws his head back and laughs. Your heart skips a beat. Without even thinking, you turn and run. Down the stairs, through the house, and out the back door in your bare feet. The long grass whips against your legs. You must be seeing things, but- you need to know. You have to go see for yourself.
They’re moving the cattle towards the barn, but he hangs back, face tilted up towards the sun. When he turns his head, you feel your heart lurch in your chest. He breaks away, directs his horse towards you. When he gets within ten feet of the fence, he slips off the saddle. You can’t bring yourself to move or say anything or even breathe. You must be dreaming.
“Hey, city girl,” Max calls out.
His grin lights you on fire all over again. Suddenly, you feel like you can breathe. It’s Max, it really is- your Max. He’s here.
“You came back,” you say.
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” He hums, reaching up to take his hat off his head.
“But you don’t come back,” you say, fighting the urge to bite your lip, or scream, or cry, or jump the fence and tackle him.
He shrugs and blinks at you, blue eyes sparkling under the hot midday sun. “Must’ve been something in the air here. Something called me back.”
“Something?” You ask, putting on a brave face. “Or someone?”
Max laughs, the same as he did almost a year ago from the back of the horse, the day you first laid eyes on him. Then he looks around, nods, and puts one hand on the fence, his hat hanging at his side in his other. He leans close and presses his forehead to yours, and you gasp and close your eyes.
“Come on, honey,” he says, brushing his lips against your cheek. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
…..
a/n: this is now the mustiest thing i have ever written. will be unavailable for 3-5 businsss days thank you for reading!
taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @arian-directioner @racingheartsposts @sakuramxchii @mynamejeff5 @c-losur3 @casperlikej @the-navistar-carol @everyonesluvah @jsjcue @si1ver06 @nicole01-23 @arieslost
btsmakesmehappy
This is just so cute!! I just can’t believe you leave us with that cliffhanger. Well, not really, but still! I hope I can see their story more! I’m pretty much blown away. My first comment wow! Thank you so much for leaving a comment, I didn’t expect my vent to have had such a response haha. I’m glad you enjoyed it ^^ I’ll try to continue, I still have a few things I need to clear out of my system regarding my current living conditions *cough stupid apartment manager cough* Thank you again and hope you have a great day! 💜
my thoughts exactly. i have read a few LONG fics that i absolutely love (a soulmate au and a vampire au) and i keep wishing to write one like that but then I write a page and I'm like "wait thats too much" and question myself.
how do i write more words (about 1k and above... or even past 800) i think i write too little
how dare you make me melt like this right in the morning?!
THIS IS SO ADORABLE!!! maybe a wonwoo and a cat family could solve all my problems too😔
— on love and cats | j.ww
genre; fluff, established relationship, gn! reader | tw; mentions of cat food? |a/n; oh, life would be better if i had a jeon wonwoo 😔
a giggle, a meow and the soft breeze of the autumn air fills your vicinity. a soft smile graces your lips, watching your lover play with a kitten.
the sun is slowly descending, leaving way for the moon to rise. the soft yellow fades into a muted grey, cascading the world in a serene silence at its beauty. a lone breeze tousles and plays with wonwoo's hair.
a loud laugh rumbles from his throat. he squats down, playing with the kitten. you watch the interaction with a smile on your own. he looks up at you, grinning.
he takes the little furball in his hands and walks towards you. you lean down, and coo at it. he introduces the kitten to you, waving it's hand at you. you do the same, waving back.
“she's the cutest,” he sighs, admiring the little life in his hands. you hum, echoing a 'she is' back to him.
yes, the cat is cute but you can't take your eyes of your boyfriend. the little quirk of his lips, the mirth dancing in his irises, the scrunch of his nose, his wind-tousled hair and the list goes on.
you step closer to him. he stays still. you step closer again. he doesn't move. you lean your head on his shoulder, and rub the kitten's head. it meows and closes it's eyes, content with all the attention.
“i give her food most of the times. she only eats expensive-ass tin food.” he whispers the latter part as if not to upset the kitten.
“yeah, i can see it.”
it lays on it's back, showing it's chubby stomach. you giggle and rub it's tummy. you're unable to contain your coos and laughter. you let your mind wander for a few seconds, wondering if this is how it'd be to start a family with him.
the thought urges you to tuck yourself closer to him. the warmth of his body repels the harsh cold of the autumn air. you circle your hands around his waist, as he lets down the kitten. it gleefully waddles across the street to it's mother.
wonwoo encloses you in a side hug, his hand coming to rest on your back. you watch the mother cat grooms the kitten and soon, a few more kittens come in view.
“and incase you're wondering why i decided to not buy the latest game i like, it's 'cause of this.”
he gestures towards the little cat family. warmth blooms in your chest, and it slowly grows vines, spreading throughout your body. the air messes your hair and caresses your face harshly. you don't feel your face, and hands. the cold autumn does not spare anyone, even lovers.
but wonwoo warms his hands and holds your face, pressing his palms on your cheeks. you giggle, leaning towards him. you do the same and hold his face. he leans his forehead on yours and you close your eyes, trying to engrave this moment in your head. this feeling, this warmth, wonwoo.
and you decide that you can forgive the world as long as it has jeon wonwoo in it.
ditching the taglist cuz literally no one tagged interacts much. hope you understand <3
MMMMMMMM YUMMY
edgimus workshop/room i made for class. very rusty
look at his disgusting energon cubes he hasn't cleaned in ages. i'm proud of them
recharge slab weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee also dirty and ugly and awkward, i bet his back hurts
RAHHHHH ITS DONE ITS HERE
I THOUGHT ID GIVE YOU GUYS THE FINAL AUDIO INSTEAD OF MAKING YOU WAIT FOR THE YOUTUBE UPLOAD BC EDITING IS A BITCH AND KNOWING MYSELF IT WILL TAKE A WHILE LMAO
but anywho i hope you like it bc i love it ahhhh im so proud!!
big thanks to @somerandomdudelmao for making such a cool series that managed to pull me out of my writers block LMAO
i'll post again when i make the video and it goes up spotify, but for now... i sleep :>
EDIT: TOTALLY FORGOT TO ASK BUT WHAT SHOULD I CALL IT? PLS GIVE ME IDEAS IM SO STUCK
I love it when my friends comment on how I'm randomly online on my Xbox account but I test consoles as part of my job so I get paid to play rdr2 on company time 💪
thorbruce love 💚💙 commissioned by @blueeyesblazing as a continuation of another drawing of mine!! This time with bruce a wee bit more dominant.... as it should be >:)
it is raining in my apartment
not like, actual rain. but the person upstairs who listens to loud music and screams profanities off the balcony at odd hours seems to have decided to transition to being a swamp person, judging from the steady flow of water from the ceiling. It was slowing down but the water started running again and now it's become more of a steady flow than a drip. My wastebins are getting kinda full. It's only been an hour.
Advice would be appreciated.
OMIGOD REDDIE SOULMATE AU ANGST WARNING***
“soulmate au where instead of your soulmates first words to you written on your skin it’s their last words you ever hear them say so you don’t know who your soulmate is until you lose them”
((couldn't find the post so i just wrote it lol sorry))
BUT what if the words appear as they die??
((and the words appear as they die, where they last touched you so you don’t even know what they say at all until they’re dead.. i know it’s a stretch but i had to make it like this because otherwise it would’ve been too obvious to them lol)
so imagine, in the sewers, last time, when Eddie’s bleeding out, about to die,
1. as Eddie wipes Richie’s tears from his cheek, telling him not to call him “Eds”, they appear under his thumb on Richie’s cheek, without him being aware. when the other losers see the writing, they either a) do allow Richie to take Eddie with them, or b) still say no because they know it will hurt Richie a lot more to see Eddie after he finds out.
or
2. Richie’s holding Eddie’s face in his hands (like in Pennywise’s house when they’re about to die) and, as Eddie is telling him one last time not to call him “Eds”, while Richie is breaking down, sobbing into his hands (which are now covering his face, obviously, lol), as he pulls them away, he sees writing on his palms, reading; “don’t call me that” ((or whatever Eddie says, sorry i didn’t get that far into the book idk) this can be before or after Richie kisses his cheek, i can’t decide)
