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george had gotten enough schooling to learn what classical conditioning is. pavlov conditioned dogs to salivate at the sound of a bell ringing; a conditioned response. george may have done the same thing to you–he made the mistake of making sure you orgasm as he bites and drinks from you. now every time he feeds from you, you cum, even if there’s no sexual build-up at all; it could be the most bland feeding session and the minute his venom enters your bloodstream, you can’t fight it—he’s pavlov-ed his girlfriend. he should’ve never allowed himself to feed from you.
when george first met you, he was enamored with you from the start. after every morning run, he would end at a local coffee shop and you would already be cozied up in a corner seat working away on your computer. you smelled delectable, george quickly picked up on that. he was thankful the barista had already memorized his usual order, because he really wouldn’t have enjoyed explaining why his canines had elongated into fangs. he couldn’t handle the way your blood was calling to him and left the coffee shop as soon as he got his drink, running into several people on the way out. you would be in the coffee shop on two out of the three days he came in, and he would be a serious hazard to any customer who came in during the five minutes he was there. it was like this for two months and twelve days (not that he was counting or anything), until you weren’t in your seat one day. george sighed in relief, shoulders relaxing and the fixed grimace in anticipation sliding off his face—what he didn’t expect to feel is disappointment at the lack of your appearance and addicting scent. he dismisses the emotions, convincing himself that he’s just used to the constant repression of his instincts around you. he even takes the time to engage in small talk with the baristas; two months ago he was well-invested into their lives, he has a lot of catching up to do. he allows himself to be forced into a seat at the counter to drink his coffee and indulge in a few pastries that are definitely breaking his diet. it’s an off day for him, his only plans are to stream in the evening with the usual quartet, so he can afford to dine in this morning…and indulge in catching up on the coffee shop gossip, he’s only a man, alright?
george is halfway through his cup of coffee and laughing along to a story about how this adorable kid tried to buy hot chocolate with monopoly money when the entrance door jingles open. he chokes on his sip of coffee, almost spraying it over the counter in surprise as you walk up to the counter. he turns to look at you ordering at the register, to confirm he’s not imagining your presence and—you look amazing. you’re wearing flared black trousers with a short-sleeved, white, collared shirt tucked into them, elegant gold jewelry accented against your brown skin—you’ve dressed up today. it’s different from the usual hoodie and headphones george sees you wearing in that corner nook of yours; at least that’s his excuse for why he ends up staring you down. after finishing your order, you head towards your usual seat and end up making direct eye contact with george, because the universe hates him. he sees your attempt at a polite smile and his cheeks burn red at being caught, and jerks his head forward breaking his stare. he hears you continue to walk past him, and the barista stares at him disbelievingly, “mate…you fumbled that.” george stutters through a denial, but then he hears your footsteps stop—and he knows you haven’t reached the corner seat yet. he picks up on the sound of you turning on your heels and heading back in his direction, and he drops his head into his hands, resigned.
“ah! someone’s taken your seat today,” the barista in front of george calls out to you—george narrows his eyes at the man in warning, “come sit at the counter then; you can tell me what you’re all fancied-up for.” the barista glances at george with a smirk, and he swears this may be the first time he bleeds a human dry.
you laugh and sit at the counter, one seat in between you and george. and george sighs in relief for the second time today; you’re wearing perfume and it taints the smell of your blood, enough for him to not start salivating, at least. its silent for a minute, and george can feel your awkwardness radiating.
“so…” you question teasingly, “not in a rush today, then?”
george turns to look at you, shocked that you’re even talking to him—he never figured he’d be in a conversation with you. while your voice may have been teasing, your eyes are soft, warmed with kindness, and george melts. he manages to muster a tease back in your direction, “no, not today. but, look at you—in business casual attire, i was starting to believe you only knew how to dress in sweatshirts?”
you roll your eyes at him, and a smirk replaces your painfully polite smile, “ah? today must’ve not been the only day you’ve been staring at me, if you’re so familiar with how i dress…even though we’ve never spoken to each other before.” george’s mouth drops open at you checking him, and he can hear both baristas giggling behind the counter. and at that moment, george is pretty sure he fell in love with you right then—even though he didn’t have the balls to ask you out for another month and a half.
for those weeks, every time george came to the cafe, you would wave him over to your table with a bright grin and invite him to sit down across from you. even on days when he really couldn’t afford to be late, he’d find himself sitting down to chat with you. instead of being early to zoom meetings with the mercedes team, he started being on-time, often enough for lewis and toto to comment on it. his only response to their gentle prodding at the change in his behavior being, “i added another mile to my morning run,” when he really was spending those minutes talking to you after his run. after he built up the courage to ask for your number (platonically, of course), he would show up to the driver’s briefings a few minutes late, rushing in yet tapping away on his phone struggling to hide the smile on his face. for all of his superior senses, he doesn’t notice how his grid mates stare at him like he’s lost his mind; eventually, one of the officials calls him out when he glances down at the notifications popping up on his phone screen for the fourth time in five minutes, “mr. russell, i am sure that whatever you find so interesting on your phone can’t be more important than our discussion about track conditions, can it?”
george flushed red (he knew he shouldn’t have fed until later) and stumbled through an apology. after the briefing ends, the drivers start teasing him for being ‘so unprofessional,’ and lewis doesn’t help when he reveals how george has started being late to mercedes team meetings, too. charles pretends to faint, alex gasps in horror, and lando’s eyes light up at the opportunity to be a gremlin.
“boysboysboys,” lando grins, gathering everyone’s attention, “i think it’s finally happened.”
george sighed, over the dramatics already, “what’s happened, lando?”
“you’ve managed to get yourself a girlfriend!” lando shrieks, his high-pitched laughter hurting george’s ears.
george flusters, and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, “she’s not my girlfriend!” and, he’s only made it worse.
alex’s eyes widen, pointing at george in shock, “oh my god—so you are talking to a girl!” george groans and spins on his feet to leave the room, ignoring the jibes and teases of the grown men behind him.
later that night, his hotel room is infiltrated by almost half the grid (including fernando, for some reason), all seeming to rally behind their common goal of getting george to ask you on an actual date. they debase all of george’s points about why he shouldn’t ask you out—the main point being that he’s a fucking vampire—and ask him the one question that he’s been refusing to acknowledge, “you can smell how she feels—does she smell like she likes you?”
george hisses at them half-heartedly, more like a frazzled kitten than a terrifying monster, “yes, i’m already aware that she’s interested in me—that’s the problem! i’ve already led her on this whole time, and she doesn’t know that she has a crush on an undead, immortal, vampire!” the room quiets at his outburst, and he can only groan and drop his head into his hands.
“so just tell her,” max states bluntly, not looking away from the fifa game he’s beating charles’ ass in. george stares at max, appalled.
“let her make the decision for herself, right?” max starts, pausing the game to look at george, “for some bizarre reason she likes you for who you are,” george scoffs, “so, just tell her from the jump—you’ve already led her on enough, so give her the opportunity to decide whether or not if she should date your lame ass.”
the vampire stares at max disbelievingly, “that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
the red bull driver shrugs, ears turning red under the surprised stares in the room, and quickly un-pauses the game and scores on charles. the monegasque screams dramatically, and the tense air is broken. george shakily sighs, anxious, and pulls out his phone to ask you on a date. originally, he was thinking about asking you through a text, but with almost every driver in the room disapproving of any way he goes about wording it, he bares his fangs at them, and steps out of his own room, to call you.
the phone doesn’t even complete the first ring before you pick up, and a pleasant, “hi, georgieeee,” slips from your mouth; he can hear how you’re smiling through the phone. he banters with you for a minute, listening to how you're singing praises about his performance even though the actual race isn’t for another day. when the conversation dies down, he blurts out the question, “do you want to go on a—“
“i would love to go on a date with you!” you cut him off, eagerly, “i mean–sorry, yes. i would like to go out with you.” george laughs, relieved and comforted by the fact that you’re as gone for him as he is for you. he can’t even bring himself to be mad when he hears the men in his room raucously cheer.
and when george took you out for brunch to the same cafe, ignoring the baristas’ proud expressions, he realized he had nothing to worry about. the conversation flowed easily, he made you laugh and you made him laugh, and most importantly, he didn't think about draining you dry like a caprisun. you’ve ditched the cozy outfits and dressed up again—dressed up for him—and george is out of his running attire and fancied up; and you make a off-hand comment about how unnatural this feels, and george is reminded of the one important thing he was supposed to tell you. time has flown by so quickly while the two of you were hidden away in your preferred corner seat, and it’s become mid-afternoon. george surveys the surroundings briefly and is shocked to find that it’s only the two of you, and the baristas in the cafe; it’s the perfect time to tell you.
when george states that he’s a vampire, you obviously think he’s joking, “well, you’re not burning in the sunlight, georgie–so i don’t believe you! i am afraid that if this is a kink of yours, i don’t see a second date in the future.” he tries to smile at your joke but it ends up as more of a grimace, and he exposes his fangs for you to see. he hears the breath catch in your throat, sees your eyes widening in shock, blown-out pupils shrinking in fear, hears your heart beginning to race in your chest, blood rushing in your veins, and smells your scent souring.
“george russell,” you whisper yell, glancing around anxiously, “what the fuck! i believe you—you shouldn’t do that in public! what if someone else saw?!” and that’s when he realized that sure, a small amount of your fear was from the confirmation that he is a supernatural being—but mainly that, you were afraid for him. and at that point, george knew that he could allow himself to be vulnerable with you.
and after three years together, he fed from you for the first time. a lot of planning went into the initial feeding: after the end of the racing season, a trip away just for the two of you, george would satiate his thirst with his usual blood donor supply, he wouldn’t drink more than six ounces from you, you’d eat a full meal and be properly hydrated, and of course, he’d drink from you when you orgasm. the bite hurts in the beginning—george has been told many stories from feeders—and the most common distraction to the pain is a simultaneous orgasm. you were apprehensive yet extremely willing to allow george to drink from you, and told him that you trusted him completely—you even sat through his numerous clinical rundowns of the plan without complaining.
however in the moment, george diverted from the script. instead of having you cum once, george forced three orgasms out of you and bit you on the last one. he practically mauled your neck, chest, and hickeys throughout the night, as if he was teasing himself with the indents on of his teeth on your body before he bit into you. you couldn’t figure out if it was the venom from his bite or the multiple orgasms that had you floating pleasurably. george couldn’t deny that seeing you covered in love bites and his actual fang marks didn’t provoke a hidden possessive trait in him. the love bites he left on your body would fade within a few days, the bite mark would fade in around two weeks—and you told george explicitly that if he ever wanted to feed from you again, he’d be more than welcome to do so.
the vampire always thought that he was the one who was at risk for getting addicted to your blood; his greatest fear being that he wouldn’t be able to resist sucking you dry. however, it rapidly dawned on him: you’re the one who formed an addiction.
george always made sure his thirst was properly sated with his usual blood bags before he drank from you. over three months, he’d consistently make you cum whenever he bit you, whether it was with his fingers, cock, mouth, thigh, etc. but he never quite realized that he conditioned you into cumming whenever he bit you, until the singapore grand prix.
-
singapore was hot. it wasn’t hell on earth like qatar, but it was still fucking hot. and then, he crashed. as he made his way back to the mercedes garage (stomping under the force of his self-deprecation), he became increasingly aware of the tingle in the back of his throat; he’s hungry, he needs blood. he ignores his race engineer asking if he needs medical attention, and asks for a ‘juicebox,’ the codeword for a blood-bag. only to find out, he had his last one yesterday after qualifying—the hotter race weekends have him draining his supply quicker than usual. the vampire whimpers, and suddenly he’s bombarded by you speeding over from the back of the garage. you’re tugging his face down to eye level, worriedly asking if he’s hurt, but george can only register how alluring your blood smells. contrary to popular vampiric-belief (if that’s a thing, he has no clue), blood does not smell sweet. it smells metallic, and the overall scent is affected by water content and ph-level; you smell velvety, and absolutely perfect to george.
the vampire briefly reassures you that he’s fine, before he grabs you by the hand and turns to toto. george begs his team principal to postpone any of his post-race interviews for as long as he can so he can get a brief feeding in with you before he loses his mind any further. toto cuts george’s pleads off immediately and allows him to do whatever he needs; the brit's temper is short enough already, if your blood can calm his mouth toto will personally send you a brand new g-wagon.
george pulls you along to his driver’s room, slowing when he hears how you’re tripping over your feet two match his speed. he shoves the door open, but kindly guides you with a palm on the small of your back into the room, before he steps in and slams the door shut, locking it with a quickness. he speedily sits on the edge of his couch, and pulls you onto his lap, staring up at you with wide, pleading eyes.
“love,” he starts, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip, “may i drink from you? i should’ve been smarter about preserving my supply, usually i’m more careful about it, but i think i was just overager with everything this weekend. i’ll only take a small sip, just enough to hold me over until we fly back home, yeah? i mean, if you’re uncomfortable, i will not drink from you. i should be able to wait—”
you cover the vampire’s mouth with a hand, and smile softly at him, “yes, georgie, you can feed from me. the whole point of drinking from me was to have me acclimate to the feeling for rare situations like this, yes? i’m okay with it, you can take as much as you need from me.”
george stares at you for a few seconds, for some reason, he’s surprised at your easy allowance, before he’s shaken out of his stupor by you waving a hand in front of his face.
“i won’t be able to make you cum—i need to get out there as soon as possible,” george rambles out.
“ok,” you state, looking at him oddly, “i’m pretty sure i’ll be able to handle it, and if not you’ll know before i do.”
the brit asks if you’re sure one last time, before he effortlessly stands up with you in his arms, spins around and places you on the couch, sitting you where he was. the vampire kneels in front of you, and parts your legs gently, before tugging at the waistband of your pants for permission. you’re still reeling from his easy manhandling (you forget about his superior strength, he never makes it obvious), and how he fell to knees for you—the duality of his actions has you embarrassingly hot. you lift your hips up allowing george to tug off your pants, and you see firsthand how he loses his train of thought.
when george brings you along to a race, he avoids leaving marks in a visible spots, so unfortunately for him, your neck and torso are complete bruise free; the humid weather in singapore meant that you would be wearing tank tops or cropped shirts, so he can’t risk someone seeing a smidge of a bruise on your body; they wouldn’t understand. although, george could take his fill of marking you up on your thighs. the dark skin of your inner thighs is mottled with bruises from his lips and indents of his teeth, all in various stages of healing observed by the various shades of purple they’re colored in. george slowly presses a finger into one of the marks and smirks when a strangled gasp escapes you from the pressure. if the vampire wasn’t so focused on the scent of your blood, he’d probably notice how that motion alone already had you wet.
george buries his head between your thighs, close enough that you can feel the exhales of breath from his nose over your panties. you shift, squirming away from the feeling—this is about giving george blood, which he needs for sustenance, not for you to get turned on at, you try to remind yourself. the brit halts your movements, his hands flexing around you only slightly. you try and buck your hips away to test his grip, and you don’t move a single centimeter. you glance down, making eye-contact with your boyfriend, and the teasing smile he’s hiding behind your thigh has your heart rabbiting faster, even though you roll your eyes at him. george begins to lick and nip across your thighs searching for the best spot to pierce your skin, and you are trapped in your own mind. you’re at the mercy of an immortal being, you have no chance of fighting him off if you needed to. of course, you’re very aware that george wouldn’t lay a finger on you, but your hindbrain runs off of instincts, and it’s telling you george is a predator and you’re clearly his next meal. the adrenaline thrumming underneath your skin causes you to start breathing a little heavier and you manage to wrangle the instinctual fear away to relax under him. george startles you from your thoughts when his cold hand leads yours to rest on the nape of his neck, and he pauses when he feels you jump underneath him.
“hey, you can still say ‘no’ if you’re not ready for this yet. there’s no pressure, love,” george reassures you. the calming tone of his voice has no judgemental lilt, and his words soothe you enough to double-down with your agreement.
“thank you for doing this for me, love. as soon as we get back to the hotel, i’ll take care of you properly–i promise,” george praises you, “now, remember, this won’t take any longer than ten seconds. if you need me to stop beforehand, pinch the skin on my neck and i’ll stop, okay?”
you swallow, clearing your throat, “yes, george. can we start already? my nerves will scare me away if we wait too long.”
george nods, hands petting at your waist reassuringly, before he focuses back on your thighs. his nose tracing along your sensitive skin for a few more seconds, until he stops and nuzzles at a spot almost on the underside of your left thigh, close enough to your pussy to have the fear fade under the anticipation of pleasure. the vampire kisses at the spot three times, before he lets his fangs slide out with an audible shlick. he presses them gently against you skin for a few seconds before he bites down.
the pain isn’t from the invasion of his fangs, but from the spread of the venom. it burns as it spreads through your bloodstream; you imagine this is what boiling alive feels like. the feeling is immense but fleeting. the initial bite has always been paralyzing, but when george takes the first pull of blood, the venom must have reached your brain and taken effect, because the pain instantly switches to an immobilizing amount of pleasure. the scream that was originally building in your chest transforms into a keening moan, the burning pain no longer present.
you feel your core tightening as george continues to feast on your blood; thighs trembling in pleasure, eyes rolling back overwhelmed, and toes curling. it’s happening so quickly, quick enough that you don’t register that you’re cumming. waves of pleasure crash over you unendingly, and you’re unable to figure out why. every drag of blood george takes ruins any chance you have to think. the pleasure is so catastrophic that you don’t even register when george releases the bite.
the vampire can only stare up at you in awe as your mouth parts, drool beginning to leak from the corner of your lips, your eyes slamming shut, and face scrunching from the force of the orgasm he ripped out of you. george soothes the bite closed with careful sweeps of his tongue, allowing you all the time you need to come back to him. he softly sucks a few more marks into the meat of your thigh before he fights himself away from cradle of your legs, brushing a kiss on your cunt over your panties.
the vampire slides his way onto the couch next to you, pulling you into his arms to allow you to shake through the aftershocks in his grasp. he presses kisses to your forehead, while he murmurs praises freely. while his mouth is running in one direction, his thoughts take a completely different turn.
he’s ruined you for any other person. he’s trained you to orgasm with a simple bite of his fangs. your body has correlated the painful spread of his venom with pleasure. george has tied you to him for the rest of your life. this is a huge fucking problem. his mind starts racing; if that’s the case he either needs to work that out of you, or he can never feed from you in situations like this again. you’ll be useless for the rest of the day, your brain has turned into jello. he needs to make sure that he manages his blood supply properly in the future, so he doesn’t have to drink from you where the media can discover how gone you are.
george has no idea how he would go about un-training your…pleasurable…response to his bite. on second thought, george doesn’t want to change your newfound reflex. if anything, it’s like an equal exchange. the vampire satiates his thirst, and you satiate your thirst. george coos at you adoringly when he hears the near inaudible moans your breathing into his neck—yeah, he thinks you’ll agree with him when you’re aware enough to do so.
he finds himself tracing the fresh bite mark with a thumb, groaning when your hips grind against him in return. he fumbles his phone out of his pocket to tell toto he needs at least another twenty minutes.