Toma

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You had precisely three things on your summer checklist (well, it was only May, but these things were a technicality):

Get a tan.

Find your sea legs.

Avoid boring men in polo shirts.

So when you sashayed down the Monaco marina in your oversized sunglasses and silk scarf blowing dramatically in the sea breeze, you were convinced life was going exactly to plan. Until it wasn't. Because, apparently, you got on the wrong yacht.

"I don't remember hiring a crew," a voice said, low and unimpressed, behind you.

You turned around from where you were sprawled dramatically across the cushioned sunbed, sipping sparkling water and admiring your own pedicure.

And there he was: tall, sun-drenched, and scowling at you like you'd committed a federal crime instead of simply boarding what you thought was your family's boat.

"You're not wearing shoes," you pointed out, lifting your sunglasses just enough to glare at him properly.

"You're not supposed to be here," he replied coolly.

"I'm always supposed to be wherever I am," you said, standing now, a little flustered, a little thrilled. Who was this little boy? Well, not boy. He was certainly a man in his own right. But he shouldn't be talking back to you! "This is my yacht."

He crossed his arms, a small smirk playing on his lips. "That so?"

You blinked, looked around at the deck, at the gleaming chrome railing, at the Finnish flag. Oh. It might've slipped your mind.

"…this isn't the Phoenix, is it?"

"No. It's the Iceman," he said. "And you're on it."

You stared at him, then down at the deck, then back at him. "Okay. So, maybe I got a little lost."

"You 'got lost' onto a private yacht?"

"Maybe I got excited about getting back onto a white boat. It's hot. I was thirsty. Don't people trespass all the time in Monaco?"

"No."

You smiled at him, batting your lashes just a little. "Are you always this fun at parties? Who's paying for the yacht, pretty boy? Is it your daddy?"

"Yes," he said. And to your second question, "me. I race cars."

You blinked and looked him up and down, mostly with the purpose of figuring out who this racecar driver was, but also because he was a little attractive. Not Schumacher. Okay, that was it. What other blonde F1 driver did you know? Finnish...you scoured your mind and found two!

"Wait. You're either Mika or Kimi."

“Mika's retired."

"So you're Kimi."

"You say that like you expected me to be taller."

"Well, you probably seem taller in the tabloids. They don't want broody strangers."

"I'm not brooding," Kimi said flatly. "I just don't like strangers on my boat."

"Well then," you said, brushing imaginary lint off your dress and walking--gracefully, thank you very much--past him, "maybe you should have locked the door, Iceman."

You paused at the top of the plank, looking back at him. "Thanks for the drink. Even if it was technically theft."

He didn't say anything until you were almost gone, and he called out, "Next time you want a tan, ask first."

You turned around, eyes wide. "Next time?"

He--Kimi--shrugged, already walking inside. "You know where to find me now."

Your heart did an extremely uncool little flip.

And you added:

4. Come back to the Iceman.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You did not come back on purpose.

Okay, maybe you did. But only a little. It was your friend's idea. Sort of. She said you should "accidentally" walk by his boat again just to "see if he's real" and not a "fever dream with cheekbones."

Also, you wore the pretty white cover-up. Not for him. It was for the, uh, aesthetic.

You had every intention of walking right past the Iceman this time. A quick stroll down the dock, head held high, pretending like you weren't thinking about the man who didn't smile but made your heart do aerial stunts.

And yet.

"There's no way this is accidental," came the now-familiar voice from the deck.

You froze mid-step, toe hovering over the dock, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of your nose. "Excuse me?"

Kimi was shirtless this time. Unfairly so. He had one hand on the railing, the other holding a half-eaten nectarine like this was a Botticelli painting, and not your life.

"You're back," he said, as if that was the entire sentence. Clearly, he was a man of few words.

You huffed. "Don't flatter yourself. Maybe I'm scouting yachts. Maybe I have options."

He raised an eyebrow. "Girls with options don't wear lip gloss and look lost."

"I'm not lost," you insisted.

"You always say that when you’re lost."

You crossed your arms. "Okay, not always. It's the second time. And what are you doing? Standing there like a Bond villain, eating fruit and judging tourists?"

"I like fruit," Kimi said. "And I don't like tourists."

You stared at him.

He stared back.

And then--then--the corner of his mouth tilted. Just the tiniest bit. A smirk, barely there, like he wasn't sure if he was going to find you funny yet.

"I have champagne," he said casually.

You blinked. "Are you bribing me to stay?"

"Maybe."

"Is it cold?"

"Of course."

"And are there snacks?"

"There can be."

You paused for dramatic effect, then turned back toward the yacht, walking up like it was the Queen's invitation. "Fine. But only because my heels hurt and you're marginally less rude than the sun."

"You're not wearing heels."

"Don't ruin the moment, Kimi."

He handed you a glass of champagne and your fingers brushed, just barely.

You sat, legs stretched out, toes pointing toward the sea. He leaned against the rail again, watching you. He wasn't staring, just looking?

"So," you said eventually, swirling the glass, "do you offer all your trespassers drinks? Or am I special?"

He looked at you so intently you almost forgot how to breathe. "You're the first one who came back."

Your heart? Gone. Floating somewhere between the Mediterranean and Monaco's skyline.

"Oh," you said quietly, smiling into your glass. "Well. Good thing I like fruit."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The plan was simple: one drink, maybe a quick dip, then you'd float off back to reality before things got complicated. But the weather didn't care about your plans. And neither, apparently, did Kimi.

You were mid-laugh, ankles swinging off the side of the yacht, when thunder rumbled low in the distance. You glanced up from your glass.

"Was that--"

"Storm's coming," Kimi said from behind you, hands in his pockets, hair ruffled from the sea breeze. God, you wanted to run your hands through it too. Never thought you'd be envying nature.

You raised an eyebrow. "And you were going to tell me this when?"

"I thought you liked surprises."

"I like presents, Kimi. Not atmospheric threats."

But the sky was already turning dramatic--clouds rolling in with a moody kind of poetry that would’ve been beautiful if it didn't mean your tiny white dress was about to become a very damp, very clingy problem.

"We should get back to shore," you said, slipping off your sunglasses.

He glanced toward the dock, then back to you. "Too late."

Sure enough, the rain started--slow at first, then all at once. Warm, chaotic, soaking you in seconds. You shrieked, holding your arms out like you could stop it with sheer annoyance.

"Great," you muttered. "I'm going to look like a drowned heiress."

Kimi just watched you, completely unfazed, rain dripping off his brow like he was made of stone. A slightly amused, highly attractive stone.

"You could've warned me sooner," you said, pushing wet hair off your face.

"You were busy talking about horoscopes and olives."

"I was being charming."

He tilted his head. "You were being loud."

You squinted at him. "Do you even like me, or are you just too polite to throw me off the boat?"

He didn't answer right away. He only stepped forward until you were almost toe-to-toe, rain pattering around you like applause.

"I don't usually like people," Kimi said. "But you're strange."

"Wow," you deadpanned. "Romantic."

He smirked. "It's not a no."

Before you could respond--because you absolutely had a witty comeback brewing--thunder cracked again. This time, closer.

He jerked his head toward the cabin. "Inside. Come on."

And that's how you ended up dripping and barefoot in the cozy cabin of a multimillion-dollar yacht that wasn't yours, wearing his hoodie (gray, soft, slightly too big) and sipping something warm he wordlessly handed you.

You glanced at the rain still lashing the windows. "Sooo, you're telling me I'm stranded?"

He nodded. "Well. If you really wanted to, no. But if it doesn't matter that much, yes, you are stranded for the night."

You tried to play it cool, because fuck if you wanted it. "Is this where you tell me there's only one bed?"

Silence.

You blinked. "Wait. Is there actually--"

"There’s a couch," he said, poker-faced. "But I'm not offering it."

You nearly choked on your drink. "Are you flirting with me, Kimi Räikkönen?"

"Maybe."

You stared, then smiled, then whispered, "Took you long enough."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The storm had no intention of stopping.

You stood in the little cabin barefoot, hair wet, legs cold, staring out the porthole like you could will the rain to let up. It didn't. It just pressed harder against the glass, wind whistling like some moody movie score.

"Bed's made," Kimi said behind you.

You turned. He was leaning in the doorway, towel-drying his hair with one hand, wearing a plain black shirt and grey sweatpants like he hadn't just walked out of a lifestyle magazine shoot.

"Thanks," you said, voice small. "I can take the couch."

He gave you a look. Just one of those slow, unreadable ones. "There's no point pretending. It's raining sideways. Just take the bed."

"And where are you sleeping?" you asked, not quite teasing.

His mouth twitched. "Also the bed."

"Fine. But no funny business."

He raised an eyebrow, totally unimpressed. "You snore."

"I do not!"

"You don't know what you do in your sleep."

You huffed, climbing into bed with dramatic flair, turning your back to him. "You're incredibly rude for someone offering me shelter."

"You could leave, you know. I'm sure you could find someone willing, if you family owns a yacht. You're also incredibly dramatic for someone stealing my hoodie."

You rolled over just to stick your tongue out at him and caught him smiling.

When the lights flickered again, you both froze.

And then--almost instinctively--he slid into the other side of the bed. The mattress dipped with his weight. He didn't touch you. Not even close.

You stared up at the ceiling. "This is weird, right?"

“No.”

You turned your head toward him. He was lying flat, arms folded behind his head, eyes on the ceiling too. He was very pretty, you admit, with his long lashes fluttering lazily. You asked, "you don't think this is a little bit emotionally loaded for two people who met via trespassing?"

"You weren't trespassing," Kimi said calmly.

You blinked. "I wasn't?"

"You just got confused."

Now, he had you smiling in the dark.

"I like your boat."

"I know."

"And I like that you let me stay."

His voice was barely there. "I like that you came back."

There was a silence after that.

Eventually, your eyes got heavy. You turned on your side, facing away from him, but not all the way to the edge.

Then you felt it--the brush of his fingers, careful and slow, against your hand.

You didn't say anything. You just let your hand fall back into his and he held it. He didn't grasp tightly, like it was a declaration. There was just enough pressure. Just enough.

You fell asleep like that, rain at the windows. Your body was warm and quiet and his fingers were loosely twined in yours.

In the morning, when sunlight cracked through the clouds and your head was tucked under his chin, you didn't pretend to be surprised.

You just smiled into his shirt and whispered, "told you I don't snore."

And he murmured, half-asleep: "I know. I wanted you closer."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You were mid-bite when the door slammed. Slammed-slammed. Like 'Ferrari just lost a front-row seat to Monaco glory' slammed. Of course, because that was basically what had just happened. Except, of course, you had figured out now that Kimi drew for McLaren.

You paused, olive halfway to your mouth.

You heard boots. Heavy steps. Muted Finnish cursing. Well, it might've been some other language but that was your boy out there and he certainly wasn't speaking English.

"Kimi?" you called from the kitchen, mouth still full. You liked his other yacht more, Iceman, but this one was nice, too. It was called 'One More Toy' and Kimi'd asked you to come here with all his friends. The Iceman, he said, was a lot more personal. You supposed that made you two close. You wouldn't ask him that now, though, because he looked angry. "Is that you or an extremely pissed-off ghost?"

No answer.

Just more cursing and the unmistakable sound of a helmet being launched onto the couch. It didn't hit you, thankfully.

You popped the olive in your mouth. "I'm guessing the race didn't go great?"

He appeared in the doorway like an angry cat dragged backwards through gravel. His fireproof suit was half off and his hair a mess. It was kind of hot, actually. Even with his face doing that thing where he looks like he might kill someone but he's too tired to commit. It was especially hot.

"Engine failure," he growled.

You nodded solemnly, like a priest. "Tragic. Want an olive?"

Kimi just stared at you. Like he couldn’t decide whether to yell or marry you.

"Why are you in my hoodie again?"

"It's my coping mechanism," you said, offering him the jar. "Also, it smells like you, and I like it."

He groaned, stalking past you to the bar, where he poured himself three fingers of something probably older than your childhood dog.

You followed, jar in hand. "Do you want to scream into a pillow? Punch a baguette? I have options."

He downed the drink in one go, eyes closed, breathing like the car personally insulted his grandmother.

"I walked off the track mid-race," Kimi muttered.

"I know. It was very dramatic. Ten out of ten for mysterious recluse energy. Did you hear your friends celebrating as you came on? Oh, wait, sorry, you were brooding again."

"I'm not mysterious. I wasn't brooding."

"You're an international man of monosyllables who just disappeared during a Grand Prix and materialized on a yacht. That's the definition mysterious behavior."

You held up your hands when seeing his look. "I support you."

Kimi finally--finally--cracked the tiniest smile. You loved it when he smiled. Then, he sank onto the couch like his bones had given up.

You sat beside him, jar between you, quietly nudging it toward him.

He took one olive and chewed slowly.

"...fuck. These are good."

"'Course they are, my sister-in-law comes from a family that makes olive oil."

He glanced sideways. "Wow. Didn't know that was a thing."

"You're messing with me. Whatever. If you didn't know, you do now. You know what else is a thing? You coming here every time your life explodes."

Kimi didn't argue. Instead, after a long pause, he admit, "I didn't want to be around anyone else."

"Oh."

"I don't talk much."

"Really?"

"Hey."

"Sorry, go on." You gestured with your jar.

He swallowed. "You make it quiet in my head. In a good way."

The olive jar hit the floor. Metaphorically. Though you did actually fumble it a bit in surprise.

"I--"

"I'm not good at this," Kimi added, clearly distressed by his own emotional vulnerability. "The people stuff."

"Well, you're doing amazing, sweetie," you said, placing a very gentle hand on his very tense knee. "You stormed in here like a Nordic pirate and admitted you like me. That's practically a marriage proposal."

He narrowed his eyes. "I did not say that."

"You meant it."

He opened his mouth to argue, then gave up. He took another olive and had you grinning.

Kimi didn't smile, exactly, but he did press a kiss to your temple five minutes later, like he couldn't not.

You added another thing to your mental summer checklist, the last one. It was actually summer, soon. Almost June.

5. Spend lots of time with one (1) brooding, shirtless, Finnish blonde that's bad with emotions, or: Iceman.

But how were you going to do that? He had his job and you...actually, travel certainly wasn't a problem for you.

Kimi looked at you funny, as if he'd read your mind. "What are you thinking about?"

"Can I come to work with you?"

He coughed. "Work? Like my job?"

"Formula One."

"We'll have to leave the yacht," he said, almost ruefully. "You can handle that?"

"Fuck the Iceman," you responded, though at heart you loved the boat that'd brought you to him, him to you. "I have my own Iceman right here."

"You're sappy," he noted. And this time he smiled.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Your son started crying in his crib, and you flinched at the sharp sound. You were heating up some milk for him, and you left it forgotten on the stove as you ran to pick him up.

You wrapped your arm around his small being, and tried to shush him up.

Maegor had Aerion's eyes, his facial structure, he was a tiny copy of your boyfriend―yet, you loved your child. You kissed the top of his soft hair, as you rocked him in your arms, and tried to tidy up the few toys scatteres in his crib.

He was still crying, so you took him to the window, and walked around the table in the cramped space, trying to get him to sleep again. He was a heavy, healthy boy, and his head rested across your bruised shoulder.

You winced, as your arms started to grow weak and tired. He was a little quieter now, so you sat him down and went to the kitchen, only to find the milk you were heating splashed across the stove. You threw the pot in the sink swiftly, and you burnt your fingers in the process.

Resting your hands on the counter, silent tears started to fall down your cheeks. It was the last liter of milk, and you certainly could not even afford to buy more. What would you feed your son?

A pair of muscular arms wrapped around your waist, and Aerion pulled you into his chest, his hard crotch pressing meanly on your lower back.

"Missed you", he muttered, as he placed wet kisses across the skin of your neck. You winced, and tried to pry his fingers off of your torso.

"Aerion...I have to feed Maegor ", you tried to reason with him, but he pushed you down, hand on the back of your neck, right over the stove, and the remains of the hot milk burnt your stomach, making you cry out.

Your son started to scream again, and you attempted to elbow Aerion in the stomach, but he pushed you down even more, burning your sternum in the process, too. "Maegor can wait", he growled, as he pulled at your panties that were hidden beneath the baggy shirt you were wearing.

Milo, por outro lado, estava confortavelmente aconchegado no colo de Sn, com seus bracinhos a envolvendo como um coala. Ele estava sonolento devido à excitação matinal, seus cachos fazendo cócegas no queixo dela enquanto ele se aconchegava nela.

Lando estava conversando com George Russell quando viu.

A pequena mão de Milo pousou diretamente no peito de Sn.

Não apenas um posicionamento casual das mãos. Não. Os dedos dele agarraram o tecido da blusa dela como um cadeado, completamente alheios ao caos absoluto que estava prestes a se desencadear.

Lando engasgou com a bebida.

George piscou. Carlos congelou. Charles, que acabara de tomar um gole de café, imediatamente se virou para conter o riso.

Enquanto isso, Sn, completamente despreocupada, estava mexendo no celular, segurando Milo contra ela sem se importar com nada no mundo.

Lando, no entanto, estava morrendo.

— Amigo — ele começou, inclinando-se, tentando tirar os dedinhos de Milo do peito de Sn. — Milo, filho, solta, isso não é...

Milo agarrou com mais força.

— Não, meu — ele murmurou sonolento, recusando-se a se mexer.

Lando ficou boquiaberto. — Não é seu! Isso é... meu... isso é da mamãe...

Ele gemeu, olhando para os amigos, que estavam todos pirando. George cobriu a boca para esconder o riso, enquanto Carlos tremia descaradamente. Até Charles se rendeu, com os ombros balançando enquanto tentava não cuspir a bebida.

Aurora, sempre a instigadora, ergueu os olhos do prato. — Milo, por que você está segurando o peito da mamãe?

Theo, ao ouvir isso, animou-se imediatamente. — Peito?

Lando queria morrer.

Sn finalmente levantou os olhos do celular, olhou para a mesa de pilotos de F1 histéricos antes de se virar para o marido, que tentava argumentar com o filho de dois anos. Ela ergueu uma sobrancelha.

— O que está acontecendo?

— Seu filho está — Lando gesticulou freneticamente. — se agarrando em você como se você fosse seu travesseiro de apoio emocional na frente de todos!

Sn finalmente olhou para Milo, que ainda estava meio adormecido, com os dedos agarrados à blusa dela como se não tivesse intenção alguma de soltá-la.

— Ah — ela disse casualmente. — É, ele faz isso quando está cansado.

— E você simplesmente... — Lando acenou com a mão em descrença. — deixa ele fazer isso?!

Sn deu de ombros. — Não é grande coisa.

— Nem um pouco! — Lando passou a mão pelo rosto. — Querida, nunca mais vou conseguir olhar esses caras nos olhos.

Carlos, ainda rindo, deu um tapinha nas costas de Lando. — Ah, não se preocupe, irmão. Nunca vamos deixar você esquecer isso de qualquer maneira.

Lando gemeu enquanto Charles enxugava as lágrimas dos olhos.

Milo, enquanto isso, soltou um pequeno ronco, sua mão ainda firmemente colocada onde ela absolutamente não deveria estar.

It was supposed to be just a pause in your studies. Something quick since your brain was already mushy from studying and writing your research for too long.

So when you picked up your phone, to aimlessly scroll through social media, you didn’t expect to see a new, sudden rush of comments on your instagram page. There were thousands of comments in your last post, calling you a gold digger, and much, much worse. Ever since you started dating Fernando, you had been getting these comments, and in the beginning they were worse but slowed down with time. Now they were on a new high again. Confused more than anything, you went on to try and find out what happened for this to happen all of a sudden. You and Fernando hadn’t gone out together for more than two weeks and you hadn’t been to a race week for a month.

After digging you eventually found out what happened. Deuxmoi posted something that made everyone quickly think it was you.

A lady who’s 12 years younger than her famous Spanish Formula One driver boyfriend, is known for being with him for his money. Many tried to warn him, but it seems like he doesn’t believe or doesn’t care.

Confused, you stared at the post, scrolling through hundreds of nasty, poisonous comments. That wasn’t true. Fernando did give you lots of presents and spoiled you a lot but he did this out of his own want, not because you asked for or demanded it. He was constantly giving you things, especially clothes, shoes and bags, and loved seeing you wearing them. He also gave you an Aston Martin car on your last birthday. He even went as far as getting you a credit card attached to his, for whenever you needed to buy books or go on a shopping spree. You never minded it because you knew he liked it, instead of refusing you were just grateful for his generosity.

You wondered if you should talk about it with him, but deep down you knew Fernando was never one to care for gossip of any kind. And this probably wasn’t even true to begin with, just someone trying to stir the pot. So you just limited the comments in your posts and went on about your day.

A week later you went to the race, it was Silverstone, and the last before summer break. You decided to dress your best, wearing clothes that were pretty and elegant and had been given to you by Fernando.

He always treated you like a princess, he was kind and patient, and always found a way to align your schedules to spend time together. He liked taking you on trips during summer break and to ski trips during winter break. Fernando adored having you around in race weeks, you could see in his face that he was radiant with your presence. And you loved all the gifts and the trips but you especially loved staying home with him, lazing around, making love on the sofa and taking walks hand in hand in his hometown. You loved helping him cook, trying your best to follow his orders and not mess up his recipes. 

You walked into the paddock hand in hand, and you kept him company whenever you could. He would keep you around the most, only letting you go when he had meetings or media duties. During that time, you would go back to his room and do a little more of your research, writing your thesis.

You left his room so you could grab a snack and a coffee at the hospitality, but as you passed by a hallway, you heard someone saying your name in conversation. You stopped, leaning against the wall to hear, with a glance, you saw two mechanics talking.

“Seems like everyone tried to warn him, man. But it’s like he doesn’t mind dating a gold digger.”

“Is she a gold digger, really?”

“Man, she doesn’t do anything! She doesn't even work.”

“Has anyone warned Fernando?”

“Everyone.”

You went back inside his driver’s room, sitting down, completely shocked. So that’s what people thought of you? You knew people on the internet talked about it, but they were strangers so you wouldn’t allow yourself to mind because those people didn’t know you. But the people in the garage? They’ve known you for almost two years now, you were always kind and polite to them, even going as far as bringing them cookies and donuts as thank you for welcoming you so well.

You avoided crying, it would ruin your makeup, and Fernando would notice it very quickly. So you just sat there, numb. Thinking about how everyone believed you were with Fernando because of his money and nothing else.

When Fernando found you again, before he had to go get ready for the race, he noticed you were a little down.

“You should not study so hard on the weekends, princesa.” He muttered, hugging you from behind and leaving a gentle kiss to your neck. Of course, he would think you were just tired.

“You are absolutely right, mi amor,” you smiled a little, turning around so you could hug him properly, “do you have time for a little kiss?”

“Even two,” he joked.

You ended up sitting on his lap, making out like two teenagers, until someone knocked on the door, calling Fernando to go get ready.

“Hey, good luck, yeah?” You said, kissing him one more time then kissing the back of his hand, “I love you.”

You watched the race from the garage, feeling self conscious now that it seemed like everyone thought you were leeching off of Fernando.

In the end, Fernando got P3 which was a great result and you celebrated wildly, proudly watching him get on the podium.

After his post race meetings, you met him in his room.

“Let’s go out to celebrate! Dinner is on me!” You hugged him, mood better now than before.

You and him ended up going out for dinner, at a high end restaurant, dressed to the nines. It was fun, you listened to Fernando talking about the race, then he asked you what you thought about the race.

Before dessert, you went into the bathroom to retouch your makeup and freshen up. When you came back, your tiramisu was already there. You and Fernando shared the dessert, laughing to each other.

When the waitress came, you picked the opportunity.

“Dear, can we get the tab please?”

“It’s already taken care of, Madam.”

Your smile faltered, and you looked at Fernando as she left. He was smiling like he couldn’t hold it in.

“Fernando! I said dinner was on me!”

“Why would I let you pay, princesa?”

“Because you got a podium today! As a celebration!” You whined, upset. Fernando pulled your chair, until you were right beside him and he kissed your cheek.

“I like paying for you, Hermosa,” Fernando stood up, offering you a hand, “come on, you can treat me right in our hotel room, what about that?”

You smiled as he pulled you away, but something still nagged at your brain.

You and Fernando took the private plane back to Madrid after the date, because he had sponsor meetings over the week, and you honestly wanted to sleep in your bed. The trip was quick, and while Fernando took a nap, you tried studying, but your mind kept going back to being called a gold digger.

Deep down, you really wanted to talk to Fernando about it, but you were unsure if he could fix this in any way. What could he do? Make a post on instagram saying hey, my girlfriend isn’t leeching off of me as most you think!? You did live with Fernando, for six months now, and he paid all the bills and the house was his. But he also gave you many many gifts.

When you got home, putting your bags inside the closet, you two just changed into sleepwear, ready to doze off.

Then Fernando opened his bag and grabbed a small box.

“Oh, I had forgotten! Got you a present last week in Austria!”

He handed you the box, and with your heart beating fast, you opened it to a beautiful vintage watch. It was gold, delicate with a beautiful bracelet. There was a lump in your throat as you stared at the piece.

“You didn’t like it? It’s ok, princesa, I’ll get you another one,” he said, with a gentle smile.

“I don’t need another watch, Nando. You gave me this one not even a month ago,” you raised your wrist, showing him the brand new one he gave you.

“I want to give it to you. It doesn’t matter,” he shrugged.

“And I don’t want it,” god, you didn’t want to sound so ungrateful, but how could you tell him that his presents felt like something else now? “You have to stop giving me so many presents,” you said, trying to put into words what you were feeling.

“But that’s how I won you over, why would you refuse my presents now?”

Something about the nonchalance in his voice made you stop, stomach dropping. That’s how I won you over? That’s how he believed your relationship came to be? That’s why he thought you were together?

“What did you say?” You paused, suddenly turning to him, it felt like a punch to the throat, “You- you believe I’m a gold digger? You believe it?”

Fernando walked up to you, putting both hands on your waist, a soft smile gracing his face.

“Amor, you know I don’t mind spending my money on you. Quite the opposite, I love to spoil you.”

You stood there, speechless for a couple of seconds. Then you snapped out of it, pushing his hands off you.

“That’s not what I asked!” Your voice sounded louder, you tried to regain your composure, “people talk a lot, the press too, but you know the truth, right?!”

“I’m a rich man, I like providing you with the luxurious lifestyle you lead. I don’t care that you enjoy my money.”

His words made it so much worse. It made you nauseous, the idea that all this time, he’s been thinking of you as a gold digger, as someone who’s only with him for his money and for what he could provide for you.

“No, Fernando- no!” Your voice wavered, “that’s not true! I love you, you know that right?”

“Why are you so caught up in some silly rumor?

“You know right? You know I love you.” You pressed further waiting for an answer. Hoping against hope that he knew it deep down, that he could acknowledge that you harbored love for him.

“Amor, we have such a great dynamic like this. I don’t need your love, just your loyalty and for you to be my pretty girl.”

He was so calm and reassuring, like he had made peace with the fact that you didn’t love him. Like he wasn’t bothered at all by the fact that you were supposedly a gold digger. His dismissal broke something inside you.

“So you don’t- you don’t believe I love you?”

You felt pathetic and helpless, repeating the same words again and again, hoping and praying for a different answer from Fernando.

“Come on, I’m really tired, can we go to sleep?

“Fernando.”

“I’m going to wait for you in bed,” was all he said, dismissing you completely.

You walked out of the room at the same time he went into the bathroom, you held your head up until you softly closed the door behind you, then finally the tears spilled. You went to the bathroom downstairs, the farthest you could go away from him as the sobs broke from your throat violently.

Sliding down on the floor you wondered if everything was lie. You knew it wasn’t but the fact that he thought you were only there for the money was completely wrong. How long had he been thinking that? How many times had he heard you say “I love you” and thought it wasn’t true? You didn’t even know what to do or what to feel. How could you feel if this whole time while you were pouring your heart into this relationship he thought you were just leeching off of him? How can you love someone so deeply and still live with the fact they think of you as a freeloader? Did he joke with his friends like yeah, she’s a gold digger but at least she’s loyal and fucks me well? 

Your chest hurt and you felt repulsive, making your way to the living room, opening a bottle of his whiskey, not bothering with a glass, just sipping it straight from the bottle.

What could you do now? Talk to him? Tell him you’re not with him for his money? After two whole years accepting his every gift with open arms? After getting a fortune worth of presents? After letting him pay for your books, textbooks, new laptop? After letting him pay for dates, trips, clothes, accessories, shoes and jewelry?

You hated yourself for it now. For taking it just because you thought it was his love language, not because deep down he was trying to keep you, buying your affection.

After spending the whole night awake, nursing a bottle and with only your repulsive thoughts as company, you watched as the sun rose from the big living room window.

It was time to fix it.

Fernando was an early riser almost every morning, so after the sun fully rose in the sky, you went in the kitchen and prepared coffee, to cut the effect of the alcohol. You weren’t drunk, really.

“Morning, bebé! You woke up earlier than me today?” He said, passing you with a kiss to your cheek, then going to the cabinet for a mug. He was so unbothered by your argument last night it was pissing you off.

“I didn’t sleep.”

He paused, looking at your face.

“We should talk.” You readied yourself. Fernando stopped in front of you, attentive. “I’ve been hearing a lot this past week that I’m a gold digger, this has been making me feel some kind of way, and I wanted to address this with you. Last night you were tired and we probably misunderstood each other…”

“Where are you going with this, corazón?” He asked, confused.

“I’m not with you for your money, Fernando. Do you understand that?”

He stood silent, which only made you feel worse.

“I want you to stop giving me presents without a proper occasion. And I want you to stop paying stuff for me. And we’re going to share house bills.” You laid it all out, after thinking hard all throughout the night.

“What are you talking about? No, I don’t accept it.” He frowned, “that wasn’t the deal when we moved in together.”

“Because I didn’t know everything back then. I don’t want to feel like I’m taking advantage of you, and I don’t live at your cost like this.”

“No, Y/N.” He took a step back, shaking his head as if you had said the most stupid thing he had ever heard.

“I’m serious, Fernando.”

“No, I’m not negotiating this. I pay for everything. That’s how it’s been and that’s how it will be.”

“I just want to show you that I’m not with you for the money! I’m not what they’re calling me! No more presents, Fernando.”

“You took them.”

“Because I thought you wanted me to have them!”

“I wanted you to have them so you would want to stay with me!”

You gasped, hearing it from his mouth finally. The tears finally started flowing, and you swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady even with the tempest happening inside your chest, staining the beautiful story of your relationship. Well, what you thought was a beautiful relationship.

“You’re just like them, right?” You said, defeated, “you think of me as a gold digging whore. You probably never defended me when they called me that.”

“I gave you all this stuff because I didn’t want you to leave!”

“It was never about the fucking money! And guess what? You lost me anyway!” You marched to the bedroom, Fernando hot on your heels.

“Don’t. Don’t leave.” He said, following you. “I did everything for you to never leave!”

“Everything but loving me! I don’t fucking care!” You unlatched your necklace, putting it on the table, “I don’t care about your money and the jewelry and the clothes and the bags!” You put down your watch and earrings too. Everything he had given you not because he wanted you or loved you, but because he thought they were the price to pay to keep you around.

“Fuck, I love you!” You shouted, feeling desperate and lost, “And all you see me as is something you paid for. A toy you can parade around and look pretty in your arm! You don’t even love me, Fernando. I could write a list about everything I love about you, and none of it would be your stupid money!”

In the closet, you picked a bag, and started putting your clothes inside. Then you noticed how most of them were gifts from him. So you put it back, taking only what you had bought yourself. Fernando stood there, helpless as you packed, putting clothes and a few shoes in a couple of baggage. You also took your study material and laptop, which he had gifted you, but you knew you’d refund him.

“Stop, no,” Fernando tried to stop you as went into the garage, “I do, I love you.”

“You don’t, Fernando. You’re not even sure of that.” You shook your head, putting the bags inside the car. The Aston Martin he had given you, “you have to think. If you really love me as you say, then why do you love me? Because I’m eye candy you can take to galas? Because I’m a good fuck? Because I stand there and look pretty when you have to kiss those old men’s asses?”

You didn’t give him a second, getting in the car and starting the engine.

“This is so messed up, oh my god, how could I let myself believe this for two entire years?” You whispered to yourself, accelerating the car and driving off. 

Through the rear view, you could see Fernando standing there, doing nothing.

You drove and wiped the tears away, breathing in. When you moved in with Fernando, you hadn’t been able to get out of the lease of your flat because you still had a few months on your renting contract. Now it felt like luck that you had a place to stay. Despite getting your doctorate degree, you didn’t have any friends in the city, only a few acquaintances here and there.

You got to the apartament, not bothering to unpack your bags, only leaving it on the bedroom floor. You took your study material and with your phone in hand, you sent Fernando via transfer a total 4000 euros, for what you hoped covered the “laptop and books expenses” as you wrote in the little note.

Then you laid on the bed, crying yourself to sleep.

You woke up and it was getting dark, the sun setting outside. Checking your phone, there were fourteen missed calls from Fernando, and a notification, showing that he had returned the money to you, with additional 30000 euros and only “no” written on the little note. Huffing, you sent the whole amount back and blocked him, so he couldn’t transfer any more money to you.

He still had not realized what was wrong, he was still thinking money was your motivation.

The next few days felt like a haze, you were barely getting any sleep, only eating and writing your research, which ultimately reminded you of Fernando, since it was a study on aerodynamics. You couldn’t lie to yourself, thinking of how many times you stared at the door, waiting and hoping he would understand and come after you.

-

Fernando had work commitments in England, and going back to Madrid, he ended up giving George and his girlfriend a lift. Fernando was visibly not himself as soon as George saw him.

“How’s Y/N doing?” George asked, casually. But from the way Fernando’s face dropped, he could tell something was wrong, “trouble with the missus?” He joked, tried to lighten the mood.

“She- uh, she left.” Fernando muttered.

“What do you mean, she left?” Carmen joined the conversation, “She’s traveling?”

“No- no- I guess we broke up.”

“You guess?!” George’s voice went a little high pitched out of nervousness.

“Fernando, what happened?” Carmen tried to understand. 

Despite not being exactly best friends, you and her were pretty close, always spending time together whenever both of you were on race weekends. The fact that you’re both engaged academics was also a common topic between you.

“You know about the rumors, right?” Fernando started, hesitating.

“What rumors?” George paused.

“That she’s only with me for the money,” Fernando muttered.

“All girlfriends of drivers are accused of that at some point, what’s new?” George pushed.

“I might have implied that I agree with that.”

“Oh, my god,” Carmen covered her mouth, absolutely shocked, “What?”

“Fernando, respectfully- Are you fucking insane?!” George exclaimed, jaw slack, “she looks at you all lovey-dovey, like- like- you’re the only person in the entire earth and you think she’s with you for the money?”

“She would never be like that! She’s so smart and kind,” Carmen added.

“I know- I just- I don’t know! Maybe I let the rumors get to my head!” he ran both hands over his face, exasperated, “And she always lets me pay, and she always takes the presents, I don’t know!”

Then, Fernando explained about how you tried to pay for dinner, and you refused his gift, he told them about the argument and how you wanted to set boundaries about money and gifts.

“She was trying to prove to you that she’s not a freeloader. She was trying to show that the money didn’t matter, and what did you do? You pushed more money on her!” George practically spat the words in Fernando’s face.

“Eres muy estúpido, Fernando. Te lo digo como tu amiga.” Carmen muttered.

“I don’t know what she said but I heard the word stupid, and I agree.” George backed her up, “Go talk to her, apologize and fix it.”

“That is,” Carmen interrupted, face serious, “If you really love her. Otherwise, better let her go find someone who can really love her, it’s what she deserves. Love and happiness.”

Fernando swallowed, his chest constricting with the mere thought of you moving on, of someone else having you in their arms.

Getting back home without you there felt like a thick fog day, cold and empty and he missed you, he missed his sun. He missed you jumping into his arms as soon as he opened the door. He missed the smell of the candles you always lit while studying. He even missed the little mess of textbooks, colorful highlighters and notes scattered around.

Home didn’t feel like home without you.

In the middle of the living room, there were big cardboard boxes, as he opened, he noticed they were full of clothes, shoes and bags he had gifted you throughout your relationship. In a smaller box, all the jewelry he had given you, even anniversary gifts. Even the beauty products he had given you like perfumes, makeup products, and face creams.

You had returned every single thing.

And on the coffee table, your keys to the house and the keys of your Aston Martin DB12.

It seemed like you had returned everything that could tie you to him, everything that made him wrongly call you a gold digger. And it felt painfully like a goodbye.

-

While mixing your homemade coffee, your eyes flicked to the door, then to your phone on the table, facing up. Despite the searing pain in your chest, and the sorrowful hole in your heart, maybe it was time to start to move on. It had been more than a week, if he wanted to come back to you, he would’ve come by now.

You got ready to meet with your advisor, and she brought up a topic that had been common now, about you taking a position as a professor for a couple of Engineering subjects. She said it’d be good for you to work in your area while on the last few months before getting your doctorate degree. You had mostly denied the other times she offered the position, because you wanted more time with Fernando, because you wanted the freedom to fly around the world following him to his races.

Now- now you had more bills to pay and no boyfriend to follow. You also had more free time, a broken heart and a vacant mind. 

“I’m considering the position. I believe it could do me good right now.” You said to her, thoughtful, “can I confirm with you tomorrow?”

After going through the meeting and getting a review on your thesis, you went back to your flat, taking a long shower. You had just dressed in pajamas when the doorbell rang. With long strides, you were faced with Carmen, and not Fernando as you expected.

“From your face I take it he hasn’t spoken to you, yes?” Carmen muttered, seeing the visible disappointment in your face.

“I’m sorry, please come in,” you opened the door wider, forcing a smile. Carmen had a couple of bags that she set on a nearby table.

“He told us what happened, I’m so sorry,” Carmen hugged you and you immediately started crying, since you had no one to talk about the past few days, “I brought chocolates and wine, so we can talk.”

Over chocolates and a bottle of Merlot, you told her everything, starting at the deuxmoi rumor. She looked horrified when you said word for word what had transpired the last time you spoke with him.

“I just don’t understand why he didn’t come talk to you yet,” Carmen added, at some point.

“Because he won’t, at all.” You say with your voice shaky from crying so much the past hour.

“Don’t say that. He loves you.” Carmen said.

“I’m not entirely sure about that,” you shrugged, pretending it didn’t hurt as much as it did, “He’ll find another one, someone who can enjoy his money since it seems like it’s all that matters to him.”

Carmen didn’t say anything to that and you knew she couldn’t argue with the facts. Later, George dropped by to get her, going up to your flat so he could hug you quickly and mutter “I’m sorry”.

With a heavy heart, you slowly rebuild a healthy routine again, doing grocery shopping, cooking meals, going to the gym, studying and everything.

One day, you went back home after going on a shopping spree, and as you got into the hall, Fernando was there, standing in your hall, waiting by the door. You stopped, almost losing the timing to leave the elevator. When you walked closer, he noticed you. Meeting his eyes was different this time, uncertain and a little distant.

“What do you want?” You asked, you hoped your voice would come out harsh, but it only sounded defeated.

“Can we talk?” He asked, and you nodded, opening the door and letting him in.

There was a moment of awkward silence as you put the shopping bags down. After doing that, you crossed your arms and stood against a side table, waiting quietly.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, for not fully believing your love, I guess I was so focused in protecting myself, that I ended up hurting you, and it was never my intention,” Fernando stood just two steps away from you, his eyes holding such pain and fear, that it made you crumble, he didn’t look like he’d been sleeping well, “I love you, I really do. For who you are and nothing else.”

You wanted to give in so bad, you wanted to run into his arms and never let go, but you also didn’t want to suffer again.

“How do you know? You never knew that for two years, how would you know it now?” You shook your head, tears starting to fill your eyes again.

“Because it is hard being without you,” he said, like he was trying to find the right words, “I can’t sleep without you. My life is miserable without you around.”

You only nodded, covering your lips with a hand. You wanted to tell him that you had not gotten proper sleep without him, that your life feels empty, that not knowing about him everyday was painful. But you needed more. You needed something you could hold onto, and maybe, just maybe take another chance at the two of you.

“I- I made a list. Like you said,” his voice failed, and you noticed his hand was shaking a little as he held the paper, “I love you. I love coming home to you every time and feel our house so lived in. I love how you always hug me first thing after I’m back home. I love the silly texts you send me randomly throughout the day talking about your day. I love the selfies with your tongue out too,” that made you two chuckle, and the movement made your tears fall, so you wiped them, staring at him intently, “I love that you’re always the smartest person in any room we’re in. I love that you’re humble, never showing off or being a smartass. I love how cheeky and witty you are. I love that you talk in your sleep. I love that scar in your knee, because it shows you were always a little naughty, even as a kid. I love that there’s always fresh flowers at home. I love that you love kids. I love that you get along well with my family. I love that you-”

He didn’t finish, as you closed the distance and launched yourself at him, hugging him tight. Fernando held you close, pressing you into him, inhaling your perfume, feeling like he was at home again.

“I’m so sorry, princesa. So so sorry. I missed you so much,” he whispered against your cheek, kissing it softly.

“I missed you too, Nando” you said, eyes closed and allowing yourself to just feel him again, “I love you so much.”

You let go, holding his face with both hands, looking into his eyes before kissing him softly. He, on the other hand, held the back of your neck firmly, licking your mouth open, until he had tasted your mouth, leaving you breathless.

“Come back home with me, princesa.”

At that, you took a step back.

“I- I can’t, Nando. I got a new job at the university.”

“What?”

“I thought you weren’t coming back to me,” you muttered, and your words made him wince, “I needed something to hold on to.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” he ran a hand over his face, looking embarrassed for taking so long to come after you.

“I believe we should- we should take a step back, rethink a bit about our dynamic,” you told him, hesitant of his reaction.

“Are you unsure about us?” He asked, visibly worried.

“No, no- I love you- I do-” You started, taking his hand, holding it firmly against yours, “I just think we should rewind a bit. Have my own place and pay my own bills, I just don’t want to feel like that again, I need to regain my dignity in this.”

He kept quiet, because he knew deep down you were right. He felt awful about all the misunderstandings, but he knew you probably felt much, much worse. He should just get on his knees and be thankful you still loved him and still wanted him. He’d take all your conditions to get back with him.

And deep down both of you knew it was for the best. Moving out and living alone, working and seeing him occasionally as a boyfriend. 

Holding your face, he kissed you, leaving little pecks on your lips, your cheeks, your chin, your forehead. You closed your eyes, letting him kiss you, and he muttered how much loved you and how much he missed you, kissing down the side of your neck. He walked you inside and let him, feeling his hands quickly peeling your clothes off, leaving a trail of clothes from the living room to your bedroom.

You parted so you could undress him, pulling at his jacket and the t-shirt.

“I love you, I love you so much,” he mumbled into a kiss, laying you down in bed.

You laid on the bed and he hugged him, making space for him between your legs. He held you, touching your nose with his gently.

“I missed you, princesa,” he kissed your cheek, “I promise I’ll do better from now on.”

“I know you will, baby.” You kissed him again, running your hand down his back, “make love to me now.”

He filled you up at once, and you groaned into his mouth, scratching your nails down his back as you cunt welcomed him. As he fucked into you, slowly at first then picking up pace, he muttered how much he loved you and how sorry he was, over and over.

As you cuddled after, quietly enjoying each other’s company. 

“What do we do about all your gifts?”

“Give them away,” you shrugged.

“Can I convince you to take it back?”

“Not if you still want me in your life,” you muttered. He nodded, placing a gentle kiss on your shoulder.

“You know how I know I love you?” Fernando asked, drawing invisible patterns on your back, “there’s an engagement ring in the third drawer of my bedside table.”

You hesitated for a second, but he knew you well. Better than anyone else.

“I know what you said, I just wanted to let you know. I bought it a week after you moved in with me. I know we’re rewinding a little bit for now, but you’ll be my wife one day.”

“And what if I refuse when you propose?” You smirked, and he pulled your leg over his waist.

“You won’t.”

Rustyn didn’t even look up.

Drew tried, his tone still calm but a little firmer.

“Come on, bud. You know what time it is time to go to bed.”

Your son continued stacking blocks as if he hadn’t heard a word.

You sighed, standing and walking over to him.

“Do you want Mama or Dada to put you to bed tonight, honey?”

For a moment, Rustyn paused, considering. Drew added, “Mama’s asking you a question, bud. What’s it gonna be?”

Rustyn finally glanced up and answered with a defiant, “No.”

You glanced at Drew, your face falling slightly. Drew caught your look and immediately stood, scooping Rustyn up from the floor despite his protests.

“That’s not how this works, Rusty. It’s bedtime, no arguments,” Drew said, his voice firm but not unkind.

Rustyn immediately began to whine, squirming in Drew’s arms.

“No! no bedtime!”

Drew carried him to his room as you followed a few steps behind, your stomach already twisting at the familiar wails. The moment Drew closed the door to Rustyn’s room, the real tantrum began.

“No, no, no!” Rustyn screamed, his little fists pounding against Drew’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to sleep! I’m not tired!”

Drew sat down on the edge of Rustyn’s bed, holding him firmly but gently in his lap.

“Rustyn,” he said in a low, steady voice, “stop. I need you to calm down.”

Rustyn wailed louder, his little body trembling with frustration.

“No! wanna play!”

You lingered outside the door, listening as Drew handled the meltdown with his signature combination of patience and authority.

“Rusty,” Drew said again, this time softening his tone, “look at me.”

He gently cupped Rustyn’s face in his hands, guiding his tear-streaked eyes to meet his.

“I know you don’t want this fun night to end. I get it and I don’t want it to end either. But you know the rules. It’s bedtime, and your body needs rest.”

Rustyn sniffled but didn’t respond, still glaring at his dad with watery eyes.

“You’re upset,” Drew continued, “but screaming and hitting isn’t how we solve problems, is it?”

Rustyn shook his head slightly, his resolve beginning to crumble.

“Good,” Drew said, brushing a strand of hair out of Rustyn’s face.

“Now, let’s talk about this. Why don’t you want to go to bed?”

Rustyn hesitated before mumbling, “I want stay with Mama. No alone.”

Drew sighed, his features softening even more.

“You’re not alone, bud. Your room is right next to ours. Mama and I are always close by. But we need time to rest too, so we can keep having fun with you tomorrow.”

Rustyn whimpered, burying his face in Drew’s chest.

“But I’m not sleepy…”

“You’re not sleepy now,” Drew acknowledged, rubbing soothing circles on Rustyn’s back, “but if you stay up, you’ll be so tired tomorrow that you won’t want to play. Is that what you want?”

Rustyn shook his head vigorously.

“Okay, then. How about you lie down, and I’ll stay with you for a few minutes until you feel sleepy. Deal?”

Rustyn considered this before nodding slowly.

Drew glanced at you, standing in the doorway, and motioned for you to join them. You stepped inside, sitting beside Drew on the bed. Rustyn reached for you, and you took his small hand in yours.

“You know,” you said softly, “Mama doesn’t like bedtime fights either. It makes me sad to see you so upset, baby.”

Rustyn’s lip quivered. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

Your heart melted.

“It’s okay, sweetie. Just try to be a good boy for Dada, okay? He’s only trying to help you.”

Rustyn nodded, leaning against Drew as his eyelids began to droop. Drew laid him down gently, pulling the blankets up around him.

“Goodnight, buddy,” Drew said, pressing a kiss to Rustyn’s forehead.

“Night night, Dada. Night night, Mama,” Rustyn murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

As the two of you stepped out of the room and closed the door, you let out a deep breath.

“See?” Drew said with a small smile. “Easy.”

You gave him a look.

“Easy? He was screaming like we were torturing him five minutes ago!”

Drew chuckled, pulling you into his arms.

“Okay, maybe not easy. But he’s learning. He just needs consistency. And a little tough love.”

“You’re so good with him,” you admitted, resting your head on his chest. “I don’t know how you stay so calm.”

“It’s because I’ve got you,” Drew said, kissing the top of your head.

He wants you around for one thing and one thing only. He made that abundantly clear on the first day, when you were scarcely through the front door and he was already tearing off your skirt. He would have fucked you in the van the second he took you if he thought he could get away with it.

He isn't gentle. He bends you over the couch with your wrists held together in the small of your back. If you squirm too much, he twists your arm so hard you scream that he's going to break it.

He fucks you dry. Shoving himself inside of you despite how tight you are, how unready and unwilling. He groans at the first thrust, so obscenely satisfied. Like he's finally tasting a prize long differed.

He doesn't last long during the first round. Spilling himself into you after less than three minutes.

He's big - too fucking big. The cum that drips out of your cunt is tinged pink with blood. If he notices it, he doesn't care. He just stands there for a minute, stroking himself hard again and then it's time for round two. Your tears haven't even had time to dry.

He fucks like a soldier in a foreign war zone. Taking, claiming, stealing. It doesn't matter that you're not his to have; he has his guns and his training and to him that's all the reason he needs.

He fucks like he hasn't had a woman in years. With all the pent up energy of long, lonely nights spent in the ugliest parts of the world. He fucks you like a man who's finally gotten his hands on the fantasy he's nursed through all the worst moments of his life.

He fucks like he's terrified of losing you now that he finally, finally has you.

You can't stand after he's done with you. Your cunt burning so bad you think you're on fire from the inside out. He doesn't care that you hang limp from his grip. He just picks you up and tosses you over one broad shoulder and takes you to his bedroom.

You come out of your shock only when you feel the handcuffs closing around your wrist. He's literally chained you to his bed.

You start screaming again then. Frightened and begging and finally realising that this is really happening. It's not a bad dream or a story on the news, it's actually fucking happening to you.

He ignores you, pulling off his heavy combat boots and locking his pistol in the draw across the room. Maybe he's waiting for you to tire out, for your throat to start hurting and for you to quiet down. You don't.

He sighs like you're nothing more than an inconvenience and then slaps you so hard your ears ring and white dots spark across your vision.

His use of violence is so causal, so easy. It's shock that keeps you quiet more than the pain.

Before evening on the first day, he fucks you four more times. He doesn't listen when you beg him to be gentle, beg him to go slow. He ignores you when you plead with him to fuck your mouth instead, as much as he wants, just so long as he gives your pussy a break.

Men like him exist on the knife edge between life and death. Is it any surprise that it leaves its mark? That he wants to take whatever pleasure he can because god alone knows how much time he has left?

He doesn't kiss you until the very end, when he's deep between your thighs and you've dug your nails so deep into his back that you're going to leave scars. He kisses you when you're too hurt and sore and scared to turn away. He kisses you and it feels like he's finally staking his claim. Like part of him didn't believe you were real until he'd fucked you again and again and there was no one to stop him.

The next morning, he shoves a bitter tasting pill under your tongue and keeps his hand over your mouth until he's sure it's dissolved.

"No kids," he says simply and it makes you want to laugh at the absurdity of it.

Yeah, you agree silently, no fucking kids. Especially not if you're the father. Especially not in a world where men like you exist.

He has an appetite that's borderline impossible to satisfy. Once he starts kissing you, he doesn't stop. Teeth nipping at your lips until you give in and even then it's not enough. He wraps one massive hand around your throat and squeezes.

"Kiss me back," he breathes, his lips just an inch from yours.

You kiss him and he takes it like you're everything he's ever dreamed about, the prize he's somehow earned.

After that, he spends a lot more time exploring your body. It's like he needed to get some of that desperation out of his system before he could think straight.

He's less feverish when he touches you, but no less impatient. He pries your thighs apart with one brutal yank and drops his face to your pussy. You try and jerk away from him, try and close your legs despite the massive forearms keeping them spread. You don't want him there. It's too intimate, it's too vulnerable. Hasn't he taken enough?

He licks you like he has no shame. Not even a little shy about having his tongue deep in your cunt. He tries different tricks - slow and sensual, rough, tight little flicks. He doesn't seem to care how you respond to any of it. It's more so an experiment to see which way he enjoys eating you out.

You cum on his tongue, your eyes screwed shut in guilt. You hope he won't notice, hope he'll just get bored and leave you alone.

He growls in a pleased sort of way, looking up at you with his mouth and chin slick. Oh, he definitely noticed.

You can't meet his eyes after that.

He's not a doomsday prepper. Or at least not exactly. But everything he has is off the grid. A house with its own solar panels and borehole, no technology except for his old fashioned satellite phone.

He doesn't talk much. Not even when he's fucking you. You might get the occasional good girl or a snarl for you to take it, take it just like that.

But he doesn't talk. Doesn't comfort you, doesn't insult you, doesn't even explain himself. (Though you suppose the way he holds you at night - tight, like you're going to be ripped away from him if he doesn't sink his claws in - is explanation enough).

He has money. Blood money you suppose. He doesn't go to work or leave the house much but still manages to buy you all sorts of expensive things. Silk negligees, satin panties, scented candles that melt into body oil. You aren't sure why he bothers. He's usually too impatient to appreciate any of it - most of the panties end up a torn, wet mess by the time he's done with you.

You look through his closet one day. There's a box full of military patches - Blackwater, Raytheon, MPR, a dozen more you don't recognise. And you know for a fact they aren't just some stupid collectibles, aren't there just so he can play out some militaristic power fantasy. He really worked for these companies. The patches feel real - their quality designed for hard weather and harder work. You understand him a little better after seeing them.

You don't know him. Don't recognise him in the slightest. He's a stranger to you - to the point you don't even know his name. At first you assume he took you because you were the only one stupid enough to get caught. But a few days with him and you realise that's not true at all. He knows you.

He feeds you your favourite cereal every morning, even though you can tell by his frown that he doesn't approve of your dietary choices. He has a closet packed full of your clothes. You thought he somehow raided your house but it's all new. He went out and bought exact copies of all your regular outfits, down to the tiny Victoria's Secret thongs that you like.

How? How could he gather so much information about your life while you didn't even realise you were being watched?

He takes you down to his basement one day, when you've been particularly insistent about asking him who he is. There are rows and rows of guns. Semi and fully automatic rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns. Shit you aren't even sure is fully legal.

You aren't sure why he's showing you this. Is he trying to scare you? Is he trying to goad you into escaping just so he'll have an excuse to punish you?

You look into his eyes - monster, monster in the shape of a man - and finally realise what he's trying to say.

No one is coming to save you. No one even knows where you are. But if by some slim chance they try and take you away, they'd better hope to be fucking bulletproof.

You stop asking him about himself after that.

He decides he wants anal one day in the shower. He's pressed up against your back and running his cock up and down between your ass. The tip keeps getting caught on your puckered entrance and maybe that's what puts the idea into his head.

You're too slow to realise what he's planning and he has one thick hand gripping the back of your neck before you can even think of running.

It's slow, painful going. He wants to shove himself in like he always does but the nature of it stops him. The tip is the worst part. You bite your lip so hard you can taste blood, your hands and tits both pressed up against the glass.

He presses his lips against your temple, watching your face screw up as he gets deeper.

"It's okay to cry."

There's a sick pleasure to his voice. He flicks your clit and your entire body clenches around him. He hums at that, amused and pleased.

And the worst part? He somehow makes you come. When he's finally loosened you up enough to start thrusting, he hits something deep inside you. He notices it - he notices everything about you. He laughs a little and slips his fingers into your pussy. That's all it takes to send you crashing over the edge, your whole body pulsing and aching all at once.

"That's what I like about you," he snarks into your ear when he's done, "I can make you come no matter how much you don't want it."

He turns you around and looks down at you. The expression on his face makes you want to vomit. He looks at you with a kind of loving softness. A tenderness that ignores all the awful, awful things he's done to you.

If you didn't realise it already, you knew it for a fact right then and there.

He's never going to let you go.

He takes your chin between his fingers and pulls you onto your tip toes to kiss him.

"Why?" you ask for the millionth time since he took you. And for once, he answers.