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dairyminkireads · 2 years ago

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WOAH....how do i start? ajsks lezzgo ig

You open up the wooden chest in which the cheroots, so unnecessarily gold-plated, sit and ridicule you with their rare existence. There are just thousands of dollars sitting in your hand right now, and as you fetch the thick roll with wary fingers, you think, fucking hell, this could feed so many people, and they're just smoking it away like it's nothing, assholes.

DAMN ASSHOLES INDEED

The clock has announced night long time ago. Outside the windows, there shines and roams a loud, restless city under a starless, foggy black blanket, inhabited by people like you who live day by day to make their living, like small flies forgathered in a hive of exhausting labor, buzzing their life away.

GOSH THE WAY THE SCENE IS PAINTED

“You see those youngsters back there? Get 'em some more ice."

HSBOHFUCKWKWKSOAKAKWKW IS THIS THEM??

'Youngsters', he said— 'they bite', he said.

ITS SO HARD TRYING NOT TO SQUEAL :))

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

AHA I CACKLED

"Pardon me, I was just– how do you know my name, sir?”

YES HOW DO YOU KNOW HER NAME SANDREAS DANIEL (?) CHOI? 🤨

“Aw, shit, I got wet,” he wails over-dramatically, looking down on himself and then again locking his eyes into yours.

hey that's my line...

“Wanna clean me up, baby?”

STFUEJEKWKSEOKSKE HE CANT JUST SAY THAT??

“Don't like that one, Y/N?” Again, with the name! Where does he get the name?!

maybe magic???

But you feel so connected to them. The caution everyone has, it confuses you just as much you're amazed by it, and you want that, you want that kind of safety. Every guest here has money, but not every guest has their authority.

i got goosebumps with the last line

“What do you say, baby?”, the male asks, and you harrumph to take your mind elsewhere from how rock-hard the mafiaboss feels under your hand, how his cologne smells so rich and inviting, and how— “Wanna be bitten?”

and just like that POOF my sanity is gone

Everything about him is so big…

STOPKSKSKSKEJDNFNKDSKSK

"Shit," San comments, "I should've eaten her out, too."

SAN BBY PLS JSKAKA I SHOULDNT BE LAUGHING RLLY

THIS IS THE FIRST EVER FEEDBACK I MADE THAT REACHED 30 TAGS?? I CANT ADD ANYMORE SOBS but that would sum up my feels while readig this so tata for now

𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 | park seonghwa x fem!reader x choi san

part one, CLEARING OUT : "𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞-𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞"

“Brother, can’t you see I’m doing this for you? Enjoy yourself.”

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 : Picking your own poison, if poison was given to you in form of bankrolls by venomous men with high demands.

In which Park Seonghwa had a plan and Choi San has ideas.

“Sounds like you’re enjoying her more than anything."

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 : noir, smut, angst | korean mafia/geondal!au | ceo/jaebeol!au

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 : 18.2k

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : entitled rich people, workplace harassment, alcoholism, softdom ceo!seonghwa (headman park), half-drunk satoori-using dom mafiaboss!san (mr. choi), both are called by their names at some point, sub-leaning bratty switch servant!femreader, use of (pet-)names (missy, baby, princess), groping, thigh-riding, light choking, light hair-pulling, non-penetrative sex, voyeur!seonghwa, sex in the elevator, counts as mirror sex right, biting kink, manhandling!san, edging, breeding, cum-eating (m), cunnilingus; reader hates the rich except for when they are sexy, implied but not severe age gap, writer does not have daddy kink but mafiaboss!san does, gunshots and death, use of korean proverbs

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 : this with the next part will be the origin story for reader, specifically the series synopsis’ first half :) originally, this has been a request, so please read this, if you desire to have a bit more insight to what the series actually is + translations of certain terms (mostly character dynamics) in this chapter !!

tl;dr: since it's all based around korean mafia/gangster/etc, there will be korean culture scattered between the lines. it is all translated, hopefully in an understandable way!!! (please hmu if there are difficulties) i let out honorifics/romanisation, except for "chaebol" since it's an actual word :) that being said, reader's ethnicity is not specified and won't be relevant to the series in any way !!

smut comes after the second border, and uh,,, i had to shorten that shit (pls dont ask me where) but uh. you’re getting 8k words of smut so buckle up LMAO !!! i hope you enjoy as much as i did writing it !!! thank you for likes, reblogs and feedback xoxo (also this is NOT beta-read so pls dont hesitate to tell me about... like.... errors, tags and shit)

[ now playing : money ▸ pink floyd | listen to the playlist ]

It's getting repetitive. They are drinking their ninth bottle of expensive whiskey, smoking their third or fourth disgustingly pricey cigar— what the fuck, is this seriously what the upper men of your nation are doing at some stupid chairman’s dinner party?

“Missy!”

“Me, sir?”

No wonder the economy's fucking shit.

“Yeah, you, missy, give that gent over there one of our divine Denmarks!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give him a kiss too, while you’re at it! What do you think? He’s still got it, no?”

Said ‘gent’, some old, scummy clown— winks at you, his gray eyelashes fluttering towards your direction.

“Yes, sir."

God, how bad you wish you had snuck your phone in to take a picture of these red, drunken, senseless faces, but you're a dutiful servant, abiding by the rules at all times, however difficult it may be. You’re holding in your puke professionally, not even doing something as to grit your teeth, just softly letting your jaw play along to your friendly smile.

“Does your willy even still work that way, old friend?", a cranky, yet humorous voice pitches in.

Agreeing to your supervisor’s offer to earn “big money” may have been a bad idea, but a good choice. Jongho said he’d seen you at your work, took special note of you— even though you weren’t sure where exactly he had observed you, since it’s only been a month of actually working as a servant in the lower tiers of the building— and wanted to give you a chance to swim with the big sharks. “I think you’re best suited for the job,” is what he said to make you giggle and think about your initial rejection of his proposition, “you have a talent for serving.”

Something you didn’t know you had, something you didn’t know someone would see in you ever in your life, “talent.” Sure, maybe you let yourself be persuaded a bit too fast, but it felt very touching that somebody saw you and saw potential, for whatever occasion it may be for. You don’t necessarily want to screw the rules of the hierarchical pyramid or what it was that kept you from being in the proximity of the chairman, but you really need the extra cash right now.

"What does a girl from the mountains look for in being a servant in the city?", had been the question you were asked by Lady Kim who gave you the leftovers of her restaurant at the end of the day, when you had just started with the training– poor, barely standing on your own feet.

You remember how you explained to her that the buddhist monks who raised and send you here surrounded themselves with wells to remind everyone that water always returned, and you assumed it would work the same with wealth. You also remember how hard she tried to stay kind to you, showing you her sincerest sympathy by telling you that "the chaebol are no joke!" (at least not a joke, an innocent girl like you could laugh about, she later explained) and giving you an extra portion of her home-made dumplings to suit you up.

Her sharp, yet compassionate voice rings in your ears, as you reapply your red lipstick on the way to your target guest. Oh, Lady Kim, what a graceful woman– she put her all into her work for her restaurant to succeed, but had always made a place to share what she had for those who needed it. Such a lovable woman, she must have been well-liked by all around her.

You get it now, the way you had been so naive back then. Floating on the philosophical happy-go-lucky psyche of the city’s promise of prosperity, trying to live the Korean dream strangely enough as someone who was so sarcastically out of touch with it. If you had been in her position, you wouldn’t have been able to be as nice, no, would have warned yourself with a finger pointed upwards as if you were teaching a little kid about strangers, or how your monks said, ‘tigers in the woods’.

“After that cigar, his dick will turn to dust!”

Maybe things would have looked different, if you hadn’t taken that fund from the school’s superintendent, who slid you that card on your table with a smirk on his face. Oh dear, do you remember how excited you had been? You ran through the streets in your worn-out shoes with that plastic sheet in your hand, on your way to tell that the money on it was such a ridiculously high number that you could split— but Lady Kim had got to know it first, the ridiculousness of the rich, with the demolition of her restaurant-building.

“He’s got no cum in his nutsacks ‘no more anyway!”

No warning, no compensation, just everything crushed to pieces to make place for the big corporations; the fancy neon-signs she'd invested in, the ambition of her enthusiastic dreams, your only source of tender charity, shattered to a wreck. You have never seen her since, and can only laugh about how the fancy food of the chaebol—and you definitely know who they are now, those tasteless men gawking at you in the moment—doesn’t even look half as good as her low-cost black bean noodles you could more than afford now.

The present day-you is less dreamy, but just as lost, forced to work off a debt you hadn’t been informed about when you lived off the favorable “fund”-money. No, Lady Kim, this is all a joke, you would tell her today. A really fucking bad one.

So, making room for another ha-ha in your life, you pulled your eyes up innocently, returning Jongho’s specious smiles. “Is it illegal to collect pocket-money from the rich?” It’s not like you had any doubts at that point, but 'they'll buy you out of prison if you’re good enough' was all you needed anyway to put your uniform on tightly at home.

"Can't even shoot his cum in missy to save his blood!"

Your more experienced co-workers are watching you work with a condescending frown, feeling both jealous you're getting all the men's attention, but also maliciously delighted you're being challenged as the new-coming servant who's obviously of erotic interest to these richlings. They want you to get a "taste of life" for you may be the most goody-goody fawning bitch they have ever seen; just a young birdbrain who has nothing to bring to the table except her body. Young thing won’t hold up, doesn't know who she's working with— though they are quite right about that part, you must admit, you frankly didn’t look up whose money you’re taking right now— she doesn’t know who the fuck she is.

"What? Did his son leave the company, too?"

It’s flattering to know that the other pretty servants look at you and only see some candy-coated muppet, but fairly, your ever-frozen smile on your face doesn’t give them much to work with. You’re simply an annoyance to their routine, and if you could, you would like to comfort them by saying none of the money you’re getting will stay in your hands– they’d be so happy to hear that you’re really worth nothing– but you must stay focused.

“Idiot, he’s only got a daughter!”

So yes, that being said, you’re glad nobody ever asks you about you. Everyone just assumes, judges from what they see, and if what they see is an opportunistic bimbo-girl chasing money, then so be it, right?

"You know, the one he married off to the governor?”

Right. Because you too have not a single second to think nor talk about your past. The present is scarce and the future is fragile, you know it the best. And you owe it to your old men to make the best out of their efforts, don't you? The air in this room may not be the one you inhaled in the mountains, but you still have to use it, breathe, be alive, despite how moldy and spoiled it simmers in your throat.

"Real mad! Anything to avoid that fee, huh, missy? Got no semen and no glory! You really want to give him that cigar?”

So, that taste of life? Fucking bitter, just like how that name 'missy' seeps and sweats on your tongue. You can’t loathe your co-workers for this reason, they're basically in the same wooden, shaky boat as you, but these asswipes here are floating on a fucking yacht. Of course they don't follow some type of code of human decency for you, they don't give two shits about the lowlifes, the poor. They watch them like a spectacle, and because they don't regard you as a human-being but rather a toy, they play with you on strings that are, on the other hand, binding together a big, fat bankroll.

Ka-Ching.

Eyes on the price, Y/N, eyes on the price. You may not own a lot, that's been more than established, but if there is something you have, it's dutifulness, commitment, and proficiency. It will remain difficult to keep inner peace and honor with a job of which "duty" it is to be a deferential, subservient doll, but at least you're alive and well, soon to leave this floor with more money to your name that these fuckers don't know anyway, right? Never let that smile drop, smart girl. You have a talent, just like your supervisor said. Just keep on serving.

“No children-makin' is better for the cheatin'— ha!”, the barren, that fruitless man who’s been made fun of whoops in to stand up for himself, and awaits his tobacco that's being driven to him by your cart.

The other servants frown at you spitefully during the time you bow down. You're sensually placing the brown cylindrical object into his mouth, a match lighting held to his face to light it up. In addition to the experience, you hold one long stare with his washy eyes, because you assume it will ignite him.

And, oh, how excited he gets.

"Thank you, sir," you chuckle and flutter with your eyelashes, pursing up your lips like you’re an innocent little girl getting a piece of candy behind her parents’ back.

“Just mad! Missy's young enough to be your grandchild, fella!”

You’re aware of exactly what your dear co-workers are thinking, but being ordered to light their cigs and then ogled at is not "baby-treatment” or whatever they’re muttering under their breath, it's your subtle strategy to have that bankroll be slid between your thighs.

"Hey now, I still can get it on! Don't you think so too, missy?"

Dumb Y/N, only has money on her mind. Allows herself to be called "missy", like a dumb fucking slut.

Hm, kind of has a ring to it, don't you think?

"Yes, sir."

Let them all think you're a dummy. Let them believe, believe each other's words in whatever they fucking want. You're almost too certain it's the secret reason Jongho offered you a place here anyway; "suited for the job", because he deems you dense enough to not understand any of the nonsense these twelve men are babbling, "big money", because he knows you will do anything for it.

You’ll still take the talent, but if he really thinks the rest, then oh, sucks to be him.

Yes, you haven’t looked up the names of who the men here are for the same reasons they're not using yours, but the second you’re out of this whiny, weak testosterone-drowned room, you're going to write the most thorough blackmail, because you can not listen to their cheating, money-laundering, corrupted bullshit anymore. Getting involved with the handshakers is the last thing you should do if you want to live a silent, carefree life, and you know this too well, but they're not going to believe it was you anyway. They wouldn’t dream of their missy to do such a competent, smart thing. You even know what you're going to write under the letter so they have something to think about in their cells: 'birds listen to the words of day, mice to the words at night'— walls have ears, too.

Ah, the soft, sometimes very cryptic voice of your favorite old monk. Always there to teach you new things, remind you of how to live your life cheerfully. You still believe he would have rather kept you in the mountains and not drop you on a wild voyage into the unknown urban life, but your old man had his reincarnation coming. You should visit his grave again, it's been a while, hasn't it? Wouldn't he be so proud to see you? To see how much his little Y/N has grown and learnt, using his proverbs to restore justice? Well, for what you still can collect of your late mentor, he would probably make big eyes and use his whole body to keep your monetary gift away from him. "Teacher," you would ask, "don't you at least want to save?", and his answer would remain the same;

"Peace comes free."

You feel warm at the distant memory of the bald-headed man warming himself in his orange gown, teaching you about love, harmony and kindness, but that sweet veil of untainted innocence has long dropped from your eyes.

In front of you, you see tycoons continuing having a blast being their shitty selves, and as golden teeth blend your sight, they are entertaining each other by staring at your legs that are covered by your sheer black stockings, whispering their insight of how you'd look like under it, but the mini-skirt only leaves so much for imagination.

"Sweet missy!"

How could you not want to spit into their face? They have bought the war. They have bought the chaos. And why? Just because they can. It doesn't cost you anything to restore some peace, maybe that’s the thing your old man got right.

"Yes, sir?”

“Do you have any Cubans left, sweet missy?”

“A Cuban, coming right up, sir.”

“Hopefully someone’s gonna come after the party tonight!”

Are you humiliated? As someone who lived among the wisest, clearest heads, and was considered just as smart by them to be wished a ‘more fortunate life’ — No.

You couldn’t care less about their perversions. Especially now, when they seemingly don’t care enough to know your name you've introduced yourself with. You are here for one reason, and it's not to prove your worth to the world, it's to secure your place in it, get that parasitic debt off your shoulders.

And if anything, as long you are staying truthful to yourself, there’s nothing that could take away your spirit. That’s what you want to believe, at least. When you’re out of debt and continue with this job, you could spend every day downtown like the other servants, but for you, it's all going to the savings for the family you're going to feed with not one worry in life on the clear land in the mountains, not under a sky that's polluted by light even when the sun has set.

It’s what you think every time you peek down the glass room: Seoul has never looked so small. Across and around the ever-flowing Han-River, the metropole is the home of millions who are looking up with their heads far back their necks to the point right here, where you stand, at the center or peak of all the wealth gathered together, inside the highest building standing tall amidst of the tumult, on the 114th floor, towering over the world in a luxurious dining room decorated by exotic animals, marbled statues and most importantly the filthy glimmer of something they call ‘class’.

“Missy,” the chairman calls out for you, raising his hand, right after he’s made another infidelity joke and showed his luxurious wedding ring to the audience.

“Yes, sir?”, you call out, wearing your pristine servant-smile with your hands folded nicely in front of your stomach, voice not tainted by your disgust as to even one note, despite the other servants looking at you with hateful expressions. They wish you the worst; the worst treatment, the worst performance, anything to get you out of this place.

Maybe they're driven by the same instincts and avarice that makes you hate the rich, with them just thinking you're taking away their money, but it's free territory here with these predators; you just make for great prey.

It’s a challenge to all of the people involved and the contestants can only win. Will it be another pick-up line? You're going to pick on that with ease. Another joke about your age? That one is never going to get old. There, bring it on, you think, and feel proud of your confident spirit, ready to run with whatever they throw and stash it into your wallet.

“You see those youngsters back there? Get 'em some more ice."

“Yes, sir.”

“Chaps don't know how to drink the good stuff yet, what a waste! Next time, buy 'em the cheap soju from the mart! The ones for 5,000 Won, missy, you know those?”

“Yes, sir.” Your whole face flashes a smile, bowing to accept the task of refilling some ice, dragging your cart across the room, as male laughter rings in your ears. It's as if they don't realize they also drink cheap liquor, but you suppose that's forgettable when they are flushing the fanciest of meats down with it.

"Be careful, missy!"

Are you being too mild by saying you want to ram the green glass-bottles into their heads?

"They bite!”

Maybe choke them with their own money bills?

Yes, “Yes, sir.”

It's a fun exercise to fantasize about how to hurt them, so you thought you would be busy enough to ignore the chairman's warning, but as you are on your long way to the end of the even longer glass table to push your cart towards the men he is referring to, there's a growing feeling inside your guts that oh, the chairman may be ...

Huh, right for the first time. The quizzical lump expands warmly as much as it is cold, with goosebumps running down your spine, your hands feeling hotter than ever over the metal cart. Your whole body is trying to signal you that something is off on the other side of the table, but you don’t know whether to ignore it or run.

The annoying, empty-minded, impertinent elders, who have been belly-laughing at the chairman's joke a second ago stop with their chatting and only exhale huffs, and prolong them nervously, that’s off. The servants gulping, loosening their crossed arms– that’s off, too.

“So, uhh… Where was the, uh– food from?”

“Oh, lad, good topic, yes– the delicious food…”

It seems that everyone in the room is trying to fill in the silence with the fakest of laughter, so the chairman can move on from the topic, but you're well over your way there, uninformed to what you're going to be hit with once you halt.

Tycoons like them usually don't need back-checking. You know how to deal with ill-willed imbeciles that only use their estate as a weapon. Their bodies and brains have passed prime an eternity ago. Left behind are only their numbed minds that seek shelter in lust, ecstasy and aphrodisia because nothing else excites them anymore. They’re what you probably would have been if you hadn’t spent your teens brewing tea and listening to the leaves rustle, not experiencing all euphoria and more at a too early age– they’re washed out, just swimming in money they haven't worked a day for, are lazy, weary sloths.

However, opposed to the cloudiness in their class that's only getting more foggier through the many years of monopoly, these two men that are waiting in front of you, and you understand why your lungs are pinging now, they are potent.

Money is power, but twist it around and there is them, with that; a certain force that the rich ooze out by just acting and looking a certain way, and oh, Y/N, how they are, how they are looking at you right now, best believe you have to hold onto your strength like it's a small purse.

'Youngsters', he said— 'they bite', he said.

They have been rarely reacting to the chairman’s words, notwithstanding being the ones to be the most respectful in this meeting for their young age, just looking at each other with unamused eyes. Even the director who is older than the chairman lets out his best holler every time, but these two have not laughed once at his jokes, not the slightest chuckle has left their mouths to flatter or satisfy the chairman.

Interesting.

Both black-haired, the one you get to first has his mane gelled back, a cigarette hanging out his scarred mouth, as you approach his seat with your cart walking carefully practiced steps. His white shirt is opened up to where chains, most importantly a silver cross, hang from his collarbones to his chest that’s covered with scars and scratches you can’t quite identify how they got there. This man looks gigantic, muscular, dangerous. Shoulders terrifyingly broad popping out his black vest, he sits on his seat with widened legs, thighs flattened in his also black pants, fastened by a leather belt, and with his white sleeves pulled back to his elbows, his slightly tanned forearms only appear more huge after the rather average-looking wristwatch catches your eye, just when you stop with your cart in front of him.

“That old geezer just can’t keep his mouth shut, can he?”, he chuckles, the Gyeongsang-provincial dialect rolling so naturally off his tongue. Everyone else in the room has been faking their speech to cosplay a charm they didn’t possess, but even the slight lisp and lull from the drunkenness are not hiding how deeply masculine and sincere this man’s voice sounds. It’s a mixture of the sarcasm you've gotten used to by now, but also a brashness that the older men lack, and you’re a bit embarrassed to say it’s working you up a bit. "Empty carts rattle loudest, I say."

A wintry breeze goes through your breast and you feel your eyebrows flinch. You haven't heard that grandmotherly expression in so long, that it does feel somehow refreshing to reconcile with it, but maybe the whisk you sense shouldn’t feel as comforting given the way the man is looking up to you brazenly with a bit of atrocity in his appearance. He is far away from the serene sketch you drew to save the vision as you left the village, he is what you felt when you took your first train, asphyxiated by the big masses of people who you would never see again— an unhomely, yet intimate feeling of... adventure.

He glances through you smoking his cigarette with no hands attached, and it moves at the corner of his lip as he talks. Wait, cigarette? Missy, did you forget to bring him a cigar?

"Let's see when he runs out of words."

“It’s alright, sir,” you answer, suppressing a slight chuckle because yes, you too have been wishing the chairman would finally shut the fuck up, but haven't expected anyone to say it out loud that boldly. You watch the male in front of you take out the slim roll from his mouth with his thick fingers that are covered with silver rings that all look different and not matching each other, blowing out the smoke whilst maintaining eye contact with you. “If you require, I can bring you a cigar, sir," you say, but he waves his hand to brush off your offer.

“Ah, they give me bad breath.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please," the man progresses instantaneously, scratching over the vertical scar at his lip-corner with his thumb, his ciggy continues to burn, "Do be so kind and give brother his ice," then smiles, "he needs to preserve his cold head.”

“You are one to talk about keeping mouths shut,” the ‘brother’ answers, voice velvety and adequate despite dissing the man that’s sunken unmannerly into his seat, while he, on the other hand, is sitting up straight, his black suit buttoned up, tie set cleanly under his ironed pearl-white collars, elegantly decorated by a golden pin. A Greek "π" is chiseled into it, and you recognize it so well for you’ve seen it written all over the tall buildings you drove by on your way here. His hair is combed evenly to the sides and the more you look at him, he’s just— wow, flawless, prestigious, expensive. Everything about him is crystal clear; his rich voice, his unblemished skin, his eyes, oh god, you just noticed those eyes, how does such a shameful man have such pure eyes?

Orbs— and they're not innocent as much as you can't say they're not guilty— are looking at you with a defiance that is suffocating, as if you ought to do everything perfectly, not miss a single twitch of his eyebrows to understand whether he's enjoying or disapproving of the situation.

Well, is he enjoying you or disapproving of the way you're listening to his partner's order to refill his ice?

Huh. No fucking idea. He probably doesn't, but you must do it still— must still serve.

It feels irrationally sheep-headed, but hey, being a sheep is your job, is it not? Being in this herd is keeping you alive, and even in this situation, where you are following the orders of the blackest of sheep, no, wolves that can't be covered by any fluffy wool— you must mow your best.

"Ohh, brother, it's been a while since I heard you talk! Feels lonely droppin' all the good sayings by myself."

You’re serving Choi San and CEO of PARA-conglomerate, headman Park Seonghwa.

Sat right across the chairman, the percentage this couple holds of his company-share is more than most of the attending seniors combined, which makes them stand at the top of the guest-list. You couldn’t have missed their names, even if you’ve made the attempt to, and the other information you’re getting is just your co-workers whispering hurried words to each other, and it seems to you that you may be more in need of them than ever.

You already eavesdropped on them a little, and to be honest, you didn’t need any real confirmation that everyone in this room was unlawful and corrupt, but it is good to know you really don’t have to feel guilty stashing those bankrolls into your purse.

The man that is licking the tail of his scar at his lip, rolling his neck, clicking with his mouth and tapping his fingers onto the table, he is rumored to be the boss of the Choi-Clan, the infamous ‘Mad Dog of Namhae’, whose face had been unknown. The chairman has made a drunken joke about allegedly trying to sell him off to the government— “everybody act like you don’t know, okay?”— and nobody had taken him seriously, but once the supposed mafiaboss had entered the room, an hour later than everyone else, and sat down comfortably like nothing was strange about his heavy breath and slightly purple knuckles, nobody dared to say something else.

If you’d heard beforehand that you would be meeting a CEO and a mafiaboss today, you don’t know if you would have acted any differently. Thinking, here comes the chairman, his jesters, the mafia-guy, the chaebol; ah, all the motherfuckers aligned, let’s get to work, shall we?

But this does challenge you a bit, indeed. If they just weren’t so young and intimidatingly good-looking, fuck, you could have treated them in the same cookie-cutter way you’d been at perfectly.

Maybe a bit of change-up won’t hurt, you were starting to get a bit too irritated anyway.

"Control yourself."

“You wanna see him dead too, brother,” the smoking male sneers— you’ll call him ‘Mr. Choi’ for now— pointing at his companion to accuse him of being a yawner, his cigarette stuck between his fingers.

Headman Park smirks with a short twitch of his lips that makes you think you just imagined it, but none of his extremities has moved since you came here: Every single action he takes seems so... calculated, thought through, measured, planned out. He is the only one to have brought a briefcase to the dinner, and looks a little bit out of place with his sober expressions which seem to you as if he was observing the whole room in its possible entirety, not leaving out a corner in his sight uncovered.

"Want," he parrots, face dropped to a neutral visage, highlighting the only word that seems to be bothering the CEO regarding his vis-à-vis' statement, eyes darting down to Mr. Choi having his fingertips pointed towards him.

"Don't you become pushy with the words now, brother," the mafiaboss teases him, and tugs his sleeves up to his elbows again, eyeing you up and down while you're passing him with your cart. You discern his interest in the pockets of your skirt, or what is there underneath, instantly, but before you can think that the man may be just the same as the others, he cracks his knuckles. “Old geezer might die on his own at this point, look at how he's smoking his raisin-lungs away."

"Poetic."

So much for hearing government and company secrets, here are these two joking about the chairman’s death. You need the chairman a little bit longer if you want to earn money, but the idea of him dying soon isn’t too bothersome.

"You gotta get used to my Korean way of speaking, brother! Then we can communicate correctly!”

With your ears sharpened, but your face presenting unconcerned, you devote yourself to headman Park to refill his bucket, ice cubes jangling down the iron jar, whilst Mr. Choi stretches his arms behind his head, raising an eyebrow towards his elder who isn't hearing him out.

“Thank you,” headman Park says, very briefly and precisely. The tong you put in the bucket for him to use almost tips, and you don’t know whether he does it on purpose for he’s been frozen still all during the dinner, but with his reflexes, he prevents it from falling before you can, but if that wasn't surprising enough, he grazes your skin while returning.

Soft, uncalloused; not a single ounce of labor roughed up these hands, it seems. They tickled you featherly, and right now, you are looking for some type of confirmation in those black spheres of his to know that you're allowed to exhale and react to his touch, because you gasped slightly and have held your breath ever since.

Nothing. You are the first one to look— no, shy away from his stare, getting your hands in front of your abdomen again, your fingers searching for each other, fiddling around by themselves without your knowledge.

Mr. Choi lets his wrist-watched hand fall between his lap, neck tilted slightly to the back, licking over his canine tooth with a grin, and it appears to you that he's either noticed his associate's small gesture or how headman Park is still staring at you. “You wanna do something, don’t you, brother?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

Mr. Choi shakes his head to irritate headman Park and make him explain himself.

“This is not business.”

Headman Park glances down his whiskey, droplets of water have formed around the brim of the cold glass. It is untouched.

"I see you aren’t enjoying the whiskey, would you like something else to drink, sir?", you ask, trying to finish your job and get away from here before you get ideas that don’t include money between your thighs.

"The Fillico, please," the male answers, not having glanced away from your eyes once to inspect your cart, where the black, long bottle, donning a crown and wings adorned with Swarovski-crystals, awaits you to be grabbed.

"A glass of cold Fillico Black King!", you exclaim, your surprise of the particularity that anyone would drink water at the chairman's dinner can’t be hidden, and then hum, "Coming right up, sir."

“You’re really something, brother,” Mr. Choi wheezes, taking the last pull of his cigarette, watching you fill up a new glass for his unrelated brother with the finest mineral that can be bought to-date, pricing around 6 Billion Won, or 4500 US Dollars per bottle. “Wouldn’t you say it’s difficult to not be smokin’ or drinkin’ in this business, Y/N?”

Sure, whatever ‘business’ a man like him is talking about. “Yes, sir." Wait, hold on, did Mr. Choi just say your name?

“You don’t look too impressed,” the male grins, seeing how you’ve narrowed your eyes in confusion.

"Pardon me, I was just– how do you know my name, sir?”

Mr. Choi shrugs as if to say ‘I dunno’ and presses his cigarette out on the table. It sizzles out, like your head is also slowly deteriorating. He throws the bud into the CEO's ice-bucket— headman Park is not even minorly irritated by it— and then, with his ringed fingers, goes through his hair, setting it loose behind his head. He’s picking on you, and you surely feel picked out, that's all you can think. It's so unusual to be hearing your name, not because it hasn't been said during the dinner, but because—

"Y/N Y/L/N, a pretty name for a pretty servant like you, huh?"

Your heart somehow flutters. A stalwart man like him taking your name into his mouth is nothing you hear on the daily. Deep, manly. It's not flattering, no, it sounds wrong, feels so dangerous for a guy like him to be taking something so personal and turning it into his possession, like you're slowly going to lose yourself in the words he speaks in a lax manner. Your name is precious to you, and it just drops off his tongue like it's candy. Where on earth does a man like him get your full name from?

"Sir," you insist, dipping your fingertip under your fingernail, fidgeting.

“Oh, don’t tell me ya prefer that stupid name ‘missy’,” Mr. Choi chuckles and fetches headman Park’s full glass of whiskey, his dialect draping out his mouth.

“Or do you secretly enjoy it," he grins, and with his eyebrows raised, Mr. Choi drinks up his acquaintance's booze in one big gulp, letting the glass fall down on the table with a thump, breathing out, "missy?”

People drink whiskey neatly, you know that. The guests have been doing it all evening, but that's for two ounces. Headman Park had a glass full of the oak-colored sherry liquid with an uncommonly high alcohol percentage placed in front of him. A taunt from the chairman maybe, to subtly scorn them about their apparent boyhoodish inexperience, but Mr. Choi makes it look so adept: The strong alcohol flows down his throat smooth and speedy, even though he did misplace the rim by an inch.

There's whiskey dripping down his chin as he glances over to his side, smirking at his neighbor who's blinking frozen, as well as the other guests, who are seemingly just as irritated that the mafiaboss got you as flustered as you look like.

You’re left with your mouth slightly open, shotting down a glass of whiskey shouldn't have looked as barbarous as Mr. Choi made it appear. Like a striking attack, baring his claws, he growls out the herby aftertaste. "'Scuse me, 'got really thirsty there."

The mafiaboss goes over his lips with his tongue, watching your hand play with the seam of your skirt, where he knows a handkerchief is buried in your pocket.

“Aw, shit, I got wet,” he wails over-dramatically, looking down on himself and then again locking his eyes into yours.

“Wanna clean me up, baby?”

“Pardon?”

Much to your continued bafflement, Mr. Choi smiles, and as he sees you taking a second to confirm what he said, he continues talking to you like you’re a hooker.

“Don't like that one, Y/N?” Again, with the name! Where does he get the name?!

“Sir, how—“

“You have introduced yourself to us,” headman Park finally reveals in the high Seoul tongue, perchance by pity, and you inhale, a bit embarrassed that you didn’t come to think of it earlier. What is happening to you? Is it because you’re finally away from those sleazes, that you’re being so light-headed? Lack of training? Sexual attraction? God, that’s a rookie’s mistake, Y/N, think about them as targets, not objectives. The objective is to not end up in a bed with them, remember? That’s like, rule number one. Even though nobody told you about the Mafia while you were at training, that’s a valid argument.

Don't let your guard down, you’re in a room with the men of men, no maybe the men. The most influential men you could be meeting in Seoul right now, aside from how little is known about them.

Whether he's a real chaebol or not, PARA-CEO Park Seonghwa is definitely the nephew of good ol’ chairman over there, just leeching off his money even if today is the first time the man is visiting his distant uncle who is definitely a bit sour about the fact he took so long to connect with him. Money has its sources and sometimes, most of the time, it’s nepotism. There you go, the explanation of his wealth and why the male is so well-mannered sitting on his seat. He’s woven into the conglomerate-family, been made CEO to keep him that way and all in all, you could care less about him, if he just wasn’t the only person that was kind of nice to you. Just thinking about his eyes makes you a bit dizzy, but you can get that fixed by turning your eyes to the mafiaboss.

Mafia and chaebol don't usually associate, for reasons that are rather obvious. Mafia’s rule the underworld with the overworld’s laws, and the chaebol rule over what laws the overworld decides on, digging their hands into the government like it’s soot, planting and pulling crops wherever they can profit from it. Money.

It’s sickening every time you think about it. How many people in this room could pay for your whole life? No, how many can’t pay for your whole life and beyond? You can count them with one hand and they’re all wearing the same clothes as you.

Money knows where it belongs; that’s a phrase you made up the day you were told about the crippling debt by the letter and the bank declining your card. It sounds similar to your monks' sayings of water's ever-flowing life, but if water returns, money drifts. It wanders across the citizens, but follows a direction it's always bound to end up. Just like today, with you getting bankrolls to graze the inner space of your legs, only to know it’s going to end up in the same fingers that gave it to you.

So, where do headman Park and Mr. Choi get a say in this? Do they get a say in this?

“I did introduce myself, how could I forget? I’m sorry, sir,” you admit and let out a laugh that is half intended to sound as nervous as it did, and half regrettably filled with authentic uneasiness.

Old chairman, what does he know? Have those teeth really ever sunk into flesh? You can’t play with your fate here, but by hook or crook they intrigue you so much. You haven’t expected guests that aren't ass-kissers of the chairman, and apparently your talent only goes so far. You have no idea what to do with them to satisfy them except letting out your real thoughts and you can’t do that, definitely not in front of the man.

“It’s alright, everybody makes mistakes, baby,” Mr. Choi smirks and musters you again, rubbing the liquid away from the corner of his lip with his thumb and kissing the remaining alcohol away, savoring every droplet of whiskey, but also savoring you by keeping his thumb leaned into his opened mouth, eyes looking sultrily at you, you might as well just—

“Mistakes, San. Beware of them,” headman Park falls in and his companion finally sways his eyes away from you, hand backing down. “Talkative drunkard.“

“Brother,” Mr. Choi sighs and grabs the glass from his neighbor that's filled with ice cubes to murmur, “I’m not that drunk," swinging it around with concise flicks of his wrist to enunciate his words.

With the couple bantering, you think you can calm down. Maybe you were overreacting. Bootlicking some birdbrains is a way easier life than to follow these two.

"Hey, baby?”, but there's another call of the bird of prey.

“Yes, sir?”, you answer, fingers letting go of your skirt that has thrashed your skin by how you abused it. You don’t even know when you started to react to the name 'baby', but truth be told it’s better than ‘missy’ by miles. Being over here is better than being over there by miles, that is unchangeable.

“Could you get me clean? This is kinda sticky."

With two fingers, he grabs the collar of his shirt and flails it softly, ice clinking in his glass, as he shows you his indeed quite syrupy breast.

"Yes, sir."

You nod towards the crevice that is the space where his muscles meet, and before your eyes can get lost in the plump thews, you collect yourself so you can do what you were asked for; getting your hands on his body.

“Please.”

“Ahh, I liked you more when you were quiet, brother! I don’t wanna call you a party-pooper, but c'mon! It’s your plan, and I’m just— doin’ my part.”

Mr. Choi twists his upper body a bit so he’s still able to hold the empty glass behind your back, though it feels more caging in than it should, when you lean forwards to softly tap his skin with your handkerchief. His arm hovers next to your hip and his upper body is extended wide around you.

“Pardon?”, you ask, not understanding the context of Mr. Choi’s question, but without fail grasping the intentions of it.

The male grins, and you’re unsure as to how he got his hand on the bottle of whiskey from your tray as quickly as he did, but it’s there, in the hand that’s across your hip, and from then on, everything you do seems risky. His bicep is curled around your thigh so he can fill himself another glass, and if you take a step back, your ass will be pushed against his arm, but if you step forward, you’ll land on top of him; a straining dilemma that only inflames your guts the more you think about it.

“San,” headman Park grumbles quietly, seeing you struggle to stand on your feet.

“Agh, come on, brother, 's all going well! Live a little for me, will ya? Watch me and follow,” Mr. Choi nags with a juvenile pout and takes a disgruntled sip from his drink, making your imaginations reality by pushing you with his forearm with no forewarning. You trip closer to him and his arms raise, as you have to find safety on his shoulders to not fall into his crotch.

“Oops, ‘scuse me, baby,” he grins, feline eyes glancing up to you, your bust in his view. The other men are grumbling, fussy, yammering— if they knew, they would have done that with you a long time ago!— and in your head, you don't know whether you should be doing this at the chairman's dinner and not somewhere in a stripclub or just, god, anywhere else.

“It’s okay, sir,” is what you answer, and the short silence would be the perfect opportunity to scuffle back to your original stance, but you saw his ever-growing, throbbing bulge in his black suit-pants and it is staring you down.

Everything about him is so big…

“Really, baby?”, Mr. Choi asks, eyebrows pushed together, lips formed into a pout, feigning an expression of worry.

“Yes, sir,” you say, the big question of 'what is the goal here?' unnerving you, but with the quick, harsh movement of his leg against the back of your knee, you're—

“Sir!”

Sat on his thigh, your butt is bouncing on the hard flesh, fingers dug into his shoulders deeper due to the shock, ribcage moving up and down as you’re breathing fast and anxiously. At this point, you’ve gathered the attention of many who are seemingly more excited about the situation than you are, silencing all around, while the chairman continues to crack drunk jokes on the other side.

Mr. Choi chuckles at your nervousness and puts his glass down. “Aww, look at you, baby,” he coos, his rough, calloused fingers trailing between the inner space of your thighs that’s pushed into his leg. “Need a little break?”

As you sit there— securing yourself on the table, feeling his hand sit between your legs, you become lighter with each passing second, tingles being sent down your abdomen. Could Mr. Choi please stop smirking like that? It’s going to make you lose your mind, lose every thought of what you were trying to achieve at this table tonight.

“The chairman doesn’t allow breaks, sir,” you murmur, trying to cling onto the last sense of service you have, “I have to stay here.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper for the CEO in front of you to become curious, but loud enough for the mafiaboss to scoff and massage his hand deeper into your flesh.

“Sir, I really—“, you try to protest, but Mr. Choi uses his other finger to signal you to come closer to his face. You do as you’re told, his warm breath hitting your ear after you lean backwards.

“Baby,” he cackles, and his lips touch your earlobe, the smell of the smoke fading out his mouth.

“I practically own that wimp,” and Mr. Choi lets out a chuckle before his voice lowers an octave, “Let me own you, too.”

His tongue grazes over your sensitive skin as if he was a snake trying to convince you of eating the strange fruit, and you shudder forwards in surprise, his growl still vibrating in your ears.

You should get yourself together— yeah, that sounds like a good idea, if it just wasn't for the fact that this is exactly how you've been presenting yourself the whole evening. You're cornered, and not only by him, but your actions and it's, oh, old man, it's something. It's something that broadens the playground that was set out in front of you, something that gives you more to play, no, more to be played with.

The other guests are gawking already, forgetting about their prejudices when it comes to the 'youngsters', just happy to be seeing their missy in action.

The mafiaboss sighs, breaking his whispering and speaking louder than before. “But if you cherish so much about that old geezer, he’ll be taken care of, no? Maybe even better than before, or am I wrong here, brother?”

He clicks with his mouth— is it a habit?— and looks at headman Park, who rolls his eyes, as if they’re sharing some secret you’re not a part of. But before you can fall into further confusion, your legs tighten around Mr. Choi’s wristwatch, as his thumb strokes the surface under your skirt one time, right across your cunt which has been heating up since the first time you saw the reflection of yourself in his silver cross. A pant leaves your mouth and you have to grind your ass over so you can somehow clench your legs together.

“You like that?”, Mr. Choi sneers, chuckling into your ear, as he continues to move his thick finger against your clit. "Of course you do. Let me hear more of those cute sounds, baby.”

You grab his bicep, heat crawling up your abdomen against his forearm, your crotch feeling more and more buzzed as the male works his fingertip into you. Nobody says anything, just murmuring insignificant sentences to keep up the chatty mood.

Headman Park in the meanwhile, crosses his arms, catching the attention of the mafiaboss.

“Brother, can’t you see I’m doing this for you? Enjoy yourself.”

Mr. Choi flashes an eye-smile and keeps groping your cunt, you melting more and more into his lap and under the heated gazes of the crowd. Your servant-colleagues don’t know what to do, or no, maybe they knew exactly that this would happen and think you deserve all of this shame, just in general not helping you escape the touch of the mafiaboss.

“Sounds like you’re enjoying her more than anything,” headman Park says, looking indifferent, but his words don’t cross out the possibility that inside his pants, his cock isn’t growing too, how his arms are crossed, clenched around each other.

“Come on, baby,” Mr. Choi growls into your ear, “give that fucking bore a show, won’t you?”

You’re split open. He’s strong, oh gosh, so strong, taking not more than one push to grab you by your thigh and spread your legs, make you slip on his crotch, as he closes his knees together to support you from down under.

“San,” headman Park warns, but his mouth stays slightly open, tongue pressed against the surface of his upper teeth, suppressing a grin.

You flatten your back against Mr. Choi’s torso as an attempt to hide your face behind his neck, and breathe heavily against his freckled skin, the cold exterior of his pearly accessory grazes your chin.

“What?”, the male asks, taking his glass, his arm slithering under your armpit and his chin resting on your shoulder as he sips from it, not to forget the hand that is still pushed into the now moist fabric between your legs, moving in circular motion.

Headman Park doesn’t answer and folds his hands together, placing his elbows on the table, fingers touching his lower lip.

“Geez, brother, you should feel this cunt right now,” the mafiaboss wheezes, almost hiccuping from his excitement, “so fucking hot, you won’t believe.”

“Make her louder.”

Even Mr. Choi was surprised to hear that come out of the reserved CEO's mouth, and as he chuckles and takes the last sip from his whiskey, he puts down his glass once in for all to accept headman Park’s order.

With a slight lean forward, his free hand wraps around your neck and you gasp for air. Mr. Choi’s legs are spread so when you have to tuck in your pelvis, you can feel his bulge under your cunt. At this point, you don’t care for the piercing gazes anymore, and the chairman might as well give you a nice tip for the sight of you grinding your wet pussy into his biggest investor’s clothed cock. You’re such a master profiteer, Y/N, Jongho was right.

“Fuck, missy,” Mr. Choi grunts and he’s so frustrated he can’t take off more of your clothes, but it doesn’t prevent him from following the order when headman Park mutters, “grab her breasts.”

It is one shameless show.

You becoming needy and whiny on Choi San’s lap, the mafiaboss grinning, as CEO Park Seonghwa’s eyes are unmoving from your sullen, aroused expressions— it has persuaded the audience to want their own slice of fun, but even with hands wrapped around their no-use cocks, everybody in the room has their eyes sealed on the young servant whose only job was to refill some ice.

Mr. Choi can feel it; what a slut you are on top of him, how eagerly you’re grinding your cunt over his bulge, and how jealous the others are watching— and this includes all the blokes that are watching with cigars in their mouths, but also the servants that would have gladly taken your seat and not rub their hands over old, moist, wrinkly skin.

“Sir,” you whimper, as Mr. Choi knobs your breasts, his tough hands cupping each tit, just like headman Park commanded him.

Fuck, how he wishes to be able to see your face as well as well as headman Park does, but the sobby whines might as well do.

“So noisy on my cock,” Mr. Choi snarls, “you’re practically begging for attention, missy.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you hiss and the mafiaboss inhales sharply, gasping, his cock jumping, very turned on by your sudden spunky tone. Bingo.

“Did you hear that, brother?”, he whales, tempting the headman to interact with him more as the main viewer of his performance, but the man to his friend is only raising an eyebrow. “Baby's got some zest in her. You like that, don’t you?”

Mr. Choi continues to coo headman Park into defeat, “You like ‘em feisty, brother. I know you, chief execution officer, sir. You wanna ram your cock into this little missy's pretty mouth, just admit it.”

Little missy's pretty mouth. "Say that again, shitbag," you hiss, but Mr. Choi grins and pries into your bust, working folds into your freshly-ironed shirt. "Listen, brother," he breathes, "It gets your cock fucking going, doesn't it?"

The mafiaboss chuckles and adds, so only you can hear it, "Definitely gets my cock going, baby."

Headman Park scans the room, and you can see how he shakes his head, and looks at Mr. Choi with a slight distaste. “You may leave soon.”

“Really?”, Mr. Choi grins, beaming, grabbing your hips forcefully in the joy of it, and while the CEO’s words leave you misled, you sigh into the pressure of being pressed down deep into his muscled thigh, your cunt pulsating through his flesh.

“Change of plans.”

“Alright," he murmurs, just as offended as you are by his lack of reactions, but quickly catching up on his lust to hear, see, feel you more. "But not before I make this baby come."

“Punster,” headman Park jeers and it does occur to you that you’re hearing more of his soft voice than before, but when he looks at his wristwatch, you suppose you’re not doing well enough for him. Look at me, you rich-ass prude, you think and whine, being moved across Mr. Choi’s thigh by his own hands. Your clit feels hot, like it is seriously going to burn and fall off, but you, fuck, feel so good; the sounds just keep leaving your mouth, your high approaching very soon.

“How long were you thinking, brother?”, Mr. Choi asks and is nibbling at your neck, as he rams you over his thigh, fighting with the pace you're breathing wispy and digging your nails more and more into the glass-table until your fingertips turn white.

"Five.”

“Five? Make it ten.”

“You only last ten?”

“You can be such a bully, brother,” Mr. Choi fleers, and you have no fucking idea what they’re talking about, since you are feeling your orgasm coming in less than a minute, stars appearing in front of your eyes. “Make it ten.”

The male takes note of how you're bucking in your pelvis and uses his canine teeth to make your neck flame on, his hand placed roughly around your throat, as you become more sensitive to every move. "Sir," you whisper, a knot forming in your stomach.

Your clit is begging you for mercy at this point, demanding you to get the clothes off your legs so your slick has some way to escape, but you're drenching Mr. Choi's suit-pants in your wetness with stuttered heaving, ready to moan loudly in any second now if you could just find that one fucking spot—

"Are you gonna cum, baby? Right in front of everyone?", he murmurs against your neck and you nod repeatedly, raving your clothed clit on his thick, pillowy muscle, desperately chasing your high. "Come on," he snickers, "Show them what kind of slut missy is, huh? Such a good fucking slut for us, aren't you?"

"Yesyesyes," you whine, not caring for anything than your release, and Mr. Choi is being so kind as to continue breathing heavily into your ear to make you melt into bliss, but nothing gets you on more than the gentle smile that headman Park is sending your way, head slightly tilted to the back— is he nodding? Is he finally approving? Oh, fuck, you think, and you're doing the best job darting your hips non-stop to continue feeling your cunt be stroked by Mr. Choi's flesh, pursuing the CEO's praising acknowledgment. "Good fucking slut on my lap," the mafiaboss cackles, "come for daddy."

"You fucking weirdo," you falter, not wanting to call him "I'm never gonna call you—

Mmmuh!" Mr. Choi grabs you by your hair and tugs it harshly, making your back arch and your head rotate to his side. In the open mouth, his tongue plunges into your throat, the taste of woody herbs and bitter alcohol are flooding your tastebuds. Smearing all of your lipstick, his mouth is pressed against yours like he's sealing yours shut. You convulse your lower body in surprise of the sudden act and holy shit, get that one spot over your clit that's also stroking your gaping entrance, your body releasing all of its heat into one blaring, roaring zap, with your eyes rolling back your head, your stirred voice screaming, "FUCK!"

There is a gasp heard through the dining hall and you're not sure whether it was the chairman, a servant, or headman Park in front of you, but as you are spasming on Mr. Choi's thigh and your back arches to his chest, you feel like the world is expanding on you, peeping, intrusive onlookers cramming out their money to thank you for the show they got, white trickling through the linen of their underwear.

Coming down from your high, weakened and all the while more aroused by the mafiaboss whispering the words "good girl" into your ear, you try to open your eyelids to catch headman Park putting on some black leather-gloves he got from his briefcase, muttering something under his breath to the mafiaboss.

“Go."

What the fuck?

Mr. Choi hooks his arm under your legs while he re-applies his lips to yours, and lifts you up like the pretty princess you are to most of the gawkers that don't stop watching, when he stands up.

Everybody has their eyes on the kiss the mafiaboss and servant missy are sharing, but headman Park doesn’t even look at you, when his partner starts carrying you to the elevator that's waiting for you at the wall about in the middle of the dining table, and just retrieves his open briefcase from the floor. Has he had enough of you already?

“Where are we—“, you breathe, but Mr. Choi kisses you silent, tongue forcing its entry, preventing you from figuring out what's happening, after the mafiaboss puts you down in front of the door and pushes you against the frame roughly. Cheering and hooting encourages him to continue rubbing his thumb over your skin as the other ringed fingers are holding your thigh, and you're pressed against his leg, virtually fenced in by Mr. Choi while he pushes the button for the lift to come.

His eyes are squinting to the side while he works his lips against you, in a way confirming that all of the guests (except the CEO) are begrudgingly anticipating the next actions of the mafiaboss, not caring how the headman is slowly pushing his seat away from the table to get more leg-space, which you seem to be the only person noticing it.

The golden door opens with a bell dinging the elevator’s arrival, and Mr. Choi grabs you by your ass, leading the way inside it. You can't see it correctly with your eyes closed, can only feel his big arms push into your frame, but he even makes for a show-like exit, burlesquely saluting the audience with two fingers, clicking with his mouth. It must really be a habit, you think, and giggle into the kiss.

The men attempt to throw bankrolls into your space and some succeed, some don't, but while you're glad your plan worked out, you aren't too sure what you've just done with, or for the mafiaboss.

Your heated kiss continues and because you want to feel him, you unbutton his shirt that doesn’t need that much working, three buttons being pushed open by your jellylike hands. Before you can unclothe him though, Mr. Choi pushes his arm against the mirror next to your head, stopping you to take a look at his wristwatch. He strokes his hair to the back with the other hand, revealing some of his meaty abs, and once he’s reached the backside of his head, he slides his fingers down his neck and around his Adam's apple to scratch it, announcing, “Ten minutes on the clock. Shit, brother's dick must be fucking exploding in his pants right now."

“Sir?”, you ask, overwhelmed by the words that are not making sense in your head, but also distracted by his hand that’s around your tie.

“Given he really could've finished in five but,” he yanks you towards his face. “I wanted to have you a bit more for myself, missy.”

He smiles, very arrogantly like the patronizing fuck he is, like he knows how strong he is, what a dominating aura he possesses, but at this point, in between the mirrors and on this black, marbled floor, you are not at the chairman’s dinner anymore, aren’t a servant anymore– you aren’t bound to any authority, are you?

“If you fucking call me ‘missy’ again, I’ll bite your fucking dick off.”

Except for the moment that you’re talking to him, a mafiaboss, whose breast is marked by— and you can see it very clearly now for it fits perfectly into yours— hands that have shared the same, if not a similar experience with you.

“How’d you know I was into biting, baby?”

And holy fuck, his back looks even crazier.

“God, sir,” you breathe out in awe and a little bit of fear. You can count the lines of red scratches on his back and as you finally let his shirt fall from his shoulders, the reflection of his muscles, how they relax under your touch. You become starstruck. Everything about him is so scarring, but fuck, how it attracts you, the wildness, the savagery— there’s something so free about him.

"What, baby? You like what you're seeing? How naughty..."

Ten minutes aren’t a lot, but Mr. Choi makes his best attempt to hurry over the trivial parts of fucking you. He steps closer, your ass hitting the handrail, legs crossing together, and your buttons pop in one rip, as his two hands rupture your blouse open. He lets his shirt drop to the floor, all the while his lips clash against the nook of your neck, making you sigh under the luminous lights of the elevator and grab his neck. You’re getting hazy, horny; damn, it’s been so long you’ve had a good fuck. Satisfactory sex is another luxury you were postponing for later.

With his lips sewn on your shoulder, kissing and forcing his tongue against a spot he deems especially tasty, the half-naked male unzips your skirt to finally reveal the black pantyhose that looks soaked in your slick. After he chuckles at the sight of it, Mr. Choi licks over his lips and cups your jaw with his hand, drawing a trail of insatiable kisses across your skin.

“Still wanna bite my dick off?”, he asks with a sly smirk, breathy, having caught your aroused look locked on his silver chains, his jacked upper body inviting you to get your mouth in there until it’s molded around your teeth.

“Come on, baby,” the male provokes you, “You think I’m gonna fuck you just like this? Think I’m gonna ram myself inside your cute fucking cunt ‘cause I’m such a big scary fucking man?”

You inhale sharply. “N- no, I…”, you breathe out, letting your tongue run over your teeth.

“Aw, baby, am I making you shy?”, Mr. Choi hoots, “I didn’t think you were a shy one. You were pretty noisy on my thigh for your cunt, weren’t you? Getting all the sounds out for brother to hear them… You really served a show there, baby.”

Your mouth only lets out stammered gibberish– you have never learnt how to talk dirty, but Mr. Choi uses your opened lips to ram his tongue into it again anyway, and you're almost proud to say you've gotten used to it.

He breathes rashly through his nose, and he tastes less of bourbon but more of dulcet desire, mixed in with the red of your lipstick sitting on his lip. Your knee strokes his erection while he gets his hands behind your back to get your bra off, lips clashing and raving against each other. “Letting your body talk for you?”, Mr. Choi husks, panting at having his overstrained cock touched. He relieves you from the pressure around the bust and continues to ramble. "I knew I could have a lot of fun with you the second I laid my eyes on you.” You pant and reunite your lips with his. "Little missy, such a whore for the rich."

He’s overconfident he’s seeing right through you, it infuriates you. Mr. Choi massages his hands into your breasts, the cold rings grazing sharply into your warm flesh, and as your knee is still between his crotch, you huff. You can be a whore for the rich when you’re earning money, but right now, you’re doing things for your own pleasure.

“Are you going to have a lot of fun with me?”, you sing-song in a high-pitched female voice to the mafiaboss that’s immediately taken aback, and you know the word 'missy' is on top of his tongue again, when you interrupt him with a quick jab of your knee into his groin. "Shit-eating fat-cat."

Mr. Choi grunts, head tilting down. His feline eyes meet your foxy ones, and while you weren't preparing for a staredown, the mafiaboss smirks and bites his lip.

He has a lot to say, you can see it. There’s something glimmering under the lust-drunken layer behind his eyes, and it’s deep, goes deeper, but for some reason, the mafiaboss, who just so despicably couldn’t hold his mouth, doesn’t let out the words that’s crossing his mind.

“Sir–”

Wrong deduction.

Mr. Choi scowls in laughter, and you guess he meant to joke with you, but he means to play with you much more, when he, once again, lifts you up, by your waist this time, and balances you on the handrail.

Resting his forearm on your thighs to stabilize you, Mr. Choi digs in his pocket to fetch his cigarette box, looking at himself through the mirror and shaking some strands out of his face. "Shit-eating fat-cat," he repeats with a lisp, pulling out one of the slim rolls with the corner of his mouth, and he continues to chuckle, as he glances at you through his eyelashes, "you should've said that to the old geezer when you had the chance to, baby."

"The chairman?"

No answer. Mr. Choi lights his cigarette with a zippo, and keeps it lit in his mouth, as he, with no forewarning, tears open your pantyhose from your crotch with both of his hands, spreading your legs wide. You have to get your hands around his head to be able to keep yourself on the handrail.

“Why do you look so scared? Think I’m gonna fuck you?”, he lisps. “I’m just taking a good look, baby. What a pretty cunt you got there, baby.”

You gulp. Mr. Choi slides his index finger across your heated folds through the fabric and your cunt clenches together, wanting to be filled up. “Sir,” you sigh, and the mafiaboss pulls in smoke from his cig, raising an eyebrow.

“What, baby? ‘You need something?”, he asks, “You’re not a fucking servant anymore, or do you need to be ordered around, missy?”

You try to look angry, but Mr. Choi only pouts and presses his finger through your panties, soaking them in your slick that’s gathered at your entrance. “Desperate to please the money-man? So wet for him…”

“Fuck you,” you mewl, but Mr. Choi knows what he’s doing when he thumbs your clit and exhales smoke into your face, hiding his face for a short second which gives you confidence. “I need you… to fuck me.”

“What did you say, baby? I couldn’t hear.”

“Please, sir, just… fuck me, please…”

“Louder.”

“God! Just fuck me! Didn’t you say we have ten minutes? Make them fucking count!”

“There we go, baby. My slutty little missy. Oh, baby, you’re growing on me, brother’s gonna hate that.”

You huff and Mr. Choi slides your panties off your legs, taking a short glimpse at his wristwatch. “Damn, ten’s really a short time.”

How many minutes have passed? Ten already? You know you said it, but you mentioned it only because it made sense, if you’re honest, you have no clue what the time is worth for. Aren't these the men who have time for gold?

The biting smell of tobacco enters your nose, making you cough out loud. Is smoking even allowed in the elevator? Wait, wait, wait, no, maybe you should worry about other things, for example what you're going to do when those ten minutes are over, when all of this is over. They clearly have some type of plan and thing they are carrying out right now, but you don’t know how much you’re invited in there.

Mr. Choi finishes his quick break, inhaling one last puff and keeping his cig between his lips again, and his hands unbuckle his belt in silence, while you contemplate.

Clanking, ruttling, and steps begin to thump behind the door— have any of you two even pressed a button? The mafiaboss looks concentrated, fixed on your cunt, taking out his throbbing, panging cock out his underwear, stroking it a few times to god, fuck, finally get to touch it after having been dry-humped hot.

Squelching, huffing, and voices echo through the floor— is that the chairman you hear? You can only yelp, when Mr. Choi drags off your panties and slathering his thick fingers across your folds in one, then penetrating with another forceful movement.

"Fuck!", you hiss out, grabbing the handrail next to your hips, trying to balance yourself on it still. The mafiaboss snickers into your ear, and tours through your cunt, all the while it appears that all hell is breaking loose outside.

BANG!

"Sir, what—!"

"Shhh, baby," Mr. Choi hushes you, and takes out his cig with the fingers that are now glistening with your wetness, placing it on top of his lips vertically to the scar that is accompanying his smug smirk.

BANG!

"You got nothin' to worry 'bout, baby," he lulls, "we're just eatin' the pheasant and the egg here," and exhales smoke into your face out his mouth-hole, which distracts you from the third, fourth—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Another proverb, pheasant and the egg— 'two birds with one stone'. Mr. Choi unfolds his hand as if he was counting the minutes, or the shots— wait, yes, shots! Fuck, those are gun-shots, right? You've never heard something so loud ever in your life, where does someone get guns from in South Korea? What even would they need guns for? Why would they use them? What the fuck is happening outside?!

"Oh, fuck!", you moan out, before fear and realization can crawl up your scalp and take away your lusting for the male, Mr. Choi has jerked his hip up, his cock gliding into you smoothly as if your cunt was made for him, the length and girth perfectly curling inside. Your back arches, at least as far as you can arch it, and he grins bemusedly at your jolted reaction.

BANG!

With every blast that follows, Mr. Choi is thrusting into you, first slowly, but then adding more speed and vigor as he goes, or as the blasting goes, making you shakily watch yourself be wrecked by the broad man through the reflection on the other side, your legs dangling with his rough movement.

You don't know how he's fucking you through your tightness, because with each ducking of his hips it feels like your inner walls are expanding more and ungodly more, as if he was piercing you in half.

Small puffs of smoke leave Mr. Choi's mouth each time he pants out raspy "oh baby"s and loud claps of him slapping your ass overtone the screaming, scrambling noises outside, as you two work your lower bodies against and into each other, growing more passionate, throbbing feverishly.

"Fuck, baby," Mr. Choi hisses, cigarette tilting in his mouth, as his face frowns together. "So fucking good for daddy, aren't you? So fucking tight and wet, such a good fucking girl—"

The screams outside are dying down, but the mafiaboss and you are getting louder, breathier, lustier; with your head falling backwards, hitting the mirror, the twisting feeling of fear and the ecstasy to be bouncing on Mr. Choi's big cock mix up like one hellish drink, boiling and churning inside of you.

Smashing both his hands on each of you ass-cheeks to dig his fingers into them and get more stability to ram into you so fast, and oh boy, it's so fucking fast, you're going to spiral— Mr. Choi sputters, "Are you gonna come? Are you going to come for daddy, baby? Greedy baby gonna take daddy's huge fucking load?"

The male is unraveling, his once low, stable voice turning into a whiny, hoarse, cracked mess just like you, practically urging, begging you to finally take the name ‘daddy’ into your mouth.

"Come on baby, say it for me, huh? Feels good to be my slut?", he disentangles, "Be a good slut for daddy, baby."

"I'm not gonna call you— that, fuckhead!", you moan, though your insides are curdling together to finally be released, the knot tightening with each drop of sweat that is forming on your boiling face.

"Really? Think you can afford to misbehave, baby?", Mr. Choi snickers and spits his cig on the floor, your ass being handled at an insane speed, his cock slipping in and out of you with rough ease. He takes it upon himself to dig his teeth into the nook of your neck, biting you heftily, your pulse knocking against your throat, as you feel his cock run in and out of your cunt. Your head goes light and dazed, but before you can gasp out your high from being fucked, bitten, sent to bliss, the male sinks you deep into his cock fully, it does not give you the last thrust you would need to—

"Fuckfuckfuck, I'm gonna cum," you whimper, needing to tremble, but unable to move because his hands are restricting you from any movement, and you continue to bring out a string of weak "pleasepleaseplease" that bounces back from the mafiaboss, who is raising an eyebrow, waiting for the magic word to be spoken out of your wet lips. Tears have formed at the corner of your eye and he thumbs it away, grinning coyly.

"Fuck you, I'mnotgonna fucking, ugh—!", you sob, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

"Aww, you wanna hate daddy so bad, don’t you?”

“Fuuuck you!” Whines leave your mouth, wanting to cum, wanting to move, wanting for Mr. Choi to continue fucking into you and not wipe away your tears.

“Just say you love me, baby,” he heaves and returns his hand to your hip.

Thrusting into you once with a clap against your groin, to make your cunt clench around him, and then twice with the last blood-curdling BANG! from outside, his cock is deep inside you. He feels you tighten, pulsate, craving to be released, but Mr. Choi will not move again to your liking until you finally let go of yourself, which riles you up with no hope.

"F— Fuuuck, okay!", you scream out, annoyed, angry, wanting to fucking cum; "Daddy!", you sob and Mr. Choi smirks, instantly getting to work to toast the adieu of your pride. Thumb on your clit, he circles around your sensitive bud to double the tension you feel through all of your body, while you gutter, "fuck me, daddy, please, make me cum, please, daddy, please—"

He laughs, no, howls— elated, animated, drunk, and then, with his strong, buff fucking arms, pounds you into his cock like a punching bag, your ass hitting his pelvis so many times until you have to use his gelled hair as a last resort to hold yourself up and not push yourself from the handrail with your head against the mirror, but he holds you, holds you steadily in his grip.

"Good god, good fucking missy, such a good fucking slut for me, cum all over my cock– all over my fucking cock, baby," Mr. Choi grunts, and the string that was keeping you balanced snaps, your orgasm hitting you like that makes your insides tighten around the mafiaboss and his throbbing girth, your whole body being flushed by an overwhelming wave of pleasure which you drink up whole. His cockhead rubs against your sweetspot, you riding out the high while seeing nothing but bliss.

"Holy fuck," you breathe, and your fingers grip into the thick skin of his back, and with Mr. Choi's hips not stopping to hit your pelvis, there are additional, injuring, deep red marks on there with every thrust. You’re scratching him like a beast wanting to tear up its prey, but the beast is fucking into you like there’s no tomorrow. His cock does not stop grazing against your deepest spot, tears rolling down your heated cheek, and your mouth is unable to get out the words you want it to when you get the feeling that he's going to cum soon.

"O- out," you warn him, but the mafiaboss makes a disappointed face, “I– I really can’t afford a child, p-please pull out–!”

He draws his eyebrows in, scoffs and looks you deep in the eyes, his muscular body tucked in, murmuring, rambling out his whiskey-painted throat, “Is that really your only problem, baby? That you don’t have enough money?” His forehead leans against yours and your eyelids flutter open– you are being a mitt around his dick– and he pouts in pity, his iron cross hanging from his chest, as he talks to you.

Mr. Choi gets his hand flat on your lower belly and presses down on it, feeling himself bulge inside you. He moves his hips slowly, his cockhead dragging across your sweetspot, while he gutters, “you’d look so sexy as a mother, don’t you think, baby? With the tummy and all.”

“S- sir, please I–”

"Come on, do you think I don’t have enough money to pay for a fucking kid? God, how fucking annoying– I’m not that kind of man, baby,” Mr Choi growls, his voice vibrating against your cheek, as he charges his forehead deeper against yours, “I still got some honor.”

You shake your head, unsure whether there are pills for after in the pharmacies, or whether the mafiaboss will really be there to be with you as he promises, but Mr. Choi continues to beg in his low breathy, guttery voice. “Baby,” he rumbles, pressing even harder on your abdomen, your ass being pushed into the handrail that you’re sure it’s going to leave one red straight mark, and his cock is almost exploding from the edge, “Let me, no, let daddy cum into your tight cunt, baby, please.”

God, he wants you. He wants you so bad, doesn’t he?

"Y- you should see yourself," you chuckle, stroking over Mr. Choi's gelled hair, and his head tilts up a little bit as your fingers get tangled in his black locks, the white of his eyes making him look like a wild dog waiting for its treat. "F-fucking do it, you fucking slut."

"Fuck, baby," he laughs, out of breath, "You’re really a price."

Mr. Choi hammers his hips into you, until the stars in front of you all look like wishes falling from the sky. Both of you feel it, how his cock just feels so right, fits in like your cunt is a fucking glove which is full and getting even fuller.

"God, fuck," Mr. Choi grunts from the bottom of his throat, his hot cum lading into you, and it's like your lower body is melting with it, becoming heavier with every drop he's unloading inside.

"Take all of my fucking cum," he husks and your faces clash together for one finishing wild kiss. Mr. Choi sucks on your lower lip, as he fucks his ejaculation deeper and deeper into your hole with slow thrusts, until he bucks up his pelvis the last time and moans out a raspy, “perfect fucking missy with a perfect fucking cunt..."

Ding!

For a man that uses his mouth so sparingly, his tongue surely works wonders.

"Sir, are you—"

Headman Park has entered the elevator without a word, pulling off his leather gloves, and with Mr. Choi stepping away, he has all the place he requires to get on his knees and throw your leg over his shoulder, his wet and warm muscle delving into your throbbing cunt. You've been bereaved of the time to inspect what was behind or around him when the door closed, but maybe that's irrelevant anyways. What is relevant, is how impatient, but also how careful the CEO remains, and how he still tries his best to slowly sift his tongue into your folds, feeling every inch of your wetness. He’s been dying to do this.

"Fuck, sir!"

"Please," the CEO chuckles, hastily pulling the black leathery from his hands to put it back in his briefcase that he's been carrying, but he doesn't miss your cunt once, purling over your clit and glancing at you. "Call me Seonghwa, princess."

You could cum right here and there, just at the sight of this pretty man looking up to you, who has laid out his first name and put it into yours, scream it out loud until everyone hears what a princess you've been made of.

Princess. You knew his eyes were different, but you didn’t know they saw the world differently too. Oh, how you wish you could see more of his world.

"Aww, what? That's why you're still a foreigner in our country, brother! 'Can't be dropping our titles," Mr. Choi huffs and lights himself a second cigarette, filling the elevator with smoke and tobacco. How his breath really doesn't smell is questionable to you.

Just like you, the CEO, or how you're allowed to call him now— Seonghwa, ignores his partner's words, laps over your clit with his tongue, gently easing into your cunt with his clean fingers, and your soft sighs are like a reward for him, for whatever he's done outside.

"Respect, brother, 's all about respect..."

You tighten your thighs around Seonghwa's neck. The charcoal-haired has closed his eyes, sighing into the taste of you, and you are flawlessly overlooking the loud mafiaboss, just completely concentrating on the commitment the CEO is eating you out with. His head fits magically between your legs, he works his fingers so flawlessly into you, this must be fate— and if it's not, you're going to make it your future in any which way possible. You're falling. No, flying; never coming down.

"Seonghwa," you whine, and your hand glides over the hooked male's forehead, his hair feeling smooth under your touch as he presses his tongue slowly— in circular motion— against your clit to keep you on the high, but not in a way that would make you trip over.

"Mmf," the mafiaboss in front of you huffs, clearly attracted, enticed by the way you've exhaled the other male’s first name, scratching his temple with the fingers that are holding his cigarette.

"Whether you wanna call me San or 'daddy', baby," the scarred male, no, San, the fucker grins, "I'm gonna be hearing both either way."

"Fuck—", you moan out, having to take a breath because of how Seonghwa has curled his fingers into you with his tongue ready to shovel anything into his mouth that comes out, "you, fuckhead!"

The CEO is giggling a bit, finding your tone very amusing— and he tries to tell you this by looking up and slanting his eyes a friendly way, no, a way that you've never even conjured up the fantasy to perceive him, the cold-faced Park Seonghwa who hasn't drunk a drop of alcohol tonight. What pureness in a man...

"I liked 'fat-cat' better,” San snickers and goes through his hair that definitely needs combing, turning around and looking at himself through the mirror, though his eyes squint towards Seonghwa's reflection on the other side, now again lost in your cunt, taking off his jacket and folding it in half behind his back.

"Brother, you're eating my cum, by the way," the mafiaboss jabs, puffing out smoke while he's decidedly getting hard again in his trousers. San really can't hide his emotions on his face, can he? His lips are pursed, eyebrows slightly pulled in— how obvious. The man is jealous and doesn't want to admit it, you're sure of it.

"Shut up," you hiss, having become a bit comfortable with teasing the frustrated, outwitted mafiaboss. Ten minutes were definitely too little for him, but you've already rid his thigh, let him cum inside, and Seonghwa is simply too good with his tongue right now.

"Fuuuck," you whisper, and feel every drowsy twirl of his finger inside you, but it's slow, so slow, Seonghwa is swerving around every sponginess inside you, savoring the contraction of your inner space, and how your muscles tighten, when he licks over your clit, he enjoys this; enjoys you.

And so it continues, Park Seonghwa exploring every detail of your cunt as if he's a sommelier tasting the rarest of fluids, appreciating every drop that lands on his tongue, his fingers making sure that they don't go to waste.

"Shit," San comments, "I should've eaten her out, too."

The CEO is not cocky about it, about the way you are grabbing into his hair and squirming, how he has to slightly lift you up so you don't fall from your position. And then, when Seonghwa thinks your taste has perfectly coated his palate, speeds up.

"Fuck, sir," and the title slips out of you, like a habit you can't change for good when you feel so small. The CEO between your legs doesn't mind it though, at least doesn't say anything on it and just lets his fingers hit your sweet spot until there is a distinctive "Seonghwa" leaving sighed out your lips.

"I'm going to—", you announce, but the male has been long aware of it, preparing himself more access by bending his upper body to angle himself across your cunt, giving his partner a better view on how you glisten in arousal.

San in front of you is standing frozen, with his cigarette slowly burning out in his mouth, and you recompense the lack of his cock in your cunt by moaning louder, so your voice can vibrate around his erection. He grins and gets a tongue to his canine tooth, naked upper body still glowing in sweat, muscles shining, cock twitching every time he hears you breathe, and breathe more intensely, "make me cum, Seonghwa, please!"

"I knew you would taste delicious," Seonghwa murmurs, silently, rather for himself, and this must be how he sounds when he's drunk, because he is so high on your taste, "but this is ambrosial, princess."

You curl up your pelvis, and Seonghwa holds you by your hips, as his tongue picks up in speed, drawing out every word he hasn't spoken tonight on your labia, stamping them into your clit, all the while his fingers row in more and every last drop.

"C- coming~", you purr, and your eyes close down, your hands deep in Seonghwa's scalp, exhaling the weight of your worries, that flushes down into the man who seems to have none in his life, and he breathes into your hot cunt through his nose, not letting go of it until he's made sure that your hips tremble around his head. "P- please, f- fuck, fuck, feels so good—"

Pumping the remaining come into you, Seonghwa licks up your cunt and kisses your clit until you go completely flaccid, your arms giving in, but Seonghwa catches you by your hand, kissing your thigh with his swollen pink lips.

With your body relaxed, your ass feels a bite sore, having been prodded into the iron rail for so long. You grab into Seonghwa's hand and try to push yourself up, but ultimately fail at getting yourself into a more comfortable position.

"San, hold her."

"Huh?", he asks, "'Need something more snuggly, baby? Or what did you call her again, brother?"

"Princess," the CEO answers immediately and you have to suppress a girly giggle, as Seonghwa turns his head around, lips still pressed against your thigh. He presumably sends San an admonitory look to hurry up, and gets up from his knees.

The mafiaboss shrugs, not offended by being ordered around. He puts out the cigarette against the mirror and cracks his neck by rolling his head around, his thick neck dousing into your sight as he does so. He's so intimidating, you think, but he's on his way to coast those monster-arms behind your back, hands down to each of your hamstrings to, "up you go," pick you up like real royalty. The giggle escapes your mouth but you don't feel the slightest embarrassed nor do you have a reason to be. You are sunken deep into San’s cushiony arms— his muscles make for a great seat, and hovering, air hitting your hot cunt, as your legs spread for the CEO in front of you when you fall into the elbows. You yelp, but the giggles just keep coming, making San in the mirror in front of you wink at you, cackling, "you like that, princess?"

Seonghwa smiles, satisfied by your enjoyment of this position and approaches you once more. "I have yet to kiss you, Y/N," he says with his sweet voice, and his gentle hands find your chin and waist, your eyes blossoming open for him to stare into.

Even San shuts up now, and you suppose he is too taking part in the beauty that is the embrace of you and Seonghwa; two sets of lips, crazing each other, meeting for one flowery affair, breathing out small vapors of life. You can taste yourself, which means that Seonghwa is fully consumed by your aroma.

God, you think again, your cunt tingling at how Seonghwa tugs at his tie, pulling it side to side as he kisses you— the golden 'π'-pin clanks shrill to the floor— everything about Seonghwa is so...

Clean?

You are inhaling the mellow smell of his satiny skin, and the CEO unbuttons his shirt with proficient, skilfull flicks of his fingers. He is so handsome, handsomely pretty, and even when it’s drenched in your fluids, his skin shines on its own, like Seonghwa has a light shining within. Once you can see his bare chest and get lost on the smooth surface, your eyes dive down, admiring his slim, yet very muscular physique.

Seonghwa gets his tie and drags off his shirt by tugging at one sleeve with his hand, the white fabric revealing the rest of body with one clean pull that matches one of the curtains.

"W-", and you have to jump back with your head to get the full spectacle that's presented in front of you, exhaling in awe— "Wow.."

"Not so blank, our brother, is he?", San chuckles from behind of you and lowers his head to press his chin against your temple, surveying the same sight.

Two colossal, monstrous dragons, red and black, are colliding, looped, entangled all around Seonghwa's right arm, fighting for dominance on his skin. The raven hydra has its jaw wide open where Seonghwa looks to his shoulder with a rather shy smile once he sees your reaction, baring its teeth towards his heart, while the crimson dragon ends at the CEO's wrist, sitting on top of his pulse.

"Would you believe me it was brother's idea, baby?"

"As if," Seonghwa murmurs, folding his shirt into a square.

San chuckles again, re-shuffling himself and pressing your back close to his stomach, granting the back of your head to rest at his collarbone. "I asked her if she would believe, brother."

You watch the delicate lines, the elegant strokes of tint meeting on his skin, but while your first impression made you believe they carried a certain viciousness with their svelte bodies, the second sight presents you a different image of two forces maneuvering into each other as a reminder that they both co-exist as supreme. It's not one another they're reviling against, it's the bearer of the both who is threatened by their fangs. Their existence is a warning reminder, but also a sign of pride.

"I believe it's... beautiful."

“Aw, you’re so sweet, baby.”

You haven't seen many tattoos in your life, none in the mountains, and even in the city the only observable tattoos were those of the sleazy guys in alleys that wait when you're done with your job to gape at your uniform. They got tigers and other animals roaring on their bodies to hide the fact they don't have the fighting skills to keep up, but for Seonghwa, a CEO, to have this amount of ink under his skin is a commitment and to imagine he’s hiding that under his ironed shirt and black jacket, no, that you are seeing it right now, it’s… You’re overwrought, steamed up, aflame.

"Wanna touch it, baby?", San asks, and you nod eagerly. Seonghwa chuckles, “Go for it.”

You let your fingertip ghost over the dragons' scales, tailing their curvature. Goosebumps form on Seonghwa's arm and his hand finds its way to your head, stroking your cheek, as you meet the red beast's eyes.

The mafiaboss whispers, almost sentimentally, "No blood or tears."

Another expression, which proves to you that the tattoo was undoubtedly his idea, but you see it, the romance that is spoken from the male's skin, regardless of the little insight you have on both of them. Loyalty, reverence, creed, a belief and a duty, and before you know it, you want Seonghwa to enwrap you with his arms and never let you go, which he does.

His slender hand cloaks the left side of your head, and he pulls himself into a kiss, while he unbuckles his belt with his other hand.

You don't know how much you understand of this situation, no, you don't know how much you want to understand of this situation.

You've been on your own. That's all you ever had after you left home: Your body and soul, the windstorms of the mountains pushing you from the back to keep going, and you've lived your best life living for yourself that way, in bliss, in ignorance— in peace, but what is peace in a place where you can't move by yourself? In a world that’s maimed by the rich, and sure, it may be that you’ve chosen your path, but you were never walking a road that was yours, always trailing behind something.

Nameless, that’s what you thought you would need to be.

Your monks wanted to be called their title like everyone else, it would have been disrespectful to ask Lady Kim for hers which you now regret, and not even as a secret did your old man tell you his name, but you— you, Y/N, you have a name and you want to scream it, live it as loud as you can, hear it echo back with a volume that feels stronger when it rings back.

You could have settled on being acknowledged by your supervisor to earn some good money, but this is what you’re here for, aren’t you? Why you trusted your gut to stick to the scary men? Why you walked to them with confident steps, even when a nervous knot was forming together inside you? Did you go as what, an act of defiance? One of independence? To prove yourself that you were still standing on your own feet?

"Speaking of, brother..."

Yes, with no shame.

"You really enjoyed yourself back there, didn’t you?”, San asks. “Didn’t expect that from you.”

Seonghwa is kissing you down your breast, observing closely how you breathlessly react to his tongue twirling around your nipple.

"You left me no other chance," the older male hums, coating your circular buds with his saliva, bringing out your heavenly sighs every chance he gets, stroking himself to the sounds of your pleasure.

"Well, I would have made sure you still fucked her, brother."

“Sure,” Seonghwa lisps and positions his cockhead at your entrance.

You try to grab San's shoulder behind you, as the male pushes himself inside, and your torso rotates to the side with your eyebrows pulling together, your cunt being spread apart. “F-fuck,” you exhale, and Seonghwa kisses the corner of your lip to soothe you. Your cunt squelches around his cock and your hips roll by themselves, wanting to take more of his length.

"Shit, look at her go," the mafiaboss woos, "Fuck yourself out, brother."

"Think you’ll miss this?", Seonghwa snickers and it must be the first question he has asked today. “Y- yeah, you will!”, you snap, feeling eager to be acknowledged for how good your cunt wraps around his throbbing heat.

“Oh, princess,” the CEO laughs, and your stomach drops because of how pretty his laughter sounds, and he caresses your cheek, only making your confusion and desire to finally uncover what the two men have obviously been keeping from you grow bigger. You don’t want to say it abruptly, but you three are naked, in a confined space, skins pressed against each other, so you believe you’re worth some type of explanation– or are you not?

“C- can you tell me what’s going to happen?”, you whine, and Seonghwa moves his hips, grabbing you by your waist to get his whole length. “Are you, fuck, going to leave me?”

“I dunno, brother, you call it,” San mutters. “It was your plan.”

“D- don’t!”

“It’s barely my plan anymore,” Seonghwa breathes, bucking his pelvis in, his cockhead being sucked in by your sensitive cunt.

“Don’t leave me!”

“You needed a distraction, brother, I got you one.”

“No,” Seonghwa chuckles, but in his heat, he kisses you and glances up at San while his tongue brushes against your lip. “But I’ll admit she saved us some jail-time, San.”

They continue talking over your pleas, and though you would have loved to ask a second time how the night was going to end, your brain has started to give into the pleasure once San folds your legs together, holding you by your hamstrings, giving Seonghwa an easier angle to fuck you senseless.

“F- fu-huuck,” you breathe out, and your eyes are disappearing behind your molten, droopy eyelids, with Seonghwa cumming for the second time on your abdomen and cleaning it up with his handkerchief, and you don’t even know when it was, that San crammed out his cock again, but you can definitely feel the difference of his girth, when he re-enters your used cunt, your legs shakily landing on the floor. They feel wobbly, your thighs having gone loose, and the mafiaboss has to hold you by your arms behind your back to support you.

“Can’t take it anymore, baby?”, San whispers into your ear, and his voice is low, very low, you don’t know how much time has passed since you could make out any of his words, but it feels like you’re back here, in the elevator, and Seonghwa is putting on his belt again.

“I c- can!”, you manage to whine out, not wanting the night to end, not wanting to return to your small apartment, not wanting these two to be gone from your life. “I can!”, you repeat yourself, when San lets out a mockful cackle. “You’re not going to fucking leave me here, San!”

“Who said anything about leaving you here, baby?”, he asks you, and he does mean his confusion, but the sarcastic undertone makes you desperate grow desperate. San frowns. “What did I tell you, baby?”

“You aren’t telling me shit, San!”, you sob, and his cock running through you prevents you from finding a braver voice, his two hands find your wrists to bind them together in his grip. “Aren’t you such a smartie,” he growls into your ear, hot air hitting your dissolving ear.

“Brother,” San calls out, and the addressed man is busy opening up his briefcase, getting on his knee. “I’m still waiting on you, y’know.”

“If you had stuck to the plan, th–” Seonghwa murmurs, but the mafiaboss falls into his word. “Then we would have fuckin’ send the bitch to prison and someone else would have him killed him, but there! You know I didn’t come with the fucking patience for that, brother! Geezer was getting on my fucking nerves.”

Killed?

“And don’t you talk back now,” San warns, “It was you who killed all of ‘em, so you figure out how you’re going to carry that one out.”

Killed?

“You already know how I’m going to carry this out.” Seonghwa smirks. “But you’re stopping me, San.”

“Augh, brother, you’re too sober for your own sake!” San’s cock is too deep in your cunt and your body is too much in his control for you to stop moaning like a bitch, but in your head, you’re puzzling together tonight’s happenings.

Expensive whiskey. Ice cubes. Ten minutes, gunshots, black leather gloves– “killed.”

Oh, Y/N.

“What did you do with the chairman, Seonghwa?”, you moan out, feeling how the mafiaboss is ramming himself into you at a sloppy, greedy pace, prolonging how much he can be inside you before he comes again, and you don’t know whether his heavy breathing can cover up the silence that it takes for the CEO to react to your question.

Seonghwa is still kneeled on the floor, when he rotates his head, smiling, his eyebrows pushed up. “What do you think I did?” His second question of the day.

“I- I,” you stutter, but San shakes his head, and interrupts you with his voice still loose from the alcohol, “you really don’t know how to keep up a good mood, brother!”, grabbing you by your chin and yanking your head up. “Lemme make my baby cum first!”

You can’t see Seonghwa anymore. You can barely see anything anymore, you’re counting your fifth or sixth orgasm of the night, cunt growing hotter with each time San thrusts into it, and with your breath being cut off, you slowly feel your arms lose their responsibility, tingling up from where your wrists are crossed behind your back. His cockhead is flaying against your g-spot and your thighs tremble at how used you’re being, eyes falling in, throat feeling tied up.

“S- San,” you manage to cough out, back arching for your final cry of pleasure, and San grins, letting go of your wrists, which makes you immediately fall to the front, finding safety against the mirror with both of your hands. He smacks his hands against your ass and lunges into you until your whole breast is pushed against the cold wall.

“Come on, baby, come for me,” San roars, and you wail, tired, exhausted, feeling the orgasm drown you like another wave in the ocean of bliss you’ve been swimming in, whining out, “coming, coming for you, San!”

The mafiaboss presses himself against your back, his silver cross being imprinted into your neck, as he unloads himself, his last drops of hot cum overflowing out of you. “Fucking slut… So fucking good…”

He kisses your jaw repeatedly and looks at how tiredly closed your eyes are in the mirror, cooing “aww, baby.” San strokes away a strand of hair and gets himself off your body, pulling out. “You look like you need some sleep, baby.”

You are trying to catch your breath, grabbing the handrail to hold yourself up, as it sounds like San is putting on his shirt again. They’re gonna fucking leave you here, aren’t they? Leave you here in the elevator with the– with the fucking bankrolls on the floor of the fucking men you fucking– Oh god… Keep breathing, Y/N. Keep on breathing.

“I mean all I’m saying… you know… lobsters and crabs are friends, pal.”

What the fuck is he on again…

“You’re making this hard on yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything, just sayin’ that she just grew on me, that’s all.”

Your legs tremble, as you try straightening them to stand up and see what the two are scheming again, but as you turn your body around, ass against the handrail again, you hear a very unfamiliar clicking in front of your forehead area which is not coming out of San’s mouth.

“You’ve grown soft. That’s what you did.”

“Ahhh, fuck you, brother.”

“Pathetic.”

You see a hole, and it also doesn’t take you long to see Seonghwa ready to pull the trigger, the mafiaboss leaning into the corner of the elevator, arms crossed, looking at you with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, pressing the button that leads to the lobby.

The night is over.

“A- are you going to– oh my g-god, are you going to kill me…?”

“Yes, princess.”

Your heart is going to burst, you could puke out so many words right now, but you don’t know what to do. You don’t want to die, not when you felt so fucking alive– you– fuck, you should feel sorry that your coworkers that they didn’t deserve to go the same way as the asswipes did, because you’ve long realised that the bangs were their skulls being crushed by the bullets, but at the same time you couldn’t care any fucking less about them right now. You just have to survive, that was the only thing that mattered since the very beginning. This is about your life. Your precious fucking life.

“Ah…”

Your body is too weak to hyperventilate, but your brain is working overtime. Do you run? Attack them? No…

Seonghwa hasn’t moved an inch away from your face, and you take it upon yourself to raise your hand and slowly push the cold, black gun to the side, so you can look him in his eyes, but he forces it back there.

“Please don’t kill me… I can do so much for you! I– I,” you stutter, trying to gather all the knowledge your monks have taught you. “I– I’ll do anything! You– you saw me, didn’t you? I have– I’ve been told I have a talent for serving! I– I can do anything, please, I beg you, just…”

You fall to your knees, and they burn on the glassy floor, your hands folded in front of your abdomen.

“Just please, let me live…”

You’re not greedy. You’ve only taken what you were given, and tonight, you’ve been given so much. Too much? No, it couldn’t be…

“Brother.”

There are tears flowing down your eyes, and you feel so sorry for yourself. You miss your old monk, and hope that you may be reincarnated to a butterfly that he can admire, just so that he can look at you with his adoring eyes again. So someone can want the best for you once in your life–

“Brother?”

So anyone can finally love you for once in your life.

638 notes · View notes

chesapeakescove · 10 days ago

Text

Burn Out Bright

Book One - Light the Spark | Chapter Six: Tick, Tick… BOOM

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Lizzie McKean (Original Character)

Summary. In the high-octane world of Formula 1, Lizzie McKean is a force to be reckoned with. As the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in nearly two decades, Lizzie is determined to make history. Her dream is simple: win a formula one race, become the first female World Driver's Champion, and prove everyone who's ever doubted her wrong. Yet beneath her fierce exterior lies a heart shattered by grief and hungry for revenge. After losing her brother in 2016 after a tragic Formula One crash at Spa, Lizzie is forced to race once more against childhood rival Max Verstappen—the very man who caused that fatal crash and who once held her heart. As the 2019 championship season accelerates, their tumultuous rivalry reignites on track, forcing Lizzie to confront her unresolved feelings and the pain of the past.

Warnings. Slow burn that HURTS at times, but it's gonna get so juicy. This story will be updated hopefully on a regular cadence, usually once every week or so! Also: +18 content: sexual intercourse, sexual language, profanity, SMUT, depictions of violence, references to drinking and drug abuse, implied/referenced grooming, and D.V.

Notes. BUCKLE UP PEOPLE!!! This shit escalates so quickly hahahaha Im sorry but it's a really great look into Lizzie's thoughts and feelings. But I hope this chapter helps to give more context (and a little foreshadowing) to other areas like what has been going on in Lizzie's life in the past as well as more recently it the story, ft. Charles being the sweet friend he is and some moody Seb moments. Let me know what you think of this, and as always I didn't proof read any of this to ignore any typos! Happy reading! <3

Tags. original female character, Max Verstappen X OC, Sebastian Vettel X OC, Enemies to Lovers, Competition, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Daddy Issues, References to Depression, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Burn Scars, Car Accidents, Explicit Sexual Content, Drunk confessions, Max Verstappen is Bad at Feelings, Drinking to Cope, Implied/Referenced Grooming, Age Difference, Sebastian Vettel Being an Asshole, Female Formula 1 Driver, Jealousy, Cheating, Secret Relationship, Jos Verstappen Is His Own Warning, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Drunk Sex, Identity Reveal, When Will These Two Morons Kiss?, The sexual tension between these two is crazy, Max Verstappen Has a Praise Kink, Lizzie hating her scars, Protective Torger "Toto" Wolff, Mika Hakkinen being the local paddock DILF per usual, because Lizzie's dad is too busy being an absent father, secondary romantic plots, But we all know where this is going, Hurt/Comfort, Gender and Power Dynamics, Feminist Themes, this one has character development! I hope.

Taglist. want to join or be removed from my taglist? send me an ask or comment below!

Rules BoB Masterlist AO3 Work Next →

Brazilian Grand Prix

November 9, 2018

FP1

- 𓅂 -

Lizzie stormed down the pit lane, her pace brisk, her breath sharp, her heartbeat a relentless ticking against her ribs. She felt like a time bomb, wires pulled taut, seconds slipping away with every step she took. She needed to get away—now—before she detonated. Before the frustration boiling beneath her skin turned into something she couldn’t pull back from.

Tick ... Tick .. Tick ...

The McLaren garage was a suffocating pressure chamber, winding the clock tighter and tighter. The car was worse than she had ever imagined, a stubborn, unresponsive machine that fought her at every turn. When she needed speed, it dragged its feet; when she needed control, it slipped through her fingers. And worst of all, McLaren wouldn’t let her drive it the way she needed to. Every time she tried to force more out of it, to push beyond the brittle, fragile limits they had set for her, they reeled her in like she was something dangerous. Like she was a risk they had no idea how to contain.

Tick... Tick ... Tick ...

And Max. His name alone sent another shockwave through her, another tick on the countdown. His reckless, selfish maneuver had nearly sent her off the track—her, not him. It had ruined what could have been her moment to finally prove herself, to show McLaren that they were the ones holding her back, not the other way around. Instead, it had done the opposite, confirming every doubt they had about her, every reason they had to clip her wings. And Max had just walked away from it completely unbothered. No apology, no acknowledgment—just that infuriating, dismissive attitude, like she hadn’t even been a factor in his world at all.

The moment had cost her, and the numbers in her head kept ticking down, ticking toward something inevitable.

Fernando’s comment back in the garage had been simple, uncomplicated, but it had only twisted the wires inside her even tighter. They’ll never let you drive the way you want to. They’re too afraid to let you push. They will always see you as a liability.

She hated that he was right. She hated that the countdown kept going, winding down second by second, closer and closer to the moment she wouldn’t be able to hold it all in anymore.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Behind her, Zak Brown called her name, his voice sharp but hushed, careful not to draw too much attention from the cameras nearby. "Lizzie! Hold on a second."

She kept walking.

"Lizzie," he tried again, his tone forced into something almost calm, almost joking as he finally came up next to her, but the tension bled through. "Come back to the garage. Let's talk about what happened."He sighed, picking up his pace slightly to walk beside her as he fought the anger that Lizzie knew was rising in his voice. "We need to debrief. You can't just walk off like this..."

Lizzie let out a bitter laugh, her hands curling into fists as she spoke in a hushed tone. "What’s there to talk about? You said bring it in. Team's orders, right?"

Zak glowered, his voice lowering further. "Look, I saw what happened. We've notified the stewards, I am just trying to manage this situation so that you don't—"

"Don't what?" Lizzie snapped, stopping abruptly and turning to face him. She shouldn't say it, she knew she shouldn't say it, but the desire to wipe the scornful look of Zak's face was growing and growing.

Zak pressed his lips together, glancing around at the eyes already starting to linger in their direction as a tight smile formed on his face. "Lizzie, please. Let’s not do this here."

She clenched her jaw, forcing her steps to stay steady. She wanted to lash out, to tell him exactly what she thought—that the car was shit, that they were suffocating her, that she felt completely alone on this team. But Toto's voice echoed in her head, the quiet authority behind his belief in her. Show them that you're ready to earn your place. You belong here. She couldn’t disappoint him, not now. So instead, she swallowed the anger, forcing it down with a deep, shaky breath.

"I just need a moment ... please," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll come back when I've composed myself."

Zak sighed, his frustration clear, but he hesitated, scanning her face. She knew he was weighing his options—pressing her further would risk a public scene, something he couldn’t afford. Finally, he exhaled and nodded. "Fine. But don’t take too long. We need you back in the garage."

Lizzie barely acknowledged Zak as he stepped away, the tension in her chest refusing to ease. Her fingers twitched at her sides, her breath coming too shallow, too fast. She cast a glance around, desperate for somewhere—anywhere—to pull herself together, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape the eyes she could feel shifting toward her.

The paddock was a living, breathing entity, chaotic and relentless, pressing in on her from every direction. The hum of activity blurred into a suffocating wall of noise—the high-pitched whine of a drill in a neighboring garage, the deep rumble of an engine firing to life, the clipped, hurried conversations of engineers and mechanics dissecting lap data. It all blended together, a crushing force wrapping around her lungs, making her breathing feel too tight, too constrained.

Then came the voices—reporters murmuring into headsets, their practiced, polished tones slicing through the noise. A few feet away, a camera crew huddled around a live broadcast, and she caught the faintest fragments of their words—her name, McLaren, new struggles, tense debrief.

Her stomach lurched.

More eyes. More speculation. More people watching her every move, dissecting it, waiting for her to slip up.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Lizzie’s skin prickled, a crawling sensation along the back of her neck. The pit lane felt suddenly smaller, the garages hemming her in, the mass of bodies moving around her tightening the space, leaving her nowhere to go. She forced a swallow, but her throat felt thick, her pulse hammering too loud in her ears.

She needed to get out. Needed air.

Her breathing came in uneven bursts now, her ribs straining against the rising panic pressing down on her. She glanced toward the McLaren garage, but that wasn’t an option—going back now would mean cameras in her face, Zak waiting with his carefully measured disappointment, the engineers whispering about her behind their screens.

Her vision darted elsewhere—Mercedes, no. Ferrari, impossible. The press pen loomed just ahead, a barrier she couldn’t risk crossing. Everywhere she turned, there were people, more people, all moving with purpose while she stood frozen, trapped in the middle of it all.

The walls were closing in, the paddock swallowing her whole.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Then, a voice—one achingly familiar—cut through the noise.

"Lizzie?"

She froze. Her feet had seemingly carried her exactly where she needed to be—near the Alfa Romeo garage, away from the suffocating tension of McLaren, and to someone who felt like home.

Turning, she saw Charles stepping out, his fireproofs unzipped to his waist, his hair slightly damp from sweat. His practice session had just ended, he was clearly exhausted from the drive, and yet he looked at her with nothing but concern.

Without thinking, Lizzie closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him. He didn’t hesitate, embracing her tightly, the familiarity of it grounding her in a way nothing else had. She didn't care that there were cameras everywhere, that people might find it strange for her to embrace a competitor like that—none of it mattered. Charles presence was warm, comforting, and safe like it always was.

"I've been looking for you all day," she said against his cheek, the words small but genuine.

"Sorry about that, they've had me running in every direction." Charles murmured against her hair. "You okay?"

.Lizzie had heard that question before, from the same voice, under very different circumstances.

She remembered sitting across from Charles in a dimly lit café in Monaco over a year ago, the august rain smearing the windows, making the world outside look as unsteady as she felt. She had been staring at the untouched cappuccino in front of her, the foam long since melted into the espresso. She didn’t know why she had ordered it. She had barely been eating or sleeping back then, running on fumes and whatever was left of her.

Charles had been watching her carefully, his fingers curled around his own mug, warmth steaming up into the space between them. "You sure you’re okay?" he had asked, his voice quieter than it usually was.

Lizzie had forced a breath, gripping the edge of the table as if grounding herself in something solid. "Yeah," she had lied.

She had spent those past sixth months pretending she was fine, even as she unraveled in slow, aching increments. The worst part wasn’t the heartbreak, or even the anger. It was the emptiness. The way he had built his turmoil into something she had been expected to carry with him, like it was the price of being near him. The way he had made her feel like she owed him something—like she had been selfish for wanting to let go of the past, for wanting to move forward without him.

Charles’ expression had barely shifted, but the look in his blue green eyes had been enough—he hadn’t believed her then, just like he didn’t believe her now.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Lizzie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She met his eyes, forced a small smile. "Yeah," she repeated.

Charles, as if sensing her turmoil, released her and motioned for her to step away from the pit lane, away from the cameras and the curious eyes watching their every move. She hesitated for only a second before following him to a quieter alcove near the back of the Alfa Romeo garage, where the hum of the paddock softened. Once there, Charles placed a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder, his voice low and steady. "What happened?"

Lizzie hesitated for a second, glancing down at the asphalt. She didn’t know where to begin. Noticing her delay, Charles gave her a knowing look, his eyes soft with understanding. "It’s been that bad, huh?"

Lizzie exhaled, a shaky, tired breath. “It’s just… a lot. I’ll be fine. Just need to get adjusted."

He nodded, not pushing, just listening, his hand resting on her arm. “I saw your last lap. You were flying out there.”

Despite everything, a ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. “You think so?”

Charles grinned. “I know so. I didn't know the Mclaren could go that fast."

Lizzie chuckled, the sound dry but real. “Don’t let Fernando hear you say that.”

He laughed with her, eyes wide and flick of his eyebrows upward in that same surprised expression he often me “Oh no, I would never. I value my life, don’t worry.” They stood there for a moment, just outside the Alfa Romeo garage, the noise of the paddock humming around them but feeling distant. It was easy with Charles. It always had been.

“I’m glad I finally found you,” Lizzie admitted quietly.

His smile softened, and he squeezed her hand. “Me too.”

For the first time since she had stepped out of the car, she let out a breath that didn’t feel like it was crushing her. "I'll be glad when this weekend is over," she said with a slight sigh, a flicker of frustration and disappointment crept through.

Charles raised his eyebrows, and Lizzie adjusted her expression "Just need some time to recharge." She paused for a moment, then added with a smirk, "Away from all of this."

He tilted his head slightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You do know you just got here, right?" he teased, his tone light.

Lizzie chuckled, but his words lingered in her mind. Her season for next year hadn’t even begun, yet the pressure was already starting to creep in.

Charles paused, noticing her furrowed brows and switched gears, his tone shifting. "So, when are you heading back to England?"

"After the race. I need to go visit my grandma in Edinburgh, she's been cleared by her doctor to have visitors again. After that, I'll head back to Milton Keynes I guess." She glanced away for a second at the rest of the pit, her voice dropping slightly.

She didn't need to finish the sentence for Charles to understand her meaning - she would go home, alone. There was no one left for her to see anyways when she returned from Edinburgh. No one to spend the holidays with, no warm family gathering to take any joy in.

Just an empty apartment and the quiet, still hum of solitude.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Charles's gaze softened, watching her carefully. "You should come to Monaco after, then." he suggested, nudging her arm with his. "Spend some of Christmas with my family. I know you’re not..." He trailed off, a slight hesitation in his words. "… well, if you don't have any other plans."

Her smile faltered, and she quickly looked down, her chest tightening at the mention of her parents. She still hadn't heard from them yet, her phone cold in her backpack. She swallowed, trying to mask it with a nod, though her voice was softer than usual. "That's sweet of you, Charles. Really. But… I’m not sure I’m ready for all that right now."

He paused, looking like he wanted to say more, but just nodded. "I get it."

“But I’ll think about it,” Lizzie said, forcing a smile back onto her face, though it felt a little too tight this time.

As she said it, an unsettling feeling coiled in her gut, sharp and instinctual. The air around her seemed to shift, a subtle but undeniable change that set her on edge. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as a presence approached—one she didn’t need to turn around to recognize.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

The sound of approaching footsteps barely registered before a jesting voice cut through the moment, lighthearted but laced with unmistakable sarcasm. “I thought you were going to fly off the track behind me, Häschen.” Sebastian said. "You came out of nowhere on that flying lap, startled me a bit. Haven’t seen a McLaren go that fast in a while."

Lizzie blinked as she turned her head, caught off guard by the comment. For a brief moment, she wished Sebastian hadn’t come up to her—not now, not here, not when she was with Charles. But as she studied his expression, she realized he was joking, maybe even trying to be friendly. It was unexpected, but she wasn’t going to let it show. She forced herself to act normal, offering a small smile. "Just doing what I can with what I've got," she said, shrugging lightly at the compliment. “It's still a work in progress.”

Her eyes flicked to Charles, sensing a shift. His posture was looser before, but now, standing beside her, he had gone still, his expression carefully unreadable. His easy laughter from just moments ago had faded, the teasing warmth between them replaced by something calculating, sharp-edged.

Sebastian stood with his arms crossed, mirroring Charles in a way that felt almost deliberate. The air between them stretched thin, coiled tight with something unspoken. It had always been there—the simmer of quiet rivalry, the silent measuring of power—but it had turned into something uglier in the past year, especially when Lizzie was involved.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

The behavior had started when Lizzie joined the PREMA team in 2017. She and Charles had been asked to attend a media day at one point with Ferrari, meant to showcase unity between the Ferrari Driver Academy’s rising star, Charles, and their current lead driver, Sebastian. Charles was clearly the star of the press day, the camera men taking a million photos of him and asking him a million questions. He had been laughing at something one of the stylists said, shifting slightly as they made him pose with his arms crossed, chin tilted up. He looked effortlessly at ease, flashing a bashful grin at the group of women hovering nearby, whispering and giggling.

Normally, Lizzie might have felt a pang of envy at how easily he commanded the spotlight, but with Charles, it was different. Their bond ran too deep for jealousy—she only found it amusing, how effortlessly bashful he was despite the attention.

Bur as Sebastian stood right next to her, close enough that Lizzie could feel the heat radiating from his presence, an unmistakable force at her side. The air around him was thick, almost suffocating, and she was acutely aware of the way his gaze flicked between her and Charles.

"Reminds you of someone, doesn’t he?" Sebastian had muttered then, voice barely above a breath.

Lizzie had turned to him, confused. "Who?"

His jaw clenched, but his tone stayed light, even. "I hear it all the time. ‘Charles reminds me of you so much, Seb.’ ‘He’s so talented, got that same spark.’" He let out a derisive laugh, eyes falling on her. "Guess I should feel flattered."

Lizzie didn’t say anything, but the way his fingers flexed at his sides told her enough. Lizzie didn't respond, didn't dare—until the photographer’s voice rang out. “Alright, let’s set up the close shots for the team composites. Ms. Mckean, can I have you come over?"

Lizzie stepped away from Sebastian, the space between them feeling heavier than it should. She moved toward Charles, yet the moment she faced the lens, a wave of discomfort settled over her, prickling at her skin. The bright flashes felt intrusive, the artificial poses stiff and unnatural. She had never enjoyed this part—the attention, the scrutiny—but with Sebastian standing so close, his presence a silent weight at her back, it felt even more suffocating.

"Charles, Lizzie, step in together. Closer, please.”

She hesitated slightly, but Charles had already turned, settling beside her, his hand brushing the small of her back as he guided her into place. "It's alright, I promise not to hog too much space." he said softly, bringing a small smile to her face. The moment stretched just long enough for the camera shutters to capture it—the perfect shot.

One of the photographers nodded in satisfaction. "Perfect, just like that." Another called out, "That's exactly what we need! Keep that expression, Lizzie."

It was always natural with Charles.

Easy.

Friendly.

But now, standing between him and Sebastian in the garage, the ease had been replaced by something else—something much colder.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Sebastian smirked at her, but there was an unmistakable edge to it. “You’ve got some serious pace. Had me looking over my shoulder, I thought you were going to take me out at one point.”

Charles let out a short, calculated laugh. “Good thing you didn’t go any faster, Lizzie.” His voice was playful, but Lizzie knew that tone. “You might’ve messed up Sebastian’s lap time if you’d pushed any closer.”

Sebastian’s expression tightened. Barely a flicker, but Lizzie saw it. She tried to smiled, to make things less severe, but it felt hollow.

“A little more. Come on, act like you actually like each other!”

Lizzie had swallowed a nervous sigh but had stepped closer to Charles in front of that camera. Charles had done the same, his hand firming on her back.

The next flash went off.

Then another.

Sebastian had been staring fully at the pair of them, his expression carefully neutral, but Lizzie felt it—felt the weight of his gaze pressing against her skin like a warning.

Charles had shifted beside her, and for the first time, she could feel his discomfort as well. He wasn’t usually fazed by things like this, but something about the way Sebastian had been watching them made the air feel tight. Lizzie could sense the tension crackling just beneath the surface, though no one else seemed to notice.

And she felt it now too as the harsh garage lamps seemed to draw beads of sweat on her neck. Sebastian had that same stare in his crackling blue eyes. The same tension from Charles remained. The same silent battle resuming once again.

Tick ... Tick .. Tick ...

Charles had every reason to dislike Sebastian, reasons that she couldn’t entirely ignore, though she still tried.

"Sebastian, Kimi, let’s get one with all four of you now."

Sebastian pushed off the wall, moving toward them with an easy, almost languid stride. But when he stepped in, Lizzie felt it—the subtle but undeniable shift in the air around her. Without a word, he positioned himself just slightly behind her, towering over her as she lowered herself onto the stool provided. The heat of his presence was unmistakable, radiating against her back, pressing in like a silent force. His hand found her shoulder almost immediately, a casual touch on the surface, but his grip was firm, grounding her in place. She felt his body language shift, subtly closing off the space between her and Charles, not quite aggressive, but undeniably territorial.

It wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but Lizzie knew better. She had seen him do the same thing before—with other drivers, with journalists, with anyone he saw as a threat. And now, Charles was no exception. Charles’ jaw twitched slightly. Lizzie knew him well enough to know that, despite the polite expression on his face, he had noticed it too.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Sebastian let out a tight laugh in the present. "I don’t mind the challenge, really. I’m just not used to McLarens being a threat on track. Don’t tell Fernando I said that, of course." His tone carried a knowing lilt, a quiet reference to the conversation he and Lizzie had shared with Fernando earlier.

It was an inside joke, a deliberate reminder of something only the two of them understood. He leaned in just slightly toward her, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Charles to see, enough to make Lizzie acutely aware of the space between them shrinking. Lizzie could feel the quiet competition bristling between them. The way Sebastian’s pride flared at the idea of anyone, of Charles, outshining him.

Charles raised an eyebrow, a cold smile curling on his lips. "Might have to start getting used to it, though. Who knows how fast the cars will be with new drivers."

Sebastian’s fingers twitched at his side. Lizzie forced out a nervous laugh, sensing the tension inching toward something too sharp, too obvious. “I’m sure both of you will survive.”

But neither of them laughed.

"You two have been spending a lot of time together lately." Sebastian had commented as she began packing up her things at he press shoot.

Lizzie had looked up at him, confused yet again, but the shift in his energy—the simmering frustration beneath his carefully measured words, left her a bit flustered under his gaze.

"Well I mean ... we do a lot of team stuff for PREMA together, obviously." She had motioned around them at the studio. "But I'm mainly just here for support." She let an awkward laugh out, fiddling her bag. "I don't think PREMA needs as many photos of me."

Sebastian had hummed, a glower settling into his face again as he looked over at Charles. "Of course, PREMA has to show off their budding little star."

Lizzie had frowned as she met his gaze again. Sebastian had never been the type to care about public perception, but this was different. It wasn’t just about Charles had rapidly been becoming Ferrari’s golden prodigé—it was about her.

The way she laughed at Charles’ jokes. The way she had stood next to him in the photos, completely at ease. The way she didn’t seem to mind being so close to him.

Sebastian had seen it. And it had bothered him.

Before Lizzie could say anything, Charles had turned toward them, his grin still lingering. “You two plotting something?”

Sebastian hadn't hesitated. He had stepped forward smoothly, just enough to close the space between them. “No, we were just admiring your little fashion show.”

Charles had tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Hope it lived up to expectations then.”

Sebastian had hummed again, offering a small, almost lazy smirk. “You do enjoy the attention, don’t you?”

Charles didn’t miss a beat. “Who wouldn’t?” He tossed the comment out with a lightness that refused to acknowledge any hidden meaning.

Lizzie felt the tension shift—subtle but noticeable. Sebastian had clearly expected a different reaction. He had wanted Charles to flinch, to stammer, to acknowledge the way Sebastian had subtly tried to remind him who had been here first.

But Charles didn’t. He met Sebastian’s gaze, unruffled, calm. And that was what had irritated Sebastian the most.

His smirk had faltered for a split second, but then he let out a short, quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, enjoy it while it lasts.”

Charles’ expression didn’t change, but there was something behind his eyes—something knowing. “I intend to.”

Lizzie had glanced between them, unease prickling at the back of her neck.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

And now, Sebastian’s gaze lingered on Charles again for a second longer before that same, quiet derision rose in his voice. "Anyway," he said, brushing off the moment with a forced grin, "Mattia wanted to speak to you before you head to the media pit, Charles."

It was a clear dismissal.

Charles held Sebastian’s gaze for half a second longer before nodding, slow and deliberate. But he didn’t leave right away. Instead, he turned to Lizzie, his expression shifting—not softer, but concerned. Like he wanted to say something.

“The invite’s open whenever you're up for it, Lizzie." he said, his tone steady but carrying an unmistakable familiarity. "My mom misses you—she's mad at me for not asking sooner.”

Lizzie barely had time to react before Sebastian stiffened beside her. His jaw tensed, his lips pressing together in a line that only she would notice. It wasn’t overt, but it was enough to make the air between them heavy. Lizzie forced a smile she didn’t quite feel. "Yeah, alright. I'll see you around."

She turned back to Sebastian, but his gaze wasn’t on her anymore. It was still on Charles. And Charles, like he always did, simply smiled, his gaze holding hers for a beat longer than necessary—a look warning almost, before he turned and walked off.

Lizzie watched him go, but the weight of Sebastian's gaze brought her focus back. She didn’t need to look to know he was upset, but she did anyway.The PR team called for her and Charles, and with one last glance at Lizzie, he gave her an easy smile before turning away. The moment he was gone, the silence between her and Sebastian felt different.

She turned to him, studying the way his jaw was still tight, the way his fingers twitched slightly like he was fighting the urge to clench them. She swallowed hard, trying to quell the swirl of emotions threatening to surface.

“Seb…” she had started back in the studio, unsure what she was even going to say.

But Sebastian had just exhaled then, shaking his head as he glanced after Charles. “I'll see you at dinner, Häschen." He had muttered. His voice was lower then, but not quite as sharp. Lizzie hesitated for half a second before nodding. She hadn't know why, but something about the way Sebastian was acting had made her stomach twist—just slightly.

She should have paid more attention to that feeling.

Tick ... Tick ... Tick ...

Forcing herself to break the tension as she stepped closer to the entrance to the garage, she cleared her throat. "Have you spoken to Daniel yet today?" she asked him, her tone light and casual. "I’m excited to see him again. I feel like it's been ages."

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she could see the flicker of irritation deepen. "Why?" he asked flatly.

Lizzie raised an eyebrow at him, heart hammering nervously. "Because I haven't seen him in a while, Seb. Why else?"

Sebastian’s lips pressed together for half a second, the slightest hesitation before he exhaled through his nose. "Not really. He’s been up to his neck with the Renault move—contracts, meetings, all that mess. Splitting from Red Bull isn’t simple, I would know." His tone was neutral, but there was something else there—something more guarded. He paused, glancing at her, studying her reaction as if weighing whether to say more. "We caught up briefly last week, but he’s juggling a lot right now. Don't take it personally."

Lizzie caught the way his fingers twitched slightly at his side, as if holding back something sharper, something he wouldn’t quite say. It wasn’t about Daniel. Not really. It was about her, about how easily she spoke about her other friends, about the casual warmth in her voice when she mentioned Charles or Daniel.

And she knew, without needing to ask, that it still bothered him in a way he would never fully admit.

Lizzie blinked in surprise, momentarily distracted. "Oh, right, I forgot about that," she murmured.

Sebastian let out a clipped breath. "Why don't you go ask him yourself?" he muttered, his tone pointed.

Lizzie followed his gaze down the pit wall, her stomach twisting slightly as she spotted Daniel walking toward them, his usual swagger in place, a bright smile on his face. That lift increased as she caught sight of Pierre beside him, the two laughing about something as they approached. He looked impossibly handsome in his Toro Rosso fireproofs after free practice, hair a bit ruffled and tan cheeks flushed. Both looked over and waved when they spotted her. Pierre flashed her a teasing smile—warm and bordering dangerously on flirtatious.

Sebastian’s reaction was predictable, but no less jarring. He had never liked Pierre, his displeasure was never exactly subtle —it never had been, even when she was a teenager—and now, watching Lizzie share a lingering glance with Pierre only seemed to stoke something colder in him.

"Pierre looked a bit slow out there in free practice today," he said, his tone light on the surface but sharp enough to draw blood. "How’s he been doing?"

Lizzie felt a flicker of something unpleasant at his derisive words—maybe shame, maybe frustration. She wasn’t sure, but it settled uncomfortably in her chest. Forcing a casual tone, she shrugged. "He’s fine," she replied curtly, though her voice lacked its usual edge. "And I don't see why you need to bring that up here, Seb... "

But before she could elaborate, her train of thought derailed as her eyes landed on Max.

Tick ... Tick ... Tikc ... Tick ....

He had stepped into line with the rest of the Red Bull team, standing tall among the mechanics and engineers. The sight of him sent a jolt through her, a heat crawling up her spine, reigniting the simmering anger from her free practice session. It coiled inside her chest like a tightening wire, every nerve in her body instantly on edge.

His expression was opaque, unreadable—until it wasn’t. A flicker of something—frustration, maybe irritation—pulled at the corner of his mouth as their gazes locked on each other. His stance was relaxed, too casual, as if he wasn’t bothered at all, but Lizzie could see it. The way his fingers twitched at his side, the way his jaw clenched just slightly.

She swallowed back the urge to react too soon, her breath measured, slow. He leaned slightly toward Daniil Kvyat to his left, his voice just audible enough as they walked nearer.

"...rookies, mate."

Lizzie felt her hands curl into fists at her sides, her pulse hammering. He wasn’t just dismissing her—he was belittling her. Like she wasn’t worth his concern, like she was just another name on the grid.

Tick .. Tick ..Tick .. Tick ..Tick .. Tick ..

Her anger roiled beneath the surface, years of frustration culminating in this single, incendiary moment. The entire day had been a disaster—McLaren’s incompetence, the suffocating restraint they placed on her, the car itself a sluggish mess she could barely wrestle into submission. And then there was Charles and Sebastian, their constant, simmering tension forcing her into the center of their silent battle, a war she wanted no part of.

But Max—Max was the final straw.

Her jaw clenched, the embers of her fury stoked into something hotter, something dangerously volatile. He had cost her today, had nearly sent her off the track with his arrogance, and now he had the audacity to act like she was the problem?

She exhaled sharply through her nose, her vision narrowing as she squared her shoulders, every muscle in her body primed for a fight. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, her entire body tense with the restraint it took not to lash out immediately.

Her hands curled tighter, fingernails biting into her palms. Fine, Max, she thought, fury spiking with every measured breath. If you want to pretend I don’t exist, I’ll make sure you remember me.

Tick .. Tick ..Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick ..

She finally finished her thought, voice cutting sharply through the air. "I don't know. But you’d think some of these people would have better spatial awareness on track to know not to lag during slow laps," she said, her words deliberately loud enough to carry across the paddock. "Or maybe Red Bull just hands out seats to anyone these days—especially when there's suddenly a vacancy to fill."

Her jaw tightened as she caught the flicker of movement in Max’s expression—the subtle narrowing of his eyes—and she knew without a doubt that her words had hit their mark. His expression darkened immediately, his stride quickening as he pushed through the throng of mechanics and engineers around him.

Lizzie knew exactly why this would sting. It wasn’t just a cheap insult—it was a wound she had been aching to press on, one that had never fully healed. She wasn’t the only one who knew that Max had been given his Red Bull seat only weeks after Rob’s accident, that the timing had never stopped following him like a shadow. It had been whispered about in the paddock, by fans, by journalists, by those who wondered if he would have even gotten the promotion so soon if it weren’t for the fact that Red Bull suddenly needed someone to fill the space Rob had left behind.

Lizzie wasn’t sure she even believed half of what people said about that moment—whether it was true that Red Bull had been planning to sack Rob for Max, whether it was fate or politics or just terrible, horrible timing . But she did know that Max hated when people brought it up. She knew it clung to him like an unshakable ghost, that every time someone mentioned his rise to Red Bull, there was always that unspoken if Rob hadn’t...

And now she had said it, loud enough for everyone to hear. Loud enough for him to hear.

The tension in his shoulders tightened visibly, his steps eating up the distance between them. And for the first time all day, Lizzie’s pulse kicked up in a hot rush of satisfaction.

She wanted this. Wanted the fight, the clash, the chance to finally unleash everything that had been building inside her all day—no, longer than that. The whole weekend had been a disaster, and she was done swallowing it down. The car, the team, the restrictions placed on her, Charles and Sebastian’s stupid posturing—it all faded into a single, blinding moment of clarity. Max deserved this.

Tick .. Tick ..Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick ..

She could feel the electricity crackling in the air as he bore down on her, could see the way heads turned, eyes darting between them. Lizzie braced herself, anticipation curling in her stomach like a coiled wire about to snap. The storm was coming, and she was more than happy to meet it head-on.

Let them watch. She thought, gleefully. Let them all see the temper tantrum Max was about to throw.

Sebastian’s demeanor shifted in an instant beside her. If he was mad at her before, it had evaporated, and a protectiveness began to radiate from him as soon as he saw Max storming toward them. His posture straightened, and he moved closer to Lizzie, reaching for her arm in a subtle attempt to guide her away.

“Come on, Lizzie.” he said under his breath, his voice low and urgent. “Let’s go.”

But Lizzie held her ground, refusing to budge. Her eyes stayed locked on Max, her pulse quickening as the Red Bull driver pushed past a group of reporter with determined strides, his frustration practically radiating off him. Daniel and Pierre immediately paused in their tracks, both drivers exchanging uneasy glances as they realized what was unfolding. Pierre’s brows furrowed in worry, but it was Daniel who stop and turned back towards them, his easygoing demeanor replaced with concern as he saw what was about to unfold.

Tick .. Tick ..Tick .. Tick ..Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick .. Tick ..

Max stopped just a step away, his expression twisted in anger as Daniel came up hot on his tail.

“You want to say something to my face?” he snapped at Lizzie, his tone daring her to speak up.

“Max, come on, mate,” Daniel said, his voice calm but firm as he approached from behind. He glanced at Lizzie, his expression softening briefly before flicking back to Max. “We’re already late. Just let it go. This isn’t the time for this,”

“Oh, I do,” Lizzie shot back without missing a beat. Her chin tilted up defiantly. “Maybe don’t try to run people off the track unless you’re trying to crash on purpose. Or has that become a signature for you?”

Max’s jaw clenched, his frustration boiling over. “You almost hit me, and you’re blaming me?” he fired back, his voice rising. “You were the one driving like an asshole!”

Sebastian’s hand hovered near Lizzie’s arm again, tension thickening around them as a few others began to take notice. "Lizzie, let's go."

Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tck . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick . Tick ...

But Lizzie’s lips pressed into a thin line, her fury unchecked as she took another step toward Max, her glare unwavering. "I’m not going to back off you just because you're an arrogant prick who thinks the track revolves around you. If you don't want to get hit on a slow lap then get out of the fucking way."

Max’s eyes burned with fury, his voice cutting and laced with disdain as he laughed. "Revolves are me? I- I can't believe this shit. You’re out driving like you own the fucking track and you're calling me arrogant?" He shouted, taking a step closer, his glare unwavering. "Maybe you should’ve lifted when you had the chance."

Lizzie let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. "Right, because lifting is something you’d know all about, huh?"

Max’s expression darkened instantly, and Lizzie saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes—knew that she had hit a nerve before he even opened his mouth. He let out a short, disbelieving scoff, shaking his head slightly as his shouting grew. "You're fucking unbelievable! Honestly, you’d think after everything with Rob, you’d know by now—"

BOOM.

The mention of Rob hit like a thunderclap, and she exploded.

The grief she thought she had buried came roaring back, igniting a raging fire inside Lizzie that yearned to incinerate everything in its's path. And before Sebastian or Daniel could stop her, she lunged forward and grabbed Max by the collar of his race suit.

Panic erupted around them in an instant. Voices broke through the rising tension, frantic and sharp as staff from McLaren and nearby Mercedes scrambled to separate the two drivers. Lizzie barely heard the frantic shouts of her own team, too lost in the whirl of her thoughts, consumed by the vivid image of Rob's smiling face and his burnt flesh beneath her in that morgue. She curled her other scarred hand into a fist, reeling back, ready to unleash all the pain, the frustration, and the heartbreak that had been festering inside her for years.

Sebastian’s hand shot out with alarming speed, his grip strong and urgent around Lizzie’s wrist, halting her mid-swing. "Lizzie, stop!" he said, his words a plea more than an order. His eyes were wide with panic, and his grip tightened, desperately trying to pull her away.

But Max's hand found her arm as quickly as she had grabbed him, and pulled her back towards him, his nails digging painfully into her skin. The voices around her felt distant, muffled by the roar in her ears. But as her scarred hand tightened around Max’s fireproofs, staring into the eyes of the man staring before her defiantly, she did hear something—a shout, a voice unmistakable and furious, slicing through the chaos.

"Stop!" Toto shouted harshly and urgent in German. "Someone separate them, verdammt noch mal!"

Daniel was suddenly between them, his hands firm on Max’s chest, ripping Lizzie's hand from his collar and pushing her back with a raw force that surprised Lizzie. His usually easygoing demeanor was nowhere to be found. "Max, back off!" he snapped, his voice cold and commanding, the urgency in his words cutting through the madness. His eyes locked on Sebastian. "Get her out of here, Seb. Now."

Sebastian pulled Lizzie back towards him. Max stood frozen for a moment, chest heaving, his face twisted with anger. Yet, Daniel’s sharp command and the sight of Sebastian, trying desperately to control Lizzie’s seething anger, forced a moment of hesitation. He clenched his fists, but Pierre, now nearby, stepped forward, grabbing Max by the arm and pulling him back.

"Let it go," Pierre said quietly, but there was no mistaking the tension in his voice. He looked at Lizzie, the strained plea directed towards her just as much

His words, the crowd’s panic, the chaos of the moment, all blended into a heavy, suffocating fog around Lizzie. She stood still, every muscle in her body screaming to break free, to let the anger spill over. But Sebastian didn’t hesitate, his hand firm on Lizzie’s arm ’s, his presence a familiar weight as he guided her away from the brewing chaos. Her heart was pounding, her breath shallow, her anger radiating off her in waves.

As they moved through the paddock, Lizzie caught sight of Charles in the crowd. His expression wasn’t one of anger, nor did it carry the smug satisfaction of someone who thought she deserved the fallout. It was disappointment, quiet and unspoken, but it hit harder than any insult Max had thrown at her. It was like a mirror reflecting back something she didn’t want to see, and the weight of it pressed heavily on her chest.

"Come on," Sebastian murmured.

Lizzie didn't fight him as they pressed on. She simply surrendered.

#max verstappen #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #mv33 #formula one #max vertsappen fic #f1 #f1 fanfic #toto wolff #sebastian vettel #daniel ricciardo #pierre gasly #charles leclerc

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