Contents ~ Lewis Stories

Compress/Repress | Chapter 1: Sins of The Father

pairing: art donaldson x black!oc x patrick zweig, tashi duncan x black!oc (platonic)

summary: all was quiet at the Duncan household. The boys were safety tucked into bed, mom and dad lay side by side with their last argument buried under the pretense of peace. Meanwhile, Tashi finally had a moment alone—in front of the family computer, the one her parents had strictly forbidden her from using. But tonight, like many, she couldn't resist the pull of her secret Facebook account.

wordcount: 14k

warning(s): minor challengers spoilers (if any?), mild cursing, a non american writing americans, self edited and no beta.

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OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA – September 27, 2005

The dining room radiates with a cosy warmth, emanating from the outdated light fixture that hangs low above the table. The yellowed glow gives the room an intimate feel, as if time has stopped and this moment is frozen in it. The walls are adorned with a collage of memories - photographs capturing moments of love and laughter, alongside colourful drawings etched into the plaster by tiny hands.

A mismatched collection of plates holds steaming dishes of homemade food, each one a gift from a distant family member. The utensils are a mismatched collection of spoons accumulated over the years, contributing to the quaint and disorganised ambiance. As everyone takes their assigned seats, the room hums with lively conversation and constant movement - a true reflection of this close-knit household.

Kevin, the patriarch of the family, sits at the head of the table with his wife, Chrystal, gracefully settled on his right-hand side. Across from her is their eldest son, Demetrius, who may only be thirteen years old but holds himself with a confidence beyond his years in the presence of his father.

Next to Demetrius is Kenan, the youngest of the family and the cause of their current laughter. He eagerly shares a story about an incident at school, causing raucous laughter among his relatives, showcasing the antics of middle schoolers.

Within arm's reach sits Tashi, the only daughter in the family. Her lanky frame slumps slightly over the table as she listens intently to her brother's story, a small smile playing on her lips as she attempts to immerse herself within the present moment.

The table buzzed with excited chatter as the family asked further questions, their voices overlapping in a symphony of confusion and amusement. But tonight, Tashi's mind was elsewhere, drifting between the infectious joy of her family and the alluring pull of Chandler Prescott's end of summer party.

The rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the enticing possibility of what could have been. She could almost feel the pulsing beat of the music and see the glittering lights that awaited her at the party, pulling her towards them like a moth to a flame.

Despite the warm atmosphere and company of her family, Tashi couldn't shake off the longing for something more exciting and exhilarating. Tashi's eyes constantly darted around the room, taking in every detail with precision. Her gaze shifted from her brothers to her parents, her brows furrowed in deep thought.

How in the world am I going to make it to that party? She pondered, carefully weighing the consequences of each crazy idea that popped into her head.

‘I could try sneaking out, she contemplated,’ a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

‘My room is conveniently located on the other side of the house,’ Tashi pondered further.

‘Dad just fixed that stubborn window just in time for summer.’

Tashi let the idea simmer in her mind, savouring the thrill of rebellion. But as quickly as the excitement came, a flicker of concern crossed her features as she realised one crucial detail - ‘how the fuck am I gonna get there?’

Tashi's mind raced with possibilities, each one more outlandish than the last. She could bike there, but the party was on the other side of town, and she'd arrive sweaty and dishevelled. Maybe she could convince one of her friends to pick her up, but most of them weren't invited to the exclusive gathering anyways.

As she pondered her limited options, her fingers absently traced the delicate curves of the golden crucifix around her neck, a habit ingrained in her from countless hours spent at bible study. The smooth metal warmed against her skin, offering a sense of comfort and familiarity amidst the chaos of indecision.

The nickname "The Duncanator" echoed in her mind, a reminder of her prowess and her simultaneous struggle to fit in at school. Sure, she could serve an ace that would make even the toughest opponent’s quake in their tennis shoes, but that same intensity that made her a force to be reckoned with on the court seemed to intimidate her classmates.

The few friends she had were mostly fellow athletes who understood the dedication and drive required to excel in sports. But this party was different. It was hosted by Chandler Prescott, the most popular boy in school, and attending could be her chance to finally break into the inner circle of cool kids.

Tashi let out an exasperated sigh, her delicate fingers tracing the intricate details of her crucifix necklace. She glanced at the clock on the microwave, the red digital numbers flashing 7:15 PM. The party was supposed to start at 8 and she still had so much to do.

With her back pressed against the wall, Tashi was left with one last option, an idea that had already been exhausted at this point. Gathering the courage to voice her thoughts, Tashi mustered up the bravery to confront her father once again, maybe the presents of her mother can assist her this time. Her heart raced with adrenaline as she knew time was running out.

"Dad, I know your mind's made up, but this is the last party of—" As Tashi spoke, a loud clattering noise broke the silence. All eyes turned towards Mr. Duncan, whose spoon had slipped from his hand and landed with a loud clang on his plate. Tashi's heart sank in her chest, mirroring the sudden drop of the spoon. The room was now filled with tension and all attention was on Mr. Duncan as he nervously clasped his hands together in what seemed like a prayer.

Kevin's face contorted into a scowl as he fixed his gaze on his daughter. "Do we have to go through this again?" he exclaimed in frustration.

Tashi's voice was insistent, her eyes flashing with excitement. "It's the last party before summer break is over, Dad," she repeated, not wanting him to interrupt her declaration again.

Tashi's heart raced as she imagined all the fun she would have at the party, surrounded by loud music and non-stop dancing. She couldn't let her father spoil it for her. Mr. Duncan's voice was strained, his left hand pressed against his forehead in a futile attempt to ease the mounting frustration.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Tashi?" he asked wearily, as if he had repeated this same request countless times before.

The wrinkles on his brow deepened with each passing moment, a physical manifestation of his exasperation. The tension in the room was palpable, thick like molasses and just as sticky. Tashi sat across from him, head down and shoulders slumped, knowing she had disappointed him once again. She couldn't bear to meet his gaze, unable to shake off the feeling of defeat that washed over her at his words.

Mr. Duncan's voice rose with each word, the tone becoming more urgent as he spoke. "I will not allow my daughter to stumble home in a drunken state from some white kid's party". The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, emphasising the gravity of the situation.

The mood instantly shifted as silence fell over the table and every move made by his family was influenced by his authoritative voice. The clinking of silverware against plates sounded like scratches on a record as Kenan's giggles were drowned out by the tense atmosphere. Frowns appeared on the faces of the boys as they looked to their mother for an explanation.

"Who do you think the cops are going to target when they shut that damn thing down?" He continued, his stern tone silencing any possible objections from his daughter.

Tashi could feel her mind racing, searching for the right words to say. On one hand, she could appease her father with a response that she knew he wanted to hear. “You’re absolutely right, Dad. I should prioritise getting enough sleep for practice tomorrow.”

But deep down, she knew that would be dishonest and not truly reflective of her current state. Taking a deep breath, she made the difficult decision to be honest with her father and give him a piece of her mind. She squared her shoulders and let it out, "I doubt they would even catch me; I don’t think Officer Moores has been to the gym since the fucking—"

She’s cut off mid-sentence again, reminded of where exactly she was. This wasn't another afternoon with Jasmyn and Destiny, gallivanting about Oakland with nothing better to do then shit talk people from school. No, this was her father's house, and she had to abide by his rules. The air felt stifling and suffocating, like a cage closing in on her. She yearned for the carefree days spent with her friends, but she knew she had to play by her father's rules in his domain.

"Watch your language, young lady. How do you expect me to let you out of this house when you talk like that in front of me?" Mr. Duncan's authoritative voice straightens Tashi’s posture by the mere sound of it, further adding to her frustration and resentment. Tashi's eyes flashed with defiance, her grip tightening on the edge of the table.

"But Dad, you don't understand! This isn't just any party. It's the end-of-summer bash, and everyone who's anyone will be there.” Demetrius' brow furrows even deeper as he grasps the meaning behind Tashi's words. He remembers his sister's recent preoccupation with her overflowing wardrobe of not quite cute clothes. As a clueless teenage boy, he had brushed it off as typical big sister behaviour. Little did he realise that Tashi was planning to attend a party, which explained her sudden desire for the perfect outfit.

“I've worked so hard all year, both in school and on the court. Don't I deserve one night of fun?”

Tashi's words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of a year's worth of hard work and sacrifice. Her mother's eyes filled with pride and understanding, gleaming like polished gems in the soft light of the room. On the other hand, her father's eyes were clouded with ignorance and disappointment, a storm brewing behind them as he sat stoically in his chair.

It was a familiar scene for the family, one that only added to Tashi's growing resentment towards her father's strict rules. She could feel the tension thickening between them, like a tightly coiled spring ready to snap at any moment. And yet, despite it all, she continued to prove herself as the strongest player in the state, her name quickly gaining traction in the tennis world. Her mother watched in awe and admiration, wishing her father could see and appreciate their daughter's undeniable talent and determination.

Despite Kevin's attempt to maintain a stoic facade, his clenched jaw and visibly tense muscles betrayed any sign of guilt. Mr. Duncan's expression was one of clear disappointment as he observed Tashi's childish behaviour at the dinner table. Kevin's knuckles turned almost white, a clear difference to his brown skin, as he braced himself to address Tashi's immature inclinations. The once jovial atmosphere now hung heavily with tension, the air thick and charged with unspoken words. It was a stark contrast to the pleasant atmosphere just moments before, a dramatic shift in mood that could not be ignored.

"Fun? You call hanging around a swarm of reckless, intoxicated teenagers, fun? I've seen the destruction and chaos these parties can bring, Tashi.”

The words emphasised dripped from Kevin's tongue with disdain as he raised his hands in exasperation. His gaze shot out the window, towards the direction of the Prescott's upscale neighbourhood. Tashi could see the anger and frustration etched on Kevin's face, his jaw clenched tightly as he spoke. The sound of his words cut through the air like a sharp blade, leaving no room for argument.

"Our family will not become gossip fodder simply because you sought a moment of fun."

His gaze bore into her with unwavering intensity, his protective nature surging forth. Kevin was resolute in ensuring his daughter's reputation remained untarnished, particularly with the scrutiny from giants like Nike and Adidas. After enduring numerous trials, the future seemed promising for the Duncans, and no stupid party would derail their progress.

The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. Chrystal placed a gentle hand on her husband’s shoulder, attempting to soften his hard exterior. Kevin's muscles remained rigid under her touch; his jaw clenched tight as he stared out the window at the setting sun. The fading light cast long shadows across the living room, mirroring his hooded eyes as he laid with his thoughts post outburst.

Chrystal released a deep, shaky breath as she tried to navigate the tumultuous waves of emotions crashing within her in response to her husband's words. She glanced over at her daughter, who sat slumped and defeated, and made the decision. Mrs. Duncan knew that this could be the last summer they would have together before things became chaotic and out of their control. With determination in her heart, she would negotiate with her husband to give their daughter a chance at experiencing joy and freedom before the weight of a full-time athlete settled upon her shoulders.

"Darling," she began, her voice soft and melodious, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze.

Crystal pleaded, her voice filled with longing and hope. "Perhaps we should reconsider," she said, her eyes focused on Kevin.

"Tashi is growing up so fast, and this party could be a wonderful opportunity for her to socialise with her classmates."

But Kevin's mind was already made up, his stubborn nature once again prevailing over reason. Chrystal could see the determination in his steely gaze and knew that there was no use arguing further. The disappointment weighed heavy on her heart as she resigned herself to another missed opportunity for their daughter.

"My decision is final, Tashi."

Mr. Duncan's voice echoed through the room, reaching every corner and piercing the silence that hung heavy in the air. His stern gaze shifted to Tashi, whose fidgeting hands had now stilled and were gripping tightly onto the hem of her skirt. The table, made of dark mahogany wood, seemed to creak under Mr. Duncan's weight as he leaned forward, his eyes locked onto Tashi's.

"I expect you in bed, getting enough rest for practice tomorrow," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Tashi could feel her heart pounding against her chest as she nodded, understanding his expectations. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on her shoulders as she realised the gravity of Mr. Duncan's words and the importance of Tashi maintaining her consistency.

Tashi nodded silently, her father's expectations bearing down on her like a heavy weight. In all her years living under the strict rules of Kevin Duncan, Tashi had never felt so suffocated. Her father, who had been her coach for many years, had ingrained in her that following the straight and narrow path both on the court and in real life would lead to success and reward. But as she stood there now, it was clear that this belief was nothing but a facade. Today, with crushing disappointment, Tashi realised that it was all just a load of bullshit.

“Now, you kids need to get ready for bed."

Kevin chimed in, his voice breaking through the tense atmosphere that had settled over the family. The dim lights in the living room cast shadows across his face as he leaned back in his chair, trying to diffuse the tension with a light-hearted tone.

"Kenan, I better hear some vigorous teeth brushing up in that bathroom. And Demetrius, don't forget to floss!"

His words were met with half-hearted groans and eye rolls from the two children, who reluctantly got up from their spots on the couch and headed towards the hallway.

“Yes, sir.”

The voices of the boys strained as they struggled to release the words, unsure if they should speak in that tense moment. This caused Kevin's expression to falter for a brief second, as he realised his impact on the family. Just moments before, they had all been laughing at the youngest member's tales from school, but now not even the most talkative person in the house could utter a single word. The atmosphere had shifted from one of lightness and joy to one of tension and unease.

The sounds of shuffling feet and murmured goodnights filled the air as the boys followed Tashi’s lead and headed upstairs to their rooms. The hallway was dimly lit, casting shadows along the walls as Tashi trudged towards her own room at the end of the hall. As they are about to reach their shared room, Demetrius and Kenan stalk at their door taking one last look at their sister. Tashi closes the door to her bedroom with a heavy sigh, throwing herself onto her bed.

Tashi’s room was a reflection of her disciplined but quietly personal world. The walls were painted a soft lavender, calming but with enough energy to keep her focused. Above her bed hung a large poster of Serena Williams in mid-swing, the fierce determination on her face a daily source of inspiration. Tashi admired Serena—her strength, her focus, her ability to balance success with the weight of expectation. The poster faded at the edges, a sign of how long it had been there, a constant in Tashi’s room and her life.

Her desk, positioned neatly under the window, was cluttered with tennis gear, notebooks, and textbooks, all piled in organised chaos. A calendar hung beside it, every square meticulously filled with her tight schedule—practices, study sessions, and tournaments. Each date was marked in different coloured ink, from practice drills to strategy meetings with her father. She was constantly balancing schoolwork and tennis training, and the calendar was her anchor in the whirlwind of her days.

Across from the desk, her bed was made with precision—crisp white sheets tucked neatly under a soft lilac duvet. Plush pillows were carefully arranged at the head of the bed, though the space wasn’t untouched by the subtle messiness of teenage life—a few clothes tossed on the chair, a pair of sneakers casually kicked off by the door.

Shelves lined the wall, filled with trophies, tennis balls, and framed photos of her with friends, her brothers, and, of course, her father. Her room was functional but still held onto a certain charm, with fairy lights strung along the headboard and a few stuffed animals from childhood tucked neatly into the corner of the bed—small reminders of a softer, less regimented time.

Though every inch of the room was curated to reflect Tashi’s commitment to tennis and her busy life, there were subtle touches of her own personality—the lavender scented candle on her nightstand, a few dog-eared novels she’d never had the time to finish, and the carefully framed picture of her mom, the quiet presence in her life. It was a room that felt like a mix of who she was and who she was becoming—structured yet still searching for balance.

As she stared up at the ceiling, her mind racing with frustration and disappointment, she thought about how she ended up in this predicament.

‘So much for making this the best summer ever.’

Why couldn't her dad just trust her? She was a responsible teenager, always on top of her schoolwork and dedicated to tennis. All Tashi wanted was one night to let loose and get to know some people before senior year next fall. Since freshman year, she had never quite fit in at her school.

With daily tennis practices and matches consuming most of her time on top of the already heavy workload, Tashi didn’t have much time to socialise with her classmates outside of school. And recently, as she watched groups of laughing teenagers splashing in the water and playing beach games on social media, she couldn't help but feel like an outsider once again.

It didn’t help that nobody seemed to care about tennis, except for Jasmyn and Destiny who were eager to learn all they could about the sport - especially when it came to the cute athletes.

Tonight's party held the promise of liberation for Tashi, a chance to shed her reputation as nothing more than 'the girl who fucks herself with a racket all day'. After publicly confronting Chandler Prescott for spreading that disgusting rumour, she had hoped to gain some sort of an apology. But those mindless idiots would blindly follow any order from the muscle-headed jock.

In a perfect world, her parents would have sent her to a prestigious boarding school, preferably one focused on tennis. But no, her father had insisted on being her coach. Tashi had endured years of relentless criticism and harsh training sessions from her father, his words driving her to relentlessly perfect her serve. There was even one night when they had missed dinner entirely, caught up in endless drills and corrections. By the time they returned home, Kenan and Demetrius were already fast asleep. And ‘Father of The Year goes to…’

Knock, knock, knock.

Startled from her thoughts, Tashi whips her head towards her bedroom door. Her initial assumption is that it's her mom, ready to give her a guilt-laden lecture about not being able to sway her father at dinner. But to her surprise, something much better awaits on the other side.

"Come in," She calls out from her bed, still fixated on the ceiling.

The door creaks open and she hears the pitter patter of tiny feet approaching. With a grin spreading across her face, Tashi finally abandons the popcorn-textured surface above and sits upright.

Like a little gremlin, Kenan's head is the first to pop out from behind his sister's door, followed closely by his older and taller brother Demetrius. Their mischievous smiles mirror each other as they enter the room, and Tashi can't help but feel a surge of joy and warmth in their presence.

“Hey, guys!”Tashi's cheerful voice echoed through the room as she greeted her brothers, her body quickly sitting up in bed. She adjusted her collection of stuffed animals and pillows, already anticipating the weight of her brothers collapsing onto the soft surface.

"What's going on?" Tashi asked, a wide smile spreading across her face as she watched her brothers make themselves comfortable on her bed. Kenan reached for her beloved Lilo and Stitch plushie, while Demetrius fluffed up a pillow and prepared to lounge. Their presence filled the room with warmth and comfort, like three puzzle pieces perfectly fitting together.

Demetrius rested his hands behind his head, stretching out his body and crossing his legs on Tashi's bed. His voice was smooth and confident as he spoke, "I know it's nowhere near the cool high school parties you're used to, but I promise this will be worth your while."

Kenan couldn't contain his excitement, bursting into giggles and exclaiming, "It's a super-duper ultra secret party, for Duncan siblings only!"

He playfully tossed a Stitch plushie into the air before it landed straight towards Tashi's head. The siblings erupted in laughter at Kenan's enthusiasm. In that moment, Tashi couldn't help but feel a twinge of warmth in her heart at her siblings' genuine excitement.

"A party, huh? What's the occasion?" Tashi asked with a raised eyebrow.

Kenan's mischievous grin grew wider. "We're celebrating the end of summer and because...um, because you're the best big sister ever!"

Demetrius rolled his eyes at Kenan's words but couldn't hide the small smile that tugged at his lips. Tashi chuckled at her brother's earnestness. Their wide-eyed and energetic natures never failed to bring a smile to her face.

They were her biggest supporters, always finding ways to lift her spirits even in her darkest moments. But tonight was different, the argument with their father had changed something within Tashi and she was determined not to back down. She would not be silenced or dismissed any longer.

Tashi chuckled, a bittersweet sound that held a hint of laughter and sadness. "That's sweet, you guys," she exclaimed, her voice carrying in the quiet night air.

"But I have to be up early for practice tomorrow," she reminded them, raising an eyebrow at Kenan playfully. She made a funny face at him, causing him to burst into laughter.

Demetrius' expression shifted, his face falling slightly as he realised their time together was limited. "It's just for one night," he pleaded, trying to find a solution. "You can sleep over in our room too." His eyes searched hers, silently begging her to just stay up for a little longer.

Tashi rose gracefully from her spot on the bed and lowered herself to the ground, kneeling next to her brothers. She placed a gentle hand on each of their shoulders, offering comfort in her touch. "I'm sorry I can't join you tonight," she said softly, her eyes filled with regret. "But I promise, we’ll get ice cream after practice tomorrow instead, okay?

“Just the three of us." Her voice held a hint of excitement at the thought of their special tradition and the bond they shared as siblings.

Kenan's bottom lip jutted out in a pout, but his eyes glimmered with anticipation at the thought of their special outing. Even without words, his eager nod showed his agreement. Demetrius, always one for adventure, grinned widely and eagerly joined in with a nod of his own. Their shared excitement for the promised treat radiated through the space between them and into the world around them, like beams of sunlight bursting through the clouds.

Tashi gently pressed her lips to each of their foreheads before ushering the boys back to their room. She couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia, remembering how her own mother used to tuck her into bed. Kenan was still young enough to be tucked in, his soft face peaceful as he settled under the covers. Demetrius, on the other hand, was growing too old for such gestures, and Tashi couldn't help but wonder if he missed being coddled like this. With the night light casting a warm glow over their shared room, Tashi made sure everything was in place before finally making her way back to her own room down the hall.

As she let out a sigh, Tashi climbed into bed and reached over to switch off the bedside lamp. As she pulled the covers up to her chin, she let out a contented sigh. For a while, she lay there in the darkness, listening intently to the sounds of the house settling for the night. The creaks and groans of old wood echoed through the walls, accompanied by the distant murmur of her parents' voices down the hall. It was a comforting sound, one that had been a constant in her life since childhood.

As time went on, even those familiar noises faded away, leaving behind complete silence. But Tashi couldn't seem to quiet her mind. Restlessness consumed her as her thoughts continued to buzz with everything she was missing out on. The party, the chance to let go and be just another carefree teenager, if only for a few hours. She knew she shouldn't care so much about fitting in, but she did. How could she not when it felt like she was constantly an outsider looking in?

The minutes ticked by slowly, each one weighed down by the oppressive stillness of the house. Tashi couldn't fight the temptation any longer - she had to know what was happening at the party, even if she couldn't be there. With a sense of defeat, she took matters into her own hands and turned to her last resort.

With her bunny slippers on, Tashi tiptoes down the creaky stairs, wincing at every small sound. The house seems to hold its breath, the silence broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional snore from her father's room. Moonlight spills through the windows, casting long shadows across the living room as Tashi makes her way to her target tucked away in the corner.

The family computer was strategically placed here for a reason, under the gazes of old photographs of distant family members and her technophobic mother. Tashi had been here a thousand times, but tonight, it felt different—like she was doing something forbidden. Her parents had made it clear that she wasn’t allowed to have a Facebook account, let alone use the computer without permission. But she needed this, needed to feel connected to her friends, even if it was just through a screen.

The ancient machine whirs to life, the fan sputtering like an old car engine. Tashi anxiously drums her fingers on the desk, willing the computer to boot up faster. Finally, the familiar chime of the dial-up connection fills the air, and Tashi quickly mutes the speakers, her heart racing at the thought of waking her parents.

As Tashi logged into Facebook, a flood of images and status updates assaulted her senses, pulling her from the quiet isolation of her room into the buzzing life of the party she was missing. The screen became a kaleidoscope of colour and emotion, each snapshot of the night hitting her like a wave crashing against the shore. Every post, every comment felt like a direct invitation to join in, and yet, she remained on the outside looking in. The party, which had taken on an almost mythic quality in her imagination, was now laid bare in front of her—an explosion of energy captured in still frames and carefully chosen words, all beckoning her to be part of the action she was forbidden to attend.

Tashi’s heart fluttered with a mix of excitement and longing as she scrolled through her newsfeed. There it was, the event she had been eagerly anticipating but couldn't attend—’Chandler Prescott’s party’. The photos filled the screen in a burst of vibrant colour and motion, documenting moments of pure joy and careless abandon. Red solo cups clutched in hands, the neon glow of lights bathing smiling faces in a bright, electric haze. The music, though silent on her screen, seemed to thrum through the images, the rhythm palpable in the dancing bodies and laughing faces.

Her eyes flicked over the photos, recognizing the faces that populated her everyday life but felt so distant tonight. Jessica, draped over her new boyfriend, her heartbreak from last week seemingly erased in the neon glow. Chandler himself, his wide grin as infectious as ever, stood in the centre of it all, arms slung around a group of friends, owning the night as if it were made for him. The photos seemed to pulse with life, and with each scroll, Tashi felt the tug of longing grow stronger, the pull to be there, to belong.

The vibrant colours of the party lit up her screen, the red of the cups and the swirl of light leaving Tashi feeling as though she were standing on the edge of something thrilling and untouchable. Her fingers, adorned with glittering nail polish and delicate rings, hovered over the keyboard, itching to click “like” or leave a comment—just something to remind everyone she was still part of the crowd, even though she wasn’t there.

But as quickly as excitement sparked, hesitation cooled it. What if someone asked why she wasn’t at the party? The unspoken question lurked in the back of her mind, casting a shadow over the bright photos. Tashi could already hear the judgments, the whispers about her absence. She wasn’t like the others—free to come and go as they pleased, slipping in and out of each other’s lives with no consequences. Her father’s strict rules dictated her every move, and the idea of telling anyone that she wasn’t allowed to go felt humiliating.

Her hand paused on the keyboard, the gentle hum of the computer filling the quiet, empty space of her room. The contrast between the quietness of her reality and the explosive energy of the party was stark, the divide almost too much to bear. The loneliness crept in, wrapping around her as she scrolled, trying to feel a part of it all without being there.

And then, amidst the constant stream of content, a new notification popped up on the screen—a friend request. It blinked at her like a neon sign in a dark alley, flashing with the promise of something new, something unexpected. Tashi’s pulse quickened, her fingers trembling slightly as her cursor hovered over the notification, curiosity bubbling up inside her.

Maya Pratt-Duncan.

Tashi's eyelids fluttered, her mind scrambling to catch up with what her eyes were seeing. ‘Duncan?’ The last name was unmistakable. Her heart raced, like it was trying to outrun the sudden reality pressing in on her. Could this be a coincidence, or was there something bigger at play? Her gaze locked onto the profile picture—Maya Pratt-Duncan. A girl, possibly her age, with lustrous dark hair and piercing brown eyes that felt almost unsettlingly familiar, like staring into a mirror warped by time and circumstance.

With a growing sense of unease, Tashi clicked on Maya’s profile, desperate to make sense of it all. The photos revealed a life both familiar and alien, a world that felt connected to hers in ways she didn’t yet understand. Pictures of Maya with an older couple—her grandparents, Tashi guessed—smiling in front of sprawling estates, on beaches, and in sunny parts of California. The girl's life seemed elegant, effortless, almost picturesque.

But one photo in particular made Tashi’s breath hitch and her fingers freeze. It was Maya, standing proudly beside a brand-new Mercedes Benz convertible, a beaming smile lighting up her face as she posed with balloons in hand. Happy Sweet 16, the caption read, the milestone dripping with wealth and privilege. The sight of the sparkling car and the girl’s seemingly perfect life stirred something deep within Tashi—a pang of envy, sure, but also confusion. This wasn’t just some random girl with the same last name.

Tashi’s fingers gripped the sides of her mouse, her mind racing. Who was Maya really? What did she want, reaching out now, in the dead of night? Tashi's instincts told her to log off; to shut the computer and pretend she had never seen the notification. But something deeper—a gnawing curiosity, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite place—compelled her to stay. Her finger hesitated for only a moment before she clicked “Accept.”

Friend request accepted!

The quiet of the house pressed in around her, the only sound of the faint hum of her computer and her own shallow breathing. The air felt heavier now, as though the night itself had thickened with anticipation. Every second stretched into an eternity, her chest tightening as the weight of her decision sank in. What now? Was Maya going to say something? Tashi stared at the screen, her heart pounding in her ears, waiting for something to happen.

And then, just as Tashi was about to log off, a notification popped up at the bottom of the screen.

Maya Pratt-Duncan: Hi.

One simple word, but it might as well have been a grenade. Tashi stared at it, her breath caught in her throat. Hi? That was it? A single, casual greeting that felt completely at odds with the intensity of what was unfolding inside her. She didn’t know what she had expected—some grand explanation, perhaps, or an answer to the million questions racing through her mind—but instead, it was just hi.

Tashi’s fingers hovered above the keyboard, her thoughts swirling in every direction. What should I say? How did she even begin to respond? Her eyes flicked back to Maya’s profile picture, those familiar brown eyes staring back at her, waiting.

Against her better judgement, Tashi began to type.

Tashi Duncan: Hi... Do I know you?

BEL-AIR CALIFORNIA – Earlier That Evening

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the sprawling Bel-Air mansion, the only sound that could be heard was the soft click of high heels echoing against polished marble. It was a rhythmic heartbeat in a world of opulence, as if the very walls were pulsing with wealth and privilege.

The sound belonged to Maya Pratt-Duncan, heir to this legacy, gingerly making her way through the hallowed interior of her grandparents' walk-in closet. The room itself was a symphony of silence, each piece carefully chosen to exude taste and refinement. The scent of fine leather mingled with aged cedarwood, creating an intoxicating aroma that enveloped her senses.

In the full-length mirror, her reflection stared back at her—dark waves cascading over her shoulders, hazel eyes narrowed in concentration. She wore a sleek black silk dress that whispered against her skin, a perfect embodiment of Bel-Air glamour and sophistication. Yet despite her effortless appearance, there was a restlessness lurking beneath the surface.

Maya's delicate fingers traced the smooth, high-quality fabrics of blouses and tailored suits, each one exuding a faint scent of her grandmother's signature perfume—a blend of rose with a hint of amber. Tabitha and Winston's closet was like an enchanted treasure trove, filled with luxuriously crafted pieces that held stories and memories within their threads. Each item was carefully selected, like a chapter in the grand saga of her family's life of wealth and elegance. Maya's eyes roamed over the shelves, searching for the sleek Chanel purse she had lent Tabitha for last Sunday's church service.

She let out a heavy sigh, knowing it could be hidden anywhere in this labyrinth of a closet. Her mind couldn't help but wonder why she had offered to lend her grandmother the purse in the first place—Tabitha had always admired Maya's impeccable sense of style and would have no doubt appreciated any accessory loaned to her. In fact, during their shopping trip at the Chanel store, after hearing Tabitha gush about the purse, Maya insisted on buying one for herself as well. But her generous grandmother, always wanting to share, suggested that she simply borrow Maya's when she wasn't using it. Well, now none of us can use it, Gam Gam!

"Come on, where are you?" Frustration bubbled up in Maya's chest as she rummaged through hat boxes and garment bags, determined to find what she was looking for. She pulled out each box methodically, scanning its contents before placing it back with a huff. Chloé Fall 1997—nothing, Ralph Lauren Spring 2002—nothing, Saint Laurent Winter 1989—nothing! Each box accumulated to everything but her purse. Maya’s search continued; she couldn't help but feel like she was getting closer to the elusive item.

Finally, her eyes landed on a worn box hidden behind a row of perfectly aligned shoes. She hadn't noticed it before, but the faded logo on top made her heart skip a beat. Fendi. Maybe there would be something even better inside, she thought with a mischievous grin.

With eager anticipation, she lifted the lid.

But the sight that greeted her made her breath catch in her throat.

It wasn't Fendi.

As Maya lifted the lid of the delicate box, she was met with a collection of items that felt intimately personal. Her fingers delicately brushed over yellowed tissue paper, revealing treasures within. One item in particular caught her eye—a small, red Cartier box. She knew what it held before even opening it - an engraved Love bracelet bearing a name she knew all too well—Shayla Pratt. Her mother. A pang of emotion tightened Maya's chest as she slowly pulled out the bracelet and placed it around her wrist, admiring its timeless beauty. Beneath the larger Fendi box laid a stack of photographs that Maya had never seen before.

Each one captured a moment in her mother's life, from her 3rd birthday to her middle school portrait. But it was the photo of her mother at the bottom of a staircase in her prom dress that struck a chord with Maya. She stood next to a young man, presumably her date for the evening, with a wide smile and an air of youthful joy exuding from every inch of the frame. These photos were windows into moments of her mother's past that Maya had never known, and they filled her with a mix of longing for someone she never knew.

Maya had always been curious about her mother, but the stories she heard were always fragmented, like puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit together. Tabitha and Winston rarely spoke of Shayla, their voices hushed and hesitant as if afraid to awaken old ghosts. But in this moment, as Maya sifted through her mother's belongings, she finally felt a connection to the woman she had never known. The scent of lavender and memories lingered in the air, drawing Maya deeper into the closet where secrets were hidden behind closed doors. She traced her fingers over old photographs and trinkets, trying to piece together the puzzle of her mother's life. Why had her grandparents kept these objects hidden from her? Why had they never shared these precious pieces of her mother’s life?

A loud, sudden knock at the closet door jolted Maya out of her deep thoughts. The sound echoed through the quiet space, causing her heart to skip a beat and her fingers to tremble on the delicate photographs in her hands. She had been completely absorbed in the world of her mother's past, so much so that she had almost forgotten where she was—or rather, where she wasn't supposed to be. A sense of panic washed over her as she realised the danger of getting caught exploring this forbidden part of her mother's life.

As the weight of her actions came crashing down, a wave of guilt washed over Maya. Yes, she had been granted permission to search through her grandparent's closet, but this box was clearly not meant for her eyes. It was carefully packed away and hidden deep within the closet, almost as if it held some dark secret. Maya's heart raced as she quickly and carefully placed the photographs back inside followed by the Cartier box, her hands trembling with both fear and excitement. She swallowed hard, her breath catching in her throat as she hurriedly closed the lid, the forbidden nature of her exploration sinking in. The weight of her actions weighed heavily on her conscience as she quietly backed out of the closet, promising herself never to cross that line again.

She stood up just as the knock came again, this time followed by a soft voice.

“Miss Maya?”

It was Ettie, the Pratt’s housekeeper, her voice gentle but insistent through the door. Maya’s heart steadied, realising that she was in good company. Her presence offered a sense of comfort in her confused state. Frozen for a moment, Maya wasn't sure what to do with the information she had just discovered. Should I reveal it to Ettie? Would that put her in danger of her grandparents finding out? After all, Ettie was bound by her loyalty to them and Maya wouldn't want to jeopardise her job by keeping secrets.

Taking a deep breath and straightening her posture, Maya cleared her throat and composed herself. Her voice remained steady, portraying no hint of the turmoil going on inside her mind. "Yes, Ettie?" She responded calmly, ready to navigate this delicate situation.

The ancient wooden door creaked open, revealing Ettie's serene features and warm smile. She stood upright before Maya, her posture exuding grace and professionalism, her arms neatly tucked behind her back. With a gentle tone, she conveyed the message from Maya's grandparents. “The driver’s waiting out front.” Ettie's eyes sparkled with excitement as she spoke, she had assisted in Maya’s preparations for dinner tonight, meticulously pressing her dress earlier that day. "Your grandparents are eagerly waiting downstairs."

Maya nodded, flashing her a warm, grateful smile as she replied. “Thank you, Ettie. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Ettie hesitated, her sharp gaze flickering towards the boxes and racks of clothing, sensing that something was amiss. Her dark eyes were filled with a hint of concern. But she didn’t press further, instead offering a small smile of reassurance. “Very well, Miss Maya. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

With that, she gently closed the door behind her, leaving Maya alone once more in the dimly lit closet. The moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut, Maya exhaled deeply, her shoulders slumping as the tension in her chest loosened. She turned back to the box, her mind still reeling from the weight of what she had uncovered.

Her gaze lingered on the closed lid for a few seconds longer, tempted to dive back in and uncover more pieces of her mother’s hidden past. But the reminder of the waiting driver—and her grandparents’ inevitable impatience—pulled her back to the present. Not now, she told herself sternly, though every fibre of her being yearned to stay. Later. I’ll figure it out later. Maybe when there’s more time and less pressure. For now, duty called, and she couldn't afford to delay any longer. Giving it a final glance, Maya hastily snatched the nearest purse and made her way to the top of the stairs in a hurry.

In the grand foyer, Tabitha stood on her tiptoes beside Winston, her delicate fingers expertly adjusting his bowtie as he checked his watch. Winston, known for his stoic demeanour, remained unfazed by her ministrations, his determination focused on making it to their dinner reservation on time. Maya descended the spiral staircase with deliberate grace, her heels clicking against the polished marble steps in perfect rhythm. Her grandparents, waiting at the bottom of the stairs, turned towards her with warm smiles of approval. The chandelier above cast a brilliant glow over the scene, highlighting every elegant detail of Maya’s outfit.

Winston's voice softened as he took in the sight of Maya, standing before him in a breathtaking dress. "There's our girl," he said, his eyes shining with pride.

Tabitha let out a soft gasp as she took in her granddaughter 's appearance. "Valentino, of course," she exclaimed with a gleam in her eye, stepping back to admire Maya from head to toe. "You look stunning, my dear. Truly."

Maya's dress was a masterpiece of delicate silk clad in sparkling diamonds against her clavicle, hugging her figure perfectly and cascading down to her knees. The colour was a rich shade of black that complimented her skin tone and brought out the richness of her brown eyes. Not a single imperfection was present, Ettie meticulously had inspected the expensive fabric, ensuring that not a single trace of lint could be found.

Maya looked like a goddess descended from Mount Olympus. Her presence was striking, like a celestial being gracing the mortal world with her ethereal beauty. She exuded confidence and grace, her form draped in a stunning masterpiece that seemed to have been woven by the hands of divine beings. Her aura was radiating and regal, as if she had descended from the heavens above to bless the mundane earth with her divine presence.

Winston's heart swelled with pride and love as he gazed upon his granddaughter . She stood before him, a vision of beauty and grace, radiating an aura of elegance that captivated him. "You are truly remarkable, Maya," he said, his voice filled with genuine admiration and awe at her presence. His eyes followed the gentle curve of her smile and the sparkle in her eyes, feeling grateful for every moment spent in her company.

Despite having heard these words from her grandparents before, Maya's heart swelled with warmth and happiness as she basked in the affirmations from her beloved grandparents. "Thank you, Gam Gam, Papa. I'm glad you like it," she beamed.

Tabitha, ever observant, tilted her head and studied Maya closely. The bag clad against Maya’s shoulder was indeed not Chanel, on the contrary it’s Louis Vuitton! Her piercing gaze made Maya feel as though her thoughts were being read like an open book. "Did you find your purse?" she asked.

For a moment, Maya hesitated, thinking about the box that lay hidden inside her grandparent’s closet—the bracelet, the photographs—and a lump formed in her throat. But ever the lady, Maya bottled everything in, now was not the time to open that door. Not yet.

"Oh, I...found something better," she said with a quiet but firm voice. Tabitha raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by Maya's response, but she did not press further. Maya could sense the curiosity behind her grandmother's composed expression.

Winston stepped in, gesturing towards the door.

"Shall we? The driver's waiting," he said politely, breaking the tension in the air with his gentle tone.

The evening air was crisp, the breeze whispered through the door as they stepped outside, the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers tickling their noses. Two sleek and shiny black Mercedes-Benz S-Classes waited in the driveway, their engines humming softly.

Tabitha and Winston moved towards the first car with practised ease, their movements coordinated and fluid. Maya, on the other hand, was left to ride alone in the second car. Tabitha had made it clear that a lady must always ride in the back seat unless her suitor is behind the wheel. Maya climbed into the back seat of the luxurious vehicle, sinking into the plush leather seats as the door clicked shut behind her.

As the car glided smoothly down the long driveway, Maya's mind drifted back to the mysterious box she had discovered earlier that day. She couldn't help but wonder about her mother's past and what secrets it held. What kind of life had her mother lived before Maya was born? And why had her story been kept hidden for so many years. More importantly, why was her father's identity still shrouded in secrecy?

The questions swirled through Maya's mind as she gazed out at the passing trees and houses, lost in her own thoughts. The faint scent of leather mixed with a hint of expensive perfume filled the air, aiding in Maya’s thought process as she contemplated her next move within the car. With every mile travelled, Maya felt herself getting closer to unlocking the mysteries of her past.

The soft hum of the Mercedes-Benz came to a halt as the driver opened Maya's door. She stepped out gracefully, the cool evening air brushing against her skin, bringing with it the scent of fine dining and the distant murmur of city life. She stood for a moment, adjusting the folds of her dress, and glanced toward the other car, where her grandparents were already emerging with the practised elegance of people long accustomed to being in the public eye.

Tabitha stepped out first, her movements graceful and precise, as if she were still a young socialite descending a ballroom staircase. She wore a navy-blue floor-length dress accented with a ruffle faux-wrap skirt, tailored to perfection, her hair pinned back in a classic chignon that added to her air of timeless sophistication. Winston followed close behind, straightening the jacket of his black Armani three-piece suit as the driver helped him out of the car. Though age had softened his posture, there was still a commanding presence about him, his jaw set with purpose, his eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses.

They met at the entrance of the restaurant, an upscale establishment known for its exclusivity and clientele that valued privacy as much as they did luxury. The restaurant's facade gleamed in the glow of well-placed lighting; its grand double doors made of rich mahogany with gold-plated handles. A valet rushed to collect the keys, but Winston waved him off with a curt nod, the gesture practised and swift.

Tabitha turned to Maya, her keen eyes sweeping over her granddaughter  as if seeing her for the first time that night. A glimmer of pride and mischief danced in her gaze as she spoke, her voice warm but controlled.

"You know, my dear, if you're lucky tonight, you may catch the eye of a suitor," she said in a hushed tone, her gaze lingering on Maya's figure dressed in the stunning gown. "That dress fits you like a glove. I wouldn't be surprised if every boy cracked their necks just to catch a glimpse of you."

Maya let out a polite laugh, hoping her hand would hold back the noise. "Oh my god, grandma! Can we please just enjoy one night without you trying to set me up?" She glanced around nervously, making sure no one had overheard their conversation. The music hummed in the background, punctuated by distant laughter and chatter from patrons. The warm mood lighting and scents of the restaurant surrounded them, adding to the serene atmosphere of the evening.

The family made their way into the restaurant, greeted by the Hostess standing within the entrance. The mere sight of Winston and Tabitha Pratt straightens her posture. Her bright smile widened in recognition as they stepped towards her, extending a hand to greet them.

“Mr. and Mrs. Pratt, it’s wonderful to see you again,” she said with a professional warmth.

“Right this way, your table is ready.”

Winston nodded politely but remained reserved as the Hostess led them inside. The interior of the restaurant was dimly lit, designed to give each table a sense of privacy. The gentle clinking of silverware and murmurs of conversation filled the air, along with the rich aroma of aged wine and freshly prepared dishes. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft glow over the dark mahogany tables and velvet chairs. The ambiance was luxurious without being overly opulent, the kind of place where elegance spoke quietly but confidently.

The Hostess's eyes lit up at the sight of Maya, remembering the conversation she had with Mr. Pratt over the phone confirming his reservation. Her smile widened as she led them deeper into the elegant restaurant, weaving through tables and patrons with ease. "And congratulations to Miss Duncan," she said warmly, her voice carrying a hint of excitement.

"I heard a rumour that it’s your senior year next fall, and as always you’re here for your pre-semester celebratory dinner." Maya offered a grateful smile, placing a hand over her heart in appreciation for the Hostess's thoughtfulness. She hadn't expected her to know about the occasion, but then again, their frequent visits to the restaurant made them familiar faces among the staff. "Thank you so much," she replied softly, her elegant voice barely audible above the gentle hum of conversation in the restaurant lounge.

As the Pratt-Duncan family were shown to their seats, the Hostess leaned in towards Maya with a hint of mischief. "Just so you know, we have something special for you in the back," she whispered conspiratorially. "Courtesy of the old man over there." She nodded towards Mr. Pratt, who was currently engaged in a playful dance with his eyebrows, trying to make Maya laugh. And it worked—she couldn't help but let out a giggle at his antics. The Hostess placed a finger over her lips, letting out a soft shushing sound before darting off to attend to other guests.

Winston, ever the gentleman, helped his wife into her seat before he took his own. With precise movements, he unfolded her chair, guided her carefully towards it and smoothly shifted her snugly against the table. Shortly after, Winston did the same for his granddaughter, taking the same amount of care he did for his wife.

He then joined them after, grabbing his spectacles from his hidden jacket pocket preparing to read what the restaurant had to offer. The attentive wait staff appeared almost instantly, presenting the trio with menus and pouring chilled water into their sparkling glasses. The soft clinking of silverware and hushed conversations filled the air as the couple perused the extensive wine list in search of the perfect pairing for their meal.

The first course arrived, heralded by a symphony of smells that wafted from the kitchen. A delicate salad of heirloom tomatoes and fresh mozzarella was presented with a drizzle of bright green basil oil, each ingredient carefully placed like an artist's brushstrokes on a canvas. Maya's grandparents launched into their usual conversation about the restaurant's use of seasonal produce, but her mind was elsewhere.

She picked at the salad, her fork moving absently across the plate, as she tried to ground herself in the familiar conversation around her. But her thoughts were consumed by the events of earlier that evening, causing her to drift in and out of conversation, struggling to maintain a facade of normalcy in her off behaviour.

Winston took a sip of his wine and glanced at his granddaughter  over the rim of his glass. “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight, Maya-Mia.” He remarked, his voice calm but observant. “Is something on your mind?”

Maya looked up, startled by the directness of the question. She set her fork down carefully, the metal clinking softly against the plate. “I’ve just... had a lot on my mind lately.”

Tabitha’s eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze sharp and knowing. “What could possibly be weighing so heavily on your mind, darling? You were so excited about tonight.”

Maya hesitated, feeling the tension coil tighter in her chest. She glanced down at her napkin, unsure of how to broach the topic. Her pulse quickened, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out.

“I found something in your closet earlier today,” she said, her voice softer than she intended but laden with unspoken meaning. “Something belonging to my mother.”

Tabitha stiffened, her perfectly composed expression faltering for a split second before hardening into something more controlled. Winston set his glass down slowly, his eyes flicking between his wife and granddaughter , sensing the shift in tone.

“Maya,” Tabitha began, her voice low and measured, “You shouldn’t have been going through my things.”

“I wasn’t snooping,” Maya said, her frustration bubbling up. “I was looking for my purse, but I found... I found a box. A box of Mom’s things.”

The atmosphere at the table became suffocating, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths that hung in the air like a leaden curtain. Maya's heartbeat wildly as she studied her grandmother's face, desperately searching for any sign of vulnerability or explanation. But all she could see was the same carefully crafted mask of control that Tabitha always wore so effortlessly. It was a barrier between them, a fortress built to keep Maya out and the truth hidden within. The tension in the room was palpable, like a storm brewing on the horizon, ready to erupt at any moment.

“And what exactly did you find in that box?” Tabitha asked, her tone sharp, almost daring Maya to continue.

“Photographs,” Maya said, her voice trembling slightly. “Especially the ones of her at prom... with a boy. He seemed to be a big part of her life, judging by how often he showed up in the other photos.”

Tabitha’s expression tightened, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as if bracing herself for what was to come. The room suddenly felt heavier, the silence between them thick with unspoken truths.

“Why didn’t you ever show me any of this?” Maya asked, her voice softer now, almost pleading.

Winston shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat as he placed his hands flat on the table. “Maya, we didn’t think it was necessary. Your mother’s past—”

“Her past matters!” Maya interrupted, her emotions flaring now, unable to keep the frustration contained. “She was my mother, and I deserve to know about her. And about my father.”

The word hung in the air, charged with the tension of years of secrets and silence. Tabitha’s jaw tightened; her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Maya, this isn’t the time or place for such discussions,” Winston said, his voice suddenly stern, as if hoping to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “We’re here to celebrate—”

“I’m tired of waiting for the right time,” Maya cut him off, her voice firm. “I’ve waited my whole life to know who he is. And you’ve kept that from me.”

The table fell into a hush once more, the gentle clinking of silverware and murmurs of conversation serving as a backdrop to the tension brewing between them. Winston released a heavy sigh, stealing a quick glance at Tabitha for any sign of approval before daring to speak again. But before he could, Tabitha's voice cut through the quiet like a sharp knife, low but unwavering in its conviction. The air around them felt charged with unspoken words and unrelenting emotions, a storm on the brink of breaking.

“You are going to be a respectful young lady, and you’re going to enjoy this wonderful night your grandfather has prepared for you,” Tabitha said, her voice cold and unwavering, her eyes locked on Maya’s with an intensity that left no room for argument. The tension in the air was palpable, the unspoken command clear as her gaze bore into her granddaughter’s. “That’s all.”

Maya's breath caught in her throat, her hazel eyes darting towards the plate of food in front of her as she struggled to regain her composure. Her grandmother's words still echoed in her mind, sending a surge of emotions through her body. What Tabitha said left her feeling smaller than ever before. She had always been hard on Maya, pushing her to become a refined and sophisticated young woman, but this felt like something deeper, more damaging.

The wait staff appeared with dessert, a rich and indulgent chocolate torte that looked almost too beautiful to eat. Maya hesitated before taking a small bite, not wanting to seem ungrateful for her grandfather's efforts. The sweetness exploded on her tongue, but she couldn't fully savour it amidst the turmoil within her. She forced herself to take a few more bites, trying to push aside the memories and emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

The rest of the meal passed in uneasy silence, but the night was far from over. Winston still had one trick up his sleeve, a surprise that would surely make Maya's heart skip a beat. With a sly smile, he waved the waiter over to their table and whispered his instructions. The waiter nodded eagerly and disappeared into the kitchen.

After a few moments, the waiter returned with a silver cloche in hand. He approached the Pratt's table and stood next to Maya, who looked both confused and excited at the same time. With a flourish, he placed the cloche in front of her and lifted the lid to reveal a small red box—a Cartier one, to be exact. Maya gasped in shock, her eyes widening as she took in the luxurious packaging. Without hesitation, she reached for it and eagerly pried open the package.

Inside was exactly what she had anticipated: a gleaming Cartier Love bracelet, the very same one she found in her grandmother’s closet. But this one was different, her name was engraved on it in delicate script—Maya Pratt-Duncan. Her heart swelled with emotion as she slipped the bracelet onto her wrist and admired it in awe. Winston truly knew how to make a girl feel special.

A single tear slipped down Maya's cheek, her emotions threatening to burst through her usual composed manner. She cast a grateful glance at her grandparents, who shared a knowing look with her. Her heart overflowed with love and gratitude for their thoughtfulness.

Winston reached out a comforting hand to his granddaughter , his touch gentle, sensing the whirlwind of emotions she must be feeling upon receiving the gift. The delicate bracelet gleamed softly in the dim light, its intricate design mirroring the one they had given her mother on the eve of her senior year—a tradition quietly upheld. It was their way of passing down a piece of history, a symbol of their love and the legacy she carried.

“It’s beautiful, I love it! Thank you,” Maya said, her voice tinged with emotion as she ran her fingers over the cool metal, feeling the weight of the moment.

“You’re welcome, baby girl,” Winston replied, his soft smile warming the air between them. His eyes, filled with pride and tenderness, lingered on her face, knowing the significance of the gift was more than words could convey.

As the evening drew to a close, Winston reached for his wallet and carefully placed his black American Express card. He made sure to add a generous tip for their exceptional service. The family gracefully made their way through the crowded restaurant, exchanging pleasantries with the Hostess before stepping out into the crisp California night air.

The chauffeurs, now donning windbreakers to protect against the chill, stood patiently by their sleek black cars. The soft glow of the streetlights illuminated the bustling city streets as they climbed into their luxurious vehicles, bidding farewell to a tension filled, yet wonderful evening.

Tabitha insisted on riding back with Maya, her earlier tension softened only slightly. Winston, silent but composed as always, leaned down to kiss Tabitha and Maya's cheeks before giving his granddaughter  a brief but reassuring nod. He then strode towards his own car, the gravel crunching beneath his dress shoes as he jumped into the back seat.

The air was filled with a peaceful stillness, like a calm before the storm. Despite the tension that lingered between them, Maya and Tabitha remained outwardly cordial as they made their way to the car soon after. But beneath the surface, the weight of unspoken words and unresolved feelings hung heavily in the air.

Tabitha climbed into the passenger seat beside Maya, her movements sharp and controlled, as though she was holding back more than she let on. The silence between them was thick, oppressive, as if neither wanted to be the first to acknowledge the strain that had settled between them.

The city lights blurred outside the window, casting fleeting shadows across Tabitha’s face, her expression unreadable. Maya’s fingers fidgeted in her lap, but she didn’t dare break the quiet. It was the kind of silence that wrapped around you, uncomfortable and suffocating, where every second felt stretched too long, and every thought felt too loud.

Each mile passed with the tension growing heavier, filling the car until it seemed like the air itself was too thick to breathe. Maya glanced at her grandmother out of the corner of her eye, the tightness in Tabitha’s jaw, the way her hands clenched slightly in her lap—small tells of a woman who rarely let anything show.

Halfway through the drive, Tabitha finally spoke, her voice low and deliberate, cutting through the silence like a blade. “Everything we’ve done, Maya, has been to protect you.”

Maya’s heart pounded, her throat tightening as she waited for more, but Tabitha’s gaze remained fixed on the window, her reflection cold and distant, refusing to meet Maya’s eyes. The city lights flickered in and out of view, and for a brief moment, the shadows danced across Tabitha’s face, hardening her already stern features.

“I hope you understand that, at the very least,” Tabitha added, her tone layered with expectation and finality, as if she were handing down a decree rather than seeking any true understanding.

The estate gates loomed ahead, and as the car slowed, Tabitha finally turned to face Maya, her eyes softening just slightly, though the steel behind them remained.

“Your father, his name is Kevin…Kevin Duncan.” she repeated, as if weighing the words carefully. Her tone was more resigned now, less sharp, but still carrying an unmistakable finality. “He was... someone your mother loved, but he wasn’t right for her. Or for you.”

Maya’s breath hitched. She had always imagined this moment—hearing her father’s name for the first time—but now that it was here, it felt surreal. Kevin Duncan. The name reverberated in her mind, unfamiliar yet suddenly so significant. Who was he? Why had he been hidden from her all these years?

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about him?” Maya asked, her voice quieter now, almost pleading. “All these years... I had no idea.”

Tabitha sighed, her shoulders dropping ever so slightly. “We thought it was best to shield you from him after your mother’s death. Your mother... She made certain choices, Maya. Your father felt the same way.”

Maya frowned, confusion swirling through her. Choices? What choices? The vague hints about her mother’s past only fuelled her frustration. “What do you mean?”

Tabitha’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “It’s not something you need to worry about now.”

Maya opened her mouth to protest, but the car had already come to a smooth stop in front of the estate’s grand entrance. The soft glow of the porch lights illuminated the sweeping driveway, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Tabitha straightened her posture and reached for the door, the conversation seemingly over.

Stepping out of the car, Maya was greeted by a chill in the air that seemed to seep into her bones. Despite the coolness, she couldn't shake off the feeling of suffocation—trapped in a tangled web of secrets spun by her grandparents, a burden she had carried for as long as she could remember. Tabitha's expression softened as she turned towards her granddaughter , though there was still a hint of authority in her voice. "Get some rest, love. I know tonight wasn't what you expected."

Maya nodded, her mind racing with thoughts and questions. She tried to calm herself, but the tension in her body was palpable. "Goodnight, Grandma," she said, her voice betraying her unease.

The night air whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of pine and earth, adding a touch of tranquillity to an otherwise tense situation. But for Maya, sleep would not come easily. She couldn't shake off the feeling that something was amiss. Tabitha gave her a brief, restrained smile before heading into the house, leaving Maya standing alone in the driveway for a moment. As she gazed up at the stars twinkling above, she couldn't help but feel small and insignificant in comparison.

Finally, she made her way into the house, the heavy door clicking shut behind her, sealing her in with the echoes of the night. The family portrait in the entrance hall seemed to watch her as she passed, the frozen smiles of her grandparents a stark contrast to the tension that had followed her home. The grand staircase loomed before her, its marble steps gleaming under the soft chandelier light, spiralling upward like a pathway to another world. Maya took each step slowly, her fingers trailing along the polished bannister, each movement deliberate, as if she could somehow delay the thoughts swirling in her mind.

Her room waited at the top—her sanctuary, untouched by time, a snapshot of a younger Maya’s dreams and desires. The door creaked open, revealing a world drenched in soft, romantic hues of pink and white, where everything had been meticulously chosen and arranged. The white lace curtains, slightly drawn, fluttered against the open window, a gentle breeze carrying in the scent of night jasmine.

Her vanity stood by the wall, framed by a gilded mirror that reflected the glow of her rose-coloured lampshade, casting the room in a dreamlike haze. The bed, draped in pale satin sheets and pillows edged with delicate ruffles, sat like a throne at the centre of it all—a place that had once brought her comfort, a cocoon of childhood fantasies and carefully curated innocence.

But tonight, the room felt too perfect, too still. It seemed to mock the storm brewing inside her. The soft pink walls, once a reminder of her younger self’s vision of femininity, now felt suffocating, as though they were closing in on her. The plush white rug beneath her feet offered no solace, only a reminder of the distance between the Maya who had carefully decorated this room and the one who now stood lost and uncertain.

She moved mechanically through her nighttime routine, washing her face with cold water that did little to cool the heat of confusion in her chest. Her brush moved rhythmically through her hair, each stroke steady but absent-minded as her thoughts spiralled. Kevin Duncan. The name buzzed in her head like a low hum, impossible to shake, growing louder with every passing second.

Who was he? And why did his name weigh so heavily in her grandmother’s voice, as though it held the power to unravel everything? She tossed the brush onto the vanity, her reflection staring back at her—eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and unease.

The room, with its dreamy, fairy-tale quality, felt distant from the reality pressing down on her. The white vintage vanity, the plush armchair by the window, the shelves filled with trinkets and framed photos of ballet recitals—all of it seemed like a relic from a life she no longer recognized.

Maya sat on the edge of her bed, the cool satin sheets slipping beneath her fingers. The glow of her bedside lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the room, as if even the light couldn’t decide whether to stay or leave. Her heart raced, her mind buzzing with questions she knew wouldn’t let her rest. She glanced toward the window, where the moonlight spilled through, painting the room in silver and soft shadows.

Kevin Duncan.

There would be no sleep tonight—not until she found out who he really was.

Unable to bear the weight of not knowing any longer, Maya rose from her bed and made her way toward the desk tucked into the corner of her room. Her fingers traced the familiar edges of the chair before she sank into it, the leather creaking softly beneath her. The room, cloaked in shadows, felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for her to act.

She powered on her iMac G3, the soft glow of the screen flickering to life, spilling its pale light across the room. The gentle hum of the machine filled the silence, a steady presence in the dark. Her face, bathed in the glow of the screen, looked as though it belonged to someone else, her features drawn and tense, eyes wide with anticipation. The light danced across her skin, deepening the shadows around her, making the room feel even smaller, more claustrophobic.

Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, trembling slightly as they prepared to unlock the mystery that had haunted her since dinner.

Kevin Duncan.

The name echoed in her mind, filling the room like an unspoken promise. She typed it slowly, deliberately, as if each letter would bring her closer to the answers she sought. The soft click of the keys was the only sound, mingling with the beating of her heart, which pounded faster with every letter.

She hesitated for a brief second before pressing enter, a wave of anticipation washing over her, tightening her chest. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart raced like an alarm bell, the sound loud in her ears. The screen flickered for a moment before loading, and as the search results began to populate, Maya leaned in closer, her eyes scanning the screen with desperate eagerness.

Kevin Duncan.

The truth—whatever it was—felt closer now, almost within reach, hovering just out of sight, ready to be unearthed.

Instantly, the screen filled with a flurry of results. Articles, profiles, and images, each tied to the name Kevin Duncan. Maya’s pulse quickened as her eyes darted over the links, each one containing pieces of a puzzle she had never even realised existed. Her fingers hovered over the mouse, hesitating for only a second before she clicked on the first link. As the page loaded, her breath hitched.

A photograph appeared, cantered at the top of the page: a middle-aged man with a square jawline, a large head shaved clean, and deep-set eyes that seemed to hold a quiet intensity. Her breath caught in her throat as she studied him more closely. His eyes—they were dark, piercing, and unmistakably familiar. They mirrored her own in a way that sent a shiver through her. The resemblance was undeniable. The shape of his face, the way his brow furrowed slightly, even the confident, guarded expression on his face—it all echoed something she recognized within herself.

Her heart raced, pounding so loudly she could almost hear it. This is him. Her father. The man she had been kept from all her life. The man whose name had lingered like a ghost on her grandmother’s lips.

Maya’s gaze shifted downward to the text beneath the photograph, her eyes widening as she read the words. Kevin Duncan—tennis coach. The air in the room seemed to still, the soft hum of the computer fading into the background as the weight of that revelation sank in. He wasn’t just any coach; he was a self-regulated tennis coach with a reputation that stretched across the sports world.

Maya's fingers twitched as she scrolled down further, her eyes scanning the page in disbelief. And then, one name stood out like a lightning bolt—Tashi Duncan. Her heart seemed to skip a beat as she saw the name repeated over and over in articles, captions, interviews. Tashi Duncan, the up-and-coming tennis star he was training. A girl about her own age, a girl who appeared in photo after photo, her poised smile and athletic grace splashed across the page like a rising celebrity.

Her stomach tightened, confusion swirling in her chest. Tashi Duncan—her father's protégé, but... her half-sister? The revelation hit her with the force of a tidal wave. The resemblance between them became clearer with every glance at Tashi's photos, the shared features, the same dark eyes, the high cheekbones.

Her head spun as she leaned back in her chair, staring blankly at the screen. The familiar comfort of her room seemed to vanish, replaced by the overwhelming rush of this new truth.

Tashi Duncan.

A sister she never knew she had. A sister who was living a life so closely intertwined with their father’s—while Maya had been left in the dark, her existence a secret, hidden away behind closed doors.

The name buzzed in her mind, louder and louder, a truth too big to ignore. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the screen. Everything she thought she knew about her family, her identity, crumbled beneath the weight of this discovery. The world she had grown up in, the carefully crafted bubble of her grandparents’ home, now felt miles away, like a distant dream.

And in its place was a reality she was only just beginning to uncover.

Time seemed to slip through Maya’s fingers as she delved deeper into Tashi’s Facebook profile, her eyes tracing every photo, every post, as if they were clues to a life she had been excluded from for so long. Each image offered a new window into a world that felt both connected and impossibly distant—a life that was hers, yet entirely not.

She scrolled through photos of Tashi with her friends, their laughter forever preserved in freeze-frame moments as they clutched Sonic cups, the slushies as vibrant as the carefree smiles on their faces. Tashi’s world seemed so... normal, yet infinitely richer than Maya’s in ways that had nothing to do with wealth.

It was a strange thing, peering into the life of someone who had no idea you even existed. The more she clicked, the more Maya felt like an intruder, an outsider looking in on something private. But she couldn’t stop. Each post drew her in further, the thread of her curiosity pulling tighter with every new image she uncovered.

And then one photo caught her eye—a snapshot that stood out among the rest. Tashi, smiling radiantly beside a man Maya now recognized as Kevin Duncan. Her father. The easy closeness between them was unmistakable, a bond Maya had never known.

Her breath hitched as she took in the rest of the image: a woman with kind eyes and dark hair, standing close to Kevin—Tashi’s mother, no doubt—and two younger boys, their wide grins mirroring their father’s. They looked like a picture-perfect family, the golden sunlight casting a warm glow across their faces, their happiness captured effortlessly by the camera’s lens.

Maya’s chest tightened as she stared at the photo, her heart twisting with emotions she couldn’t quite name. Jealousy, anger, and sadness all churned together, threatening to overwhelm her. This is the life I never had, she thought bitterly. A father who was present, a family who looked whole, unbroken.

Her eyes lingered on Kevin’s face—the same strong features she’d seen in her own reflection, now softened by the love and warmth in his expression as he stood with his other family. His real family, it seemed. The weight of that truth pressed down on her, suffocating in its simplicity. He had been there for Tashi, coaching her, guiding her, sharing moments like this one—moments Maya would never have.

She felt a lump form in her throat, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. They look so happy, she thought, an ache blooming in her chest. The photo radiated warmth, a snapshot of a life that had continued without her, a life that had no space for her existence.

What stung the most was the ease of it all. Tashi had a father, a mother, and brothers who adored her. She had friends, laughter, and the carefree glow of a life lived without the burden of saving face in front of the vulture-like housewives of Bel-Air. Meanwhile, Maya had been raised in a gilded cage, with the expectations to marry wealthy and a family portrait that always felt incomplete.

Maya's fingers trembled as they hovered over her mouse, the cursor hesitantly searching for the "Add Friend" button. Should she take the plunge and click it? Make the first attempt at communicating with her long-lost sister? Her mind raced with questions. Did Tashi know about Maya's existence? Would she even want to be friends?

The pounding of her heart drowned out any rational thoughts as she finally made her decision. With a deep inhale and exhale, Maya clicked her mouse, the sound echoing through the quiet room like a gunshot. It was a small but significant step towards reconnecting with her sister after so many years apart.

Your friend request was successfully sent!

The damage was done.

To her shock, it was accepted almost instantly. Maya’s stomach flipped with nervous excitement. She stared at the screen, unsure of what to do next. But something inside urged her forward, pushed her to make the first move. It was as if a spark had been ignited within her, crackling and sizzling with anticipation. Her heart raced like a wild horse, galloping towards a long-awaited finish line. Every fibre of her being tingled with nervous energy, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the keyboard.

She braced herself to begin typing, the urge to type something, anything, burning inside her. But what would she even say? ‘Hello, Tashi. We have the same father. Surprise!’ It sounded ridiculous in her head, and the thought of disrupting Tashi’s seemingly perfect life with this revelation made her stomach churn.

But she couldn’t go back now. She had seen too much, learned too much. The truth was out there, and it was too big to ignore. As she stared at the screen, Maya felt the familiar surge of curiosity and pain bubbling up inside her. This was her chance to connect with the family she never knew, the life she had been denied. But it would also mean breaking the fragile facade that had kept her world intact.

She clicked on the "Message" button, her heart pounding in her chest. The blank chat window popped up, the cursor blinking at her, waiting for her to make a move. Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed the first words, feeling the weight of what was to come.

Maya Pratt-Duncan: Hey, Tashi. I’m not sure if you know who I am, but...

Her mind raced, unsure of how to even begin explaining the connection that tied them together. How could she condense a lifetime of unanswered questions, secrets, and longing into a few simple words? She stared at the screen, biting her lip, her thoughts a chaotic mess. And yet, somehow, it felt like this was the moment she had been waiting for—her chance to finally uncover the truth, no matter how much it might hurt.

With a heavy sigh, she let go of her initial words and instead chose to play it safe, opting for a simple and nondescript message that revealed nothing of her inner turmoil. With a shaky breath, she erased the words, clearing a path for a simpler, safer message.

Maya Pratt-Duncan: Hi

Maya sat in the soft glow of her iMac, her fingers trembling slightly as she stared at the chat box. She had never felt this nervous before—like the weight of every move she was about to make had the potential to shatter something fragile. The whole night had led up to this moment, and now that she was here, she wasn’t sure how to begin. Hi. It felt so small, so insignificant for what she was about to reveal, but she didn’t know what else to say.

She waited, her heart pounding in her chest as the seconds stretched on. The screen remained still, the only sound in the room was her uneven breathing. What if she doesn’t reply? The thought gnawed at her, but before she could spiral, the typing indicator appeared.

Tashi Duncan: Hi... Do I know you?

Maya’s stomach flipped. She had been preparing herself for this, but seeing Tashi’s message—those four little words—made it real in a way she wasn’t ready for. Do I know you? Maya’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, her pulse quickening. How do you tell someone something that will change their life?

Her mind raced through a thousand different possibilities, a thousand ways to soften the blow, to ease into the conversation. But there was no softening this. No way to sugarcoat the truth she had been holding on to for all of about an hour. Tashi had been living one version of reality, and Maya—Maya had no fucking clue she existed till tonight.

Her chest tightened. This was the moment that would open a door neither of them could close again. She took a deep breath, fingers steadying themselves against the tension coiling in her body. It was time. There was no more hiding.

Maya Pratt-Duncan: Tashi, we have the same father.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, her breath catching in her throat as the words disappeared into the void. The truth, now laid bare, hung between them in the quiet of the night. The silence that followed felt oppressive, like the world was holding its breath, waiting for the fallout.

Maya stared at the screen, every muscle in her body tense. What now?

author's note: after three months of brainstorming, plotting and planning, I can finally say that my Challengers fic is officially out! It's been a long time coming, the early versions of this were completely different, but it turned into something I am very proud of. I wanted to write something that was cinematic and told a new kind of story in the sea of thousands of other fics out there. I encourage everyone to flood my inbox with your thoughts, opinions and questions. I am dying to read what you guys think, but before that, I'd like you have your say on this poll.

Fuck A Title (Lewis Hamilton x Black!Fem Reader) (1/5)

SYNOPSIS: Lewis and his former FWB try to navigate the murky waters of being official.

PAIRINGS: Lewis Hamilton x black!fem reader

WARNINGS: cursing, sexual content, angst, racing vroom vroom stuff. RATED R (minors DNI/18+)

SONG REFERENCE: "Title" by Kiana Lede

TAGLIST: @queenshikongo3 @cocobutterqwueen @mauvecherie-writes @a-moment-captured @yeea-nah @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @lewisroscoelove @hxneyclouds @questionable-behaviour @lovebittenbyevans @tian-monique @alika-4466 @saintslewis @cherry2stems @planetmimi @woderfulkawaii @d3kstar @liamundi @trinitoldyouso @scorpiobleue @omgsuperstarg @certifiedlesbianbaddie @serpenttines-library @peyiswriting @motheroffae @hrlzy @sinflowersugar @hopefulromantic1 @vile-harlot @xoscar03 @blveeeeee @everywherea11thetime @blckgrl-sunflower @whoreforjjk @blowmymbackout

A/N: Not back fr, but had this in my drafts for a minute, so..... [Please comment & reblog]

You sucked in a sharp breath as Lewis pulled you flush against his rock-hard body, his intoxicating male musk enveloping her. "Damn, Lew..." you husked out as his full lips trailed searing kisses along your neck.

Lewis rumbled a low chuckle against you skin, the gravelly timbre shooting tingles along her spine. "You know you want to stay." His mouth found hers, kissing her with a slow, hungry intensity.

"I can’t," you mutter as you arched shamelessly against the solid wall of muscle, whimpering into the heated kiss. These intimate nights used to be your steamy little secret - just two badass workaholics blowing off steam as commitment-free FWBs whenever you craved each other's bodies.

"I'll have your breakfast waiting in the morning, baby girl," Lewis purred in that panty-melting accent, charming and rugged all at once. "Let me take care of you like you deserve."

Your thoughts went to last season; it was stress-free, almost reminiscent of an endless vacation with you being flown out to see Lewis at some of his races — Monaco, Japan, Las Vegas, and Abu Dhabi, to name a few. There was also that two-week getaway to Turkey during summer break with his close guy friends.

But nothing could ever prepare you for how quickly things changed between you and Lewis. Just a few weeks ago, he wanted to make things official.

You blame that Brazilian girl. Jackie, Josie, Julia-something-or-the-other. Lewis's other sidepiece. The one who didn't know how to be discreet.

She's been kicking it with Lewis and his inner circle since 2019, and their off-and-on cycle can put anyone's head in a tailspin.

But, it wasn't your problem to deal with.

As messed up and unusual as it may sound, you knew what you had with Lewis. The conversations were always on par, the sex was bomb, and his friends were nice.

It wasn't until JuJu leaked his whereabouts to a tabloid journalist during his winter getaway to Brazil that Lewis finally put the nail in the coffin for whatever situation they had, and in return, it was you whom he had invited to join him in Paris, testing in Bahrain, and even a race in Saudi Arabia. It was you who he eventually grew close with, closer than what you envisioned, causing him to have an epiphany or midlife crisis moment, but he wanted you for some reason.

You and only you.

Against your shot-caller instincts, you had agreed to try monogamy with your long-time friends-with-benefits partner, yet could you really live up to the ride-or-die girlfriend role?

In the racing world, Lewis was F1 royalty - the kind of megastar talent that sparked a panty parade from groupies with each arrival. At thirty-nine years old, the British race monster had already stacked up multiple championship wins, the insane looks of a cologne model, and a net worth balling enough to buy a private island.

Cradled against his frame, you almost forgot your doubts about your newly-minted relationship status.

Almost.

Lewis was a whole meal with his tattooed body: wide shoulders, chiseled chest and biceps, and a tempting vee that disappeared beneath his form-fitting Tommy Hilfiger briefs. It almost felt criminal for one man to be so incredibly attractive.

"You're doing it again," that baritone washed over you as Lewis smirked knowingly. "Getting thirsty for me. This is why you need to stay." He flexed his pecs in a ludicrous muscle-man pose, making you throw back your head and laugh.

"Bye, Lewis," you shot back, eyes sparkling with mirth as you ran an admiring hand along his sculpted torso. "My mind was on work."

The lie was smooth, but he knew better.

"You think about work more than I do," Lewis chuckled richly, catching your roaming hand to tug you close once more. His skin glowed temptingly in the dim light, and you felt your resistance swiftly melting as his lips crashed into yours again. He tasted like your ultimate indulgence. But soon, much too soon, Lewis drew back with obvious reluctance. "Best not keep tempting me, baby girl. Let me walk you to your car like a good boyfriend."

And there it was - that word reminding you of your new reality. Boyfriend.

Swallowing hard, you began gathering your scattered clothes. "I should really go," she said, aiming for a breezy tone that fell flat even to your own ears. "But raincheck on the morning cuddles and all that, yeah? I've got an early call time."

Lewis watched you with that panty-dropping stare, shaking his head in fond exasperation. "Will you call me when you get to work at least?"

"Of course," you replied, sliding into your dress and avoiding his intense gaze. "I'll see you later," you said with a forced smile before turning and making your way out of the bedroom.

Like a dog to a bone, Lewis followed closely behind in nothing but his briefs and that all-too-obvious aroused bulge that he proudly sported. Bending over to put on your heels, you flinched slightly at the unexpected touch from behind.

His hands flattened against your spine, trailing downwards until it reached your hips before settling on your ass.

With a sharp intake of breath, you turned around to face him, eyes wide with shock and arousal as his fingers squeezed the plump flesh of your backside. "You can’t just grab me like that," you protested weakly, even as your body leaned into his touch.

A devilish grin crossed Lewis’ face. "But you like it," he murmured huskily, gazing down at you with hooded eyes. "You sure I can't convince you to stay?"

"Nope."

Lewis pouted playfully, his hands still lingering on your hips as he leaned in for one last kiss. "Fine," he sighed dramatically, before pressing his lips to your forehead and releasing you with a parting slap on your ass. "I'll see you later, then."

You grinned up at him as you straightened your dress and made your way towards the front door. "Bye, Lewis," you called over your shoulder.

As soon as you stepped outside into the cool London air, reality hit hard. Your mind was a cyclone of emotions.

Why were you still craving the easy detachment of your previous arrangement? Surely you were just going through an adjustment period of cold feet. A big part of you felt skittish about going from independent and free to somebody's boo'd up ball-and-chain, especially with someone who equally enjoyed working as you did. Though you weren’t on Lewis' level of fame, you still had clout as a fashion stylist and worked with prominent magazines, such as Vogue and Vanity Fair. You faced plenty of trials and trepidations in your life, yet navigating this new realm of commitment would be your ultimate challenge.

The drive to your hotel was quiet, with your mind filled with thoughts of Lewis and the budding relationship between the two of you. Shaking off those thoughts for now, you focused on reaching the hotel safely and getting some rest before another long day on set tomorrow.

The next morning came far too soon for your liking. Despite having only slept for a few hours due to work calls and texts from Lewis throughout the night (something he did often but never seemed to tire), you dragged yourself out of bed when your alarm blared loudly.

After a quick shower and a strong cup of coffee, you were dressed and ready to head to the set for another long day of styling. As you arrived at the location, you were greeted by familiar faces - the models, photographers, and other crew members whom you had worked with countless times before in the last couple of months. You were currently on a six-month contract for Schön! and even though there was some shoots that required long work days, you appreciated the flexibility of the work.

Everyone was scurrying around, setting up equipment and making last minute adjustments before the shoot began. You made your way over to the fashion rack where designer clothing was carefully organized and ready to be styled on the models.

"Morning, Y/N!" A voice called out from across the room.

You turned to see one of your bosses, Tara, walking towards you with a smile on her face.

"Hey, Tara," you replied. "How's it going?"

"It's going good," she said, glancing around at the busy set. "Looks like another long day ahead of us."

You both chuckled, knowing that long days were just part of the job.

"So, what are we working with today?" Tara asked curiously as she looked over at the fashion rack.

"A mix of high-end brands and some vintage pieces," you replied, pulling out a beautiful Dior dress from its garment bag. "I'm excited to see how this looks on one of our models."

Tara nodded in agreement before getting pulled away by one of the photographers who needed her assistance. You went back to organizing and styling the clothes for each look on your mood board.

As the day went on, you couldn't help but feel a little distracted by the constant buzzing of your phone. Every few minutes, another text from Lewis would come through, each one more persistent than the last.

"Come with me to Australia," one read. "I'll book your flights."

"Wasn't it your fantasy to be bent over the railing of a hotel overlooking Hobsons Bay?" another said.

You sighed as you set your phone down on the table next to you, trying to focus on the task at hand. The shoot was going smoothly but with every text from Lewis, it became harder and harder to concentrate.

One thing was for sure: this nigga was extremely persistent.

You couldn't deny that a trip to Australia sounded tempting - it had been on your bucket list for years now. But at the same time, it wasn't practical for you to just drop everything and go away for an undetermined amount of time.

Or could you? an intrusive thought bubbled in your head. The ho' side of yourself was speaking, coming out from the depths of her hoeness cave. It often appeared whenever Lewis was involved, and let's be honest, it was probably the reason why you found yourself in this weird ass situation in the first place.

Think about that tongue of his, girl! ‘Member how he had you walking funny for three days straight after finishing in eighth place?!

You couldn't forget it, as it would always be ingrained in the fiber of your very being. You enjoyed seeing Lewis angry, especially when there was a mistake during race weekend. Not that you blamed him for losing, as the car wasn't up to par, but he had a unique way of channeling his anger through sexual pleasure.

A familiar shiver ran down your spine as you hit send on a three-letter response to him.

Well, there goes the idea of keeping my distance and any modicum of self-respect.

Bitch, you know you can't resist that dick, quipped your inner ho.

And as usual, she was correct.

The hotel didn't have a direct view of Hobsons Bay, but the Yarra River and Botanical Gardens could still be seen from the balcony. It was nighttime, and as Lewis moved in a steady rhythm, your vision may not have been top-notch, but the sparkling city lights served as a focal point amidst the familiar feeling building up in your pelvic region, signaling an imminent orgasm.

You couldn't help but moan loudly as Lewis hit that spot inside of you that always made you lose control. He had you bent over the railing, one hand gripping your hip while the other played with your aching nodule. Each thrust sent bolts of pleasure shooting through your body.

"Fuck," he grunted in your ear. "You feel so good."

You couldn't respond, too lost in the overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. As his pace quickened, your moans grew louder and more desperate. The height from the penthouse's balcony was both terrifying and exhilarating, deafening in its intensity. It was a common choice for him whenever he visited Australia, as if being that high up meant less chance of encountering any spiders.

Just as you were about to reach your climax, Lewis stopped to bend down to bury his face in your core, working that sinful mouth of his. Your legs began to tremble as two of his fingers pushed inside you, matching the movements of his tongue.

He had always been a master at eating pussy, and it didn't take long for you to reach your climax. You cried out his name as waves of ecstasy washed over you, leaving you breathless and satisfied. Lewis stood up, a smug grin on his face as he saw the effect he had on you. He turned you around to kiss you deeply, tasting your own essence on his lips.

"You're still the best I've ever had," he whispered against your lips.

After catching your breath, you put a smirk on your face. "That's because I am the best," you teased.

"You’re right 'bout that," he concurred, leading you to the patio couch.

He sat next to you, his hands running up your sides and causing goosebumps to rise on your skin. You leaned into his touch, enjoying the sensation of his hands on your body.

"You always know how to make me feel good," you murmured.

"I aim to please," he replied with a wicked grin, before leaning in to kiss you again.

Without breaking the kiss, Lewis maneuvered you so you were now straddling his lap. His lips moved down your neck, causing shivers to run down your spine. Your hands roamed his muscular back, feeling every ridge and dip of his body.

His hands traveled to your hips, guiding them as you began to grind against him. The friction between your bodies was building a delicious heat, making it hard for you both to control yourselves.

"God, I need you," he growled against your skin.

You moaned in response, eagerly meeting his lips again. Lewis thrust upwards, filling you to the hilt and causing a soft gasp to escape your lips. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you leaned back slightly and rocked your hips faster against his. The pressure was building between the two of you and it was becoming harder to keep quiet. Your nails raked across his skin and he hissed in pain.

"Mmm...easy there, baby girl," he rumbled out a low warning, giving your earlobe a gentle nip of reproach. "Can't have you mauling me before the big race this weekend. Need to look pretty for my adoring fans."

You scoffed and ground harder against him in sweet retaliation, making him curse roughly. "Please, I'll mark you up anyway I want," you husked.

Lewis chuckled and tightened his grip on your waist, holding you still as he thrust up into you with more force. Your head fell back in pleasure, a loud moan escaping your lips.

"Jesus Christ," he groaned, his movements becoming more frenzied as he chased his own release. He reached between your bodies to stimulate your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, along with your moans and Lewis' low curses.

"That’s my girl takin' this dick so well," he croons softly. "You’re so fuckin' wet, baby. You like this dick, huh? This yours?"

Lewis' words only spurred you on, as you continued to ride him with reckless abandon. The pleasure was building inside of you, threatening to consume you completely.

"You know it's mine," you gasped out, your nails digging into his shoulders. "No one else's."

"Damn right," Lewis growled, his own release approaching fast. He gripped your hips tighter and slammed into you one last time, pushing you both over the edge.

Your walls clenched around him like a vice as you came undone, screaming his name as he followed suit shortly after.

Panting and sweating, the two of you collapsed onto the couch in a tangled heap. Lewis held you close, kissing your forehead gently.

"You're amazing," Lewis murmured, voice rough with satiated desire. His arms tightened around you, pulling your flushed body flush against his sweat-sheened skin.

You hummed out a breathless laugh, nuzzling your face against the solid warmth of his chest. "So are you."

For a long while, the two of you simply held each other close, basking in the post-coital glow. Lewis traced idle patterns across the exposed skin of your back, his touch reverent and tender.

Finally, with obvious reluctance, Lewis stirred beneath you.

"As much as I hate to move right now, we should probably get cleaned up."

The two of you stood up, still tangled in each other's embrace, and made your way to the bathroom. Lewis turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature before pulling you under the warm spray with him.

You leaned back against his chest, feeling content and blissful as he washed your body with slow, gentle movements. His hands lingered on your curves and crevices, eliciting soft moans from you.

"I could get used to this," Lewis murmured against your neck, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear.

You chuckled and turned around in his arms, wrapping yours around his neck. "Me too."

And even though you are apprehensive, there is no denying that Lewis was still the best thing in your world, but it all can't be butterflies and rainbows...

TO BE CONTINUED.....

I could get over anything as long as I have something new to be obsessed with

Three’s Company

When Patrick visits his best friend at Stanford University, Art’s new fling finds herself stuck between two very attractive men.

9k (18+)

Warnings: smut, threesome, unprotected p in v, double penetration, oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, they’re all pervs, and strong language.

-

The room is stiflingly hot.

There is no air conditioning in her study/fuck buddy's dorm to keep up with the late April heat that has descended upon Stanford's campus so quickly. Three different fans are plugged into outlets around the cramped living space, yet it does little to keep her body cool enough to feel comfortable.

Sleeping with Art was an impulsive decision. The first time was merely weeks ago after he politely asked if she would share her notes from a class he was absent from. They exchanged numbers to organize the meeting, and she ended up talking to him for the better part of an hour in the dining hall. Although she did not recognize it as flirting—the oblivious little thing she is—he shyly commented on seeing her at one of her gymnastics competitions and refused to let her get dinner with her meal credits. Looking back, his intentions should have been obvious to her, yet she does not think badly of him over it. If anything, she likes how wanted he made her feel. He knew what he wanted and ensured that he got it.

They came back to his room to study—only to study, he claimed with his hands held up to proclaim his innocence—for their approaching final exams.

"Good," she said with a teasing lilt to her voice, slinging her bag onto her shoulder and turning to walk in the direction of his dorm building. "Cause it's way too hot to be doing anything else."

They were both laughing as he set down his racquet bag to unlock the door. It was muffled through the wall, but Patrick heard it just fine from where he was perched on the foot of Art's bed with Tears for Fears playing on the unlabeled CD he dug through desk drawers to find. The sound of a distinctly feminine giggle made his mouth turn up at the corners in a smirk. This will be fun to tease his closest friend over until his cheeks flush pink and he has to hide his face in his shirt.

When the door swung open, the laughter died out as soon as they realized they weren't alone, but it was quickly replaced with wide smiles and warm greetings.

Patrick tried not to look her up and down so blatantly. Instead, he chuckled and said, "Art, you conveniently left out that you had a girlfriend on our last call."

To this, Art set down his bag and tackled him onto the bed, starting a minute-long wrestling match that only ended when they began to sweat from the heat and physical activity. It was then that Art remembered to have manners and introduced her. He scrambled to sit upright on the mattress and met her curious gaze.

"Y/N, this is Patrick. I'm sorry, I forgot what day he was coming."

She smiled.

"It's nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you." A pause, and then she turned her attention to Art. "Do you wanna study another time? I don't wanna intrude or anything."

Before Art could open his mouth to tell her to stay, Patrick aimed one of his charming grins at her, then said, "No, please intrude. I'll just hang out. You won't even know I'm here."

The last sentence caused a disbelieving scoff to leave Art’s lips.

As of right now, as she sits on the chair in front of the desk and the boys share the bed, they have gotten halfway through the study guide they meticulously constructed after one of the two classes they share, but it grew boring once an hour and a half passed. They typically end up getting distracted and make out by now, but with Patrick here, neither of them considers that an option. So, she suggests they take a half-hour break to sit, drink, and talk to allow their brains to decompress from the constant stimulation.

He already had a few beers inside the mini fridge beneath his desk, along with a hard seltzer for her seeing that she finds the taste of beer disgusting but quite enjoys being drunk with him. Also kept in the freezer section of the fridge is a pack of ice pops she bought a few days ago when the heat wave began. They prove to be very useful right now as the midday sun bakes the building alive despite the closed curtains and blowing fans.

The CD has moved onto Nine Inch Nails, and she remains quiet to hear it over the sound of the fans as she holds a red ice pop to the side of her neck to cool herself off. Sometime along the way, both of them had stripped down to their underwear after asking her if it was alright because it was so hot. Patrick joked that he was alright with her taking her clothes off too, which she laughed at while Art playfully shoved him over it. Yet now she isn't laughing. Her small exercise shorts are as forgiving as any item of clothing could be in these circumstances, but the long-sleeve shirt she wore because it was the only clean one left is sticking to her skin.

"So, how did you and Art meet?"

Her eyes open to find Patrick glancing back and forth between them.

"It's a boring story, actually," she says. "He asked if I took notes for a class he missed, and now he's stuck with me all the time."

"No, no, okay, maybe it was boring from her perspective, but I was trying to work up the nerve to talk to her for at least a week before then. I went to one of her competitions and recognized her from class," Art explains. "She won, which wasn't surprising at all."

Although she already knew this, this is the first time he has admitted to it out loud, and her stomach flutters at the idea of him becoming so enamored with her from one glance. The popsicle is sweet on her tastebuds when she raises it to her lips and sucks with her eyes looking between them both. As she expected, Patrick shifts a little in place and looks away for reasons not at all related to how she was looking at them while sucking her popsicle.

She chuckles.

"So, you were just interested in befriending me 'cause I win a lot?"

Her tone of voice is taunting, but they know it's all in good fun. Art is quick to play along, shrugging his shoulders to feign aloofness and taking a quick swig of his beer before responding. Their eye contact grows intense in the seconds before he speaks.

"Well, there were some other contributing factors."

"Mm," Patrick hums in agreement. "I've never seen you compete, but you are really hot, so Art's right about that."

This makes her pause for a second, her gaze shifting to find Art's to see if his friend crossed any lines, but he appears strangely calm about it. What she doesn't know is that he has never had any problem sharing, at least, not with Patrick. They shared a room in boarding school, jerked off together to the same girl, and shared the court together—what was his would always be Patrick's, and what was Patrick's would always be his.

"You're flirting with me right in front of him?"

Art interjects, "I'd be shocked if he didn't."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he's standing up from the bed to get another beer. The dorm room is small, so it only takes a few strides for him to meet her where she sits before the desk and kneels down to open the mini fridge. His left hand braces itself on one of her thighs while the right swings open the fridge door only to find there is no beer left. Rather than complain, he simply grabs one of her least favorite hard seltzer flavors and gives her thigh a firm squeeze before standing up.

The bed creaks beneath his weight when he sits back down on it.

He settles into a comfortable position with his back against the wall and legs spread, balancing the seltzer can on his bent knee. Patrick sits close to him, and she finds it difficult to peel her eyes off the pair of them in their current state of undress. Her gaze mostly lingers on Patrick seeing that she has already explored every inch of Art's lean body in the plentiful amount of times they've hooked up over the past few weeks. But, that being said, she cannot resist looking at Art either. Having two beautiful men laid out before her in their underwear is a treat she never expected to indulge in today. They each have the strong, masculine figures of athletes—showing mostly in their shoulders, biceps, abdomen, and thighs.

When Patrick notices her staring, she turns her gaze to the floor to avoid the embarrassment of being caught. If he did catch her, though, he doesn't call her out for it. Not yet, at least.

With one last bite of her popsicle, she stands from the desk chair to toss it into the small trash can beside his nightstand. It isn't until she lets it go that she realizes how close she now stands to the two of them. Only a foot or so from the bed, her heart begins to hammer in her chest at the proximity.

The way she sees it, she has two options. The first would be to retreat to the desk to let her long-sleeved shirt give her heatstroke while the men get to sit in front of the oscillating fans with their shirts off, or she can strip down to her undergarments and join them on the bed. Needless to say, she opts for the latter of the two.

Y/N lets out an exaggerated groan at the heat and fans herself with her hands for the sake of appearing somewhat innocent in what she's about to do, then reaches down for the hem of her shirt with a huff.

Art and Patrick can do nothing but watch with rapt attention side by side as she pulls the fabric up her torso and over her head. The shirt ends up falling to the floor beside her feet alongside their discarded t-shirts and pants. This leaves her in her most comfortable bra—which is Art's favorite since her nipples can be seen through the mesh material—and a pair of tiny spandex shorts.

Patrick's tongue darts out to wet his lips at the sight of her—almost angelic in her beauty—and tries to burn the image into his mind to hold onto forever. Definitely going in the spank bank, he thinks to himself as his cock begins to harden in his boxers. Beside him, Art has been stunned to silence. Even though they've fucked like rabbits since the first time, he isn't sure if he'll ever get used to seeing her like this. Those shorts hug the delicate curve of her hips, as well as that lovely ass that has been sculpted from years of training as a gymnast, and all he can think of is how badly he wants to take them off.

They sit there, dumbfounded, with their mouths hanging open just enough for her to notice and suppress an arrogant smirk. But to allow herself to smirk would be to reveal her cards, and she doesn't want them to see this as anything other than her innocently trying to cool down. Truth be told, she hasn't thought this through. It's not as though she planned this as she was sitting at the desk. It's more of an impulsive, irresistible urge. And if they will tease her so blatantly with their half-naked bodies, she is entitled to do the same.

"You," she says, jutting her chin in Patrick's direction. "Scoot. I wanna sit in front of the fans too."

Underneath it all, she's thankful that she took the time to do her hair the way that makes her feel the most confident and put a little makeup on. Not that either of them is focused on her damned makeup. No, they're far too busy ogling her figure to notice anything north of her collarbones.

After a delayed second of staring, what she said seems to register within him and spark him into action. He's quick to scoot closer to the end of the bed if it means she'll be inhabiting the small space between them. 

She offers a quiet, "Thank you," and crawls onto the bed, turning around and settling into place with her back against the wall. The cool air generated by the fans blows faintly against the front of her sweat-slick chest, and she can't help but shut her eyes and hum in appreciation of it.

With her eyes shut, Art and Patrick are both scrambling to quietly conceal their growing erections. If they don't, it'll be glaringly obvious when she opens her eyes and sees a tent in their underwear on either side of her. Although the life-long friends don't speak, there's an understanding formed between the two of them. Whatever she allows them to have of her tonight, if she allows anything, they'll share nicely. Patrick knows that if anything happens, he is to assume it is a one-time thing unless she or Art expresses a desire for an arrangement of some sort to be made.

Her eyes open again a few seconds later to find them staring at her.

Breaking the silence, she asks, turning her head left to right to address each of them, "Did your mothers never tell you it's rude to stare?"

Patrick doesn't miss a beat.

"Did you know it's rude to be a tease?"

The sound of Art sucking in a deep breath meets her ears, but she doesn't look away from Patrick. Their eyes are locked, and she can see the mischief present in his. It's almost as if he dares her to do something...like he knows that she wants him just as badly as he wants her. Part of her feels guilty, feeling like she should remain loyal to Art even though they aren't exclusive, but a much more dominant part of her desires it too much to resist the temptation.

"Patrick, don't pressure her. If she doesn't want to—"

Her head turning to look at him halts him in his tracks. The look she's giving him...

Much to his shock, she was a virgin when they met a few weeks ago. He questioned her relentlessly, claiming there was no way someone as beautiful, smart, and talented as her could've gone so long without doing it, but she held firm. It was the truth, he realized after she sheepishly relayed the story of how she made out with a basketball player on Halloween and wimped out before it could go further. That first night, she was a bashful, blushing little thing. He treated her with the tenderness and reverence she deserved, first making her come with his tongue and fingers before fucking her. It was so...intimate. Her nails dug into his shoulders when he made that first, breathtaking thrust into her. Just the thought of it was enough to get him hard the next day, but he knew not to expect anything after how shy she was the previous night. Little did he know, he awakened something within her, and from then on, she would be insatiable.

He almost got whiplash from how quickly she changed from a nervous, flushed-faced girl asking him, "Am I doing this right?" when she got on top to a cock-hungry temptress ready to jump onto him at any moment. Truth be told, he found it so fucking hot. To think that he was the catalyst for this behavior was beyond comprehension. Though Art did well enough in his dating life, Patrick was the one that the girls they liked gravitated toward when they were in school together. But she was his, and he thinks, even now, that he'll always have the satisfaction of having gotten to her first no matter what happens tonight.

Y/N shifts around on the mattress so that she's sitting on the side of the bed opposite the wall, facing them with her hands on her knees and legs tucked beneath her ass. Both boys perk up a little at this, and they watch every minute movement she makes and listen to every breath she breathes with unwavering focus.

She meets Art's gaze first before doing anything. Her brows raise in question, and, in answer, he gives her a slight nod. Those pretty, cherry-stained lips of hers curve into a smirk she doesn't even bother to hide in response to this.

"Have you ever fucked the same girl before?" she asks out of pure curiosity, her tone calm and even. Her hands leave her knees to grab one of their thighs each, slowly rubbing up and down to allow her fingertips to brush the edge of their boxers. "Two guys at the same time is a first for me..."

To say that they are in a state of shock would be a gross understatement. Surprisingly, their mouths are not hanging open, and they aren't drooling at the mere thought of what she's proposing.

Somehow, Patrick finds his voice and says, "No." A second of pause, then—"Is this for real? Like you're not just fucking with us?"

The silence that follows is ripe with tension. All that can be heard is the sound of voices passing in the hallway outside of the dorm room and fans blowing on their highest setting. The hands on their thighs come to a halt at the edge of their boxers, and the softened expression on her face shifts into one of unabashed lust as she looks at Patrick.

In answer to his question, she starts to crawl over to him. Seeing that the mattress is a twin, it doesn't take too long for her to reach him and settle into place on top of him. Her hands slide up to cup his face, forcing him to only look at her when she lowers herself onto his lap. The spandex shorts hugging every inch of her figure do little to keep him from feeling the warmth of her cunt against the bulge that formed the second she took her top off.

That first brush of her lips against his is gentle, as though she has him under a trance, but it doesn't take longer than a few seconds for him to snap out of it. Patrick's hands grasp her hips first to keep her from moving away, then they slide down to knead the soft, supple flesh of her ass as he begins to kiss her back hungrily. The kiss quickly begins to descend from her lips to her jaw until he reaches the soft skin of her neck.

While he nips and sucks at the sensitive spot along the side of her neck, Y/N opens her eyes to find Art staring, unblinking, at the pornographic display before him. The sight of him alone—between his messy blonde hair, piercing eyes, and masterfully structured face—is enough to pull a breathy moan from the back of her throat. One would think that she would get used to the way he makes her feel when he looks at her like that, but she never does.

One of the arms wrapped around Patrick's neck uncurls itself to reach for Art, fingers wiggling to beckon him to her. 

He's already invading her space by the time she whispers, "C'mere, baby."

Art practically melts into the two writhing bodies he kneels beside at the casual use of a pet name from her. The word echoes in the farthest reaches of his brain until it is all he can hear on a loop. Even as she grips the back of his neck and pulls him until their mouths collide, his cock twitches from the memory of her calling him baby.

Patrick continues to suck, lick, nip, and kiss his way down her neck as she slips her tongue into Art's mouth with a groan. He leaves marks behind everywhere he goes with the thought of his friend finding them on her for the next week and a half in mind. It only makes it more thrilling for him to imagine the strange mixture of frustration and arousal that will arise within Art when he rediscovers them the next time they hook up.

Slowly, she is guided onto her back by his mouth slipping down to take one of her nipples into it and his callused hands peeling her shorts, along with her soaked cotton thong, down over the swell of her ass. The freshly washed sheets are soft against her bare back as she lays back and watches Patrick worship her breasts with both his mouth and hands. In the midst of their repositioning, Art took it upon himself to squeeze into the cramped space next to Patrick, slotting himself between him and the wall the bed is pressed against. Without a word of warning, he dips his face down to kiss the breast Patrick is cupping in his hand.

She feels hands everywhere, unsure of which belongs to who. Hands grapple for purchase on her hips, her waist, her breasts, her thighs, and her ass—always moving in search of new territory to claim. Although they have no way of coordinating their actions, they seem to move in sync with one another. The second Art's mouth lowers to kiss down her stomach, which flinches inward at the feeling, Patrick follows. If she weren't so overwhelmed with everything right now, she'd likely laugh at how eager they are to race each other down the length of her body.

Their heads bump every few seconds by the time they reach her parted thighs, but they are too focused on getting a taste of her to care at first. They work with the same synchronized harmony they once had as doubles partners, Art tugging her left leg over his shoulder while Patrick shoves her right up and out until her thigh is flush with her chest. She can't help but silently thank her parents for enrolling her in gymnastics lessons years ago. If they hadn't, this would be a tad uncomfortable.

Finally, Patrick tries to shove Art to the side a little, complaining, "Come on, man, you're with her all the time."

To her surprise, it works for the first moment or so. Art places hot, open-mouthed kisses on her inner thigh as Patrick's tongue makes a broad stroke through her, but it isn't long before he grows dissatisfied with his current role in this impromptu threesome and decides to fight back. He doesn't shove or push like Patrick had, instead, he gently nudges his head against Patrick's until they can share her.

Having Art go down on her alone always feels pleasurable, but having both of their mouths on her at the same time is another sensation entirely. It's indescribable. Spit drools from their lips as they kiss her sodden cunt, taking turns flicking the tips of their tongues against her clit for the sake of hearing her moan over and over. From where she looks down at them, they're nearly kissing each other as they eat her out, and she has to tip her head back onto her shoulders to keep them from seeing her smirk.

When she looks back down, she makes a breathy, gasping sound at the sight of them. Patrick is looking up at her with an intensity no man has ever had when looking at her, not even Art, and there is no ignoring the feeling it stirs in the pit of her abdomen.

"Fuck," she whines and pushes herself harder against their faces, but it's never enough. "More—I need more. Please."

Neither one hesitates. In fact, they seem to form a plan without speaking it aloud. As Art's free hand raises from where it palmed his cock through his boxers, Patrick's lips close around her sensitive, puffy clit and start to suck. The tips of Art's middle and ring fingers brush tentatively against her hole, then, teasingly slow, push inside until they're buried knuckle deep.

The contrast of the men as lovers—Patrick being unforgiving and passionate, Art being tender and desperate—threatens to dizzy her. But Art cannot control himself for too long. He often starts slow and gentle, his eyes flooded with genuine affection for whoever is pinned under his body, then loses his composure the farther things go. By the time he's inside of her, he's almost brutal in how hard he fucks her, and it isn't out of malice, it's out of animalistic lust.

So, as per usual, the pace Art sets to begin with shifts into something harder and faster.

Over the sounds of the fans and music playing on the CD player across the room, a symphony of panting breaths, whines, and wet noises can be heard. It wouldn't surprise any of them if the people who were talking in the hallway could hear it, but it's not like they care right now. 

When she closes her eyes and tries to fall back against the mattress, Patrick stops for a second to murmur, "Don't look away," before getting back to work. Something about the way his voice sounds forces her to submit to his demand without hesitation. There's an edge to it. An underlying promise that he will stop and leave her here to suffer if she doesn't listen, so she does. She watches with a slack-jawed expression at how they work diligently to get her off.

The combined sensations of the fingers pumping into her at a steady, rushed pace and the lips enclosed around her sensitive bud push her closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. Art slips a third finger in and licks between her sticky folds as Patrick sucks her clit relentlessly. Everything they do is motivated by a dire need to take as much of her as they can, as though they can't quite believe what's happening and want to savor it before they wake from the dream. Seeing their desperation only fuels the fire roaring to life inside of her.

They feast on her the way starving men would if presented with food—humming and groaning in satisfaction at the taste of her on their tongues. Through the haze she's fallen under as a result of the present situation, her gaze lifts from where both of their faces are smushed together between her parted thighs to find that they're both humping the mattress. It seems like they don't even realize they're doing it, which, of course, only makes it hotter for her. To think that she wields enough power over them, that she renders them so useless and needy...

Her brows pinch together at the feeling of Art's fingertips finding the sweet spot inside of her.

"Right there," she breathes out in a shaky voice, hand shooting down to grasp anything she can find for support.

It ends up being Patrick's dark hair that is weaved between her fingers and used as her lifeline, tugging nearly every time Art's fingertips find the spot inside of her that makes her throw her head back on the bed and cry out for them. If they didn't have her pinned down, her hips would be lifting to meet every thrust, but she cannot do anything other than take it. Every breath she takes turns rapid, her chest rising and falling dramatically, as the familiar feeling of her impending release grows nearer by the second.

She says, half warning and half pleading with them, "I'm"—The sentence is cut off before it can be said by a high-pitched moan that makes Patrick moan and Art whimper into her—"Please"—What she's pleading for, none of them know, herself included, but she continues to babble nonsensically anyway—"Ah!"

The hand that isn't pulling on Patrick's hair reaches down instinctively for the hand Art grips her thigh with, and she doesn't even need to ask him for it. He entwines their fingers and allows her to squeeze his hand until circulation is lost as she finally feels the wave that was building within her begin to crest.

It hits her harder than she ever knew it could. 

Everything explodes into a sensation of bliss so strong, she loses herself in it. The only thing tying her body down to the earth is the feeling of the hands on her—touching her, fingering her, caressing her, and holding her hand—yet even that is not enough to keep her from floating away into another world entirely for the first few seconds of her orgasm. The muscles in her legs, so exhausted from being forced into a position like this, shake violently with every wave of pleasure rushing through her, and her walls clamp down around the fingers thrusting into her.

If she could live forever in these fifteen seconds, she would, but it soon becomes obvious to her that there's no chance of that happening. Gradually, the intense sensation starts to recede like the tides, and they are both there to help her ride it out to the very end. But once it fully fades, she wriggles beneath them in sensitivity.

Using the hand wrapped up in his hair, Y/N pulls Patrick's mouth away from her clit with a strength he didn't know to expect despite her obvious athletic background, and when Art notices this, he too slows the rhythmic pumping of his fingers inside of her throbbing heat to a stop. Wary of hurting her, he waits another five seconds before slowly pulling them out.

She has gone boneless where she lays on her back with her eyes shut and chest heaving for air.

Knowing she cannot see them, Patrick cuts his best friend a look and jerks his chin in her direction in a silent urging to check on her. Both men start to move at the same time, crawling over her until they reach her face. While Patrick lies beside her and trails his hand up and down her naked, sweat-soaked torso to occupy himself in the time it takes her to recover, Art licks her arousal from his fingers before grabbing her by the chin.

He asks with a teasing inflection, "You still with us?"

Her eyes slowly open to find them both staring at her, and she cannot help the slight smile that comes to her face at this.

"You guys almost killed me," she murmurs. "I think my vision got spotty for a second there."

They allow her another moment to catch her breath and recuperate in the aftermath of what she endured. She takes turns looking at them as she pants for air, laying with her arms above her head and thighs squeezed together due to her current state of sensitivity.

Patrick is the first to break the silence.

"We're not done with you," he says softly, the hand on her chest climbing up until it cradles the side of her neck. "But you know that, don't you?"

"I'd be a little bummed if you were," she replies.

Her head is whipping around at the sound of Art's voice.

"Only a little?"

She pushes herself up from where she's lying supine on the bed, which is now a mess of tangled sheets and sweat, to smack him on the arm. It's all in good fun, of course, and Art is hardly hurt by the playful blow she landed on him. Giggles escape her mouth as they begin to play fight, swatting and trying to pin one another down with Patrick there to spectate. He encourages Y/N to fight dirty, telling her where to strike, which causes Art to curse under his breath and declare him a traitor.

It ultimately ends with her on top, her legs straddling his hips and hands pinning his wrists to the bed. Based on the faraway, longing gleam in his eyes as he looks up at her, Patrick can tell immediately that she only won because Art allowed her to. Because there is something about being pinned to the bed underneath her that turns him on. And she knows it. It's easy to tell by how his erection presses up against her naked center through the fabric of his boxers.

Suddenly, she comes up onto her knees and moves back until she's hovering over his thighs. Her next words are a soft-spoked explanation for why she's reaching for the waistband of his boxers.

"Too much clothes."

But, to her surprise, another pair of hands comes to her aid in shimmying Art's underwear down his hips and legs. The way Patrick sees it, the sooner he helps her get them off, the sooner she'll take his off. And he isn't wrong. As soon as they get the boxers free from Art's body, the garment is tossed to the side without a care in the world. Neither of them looks to see where they landed, they're far too busy leaning in to kiss each other than keep track of their discarded clothing.

Her left hand is wrapped around Art's cock, pumping at a torturously slow pace, as she pulls away from Patrick with a string of saliva connecting their lips.

"Take those off," she says with a pointed look at his crotch.

To say he is sent scrambling to take off his underwear at her command would be an understatement. If this scenario itself wasn't hot enough to make her cunt throb with a desperate need to be fucked, she'd be giggling at his eagerness. But it's hard to find anything funny when she's faced with Patrick standing, one foot on the floor and his other leg braced against the bed at the knee, with nothing to conceal him from her anymore.

It must inflate his ego to heights it has never reached before to see her tongue dart out to wet her lips at the sight of him. The hand stroking Art falters as she admires Patrick's cock. It's about an inch longer than Art's yet equal in girth, curving up a little toward his hair-speckled, defined abdomen. A drop of precome has dripped from his tip, and she has to dip her head forward to get a quick taste. Those pretty lips wrap around him, not pushing down to take the rest of his shaft into her mouth but remaining where she is, flicking her tongue against the slit where the drops of sticky, pearlescent fluid secrete.

A taste is all she allows herself, though.

Her lips pull off of him with a soft popping sound, and she makes sure to maintain eye contact with him as she licks a drop of pre-come off of her top lip.

She turns to look at Art, then Patrick, then back at Art, asking, "How do you want me?"

Seeing that she was a virgin before she started seeing Art, she figures she isn't qualified to direct this in a way that'll be comfortable for everyone involved. No, if she had to bet, Patrick has the most experience between the three of them—with Art following closely behind—and he will have no problem taking control from here based on how he has acted thus far.

To their surprise, it's Art who answers first. 

Patrick was still in a faraway daze from having her mouth around his cock only to be kicked when he was down by the question she asked. How do you want me? God, it's like she's trying to kill them.

"On my lap."

Art pushes himself up from the mattress and repositions so he sits on his knees in front of them, reaching for her hips to pull her closer without a second of hesitation. Her arms instantly reach for his shoulders to steady herself as she maneuvers into the exact position he had in mind. Buried beneath the music that has become white noise to them and the fans running on their highest setting, he thinks he hears her breath hitch in her throat once she's straddling his lap, the tip of his cock nudging against her clit.

Absentmindedly, she starts to grind against him, coating him in the slick arousal that seeps from her, but it's slow. A tease compared to what's coming next.

"Patrick," he says, his voice unwavering despite the excitement that makes his stomach churn. His hand slides down from her neck, caressing her breast as it passes by at a lazy speed, until he takes hold of himself and pumps a few times—as if he isn't hard as a fucking rock already. Over her shoulder, he meets his friend's intense stare. "If you wanna fuck her, you should probably get on the bed."

And while he would usually fire back something equally witty or taunting, Patrick cannot manage to do anything but nod. There's something about seeing Art this way that subdues him. He would like to think that the sole reason he's standing naked in front of his best friend is because there's a girl involved, but that isn't true. Not completely. Although Art would never admit to himself that he feels the same way, there's something familiar about this. Comfortable. Right.

The mattress dips with Patrick's shifting weight, squeaking a little beneath his knees until he settles into place behind her. His chest presses against her back, and his hand reaches up to grab her jaw, guiding her head to tilt so he can kiss her neck while Art lines himself up with her. She feels Patrick's cock pressing against her ass as the broad tip of Art's sinks inside of her.

Having Patrick's face buried in her neck, her shoulder, and back to her neck again provided her and Art a rare second of private intimacy. Her eyes, glazed over with lust, lock into his and refuse to look away. The intensity present in his gaze does not frighten her. If anything, it sends a rush of adrenaline through her body, and she takes a second to admire his soft, wide eyes. She's never mentioned it aloud before, but she has always been fascinated with making eye contact with him due to his right eye. Half of the iris is a striking, clear shade of blue while the other is a warm brown hue.

"Fuck," he says under his breath at the feeling of her squeezing down around him, her tight cunt resisting a little until she relaxes and sinks down until there's nothing left to take.

There's nothing that compares to the feeling of the first thrust he makes.

Every time, it makes her bite her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. To feel him so deep is almost undoing in itself. Then she feels another hand slide between her legs, and her mind goes utterly blank. Everything outside of this room falls away the second Patrick starts to rub her clit in gentle, languid circles to help her adjust to the stretch of Art inside of her. Patrick's lips lavish every accessible inch of her bare skin with kisses as his friend, with a hand on each of her hips, starts to lift her up and down at an unhurried pace.

Their noses and lips brush without completely touching. When she pushes her face closer to Art's, hoping to lock lips with him, he pulls away for the sake of seeing her grow hot in the face from embarrassment. The mouth worshipping the back of her neck curves up into a smirk in reaction to the games Art plays with her. Who knew he's just as fun in bed as he is out of it? Certainly not Patrick.

She mutters, voice breathy and weak, "Feels so good..."

"Yeah?" Patrick murmurs into her skin and presses his fingers hard against her clit. "Tell me how he feels."

If he could see her the way Art can right now, he'd have to suppress a chuckle at how her brows pinch together at the command. Regardless of her sudden shyness, the words he says only make her ride Art harder. Over her shoulder, Patrick searches for those pale blue eyes only to find them staring through him already. Every smooth rocking motion of her hips pushes her ass against his neglected erection, providing him with a brushing touch before pivoting away again.

"He feels"—she says, chest rising and falling faster—"He's so hard." Her sentences are hardly coherent. "Perfect—mmm—fucking me so deep." One of her hands reaches to tug his down to press it against the southernmost part of her abdomen. "Feel."

With her palm molded over the back of his hand and forcing him to push down on her belly, Patrick can hardly keep from groaning at the subtle bulge of Art's cock moving in and out of her. It's strangely intimate for the three of them to share this experience, but for him to feel every thrust through her is more than he anticipated.

Unable to fight what instinct drives him to, Patrick shifts his hips until the angle of her grinding against him allows his tip to brush up against the hole she and Art have yet to touch. He doesn't do anything more, not without her asking for it, but it's clear to both Art and Y/N that he desperately wants to. All of this physical affection shared between the two of them has made Patrick needy and jealous, so she decides to grant him mercy.

She reaches behind herself blindly to guide him elsewhere, nudging him against the hole Art is already filling. It takes them a couple of seconds to understand what she means in doing this, but, once it clicks, they start to go a little crazy. For the moment, she has stopped bouncing on Art's cock for the sake of allowing Patrick to push in beside him, and he has to surge forward to kiss her. If he doesn't distract himself with a kiss, he'll be too tempted to move.

As Art kisses her deeply, his tongue invading her mouth and caressing her own, Patrick's hand wraps around her throat for leverage with his teeth nipping at her earlobe. His hand wraps around where hers grips his cock to guide it to her entrance, and with his help, they manage to squeeze the tip in.

Her jaw drops at the overwhelming sensation, and the sloppy kiss is interrupted when her head rolls back onto Patrick's shoulder. Art doesn't seem to care, though. Now that her head is tipped back, her neck is exposed for him to mark, and he takes advantage of the opportunity as soon as it presents itself. His lips brush against Patrick's fingers a few times as he kisses her fervently, sucking hard on the delicate skin that has already been bruised by his dear friend.

"You're beautiful," Art whispers into her neck between kisses. "So, so beautiful."

Taking it slow for her sake, Patrick has to force himself into her inch by inch, stretching her little cunt to take far more than she's accustomed to. But, as hard as it is, it works. After another few moments of him pushing in and pausing to let her adjust, he finally bottoms out with his cock flush against Art's. Her walls clamp down around them tightly. They both share a nervous look at this, wondering if they'll manage to last longer than thirty seconds if it already feels this good.

Slowly, she raises her head from where it slumped against Patrick's shoulder and meets Art's intense stare with one of her own. His hand raises to cup the side of her face, his fingers grazing against Patrick's, and he brushes his thumb over her kiss-swollen bottom lip. Every breath taken between the three of them is labored.

Pulling her lip down with his thumb, he asks, "Feeling okay?"

A half-second later, Patrick chimes in.

"If it's too much, you have to tell us."

Not a question, not a request, but a demand. The way he said it left no room for debate, so she nods in compliance and responds with an eagerness that neither man can miss, "M'fine, please, just fuck me..."

Patrick does not need to be told twice.

Having been sidelined for too long and forced to watch them fuck without him, he pulls out slowly, then cants his hips back against her ass with a force that takes her breath away. Amidst this, Art cannot do anything but let his face fall forward into her chest and whine in ecstasy. Just the movement of Patrick's cock rubbing against his with every thrust renders him useless. He knew it would feel better than any sex he'd had before, but this...He'll likely spend the rest of his life chasing the hedonism they are experiencing tonight.

One of her arms reaches behind her to grab Patrick's hip and dig her nails in hard while the other closes around Art's neck to pull both of them as close as can be. And now that he has forced himself back from the edge of a premature release, Art begins to move too, searching for a rhythm that feels right. Soon enough, he manages to find it. Both of their heads lift to look at each other, faces inches apart with their chins pressing on her shoulder, and they work with the same synchronicity they had while eating her out not even fifteen minutes ago.

She turns her head to the side to watch their stare-down as they rut into her like feral animals—utterly insatiable and overcome by their baser instincts. And it's only now that it occurs to her that, underneath it all, they want each other as desperately and pathetically as they want her. Patrick's gaze relentlessly bounces back and forth between Art's eyes and lips, and it makes her smirk to herself. The pleasure of fucking her as one, their pulsing cocks rubbing together in the warm walls of her cunt, has lowered their inhibitions, and the idea of being intimate with one another isn't as daunting as it would be if they were fully aware.

Leaning in to brush her cherry-flavored lips against Art's ear, she whispers, "I want you to kiss him."

The arm looped around the back of his neck pulls tighter in encouragement, bringing his body so close to hers that she can feel his ribs expanding with every breath. His only reaction to her request is a quick glance at her face once she pulls away from his ear with a sensuous lick as a parting gift. It's almost as though he doesn't believe what she's saying, but the reassuring expression she wears tells him that it is real. She truly wants him to see him kiss his best friend, not only for their enjoyment but hers as well.

One second, he's looking at her, and the next, he's slotting his lips against Patrick's with a passion previously only reserved for her. Their hands both grapple for purchase on her sweat-slick body, Art aggressively kneading her breasts and Patrick squeezing her hips for dear life, as they moan into each other's mouths.

As they kiss each other hungrily, Y/N has nothing left to do but bask in the tension swelling inside of her. There's something about how wrong this situation feels to her that makes it so much more arousing. Girls are always raised with the idea that promiscuity lessens their value, and she was not an exception. Having been raised in a family of devout believers, she hadn't kissed a boy until she was seventeen years old. The next person she kissed was Art, and in the time since their first kiss, he has thoroughly corrupted her.

And even as distracted as he is by the all-consuming, wet kiss he's engaged in, Art feels her cunt start to squeeze around their cocks and immediately drops one of the hands on her breasts between her splayed thighs. His finger rubs in tight circles on her clit in hopes that she will reach her end before he and Patrick come pathetically soon.

Her body jerks where it's trapped between them when his fingers make contact, pulling their focus away from each other for the first time since their lips touched. Patrick reaches up to hold her neck in one hand and forces her face to the side so both of them can look at every subtle expression she makes. 

"Don't stop," she pleads, eyes glazed over. "M'so close, Art"—Every merciless thrust elicits a high-pitched whine from her—"Patrick, please!"

The body trapped between them has gone boneless and twitchy, utterly useless at holding herself up or aiding them in any way. But they wear it like a badge of honor. With her face falling forward into Art's neck, she loses her grasp on all that is around her and lets them prop her up to fuck her like a toy existing solely for their gratification.

With one hand cradling the back of her head and the other between her thighs, still dutifully rubbing her clit, Art asks under his breath, "Isn't she fucking perfect?"

Although it was a question meant for Patrick, she can't help how she moans and clenches her walls around them when she hears it. Panting breaths from the three of them flood the sweltering dorm room, but they are too far gone to notice or care how much sweat drips off of their bodies onto one another. It's almost hard to get a firm grip on her as a result of it, but they manage to keep her in place by smushing their bodies as close as physically possible on both sides of her.

Patrick bucks his hips up into her with a recklessness that gives away how close he is to his climax.

He says, "Oh, God, yeah." The hand still collaring her delicate neck squeezes just enough to take her breath away for a second. However, once he released his hold on her, that hand moved to wrap itself up the roots of her hair. "Best pussy I've ever had. So fucking tight, it's like she wants us to come inside her." A pause, then, "Is that what you want?"

A second passes of silence from her, and he sharply tugs back on her hair until her face is no longer hidden in Art's neck. This allows them to drink in the sight of her—face twisted up in pleasure and mouth gaping open.

He asks again, "Is that what you want?"

Her response is immediate.

"Yes, yes, yes," she murmurs incoherently and takes quick turns to look between their faces. If the expressions they wear are any indication, it won't be long before her wish is fulfilled. "I'm—mmm-gonna come! I need you to fill me up, please, please!"

To this, Art rubs her clit faster while maintaining eye contact with her and finally lets go of whatever remaining scraps of self-control he has left. Knowing how close she is pushes them closer themselves, and they start to pound her hard. Hard enough that even they, as soon-to-be professional athletes, have difficulty sustaining this intense degree of exertion.

The arm that she looped around his shoulders is still there, but now her hand is sliding down from the back of Art's neck to explore the toned musculature of his upper back. Under her searching palm, she can feel his muscles contracting and relaxing beneath his pale skin.

To both her and Art's surprise, the world begins to shift in their peripheral vision until he falls flat against the mattress on his back with his length still sheathed inside of her. It takes a second for their brains to catch up with what happened and deem Patrick responsible for the position change. He laid his hands flat on her back and pushed with just the right amount of force to pin Art to the mattress beneath them.

Art says, breathless, "I can feel you squeezing us, baby, just let go."

Hearing those words sets fire to her blood, and that, paired with the toe-curling sensation of them pressing deep inside of her, hitting that spot over and over and over, is what tips her over the edge.

Patrick keeps pulling on her hair to force her head up so that they can feel and watch her come, and what a beautiful sight it is. Art, the lucky bastard, is face to face with her as she tenses up with the onslaught of her climax. But he can see the side of her pretty, flushed face and drink up every little sound she makes, so he doesn't feel left out in any way. No, he is experiencing this right beside Art. They're both trapped inside of her, pumping into her throbbing heat and letting themselves be swept away into oblivion by the feeling of her coming undone.

She digs her nails into Art's skin hard enough to hurt as she whines and writhes between them with each pulse of pleasure that runs through her, and it isn't until she's starting to come down, riding out the high, that she feels them spill into her at the same time. Every sensation attached to it prolongs her orgasm—the throbbing, the spreading warmth, and the dying undulations of their hips that grind their cocks together within her. And beyond the physicality of the act, just knowing that they're filling her to the brim with their come makes her head spin from how fucking hot she finds it.

It isn't long before their thrusts slow into a sensuous grinding as they come down from it together, then come to a full stop to keep from overstimulating themselves. They both are starting to go soft, panting and leaning against her limp body in exhaustion, and know they wouldn't be able to continue even if they wanted to.

Her head is laid on Art’s shoulder with Patrick’s nose nuzzling her neck. There's nothing they can do except remain still and try to recover from the euphoria that has rendered them useless, so that is precisely what they do. With their bodies nearly melting together from the heat, the three of them hold onto each other for support until they manage to return to full consciousness after what they went through.

It isn't until another couple of moments have elapsed that Patrick and Art start murmuring to one another while she remains slumped between them. A second later, both pairs of hands are squeezing her hips; lifting her off of their softening cocks, slowly, gently, and minding her sensitivity.

The three of them collapse side by side on the twin bed, bodies squeezed together like sardines, and she finally comes back down from the clouds her head floated into at the feeling of them touching her. It isn't sexual. No, they wouldn't dream of putting her through anything more than she could handle right now. Both touches are tender and featherlight—Art's hand molds over her breast simply to cup it as they cuddle while Patrick brings her hand up from her side to brush a kiss over her knuckles.

The silence continues to stretch on, then—

"We're definitely gonna have to do that again," she says, turning her head to look at each of them before laying her cheek against Art's shoulder. "That is, if don't mind sharing me."

His gaze softens, the hand cupping her breast ghosting up over her skin until it finds her and Patrick's entwined hands.

"I don't mind one bit."

-

Thank you for reading this! I probably won’t write any more Challengers fics but I saw the movie like five times in theaters and needed to crank this out to satisfy the part of me that is obsessed with the hotel scene. I would really appreciate a comment to let me know what you thought if you’re open to that 🫶🏻 The oral part of this fic was inspired by these two (1) (2) I read, so def give them a read cause they're great!

Give it some, give it some, give it some time, But I think we’re supposed to be (Or; the five times Charles and Buttons wage war, and the one time they don’t.)

(Charles x Reader. 10k. 18+ please, for a little bit of smut)

Preface.

Buttons was yours long before Charles ever was.

Buttons found you, cuddled up to you when he was nothing but a kitten in a shelter, unmoored and homeless, tiny and terrified. You’d gone to the shelter with your brother and his girlfriend, tagged along because they were in the process of adopting a dog and you wanted to meet her. While they signed papers and settled the adoption you wandered into the cat kennel, aimless and bored. But Buttons found you almost immediately, stared up at you with his dark green eyes and purred into your chest and made it impossible for you to walk away without giving the shelter your phone number.

You came back three days later, and Buttons came home with you.

Keep reading

saying "i don't believe in love anymore" about the breakup of a couple that got together by cheating is very funny

I was born to sit in the garage and look pretty while my athlete bf is going around in circles in a spaceship for 50+ laps

To be fair to your boyfriend, you should have warned him that the brownies lying on the kitchen counter weren’t normal brownies. 

It had been a mix of wine-fuelled decisions and morbid curiosity that led you to ordering the brownie mix. What started off as a normal girls’ night ended with you and a few of your closest friends scrolling through a section of an adult store website you had never looked into before. And amongst it all, you saw the advertisement for aphrodisiac-laced brownies.

You called bullshit until you read the reviews, each one more convincing than the last. With little to lose other than maybe just having a batch of completely normal brownies, you didn’t see any harm in ordering the brownie mix. And when they arrived, you couldn’t wait to bake them. 

However, you had failed to mention the purchase or the plan to your boyfriend who arrived back home after a long run, seeing a plate of brownies on the kitchen counter and thinking nothing of indulging in a little treat (even if it didn’t fit his diet).

You walked back out to the kitchen when Charles was in the bathroom, not even noticing the missing brownie as you began to get to work on lunch for the two of you. Just as you were oblivious to the struggle your boyfriend was having in the shower, his cock hard and desperate and yet nothing able to sedate him as he stroked himself over and over again until he had came at least twice. 

Charles was frustrated and needy when he exited the shower, his shoulders tense and his cock still painfully hard as he pulled on some grey sweatpants before seeking you out. 

You leaned into his embrace when he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and tugging you into his body. You hadn’t even started making dinner yet, a cookbook and your phone laid in front of you as you flipped through different recipes to try out. 

“Good run?” You asked casually, your attention still mostly focused on the cookbook. 

“Mhmm,” Charles hummed, his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

You opened your mouth to reply, only to let out a small ‘oh’ when you felt his hips press against your ass. Your cheeks flushed as he slowly began to rock his hips, letting out a pained whimper as he held you closer.

“Someone’s eager,” you joked playfully, but Charles didn’t seem to share the same amusement as he let out a huff of frustration as your shorts that were in his way. 

“Bend over.”

You blinked, turning your head to look at your boyfriend. “What?”

“Bend over,” he stated again, just as commanding and blunt as the first time as he gently pushed your back until you were leaning over the kitchen counter, your ass pressing back into him. 

“Charles, what has gotten into you?” You breathed out, though you would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it. If you didn’t enjoy the way his hands practically tore your shorts and panties off you until you were left in just your tank top and the apron you put on before. 

“Need you, cherie,” he murmured as his hands squeezed your ass cheeks, keeping you pressed back against him with your cheek squished against the cool counter. “Need to come inside you so fucking bad.”

“What—” You lifted your head, ready to continue when you noticed the plate of brownies. It took a few seconds for everything to click before you let a low groan, trying to grasp your words as his tongue swiped along your cunt from behind. “Fuck, you ate the brownies.”

“Mhm,” Charles groaned, keeping you spread and accessible for him. “M’gonna eat you now, cherie.”

“Shit,” you breathed out, your forehead pressed against the marble counter as Charles feasted on you. 

You were so sure it would have been a load of bullshit. You were so sure it was just a scam for some extra money, that the brownies would be like the box kind you could buy from the store, that this would be a funny thing to laugh back at in a few years. 

You were very, very wrong. 

“Charles!” You cried out, your hands desperately trying to grasp onto something, anything. Only for your boyfriend to swoop in and grip both wrists behind your back as he kept his hold on you, vigorously fucking you from behind. 

“Please, baby, please,” Charles whined, his cheeks flushed and his hair dishevelled but he wasn’t done with you. He couldn’t be done with you. Most of your clothes were now on the floor around you, including your tank top and his sweatpants but he had demanded to leave the apron on.

“I can’t,” you sobbed, tears streaming down your face as your legs shook with pleasure. “Too much, baby, too much—”

“Just one more,” he practically begged, as though he hadn’t said the same word the last three times. “Just need to feel you squeeze around me, just…one more.”

A mix of both your arousals was leaking down your legs, the lunch long abandoned and the time lost on you both. He showed no signs of stopping or slowing down as he pounded into you from behind, his stamina on an all-time high as bounced you on his cock like you were just a toy for him to use. 

You could feel him so deep inside you. Every thrust made him feel like he was in your throat, every caress made your nerves spark tenfold and every single filthy word uttered past his lips made the coil in your stomach tighten further.

You were a fucking mess. A sobbing, moaning, leaking mess as your boyfriend fucked you over and over again, as he kept you clenching around his cock until you milked him from everything he was worth. 

“That’s it, cherie,” Charles groaned as you whimpered, another orgasm washing over you as your knees buckled and your face and tits were pressed against the marble counter. “So fucking pretty f’me. So ready for one more, huh?”

“Charles—”

“Shhh, cherie, I know you can do it for me. Ma bonne fille.”

“Shit,” you breathed out, completely spent as he squeezed your ass as he slowly thrusted his cock back inside you.

“That’s it, cherie. My pretty girl, fucking perfect for me.”

.

lando norris, pierre gasly (love triangle)

all parts - completed

part 1 | better left unsaid part 2 | treat you better part 3 | better late than never part 4 | better than words (18+) part 5 | better luck next time part 6 | for the better part 7 | may the best man win epilogue | better match (blurb)

Hard Carry Masterlist

Summary: Y/n really doesn't have time for love. Debuting in Formula One at the young age of 17 before completely dominating the sport ever since, romance, had always been something that's never been on her top priority list. At least, that is, until a boy with green eyes and sweet smile appeared in her life.

or

in which a formula one legend herself caught some feelings towards Ferrari's newly crowned prince.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x driver!reader

Table of contents

00. she's a star, she's the moment, she's y/n

01. it's 2018, baby!

02. down under

03.

04.

05.

06.

07.

smau!

00.