Just The Three Of Us [C.L. & P.G.]

Idc what the FIA says, they have no credibility with me, and Lewis Hamilton is still the goat after today’s race. That's all I have to say. I rest my case. Bye.

𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄 | 𝐜𝐥𝟏𝟔

𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚!𝐚𝐮 | 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (fc: pasabist on ig)

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yourusername filling up my vitamin d tank in portugal ❦

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user1 someone explain to me how this girl is dating charles ⤷ user2 she's way out of his league

charles_leclerc mon bijou (my jewel), no one compares to your beauty! ⤷ yourusername charles stop i'm already turning red

charles_leclerc i cannot believe how blessed i've been with you in my life, i'm going crazy over you ⤷ yourusername you're so overdramatic...

user3 y/n being absolutely flustered because of charles' comments is so real of her ⤷ user4 even i'm blushing because of his compliments ⤷ user5 idk if i should be jealous because she's dating charles or because he keeps being the sweetest boyfriend

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yourusername bye bye vacation ☀️

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user6 i want what they have ⤷ user7 every night i manifest this exact life

charles_leclerc mon soleil (my sun), your smile brightens up my day ⤷ yourusername careful or you'll get a sunburn ⤷ charles_leclerc i'd gratefully accept every sunburn if it means seeing your smile every day

user8 i hate charles for raising the bar so high with every comment he leaves under her posts ⤷ user9 god has his favourites and she's one of them fr

♡ liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc and 193,304 others

tagged: yourusername

voguesingapore Let the elegance of #Y/N enchant us all. A rising star on various social media platforms, Y/N Y/L/N has enjoyed a big following, especially on Instagram. She's currently dating Formula One driver Charles Leclerc and opens up about the life as an F1 WAG and her life in the spotlight in our September Issue 2022.

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yourusername it feels like a dream come true! i'm still speechless this is really happening... ⤷ charles_leclerc you deserve for all your dreams to come true mon amour (my love)

user10 so we're celebrating people who have achieved nothing on their own now? ⤷ user11 she had a pretty big following even before she started dating charles ⤷ user12 yeah but like.... why? just because she's pretty? ⤷ user13 that's literally how most people became influencers on social media

user14 she's so otherwordly pretty

user15 she looks so ethereal. elegance perfectly describes her

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tagged: yourbestfriend

yourusername charles loves to spoil me on my birthday even if he cannot be here right now

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user16 i need to call my therapist because i cannot anymore ⤷ user17 charles spoiling y/n and her friends because of her birthday really confirms the "if he wanted to he would" saying

charles_leclerc the pink hair is going to be the death of me mon coeur (my heart) ⤷ yourusername my face is as pink as my hair right now

user18 wow and my boyfriend couldn't even text me a "happy birthday" on my birthday morning... ⤷ user19 not everyone can be as sweet as charles leclerc

user20 she's so spoiled oml

user21 you're telling me she rather celebrates her birthday with her friends than support charles in zandvoort? ⤷ user22 some people love to hate on every little thing...

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charles_leclerc mon ange rose me rend fou... bon anniversaire ma chère (my pink angel is driving me insane... happy birthday my dear)

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user23 oh he whipped whipped

user24 charles being absolutely head over heels for y/n is what i aspire in my future relationship

yourusername you're too adorable charles, je t'aime (i love you) ⤷ charles_leclerc je t'aime davantage (i love you more) ⤷ yourusername impossible! ⤷ charles_leclerc yes possible!

user25 i need to take a break from charles' and y/n's profiles because their comments keep destoying me

user26 they made me believe in love again ⤷ user27 if they ever break up, i'll be a two times child of divorce

The Winner Takes It All Masterlist

Pairings: Art Donaldson x black!reader, Patrick Zweig x black!reader, Tashi Duncan x black!reader

Summary: For Gianna Langdon, being overlooked came as naturally as swinging a tennis racket. It’s only to be expected living in the shadow of Tashi Duncan, Gianna’s best friend. That is until the 2006 US Open Juniors where her world collides with Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson and suddenly Gianna found herself in a position she never thought possible, sharing the spotlight with Tashi. What follows next, no one could’ve predicted. Four lives upturned and forever intertwined in a viscous cycle of betrayal, jealousy, hatred, and tragedy spanning a decade.

Part I: Sugar & Spice

Part II: Maneaters

if you’re like me and you only watch f1 for free, here are some free sites you can watch it live at:

sportshub.stream - this is my personal favorite

totalsportek.pro

sportsurge.club

thehomesport.net

weakstream.org

there are also free apps you can watch it in:

Live player

strym tv - you need a code to watch in this app so you just press the + sign on the upper left corner, choose “Import playlist from URL” and paste this url http: //movitv. pro just remove the spaces

all of these have ads and if you have access to VPN, you might want to use it but i’ve tried all these links and app last season and hadn’t gotten a virus.

affection. - charles leclerc.

being there for Charles after the Monaco race.

Walking to the paddock with everyone else around you was always one of the most nerve wracking things you had to do when you attended one of Charles races. It didn’t matter how often you scanned your pass, your heart was always beating loud in your chest and you didn’t even know why. You were playing around with your rings as you followed Charles though the tighter part of the Monaco paddock and hummed when he quietly said your name. “All good? Is your heart beating less now?” he asked and you smiled slightly. “Yeah it’s getting better” you told him and saw how he mimicked your smile. “Okay good” he said a bit louder and nudged your side to bring you into the direction of his garage.

You were quietly saying a hello here and there when you saw people you knew and smiled at the ground as you followed Charles while carefully holding onto the corner of his shirt so you wouldn’t lose him. As you reached his room, you took a deep breath and sat down on the corner of the couch while Charles unpacked his bag. “A lot of people, huh?” he asked and you hummed a little. “A lot more than last year. And Monaco is so much smaller” you said and chuckled slightly while Charles changed into his team wear. “I know it is but it will always be my favourite” he told you and pressed a kiss to your head once he was done. “Oh really?” you joked and secured the pass around your neck. “I do love home. Home just doesn’t love me” he said while you watched how he put his cap on. “But you got a good car this year. This love story could take a turn this year” you told him and watched how his shoulders twitched for a second. “I just don’t want to get my hopes up too much you know” he said and slowly took the hand that you held out for him. “I know. All good. I just have a good feeling that’s all I am saying” you told him and squeezed his hand carefully before getting up again. “I hope that you are right” he said and slowly let go of your hand before you made your way out of his room again.

Keep reading

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.

The Winner Takes It All||Challengers

AN: So, I finally I got to see Challengers yesterday and boy do I have thoughts that may or may not be weaved into the story, things still might be ooc or wrong. Also, I'm warning y'all now, I know absolutely nothing about tennis/college and partook in half ass research on how the sport functions.

Based this fic off the most gut wrenching ABBA song because it fits so well with the story. I hope you all enjoy this mini series, don't know if I did it justice from translating this from my head onto Tumblr, but we move. And hopefully there aren't any spelling or grammar errors, but if there are, we die like men.

A playlist for this series is coming soon!

Word Count: 3.5k

Trigger Warnings: mentions of colorism and racism

Taglist: @seriousaliysa @hopless-y @malscorner @miximora @urfavesim @mmmunson @jackierose902109 @youngestxhearts @blkdivinefeminine @kailkailz @lottiematthewsceo @lonnie2390147 @begoniaespresso @everydayimagineer @pnkstalli @softimgyu @amethystwonders11 @hazbinh0e @ysuftmikey

I tried to tag everyone who commented, but tumblr is being weird so I don't know if you'll get the notification.

Part One: Sugar & Spice

With her arms folded across her chest, Gianna's eyes were glued to the TV screen in front of her as two male sports analysts began to discuss their pick for match of the day.

"Oh man, this right here was my favorite today!" one analyst stated excitedly.

"For sure! It was the match to watch as the tennis world bore witness to the next up-and-coming tennis star," the other commentator agreed.

The camera cut away from the men and to the highlights of the mixed doubles championship match.

"Out the gate Gianna Langdon, ranked number five in girls singles, set the the tone for the day with a powerful ace to start the match,"

A clip of the opening minute of the match is put on the screen with Gianna throwing the ball high in the air for the first, and perfectly executed serve, followed by her pumping her fist in triumph with a grin.

"From there, she and her partner, Max Sullivan, kept their opponents, Roy Christians and Marie Riviera on the back foot for what seemed like the entire match,"

Gianna studied the way she nimbly moved around on the grass court, her swift volleys, sharp serves, and effortless backhands left no room for doubt that she was a force to be reckoned with.

"Play of the match goes to none other than Gianna Langdon, with this volley to put the nail in the coffin of this championship," the analyst reported, as the final moments of the match popped up on the screen.

With a powerful strike, the tennis ball was slammed back over the net by Roy onto Gianna's side of the court. Roy's hit lifted the ball high into the air forcing Gianna to reposition herself and backpedal to the spot to return it. Leaping up, Gianna smashed the ball down with force, out of reach from both Marie and Roy, the game winning hit. The clip replayed, but only this time in slow motion, so viewers at home could properly admire the athleticism on display. ESPN then did a jump cut of Gianna and Max both dropping their rackets simultaneously before rushing towards each other to embrace. Max even lifted up her a bit, twirling them around as they celebrated their victory.

The camera panned back to the two commentators who were wrapping up their coverage of the tournament.

"Honestly, Gianna Langdon just dominates the tennis field for her age group whether it's single or doubles," the commentator complimented, gathering his papers up in his hands and tapping it against the desk.

Gianna's lips lifted at the praise, its rare she gets her flowers as a tennis player.

"She's a force to be reckoned with, no doubt about that. If she keeps playing like she is now, she can easily break into the top three, but she's no Tashi Duncan," the other commentator corrected.

At this, her smile instantly fell off her face. Since freshman year of high school, Gianna has forever lived under the inescapable shadow of the phenomenal, powerhouse that is Tashi Duncan. Because Tashi wasn't just some athlete, she was the athlete. The next Serena Williams, as some people taken to calling her. Gianna might as well been chopped liver.

The girls have been thick as thieves since Gianna moved to the same school as Tashi and was paired up by their coach to be doubles partners. The duo were unstoppable on the court, as Gianna was a tennis prodigy in her own right, but often was relegated to just being known as Tashi Duncan's partner. A repeated slight which didn't go unnoticed by her two strongest supporters, her parents. They made it their mission to drill Gianna with an unshakable sense of self confidence in not only her skills with a tennis racket, but also her appearance.

"Don't you ever let the media or naysayers play in your face about your talents, Gianna," her father's words echoing in her head. "You already know, you have to work twice as hard to get half the recognition compared to others," he went on.

Gianna recalled the exact day, he gave her this speech. She was probably fifteen and won a match against some Eastern European girl, it was an upset, and boy did everyone make it a point to tell her so. It ranged from backhanded compliments to outright slurs lobbed at her.

"Oh, so when Tashi pulverizes her opponent on the court who's ranked higher than her it's admirable, but when I do it's a problem!" she complained.

"Competing against Tashi, you need to be prepared that narratives are going to be formed and pushed from factors beyond your control," her father warned. "She's lighter, you're darker. She's thin, you have curves. You're both confident, but only one of you is going to be labeled as arrogant," he listed.

"It's a shame we didn't get to see Duncan and Langdon compete together in girls doubles this year," the analyst said, snapping Gianna out her thoughts.

"Agreed, the best girl duo in juniors we've seen in years,"

Images of Gianna and Tashi materialized on the screen, some were from the last two Junior US Open Championships; both of the, proudly beaming and holding their trophies high above their heads and kissing each other's cheek. But, the one picture that stood out the most to Gianna was their cover on Tennis. Both of them had their arms folded and their game faces on with the headline emblazoned below them.

“Sugar & Spice”

~~~x~~~

Rounding the corner of the hallway, the doors where Tashi's party was being held outside came into Gianna's view. Music and the low murmur of voices floated out of the room, bouncing off the walls as she drew closer. From the corner of Gianna's eyes, she caught her reflection in the hallway mirror promoting her to stop. A pair of eyes, identical to color of rich, molasses stared back at her. Carefully, Gianna studied herself in the mirror from every angle. The healthy glow of her golden, deep brown skin made the light dusting of freckles decorating her upper cheeks and nose more prominent.

"She's no Tashi Duncan,"

It only took those four, little words to dampen Gianna's cheery demeanor and leave her brooding since the afternoon.

Lips pursed, she shook her head slightly, "No, no, no," she whispered to herself. "You're still a champion, Gianna. Fuck that ESPN analyst," she said lowly, smoothing out the pale yellow halter dress she wore.

Letting a lopsided grin grow on her lips, Gianna moved away from the mirror and entered into the ballroom where the party was in full swing. She weaved her way through the crowd to find Tashi, but found herself stopping repeatedly to smile and shake hands as people crowded round her to congratulate her on her match. Gianna couldn't help but feel smug. For once, people were basking in her presence and enjoying the chance to meet a future tennis star in person. It boosted Gianna's ego—a pure, bone-deep satisfaction that something in the air was beginning to shift.

She was starting to be seen as a standout player, not just an extension to Tashi.

Thanking her last well wisher, Gianna's eyes met Tashi's who was a few feet from where she stood. A flicker of recognition flittered across her face and she smiled a tiny smile. Tashi was not alone though, two boys were standing in front her and seemed to be having a very lively conversation.

"What's this I see?" Gianna wondered aloud, brushing past one of the boys. "I'm gone for a minute and you're already making new friends without me," she joked, dropping into the empty chair next to Tashi.

Across from her, both boys were slack jawed and unable to tear their eyes away Gianna. Pride simmered in her chest, Gianna already knew that she was beautiful, but it was nice to be reminded of that fact every now and then. Especially, when there's two boys ogling at her looks and treating her like a divine being.

"You boys gonna stop staring and introduce yourselves, or what?" Gianna questioned, her words flavored with a lulling Louisiana drawl and the boys snapped from their stupor.

"Let me, these two seem to be malfunctioning," Tashi cut in, with a smirk.

"They keep on drooling any longer, they'll catch flies," Gianna quipped, her nude colored lips curling upwards.

Tashi motioned to the dark haired boy with sharp features, "This is Patrick Zweig," she introduced, as Gianna's eyes met Patrick's gray ones, holding her stare and grinning widely. Confidence that bordered on cockiness practically radiated off him. "And this is Art Donaldson," Tashi continued, gesturing to the boy next to Patrick.

Art only allowed himself a small, shy, smile when her eyes shifted over to him. Unabashedly, Gianna let her eyes roam over Art's features. Those blond curls, those blue eyes.

God, they're both gorgeous.

Tashi placed her hand on Gianna's knee, "Patrick and Art, this is my best friend—" she started.

"Gianna Langdon," Patrick and Art interjected simultaneously, causing a Cheshire grin to form on Gianna's lips.

"Well, well, my fan club only continues to grow this tournament," Gianna joked, playing with the curly ends of her pick and drop braids.

"Deservedly so, you were absolutely amazing this tournament," Art complimented, a breathy chuckle leaving him.

"That play when you landed a split after playing a return," Patrick mentioned, beaming at her. "And you still got the point, fucking incredible!" he praised, shaking his head.

She smiled, "Oh, so you two have been avidly watching my matches then?" Gianna questioned, playfulness in her voice while slightly leaning forward in her seat.

"Ashamedly, not initially," Art admitted, and Gianna quirked brow. "But after your storybook comeback in Round 4, we knew there was no way we couldn’t stop watching you," he added quickly.

"Singles or doubles," Patrick chimed in.

"Did you by chance watch any of our matches, Gianna?" Art asked timidly, staring at her with hopeful eyes.

She smirked, "Singles or doubles?" Gianna asked back, smoothly echoing Patrick's words.

"Either," Patrick responded, his eyes drinking her in.

They both seemed mesmerized. Leaning in closer, as if they were going to learn her with their close proximity. Gianna hummed thoughtfully, leaning back in her chair and raising a finger to her chin to mull over the question. She glanced over to Tashi, who was already watching her with an amused expression. Embarrassingly, Gianna kind of forgot her best friend was literally sitting next to her, she had become too engrossed in her conversation with the newcomers.

"No, can't say that I have," Gianna answered finally, with a shrug.

Art deflated, his face falling as the tips of his ears went fiery red, while Patrick's shoulders sagged a little.

"O-Oh," Art breathed.

There was a silence. Gianna looked off to her side again to see a ghost of a grin threatening to appear on Tashi's face. When the two girls' eyes connected with each other, they burst out laughing at the same time. Both boys looked at each other wordlessly, both speechless by this.

"Gia's just fucking with you two," Tashi explained, in between laughter.

Relief couldn't have been written across their faces more clearly.

"Yeah, I actually watched your championship match while I was in the recovery room," Gianna informed, her giggles subsiding. "Your between the legs shot was very inspired, Patrick," she remarked, with a smile.

At this, Patrick puffed out his chest a bit.

"You know, they're playing against each other tomorrow in the boys singles championship match," Tashi mentioned, her eyes bouncing between the boys.

"Are they now?" Gianna responded, an intrigued smirk gracing her face while crossing one leg over the other.

"We are!" Art blurted out, almost too eagerly.

"You both should come and watch," Patrick suggested.

Gianna cocked her head to the side, "Hmm, maybe," she answered, having a little fun toying with them.

Tashi rose from her chair, reaching her hand out for Gianna's.

"Come on, my dad is waving me over to come take pictures," Tashi informed.

"This is a group activity?" Gianna questioned, her brows furrowing.

"No, but the demand for Gianna Langdon is ever growing," she reminded, her eyes filled with mirth.

"It sure is," Gianna agreed, taking her hand as her friend helped her to her feet. Gianna looked over to Patrick and Art. "Well, ciao. It was nice meeting y'all," Gianna said, waving goodbye as Tashi led her away.

"Goodbye?" Patrick jokingly scoffed. "We'll be here all night!" he called out after her.

~~~x~~~

True to their word, Patrick and Art were in the same spot where Gianna and Tashi had left them earlier and they were more than willing to continue hanging out with the girls. Which is how the group of four found themselves on the beach, slowly treading along the sand, the dark blue sky and millions of stars above them. Naturally, Tashi had found herself in the middle of the group with Patrick flanking on her left and Art on her right.

Gianna was next to Art and as they walked, their arms would accidentally brush against each other every now and then. Both of them exchanging shy smiles at the fleeting contact that sent butterflies fluttering in Gianna's stomach. She secretly relished the contact from Art, he radiated warmth similar to that of a dryer-warm blanket; a nice contrast to the cool sand between her toes.

"You know earlier, Tashi asked us who was fire and who was ice," Patrick spoke, looking over to Gianna. "I figured I should return the favor, between the two of you, who's sugar and who's spice?" he asked, his eyes bouncing from Tashi to her.

"Tashi, is definitely 'spice'," Gianna answered, and Tashi rolled her eyes with a smile. "She's more fiery than me and has a more aggressive play style than I do," she explained.

"Making you 'sugar', of course," Art reasoned, the two staring at one another. "You are the perfect mix of deadly grace and effortless balance on the court," he described, going in an almost dreamlike trance.

"Why, thank you Art," Gianna said, bumping her arm into his.

"If Tashi is 'spice' and your 'sugar', why does the media switch it around?" Patrick wondered.

"Preconceived notions, methinks," Gianna replied, simply shrugging her shoulders.

They wandered along until they settled on a spot to hang out at. Art and Patrick both sat in deck chairs while Tashi and Gianna perched themselves on a large rock. Conversation flowed between all them on a myriad of topics ranging from college, life in general, and of course tennis.

"So Gianna," Patrick began, a small curious and mischievous glint in his eyes. "Your doubles partner Bryce—"

"It's Max," Gianna corrected flatly, with a laugh.

He smirked, "I was in the ballpark," Patrick argued, throwing his hands up. "Anyways, you and Max, you two a thing?" he asked curiously, before taking a drag of his cigarette.

"Eww, no!" Tashi exclaimed, her nose twisting in disgust. "You think Gia has such low standards?" she asked back, clearly offended on Gianna's behalf.

"Tashi, come on, Max is not that bad of a person," Gianna stated, lifting her hand up to tell her to calm down.

"Honestly, I don't know how she does it," Tashi went on. "It's a miracle she can still walk after carrying Max through this entire tournament," she sneered.

"Look, Max is not someone who I would consider as an ideal mixed doubles partner," Gianna conceded, her gaze meeting everyone's. "He's mediocre actually," she said bluntly, making Patrick and Art both snicker. "However, Max as an individual and not as an athlete, he's a wonderful guy," she said, with a slight shrug. "Us dating has never once crossed my mind," she finished, waving her hand dismissively.

"So it sounds like you'll be in need of a new partner soon," Patrick hinted, a hunger in his stare.

"Hmm, I guess I will," Gianna agreed, letting a coy smile grow on her lips. "You know anybody?" she asked, tilting her head a little.

"I can think of two people off the top of my head," Art responded, taking a drag of his own cigarette and blowing it out slowly.

"Oh, is that so? And who just—" Gianna started.

Suddenly, Gianna's phone began noisily vibrating in her lap, putting an end to the playful between the boys and Gianna. She picked up her phone and flipped it open before exhaling heavily, it was her dad texting her.

"Shit, fun's over guys," Gianna announced, with another sigh. "My dad wants me back in my room," she explained, unfolding her legs.

"Your won a championship today, and you're father won't let you stay up late to celebrate?" Patrick asked in disbelief, leaning forward in his chair.

"Obviously, you don't know my father if you think a single championship win is going to get him to loosen his reins on his regimented schedule for me," Gianna stated, grabbing her sandals and letting them dangle from her fingers.

"You're about to be off to Stanford, it's insane your dad is giving you a curfew," Art chimed in.

"Well, I'm not at Stanford yet," Gianna pointed out. "And also..." she trailed off, turning to Tashi who had a knowing look on her face. "His roof, his rules," they both said in unison, after hearing those words countlessly over the years.

Finally standing up from the rock, the boys followed suit. Both of their gazes traveled the length of Gianna yet again, as if they needed to commit her to memory.

"I can walk you back to the ferry and to your hotel," Art offered kindly.

"We both could," Patrick volunteered.

"As much as I am flattered that both of you want to walk me back, I can manage just fine," Gianna assured. "Plus, we're all going to be playing an unwanted game of 21 questions if my dad sees two, random white boys walking me to my room," she remarked, with a chuckle.

Tashi pushed herself up onto her feet, "I'll come with you, Gia,"

"No, no stay, Tashi," Gianna encouraged. "Don't end the fun on my account," she insisted. "Another time will come about for all of us to hang out again, right?" she questioned.

A toothy grin broke out on Patrick's face, "There's gonna be another time?" he asked

"I don't see why not," she answered, mirroring his expression. "The three of us are going to be at Stanford together, and I'm sure you come visit from time to time. It all works out so well!" Gianna said excitedly.

Art opened his mouth to speak, but the shrill ringing of Gianna's phone silenced him. Looking down at the phone, she grimaced slightly.

"Shit, I really have to go, my dad is calling now," Gianna stressed.

"Then get going," Tashi prompted, playfully swatting her bottom.

A surprised whoop escaped Gianna's lips before morphing into a giggle as she began to half-walk, half-jog away from the group. She spun around to face them, continuing to walk backwards.

"This was really fun y'all, we should do this again, yeah?" she yelled.

"I look forward to it!" Art yelled back.

"Me too!" Patrick shouted.

Laughing, Gianna spun around and jogged away, all too aware of the three pair of eyes boring into her back.

~~~x~~~

Propped up against the hotel bed headboard, Gianna was tucked underneath the blankets with a well-worn copy of Baking with Julia in her hands. If tennis was her first love, then baking was her second. There was nothing more relaxing than to Gianna than being able to slow down and just allowing herself to focus on precision, without any of the heightened stakes that came with tennis. Not to mention, beating eggs or whisking a cake were great ways to rid herself of any frustration she may be feeling.

A series of rhythmic knocks on her door pulled Gianna from her musings. She didn't even have to ask who it was, she could tell by the pattern of the familiar knock.

"Just use the card I gave you, Tashi," Gianna called, her voice just loud enough for her to hear.

There's a quiet click of the door unlocking before the door opened a crack and Tashi's head popped into her room, a shit eating grin on her face.

"Hurry up and get in here, before my dad sees!" Gianna ordered, with a laugh.

Closing the door behind her, Tashi pranced over to Gianna and sat beside her on the floor on the edge of her bed.

"Tell me everything! What happened after I left?" Gianna asked, a smile of her own on her face.

"They invited me to come up to their room,"

"And you went?"

"I did," Tashi answered, a smirk on her lips.

Gianna landed a playful hit on Tashi's arm, "No fucking way!" she whispered, her eyes wide. "You hooked up with both of them?"

"I didn't sleep with them," Tashi corrected. "We only made out, and then they made out," she added, smirking proudly.

Gianna raised an eyebrow, "They made out? Patrick and Art?" she questioned.

"Yep," Tashi grinned.

"On their own or did they have some help?" Gianna asked, arching a brow.

Wordlessly, Tashi plucked Gianna's book from her hands and she straddled her, resting each leg on either side of Gianna.

"They did most of the heavy lifting, I just gave them the push they needed," Tashi explained, looping her arms around her friend's neck.

"Now, I'm a little jealous. I missed out on all the fun," Gianna complained, sticking out her lower lip in a mock pout.

"Gia babe, don't worry, I did not forget about you," Tashi reassured, as Gianna hands came to rest on Tashi's thighs. "Remember their match tomorrow?" she reminded.

"Yeah,"

"Winner gets my number…." Tashi trailed off, removing her right arm from around Gianna's neck. "And yours," she finished, lightly tapping the tip of her nose.

A slow smile spread across Gianna's lips as Tashi's words sunk in. She knew exactly what her friend was up to, especially if it meant Tashi could watch some "real fuckin' tennis".

"Tashi Duncan, the girl that you are," Gianna praised, letting out a chuckle.

Leaning forward, Gianna planted a soft kiss on Tashi's lips. It was only meant to be a quick peck, but as Gianna went to pull away, Tashi held her face, keeping their lips connected.

Tashi withdrew herself from Gianna, "Tomorrow is gonna be so fucking good," she grinned, her eyes twinkling at the thought. "And guess what is the best part about all of this, Gia?" she questioned, their forehead resting against each others.

"What?'

"We already have them wrapped our fingers, without even trying," Tashi answered, sending the girls into a fit of giggles.

Can you write something in which Charles has a dream in which his father and Jules are alive? Perhaps Arthur, Carla, Pascale, Herve, Charles, and the reader (and Jules, if you will) gathered for a dinner party to celebrate Charles' world championship. (Charles stated in an interview prior to his father's illness that his greatest wish was for Charles to become a world champion.) As the evening progresses, Charles awakens and believes it will never come true. The reader then consoles him. Thanks❤

What if…?

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader

Warnings: mentions of charles’ dad and of Jules.

a/n: yayy i finally posted something! I don’t feel too comfortable writing about the personal losses that Charles has been through but the anon that requested this sent the request in 12 times🥲 but i don’t think i will write something like this again…

It was gloomy and dark when you and Charles first touched down at the airport and headed to Monte Carlo, back home, both of you eager for a shower and a good night's sleep after the exhausting weekend, and past few months as a whole. The route back to your apartment in Monaco was silent and dull, Charles' hand clasping onto yours in the car while you faced a struggle to try to stay awake.

Fast forward a few hours, you could safely say that the situation hasn't differed much in terms of the aura and mood. Showers have been taken, clothes have been emptied out of suitcases and hung back in the closet. Dinner was eaten and now, there you sat on the couch with Charles right by your side.

The television was on, playing some French talkshow that was being used merely as background noise to kill the silence of the apartment. Charles was sprawled out on the length of the sofa, a cushion tucked behind his head, his phone in his hand, his thumb swiping up the screen every few seconds while tiktok sounds played and changed. You were curled up on the opposite end to him, finishing up a book you'd started a few days ago, on the plane to Abu Dhabi.

You were a few pages away from the end, but from the corner of your eye, you were seeing Charles getting sleepier by the second, yawning repeatedly and dozing off momentarily every once in a while, his phone leaning backwards in his hand every time his eyes drooped shut for a few seconds.

You sighed and closed your book, dropping it onto the couch and redirecting your attention towards your sleepy boyfriend. He was clearly exhausted, yearning to slip between the soft and warm bedsheets and just doze off but just like always, he refused to leave you alone in the evening, even when it was getting pretty late. Time and time again, he would tell you that he'd rather spend more time in your presence, even when each of you was preoccupied with something else.

With a tap onto your phone screen, you realized it wasn't that early in the evening anymore, so you might as well go to bed and get some much needed rest.

"Bébé..." you called for Charles who immediately gave you his attention, turning his head to face you with red, sleepy and tired eyes.

"C'mon, let's go to sleep." You suggested with a soft smile, "T'as l'air si ensommeillé." You seem to be very sleepy.

He nodded, a soft smile showing on his face, but he didn't make any effort to get up. Instead, he gestured for you to come closer, "Viens ici un peu." Come here a little. He asked you.

Like always, you couldn't help the way your heart beat faster and your eyes shone. You scooted closer to him and allowed him to pull you to lay on his chest. While his hands brushed your hair back, you nuzzled your face into his neck and allowed your eyes to shut for a second, the soft and comforting scent of himwrapping you in a bubble of love and safety, the warmth of his arms wrapping around you and resting on your back feeling like home.

"I know i was difficult to deal with during the season, so thank you for always supporting me, even when i was annoying about racing." He said to you, punctuating the heartfelt sentence and sealing it with a kiss on your temples.

At a loss of what to respond, you found yourself softly pecking his neck. Finishing second in the championship's drivers standings was amazing when taking into consideration the way the second half of the season played out but if someone had told you after the first few races that he'd have to battle for P2, you would've been in disbelief. Therefore, all in all, it had been a season of mixed emotions, of focusing mainly on the bright side of things and a lot of gentle whispered, comforting words that at some point started sounding like a replaying tape.

"Don't say that. It was the least I could do, and you weren't annoying or difficult; you were rightfully upset most times." You reassured, lifting your head to give him a haste kiss on the lips as he sighed, letting go of a heavy breath.

"Je t'aime." I love yous were exchanged were quietly exchanged before the two of you pulled yourselves up and headed to the bedroom, quickly slipping under the sheets and cuddling each other until sleep reigned over the room.

--

Cuddling Charles through the night was nothing new to neither of you. You loved the feeling of his arm around your back as you slept and he loved waking up with your head on his chest, therefore that had become your usual sleeping position, especially since his busy lifestyle often left the night as the only time you could connect with him without any disturbances getting in the way. Most times, it was amazing, getting to feel the other person's movements and breaths as they slept soundly, the simple interaction coming off as grounding and the ultimate human way to connect. You actually had a bit more to notice since Charles was someone who mumbled all sorts on nonsense when he's asleep. He wasn't a full on sleep talker but if you're listening, you would definitely be able to figure out what he was dreaming of at the time.

That night, you fell asleep with Charles brushing his fingers through your hair and woke up only a couple of hours later to soft mumbling leaving his mouth.

Groggily, you rolled onto your back, your hands instinctively rubbing your eyes as you tried to fully wake up and comprehend what had interrupted your sleep but silence had returned to the room and soon enough, it started lulling you back to sleep, the exhaustion from the past few days being a significant factor in how fast your eyes shut again.

However, it took only a few more seconds to wake up fully to the sound of barely coherent french.

"J'ai essayé tout..." I tried everything... That was all you could make out for a few seconds, the sounds quickly going back to quiet groans.

Confused, you sat up and turned the bedside lamp on, allowing the dim light to partially illuminate Charles' features. You could see a frown on his sleeping face as he moved slightly around the bed, as if in discomfort.

"Désolé." Sorry. He whispered again, his hand now rubbing at his face while he turned onto his side.

"Baby..." You softly spoke, cupping his face with a gentle hand, only to find it coated in a sheer layer of sweat.

With no response from Charles, you went for your second best option there. Your arms wrapped tightly around his body and even in his sleep, he hid his face in your neck.

For a second, you thought he was good, that it was just a quick bad dream but it was a moment later when you realized it wasn't just that.

"...la prochaine." ...the next one. He groaned, "Promis." Promise.

By then, you had caught onto the fact that he was dreaming of something related to racing and if the tension in his body and the expression of his face said anything, it was that he wasn't dreaming of something pleasant.

You let go of him and brushed back his hair while calling for him as he seemed to be mumbling his family's names barely coherently.

"Charles..." You called for him, sitting up and pushing away the blanket since he was sweating and breathing heavily. Repeatedly, you tried to wake him up, calling for him not too loudly as not to startle him all while your hands brushed through his hair and caressed his cheek.

"Non..." he was still groaning with an upset tone and at that point, it was sad and painful to have to hear him suffer through whatever he was dreaming of.

"Baby, c'mon wake up." You tried again, kissing his forehead.

Your patience was thinning since all your tries were failing but it wasn't until he let out a faint scream of an incoherent words that his name loudly left your lips and he quickly sat up, panting with his eyes shooting wide open.

"Are you okay?" Those words were the first thing to leave your mouth as you moved to kneel by his side.

For a second there, he still seemed confused, his face blank and his eyes lost, but through all of that obvious distortion, he nodded and fell back against the pillows, his hand covering his face.

"Reste ici," Stay here, you said even though he clearly wasn't going anywhere, "je t'apporte une tasse d'eau et je reviens." I will bring you a cup of water then i'll come back. You let him know and rushed off the bed to the kitchen, quickly filling up a cup with some cold water and joining him back in bed with just as much speed.

As soon as you were back beside him, he took the water and chugged it down quickly, disposed of it onto the bedside commode then pulled you closer to him.

The role were reversed and instead of you sleeping on his chest, you laid back on the bed and hugged him close until his body was partially on top of yours, his arm wrapped around your middle and his face hidden in the crook of your neck while you comforted him with slow rubs on his back and occasionally softly massaging his scalp. Short intervals separated deep sighs that Charles was letting out, showing that he was clearly still disturbed from the dream, rather nightmare.

"Bébé," you started, "ce n'était qu'un cauchemar." It was only a nightmare. You soothed, knowing that this was a safe ground to start from because it he wanted to talk about it, he now could and if he wasn't comfortable with that, shrugging this off was still on the table.

"I hated it." He whispered against the skin of your neck, "Tous le monde étaient là - ma famille et même la tienne - et ils parlaient tous du championnat." Everyone was here - my family and even yours - and they were all talking about the championship. Charles started explaining and you stayed quiet, hoping he would continue.

"Papa et Jules étaient déçus en moi." My dad and Jules were disappointed. He let that last part slip in a low, hesitant voice and went silent after it.

That's when you knew that was the nightmare part of the dream, the reason he was so shook and upset. It became clear that there wasn't anything else he was gonna say because that was the worst part of it all, every other detail becomes mostly irrelevant.

"Charles, baby... Do you actually believe they're disappointed in you? And don't answer this on impulse. Think about it for a second and tell me."

You heard a hesitant breath that he took, his mind clearly in conflict about the question, so you gave him the time to think.

Personally, you were proud of him. Everyone was more than proud of him and if he believed his dad and Jules wouldn't be, you would have to gladly show him all the reasons the truth was far from his personal beliefs about this. You would still hate it that he was disregarding all those reasons himself but you would make sure he saw them and weighed them out in comparison to all the negatives.

It was no secret to anyone how mentally draining this particular season was for him. You had been there for it all, the rage, the disbelief, the silence, the tears as well as the podiums, the celebrations and the wins. Therefore, it wouldn't be realistic to say you expected him to bounce back just like that, with no reminiscence or wondering about what could've been. He was human after all and people's expectations from him shouldn't be beyond that. The problem was that Charles' expectations from himself surpassed all the logical ones, what ultimately set him up with imminent disappointment when he realizes how he was sabotaging his mind.

"I don't think they're disappointed but i don't think they're that proud. When i become world champion, they will be." Charles broke the silence with those few words.

"Um..." you hummed, not exactly agreeing. "Sit up a little." With that, the two of you were sat in bed, him against the headboard while you sat with crossed legs by his side, facing him while he looked into the distance.

"I've seen you do this self destruction routine too many times these few months and i think it's about time someone told you this, Charles." You took his hand in yours, "You measure yourself as a whole on the racing scale when racing is just a part of you. Charles, you are way more than your career, way more that your racing results. You are a massively supportive brother, a caring and loving son, a lovable and trustworthy friend and an amazing, fairytale-like boyfriend. Wouldn't they be proud of that? Of you being such a good person?"

He turned to look at you, his lower lip tucked between his teeth as he bit onto it roughly, his eyes guarded while his grip on your hand tightened.

"And no, that doesn't mean your results for the season weren't good enough. You did amazing and you and me and most of your fans know that you're not the reason you didn't end up being a world champion this year. Being second in the driver's standings... Charles, that was all you! It was your own, personal effort and everyone knows it. You did your absolute fucking best, baby... and i don't know if it means much right now, but i really am so, so proud of you and, just like i know everyone else is feeling the same, i believe your dad and Jules would also feel proud." You tried to reassure him, and every word you said, you completely believed and hoped he would too.

Your eyes searched his face for any emotions and for a while, it looked like he was resisting them but then, under the dim lights of the room, his eyes glistened with a few tears that you barely caught a glimpse of because Charles pulled you to his chest, something in him urging to have you closer. His lips met yours in a quick kiss because he cuddled you close.

"Ça me signifie le monde que tu sois fière de moi." It means the world that you’re proud of me. He sniffled and said but from the restricted tone of his voice, you could tell that there was something else bugging him.

From your position between his arms, you noticed him gulp just before he leaned his head back against the headboard and heavily sighed.

"Charles," you sighed yourself, "what is it, bébé?" You asked and moved so his head was on your chest instead, your arms wrapped around his shoulders and your hands tracing soothing patterns onto his back. Charles found comfort in the way you were hugging him close, the beat of your heart audible to him as it synced with the beat of his. His legs tangled with yours and he finally found himself partially relaxing, enough to talk comfortably about everything at least.

"It's just small questions - that i have - that are annoying, like what if i never become champion?" He spoke in a low tone, "Tu sais, il n'y a rien qui me garantit que je serra jamais champion." You know, there's nothing that makes it certain that i will ever be champion.

For a minute after that, you thought deeply about his words. There was nothing you wanted to do more than tell him that his dream will inevitably come true one day, but as he said, where is the guaranty? You'd spent the whole past year reassuring him that the championship was his to clinch, that it was only a matter of time before the biggest trophy is his but there was no denying that all of that was just wishful thinking. He definitely has the talent and skills for it but there was several other things that needed to be aligned in order for the dream to manifest itself.

You held him closer then, your lips pursed as you attempted to formulate a decent reply. He deserved the world, not only being it's formula one racing champion and if any of that was ever yours to offer and gift, you would've presented him everything, wrapped in golden ribbons and a few words that it was his to keep.

"I think you will be champion one day but if nothing goes right and that, god forbid, doesn't happen, i want you to remember the person you are outside of racing. You're already a hero - a champion - to so many. You're an inspiration and a motivation to so many of your fans and supporters. They value you as a person as well as a driver, they admire your talent and strength and will support you through anything. Everyone, including me, would love to see you lift the championship trophy and we all know you're capable of doing just that but even without that happening, we will always love you just the same and we will still be sure that you're a brilliant driver, just one with the worst luck. I believe your dad and Jules would be telling you the same thing as well, baby.” You spoke softly, your fingers brushing through his hair carefully as you ended your sentence with a kiss to his forehead.

Charles nodded and tightened his grip on you, “Mais je veux vraiment être un champion…” But i really wanna be a champion… He replied, the words muffled.

“Et je crois bien que tu le sera. Your time to shine will come, honey.” And i believe you will be.

With a heavy sigh and a tight hold, Charles quietly whispered to you that he love you, thanking you for you words as well, “Merci, bébé. Je t’aime fort.”

“Je t’aime même plus, Charles.” You kissed the top of his head lightly before relaxing and feeling Charles relax his body too.

You cuddled him until he fell back asleep, then allowed your eyes to shut.

You hated it so much when he had these doubts but not once will you ever let him go to sleep with his self esteem shaky. You would always be there to pull him back onto his feet and support and reassure him. You promised him that a long time ago and to this day, you were still happy to keep up the promise.

Hello!! May I request a charles leclerc fluff drable where he's like always staring at y/n (in a non-creepy way hehe) and like just has a big crush on her even when they're dating already type of thing? or something? tysm!

something – cl16

Looking can be so similar to loving—just ask Charles.

auds here... title from this. also i feel it is the one of the best ‘so enamored ur moving in slow mo’ songs...

A blue dress. Deep blue, satin, wrapped around your figure like you’re a dream that’s his.

There are moments where Charles’ world slows when he sees you, and this is one of them, a year into dating. Suddenly he feels like he’s a teen seeing his first racing car, or a kid seeing Star Wars all over again. Nothing else matters but this—but you, in this deep blue dress, your arms swinging around as you dance to the upbeat music that plays at this dinner party.

Someone’s clutched your hand and twirled you around, so quick your hair falls over your face. He wants to pick you up, let his hands wring around your waist and hug you close, close, closer. He wants to wipe the hair from your face, press a kiss to your cheek, then your nose, then your lips, taste the martini there, smell the sea and the two spritzes of perfume on your jaw.

You move in slow motion, every ripple of your dress, every tendril of hair over your eyelashes. You’re laughing, tipsy, when your friend hugs you close, moving the both of you into a shitty waltz. Jesus, you’re so pretty. 

“Charles!” You’re saying. He blinks, and your eyes are meeting his, smiling with the rest of your face. The French summer has tinged your cheeks with the heat, your left shoulder peeling with a sunburn. Even now in the evening, when it hides, it’s managed to follow you still, blinding and beautiful. An arm stretches out, a hand, then a finger. Come on, you’re saying, dance with me!

It’s your favorite song that’s playing, some disco tune that has you hopping excitedly, hips swaying in the kind of way he can’t ever get his eyes off of. He knows this because it’s one of the ones at the top of his Spotify statistics, what with how often you’re using his phone to launch impromptu dance parties while cooking or cleaning or driving. 

So he does, gets up from where he’s been sitting while everyone else dances. He’d been undoing his tie, then two buttons on his polo, nursing Scotch (between you both, you like to say, he’s the boring drinker and you’re the fun one.) You shimmy your shoulders when his hand locks with yours, a smile stretching onto your face when he pulls you close and wraps the same arm around your waist. The song hasn’t yet reached its crescendo, so you sway softly, smiling like idiots.

“Hi, beautiful,” he says, eyes lidded from the alcohol and the feeling of being this near you.

“Hey there, handsome. Here often?”

“Just passing by, actually.” He pauses. “I saw a beautiful girl from the entrance and couldn’t help myself.”

You laugh, letting him twirl you as the chorus begins, both of you moving to the ever-familiar beat of this song and using the same moves you use at home, when it’s just the two of you. That’s exactly how it feels, though: like it’s just you both, dancing and laughing. When he finally moves your hair aside and presses a kiss to your lips, the world slows all over again. 

—

His world whirs into slow motion when Pascale is laughing at one of your jokes.

“I’m funnier than your son,” you say when she’s wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. Across the brunch table, finger tapping against the white linen tablecloth, Charles’ eyes are stuck on you. Nobody notices his stare of adoration, because it’s so usual, so ordinary, for him to be looking at you so intently, and with so much love.

You’re wearing a white dress that you’d been wiping your palms over nervously in the car, asking him to repeat a crash course of his family over and over until it was the only thing your mind was capable of retaining. Yet for all your nerves, you’d blended in exceptionally well with everyone at the table, over salmon and pasta and tea and biscuits.

Pascale had ushered you in with the urgency of every mother, a hand around your shoulder, pointing out members of the family, fixtures on the wall. There’s a story behind everything. Behind stains, scratches, pictures, peeled-off labels. You’d let her tell you everything. 

A smile makes its way onto your face when you see Pascale fail to stop laughing over your joke, her hand clenching yours. Your eyes meet his, and he can see the excitement in them—the joy of having this happen. He hopes you can read him equally well, hopes you can see how excited he is, too, for this to be happening, for you to be so loved by the people that matter most to him.

A hand comes up to tuck hair behind your ear, lips pursing to prevent your smile from widening. No, he wants to say, I want to see you smile. Everything. Show me everything. You’re beautiful.

“You really are,” says Pascale, and the two of you turn to smile softly at him. This is love, he thinks, and he wishes time never quickens ever again.

—

The book this week is Love in the time of Cholera. You try to read one book every two weeks, but lately you’ve been forgetting—last night you’d firmly resolved to start again, and you’re hooked on the words already.

The thin blanket of your bed is the only thing shielding you from the cold, your bare back turned to him as you continue to read the chapter. Charles sees you and wishes he was half as good as you. You’re stupid, you’d said with genuine concern when he told you this once. Have you even seen yourself? And you praised him, listed every last amazing thing about him.

Still, he wasn’t convinced. There may have been awards and videos and celebrations for him, but he wishes he was good enough for you sometimes. Your intelligence, your wit, your beauty. Your ability to get up and read a book in the morning. Your capacity to love. He can’t believe you’re his, all his, this beautiful girl is truly all his.

His world slows again, time ticking into slow motion as he watches you passively. Every few moments there’s the sound of the page turning, and your slow breathing makes up the rest. He wants to paint a picture on your back, make you his canvas, so he can think of another way to convey his immense, all-encompassing love for you.

Genuinely, he thinks he’d be incomplete without you. He conveys this in the way he stares, the way he admires, like you’re a sculpture in the Louvre and he’s at the front of the line. But he’s the only one in line, and he’ll be damned if somebody shows up behind him. 

You pause; the noise of the blanket rustling and your book shutting snaps Charles back to reality. Without turning, your voice penetrates the silence. “What are you doing?” With sleep and unuse, your voice is raspy.

“Looking at you.” He answers slowly.

Your eyes meet his, eyebrow raising as you turn slightly. “Why?”

“Just…” he pauses. It’s impossible to articulate why. So he says instead, “Just looking.”

—

When a race is won, reaches its climax and its end all at once, it’s a noisy affair.

Tonight, there are fireworks, music, the pulse of excitement in the crowd that celebrates Leclerc’s P1. Everything moves fast, fast, fast—interviews, cheers, arms wrapped around him, worshipping him, fans screaming. Then it’s the media pen, questions over and over, then he’s packing up, tallying points, having debriefs.

He tugs off his helmet. Everything is fast, even in his moment of winning. Fast and quick and heavy. But he seeks something, something to make time slow—

And finds her, wearing a too-big Ferrari shirt (courtesy of Joris getting the sizing all wrong) in the crowd by the pit lane, beautiful as ever. You’re waving, your enthusiasm in your whoops of encouragement. You blow a kiss, and time is slow again. He watches you grip the front of the shirt and present it proudly, the big 1-6 embedded on it. He’s yours, yes, he is.

I love you, you mouth slowly. He nods back—it’s more than enough. Then you’re making a shoo motion with your hand, decorated with bracelets that match his. Go, you’re saying, go and be the winner, be the best driver. Later, you’ll be mine, just mine, just Charles.

He’s whisked away to do an interview, but his eyes are stuck on yours, excited and proud. You never usually like watching races, out of fear, but Charles insists you do, presses a kiss to your forehead and promises everything will be okay. You end up digressing almost every time.

“I’d imagine this win is the highlight of the week,” says the journalist smugly, then extends the mic to Charles’ lips.

He shakes his head a little. “Just one of them,” he responds, smiling. 

—

A necklace with an initial on it, a thin silver ring across your middle finger, a matching bracelet on your wrist.

“Who is that?” Charles asks dazedly, shoulder bumping Carlos’. An explanation is fed into his ear, someone who knows someone knows her and invited her to attend this dinner. It’s getting late in London, and he’d been prepared to get to his car and go to his hotel, but suddenly he’s distracted, stopped in his tracks.

It almost feels weird to have time slow so much like this.

Even when he’s in a racing car, or winning, or when a car careens off track and time seems to hang in the balance—nothing has made him feel this way before. He watches you laugh, play with the neckline of your black top and listens to your ring clink against your glass of champagne.

Your hair is tied into a loose bun, framing your face, your lips making animated conversation with someobody else. He wants to hear your voice, make you smile, see how you react to his own jokes. Time crawls when he thinks of you, moves like a turtle walking through honey.

So later, when he’s almost abandoned the idea of introducing himself, he finds you clicking your car keys on the sidewalk. He clicks his, watches the lights of his Ferrari blink open, and you turn to him, smiling coyly.

You open your mouth, and say: “So you’re the cute dickhead who can’t park?”

Again, time moves in slow motion, your bun coming undone as you turn, hair falling over your back, arms crossing over your torso. Your high heels click softly against the pavement as you listen to him stutter out an introduction, an apology for the shit parking. This is it, he thinks, the start of something absolutely beautiful.

If he’s looked at you now, he thinks, he can’t ever look away. He hopes he doesn’t ever have to.

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!