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norristeria · 2 months ago

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Thy Trophy ! LN04

━━━━━━ Part of the LOVESICK IDOLS anthology!

SUMMARY 𝄡 Lando Norris will happily be your trophy boyfriend, even at his own event.

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x A-List Actress! FemReader

TAGS 𝄡 Fluff, Light Angst ( blink and you'll miss it ).

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 5.5k.

NOTE 𝄡 This is my first fanfic, and I wanted to find a happy middle between traditional writing and smaus⏤it's kind of a mess and the end is rushed but whatever. Way too many mythological references in this... Let's say that it is because Y/N is going to star in Nolan's Odyssey, alright? <33

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The printed words of the screenplay formed an unintelligible jumble that even your reading glasses could not unravel.

From the living room, Lando’s voice pierced the walls and lulled you into a sleep you refused to surrender to. Two hours ago, Christopher had sent you fifteen new pages of dialogue for you to learn; there was no way you were going to put this off until tomorrow—Mr. Nolan was not to be kept waiting, least of all for a project as Herculean as The Odyssey.

The book lay in your lap, long since abandoned on a page of the sixth book. Even Odysseus’ shipwreck on the shore of Scheria could not captivate you; it only drew you further into the depths of exhaustion.

A sigh pulled you away from the galleys and Phaeacian currents. Soon, the blurred but familiar silhouette of Lando filled your tired retina.

You did not need to see him to know he was tormented. His hunched shoulders and dejected gait spoke for him. Without a word, you placed the blue script on the couch and removed your glasses.

“What's wrong?” you asked softly.

Lando plopped down on the couch beside you, making Homer's work bounce off the floor. Already forgotten in the face of a loved one's urgency, neither of you thought to pick it up.

“The FIA wants to do this big event to launch the new cars.”

You frowned and let your fingers brush against his thigh to calm him down. When he was nervous, Lando fidgeted, as if his entire body was trying to express his anxieties when his words failed.

“Isn't that what happens every year?”

“It's different. They want to make a ceremony of it this year. At the O2, no less. With a red carpet and all that crap.”

If Lando shined under the cameras of the paddock and—even if he did not dare admit it—those of Drive To Survive, unforeseen events such as this one filled him with a sense of anxiety rooted in the comments that, for the past few months, malevolent people had been sowing on the Internet.

“Well, it's your lucky day. I happen to know a thing or two about ‘red carpets and all that crap.’ I could give you a few tips before the big night,” you giggled as you leaned over the coffee table.

Your cup of coffee, like the book, had been forgotten.

You grimaced when your lips tasted the cold brew.

“Or you could come with me.”

The cup clattered against the table and rattled the knick-knacks. A drop of coffee splashed on Homer. Another shipwreck for Odysseus, bitter and cold this time.

“This is… a big decision, Lando,” you finally spoke, taking care to articulate each syllable—as if its mere pronunciation could delay the inevitable.

If you want to live happily, you've got to live secretly. Those were the words you had been told repeatedly since your early days in the film industry. A motto that had ingrained itself in your skull and never left since then. Cameras belonged on the set, not in the intimate sphere, for they only consumed what was precious and left nothing but heartbreaking ashes.

You refused to let your love for Lando be reduced to a burnt film strip.

“I don't know.”

“Please, love.”

You picked up the Odyssey and slipped in an old receipt as a bookmark—a mere distraction, an attempt to waste time. Praying for the mundane to fight the unexpected, your fingers mechanically traced the curved waves of the cover, but even the sea could not drown the hurtful words of your former relationships.

“People will talk," you insisted. "They won’t care about the car or you, only about us, and I don't want that.”

Your ever-growing notoriety had destroyed many relationships, platonic or not. The jealousy and envy of men—such fragile, sensitive creatures—always took you away from Elysium fields and damned you to the infinite solitude of the Asphodel meadow.

You would rather plunge into the Styx than see Lando give in to the vices of the male ego.

A head came to rest on your chest and drew you out of your ruminations. In a loving reflex, your hand buried itself in Lando's brown curls. He sighed and nestled against your breasts, until you could not distinguish where he and you began.

“Let them talk and come with me. Please.”

For a few minutes, you said nothing, your gaze fixed on the cup of cold coffee and the Odyssey. What could you say, after all? None of your arguments would pierce Lando's will; the year you had spent at his side had taught you that.

“When?” you asked, at last.

“February 18th.”

You tugged at a brown lock and watched it fall back into a curl before leaning over to kiss his forehead, just above a mole that—like all the others—you had come to love. You remained there for a while, lulled by Lando's familiar scent and the sensation of his warm skin against your lips.

A sigh rattled your chest and landed on your lover’s tanned flesh. He shivered at the sensation.

“All right, then.”

Lando straightened up and nearly head-butted you.

“Really?!”

“I can still change my mind.”

“Nope. Too late. You can’t take it back now.”

He caught your face between his hands and planted his lips against yours, murmuring a plethora of thank you that soon vanished in the fervour of his kisses. One of his hands slid from your thigh to the small of your back and pulled you closer to him.

As he abandoned your lips for your jaw, then your neck, Lando's head abruptly fell back against the couch when you pushed him away. Stunned, lips aglow, he watched you step over him and disappear into the hallway.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

Already, his voice was but a mere afterthought as your thumb scrolled through your contact list.

“I need to call my stylist," you mumbled. "If I'm going to face your fangirls and internet, I might as well do it in an archive gown.”

The car’s tinted windows were already losing the battle against the camera flashes. The separation was purely psychological—a fleeting moment of respite before the leap of faith, for the eyes were already overwhelmed by the blinding light. The poor souls forced to endure it became knockoff Tiresiases, prophets doomed to foresee the same immutable future: the night would be intrusive.

Already, hands had torn through the finely woven tapestry of personal space. Famous or not, dozens of fingers had dressed you, styled you, and painted you into an icon—one the vultures would immortalize, and the admirers, worship. Even now, pairs of hands fluttered around you. They adjusted your gown, retouched your makeup, and tamed the few rebellious strands that had escaped hairspray and pins.

This routine, you had come to associate it with film sets and glitzy events such as this one. The familiar motions helped you slip into character—that of the perfect public persona. Flaws perished under the burning lights, leaving only idols sculpted by the frenzied cult of fame.

You had grown to resent the offerings and prayers people scattered on your path daily. Fame had been born from your love of cinema—an unintended consequence, not a pursuit. A tragic heroine of the modern age—one among many in the industry—you had long cursed your fate.

Then, one day, a devotee had placed you at the centre of a liturgy of love you had never foreseen. Suddenly, you were no longer a damned Sibyl, but an Aphrodite, revered by one and only man.

Around you, the hustle continued, yet the quick movements of your stylist and makeup artist unsettled you less than Lando’s gaze, which burned hotter than the camera flashes. You felt his eyes wash over your glittering skin, your diamond-draped neckline, and, at last, your lips, rouge passion.

You—as much a Tiresias as a Sibyl—read with ease the subtle signs on your lover’s face.

Love birthed habit and familiarity, and nothing was more familiar for you than the spark in Lando’s eyes—desire, burning and bold, a need only touch could soothe.

When he lunged toward you, you slapped a hand over his mouth and pushed him away.

“I spent two hours getting my makeup done, Norris. Keep your filthy paws to yourself.”

He whined.

“Come on. Just one kiss!”

“No.”

He groaned and settled for a kiss to the back of your hand.

“You’re stunning,” he whispered against your skin, before letting your hand drop gently on his thigh.

In a vain attempt to escape his adoring gaze—and to let the flush on your cheeks fade—you dove into a flurry of caring gestures, becoming yourself a pair of doting hands. You straightened Lando’s collar, tucked back a few curls that had fallen across his forehead, and smoothed the wrinkles of his black jacket, tracing the firm shape of his shoulders with your fingertips.

“Such a handsome man.”

He smiled, his eyes sparkling with joy. It was hard to believe that only a month ago, he would have fought tooth and nail to avoid this Dionysian chaos. Now, he wore his confidence like a second skin—one you almost envied.

You turned your head and let your eyes wander to the window, beyond the glass: towards the Others, their gazes, their judgments.

“Ready to face Hell?” you joked, but it fell flat as anxiety slowly nested in your chest.

What if they didn’t take it well? What if they accused you of stealing the spotlight? What if they hated you for dating their favourite driver?

Lando caught your hand. His lips found their way between the diamonds and gold of your bracelets, warming the curve of your wrist with a kiss.

“With you by my side? Always.”

Your fingers intertwined. The weight of his hand in yours was a quiet anchor. Lando tilted his head, silently asking you if you were ready. No, you wanted to scream—is anyone ever truly ready for such event?—but chose to keep silent and nodded instead.

“Remember. I’m here with you,” Lando said before knocking twice on the window.

The door opened and Chaos swallowed you whole.

Lights and voices coiled into a thick fog, numbing your senses, but you forced a smile onto your painted lips. Already, you could feel Lando drifting away, caught in the fervour of the event, in the euphoria of the moment—today, he was the one being celebrated. Who could resist the sweet intoxication of adoration?

“This way, Lando!”

“Lando! Can you sign my cap?”

“I love you!”

Photographers and frenzied fans screamed at the top of their lungs to be blessed with a second of his attention. His name echoed through the crowd, and you felt pure joy seeing him so loved by others. The world had not been kind to him lately; knowing the internet did not mirror reality eased your anxious but loving heart.

Throughout the first rows of fans, your pinkies remained entwined, a constant reminder of each other’s presence—a silent I won’t let go. But soon, you let go, allowing Lando to shine. Alone. This was his night, his moment, and you did not want to pull him from the spotlight with your mere presence. Already, you could feel the atmosphere shift, hear your name travel through the crowd.

“Lan– Oh my god, is that...?”

“Y/N!”

You waved to the young girls but stepped no closer, instead motioning toward Lando with a nod, as if to say Look at him. Not me.

Farther down the red carpet, your lover had not yet realized he now walked alone, but his body, already, was feeling your absence; his fingers clenched, seeking yours, but found only empty air.

You did not look away from Lando’s back. Unwittingly, he had become Orpheus, and you, a Eurydice. Don’t turn around, you wanted to scream. You did not want him to see the space between you both—a shield against strangers, harsher than the Gods in their judgment.

But, for Orpheus would always be Orpheus, Lando looked back when his hand closed on emptiness one too many times. He searched for you in the crowd and frowned when he saw you so far behind.

An event coordinator, headset on, clipboard in hand, tried to usher him to the photocall but Lando refused to budge, his green eyes locked on yours. He reached out a hand.

You shook your head, smiling softly.

It’s your moment, you mouthed.

I don’t care.

Beside him, the coordinator was growing impatient, muttering into his headset and tapping his foot, while photographers shouted incoherent words—a chaotic mix of both your names. You knew they were after the most expensive shot of the night—and what better than that of the industry’s newest couple?

Please, he mouthed again.

Your heart skipped a beat. Who could resist those eyes? You hesitantly stepped toward the photocall.

Toward him.

The flashes exploded.

“Y/N! Y/N, I love you!”

“On your right!”

“Gorgeous, darling! As always!”

“Smile for me!”

When you reached his side, Lando did not hesitate. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him.

“I love you,” he whispered in your ear, as the crowd screamed and the cameras flashed.

Lando had yet to let go of your waist; you had become his constant solace in this labyrinth of glitter and pretense—his own thread of Ariadne, which he had woven stitch by stitch around his heart as a makeshift armor. You clung to him just as fiercely, already bored out of your mind.

“One last interview, and then we head inside,” he whispered before brushing a soft kiss on your cheek.

You stifled a sigh of relief. You had long since lost count of the interviews given, the rehashed questions, the trite answers Lando conjured with effortless charm. This red carpet felt more and more like a descent into the Underworld, inhabited by souls too curious to be sincere. The Asphodel Meadow stretched endlessly before you both; how much longer would you be condemned to wander through it?

As if sensing the flicker of frustration rising in you, Lando’s thumb stroked your hip gently as he guided you into yet another round of questions. He had become your Charon, steering you across the wreckage of media frenzy.

The journalist, another face in the crowd but far too cheerful for your liking, greeted you with a brightness that strained your already-fake smile.

“What an entrance! Everyone is talking about you both!”

What could one possibly reply to that? Luckily, Lando stepped in, offering a polished response that seemed to please the journalist, judging by her eager nodding.

You envied Odysseus and his wax; you were forced to endure the endless, hollow songs of sirens—human in form but no less vicious—ready to devour your words and regurgitate them in some twisted new order designed to wreck your image.

For the briefest second, you entertained the thought of diving into the Styx, never to return. You would rather drown than suffer through their tiresome, invasive questions.

The woman before you asked yet another question, but you tuned it out, choosing instead to scan the crowd of other attendees. You quickly spotted Oscar and Lily and offered a discreet wave, which they returned.

A pang of jealousy shot through you as the couple passed unbothered by journalists—no one bombarded them, no one tried to wring secrets from their mouths. They were allowed to breathe. They were allowed to simply exist.

You, however, felt suffocated by the scrutinizing stares multiplying around you like spores. These reporters didn’t care about Formula One—they were after a good story to tell. A good story to sell.

All the years you had spent mastering the art of answering dull questions seemed to vanish, buried beneath the indignation of seeing Lando’s victories silenced in favour of your love story.

A gentle squeeze at your waist pulled you away from your bitter thoughts.

"Sorry, what were we saying?" you asked, hoping your shining smile would suffice to make the reporter forget your lack of manners.

“I was just asking what you're wearing tonight,” she repeated.

“Oh!” Your hands instinctively smoothed down the satin of the dress. “An archive by John Galliano for Dior.”

“We didn’t expect anything less from you. As always, you look stunning! I love this pink, though I must admit, I’m a bit disappointed you’re not in orange!” the journalist chuckled.

You silently thanked your acting classes, and all the hours spent perfecting your fake laugh.

“No, I decided to go for something a bit more… discreet tonight. But I’m sure you’ll have other chances to see me in orange from now on.”

“Oh? Is that so? Should we expect Y/N L/N on the paddock this year?”

Lando’s gaze burned the side of your face, just as attentive—if not more than the journalist—to your reply.

It was a question you had not dared broach before. Cloaked in secrecy, some subjects had been left in dusty corners. Two months ago, the idea would not have even crossed your mind—for there was no way you would have shown up at a Grand Prix and sparked rumours.

But tonight, revealing your relationship had reshuffled everything. You no longer had to hide. You could love each other freely—for the better, or worse.

“Who knows?” you answered with a sly smile. “Maybe. I have to support the future world champion, after all.”

You did not need to look to know Lando was rolling his eyes, lips turning into a bashful smile. His hand squeezed your waist.

He adored when you loved him loudly.

“Do you think he has a chance to win this year?" the journalist asked. “He did finish just behind Max Verstappen last season.”

“I hope so. I believe in him, at least. And no matter the outcome, I’ll always be proud of him. He’s an amazing driver.”

You reached for his hand where it still clung to your waist, intertwining your fingers just as a PR staff asked the journalist to wrap it up.

“Have a wonderful evening, lovebirds! And Y/N, I hope to see you on the paddock soon.”

The champagne struggled to make its way down your throat. You had hoped to find some courage in the golden bubbles, but the cameras that tracked your every movement left a bitter taste on your tongue and spoiled the sparkling pleasure.

You set your glass down—too abruptly—spilling a few drops onto the pristine white tablecloth and catching others’ attention. Lando’s hand found your thigh, stroking and wrinkling the soft pink silk.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you muttered back, brushing a drop of champagne off your wrist. “Just… the fucking cameras.”

He hummed and dabbed at the champagne with his napkin. You watched him do so, heart threatening to burst out of your chest. He did it without a second thought. The casualness of it all, the tender touch with which he wiped your skin, made you blush.

You felt a sudden urge to throw your arms around his neck, but the gleam of a camera lens snapped you back to reality.

On the stage, bathed in red light, Jack Whitehall was shouting something about the show going on or some other nonsense. You had not listened to his monologue, too busy being hyper-aware of your own body, your every breath and blink.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed the camera crew starting to move. One of them crouched directly in front of you and aimed his lens at your face.

In the blink of an eye, you straightened your shoulders, tucked a rebellious strand of hair behind your ear, and put on a careless, effortless smile. It was as if your small breakdown had never happened, already pushed back to let Y/N the movie star shine.

Still, a crack appeared in the perfect illusion when your eyes flickered to the massive screen overhead.

It was still broadcasting Jack’s face, but a chill crawled up your spine—a bad feeling taking root in your chest⏤as your gaze wandered to the cameraman at your feet.

“That is when you know your sport is ridiculously minted. When you book the O2 for an event to announce the colour of a load of cars that are all exactly the same as last season. The only new thing this year is Lando Norris’s girlfriend—who is probably the only person in this room who doesn’t need an introduction. Y/N L/N, everyone!”

Your eyes had not left the screen and, soon enough, you were staring back at your own face. Next to you, Lando clapped and whistled, as thrilled as the rest of the crowd.

His stupid antics eased your nerves. Lando had always known how to calm you—a magical skill that he abused sometimes, using it against you during arguments or to have his way.

How grateful you were for it tonight.

You smiled and waved at the audience, praying for them to move on, but Jack was not done.

“When she walked in, the whole room stood up so fast I thought a tax inspector had entered the building!”

The joke pulled a genuine laugh out of you—perhaps the first of the evening. Lando lit up at the sound. He grabbed your hand and kissed it with a dazzling smile.

When your eyes met—his, full of pride, yours, mortified—he winked. The cameraman—and the entire arena with him—did not miss it, sending everyone into a frenzy when it replayed on the screen. You even heard a few awes from the audience, which did not help your embarrassment one bit.

You only let yourself breathe again when the cameras finally drifted away, Jack having found a new soul to torment.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t know he’d do all that.”

Lando raised an eyebrow over his glass of champagne.

His large hand was still resting on your thigh.

“What are you apologizing for? I thought it was funny.”

“They should be talking about you.”

He scoffed.

“The less they do, the better. Gives the haters less ideas. And to be honest, I’ve got other things on my mind tonight than lame jokes.”

“Like what?”

His hand slid higher as he leaned in.

“You in that dress,” he whispered against your ear.

“Behave,” you muttered through your teeth, trying to ignore the heat that bloomed low in your belly. “People are watching.”

“Even better.”

He kissed you.

Lando’s lips tasted like champagne and euphoria, leaving you so dazed you did not see the camera focused on you from afar.

You had been naïve to think Jack Whitehall would settle for one joke. Clearly, you had underestimated the comedian, who—between flirty exchanges with Charles Leclerc—had managed to sneak over to the McLaren’s table and settle in a chair beside Lando.

His sudden proximity could only mean trouble. You kept a wary eye on the cameras—once again pointed in your direction, though focused on Lando this time (much to your delight)—and silently prayed to fade in the background

To your dismay, the mischievous glances Jack kept throwing your way made it perfectly clear that vanishing was not an option. The British host had not forgotten about you, and he intended to savor your discomfort.

A technician—at least he looked the part with his headset and walkie-talkie in hand—gave Jack a thumb up, prompting him to straighten up. A red light blinked atop the camera. “We’re live!” an imaginary director screamed in your mind. Old habits die hard.

For a second, you let your thoughts wander to your screenplay and its fifteen new pages, laying abandoned in your suitcase back at the hotel. How you longed for Odysseus.

You glanced at the giant screen and relaxed upon realizing you were out of frame.

After an entire evening trapped under the spotlight, it was now Lando’s turn to shine.

And shine he did. Sun-kissed, smiling, utterly at ease—he was radiant. A tight knot, full of love, formed in your throat. There was nothing more beautiful than seeing someone you hold dear thrive.

A fierce surge of pride swelled in your chest. This man—as talented as beautiful—was yours.

“Guys, we’ve got so many amazing celebrity guests in the house. We’ve got singers here tonight, we’ve got actors.” His head popped up over Lando’s shoulder. “Hello there, Y/N.”

The camera panned to you, and for what felt like the hundredth time that night, you smiled and waved at the roaring crowd, pushing aside the déjà-vu rising inside to lean toward Jack. Your chin brushed against Lando’s suit-clad shoulder. The scent of his cologne curled around you in a warm embrace.

Play the part.

A charming smile spread across your crimson lips. “Good evening, Jack,” you purred back.

That single line made the comedian stammer and giggled. He fanned himself with his cue cards and rattled off a clumsy joke.

You bit back a grin.

Men really were the simplest creatures.

Beside you, Lando straightened up and shifted in his seat—just enough to place himself in between the two of you and break your eye contact.

Oh yes, so simple.

“Those eyes. Well, you sure do know how to make a grown man blush,” Jack said with mock sternness, retreating slightly. Lando could be intimidating when he wanted to be. “But enough with you, we’ll talk more later.”

You were not sure if that was a promise or a threat.

“For now,” he went on, “there is only one man I’m looking to talk to tonight and it’s this man here. Mister Lando Norris!

You did not hesitate and joined the crowd’s euphoria, clapping so hard your palms began to sting.

“Lando, last season you came so close. Is this going to be your year?”

“It wasn’t that close to be honest. Max had it. But I hope so. I’m working hard. The team is working hard.”

Behind him, you nodded instinctively. You had witnessed first-hand the sleepless nights, the hours spent studying data, memorizing circuits, rotting away in the simulator. No one deserved the championship more than Lando.

“Well, I hope you’ll bring it home,” Jack said. “And hey, if you don’t, you can always play with girlfriend’s trophy collection. She’s got enough to lend you a few!”

Without warning, Jack turned to her.

“Y/N, by now you must be used to this sort of event. Is the F1 75 as glamourous as the BAFTAs or Golden Globes? I know there’s nothing for you to win here, which must feel a bit strange, but I swear you’ll love it—we’ve even got tire-shaped hors d’oeuvres.” He turned to the camera. “Suck it, Hollywood!”

“So far, it seems much less competitive,” you quipped. “I’m a little disappointed, to be honest.”

“You’re up for Best Actress, right?”

You nodded.

“Nervous?”

“Always.”

“Don’t be coy. Seriously?!” Jack chuckled. “Everyone knows you’re going to win! You’re basically the Max Verstappen of the movie industry!”

The giant screen cut to the Dutch champion, looking thoroughly unimpressed. You sighed inwardly.

I feel you, Max.

“Oh. Looks like someone behind the camera is telling me to go back to Lando. Bo-ring,” he rolled his eyes, “but I must oblige or else the FIA won’t pay me.”

Thus, Jack left you alone and turned back to your boyfriend. Hidden from the camera’s view, you hooked your little finger around his and squeezed.

“Lando, I wanna know what happens with an F1 driver in the off-season. What you get up to… Is it hard with all those Drive to Survive cameras in your face all the time to properly chill out? Were you able to Netflix and chill?”

You snorted as a boom mic dangled awkwardly above Lando’s head. Jack swatted it away, but your own memories remained, that of endless shooting days and drowsing sound engineers.

“I did. I’ll tell you what.”

His reply barely registered over the crowd’s laughter, but you heard it loud and clear and smacked his arm, cursing Lando’s cheeky side and his constant need to toss fuel on the fire.

“I spent some time with my family, my friends.” He exhaled. “Hum. Yeah, a bit of Netflix and chill. I did it all.”

The crowd roared. Jack burst out laughing. You buried your face in your hands.

“Best of luck this season. Give it up for Lando Norris!”

As the cameras moved on, you leaned toward Lando, your cheeks still flushed.

“Laying it on thick, aren’t you?”

He just shrugged in response.

“I want people to know you’re mine.”

A flurry of notifications pulled you from a well-deserved sleep. Beside you, Lando was still out cold, completely unbothered by the constant alarms. Last night had done a number on him—be it the never-ending ceremony or your rather eventful return to the hotel.

A dazed smile crept onto your face as the memories from last night resurfaced.

Though you did not want to, you dragged yourself out of bed and reached for your phone, which was still buzzing. It had landed on the floor in the heap of last-night crumpled clothes.

The whole pile reeked of champagne—a telltale sign of a night well spent.

Stifling a yawn into the crook of your elbow, you wasted no time to unlock your phone, the flood of messages immediately drawing you in—all from your agent. As you skimmed through them, your brows shot higher with each one until, finally, you tapped on the last: a link to a gossip page.

“Fuck.”

Ignoring the dull ache in your legs and lower belly, you rushed over to Lando and shook his shoulder.

“Babe, wake up.”

No reaction.

“Come on, get up,” you tried again.

When he still did not budge, you resorted to drastic measures and shoved him clean off the bed. He landed on the floor with a thud, muffled by the thick carpet of the suite.

“What the–?” he muttered, cracking one eye open as he straightened up and peered over his shoulder.

You kneeled beside him and shoved the phone in his face, screen brightness cranked to the max. He blinked once. Twice. His eyelids fluttered against the assault of light before he smacked his lips to chase away the dryness on his tongue.

“What am I looking at?” he asked, voice still hoarse with sleep.

“Read.”

The liveries' new engines for the upcoming Formula 1 season were not the only things to heat up the O2 arena last night. Hollywood royalty Y/N L/N made her grand⏤and completely unexpected⏤entrance on the red carpet, instantly overtaking the event.

It is fair to say that the actress, whose face has become a permanent fixture not only in theaters but also on the cover of Vogue or at the Met Gala, was the talk of the evening⏤as she always is. Draped in a pink Dior archive gown, the Golden Globe-winning actress turned heads the second she stepped in the arena... as Lando Norris’s plus-one!

According to inside sources⏤who were quick to spill the tea⏤the driver and A-List actress have been dating for over a year, but this marks their first official public outing as a couple. Talk about a hard-launch!

McLaren's golden boy⏤who came second in last season's world championship⏤quickly faded into the background as L/N stole the spotlight. And he didn’t seem to mind one bit, instead beaming with pride and fully embracing his new role as a trophy boyfriend!

One thing is sure, while he may be chasing a world-champion title on the track⏤as he reaffirmed last night to Whitehall⏤off it, it seems that Lando Norris has already won, for there is no trophy in this world better than Y/N L/N.

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Anonymous 2 hours ago

Y/N in vintage Dior with Lando trailing behind her like a good purse holder?? Iconic.

Anonymous 5 hours ago

Wait… they’ve been dating for A YEAR?? How did we miss this?? I need a timeline, a series, a podcast—SOMETHING.

Anonymous 1 hour ago

They make so much sense together. I'm already obsessed.

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Lando handed you your phone back and flopped onto the bed, curls matted into the pillow, one arm behind his head. You remained standing, determined not to be swayed by his distractingly sculpted biceps, now on full display.

A smug smile lit up his tired face. You had to fight against the overwhelming urge to slap it off.

“I guess I am your trophy boyfriend.”

You rolled your eyes as he burst out laughing and tossed a pillow square at his head. He caught it without blinking.

Those fucking reflexes.

“Shut up.”

He reached for you, arms wide open and eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Come here, sugar mommy.”

You flipped him off and walked out of the room without a second glance for him.

“Does this mean I can come to the Oscars with you?” he called after you.

#lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #ln4 x reader #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 fanfic #lando x reader #lando norris fluff #fluff #lando norris imagine #f1 imagine #ln4 imagine #ln4 fluff #f1 smau #lando norris social media au #Writing 𝜗𝜚˚ !

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realestate-updates-news · 2 years ago

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Atmosphere O2 by The Wadhwa Group: Your Haven in Mulund

In the midst of Mulund’s tranquil greenery, The Wadhwa Group introduces “Atmosphere O2,” redefining modern living. This project, among the new projects in Mulund, encapsulates the group’s dedication to quality, innovation, and customer satisfaction.

Mulund: A Green Oasis

Nestled in Mumbai’s east, Mulund offers an escape from city chaos while maintaining seamless connectivity. Its vast green spaces and serene lifestyle make it a refreshing retreat.

Atmosphere O2: Modern Living

Atmosphere O2’s contemporary architecture complements Mulund’s surroundings, offering spacious apartments designed for families. The project boasts a fitness center, clubhouse, swimming pool, and lush gardens. Its strategic location ensures access to schools, healthcare, and transportation hubs.

Why Choose Atmosphere O2?

The Wadhwa Group’s Atmosphere O2 stands out for its quality, location, diverse amenities, affordability, and sustainability.

Investing in Atmosphere O2

Mulund’s evolving real estate landscape, particularly in Atmosphere O2, presents an ideal investment opportunity. Whether seeking your dream home or a promising investment, Atmosphere O2 promises the best of both in Mulund’s serene yet connected neighborhood.

In conclusion, Atmosphere O2 by The Wadhwa Group offers quality living amidst Mulund’s serenity. Property in Mulund, especially in projects like Atmosphere O2, is a wise choice for those seeking a fresh breath of air in Mumbai’s real estate market.

#property in mulund #atmosphere o2 #new projects in mulund

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rrealestatehub · 2 years ago

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youtube

#Wadhwa GMLR #Wadhwa Atmosphere O2 #Wadhwa Project In Mulund #Wadhwa Atmosphere O2 GMLR #Wadhwa Atmosphere O2 Mumbai #Wadhwa Atmosphere O2 Mulund West #Wadhwa Atmosphere O2 GMLR Mulund #Wadhwa Atmosphere O2 GMLR Mumbai #Youtube

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 10 months ago

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Wamdue Project - King of My Castle 1997

"King of My Castle" is a song by American electronic music producer Chris Brann under his Wamdue Project alias, with vocals by Gaelle Adisson. It was originally released in 1997 as a downtempo song but became a worldwide club hit in 1999 when it was remixed by Italian house producer Roy Malone and included on the 1998 album Program Yourself. The song peaked at number one on the US Billboard Dance Club Play chart, topped the UK Singles Chart, and peaked within the top 10 in at least 12 other countries, including Denmark, France, Germany, the Netherlands, and Norway.

The song's title and lyrics reference Sigmund Freud's theory of the unconscious which holds that the human ego is not free and is instead controlled by its own unconscious id; "the ego is not king of its own castle". Hence, one of the song's two music videos consists of footage from the 1995 anime film Ghost in the Shell, where people with cyborg implants have their actions controlled against their will by a hacker criminal known in the film as "puppetmaster". (the original amv, innit)

"King of My Castle" received a total of 65,8% yes votes!

youtube

#finished #90s #o2 #o2 sweep #wamdue project #english

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verstappenf1lecccc · 2 months ago

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Hey! P here!! How are you? Been busy a lot 😔 Can I request fic about James Vowles x wife reader? Since last season, James has been pursuing Carlos to join Williams but to no avail. To extend spending time with his family (I read somewhere about it, which is good I think 🤔) Anyways, she's been saying (jokingly) that he loves Carlos more than her with the amount of attention he's given to him even especially after Carlos joins the team. Compliment his hair, making it look like James had fallen in love with Carlos and now his wife. I can imagine how shocked and baffled James is about her jokes🤣🤣🤣 All these things lead to the F175 event at O2 and chaos happend. You decide how it goes. Add anything you want. Ask me anything. Thanks!! :))

Smooth Operator

James Vowles x Wife!Reader

feat. Carlos Sainz as the Unexpected Third in Your Marriage

hi I’m back after ages I have so many requests im working through I’m sorry it’s taking years but life is horrible rn anyways this one made me laugh hope yalls like it.

You were this close to adding Carlos Sainz to your Christmas card list and not because you liked him. Oh no,because at this point, it felt rude not to.

“Just admit it,” you said one morning, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as your husband stared lovingly oh so lovingly at an image of Carlos on the Williams simulator. “You’re in love with him.” James blinked. “Excuse me?” “With Carlos. Your hair idol. Your strategic soulmate. Your beautiful Spanish muse.”

He turned slowly, expression pained. “We’re not doing this again.”

You leaned on the kitchen island with a smile that spelled chaos. “He’s got thick curls, James. You said he’s a data genius. Yesterday I caught you complimenting his turn-in technique. What’s next? Love poems?”

James pinched the bridge of his nose like a man suffering. “I am the Team Principal of Williams Racing. This is business.”

“This is a crush. You’re emotionally cheating. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

He sighed. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you, my dear husband, are flirting with danger. And Carlos.”

It had all started last season, when James became laser-focused on “Project Carlos.” He claimed it was about rebuilding Williams, strengthening the team, reshaping the future.

But all you heard was:

“Carlos is incredibly adaptable.”

“Carlos has unbelievable race awareness.”

“Carlos doesn’t just drive the car. He becomes one with the car.”

At one point, you genuinely wondered if James was going to name your future child Carlos.

When Carlos actually signed with Williams, you half-expected James to cry.

Instead, he opened a bottle of champagne and said, “This is the beginning of a new era.”

“For you and Carlos?” you asked.

“For the team,” he said. But you weren’t convinced.

The true chaos began at the F175 Launch Event at the O2.

You’d promised to be chill. Polished. Supportive.

You even wore your Nice Wife at PR Events dress. The red one. Very “I’m fine, my husband’s not cheating on me with a race car driver.”

But then someone on the panel asked James what it was like to sign Carlos.

And your darling husband turned to the mic with the serenity of a monk and said,

“Carlos brings something really rare. He’s sharp, strategic. He reads the car like a language only he understands. Honestly, watching him drive is like art. It’s… elegant.”

You turned your head slowly. “Elegant?” you mouthed. Elegant?

Then, like a woman possessed, you strode onto the stage.

“Hi, yes, sorry to interrupt,” you said sweetly, grabbing a mic. “I just wanted to confirm that I’m still married to James Vowles, even though he appears to be in a deeply committed emotional relationship with Carlos Sainz.”

Carlos, sipping water off-stage, choked.

The crowd erupted.

James looked like he’d aged fifteen years in fifteen seconds.

“Darling,” he said, his voice that calm, brittle tone you only hear when someone is internally screaming, “this is not the time.”

“No, James,” you said, planting your hand dramatically on your hip. “This is exactly the time. I just want to know if I’m going to be replaced by someone who has better curls and a smoother overtake.”

“I can explain-”

“Oh, no need. We’ll work out a custody schedule with Toto and Fred. Maybe alternating grands prix?”

“YOU’RE BEING RIDICULOUS,” James hissed.

Someone in the audience shouted, “LET HER COOK!”

Carlos was now hiding behind a curtain.

The next morning, your phone exploded.

Sky Sports: “Carlos Sainz Caught in Love Triangle?”

F1 Twitter: #VowlesVibes

CarlosFan69: “Why is this woman funnier than every man on the grid?”

James stood in the kitchen, scrolling grimly through the headlines.

“I’m a Team Principal, not a Bachelor contestant,” he muttered.

You, in your robe, sipping tea: “Maybe you shouldn’t flirt with Spaniards on live TV.”

“It wasn’t flirting,” he snapped. “I said his driving was elegant.”

You raised a brow. “You’ve never called me elegant.”

“Because you walked on stage and accused me of strategic adultery!”

“I was brave,” you said. “A woman in love. Defending her man from another man.”

His face dropped into his hands. “I’m married to a gremlin.”

You leaned in, grinning. “But I’m your gremlin.”

Later that day, Carlos sent James a text:

Carlos: Hey… everything okay? Do I need to issue a public apology? I didn’t mean to come between you two.

James: It’s fine. My wife just thinks I’m in love with your hair.

Carlos: …Are you?

James: I’m blocking you.

That night, James curled up beside you on the sofa, resting his head against your shoulder.

“You know I love you, right?” he mumbled into your shirt.

You smiled, stroking his hair. “Of course. But if Carlos ever invites you to a shampoo commercial…”

He groaned. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“I’ll understand,” you said sweetly. “I’ll pack your conditioner myself.”

After The Incident at the F175 launch the one where you jokingly accused your husband of being emotionally married to Carlos Sainz in front of God and every Sky Sports mic things had settled.

Barely.

The memes were still circulating. Your phone was still getting tagged in Twitter/X posts captioned “Me third-wheeling my parents’ divorce like #VowlesVibes.” And people were still calling James “a loyal yet emotionally confused king.”

But James? He was trying to carry on like everything was normal.

Which is why, when Carlos invited both of you to dinner, James said yes without hesitation.

You, however, stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Dinner?” you repeated. “With the man you abandoned me for?”

James groaned. “I did not abandon you. You stormed the stage like a Real Housewife of Monaco.”

“You called his driving elegant, James. That’s practically foreplay.”

“You’re lucky I love you.” “You’re lucky I didn’t bring a slideshow.”

The dinner was at some trendy, overpriced Italian place in London that clearly catered to rich people who wanted to pretend they were casual. You sat down at a three-person table tucked in a corner, candlelight flickering between bread baskets and sparkling water.

Carlos arrived ten minutes late, curls bouncing, smile too charming for someone who’d accidentally become the center of your marriage drama.

He hugged James. He hugged you.

You tried not to squint suspiciously at the way your husband’s hand lingered on Carlos’s shoulder.

“This place is nice,” Carlos said, settling in. “I’m glad we’re doing this. I was worried I caused some tension?”

You sipped your wine. “Carlos, you did nothing wrong. You just exist. With your hair. And your tactical driving style. And your surgeon hands.”

James choked on his water.

Carlos blinked. “Sorry??my what?”

James cleared his throat. “She thinks I talk about you too much.”

“You do,” you and Carlos said at the same time.

James raised a hand. “Okay, betrayal.”

The waiter came by, and just as you were ordering pasta, someone at the table next to you gasped—loudly.

“Oh my GOD,” a girl whispered, clutching her friend’s arm. “It’s them.”

You raised a brow.

“The… Williams love triangle!”

Carlos blinked. “What?”

“They went viral,” the friend whispered back. “The guy, the wife, and the other guy with the perfect hair this is them!”

You stared at James. “You see what you’ve done?”

“I didn’t ask to be in a tabloid throuple,” he hissed.

Suddenly, the girl leaned over, clutching her phone. “Can I get a picture of all three of you? You’re like, iconic. Like PolyF1Goals.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry?? what?”

She beamed. “You know, like a throuple! You, your husband, and Carlos!”

Carlos blinked. James looked like he’d swallowed a fork.

You?

You smiled sweetly and said, “Of course.”

So yes, there is now a photo floating online of James in the middle, looking like he’s questioning every life decision, you smiling like the chaos demon wife you are, and Carlos doing a confused peace sign like he’d just stumbled into a cult.

The caption?

“Williams going for podiums and polyamory in 2026. #ThroupleTrouble #VowlesSainzWife”

Later that night, back at home, you flopped onto the bed and checked your phone.

Another headline.

“Carlos Sainz Caught in Unexpected Romantic Dynamic With Williams Boss and Wife”

Experts weigh in: Is this the future of F1?

James walked into the room and faceplanted on the bed beside you.

“I’m going to be buried with this story on my tombstone, aren’t I?”

You stroked his back lovingly. “Right next to a bouquet of Carlos’s curls.”

James groaned into the pillow. “I hate you.”

You kissed his temple. “No you don’t. You love me more than Carlos.”

He hesitated. “…Yes. But only slightly.”

That caused another wave of the endless storm of “ you love Carlos more” rant from you.

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dreamings-free · 2 years ago

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24/11/23

#openstage #louis #fitf tour #O2 arena #17.11.23 #posted:#24.11.23 #louis’ projects #sea girls #the academic #m

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frankiiiestein · 3 months ago

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vieverse 🫐 ₊⠀ an introduction

welcome to my shifting blog. the nicknames i go by are vievie or revie but i don’t mind. i am twenty three years old (O2) and go by she/they pronouns. i am a nigerian shifter who has been in the community since feburary of 2O21 and astral projected in early 2O23.

scripting | realities | pinterest | tik tok

BYF : i will not be following anyone under the age of sixteen. you can still follow me but i will not be interacting.

DNI : homophobic, misogynistic, racist, a race changer, transphobic, sexist, ableist, islamaphobic, anti-shifters, shifters who shift to unalive innocent people, and people who do not respect boundaries.

[ pathetic hopeless romantic and avid music lover ]

#law of assumption #𓈒𓏸viezreality #loa tumblr #reality shifting #shifting #⠀✦⠀viez⠀⌢⠀dr #shifting antis dni #shifting blog #shifting community #shifting motivation #𓈒𓏸vie rambles #desired reality #manifesting #⠀✦⠀vienswers⠀⌢⠀#shiftblr

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enhastars · 5 months ago

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NO STRINGS ATTACHED .ᐟ

(𝜗𝜚˚⋆) — no strings attached | s.jaeyun smau

SYNOPSIS: when pre-med stem major jake got assigned with sorority girl y/n for a group project, he considered dropping out of college. they absolutely despise each other's lifestyles, but with grad school just around the corner, the desperation slowly started to kick in. will they be able to swallow their prides and work together in harmony, or end up sabotaging each other instead?

FEATURING — sim jaeyun x reader

GENRES: comedy, social medialau, romance, fluff, crack, enemies to lovers, non idollau

WARNINGS: kys/kms jokes, swearing/vulgar language, angst, jake and y/n are both insufferable, mentions of death and suicide, mild nsfw jokes

TAGLIST: send an ask to be a part of the taglist!

started: O1/O6/25

a/n: omg my first jake smau… about time!! this is kind of me projecting onto jake as i am also a pre med bio major.. and they’re all (slightly) insane however! he will find love yayyy

this is not a reflection of enhypen and their characters, this is fiction and merely for fun. also sorry to any sorority girls i offend i love u guys 🙏 i just thought this trope would be funny

profiles 1 | profiles 2

O1: the beatbox mystery

O2: jungwon's villain arc

O3: he's a bit.. delusional

O4: freakhoon??

O5: alcoholism 💜

O6: liar liar pants on fire

O7: jake's crashout arc

O8: yikyak admin exposed

O9: a potential pledge?

10: grown ass man btw

11:

& more to come!

—

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emjayewrites · 21 days ago

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The Year I Turned 25 • JK + AT (5/10)

SYNOPSIS: Grammy-winning R&B artist Y/N Y/LN, 25, is closing out the North American leg of her tour, riding high on the success of her sophomore album "The Year I Turned 24" - a raw, emotional project born from her public breakup with an NFL player. As she prepares for six weeks in Europe before the international leg of her tour, she's determined to have her own "hot girl summer," yet she’s unaware that she's about to get entangled with not one but two professional footballers - Jules Koundé and Aurélien Tchouaméni - sparking new public interest in her love life and forcing her to confront her fears about dating athletes again.

PAIRINGS: Jules Koundé x Y/N Y/LN (fc: Ayra Starr) x Aurélien Tchouaméni

WARNINGS: cursing, football b.s., not so glamorous life of a celebrity, mentions of mental illness/misogyny/slut shaming/cheating, drug use (marijuana), drinking, rotational dating, eventual smut, paragon partners/polyamory — 18+ only

TAGLIST: @irishmanwhore, @sucredreamer, @judesvirtual, @saturnville, @peyiswriting, @greedyjudge2, @simplyyalika, @julescpu, @a-moment-captured, @jessnotwiththemess,, @enretrogue @yeea-nah @127hydrangeas @sunfairyy @pinkcatcus, @muglermami @bbgkoo @greyishbach @sinflowersugar @cranberryjulce @rougereds @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @dima-lfc @beauty-gurl

YN adjusted her webcam as faces populated her laptop screen. Jermaine looked bored already, sipping his iced coffee, while her tour manager Ky'elle shuffled through production notes.

"So for the European leg," Ky'elle started, "we're have the O2 Arena in London, Accor Arena in Paris..."

"Ziggo Dome for Amsterdam," Jermaine added, perking up slightly. "We're thinking tiered staging, almost like an amphitheater vibe. Really lean into that ethereal aesthetic from the album."

"And for openers," Ky'elle continued, "Amaarae's team is very interested as an alternate. Kiana Ledé is ready. PinkPantheress too."

"Love that energy," YN nodded, already imagining the lineup. "Amaarae, her sound would–"

"Speaking of international sounds," Sam, her label contact, interrupted with a smirk. "Those photos with Koundé in Germany... getting any songwriting inspiration for the next album?"

Is he for real?

YN's jaw tightened. "I'm not going to become some type of prop for your entertainment. And my relationships are private. I don't ask you about your wife, now do I?"

The silence was deafening until Jermaine jumped in. "About those Amsterdam dates..."

After logging off, YN slammed her laptop shut with an aggravated grumble, running hands through her hair. Every time she thought the industry was changing, she gets a reminder that the same old bullshit still existed.

Her phone rang immediately: Jermaine.

"Before you start–" she began.

"Already working on getting him replaced. That was inappropriate and unprofessional."

"Good. Fire his ass."

"Now, about these French boys..." She could hear his smirk, but she wasn’t in the mood to gossip. Not right now. Not when she had to be somewhere.

"Goodbye, J. Love you," she said to her manager before hanging up.

Despite Jules and Aurélien telling her to skip the match, YN stepped into her shower to get ready. She was stubborn like that — had been since she was little, according to her mama.

They really thought we'd listen? her intrusive thoughts scoffed.

When has that ever worked? her rational side agreed. Besides, they secretly love it.

She took her time getting ready, doing her skincare routine while dancing to Kiana Ledé (might as well listen to her tour openers). Her makeup was natural - just concealer, mascara, and gloss. No need to do too much when she'd be hiding in the VIP box anyway.

The white one-shoulder top showed just enough skin to be cute but not thirsty, paired with wide-leg jeans that made her ass look fantastic (not that anyone would see it in the private box, but still). A vintage Les Bleus Adidas track jacket completed the look - she found it at one of those sport consignment shops nearby.

They really think they can tell me what to do, she mused as she checked her reflection. Cute of them to try.

The VIP box and private entrance would keep her lowkey enough. Besides, how could she miss the semi-finals? This was their moment.

And if anyone spotted her... well, she'd deal with that later. Sometimes a girl had to bend the rules to support her men.

_________________________________________________

The Munich afternoon sun blazed as YN's car pulled up to the private entrance. She'd timed it perfectly - an hour before kickoff when most people would already be in their seats.

A security detail (not Big Kyle, but almost as protective) led her through back corridors and up to the VIP box. The view was perfect - high enough to see the whole pitch but close enough to make out players' numbers.

Not that we need numbers to spot our boys, her intrusive thoughts purred as the teams came out for warmups.

She spotted Jules first - those dreads distinctive even from here. Then Aurélien, all long limbs and focused energy. Both looked up toward the VIP boxes at some point, and she knew they'd spotted her when Jules shook his head slightly, trying not to smile.

Caught, her rational thoughts noted.

Worth it, her intrusive side declared.

The stadium hummed with anticipation as both teams lined up. YN might not know much about football, but even she could feel the weight of this moment. Spain in their signature red, France in their classic blue.

She recognized Cama's micro dreads bouncing as he jogged into position, Jules and Aurélien anchoring the defense. The whistle blew and immediately Spain started pressing.

"Merde," she muttered, picking up French curse words from her boys.

Twenty minutes in, Spain scored. The stadium erupted while YN's heart sank. Jules had been so close to blocking it, but the shot curved just past his reach.

It's okay, she thought. Plenty of time.

But Spain's defense was suffocating. Every time France got close, they were shut down. She watched Aurélien's frustration grow with each blocked attempt, Jules' intensity ratcheting up as the minutes ticked by.

At halftime, still 1-0, she texted the group chat:

YN You got this 💙

No response, but she hadn't expected one. They were in game mode.

The second half started with renewed energy. Cama made a beautiful pass to someone (she really needed to learn their teammates' names), but the shot went wide.

Then, in the 78th minute, Spain struck again. 2-0.

Fuck, she thought, watching Jules slam his hand against the grass in frustration.

The final whistle felt like a punch to the gut. She watched her boys' shoulders slump, saw Aurélien console Cama who looked close to tears.

The dream of winning Euros was over.

Her phone buzzed:

Jules 🇫🇷 Coming to my room later?

Aurélien 🌹We could use the company

YN On my way

She stared at Javaughn's last message about dinner, guilt creeping in. Her French boys were down bad – what kind of... whatever she was to them... would go on a date while they were hurting?

But you made plans first, her rational thoughts argued.

Baguettes before bougie professors, her intrusive thoughts declared.

She was about to text Javaughn to reschedule when a security guard appeared. "Miss YN? We should head out now before the crowds start moving."

I'll text him later, she decided, following security toward the elevator. Her boys needed her more right now.

The stadium was already emptying, thousands of fans in Spanish red celebrating while the French supporters looked dejected. She kept her head down, hurrying toward the private exit.

YN to 🌹🇫🇷 Not stopping by players area. Meet you at the hotel?

Jules 🇫🇷 Better idea. Don't need cameras right now

Her phone buzzed again - Javaughn. She'd deal with that later.

Right now, she had two heartbroken French footballers to comfort.

__________________________________________________

The silence in Jules' hotel room was heavy. Neither of them had said much since getting back, both still in their track suits, processing the loss as they sat on the bed.

"On aurait dû jouer plus agressif dès le début," (We should have played more aggressively from the start) Jules finally said, running a hand through his dreads.

"Les espaces n'étaient pas là," (The spaces weren't there) Aurélien replied, shaking his head. "On était complètement bloqués." (We were completely blocked)

YN watched them dissect every moment in French, their frustration palpable. She might not understand the words, but she knew that look of disappointment, of replaying every could-have-been.

"Hey," she said softly, making both men look at her. "You're still amazing. Both of you. One loss doesn't change that."

Aurélien gave a weak smile. "You don't even understand football."

"No, but I understand giving everything you've got. I saw how hard you both fought out there."

Jules let out a long breath. "We wanted this so bad."

"I know." She moved closer, touching Jules' face gently. "But you'll have other chances."

When she kissed him, it was soft - comforting rather than passionate. Then she turned to Aurélien, offering the same gentle comfort.

"Our girl," Jules murmured, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders.

Aurélien waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "You know what would make us feel better?"

His horny ass…

Don’t even front because you know you’re getting soaked just thinking about it, her intrusive thoughts said.

Which was true, yet that was neither here nor there.

"Actually..." YN bit her lip. "I have a date with Javaughn tonight."

Jules raised an eyebrow. "Cancel it."

"What? I’m not gonna cancel!"

"That would be weird anyway," Aurélien added. "Going out with sex still on you."

"Hold on now because I didn’t even say ‘yes’."

"Please?" Aurélien gave her puppy dog eyes that shouldn't work on a grown man.

She glanced at Jules, who had the audacity to give her an exaggerated pout. These men are ridiculous.

"Fine," she groaned, taking her phone out of her pocket to text Javaughn.

YN to Professor Fine 👨🏾‍🏫 Something came up - rain check? Brunch tomorrow?

His reply came instantly:

Professor Fine 👨🏾‍🏫 Of course. Le Meridien at 11? Hope everything's okay

Before she could reply, Jules gently took her phone, setting it aside. His hands cradled her face as he kissed her with a desperation that spoke of needing comfort, needing to feel something other than disappointment. She melted into it, letting him pour his frustrations into the kiss.

These boys need us tonight, her rational thoughts whispered as Aurélien's hand found her waist.

And you’re gonna suck the skin off their dicks to help ease the pain of their loss! her intrusive thoughts added.

YN pulled away from Jules, her lips finding Aurelien's in a heated kiss. As Jules's mouth trailed down her neck, she felt a shiver run through her.

She knew she shouldn’t have canceled with Javaughn, but there wasn’t any place she’d rather be. Jules' tongue darted out, tasting her skin while Aurelien's hands found their way to cup her breasts, his touch sending sparks of desire through her. YN shrugged out of her track jacket, the cool air hitting her skin as Jules took it and placed it on an armchair.

He returned to them, his eyes dark with desire, and his lips found her neck again as Aurelien's hands began to slip down her one-shoulder top. His hands went underneath, his fingers grazing her breast.

"Lay back," Jules murmured, his voice husky.

Without hesitation, YN did as he asked, sinking into the soft mattress. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment. Jules and Aurelien exchanged a knowing glance, a silent agreement passing between them. They began to shed their clothes, their movements deliberate and purposeful. First, they kicked off their sneakers, then their track pants followed. Finally, with a swift motion, they pulled off their shirts, revealing their toned bodies before slipping off their boxer briefs.

As she felt the weight of their bodies on either side of her, a sense of peace washed over her. Her eyes fluttered back open to see that Jules and Aurelien were naked now, their bodies glistening in the dim light.

Their hands were all over her body, tracing the curves of her form. They kneaded her breasts, squeezing and teasing her nipples. With gentle hands, they helped her shed the rest of her clothing, their fingers lingering on her skin.

Once she was naked, Aurelien leaned forward, his tongue darting out to capture one of her nipples. A low moan escaped her lips as he tugged gently on the swollen bud with his teeth. Meanwhile, Jules scooted lower, prying her legs open with his shoulders as he settled between them, his lips trailing a path up her inner thigh. He kissed and sucked the tender flesh, his tongue teasing her clitoris. As he reached her core, her breath hitched in her throat as her back arched off of the bed.

Jules's tongue delved deep, a hunger driving him. His hands, rough and insistent, kneaded her thighs, pulling her closer. Aurelien, lost in the moment, savored the taste of her, his lips forming a perfect seal around her nipple.

YN's moans grew louder as Jules worked his magic. She reached up, her fingers tangling in Aurelien's hair, pulling him away from her breast, her eyes meeting his.

"I want to taste you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Aurelien grinned cockily. "Sure, ma belle," he murmured, kneeling close to her then sat back on his haunches. His dick was now mere inches from her face and YN inhaled a deep breath, pushing away her nerves.

YN slowly took his dick in her mouth, her tongue wrapping around the head. With one hand, she began to stroke him, coaxing him to full hardness. As she worked him, she let out a moan and bobbed her head in a steady rhythm, her lips and her hand in perfect sync as she savored the saltiness of his precum on her tastebuds.

"Fuck, bébé," Aurélien groaned, his head falling back in pleasure. One of his hands moved to fondle her breast, the other gripping her hair and pulled her to him.

Jules continued his ministrations on her pussy, his fingers joining in, curling upwards to touch her at that perfect spot. Her moans were muffled by Aurélien’s shaft, but her hips moved instinctively.

YN was teetering on the edge, her body humming with pleasure. She could feel Aurélien's dick throbbing in her throat, his thrusts growing more urgent. Just as she thought she couldn't take any more, Jules paused his movements. A moment of confusion passed before she heard the familiar rustle of foil.

As Jules's hands returned to her body, teasing her clit, a new sensation ignited within her. The cool, smooth head of his dick pressed against her entrance.

Eiffel Tower, huh? bemused her intrusive thoughts.

YN, with her mouth being full, managed to keep down the giggle that threaten to escape, and instead whimpered as she felt herself being stretched to accommodate Jules’ girth.

Her vaginal walls clamped around him, her arousal evident, allowing him to slip inside with ease. Jules stilled for a moment to ground himself, exhaling a sigh and muttering something in French. A moan escaped her lips as he found his rhythm, his movements steady and deliberate. He gripped her hips, pulling her closer as he drove deeper.

"Pussy so fucking good," Jules groaned, his voice low and rough. "Merde...you gonna make me cum sooner than I wanted to." His thrusts grew more intense, his grip tightening on her hips.

The rhythmic slapping of Jules's balls against her skin grew louder as he increased his pace. He wrapped her legs around his waist as he thrust deep into her. YN's toes curled with pleasure, her body arching involuntarily. Each thrust was a wave of ecstasy, pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

YN's moans, raw and primal, sent vibrations up Aurélien's dick. He was on the brink, his thrusts growing erratic as he fucked her face. Her eyes widened in surprise at the intensity, but he simply stared down at her, his thumbs caressing her cheeks.

"Breathe through your nose, ma belle," he murmured. YN’s jaw slackened as she relaxed and did as she was told. "Good girl."

Aurélien’s hands remained on her face as he began a shallow, rhythmic thrusting motion, his dick disappearing and reappearing between her lips. Saliva pooled at the corners of her mouth while he pushed deeper, his tip tapping against the back of her throat, threatening to make her gag. He repeated this motion over and over, and each thrust sent a jolt of ecstasy through her.

Jules and Aurélien worked in tandem, their bodies moving in unison. Jules bottomed out inside her, his thrusts deep and powerful whilst YN deep-throated Aurélien, her throat straining from the effort. Their moans and grunts filled the room, a symphony of pleasure.

"Goddamn, chérie," Jules growled, his voice thick with desire. "Your pussy is so tight, so sweet."

"You're so beautiful; it drives me wild." Aurélien thrust deeper, his voice a low rumble. "You're gonna make me cum, you know that?"

YN's body trembled as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. She couldn't take it anymore. With a final, desperate cry, she pushed away from Aurélien's dick, her body convulsing as she reached her peak.

Aurélien, still riding his high, stroked himself, his hand moving in lightning speed to reach his release. Jules continued without a care, his movements relentless as he fucked her through her orgasm.

Aurélien tilted her chin towards him. "Open up," he commanded. Without hesitation, she obeyed, her tongue darting out to catch the hot, viscous liquid as it erupted from his dick.

Watching YN swallow Aurélien's cum, Jules couldn't help but feel a surge of arousal. It took two more deep thrusts before he came hard and fast, his body trembling with the intensity of the orgasm as it filled the condom.

As he lay there beside her, panting, he couldn't help but feel a sense of peace. His body was sated, his mind was clear. His frustration over losing the Euros had dissolved.

"Holy shit," commented Aurélien as he drew back from YN’s mouth, stumbling a bit as he got up from the bed. "Let me get a towel, bébé."

"Okay," was her response as she watched him pad into the bathroom, her voice slightly hoarse and her throat pleasantly sore. She shifted her body to face Jules, wiping off any remnants of Aurelien’s cum from her mouth. "Hi."

"Hi, chérie," Jules said with a soft smile. "Are you good?"

"Oui," she said with a slow nod, that familiar dopey-ass grin appearing on her face.

Jules let out a chuckle then propped his head on his elbow. "How was the Eiffel Tower?"

YN’s cheeks flushed at his words then gave him a knowing look. "It was wonderful this time of year."

"Perfect. Are you thirsty? Hungry?"

She shook her head, letting out a sigh of contentment. "Just sleepy."

Aurélien returned with a warm towel, his touch gentle as he cleaned her up. His lips found hers in a tender kiss before he went to hang the towel on the bathroom rail. When he came back to bed, YN immediately curled against his chest, his heartbeat steady under her ear.

Safe and cared for between her French boys, she drifted off to sleep.

________________________________________________

"Team lunch today," Jules explained as they pulled up to her hotel early morning. "Coach wants to celebrate making semis, sort of a consolation thing."

"Trying to boost morale," Aurélien added from the front seat. "Even though we're all still..."

"But after?" YN squeezed Jules hand.

"Oui, belle," Aurélien caught her eye in the rearview mirror. "We'll pick you up."

After they drove off, YN rushed to get ready for brunch. Quick shower, light makeup – just concealer, mascara, and gloss. She chose a sundress that said "brunch appropriate" rather than "spent the night being thoroughly—"

Focus.

Le Méridien's entrance was grand, exquisite marble and glass. Javaughn stood when he saw her, looking fine as ever in pressed slacks and a fitted polo.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," she rambled. "Traffic was crazy and I swear the Uber driver took the scenic route–"

"It's fine," he smiled, pulling out her chair.

Chivalry isn't dead, her rational thoughts swooned.

The French boys pull out chairs too, her intrusive thoughts reminded her.

But look at those hands...

What can she say? She had a thing for nice, clean masculine hands. And Javaughn’s were really pretty, like weekly-manicure-appointment pretty.

Javaughn laid his napkin across his lap with practiced precision, every movement screaming bourgeoisie. YN tried not to stare at how... proper he was being.

"So after Wharton, I did my post-doc at LSE…" he was saying, barely touching his eggs benedict.

When did he start talking about his academic career? YN wondered. She hadn't managed more than "how are you" since sitting down.

"Then Harvard offered tenure track, but I wanted something more challenging and so I chose Columbia…"

She nodded politely, pushing her avocado toast around. Where was the engaging man from the plane? This version of Javaughn seemed... different. Uppity, even.

"Of course, being the youngest tenured professor in the department comes with its pressures…"

Not judging his upbringing, her rational thoughts noted, but damn.

Can we talk? her intrusive thoughts begged. Like at all?

"That's fascinating," she tried inserting when he paused for breath. "I actually–"

"Oh, that reminds me of this fascinating paper I just published…."

YN took a long sip of her mimosa. It was going to be a long brunch.

The French boys let us talk, her thoughts grumbled. Just saying.

"So, how's your European adventure been?" Javaughn finally asked.

Thank god, YN thought, excited to actually speak. "It's been amazing! Started in Barcelona, then I went to Germany, quick trip to London to see Lewis—"

"Lewis Hamilton?" His tone shifted slightly.

"Yeah! He's become a really good friend. And Monaco and Florence were nice..." she kept it PG, focusing on the sightseeing and Lewis's hospitality.

Javaughn nodded, looking increasingly disinterested. "Not a big fan of all that racing stuff, but I heard he's washed."

Washed? Is that negro smoking crack? her rational thoughts demanded.

Must be. We don't even know much about that vroom vroom stuff Lewis does but he's the GOAT, her intrusive thoughts added.

"He's not washed. Far from it actually," YN said, surprised at how calm her voice remained as she sipped her mimosa.

"Are you with him or something?" She shot him a confused look. "I mean, I saw the pictures of you two together," he continued, something condescending creeping into his tone. "You seem to be... getting around quite a bit in Europe."

YN set her mimosa down slowly, counting to ten in her head. "Getting around?"

"I didn't mean it negatively," Javaughn backpedaled, though his tone suggested otherwise. "Just noticed you with Hamilton, then that French footballer..."

Oh, so you were stalking our social media? her rational thoughts noted.

Boy bye, her intrusive thoughts declared. At least our French boys don't shade other successful Black men.

"First of all," YN's voice was ice calm, "what I do and who I spend time with isn't your business. Second, the way you talk about Lewis - another successful Black man - says a lot about you."

"I didn't mean–"

"You did. And for someone who spent the last hour humble-bragging about tenure, you're really showing your whole ass right now."

She stood up, dropping her napkin on her half-eaten toast. "I think we're done here."

"YN, wait–"

"Thanks for brunch, Professor. Have a safe flight back to your ivory tower."

She was already texting before she hit the lobby:

🌹 🇫🇷 Group Chat

YN Y'all done with lunch? Need to rant about trash men

The responses were immediate:

Jules 🇫🇷 On our way belle

Aurélien 🌹What he do? 👊🏾

At least some men knew how to act.

Standing outside Le Méridien, YN blocked and then deleted Javaughn's contact. A year ago, she would've let that slide - she had let way worse slide with Damari because he'd been her first everything. He'd been there when she signed to the label, held her hand through those early industry parties.

But that YN was gone.

No more ignoring red flags, her rational thoughts declared.

No more settling for less, her intrusive thoughts agreed.

Her Uber was five minutes out, giving her time to reflect. Maybe this roster life wasn't for her after all. Sure, Enzo and Carina had been fun, that professor had seemed promising (until he showed his whole ass), but juggling multiple people felt... exhausting.

But Jules and Aurélien?

Those French boys hit different, her thoughts sighed, remembering last night's pleasure, this morning's soft kisses.

Maybe for these last few weeks in Europe, she'd focus on them. On how Aurélien's deep voice made her shiver, how Jules' eyes crinkled when he laughed. On the way they took care of her, challenged her, made her toes curl.

At least until tour starts, she decided, sliding into her Uber.

Back in her hotel room, YN practically ripped off her dress, still fuming about Javaughn's audacity. She yanked on sweats and a baby tee, muttering about "tenure track having ass..."

Where was her damn vape? She checked her purse, then the nightstand. Not there. Bathroom counter? Nope.

Under the pillow, sis, her thoughts reminded her. Where you left it after last night.

She grabbed it before heading to the balcony, taking deep pulls of CBD as she paced. Summer was supposed to be fun, not dealing with pretentious professors shading her friends.

YN to LewLew Bean Can we talk? Need your wisdom

Her phone rang immediately.

"So I'm thinking of downsizing the roster." She blew out vapor, watching it drift over Munich's skyline.

"Oh?" She could hear his smirk. "To just the French boys?"

"Maybe." Another pull, another exhale. "Going to Japan with Jules, then Sicily with Aurélien."

"I told you so," Lewis sang. "Fucking them is one thing, but catching feelings?"

"I'm not-"

"Which one you gonna pick?"

YN froze mid-pace, vape halfway to her lips. Jules, her rational thoughts immediately supplied. He's softer, more open. Reads poetry, matches your energy.

Aurélien, her intrusive thoughts argued. That intensity? That voice? The way he takes control but still makes you feel safe?

"It's not like that," she protested weakly.

Lewis' laugh was pure skepticism. "Sure it's not."

A knock interrupted her defense.

"Gotta go, they're here."

"Remember what I told you - catching feelings changes everything."

"Goodbye, Lewis," she said pointedly, but his words echoed as she headed for the door. The vape felt heavy in her hand - she quickly stashed it in a drawer. Her French boys weren't huge fans of it.

Aww, already changing habits for them? her thoughts teased.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

"Coming!" she called out, giving herself a quick mirror check. Her baby tee had ridden up - she tugged it down, though she knew it wouldn't stay that way long.

When she opened the door, their matching expressions of concern made her heart do something stupid.

Yeah, her thoughts sighed. Lewis might have a point.

She moved aside to let them in, their familiar scents - Jules' Tom Ford, Aurélien's Le Labo - instantly calming her.

"Bonjour. Ca va?" Jules asked.

"Je suis... uh... angry."

Duolingo owl would be so proud.

Jules sat on the bed, nodding slowly. "Angry," he repeated, testing the words.

Aurélien stretched his long legs out under the dining table, casual as ever. "Do I need to beat him up?"

The contrast between his relaxed posture and the threat made her smile despite herself.

"Auré did judo," Jules added proudly. "He's really good."

"No," she replied. "He's not worth your energy."

She moved to sit next to Jules, but he guided her onto his lap instead, arms wrapping around her waist. She gave him a look that said really?

"Tell us what happened," he urged, chin resting on her shoulder.

After explaining the brunch disaster - including Javaughn's comments about Lewis and his condescending tone - she bit her lip. "Also... I'm thinking of not talking to anyone else. Just... you two."

Aurélien's signature smirk appeared, the one that made her knees weak. "You like us that much?"

"Maybe." She rolled her eyes good-naturedly, though her heart raced at admitting it.

"Hmm." Aurélien glanced at Jules, something passing between them. "I don't mind it. What do you think, JK?"

"I like that a lot," Jules murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering. "More time for us."

His grip tightened slightly around her waist, possessive but gentle. Aurélien's dark eyes held promises that made her shiver.

These French boys are going to be the death of us, her thoughts declared, but the way they looked at her made it worth the risk.

"What the fuck you mean you about to go to Japan?" Big Kyle's face filled her phone screen, protector mode activated.

"With Jules," YN explained, folding another shirt into her suitcase. "Just for a week."

"You know how crazy the paps are over there. And you're just gonna be out with a whole footballer?"

"We'll be careful-"

"Like y'all been careful in Europe? I seen them blogs, baby girl."

She sighed, remembering last night - how peaceful it had been just chilling, ordering room service, playing UNO (and yes, destroying them again). This morning they'd left early to pack - Jules to his place in Paris where she'd meet him tonight, Aurélien off to Madrid.

"And then what? Sicily?"

"Yeah, with Aurélien. He's hanging with his little brother Yannis and some friends in Madrid first, then they're all heading to LA together."

"So you're really doing this? Being seen in multiple countries with two different men?"

"I know how to move lowkey-"

"Baby girl." His tone softened. "I just worry. After everything with Damari went public..."

"I'll be careful, Kyle. Promise."

"You better. And tell them boys I know people in Europe too."

She laughed, but the weight of it all settled in her chest.

"Thought you weren't trying to date right now anyway," he added. "Taking that break to focus on you?"

Lewis' words echoed: Fucking them is one thing, but catching feelings?

Maybe we can be immune to feelings, her rational thoughts suggested.

Girl, that's some sociopath shit and you know it, her intrusive thoughts countered.

But still... athletes. She'd sworn them off for a reason.

These ones are different though, both thoughts agreed.

That's what scared her most.

"I gotta go, Kyle. Flight to catch."

"Be safe, kid. FaceTime me when you land."

She hung up, doing one final sweep of the room before wheeling her luggage to the elevator. The Uber was already waiting outside, ready to take her to the airport.

To Paris.

To Jules.

Two and a half weeks left of Hot Girl Summer. Of pretending this was just fun, just casual.

But it's not casual anymore, is it? her thoughts whispered.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

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