#hamilton voice: what is a legacy?

[marlasbreastlump]

this fucking thing is rapidly becoming my msot popular post yet.

was originally gonna color and post this for pride month but i lost the original file

[pucksandpower]

The One Left Behind

Max Verstappen x Lewis Hamilton’s ex!Reader

Summary: your first love was a seven-time world champion with a chip on his shoulder who would stop at nothing to finally get that eighth … even at the expense of you. Your second (and last) love is a five-time world champion with racing in his blood who proves, once and for all, that he would give it all up for you without even being asked … and regret absolutely nothing

Based on this request

The rain taps softly against the glass walls of the penthouse. The lights of Monaco shimmer beyond the windows, reflections dancing across the polished floor like scattered stars.

You sit cross-legged on the oversized couch, Lewis sprawled beside you, his legs stretched out, an arm slung casually over the backrest. He’s scrolling through his phone, something about sector times and telemetry, but his attention isn’t fully there. Not tonight.

“Lewis,” you say, gently nudging his side with your foot.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.

You nudge him harder, and this time he glances your way, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “What’s up?”

“I need you to focus for, like, five minutes.”

“I am focusing,” he says, holding up his phone as evidence. “Race prep.”

“On me, Lewis.”

That gets his attention. He sets the phone down on the coffee table, screen still glowing with data, and leans back, giving you his full, undivided gaze. “Alright, I’m all yours. What’s on your mind?”

You hesitate for a moment, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater. The words are there, sitting heavy on your tongue, but saying them feels like stepping off the edge of something solid. Still, you’ve been together for almost six years. If you can’t have this conversation with him now, when can you?

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, your voice steady but quiet, “about us. About the future.”

Lewis tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “What about it?”

You take a deep breath. “I want to get married, Lewis. I want to have a family. With you.”

His expression shifts, not into shock or annoyance, but something harder to read. He doesn’t respond right away, which only makes the silence stretch uncomfortably between you.

“I know the timing’s not perfect,” you add quickly, trying to fill the gap. “I know you’re in the middle of-”

“The most important season of my career?” He finishes for you, a wry smile softening his tone.

“Yeah, that.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Babe, it’s not that I don’t want those things with you. I do. You know I do.”

“Do I?” The question slips out before you can stop it, and you see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Of course you do,” he says, his voice low, almost defensive. “Six years. That’s not nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. But sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in the same place. Like we’re … waiting for something that never comes.”

Lewis scrubs a hand down his face, the faintest hint of frustration breaking through his calm demeanor. “It’s not that simple, love. You know how much this season means to me. Winning an eighth title, it’s history. Legacy. Everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about after that?” You press, leaning closer. “What happens when you get it? Then what?”

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, he looks almost … unsure. It’s a rare thing, seeing Lewis Hamilton unsure of anything.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never really thought about it. Not in detail.”

“Well, maybe you should,” you say, your voice soft but firm. “Because I have. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being … your girlfriend forever.”

Lewis winces at the word, like it stings. “That’s not what you are to me. You’re everything. You know that.”

“Then prove it.”

He leans back again, running both hands through his hair as he exhales sharply. “God, you don’t make this easy, do you?”

“It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be real.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, his dark eyes searching your face like he’s trying to solve some impossible puzzle. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steady now, resolute. “When I win this season — when I get that eighth title — I’ll retire.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, a small, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. “I’ll retire. I’ll hang up my helmet, put a ring on your finger, and we’ll start trying for that family you’ve been dreaming about.”

You stare at him, equal parts stunned and skeptical. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Lewis, you can’t just say that to shut me up.”

“I’m not trying to shut you up,” he says, reaching for your hand. His fingers are warm, steady, and when he looks at you now, there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. “I’m saying it because I mean it. When I win, it’ll be the perfect ending. The perfect time to step away. And then it’s just us. No races, no travel, no distractions. Just you and me.”

“And a baby,” you add, because if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big.

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, and pulls you closer until you’re half in his lap. “And a baby,” he agrees.

It feels like a promise, one sealed with the way he presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you like they’re anchoring you to him.

But somewhere, deep down, a small, cautious voice whispers: what if he doesn’t win?

***

The suite is silent except for the faint hum of the minibar fridge and the muffled sounds of celebration filtering in from somewhere outside. It’s as if the entire world is rejoicing, but here, in the confines of this hotel room, everything feels like it’s crumbling.

Lewis hasn’t said a word since you got back. He walked in, dropped his helmet bag by the door, and slumped onto the edge of the bed, still in his team gear. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

You stand a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest, unsure whether to approach him or leave him to his thoughts. The weight in the room is unbearable, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

“Lewis,” you say softly, testing the waters.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

You take a tentative step closer. “I know it hurts-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting you off. His voice is hoarse, raw from the screams and protests he let out over the radio hours ago. He still hasn’t looked up.

You flinch but press on, refusing to let the conversation die. “I’m just trying to help.”

“There’s nothing to help,” he snaps, finally lifting his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his expression a mix of devastation and barely restrained fury. “It’s done. Over. What’s there to say?”

Your heart twists at the sight of him like this — so broken, so unlike the unshakable man you’ve always known. “I just thought-”

“Don’t you get it?” He interrupts, his voice rising. He stands abruptly, towering over you, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to sit here and dissect how it all fell apart. I want to forget.”

You step back, your own emotions starting to fray at the edges. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. You need to face it.”

“And what good would that do?” He shoots back, pacing the room now like a caged animal. “Would it give me my title? My win? Would it change the fact that I got robbed tonight?”

His words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Me too.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different. More fragile. You can feel it cracking under the weight of what you need to say next.

“Lewis,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “About what we talked about. Before …”

He stops pacing, turning to look at you with a frown. “What?”

“A few weeks ago,” you clarify, taking a shaky breath. “You said when you won, you’d retire. That we’d start … building a life together.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as he stares at you.

“I know you didn’t win,” you continue hesitantly, “but does that really change anything? Can’t we still-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, holding up a hand. His expression is hard now, a stark contrast to the vulnerability he showed earlier. “Don’t do this right now.”

“Why not?” You ask, frustration creeping into your tone. “Because it’s not convenient? Because it’s easier to bury yourself in racing than deal with what’s happening between us?”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice rising again.

“Isn’t it?” You challenge, taking a step closer. “You made me a promise. And now, what? You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen because things didn’t go your way?”

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it. You’ve never understood. Racing isn’t just something I do — it’s who I am. Walking away now, without that eighth championship … I can’t. I won’t.”

Your chest tightens, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “So what about me? What about us? Do we just stay on pause forever while you chase this thing that might never happen?”

His face twists with something you can’t quite place — anger, regret, maybe both. “This isn’t just about you,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “I’ve given everything to this sport. Everything. And I’m not quitting until I finish what I started.”

“So I’m just supposed to wait?” You ask, your voice cracking. “How long, Lewis? Another year? Two? Five? When is it going to be enough?”

“I don’t know!” He shouts, the words bursting out of him like a dam breaking. “I don’t know, alright?”

The room falls silent again, the weight of his outburst settling over both of you.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters after a moment, shaking his head. “Not right now.”

Before you can say another word, he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door.

“Lewis, wait,” you plead, your voice trembling. “Don’t walk away from this. From me.”

He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around. “I just need some air,” he says, his tone clipped.

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that makes you flinch.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, staring at the door as if willing him to come back. But the only sound is the muffled celebration outside, a cruel reminder of everything that’s been lost tonight.

Finally, your legs give out, and you sink onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands as the tears come. They’re hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wrack your body.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. None of it. You were supposed to be celebrating together, planning your future, looking ahead to the life you’d been dreaming of for so long.

But instead, it feels like everything is slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try to hold on, it’s all crumbling around you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, crying into the silence, but when the tears finally stop, you’re left with an emptiness that feels even worse.

And for the first time in six years, you wonder if maybe Lewis Hamilton isn’t the man you thought he was. Or maybe he is, and that’s the problem.

***

One Year Later

The glass facade of the clinic looms above you, pristine and intimidating. Every time you glance at the sign — Centre de Fertilité de Monaco written in bold looping letters — your stomach churns. You’ve been standing outside for almost fifteen minutes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed tightly against the chill in the air.

The city is alive around you, luxury cars humming down the streets, the faint sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. But you feel like you’re in a bubble, trapped in your own swirling thoughts.

This is what you want. You’ve thought about it a hundred times, planned every detail, read every article, and filled out every form. And yet, your feet refuse to move.

“Just go inside,” you whisper to yourself, though the words feel hollow.

You take a step toward the door, but your hand falters just shy of the handle.

“Y/N?”

The voice is familiar, low and slightly accented, and it stops you in your tracks. You turn to see Max Verstappen standing a few feet away, a look of surprise etched across his face. He’s dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, but there’s no mistaking him.

“Max,” you breathe, startled.

He takes a step closer, his brows knitting together. “What are you doing here?”

You glance at the clinic sign and then back at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “It’s, uh … personal.”

Max’s eyes narrow slightly, curiosity and concern mingling in his expression. “Personal enough that you’re standing outside looking like you’re about to throw up?”

Your face heats, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, as if that could shield you from his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He pauses, studying you. Then his eyes flicker to the sign again, and something seems to click. “Wait … are you-”

“Yes,” you blurt, cutting him off. There’s no point in pretending now. “I’m here to get artificially inseminated.”

Max blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “Oh.”

You look away, embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal. Lots of women do it.”

“Without anyone here to support you?” He asks, his tone soft but pointed.

You shrug, your voice defensive. “It’s my decision.”

Max doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally look back at him, he’s frowning. “Why?”

The question catches you off guard. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want a baby,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And you can’t … I don’t know, meet someone?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right, because it’s that easy.”

Max shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes, Max,” you snap, your patience wearing thin. “I’ve been serious about this for a long time. Just because my relationship didn’t work out doesn’t mean I should have to give up on what I want.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he says quietly, “So you and Lewis really broke up.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The mention of Lewis still feels like a punch to the gut, even after all this time. “Yeah. A while ago.”

Max hesitates, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And now you’re just … what? Picking a random donor from a catalog and hoping for the best?”

The words sting, and you glare at him. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He presses, his voice still calm but insistent. “You deserve more than that. You deserve more than a child fathered by some random man you only know as lines of descriptions on paper.”

That’s the moment you break. The tears you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe even months, come flooding out. You cover your face with your hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use.

“Hey,” Max says quickly, stepping closer. “Hey, don’t-”

But you can’t stop. It’s all too much — Lewis, the clinic, the choices you’ve had to make on your own.

“I just want-” you choke out, but the words dissolve into another sob.

“Come here,” Max says softly, wrapping an arm around your back and gently tugging you closer. You collapse against him, your face buried in his shoulder as the tears keep coming.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles over your back. His hoodie smells faintly of cologne and something clean, like fresh laundry.

After a while, your sobs start to quiet, and you manage to pull back, wiping at your face. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Max says, his voice low. He tilts his head, his blue eyes soft but serious. “You’re clearly not in the right state of mind to be making life-changing decisions.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this. I’m saying maybe today isn’t the day. You’re upset. And I don’t think you should do something this big while you’re feeling like this.”

You hesitate, his words sinking in.

“My apartment is just around the corner,” he continues. “Why don’t we go there? We can talk, or not talk. Whatever you want. But at least give yourself a little time to think.”

You hesitate, glancing back at the clinic. The weight of the decision presses heavily on you, but so does the thought of going through with it now, like this.

“Okay,” you whisper finally.

Max nods, a small, reassuring smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Come on.”

He keeps his hand on your back as he guides you down the street, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel entirely alone.

***

Max’s apartment is modern, sleek, and surprisingly warm. The large windows overlook the Monaco skyline, the twinkling lights of the city reflecting off the sea in the distance. You sit on the plush gray couch, clutching a mug of tea Max handed you just moments ago. The ceramic is warm in your hands, grounding you as the weight of everything presses down on your chest.

Max settles in the armchair across from you, his long legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the armrest as he watches you carefully. He hasn’t said much since you got here, and you’re grateful for it. But now, with the tea steeping between your fingers and his steady gaze on you, you feel the urge to fill the silence.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max shrugs lightly, a faint, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “Start anywhere.”

You exhale shakily, staring into the dark liquid in your mug. “Lewis and I were together for six years. Six years of my life … and for a long time, I thought we wanted the same things.”

Max’s brows knit together, but he stays quiet, letting you continue.

“I thought we were building something together,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to get married. I wanted kids. He said he did, too. But there was always something in the way — another season, another championship, another goal. And I kept waiting because I believed in him, in us.”

Your voice cracks, and you take a sip of the tea, letting the warmth soothe your throat. Max leans forward slightly, his blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s both comforting and unnerving.

“And then last year …” You pause, trying to steady your voice. “He promised me that if he won his eighth title, he’d retire. That we’d finally start the life we talked about. And I believed him. I really believed him.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his knuckles pressing against his chin as he listens.

“But he didn’t win,” you continue, the memory still fresh, still raw. “And instead of keeping his promise, he said he couldn’t walk away. Not without that eighth.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

You glance at him, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I thought maybe I could wait. Maybe I could put my dreams on hold for him a little longer. But it wasn’t just about the title — it was about him always choosing racing over me, over us.”

Max leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “So you broke up.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t keep waiting for someone who would never choose me.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. You’ve said them to yourself before, in the quiet of your bedroom, in the midst of sleepless nights, but saying them out loud now feels different. More final.

“And now you’re here,” Max says after a moment, gesturing faintly toward the direction of the clinic outside the windows.

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes again. “I still want a family. I’ve always wanted that. And after everything with Lewis, I realized I can’t keep putting my life on hold for someone else. If I want a baby, I have to make it happen myself.”

Max stares at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I get it,” he says finally. “I do. But … I don’t know. It just feels wrong. Like, you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you say, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not everyone gets a happy ending. Some of us just have to make do with what we have.”

He shakes his head, leaning forward again. “That’s not what I mean. I mean someone like you shouldn’t have to settle for this. You’re smart, beautiful, caring. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Hell, if it were me-”

He stops abruptly, his face coloring slightly as if realizing what he’s about to say.

“If it were you, what?” You ask, your voice softer now, curious.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have made you wait. I wouldn’t have let you go, period. I would’ve dropped everything the second I got out of the car in Abu Dhabi.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut — not because they hurt, but because they’re so unexpected, so honest.

“You don’t mean that,” you say quietly, though your heart betrays you, fluttering in your chest.

Max’s gaze is unwavering. “I do. You deserve someone who sees you as their priority, not as something they’ll get to when it’s convenient. If I had someone like you …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t need anything else.”

The room falls silent, and you don’t know what to say. Your hands tighten around the mug, and you feel your cheeks flush under his intense stare.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, leaning back. “That probably crossed a line.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising even yourself. “It’s … nice to hear. I guess I just don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” He asks, his brows furrowing.

“Because if that were true, Lewis wouldn’t have left,” you admit, your voice breaking. “If I were really worth all that, he wouldn’t have walked away.”

Max shakes his head vehemently, leaning forward again. “That’s not on you. That’s on him. He couldn’t see what he had. That’s his loss, not yours.”

You blink back tears, his words cutting through the doubt and self-blame you’ve been carrying for so long.

“Look,” Max says softly, his voice gentle now. “You’re not alone in this, okay? I know it feels like it, but you’re not. And whatever you decide to do, just … don’t rush into it because you think you have to. You’ve got time, and you’ve got people who care about you.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you all over again. You nod, unable to speak, and Max offers you a small, reassuring smile.

“Finish your tea,” he says, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab us something stronger. Tea’s good for a talk, but this feels like a whiskey kind of conversation.”

You laugh softly, the sound surprising you. For the first time in a long time, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

***

The first time you showed up at Max’s apartment unannounced, it was a particularly bad day. The ache in your chest had been unbearable, the quiet of your own place suffocating. You hadn’t even thought twice before texting him: You home?

His response came within seconds. Always. Door’s open.

You found him lounging on the couch, his two bengals sprawled out lazily beside him. When he saw you, he didn’t ask questions. He just stood, grabbed two Red Bulls from the fridge, and let you curl up on the floor to play with Jimmy and Sassy while he sat nearby, chatting about nothing in particular until the knot in your chest loosened.

It became a ritual after that. On the days when life felt too heavy, you’d make your way to Max’s. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you wouldn’t. But more often than not, you’d end up on the floor with the cats while Max watched with quiet amusement.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Jimmy pounces on the feather toy you’re dragging across the rug, his sleek body moving with a precision that reminds you of Max on the track. Sassy, the more aloof of the two, lounges nearby, watching her brother with disdain until she decides to join in.

You’re lying on your back now, laughing as the two cats leap over you, chasing the toy you’re holding above your head. It’s the first time you’ve laughed all day, maybe all week, and it feels good.

“Careful, Jimmy,” Max calls from the couch, his voice warm with affection. “She’s not a scratching post.”

You tilt your head to look at him, still holding the toy above you. He’s sitting sideways, one arm slung over the back of the couch, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Jimmy would never hurt me,” you say, grinning as the cat lands lightly on your stomach before darting off again.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Max warns, shaking his head. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s perfect,” you counter, turning your attention back to the cats.

Max chuckles softly, but he doesn’t respond. You’re too distracted by Sassy’s sudden burst of energy to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his smile fades into something softer, something deeper.

After a while, you sit up, your hair slightly disheveled and your cheeks flushed from laughing. Jimmy jumps into your lap, purring contentedly as you stroke his fur.

When you look up, Max is staring at you.

“What?” You ask, your brow furrowing.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are warm, almost tender, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Nothing,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re just … happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you glance away, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s the cats,” you say lightly, trying to brush it off. “They’re good for my mental health.”

“It’s not just the cats,” Max says, and there’s something in his tone that makes you look at him again.

He’s leaning forward slightly now, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked on yours. You feel your breath catch, the air in the room shifting, thickening.

“Max …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“You don’t see it, do you?” He says softly, his voice almost reverent.

“See what?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How incredible you are.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable. You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“Max, I …”

Before you can finish, he’s on the floor in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you don’t pull away.

“You’re amazing,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “You’re strong, and kind, and funny, and … God, Y/N, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak.

“Max,” you say finally, your voice trembling. “This … this is a bad idea.”

“Why?” He asks, his hand still resting against your cheek.

“Because I don’t want to ruin this,” you admit, your eyes filling with tears. “You’ve been my rock these past few months. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly. “I promise you, you won’t. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way.”

You’re silent, your heart warring with your head. But when he leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours, all your doubts fade away.

The kiss is gentle at first, hesitant, as if he’s afraid you might pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand sliding into your hair as he pours everything he’s been holding back into the kiss.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Max chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Yeah. Wow.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. This wasn’t what you expected when you came here tonight, but now that it’s happened, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice filled with uncertainty.

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting you off. “We’ll figure this out, whatever it is. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I promise.”

And to your surprise, despite the broken promises still shattered beneath your feet, you really do believe him.

***

The bedroom is bathed in the soft golden glow of the evening lights spilling through the windows. The Monaco skyline twinkles faintly in the distance, but you’re not paying attention to it. You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, his warmth seeping into you as his fingers draw lazy patterns on your back.

You’re lying on your side, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His free hand brushes through your hair, the motion slow and soothing. Every so often, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head or your temple, murmuring something sweet against your skin.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m just … content,” you reply, tilting your head to look up at him. “This is nice.”

He smiles down at you, his blue eyes soft with affection. “Yeah, it is.”

His fingers trail up to your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you. It’s slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and sends warmth blooming in your chest.

When he pulls back, his lips linger near yours, his breath fanning against your skin. “You know, I could get used to this,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice.

“You mean you’re not used to it already?” You tease, nudging him lightly.

“I mean forever,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone makes your heart skip a beat.

You smile, your fingers idly tracing the lines of his collarbone. “Forever sounds nice.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of your breathing and the occasional distant hum of the city below.

After a moment, you glance up at him, your heart beating a little faster. “Max?”

“Hmm?” He hums, his fingers still trailing along your back.

“Have you ever thought about … kids?” You ask hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stills for a moment, his hand pausing mid-motion before he shifts slightly to look down at you. “Kids?”

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly nervous. “Like, have you ever thought about having them?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his brows furrowing slightly as if considering your question. Then, to your surprise, he lets out a soft laugh.

“Honestly?” He says, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I’ve thought about it pretty much daily since I met you.”

Your eyes widen, and you push yourself up onto your elbow to look at him more closely. “Seriously?”

He chuckles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t thinking about it before. But now? With you? I think about it all the time.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling at his words.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he continues, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “We haven’t been together that long, but … I don’t know. When you know, you know, right?”

You nod, unable to speak, your throat tight with emotion.

“And I know,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re it for me, Y/N. There’s no one else. There’s never going to be anyone else.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you laugh softly, leaning into his touch. “You’re really something, Max Verstappen.”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “So … what do you think? Would you want to have a baby with me?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The question is so outlandish, so unexpected, and yet it feels right.

“You’re serious?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“Dead serious,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re going to be an amazing mom. I can already see it.”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands as the weight of his words sinks in. “This is insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face. “But it feels right, doesn’t it?”

You look at him, at the way his eyes shine with hope and love, and you know he’s right.

“It does,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He beams, his grin so wide it’s almost boyish. “So … is that a yes?”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss him. “Yes, Max. Let’s have a baby.”

He kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer. The kiss is different this time — deeper, more urgent, filled with the promise of what’s to come.

When you pull back, you’re both grinning like fools, your foreheads pressed together as you laugh softly.

“This is happening,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

“It is,” you reply, your heart swelling with joy.

“And just so you know,” he adds, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I’m not leaving this bed until we make it happen.”

You laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters, flipping you onto your back as his lips find yours again.

The night stretches on for what feels like forever, filled with laughter, whispered promises, and the kind of love that feels like forever.

***

The moment you see the two pink lines on the test, your heart stops. For a second, you don’t breathe, don’t blink, don’t move. Then, a rush of emotions crashes over you all at once — joy, disbelief, terror, excitement. You sit on the edge of the tub in your bathroom, staring at the test in your shaking hands, trying to make sense of it.

“Max,” you whisper to yourself, and the thought of him steadies you.

He’s in the kitchen when you step out, his back to you as he busies himself with something at the stove. The faint smell of eggs and toast fills the air, but you can barely focus on it. Your hand tightens around the test in your pocket.

“Morning,” he says when he hears your footsteps, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile. “Hungry? I made breakfast.”

You don’t answer, your feet rooted to the floor.

“Y/N?” He says, turning fully to face you now. “Everything okay?”

You nod, though you’re pretty sure you don’t look convincing. Your chest feels tight, and suddenly, you don’t know how to say the words.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

His hands find yours, grounding you in the way only he can. You take a deep breath and pull the test out of your pocket, holding it up between you.

Max stares at it for a moment, his eyes wide.

“Is that-”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “It’s positive.”

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, a slow, disbelieving grin spreads across his face.

“We’re having a baby?” He asks, his voice almost a whisper.

You nod, your own tears welling up as you watch his expression shift from shock to pure, unfiltered joy.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, the words finally sinking in.

Max lets out a breathless laugh, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground. “Oh my God, Y/N, we’re having a baby!”

You laugh through your tears, clinging to him as he spins you around. When he finally sets you down, his hands frame your face, his eyes searching yours.

“Are you okay? How do you feel? Do you need anything? Oh my God, we need to call the doctor, right? That’s what we do next?”

“Max,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh. “I’m okay. We’ll figure it all out.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding quickly. “Okay. But, wow … we’re having a baby.”

The way he says it, like he can’t quite believe it, makes your heart swell.

From that moment on, Max is all in.

***

Max surprises you at every turn. Where you once thought the worlds of racing and family couldn’t coexist, he proves you wrong with every thoughtful gesture, every sacrifice, every time he puts you first.

At first, you hesitate to bring it up. You know how important racing is to him, how much of his life has been dedicated to it. You don’t want to be a distraction, don’t want to pull him away from something he loves.

But Max is quick to shut down any of those thoughts.

“You and this baby come first,” he says one night, his hand resting gently on your still-flat stomach. “Always.”

You blink at him, your throat tight. “You don’t have to say that, Max. I know how much racing means to you.”

“And I know how much you mean to me,” he counters, his voice firm. “This doesn’t have to be one or the other. We’ll make it work. I promise.”

And he does.

***

You don’t feel ready to travel yet, and Max doesn’t push you. He understands when you tell him you’re not ready to face the paddock, to face him. It’s still too raw, too soon. Max doesn’t question it.

“It’s okay,” he says, kissing your forehead. “You don’t need to explain. You do what’s best for you. I’ll come to you.”

And he does.

Even in the middle of the season, when his schedule is packed and his commitments are endless, Max never misses a single appointment. He’s always there, whether it’s for the early check-ups or the first ultrasound.

“Can you believe that’s our baby?” He whispers during the first scan, his voice filled with awe as he watches the tiny flicker of the heartbeat on the monitor.

You can’t answer, your own emotions overwhelming you. Instead, you squeeze his hand, and he leans over to press a kiss to your temple.

***

The weeks pass, and soon it’s time for the big ultrasound — the one where you’ll finally learn the baby’s gender. Max is in São Paulo for the Brazilian Grand Prix, and you’ve convinced yourself he won’t make it back in time.

“It’s okay,” you tell him over the phone the night before. “You’ve got a race to focus on. I’ll record everything for you.”

“Y/N,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not missing this.”

“But-”

“I’ll be there,” he promises. “Trust me.”

True to his word, Max walks into the clinic the next afternoon, still in his favorite set of sweats for traveling, his hair slightly disheveled from the flight.

“Max,” you say, standing up from your chair in the waiting room, your heart swelling at the sight of him. “You made it.”

“Of course I did,” he says, pulling you into his arms. “I told you I would.”

The ultrasound room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the machine and the occasional click of the technician’s keyboard. You’re lying on the examination table, Max sitting beside you, holding your hand tightly.

“Are you ready to find out?” The technician asks, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile.

You glance at Max, and he nods, his excitement barely contained.

“Let’s do it,” you say.

The technician moves the wand across your stomach, and a moment later, the screen lights up with the image of your baby.

“Congratulations,” she says, her smile widening. “It’s a girl.”

A girl.

Max lets out a laugh, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he stares at the screen. “A girl,” he repeats, his voice filled with wonder. “We’re having a girl.”

You laugh through your tears, your heart full to bursting. Max leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“For what?” You ask, your own voice shaky.

“For this. For her. For everything,” he says, his eyes shining as he looks at you.

You don’t have the words to respond, so you just squeeze his hand, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

And in that moment, you realize: Max was right. Racing and family don’t have to be at odds. They can coexist, as long as you have someone who’s willing to make it work. And Max? He’s more than willing. He’s all in. Always.

***

It’s been a long start to the season, and the 2024 championship is already shaping up to be a nail-biter. The RB20 is much more unwieldy than its predecessor, the points gap narrowing with a DNF in Australia. The pressure is on, and you know it. Max knows it too.

But despite everything — the late nights, the media frenzy, the endless travel — he never wavers in his commitment to you and the baby. Even as the world watches him fight for the title, Max’s focus always returns home.

As your due date approaches, the Japan Grand Prix weekend looms closer on the calendar. Suzuka is pivotal, everyone says. The kind of race that could determine the championship. The team is counting on Max to deliver.

But Max doesn’t seem fazed by any of it when you bring it up one evening in bed, your hand resting on your swollen belly while his fingers gently trace circles over the skin.

“You know Suzuka’s right around the corner,” you say hesitantly, watching his expression.

“Hmm,” he hums, his eyes focused on your stomach, his lips quirking into a small smile when he feels a kick.

“Max.”

He glances up at you, his gaze softening. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I just … I know it’s an important race. And my due date is so close. What if-”

“I’m not going to Japan,” he says firmly, cutting you off before you can spiral.

You blink at him, startled. “What?”

“I’ve already told Christian and Helmut. They’re putting Liam in the car for the weekend.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he says, his voice steady. “This is our daughter we’re talking about. There’s no way I’m missing her arrival, not for any race, not for anything.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you blink them back quickly. “But the championship-”

“Doesn’t matter as much as this,” he interrupts again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Y/N, I love racing, but you and our baby? You’re everything. You’re my world. If I have to miss a race, so be it.”

You stare at him, your throat tight, and you can’t stop the tears this time. “I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I love you too. More than anything.”

***

When the weekend of the Japanese Grand Prix arrives, you’re still pregnant, and Max is at your side, refusing to let you lift a finger.

The race plays out on the television in the background while Max spends most of the day doting on you. He rubs your feet, makes you tea, and checks on the hospital bag for the millionth time, making sure everything is in order.

“Max, sit down,” you say, laughing softly as you watch him double-check the contents of the bag again.

“I just want to make sure we’re ready,” he says, zipping it up and placing it neatly by the door.

“We’re ready,” you assure him, patting the space next to you on the couch.

He finally sits, pulling you close and resting his hand on your belly. “You’re sure she’s not coming today?”

“She’s not on your schedule, Verstappen,” you tease, and he laughs, leaning in to kiss your temple.

***

But she does come.

Two days later, in the early hours of the morning, the first contraction wakes you. At first, you’re too groggy to register what’s happening, but when the second one hits, you gasp, clutching at the sheets.

“Max,” you manage to get out, shaking his shoulder.

He bolts upright, his eyes wide and alert. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think … I think it’s time,” you say, your voice trembling.

Max is on his feet in an instant, grabbing the hospital bag and helping you out of bed with remarkable calmness for someone who was sound asleep just seconds ago.

“You okay?” He asks, his arm around your waist as he guides you to the car.

You nod, though your breaths are shallow. “Yeah. Just … hurry.”

***

The hours in the delivery room pass in a blur of pain and anticipation. Max never leaves your side, his hand gripping yours tightly through every contraction, his voice steady and reassuring as he encourages you.

“You’re amazing,” he says, brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’ve got this. Just a little more, liefje. You’re so strong.”

When the moment finally comes, and the sound of your daughter’s first cries fills the room, both of you dissolve into tears.

“She’s here,” Max whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s really here.”

The nurse places the tiny, wriggling bundle in your arms, and you look down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it takes your breath away. Max leans over your shoulder, his face close to hers, his tears falling freely now.

“She’s perfect,” he says, his voice breaking.

You glance up at him, your heart swelling as you see the pure adoration on his face. “She looks like you.”

“She looks like us,” he corrects, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek.

***

When the nurse takes her to be weighed and cleaned up, Max stands frozen for a moment, watching her with wide eyes. Then, when they bring her back, he hesitates.

“You want to hold her?” You ask, smiling through your exhaustion.

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the most precious thing in the world. “Can I?”

“Of course,” you say, carefully passing her to him.

Max cradles her in his arms, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving her face. He looks utterly awestruck, his tears still streaming down his cheeks as he rocks her gently.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m your papa. And I already love you more than anything.”

Your heart clenches as you watch him, the way he holds her like she’s the most fragile, most important thing in the world.

“You okay?” You ask softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

He nods, but when he looks at you, his expression is serious. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “If you or she ever said the word, I’d stop. I’d walk away from racing tomorrow and never look back.”

“Max-”

“I mean it,” he says, cutting you off gently. “I don’t need any of it. All I need is right here.”

Tears spill down your cheeks as you reach for his hand, your fingers lacing through his. “You don’t have to stop, Max. I don’t want you to. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he says, his gaze dropping back to your daughter. “You and her — you’re everything.”

The three of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other and the overwhelming love that fills the room.

And as you watch Max rock your daughter, his eyes shining with tears and joy, you realize that this is it — this is the life you always dreamed of.

***

The Australian Grand Prix marks the beginning of the 2025 season, and the paddock is alive with its usual chaos: reporters shouting questions, cameras flashing, and engineers rushing to and from garages. But for you, it feels like an entirely different world as you step onto the paddock with your daughter perched on your hip.

She’s bundled in a tiny Red Bull jacket Max had custom-made, her baby blue eyes wide as she takes in the flurry of activity around her. She giggles as a gust of wind tousles her fine blonde curls, and you can’t help but smile, brushing them back into place.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Max, who stands beside you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

He glances at you, his expression soft but resolute. “You’re my family. I want everyone to know.”

Your chest tightens, equal parts touched and nervous. “It’s just … people are going to talk.”

“Let them,” Max says simply, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. Then he shifts his attention to your daughter, gently tickling her chin. “Aren’t they, prinsesje? Let them say what they want.”

Her delighted squeal pulls a laugh from him, and for a moment, your nerves melt away.

But the attention is immediate. As soon as you cross into the paddock, a ripple of recognition sweeps through the crowd. Photographers pause, their lenses snapping up. Team personnel do double takes. Whispers spread like wildfire.

You’re prepared for it — at least, as much as you can be. What you’re not prepared for is running into Lewis.

You spot him before he sees you, standing just outside the Ferrari hospitality area in conversation with Fred Vasseur. Your stomach twists as you consider turning around, but before you can move, Lewis glances up.

He freezes.

His gaze locks on you, then drops to the baby in your arms, and his expression shifts from shock to something darker. He mutters something to Fred and strides toward you, his movements purposeful and tense.

“Y/N,” he says, stopping a few feet away. His eyes flicker to Max, who hasn’t left your side, and then back to you. “What … what’s this?”

You take a steadying breath. “Hello, Lewis.”

He ignores the pleasantries, his attention fixed on the child in your arms. “Is that your-” He stops, his jaw tightening. “Is that his?”

Max steps forward slightly, his hand now firm on your back. “Yes,” he says evenly, his voice calm but unyielding. “She is ours.”

Lewis’s eyes narrow, his gaze darting between you and Max. “How long has this been going on?”

“Lewis, I don’t think-”

“How long?” He snaps, his tone sharper now.

You glance at Max, who gives you a reassuring nod. Turning back to Lewis, you say, “A little over two and a half years.”

Lewis exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to process the information. “Two and a half years. So, what? You moved on that fast?”

“Don’t do that,” you say quietly, your grip tightening on your daughter. “It wasn’t fast. You know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is bitter, his expression unreadable. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you didn’t waste any time replacing me.”

Max stiffens beside you, but you place a hand on his arm, silently urging him to let you handle it.

“I didn’t replace you,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I moved on. There’s a difference.”

His gaze softens for a moment, flickering with something like hurt. But then he looks at Max again, and the hardness returns. “With him?”

“Yes,” you say firmly, your chin lifting.

Lewis laughs bitterly, running a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”

“Lewis,” Max interjects, his tone measured but with an edge of steel. “This isn’t about you. It’s about her. And our daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Lewis repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Right. And you think this is going to work? Bringing her into this circus?”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he stays calm. “It’s already working. She’s happy. We’re happy.”

Lewis scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is happiness? Dragging a baby into this environment? Do you even understand what kind of life you’re giving her?”

You step forward before Max can respond, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Don’t you dare judge me. You don’t get to do that. Not after everything.”

Lewis falters, his anger giving way to a flicker of guilt. “I’m not trying to-”

“Yes, you are,” you interrupt. “I get it, okay? You’re hurt. But you don’t get to stand there and act like you know what’s best for me or my family. Not anymore.”

There’s a long, tense silence. Finally, Lewis looks away, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I just … I didn’t think it would end like this,” he mutters.

Neither did you. But you don’t say it. Instead, you adjust your daughter in your arms, her tiny fingers clutching at your jacket, grounding you.

“It’s not about how it ended,” you say softly. “It’s about how we move forward.”

Lewis looks at you, and for a moment, you see the man you loved — the man who promised you a future he could never give. His eyes drop to your daughter, and his expression shifts, softening in a way that makes your heart ache.

“She’s beautiful,” he says quietly, almost reluctantly.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Max steps closer, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “We should go,” he says, his voice low but kind.

You nod, giving Lewis one last look before turning away.

***

In the Red Bull motorhome, you sink into a chair, your emotions crashing over you. Max kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he studies your face.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, though tears blur your vision. “It’s just … hard. Seeing him. The way he looked at me.”

Max leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t owe him anything. Not your guilt, not your sadness. Nothing. You’re here with me now, with our daughter. That’s all that matters.”

His words soothe you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too,” he says, his voice unwavering. Then he glances at your daughter, who’s dozing peacefully in her stroller. “And I love her more than anything.”

You smile through your tears, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. No matter what challenges lie ahead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

Nine Months Later

The final race of the 2025 season is a sea of chaos and celebration. The Yas Marina Circuit glows under the floodlights, the air electric with cheers as Max steps onto the top of the podium for the fifth time in his career. Champagne sprays from the bottles, glistening under the lights, but Max barely seems to notice.

His eyes search through the crowd, scanning the blur of faces until they land on you. There you are, cradling your daughter in your arms, her little Red Bull ear protectors sitting snugly over her head. She’s clapping her hands in that uncoordinated, infant-like way that makes his chest ache with love. And you — God, you. Your smile is soft but radiant, tears glinting in your eyes as you look up at him.

Max feels his heart tighten, his grip on the champagne bottle slackening. He’s been chasing dreams for as long as he can remember — titles, wins, perfection on the track. But now, looking at you and the life you’ve built together, he knows none of it compares to what he has waiting for him off the podium.

He knows what he has to do.

As the podium ceremony winds down, Max fumbles at the inside pocket of his race suit. His fingers brush over the small velvet box he’s carried with him for weeks, waiting for the right moment. This is it. There’s no better time.

Lando Norris, standing to Max’s right after clinching second place, notices his movement and raises a brow. “What are you up to?”

Max doesn’t answer, too focused on what’s coming next. His fingers close around the box, and his pulse quickens.

He steps forward, champagne still dripping from his suit, and motions to the crowd below. “Can we … can someone help her up here?” He calls, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

You blink, confused, as several Red Bull mechanics glance at each other before moving to you. One of them gestures toward the podium. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “You’re part of this moment.”

“What? No, I-” you stammer, clutching your daughter closer. “I’m fine here-”

“Y/N,” Max says from above, his voice carrying across the noise. His tone is warm but insistent. “Please. Come up.”

Your heart races as you glance around, overwhelmed by the attention, but the mechanics are already helping guide you to the platform. Before you know it, you’re being hoisted onto the podium, your feet landing on the cool metal as you steady yourself.

Max steps toward you, his eyes locked on yours. His gaze is tender, but there’s a flicker of nerves there, too. The crowd’s roar dulls in your ears as he takes a deep breath, his focus entirely on you.

“Y/N,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. He drops to one knee, the champagne bottle rolling away unnoticed. In his hand is the small velvet box, now open to reveal a sparkling diamond ring.

The crowd erupts.

Your breath catches.

“Y/N,” Max says again, louder this time, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I once thought winning a championship would be the best moment of my life. But then I saw you. Holding our daughter, looking at me like that, and I realized the best thing I’ve ever done has nothing to do with racing. It’s us. It’s you. It’s her.”

Tears blur your vision, your hand covering your mouth as you stare down at him.

“I love you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “I love you more than anything in this world. You’ve given me everything I never knew I needed. You’re my family, Y/N, and I don’t want to wait another second to make it official.”

He swallows hard, his hands shaking as he holds the ring toward you. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, everything seems to stop. The crowd, the cameras, the other drivers — it all fades away. All you can see is Max, his face open and vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen. The man who’s always so composed under pressure, the fierce competitor, is looking at you with nothing but love and hope.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking. Then, louder. “Yes, Max. Yes!”

The crowd explodes into cheers as Max lets out a breathless laugh, his face lighting up in relief and joy. He stands quickly, wrapping one arm around your waist while slipping the ring onto your finger with the other. It fits perfectly.

Before you can say anything else, Max cups your face and kisses you, his lips warm and urgent against yours. The kiss is met with an even louder roar from the crowd, but all you can focus on is him — the way his hands tremble slightly, the way he pulls you closer as if afraid to let go.

Your daughter giggles in your arms, and Max pulls back just enough to glance down at her. He grins, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “What do you think, prinsesje? Did Papa do okay?”

She babbles something incomprehensible, and the three of you laugh.

***

Later, in the quiet of his driver’s room, the chaos of the podium ceremony behind you, Max pulls you into his lap as you sit together on the small sofa. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her stroller nearby, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm.

Max toys with the ring on your finger, his expression thoughtful. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I’ve won a lot of things in my life. But this … this is my greatest victory.”

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “You’re pretty good at making me cry today, Verstappen.”

He chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Get used to it. I plan on spending the rest of my life making you cry happy tears.”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Good. Because I plan on spending the rest of my life loving you.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. “Deal.”

And in that moment, with Max holding you close and your daughter sleeping nearby, you realize that this — this is your podium. Your victory. Your forever.

***

The night is impossibly quiet for Abu Dhabi, the hum of the city dulled by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. The celebrations are over, the crowds dispersed, and now it’s just the three of you. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her cot near the foot of the bed, her tiny face relaxed in peaceful dreams.

You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, the weight of the day finally catching up with both of you. His chest is warm against your back, his heartbeat steady as his fingers lazily trace patterns on your arm. The ring on your finger catches the faint glow of the bedside lamp, a small, perfect reminder of the life-changing moment you shared hours ago.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, shifting slightly to glance up at him.

Max’s gaze is soft, his blue eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “Just thinking,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse from the day’s shouting and champagne sprays.

“About?”

He pauses, his fingers stilling on your skin. You can feel the hesitation in him, the way his body tenses ever so slightly. It’s not like Max to be unsure — he’s always been decisive, charging into life with the same fearless determination he has on the track.

“Max?” You press gently, turning fully to face him now. “What’s on your mind?”

He exhales a long breath, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he starts, his accent curling warmly around the words. “But after today … I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

His hand moves to yours, thumb brushing over the ring he gave you just hours earlier. He stares at it for a moment before meeting your gaze, his eyes clear and steady.

“I’m going to retire,” he says softly.

The words hit you like a jolt. For a second, you’re sure you misheard him. “Retire?” You repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Max,” you say, your brow furrowing. “You just won your fifth title. You’re at the peak of your career. Why would you …”

He shifts slightly, sitting up so he can look at you more directly. “Because I don’t need it anymore,” he says simply. “I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted in racing. More than I ever thought I could. But now …” He pauses, his gaze flicking briefly to the cot where your daughter sleeps. “Now I have something I want more.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swirling in a chaotic mess you can’t quite untangle. “Are you sure? I mean, Max, this is huge. Racing has been your entire life.”

“I know,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “And I’ll always love it. But I don’t want to spend the next ten or fifteen years chasing something I don’t need, not when it means missing out on moments with you. With her.” He nods toward your daughter, his face softening.

You sit there in stunned silence, trying to process what he’s saying. “But what about the team? And your fans? You love the thrill of it, the competition-”

“Y/N,” he cuts you off gently, reaching for your hand again. “I love you more. I love our family more. And I don’t want to be the kind of dad who’s always gone, always distracted. I’ve seen what that does. I don’t want that for her.”

His words hit you square in the chest, a wave of emotion crashing over you. Tears prick at your eyes as you search his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But all you see is love and certainty.

“You’re really serious about this,” you say softly, your voice trembling.

He nods. “I’ve thought about it for months. After last season, I told myself I’d give it one more year. One more title. And then I’d walk away. Today, seeing you and her in the crowd, knowing everything we’ve built together … it made me realize I’m ready.”

You reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. “Max … I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’re okay with it,” he says, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Say you’ll let me stay home and annoy you every day.”

A laugh escapes you, watery but real. “I think I can handle that.”

He leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because this is what I want, Y/N. You, her, our life together. That’s enough for me. More than enough.”

For a while, you just sit there in the quiet, wrapped up in each other. Your mind is still racing, but your heart feels full, overflowing with love for the man beside you.

“So,” you say after a moment, your voice lighter, “what’s the plan? Are you going to call Christian in the middle of the night and drop this bombshell on him?”

Max chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’ll give him a day or two to recover from the title celebrations first. Then I’ll tell him.”

“And how do you think he’s going to take it?”

“Oh, he’ll try to talk me out of it,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “He’ll tell me I’m too young, that I’ve got years left in me, that I can win even more. But I’ve already made up my mind.”

You smile, resting your head against his chest. “He’s going to miss you. They all will.”

“I’ll miss them too,” he admits. “But this isn’t goodbye forever. I’ll still be around — just not on the grid.”

“And me?” You ask, your voice teasing. “What if I’m not ready to have you home all the time?”

Max grins, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you closer. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

As the night stretches on, the weight of the day starts to fade, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. Max lies back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you’re nestled against his side.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy but warm, “I used to think racing was everything. That I’d be lost without it.”

“And now?” You ask, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Now I know it was just a part of me. A big part, yeah, but not the most important one. Not anymore.” He pauses, his hand brushing over your hair. “You and her … you’re my everything now.”

Tears sting your eyes again, but this time they’re tears of joy. “Max,” you whisper, your voice catching. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he says, his words a soft promise against your skin.

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that no matter what the future holds, you’ll face it together.

***

The room buzzes with an electric energy, the kind that only the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony can create. It’s a night to honor champions, to toast to a season of victories, and to revel in the highs of motorsport. The crowd is a mix of drivers, team principals, engineers, and journalists, all dressed to the nines. You’re seated in the front row, a place reserved for the most important people in the room.

Max is on stage, holding his freshly polished World Championship trophy, the applause still roaring from the moment his name was called. His tuxedo fits him like a glove, and there’s a boyish grin on his face that makes him look impossibly proud — and a little nervous.

In your lap, your daughter wiggles, her tiny hands clutching at the hem of your sparkling gown. She’s too young to understand what’s happening, but the excitement of the room has her wide-eyed and curious. You adjust her slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as you watch Max step up to the microphone.

“Wow,” Max begins, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd. “What a year. What a … career.”

There’s a ripple of surprise at his choice of words. You feel it too, a sharp intake of breath as he pauses. He hasn’t told anyone outside of your family and a select few about his decision yet, and it hits you that this is the moment.

“I want to start by saying thank you,” Max continues, his accent thick with emotion. “To everyone who made this season possible. To my team at Red Bull — Christian, Helmut, GP, the engineers, the mechanics — every single person who has been part of this journey. We did this together. Five championships in the last five years … it still feels surreal.”

The room breaks into another round of applause, but Max raises a hand to quiet them.

“But tonight isn’t just about this trophy or this season,” he says, his voice steady despite the emotion creeping into it. “It’s about something bigger. About knowing when it’s time to close one chapter and start another.”

Your heart races, and you tighten your hold on your daughter as Max’s words hang in the air.

“When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to race,” Max says, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “I grew up at circuits, watching my dad, dreaming of being in Formula 1. And for the last decade, this sport has been my whole life. It’s given me everything. It’s taught me more than I ever imagined — about hard work, about resilience, about pushing beyond what you think is possible.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking down to where you’re sitting. The faintest smile plays on his lips as your gazes meet, and you see the love and certainty there.

“But these past two years,” he continues, his voice softening, “I learned something else. That as much as I love this sport, there’s something I love more. Someone I love more.”

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, heads turning to you. You feel your cheeks flush, but you keep your focus on Max, your heart pounding.

“Last season, I became a father,” Max says, his tone warming with pride. “And it changed everything. It changed the way I see the world, the way I see myself, and the way I think about my future. I realized that as much as I love racing, I don’t want to miss the little moments … the things that really matter.”

The room falls completely silent, everyone hanging on his every word.

“So,” Max says, his voice unwavering now, “tonight, as I accept this trophy, I also want to announce that this was my last season in Formula 1.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by stunned silence. Your daughter squirms in your arms, oblivious to the magnitude of what’s just been said.

Max smiles faintly, taking in the shocked faces in the room. “I know it might seem sudden,” he says, “but this is something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’ve achieved everything I could have dreamed of in this sport. I’ve worked with the best team in the world, competed against the best drivers in the world, and I leave with no regrets. But now, it’s time for me to focus on the next chapter of my life. On my family.”

He glances down at you again, and this time his gaze lingers. “Y/N, you and our daughter … you’re my everything. You’ve given me a reason to look beyond the racetrack, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

Your vision blurs with tears, and you can’t help but smile up at him. The crowd erupts into applause, some people rising to their feet in admiration and respect.

After a moment, Max raises a hand again, signaling for quiet. “I want to thank the fans,” he says, his voice growing steadier. “You’ve been with me through every win, every loss, every crazy overtake and late-breaking move. You’ve pushed me to be better every single day. And while I won’t be on the grid next season, I’ll always be part of this sport. It’s in my blood, and it always will be.”

The applause grows even louder this time, the room filling with a wave of emotion and admiration. You clap along, your daughter bouncing slightly in your arms at the sound.

When Max steps down from the stage, he comes straight to you. The cameras follow his every move, the flashes almost blinding as he crouches in front of you.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak.

He reaches for your daughter, lifting her into his arms with ease. She giggles, grabbing at the shiny lapel of his tuxedo, and Max laughs softly, the sound breaking through the tension in the room.

“We did it,” he says, his eyes locking with yours.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. “We did,” you whisper back.

***

The rest of the night is a blur of congratulations, handshakes, and emotional farewells. But through it all, Max stays by your side, his arm around your waist or his hand in yours.

As the event winds down, you find yourselves back in the car, your daughter sleeping peacefully in her car seat. The city lights blur past the windows, and Max leans back against the seat, exhaling deeply.

“That went better than I thought,” he says, his voice tinged with relief.

“You were incredible,” you tell him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He glances down at you, his expression soft. “Are you happy?”

You smile, lacing your fingers with his. “More than I ever thought I could be.”

And as the car carries you through the quiet streets, you realize that this is just the beginning of a new adventure — the one Max always knew was waiting for him.

***

Two Years Later

Lewis doesn’t plan to be on this street. He’s never liked taking the busy Monaco thoroughfares, even after all these years of calling the principality home. But a morning run had turned into aimless wandering, and now he’s here, jogging along the promenade, music blasting in his ears, trying to clear his head.

The past two years since Max retired have been strange. No fierce wheel-to-wheel battles with Verstappen, no reminders on the track of the rivalry that defined his career for so long. And yet, Max still lingers in his thoughts — like an echo, a shadow, a specter. Every headline about the Verstappens pops up in his feed: Max is spotted at home with his family. Max is thriving in retirement.

But it’s not Max that Lewis thinks about most. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Lewis slows his pace as he nears the bakery that used to be your favorite. He has no idea if you still come here, or if Monaco even feels like home to you anymore. He shakes his head, chastising himself for thinking like this. You’re gone. You’ve been gone.

But then, he hears it. A child’s voice, high-pitched and sweet, chattering happily. He instinctively looks over, and his feet stop moving altogether.

There you are.

You’re walking hand-in-hand with Max. Max, who looks completely at peace, a little older but no less recognizable. Beside him, a little girl. She’s animated as she talks to him, her tiny hand curled securely around his. And then, there’s the stroller. A navy blue, high-tech design Lewis recognizes from catalogs. Inside is a baby boy, fast asleep, his chubby face serene as he snoozes against the soft fabric.

Lewis feels the air leave his lungs.

You don’t see him. You’re busy talking to Max, laughing at something he says. You’re dressed casually, a flowy sundress swaying around your knees, sunglasses perched on your nose. Your free hand rests on the stroller handle, the gesture almost instinctive. The sight of you like this — effortless, happy, and surrounded by a family — sends a sharp pang through Lewis’ chest.

It’s everything he could’ve had. Everything he pushed away.

His feet are rooted to the spot. He should turn around, jog in the other direction, forget he ever saw you. But he can’t. He watches, transfixed, as your daughter stops mid-sentence to look up at you. “Mama,” she says brightly, tugging Max’s hand. “Can I have a croissant?”

Max chuckles. “You already had one,” he tells her, his voice gentle.

“But they’re so good!” She says, throwing her head back dramatically.

Lewis can’t stop staring. The little girl is Max’s spitting image, but there’s something about her smile, the way her nose scrunches, that reminds him of you.

And then, she notices him.

Your daughter’s bright eyes land on Lewis, and she grins like she’s just seen a new friend. “Hello!” She says, waving enthusiastically with her free hand.

You glance up, confused at first, following her gaze. Lewis freezes.

But it’s not him you’re looking at. It’s a man unloading bags from his car in front of him, and you nod politely before turning back to Max and your daughter.

Lewis exhales shakily, a mix of relief and a pang of disappointment. He steps back, half-hidden by the awning of a nearby café, watching as you and Max resume walking.

The little girl waves once more, still beaming, before Max gently nudges her along. “Come on, prinsesje,” he says. “Let’s not keep your brother waiting for his nap to be over.”

Lewis stays there, unmoving, as you all walk away. He watches the way Max leans toward you, saying something that makes you laugh again. He watches the way your daughter skips a little ahead, still clutching Max’s hand, her voice bubbling with excitement as she points to a pigeon fluttering by. And he watches you look down at the stroller, adjusting the blanket over the baby boy who sleeps so peacefully, oblivious to everything around him.

It’s a picture-perfect scene. A life filled with love and joy, one that Lewis now realizes — painfully, completely — he could have been part of.

The memories flood in uninvited.

The nights spent on this same Monaco promenade with you, your hand slipping into his as you admired the lights reflecting off the water. The quiet mornings when you’d sit at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and talking about what life might look like after racing. The promises he made and didn’t keep.

He thinks about the last time he saw you, about the anger and hurt in your eyes, about the way he walked out that night because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words you needed to hear. And now, here you are — walking down this same street with someone who isn’t afraid to put you first.

Lewis sinks onto a nearby bench, running a hand over his face. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow. He thinks he’s moved on, that he’s made peace with the choices he’s made. But seeing you, seeing your family — it’s a wound he didn’t even realize was still open.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the spot where you disappeared from view. Minutes? Hours? Long enough for his playlist to loop back to the beginning.

A group of tourists wanders past, laughing and snapping photos of the marina. Lewis doesn’t look up. He stays on the bench, shoulders slumped, the weight of what he’s lost pressing down on him.

By the time he makes it back to his apartment, the sun is setting over Monaco, casting the city in hues of orange and gold. He heads straight for the balcony, leaning heavily on the railing as he stares out at the water.

It should be a beautiful view, but tonight it feels empty.

For years, racing has been his everything. It’s been his escape, his purpose, his identity. But now, for the first time, he wonders if it was worth it.

Because no trophy, no title, no amount of glory could fill the space you once inhabited.

And for the first time, Lewis feels like the one who’s been left behind.

[jungwnies]

F1 GRID | the daughter of a rival team principal

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri ୨ৎ : synopsis : the daughter of a team prinicipal finds love in another team ୨ৎ : requested : yes

୨ৎ : genre : romance ୨ৎ : tws : father-daughter arguing ୨ৎ : word count : 4799 (~685 words each)

୨ masterlist ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : this was so fun to write i love it (charles was a personal favorite >.<)

ʚ・max verstappen

you’ve always known what was expected of you. as the daughter of mercedes f1’s team principal, your life has been one of luxury, pressure, and constant public scrutiny. your father’s legacy has always loomed large over you, and you’ve been trained your whole life to uphold it. but tonight, at a charity event during the off-season, something shifts.

you never expected to meet him. max verstappen—red bull’s star driver, known for his dry humor and sharp wit—has always been in the rival camp. you’ve heard about him, but when you finally talk to him, it’s different. his banter is sharp, but there’s something about the way he looks at you that makes your heart race. it’s not the usual flirtation you’ve experienced with other drivers; it’s deeper, more genuine.

a conversation turns into a quiet moment away from the crowd, and before you know it, you’re both caught in an unspoken connection. you try to convince yourself it’s just the heat of the moment, but the chemistry between you two is undeniable. as the night ends, the weight of your family’s rivalry presses on you. you can’t be with him. not him. not a red bull driver.

but the connection is too strong. as the weeks go by, you find yourself texting max in secret, sneaking around after races, and spending stolen hours together. you’re falling for him, and it terrifies you. you’re not just risking your own heart; you’re risking your family, your reputation, and the wrath of the media. but when max looks at you with those eyes—full of intensity and something more—you can’t stop yourself.

the pressure builds with every passing day. your family expects you to uphold mercedes’ honor, and you know your father would never approve. meanwhile, max—who’s used to constant scrutiny—becomes frustrated. he’s tired of hiding, tired of sneaking around, and you start to feel the weight of it all. the secrecy is suffocating, but you’re scared of what will happen if the world finds out.

then, during a crucial race weekend, everything explodes. mercedes and red bull are neck-and-neck, both fighting for the title. after the race, max wins, and mercedes is left picking up the pieces. that night, you and max decide it’s enough. you’re done hiding.

you sit across from your father and max’s team principal, the air thick with tension. your father’s face is a mixture of shock and fury as he demands to know why you would choose max. “he’s from red bull,” he says, as if that’s enough of a reason for you to walk away. max’s principal isn’t much better, questioning how this relationship could possibly work.

but max speaks up. “i’m not just a driver,” he says, his voice calm but unwavering. “i’m with her because i love her. i’m not hiding anymore.”

the room falls into a heavy silence. your father’s eyes narrow, a flicker of frustration crossing his features, but as he looks at you—really looks at you—he sees something he can’t ignore. the sincerity in your eyes, the depth of your feelings for max, is undeniable. this isn’t a passing phase or a rebellious act. it’s real.

“you really love my daughter?” your father’s voice is no longer harsh, but laced with something else—caution, perhaps even a hint of understanding.

max doesn’t hesitate. “i do. i love your daughter.”

your father exhales sharply, the weight of his words lingering in the air. “if you ever break her heart, i swear to god, i’ll make sure your engine never sees the finish line again.”

max, looking both relieved and earnest, nods. “i would never, sir. i’d never hurt her.”

over time, both families begin to soften. the media circus doesn’t go away, but the tension between your families does. slowly, the world starts to accept what you already knew: love doesn’t care about the rivalry between teams. it doesn’t care about the rules.

max wins another race. this time, you’re there, not hiding, not pretending. the cameras flash around you, and you stand by his side, proud. he looks at you with that same intensity, but now, it’s not a secret. your love is out in the open, stronger than ever.

and as you walk off the podium together, hand in hand, you realize that no matter what the future holds, you’ve already won. together.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you’ve always been part of the f1 world, living in the shadow of your father, the red bull team principal. but one night, everything changes when you're forced to attend a press conference with him. you’re trying to stay out of the spotlight, your eyes gliding over the room, until they land on him: lewis hamilton. despite the rivalry between red bull and mercedes, something shifts when your gazes meet—an undeniable connection, one that neither of you can ignore.

after the press conference ends, lewis, ever the charmer, approaches you with that trademark grin. “so, you're the red bull princess, huh?” he says, his voice playful, though there's something deeper in his eyes. you nod, taken aback by the intensity of the moment.

"you don’t look like the type to be stuck behind a desk," he adds with a smirk, his tone light but his gaze searching yours.

you laugh, trying to hide how your heart skips a beat. "guess i’m not."

the next few weeks are a blur of stolen glances and quiet exchanges. with every conversation, every private moment, you both feel the connection deepening, though the tension between your families grows. your father’s rivalry with mercedes runs deep, and the last thing you need is for the media to catch wind of anything. but as the whispers start, you can’t fight the pull between you and lewis any longer.

the secrecy wears on you both. the constant sneaking around, meeting in hidden corners, avoiding the constant press. it’s like living a double life, and eventually, it becomes too much. you feel suffocated by the pressure of hiding your love, and lewis, frustrated and restless, isn’t happy either.

then comes a pivotal race. both red bull and mercedes are facing setbacks, and the competition is fierce. the tension is at an all-time high. after the race, the world is still buzzing with the results, but you can't think about anything else. you need to see him.

as the race concludes, you rush through the paddock, your heart racing. cameras flash all around you, but you don’t care. you spot him—lewis, standing in the pit, grinning like he just won the world. without thinking, you run straight to him. the noise of the world fades as you leap into his arms, and he catches you effortlessly, spinning you around in a burst of joy. it’s a moment of pure freedom—a declaration that you’re done hiding.

the cameras capture everything: your arms around him, your laughter echoing through the chaos. the media goes wild. your father, watching the broadcast from his office, doesn’t know whether to laugh or shout. he stares at the screen, eyes widening in disbelief as you and lewis embrace on live tv.

"what the hell…?" he mutters under his breath. his fists clench, watching his daughter—his little girl—defy everything he’s worked for, the legacy of red bull and its rivalry with mercedes. for a moment, he’s stunned, unsure of what to think.

later, when you sit down with him, you brace for the confrontation. but instead of anger, he looks at you with a quiet understanding in his eyes. “you’re my little girl,” he starts, voice softer than you expect. “i’ve spent my life trying to protect you, to keep you away from this madness. but if this is who you love… then i’ll support you. even if it’s from a rival team.”

you feel the weight of his words settle in your chest. the rivalry still exists, but in that moment, you realize that family comes first. your father’s approval means more than anything, and his acceptance gives you the freedom to live your truth.

ʚ・george russell

it’s a late afternoon at the track, the sun casting long shadows over the paddock as the roar of engines fills the air. you’re standing near your father, the principal of red bull racing, watching the teams prepare for another race. it’s business as usual—except, today, something feels different.

as you glance around, your eyes land on him: george russell. mercedes’ promising young driver, always composed and focused. but today, it’s not the usual competitive edge you notice. instead, you spot a technical issue on his car, a minor glitch in the system that could cost him on track. without thinking, you stride forward, your pulse quickening with a mix of adrenaline and nerves.

“george,” you call, your voice cutting through the air.

he looks up, surprised to see you, but a flicker of recognition crosses his face. “y/n,” he says with a slight grin. “what’s going on?”

you point to his car. “there’s an issue with the engine cooling system. you need to recalibrate the sensors, or it’s going to overheat during the race.”

george raises an eyebrow. “and what would you know about that?”

you shrug, a playful smile on your lips. “i come with my dad to work almost everyday, i'd like to think i’ve picked up a few things.”

he laughs softly, shaking his head. “i guess i’ll trust you then. but i’m not sure if i should be worried about red bull’s tech advice.”

“don’t worry,” you reply, “i won’t sabotage you… too much.”

the banter flows easily between you, and there’s an undeniable chemistry that neither of you can ignore. but as you walk away, your mind starts to race. you’re intrigued by him—his dry wit, his easy smile—but you know better than to get too close. your father’s rivalry with mercedes runs deep, and you’ve been raised to see them as the enemy, not a potential partner.

over the next few weeks, you and george find yourselves crossing paths more often. each meeting is brief, a stolen moment outside the paddock or in the midst of chaos during a race weekend. you talk about cars, racing strategies, and even your shared interests beyond the track. there’s an easy connection, a bond that grows deeper with every conversation.

the secrecy of your meetings becomes a burden. you’re both constantly looking over your shoulders, afraid of getting caught. the fear of your families finding out and the potential consequences of your secret relationship weigh on you. yet, with every stolen kiss and quiet exchange, your feelings for george only grow stronger. the risk of it all feels worth it when he’s around.

however, the stress of hiding the relationship begins to strain you both. george’s success on the track only adds pressure. every victory for him is a reminder of the ever-present distance between you two. your father’s disapproval weighs heavily on your conscience, and it’s starting to affect your work.

during a pivotal race, both teams face challenges—red bull’s strategy falters, and mercedes struggles with tire issues. you and george exchange secret messages, working together to help each other’s teams without crossing the line.

as both teams fight to salvage their positions, your collaboration becomes more than technical support—it’s a defiant stand against the rivalry. the race ends with both teams barely staying afloat, but you and george share a quiet triumph, knowing you made a difference.

the media catches on, and the truth comes to light. both families are shocked, but as they see the depth of your love, your father’s anger softens. slowly, the walls between red bull and mercedes begin to crumble.

you and george publicly announce your relationship, standing together before the media, no longer hiding. the rivalry may still exist, but your love has bridged the gap, and together, you step into a new chapter where love, not competition, drives you forward.

later, your father calls you and george into his office, a wry smile on his face. after a moment of silence, he looks at you both, then shrugs. “i suppose if you’re really in love, i can’t stop you. just know… i can’t promise i won’t use my daughter to sabotage mercedes from time to time.”

you and george laugh, and your father chuckles, his eyes softening. "but seriously," he adds, "i trust you both. just don’t make me regret it."

with that, the tension breaks, and for the first time, the future of both families feels a little brighter.

ʚ・carlos sainz

the press room was buzzing with the usual chatter—drivers answering questions, team principals looking sharp, and the sound of cameras clicking at every moment. you were there as part of your father’s entourage, the daughter of mclaren’s team principal. you’d been to countless media events, but today, something felt different.

the crowd parted as a familiar face made his way through: carlos sainz, ferrari’s star driver. his warm smile met yours from across the room. you’d seen him race plenty of times, but there was something about his presence that stood out today—something that made your heart beat a little faster.

you’d heard stories of how intense the rivalry between mclaren and ferrari was. it was ingrained in you from a young age, something your father had hammered into your head. he was fierce about his loyalty to mclaren, and he expected nothing less from you. but despite that, the moment your eyes met carlos’s, you felt an undeniable pull.

he smiled at you, as if recognizing that spark too, and before long, the two of you found yourselves chatting during a brief lull in the press event. he was charming, his wit sharp, and his dry humor caught you off guard. you laughed more easily than you expected, feeling the weight of your father’s expectations and the animosity between your teams fade away in the warmth of his presence.

“you know,” carlos said with a grin, “i’ve always thought mclaren had some of the best engineers. too bad we’re always on opposite sides of the fight.”

you smirked. “guess it’s more fun that way, isn’t it? keeps things interesting.”

the chemistry between you was immediate, and in that brief conversation, you realized you wanted more. but you couldn’t—could you? your father would never approve. ferrari and mclaren had been bitter rivals for as long as anyone could remember. still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something real between you and carlos.

over the next few races, you both found ways to keep in touch, meeting up in secret whenever possible. the stolen moments became your escape, a brief reprieve from the weight of being the daughter of mclaren’s team principal and the strain of hiding your growing feelings for a ferrari driver. every touch, every glance was like a silent promise, and with each passing day, it became harder to keep things a secret.

but the pressure was mounting. the media was getting more curious about the subtle tension between you and carlos. you had to be careful. every word, every action had to be carefully measured.

then came the race that changed everything. the tension between mclaren and ferrari reached its peak. your team was struggling—strategy issues, tire troubles, nothing was going according to plan. and then there was carlos, pulling off a brilliant move and clinching the victory for ferrari. the crowd roared, but for you, the noise faded into the background. all you could focus on was the moment he crossed the finish line, knowing you couldn’t stay hidden anymore.

you rushed through the chaos, your heart pounding in your chest. the cameras were everywhere, but you didn’t care. you didn’t think. you just ran. when you reached him, you didn’t hesitate. you jumped into his arms, and in one swift motion, he spun you around, laughing in joy.

the world saw it all. it was a moment of defiance—no longer hiding your love for him, despite everything you’d been taught about team loyalty and rivalry. the media exploded, cameras flashing as they captured the intimate moment. the tension between mclaren and ferrari had never felt more real, and yet, in that moment, it didn’t matter. you were with carlos, and that was all that mattered.

back at the paddock, you could feel your father’s eyes on you from the distance. he hadn’t yet approached, but you knew the storm was coming. when he finally did, his expression was unreadable, his jaw clenched in frustration.

“what the hell is this?” he demanded, his voice low but sharp.

you took a deep breath, walking toward him. “dad, i… i’m in love with him.”

for a moment, the silence stretched between you. then, your father’s gaze softened, just a little. he let out a long sigh, glancing back at carlos, who was now waiting a few feet away, watching the exchange with uncertainty.

“you really love him?” your father asked, his voice unsteady for the first time.

you nodded, meeting his eyes. “i do. it’s not a fling, dad. i promise you.”

he stood there for a long moment, his gaze flicking back and forth between you and carlos. then, in a move that surprised you, he chuckled—a little bitterly, but still, a chuckle.

“well, if you’re serious about this, i guess i can’t stop you,” he said, the tension in his shoulders easing. “but don’t expect me to go easy on ferrari next season.”

you laughed, relief flooding through you. “deal.”

and just like that, the walls that had once seemed insurmountable between your world and carlos’s began to crumble. the rivalry between mclaren and ferrari wouldn’t disappear overnight, but maybe—just maybe—the future of racing didn’t have to be defined by the battles between teams.

as you stood there, hand in hand with carlos, you realized that love had bridged the gap. you weren’t just the daughter of mclaren’s team principal anymore. you were someone who had found something real, despite all the odds. and that was enough.

the road ahead would be challenging, but with carlos by your side, you were ready to face it all—together.

ʚ・charles leclerc

you’d spent your entire life draped in mclaren orange, fiercely loyal to your father’s team. everyone at the paddock knew you—not as just the team principal’s kid but as a sharp-tongued, quick-witted presence who had zero tolerance for nonsense. so, when charles leclerc, ferrari’s golden boy, casually strolled over during a media event and commented on your bold mclaren jacket, you didn’t miss a beat.

“bold choice for you to critique fashion,” you said, raising a brow. “didn’t you wear that same ferrari polo yesterday? or is it just your uniform now?”

charles blinked before breaking into a grin. “it’s called consistency, chérie. something mclaren might want to try with their cars.”

your jaw dropped, but his cheeky smirk made it impossible to stay annoyed. instead, you laughed. “touché, leclerc. but let’s see how consistent you are on track this weekend.”

it started with playful banter, but the more you ran into charles during race weekends, the more intrigued you became. beneath his smooth charm and the ferrari-red facade was a kind, passionate guy with dreams that matched yours. the chemistry was undeniable, and soon, stolen moments between press conferences turned into late-night conversations over text, and quiet dinners away from the spotlight.

every meeting felt like rebellion—not just against your father’s expectations but against the entire cutthroat nature of the sport. you’d grown up in this world of rivalries, but with charles, you started to see it differently. the sport didn’t have to divide people; it could bring them together.

still, you knew what you were risking. your father had built his career on the rivalry with ferrari, and your mother… well, she’d always been the level-headed one in the family.

the turning point came after a thrilling race in monaco. charles took p1 in a breathtaking finish, and as he climbed out of his car, the crowd roared. you stood at the edge of the podium celebrations, your heart racing—not for mclaren, but for him.

as he spotted you in the crowd, you didn’t care who was watching. you pushed past the cameras and ran up to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him in front of everyone. the world faded away, leaving only the two of you in that moment.

later, when the footage made its inevitable rounds, your father called you into his office. his expression was thunderous, but before he could launch into a tirade, your mother interjected.

“oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “love is love. let her live her life.”

your father looked between you and your mother, his frustration melting into reluctant acceptance. “fine,” he said, sighing heavily. “but if this boy breaks your heart, i’ll have him banned from every paddock on earth. do you hear me?”

“loud and clear,” you said, grinning.

charles became more than just a rival driver; he became your partner. the road wasn’t easy—balancing the pressures of your families, the media, and the sport itself was a challenge—but together, you proved that love could transcend the boundaries of loyalty and rivalry.

in time, even your father warmed up to charles, admitting that maybe ferrari wasn’t entirely the enemy. your relationship became a symbol of change, inspiring others to see beyond the rivalries and focus on what truly mattered.

and as you stood with charles at the end of yet another race, hand in hand, you knew you’d crossed the finish line—not just for love but for a new chapter in both your lives.

ʚ・lando norris

you weren’t supposed to be here—not in the simulator room of a mclaren facility. as the daughter of ferrari’s team principal, you had absolutely no business wandering into enemy territory. but your father had dragged you to yet another pre-season media day, and curiosity (plus boredom) got the better of you.

what you didn’t expect was to find lando norris, slouched in the simulator seat, muttering under his breath as he reset for yet another lap.

“maybe if this sim wasn’t ancient, i wouldn’t be two-tenths off,” he grumbled, smacking the steering wheel in frustration.

you couldn’t help yourself. “ever thought about turning left for a change?”

lando’s head snapped up, startled, before his lips curved into a grin. “great. ferrari’s princess is here to give me driving tips. what’s next? you gonna show me how to do a pit stop?”

“someone has to,” you shot back, stepping into the room. “clearly, mclaren hasn’t figured it out yet.”

his laugh was genuine, softening the edges of his earlier frustration. “careful, or people will think you’re defecting.”

“oh, please,” you said with a smirk. “if i wanted to sabotage ferrari’s reputation, i’d just let you borrow one of our cars.”

what started as playful banter quickly spiraled into something more.

the teasing didn’t stop after that. you’d bump into him at races or media events, and without fail, lando always had something to say.

“so, which ferrari secret are you leaking today?” he’d whisper as you passed him in the paddock.

“wouldn’t you like to know?” you’d reply, raising an eyebrow.

but beneath the sarcasm, there was something else—an undeniable connection that neither of you could ignore. it wasn’t long before stolen moments turned into late-night chats, and teasing jabs softened into something deeper.

you started meeting in secret, far from the prying eyes of the paddock. sometimes it was at quiet restaurants in cities where races were held, other times it was just sitting on the tailgate of his rental car, talking about everything but racing.

“do you ever get tired of all the rivalry crap?” you asked one night, staring at the stars.

“all the time,” he admitted. “but i’ve got to say, it’s a lot more fun with you around. even if you’re technically the enemy.”

you rolled your eyes. “please. if i were the enemy, you wouldn’t still be here.”

the turning point came after a pivotal race. ferrari had a disastrous weekend—your father’s strategy calls backfired, and both cars finished far outside the points. meanwhile, lando claimed p1, his first win of the season.

you should’ve stayed in the ferrari garage, consoling your team and putting on a brave face. instead, your feet carried you to parc fermé, straight into lando’s arms.

“you’re not supposed to be here,” he teased, grinning as he pulled you into a hug.

“yeah, well, someone has to congratulate you properly,” you said, your voice muffled against his chest.

the cameras were everywhere, catching the moment as lando lifted you off the ground and spun you around. by the time your feet touched the ground, you knew there was no hiding anymore.

when your father saw the footage, his face turned a shade of red you didn’t think was physically possible. “you hugged him. on camera. at parc fermé,” he fumed, pacing the ferrari motorhome.

“yeah, dad, i did,” you said, arms crossed. “and i’m not sorry about it.”

your mother, sitting calmly in the corner, rolled her eyes. “oh, please, let them be. even if it’s… inconvenient.”

your father stopped pacing, glaring at her before turning to you. “fine. but if he breaks your heart, i swear i’ll sabotage his car myself.”

when you relayed the conversation to lando later, he laughed, pulling you close. “your dad’s terrifying, you know.”

“yeah, but he loves me,” you said with a grin. “and he’ll come around. eventually.”

lando kissed your forehead, his voice soft. “good, because i’m not going anywhere.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

the first time you met oscar piastri, it wasn’t under the most glamorous circumstances. as ferrari’s golden child, your father had sent you to oversee a joint project with mclaren, which was code for "keep an eye on the competition."

you were mid-yawn at the coffee machine in mclaren's hospitality area, waiting for the machine to finally churn out your much-needed cappuccino, when a voice interrupted you.

“some of us actually have work to do, you know.”

you turned, glaring at the culprit—none other than oscar piastri, standing there with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“well, some of us need caffeine to tolerate said work,” you shot back, not budging.

he smirked. “right, because ferrari's success clearly hinges on how long you hog the coffee machine.”

“it’s only fair since mclaren’s been stealing all the glory lately,” you retorted, crossing your arms.

his laugh was low and unexpected, and it caught you off guard. “touché. but seriously, i need my coffee.”

you rolled your eyes but stepped aside, gesturing dramatically. “be my guest, glory-stealer.”

what started as sharp-witted banter evolved into something… else. the project forced you into countless meetings, strategy sessions, and shared moments of quiet in the paddock.

late nights at the track turned into debates about racing philosophies—he’d argue for precision, and you’d counter with passion. more than once, you’d find yourself splitting snacks when the paddock catering failed you both.

“you’re really committed to this whole ‘traitor’ thing, aren’t you?” he teased one evening, munching on a shared bag of chips.

“it’s called strategic sabotage,” you deadpanned, stealing another chip. “someone has to keep mclaren humble.”

he grinned, leaning a little closer. “you’re terrible at hiding your motives, you know.”

“and you’re terrible at hiding how much you love this,” you said, gesturing between the two of you.

he didn’t deny it.

after a grueling race weekend, where mclaren edged out ferrari in the standings, you found yourself in the paddock sulking with a bottle of water.

oscar appeared out of nowhere, slipping a folded piece of paper into your hand.

“don’t open it now,” he murmured before walking off, his usual nonchalant demeanor intact.

curious, you waited until you were alone to unfold it.

"we make a good team."

the words were simple, scribbled in his messy handwriting, but they hit you harder than you expected.

your flushed face must’ve been a dead giveaway because your father cornered you that evening.

“do you want to explain why you look like a lovesick teenager?” he asked, arms crossed.

you froze, trying to come up with a convincing lie, but he sighed before you could. “it’s piastri, isn’t it? of all the drivers—him?”

“it’s not—” you stopped yourself. lying wouldn’t work. “okay, yes, it’s him. and he makes me happy, dad.”

your father stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. finally, he muttered, “fine. but if he so much as breathes in the wrong direction, i'll send a hit out for him.”

you couldn’t help but laugh, relief flooding you.

when you saw oscar later that night, you couldn’t resist telling him about your father’s “conditions.”

oscar grinned as he wrapped an arm around you. “i think i can live with that.”

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[alltoolewis]

Sports car- Lewis Hamilton

GIF by solgif

summary- Since joining Ferrari, Lewis has grown close to all members of the Leclerc family including Charles's sister. Despite knowing she's forbidden, he offers to take her to the gala where the tensions begin to rise in his sports car...

I LOVE THIS HOWEVER IT IS VERY STEAMY!!! PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION!!!

You’ve always lived in someone else’s shadow.

Not because you were invisible — quite the opposite. As Charles Leclerc’s younger sister, you became part of the Leclerc legacy before you even understood what that meant. In Monaco, people knew your last name before they knew your first. At family dinners, relatives discussed your future in terms of your brother’s next podium. Even at school, teachers smiled at you like they expected greatness — or at least headlines.

You didn’t hate it. You loved Charles. But you learned early that silence was easier than explaining who you were beneath the family name.

So you built a career on the sidelines. Quietly brilliant. A digital strategist for Formula 1 media — someone who belonged in the paddock without drawing attention. You were everywhere and nowhere, a lens behind the lens. And that’s exactly how you preferred it.

Until him.

Lewis Hamilton doesn’t enter rooms. He arrives. He doesn’t speak; he commands attention. And somehow, in a sport obsessed with youth and fresh talent, he still walks like he owns every corner of every track.

You never intended to notice him. Older. Untouchable. Far too famous. But notice him you did — and that changed everything.

It started with a glance across a crowded paddock. A glance that held weight. Electricity. The kind of look that rewrites personal histories in a single breath. He didn't smile. Didn't wave. Just saw you — really saw you — in a way no one ever had before. Not as someone's sister. Not as a background figure. But as you.

The first time you actually spoke was three weeks later. You were rushing through the Ferrari garage with a tablet full of content schedules, head down, focused on deadlines. You didn't see him until you collided — shoulder to chest, your tablet clattering to the concrete.

"Shit, sorry—" You dropped to your knees, scrambling for the device.

"Easy." His voice was lower than you expected. Warmer. He crouched beside you, picking up the tablet before you could reach it. "No damage done."

You looked up. Met his eyes properly for the first time. They were darker in person, more intense. The kind of brown that held secrets.

"Thanks." You reached for the tablet, but he didn't immediately hand it over.

"You're Charles's sister." Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered without the usual reverence people used when connecting you to your brother.

"Guilty." You tried for lightness, but it came out flat.

"I'm Lewis."

As if you didn't know. As if everyone in this garage — in this sport — didn't know exactly who he was. But something in the way he said it made it feel like an introduction between equals. Like he was offering you his name, not his reputation.

"I know who you are." You finally took the tablet from his hands, fingers brushing briefly. "Everyone knows who you are."

"But I don't know who you are." He stood, extending a hand to help you up. "Beyond the obvious family connection."

You hesitated. Took his hand. Let him pull you to your feet.

"I'm nobody important."

"I doubt that." His smile was slight, knowing. "Nobody unimportant moves through this world the way you do."

That moment — that single, electric moment — became the first thread in a tapestry you never expected to weave. You didn't know then how profoundly Lewis Hamilton would unravel everything you thought you understood about yourself, about visibility, about the quiet spaces you'd carved so carefully between the headlines.

You didn't fall. Not immediately. Not obviously. But something shifted in that moment — a tectonic realignment of your carefully constructed universe. You felt it in the way your pulse quickened, in the subtle electricity that lingered where his hand had touched yours. This was different. This was unexpected. This was the beginning of something that would rewrite every narrative you'd ever told yourself about who you were supposed to be.

And that it did...

The connection deepened in stolen moments. Brief conversations in empty corridors. Shared glances across crowded press conferences. Text messages that started professional and slowly became personal. Lewis had a way of asking questions that made you forget to guard your answers — about your work, your thoughts on the sport, your dreams that had nothing to do with racing.

You found yourself looking forward to race weekends not for Charles's results, but for the possibility of running into Lewis. The way he remembered details from conversations weeks old. How he listened when you spoke, really listened, like your words mattered more than the noise surrounding them.

"You see things differently," he told you one evening after a particularly chaotic qualifying session. You were both lingering in the paddock long after most people had left, the setting sun casting everything in golden light. "You notice what others miss."

"Occupational hazard," you deflected, but your heart was racing.

"No." He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "It's who you are."

The almost-kiss happened in Singapore. Rain had delayed practice, and you'd found shelter in an empty hospitality suite. Lewis appeared like he always did — as if the universe had conspired to put him exactly where you needed him to be. The conversation flowed like wine, intimate and intoxicating. When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn't pull away.

"We shouldn't," you whispered, even as you leaned into his touch.

"I know," he replied, but neither of you moved.

The space between you crackled with possibility. With want. With everything you'd been denying for months. But as his thumb traced your cheekbone, reality crashed back. The cameras. The headlines. The inevitable comparisons. Lewis Hamilton's Mystery Woman. Charles Leclerc's Sister in Secret Romance.

You stepped back.

"I can't be another story, Lewis. I can't be the girl who fell for the famous driver. I won't disappear into someone else's narrative again."

The hurt in his eyes was immediate, but so was the understanding. He'd watched you navigate this world, seen how carefully you'd constructed your independence. He knew what you were protecting.

"I would never ask you to disappear," he said quietly.

"You wouldn't have to ask. It would just happen." Your voice cracked slightly. "I've spent my whole life being someone's sister. I won't spend the rest of it being someone's secret."

So you pulled back. Created distance. Kept your conversations professional, your glances brief. But the want remained, simmering beneath every interaction. The way his jaw tightened when you laughed at another driver's joke. How your breath caught when he said your name. The careful space you both maintained, electric with everything you weren't allowing yourselves to feel.

You were falling — had already fallen — but you refused to let yourself land.

The Ferrari gala changed everything.

You'd managed three weeks of careful distance. Three weeks of professional smiles and conversations that never strayed beyond work. Three weeks of pretending your heart didn't skip when Lewis entered a room. It was working — or at least, you'd convinced yourself it was working.

But Monaco's grandest hotel had other plans.

"What do you mean there's no room?" Charles frowned at his phone, Alex beside him looking equally confused. "We booked the car service weeks ago."

You stood in the hotel lobby, evening gown already on, makeup perfect, watching your carefully laid plans dissolve. The Ferrari gala was in an hour. The venue was twenty minutes away. And apparently, the luxury car service had overbooked.

"They can send another car in forty-five minutes," Charles continued, running a hand through his hair. "But we'll be late. Really late."

"Go without me." You forced a smile, already calculating backup options. "I'll figure something out."

"Absolutely not." Alex shook her head. "We're not leaving you behind."

"I could call—"

"No need."

The voice came from behind you, warm and familiar. You turned to find Lewis approaching, car keys spinning around his finger. He looked devastating in his tuxedo — all sharp lines and confident elegance. Your carefully constructed composure wavered.

"Problem solved," he continued, those dark eyes finding yours. "I was heading there anyway."

Charles looked between you and Lewis, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You sure? We don't want to impose."

"No imposition." Lewis's smile was easy, casual. But when he looked at you, there was something deeper. A question. An invitation. "What do you say?"

You should have said no. Should have waited for the delayed car service, shown up fashionably late rather than risk twenty minutes alone with Lewis Hamilton in an enclosed space. Should have protected the distance you'd worked so hard to maintain.

Instead, you heard yourself saying, "That would be great. Thank you."

Charles kissed your cheek, whispered "have fun" in your ear with a knowing look that made your stomach flip. Alex squeezed your hand. And then they were gone, leaving you alone with Lewis in the marble lobby.

"Shall we?" He offered his arm, perfectly gentlemanly.

You took it, trying to ignore the way your skin burned where you touched him.

The car was exactly what you'd expected — sleek, expensive, powerful. A reflection of its owner. Lewis held the passenger door open, his hand briefly touching the small of your back as you settled into the leather seat. The contact lasted less than a second, but it sent electricity shooting up your spine.

He slid into the driver's seat with fluid grace, the engine purring to life. The first few minutes passed in careful silence, Monaco's glittering streets sliding past the windows. You focused on the view, on anything except the way Lewis's hands looked on the steering wheel, the subtle scent of his cologne filling the small space.

"You look beautiful tonight," he said quietly, eyes still on the road.

Your breath caught. "Lewis—"

"I know." His voice was rough. "I know we agreed to keep things professional. But sitting here, with you looking like that..." He glanced at you briefly, and the want in his eyes made your heart race. "I'm only human."

The car slowed at a red light. In the sudden stillness, the tension became unbearable. You could feel him looking at you, could sense the careful control he was maintaining. When you finally met his gaze, the air between you crackled.

"This is exactly what I was afraid of," you whispered.

"What? That we'd be alone together? That I'd tell you how stunning you look? That I'd want to pull over and kiss you until we both forget why we're fighting this?"

Your pulse thundered. "Yes."

The light turned green. Lewis accelerated smoothly, but his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

"Then we're both afraid of the same thing," he said.

The rest of the drive passed in charged silence, broken only by the occasional comment that danced dangerously close to flirtation. When Lewis mentioned how the dress brought out your eyes, you countered by telling him his tuxedo was "almost unfairly handsome." Each exchange felt like a small rebellion against your own rules.

By the time you arrived at the venue, the tension had wound so tight you could barely breathe.

The Ferrari gala was everything you'd expected — opulent, crowded, buzzing with the energy of Monaco's elite mixed with Formula 1's biggest names. You found your assigned table quickly, settling between Charles and your parents, grateful for the familiar buffer of family conversation.

But across the room, at the drivers' table, Lewis Hamilton was impossible to ignore.

It started innocently enough. A glance in his direction during the welcome speech. He happened to be looking back, and for a moment, the crowded ballroom faded away. He raised his champagne glass slightly — a subtle toast meant only for you. You looked away quickly, cheeks warming.

Ten minutes later, during the appetizer course, you caught him watching you again. This time, when your eyes met, he smiled. Not the polished, public smile he wore for cameras, but something private. Intimate. The kind of smile that made your stomach flutter and your resolve weaken.

"You okay?" Charles leaned over, following your gaze. "You seem distracted."

"Fine," you lied, forcing your attention back to your plate. "Just tired."

But it was impossible to stay focused on your family's conversation when Lewis kept drawing your attention like a magnet. When he laughed at something Lando said, you found yourself watching the way his whole face lit up. When he stood to greet someone, you noticed how the tuxedo fit perfectly across his shoulders. When he ran a hand through his hair, you remembered how it felt when those same fingers had brushed your cheek in Singapore.

The worst part was that he seemed equally distracted. You'd catch him looking during your father's story about Monaco's early racing days. During your mother's animated discussion of charity work. During Charles's analysis of the upcoming race weekend. Every time your eyes met, the air seemed to thin, the noise of the gala fading to background static.

"Excuse me," you murmured during the main course, needing air, needing space, needing to escape the magnetic pull of Lewis's attention. "I'll be right back."

You made your way toward the terrace, weaving through tables of glamorous guests, but you could feel his eyes following your movement across the room.

The terrace was quiet, cool marble beneath your heels, the Monaco night spread out like a glittering canvas. You knew he would follow. It wasn't a question of if, but when.

Three minutes later, the glass door slid open behind you. No hesitation. No pretense. Just Lewis, closing the distance between you with the same deliberate grace he brought to everything.

"You're running," he said. Not an accusation but an observation.

"Always," you replied, turning to face him. The Monaco night framed him perfectly — city lights glinting off his skin, the sharp lines of his tuxedo cutting a silhouette that was equal parts danger and desire. "Running is what I do best."

He took another step closer. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the subtle notes of his cologne. Close enough that one more step would mean touching. "Not always," he said softly. "Sometimes you stand perfectly still. And those are the moments that change everything."

He was right. And in that moment, with Monaco's nighttime skyline as witness, you knew you were about to make a choice that would rewrite everything.

Your hand reached out — almost involuntarily — and touched the lapel of his tuxedo. Not pushing away. Not pulling closer. Just contact. Connection. A point of no return.

"Lewis—" your voice was barely a whisper, "—we can't."

But even as you said it, you both knew the word "can't" had lost all meaning. The space between wanting and doing had collapsed, and there was nothing left but pure, electric possibility.

His hand covered yours where it rested against his chest. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Simply acknowledging the electricity between your skin.

"Watch me," he said, and then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was everything you'd imagined and nothing you'd prepared for. Soft at first, tentative, like he was asking permission even as he took it. But when you didn't pull away — when you leaned into him instead — it deepened. His lips moved against yours with practiced confidence, tasting like champagne and promises you weren't sure you could keep.

Your free hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through the short hair at his nape. He made a sound — low, appreciative — that sent heat spiraling through your chest. His other hand settled at your waist, thumb tracing small circles through the silk of your dress.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. "I've been thinking about doing that for months," he murmured, voice rough with want.

"Lewis." Your pulse was racing, every nerve ending alive. "We can't do this here. Anyone could see—"

"My room," he said immediately, the words barely more than breath against your lips. "Come back with me. Please."

The please undid you. Not a demand but a request, vulnerable in its honesty. You could see the want in his eyes, but also the question. The choice was entirely yours.

You thought about the gala still happening inside. About Charles and your parents at the table, probably wondering where you'd gone. About the careful distance you'd maintained, the professional boundaries you'd constructed.

Then Lewis's thumb brushed across your lower lip, and all those careful considerations scattered like leaves in the wind.

"I can't," you said, stepping back from his touch. The words felt like glass in your throat. "Not your room. Not tonight."

The disappointment that flickered across Lewis's face was immediate and devastating. His hand dropped from your waist, jaw tightening as he processed your rejection. For a moment, he looked like he might argue, might push back against your boundaries the way he pushed his car to its limits.

Instead, he nodded once, sharp and final. "Of course. I shouldn't have—"

"Wait." The word escaped before you could stop it. Lewis paused, hope and wariness warring in his expression. You glanced back toward the gala, toward the golden light spilling from the ballroom windows, then back to him. "Your car."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "My car?"

"You're not leaving the gala completely. Not with so much time left." Your heart hammered against your ribs as you spoke, each word a small rebellion against your better judgment. "But we could... we could have privacy. Just for a few minutes."

Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed immediately by something darker, hungrier. "Are you sure?"

You weren't sure of anything except the way your body responded to his proximity, the way every careful rule you'd constructed seemed meaningless when he looked at you like that.

"Lead the way," you whispered.

The walk back through the gala required careful choreography. Lewis left first, weaving through tables with the easy confidence of someone simply making social rounds. You waited three minutes — counting each second — before following a different path toward the exit.

You almost made it undetected.

"Going somewhere interesting?"

Alex's voice stopped you cold just steps from the terrace doors. She was standing near the bar, champagne flute in hand, eyebrow arched in that knowing way that meant you were absolutely caught.

Your heart hammered as you glanced around, confirming no one else was paying attention. Charles was deep in conversation with Ferrari executives. Your parents were laughing at something with the Binotto family. The coast was clear except for Alex's sharp, amused gaze.

You pressed a finger to your lips — the universal gesture for please keep this between us — and gave her your most pleading look.

Alex's smile was pure mischief. She raised her champagne glass in a mock toast, mouthed "have fun," and turned back to the bar as if nothing had happened.

Relief flooded through you as you slipped out into the Monaco night, but it was quickly replaced by anticipation. Lewis was waiting by the valet stand, car keys already in hand, looking like sin in a perfectly tailored tuxedo.

"Ready?" he asked, and the single word carried the weight of everything you were about to cross.

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and followed him into the night.

The valet brought Lewis's car around with practiced efficiency, the sleek machine purring in the Monaco night. Lewis moved to the passenger side, opening your door with the same careful attention he'd shown all evening. But as you approached the car, reality crashed over you like a cold wave.

"This is insane," you breathed, stopping just short of the open door. "Lewis, I can't— we can't do this. Charles trusts me. He trusts you. And here I am, sneaking around behind his back like some kind of—"

"Hey." Lewis's voice was gentle but firm as he stepped closer. "Look at me."

But you couldn't stop the words tumbling out, months of suppressed anxiety finally finding their voice. "He's going to find out. Someone's going to see us, or Alex is going to say something, or—God, what am I even doing? This is so disrespectful to him, to our family, to—"

Lewis's hands found your face, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones as he tilted your chin up to meet his eyes. "Breathe," he said softly.

"I am breathing, I'm just—"

He kissed you. Soft, brief, just enough to quiet the spiral of panic in your chest. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Charles loves you. More than racing, more than winning, more than anything in this world. And you know what he wants most for you?" Lewis's thumb traced along your jaw. "He wants you to be happy. To find someone who sees how extraordinary you are."

"But—"

"No buts." His smile was tender, understanding. "We're not betraying anyone by feeling this. We're not disrespecting Charles by wanting each other. We're just... human."

His hands slid down to yours, fingers intertwining. "If you want to go back inside, we go back inside. If you want me to drive you home and pretend this never happened, I'll do that too. But don't run because you're afraid of what other people might think. Run because it's what you want."

The choice hung between you, suspended in the warm Monaco air. Lewis waited, patient and sure, while you wrestled with every careful boundary you'd ever constructed.

Finally, you stepped toward the car. "Help me in?"

His smile was radiant as he guided you into the passenger seat, his hand warm and steady at your elbow. The leather was soft against your skin, the interior intimate and shadowed. When Lewis closed the door and walked around to the driver's side, you felt the last of your resistance crumble.

This was happening. You were letting it happen.

And for the first time in months, that felt exactly right.

Lewis started the engine but didn't drive anywhere. Instead, he found a secluded spot in the venues's private parking area, tucked between shadows where the valet lights couldn't reach. The sudden quiet felt intimate, charged with possibility.

"Come here," he said softly, and you found yourself sliding across the leather seat until you were close enough to feel his warmth.

His first kiss was feather-light, barely a whisper against your lips. Testing. Asking permission. When you didn't pull away, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand cupping your cheek with reverent gentleness.

"You're trembling," he murmured against your mouth.

"I'm nervous," you admitted, the honesty surprising you both.

"We don't have to—"

"I want to." The words came out stronger than you felt. "I want this. I want you."

Something shifted in his expression then, heat replacing the careful tenderness. His next kiss was hungrier, more demanding, and you met it with equal fervor. Your hands found the lapels of his tuxedo, pulling him closer, and he responded by threading his fingers through your hair.

"God, you're beautiful," he breathed against your neck, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone. "I've wanted this for so long."

The careful control you'd maintained for months began to fracture. Your usual composure, your measured responses, your need to be perfect and untouchable — it all started to dissolve under his touch. When his lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear, you made a sound you'd never made before, breathy and wanting.

"Lewis," you gasped, and his name on your lips seemed to undo something in him too.

"Tell me what you want," he said, voice rough with desire.

The question hung between you, heavy with implication. This was your moment to retreat, to pull back into the safe space of almost-but-not-quite. Instead, you surprised yourself by meeting his gaze directly, letting him see the want you'd been hiding for months.

"I want you to stop treating me like I might break," you said, voice steadier than you felt. "I want you to stop being so careful with me."

His eyes darkened at your words, pupils dilating in the dim light. "You sure about that?"

Instead of answering with words, you kissed him with a passion that had been building for months, pouring all your suppressed desire into the contact. Your teeth caught his lower lip, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound sending heat spiraling through your chest.

This time, when his hands moved to your waist, there was nothing gentle about it. His grip was firm, possessive, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, rapid and strong, matching the frantic rhythm of your own pulse.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he said against your lips, and for the first time, you let yourself believe it might be true.

Your hands moved to his bow tie, fingers working at the silk knot with surprising steadiness despite the way your pulse hammered. The fabric came loose under your touch, and Lewis's breath hitched as you pulled it free, letting it fall forgotten to the car floor.

"Back seat," he said, voice rough with want, and you didn't hesitate.

The transition was clumsy, graceless in the way that real desire always is. Your dress caught on the gear shift, his knee knocked against the steering wheel, and you both laughed breathlessly at the awkwardness of it all. But then you were in the spacious back seat, and the laughter died as the reality of what was happening settled over you both.

Lewis's jacket came off first, your hands pushing it from his shoulders while he worked at the tiny buttons running down your spine. Each one he freed sent a shiver through you, his knuckles brushing against your skin as the silk loosened.

"You're sure?" he asked one more time, even as his fingers traced the newly exposed line of your back.

"Stop asking," you breathed, reaching for his shirt. "I'm sure."

The crisp white cotton parted under your hands, revealing the lean muscle beneath. You'd seen him shirtless in countless photos, magazine covers, social media posts — but this was different. This was intimate, private, yours to touch and explore without the barrier of cameras or crowds.

His skin was warm under your palms, and when you pressed your lips to his collarbone, he made a sound that sent heat pooling low in your belly. The careful control he'd maintained all evening was finally cracking, and you could see it in the way his hands shook slightly as they found the zipper of your dress.

"Beautiful," he murmured as the silk pooled around your waist, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in the dim light. "So fucking beautiful."

The reverence in his voice made you bold. You arched into his touch as his hands mapped the newly revealed skin, your own fingers working at his belt with determined focus. The leather came free, and Lewis groaned when your hand brushed against him through the fabric of his trousers.

"Christ," he breathed, head falling back against the leather seat. "You're going to kill me."

But his hands were moving too, sliding the dress down your hips until it joined the growing pile of expensive fabric on the car floor. The cool air against your heated skin made you gasp, and Lewis took advantage of your parted lips to kiss you again, deeper this time, hungrier.

You were both breathing hard now, the windows beginning to fog from the heat you were generating. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint sounds of the gala continuing, but it felt like another world entirely. Here, in the intimate darkness of Lewis's car, there was nothing but want and touch and the electric connection that had been building between you for months.

His mouth moved lower, trailing hot kisses down the column of your throat. You arched beneath him as he found the sensitive hollow at the base of your neck, his tongue flicking against your pulse point in a way that made you gasp his name.

"So responsive," he murmured against your skin, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through you.

When his lips moved lower still, lavishing attention on the swell of your breasts, your hands tangled in his hair, holding him close. He took his time, worshipping you with a patience that bordered on torturous, his mouth and tongue drawing sounds from you that you'd never made before.

"Lewis, please—" you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for.

But he seemed to know. His kisses moved lower, across your ribs, your stomach, each press of his lips like a brand against your heated skin. When he settled between your thighs, his dark eyes met yours in the dim light.

"Still sure?" he asked, though his hands were already sliding up your legs, thumbs tracing maddening circles on your inner thighs.

You could only nod, words lost to the anticipation building in your chest. And then his mouth was on you, and coherent thought became impossible.

The first touch of his tongue made you cry out, your back arching off the leather seat. He worked you with the same focused intensity he brought to everything else, learning what made you gasp, what made you writhe, what made you forget your own name.

"God, you taste incredible," he said against you, the words sending vibrations through your core that made you tremble.

Your hands fisted in his hair as he continued his ministrations, building you higher and higher until you were balanced on the edge of something overwhelming. The sounds you were making would have embarrassed you if you'd been capable of caring about anything beyond the sensation of his mouth on you.

Your thighs trembled against his shoulders as he found a rhythm that had you gasping his name like a prayer. The careful, methodical way he explored you — tongue tracing patterns that made your vision blur — spoke to the same precision he brought to the track. Every flick, every gentle suction, every moment where he pulled back just enough to make you whimper in protest.

"Don't stop," you managed, voice breaking on the words. "Please don't—"

He hummed against you in response, the vibration making your hips buck involuntarily. His hands moved to hold you steady, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs with just enough pressure to ground you even as he sent you spiraling higher.

The tension coiled tighter in your belly, every nerve ending alive and singing under his attention. You could feel yourself getting close, that familiar tightening that promised release, and Lewis seemed to sense it too. His pace intensified, tongue working against you with devastating accuracy.

"That's it," he murmured, pulling back just long enough to speak before diving back in with renewed focus. "Let go for me."

The command in his voice, rough with his own desire, was what finally pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, back arching as you cried out his name into the heated air of the car. He worked you through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks rolled through your body, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs as you came back down.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction and want. "You're incredible," he said, voice rough as he kissed his way back up your body.

You pulled him up to you, tasting yourself on his lips as you kissed him deeply, your hands already reaching for the waistband of his trousers. "Your turn," you breathed against his mouth.

You kissed your way down his body, tongue tracing the intricate ink that decorated his skin. Each tattoo told a story — victories, losses, moments that had shaped him into the man beneath you now. Your lips followed the compass rose on his chest, the script along his ribs, the geometric patterns that wound around his bicep.

"Fuck," he breathed as your mouth moved lower, his hands tangling in your hair. "You don't have to—"

But you wanted to. Wanted to worship him the way he'd worshipped you, wanted to draw those same desperate sounds from his lips. When you finally took him in your mouth, his reaction was immediate and devastating.

"Christ," he gasped, head falling back against the seat. "Your mouth—"

You worked him slowly at first, learning what made him groan, what made his hips buck involuntarily. He was generous with his praise, voice rough with pleasure as he told you how good you felt, how perfect you were, how long he'd dreamed of this moment.

The power of reducing someone so controlled, so commanding, to breathless gasps and whispered pleas was intoxicating. You could feel him getting close, his breathing ragged, muscles tense beneath your hands.

"Stop," he said suddenly, tugging gently at your hair. "I want to be inside you when I come."

The raw honesty in his voice made heat pool low in your belly all over again. You moved back up his body, straddling his hips, both of you breathing hard in the steamy confines of the car.

"Are you sure?" he asked, hands settling on your waist as you positioned yourself above him.

Instead of answering with words, you sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch until you were fully seated in his lap. The stretch was perfect, overwhelming, exactly what you'd been craving without even knowing it.

"God," you breathed, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder as you adjusted to the feeling of him inside you.

His hands roamed your back, soothing and possessive at once. "You feel incredible," he murmured against your ear. "So perfect."

When you finally began to move, it was with a rhythm that built slowly, deliberately. Each roll of your hips drew soft sounds from both of you, the leather seat creaking beneath you as you found your pace. Lewis's hands guided your movements, helping you find the angle that made you both gasp.

The windows were completely fogged now, the outside world invisible beyond the steamed glass. There was nothing but this — the slide of skin against skin, the sound of your breathing mingling in the heated air, the way Lewis looked at you like you were everything he'd ever wanted.

"You're so beautiful like this," he whispered, voice strained with pleasure as you moved above him. "So fucking perfect."

His words sent electricity through you, spurring you to move faster, to take him deeper. The praise fell from his lips like a prayer — telling you how incredible you felt, how he'd never wanted anyone the way he wanted you, how watching you take your pleasure was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Lewis," you gasped, feeling that familiar tension building again, stronger this time with him buried deep inside you.

"I know, baby," he breathed, one hand sliding between your bodies to find that sensitive bundle of nerves. "I can feel you getting close. Come for me again."

The combination of his touch and his words and the perfect angle of him inside you was devastating. Your rhythm faltered as the pleasure built, becoming erratic, desperate.

"That's it," he encouraged, his own breathing ragged now. "Let me feel you."

When your second orgasm hit, it was even more intense than the first. You cried out his name as you shattered around him, your body clenching and pulsing in waves that seemed to go on forever. The sight and feel of you coming undone above him pushed Lewis over the edge too.

"Fuck, I'm—" he groaned, pulling you down for a desperate kiss as his own release claimed him, his body tensing beneath you as he spilled himself deep inside you with a broken cry of your name.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat despite the cool Monaco night. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as the aftershocks slowly faded, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

"That was..." he started, then trailed off with a breathless laugh.

"Yeah," you agreed, not trusting yourself with more words yet.

For a long moment, you stayed like that — wrapped around each other in the steamy confines of his car, hearts gradually slowing to normal rhythms. Reality would intrude soon enough, but for now, there was only this perfect, stolen moment of intimacy.

Not worried about sneaking back into the gala. or your brothers reaction. It was just you and him.

[formulafanfics13]

Blood Red, Innocent White - LH44 🔥

masterlist

Summary: Lewis Hamilton seduces Charles Leclerc’s untouched younger sister as an act of cold-blooded revenge — intending to ruin her and shatter Charles in the process. But what begins as calculated corruption spirals into something darker, deeper, and more addictive. She lets him destroy her. Then kisses him after. Now neither of them can stop — and Charles finds out too late.

Warnings: noncon/dubcon elements, virginity loss, corruption kink, manipulation, power imbalance, degradation, obsession, rough sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, CNC themes, emotional trauma, blurred consent, revenge plot, emotional manipulation, psychological control, possessiveness, morally grey Lewis, implied sibling betrayal, humiliation, and manipulation of innocence.

The night the game began, she wore white.

Not off-white. Not beige. Not pearl. No. White like innocence, white like snow that had never been stepped on, white like she had no idea what the fuck she was doing, walking into the lion’s den in that soft little dress with a strawberry daiquiri in her hand and her brother’s fucking name stitched into the lining of her soul.

Lewis had been watching her all night.

Not from across the room. Not casually. No. He watched her the way predators watch. Still. Precise. Dissecting every movement with eyes that had already decided how the story would end. She laughed with Carlos. Twirled her straw. Flushed red when Pierre called her princesse. She was untouched, obviously. The kind of untouched that made him sick.

Not because he cared.

But because she belonged to Charles.

Charles fucking Leclerc, the golden boy, Ferrari’s darling, number one in points and number one in the hearts of every engineer who kept giving him the goddamn upgrades Lewis was owed. For the first time in his life, Lewis was being treated like the second driver. 

After everything. After seven world titles. After building a legacy that spanned two decades, he was getting shafted for a boy who couldn’t keep his engine cool for three races in a row.

And that boy had a sister.

He hadn't noticed her at first. Not really. Not until the Melbourne gala, when she’d tripped over her own heel on the red carpet and Charles had caught her like she was made of gold, holding her face like glass. “Ma petite, careful,” he'd murmured, brushing her hair behind her ear with all the reverence of a priest before communion. And that was the moment. Right there.

The moment Lewis decided: I’m going to fuck her. I’m going to fuck her until Charles knows exactly what I did every single time he looks her in the eyes.

So now here they were. Post-Monaco. Hotel bar. Ferrari team drinks, drivers scattered across velvet lounges and champagne-stained carpet. The Monaco air still hung on them like sweat. Charles was upstairs doing interviews. And she was here. Sipping pink sugar and talking to Sainz like nothing could touch her.

Lewis moved before he even thought about it.

Her eyes widened when he reached her side, she looked up, lashes fluttering like she couldn’t believe he was talking to her, and that alone told him everything he needed to know.

She had no idea what he was. She had no idea what this was.

“You shouldn’t be drinking that,” Lewis said smoothly, tipping his glass toward her, half full of something darker, heavier, merciless. “You’re Charles’ baby sister, right?”

She nodded, caught between nervous and flattered. “Mhm. He’ll be down soon. He’s just with-”

“I know where he is.” He stepped closer. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t need to. “You always come to these?”

“Not really. I’m just visiting for the summer. Monaco, Barcelona, Silverstone…” She smiled like a girl who had been raised with sun-soaked holidays and cashmere babysitters. “Then back to Uni.”

God. She was twenty-one. Perfect.

“You like it here?” he asked softly, voice dipping just for her.

She nodded. “It’s all so exciting. But kind of overwhelming too. Everyone’s so... much.”

Lewis laughed once, low. “Yeah. That’s F1.” He leaned in. “Want to see what it looks like without all the noise?”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve got a suite upstairs. Real view of the port. Champagne that doesn’t taste like syrup. Could show you what the world looks like when your brother’s not watching.”

The silence was delicious. Her breath caught. Her pupils flared. Her thighs pressed together in the tiniest, subconscious twitch. She didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no either. And Lewis didn’t need a yes. He could smell it.

“I won’t bite,” he murmured. “Unless you want me to.”

She swallowed.

That was all he needed.

She sat stiffly on the edge of his hotel bed, legs crossed, daiquiri abandoned. The window behind her was open, night breeze teasing her dress up her thighs, and Lewis took his time pouring the champagne. Let her sit there and squirm. Let her mind run riot.

“First time alone with a man?” he asked, not looking at her.

She stiffened. “No.”

He turned. She flushed.

Lewis smirked, walking over, handing her the glass. “It’s okay. Doesn’t have to be a secret.”

“I’m not a little girl.”

“Didn’t say you were.” He took a slow sip. “But you are untouched, aren’t you.”

Her jaw tightened. Her body screamed yes.

“You’ve never had a man between your thighs. Never had someone hold you down and fuck you until you cried. Never had anyone teach you how to take it, how to be good, how to beg for it.”

Her glass wobbled in her hand. He took it from her and set it down. Then knelt in front of her.

“This isn’t about you,” he said, voice like gravel. “This is about him. About the golden boy. About what happens when you steal everything from a man who built the sport you stand on. About what it costs to get in my way.”

She trembled. He brushed her knee. Slid his hand up.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispered. “And when he looks at you, he’s going to know.”

She didn’t push him away. 

She cried when he took it. Not loud. Not dramatic. And not because she didnt want it, because she did, she did want it, it just hurt.

 Just a quiet, broken sound, like her body didn’t know how to process it. Lewis was relentless. Slow. Precise. Made her feel every inch. Called her princess and baby and innocent little slut all in the same breath. Pressed her thighs open wider than they’d ever gone. Fucked her like she was nothing and everything. Came inside her with a growl and held her down when she flinched at the stretch of it, muttering that’s it, take it, take it for your fucking brother.

She was shaking when he kissed her jaw after. Whispered good girl into her skin like poison.

But the worst part? She wanted him to do it again.

It didn’t end there. Of course it didn’t. It happened again in Barcelona. In the Ferrari motorhome bathroom with her dress pushed up and Lewis’ hand over her mouth.

It happened in Spielberg. Bent over the team’s private jet sofa while Charles was asleep two rows down.

It happened at Silverstone. In Lewis’ trailer. When she told him to stop and he didn’t. Not because she meant no. But because she wanted to see if he could.

He could. He did. And she came screaming anyway.

The thing was, Lewis thought he could stop. That this was a mission. A hit job. Fuck her, use her, discard her, watch Charles fall apart.

But she made a mistake. She kissed him once like she meant it. In Hungary, in the quiet dark of his hotel room, after he’d made her come so hard she sobbed into his throat. She whispered, do you like me? and he didn’t answer. But he didn’t leave either.

And now he can’t.

Charles noticed. Of course he did. She was different. Tired. Distant. Hid her phone like it was state classified. And when he found the bruises on her hips in Zandvoort when she wore a bikini at the hotel pool, thumb-shaped, low, fresh, he went nuclear.

He grabbed her wrist in the garage. Dragged her behind the hospitality unit. She thought he was going to scream. Instead he just shook. “Who is it.”

Silence.

“Tell me who is fucking you.”

She didn’t.

He guessed anyway.

Lewis knew the moment it happened. Knew it by the way Charles’ driving collapsed, the way he went wide into turn three, the way his engineer’s voice cracked over the radio.

She belonged to Lewis now.

And Charles? Charles was losing everything.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Toto Wolff with wife reader. Feat their son, Jack. Post race of AD24. I saw a video of Toto and Lewis hugging each other after the race. Basically Lewis hugged everyone and it was nice of him. What a tribute for him. Doing donuts, a video of appreciation him and doing hot laps together. Just a summary of his last ever race for Mercedes😭😭 I'm in tears thinking about it🥺 Can you do fic based on that?? If you're confused or need anything, just ask me 😁 Emotional, sad, tears. Thanks!! :))

The race was over. The roar of engines had died down, replaced by the collective murmur of the crowd and the hum of activity in the garage. The Yas Marina Circuit glowed under the night sky, but in the Mercedes garage, the atmosphere was thick with bittersweet emotion.

You stood near Toto, Jack clutching your hand as he bounced on his feet, his excitement barely contained. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the screens, showing Lewis Hamilton finishing his celebratory donuts on the main straight. The tires of his car left circular marks on the asphalt—a tangible goodbye to the years he had spent with Mercedes. The cheers from the crowd outside were deafening, a testament to the legacy he had built.

“Is Uncle Lewis coming back now?” Jack asked, looking up at you with wide eyes.

“Soon, sweetheart,” you said, your voice soft as you ran a hand through his hair. “He’s just saying goodbye in his own way.”

Moments later, the garage erupted in applause as Lewis’s car rolled in. The entire team had gathered, creating a corridor of clapping hands and teary smiles to welcome him back. You watched as Lewis removed his helmet, his face a mixture of exhilaration and melancholy. He stepped out of the car, pausing to take it all in, his eyes scanning the sea of familiar faces.

Toto was the first to approach him, pulling him into a firm embrace. The two men exchanged a few quiet words, their bond forged through years of triumphs and challenges. Jack let go of your hand and ran to Lewis, who crouched down to catch him in a hug.

“You did the best donuts ever!” Jack exclaimed, his voice filled with awe.

Lewis laughed, his grin wide and genuine. “You think so, buddy? I’ll take that as high praise.”

As Jack stepped back, you moved forward, your emotions threatening to spill over. Lewis’s gaze softened as he met yours, and he opened his arms. You stepped into the hug, holding him tightly, the weight of the moment settling over you.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with emotion. “For everything. For being my family through all of this, even when things weren’t easy.”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him with a watery smile. “It’s been an honor, Lewis. I hope Ferrari treats you well, but you know you’ll always have a home here. You’re always welcome back.”

His smile faltered for a moment, his eyes glistening. “That means more than you know.”

The team continued their applause, some members stepping forward to exchange hugs and handshakes with Lewis. You stepped back to join Toto, who had his arm around Jack. The three of you watched as Lewis said his goodbyes, his connection to each person evident in their interactions.

“It’s the end of an era,” Toto said quietly, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes.

“It is,” you agreed, leaning into him. “But it’s also the beginning of something new. For him and for us.”

Toto nodded, his gaze fixed on Lewis. “He’s left a legacy here. One that won’t be forgotten.”

As the garage began to quiet, Lewis approached the three of you one last time. He crouched down to Jack’s level, ruffling his hair. “You take care of your parents for me, okay? They’ll need you to keep them in line.”

Jack giggled, nodding earnestly. “I will, Uncle Lewis. I promise.”

Lewis straightened, his gaze shifting to you and Toto. “Thank you for believing in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. You’ve been more than just a team to me. You’ve been my family.”

Toto extended his hand, but Lewis bypassed it, pulling him into another embrace. “You’re always part of this family, Lewis. No matter where you go.”

As Lewis stepped back, the reality of his departure settled in. You watched him leave the garage, the weight of the moment heavy in the air. Jack looked up at you, his small hand slipping into yours once more.

“Will we see him again?” he asked, his voice small.

You squeezed his hand gently. “Of course, sweetheart. He’s not gone forever. And no matter where he goes, he’ll always be part of our family.”

Together, the three of you stood there, watching as Lewis disappeared into the crowd, leaving behind a legacy that would forever be etched in the heart of Mercedes.

[verstappenf1lecccc]

Could you please write something with Lewis when you’re Ayrtons Senna daughter and didn’t have much to do with F1 you’re whole live you’re only connection being Alain. When Alain one day informed you that Lewis Hamilton wanted to get in contact with you you didn’t know what too think of it but in the end you’re curiousty won and after you reached out to him you soon realized that he was an absolute sweetheart and he soon became one of you’re closest friends you remember sitting at the balcony of you’re apartment with you’re feet on you’re legs being drunk and confessing to him that you don’t remember you’re parents you’re mother died when you where only a few months old from an aneurysm only 24 all you have of her is the story’s you’re aunt and Alain told you how heartbroken Ayrton was how he won the race the day after he got informed of her death and stood on the podium with tears in his eyes reaching his hand up as far in the sky as possible looking up crying and Lewis told you that he remembers the moment when he saw it on the tv as an little kid thinking that he was thanking god to help him win. Lewis told you when he decided to leave Mercedes how Toto reacted when he told him and how his fairytale partnership with Mercedes turned into an nightmare you dont know what rode you when you proposed to go to the Ferrari presentation with him probably the alcohol in you’re blood and the idea of how everyone in the F1 circus would react if the most successful driver of all time turned up with Ayrton Sennas daughter on his arm.❤️

Everything I’ve ever wanted

hii lovies I am so sorry for being mia and for how long this took but I hope you enjoy it!!!

You never belonged to Formula 1.

Not really.

Not the way your father did not the way the world said you should have.

For as long as you could remember, the sport was more myth than memory. A blurred figure in flame-retardant overalls. A helmet. The thunder of an engine you never heard in person. You were born into a story you didn’t choose, one that ended before it ever truly began for you.

Your mother died when you were a baby a cerebral aneurysm, they told you. Twenty-four. Gone in hours.

Your father drove the next day.

Alain told you that he won. That he stood on the podium with tears in his eyes, reaching a hand to the sky like he could touch her. The world thought he was thanking God. But he wasn’t.

He was saying goodbye.

You never met him again after that. He died months later at Imola.

And the myth was sealed.

All your life, you were “his daughter.”

The girl whose name echoed in pit lanes and paddocks despite never setting foot in one. A legacy with no say in how it was carried. Your childhood was quiet, mostly thanks to Alain…Alain Prost, your father’s onetime rival and eventual friend. He made sure you were protected. Raised with dignity, not exposure. No circus. No cameras. No racing.

He was the only one who ever told you stories about the man, not the myth.

How your father smiled. How he hated the cold. How soft his voice was when he held you.

You learned to live in silence.

Until one day, Alain called.

“Lewis Hamilton wants to speak with you.”

You paused. “The driver?”

“Yes. He’s… serious about it. Very respectful. You don’t have to. But I thought you should know.”

At first, you didn’t know what to think. Lewis Hamilton was the modern legend. Seven-time World Champion. The man who tied your father’s records and then surpassed them.

Why would he want to speak to you?

You let it sit for weeks. But your curiosity won.

And that’s how it began.

He wasn’t what you expected.

When you finally reached out, Lewis replied within the hour. His tone was gentle, not performative. Not reverent. He wasn’t trying to connect with “Senna’s daughter.”

He wanted to connect with you.

“I’ve carried a lot of your father in my career,” he wrote.

“But I realize I never asked what that’s like for you. If it’s okay, I’d like to know you not for the story, but for the person.”

It disarmed you.

So you talked. Slowly.

And over time, you stopped feeling like a relic of your father’s past.

Lewis was patient, always. He never pushed. Never used your name for prestige. He listened really listened even when you had nothing to say. You’d speak late into the night sometimes. About music. The ocean. The emptiness fame brings.

He told you what it was like growing up the only Black kid in the paddock. The pressure. The loneliness. The racism.

You told him what it felt like to grow up the child of ghosts.

One night, you were drunk on your balcony, curled up with your knees tucked under you, watching the city below.

“I don’t remember them,” you murmured. “Not my mum. Not him.”

He was quiet on the other end of the call.

You went on. “All I have are stories. Alain told me… after she died, he drove like he was on fire. Won the race. Stood on the podium and reached up to the sky.” Your voice cracked. “I used to think maybe he was reaching for her. But really, I think he just wanted out.”

Lewis didn’t speak right away.

When he did, his voice was softer than ever.

“I remember that day,” he said. “I saw it on TV. I was a kid. I thought he was thanking God for the win. But maybe… maybe he was asking why.”

You closed your eyes, tears spilling quietly.

“I just wish I knew them like the world did,” you whispered. “Or like… they knew me.”

Your connection with Lewis deepened after that. There was no awkwardness. Just ease. Familiarity.

You hugged him like you’d known him your whole life.

And yet, despite the warmth, you could always sense something under the surface with him something unraveling.

Eventually, it came out.

He left Mercedes.

And the story was nothing like the media painted.

“They didn’t even look at me when I walked out,” he said one night, jaw clenched. “I gave them everything. Took their name to the top of the world. And when it stopped being perfect when I started asking questions I became a liability.”

You listened as he told you how the team changed.

The meetings where he was excluded.

The technical decisions made without his input.

The new golden boy groomed behind closed doors.

The subtle racism dressed up as professionalism.

The quiet betrayal of men he once trusted like family.

“It stopped being about racing,” he said bitterly. “It became about protecting an image. And I didn’t fit it anymore.”

You reached for his hand, gripping it tight.

“You were everything to them,” you said. “And they treated you like you were disposable.”

He looked at you then, his eyes glassy. “So did the world.”

That night, you did something impulsive.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe the weight of your shared grief.

But you turned to him and said:

“Come to the Ferrari launch with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

You laughed. “Can you imagine the chaos? You in red. Me on your arm. The ghost of Ayrton Senna walking through Maranello.”

It was reckless. Beautifully so.

And when the day came, you did it.

You wore your mother’s earrings. Lewis wore black and red. And the cameras lost their minds when you walked in together him, the fallen king. You, the child of the original icon.

It was more than spectacle. It was a statement.

The child of the man the sport lost too soon.

And the man the sport betrayed too late.

Together. Unapologetic.

After the launch, you returned to your apartment.

The world outside was still spinning but in here, everything was quiet.

You poured drinks. Sat on the balcony again, legs tucked under you.

And you broke.

“I hated the funeral,” you said, voice shaking. “Everyone crying for a man they never knew. The photographers. The headlines. I stood there with Alain. I was five. And I didn’t understand why everyone else got him except me.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks.

“I never got to call anyone mum. I never got to feel what it was like to be held by a father who didn’t have one foot in death every race. I lived my whole life in the shadow of something I never even touched.”

Lewis moved beside you. Held you gently.

“I’m so tired,” you whispered. “Of being the reminder. The orphan. The legacy.”

And then came his voice low, unwavering.

“You’re not a legacy. You’re you. And I see you.”

You looked at him, breaking entirely.

“Why did you want to meet me, Lewis?”

He held your gaze. “Because you were the only person who’d understand what it feels like to be idolized and invisible at the same time.”

The silence that followed was everything.

And in that moment broken and held, grieving and seen something shifted.

You weren’t just Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

And he wasn’t just Lewis Hamilton.

You were two souls the world had taken from.

And in each other, you were beginning to find what it never gave you back.

Years later

You stood at your father’s grave alone for the first time in years.

This time, with peace.

Not because the grief was gone but because you were no longer carrying it alone.

Lewis stood behind you, a hand on your shoulder.

You’d walked through fire together.

Through betrayal, loss, and rebirth.

You knew your father now not through stats or stories but through how Lewis saw you.

Through every quiet moment, every tear wiped away, every time he reminded you that you were more than a name.

And in him, you had something even your father never had: A love that stayed.

[oofthwoods]

CHAPTER ONE! ── ˙ ̟ bring home the glory !!

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 :: "what is a legacy? it's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. i wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me". | a victorious journey always begins with a death and an offer.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 :: funerals, grief and death. if you don't feel comfortable with these themes, go straight to the part after 2023. you won't lose much, i promise! the second part is somehow based on right hand man from hamilton, don't ask about it. this is pretty much a prologue number two tbh, but i still hope you enjoy it.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 :: 3.2k

⭠ previous masterlist next ‭→

2021

In the solemn setting of the cemetery, the sun hung in the sky, seemingly unaware of the grief below. Its golden rays contrasted sharply with the darkness consuming your soul, each beam of light piercing through the heavy clouds of sorrow. As tears streaked your face, the warmth of the sun felt out of place, a painful reminder of the world's indifference to your shattered heart.

Standing beside the graveside, you looked up to the sky, seeking solace in its vastness. But the heavens offered no comfort, no relief from the ache within. You wondered why the sky remained clear, why it didn't reflect the storm of emotions raging inside you. Its serene blue expanse seemed to mock your devastation, its unwavering indifference amplifying your pain.

Your mother and her siblings stood ahead, their shoulders bowed under the weight of grief, their sobs a haunting melody that echoed through the air. But you stood alone, isolated in your sorrow, drowning in memories that threatened to consume you whole.

Memories of your grandfather flooded your mind like a deluge, each one a bittersweet reminder of the love you had lost. His laughter, once a source of joy and comfort, now felt distant and painful, a cruel reminder of all that had been taken from you. His stories, his wisdom, his gentle touch — they all seemed like distant echoes of a life that was slipping further and further away with each passing moment.

You recalled his final moments, the frailty of his form, the sadness in his eyes as he whispered his last words to you. "Be proud of who you are," he had said, his voice barely a whisper, his breath brushing against your cheek. "And never forget where you come from. Your roots are your strength, my dear." His words had been a lifeline in the storm of your grief, a reminder of the legacy he had left behind, of the love that would endure long after he was gone.

As you stood beside his grave, the words offered little solace. They felt empty, a faint reminder of the warmth once found in his embrace. You longed to reach out to him, to feel the warmth of his touch one last time, to beg for just a moment more in his comforting presence. But he was gone, lost to you forever in a world that seemed infinitely colder and darker without him.

You closed your eyes, allowing the tears to fall freely as you whispered your silent goodbyes to him, each word a prayer for his eternal peace. But even as you spoke, you knew that no amount of tears could ever hope to fill the void he had left behind, that no words could ever hope to capture the depth of your loss.

As you stood there, lost in your grief, the soft sound of footsteps approached from behind. You turned to see your mother returning, her eyes red and swollen from tears, her expression etched with the same pain that weighed heavily on your own heart. For a moment, you simply stood there, sharing a silent understanding born from the depths of your shared sadness.

Without a word, she wrapped you in a gentle hug, her arms providing solace amidst the whirlwind of emotions swirling around you. "I'm not sure I can go on without him, Mom," you murmured, your voice barely audible as you buried your face against her shoulder.

Her embrace tightened, her fingers gently combing through your hair. "I feel the same way, sweetheart. But we have to find strength, for his sake," she whispered softly, her words tinged with a mixture of sadness and determination.

As you leaned into her embrace, the weight of your grief seemed to press down upon you, threatening to crush you beneath its relentless force. Your mother's presence briefly brought comfort, like a delicate lifeline amidst the stormy sea of emotions swirling inside you.

"I miss him so much already," you confessed with your voice trembling. "It feels like a part of me is missing, like I'll never be whole again."

Her arms tightened around you, a silent reassurance that you were not alone. "I know, my love. I do too," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "He was the heart of our family, the glue that held us together."

A bittersweet silence fell between you, punctuated only by the soft rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. Memories of your grandfather danced through your mind like flickering candle flames, casting shadows of laughter and love against the walls of your grief-stricken heart.

"Do you think he's watching over us?" you asked quietly, your voice barely a whisper in the stillness of the evening.

Her hand stilled against your hair. "I'd like to think so," she replied, her voice wavering with uncertainty. "I'd like to believe that he's found peace, that he's somewhere out there, looking down on us with love in his heart."

Tears welled in your eyes as you imagined him, a silent guardian in the heavens above, watching over you with a warmth that transcended the boundaries of life and death. "I hope he knows how much we love him," you whispered, your words a fervent prayer whispered into the vast expanse of the sky.

"I'm sure he does, my dear," she murmured, her voice soft with tenderness. "And I know that wherever he is, he'll always be with us, guiding us through the darkness, lighting our way with the love that he left behind."

As your mother's words gently washed over you, a sudden movement caught your eye. In the corner of your vision, a flash of royal blue fluttered amidst the solemn surroundings. You blinked, momentarily startled, before fixing your gaze on the delicate creature that alighted on a nearby branch.

A small gasp escaped your lips as you beheld the bird, its feathers shimmering like fragments of the sky woven into living form. With a heart full of wonder, you watched as it stretched its wings, basking in the fading light of the evening sun.

"We can leave now, if you're ready, sweetheart." her mother murmured, delicately turning her daughter's face to meet her own. 

As your mother looked into your eyes, you could see the sadness reflecting in them, speaking volumes on its own. Although she softly hinted that you could go if you wished, it was evident that she longed for some respite from the weight of your mutual grief. Beneath her calm demeanor, you sensed her vulnerability, a silent plea to escape the overpowering sorrow surrounding you both. With a simple nod, you silently agreed.

With a mix of sadness and resolve, you followed your mother's lead, letting her guide you away from the graveside and back into the world. While you walked together, a quick look back caught your attention, drawing your eyes to the scene you were departing. And there, on top of the gravestone, sat the blue bird, its colorful feathers standing out against the solemn surroundings.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as you watched the bird, a silent sentinel overlooking the final resting place of your beloved grandfather. He seemed to look at you, and, if birds could smile, you would swear he did.

2023

You find yourself standing outside a closed door, your hand hesitantly reaching out to lightly tap against the wood. The muffled voices from within only add to your uncertainty, but the urgency of speaking with the team principal before the Abu Dhabi sprint pushes you to take action. Whatever discussion awaits behind that door must be significant enough to pull you away from your pre-race meeting with the mechanics.

In the stillness of the hallway, time seems to stretch endlessly as you wait for a response that never comes. With a mixture of nerves and anticipation coursing through your veins, you finally muster the courage to grasp the doorknob. Its cool metal provides a fleeting sense of reassurance as you turn it slowly, the hinges creaking softly in protest as the door swings open to reveal the dimly lit room beyond.

Inside, seated at a table, is Mr. Vowles, engrossed in conversation. Your presence at the threshold goes unnoticed for a moment until you gather your resolve and speak up, your voice barely above a whisper as you address him.

"Mr. Vowles, did you need to see me?" you venture, your words hanging in the air with a hint of uncertainty.

At the sound of your voice, James looks up, his expression softening into a welcoming smile.

"Williams, come in," he says, his warm tone instantly easing your nerves as he gestures for you to enter. "Have you met Sargeant?" he continues, motioning towards a figure standing nearby, their presence previously hidden in the shadows of the room.

As James mentions Logan, it's like a floodgate of memories bursting open, whisking you back to the time when you and Logan shared an unbreakable bond. You were inseparable, navigating the twists and turns of life at the academy with laughter, support, and a shared vision of the future.

But as the competition for a spot in Formula One heated up, your friendship began to strain. What started as friendly competition slowly morphed into something more complicated. The pressure mounted, and with it came a subtle shift in your relationship. Each race seemed to drive a wedge between you, rather than bringing you closer.

It was at the peak of your rivalry that things started to unravel. Every little disagreement or perceived slight seemed to fester, poisoning the once vibrant atmosphere between you. Despite your efforts to keep up appearances, there was an underlying tension that threatened to fracture your bond.

When Logan secured a seat at Williams while you remained in F2, a whirlwind of emotions swept over you. Of course, you were genuinely happy for him, but there was also a pang of envy and disappointment gnawing at your heart. It felt like a piece of your own dream slipping away, leaving you grappling with a sense of loss you couldn't quite shake.

And then, just when you thought things couldn't get any more complicated, James hinted at the possibility of you stepping into Logan's shoes. The idea of replacing your friend-turned-competitor added another layer of complexity to an already tangled web of emotions. It was a constant battle between your ambition and the fear of losing the one person who had been by your side through it all.

"Yes, sir," you respond, choosing a simple response. Logan's gaze meets yours, seeming to ignite with intensity. "We keep on meeting"

In a deliberate choice of silence, Logan sidestepped any engagement with you, his eyes fixed on the team leader instead. "As I was just saying," he began, his voice brimming with confidence, "I truly believe that with these adjustments, I can improve my control over the car."

James reciprocated Logan's smile, though his gaze hinted at a wandering mind. "Sargeant?" he interrupted, signaling a shift in focus to another pressing matter.

"Yes, sir?" Sergeant replied promptly, ready for further instructions.

"We'll talk about this later. Close the door on your way out," James commanded, his tone decisive, drawing their exchange to a close.

As Logan's footsteps faltered on his way out, a pang of unease settled in your chest. You couldn't shake the guilt that crept in, knowing your success might come at the cost of his dreams.

In the relentless world of Formula One, sentimentality was a luxury few could afford. You grappled with the harsh reality that success often meant sacrificing the dreams of others. It was a something you had grappled with since the beginning of your journey, one that forced you to confront the truth that in this fiercely competitive arena, there would always be someone waiting in the wings to take your place if you faltered.

As you redirected your focus towards James, the man who now held the reins of your family's team, you couldn't help but reflect on the rarity of such a moment. Conversations with him had been few and far between, a testament to the typical hierarchy within Formula One teams where direct interaction between a team leader and a junior driver, especially mere hours before a pivotal race, was uncommon.

“Have I done something wrong, sir?” You ventured, a tinge of uncertainty coloring your tone.

"Not at all, quite the opposite actually," James responded, rising from his seat and leaning casually against the table, his arms folded. "Your stats this season are impressive—seven wins, numerous podium finishes. You've got a bright future ahead of you. But here's the thing, every day I see offers come across my desk to buy out your contract, and frankly, I find it amusing."

"Uh, sorry, I'm not following," you admitted, furrowing your brow in confusion.

"Williams, why is it that no team seems to be able to snag you?" James clarified, a hint of curiosity lacing his words. "You're undeniably talented, but turning down offers from big names like Alpine and Alpha Tauri might not be the smartest move."

"To drive their tractor, or worse, become a reserve driver? I don't think so." you remarked with a disbelieving smirk.

"Think about it, a spot at Alpha Tauri could open doors at Red Bull down the line," James suggested, attempting to sway your perspective.

"Everyone knows they have their sights set on Daniel Ricciardo, or Liam Lawson at best" you countered, a note of frustration creeping into your voice. "I'm a bit lost here. Why are you laying all this out for me?" you questioned, a perplexed furrow creasing your brow. You knew full well the offers on the table and why you were declining them. James likely wasn't in the dark about your reasons either.

"I'm just being honest with you," He replied, his tone carrying a hint of earnestness. His hand reached up to rub his forehead, fingers tracing over the lines etched there as if seeking solace in the familiar. "We're on a tight budget," he explained, a touch of resignation in his voice. "We're short on engineers and mechanics compared to almost everyone else, except maybe Haas and Sauber. While we've made progress since last year, I can't promise our car will match up to the competition next season."

James lifted his gaze, fixing it upon you with a mixture of earnestness and concern. "I'm not one to squander talent. I know you've got your reasons for sticking with us, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to have you on board. But I can't move forward without ensuring you understand exactly what you're signing up for."

"I'm just asking for a shot, James. Just one chance to prove that we've still got what it takes," you implored, your words tinged with determination. Images of past triumphs flickered through your mind, a reminder of the team's glory days.

With a weary smile, James let out a soft sigh. "Seems like sheer tenacity runs in the family, huh?"

"They used to say I took after my grandmother," you remarked casually, a wistful grin playing on your lips.

Turning to the desk, the man retrieved a piece of paper from a drawer, his movements deliberate and measured. "What are the odds?"

You knew precisely what he was referring to. "Iwasa's already out of the running. If I take the sprint, I'll have enough points to clinch the championship."

Extending the contract towards you, James presented it as if unveiling a glimpse of what lay ahead. "Win this championship, and the seat is yours."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, mingling with the anticipation that crackled between you. With the contract poised like a tantalizing promise, the room seemed to hold its breath.

You reached out tentatively, fingers hovering over the document that held the potential to shape your future. The paper felt crisp beneath your touch.

"I know it's a risk, trading one rookie for another" James conceded, his voice tinged with a hint of apprehension. "But I believe in you, and I need someone who believes in this team."

A surge of determination coursed through your veins, bolstered by James's unwavering faith. "I won't let you down," you vowed, your voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her chest.

"TO TOP OFF AN INCREDIBLE SEASON, Y/N WILLIAMS WINS THE ABU DHABI SPRINT AND HAS ENOUGH POINTS TO CROWN HERSELF A CHAMPION." The narrator's voice reverberated through the sprawling circuit, amplifying the momentous declaration that crowned your achievement.

The roar of victory surged through the airwaves as your race engineer's voice erupted over the radio, a symphony of celebration. "You did it, Williams! Formula 2 champion, with one race to spare!"

Amidst the cacophony of cheers echoing from Rodin Carlin's garage, you felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins, the weight of your accomplishment settling upon your shoulders like a mantle of triumph. Your mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions, a torrent of exclamations, gratitude, and tears that threatened to overwhelm your senses.

As you gradually eased the car to a decelerating pace, you couldn't help but feel the swell of pride and disbelief wash over you. With trembling hands, you lifted them skyward in a gesture of reverence, a silent tribute to the one who had inspired you journey.

"This one's for you, grandpa," you murmured, your voice a whisper against the backdrop of roaring engines and jubilant cheers. "I hope you're proud up there."

Amidst the jubilant chaos enveloping the pit lane, your thoughts swirled like a tempestuous storm, each emotion vying for dominance in the tumult of your mind. As you joined in the exultant cheers of your team, a sense of disbelief mingled with elation, the reality of your victory sinking in with each heartbeat.

In the midst of the celebration, you couldn't help but steal a moment to glance towards the podium, where your destiny awaited. The anticipation pulsed within you, a heady mixture of excitement and nervous energy propelling youforward.

As you ascended to the highest step, each stride felt like a triumph, a testament to the countless hours of dedication and sacrifice that have led you to this pinnacle moment. Your mind hummed with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, a kaleidoscope of memories and aspirations swirling in the depths of your consciousness.

The thunderous roar of the crowd enveloped you like a tidal wave, the sound of applause echoing in your ears as you stand upon the podium, bathed in the radiant glow of the spotlight. Your chest swells with pride, your heart beating in time with the pulsating energy of the spectators.

Locking eyes with James amidst the sea of faces, you feel a surge of excitement washing over you. There's a silent understanding that passes between you, a shared recognition of the journey you will embark upon together. In that fleeting moment, as your gazes meet, you know with a certainty that transcends words— you'll be signing that contract.

With a triumphant smile, you raise the championship trophy high above your head, the weight of your accomplishment buoyed by the unwavering support of your team and your unyielding belief in yourself.

And in the middle of the bustling paddock, a blue bird chirped happily, swooping towards the girl as she lifted the trophy high. It appeared as though he'd be sticking around a while longer.

taglist (tell me if you want to be added or removed <3 | italic means i couldn't tag you) :: @formulanni @clownrrari @leilanixx @notyouraveragemochii @alliwantisadonut @oooom4rie @watermelon-sugars-things @glitterquadricorn @minkyungseokie @formulaal @itsjustkhaos @thebearchives @hiireadstuff @laura-naruto-fan1998 @cptg00s3 @welovediaaxx @eugene-emt-roe @cha-hot

[missyxxxxx]

Legends Are Made | Lewis Hamilton x Female Reader

Summary : 9 months after Ayrton Senna's fatal crash , Y/N Senna Da Silva was born in Rome , Italy and was defined by destiny carrying the same talent as her father's . At the very young age of 2 Y/N developed an interest upon her father's job and then entered the fascinating world of F1 . Growing up and moving from F3 to F2 her dream to bring back her father's legacy seemed to finally come true , when she joined the Mercedes AMG Petronas team , becoming the first woman on the F1 grid . What she did not expect was that she would fall in love with an 5 times world time F1 champion , Lewis Hamilton .

TW : Mentions and descriptions of Ayrton Senna's fatal crash from the autopsy , Max is super mean upon the reader ( Red Bull is an absolute shit in this ) , anxiety and panick attacks , a lot of angst(y feeling's ) , tears ( both of sadness and happiness ) , Ayrton visit's the reader ( I was crying when I wrote this ) , but extreme fluff towards the end .

This idea came up to me back in May 1 of this year , and while I was listening to the song above Legends Are Made by Sam Tinnesz , I could not help myself and think of all the things that could have happened if Ayrton had a daughter with the same talent . After 3 months working on this I finally finished it .

Just remember that English is not my first language , so if you spot any mistakes just bare with me . ( It is a tw on it's own ) .

PS : I do not usually pour my entire heart and soul on every imagine that I write , but I actually did in this one - and I am proud of it - I hope you like it . I was literally crying the whole time .

Edit : Still crying .

19k words - i got reallyy away with this one

______________________________________________________________

May , 1 1994 Imola , Italy - San Marino Grand Prix

Lap 7 . . . the  car left the racing line at Tamburello and ran in a straight line off the track and struck an unprotected concrete barrier .

He tried to brake down .

He really did .

The car hit the wall at a shallow angle, tearing off the right front wheel and nose cone with 211 km/h .

" Ayrton Senna crashed after the Tamburello corner and smashed with the barrier . Red Flag . The safety car is on it's way . We may need an ambulance for this . " The presenter said with an anxious tone in his voice .

Ayrton tried moving his head but the pain was insufferable .

After that he lost his vision and everything turned black .

" Ayrton Senna Da Silva , a truly staggering talent is dead at the age of 34 years old , after crashing his W16 on the concrete barrier . We lost without any doubt one of the best or maybe the best F1 racing driver." The same presenter said after a couple of hours after the incident .

Ayrton Senna Da Silva - your father - was dead .

_____

January 8th 1995 , Rome , Italy

It was a sunny but cold day when your mother gave birth to you .

Y/N Senna Da Silva . . . the one and only daughter of the F1 champion Ayrton Senna .

You did not know it yet but you would grow up without your dad .

Although you carried something very special within your heart .

His talent was passed over to you , something that your mother tried desperately to avoid .

At the young age of 2 , after watching for the first time a F1 race , one of your dad's , you could not help but wonder about all these fast cars that were racing in big circles .

You were amazed by the colors and the sounds of the engine's .

Your mother did everything in her power to keep you away from F1 and she thought she had succeeded , until one day when she picked you up from the Kindergarten you were crying and sniffling your nose.

When she asked you what happened the only answer you could give was more tears and the phrase " The other kids say that I don't have a dad , because he left me . "

That phrase still keeps you and your mother awake at night .

After that incident she decided to show you one of your father's races.

You loved it .

Little did she know that you had the same talent as your father and she could not keep you away from it .

After a couple of months , you entered the F1 worlds by going into karting .

_____

By the time you were 15 years old , you were able to perfectly drive a F3 car . Your coach said that it would be too easy for you to move from karting to F3 and then F2 .

" You are just like your father . " Your mother said to you on your first big crash .

You had a few big scratches but nothing that could stop you from raicing .

" What do you mean ? " You asked her back trying to convince your mother on telling you more .

After a few hours of you talking you found out more information about your father's tragic death .

" I saw it live on the TV . He was motionless . He had so many injuries ih his head . There was so much blood . You could see it from afar . Thereafter he did not move again . He called me before the race saying that he had a feeling , that something bad will happen to him."

" How ironic " She thought .

__________

' The resemblance is almost scary . ' You thought while you were looking at your debut photo , that the Mercedes AMG Petronas team had published .

It was 100 % sure that you were your father's daughter .

You had the exact same curls at the end of your hair , big honey color doe eyes , that cute little nose and those same full dark pink lips .

You even had the same stance .

Same fashion style . Heck even some clothes of his where now on your closet .

You were practically the same .

But you were not on the same F1 team .

While your father had the best time in McLaren , you joined the Mercedes AMG Petronas team in 2015 .

Being 25 years old you became the youngest amongst everyone , but what made it even worse is that you were the first woman on the F1 grid .

The night before your first public appearance you couldn't sleep .

You were worried and anxious .

Thinking about people's opinions made it even worse that it already was .

Getting up you decided to go to the kitchen at take those sleeping pills your doctor prescribed for you .

And before you knew it you entered the dream space - or so you thought .

" You know that you can not go on like this for long right ? " A man's voice spoke from your left side of the bed .

A voice you have heard before but can not pinpoint exactly where .

" This is not a dream Y/N you can answer me . "

Y/N .

He knows my name .

' I know his voice . ' You thought .

And then it hit you right in the face .

" Dad ? " You asked tears on your face while you where slowly turning to his direction .

He smiled .

He smiled to you .

Your dad smiled to you .

Suddenly you felt someone embracing you - a soft kiss on your forehead .

You hugged him back .

Your dad was here - hugging you and telling you he loves you .

" I am always with you , you are safe . " He told you .

By now you were crying uncontrollably .

" I love you so much Y/N . "

" Do not leave me alone dad . Please . " You begged him through sobs.

" Never Y/N . I love you ." He said to you one last time before you fell asleep .

And he was right .

He never left your side .

You woke up after 8 hours of sleeping , with his cross on your nightstand beside the photo you had of him .

You were safe .

__________

One year had passed since you first saw your father for the first time .

Everything was going great with the team - almost .

You and Lewis Hamilton were practically best friends by now .

' The best duo on the whole grid ' . Everyone said .

Fans going crazy on Twitter shiping both of you .

You had become great friends with Daniel Riccardo and Carlos Sainz.

You had a good relationship with Fernando Alonso and Perez although you did not talk much , but you respected each other .

You and Valtteri Bottas became buddy's through Tiffany and you had the best time pranking Lewis .

Sebastian Vettel was something else entirely .

He respected you and helped you in any way possible . Being the oldest one in the grid helping others with his own ways , made him the father of the grid .

The only one who did not speak to you was Verstappen .

Max Verstappen .

He looked at you with such hate .

Did not talk at you .

Even when you had to sit net to him in interviews he always switched seats with somebody else .

Atleast you were thankful that nothing ever happened .

__________

Two years had passed by .

The best two years of your life .

Your relationship with Lewis was stronger than before .

At least that's what you thought from your part .

You liked him .

Actually you liked him even more than a friend .

God you even loved him at this point .

But you desided to keep it to yourself , not wanting to mess up your frienship or even worse jeopardize your partnership .

Valtteri joined Mercedes and for once you though that they would ask you to transfer , but Toto Wolff would never do it . Especially after watching you getting close to Susie an having the best time babysitting their kids .

In the Brazilian GP of 2017 you finished first place earning the respect of Kimi Raikkonen and becoming close buddy's .

You were always sending food posts and memes in each other and you even died from laughter when you first watched Jackass while babysitting his kids .

Everything was going great until the Abu Dhabi GP .

Valtteri finished first , Lewis second , Sebastian third , Kimi fourth , you fifth and in the sixth place Max .

You had overtake him in last possible minute earning your place in your father's hometown - something that Max did not like at all and decided to make it show in the press conference later .

__________

" My name is Joseph from the F1 Magazine and my question is for Miss Y/N Senna . Y/N you were so good today and I am a 100 % that next year you will win the Championship . I can not help but wonder though and it is something that a lot of people are asking - today you came in the grid with some of your father's clothes . Is there a particular reason ? " He asked you .

" I actually do it all the time since some of his clothes fit me and I believe that he had the best style back then and since now Lewis has stolen that place I need to bring it back . " You answered smiling and making a little joke about Lewis that alot of people loved .

Especially him .

" That is great . My next question is for everyone and it is about what cars do you drive . Can we start with Mr . Vettel . " The interviewer asked with a smile .

" Well I have a Golf . " Carlos said and everybody laughed .

" And you Max ? " The guy asked him .

" I drive a Ferrari , not like someone else that drives a Golf or an almost 30 year old car . " Max said hating on Carlos and you .

You drove your father's famous red Honda NSX and actually own a really big percentage of the Honda NSX cars and you were extremely proud about it .

" Okay . See you on Twitter . " Carlos said know full well that Max is going to get so many new haters .

Sebastian was not proud , Kimi was laughing at Max's stupidity , Daniel was embarrassed and Lewis was furious .

" Y/N what do you have to say about this ? " The guy named Joseph asked you .

" First of all I agree with Carlos and second I am proud of driving such a car . Actually you can ask Mr. Mibe the CEO of Honda and he can assure you that my 30 year old Honda's are far more better that just a plain Ferrari . Thank you . " You answered making everyone in the room speechless .

" Well I totally agree . " Sebastian said laughing .

" She owns the division of the Honda Acura , she can buy all the Ferrari's he owns and plenty more . " Kimi said making everyone speechless again .

Carlos was right , because Twitter was going wild after the press conference was published .

__________

To say that you were mentally drained was a statement .

You were currently crying your eyes out .

Lewis and his dog Roscoe were on your side .

" I just wished the season didn't end like this . " You said while Lewis was hugging you .

" It's okay silly , everyone is on your side . Look even Kimi talked after a really long time . " Lewis said and you both laughed .

Suddenly you were both looking at each other in the eyes and before you noticed it Lewis had capped your face in his palms and pressed his lips at you .

You were so shocked that you did not realize that you had not kissed him back .

Your unresponsiveness made him believe that he was getting wrong .

'' I am so sorry Y/N I kno that you did- " Lewis said but you interupted him .

" Why did you stop ? " You asked him making him froze in his tracks .

It is safe to say that he kissed you back again something that went on about hours and hours on end until Roscoe got jealous of it and started to bark in your faces .

You stayed in Lewis hands for a while , until a scared Toto stormed inside the room .

" Next GP ? Imola , San Marino circuit . " He announced for both of you to hear , but was looking directly at you .

Imola , San Marino - where your father had lost his life .

__________

May , 1 2018 Imola , Italy - San Marino Grand Prix

"Today's atmosphere is heavy . We are in San Marino , Imola circuit where Ayrton Senna lost his life . Now we are waiting for the race to start as we have Y/N Senna Da Silva driving for the Mercedes AMG Petronas team . Toto Wolff specifically asked for the press to not be outside of the Mercedes pit . Y/N is already anxious and worried enough . We hope and pray for the best . In my opinion she is the best driver of this generation . " The same presenter that witnessed your father's death , spoke about you .

' 5 minutes till the race start's ' . You said to yourself .

You were inside your car , wearing your father's famous yellow helmet, his cross on your neck inside of your clothes .

Lewis had begged you not to do it .

Daniel and Carlos were totally afraid .

Kimi had retired .

Sebastian knew that it was dangerous but you wouldn't badge .

Your boyfriend - Lewis - was looking at you , pleading you with his eyes from his car to not do it .

Valtteri did not intervene .

You started from P4 , Sebastian in P3 , Valtteri in P2 and Lewis in P1 .

And the race started .

__________

You don't know how many laps you had done , you weren't counting them .

Everytime you approached the Tamburello racing line until you pass it , your heart was dropping on your stomach , you had trouble breathing .

You were thinking of him .

You thinking about your father .

Your mind was your enemy at this point telling you to 'look at the corner' .

You heart your companion was telling you 'do not look at the corner' .

'What if I lose control of the car and smash into the barier ? '

' What if I die ? '

' Mom is going to be devastated . '

'Lewis . . . oh my Lewis . . . '

' What if ? '

But despite your heart telling you to not look at the corner near the racin line in Tamburello , you did it and what you saw made everything stop .

__________

It is like you were watching the scene unfold it's self from afar .

You were back in 1994 .

Your car was on the other side of the road parked - you standing at the side of it .

Suddenly your father's car ran off the track and was struck an unprotected concrete barrier at 211km/h .

You could hear everything .

You could see everything .

You could smell everything .

Blood -

Your father's blood -

Tears streamed on your face like falls , your hands trembling while you were running to your father to save him .

But Death was far more powerful .

Before you could go and grab him , a hand engulfed your right wrist .

Your dad was standing besides you - his unconscious body still inside the car .

You started panicking , blindness covering your eyes - head dizzy .

" Y/N breath for me come on honey listen to me . " Your dad instructed you .

Trying to concentrate on your father's voice , you did not see his body getting lift out ofthe car , bones broken , blood everywhere .

After a while your father took you back to the side of your car , watching himself being lifted into a helicopter .

" What was the last thing you felt ? " You asked him .

" The taste of blood in my mouth and pain . " He answered calmly .

" I love you dad . " You said to him and hugged him again searching for his embrace .

You cried again .

" I love you too . Stop unsettling your mind with uneasy thoughts and go finish that race . Okay champion ? " Your father said to you before placing a soft kiss on your forehead .

Suddenly you were inside you car racing at 211km/h passing the Tamburello racing line - with your father's voice saying that he loves you watching him with tears in your eyes waiving at you from the corner .

__________

" AND Y/N SENNA DA SILVA IS THE WINNER OF THE IMOLA GRAND PRIX AND THE F1 WORLD CHAMPION OF 2018 " . The presenter scream in his microphone when your car overtook Sebastian's and finished in 1st place .

Your team was screaming , but all you could see and hear was your father saying ' I love you ' and ' I am so proud of you ' .

Only when Lewis hand landed on your shoulder you looked up - at him with tears in your red eyed from crying .

He helped you to get out of your car , took of your helmet and your balaclava , staring at you .

He grabbed your face - " What happened love ? " He asked you .

" I saw everything Lewis . I saw my dad . "

__________

You were currently standing with the Brazilisn flag on your shoulders , trophy on your hands , closed eys and head looking up , while everyone - even the fans - were all silent .

After you rised for your national anthem you asked for a minute of silence for your father .

The wind was blowing - and when something made you shiver but feel safe at the same time - you knew that your father was sitting besides you .

After one minute tears of happiness fell from your eyes .

__________

2023

You are now 28 years old , married with Lewis from 2019 with one beautiful baby boy .

You were still racing .

But today was a special day .

It was your son's birtand he was turning 3 years old .

You've desided with Lewis to go and wake him up , since you've prepared his favourite breakfast and after you would let him open his gifts .

" Goodmorning Ayrton Happy Birthday honey " You both said to your son to wake him up .

Mom's and Dad's and Thank you's could be heard all over the apartment as your son was driving his toy car around the house while holding a cookie .

Chocolate was plastered all over his face .

You were both happy smiling at him .

And then suddenly you heard your son screaming in the leaving room-

" I woak up in a new Ferrari . "

" I swear I am going to kill Carlos and Charles the moment I see them." Lewis said to you while you were uncontrollably laughing .

--------------------

@unimportantbabymilksharkte

@k----a27s

[sunny44]

Old vs new

Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x daughter

Warnings: none, just fluff

Summary: When Lewis is bored in his house and decide to do a instagram live with his daughter.

This is a request

It was a sunny afternoon and I was bored in the house, my wife was with her sister and I was at our house with my daughter who was doing something in her room and then I had the idea of doing an Instagram live witch is something I usually don’t do but since the fans lives Ava I thought it was a good ideia.

I called Ava saying to meet me in my trophies room and when I press the button to start the live, Ava entered the room and she sit in my lap and we immediately created a buzz as fans tuned in to witness our live.

"Hey everyone, I've got a very special lady here with me today," I said to the phone and Ava smiled and waved at everyone. "As you guys already now this is my daughter Ava. And she’s already in go kart to be the next Hamilton.”

Mia giggled, her eyes lighting up as she playfully jabbed, "Yeah, Dad, you're not as fast as you used to be. You're like, ancient in F1 years!"

The comment sparked laughter from Lewis and his audience. "Ancient, huh?" he responded, feigning shock. "Well, I might not be as young as I was when I started, but I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve!"

Ava’s eyes twinkled mischievously. "Oh, I've seen your tricks, Dad. I've also seen your old races on TV. Vintage stuff!"

The banter continued as they reminisced about Lewis's early days in racing. He recounted stories of his breakthrough races, while Mia giggled at the outdated racing gear he used to wear. "Hey, don't laugh too hard! Those suits were cutting-edge back then," Lewis protested, feigning offense.

Mia, her voice dripping with mock seriousness, quipped, "Yeah, sure they were, Dad. Just like those ancient cell phones you used!"

The playful teasing exchanged between father and daughter endeared them to their audience even more. Amidst the jokes, Lewis shared the valuable lessons he learned from his journey – the hard work, dedication, and resilience that drove him to become a champion.

"You know, Ava" Lewis began with a thoughtful expression, "racing isn't just about speed and trophies. It's about determination and pushing yourself beyond your limits. That's something you'll need to remember when you're the next Hamilton in F1."

Mia's eyes gleamed as she leaned closer to the camera. "Oh, I'll remember, Dad. And when I'm on that track, I'll make sure to remind everyone that the Hamilton legacy continues!"

Their connection was a beautiful blend of admiration and camaraderie. As the conversation flowed, Lewis turned the tables on Ava. "You know what, Ava? I think it's time for a challenge. How about we have a karting race this weekend? Old vs new!"

Ava's face lit up, excitement radiating from her. "You're on, Dad! Just remember, I've been practicing!"

As the live session drew to a close, Lewis shared his pride in his daughter's aspirations. "I'm not just her father, but also her biggest fan. If she chooses to step into the world of racing, I'll be there every step of the way."

The Instagram Live ended with promises of the upcoming karting showdown and a grateful farewell to the fans. Lewis and Ava had not only shared their love for racing but had given the world a glimpse into the genuine bond they shared – a bond that would undoubtedly continue to flourish as the next generation of the Hamilton legacy began to unfold.

[lh44girl]

The Jacket

The afterparty for the Vegas Grand Prix 2023 was a blur of neon lights, champagne toasts, and the electrifying hum of victory. Lewis Hamilton had delivered a stellar performance on the track, and the city of sin was now his playground. In a dimly lit corner of the club, his eyes locked onto hers—a French woman with piercing eyes, a red dress that hugged her curves like a second skin, and a smirk that challenged him.

Her name was Amélie, and she exuded an effortless confidence that intrigued him. Their connection was immediate, the conversation laced with flirtation and subtle tension. By the end of the night, they found themselves in her suite, the Strip glowing below as their bodies intertwined in a haze of passion.

When morning came, Lewis slipped out quietly, leaving behind his jacket—a leather black and red bomber embroidered with his initials and a subtle nod to his championship wins. He hadn’t meant to forget it, but in his haste, he left a piece of himself in her world.

Amélie smiled when she found it. A souvenir, she thought—a tangible reminder of a fleeting night with the man everyone adored.

One Year Later – Vegas Grand Prix 2024

The air buzzed with anticipation as the 2024 Vegas Grand Prix came around. Lewis arrived at the paddock with his usual swagger, focused but relaxed. He had almost forgotten about Amélie until he saw her in the crowd. She stood near the paddock fence, her eyes catching his like a sharp hook.

“Hi there ,” he said smoothly, approaching her during a quiet moment. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Did you?” she replied with a faint smirk. “I’m just here for the spectacle.”

They talked, but the ease from the year before was gone. He saw the questions in her eyes, the unspoken expectations. The night was young and as the year before after the Grand Prix ,they enjoyed it together intertwined in the sheets As Lewis was leaving before she could get too comfortable, Lewis decided to be upfront.

“Look,” he said, his tone calm but firm, “this was… fun. But that’s all it was. I don’t do commitments. It’s not personal.”

Amélie’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her demeanor. Her smile turned cold, almost calculating. “Of course,” she said with a shrug, her accent making the words sound deceptively light. “It’s just a fling, nothing more.”

But inside, she was seething. Not because of the rejection—she’d expected that. It was the arrogance, the casual dismissal of her as just another fleeting moment. If Lewis thought he could walk away without consequences, he was mistaken.

The Auction

Two weeks later, headlines exploded across motorsport and celebrity news outlets:

“Lost Lewis Hamilton Jacket Goes to Auction—Owner Unknown.”

The listing described the jacket in detail: “A unique piece from the seven-time World Champion, found under mysterious circumstances. A must-have for any fan.”

The bidding skyrocketed within hours, fueled by speculation and intrigue. Fans were desperate to own a piece of Lewis’s legacy, and the story only added to its allure.

When Lewis caught wind of the auction, he froze. The jacket wasn’t just a jacket—it was a custom piece, a one-of-a-kind design that no one else could possibly own. And he knew exactly where he’d left it.

His team scrambled to contain the story, but Amélie had been careful. She hadn’t named him explicitly, leaving just enough ambiguity to keep the scandal alive. The media was relentless, speculating about how the jacket had ended up in someone else’s possession and what it meant for Lewis’s personal life.

Confrontation

The next time Lewis saw Amélie, it was just before his final dance with Mercedes at abudabi Gp , where she wore the same red dress from the night they met. He cornered her in a quiet hallway, his jaw tight, his voice low and controlled.

“Why?” he asked, his eyes boring into hers. “What do you want?”

Amélie tilted her head, her smirk infuriatingly calm. “Revenge is a strong word. I’d call it… balance. You play with people, Lewis. But sometimes, people play back.”

He clenched his fists, exhaling sharply. “This isn’t a game.”

“Isn’t it?” she challenged, stepping closer. “You treated me like a fling, like I didn’t matter. So, I decided to remind you that actions have consequences.”

“You’re making this worse for both of us,” he said, his voice hard but tinged with frustration.

Amélie leaned in, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Perhaps. But at least I’m not the one pretending it’s all under control.”

With that, she walked away, leaving him standing there, the weight of her words and the fallout of her actions settling heavily on his shoulders.

The jacket ultimately sold for an astronomical sum, with rumors swirling about its origin for weeks. For Lewis, it was a stark reminder that not everything could be compartmentalized into the neat categories he preferred. And for Amélie, it was vindication—proof that even the unshakable Lewis Hamilton could be thrown off balance.even though she loved that jacket & kept it a secret hidden in her closet,wearing it from time to time on her bare body just to feel hugged by Lewis from that night. She never wanted the money nor to sell it but when she felt worthless by him a man she couldn’t handle it.

[jungwnies]

F1 GRID | the end of the season '24

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri ୨ৎ : synopsis : quiet nights at the hotel after a long race

୨ৎ : genre : some are happy & some are sad ୨ৎ : tws : none ୨ৎ : word count : 2531

୨ masterlist ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i am so proud of lando for being able to secure that wcc for mclaren, but i am SO sad seeing carlos drive in red for the last time, and seeing lewis have his last drive with mercedes :c

ʚ・max verstappen

the post-race buzz of abu dhabi had faded, leaving a quiet calm in max's hotel suite. he sprawled on the sofa, phone in hand, scrolling through memes with that trademark deadpan expression. p6 wasn't great—definitely not how he wanted to wrap the season—but the world championship trophy on his shelf said it all. he was untouchable, even on an off day.

you dropped onto the couch next to him, giving him a small smile. "not quite the result we were hoping for, huh?"

he tilted his head, barely fazed. "meh. one bad race doesn’t erase a good season." he tossed his phone onto the table, already over it. "at least now i don’t have to hear the word 'tyre degradation' for a while."

"exactly," you agreed, nudging his arm. "just endless beaches, lazy mornings, and maybe some sketchy tourist traps."

he smirked, his eyes lighting up for the first time all evening. "knowing you, that probably means camel racing or some falcon photo op where i end up holding a bird for instagram."

you laughed. "don’t pretend like you wouldn’t secretly enjoy it."

"maybe," he admitted with a faint grin. "but only if there’s good food after. priorities, you know?"

as you leaned into his side, you felt the tension melt away from him. the season was done, the pressure gone. and for once, max verstappen, the reigning world champion, was just a guy on a couch, ready to trade apexes for sunsets and podiums for bad tourist selfies.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

a bittersweet stillness filled the room—p4 after starting sixteenth was nothing short of remarkable, but tonight marked the end of an era. his last race with mercedes. the silver star that had defined his legacy, his dominance, was now in the rearview mirror.

you leaned into him, your head resting lightly on his shoulder. "what a drive, lewis," you murmured, pride laced in your voice. "it was magic out there, just like always."

he smiled faintly, his gaze fixed on the city lights beyond the window. "it felt good, you know? pushing through the field like that. it’s how i want to remember this team—fighting, always fighting." his voice was steady, but there was a weight behind it, a depth only you could hear.

"it’s hard to see this chapter end," you said softly, running your fingers along the edge of his hand. "so many years, so much history. but watching you today—watching you fight with every ounce of heart you’ve got—it’s impossible not to feel proud."

he turned to you then, his eyes warm, a quiet fire still flickering in them. "it’s sad, yeah. mercedes is family. but every journey has its end, and every end makes way for something new. it’s time. time for a new challenge."

you smiled, squeezing his hand. "and ferrari red will suit you, no doubt about it."

that earned a laugh from him, light but genuine, his shoulders finally easing. "we’ll see. it’ll be... different. but i’m ready for different. i have to be."

"you’ll thrive," you said, meeting his gaze with steady confidence. "because that’s who you are, lewis. you don’t just race—you redefine what’s possible."

he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "and having you by my side, that makes it all the better."

the evening stretched on as you reminisced about mercedes—about the victories, the struggles, the growth. there was sadness, yes, but also hope, an electric anticipation for the future. ferrari would be a new challenge, but lewis hamilton was built for challenges. and you? you’d be there, through it all, cheering him on as he wrote the next chapter of his already legendary story.

ʚ・george russell

the air in george’s hotel room was thick with emotions. lewis—his teammate, his mentor, his benchmark—was leaving for ferrari. the weight of it sat heavily on his shoulders, a silent pressure he hadn’t quite found the words to unpack.

you settled beside him on the bed, your hand resting lightly on his back. "you drove brilliantly today, george," you said softly, your tone filled with pride.

he gave you a faint smile, though his usual spark was dimmed. "thanks. it’s just... weird, you know? lewis not being here next season. he's been... well, everything. a teammate, a rival, someone to learn from."

"it’s a huge change," you agreed, your voice gentle. "but today, you showed exactly what you’re made of. you didn’t just race—you fought, george. and everyone saw it."

he turned to look at you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "but can i really lead this team now? without him?"

you met his gaze firmly, your conviction unwavering. "you don’t have to be lewis, george. you’ve already proven you're your own kind of leader—sharp, determined, and always hungry for more. you don’t need to fill anyone’s shoes because you’re carving out your own legacy."

his shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension giving way to a spark of confidence. "it’s just... lewis set such a high bar. and stepping into that space—it’s a lot."

"you don’t need to step into his space," you reminded him with a reassuring smile. "you’ve earned your own, george. you’ve fought for it, and you’re more than ready to take the reins."

he took a deep breath, the weight on his chest easing as resolve began to take its place. "this is my chance, isn’t it? to really prove myself."

"absolutely," you said, squeezing his hand. "and i’ll be right here, every step of the way, cheering for you."

his smile widened, more genuine this time, and he leaned in to kiss you softly. "thank you, love" he murmured. "that means everything."

as the night stretched on, you stayed by his side, feeling his determination grow stronger with each passing moment. george russell was ready to rise, ready to lead, and ready to show the world exactly why he belonged at the front of the pack. and you couldn’t wait to witness it all.

ʚ・carlos sainz

arlos sank onto the balcony of his hotel suite, the cool night air brushing against his skin, a sharp contrast to the adrenaline and heat of the race. it his last race with ferrari, the team that had become more than a job.

you slipped behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, resting your chin lightly on him. "carlos," you said softly, your voice thick with emotion, "you were amazing today. truly incredible."

he let out a quiet sigh, leaning back into your embrace, his eyes fixed on the city lights. "yeah, it was a good one. but leaving ferrari? that’s… it’s hard. really hard."

"i know," you murmured, your cheek pressing against his. "you and charles, ferrari… it felt like it fit, like it was meant to be."

he nodded slowly, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. "we were a good team, weren’t we? two competitive guys who somehow managed not to kill each other every weekend," he joked, though his voice carried a faint sadness. "but, ah, next season? it’s going to feel strange not seeing his stupid smile in the garage."

you chuckled softly. "but you’ll always have the memories," you reminded him. "and you’ll make new ones, new rivalries, new podiums."

he turned to look at you, his warm brown eyes meeting yours. "do you remember my first race with ferrari?" he asked, a grin breaking through the sadness. "lando was on the podium with me. and now he’s here again for my last one. crazy, no?"

"it’s like the universe has a sense of humor," you said, your smile mirroring his. "full circle moments like that don’t just happen by chance."

he laughed softly, his shoulders relaxing a bit. "yeah, maybe. or maybe it’s just one of those little things that reminds me to enjoy the journey."

you held him close, knowing how much leaving ferrari meant to him. the passion, the heart, the pure determination he’d poured into every single lap. but you also knew that carlos was unstoppable—wherever he went, whatever he faced, he would find his way to the top.

"wherever you go, whatever happens," you said, your voice steady and filled with love, "i’ll be right there, cheering you on."

his arms wrapped around you, pulling you in tightly. "i know," he whispered, his voice thick with gratitude. "and that’s what keeps me grounded. thank you, mi amor."

ʚ・charles leclerc

the roar of the abu dhabi crowd had faded, leaving only the soft hum of the air conditioning in charles’ hotel room. he sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the trophy for his third-place finish. starting p19 after that engine penalty, clawing his way up to the podium—it was an extraordinary drive. but there was a weight in his gaze, a shadow of disappointment.

you sat beside him, your hand finding his. "charles," you said gently, your voice full of admiration, "that was incredible. you were on fire out there."

he offered a small smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "it wasn’t enough," he muttered, his voice heavy with frustration. "we were so close to the WCC... but mclaren just had too much."

"you did everything you could," you assured him, squeezing his hand. "no one could have driven that race better. you started from the back, charles. and you still ended up on the podium. that’s... that’s amazing."

he ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. "i know, i know. it's just hard. we were so close. it stings."

you gently cupped his face, lifting his chin so his eyes met yours. "charles leclerc, you are one of the best out there. don’t let this one race make you forget everything you've accomplished this season. you fought for every position, you never gave up, and you made us all proud."

a real smile tugged at his lips, the weight on his shoulders easing slightly. "thank you," he whispered, leaning into your touch. "i needed that."

there was a brief pause, and a flicker of sadness passed through his eyes. "it’s gonna be strange without carlos next year," he said quietly, his voice low.

you felt a pang for him. you knew how close he and carlos were, both on and off the track. "i know," you murmured, your heart aching. "but you'll still have him as a friend. and you’ll both keep achieving incredible things."

he nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "he’s like a brother to me. it won’t be the same without him."

you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close. "i know it won’t," you whispered, running your fingers through his hair. "but i know you ,charles. you'll adapt. you’ll keep shining."

he held you tighter, drawing comfort from your embrace, "what would i do without you mon amour."

you let out a soft laugh and place a gentle peck on his lips, "you'd probably be a mess without me, i love you."

"i love you too." he told you, snuggling closer.

ʚ・lando norris

the echoes of the abu dhabi celebrations had finally faded, leaving a peaceful quiet in lando's hotel suite. he was sprawled on the sofa, the trophy resting on his chest, his eyes half-closed as a contented sigh escaped his lips. the excitement from the victory was still buzzing inside him, but a calm had settled in, like he was finally letting everything sink in.

you curled up beside him, your finger tracing the lines of the trophy. "still can't believe it, huh?" you whispered, a soft smile on your face.

lando chuckled, a grin tugging at his lips. "yeah, it's still kinda crazy. like, i feel like i'm dreaming, but don't wanna wake up."

"you were amazing today, lando," you said, your voice filled with pride. "and the whole season, really. you led mclaren to victory. it’s historic."

he grinned, his eyes lighting up. "yeah, it really is, isn’t it? bringing mclaren back to the top after all this time... feels unreal. but in the best way possible."

"you deserve all the praise," you reassured him, snuggling closer. "you’ve worked so hard, and you’ve grown so much as a driver. i'm so proud of you."

he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you in closer. "couldn’t have done it without you, honestly," he murmured, his voice warm. "you’ve been with me through all of it—my biggest supporter."

"and i always will be," you promised, feeling your heart swell. "through the wins, the losses, i’ll be right here."

he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft kiss. "and that's all i need," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

as you lay together, bathed in the soft glow of the hotel room lights, the weight of his achievement settled in. lando norris, the man who led mclaren to the top of the world again, securing the WCC after 26 years. this moment, this victory, would be something you both would remember forever. the future was bright, and you couldn’t wait for the next adventure—together.

ʚ・oscar piastri

back in the comfort of his hotel room, oscar kicked back with a grin plastered on his face, the adrenaline from the race replaced by his usual playful energy. p10 wasn’t the podium he’d wanted, but who cared? mclaren had just clinched the WCC, and that was more than enough for him.

“we did it!” he shouted, arms thrown up in the air, his grin wider than ever. “champions, baby!”

you chuckled, shaking your head at his excitement. “you guys were incredible today, oscar. especially lando, bringing home the win.”

“yeah, lando was on fire!” oscar agreed, grabbing a celebratory drink from the minibar. “though, i wouldn’t mind a podium myself…” he paused, a glint of mischief lighting up his eyes. “if it weren’t for someone deciding to use my car as a brake early on.”

you raised an eyebrow, trying to hide your smile. “ah, yes. max verstappen. saw that incident. bit of a rough start, huh?”

“rough is putting it lightly,” oscar grumbled with a smirk, taking a swig of his drink. “the guy treated me like a bowling pin! swear i saw stars, maybe even a few constellations.”

“well, you can’t deny it made for some exciting racing,” you teased, nudging him playfully.

“exciting for you, maybe,” he shot back with a grin. “i was just trying to survive out there! dodging debris, angry drivers... felt like a demolition derby.”

“but you made it through,” you pointed out. “and you contributed to the team’s victory. that’s what counts.”

he gave a dramatic nod, his humor returning full force. “true, true. who needs a podium when you’ve got bragging rights for surviving a verstappen torpedo?”

you burst out laughing, unable to hold back. “that’s the spirit babe."

as laughter filled the room, you couldn’t help but admire oscar’s resilience and ability to keep things light, even when things didn’t go his way. he might’ve been a little salty about the verstappen incident, but he was genuinely happy for the team, and that’s what made him such an asset. next season was going to be one to remember, and you couldn’t wait to see what this rising star would achieve.

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[carpehistoryandthepens]

Legacy (what is a legacy?) Part 19

It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see I wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me

Hamilton, the world was wide enough. LMM.

one, two, three, four, Five, six seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen

Summary: Mike is 13. Born May 2009. Sid didn’t know he had a son. All Mike had was hope and a prayer for his and his half-sister’s safety.

(Sid is a dad of a teen he didn’t know about AU) Sidgeno.

Warnings: (for the total story) post-child abuse (all off-screen but it affects things and is spoken about often), learning how to parent, panic attacks, anxiety, based on the 22-23 season, that said last season when i wrote these tags originally, but hey, it takes me a LONG time to write, so now its no longer last season, OCs?, the realization about sexuality. Post breakups. Desperate lack of in-depth research for CPS in both PA/CA, melodrama?, kidfic, angst, slowburn, playing fast and loose with the law for drama/storytelling purposes.

-

Mike stared out the window of the kitchen, where he was putting dirty dishes in the (working!) dishwasher from breakfast. They just had a full breakfast that was more than just pop-tarts. He debated putting the food on the list to pay Sid back. He had an Excel spreadsheet on his mama's phone now. Children were expensive.

"I mean, he's weak on the right side. I think I can take advantage of that." Sid said, in between helping Marisol with some alphabet homework in Spanish.

Mike chose not to add what they ate as he finished the loading dishes. Sid already had the ingredients in his pantry. They had other things to worry about today.

Marisol sat at the kitchen table, trying to figure out how to write some of the alphabet. She was having trouble remembering what language had the double ll's and that English didn't start sentences with an upside-down exclamation point.  Nikita was next to her, packing his small backpack, talking with Geno in a mix of primarily Russian and some English.

"Think that goalie coach would have work on right side since last game. He must know." Geno said. "We saw in video review. That big of a weakness? Must have been worked on."

Sid sighed and immediately launched into his counter-argument. "But yeah, right, but so doesn't mean it's always been fixed!"

The sounds that filled the kitchen were familiar, but Mike couldn't place what it reminded him of. He missed the sound of his Mama's Spanish and his Papa's Spanglish.

Sid and Geno leave in the afternoon for the first roadie.

Mike was terrified. The nanny Geno and his wife hired for Nikita had also agreed to watch them. It was just an overnight trip, flying in the night before, morning skate, game, then fly home. They would be back early morning the next night.

The nanny, Bea, a lovely older lady who spoke passable Russian and Italian, was arriving in less than ten minutes. She understood enough Spanish to understand Marisol. It wasn't the perfect setup, but clearly, Sid, Geno, and Anna had tried. Mike was grateful to them all; he was sure they were complicated.

From what Mike overheard Sid and Geno discussing during Bea's interview, Anna wanted a nanny who could speak English, Spanish, Russian, and French. However, that combination was hard to find. Let alone someone willing to sign an NDA. Honestly, Mike wasn't quite sure what to make of Anna. He hadn't seen her except for the two nights she had spent at Sid's, but he heard her often - Nikita liked to call his mom. Understandable. The only thing he was sure of about Anna was that she loved her son dearly and wanted to ensure he was happy and well-educated.

Marisol's voice was what Mike heard the most in the hubbub of the kitchen. That might have to do with knowing her for much longer, or it could be from the need to ensure she was safe, but she sounded happy.

In the last two months, Mike had gone from being unsure he would have a safe place to sleep at night to having his world shift upside down. He had gone from living solely to protect Marisol and worrying, let alone being able to skate again, to having a personal trainer, private ice sessions, a therapist for Marisol and him, and a private tutor, hell-bent on getting them both onto grade level.

It was a little overwhelming.

Mike turned from the dishes and slid into a chair at the table. Geno said something in Russian that made Nikita laugh; Sid snickered, understanding the joke, but he didn't take his eyes away from Marisol and her homework. It was almost like being at home, with his Mama and Papi getting ready for work as he and Marisol were dropped off at the YMCA before school.  Mike felt like he was outside of the room, just watching the action happen.

It was a feeling that Mike was slowly getting used to that he was allowed to watch, and when he was ready, he could join in. In the past few weeks, the conversations he and Sid had participated in made that clear he was allowed to choose.

Just before the season's first game, Sid had sat him down with Helena to figure out what Mike wanted.

It had been a difficult question to answer, Mike had found out. Helena had spent most of the meeting reassuring Mike that not knowing what he wanted yet wasn't bad and his future wasn't set in stone. However, She and Sid told him that having an idea of his future would help them ensure he would be happy. They didn't mention Marisol for the whole conversation.

All Mike had been able to say was that he wanted to go to college on a hockey scholarship. It was the only thing he knew for sure. He had to pay Sid back somehow for the care of Marisol. Maybe a degree in tech or engineering? Something that made money. He wanted a college degree and hockey. He didn't even know what school. Before, he had some dreams of UCLA, Cal State, or maybe even Arizona State? When he voiced the schools, he realized he was now on the East Coast; he might need to look into universities that were local to him now. RMU was a good state school, wasn't it? Did he count as a resident of California or Pennsylvania now?

Helen had said it was complicated, but they would know by college entry time, and she could get him a list of schools with engineering degrees.

(Sid had nodded and said that was totally possible, but by the way, had he ever been talked to by USA Hockey? Helena had given Sid such a stink-eye at his question.

Mike had been blind sighted by the question. Sid and others (including coaches!) saw something in his skating. Mike had answered honestly that no, but he never really could go to the camps that USA Hockey was at.

Sid already had the information for Mike's old coach, Robert Jones, but he had retired and moved since Mike and Marisol were picked up by his Aunt. Coach Rob was the only reason he was on that team. Usually, it would have been out of Mike's reach.)

Sid looked up from helping Marisol, "Thank you for getting the dishes, Mike."

"Yeah, for sure. No worries," Mike said, sitting down across from the kids and adults. Geno grinned at his words for some reason.

Mike was still getting used to the idea of being thanked for being assigned chores. His Aunt and Rodger had just demanded, and he would be yelled at when he didn't do the chores exactly right. His mom and dad hadn't openly thanked him, but Mike had always felt appreciated for his work.

The chores conversation was another that was weighing on his mind. Geno had brought it up. Saying it was good for Nikita to have an assigned chore and asking if Mike would help Nikita learn responsibly by also having a chore.

Mike was a little suspicious, but his parents had him doing his own laundry, and he was responsible for cleaning the bathroom. His Aunt and uncle were very determined that Mike would do everything around the house, even the stuff he had never done before – like vacuuming. That was his mom's job. His dad cooked, and they all did the dishes.  

Sid had suggested that Mike take over the dishes. He already had a person who came and did all the cleaning, and everyone did their own laundry - even Nikita. Mike agreed, but only if Marisol could also get a chore. She was assigned to pick up the toys in her and Mike's room.

It was odd having a say, but Mike appreciated it all. It was something he could do to be useful and not a burden to Sid. (The whole thing had made Geno smile broadly. Nikita's chore was to take out the trash every night.)

"Did you have an idea, Mike?" Sid asked, going back to the upcoming game that night. "About the goalie?"

"Is this Primeau?" Mike asked, the question coming to him out of nowhere.

Geno shook his head, "No. Montembeault."

Mike crunched his face in thought. "The one who's weak on the upper glove side?"

"See!" Sid said, "Mike sees it!"

"And, goalie coach would see it too," Geno said firmly.

"Isn't he also weak on the meld with the posts?" Mike asked. "On the left?"

That got a pause from Sid and Geno before Geno nodded slowly. "Yes, yes. Mike right, goalie weak on the left, always leave a gap between him and posts in video."

"He does," Sid breathed. "That's an option to deal with it."

With a happy noise, Nikita finished packing his backpack. His uniform was more like the catholic school down the street from Mike's parent's old apartment than like a charter school. Mike hadn't worn a uniform after elementary school, and even then, it was more like a strictly enforced dress code rather than a uniform. Nikita raised the backpack up for Geno to inspect.

Geno took Nikita's Switch from the largest pocket, "Not allowed, Nikusha." He said. "Know better. School gets mad."

Nikita frowned mutinously. "But no one wants to play during lunch! Or at least not play soccer!"

"Then read book. Not game. Game for home after homework." Geno said sternly.

"Papa!" Nikita protested, but he fell silent under Geno's stern look. "Могу я хотя бы выбрать книгу?" (Can I at least pick the book?)

Mike didn't understand what Niktia wanted, but Geno seemed to agree. "Da." Geno said firmly. "Go get."  As Nikita dashed away to his room, Geno sighed to Sid. "Anna better at this. She say, he do. No complaint."

"It's ok, G," Sid said, reaching out and fixing Marisol's pigtails before they fell out completely. Mike hadn't done them very tightly earlier – he would have to do better to ease the burden on Sid. "Some things come in time – isn't that what you said to me?"

Geno nodded, but he still looked worried. Nikita returned with two books – one in English and another in Russian. Geno raised an eyebrow but didn't protest. He gently collected Nikita and herded him toward the door.

Nikita called out a farewell, that Mike responded to absently, but Marisol was enthusiastic in her goodbye.

Mike chewed his lower lip. It had been a long time since he had heard happy goodbyes in the mornings. Rodger and Aunt Cynthia didn't talk to him like that, to either of them like that. Just demanded that he respect them and 'love' them in ways he never would. Mostly, they lost their chances when they treated Marisol like shit.

The latest conversation involving Sid's lawyer and Helena occurred two days earlier. Helena and Sid's lawyer explained it to him, faces serious but not hopeless. His Aunt and her husband had threatened that they would fight for custody.

When Helena's counterpart in California had told them that Mike was safe in another state but refused to tell them where he was, apparently Rodger lost his mind at the care worker.

This was being used as evidence Mike was right to run away. However, he did essentially kidnap his sister, which made things more complicated. According to Helena, his Aunt and her husband wouldn't push for custody of Marisol.

If they won, if a judge agreed that Mike needed to stay with them rather than Sid, then Marisol wouldn't have a legal base to stay with Sid. She would either return to Cynthia and Rodger or end up in the foster system.

Mike was terrified of his Aunt and her husband and the power they still held over them both. They weren't even sure what state they would be filing in. The parental information was in Pennsylvania, but Mike and his Aunt were from California.

The whole thing would be complicated. "Mike!" Marisol said, thrusting a paper at him just as the doorbell rang, "Mira!"

Marisol's paper was work she had been working on with Sid's help.  "Oh, that's nice," he praised. She had gotten more of the letters correct than the last time. And her 'e' only had three lines rather than four. "You did so much better!"

In the distance, in the front hall, Sid greeted Bea, their nanny. Mike hated the idea of needing a nanny; he was a teenager! Except, Sid and Geno (and Helena) were determined not to let Mike take care of Niktia and Marisol alone. Mike had to accept not being responcible for the kids would be nice.

Apparently, Bea was short for Beatriz, but she insisted on 'Bea.' At first, it was 'Aunt Bea' but one meltdown by Marisol later, it was just 'Bea.' Mike was simply relieved that Marisol's actions didn't cause Bea to quit on the spot – like Cynthia had always said she wanted to do when Marisol started to cry. The less Mike remembered about Rodger's reaction to Marisol crying the better.

"You ready for a fun day with Bea?" Mike asked. The plan was that the four of them (him, Marisol, Bea, and Sid) would go to the rink soon. Mike and Marisol's tutor would meet them there, and then a trainer would meet Mike on the other rink.

While he and Marisol hadn't been to a game yet, seeing the Pen's practice was still cool. Mike was learning a whole lot just watching the practice. Sid said something about introducing Mike to a coach soon.

Bea would not usually come with them to the rink from Sid's house, but as Sid was leaving on a roadie immediately after, they decided they would take two cars.

Marisol cheered.

[luxury-nightmare]

and The End, requested by my mom. This one was kinda tricky to find something for because if you push The End in a different direction, it just becomes the others fears. But eventually I settled on the fear of being forgotten, of the lack of a legacy, and I combined that with the story of the earl king (mostly just as a Hawaii part 2 reference) to create this lady. Her design, at least her avatar form, was heavily inspired by @gigizetz thatanos design with the butterflies and stuff, but I wanted to add a subtle moon motif because, again, Hawaii part 2 reference. Her human design was based off the bullet from Hamilton (exposing myself as a hamilfan in the year of our lord 2025)

so backstory. I wanted to make her Victorian or at least less modern because of her subject matter (I know it’s not a super accurate design for the Victorian era but I’m no @lovesart23. I just looked up Victorian on Pinterest and ran with it). So essentially she was a roughly upper class women, married off to some rich man cause misogyny, but he eventually fell sick and died as one did in the 1800s, and passed the disease to her. But her sickness wasn’t natural, she kept hallucinating a being, cloaked in grey robes, and she was utterly convinced she was going to be forgotten. Because what had she done with her life? So she started journaling feverishly, documenting every detail of her life in a desperate attempt to not be lost to time. Most of those journals went on to become Leitners in their own right. Eventually, she succumbs to her sickness and takes the place of the being who was stalking her as the earl queen.

Ironically, she wasn’t actually forgotten. She lives on in infamy through ghost stories and church gossip. “The Weeping Widow” they call her, went mad after her husband died. She wasn’t forgotten by the people around her, she was forgotten by herself. Her becoming took her memories, wiped the slate clean of who she used to be, and all she can do is stalk those terrified of death above all else (so Jonah/Elias is definitely her main target)

bonus: Spiral and Corruption have names now! Corruption is now Kathryn Woods courtesy of @gravemations, and The Spirals both have names because I’m putting them in WCS. The human is one Lawerence Flynn from my sister (fun fact, she tried to name him Jonathan. Twice) and the creation is now the L'appel du vide or Vide for short. L'appel du vide Is a French term meaning “call of the void”, and it refers to the little voice in the back of your brain telling you to jump on a high ledge.

I don’t have the next fear lined up, so I’m hoping for requests

Pose reference by @mellon-soup

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[wehavecometoanend--maybe]

I've been tagged by the dearest @transjjester 💕 so here are ten songs from my shuffled on repeat

1. Ten Duel Commandments - Hamilton

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine - I hope these aren't all gonna be from Hamilton...

2. Wait for me (Reprise) - Hadestown

Show the way the world could be *cries*

3. The Election of 1800 - Hamilton

honestly I get why burr shot hamilton

4. Waving through the window - Dear Evan Hansen

tap tap tapping on the glass, can I stop having this stuck in my head

5. Guns and Ships - Hamilton

Daveed Diggs won his Tony for a reason he carries the whole show let's be real

6. Take a Break - Hamilton

best part of the song is philip. also, imagine if hamilton just took that break. man should have listened to his wife....

7. Chant II (live) - Hadestown (original cast)

I love it so much, I think it has been on my on repeat for months. Persephone's part is so so so so so good, especially the flow of: "Love is when he came to me begging on his bended knees to please have pity on his heart and let him lay me in the dirt" I'm so sad it was cut later on, even if Chant (Reprise) is also great.

8. That would be Enough - Hamilton

I'm so jealous of Phillipa Soo's voice (and I would be so embarrassed of having to sing with her if I was LMM). But also I feel like this song is often overlooked, it's so quiet and soft compared to the songs surrounding it and at first glance maybe not that important but oh oh oh

"We don't need a legacy.... Oh let me be a part of the narrative..." I love foreshadowing <3

Also the piano theme at the end... returning as main theme in 'its quiet uptown" ..... Listen Hamilton is not without flaws but it's good musically and I hate it.

9. What the Heck I Gotta Do - 21 Chump Street

Its fun, what can I say. I like Anthony Ramos voice, I promise I'm not a LMM stan.

10. The Challenge - Epic

Queen of Ithaca, queen of my heart 🏹 ❤️

tagging: @chthonickore @ociels @deluxinn @girlgregorsamsa @burningdragoncollector @nullians @sowlmates everyone who would like to do it! love finding new music <33

[leejenowrld]

what type of music does each character like

- anon rosie

y/n she listens to music like it’s language. her playlists are chaotic but intentional: 90s r&b, shoegaze, acoustic heartbreak, old jazz, new soul, and one angry hyperpop track she never skips. she likes lyrics that cut her open, phoebe bridgers, fka twigs, frank ocean, jeff buckley. the kind of music that feels like grief with eyeliner on. she annotates songs. and sometimes, she lies on her back with her headphones in, listening to the same track for hours just to feel something flicker inside her chest again. she’d never admit it, but she once cried to a mashup of a james blake song and a basketball game montage. she calls it research.

jeno he listens to rap, but not the kind you’d expect. it’s methodical, focused. kendrick. j. cole. early kanye. no distractions, just bars and meaning. but his secret indulgence is film scores. hans zimmer. ludwig göransson. he likes music that builds big, layered, cinematic, like it’s soundtracking his legacy. when he’s alone, when it’s late and the lights are off, he plays sade. something about her voice makes him remember who he is underneath the pressure. y/n once caught him humming along to smooth operator and never let it go.

mark a music boy, obviously. he plays guitar, has too many vinyls, and his spotify wrapped always looks like a festival lineup. indie rock, folk, jazz, funk, lo-fi. he loves live recordings, the kind where you can hear the audience cheer. he thinks lyrics are important but it's texture that gets him, he once described a track as “tasting like sunburn on brick,” and y/n nearly walked out. he plays background playlists when people are over, but when he’s alone, it’s nothing but sad-boy singer-songwriters who whisper over acoustics. leon bridges, nick drake, keaton henson.

areum pop girl through and through but curated pop. she listens to albums like art exhibits: marina, robyn, rina sawayama, raye. she’s into layered production, experimental bridges, big glittery soundscapes. she loves a disco bassline and a feminist lyric. but her real weakness is melancholic dance, the kind of songs you cry to in the club. she’s definitely screamed mirrorball by taylor swift while high in a glitter eyeshadow smudge. she has a playlist titled "euphoria but i'm dissociating."

karina hyper-specific playlists for every mood. her music taste is very “i saw the world end and took notes.” lana, mitski, halsey, ethel cain. she likes dream pop and trip-hop, dark ambient remixes and soundcloud edits. music that floats just above drowning. she also loves string-heavy compositions, orchestral covers of pop songs, string quartets arranged for heartbreak. she once sent y/n a 15-minute cello piece and said “this sounds like me.” and it did.

jaemin he listens to music like he’s trying not to feel anything. minimal, clean, chillwave. lo-fi beats. instrumental hip-hop. jazz loops. but then out of nowhere, he’ll put on a heartbreak banger and vibe like it’s a casual tuesday. the guy has range, he’ll go from daniel caesar to arctic monkeys to olafur arnalds without blinking. but his biggest guilty pleasure? broadway soundtracks. he knows all the words to hamilton and he’s a little embarrassed about it.

donghyuck eclectic and dramatic. his playlists are chaos but they slap. queen, prince, lil nas x, tyler the creator, doja cat, hozier, tame impala. he loves genre-bending and performance, music that’s theatrical, sexy, and layered. he’s the type to sing all the backing vocals, harmonies, and ad libs like his life depends on it. every playlist he makes has at least one old 80s track that he claims he discovered first. and yes, he’s cried to the night we met by lord huron while drunk.

yangyang coolest taste. deep cuts, rare finds, international bangers. he loves house, techno, afrobeat, and experimental r&b. he goes to underground shows and has favorite producers no one’s ever heard of. he listens to music with layered percussion, smart samples, and a groove you can’t ignore. he has a playlist called “sounds like slow sex on marble floors” and it’s genuinely amazing. he also listens to anime scores and gets deeply emotional about them.

chenle his playlists are full of oldies and classics. queen, elton john, stevie wonder. he loves 70s rock, 90s alt, and early 2000s korean ballads. he sings along loud. music is joy for him. but he also has a playlist full of classical music he listens to when he’s studying or alone — mostly chopin, debussy, and ryuichi sakamoto. he once caught himself crying in the back of an uber because clair de lune started playing and the driver asked if he was okay.

shotaro dance music, always. he loves k-pop, j-pop, funk, early 2000s hip hop, anything you can move to. his playlists are pure serotonin. bruno mars, twice, new jeans, usher, nct dream — anything with rhythm, anything with joy. he also loves old-school love songs — mariah, whitney, brian mcknight. he sings so loudly in the shower. and when he’s in love? every song is about you. he’ll text you a spotify link and say “this is us.”