purplesectorlew

[purplesectorlew]

part 2 out tonight!! ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

U N E T H I C A L - LH44

author's note: hiii! first chapter, slightly slow but it gets good, promise <3 angst, smut, fluff.. this is just the beginning to set the scene!! pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Musician!Reader wc: 4.4k!! summary: Amid champagne, fast cars and the blinding lights of fame, two people collide: a musician aching for quiet. A driver addicted to chaos. Neither is looking for connection. Neither trusts what they see in the other. But sometimes, the most dangerous thing is being noticed. warning: alcohol use, slight suggestive themes, paparazzi/press culture, strong language (mild)

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

currently listening to: In The Night - The Weeknd ─•──── 𖦤

The festival set in Spain had been electric. Thousands of voices singing your soul back to you.  Breathing your songs to life - a sea of people who bled the same way you did. Every strum of your guitar, every key played on the piano, transformed the stage into what felt like a home. You basked in the feeling of peace, of wholeness, that you felt as the last song faded and the lights finally dimmed . Then - water, rehydration, and a blur of sky and clouds on a private jet to Monaco. 

Monaco. Not particularly a place you felt comfortable in - yet. It was beautiful, really. In that airbrushed, postcard kind of way. Turquoise waters and a golden sheen of sunlight staining the Mediterranean stone. A private paradise. Yet, you felt parachuted into a circus of fast cars, champagne you still couldn’t quite afford, and Dior. Lots and lots of Dior.  

Jet lag and adrenaline misfiring all at once,  you blinked and found herself in the bathroom of a penthouse in Monte Carlo. Black marble sinks with a line of lipsticks discarded like empty bullets. An open purse strung across the side spilling mascara, a stack of Euros and the glint of an open condom packet. Classy.  This was the thing about Monaco, there was an air of carelessness about the paradise. Everything and everyone here was untouchable, distant, barely real. Untethered to reality. The bass of the music blaring from outside the bathroom vibrated into your bones. A heartbeat. A safety net. Staring at your reflection in the mirror under bright bulbs that felt clinical, you couldn’t think of any place you’d rather not be. The taste of champagne was still on your tongue, like fizzy high notes at the back of your teeth. You leant over the sink and applied your lip gloss, a soft pink with a hint of a shimmer that sparkled when the light hit the right way when you smiled. You adjusted the straps of your long, black, silk dress that flowed over your body like a hum of a soft song. It didn’t cling, it cascaded…beautiful and effortless. You pressed the silver ring on your right hand, crafted out of an old guitar string, to your bottom lip in an attempt to ground yourself. Then, your phone buzzed - Maya, tour manager, confidant, right hand woman. Arguably the funniest, bluntest, most protective woman you could ever wish to always be on your side. Even when she forced you to attend parties you could not particularly care any less about.

Maya: 1 1 : 14pm - You’ll thank me when the photos run. Be visible! X Reply: 1 1: 1 5pm - i’m in bloody monaco, there’s no paparazzi Maya. but im here, at least. Ur so lucky i love u x

You rolled your eyes and closed them, mustering every last ounce of energy into your severely depleted social battery. Deep breaths. The sun had set hours ago; you always seemed to miss the soft parts of the day. You had hardly seen a sunset in months, often performing through them, but never taking a beat to actually watch. To be still, calm, appreciate the view. A stranger knocks onto the bathroom door calling out - “You’re on in five!”. Of course you were. You’d promised the party host one acoustic song because musicians always get asked, and what are you if not performing? You straightened, hearing the bass outside change, a shift in the room’s rhythm you couldn’t name.

Lewis was fashionably late, as always. The energy tilted as soon as he stepped in. Conversations dipped, heads turned. Black tailored suit trousers, a light green shirt with the top four buttons undone - probably two too many. His chest, inked and muscular, glimpsed between folds of expensive fabric. Cedar and citrus cologne threaded through the low-lit room. Sharp jaw accentuated by a perfectly trimmed short beard and dark, unforgivingly deep, brown doe eyes. The unforgettable sparkle in them. His bronzed curls caught in the low lights of the party. He looked like he knew exactly who he was, how good he looked, and that he could get anything and everything he wanted. 

He waltzed into the penthouse like it was his, wrapped up in a whirlwind of people. A publicist at his elbow, a teammate just behind, a beautiful brunette actress whose name he’d already forgotten. Instantly, people orbited him like he was the sun. He liked parties like this: pretty women, good music, expensive alcohol. The noise of it all. The fact that as soon as he entered, he was the event. He’d made quite the name for himself. The persona shielded him as much as he enjoyed living up to the performance; a playboy, a party animal. He just liked having a good time, and who was he if he didn’t maintain the image people had curated for him? It did get boring sometimes though, so he just sped up and outran his own chaos. Easy. Moved on to the next party, woman, friend group. The noise he created everywhere he went became a comfort blanket, one that he excelled in. He wouldn’t ever admit it but it had gotten to the point that he was worried the silence might be too loud if he stopped now. 

And then, across the room.. her. At first it was a silhouette, a wine glass slotted between her slender fingers. A ring made out of a guitar string on her right hand. The voices that were attempting to talk to him stilled into a hum of background noise as he took her in. The silk black dress wrapped perfectly around her curves. The perfect slope of her nose. Her full lips shimmering under the light when she smiled. But it wasn’t what she was wearing or her features. It was the quiet gravity that seemed to be pulling him in. The way she looked like she was listening to the room for something that no one else could hear but her. Her head was tilted slightly as if to get a better listen, her soft, warm eyes seemed to say everything and nothing at once. Then she laughed at something someone said and he felt it like a gear slip, like taking a corner far too quickly. His stomach felt as though it physically flipped- like he had driven over a road bump at high speed. He instantly looked away to compose himself. What just happened? What WAS that? He cleared his throat, put on his best charming smile and continued talking to the tornado of people around him as he adjusted his shirt sleeves and tried his absolute hardest to not stare at her. He told himself to focus on the people around him, forced a smile at the beautiful brunette that was now clinging to his arm. That lasted three minutes. 

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes couldn’t stray away long enough for their eyes to not meet. Lewis tilted his head and smiled - the usual charming, disarming smile that always opened doors for him. It didn’t seem to open yours. He watched the corners of your mouth twitch up slightly in response as you returned a polite nod. Were you amused? Were you dismissing him? Something in his chest tightened, sharp and quick, before pride smoothed it over.  A challenge. He liked that. Before he could even process what his feet were doing, the driver was crossing the room. leaving the brunette woman with the rest of the crowd. 

They didn’t ask each other’s names. They didn’t have to. He knows who you are. Of course he does.. 

“You look like you’re mentally changing the key of this song”, Lewis murmured, leaning against the table next to you

“Would help if it had one”, your glance towards the DJ almost pitying, “Who tries to mix two songs in different keys anyway?”.

Lewis’s smile widened - right up until you went to walk past him.. The normally confident, charismatic driver scrambled for something to say. Anything to keep your attention on him for more than five seconds. 

“So.. uh, you write songs right?” He stammered far too quickly causing you to turn and narrow your eyes slightly at him.. Smooth. Real smooth, Lewis.

“So… you drive cars?”, you responded flatly. Oh. Lewis lets out an incredulous laugh to cover up the internal stab at his pride he felt. He was used to reverence from most people, especially women. This kind of indifference tasted different, new. 

Lewis leaned a little closer. Enough to inhale the vanilla and caramel scent that knocked him almost breathless before he managed a far more even, “Yeah. Yeah, I do drive cars”. 

You huffed a small laugh. Not quite mocking, but not impressed either. He felt his ego take another hit. He couldn't tell if you were laughing at him or with him, and it left him feeling strangely off balance. Unsteady. 

A tap on the microphone in the corner of the room interrupted any impending conversation Lewis was trying to muster up. He watched you cross the room to the black baby grand piano tucked into the corner, and for the first time in a while he didn’t care about the crowd. His eyes were on you.  

You crossed the room, dark silk moving with you like water over stone. The black baby grand sat by the glass, the harbour beyond glowing like a constellation pinned to velvet. From this angle, the sea and sky blurred into one endless expanse, and the city lights floated like something untouchable. The kind of view that almost made you forget where you were. Almost.

You slid onto the bench without ceremony. A strand of hair caught on your lip gloss, and you left it there - imperfect on purpose. Your hands hovered above the keys. You pressed middle C, and it rang sharp and pure, like ice striking crystal. A hush began to ripple through the room; someone shushed near the back..

You didn’t play a hit. Not even one from your last album. Instead, you let something unfinished spill out, the chorus you’d been circling for weeks. Sparse, aching, a refrain about learning to breathe in the silence. The melody was skeletal but certain, the kind of song that dared the listener to lean closer.

From the edge of your vision, you caught him…Lewis. Arms folded, posture casual in theory, but his eyes didn’t move. It wasn’t disinterest; it was defence. The song had put a thumb on a bruise he kept hidden under all that charm and noise. When one of the lines landed, he looked down. Quick, almost imperceptible. You told yourself you didn’t notice. But you did. And you hated that you cared.

The last chord hung in the air longer than you intended, a fragile thread stretching until it broke. Applause followed, polite at first, then warmer, the sincerity creeping in like a tide. The host appeared at your side, all champagne breath and cologne, pressing a kiss to your cheek, murmuring something about magic. You rose, smoothing the silk over your thighs, your pulse still beating in time with the song.

Across the room, a brunette actress caught Lewis by the sleeve, tugging him toward the balcony. He disengaged with the kind of practiced ease that said he’d done it a hundred times before. His steps curved toward you instead.

He stopped just close enough for you to catch the faint trace of cedar and citrus in the air between you. His voice was quieter than you expected, stripped of the polish he wore everywhere else.

“You played like...like you were peeling something raw,” he said, almost under his breath. “And I.. felt it for a second there. More than I wanted to.”

Your brows lifted, amused despite yourself. “That sounds like a problem.”

He shook his head, eyes fixed on you like he was trying to pin down a melody before it escaped. “No. It’s the first time in a while I’ve actually… felt something real in a room like this.”

The admission landed heavier than he probably intended, and you caught the faintest edge of surprise in his own face, like he hadn’t realised it until he said it aloud.

You let the silence breathe, long enough to make him restless, then tilted your head. “Careful, Lewis. People might start thinking you’re human.” He physically felt another flip in his stomach the minute you said his name. He was in trouble, he thought. 

And with that, you stepped past him, leaving him standing there with nothing but the echo of your song and the sudden, unfamiliar weight of sincerity pressing in on him.

The party continued, too loud, too flashy. Far, far too many fake smiles and half hugs for your liking. This was not your idea of a good time. You excused yourself from a small group and headed towards the balcony. The minute you stepped out a wash of salt air hit you, the kind that stung your throat but cooled your overheated skin. You slipped outside, heels clicking against stone before you leaned against the railing, pressing your palms flat to the cool surface. Below, someone revved an engine just to hear it echo across the bay, as if Monaco needed any more noise. 

The door clicked again. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. His cologne, cedar and citrus with something darker beneath, folded into the breeze. Lewis stayed a few feet away, posture easy, like he was giving you space. Respectful. Careful. The kind of careful that made you wonder what he was like when he wasn’t.

He leaned his forearms on the rail, glancing sideways at your hand. “That ring,” he said quietly, like he was asking about a secret. “Not the usual Cartier I see around here.”

Your thumb brushed over the bent silver loop of guitar string. “It snapped on a chorus I couldn’t finish.” You tilted your head, considering whether to tell him more. “I like the reminder.”

His gaze lingered. “Of what?”

“That I did finish.” The words slipped out before you could dull them with a smile. You held them between you, raw and unsweetened.

He looked at you then, really looked, and something hot and dangerous fizzed in your chest. Because he wasn’t seeing the surface, he was reaching further. And that’s when the thought pressed in, familiar and unwelcome: is this worth it? Worth the risk of being seen, worth letting someone close enough to leave a bruise. You’d asked yourself that before, in quieter rooms, in louder ones too. The answer was usually no.

But when his eyes softened, you realised he was asking himself the same thing.

He recognised that look, the flicker of hesitation, the guarded way you turned back to the sea. Is this worth it? He  knew it because it lived in him too, before every party, every crowd, every moment he had to decide how much of himself to show, how much to hide. It was the same question he asked himself every time the noise died and he was left alone with the quiet. Was it worth pulling back the mask, worth letting someone see the kid who taped racing posters to a cracked wall because he needed proof that the dream was real?

Most of the time, he decided no. But tonight… he almost wanted to gamble.

“I used to keep a box under my bed,” he said, voice lower than he meant it to be. “Stuff no one saw. Posters, toy cars, the sort of things I wouldn’t admit to caring about. If the world was too loud, or I felt invisible, I’d just… pull it out. Remind myself I could be more than that.” He hadn’t told anyone that in years. Maybe ever.

You turned your head, watching him like you were tuning to a frequency nobody else bothered to catch. That look cut deeper than any spotlight, any flash of a camera.

A lock of your hair blew across your cheek. His hand twitched, instinct pulling him to brush it back. He stopped himself. You noticed he stopped. Somehow, the restraint landed heavier than a touch.

The balcony door cracked open. “Lew-sorry, Lewis…you’re wanted.” His publicist, half-apologetic, half-exasperated.

He didn’t move right away. Just a breath, then a flat smile. “Two minutes.”

He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing over the small, scuffed guitar pick he kept on him. He saw the way your eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion. What was he doing with a guitar pick? He turned it once in his hand, then set it carefully on the railing between you. “Play me the finished version of that song you just sang someday.”

And then he was gone, swallowed back into the noise. The pick gleamed against the stone. You didn’t pick it up. Not yet.

The bass inside hit like a pulse as you stepped back through the glass doors. The air thickened, perfume and sweat threading through champagne fizz. The DJ had shifted gears. A low thrum into something sharper, faster, as if the room itself needed to sweat.

He was already swallowed by it. Lewis. The brunette actress draped on his arm like she’d always belonged there, laughing too loudly at something he’d said. Maybe she was friendly. Maybe predatory. Either way, she was at ease, casual in a way you weren’t sure you’d ever be in a room like this.

A camera phone lifted near the bar. No flash, no sound, just a practiced flick of the wrist as someone snapped him mid-smile. You almost laughed. The archetype in the wild: playboy driver, actress at his side, music rattling the windows, the crowd feeding on the spectacle. You could already picture the headline.

But your ribs tightened anyway. A pressure beneath the silk of your dress. As though the air had thickened into water and you were wading through it.

At the bar, two men leaned close, one murmuring his name like it meant something secret. The words that followed blurred into the same tired chorus you’d heard a hundred times before: “models, actresses, late nights.” The room seemed to echo with it, a song you didn’t want to hear again. Not after whatever had just happened on the balcony.

A glass clinked down in front of you. Water. Cold, sweating. You hadn’t asked. The bartender behind the breakfast bar just slid it over with a look that said he knew you needed it. You nodded, murmured a thank you, grateful for a moment of human kindness in a place where everyone seemed rehearsed.

Your fingers brushed your dress pocket, almost without thought. The guitar pick was still there, hard against the silk. You hadn’t meant to take it. Hadn’t meant to keep it. Annoyance flushed through you as you tucked it deeper, like admitting to yourself you cared was the worst kind of betrayal.

The brunette found you anyway. A drift of perfume, a practiced smile, the effortless glide of someone who’d never worried about a camera catching her wrong.

“Loved your song,” she said, voice sugar, eyes steel. Then, soft as a blade, “He seemed to like it too. You should write one for him.”

Your lips twitched into a smile that didn’t touch your eyes. “I only write for people who listen.”

She didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head, amused, like you were a line in a script she’d already read. Then she slipped back into the crowd, easy as smoke, her arm latching around his again.

You drained half the water, the ice biting your teeth. The music surged. Cameras whispered. Your fingers pressed into your pocket where the pick waited, warmer now, like it was burning a hole through the silk.

Across the room, you felt it before you saw it: his gaze. Lewis’s head angled just slightly away from the conversation he was trapped in, but his eyes didn’t follow the actress. They found you, caught the tightness around your ribs that you’d thought was invisible. For a beat too long, he didn’t look away.

You broke the connection first, tilting your glass up to your lips. When you lowered it, he was smiling at someone else.

Or pretending to.

The stairwell was colder than he expected, a bite of air that smelled of dust and disinfectant. The kind of place the party forgot existed. Music thudded faintly through the door behind him, a heartbeat muffled by concrete walls painted in scuffed, once-white gloss. The overhead light flickered, buzzing like it was on its last filament.

And there you were, halfway down the steps, elbows balanced on your knees, phone in hand. Checking flights you wouldn’t book. Looking at your schedule that seemed never ending. You didn’t look surprised when he pushed the door open, almost like you’d known he’d follow.

Lewis let the door click shut behind him, the noise swallowed instantly. For once, there wasn’t a crowd or a camera or a circle of people waiting to orbit. Just him, and you, and the sound of his trainers on the step as he leaned against the bannister. He folded his arms like armour.

“You always leave parties right before they turn interesting?” he asked, keeping his voice casual, amused.

You didn’t look up. “I leave when people start performing to each other.”

That tugged at something. He cocked his head. “And what if I’m not performing now?”

Finally, you glanced at him. Just a flick of your eyes, but it knocked him harder than he wanted to admit. “Then you’re a stranger in a stairwell,” you said evenly, “and that’s worse.”

Lewis let out a quiet laugh, softer than he’d meant, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Harsh.”

“Honest,” you countered, looking away again.

The silence stretched, but not comfortably. The bass through the wall was faint, like distant thunder. He shifted his weight, suddenly restless, and realised he hadn’t been this still all night. That made his chest tighten. “I can’t stand being watched unless I’m moving,” he blurted, before his filter could stop him. “Stillness makes me… itchy.”

You tilted your head, studying him like a melody you hadn’t decided was worth keeping yet. “Stillness is the only place I hear what’s true. It scares me how often I avoid it.”

He blinked. That honesty hit sharper than any insult. He wanted to look away, but didn’t. Instead, he smirked to mask the way his chest felt...strange, off-balance. “Alright, then. Give me a rule. One rule, so I don’t get it wrong.”

Your lips curved, sly, careful. “Don’t tell me lies, I can Google your name, Lewis.”

That startled a laugh out of him, real and rough around the edges. He tipped his head back against the wall, shaking it slowly. “That’s brutal.”

“Practical,” you said, the faintest tease under your voice.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It stretched, elastic, pulling tight. He found himself watching your hands, the ring on your finger glinting dull under the flickering light. Not diamonds. A guitar string. He loved jewellery, his own rings shone in the moonlight. Diamonds. Gold. Yours was different. Not for show, different to everything he felt like he knew about people in his world.

When you stood, pocketing your phone, he shifted too. The stairwell felt suddenly narrower. As you passed him, your shoulder brushed his. Not even deliberate, just the architecture of the space, but the spark of it cracked through him, immediate, undeniable. Static.

He stiffened, covering it with a smirk, but his pulse betrayed him. He wondered if you’d felt it too, then realised you must have…because the corner of your mouth twitched like you’d caught him out.

Lewis swallowed, hard. He wanted to reach out, to stop you there on the step, to ask another question he didn’t even have words for. But his hand stayed exactly where it was, clenched loosely by his side.

Stillness, he thought, was dangerous. Especially with you in it.

The party had thinned to its last embers by the time you drifted back into the lounge. Glasses abandoned on low tables, perfume and smoke woven into the air. The host made his rounds with the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times, cheeks kissed, promises of lunch next week, darling exchanged like currency.

You were halfway to the door when a woman cut through the crowd - it couldn't be, could it?  His publicist. She stopped in front of you, checked a name on a folded slip, and pressed a slim envelope into your hand. No fanfare, no explanation. Just that.

Your brows drew together as you slid a finger under the flap. Inside: a laminated lanyard, glossy under the chandelier light.

Paddock Pass. Sunday. All Access.

On the back, a note in quick, left-slant handwriting: No cameras. Just noise. - LH. And beneath it, a phone number. Scrawled like an afterthought, but you knew better.

A laugh escaped before you could stop it - sharp, disbelieving. “Arrogant,” you whispered into the air. The word tasted too thin against the spike in your pulse. Because arrogant or not, this was… bold.

You flipped the pass over, meaning to tuck it away. That was when you saw it - taped neat against the plastic: a guitar pick. Scuffed edges, black, embossed with a tiny silver star.

Your stomach turned over. Because the pick you’d pocketed earlier.. the bait on the balcony was still in your hand. You closed your fist around it, almost angrily, as if the pressure might dissolve it. But it didn’t. Which meant… he’d had this one ready. He’d planned this. Somehow. As if noticing you'd picked the first one up was enough for him to make his next move. 

A quiet curse slipped from your lips. He’d read you too well. And worse, he’d left a piece of himself you couldn’t brush off. Not with a quip. Not with detachment.

You drifted toward the window, needing distance. The glass stretched to the floor, reflecting your own outline against the black water of the harbour below. The pass was hot in your palm, unnatural, like it carried a pulse you’d sworn to ignore. The number glared up at you from the back, impossible to ignore.

You should throw it away. Walk out, leave Monaco, keep your rules intact.

Instead, you pressed it to your throat, just once, feeling the laminate cool against your skin.

And you said nothing.

[purplesectorlew]

U N E T H I C A L - LH44

author's note: hiii! first chapter, slightly slow but it gets good, promise <3 angst, smut, fluff.. this is just the beginning to set the scene!! pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Musician!Reader wc: 4.4k!! summary: Amid champagne, fast cars and the blinding lights of fame, two people collide: a musician aching for quiet. A driver addicted to chaos. Neither is looking for connection. Neither trusts what they see in the other. But sometimes, the most dangerous thing is being noticed. warning: alcohol use, slight suggestive themes, paparazzi/press culture, strong language (mild)

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

currently listening to: In The Night - The Weeknd ─•──── 𖦤

The festival set in Spain had been electric. Thousands of voices singing your soul back to you.  Breathing your songs to life - a sea of people who bled the same way you did. Every strum of your guitar, every key played on the piano, transformed the stage into what felt like a home. You basked in the feeling of peace, of wholeness, that you felt as the last song faded and the lights finally dimmed . Then - water, rehydration, and a blur of sky and clouds on a private jet to Monaco. 

Monaco. Not particularly a place you felt comfortable in - yet. It was beautiful, really. In that airbrushed, postcard kind of way. Turquoise waters and a golden sheen of sunlight staining the Mediterranean stone. A private paradise. Yet, you felt parachuted into a circus of fast cars, champagne you still couldn’t quite afford, and Dior. Lots and lots of Dior.  

Jet lag and adrenaline misfiring all at once,  you blinked and found herself in the bathroom of a penthouse in Monte Carlo. Black marble sinks with a line of lipsticks discarded like empty bullets. An open purse strung across the side spilling mascara, a stack of Euros and the glint of an open condom packet. Classy.  This was the thing about Monaco, there was an air of carelessness about the paradise. Everything and everyone here was untouchable, distant, barely real. Untethered to reality. The bass of the music blaring from outside the bathroom vibrated into your bones. A heartbeat. A safety net. Staring at your reflection in the mirror under bright bulbs that felt clinical, you couldn’t think of any place you’d rather not be. The taste of champagne was still on your tongue, like fizzy high notes at the back of your teeth. You leant over the sink and applied your lip gloss, a soft pink with a hint of a shimmer that sparkled when the light hit the right way when you smiled. You adjusted the straps of your long, black, silk dress that flowed over your body like a hum of a soft song. It didn’t cling, it cascaded…beautiful and effortless. You pressed the silver ring on your right hand, crafted out of an old guitar string, to your bottom lip in an attempt to ground yourself. Then, your phone buzzed - Maya, tour manager, confidant, right hand woman. Arguably the funniest, bluntest, most protective woman you could ever wish to always be on your side. Even when she forced you to attend parties you could not particularly care any less about.

Maya: 1 1 : 14pm - You’ll thank me when the photos run. Be visible! X Reply: 1 1: 1 5pm - i’m in bloody monaco, there’s no paparazzi Maya. but im here, at least. Ur so lucky i love u x

You rolled your eyes and closed them, mustering every last ounce of energy into your severely depleted social battery. Deep breaths. The sun had set hours ago; you always seemed to miss the soft parts of the day. You had hardly seen a sunset in months, often performing through them, but never taking a beat to actually watch. To be still, calm, appreciate the view. A stranger knocks onto the bathroom door calling out - “You’re on in five!”. Of course you were. You’d promised the party host one acoustic song because musicians always get asked, and what are you if not performing? You straightened, hearing the bass outside change, a shift in the room’s rhythm you couldn’t name.

Lewis was fashionably late, as always. The energy tilted as soon as he stepped in. Conversations dipped, heads turned. Black tailored suit trousers, a light green shirt with the top four buttons undone - probably two too many. His chest, inked and muscular, glimpsed between folds of expensive fabric. Cedar and citrus cologne threaded through the low-lit room. Sharp jaw accentuated by a perfectly trimmed short beard and dark, unforgivingly deep, brown doe eyes. The unforgettable sparkle in them. His bronzed curls caught in the low lights of the party. He looked like he knew exactly who he was, how good he looked, and that he could get anything and everything he wanted. 

He waltzed into the penthouse like it was his, wrapped up in a whirlwind of people. A publicist at his elbow, a teammate just behind, a beautiful brunette actress whose name he’d already forgotten. Instantly, people orbited him like he was the sun. He liked parties like this: pretty women, good music, expensive alcohol. The noise of it all. The fact that as soon as he entered, he was the event. He’d made quite the name for himself. The persona shielded him as much as he enjoyed living up to the performance; a playboy, a party animal. He just liked having a good time, and who was he if he didn’t maintain the image people had curated for him? It did get boring sometimes though, so he just sped up and outran his own chaos. Easy. Moved on to the next party, woman, friend group. The noise he created everywhere he went became a comfort blanket, one that he excelled in. He wouldn’t ever admit it but it had gotten to the point that he was worried the silence might be too loud if he stopped now. 

And then, across the room.. her. At first it was a silhouette, a wine glass slotted between her slender fingers. A ring made out of a guitar string on her right hand. The voices that were attempting to talk to him stilled into a hum of background noise as he took her in. The silk black dress wrapped perfectly around her curves. The perfect slope of her nose. Her full lips shimmering under the light when she smiled. But it wasn’t what she was wearing or her features. It was the quiet gravity that seemed to be pulling him in. The way she looked like she was listening to the room for something that no one else could hear but her. Her head was tilted slightly as if to get a better listen, her soft, warm eyes seemed to say everything and nothing at once. Then she laughed at something someone said and he felt it like a gear slip, like taking a corner far too quickly. His stomach felt as though it physically flipped- like he had driven over a road bump at high speed. He instantly looked away to compose himself. What just happened? What WAS that? He cleared his throat, put on his best charming smile and continued talking to the tornado of people around him as he adjusted his shirt sleeves and tried his absolute hardest to not stare at her. He told himself to focus on the people around him, forced a smile at the beautiful brunette that was now clinging to his arm. That lasted three minutes. 

Like a moth to a flame, his eyes couldn’t stray away long enough for their eyes to not meet. Lewis tilted his head and smiled - the usual charming, disarming smile that always opened doors for him. It didn’t seem to open yours. He watched the corners of your mouth twitch up slightly in response as you returned a polite nod. Were you amused? Were you dismissing him? Something in his chest tightened, sharp and quick, before pride smoothed it over.  A challenge. He liked that. Before he could even process what his feet were doing, the driver was crossing the room. leaving the brunette woman with the rest of the crowd. 

They didn’t ask each other’s names. They didn’t have to. He knows who you are. Of course he does.. 

“You look like you’re mentally changing the key of this song”, Lewis murmured, leaning against the table next to you

“Would help if it had one”, your glance towards the DJ almost pitying, “Who tries to mix two songs in different keys anyway?”.

Lewis’s smile widened - right up until you went to walk past him.. The normally confident, charismatic driver scrambled for something to say. Anything to keep your attention on him for more than five seconds. 

“So.. uh, you write songs right?” He stammered far too quickly causing you to turn and narrow your eyes slightly at him.. Smooth. Real smooth, Lewis.

“So… you drive cars?”, you responded flatly. Oh. Lewis lets out an incredulous laugh to cover up the internal stab at his pride he felt. He was used to reverence from most people, especially women. This kind of indifference tasted different, new. 

Lewis leaned a little closer. Enough to inhale the vanilla and caramel scent that knocked him almost breathless before he managed a far more even, “Yeah. Yeah, I do drive cars”. 

You huffed a small laugh. Not quite mocking, but not impressed either. He felt his ego take another hit. He couldn't tell if you were laughing at him or with him, and it left him feeling strangely off balance. Unsteady. 

A tap on the microphone in the corner of the room interrupted any impending conversation Lewis was trying to muster up. He watched you cross the room to the black baby grand piano tucked into the corner, and for the first time in a while he didn’t care about the crowd. His eyes were on you.  

You crossed the room, dark silk moving with you like water over stone. The black baby grand sat by the glass, the harbour beyond glowing like a constellation pinned to velvet. From this angle, the sea and sky blurred into one endless expanse, and the city lights floated like something untouchable. The kind of view that almost made you forget where you were. Almost.

You slid onto the bench without ceremony. A strand of hair caught on your lip gloss, and you left it there - imperfect on purpose. Your hands hovered above the keys. You pressed middle C, and it rang sharp and pure, like ice striking crystal. A hush began to ripple through the room; someone shushed near the back..

You didn’t play a hit. Not even one from your last album. Instead, you let something unfinished spill out, the chorus you’d been circling for weeks. Sparse, aching, a refrain about learning to breathe in the silence. The melody was skeletal but certain, the kind of song that dared the listener to lean closer.

From the edge of your vision, you caught him…Lewis. Arms folded, posture casual in theory, but his eyes didn’t move. It wasn’t disinterest; it was defence. The song had put a thumb on a bruise he kept hidden under all that charm and noise. When one of the lines landed, he looked down. Quick, almost imperceptible. You told yourself you didn’t notice. But you did. And you hated that you cared.

The last chord hung in the air longer than you intended, a fragile thread stretching until it broke. Applause followed, polite at first, then warmer, the sincerity creeping in like a tide. The host appeared at your side, all champagne breath and cologne, pressing a kiss to your cheek, murmuring something about magic. You rose, smoothing the silk over your thighs, your pulse still beating in time with the song.

Across the room, a brunette actress caught Lewis by the sleeve, tugging him toward the balcony. He disengaged with the kind of practiced ease that said he’d done it a hundred times before. His steps curved toward you instead.

He stopped just close enough for you to catch the faint trace of cedar and citrus in the air between you. His voice was quieter than you expected, stripped of the polish he wore everywhere else.

“You played like...like you were peeling something raw,” he said, almost under his breath. “And I.. felt it for a second there. More than I wanted to.”

Your brows lifted, amused despite yourself. “That sounds like a problem.”

He shook his head, eyes fixed on you like he was trying to pin down a melody before it escaped. “No. It’s the first time in a while I’ve actually… felt something real in a room like this.”

The admission landed heavier than he probably intended, and you caught the faintest edge of surprise in his own face, like he hadn’t realised it until he said it aloud.

You let the silence breathe, long enough to make him restless, then tilted your head. “Careful, Lewis. People might start thinking you’re human.” He physically felt another flip in his stomach the minute you said his name. He was in trouble, he thought. 

And with that, you stepped past him, leaving him standing there with nothing but the echo of your song and the sudden, unfamiliar weight of sincerity pressing in on him.

The party continued, too loud, too flashy. Far, far too many fake smiles and half hugs for your liking. This was not your idea of a good time. You excused yourself from a small group and headed towards the balcony. The minute you stepped out a wash of salt air hit you, the kind that stung your throat but cooled your overheated skin. You slipped outside, heels clicking against stone before you leaned against the railing, pressing your palms flat to the cool surface. Below, someone revved an engine just to hear it echo across the bay, as if Monaco needed any more noise. 

The door clicked again. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. His cologne, cedar and citrus with something darker beneath, folded into the breeze. Lewis stayed a few feet away, posture easy, like he was giving you space. Respectful. Careful. The kind of careful that made you wonder what he was like when he wasn’t.

He leaned his forearms on the rail, glancing sideways at your hand. “That ring,” he said quietly, like he was asking about a secret. “Not the usual Cartier I see around here.”

Your thumb brushed over the bent silver loop of guitar string. “It snapped on a chorus I couldn’t finish.” You tilted your head, considering whether to tell him more. “I like the reminder.”

His gaze lingered. “Of what?”

“That I did finish.” The words slipped out before you could dull them with a smile. You held them between you, raw and unsweetened.

He looked at you then, really looked, and something hot and dangerous fizzed in your chest. Because he wasn’t seeing the surface, he was reaching further. And that’s when the thought pressed in, familiar and unwelcome: is this worth it? Worth the risk of being seen, worth letting someone close enough to leave a bruise. You’d asked yourself that before, in quieter rooms, in louder ones too. The answer was usually no.

But when his eyes softened, you realised he was asking himself the same thing.

He recognised that look, the flicker of hesitation, the guarded way you turned back to the sea. Is this worth it? He  knew it because it lived in him too, before every party, every crowd, every moment he had to decide how much of himself to show, how much to hide. It was the same question he asked himself every time the noise died and he was left alone with the quiet. Was it worth pulling back the mask, worth letting someone see the kid who taped racing posters to a cracked wall because he needed proof that the dream was real?

Most of the time, he decided no. But tonight… he almost wanted to gamble.

“I used to keep a box under my bed,” he said, voice lower than he meant it to be. “Stuff no one saw. Posters, toy cars, the sort of things I wouldn’t admit to caring about. If the world was too loud, or I felt invisible, I’d just… pull it out. Remind myself I could be more than that.” He hadn’t told anyone that in years. Maybe ever.

You turned your head, watching him like you were tuning to a frequency nobody else bothered to catch. That look cut deeper than any spotlight, any flash of a camera.

A lock of your hair blew across your cheek. His hand twitched, instinct pulling him to brush it back. He stopped himself. You noticed he stopped. Somehow, the restraint landed heavier than a touch.

The balcony door cracked open. “Lew-sorry, Lewis…you’re wanted.” His publicist, half-apologetic, half-exasperated.

He didn’t move right away. Just a breath, then a flat smile. “Two minutes.”

He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing over the small, scuffed guitar pick he kept on him. He saw the way your eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion. What was he doing with a guitar pick? He turned it once in his hand, then set it carefully on the railing between you. “Play me the finished version of that song you just sang someday.”

And then he was gone, swallowed back into the noise. The pick gleamed against the stone. You didn’t pick it up. Not yet.

The bass inside hit like a pulse as you stepped back through the glass doors. The air thickened, perfume and sweat threading through champagne fizz. The DJ had shifted gears. A low thrum into something sharper, faster, as if the room itself needed to sweat.

He was already swallowed by it. Lewis. The brunette actress draped on his arm like she’d always belonged there, laughing too loudly at something he’d said. Maybe she was friendly. Maybe predatory. Either way, she was at ease, casual in a way you weren’t sure you’d ever be in a room like this.

A camera phone lifted near the bar. No flash, no sound, just a practiced flick of the wrist as someone snapped him mid-smile. You almost laughed. The archetype in the wild: playboy driver, actress at his side, music rattling the windows, the crowd feeding on the spectacle. You could already picture the headline.

But your ribs tightened anyway. A pressure beneath the silk of your dress. As though the air had thickened into water and you were wading through it.

At the bar, two men leaned close, one murmuring his name like it meant something secret. The words that followed blurred into the same tired chorus you’d heard a hundred times before: “models, actresses, late nights.” The room seemed to echo with it, a song you didn’t want to hear again. Not after whatever had just happened on the balcony.

A glass clinked down in front of you. Water. Cold, sweating. You hadn’t asked. The bartender behind the breakfast bar just slid it over with a look that said he knew you needed it. You nodded, murmured a thank you, grateful for a moment of human kindness in a place where everyone seemed rehearsed.

Your fingers brushed your dress pocket, almost without thought. The guitar pick was still there, hard against the silk. You hadn’t meant to take it. Hadn’t meant to keep it. Annoyance flushed through you as you tucked it deeper, like admitting to yourself you cared was the worst kind of betrayal.

The brunette found you anyway. A drift of perfume, a practiced smile, the effortless glide of someone who’d never worried about a camera catching her wrong.

“Loved your song,” she said, voice sugar, eyes steel. Then, soft as a blade, “He seemed to like it too. You should write one for him.”

Your lips twitched into a smile that didn’t touch your eyes. “I only write for people who listen.”

She didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head, amused, like you were a line in a script she’d already read. Then she slipped back into the crowd, easy as smoke, her arm latching around his again.

You drained half the water, the ice biting your teeth. The music surged. Cameras whispered. Your fingers pressed into your pocket where the pick waited, warmer now, like it was burning a hole through the silk.

Across the room, you felt it before you saw it: his gaze. Lewis’s head angled just slightly away from the conversation he was trapped in, but his eyes didn’t follow the actress. They found you, caught the tightness around your ribs that you’d thought was invisible. For a beat too long, he didn’t look away.

You broke the connection first, tilting your glass up to your lips. When you lowered it, he was smiling at someone else.

Or pretending to.

The stairwell was colder than he expected, a bite of air that smelled of dust and disinfectant. The kind of place the party forgot existed. Music thudded faintly through the door behind him, a heartbeat muffled by concrete walls painted in scuffed, once-white gloss. The overhead light flickered, buzzing like it was on its last filament.

And there you were, halfway down the steps, elbows balanced on your knees, phone in hand. Checking flights you wouldn’t book. Looking at your schedule that seemed never ending. You didn’t look surprised when he pushed the door open, almost like you’d known he’d follow.

Lewis let the door click shut behind him, the noise swallowed instantly. For once, there wasn’t a crowd or a camera or a circle of people waiting to orbit. Just him, and you, and the sound of his trainers on the step as he leaned against the bannister. He folded his arms like armour.

“You always leave parties right before they turn interesting?” he asked, keeping his voice casual, amused.

You didn’t look up. “I leave when people start performing to each other.”

That tugged at something. He cocked his head. “And what if I’m not performing now?”

Finally, you glanced at him. Just a flick of your eyes, but it knocked him harder than he wanted to admit. “Then you’re a stranger in a stairwell,” you said evenly, “and that’s worse.”

Lewis let out a quiet laugh, softer than he’d meant, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Harsh.”

“Honest,” you countered, looking away again.

The silence stretched, but not comfortably. The bass through the wall was faint, like distant thunder. He shifted his weight, suddenly restless, and realised he hadn’t been this still all night. That made his chest tighten. “I can’t stand being watched unless I’m moving,” he blurted, before his filter could stop him. “Stillness makes me… itchy.”

You tilted your head, studying him like a melody you hadn’t decided was worth keeping yet. “Stillness is the only place I hear what’s true. It scares me how often I avoid it.”

He blinked. That honesty hit sharper than any insult. He wanted to look away, but didn’t. Instead, he smirked to mask the way his chest felt...strange, off-balance. “Alright, then. Give me a rule. One rule, so I don’t get it wrong.”

Your lips curved, sly, careful. “Don’t tell me lies, I can Google your name, Lewis.”

That startled a laugh out of him, real and rough around the edges. He tipped his head back against the wall, shaking it slowly. “That’s brutal.”

“Practical,” you said, the faintest tease under your voice.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It stretched, elastic, pulling tight. He found himself watching your hands, the ring on your finger glinting dull under the flickering light. Not diamonds. A guitar string. He loved jewellery, his own rings shone in the moonlight. Diamonds. Gold. Yours was different. Not for show, different to everything he felt like he knew about people in his world.

When you stood, pocketing your phone, he shifted too. The stairwell felt suddenly narrower. As you passed him, your shoulder brushed his. Not even deliberate, just the architecture of the space, but the spark of it cracked through him, immediate, undeniable. Static.

He stiffened, covering it with a smirk, but his pulse betrayed him. He wondered if you’d felt it too, then realised you must have…because the corner of your mouth twitched like you’d caught him out.

Lewis swallowed, hard. He wanted to reach out, to stop you there on the step, to ask another question he didn’t even have words for. But his hand stayed exactly where it was, clenched loosely by his side.

Stillness, he thought, was dangerous. Especially with you in it.

The party had thinned to its last embers by the time you drifted back into the lounge. Glasses abandoned on low tables, perfume and smoke woven into the air. The host made his rounds with the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times, cheeks kissed, promises of lunch next week, darling exchanged like currency.

You were halfway to the door when a woman cut through the crowd - it couldn't be, could it?  His publicist. She stopped in front of you, checked a name on a folded slip, and pressed a slim envelope into your hand. No fanfare, no explanation. Just that.

Your brows drew together as you slid a finger under the flap. Inside: a laminated lanyard, glossy under the chandelier light.

Paddock Pass. Sunday. All Access.

On the back, a note in quick, left-slant handwriting: No cameras. Just noise. - LH. And beneath it, a phone number. Scrawled like an afterthought, but you knew better.

A laugh escaped before you could stop it - sharp, disbelieving. “Arrogant,” you whispered into the air. The word tasted too thin against the spike in your pulse. Because arrogant or not, this was… bold.

You flipped the pass over, meaning to tuck it away. That was when you saw it - taped neat against the plastic: a guitar pick. Scuffed edges, black, embossed with a tiny silver star.

Your stomach turned over. Because the pick you’d pocketed earlier.. the bait on the balcony was still in your hand. You closed your fist around it, almost angrily, as if the pressure might dissolve it. But it didn’t. Which meant… he’d had this one ready. He’d planned this. Somehow. As if noticing you'd picked the first one up was enough for him to make his next move. 

A quiet curse slipped from your lips. He’d read you too well. And worse, he’d left a piece of himself you couldn’t brush off. Not with a quip. Not with detachment.

You drifted toward the window, needing distance. The glass stretched to the floor, reflecting your own outline against the black water of the harbour below. The pass was hot in your palm, unnatural, like it carried a pulse you’d sworn to ignore. The number glared up at you from the back, impossible to ignore.

You should throw it away. Walk out, leave Monaco, keep your rules intact.

Instead, you pressed it to your throat, just once, feeling the laminate cool against your skin.

And you said nothing.

[purplesectorlew]

U N E T H I C A L - LH44

author's note: hi hi!! a little intro, lets goooo. excited for this one. pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Musician!Reader summary: she is a song of open wounds and stardust. he is a blur of champagne and asphalt. a blur of engines and untouchable charm. she holds every feeling like its a song. he drops every feeling like its a weight. they love until it hurts, hurt until it feels like love – a pull as irresistible as it is unethical. neither can tell which came first, the love or the pain. some fires burn far too bright to last. but smoke has a way of seeping into your lungs. warnings: none rn! <3 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

and i've been waiting for the sunset waiting on a sorry but you're never sorry, are you?

maybe it's my fault i put you up so high darling, i think you could make the devil cry

[purplesectorlew]

M A S T E R L I S T

F O R M U L A 1 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ » Lewis Hamilton - LH44

      ⤷ ゛UNETHICAL  ˎˊ˗ 

                  ⤷ 0, 1,  2,  3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

[purplesectorlew]

Ｌｏ＇ｓ Ｗｏｒｌｄ

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔ 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 　

masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

what to call me?: Lo <3

info?: she/her !! UK based. watched f1 since i was literally like 6. just finished my degree, not sure what to do w my spare time so i'm starting to write again hehehehe

who do i write for?: mainly lh44, might venture elsewhere with time tho!!

requests? ofc!! anything and everything lh44 is welcome. other drivers too, just might take me a little longer. open to writing anything, just nothing downright ILLEGAL like incest or illegal age gaps ty

currently: mainly focused on my mini-series unethical, but would love to write some one shots if requested too :))