#hamilton angst

[presidentkittycherk]

[iamnotceleste]

Don't discriminate between the sinners and the saints

Pairing: Philip Hamilton x Burr! reader

Warning: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS (you've been warned)

A/N: my fav song titled!!! this can be read as a 2nd part to Blow us all away, also as a standalone. sorry not sorry for the heartbreak.

The willow tree became your favorite spot. Every night, for the past half year, you and Philip would meet there at midnight. There was so much risk sneaking out of the house without alarming your father. But these rendezvouses were worth it.

You wait impatiently all day, daydreaming about Philip, his company, touches and kisses. Your father has noticed your airy personality over the days.

He sees you joining breakfast with a skip in your step and decides to ask, "You alright, my dove? I see you are more than content these past few days. Is there something I should know about? Or rather someone? " You take the glass to your mouth to hide your small smile. "I don't know what your talking about." Your father smiles. " You know when I started courting you mother I was as starry eyed as you are now." "Dad! I'm not starry eyed at all!" "Uh huh, sure." Your father laughs heartily. "Alright, alright. There is someone I've met. And he's a gentleman. Not like those other obnoxious men. I'll tell you who he is when it's the right time." You finish with a blush on your face.

Your father's eyes twinkles. " Okay. As long as he makes my daughter happy." He reaches out to squeeze your cheeks. You smile.

That night as you were waiting under the willow tree, tightening your cloak around you as you felt a chill breeze past you from the lake. Suddenly you felt two hands closing your eyes from behind. You almost yelped as Philip breathes near your ear, "Guess who?"

You take his hands away from your eyes, turning around to face him as you lower the hood of your cloak. "Philip! You scared me!"

Philip chuckles. "Sorry my love, couldn't pass the opportunity."

You roll your eyes with a smile. Standing on your tiptoes, you press your lips to him. Philip returns your kiss just as eagerly.

You pull apart and look up at him. "I have something to tell you." Philip chuckles lightly. "I have something to tell you as well. But you go ahead first." You narrow your eyes slightly then start. "My father suspects I'm seeing someone. He asked me about it today. I told him I'd introduce you when the time comes. He said as long as I'm happy he doesn't mind." Philip smiles and takes your face in his hand. He looks in your and whispers, "And do I make you happy, my love?" "Yes" you breathe out, "More than I've ever been." "I'm glad." He presses a kiss to your forehead. You sigh contently. Then you remember. "Wasn't there something you wanted to tell me as well?" You can see Philip hesitate but he starts. "I asked George Eacker to a duel tomorrow at dawn."

You cannot believe your ears. Philip looked down at his shoes unable to meet your burning gaze. "Philip, tell me you are lying! Why would you do that!"

"You know he disgraced my father's name on the 4th of July. And he doesn't like me for ruining his chances with you last winter ball."

"Philip, he never had a chance with me anyway. This is not a reason to risk your life!"

"I know but I must guard your and my father's honor."

You embrace him in a tight hug, resting your head on his chest. "I cannot lose you." You say with feeling a stone in your throat.

Philip rests his chin on top your head and hugs you back. "You won't. I'll come back to you, I promise. And when I do, we can tell our families about us."

You smile through your teary eyes. "I love you." "I love you more, my love."

"A Hamilton? It was a Hamilton you decided to court? Were you out of your mind?"

Today was Philip's funeral. He didn't come back from the duel. You heard the news when he was already gone. You haven't been yourself after that. Crying your heart out, locked in your room. Today dressed in black, you finally came out. You finally told your father about Philip. And he was losing his mind.

"No! I was in love!"

"You couldn't have found anyone else in this city? You had to fall in love with Hamilton's son?" your father yells.

"Yes! I don't care about your political fued-" you try to say through your tears. "How could you betray me like this?" Your father looks at you with wide eyes, waiting for your answer. "Forgive me, but I remember it was you who taught me about love! It was you who told me that love doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints! Then why now?"

He looks at you baffled. You don't wait for an answer. You're getting late to see your love one last time.

The funeral was nice. You sat at the end and saw it all. Saw the Hamiltons at the front, Eliza sobbing relentlessly, Alexander stone-faced, your love resting in an open casket. You even saw the burial from afar. Most people have left after sharing their condolences after the burial. That's when you finally approach the headstone.

Philip Hamilton 1782-1801 loved son, brother, grandson and nephew

Your heart breaks as you let out a sob. Nowhere it says lover. Why would it, you were never given the chance to announce it.

Eliza seems to have seen you, you can see her coming near through your tears. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hamilton. I'm so so sorry." You sob as Eliza takes your face in her hands. "Your the girl Philip used to write poems about, aren't you?" You look at her face to see she's smiling sadly. You can't help but break down on her.

Later that day, you found your father waiting at home for you. He sees your state and immediately opens his arms to embrace you.

"I'm sorry for your loss, my dove. And I'm also sorry for how I reacted this morning. I just didn't think if he is capable of protecting my daughter." "He said, he was dueling Eacker for guarding my honor." You say muffled in his embrace. "Seems like I've judged the young man too early." You look up at him. He truly seems to be sad. You tell him about a decision you made.

"Dad can I ask you for something?" "Anything my dove." "Can you send me to France? I can't stay here dad." Your father looks at you to see if you are serious. You are so he nods after thinking a while.

Aaron Burr is standing under a willow tree, looking at the lake beside it. He can still hear them all in his head.

I'm sorry for your loss. Your daughter was a wonderful woman. I can imagine how hard it must be for you.

Liars. They can never imagine how it felt losing the only anchor in your life to a shipwreck. Not only that but never even getting to bury her because her body has been lost at sea forever. He looks at the sky and imagines he's talking to his daughter.

"I've learnt something new, my dove. Death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints. And this time, it was you who taught me that."

[dorkszn]

— letting you do their hair

— thomas j, alexander h, and phillip h x gn reader, john laurens x masc reader

+ black coded reader for thomas and john! modern-ish au!

PHILLIP H !

✩ he loves letting you do this hair. sometimes you don’t even have to ask, he’ll ask you.

✩ he only trust you and his parents to wash it and take care of it

✩ you style it a lot for him and eliza loves it

✩ tender headed as fuck

✩ if someone flirts with him in public, especially if they bring up his hair, he’ll just go on and on about you

✩ “oh my hair? yeah it’s nice, ain’t it? my (s/o) did it. Aren’t they so skilled?”

✩ you teach him how to braid his hair and style it the way you do so he can do them himself if there’s a time you’re not around

☆ watching your favorite shows 🤝 washing and drying his hair

THOMAS J !

☆ he is so protective of his hair. like he’s the only one allowed to touch it

☆ so obviously it took you a lot of begging and convincing but he eventually gave in

☆ he’ll make snarky comments and act like a baby when you first wash his hair or attempt to style it but a little pop with the comb gets him to shut up

☆ he almost fell asleep the first time you braided his hair, but he likes to pretend it never happened

☆ so embarrassed to ask you to wash his hair and you can’t help but tease him for it

☆ after a while, he had you braiding his hair once a week for an extra curl

☆ you guys have matching bonnets

☆ he will literally call James mid hair session and just start talking about the government with him

☆ he was very skeptical about your products but eventually they become the only thing he uses

ALEXANDER H !

☆ he was genuinely surprised when you asked him to do his hair

☆ he hadn’t had anyone to do it or take care of it for years, especially since his mother passed

☆ “you’d do that for me?” he’d question, genuine shock on his face

☆ and it takes all of both of you to not start crying when you do take care of his hair

☆ the first time you washed it for him was the most relaxed you’d ever seen him

☆ it was the most loved he’d felt for a while

☆ then there were times were you just played in his hair

☆ whether we was working or just watching tv, you were putting silly little styles in his hair. and it he loves it. he thinks it’s adorable.

☆ some mornings, he ask you to put his hair up for him or slick it back for him just so he can have the best start to his day

☆ his hair was very first thing he asked you to do when he came back from war

☆ scalp massages >>>

☆ they’re one of the only things that convince him to leave his office, just for a little bit

JOHN L !

☆ after he meets you, he refuses to do his hair unless you’re away on a trip

☆ he whines and pleads, making an excuses on “how you do so much better” and “how loved it makes him feel” while giving you kisses

☆ but if you’re truly tired, of course he’ll give you a break

☆ you came home once and found him wearing your bonnet/durag

☆ you also do most of his haircuts

☆ he doesn’t mind his hair growing out but he knows it’s getting too long when you start beating him while play fighting

☆ to him if you’re winning, his hair is messing with his vision and it’s a “handicap”

☆ definitely gets popped with the comb everytime you do his hair

“john, could you turn your head just a little bit?” you question, your frustration already growing. he couldn’t help but tease you constantly, it was in his nature. he slightly turns his head with a small smirk on his face, knowing he was pissing you off.

“john, don’t play with me right no—“ you cut off your words when john grabs you by the waist and pulls you in and onto his lap. his hand gripping the outside of your thigh to support you as you straddle his legs.

“this angle good enough for you?” he asks, giving you his typically stupid grin. you can’t help but softly smile as you look at him, your previous anger from before leaving.

“t’s fine, i guess.” you shrug before going back to attempting to cut his hair.

“see? why let anyone else do my hair when i can have you do it for free and get a lap dance at the same time?” he says nonchalantly, continuing to scroll on his phone. his free hand caress your thigh and slithering back to ass.

“john, i swear you’re going to wake up bald one day.”

[emilmustdie]

does ANYONE still care about Hamilton? because I do.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64074940

man, writing angst at 2 am was not the goal for today

spoiler if someone wants to read it: Lafayette and Hamilton in the place of Philip and Eliza in Stay alive reprise!! goddamn!!

[hamsrevolution]

I LOVED all quiet on the western front and this part reminded me of Philip

This (tiktok) sound Red Tears by The Johns helps SA survivors. Every time it is used, money gets donated to SA survivors. As someone who's gotten SAd for years by a family member, NOT using this sound does NOT make you a "bad person". Although it is highly appreciated, forcing/guilt tripping people into using the sound is NOT it. SA is more or so often traumatizing, the donations to survivors provide help and support.

Thank you

[shmaileigh]

Alexander angst animatic

[cozycompositions]

♟️ Chapter II is a brewing…. @jittyjames

[5sospenguinqueen]

Tantrums | Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: After 10 years together, Lewis keeps pushing back the date on when “forever” can start. Realising that forever applies to her job and not their relationship, she makes it clear that she’s had enough. 

Warnings: slight age gap, reader is 32. angst, heavy on the angst. 

Requested: @madelynn-sienna (sorry it took so long. i didn’t think i was gonna do it ngl to you because i don’t really write for lewis)

F1 Masterlist

next.

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

yn_ln just posted

liked by carmenmmundt, alexandrasaintmleux and others

yn_ln when he feels bad that he’s on the other side of the world for your birthday 

4,444 comments

lewishamilton happy birthday, love. i’m so sorry i’m in australia and not with you but i promise i will make it up to you when i’m home. roscoe promised me he’d spend the day spoiling you 

→ roscoelovescoco yes i’s did’s 

user1 oh to be loved the way y/n is loved by lewis 

user2 no one makes me feel as single as lewis and y/n do 

carmenmmundt @/georgerussell63 take notes

→ yn_ln you tell him, hun

→ georgerussell63 i buy you flowers all the time! 

f1 we’re sorry that a race fell on your birthday. we’ll ask the fia to fix the calendar next year so this doesn’t happen again

mercedesamgf1 we’d give him back if we could. happy birthday, yn

georgerussell63 hang on a second. you’ve not left us yet. that’s not the right car

→ charles_leclerc that’s the perfect car 

→ yn_ln i didn’t buy the car. i just jumped behind the wheel

user3 not me hoping she’d be getting a ring for her birthday 

→ user4 we’ve been waiting for this for the past 8 birthdays

→ user5 it’s been 10 years. we were expecting two rings and a few kids by now

→ user6 i mean, he just bought her a sports car. not very kid friendly 

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

lewishamilton just posted

liked by francolapinto, sebastianvettel and others 

lewishamilton happy 10 years to the love of my life. every moment with you is an adventure i never want to end

9,448 comments

yn_ln forever with you ❤️ mainly because i can’t be bothered to train some new guy to photos that good of me

mercedesamgf1 can’t believe it’s been 10 years already. it feels like only yesterday yn was making her paddock debut. here’s to another 10 

→ user7 not mercedes commenting like they’re a part of this relationship 

→ user8 well he’s been with yn almost as long as he’s been with mercedes so they practically are at this point 

user9 my favourite f1 couple

user10 i love their rich money vibes

roscoelovescoco happy’s anniversary’s mum and’s dad 

→ yn_ln my precious boy 

→ user11 now she needs a real baby 

danielriccairdo i can’t believe she’s managed to put up with you for ten years 😂 huge love to you both

→ yn_ln ngl, it’s been tough

→ lewishamilton i’m taking the ferrari back 

user12 wedding and baby when? 

georgerussell63 happy 10 year anniversary. yn is my favourite part of you being my teammate 

→ carmenmmundt can we keep her when you go to ferrari?

→ charles_leclerc no. it’s my turn now 

→ lewishamilton i think you’re all forgetting that she’s mine 

mercedesamgf1 just posted

liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and others 

mercedesamgf1 GET IN THERE, LEWIS 🏆🥇 LEWIS HAMILTON IS YOUR BRITISH GRAND PRIX WINNER 

23,441 comments

yn_ln my love. i honestly have not stopped crying since you crossed that line. i’m so proud of you. you deserved this and proved to everyone why you’re a motorsport legend

→ lewishamilton couldn't do it without your support 🩷

→ mercedesamgf1 it’s true. the mechanics were uncomfortable when they realised they couldn't just keep giving her tissues

georgerussell63 you deserve it, mate

valterribottas well done champ

user1 can’t believe he won silverstone the same weekend he celebrated 10 years with yn 

→ user2 she’s always been his good luck charm. he performs so well when she’s watching

→ user3 they’re the dream team together 

user4 the fact that yn is the only one he responded to

user5 she’s getting it good tonight

skysportsf1 posted a new interview

user6 oh no, lewis…

user7 lewis, she was asking what was next for you and yn, relationship wise

user8 oh, that’s not quite

user9 i hope yn doesn’t see this otherwise i fear lewis might be in the doghouse tonight 

→ user10 i hope she does see it so that she knows he’s not thinking of her future in the same way 

user11 i always thought lewis loved yn as much as yn loved lewis but now i’m not sure

user12 it’s the fact that the poor interviewer looked upset at his answer as well. like she hoped for better

→ user13 we all hoped for better 

user14 it’s the fact that she’s always talked about wanting kids and getting married but has always said they’re waiting until lewis is ready

→ user15 the fact that every year passes and he never indicates that he’s ready for any of it though 

replies to @/F1Wags

user1 lewis still follows yn

→ user2 and still has all of his photos up, including their anniversary post 

→ user1 i’m hoping this means he’s in denial and is still trying to win her back

user3 i can’t believe this is real. she went all the way back and deleted everything related to him in 10 years. even edited posts to delete slides he was in

→ user4 dedicated queen

user5 just fell to my knees in walmart

user6 i’m devastated but i also hope this means she finds a man who will be prepared to give her the life she wants 

→ user7 well, more fool her for staying this long

→ user6 not really. ever think she wanted those things because she wanted them with lewis

→ user8 don’t break my heart like this please  

replies to @/WeDon'tThink

user9 okay but your pen was on fire when you wrote that 

user10 he literally had the best weekend of his life with a 10yr anniversary, winning silverstone and then clearly messed it all up somehow in the end 

user11 if sir lewis hamilton can’t even do right, what hope do the rest of us have in finding a decent man

→ user12 no because they looked just as in love as they did 10 years ago and he still fumbled

user13 i saw rumours it was because he gave her an ultimatum and she didn’t take the path he wanted 

→ user14 what do you mean?

→ user13 apparently “close sources” said that he told her if she wanted kids, she couldn't have him and so she left 

→ user14 wtf!!! good on her for dumping his ass

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

calvinklein and yn_ln just posted

liked by nicorosberg, fernandoalo_official and others 

calvinklein @/yn_ln is stunning in calvin klein underwear. shop the collection now 

5,533 comments

yn_ln oh okay. i look goooood 

→ alexandrasaintmleux i would let you take me home

→ carmenmmundt me too

→ georgerussell63 excuse me, i don’t agree with this

user1 aha, nico we see you 

→ user2 and fernando

landonorris oh so he fumbled bad 

→ oscarpiastri they’re going to take your social media off you again

user3 is this her version of a revenge dress?

→ user4 more like undress

user5 not sure why you wouldn’t want to marry and give a baby to a woman like that 

→ user6 okay, ew

user7 can we appreciate how she’s handled this with class. instead of speaking out against lewis, she’s been booked and busy and flitting about europe on modelling jobs 

→ user8 just further proof that he managed to lose the best woman ever 

roscoelovescoco you’s look’s nice, mum

→ user9 i know lewis hires someone to run this account but what are the odds that he’s actually behind it now so he can stalk yn 

yn_ln please can we all focus on the clothes and support how hot i look by buying some! 

→ danielricciardo don’t even have tits but you convinced me to buy a bra

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

lewishamilton just posted

liked by valterribottas, scuderiaferrari and others 

lewishamilton mixed feelings about today. obviously happy for a win but very disappointing for george and the team missing out on a 1-2

7,744 comments

georgerussell63 we put up a good fight today

user1 not really a deserved win though, is it

user2 you fumbled yn and now you’re fumbling wins. you only got this because merc screwed over george 

roscoelovescoco well’s done’s dad

user3 see what happens when you play a good woman, you get a dirty win

user4 man needs to act his age. can’t believe at the grand age of 39, he strung along a girl who loved him more than anything for 10 years

→ user5 destroyed my faith in men for real 

user6 robbed a win from george like you robbed 10 years from yn 

(comments on this post have been limited)

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

I wrote this out and was really proud of it and then when I was adding the other driver’s versions on, I realised it was the same principal as Daniel’s so I’m so sorry for the repeated plot

Baby Fever Angst Masterlist

requests are open

[maxtermind]

Can I request some more angst 🫠🫠 I’m a sucker for your sad fics

tell me, why'd you have to hit-and-run me?

★ : summary :: finding out your boyfriend was dared to date you ★ : feat :: max verstappen, lewis hamilton, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris ★ : genre :: ANGST; no hea ★ : word count :: 4k+ ★ : a/n :: how are we feeling with the daily posts ending tom and shifting to alternate day posting🤭 babe you asked for angst and i delivered, lmk how you like it <3 bet y'all thought you needed tissues for something else😏

Max Verstappen

“Mate, you still haven’t told her?” you heard Lando whisper, making your eyebrows shoot up. What were they talking about? As you finally decided to approach your boyfriend and his friend, you heard Max whisper.

It was low, so low that you almost didn’t catch it, but the way your hand froze on the knob and the utter stillness of your heartbeat indicated that you heard him loud and clear when he slowly said, “I don’t know how to.”

That. That was the reason you froze. You were processing what you heard. Your heart pulled from its rightful place—no, it was ripped out.

God, you thought, anything but that. Anything but cheating because how could you even confront him if he confessed to cheating on you right there on the spot in front of one of his friends?

“It has been going on for too long, Max.” Lando took a deep breath. “You should tell her you love her; she’ll understand.”

Ah. Okay, he loves you; this was okay. But then why was your heart still beating so loudly that you could hear it in your ears?

“How do you think I should go about it?” Max asked, and that was when you finally had enough. You turned the knob, but Lando was already speaking, and his words had you freeze again.

The boys' heads snapped up, eyes wide when they saw you walk in. You felt your eyes burn as Lando’s last words finally processed.

“You should’ve thought about it before you decided to make a stupid bet with those dumb men.”

“Bet?” you wondered aloud as you saw Max stumble over to you. What bet?

“No bet!” you heard your panicked boyfriend almost scream. You were so confused you didn’t even know what you were saying out loud.

“For fuck’s sake,” Lando said as he stood from the couch, glaring at Max. “Y/N deserves to know.” You kept your eyes on Max, trying to gauge an explanation from his clearly messed-up state.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” you finally looked at your boyfriend’s best friend. “I clearly shouldn’t have trusted Max to—”

“I think you should leave,” Max groaned out as if it pained him to hear Lando talk, almost hissing out the last word. They started bickering back and forth, and through your hazy mind, you could only make out a few words.

But they were enough. You took a deep breath as you stepped away from Max towards the door. He was too busy focusing on Lando anyway.

“Y.. you’re saying I was a bet?” Your voice cut through the chaos, and it was Max’s turn to go dead silent and freeze on the spot.

“You asked me ou—” Oh god, you didn’t want to cry, “—because of a dare?”

Max’s eyes were wide with horror, his face pale as he took a step toward you, his hands reaching out in desperation. “No, Y/N, it’s not like that, please, let me explain.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your cheeks uncontrollably. “Explain what, Max?” Your voice cracked on the last word, the pain too raw to hold back when you saw Max was also crying. “How a…all i have be— this relationship has been is a fucking lie?” The moment you said it out loud, you heard Lando take in a sharp breath. Max looked disheveled, he could just tell that this was the only time he could repair this. You looked a minute away from walking out and the thought of that had him talking even through his closed up throat.

His voice broke, choked with emotion. “No, Y/N, I swear, it wasn’t like that. It started as a stupid dare, yes, but then... then I fell in love with you. I fell so hard, it—” His words stumbled over each other, barely coherent through his tears. “I called the whole thing off.”

You cut him off, your voice trembling and thick with hurt. “You should have told me right then. As soon as you called it off, you sho—” Your body shook, barely able to stand under the weight of your heartbreak. “How could you do this to m.. me?”

Max rushed forward to hold your hands, breathing heavily to get himself under control so he could talk as he sobbed. “I was so fucking scared, Y/N. I didn’t want to lose you. You mean everything to me.”

You looked down at your joined hands, feeling your heart shatter all over again. It was one thing to know someone’s apology was sincere and another to know that they had faked being sincere from the very beginning. So how could you even tell the difference now? Your voice came out in a broken whisper. “How can I trust you now? How can I believe anything you say?” You were almost gasping for breath, each word an effort as you tried to hold back the sobs wracking your body.

Lando’s voice was soft but firm from behind you, though his own eyes were hard. “He’s telling the truth, Y/N. He was an idiot, but he’s been head over heels for you for a long time.”

Max’s tear-streaked face looked up at you, his eyes pleading. “Please, Y/N. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Anything. Just... don’t leave me.” His voice broke, the last word coming out as a wail of despair.

You turned away, unable to bear the sight of him, your voice barely above a whisper but laced with raw agony. “I can’t be here.” You could barely see through your tears, your entire body trembling.

Max’s anguished sobs followed you as you walked away, your heart feeling like it was being torn from your chest with every step. The pain was unbearable, and you stumbled, nearly collapsing under the weight of your sorrow but Lando caught you as he held you by your shoulders.

You needed to be alone, to process everything, and to decide if love could truly overcome betrayal. But right now, it felt like your world was ending.

Lewis Hamilton

“Y/N, baby please—”

Lewis’s voice pleaded as you shut the door behind, your heart splintering into a thousand pieces. Tears blurred your vision as you staggered away from your apartment, the weight of betrayal crushing your chest.

To think that you used to gush about him, about this, the vague lie you had to others. Not even a few steps away from your apartment, you were bent over, retching into a nearby dustbin.

How could luck be so cruel? How could you have been so blind?

You wandered the streets, tears falling down your cheeks as your brain replayed the moments when Lewis first approached you at a random club party, despite your friends warning you that someone like him must have nefarious reasons. But you were smitten.

“I’m sorry, but I don't know what you’re doing here,” you had said to him, feeling your heart beat faster when a smirk adorned his face in return. He looked majestic under the club lights. “Where else would I be?” he muttered, mesmerized as he looked at you, “If not with the most beautiful girl in this club?”

He made you feel special, validated in a way you had never felt before. Now, the memory turned sour in your mind, leaving you feeling sick and disgusted. You dry heaved again.

At least he had the decency to confess. Standing here in the cold, his words from when he sat you down with him echoed in your ears— his pleading, his apologies, his desperate attempts to explain. But what did it matter now?

“How could you?” you whispered, thump! thump! thump! your heart pumped as you heard it in your ears, your voice barely audible through the tears streaming down your cheeks. “Was I just a game to you?” That was the first thing you said after his almost ten-minute rant.

You had stopped listening though, right when he had told you what exactly made him approach you. Your first meeting was so magical, so precious to you, but it was all ruined now.

His friend had dared him because Lewis’ morale was down. He was having the worst day of his life after losing an almost sure race win, and his friends knew the only way to cheer him up was through a challenge.

Lewis reached out when he saw that you were lost in your thoughts, his voice desperate and shaky. “No, Y/N, please listen to me—”

You shook your head, cutting him off. “Don’t. Just don’t…”

“Please,” he pleaded, looking nothing like the man you loved, his voice cracking with emotion. “I love you, Y/N. I messed up, but I love you more than anything.”

You felt your heart breaking all over again because you genuinely couldn’t recognize the man standing in front of you— the man who had played you, was probably still playing you. “You should have thought about that before…”

Unable to bear another moment, you left, leaving his words hanging in the air like a dark cloud. You were nothing more than a pawn in his game of masculine pride and insecurity. The realization hit you like a freight train, leaving you gasping for air as you collapsed against a nearby wall, sobs wracking your body.

How could someone who once made you feel so alive now leave you feeling so broken?

Carlos Sainz

The evening was warm, and the restaurant buzzed with laughter and conversation. You sat with your boyfriend, Carlos, his friends, and a few of your own. It was a casual dinner, the kind you rarely held since Carlos was so busy.

“I can't believe we wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t dared Carlos to ask you out,” Javier chuckled as he saw you lean forward to kiss your boyfriend.

Laughter erupted around the table but quickly died down when they realized the utter horror on your face. An uncomfortable silence settled in, and you noticed the tension.

Your wide eyes moved from one face to another, finally landing on Carlos, whose expression had turned serious. He glared at Javier, and you sensed something was wrong. You felt uncomfortable, and the need to flee clutched you.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice small yet cutting through the awkwardness as you held Carlos’ hand under the table. He squeezed it in return.

“Uh, nothing,” Javier stammered, realizing his mistake. His discomfort was evident, triggering your fight-or-flight response.

You turned to Carlos. “What’s going on?” Your voice held a very tiny hope, hoping this was all a prank that would be over soon.

He sighed as he squeezed your hand again, his frustration evident. “We should talk about this at home.”

You pulled your hand away from his, your confusion and hurt growing. The others at the table exchanged looks of pity, further igniting your anger.

“No, we’re talking about it here. What’s going on?” you demanded as a shaky breath left your lips.

Carlos looked around nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.” He stopped himself again.

“Tell me what?” Your voice grew louder, drawing the attention of nearby diners.

Before he could respond, one of your friends, Beatrice, chimed in, “Just tell her, for God’s sake!” You looked at her in solitude, glad that you had some kind of support here.

“I dared Carlos to ask you out as a joke!” Javier blurted out just as you were managing to form a small smile to pass to your friend.

Your heart pounded in your chest. “What?” The chair creaked under you as you pushed it away from the table, and your boyfriend held your hand again.

“Please, it wasn’t like that,” Carlos tried to calm you down, but he was panicking himself. He was still whispering that you could not feel anything else in the world anymore. That was enough evidence.

You stood up, knocking your chair over as you once again snatched your hand away from his. “Wasn’t like what? You made me believe this was fucking real!”

Other diners began to whisper and pull out their phones, recording the scene as he stood up as well. With a desperate look, Carlos reached out to you, but you stepped back.

“This whole time, I was just a fucking… dare to you?” you shouted.

People around the restaurant started filming, their phones pointed at the escalating scene. Carlos's anger boiled over. He grabbed a nearby phone and smashed it against the table. The room fell silent, shocked gasps filling the air.

“Carlos, stop!” One of his friends tried to pull him back.

“You all think this is funny?” Carlos yelled at the onlookers, distracted now, and you knew what you were going to do as he turned around to yell again. “Get your own fucking life!”

You stood up, tears streaming down your face. “I’m done with this,” you said, your voice breaking. You were already walking away when you felt your friend follow you.

As you left the restaurant, you could hear the whispers and see the flashes of cameras. You knew this would go viral, but at that moment, you didn’t care. Your heart ached with betrayal and anger.

Carlos realized a bit too late that you were gone. Frustrated, he ran out to catch up with you and tried to call you again and again.He didn't know at the time that he would never catch a hold of you after this.

Charles Leclerc

You were scrolling through social media when a notification from an unknown sender caught your attention. Despite knowing that you shouldn’t, curiosity got the better of you, and you clicked on the thumbnail showing your boyfriend at a party.

The video started playing. It was from months ago, showing Charles in an outfit that you recognized but couldn’t remember from where. Ethan's voice could be heard clearly over the music. “I dare you to ask that girl out,” Ethan said, laughing, but you still couldn’t tell who he was pointing at. “Bet you can't do it.”

Charles grinned, looking a little tipsy. “You're on,” he replied, to the cheers and jeers of his friends. The grainy video ended with Charles approaching you. A deafening silence enveloped you when you realized this was from the day you first met him.

Charles had a determined look on his face, but the video faded into the background. Your thoughts echoed painfully in the emptiness, the truth of your lover's betrayal reverberating within you.

Your heart sank further as you sat in silence to process. You felt a rush of emotions— betrayal, hurt, and anger. Tears welled up in your eyes as you replayed the video, hoping it was some sort of sick joke. But the evidence was right there, undeniable.

At that moment, the door to the apartment opened, and Charles walked in, a smile on his face. “Hey, love. What are you up to?” he asked, not noticing your distress at first.

You turned to him, your eyes brimming with tears. “What is this?” you demanded, holding up your phone with the video paused at the damning moment.

Charles's smile faded instantly, replaced by a look of horror. “Baby, how did you—” he started, stepping towards you as he felt the room spin a bit, all the blood rushing to his head.

“Does it matter?” you snapped, your voice shaking with anger as tears gathered under your eyes. “When you only even looked at me because of a stupid bet?”

“It started as a bet, yes,” Charles admitted, his voice pained. “But it's not like that now. I fell in love with you, Y/N. Everything we've had since then has been real.” He was quickly getting closer to you, but you flinched away and that stopped him dead in his tracks.

You shook your head, unable to believe what you were hearing. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” You were so angry, your ears so warm that it wouldn’t be impossible if smoke started coming out of them.

Charles reached out, but you stepped back once again. “Please, Y/N. I was an idiot. I shouldn't have agreed to that dare, but I did. And yes, that's how it started. But the moment I got to know you, everything changed. I love you more than anything.”

“Do you have any idea just how humiliating this is?” you shouted, your voice breaking. “I thought what we had was special. I thought it was real. And now I find out it was all… a gamble to you.” You hated that you were showing him so many emotions but fuck, it hurt so much and you wish you could hurt him back.

“It is not a gamble,” Charles pleaded, tears forming in his eyes. “Not after I got to know you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Please, don't let this ruin us.” He could actually feel you slipping through his fingers.

“Fuck you, you’re the one who ruined this!” you said, turning away, trying to gather your thoughts, willing yourself to leave and hating yourself when you couldn’t. “Seriously,” you said quietly, not looking at him. “Fuck you.” You laid emphasis to show that you actually meant the words. “You’ve ruined me”

“Baby,” Charles's voice broke when he heard you say that he ruined you, but the way you glared at him because of the nickname had him backtracking. “Y/N, please just let me show you how that was all a lie. I love you. I can't fucking lose you over this.”

You walked to the door, needing to escape the suffocating atmosphere. “It is still all a lie,” you declared in a voice that showed you were shutting down, barely above a whisper.

As you stepped out of the apartment, you heard Charles crying behind you, but you didn’t stop to mend his heart because you couldn't even feel yours in your chest.

Lando Norris

Lando’s phone buzzed with notifications as he stepped out of the room and you glanced at it absentmindedly, not intending to invade his privacy. But the screen lit up with messages from his friends’ group chat, and the first few lines caught your eye, seeing your name in them.

“Can’t believe Lando actually went through with it.” “I know, right? It’s hilarious that she still doesn’t know!”

Your heart sank as you read further, each message a dagger to your trust. They were discussing you— about Lando making a bet involving you. Your hands trembled, and you scrolled through the conversation, your worst fears unfolding before your eyes.

“Thought he’d be gloating but he hasn’t contacted at all.” “Shit, man, he’s been with her for a year. I'm not paying him that much!”

You felt sick to your stomach. The room spun around you as you struggled to comprehend the magnitude of the betrayal. All those times you believed in Lando, trusted him with your heart— were they all just part of a cruel scheme? A fucking game?

You heard Lando approaching, unaware that you had seen everything. His smile faded as he saw the look on your face, the phone still clutched tightly in your hand.

“What’s wrong?” he asked cautiously, sensing the tension in the air as he approached you with wide eyes.

This has happened before. Lando was always scared of coming home and finding it empty because you had found out about something he was afraid to tell you but in the past he was always wrong. It was a show, a friend, a book making you cry but today was different.

You held up the phone, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt. “Care to explain this?”

Lando’s expression shifted from confusion to dread as he realized what had just happened. He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off with a bitter laugh.

“Fuck, you really had me convinced!” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. “You made a bet? How much have you made so far, Mr. Norris?”

“Don't say that,” Lando looked like you had slapped him across his face. He reached out to you, his face pleading for forgiveness. “Y/N, I swear it wasn’t like that—”

“How much was it?” you demanded, the words laced with bitterness. “Bet you made a lot the day you finally got laid, huh?” “No!” Your boyfrie— ex-boyfriend screamed. His eyes were carrying moisture and you couldn’t help but scoff but he carried on. “I never took a single penny, Y/N. I.. I promise, I hadn’t even talked to them since the day i realized what assholes they were and—”

Lando’s face fell, his words faltering as he rushed forward to catch you in his arms, his tears finally falling once he saw your wet face. But the truth hung heavy in the silence between you, suffocating any hope of reconciliation.

Tears fell down your cheeks onto his arm as he kissed your head and whispered sweet nothings and sorry, I’m so sorry so so sorry sorry sorry, again and again against your head, blurring your vision. “I trusted you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I loved you.”

The weight of it all settled on you, and you sank deeper into the couch, overwhelmed by the betrayal. The anger that fueled you moments ago now gave way to a deep, searing pain. How could he have done this to you?

Lando kneeled down before you, his own tears betraying the magnitude of his mistake. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, reaching for you. “I never meant for you to find out.”

He carried on but your ears started ringing when the words registered. Wouldn’t a person with nothing to be guilty about, accept the truth and make up? Why was he so hell bent on keeping it under a hush?

His words felt hollow, empty promises in the wake of his betrayal and you cut him off as you pushed him away from you . “Get out,” you managed to say, your voice hoarse.

Lando hesitated, torn between wanting to explain and knowing that no explanation would mend what was broken. “Please,” you whispered and it was so small, so scared that he got up immediately and nodded.

He kissed your head again and you let him linger as you closed your eyes,“I.. I’ll be back, baby.” With a final, agonized look at you, he turned and left, leaving you alone in the wreckage of your shattered trust.

The silence enveloped you, broken only by your ragged breaths and the echoes of his footsteps fading away. You hugged yourself tightly, trying to hold together the pieces of your heart that he had callously shattered.

As the tears continued to fall, you felt a different kind of ache—the ache of knowing that the love you had believed in was now a painful memory because yes, he was coming back but you wouldn’t be here.

Later, Lando would enter the house in hopes of finding you but just like his worst nightmare, you wouldn’t be there. You wouldn’t be there to hold him as he’ll slowly lose it running across the house while he’ll look for you. None of your things would be there.

Yes, he destroyed you but also himself.

( writing masterlist \ main masterlist \ drop a request ) ©maxtermind // do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platforms.

[44forza]

i only threw this party for you

lovesick!driver throws a party hoping you’ll show up.

some crack, tiniest bit of angst, some fluff. happy endings tho as apology for the last one. sort of great gatsby inspired, majorly charli xcx inspired (listen to “party 4 u” for the full effect)

ft: max verstappen, charles leclerc, carlos sainz, lewis hamilton, lando norris, and oscar piastri

as always, feedback and reblogs appreciated!! pls do not repost my work.

[presidentkittycherk]

Phillip x geogre ecker shipper scare me but I understand the hate fucking

Lyrics from Poison arrow by ABC :P

okay pheaker pheaker pheaker...... how do i feel....(thoughte below the cut)

Okay so i see the vision. "doomed toxic yaoi". and i mean i would really liek to see them together appearace-wise

LIKE COME ONNNN

I just feel like theres not enough interaction and build up yk like bro just came to town shit talked philips dad and shot him(like the hamburr doomed yaoi is right there for that). and i know i like to ignore historic facts, but eaker is 27 at the time phillip is 19 and repeatedly refers to him as a schoolboy and is obviosuly a grown man HOWEVER i do think sense so many historic facts are overlooked and its never stated sooooooooooooo....

so do i ship them... not nessicarily..and is it doomed yaoi.. NO.

but i see philip having a sense of admiration for him like.. maybe he agrees deep down with the things eakers said about Hamilton. obviosly he went to duel him in his fathers honour , but he probably saw the truth in what eaker was saying nd would have to hold some resentment against him due to what hes done to the family sooooo...

and also george eakers sexy ASF. but all this to say ONE SIDED PHEAKER. philip thinks hes sexy bad boy eaker sees dork son of his opp and shoots him no regrets.............

[0scarp1astr1]

Anniversary Tears

જ⁀➴ Desc: || In which your perfect anniversary was long forgotten by your boyfriend and you're tired of being last place in his life. ||

P2

ᯓ★ Featuring: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris, Carlos Sainz, Fernando Alonso.

ᯓ★ 1x Genre: Angst

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: Don't worry guys, I do see your requests in my inbox, and have them drafted. Solo fics take longer than the headcanons, So I am putting more content out there to hold you over. I hope you all enjoy the angst.

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀

Max Verstappen

When your relationship with Max first took off, it felt perfect. Not only were you a WAG with a loving boyfriend and your own career, but you were also his world—his safe haven outside the sport that constantly demanded his time, energy, and focus. After long days filled with tension, yelling at his team, and pushing for improvements they sometimes refused to acknowledge, you were his anchor. On the verge of breaking, you were the one who held him together.

But slowly, the pressure from his job started to seep into your relationship. Max grew distant, his presence increasingly replaced by postponed dinners and late nights. "Don't wait up," became more common than goodnight kisses. The bed felt colder, and the silence at night felt heavier. Still, you clung to hope. Your anniversary was coming up—it had to mean something to him. He’d always remembered before, right down to the minute. He never missed it. It was always in his phone, always marked with care.

“Don’t worry, liefje,” he said with a soft kiss. “I’ll be home before you know it.” His lips lingered just long enough to convince you he might mean it this time.

You dressed with care that evening—spritzed on the perfume he loved, slipped into the dress that never failed to catch his eye. Dinner was set. A night under the stars, just the two of you. You waited, surrounded by the hum of music, the clink of glasses, the low chatter of couples enjoying each other’s company.

But not yours.

You kept glancing at the door. Then at your phone. Finally, you called him. When he answered, you could hear him talking to someone—Christian, maybe—before he turned his attention to you.

“Sorry, liefje, I was just talking to Christian. What’s up?”

What’s up?

“What do you mean, what’s up?” you snapped, your voice brittle.

His reply was casual, too casual. “Why are you so moody? Are you on your period or something?”

That was the final straw.

“No, Max, I’m not,” you said sharply, your voice tight as you stood from the table, phone pressed to your ear. “Maybe I’m just moody because the man I love can’t even let go of a damn steering wheel for five minutes to be with me. I get it. You love racing. I know your career comes first. But on our anniversary?”

There was a pause, then a panicked, “Shit. I’m sorry! I’ll come right now—”

“Don’t bother, Verstappen.” You cut him off, eyes stinging. “Save your apology. I’m done. I can't keep coming in last place... while you sit there and celebrate every first.”

You hung up. The quiet click of your heels echoed as you walked away, tears slipping down your cheek.

Elsewhere, Max stood frozen, phone in hand, jaw clenched, eyes heavy.

When someone asked what was wrong, all he could manage to say was—

“I screwed up.”

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀

Charles Leclerc

You always knew Ferrari was Charles’ world. From the time he was a boy, it was his dream, his everything—and you stood by him every step of the way. He was a loving boyfriend, no doubt about that. He just had a habit of forgetting the little things—milk from the store, the eggs, the scented candles you asked for, even the specific dog food that Leo could actually stomach.

But you loved him. Loved him so much, you would sit in silence and come last, over and over again.

You were used to being his priority. Even in crowded rooms or intense conversations, his hand would still find yours—on your thigh, your back, your waist. But lately, that had all changed. Ferrari was struggling, and so was Charles. You saw it in his eyes: the exhaustion, the pressure, the desperate hunger to do better, to fight for pole position, for podiums, for anything. And in the process, you felt like discarded trash—left behind, forgotten.

“I’ll see you tonight,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

He smiled. ��Of course. I’ll handle today and be home.”

You assumed he knew. It was on the calendar. In both your phones. You’d dropped hints all week. He couldn’t forget this—your day. The day you two fell in love. The day you made each other yours.

When he walked out the door, your heart had lifted. You cleaned the flat from top to bottom, cooked his favorite meal, lit the candles he loved most, and carefully scattered the rose petals you bought. You dressed for the night you’d both needed. A reconnection. A celebration. A return to each other.

But hours passed.

The food grew cold. Half the candles flickered out. Leo had chewed through most of the petals. You sat in silence, staring at the clock, the night collapsing in on itself like a slow disaster.

Then—finally—you heard his keys.

His voice.

And your heart sparked, a flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—he’d remembered. Maybe he brought flowers. Maybe he had a surprise. A kiss. An apology. Something.

But when the door opened, your smile died.

Charles stepped in… with one of his engineers.

“I invited him over for dinner,” he said casually, dropping his keys on the counter. He glanced around. “What’s all this?”

Your chest tightened, breath caught in your throat.

“Our dinner,” you said quietly.

He raised a brow. “We planned this?”

You looked away, biting the inside of your cheek.

“I mean… if we did, I must’ve forgotten,” he said, walking toward the table. “Did Leo eat half of whatever this is?” he added, lightly nudging a chewed petal with his foot.

That was it.

You grabbed your keys without a word and walked out. Charles watched you go, confused, glancing at his friend—who only shrugged.

And then his eyes landed on the calendar.

Red marker. A heart. One word.

Anniversary.

His stomach dropped.

“Our anniversary,” he whispered. Panic set in as he fumbled for his phone. He called you instantly.

“Y/N,” he breathed when you answered. “I forgot—I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I swear. We were just talking strategy all day, and I lost track of time. Please, just come back.”

You sniffled on the other end.

“I’m tired of chasing someone who’s chasing a podium,” you said. “I know it’s your dream, Charles. But am I even part of it?”

He swallowed hard, unable to respond.

“You cross the finish line, but do I even matter?” your voice cracked. “You don’t even know what to say. You can’t, because you don’t care. I ask for your time—and you have none to give. So good luck with Ferrari this year, Charles. Go chase your podium. I’m done chasing you.”

And then the line went dead.

Charles stood frozen, phone still in hand, eyes stinging with guilt and regret. He whispered, more to himself than anyone else, anger and heartbreak swirling in his chest.

“She hates me…”

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀

Lewis Hamilton

You were in love with a seven-time world champion.

And somehow, despite the millions who adored him, he loved you. He chose to build a life with you—and Roscoe. Nothing could break you two apart. His heart was yours, and yours was his.

He made sacrifices, hard choices in his career, and swore time and again that he'd always try to keep you first. That love—it made you feel like you were flying.

Until you crash-landed. Alone.

Lately, the clock would strike midnight, sometimes even two in the morning, and he still wouldn’t be home. And each late night, each unanswered message, made your chest feel tighter. You told yourself not to complain—he was famous, his life demanding. But still, you wanted time. His time.

“We deserve a trip,” he had said, flashing that smile, the one that always calmed your nerves.

“We do,” you agreed. “Just don’t forget the date. I even canceled vacation plans with the girls—told them I needed time with my future husband.”

He had chuckled and held up his phone. “I’ll spend an hour with the guys and come home early. I still need to pack Roscoe’s stuff, anyway.”

“Responsible,” you teased, kissing his cheek. “Go have your fun.”

And the moment he walked out the door, your heart started dreaming. You imagined quiet mornings with him, waking up tangled in each other, no alarms, no cameras. Just the two of you, off the grid. Long walks. Photos where he called you beautiful. Whispered I love yous between sips of coffee. A version of him that only existed when the world wasn’t watching.

But the clock ticked. Then again. And again.

No message. No call. Nothing.

Just silence—until you opened Instagram.

There he was. Laughing, smiling with the guys. Still out. Like he had no flight. No bags. No anniversary. No you.

He was winning in the race of life—and losing in the one that truly mattered.

He didn’t come home until hours later. Eyes tired, voice light.

“An hour I said—and then Franco dared me to—”

He stopped.

The place was too quiet. Too empty. Roscoe sat by the door, ears perked.

“Y/N?” he called, stepping deeper into the penthouse.

“Babe?”

He walked through each room, heart picking up speed—until his eyes caught the note sitting on the counter.

Lewis,

I waited. But you didn’t come. I told myself maybe you'd run late, maybe you'd rush home, maybe you'd try. But you didn't.

You missed our flight. You missed our anniversary.

So I went without you. I’m on vacation—with the girls I turned down for you.

Don’t call. Just ask yourself why it always ends up like this.

—Y/N

Panic set in. He grabbed his phone and immediately called you.

When you picked up, your voice was quiet, broken by the faint sound of laughter in the background.

“Where did you go?” he asked, breath uneven.

“On vacation,” you said simply. “You missed our flight. You know… for a seven-time world champion, I thought maybe—maybe—you’d lay it to rest just for one day. Or did you forget what this trip was even for? It was our anniversary.”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I’m laying off work as much as I can. You know how demanding it is. I love what I do—”

“Yeah. You love what you do. But do you even love what you have?” your voice cracked. “I’ve spent so much time loving you, accepting that you’re sweet… but never around. At some point, Lewis, you’ll wake up past forty, still chasing podiums, and realize the world kept spinning without you.”

Silence.

“And when all the other drivers are married, in love, settled… you’ll say I miss Y/N. You’ll say you miss us. You’ll wish we had more time. You’ll wish we got married. You’ll wish you treated me like more than a trophy in your case.”

You paused, breath catching.

“But I won’t be there.”

And then you hung up.

Back in Monaco, Lewis stood frozen in the middle of the room, eyes glassy, hands shaking. His phone slipped from his grip, landing with a sharp clatter on the tile.

“Fuck!” he yelled, voice raw, hands in his hair as he stumbled backward.

“How did I mess this up?” he muttered, sinking onto the edge of the bed.

“I lost her…”

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀

Lando Norris

When you first met Lando, you knew who he was—the party boy. The fast life, the late nights, the grin that could disarm anyone. But behind that chaos was something softer. Something real. A boy with a full heart who crumbled in your arms when the media became too cruel. You held him through breakdowns, through silence, through storms no one else ever saw. He was yours. You were his.

And for a while, it felt like nothing else mattered.

Time with him felt like being the center of the universe. Every moment was electric. He made you feel like you were more than his girlfriend—you were his constant. His peace.

But it shifted.

McLaren started winning, and suddenly, so much more of him belonged to the team. His attention narrowed, his kisses got shorter, his exits quicker. “Love you,” turned into rushed goodbyes and texted emojis. You started waiting—hours—for a message, a call, a sign.

Sometimes, you only got a thumbs-up.

He didn’t feel like your boyfriend anymore. He felt like Lando Norris, the driver. And you? Just another face in the crowd, another voice in his overflowing inbox.

It hurt. Bad.

That’s why you didn’t say anything.

You wanted to see if he’d remember your anniversary. Not because you wanted to punish him—but because part of you needed to know if he still saw you. Not as a fan, not as a placeholder, but as the girl who’s been with him through it all. The one who stayed.

You let the day unfold in silence.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d say no to clubbing. Maybe he’d surprise you. Maybe he’d say no to everyone else and yes to you—for once.

The lamp in the living room was the only light on. You sat on the couch, dressed up. Makeup perfect. Perfume light and familiar. Waiting.

You imagined him swinging through the door, smiling, dressed up, ready to whisk you away like it was year one again.

But hours passed.

Your heels came off first. Then the makeup wipes. Then the dress, now forgotten on the cold floor of your bedroom. By the time the clock struck midnight, you were in pajamas—hope deflated.

Then, voices at the door.

You looked up, heart already heavy.

“He’s drunk,” one of his friends laughed as they helped Lando up the stairs.

His head lolled to the side, eyes half-closed, a goofy, blissed-out grin on his lips.

You opened the door.

“On our anniversary…” you whispered under your breath.

Still, you couldn’t turn him away. You loved him too much for that.

You thanked his friends, then wrapped your arms around him as he leaned all his weight on you. He laughed—slurred and unaware—as you helped him toward the bedroom.

“Norris,” you muttered, sighing. “You forgot what today was.”

He didn’t respond.

You eased him onto his side of the bed, unlaced his shoes, tossing them aside. He collapsed into the pillows with a lazy groan.

“Four years,” you said quietly, watching him.

“Anniversary, you know?” you tried again. “Four years.”

He hummed, eyes shut. “Whatever you say… I don’t care…”

You froze.

And then, with a careless wave of his hand, he mumbled—

“I love you, Luisinha…”

The breath left your body.

Your heart split clean down the middle.

He wasn’t just drunk.

He was drunk and still thinking about her.

Luisinha.

The girl before you. The one you thought he’d moved past. The one he said he didn’t talk to, didn’t think about, didn’t miss.

But that bracelet you’d found a week ago—the one he promised he’d thrown away?

He kept it.

He kept her.

And now, with his defenses down, the truth came out. Maybe the drinking, the clubbing, the partying—it wasn’t about the spotlight. Maybe it was about numbing the space she left behind.

Your eyes welled with tears as you looked at him—peaceful, unaware, dreaming of someone else.

“For once in my life…” your voice shook, barely a whisper, “I thought someone loved me. Sober or not sober.”

You wiped your eyes, hands trembling.

“I’m last place in your mind,” you said, broken. “Always have been.”

You lingered in the doorway for a moment, taking one last look at the boy who promised you everything—but gave you half-truths.

“I hope she makes you happy,” you whispered.

And then you left.

No destination in mind.

Just anywhere that wasn’t there—anywhere you could breathe, away from the lies, away from the ache of trying to be someone’s everything when they’re still mourning someone else.

Back in bed, Lando stirred. Tossed. Snored.

And then, barely audible—

“Luisinha…”

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀

Carlos Sainz

Carlos was your sweetheart.

Every photo of you two looked like a still from a romantic comedy—sometimes sweet, sometimes goofy, always full of heart. Together, you’d wish fans happy holidays, post silly videos, and make even the quietest moments feel alive. Being his felt like honey: warm, golden, slow-dripping joy.

He loved to show you off. His friends knew your name. His fans knew your face. He spoke of you like you hung the moon.

And for a long time, the weight of that love wasn’t heavy—it was heavenly.

But slowly… that love began to fade. Not disappear, no. Just… retreat.

His smiles became half-hearted. His eyes darted around the room, distracted. Every dinner was cut short. Every date somehow became a double date—someone tagging along, someone stealing his laughter, his attention, his time. And you? Left picking at your food, faking smiles.

He always apologized. Swore he’d change. And you believed him, because when Carlos loved, he loved hard.

“This time, I’ll focus on you. It’s our anniversary, mi amor. I could never forget my special lady,” he teased, pinching your nose, making you laugh in spite of yourself.

“Good. I already have my outfit picked out, Sainz,” you grinned.

“Perfect, I'll meet you tonight, have to do some stuff so I can make time for just this moment and just for you," he said, kissing your forehead. It felt like a promise.

And for a moment—you believed it.

That night, you stood in front of the mirror, beaming. Your dress hugged your body just right, your makeup was soft and glowing. You did a little spin, whispering to yourself, “He’s gonna lose his mind when he sees me.”

You were ready to be his entire world for the night.

But hours passed.

The food on your plate grew cold. The candles flickered lower. And the seat across from you? Still empty.

Your phone finally rang. Your heart lifted, a flicker of hope rushing in. “Carlos?” you answered with a soft smile.

Laughter poured from the other end of the line. Background noise. Music. Clinking glasses.

“You should come to the bar!” he said, voice light and carefree.

Your smile shattered.

The silence on your end stretched, and then—

“Carlos Sainz Vázquez de Castro…” your voice trembled. “Do you really not know what today is?”

He hesitated. “I must’ve forgotten, because… no?”

Your throat tightened. “Our anniversary.”

Silence.

“And I have to say,” you added, voice cracking, “sitting alone at this table—alone—is humiliating.”

He exhaled. “Come to the bar. I’ll make it up to you. I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?” You stood up, voice raising with the weight of every swallowed hurt. “You’re always sorry, Carlos! And then you go and do the same thing again. And again.”

People turned their heads, but you didn’t care anymore.

“I’m tired of being last! I’ve sucked up every ache in my body for you. I’ve swallowed my pride. For what?”

“You know how demanding my career is,” he said quietly.

You laughed bitterly. “Your career? Carlos, other drivers have relationships. They’re not out at a bar on their anniversary night like it’s nothing!”

“I’m not them,” he snapped. “Don’t compare me, corazón.”

You shook your head, heart sinking. “Maybe if you loved me the way they love their partners… I wouldn’t have to.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Maybe if you just looked at me, for one second, I wouldn’t have to beg to be seen. I made you first in my life, Carlos. First. And all I’ve ever been to you is another face in the crowd. Someone who waits. Someone who blends in behind your friends, your fans, your fame.”

He stayed quiet.

You looked at the phone, your reflection in the black screen, your makeup starting to smudge, your hand trembling.

“We’re done, Carlos,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Done.”

And with that, you hung up.

Back at the bar, Carlos stared at his phone like it had punched him in the gut.

He didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing.

He slid the phone down on the counter, staring ahead at nothing. His jaw clenched. His throat burned.

One of his friends leaned over, hand on his back.

“You okay, man?”

Carlos didn’t answer at first. Then, slowly, voice cracked and broken, he muttered:

“I just lost the one woman who loved me more than the world…”

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀

Fernando Alonso

Fernando Alonso Díaz.

Even just his name gave you butterflies. It belonged to the man who made you laugh until your sides ached, who smothered you with kisses every morning despite your sleepy protests. His affection was playful—nose pinches, tight hugs, spontaneous dancing in the kitchen. You were his world. And he was yours.

He once told you that when he was ready to marry again, it would be you. Only you. That you’d be the last woman he’d ever love like this. That one day, he'd put a ring on your finger and call it forever.

For a long time, life with him felt like a promise unfolding. Soft, beautiful, and full of meaning.

But promises, even beautiful ones, can crack under pressure.

The small things started to slip. A missed good morning text. A quick kiss on the cheek without eye contact. Late nights with the same excuse: work. “You know how it goes,” he’d say. “Busy as always.” And suddenly, you weren’t sure if you were his partner… or his afterthought.

Still, you hoped.

You wore the outfit he loved. You tried to spark memories, gently reminding him of the day you became official. He smiled—but his face didn’t light up. “I don’t really remember the date,” he said, brushing it off. “But I remember it felt magical.”

Your fake smile held long enough for you to turn your back.

Then came another goodbye. Another peck on the cheek. Another “work’s calling.”

You stayed home, holding on to hope. Holding on to him.

Evening came. Then night. Your phone buzzed.

Fernando: Don’t wait up. Working late.

That was it. No call. No detail. Just another dismissal, like you didn’t spend the day waiting, hoping he’d come home ready to celebrate you both.

You called him. Your voice trembled, trying to stay steady.

“Fernando,” you said, “I think you should check the date.”

He laughed softly. “Are you drunk, mi vida?”

“No,” you whispered. “Just check.”

There was a pause. Then, casually: “Is it important? I’m heading out with the guys. Engineers are buying.”

Your heart cracked. “Nando, it’s our anniversary.”

Silence. Then a light chuckle. “Ah… I missed it. We’ll fix it tomorrow, yeah? When I’m free.”

You swallowed hard. “Are we ever getting married, Fernando? Or is that just something you say when it’s convenient?”

He sighed. “Why would I stop racing to get married? This is my life. You knew that.”

“I’m not asking you to stop racing.” Your voice shook. “I’m asking if you even see a future with me.”

Another sigh. Dismissive. Cold.

You continued, voice stronger now, pain spilling out. “You remember everything about your career—your wins, the year you debuted, your teammates, your rivals. But you couldn’t remember this. Us. What we built.”

You wiped a tear away. “You’re forty-three, Fernando. I don’t need a perfect family. I don’t even need kids. But marriage… time together… commitment. That’s not too much.”

“I’ll marry when I’m ready,” he replied. “I’m not living a domestic life right now. I have a few more years left in me. You knew that.”

“I did. I knew what I signed up for.” Your tone softened, but the sadness deepened. “But I didn’t sign up to always come second. Or third. Or last. I thought we were in this together. I thought love meant sharing the wins.”

He was quiet. You knew that silence. The kind that said he’s made his choice.

“I’m not trying to change you,” you whispered. “I just wanted a little of your time. A little of your heart when it wasn’t being poured into a car. I wanted our love to matter as much as your next race.”

Then his voice sharpened. “If you hang up, I won’t chase you. I won’t beg. If you hang up, it’s done. So give me a moment—”

Click.

Silence.

The moment you ended the call, something shifted in him.

Fernando sat motionless, the phone still in his hand. The words echoed in his head.

“There is no reason one of us should be winning and the other losing.”

He’d spent his life chasing podiums, building a legacy. But in the quiet that followed your goodbye, he realized something:

The one person who loved him beyond the helmet, the headlines, the trophies—had just walked away.

And he let her.

A single tear slid down his cheek as he placed the phone on the table, the weight of everything he’d lost crashing down on him.

“What have I done…”

▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀▄ ▀▄▀▄▀

[daydreamingatnight209]

“Built Between Races”

Authors note - We are coming to the end of this series! I do still have a couple of ideas so I may add to this in the next couple of days/weeks. Feedback is always welcome, hate is not ✨💕

Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader

Summery - Moments with your little family after birth - Fluff 💕

Warnings - Translated French, not fully proofread.

——————————————————————

1. Family Support -

The apartment was quiet except for the steady background noise of the F1 broadcast.

You sat on the sofa, curled up in one corner with Amélie resting against your chest.

Across from you, Pascale sat in the armchair, a warm cup of tea in her hands. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were focused on the screen as much as yours were.

Charles’s face filled the television now, standing in the paddock, race suit half-zipped, cap low over his eyes. He was giving an interview, and even through the screen, you could tell he wasn’t just slipping into his usual professional answers. His voice was steady but softer than usual, the way it always was when he wasn’t thinking about cameras.

“They always push him for personal things now,” you say quietly, adjusting the blanket around Amélie’s tiny body. “I think he’s getting better at handling it.”

Pascale gave a soft smile, eyes still on the screen. “He’s changed,” she said thoughtfully. “Since Amélie… since you.”

You glanced down at your daughter’s sleeping face, fingers brushing lightly over the baby’s cheek.

“I think we both have,” you admitted. “It’s strange not being there with him. But I know he wanted us to stay home today.”

“I keep thinking how different it all feels now,” you continue after a moment. “Before… it was just Charles and racing. And now it’s…”

“Bigger,” Pascale finished for you, voice warm. “It’s always like that when family grows.”

On the TV, they’d cut back to Charles’s interview now. The interviewer asked that familiar question:

“You’ve just become a father. Has it changed your mindset at all coming into this race weekend?”

Charles’s answer came steady and sure:

“Of course it changes things. Racing is always there. But family—that’s different. That stays with you.”

You swallowed lightly at that, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.

“He means it,” Pascale said, her voice gentle, echoing the same feeling that sat in your chest.

“I know,” you murmur, brushing a hand over Amélie’s soft hair. “I know he does.”

Pascale shifted from her seat now, moving to sit next to you on the sofa. She leaned in a little closer, glancing down at her granddaughter with a quiet smile.

“Can I?” she asked, her hand hovering near Amélie’s back.

You nodded, shifting carefully so Pascale could rest her hand lightly on the baby’s tiny form.

“She looks like him,” Pascale said softly, her eyes glistening just a little. “The same mouth… same eyes.”

Pascale smiled, glancing sideways at you. “You’ve done so well with her already.”

For a while, the two of them just sat like that — sharing the silence as Monaco glowed outside, and the sound of Charles’s voice filled the room in the background.

You spoke again, quieter now.

“Do you think Jules and Herve would have been proud?”

Pascale didn’t hesitate. Her hand rested a little firmer on Amélie’s back as she answered:

“Of both of you. Absolutely.”

That quiet weight settled in your chest again—not heavy, not sad—just full.

The kind of weight that felt like family.

The soft click of the front door announced Charles’s return.

You looked up from the sofa, Amélie still curled asleep against your chest on content. The warm glow of the lamp bathed the room in a gentle light, soft shadows dancing on the walls.

Charles stepped inside, race suit replaced by comfortable clothes, his face tired but brightening the moment he saw you.

“Bonsoir,” he says softly, lowering his keys onto the side table.

(Translation - Good Evening)

Pascale stood nearby, gathering her coat.

“Charles,” she said with a small smile, stepping forward. “You look tired.”

He gave a short laugh and shook his head. “It was a long day.” His eyes softened as he looked at you and his daughter again. “But this…” He reached out to brush Amélie’s cheek gently. “This makes it all worth it.”

Pascale’s eyes glistened as she stepped closer, reaching out to take Charles’s hand in both of hers.

“Thank you,” Charles said quietly, voice full of warmth. “For everything. For being here.”

Pascale squeezed his hand. “Always, mon fils.”

(Translation - My Son)

Charles turned toward you, smiling softly as he knelt beside the sofa.

“How are my two favorite girls?” he asked quietly.

You smile back, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Tired but good.”

Charles carefully leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Amélie’s forehead before settling beside you, one arm wrapping protectively around the both of you.

The room fell peaceful and still, the quiet only broken by the soft, rhythmic breathing of their sleeping daughter.

Charles rested his head lightly against your shoulder, eyes closing for a moment.

“We’re lucky,” he murmured. “All of us.”

You nodded against his body. “The luckiest.”

They stayed like that for a while — just the three of them — wrapped in the kind of calm that only family could bring after a long day.

2. Middle of the Night -

It was nearly 4 a.m.

The Monte Carlo apartment was quiet except for the occasional soft hum of the city beyond their windows — and the sleepy, fussy murmurs of one very small, very awake newborn.

You sat curled on the edge of the sofa, bleary-eyed in one of Charles’s oversized t-shirts, rocking gently as you tried to settle Amélie. Your hair was up in a messy bun that had surrendered hours ago, and your expression was somewhere between sheer exhaustion and quiet determination.

Charles emerged from the kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, and carrying a bottle he’d just warmed. His eyes were heavy, but the moment they landed on you and his daughter, something softened in him.

“Is she still…?” he whispered, not needing to finish the sentence.

You just nodded in response, adjusting Amélie’s position carefully. “She doesn’t want to sleep unless she’s on me. But she’s too fussy to actually fall asleep. She’s fighting it.”

Charles crossed the room in three steps and dropped down beside you. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and held out his other hand, open, offering to take Amélie.

“Are you sure?” You asked quietly, but you was already leaning into him.

“I’ve never been more sure about anything,” he said, voice low and gentle.

You passed the baby to him slowly, carefully, and Charles brought Amélie to his bare chest, one hand cradling her head, the other splaying protectively over her tiny back. He held her like she was made of glass — but also like he’d done it a thousand times.

“Coucou, ma petite,” he whispered, swaying slightly as he stood. “Papa’s here.”

(Translation - Hello, my little one)

You watched him, eyes soft and tired. He was pacing now, murmuring to her in a mix of French and English, low and melodic. Amélie let out a small sigh — not quite asleep, but calmer.

“She likes your voice,” you obverse quietly, curling your knees up under yourself.

“She knows it,” Charles said. “She heard it every night in there.” He nodded toward your stomach, a crooked little smile tugging at his lips. “Especially when I was yelling at Ferrari through the TV.”

You laughed, the sound raspy from sleep deprivation. “That explains her dramatic flair.”

Charles looked down at the baby, grinning. “She’s perfect.”

“Even when she’s screaming her head off?”

“Especially then. It means she’s strong.”

He came back to the sofa and sat beside you again, Amélie finally dozing now against his chest. They stayed like that for a while — the three of them wrapped in that stillness only the middle of the night brings.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted softly, resting your head against Charles shoulder.

“Neither do I,” Charles replied, kissing your forehead. “But we’re doing it anyway.”

And in that moment — tired, messy, hearts full — it felt like enough.

3. Breakfast outings -

The streets of Monaco were unusually quiet for a summer morning—just the gentle hum of scooters in the distance and the occasional clink of cups from nearby cafés. The harbor glittered below, yachts bobbing lazily in the water, but up here on a tucked-away café terrace in the old town, everything felt still.

You adjusted the blanket draped over Amelie, who was nestled in the pram, fast asleep. At five weeks old, she had Charles’ mouth and your lashes—and a talent for keeping the both of you up at night. But right now, she was calm. Peaceful. Just like the air around them.

It was your first proper outing together. No cameras. No handlers. Just the three of you. The new Leclerc three.

Charles returned from the café counter carrying two drinks—a hot chocolate for you and an espresso for himself. He placed yours gently beside you before sitting down, his eyes flicking immediately to the pram.

“She’s still out?” he whispered, glancing in like she was a rare artifact.

You smiled tiredly, cradling the warm cup between her hands. “Don’t jinx it.”

He grinned, then leaned back in his chair with a soft sigh, stretching his legs under the small table. “This feels… surreal. Doesn’t it?”

You tilted your head, watching the early sun cast soft shadows across his face. “Surreal is a good word for it.”

He looked at you then—not just glanced, but looked—like he had in those first few days in the hospital. That mix of awe, disbelief, and raw love. “You’re amazing, you know,” he said.

You let out a soft laugh, sipping your drink. “You keep saying that like I’m going to start believing it.”

“Maybe one day you will,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “You carried her. You gave her life. And you’re still here, making sure she’s okay even when you haven’t slept properly in five weeks. That’s… I don’t have words for that.”

Before you could reply, a soft whimper rose from the pram. Amelie stirred, kicking slightly beneath her blanket. Her cry was still new—not angry, just a gentle protest.

Charles was already moving, scooping her into his arms with the ease of a man who had memorized every movement, every soft spot. Amelie nestled into his chest with a sigh that almost sounded like relief.

You watched them, chest tight with love. “You’re getting good at that.”

He looked down at the baby in his arms, bouncing slightly on his heels. “She likes it when I walk while holding her.”

“Your race engineer instincts are kicking in,” you teased. “You’re learning her rhythm like telemetry.”

Charles grinned. “It’s the most important data I’ve ever had.”

And right there on a quiet street in Monaco, as the rest of the city buzzed just out of earshot, Charles began to hum—soft, tuneless, meant for no one but his daughter. You leaned back in your chair, watching them, fingers absently tracing the rim of your cup. Your body was still healing. Your heart was still stretching to fit this new shape of life. But in this moment—in the warmth of a slow Monaco morning, with crumbs on your lap and your love seated across from you—it all felt okay.

In a life that never slowed down, this moment finally did.

And it was perfect.

4. Paddock Reveal.

The familiar hum of the paddock was louder than usual, echoing with the buzz of journalists, engineers, and fans gathering along the barriers. But Charles couldn’t hear any of it. Not properly, anyway. His eyes were fixed on you, who was walking toward him with Amélie nestled snugly in a soft beige baby carrier strapped to your chest.

It was your first time back since the birth. Three months since their daughter came into the world. And now she was here — both of you were — in the very heart of Charles’ world.

Charles walked steadily through the crowd, protectively guiding you through with Amélie - Her tiny head peeked out from under a cozy hat, her wide eyes taking in the world around her.

Familiar faces caught sight of the little family, smiles spreading immediately.

Lando Norris was the first to approach, crouching slightly to get a better look.

“Hey, Amélie,” he said softly, careful not to startle her. “Welcome to the paddock.”

Charles smiled proudly. “This is our little girl. She’s been waiting to meet you all.”

Lewis Hamilton stepped forward next, his calm presence unmistakable. He reached out gently, his hand hovering near Amélie’s tiny fingers.

“She’s beautiful, Charles. You must be proud.”

Charles nodded, a warm grin crossing his face. “Beyond proud.“

George Russell joined them, his eyes lighting up as he peeked at the baby.

“Future champion, no doubt.”

Max Verstappen came over with a subtle smile, glancing down at Amélie.

“She’s already got the racing genes.”

Charles laughed softly. “Let’s not rush it, Max.”

Pierre Gasly leaned in, his voice quiet but filled with warmth.

“Look at her. The paddock just got a little brighter.”

You stood watching the interactions with a soft smile, adjusting Amélie’s blanket.

A soft gurgle interrupted everyone. Charles looked down. Amélie blinked up at him, her tiny face wrinkling in a near yawn, pink cheeks flushed from the warmth.

He brushed a gentle kiss on their daughter’s forehead. Adoration spreading across his face.

“3 months already,” you murmured. “Time flies.”

Charles wrapped an arm around your waist.

“It’s a new kind of race, and I’m glad she’s starting it surrounded by friends.”

For a moment, the buzz of the paddock faded into the background, replaced by the quiet warmth of family and friendship—on and off the track.

5. Holiday time -

The sun hung low over the Cancún coastline, casting a golden haze over the powdery white sand and brilliant turquoise sea. Waves lapped rhythmically against the shore, and the salty breeze carried the scent of hibiscus and ocean. At a quiet luxury resort tucked between palm trees and the Caribbean Sea, Charles was stretched out on a shaded daybed, sunglasses perched on his nose, shirt unbuttoned, with Amélie lying peacefully on his bare chest in just a diaper and a tiny sun hat.

She had been asleep for nearly an hour—one small fist curled under her chin, her tiny body perfectly still, nestled against her father like she’d found the safest place on earth.

You returned from the beach bar with two fresh coconuts—one plain for yourself, and one with a splash of rum for Charles. As you stepped into the shade, you stop to take Charles and Amélie in, heart catching at the sight. Charles—ruthless behind a steering wheel—looked almost boyish here, half-lost to the sea breeze and baby snuggles.

“You’re going to make me cry,” you say quietly, voice thick with love.

Charles looked up and smiled, careful not to jostle Amelie. “She passed out halfway through my humming. I think I’ve found my true calling.”

You crouched beside them, handing Charles the drink before reaching out to stroke Amelie’s soft leg. “It’s not the humming. You’re just warm and squishy and she’s totally obsessed with you.”

Charles chuckled. “She gets that from her maman.”

(Translation - Mum/Mom)

You climbed onto the daybed beside them, curling against Charles, your head resting on his shoulder. His free hand found yours, fingers linking like puzzle pieces.

“How’s your back?” he asked gently.

You sighed. “Better now. Floating in the sea helped. And lying down in the shade with you… definitely doesn’t hurt.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “Then this is all we’re doing for the rest of the trip.”

“No complaints here.” You looked at your shared daughter. “She’s the only one on a schedule.”

As if on cue, Amelie stirred.

First it was a stretch, then a little groan, followed by a dramatic frown that creased her whole face. Her arms wiggled, and a tiny frustrated cry escaped her, like the world had dared disturb her nap.

Charles sat up instantly, cradling her close with practiced ease. “Oh là là, bonjour, petite princesse,” he cooed, rocking her gently. “Did we wake you?”

(Translation - Oh la la, hello, little princess)

You leaned over to take her, instinctively brushing Amelie’s cheek. “She feels a bit warm. Probably hungry.”

“Do you want the muslin?” Charles asked, already grabbing the soft, lightweight wrap from beside him.

You nodded and adjusted your top. “Turn around, Leclerc.”

He smirked, teasing. “As if I haven’t seen—”

“Turn,” you warned, but you were smiling.

He turned obediently, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

Once Amelie latched, her fussing melted away instantly. Her eyes fluttered shut again, one tiny hand resting on your chest as if to say all is right again.

“Better baby?” You whispered, brushing her daughter’s forehead.

Charles turned back once you gave the nod, and watched them both in silence—completely still, completely full of something only they gave him.

“She’s getting so big already,” he said quietly.

“She really is.” You looked back down at Amelie, the weight of your daughter sinking into your arms with that unique newborn trust. “Sometimes I wish I could freeze her like this.”

Charles gently traced Amelie’s tiny fingers. “She won’t be little forever. But I’ll always carry her. No matter how big she gets.”

You looked up at him, eyes glistening. “You’re going to ruin me.”

“No,” he replied, soft but sure. “I’m just going to love you. Both of you. Every day. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

You leaned into his side, whispering, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Charles kissed your forehead, his voice low and honest. “Whatever it was… keep doing it.”

Amelie gave a sleepy, milk-drunk sigh and nestled deeper into her mother’s arms. Around them, Cancún softened into evening—the glow of the sun slipping into the sea, the distant sounds of soft music and waves mingling in the air. And beneath the shade of the palm trees, wrapped in warmth and quiet love, the three of them stayed there.

Together.

The next morning, the sun was just high enough to warm the sand but not yet strong enough to scorch it. The air was light, laced with salt and hibiscus, and the beach was still quiet — a few early risers stretching on towels, the sea calm like a mirror under the morning sky.

You walked barefoot down the beach with Amelie tucked against your chest in a soft sling, a wide-brimmed sunhat covering both of your faces. Your smile was fresh and wide. Charles followed beside you, with a striped beach towel slung over one shoulder and a goofy grin plastered across his face.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” you said, laughing softly as you looked down at Amelie. “Your first ocean swim, bébé. Papa is way too excited.”

(Translation - Baby)

“I have waited months for this moment,” Charles said dramatically. “The sea! The salt! Her tiny little toes in the water! This is the moment she falls in love with the world.”

“She won’t even remember it,” you pointed out.

“But I will,” he said with a wink.

You reached the edge of the tide, where the waves kissed the shore in gentle laps. You crouched carefully and untied the sling, lifting Amelie into your arms. She was in a frilly pale yellow swim diaper and a matching swimsuit — all chubby rolls, soft cheeks, and curious, blinking eyes under her baby sunhat.

“She’s already suspicious,” you said, watching Amelie’s nose scrunch slightly at the sea breeze.

Charles stepped closer, offering his hands. “May I?”

“Of course.”

He cradled Amelie like she was made of silk, walking her slowly toward the waterline. The first wave came in — small and foamy — and kissed their feet. Amelie flinched, then blinked again. Her lip wobbled.

“Oh no, she’s going to cry,” you said, stepping forward.

But instead, Amelie let out the tiniest squeak — not a cry, but something close to a laugh — and kicked one foot out, splashing Charles’ leg with a spray of salt water.

You gasped. “She’s kicking!”

“She loves it!” Charles beamed like he’d just won Monaco. “Look at her—look at those legs go!”

He knelt in the shallows with Amelie in his hands, gently dipping her toes in again and again. “This is Leclerc-level form already,” he teased, bouncing her slightly. “Strong legs. Excellent control. Look at that kick extension—this one’s got power.”

“Charles, she’s not even holding her own body up yet,” you laughed.

“Details,” he said, grinning down at Amelie. “She’s a natural.”

The water sparkled around them as Amelie kicked again, a wet, happy noise bubbling from her lips. A little wave lapped over Charles’ knees, and you waded in, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind.

“She’s going to be a water baby,�� you said softly, watching their daughter’s wide, fascinated eyes.

“She’s already perfect,” Charles murmured, glancing back at you. “But this… this is magic.”

A few more waves rolled in, and Charles carefully laid Amelie back in the crook of his arms, just low enough for her feet to splash but her head to stay high and safe. She kicked again, then stilled, mesmerised by the glittering water and the soft breeze on her face.

You reached over and ran a thumb gently down Amelie’s damp leg. “This is going in the baby book.”

“This,” Charles said with absolute sincerity, “is going on my phone, in a frame, and in my brain forever.”

You laughed and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “You’re such a dad already.”

He turned his face to catch your lips in a soft kiss, the kind that didn’t ask for anything, just existed in the joy of the moment.

And there you stayed—ankle-deep in the Caribbean, your baby’s giggles floating into the morning air, the world behind them blissfully quiet. For once, you weren’t racing time. You were soaking it in- as a family.

[formulafanfics13]

she's so polite, it hurts - LH44

Masterlist

Summary: when lewis walks into the paddock holding your hand, nobody says anything. but everybody thinks it. 21. bright-eyed. painfully polite. always smiling. the kind of soft that makes engineers stand up straighter and team principals shift awkwardly when you walk past.

Warning: age gap (21/f & 40/m), public paddock setting, hand-holding, paddock gossip, reader is polite and sweet, possessive lewis, power imbalance, lowkey slutshaming from others (subtle), protective behavior, slightly unsettling tension, confrontation

The paddock goes quiet when you arrive. Not silent. Not in the literal sense. The engines still buzz. Cameras still click. Lando’s still yelling something stupid into his phone across the way. But there’s a pause. A shift in attention. A ripple.

Because Lewis Hamilton just walked in with his hand wrapped around the waist of a girl almost half his age. And you’re smiling. Radiant. Like you don’t notice the way people turn. Like you don’t feel the stares sticking to your legs.

You’re wearing one of his old Mercedes shirts - sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, cinched at the waist with a tiny white skirt and soft cream sneakers. There’s a claw clip in your hair. Pink gloss on your lips. You look like you just wandered in from a university library and got swept up in a legend’s orbit.

He’s got his hand on your lower back like he always does. Fingers trailing down to rest just above your ass. Possessive. Protective. Casual enough to deny but obvious enough to be noticed. And you let him. You always let him.

“Morning,” you say, nodding to the FIA coordinator who holds the door. “Thank you so much.”

She blinks. “Uh - you’re welcome.”

You smile like you didn’t just catch her eyeballing the age gap with her jaw halfway down her neck.

Lewis doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t flinch. Just guides you toward the Mercedes motorhome like this is any other weekend. Like you’ve always been here. Like you belong. But you know they’re watching.

George does a double take when you pass. Christian Horner raises both eyebrows before whispering something to Helmut Marko that makes him chuckle. Carlos Sainz stares too long. Yuki bows a little. Toto just exhales like this is exactly the kind of chaos he should’ve seen coming.

You pretend not to notice. But you do. And so does Lewis. You’re not naïve. You know how it looks. 21. Sweet. Polished. Clapping after Lewis’ interviews and handing him his sunglasses and taking his hand in yours when the cameras get too loud. You’re careful not to touch him too much. Careful not to stand too close. But he doesn’t care. He never does.

You try to be polite. You try to be warm. You thank every mechanic who offers you a headset. Compliment Susie’s dress. Tell the engineers you love the new livery. You make yourself small in the most gracious way. Soft. Demure. Unthreatening. But still they look at you like you’re a sugar baby with a PR clause and a hidden agenda.

You’re not. You just like him. You like the way he listens. The way he asks questions. The way he eats strawberries with his fingers and lets you read out loud from your favourite books on long flights. You like that he knows every part of you - every fear, every dream, every late-night confession you barely knew how to say.

You like that he doesn’t make you feel young. Just real.

And he likes that you’re sweet. That you ask before you reach for his hand. That you still get nervous before big weekends. That you call his trainer sir the first time you meet him and say thank you so much for looking after him. That you remember the names of the junior drivers and bring Max’s girlfriend an extra lip gloss you think she’ll like. That you never ask him to prove anything. That you love him for who he is when no one’s watching. That you’re not afraid to be soft in a world where softness gets mocked.

“Are you okay?” he asks once you’re inside. Hand on your hip. Eyes soft. Searching.

You nod. “I’m okay.”

He leans down. Kisses your temple. “You look beautiful.”

You smile. “You always say that.”

“I always mean it.”

You sit beside him during the driver briefing. Quiet. Perfect. Legs crossed, eyes wide, listening like it matters. Some of the younger guys whisper. But Lewis sits straighter. Shoulders squared. Expression daring anyone to speak.

And they don’t. Because no matter what they think of the gap, no one can deny the way he looks at you. Like you’re sunlight. Like you’re gold. Like he’s the luckiest bastard in the world just for being the one you chose. And eventually… that’s all anyone can see.

The door is already shut when Lewis gets to the office. Toto stands behind the desk. George leans against the far wall, arms folded. Susie’s seated in the corner, legs crossed, face unreadable. There’s no shouting. No accusations. Just that quiet tension that says we’re all here for a reason and no one’s pretending otherwise.

“Hey,” Lewis says, voice low, carefully casual. “Everything alright?”

“Sit,” Toto says.

It’s not a command. Not really. It’s the same tone he uses before strategy debriefs. When something matters. Lewis sits. No one speaks for a second. The room feels too quiet. Outside the motorhome, the paddock buzzes. But in here, everything stills.

Toto exhales. “We just want to ask you something,” he says, tone even.

Lewis nods. “Go ahead.”

George clears his throat. “It’s about her.”

Of course it is. Lewis nods again. “Okay.”

There’s a beat. Susie’s the one who breaks it. “She’s very sweet,” she says. “So warm. So… soft.”

Lewis smiles, just barely. “Yeah. She is.”

“She’s also very young,” Toto adds. Not accusatory. Just a fact.

“I know.”

“She called me sir,” George says.

“She was raised that way,” Lewis says. “Polite. Careful. She grew up in a house where please and thank you were survival tools, not manners.”

That lands heavier than expected. Susie nods. Quietly.

“We’re not trying to be invasive,” Toto says. “But she’s twenty-one. You’re nearly forty. You’re Lewis Hamilton. It’s a lot.”

Lewis doesn’t flinch. “I know what it looks like.”

George shifts a little. “It’s not about what it looks like. It’s about what it is.”

Lewis meets his eyes. Calm. Steady. “I’d never hurt her.”

“We believe that,” Toto says. “But love isn’t always enough. There’s power there. Structure. She’s young, Lewis. Even if she says yes to everything, she might not always know why.”

Lewis leans forward. “She doesn’t say yes to everything,” he says softly. “She’s not stupid. She’s just… gentle. She thinks before she speaks. She asks instead of demands. That doesn’t mean she’s being controlled.”

Susie tilts her head. “Does she have friends here? People her own age? A space that’s not… yours?”

“She’s close with some of the McLaren girls,” Lewis says. “She texts Oscar’s girlfriend too they met at an event in Monaco. I try not to be her everything. I know that’s not healthy.”

George frowns. “We’ve just seen how quiet she gets. How she shrinks a little when the cameras come near. She looks like she’s bracing for something.”

“She always does,” Lewis says. “Even when it’s not me. That’s how she is.”

“She was like that before?” Susie asks gently.

He nods. “She’s like a glass kept in a cupboard full of hammers. She doesn’t speak unless she’s sure it’s safe. She doesn’t touch unless she’s invited to. And I never make her guess.” The room quiets again. “I know the age gap is intense,” he says finally. “But I’ve never raised my voice at her. Never told her what to do. Never asked her for anything she didn’t offer first. I wait. I listen. I let her set the pace.”

Toto leans forward. “And what if the power imbalance still affects her?” he says. “Even without you meaning to?”

“Then I want to know,” Lewis says. “I want to learn. I want to do better. I didn’t start seeing her thinking it would be this serious. But it is. And I care more than I can explain.”

Susie watches him. “Would you ever walk away? If it was hurting her?”

He hesitates. Only a second. “Yes,” he says. “I’d hate it. But I’d never keep her in something that made her small.”

George exhales. “Alright.”

It’s not a resolution. Not really. But it’s not an attack either. They don’t hate him. They just care. Maybe more than he realized.

“She’s lucky,” Susie says after a pause. “To have you.”

“I’m the lucky one,” Lewis says.

Toto claps a hand on his shoulder. “That’s good.”

Outside, the sun’s slipping lower. Someone knocks on the door. Meeting’s over. As Lewis steps out, he sees you waiting by the wall. Hands behind your back. Head slightly bowed. Like you were worried. Like you felt the shift in the air and didn’t want to intrude. You smile when you see him. Small. Warm. Unshakable. He crosses the distance and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just people who love you. Making sure I do too.”

Your smile falters. Just slightly. But it returns when he wraps an arm around your waist.

“Do you?” you whisper.

Lewis pulls you in tighter. “More than anything.”

[pucksandpower]

Just Not Home

Lewis Hamilton x race engineer!Reader

Summary: and I can go anywhere I want … anywhere I want, just not home

The Bahrain sun hovers low over the paddock, stretching long shadows across the asphalt. It’s the first day of preseason testing, and everything feels like a half-forgotten memory — almost familiar, but not quite.

Lewis stands by the Ferrari garage, his arms crossed over the crimson of his new uniform. The Prancing Horse on his chest gleams under the fluorescent lights, a betrayal written in gold thread. He looks down at his phone, scrolling idly, but you know it’s an act. He’s waiting.

So are you.

The Mercedes garage hums around you with the buzz of drills and the low rumble of the cars firing up. It’s your world. It’s been your world for over a decade. But not his anymore. Not after last season.

And then you see him.

He looks up at just the right — or wrong — moment. His gaze locks with yours, and for a second, everything around you dissolves into static. There’s no garage, no engineers, no cars. Just you and him, separated by too many steps and too much history.

You hesitate, then force your feet to move, weaving through the pit lane toward him. He doesn’t look away.

“Didn’t think you’d come over,” Lewis says when you’re close enough to hear. His voice is steady, calm, but his eyes betray him. They’re searching your face like they haven’t seen it a thousand times before.

“Didn’t think you’d want me to,” you reply.

He exhales sharply, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I always want you to.”

It’s too much, too soon. You look down, focusing on the grease smudges on your hands. “How’s it feel? Being in red.”

Lewis glances down at his suit as if he hasn’t already spent hours adjusting to the unfamiliar color. “Strange. Feels like wearing someone else’s skin.”

You nod, unsure of what to say. The silence stretches, heavy and awkward, until he breaks it.

“Do you hate me?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

“For leaving,” he clarifies. His tone is too casual, like he’s trying to keep it from hurting, but you know him too well. “Do you hate me for going to Ferrari?”

You laugh, short and humorless. “Hate you? No, Lewis. I don’t hate you. I just-” You pause, searching for the right words. “I don’t know what I feel. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” he repeats, rolling the word around like it tastes bitter. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

There’s another pause, filled with the distant roar of an engine.

“I miss you,” he says, quietly, like it’s a confession.

You look at him, really look at him. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, but his eyes — those damn eyes — are soft and full of something you can’t name.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say things like that. Not here. Not now.”

“Why not?” He steps closer, closing the already narrow gap between you. “Why can’t I say it? It’s true.”

“Because it doesn’t change anything!” Your voice rises, drawing the attention of a few passing mechanics. You lower it again, swallowing hard. “It doesn’t change the fact that you’re here, and I’m there, and that’s how it’s going to be.”

“I didn’t want to leave,” he says, his voice breaking just slightly on the last word. “You think I wanted this?”

“Then why did you?”

“Because I had to.”

The words hang between you, heavy and unspoken for far too long.

“Had to?” You echo, your tone sharp. “No one made you, Lewis. No one put a gun to your head.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Bullshit.”

He flinches, just barely, and you immediately regret the harshness. But you don’t take it back.

“You could’ve stayed,” you continue, your voice trembling now. “You could’ve stayed, and we-” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “But you didn’t. You chose this. You chose them.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’s going to walk away. But then he speaks, his voice low and raw.

“You think I wanted to leave the team? Leave you? I didn’t. But I don’t know. It’s like …” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Now I can go anywhere I want. Anywhere. Just not-”

“Home,” you finish for him, and the word tastes bitter.

His eyes snap to yours, and there’s something raw there, something you’re not sure you’re ready to face. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Just not home.”

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s too much, too honest, and you don’t know how to respond.

“Why are you telling me this now?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Because I need you to know.” He looks at you, his eyes pleading. “I need you to know that it wasn’t about leaving you. It was about finding ... I don’t know. Something I’ve been chasing my whole life. But it’s not here either. I thought it would be, but it’s not.”

“Lewis,” you begin, but he cuts you off.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice cracks on the word. “I’m so sorry. For leaving. For not telling you sooner. For everything.”

You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but it doesn’t help. His words are everywhere, wrapping around you like a net you can’t escape.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you admit.

“I don’t want you to say anything,” he replies. “I just ... I just wanted you to know.”

The silence between you is deafening, filled with all the things neither of you can say.

Finally, you look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, you see it. The weight he’s been carrying, the regret etched into every line of his face.

“I don’t hate you,” you say again, softer this time.

He nods, swallowing hard. “I know.”

And then, as if by some unspoken agreement, you both step back. The gap between you widens, filling with everything that could have been and never will be.

“Good luck this season,” you say, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest.

“You too,” he replies.

And just like that, it’s over. You turn and walk back to the Mercedes garage, each step heavier than the last. You don’t look back.

Neither does he.

[cozycompositions]

New one shot is up! Very short and very angst. Plz heed the tags as trigger warnings! This one isn’t much, more of a vent than anything, but trying to get back into posting.