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better-setterv2 · 4 hours ago

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𝒜𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒪𝒹𝒹𝓈 𝒫𝓉.2

Authors Note: Hi everyone, here’s is Part 2 of Against the Odds. I won’t be writing another part to this mini series as I didn’t feel as connected writing it. Possibly down the track I will do another series maybe similar.

Summary: Lewis Hamilton and his younger girlfriend embrace their love publicly during the Monaco Grand Prix, proving their bond transcends age and spotlight.

Warnings: mentions of sexual content, age-gap

Taglist: @harrys-hs-gf1 @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

A couple of weeks later you and Lewis are lying in bed starring at the ceiling, relaxing before he had to head off to practice.

The quiet between you and Lewis lingers, stretching out like a thread of warmth woven through the soft light of morning.

Now, his hand rests lightly on the small of your back, fingers warm and still. His breath rises and falls in a lazy rhythm beneath you, his chest a steady, calming presence against your cheek. It's not possessive, the way he holds you, but it’s undeniable. He’s here, and so are you.

His arm tightens around you, drawing you even closer and you let him. His touch is not urgent, but it’s grounding. The pressure of his body against yours fills the space, a promise of something deeper than what’s visible on the surface. You hear the softest sigh slip from him as his fingers begin to trace the curve of your spine in slow, absent circles.

The room is still. But it’s a peaceful stillness, like a sigh after a storm. You don’t feel the need to fill the silence. You just let it be.

His heartbeat thuds under your cheek, steady and real. It’s the kind of thing that would go unnoticed by anyone else, but here, in this space it’s everything. You let your eyes close, matching the beat of his heart with your own.

For a long while, neither of you speaks. And yet, there’s an unspoken understanding that settles in the quiet a language only the two of you share. You think about last night - the way his lips tasted, how your bodies had moved together like it was the most natural thing in the world, even when it felt like a dream.

The way his eyes had held yours, not for just a moment, but like he was trying to imprint you onto his soul. Like he was trying to make sure you were real.

His voice breaks the silence again, quieter this time. “I can’t believe you’re here with me even after the media backlashing you.”

You lift your head just slightly to look at him, studying the lines of his face softened by sleep, the way his dark curls are tousled from being out of his braids. “You thought I’d run?”

There’s a pause and you see the flicker in his eyes, the moment of hesitation. It’s not a simple answer, not something he can explain away with a shrug or a quick laugh. When he speaks again, his voice is raw, almost uncertain. “I wasn’t sure.”

You nod, because you understand. You’ve felt it too - the fear that maybe this, whatever this is between you two, isn’t built to last. The quiet voice that wonders if something so perfect can really exist in a world that constantly pulls everything apart.

But you’re not running. Not this time.

“I’m here,” you whisper, offering him a soft smile. “And so are you.”

He looks at you for a long moment, his eyes tracing your features as if memorising them, then a small, tender smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

He moves a little closer, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss that’s soft, grounding. Almost reverent. It’s the kind of kiss that says so much more than words could ever convey.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says softly, as if the words are more for him than for you. “I didn’t go looking for someone younger. Someone like you and now the media it taking it all out on the person I fell for.”

You feel his words like a soft tremor against your chest. You don’t flinch, don’t pull away. You just let him speak, waiting for the truth to come as raw and real as it needs to be.

“I wasn’t chasing some cliché,” he continues, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place. “I just I don’t know. You showed up, and you made me feel something I didn’t even realise I was missing. You made me feel alive. Like I wasn’t just another headline or another name on a list.”

You shift slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his face and his hand finds yours. His fingers are long and strong, but they tremble slightly when they slip into yours. You don’t mind. You squeeze his hand gently.

“I don’t need an explanation,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

But he does. His eyes never leave yours, his chest rising and falling with the weight of what he’s saying.

“I’ve spent so much time running, you know? From myself, from the life I’ve built around me. Everything’s been in motion, like I’m just a part of a show. People love the idea of me, but no one really knows who I am. And then you came along, and you’re different. You didn’t care about the car or the fame. You didn’t look at me like I was something to be admired from afar. You saw me. The real me.”

You press your lips to the curve of his collarbone, taking a deep breath. It feels like he’s finally letting you see him, really see him, in a way he hasn’t let anyone else. The walls are coming down.

He exhales slowly, the breath leaving his body as if it’s the first time he’s truly exhaled in a long while. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, a gentle caress that feels like a promise.

“I forgot what it felt like,” he murmurs. “To be wanted for just who I am. Not for the car. Not for the titles. Not for the history.”

His eyes soften, and for a moment, it feels like everything in the world pauses. No cameras. No fans. Just him. Just you.

“I don’t care about any of that,” you say quietly. “You’re someone good. A good man. And I care about you. Not the name, not the fame. Just you.”

His lips brush against yours in a slow, lingering kiss. It’s full of meaning, full of everything he’s been trying to say but couldn’t find the words for. His hands slide to the small of your back, pulling you closer. You kiss him back with a tenderness that surprises even you, as if you’re trying to say everything that words can’t.

When you pull away, your foreheads rest together, your breathing still in sync. There’s no need to speak. You’re both thinking the same thing, and in this moment, it doesn’t matter that the world is waiting. What matters is what’s here, between the two of you.

You remain like that for a while, letting the world wait before you finally pull away. With a glance exchanged, you both know what’s coming. The world isn’t going to let you hide forever.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The next day is race in Monaco but it was going to be even bigger than yesterday’s practice. The cameras. The inevitable spotlight. And though you both know it’s coming, you can’t help but feel the weight of it. The moment when the world will finally know.

When you get dressed, slipping into the sleek red dress that contrasts perfectly with the sharp lines of his Ferrari team wear, you both know what this means. This day, you’ll be seen together publicly, unmistakably, more remarkable then the first hard launch yesterday. There will be no hiding. No pretending.

But when you meet him at the door, his hand finds yours without hesitation. He squeezes it gently, his thumb brushing over your skin like he’s grounding himself.

“Ready?” he asks, his eyes soft with something you can’t name.

You nod, your heart racing. “Ready.”

You both walk in to the paddock hand in hand, as the area is glimmering and full of people who think they know who you are, but who are so far from the truth. The press is relentless, snapping pictures, calling out questions you’ve already heard a thousand times before.

But you’re not running from it. You walk with him, your fingers tightly intertwined as you move together through the flashes of cameras, the shouts of reporters.

When someone calls out, “How long will you two truly last together?” Lewis doesn’t hesitate. His hand tightens around yours, his gaze flickering to you for just a moment before he answers, the words soft but clear.

“Forever,” he says, voice steady. “But we’re just getting started.”

And for once, that feels like the truth.

You both step forward, into the light, into the noise, into the world that’s waiting for you.

And in that moment, when you’re standing side by side, you know that whatever happens next, whatever the world throws your way, you’re not doing this alone.

The sun climbs higher over Monaco, casting a golden hue over the harbor. The anticipation in the air is palpable as the teams make final preparations. You find yourself back in the Ferrari garage, the familiar hum of machinery and chatter surrounding you. Lewis is beside you, his race suit pristine, the iconic prancing horse emblem gleaming on his chest.

He turns to you, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Nervous?" he asks, his voice barely audible over the din.

You shake your head, squeezing his hand. "Not for the race."

He chuckles, the sound grounding you. "Good. Because I'm going to need all the luck I can get."

As the call to the grid echoes through the garage, Lewis leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "See you at the finish line."

You watch as he strides towards his car, the embodiment of confidence and grace. The mechanics swarm around, making last minute checks. The tension is electric.

Taking your seat in the designated area, you slip on the headset, the world narrowing down to the commentary and the rhythmic thrum of engines. The lights go out, and the race begins.

Each lap is a whirlwind of emotion. You grip the armrests, heart pounding with every overtake, every near miss. Lewis maneuvers through the tight corners of the circuit with precision, his experience evident in every move.

Midway through the race, a sudden downpour adds chaos to the already challenging track. Teams scramble for tire changes, strategies shift on the fly. Lewis's voice crackles through the headset, calm yet urgent, discussing tactics with his engineer.

Despite the hurdles, he maintains his position, showcasing his unparalleled skill. As the checkered flag waves, Lewis crosses the line in second place, a testament to his resilience and mastery.

The garage erupts in cheers as Lewis returns. He removes his helmet, sweat glistening on his brow, a triumphant smile lighting up his face. Spotting you, he makes his way over with the crowd parting to let him through.

Without hesitation, he pulls you into a tight embrace, lifting you slightly off the ground. The world fades away, leaving just the two of you in that moment.

"I'm so proud of you," you whisper, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

He leans back, cupping your face. "Couldn't have done it without you."

Cameras flash, capturing the intimate moment. The age difference, the speculations - all seem trivial now. What matters is the genuine connection, the shared journey.

Later, at the podium ceremony, as Lewis sprays champagne and laughs with his fellow drivers, your eyes meet across the crowd. He raises his bottle in a silent toast to you, a promise of more shared victories to come.

As night falls over Monaco, the city transforms into a glittering spectacle. You and Lewis find solace on a secluded balcony overlooking the harbor. The distant sounds of celebrations drift up, but here it's peaceful.

He hands you a glass of champagne, clinking it gently against yours. "To us," he says, eyes reflecting the city lights.

You sip, savoring the moment. "To many more races, both on and off the track."

He chuckles, pulling you close. "I like the sound of that."

The conversation turns to dreams, future plans and shared aspirations. The age difference, once a looming concern, now feels insignificant. What binds you is a deeper mutual respect, understanding and love.

As the night deepens, you rest your head on his shoulder, the world below continuing its revelry. In this quiet moment, you find contentment, knowing that together, you can face whatever comes next.

Months later, as the season progresses your relationship with Lewis becomes fades away from the talk of the paddock. The initial whispers give way to acceptance, the focus shifting back to racing.

You stand by his side through victories and setbacks, your bond strengthening with each challenge. The age difference becomes a footnote in your story, overshadowed by the depth of your connection.

And as Lewis chases his dreams on the track, you pursue your own, supporting each other every step of the way. Together, you've found a rhythm, a partnership that transcends the boundaries of the sport.

In the end, it's not about the headlines or the opinions of others. It's about the love you've cultivated, the life you've built, and the journey that lies ahead.

#lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton #lh44 #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #x reader #f1 imagine #lh44 x reader

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better-setterv2 · 4 hours ago

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𝒜𝒸𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 - 𝒫𝓉.5

Authors Note: Hi all! Here’s is the next chapter, hope you enjoy! Part 6 is almost completed, I just need to edit it. Lots of love xx

Summary: The reader finally meets the group chat boys in person, only to realise with breathless tension that the mysterious Hammertime is none other than Lewis Hamilton.

Warnings: mild swearing

Taglist: @urmomsgirlfriend1 @mits-vi @mimisweetz @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2, Pt3,Pt4,Pt5, Coming Soon: Pt6

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You barely had time to register the soft clink of cups and the low hum of conversation before it happened.

A sharp bump at your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt but enough to jar you off balance. You stumbled slightly, your hand flying out to steady yourself on the edge of a nearby table.

“Shit far out - sorry!” a low voice said at the same time you blurted out, “Oh sorry!”

You looked up. And time slowed.

It was him. The man from the airport.

Up close, the déjà vu hit you hard. The same profile, sharp but soft around the mouth. The same casual hoodie, pulled up just enough to cast a shadow over his face. Dark sunglasses. Curls peeking out, slightly damp at the temples like he’d just come from a shower or was still shaking off the morning sun.

A faint scent clung to him again - clean, expensive, fresh. Citrus and something deeper, like warm amber and woodsmoke. It made your stomach flip and not just because of the near collision.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Your eyes met, briefly but the sunglasses made it hard to tell what his were saying. There was a split second where something flickered behind his expression. A pause. A hesitation. Like maybe he recognised you too. Or thought he did.

But then it was gone.

He gave a polite, quiet smile. “Didn’t see you there.”

“No, my fault,” you murmured, heat crawling up your neck. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

The moment hung strangely in the air between you. Charged with something. But like so many small, fated moments, it passed too quickly.

He dipped his head in a subtle nod and turned, walking away. You caught a glimpse of tattoos running down his hand as he reached up to adjust his hood again, slipping deeper into the café’s interior, vanishing behind a tall potted plant and a low divider near the back wall.

You didn’t even get a chance to see where he sat.

Your heart was still thudding. You didn’t know why.

And then your phone buzzed.

[Private Message – Hammertime 💬]

Hammertime: Still doing okay?

Your breath caught. You glanced toward the back of the café again, even though you couldn’t see him anymore. No way, you thought.

No way it’s him. Right?

User (You): Just had another almost collision.

Same guy from the airport, I think. Weird.

Three dots. Then nothing. Then they came back again.

Hammertime: Twice in one city. That’s a pattern.

You stared at the screen, biting your lip.

User (You): Weird kind of energy.

Hammertime:Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something.

A voice beside you made you flinch slightly.

“Table for one?” the waiter asked, smiling.

You nodded, slipping your phone back into your pocket though your fingers itched to keep the conversation going.

As you followed the waiter deeper into the café, past rows of tiny marble tables and elegant chairs filled with the chatter of strangers, your mind kept circling back to the man you’d run into twice.

He had felt…familiar.

Too familiar.

But it wasn’t like you’d know Hammertime if he stood right in front of you, would you?

Still, as you sat down your eyes scanned the café one more time.

Just in case.

The waiter brought over a menu and a small glass of water, but you barely glanced at it. Your attention kept drifting toward the warm clatter of cutlery, the soft murmur of French and English voices and the low familiar hum of anticipation you couldn’t shake.

You hadn’t spotted him again.

The man from the airport twice now, you reminded yourself had disappeared into the café like a ghost. You’d scanned faces, corners, booths. But no sunglasses. No curls. No citrus and amber scent.

And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Your phone vibrated again.

GridGremlins 🛠️

SmoothOperator: We're close. Don’t run off now.

Pastry: Order the croissants. Please.

Baguetteboi: order the whole menu while you’re at it actually.

MadMax: Five minutes. Hope you're ready.

You exhaled slowly. Five minutes.

You weren't sure if it was excitement, dread, or something in between pooling in your chest. The last few weeks had been digital shadows and anonymous jokes and teasing names. This was real now. Physical. You were breathing the same air as them. Sitting just streets away.

Your eyes drifted to the door every time it opened. You swore your fingers trembled just slightly as you picked up your glass of water.

Behind you, a chair scraped across the tiled floor.

You turned instinctively only to catch the tail end of a hoodie disappearing out the side exit.

It was him.

Your pulse jumped.

You opened your phone again, not thinking, only feeling.

[Private Message - Hammertime💬]

User (You): Weird question…what are you wearing?

The typing bubble blinked on instantly.

Hammertime:Why? Trying to pick me out in a crowd? 😌

User (You):Maybe I already have.

There was a long pause. You stared at the screen, your heart thudding again.

Hammertime: Then I hope I made a good impression.

You smiled, tucking your phone away as the café door chimed again behind you.

You didn’t turn. Not yet.

The quiet lingered in your bones, the weight of that accidental touch still pulsing in your skin. Whoever he was, he smelled like warmth. And his voice, even softened by apology, had curled low in your chest, nestling there.

But you shook it off. You weren’t here for strange encounters with strangers, not today.

Your phone buzzed again.

GridGremlins 🛠️

MadMax: OI. We are literally waving from a table. Come over if you see us!

Hulk: Turn left. LEFT. Wait wrong person…

SmoothOperator: She’s ignoring us. She hates us.

Baguetteboi: Starting to take it personally.

Pastry: I swear if she backs out, I’m eating all these pastries in protest.

Norrified: stop being rude!

You laughed under your breath, finally turning toward the far end of the café.

And there they were.

A chaotic table crammed into the corner like it belonged to them, and maybe it did. They looked like trouble, the good kind. Energy electrified around them like static jokes flying, chairs half turned, coffee cups scattered. It was the most alive group in the whole café.

MadMax spotted you first. His cap was pulled low, but you could still see the mischief in his grin as he stood to wave. “About bloody time,” he said.

“You sure you’re not lost?” Hulk asked with a smirk, nudging SmoothOperator who was already half standing to pull out the seat beside him.

You sat down slowly, eyes flicking to the one empty chair.

“Someone else coming?” you asked lightly.

They all shared a glance.

“Yeah,” said Pastry. “He had to step out for a second. But he’ll be back.”

“Soon,” added SmoothOperator, stirring his espresso. “You’ll like him.”

You nodded, fighting the urge to look over your shoulder toward the café entrance.

“So,” MadMax said, leaning back in his chair, “now that you’ve met us in the flesh...we figured it’s only fair we drop the usernames.”

You blinked. “Wait, actual names?”

“Yeah,” Pastry said, grinning. “Welcome to the reveal party.”

“Right,” said MadMax, sticking out a hand. “I’m Max. Max Verstappen.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “The Max Verstappen? Sorry I don’t know much about the sport but my friend raves on about you constantly.”

He winked. “You expected less?”

Norrified gave you a teasing smile, “Lando but you can call me yours.”

SmoothOperator raised two fingers in a salute. “Carlos Sainz. And yes, the smoothness is earned.”

“Hulk,” said the tall one with a smirk, “is Nico. Nico Hülkenberg.”

“Daniel sweetheart, also known as the HoneyBader,” he smirked giving you a wink.

Pastry leaned in. “Oscar. Not Pierre, call me that and I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”

“Baguetteboi, at your service,” said the last with a dramatic bow, “Charles Leclerc.”

You stared at them, the names clicking into place like puzzle pieces.

The group chat. The banter. The weird memes and midnight confessions.

And now, them.

You glance over at two others that hadn’t introduced themselves yet.

“Hope you don’t mind, we also dragged George and Pierre here to meet you.” Charles speaks.

You smiled politely as George and Pierre both leaned in to greet you, their expressions warm and easy.

If you weren’t already overwhelmed, the sudden realisation that your entire phone screen for the past few months had been filled with them, actual Formula 1 drivers it might’ve knocked you sideways.

It was too much to wrap your head around at once.

Your gaze drifted back to the empty chair.

“Still waiting for Hammertime?” you asked, trying to sound casual, even though the question came out softer than intended.

They all looked at each other again. Another brief flicker of silence.

Carlos nodded. “He’ll be here soon. Said he had to make a quick call.”

Oscar sipped his coffee. “He’s always last. Fashionably dramatic, that one.”

“Always has to make an entrance,” Lando added with a grin, though something about his tone was gentler now. “But don’t worry he’s worth the wait.”

You chuckled lightly, but your fingers played with the edge of your napkin. The nervous energy returned, stronger now. You didn’t know why, but that name Hammertime felt heavier somehow. It sat at the edge of your mind, waiting to make sense.

You’d felt something when reading his messages these past few months. They weren’t always the most frequent, but when he did say something, it stayed with you. Late night thoughts, playlists, quotes that somehow matched your mood. He’d seen pieces of you that even people in your life didn’t catch.

And then, this morning.

That bump at the café door.

The scent. The apology.

Couldn’t be.

No. That would be too ridiculous. Just your nerves projecting fantasies.

You shook the thought off again.

“So,” said George, drumming his fingers on the table. “How does it feel to meet your favorite internet trolls in real life?”

“Intimidating,” you answered honestly, earning a round of laughs. “But also weirdly familiar.”

“That’s how we knew it would be,” Charles said. “We figured if you could handle us in a group chat, you could handle us in person.”

“But let’s not get too cozy,” Pierre cut in, narrowing his eyes in mock seriousness. “We haven’t heard your real name yet.”

You gave a sheepish smile and told them your first name, at least. The one you signed off with on your rare emotional messages to the group.

“Oooh,” said Daniel, leaning back in his chair. “Now it’s official.”

“She’s one of us now,” Nico said with a mock toast, lifting his coffee cup.

You smiled again, letting the warmth of their welcome settle in. It was strange but good. Still, that one missing presence left the whole thing feeling off balance. Like the stage was set, the cast all assembled except for the lead.

You glanced over toward the café entrance once more, just in time to see the door swing open.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Your thoughts were racing faster than your ability to catch up. The air inside the café felt oddly still, like it was holding its breath for something, waiting for something to change. And then, without warning, you felt the temperature shift.

The chime of the door caused a brief gust of warm air that rippled through the room like a quiet promise.

The figure that stepped inside seemed to fill the space with an energy that made your pulse spike. It wasn’t so much about his physical presence, though that was undeniable. It was the way the room seemed to soften around him, as if everything else had been muted just for him to exist in the moment.

You could see the silhouette before you could see the details. A tall, broad shouldered frame. The kind of posture that spoke of easy confidence. No rush, no apology for taking up space. A man who belonged wherever he went.

But it was the air around him that clung to you. That feeling of having been here before.

No.

You forced the thought away, but it lingered. The strange recognition tugged at you again. Faint, like an echo, pulling you deeper into something you hadn’t expected to feel.

Your gaze remained fixed on your coffee, your fingers curling tighter around your phone, gripping it like it could anchor you to reality. Focus. You couldn’t afford to lose yourself in this moment not when you had a dozen questions swirling inside your head, not when you had a seat at the table with them all.

You didn’t want to turn. Not yet.

But the tension in the air was growing harder to ignore. Every inch of your body seemed to pulse in time with the rising awareness inside you. The group around the table, their voices light and teasing, had quieted, just for a second.

You could feel their attention shifting. It wasn’t sudden, but it was unmistakable. Everyone was waiting for him, waiting for the one who’d just entered the room.

Your stomach fluttered uncomfortably, the space between your ribs tightening as you forced your focus away from the door. You didn’t need to look, didn’t want to look. You were fine just sitting here, right?

But then the unmistakable sound of boots against the wooden floor reached your ears. Each step deliberate, slow, yet unmistakably sure, like he had nowhere else to be but here. Your heart kicked up in your chest.

For a moment, your eyes remained locked on the table in front of you, not allowing yourself to glance over. You could almost feel the pull of his presence across the room. It was magnetic, charged with something you couldn’t quite identify. Something you weren’t ready to face.

“Everything alright, love?” Daniel’s voice cut through your thoughts, teasing lightly but even he couldn’t hide the glint of curiosity in his eyes. The sudden shift in energy hadn’t gone unnoticed by anyone.

“Yeah.” You said it a little too quickly, a little too nervously. “Just… tired.” You couldn’t help but feel the weight of the lie settle in your stomach. You weren’t tired. You were jittery. You were unsettled. Your skin was tight, restless. The same sensation of having a weight on your chest.

From the corner of your eye, you saw the man’s shadow approach, saw the way the light shifted when he stepped closer to the table. Your breathing faltered for a moment, and that was all it took.

You couldn’t resist anymore.

Your gaze flicked upward.

And there he was.

The man from the airport. The one who had been a stranger, an accidental brush of shoulders earlier and a soft, lingering voice. The same man that bumped into you earlier at the cafe door before disappearing from thin air. The one whose presence had unknowingly stayed with you since that fleeting encounter. Standing right in front of you.

For a second, the world around you seemed to blur. The laughter, the conversation and the clinking of cups all of it faded into the background. All you could focus on was him. His tall frame, casually leaning against the table, a soft smile curling on his lips.

Your heart skipped a beat.

It’s him.

His cologne still lingered in the back of your mind. His warmth. His easy charm.

Now, here he was, looking like he belonged. Like this moment was supposed to happen.

His gaze swept across the table, settling on each of them briefly, but then slowly, his eyes turned toward you.

And when your eyes met, everything inside you stilled.

The noise of the café faded away, replaced by the rapid pulse of your heart, the faint breath you’d held in your chest.

His gaze was deep, curious, yet somehow knowing, like there was an understanding between you two that neither of you had voiced, but both of you could feel. His lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t smile. Not yet.

The air between you was thick with unspoken questions.

But neither of you broke the moment. You held it there, suspended, for a breathless second.

Did he know? Did he remember?

Before you could even begin to process the question, his lips parted and he broke the silence. His voice warm but laced with something else. Something familiar. Something that made your stomach twist.

“Small world,” he said softly, his eyes holding yours with that quiet intensity.

And just like that, everything you thought you knew about this moment, about the online chats and about the people around you shifted.

It wasn’t just a chance encounter anymore. It wasn’t a coincidence.

It was him.

It was Hammertime.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The world snapped back into focus with startling clarity.

You blinked. Once. Twice. The breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding slipped past your lips with a quiet, shaky exhale. His words “small world” still echoed in your mind, threading tightly around your pulse.

Your gaze remained locked on his and his expression hadn’t changed. He looked calm. Controlled. But there was a flicker, just a hint of a smirk in the corners of his mouth like he knew the storm you were trying to hide behind your eyes.

The table was silent.

“Wait,” Max said, eyebrows raised as he glanced between the two of you. “You two have already met?”

“I - ” you started, but your voice cracked under the weight of too many unsaid things. “Kind of. We bumped into each other at the airport this when I arrived yesterday. As well as accidentally when i first got here and then he disappeared afterwards. Probably to do with the phone call you mentioned .”

“Literally bumped twice,” the man Hammertime added, folding his arms across his chest, casual as anything. “Didn’t even get your name.”

Carlos let out a low whistle. “No way.”

“I thought you were joking when you messaged us,” Lando muttered, eyes wide as he looked at him.

“Felt familiar,” he corrected, eyes not leaving yours. “Didn’t click until I walked in.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re - ”

“Lewis,” he said gently. “Hamilton.”

The name hit like a soft detonation inside your chest. All the online mystery, the teasing usernames, the jokes in the group chat it all condensed into the man standing in front of you now. Lewis Hamilton. Hammertime.

You only knew snippets of him because of your best friend but didn’t know you were literally speaking to him over social media…

And he was still watching you like you were the only thing in the room worth noticing.

You opened your mouth, trying to form a coherent thought but your brain was spinning.

The tension between you had shifted, it was still electric, still there but now it was tangled with the sudden flood of realisation. The stranger from the airport wasn’t a stranger at all. He was him.

Daniel grinned, breaking the moment. “Well, this is going to be fun.”

Oscar leaned in toward Charles. “He’s smirking like that because he knows he’s dramatic.”

George raised his brow. “He walked in like a plot twist.”

Charles chuckled under his breath. “Imagine being mysterious and legendary. Must be exhausting.”

Lewis finally moved, stepping closer to the table pulling out the empty chair beside you. The one that had been waiting. He sat down with effortless ease, knees brushing yours under the table.

You swore your heartbeat echoed in your ears.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, this time just for you.

You managed a nod, eyes still wide. “I just, didn’t expect you. Someone so famous.”

“Didn’t expect you either,” he replied, that glint in his eye returning. “But I’m glad it’s you.”

The table buzed again, voices rising, jokes flying once more, but it all blurred around the edges. You weren’t quite hearing them. Not fully. Because Lewis Hamilton was sitting next to you, close enough that you could feel his presence humming under your skin.

And you realised, as his knee nudged against yours and he offered you a quiet, knowing smile, that this day had only just begun unraveling.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 smau #f1 text au #x reader #f1 drivers #formula 1 #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 imagine #lh44 x reader

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better-setterv2 · 9 hours ago

Note

Hi! How are you? Idk if you are not comfortable writing about things that happen in real life (you Can change the name) but i would love to read about reader reaction to lewis liking his ex picture! With a happy ending he thank you

𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒜 𝐿𝒾𝓀𝑒

Authors Note: Hi all! Here is a quick request I completed today when I should have been doing class work…Enjoy! Lots of love xx

P.S I hope this meets the expectations of what you requested and doesn’t seem rushed

Summary: After discovering Lewis liked a sultry photo of his ex just before her engagement announcement, the reader confronts her insecurities. Only to have Lewis reassure her with a heartfelt proposal that proves she's the only one he wants.

Warnings: bit of angst

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The sun was barely rising over Monaco when you woke up to your phone vibrating with back to back notifications. You almost ignored it - another group chat, probably, or your best friend sending TikToks before her morning coffee. But then you saw her name.

Nicole Scherzinger.

And beneath it, two posts.

The first was a sultry black and white shot of her in a body hugging satin dress, cut high on the thigh, one hand tangled in her hair, the other resting just above her hipbone. She looked radiant. Wild. Free. The caption was a simple black heart.

The second post was a carousel - a ring, a kiss, a sweeping view of Italy.

“Yes a thousand times.” The caption said.

And in the likes?

Lewis Hamilton.

Your heart dropped.

You stared at the screen, feeling everything go unnaturally still the room, your breath, your chest.

You weren’t the jealous type. Not really. You’d seen the pictures of them before, the old red carpet photos, the gossip columns, the recycled headlines. You’d told yourself that was the past. You were his present. His future.

But something about him liking that photo the sultry one, the one posted right before she announced she was engaged…made your stomach twist into knots.

It was like seeing a private moment you weren’t supposed to witness. Like a secret you hadn’t been let in on.

You stared at the photo again. Then again. Then at the comments. And then, finally at the name highlighted among the hundreds of thousands of likes.

Your boyfriend’s name.

Lewis emerged from the shower a few minutes later, towel slung low around his waist, humming something low under his breath. He stopped when he saw the expression on your face.

“Hey. You alright?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you held up your phone.

His brows pulled together. “What’s that?”

“You tell me.” Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “You liked her photo. The one where she’s practically naked. And then she posted that she’s engaged.”

Lewis blinked, stepping closer. “I - what? Wait, what are you talking about?”

“She posted a sexy photo,” you said, trying not to sound petty. “Then minutes later posted her engagement. And you liked both.”

His face fell.

He crossed the room, taking your phone gently from your hand and scrolling through the posts. You watched his expression go from confused to frustrated to instantly guilty.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I didn’t even notice the second one.”

“Not sure that makes it better,” you said, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “I know I’m not her. I know you loved her once. But you liking that picture, it felt like you were looking back. Like some part of you still misses it. Misses her.”

“Hey. No.” His voice was sharp but earnest as he crouched in front of you, hands on your knees. “That’s not it. I promise. I didn’t even see the engagement post. I saw the first one when I was half asleep last night and I just scroll, double tap, move on. Mindless. It didn’t mean anything.”

“It meant something to me.”

That’s what broke him.

He sat down beside you on the bed, his head in his hands. “I’m sorry. I was careless. I didn’t think about how it might make you feel, and that’s on me.”

You stared down at your hands. “It just hurts. She was such a big part of your past. And sometimes I feel like I’m just standing in her shadow. That no matter how far we go, she’ll always be that part of your life that people compare me to.”

Lewis reached for you, gently lifting your chin until your eyes met his.

“You’re not standing in anyone’s shadow,” he said softly. “And you never will be.”

You stayed quiet, your heart aching in that vulnerable way you hated, the kind that made you feel small. Replaceable.

Lewis stood, turned and went to the drawer in the corner - the one you never really paid attention to. He pulled out a small velvet box and held it in his palm for a second before walking back over.

“I wasn’t gonna do this yet,” he said. “Had some grand plan in mind. Something in Italy maybe next month . Somewhere romantic. But maybe what matters more is doing it right now to show you it’s real. That it truly counts.”

He sank to one knee.

You gasped softly, lips parting, eyes darting between his face and the box in his hand.

“Liking that photo? That was a mistake. But the biggest truth in my life is this - I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone else. It’s always been you. You’re the one I want beside me when I’m tired, when I win, when I lose. You’re the one I think about when I land in a new country, when I’m stuck in traffic, when I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling.”

The box opened, revealing a diamond ring that glimmered even in the soft morning light. It was timeless. Elegant. You.

“I want a life with you. A messy, honest, ridiculously beautiful life,” he said. “Marry me. Let’s make our story the one people talk about.”

You covered your mouth with your hands, breath trembling. The pain in your chest had softened into something warmer, fuller.

“Yes,” you whispered. “God, yes.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger like it belonged there, like you belonged. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t performative or perfect. It was just him sincere and sure and a little shaky, like he’d been holding that love in for too long.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later that night , social media buzzed again only this time, it was about you.

A new post. From Lewis.

A photo of the two of you curled up on your sun soaked balcony, your ring front and center, his lips pressed to your temple.

Caption: “Some things aren’t for the timeline. But this? This love? I want the world to know.”

There were no more doubts after that.

Not because of the ring.

But because of the way he looked at you every day after, like you were the only person who ever mattered.

Because you were.

Every quiet moment after in the slow mornings tangled in sheets, in the late nights when sleep wouldn’t come and the world felt too loud, he looked at you like that.

Like you were the calm after every storm.

The choice he made a thousand times over.

The beginning and the forever.

And when he held your hand in public, when the flashes went off and whispers of "Is that his fiancée?" rippled through the crowd, he didn’t let go.

He didn’t flinch.

Because you were no secret.

No rebound.

No shadow.

You were it.

His love. His future. His home.

And the whole world could watch, because he finally had everything he’d ever wanted.

And this time, he wasn’t letting go.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #x reader #f1 imagine #lh44 x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton one shot #lh44 imagine #f1 one shot

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better-setterv2 · 12 hours ago

Note

Omg I LOVED ‘Against Odds’! Are we gonna get a part 2? 💗🫂✨

Hey lovely!

I hope you’re doing well.

It was supposed to be a one-shot originally and I didn’t expect so many people to like it.

So yes, I will start working on a Part 2 for Against the Odds.

This post will most likely be released in a couple of days, as I am posting one or two other things later tonight.

Lots of Love xx

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

#lewis hamilton #lh44

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better-setterv2 · 1 day ago

Text

𝒜𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒪𝒹𝒹𝓈 𝒫𝓉.1

Authors Note: Hey everyone! Here is a quick one-shot that I wrote. Hope you enjoy! Feel free to leave comments. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis Hamilton never intended to fall for someone half his age, but somehow he feels more alive than ever. In a world defined by fast cars and fleeting headlines, his younger girlfriend becomes talk of the paddock.

Taglist: @nebulastarr

Warnings: mentions of sexual content, age-gap

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Lewis never meant to fall in love with someone half his age.

He was 40 now. People liked to whisper about it like it was a secret instead of a number he carried with pride. There was a quiet strength in getting older, he liked who he was more than ever.

But still, in the mirror under fluorescent hotel lighting or the glare of another photo op, he saw time creeping in at the corners of his eyes. Followed by feeling the fatigue after back to back race weekends.

And then you came in like a storm he hadn’t seen coming.

It started during a climate advocacy event held during the Miami Grand Prix weekend. You were part of the university team handling research and logistics. Young, sharp, unbothered by his fame. You treated him like a panelist, not a personality.

That alone caught his attention.

But it was more than that. You had this spark in your eyes, this low amused voice that carried more weight than your years.

He found himself drawn to it, to you. When he asked a question you didn’t nod and flatter, you challenged. Not disrespectfully, but with that same thoughtfulness he remembered valuing when he was the youngest guy in the paddock trying to be heard.

It started slowly. Professionally.

A text here. An email to follow up. A question about your research. An offer to review your thesis on sustainability in high emissions sport - “if you’re okay with notes in red,” he joked.

Then came the late night coffee at the café no one else knew about. You sat with your knees tucked under you, laughing softly as he told you about his first F1 season. He listened like your voice mattered. You listened like you already knew what was behind the curtain of fame.

It wasn’t supposed to become anything more.

But then it did.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You weren’t prepared for Lewis Hamilton either.

At first, you kept your distance. You weren’t blind, you knew who he was. But you also knew how men like him were treated. How women like you got framed in stories not your own. It wasn’t a game you wanted to play.

But Lewis wasn’t like that. He was kind, private and smarter than people gave him credit for. He asked about your dreams like they mattered. He made space for your voice in a world where most men your age were too busy shouting over you.

You didn’t mean to fall in love with him. But you did.

And when he kissed you for the first time it was slow, unsure, hesitant and you felt the weight of it. Like he wasn’t used to taking risks like this anymore, like maybe he didn’t expect you to kiss him back.

But you did. You pulled him in closer, fingers in his hoodie, lips parting against his like he was something precious. And in that moment, you stopped worrying about what it looked like.

2 months later after their first intimate moments of kissing they took a step further.

The air between you crackles with energy , that familiar tension building after hours of quiet talking and long glances. You were curled up on the wide hotel couch, his arm resting behind you with his fingers brushing your shoulder as he watched you explain something about a court ruling you’d been researching. But he wasn’t listening to the law anymore.

He was looking at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You know I’m trying not to kiss you right now,” he murmured, voice husky.

You turned your head, lips curving. “Who’s stopping you?”

He kissed you gently at first. His hand cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheek like he needed to memorise you. The kind of kiss that lingered. That asked, Are you sure?

You tugged him closer in answer.

Clothes came off piece by piece. Not in a rush, but like you both needed to feel everything. His lips worshipped every part of you with admiration and you whispered his name against his skin like a secret you were finally allowed to say.

He moved slowly, carefully, never assuming, always checking. “Okay?” he asked as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath mingling. His voice cracked a little. Like this mattered more than he’d expected.

You nodded, eyes locked to his. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I want this.”

And when you were finally joined, body to body it didn’t feel like lust or a restriction -

It felt like home.

After, he held you in the silence. Arms tight around you, lips at your hairline. Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Of course, the world found out.

One blurry photo taken at the airport, your hand in his, sunglasses doing nothing to hide his smile.

You became the headline.

“Who is Lewis Hamilton’s mystery girl?”

“26 year old grad student rumored to be dating the F1 legend.”

“Age gap romance: Lewis Hamilton and his much-younger girlfriend spark debate.”

The paddock didn’t take long to join in.

At first, it stung. The whispers, the judgment, the looks that didn’t even try to hide themselves. You’d always been confident, but nothing prepares you for being seen like that. Misunderstood on a global scale…

Lewis noticed your silences growing longer, your smiles more guarded.

One night in Miami, after a long dinner where someone made one too many passive aggressive jokes about “you kids these days,” you sat on the balcony in one of his hoodies, staring out over the city.

He came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist with his chin on your shoulder.

“They don’t get it,” you said quietly.

“They don’t have to,” he replied. “I do. I get it. And I’m not letting you go just because people have small minds.”

You turned to face him, eyes searching his. “You sure?”

Lewis leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead like a vow. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It wasn’t always perfect.

There were fights, about the future or about your career followed by his. There were long nights apart. Stress. Doubt. Pain.

But there was also growth.

He started reading the articles you wrote. You traveled with him when your schedule allowed. You met his family. Slowly, the paddock got used to you.

And one day, when you were walking hand in hand through the Ferrari garage for his practice run, someone shouted a joke about how he was just trying to stay young.

Lewis laughed and pulled you closer.

“Damn right I am,” he grinned. “And she’s the reason I still feel alive.”

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, and he winked. Like nothing else in the world mattered more than you.

And in that moment, you believed it.

After watching the race you both headed back to his hotel building.

Although there was always something unreal about the way Lewis holds you after a race.

His body still warm from adrenaline. His scent, sun and sweat and something undeniably him.

You’ve seen the way the world looks at him. Flashes, microphones, hands reaching out but here in the quiet hotel room, his hands are on you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“I missed this,” he murmurs, brushing his lips across your bare shoulder.

You turn your head to look at him, still lying chest to chest under the rumpled white sheets. Your legs tangled like they always seem to find each other on instinct. “It’s been two days.”

“Too long.” His voice is low. Honest.

The race weekend had been brutal. Flickering of cameras, questions, headlines dissecting not just his performance, but you. Your age. Your clothes. Your smile. Some called it inappropriate. Others, a publicity stunt.

Lewis had stayed silent.

But now, here in the low light he lets his guard down.

“I hate that they talk about you like that,” he says suddenly, hand tightening on your hip. “Like you’re some accessory. Like what we have isn’t real.”

You trace your fingers over the line of his collarbone. “They don’t know me.”

“They don’t deserve to.”

There’s a pause.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he admits. “You. Us. I didn’t go looking for someone younger. I just -” He sighs. “You made me feel something I thought I’d buried.”

You press a soft kiss beneath his jaw. “You don’t have to explain.”

But he does. For himself. For you.

“I’ve lived this life for so long. Constant movement. Everyone wanting a piece of me. I forgot what it felt like to stop. To feel something simple and good and new.” His eyes search yours. “You remind me of who I used to be. Before all of this.”

Before the fame. Before the scars.

Before he stopped believing in something as fragile as love.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton #f1 smau #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #lh44 #x reader #lh44 x reader

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better-setterv2 · 1 day ago

Note

Hey! Do you do headcanons? If so, can you do a first time with Lewis Hamilton!

Thank you!

💫 𝐹𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝒯𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝐿𝑒𝓌𝒾𝓈 𝐻𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓉𝑜𝓃 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒸𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓃

Authors Note: Hey lovelies. Here’s a headcanon with Lewis Hamilton (I also added some extra themes). I apologise if it’s bad, it is my first time doing a headcanon. Lots of love xx

Warnings: mentions of sexual content

Taglist: @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

🌃 Emotional Build Up: The Slow Burn Spark

• You’ve been dancing around it for weeks, the tension lingering in soft smiles, accidental brushes of hands and conversations that stay in your mind long after they’re over.

• He never pressures you. Every touch is gentle, every lingering look comes with a pause, as if waiting for your permission to move closer.

• He listens carefully when you speak, really listens. When you tell him about your past, your fears or your dreams he holds it all like it’s sacred.

• He shares, too. Late at night, over herbal tea or a quiet drink. He tells you about the loneliness that sometimes comes with fame, about how hard it is to know who’s real.

• There’s already intimacy, the kind that comes from trust, inside jokes and glances that say “I get you” without a word.

• The physical tension builds gradually. A knee brushing against yours under the table. Playfully nudging your foot when sitting. Fingertips brushing yours. His hand on the small of your back when no one’s looking. The way he always finds an excuse to sit close.

• The emotional connection lays the foundation. You don’t just want him, you want him to feel safe with you just as much as you feel safe with him.

💋 The Moment It Begins: Permission, Connection, Desire

• It starts with a look. A moment where everything else fades and his eyes say everything he’s been holding back.

• You’re sitting close on a plush hotel couch. Sharing a bottle of wine, legs touching and soft music playing in the background.

• He looks at your lips, then your eyes. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

• The kiss is slow, exploratory. A soft press of lips that deepens with each breath, until you’re leaning into him like gravity itself is pulling you closer.

• His hands cradle your face, brushing his thumbs along your jawline. Every move is full of intention and patience.

• When you move into his lap, his breath hitches but his hands stay respectful, resting at your waist with his mouth still moving carefully against yours.

• You both pull away breathless. His forehead rests against yours, and he murmurs, “Are you sure?” One last check. One last moment to say no.

🛏️ Undressing: Reverence, Tension, Control

• He carries you to the bed, arms strong, but his touch delicate like he’s afraid to rush what you’re giving him.

• Before anything else, he asks again. “Do you want this?” His voice is low, but steady. He needs to hear you say yes.

• He undresses you one piece at a time, his fingers brushing your skin with quiet awe, like he’s discovering a secret.

• Each layer reveals something new to him and he doesn’t hide how mesmerised he is. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, like it’s a thought slipping out before he can catch it.

• He kisses your skin as he goes, slow trails from your collarbone down to your stomach, always checking your reaction, pausing when your breath catches.

• You do the same for him. His shirt comes off, and you trace the tattoos you’ve only ever admired from a distance. He smiles when you linger over certain ones.

• When your hands fumble slightly at his belt, he lets out a quiet laugh and kisses your temple, “We’ve got time.”

• There’s no rush. Just the softness of skin on skin, your bodies learning one another with reverence and trust.

💌 The First Time: Sensual, Emotional, Safe

• He lays you back carefully and before anything else, he takes his time touching you. Exploring what makes your body react.

• Foreplay is not a step to him, it’s the experience. His fingers, his mouth, his voice all work together to build you up slowly.

• He’s between your thighs for a long while. Murmuring how good you taste and how beautiful you look like this. He doesn't stop until you’re shaking.

• Every time your breath hitches or your fingers grip the sheets, he pulls back just enough to ask, “You okay?” “Do you want more?”

• When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow its and deliberate. He kisses you through it, his lips trembling slightly against yours.

• He’s vocal in soft ways. A low groan in your ear. “God, you feel like heaven.” Your name, over and over, like he can’t stop saying it.

• His rhythm is steady and deep. Not rough, not rushed. Just this intimate dance of skin and sound and breath.

• He watches your face the entire time. When your body tenses around him and you break apart beneath him, he holds you like you might float away.

• His orgasm comes with your name on his lips, his head buried in your neck, his body trembling against yours.

✨Aftercare: Warmth, Reassurance, Connection

• He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he stays close, catching his breath, holding your face in his hands like he can’t believe you’re real.

•He kisses you everywhere - your shoulder, your cheek, your forehead, your hand. Small, loving gestures that say thank you without words.

• He gets up to take care of you. Warm towel, water bottle, one of his oversized shirts. He’s gentle, quiet and still a little dazed.

• He pulls you against his chest, wrapping a blanket over you both, skin warm and soft as your heartbeat slows together.

•“That wasn’t just sex,” he murmurs into your hair. “I hope you know that. I don’t just do this.”

• You talk for a while after. Whispers about how it felt, how long you’ve both wanted it, how afraid you were to lose this closeness.

• You fall asleep on his chest, your fingers tracing circles over his tattooed skin, his arms curled around you like he doesn’t ever want you to go.

• And before you drift off, he kisses your temple and says it so softly, you almost miss it “You’ve changed everything for me.”

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #lewis hamilton imagine #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 imagine #lh44 x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine #headcanon #f1 headcanons #f1

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better-setterv2 · 2 days ago

Text

𝒜𝒸𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 - 𝒫𝓉.4

Authors Note: Hi guys! Here is another chapter for this series. Next chapter may be in 2 days, as I did a double post today. I hope you enjoy, I’ll try to get the next part finished soon. Lots of love xx

Summary: You experience a mix of nervous anticipation and excitement as you fly to Monaco, battling with the growing curiosity about the mysterious group chat and finally arrive at the Café de Paris, unsure who you are about to meet.

Warnings: mild swearing

Taglist: @urmomsgirlfriend1 @mimisweetz @mits-vi @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2, Pt3, Pt4, Pt5

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You never knew the drive to the airport could feel so loud.

It wasn’t the traffic or the occasional honk outside the Uber window, it was you. Your thoughts. Your pulse. The way every single breath seemed too shallow to calm anything inside you.

Your suitcase sat beside you, looking far too confident for what it carried. Clothes, charger, passport and about ten pounds of pure emotional panic.

The driver had the radio on, something mellow and easy. You wanted to hate it. How dare the world be normal right now?

You opened your phone.

The group chat was its usual circus.

Pastry: Bet someone forgets their passport again. Place your bets now.

Norrified: I nominate MadMax.

MadMax: Unbelievable slander.

SmoothOperator: I hope you all lose your luggage tbh.

Hulk: Aw, it’s like watching children before a field trip.

And then, quietly, almost like a whisper -

Hammertime: Safe travels, everyone. See you soon.

You stared at it longer than you needed to. Re-read it like there was some hidden message in the spacing.

He hadn’t messaged you privately again. Not since the night you said yes.

That should’ve calmed you.

It didn’t.

You typed.

[Private Message - Hammertime 💬]

User (You): On my way.

Sent.

You chewed your thumbnail, watching the message sit there. Unread.

Maybe that was for the best. Maybe it was too soon to expect something.

Then, he read it.

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

You sat up straighter.

Hammertime: Me too.

You waited.

And waited.

But that was it.

You could have screamed. Or laughed. Or thrown your phone out the window.

Instead, you clutched it tighter.

User (You): You’re not going to say anything else?

Three dots. Stop. Three dots again.

Hammertime: I could. But I’m afraid I’d say too much. And I want the first time I see you to say it all.

You didn’t reply.

You just stared out the window.

Fingers clenched. Chest full.

The airport was fifteen minutes away.

You had no idea what came next.

But you were already falling.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The airport was cold.

Not freezing, just the kind of chill that settled beneath your skin and stayed there no matter how tightly you pulled your hoodie around you.

You sat hunched over your coffee, watching a little kid drag a stuffed giraffe across the floor while their mum tried not to spill juice on her boarding pass.

Everyone was headed somewhere.

You were headed toward a maybe.

Toward someone you only knew through words on a screen. Through late night private messages and soft, unexpected confessions. Toward Hammertime - whoever he really was.

Your phone vibrated in your lap.

[Private Message – Hammertime 💬]

It never got old seeing his name. It always made your breath hitch a little. As if your body still hadn’t caught up with the fact that he was real. That this thing was real.

You opened the message.

Hammertime: You’re at the airport?

User (You): Yeah. You?

Hammertime: In a car. Driver’s quiet. Or maybe I’m just overthinking.

User (You): Same. I haven’t blinked in ten minutes. Might be in shock.

You hesitated before sending the next one.

User (You):This is…kind of crazy, isn’t it? I don’t even know any of you and I’m flying across the world just to meet you guys.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Came back.

Hammertime: Yeah. But it also kind of makes sense. In a weird way.

You bit your lip, smiling despite yourself.

User (You): Still not telling me who you are?

Hammertime: What if it’s better like this for now?

You paused.

Because somewhere, you agreed. Knowing too much might make it too real. Too fast. And right now, you still had the space to imagine who he could be. And that was comforting, in a way.

User (You): Then say something else. So I don’t freak out and run for the nearest exit.

Hammertime: Okay. How about this -

I’ve read our old messages more times than I’ll ever admit out loud. And I’m still not tired of any of them.

Your fingers stilled over the screen.

Your chest ached in the softest way.

User (You): You’re not what I expected.

Hammertime: Neither are you, that’s the best part.

The boarding announcement echoed across the terminal.

You stood slowly, tucking your phone into your pocket like it was something fragile. Like it held everything you were afraid to hope for.

The gate ahead was open. The flight was ready.

You stepped forward, heart pounding, still not knowing who he was.

Still wanting to find out.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The descent began with a jolt.

Not the dramatic kind, just enough to remind you that the ground was getting closer and so was everything you’d been avoiding feeling since the moment you clicked accept on the Monaco invite.

You pressed your forehead lightly to the window.

From this height, Monaco looked like a scattered dream. Hazy blue coastline, winding roads, terracotta rooftops tucked into cliffs like secrets. It was all too postcard perfect, and yet somehow it made your stomach flip.

This was real now.

No more hiding behind usernames and late night texts. No more watching from the sidelines, pretending you weren’t holding your breath every time Hammertime messaged you something quiet and kind in the middle of the chaos.

Your phone vibrated the moment the plane wheels kissed the tarmac.

[Private Message – Hammertime 💬]

You didn’t even hesitate this time.

Hammertime: Touch down?

User (You): Just landed. It’s beautiful here.

Hammertime: It is, wait until you see it at night.

That stopped you for a second.

Wait until you see it.

Not “it.” You.

User (You): Is this the part where I ask if you’re picking me up?

Hammertime: I could. But then that’d ruin the mystery, wouldn’t it?

You smiled, exhausted but somehow wired.

User (You): So I’m just supposed to wander through Monaco and hope someone gives me a wink and a clue?

Hammertime: More or less. Don’t worry.

You’ll know. I’ll make sure of it.

You sat there in your seat long after the seatbelt sign blinked off, hands curled around your phone, heart beating out a rhythm you didn’t recognise.

Half of you wanted to run. The other half couldn’t wait to see what came next.

You stood slowly, grabbing your bag slipping into the stream of strangers all headed toward something.

And maybe, just maybe, one of them was him…

The air was heavy with movement.

Wheelie suitcases hummed across polished tiles. People laughed, called out and argued softly in a dozen languages. The smell of jet fuel still lingered faintly beneath the sharper notes of espresso from the nearby café and the citrusy perfume of a woman brushing past. It was overwhelming and yet strangely still. Like a moment stretched just past its breaking point.

You were barely paying attention. Eyes half lowered, thoughts tangled around Hammertime’s last message. His quiet certainty that you’d possibly know him if you saw him.

And that’s exactly when it happened.

A sharp, sudden impact to your shoulder sent you stumbling a step back, suitcase jerking to the side.

“Oh - shit, I’m sorry.”

The voice was smooth. Low. British. And deeply familiar in a way that made your skin prickle, though you couldn’t place it. You looked up.

And then froze.

He stood barely two feet from you, tall and grounded in a way that made everyone else around him blur. His hoodie was pulled low, but not low enough to hide warm brown eyes - soft but searching. His skin caught the airport light like bronze kissed by sun. There was a quiet strength in his posture, like he was always bracing for something but hadn’t decided whether to fight it or embrace it.

Then you smelled him.

Warm spice. Clean linen. A faint, smoky cologne that wrapped around you like a second skin. You inhaled before you could stop yourself. It was unfair how someone could smell like that.

He looked at you with slight concern but no panic, his hand half lifted like he’d thought about steadying you but decided against it.

“No worries,” you managed, your voice a little higher than usual. “I wasn’t watching either.”

A smile ghosted across his lips. Small, almost secretive. The kind of smile that might come with hidden thoughts and unsent messages. The kind that could unearth something in your chest if you weren’t careful.

“I guess we’re even then,” he said, and his voice had this warm rasp to it that made the hairs on your arm stand up.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t know why. You couldn’t look away from him and somehow, you felt like he couldn’t either.

Then someone behind him called out, voice casual but loud.

“Yo, we’re out front!”

He gave a soft sigh, dipped his head in apology and rolled his bag back toward the exit with that same quiet grace.

You stood there, suitcase handle warm in your hand, heart thudding unevenly. There was no lightning bolt. No grand reveal. Just something subtle and tugging and wrongly familiar.

You didn’t know who he was.

Not really.

But something inside you whispered, you’ve felt this before.

Far ahead, just before disappearing into the crowd, he glanced back.

So did you.

But neither of you said a word.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the city’s distant hum of the rush of scooters, the glittery clatter of luxury, the salt heavy breeze filtering through the slightly cracked balcony window. You dropped your suitcase by the edge of the bed and stood there for a second, just breathing.

You’d made it.

Monaco.

The words didn’t feel real, not even standing in the middle of the sleek, sun drenched hotel suite. Everything was light marble and clean edges, a bottle of sparkling water on the table like it was daring you to pretend this wasn’t out of your league.

And yet, here you were. One accidental group chat, one too kind stranger, one missed connection in an airport later.

You sat on the edge of the bed, pulled out your phone, and stared at the screen for a long moment.

GridGremlins 🛠️

127 unread messages.

You hesitated, then scrolled to the bottom.

Your fingers hovered for just a beat, then you typed -

User (You): made it to Monaco. Barely survived the airport traffic. And yes, i did get shoved by a suitcase. Thanks for asking.

Immediately -

SmootherOperator: ayyyy someone’s officially entered chaos territory 🇲🇨🔥

Norrified: don’t forget to wave at Charles’ cardboard cutout in the gift shop. it’s tradition now.

Baguetteboi: wait wait wait - you’re here? in monaco?like actually?

Pastry: Enjoy your stay.

HoneyBadger: welcome to the jungle 🐒

You grinned, shaking your head at the chaos. But it was the next message that made you still, even though you knew you were waiting for it.

Hammertime: Glad you made it. Let me know if you need anything.

Simple. Short. But enough to send a tiny storm through your stomach.

Your fingers danced over the keyboard, hesitated, then typed -

User (You): Thanks. I almost got taken out by a guy in a hoodie at arrivals. Airport’s wild.

Three dots appeared. Then stopped.

Then appeared again.

Hammertime: Damn. Some people just have no spacial awareness.

You smirked.

If only he knew.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later than night.

Monaco glittered outside your window, the distant hum of the city barely reaching you, muffled by the heavy curtains and your own thoughts. The night felt far too still for a place this alive.

You were curled up on the hotel bed, a soft weight in the pit of your stomach as you scrolled through your phone, the bright screen illuminating your face in the dark room.

Then a message from him.

Hammertime.

The simple appearance of his name made your heart flutter in a way you hadn’t expected. You’d been alone with your thoughts for too long now, the quiet pressing in as the city pulsed on outside.

You opened the message.

Hammertime: How’s the view from your window?

You smiled softly at the question. It felt intimate, somehow. Like he wasn’t asking about the lights or the scenery, but something deeper. Something more.

User (You): It’s stunning. The lights are so bright they make everything feel like it’s glowing.

You paused. It felt like there was more to say but you weren’t sure what exactly. So, you put your thumb over the keyboard and waited, watching the blinking dots.

Then they appeared.

Hammertime: Good. Monaco should make you feel that way. Like everything’s lit up just for you.

You felt warmth in those words, the kind that wrapped around you when you weren’t expecting it. You pressed your lips together, wondering if this was what it meant to be pulled into someone’s orbit even without meeting face to face. His presence was there, steady and constant, even through a screen.

User (You): Are you always this straightforward?

A pause. Too long. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, unsure if you’d said too much. You kept your eyes on the screen waiting for him to respond.

Finally, it came.

Hammertime: Only for the people that matter.

Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t have time to process the weight of the words before another message came.

Hammertime: Don’t feel pressured to respond, by the way. I know the city’s overwhelming. But I wanted to make sure you knew, you’re not alone out there.

You swallowed hard, reading the message again. The thought of being not alone in this strange city felt comforting, but it also stirred something else in you. It was the first time since arriving that you didn’t feel like an outsider.

User (You): Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.

The reply felt hollow compared to the weight of his words, but you didn’t know how to articulate what you were feeling. How do you explain that someone’s kindness could fill the spaces in your chest you hadn’t realised were empty?

You turned your phone face down on the bed, the room too quiet now. You stared at the ceiling, the soft hum of the city below seeming to match the thrum of your pulse.

Somewhere out there, he was too. Close, but still so far away.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning sun filtered through your hotel room curtains, casting a warm glow across the space. You had been up for a while now, but your mind felt clouded, uncertain.

The beauty of Monaco was undeniable, but so was the growing tension in your chest. The entire city seemed to hum with energy of luxury cars zipping by, tourists flocking to the shops and the sound of waves crashing against the coast.

You took a deep breath trying to shake the nerves, and reached for your phone. The group chat had been vibrating non stop since you’d woken up.

GridGremlins 🛠️

MadMax: Alright, we’ll be meeting up at 12. You ready for it?

SmoothOperator: No turning back now to meet our newbie . 😎

Hulk: Be there on time. Or else. 👀

Baguetteboi: We won’t wait. Don’t make us look bad. 😅

Pastry: If you’re not at the Café de Paris by 12, we’ll assume you chickened out.

A brief laugh escaped your lips. You couldn’t help it. Their playful yet demanding tone was something you had grown to expect. The more you read, the more the reality of this meeting settled in. You had no idea who they were behind their usernames, but soon you’d find out. You didn’t know what to expect, but that didn’t stop your pulse from quickening.

User (You): Fine. I’ll be there. You won’t regret it.

MadMax: Good. 12pm at the Café de Paris. Don’t be late. We’ll see you there.

Hammertime: Looking forward to meeting you.

Your stomach fluttered at his message. Despite everything, there was a certain comfort in Hammertime’s tone. It was almost as if he understood the nerves you were feeling without having to say anything more.

You tucked your phone into your bag, grabbed your jacket and headed out of the hotel. The streets of Monaco were already lively, even though it was still early. Tourists were making their way through the cobbled streets and the unmistakable scent of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air. You could hear the low hum of conversations as people passed by and the occasional honk of a car added to the rhythm of the city.

The walk to the Café de Paris wasn’t long, just a few minutes. But with each step, your nerves grew. It felt like you were walking toward a moment that was going to change everything, though you couldn’t quite place why.

When you finally reached the café, the outside seating area was filled with people enjoying their morning drinks. The café itself was charming, with its large glass windows and classic French architecture. But it wasn’t the café that had your attention, it was the people around it. You scanned the crowd looking for any sign of the group, but there was no immediate indication.

You stepped closer, your heart pounding in your chest. You could feel the weight of the moment - everything that had led you here. The group chat. The messages. Hammertime.

Taking a deep breath, you adjusted the strap of your bag and approached the entrance, trying to steady your nerves. The door creaked open with a soft sound as you stepped inside, feeling the cool air conditioned breeze greet you.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 imagine #x reader #formula 1 #f1 smau #f1 text au #formula 1 fanfic #lh44 x reader #f1 drivers #lewis hamilton x you

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better-setterv2 · 2 days ago

Text

𝒜𝒸𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 - 𝒫𝓉.3

Authors Note: Hi all! Here is part 3 of Accidentally Yours. I am working on the next part as quick as I can. Enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: reader is approved by the group chat over a silly question. Later on, she overthinks and finally accepts the invite to Monaco. Though her anxiety gets to the best of her three nights prior.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @urmomsgirlfriend1 @mimisweetz @mits-vi @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2, Pt3, Pt4, Pt5

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You didn’t reply to Hammertime that night.

You couldn’t.

Instead, you reread the messages more times than you’d admit. His words sat heavy in your chest, not in a bad way but in the kind of way that made you feel.

Something about the way he messaged you, like he was saying more than what was written. As if there were things hiding between the lines he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

Not yet.

The next morning, the group chat was back to its usual chaos. Someone had changed the group name to “GridGremlins 🛠️”, SmoothOperator was sending filtered selfies with too many sparkles, Baguetteboi was sharing his hatred of being called French and HoneyBadger had dropped a poll asking who would die first in a zombie apocalypse (Pastry was leading).

Still, your eyes drifted toward his name. Always his.

No private message. No follow up.

But then, like he knew you were looking -

Hammertime: Don’t worry, I survived another night with these lunatics. Barely.

Also newbie, zombie votes don’t count unless you tell us your apocalypse weapon of choice.

You smiled despite yourself. A soft flutter again. You replied in the group chat this time.

User (You): Cast iron skillet. Multipurpose. Classic. Heavy.

Pastry: Oh she’s good.

SmootherOperator: Marry me.

Baguetteboi: you won

Hulk: Please don’t encourage him.

You waited, just a little longer and then it came -

Hammertime: Good choice. I approve.

The day moved on. Classes, errands, life. But around lunch your phone buzzed again.

[Private Message – Hammertime 💬]

Hammertime: Was it too much? What I said last night.

Your breath got caught.

User (You): No. Just, honest. And maybe a bit scary.

Hammertime: Scary how?

User (You): Because I meant what I said too. And that kind of thing isn’t something I let myself believe in.

There was a pause.

Hammertime: I don’t usually either. But then you got added. And suddenly I’m thinking about it way more than I should.

You stared at the message.

Not flirtatious. Not bold. Just raw honesty typed out quietly like a secret.

You replied, this time without hesitation.

User (You): So what do we do with this?

Hammertime: Keep talking. For now, I like talking to you.

You smiled down at your phone, heart thumping.

Still no name. Still no face.

But somehow, this felt more real than most people you’d met in person.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The conversation didn’t stop.

Days passed like that - quick check ins, long stretches of silence filled with real life, then sudden bursts of messages that felt like stolen moments. It became a rhythm, one you hadn’t expected to crave.

Sometimes he messaged you first.

Sometimes you beat him to it.

Always, it felt like the highlight of your day.

Tonight was one of those slower evenings. Rain pattered softly against your window as you curled up with your phone, absently watching unread emails pile up. But one notification broke through the noise.

[Private Message – Hammertime 💬]

Hammertime: Ever feel like people know of you but don’t really know you?

You blinked. It was more serious than usual. No jokes. No chaos.

User (You): Yeah. All the time. Especially when I walk into a room and people already have an idea of who I’m supposed to be.

Three little dots appeared. Then disappeared.

Then came back.

Hammertime: Same. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to start over somewhere. As just, me. Not the version people project.

User (You): You kind of did that with me. I don’t know who you are. Just who you’ve shown me.

And I like that version.

Quiet. Thoughtful. Funny.

Kind.

You sent it before you could overthink it. Then, heart hammering, you watched the typing bubbles appear.

Hammertime: That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.

You hesitated. Then typed -

User (You): Want to tell me something real?

Just, one thing. About you.

The pause stretched longer this time.

Hammertime: I hate crowds. Everyone thinks I thrive in them.

But most days I’d give anything just to be somewhere quiet, no expectations, no cameras.

Just real.

You could feel your breath catch. Whoever he was, his words felt like they came with a weight he’d been carrying for a long time.

User (You): I’d sit next to you in that quiet.

Another pause. This one felt like a heartbeat.

Hammertime:That’s the second-nicest thing anyone’s said to me. You’re dangerous, you know that?

User (You): Only to people who like cast iron skillets.

Hammertime: That’s it. We’re definitely apocalypse partners now.

You laughed out loud.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

That night your eyes were bloodshot starring at the Monaco invitation from a few days ago. You couldn’t decide if you should go or not.

You didn’t reply.

Not at first.

But you read his message again. Then again.

Your screen dimmed and lit up with the motion of your fingers tapping it back to life, like you couldn’t bear to let it go dark while his name sat there.

Hammertime: If you come to Monaco…Make sure it’s for you.

Your chest was tight, full of something you didn’t have the language for yet.

You typed a response.

User (You): Idon’t even know what I want yet.

You stared at it. Deleted it.

User (You): I’m not good at this.

Delete.

User (You): I saw the invite.

Too bland.

User (You): Why does it feel like something’s going to change if I go?

Your finger hovered.

Then you erased that too.

The typing bubble popped up on his end. Then vanished. Then reappeared.

You hadn’t even sent anything.

And still he was waiting.

You finally gave in, your fingers trembling as you typed something imperfect but real.

User (You): Are you always like this?

The bubble appeared again, almost instantly this time.

Hammertime: Like what?

User (You): Careful, kind, hard to stop thinking about.

Three dots.

Longer this time.

Then -

Hammertime: Only with people I don’t want to lose.

Your heart thudded.

You wanted to reply.

To say something sharp or smart or honest. But your hands had gone still.

You locked your phone, holding it to your chest.

Let yourself breathe.

You didn’t answer the invite.

Not yet.

But now -

You were starting to think about what dress you might pack.

Just in case.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You didn’t sleep much.

Not from stress, exactly.

It was more the feeling of standing at the edge of something high, toes curled against the drop. The quiet hum of maybe. Of almost.

Of what if.

Your finger hovered over the invite again sometime around 2 a.m.

Open.

It bloomed across the screen, white and gold and obnoxiously beautiful.

"MONACO."

Everyone knew what it meant in the group, expect you to be exact.

Glitz. Heat. A thousand eyes. And him.

You didn’t realise you’d clicked "Yes" until the screen updated.

Just like that.

Like it was nothing.

But it didn’t feel like nothing.

Because now it was real.

Your heart did this strange, stuttering thing. Not panic. Not quite.

But definitely not peace.

You switched back to the private chat. He hadn’t messaged again.

Good.

You weren’t sure you could take it.

Your fingers moved, traitorous and too honest.

User (You): I said yes.

Sent.

Three dots. Fast.

Hammertime: Yeah?

You could almost hear his voice in that one word. Low, warm, cautious hope wrapped inside it.

User (You): Don’t make it a thing.

Hammertime: Too late.

You closed your eyes.

Imagined the impossible. What it would feel like to see him and know, really know that it was him.

Not a username.

Not a maybe.

Not a what if.

But a person. Standing in front of you.

Breathing the same air.

Looking at you like he already knew every word you hadn’t said yet.

You typed again.

User (You): What happens now?

There was a pause.

Long enough to wonder if you’d said too much.

He then replied -

Hammertime: Now we wait. And see if you still feel everything when you’re standing right in front of me.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was stupid, how packing a suitcase could feel like preparing for emotional warfare.

You weren’t even leaving yet. The flight wasn’t for three more days, but your room already looked like a storm had passed through it. Clothes everywhere. Shoes you hadn’t worn in months lined up like soldiers. Three failed outfit attempts on the floor and counting.

You’d packed for trips before. Exams. Interviews. A funeral once. But never something like this.

Because how do you pack for someone who’s only ever known you in fragments?

How do you pick the version of yourself you want them to meet?

Your chest felt tight. Like something was pressing against it from the inside.

Later that night, lying in bed, your thoughts ran endless laps.

What if he wasn’t what you imagined?

What if you weren’t what he imagined?

What if all the texts and late night chats and electric not quite flirting didn’t survive the sunlight?

Or worse! What if it was real?

So real it unraveled everything else.

You rolled over and checked your phone again.

Still no new messages from him.

Just his name in your inbox.

Sitting there.

Quiet.

Waiting.

#lh44 x reader #lh44 #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton #f1 x reader #f1 smau #f1 text au #f1 imagine #x reader #lewis hamilton x you #f1 drivers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #lh44 imagine

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better-setterv2 · 2 days ago

Note

Hi! Are you currently taking requests for Lewis Hamilton?

Hey lovely!

I would absolutely love to take your request on Lewis Hamilton.

Though I’ve got about four drafts I’m editing and posting soon, so it might take me a little while.

But I’d absolutely love to hear what you have in mind! Send it through and I’ll see what I can do!

I’ll keep you updated 🫶🏻🫶🏻

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

#lewis hamilton #lh44

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better-setterv2 · 2 days ago

Text

𝒱𝑒𝓁𝓋𝑒𝓉 𝒱𝑜𝓁𝓉𝒶𝑔𝑒

Authors Note: Hey lovelies! Here is another Met Gala one-shot with Lewis. I absolutely bombed the exam I did today for a subject, so I think I’ll stick with ranking 2nd in Advanced English…Anyway hope you enjoy. Lots of love xx

Summary: When a rising starlet and Lewis Hamilton share a charged encounter at the Met Gala. One stolen night spirals into a whirlwind of intimacy, headlines, and the possibility of something real behind the glamour.

Warnings: sexual content

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Met Gala had always been a spectacle. But this year, it pulsed with something else. Intention.

The theme “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style” was already being heralded as one of the boldest and most meaningful in recent memory.

It wasn’t just fashion. It was reclamation. A symphony of threads and tailoring that spoke of history, joy, diaspora and resistance. Art. Identity. Legacy. This wasn’t a red carpet. It was a runway of remembrance.

And for you, it was your first time attending.

Not your first time being photographed, fame had wrapped itself around you quickly and unapologetically over the last two years.

Your debut album went platinum within months, it’s sound hailed as both sultry and sharp, a new voice shaped from old soul. Then came the film that earned you standing ovations from Cannes to TIFF, your name whispered like a secret the world had just learned to pronounce. You were no stranger to flashbulbs.

But the Met Gala was different. It didn’t care who had a box office hit. It didn’t need a Billboard number one. The Met asked for presence, for interpretation, for myth-making and tonight - you answered.

You arrived alone, by choice.

Your car pulled up to the entrance beneath a wave of glowing cameras, the hum of anticipation already thick in the air. Your stylist gave you one last nod as the door opened, and you stepped out. Planting your heels onto the plush carpet like you were anchoring a story that had waited generations to be told.

The media gasped around you.

You didn’t walk. You glided. Every inch of your obsidian velvet gown caught the light like liquid stone.

It was sculpted, with a high neckline and shoulders sharp enough to cast shadows. The sleeves tapered into long, almost glove like silhouettes and the skirt spilled behind you in organza waves - sheer in certain angles like smoke curling through keyholes. Tiny gold beads were hand sewn into the velvet in patterns that resembled constellations, though only those who knew would recognise them as symbols from African diasporic mythologies. Wisdom. Protection. Transformation.

You were both a woman and a monument. You knew it.

The cameras didn’t stop. They roared. Names were shouted. Flashbulbs erupted like lightning strikes against the buildings facade. You paused mid carpet perfectly and deliberately. You turned your head slightly, and gave them the look. The one they’d put on Vogue’s Instagram within seconds. The one that said, “I’m not here to be seen. I’m here to be remembered.”

And then. you felt it.

Not the flashes, not the crowd. Something else. A shift. Like gravity realigning.

You didn’t see him immediately. You felt him.

It was the kind of awareness that travels through skin before it reaches your eyes. A pull. A hum. Like your name was being whispered in a language you’d never heard, but somehow understood.

And when you turned slow, cautious, like you were afraid it might not be real - he was already watching you.

Lewis Hamilton.

He stood beneath the museum’s lights, mid pose just off centre in a halo of fashion editors and photographers. But he was still. Still in a way that made the rest of the world feel like it was moving too fast.

He wasn’t smiling. But his lips curved like he might. Just for you.

His look was lethal in its elegance. The bespoke cream suit by Wales Bonner hugged his frame like second skin, fluid in cut but firm in posture.

A poetic structure. Gold pins traced the lapel like medals of honor, each representing a Black British. His stack of rings glistened in the light, leaving a spark throughout the room. The chainlink detail around his collarbone caught the light just once as he shifted slightly. Subtle, powerful.

But it was the beret that made him dangerous.

Tucked over his dark braided bun with effortless defiance, it crowned him with quiet authority. He looked like a man who had studied revolution and then tailored it to fit.

And his eyes? They never left you.

For one suspended moment, time held its breath. The sound of voices blurred. The flashes faded to static. There were only two people in the museum’s grand entrance now and one unseen string tying them together across a sea of velvet and marble.

You didn’t look away.

Your chin lifted slightly, just enough to acknowledge him. Just enough to say, “I see you, too.”

His jaw shifted, a slight clench. Not tension, just focus. Like he was memorising you. Like he’d wait through a hundred other introductions just to reach yours.

And then, your cue came.

Your name was called by a nearby handler. The moment still thick with heat shimmered, stretched and finally broke as you walked toward the steps, the hem of your gown dragging galaxies behind you.

You felt his eyes follow.

Even as stylists gathered around him. Even as Anna Wintour herself passed nearby. He watched you ascend the carpet, like you were a prophecy walking into frame.

And for the rest of the night you felt it. Every glance across the exhibit floor. Every quiet step he took in the corner of your eye. The air between you never cooled.

It just waited, patiently for the moment it could ignite.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The rest of the carpet blurred into motion and noise.

You posed, pivoted and smiled on instinct as if your body was moving like a trained rhythm. Your angles memorised from a hundred other carpets.

Yet tonight, every flash of the camera, every shouted question from the press or every click of a stiletto heel beside you felt muffled. Like the world had been draped in velvet too. You floated through the chaos and somewhere beneath it all, his presence still anchored you.

You didn’t have to look to know it, Lewis was still watching.

Across the carpet, he hadn’t moved much. Just a few steps, a brief handshake, the kind of pauses required by social expectation. But even in the blur of celebrity arrivals and camera flashes, the shift in his focus was obvious. Deliberate. Palpable.

"Over here, Lewis!" “Lewis, give us a smile!” “Look left! Look left!”

But he wasn’t really looking at them.

His gaze, unbothered by the frenzy around him kept finding you. Kept staying on you. There was no pretending otherwise.

And social media, as always had clocked it first.

@f1fashiondaily: Is it just us or is Lewis Hamilton absolutely mesmerised by [Y/N] tonight? 👀🔥 #MetGala2025

 @celebwatcher: This year's Met Gala couple we didn’t know we needed??? Hamilton hasn’t stopped staring at her 😭

 @vogueupdates: The velvet, the gaze, the tension. We’re witnessing something ICONIC unfold between Lewis Hamilton and [Y/N].

You stepped inside the museum with a final camera flash at your back and a steadying breath in your lungs. But his eyes, those warm steady eyes, followed you like a hawk.

Inside, the chaos softened.

Candlelight flickered from golden sconces and low arrangements of wildflowers in jewel tones. The museum air hummed with jazz and murmurs and the exhibit hall glowed with reverence. It felt holy, almost. A sanctum of style and ancestry.

You moved slowly, letting your fingers trail near but not quite touching, a hand embroidered kaftan displayed behind glass.

Everything in the exhibit was curated like poetry. Lewis’s touch as co-chair was everywhere. Each mannequin and spotlighted detail whispering something about roots, revolution and remembering.

You were lingering by a Zoot suit, its lapels embroidered with subtle resistance when you felt him again.

Not a sound. Not a brush of fabric. Just a change in the air behind you, warmth.

“That one was my grandfather’s era,” a voice said low and deep behind you. “He used to say that wearing a sharp suit was like putting on armor.”

You turned slowly.

Lewis Hamilton stood just behind you, close enough that you could see the gold threadwork gleaming along the edge of his collar. Close enough that your breath caught before you could stop it.

He was impossibly composed, yet somehow charged. Electricity in human form.

The soft lighting kissed the sharp cut of his jaw, the smooth cream of his tailored suit. That same gold Ghana pin gleamed on his lapel simple, potent. And his scent - spiced vetiver with something rich underneath, wrapped around you like silk smoke.

“Was he into fashion?” you asked, your voice quiet, but steady.

Lewis tilted his head. “He was into dignity. Suits were part of that. Velvet, especially said it looked like royalty if you wore it right.”

His eyes drifted over your dress, deliberate. A slow, admiring pass from collarbone to train. It wasn’t crude. It was reverent.

“He would’ve loved your gown,” Lewis said. “No question.”

You exhaled a small laugh, part surprise, part delight. “Is that a compliment from you, or from him?”

His grin was instant, slow and confident. “Both. But he’d have said it first.”

Something bloomed between you then, not quite flirtation. Something weightier. Deeper.

You turned back toward the exhibit, but he stayed beside you your steps falling into sync. He pointed out pieces with the casual ease of someone deeply involved but never showy. He told you about the designers, the silent icons and the Black tailors who shaped red carpets without ever stepping on one. His knowledge wasn’t performative, it was passionate.

“I’ve never seen someone wear history so casually,” you murmured, eyes still on a piece.

He looked at you, sharp and sudden.

“You’re doing the same,” he said.

The words wrapped around you with a softness that sank straight to your skin. They weren’t a line. They were recognition.

You tried to respond but found yourself tongue tied in a way you hadn’t been in years. So instead, you just walked. Letting the silence between you say what your words couldn’t.

Occasionally, a flash would break through from the corners of the room, photographers grabbing what they could. A few guests glanced over, murmuring as they passed.

But in the space you and Lewis had created, the rest of the world barely existed.

By the time dinner began and seats were assigned, you found yourselves separated. A table and two clusters of celebrities between you. But he found you across the room. Every time you lifted your head, his eyes were waiting.

It became a silent rhythm; Look. Find. Hold. Release.

Like a game. Or maybe a warning.

By dessert, you’d stopped trying to talk yourself out of it.

Later, as music swelled and guests began to migrate toward private afterparties, rooftop lounges or secret downtown clubs. You drifted toward the museum exit. The cool of the evening air was beginning to pull you back to earth. The night had been more than you expected. More than you were ready to let go of.

And then you heard him again.

“Leaving already?”

You turned, and he was there. Framed in shadow and golden hallway light. Hands tucked into the pockets of his cream trousers, his braided bun slightly tousled now beneath the soft dip of his beret. Jaw sharp. Gaze sharper.

You tilted your head. “Thinking about it.”

His eyes skimmed yours for a long moment, unreadable. Then -

“Come to mine instead.”

Your breath caught, not from surprise but from the calm certainty in his voice. There was no arrogance in the offer. Just the same quiet focus you’d seen in him all night.

“To…?”

He stepped a little closer. Not touching. Just near. “My suite. It’s quiet. No cameras. Better view. Champagne that doesn’t taste like regret.”

You raised a brow. “That your standard pitch to everyone tonight?”

His smirk was lazy as he tilted his head, knowing. “Just you.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve laughed and shaken your head, disappeared into the waiting black car outside.

But instead, you stared at him.

At the way his eyes held yours like a promise. At the way the air between you had already decided.

And then, you nodded. Once.

“I’ll come,” you said.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Inside, your body was a riot.

Thoughts blurred into pulses, heat coiling low in your stomach, every glance from Lewis replaying like a highlight reel.

Your skin still burned from the way his hand had brushed your lower back exiting the Met. Or from the slow way his eyes had swept over you during dinner, like he hadn’t already memorised every inch.

Now, in the plush darkness of the SUV the silence between you pulsed with thick tension, magnetic and growing louder with every breath. The soft hum of the engine was the only sound until a curve in the road made your knees brush.

Neither of you moved.

He turned his head slightly, eyes catching yours in the shadow. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. There was something loaded in that look. A question. A promise.

When the car pulled into the private entrance of the hotel, it felt like crossing an invisible threshold.

The flashbulbs were gone. The red carpet miles behind you. Here, it was just shadows and soft light and the heavy thud of your heart echoing in your ears.

He held the elevator door with a hand pressed to the metal, letting you step in first. When he followed, the space felt smaller than it should have. Your back was to the mirrored wall, his broad frame taking up too much air. His scent of amber, smoke, something expensive wrapped around you.

Still, no words.

Just that look.

The doors opened with a soft chime.

The penthouse was warm and modern dark wood, creamy walls, floor to ceiling glass revealing a skyline full of flickering lights. Candles flickered along low tables, already lit by some thoughtful assistant. A single jazz record played softly in the background, the needle slipping through honeyed saxophone.

You stood at the window, arms folding in front of you needing a second to breathe. Your reflection shimmered faintly in the glass, gown still clinging to your frame, makeup still pristine. But inside? You felt undone already.

Behind you, you heard the pop of champagne.

Then his voice, low. “Here.”

You turned.

He was holding a glass out to you, the golden liquid catching the candlelight. You took it, fingers brushing, and the contact sent a flutter down your spine.

You sipped.

“I didn’t think you were the afterparty type,” he said, eyes not leaving your face.

“I’m not,” you answered honestly, lips brushing the rim of the glass. “But you’re not a party.”

His smile came slow, like honey spreading across warm toast. A smile with weight, and heat. “I like the way you say that.”

He stepped closer. Two feet between you. Then one.

“Tell me something real,” he said. “Just one honest thing.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I don’t let people in like this. Not fast. Not ever.”

He nodded, gaze dropping briefly to your lips before lifting again. “Me neither.”

That look held. Lingering. Wanting.

You stepped into him, fingertips grazing the front of his jacket. The fabric was structured, precise, but beneath it was the steady rise and fall of his chest. “You looked” you murmured, fingers brushing the silk lapel, “unreal tonight.”

His hand found your waist. The heat of his palm burned through the velvet. “So did you. From the second I saw you.”

Then quieter, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud “I couldn’t stop watching you all night. You walked in and it was over.”

You didn’t say anything.

You just kissed him.

His lips met yours with a restraint that lasted all of three seconds. Then it gave. Like a dam breaking, like breath being held too long. His hand slid up your back, then into your hair, tilting your head just right. You moaned softly into his mouth, parting your lips, letting him in. The taste of him was warm, rich and darker, something distinctly Lewis.

When he pulled back slightly, your lips barely apart, you whispered, “Do you want me?”

He exhaled roughly. “I’ve wanted you since the second I saw you. Do you know how hard it was not to touch you all night?”

“Then touch me now.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you again, deeper now walking you backward slowly. You felt the edge of the window behind you. Cool glass against the backs of your arms but the rest of you was burning. His hands found the zipper of your gown. “Let me see you,” he said, voice thick.

You nodded.

He undid the dress with excruciating care. The zipper slid down your spine with a hiss. The velvet pooled at your feet. You stood in heels and delicate lingerie, soft blush rising to your cheeks but not from shyness. From power. Because of the way he looked at you.

Like you were the only thing in the world he wanted.

“Fuck,” he whispered, stepping back to take you in.

Then he was on you again, lifting you easily mouth at your throat, hands firm on your thighs. He carried you toward the bed with ease, laying you down onto the plush sheets like he was setting down something precious.

You reached for his jacket. “Your turn.”

He let you undress him piece by piece. Jacket, shirt, chain and belt. Each new inch of skin revealed made you ache. His body was lean and muscled, inked and golden under the candlelight. When you slid your hands down his chest, he made a sound - low, guttural.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured, lips trailing down your stomach, tongue tracing just under the edge of your bra.

His mouth found your breasts first kissing, teasing, worshiping with slow and deliberate attention. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, rolling the other between his fingers and the sound you made pulled a dark smile from him.

“More,” you whispered, arching into his touch.

His hand slid between your thighs, stroking you through the fabric of your lace underwear already soaked. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet,” he groaned, “and you’re this wet?”

“For you,” you gasped.

He kissed down, tongue finding your inner thigh teasing you until you whimpered. Then he slid your delicate underwear down with both hands and buried his face between your legs.

You cried out, thighs clenching around him.

He moaned into you, slow firm strokes of his tongue that had your back arching off the bed. He held you in place, one hand anchoring your hips while the other splayed over your stomach as he worked you open. You came against his mouth breathless and gasping, fingers in his braided hair with your hips trembling.

But he wasn’t finished.

He slid up your body again, kissing you deeply letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he rasped. “Now.”

“Yes. Please, yes.”

He entered you in one smooth aching thrust and you both froze for a second, the stretch, the fullness, the pressure of it all hitting at once. His forehead dropped to yours.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmured.

Then he began to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Intentional. Then faster, harder, matching your rhythm as you met each thrust with your own. Your name left his lips again and again, broken and reverent. His hands never stopped moving gripping your waist, your hip, your breast, your throat, his touch everywhere, like he needed to feel all of you at once.

When you came again, it was loud. Shaking. Almost overwhelmed.

He followed with a groan so deep it felt like it echoed in your chest.

You stayed wrapped around each other, trembling and sweat slick, his breath ragged against your collarbone. One arm held you close. The other stroked down your spine.

After a while, he tilted your chin up.

“That wasn’t just the gala,” he said, voice quieter now, eyes softer. “That was something starting.”

You brushed your thumb along his lower lip. “Feels like we’ve been waiting for this a long time.”

“Maybe we have.”

You curled into him. His arms pulled you closer like he had no plans of letting go.

Outside, the city glittered like a thousand unspoken promises. But inside, wrapped in his warmth was something rare.

Not just sparks. Not just heat.

Something real. Something beginning.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It wasn’t the sun that woke you, it was warmth. The kind that wasn’t just under the blankets, but wrapped around you in the form of a body which was strong and still asleep beside you.

You blinked your eyes open to golden light filtering in through the tall windows. The city had softened overnight. No longer glittering with chaos just glowing. Quiet.

You turned your head.

Lewis lay on his side, one arm flung across your waist with his face buried against your shoulder. His braids were slightly tousled, one soft strand falling across his forehead. The sharp, regal lines of his face had softened in sleep. No cameras, no crowd, no mask. Just him.

Your chest swelled with something that almost hurt.

This was the realest he’d ever looked.

You shifted slightly, and his arm tightened around you instinctively, like his body already knew you belonged close.

“Don’t move,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “You’re warm.”

You smiled. “You’re clingy.”

“I’ll be clingy as hell if it means waking up to this.”

You turned to face him fully. His eyes opened slowly, warm brown still heavy with sleep but focused. On you.

“Hi,” you said, voice low.

He smiled, lazy and boyish. “Hi.”

A beat of silence passed, stretched by the weight of what last night meant. Neither of you had said it yet, but you both felt the shift. This wasn’t just a fling. This wasn’t a drunken mistake blurred by champagne and candlelight.

This was the start of something. And that realisation made the air feel sacred.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“I did,” you murmured. “Better than I have in a long time.”

“Good.” He traced a finger down your arm, eyes drinking you in like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “You looked unbelievable last night. But now? Like this?” He shook his head with a breathless laugh. “I think I’m in trouble.”

You leaned in, kissing his jaw gently. “You are.”

He rolled onto his back, pulling you with him, your body draped across his chest. “I was scared it would feel different in the morning,” he confessed quietly. “Like the night would wear off, and I’d wake up and I don’t know. Panic.”

“Do you?”

“No,” he said. “I feel like I’m exactly where I should be.”

You were quiet for a moment, resting your chin on his chest, eyes on his. “That scares me, too.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “Because I wasn’t looking for this. But now that it’s here, I don’t want to pretend it’s not real.”

His fingers slipped under your chin, tilting your face toward him again. “Then don’t.”

He kissed you slow, morning sweet, lazy in the best way. It was a kiss that didn’t rush. A kiss that said we have time. We have space. We’re not running anymore.

When he pulled back, he smiled. “Stay today.”

“I have meetings - ”

He cut you off with another kiss. “Cancel them.”

You laughed against his mouth. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“I’ll make it worth it.” His hands slid under the sheet, finding your waist. His touch was soft, but promising. “Stay in bed with me a little longer.”

You bit your lip, already melting. “Just a little?”

His lips brushed your throat. “I’ll take what I can get.”

And so you stayed.

Wrapped in sheets and skin, exchanging stories and slow kisses, hands tangling under sunlight and soft murmurs. He told you about the gala the nerves, the weight of the night. You told him about how you almost didn’t go. How you weren’t supposed to fall for anyone.

And how quickly, he changed that.

At some point, he sat up to grab a room service menu, glasses sliding onto his nose. You didn’t think it was possible to fall harder until you saw him reading options aloud like he hadn’t just wrecked you twelve hours earlier.

You lounged across the bed in one of his shirts, watching him with a smile.

“I can feel you staring,” he said without looking up.

“Good,” you replied.

When breakfast arrived, you sat cross legged on the bed, eating pancakes and fruit while he fed you bites off his fork and wiped syrup from your lips with his thumb. At one point, your foot tangled with his under the tray and the shared look between you was all heat again.

“Careful,” he warned with a smirk. “I’m trying to behave.”

“Are you?”

“Trying. You’re making it hard.”

You laughed, and he pulled you into his lap, kissing you again. This time, deeper. Hungrier.

The plates were forgotten. The sheets shifted again.

And the day stretched on not in obligations or headlines, but in moments. In touches. In whispered confessions. In the kind of morning you don’t just remember, you relive in your mind a hundred times after.

Because it wasn’t just the night that changed everything.

It was the morning that proved it wasn’t just a dream.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You didn’t expect it to happen that fast.

By the time you stepped out of the penthouse elevator just past noon wearing sunglasses, Lewis’s jacket draped over your shoulders and yesterday’s heels in your hand. It had already begun.

Your phone notifications pinged. Then again. Then again.

A missed call from your manager. Three texts from your stylist. Dozens of notifications lighting up your lock screen like fireworks. You didn’t even need to unlock it before seeing the words

TRENDING #1: Lewis & [Y/N] — Met Gala’s Most Unexpected Couple

“Oh no,” you muttered.

Beside you, Lewis still cool, composed, but scanning his own screen with a growing furrow in his brow just hummed low in his throat. “Well,” he said. “So much for subtle.”

A black SUV waited outside the private entrance. Paparazzi hadn’t spotted you yet, but it felt like only a matter of time. You ducked into the car beside him, silence swelling between you like a held breath.

Inside, your phone kept lighting up. And you couldn’t look away anymore.

Your name was everywhere.

Photos from the Met Gala red carpet. Zoomed in screenshots of Lewis staring at you from across the steps. A slowed down clip of him offering his arm during the exhibit walk through. The shot of him standing too close as you gazed at a velvet zoot suit. Headlines screamed it -

“A New Power Couple? Lewis Hamilton Caught in Candid Moments with [Y/N]”

“Velvet, Stares, and That Kiss: Sources Claim Hamilton Left Gala With Rising Star”

“‘He’s Never Looked at Anyone Like That’ Fans React to Hamilton’s Rumored New Flame”

And then came the more…invasive ones.

A blurry, grainy shot taken from god knows where Lewis’s hand on your lower back, the hem of your dress peeking out as the two of you stepped into the penthouse elevator. Not scandalous. But intimate. Enough to set fire to the speculation.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Lewis glanced over. “You okay?”

“I don’t know.” You leaned back into the leather seat, heart pounding in your throat. “It’s a lot.”

“I know,” he said gently. “I should’ve warned you.”

“It’s not your fault.” You looked down. “I just I wasn’t ready to be dissected like this.”

He reached over, took your hand in his.

His grip was steady. Grounding.

“They’ll move on in a few days. They always do.”

You swallowed. “Unless we give them something real to keep watching.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Is that what we’re doing? Giving them something real?”

You met his eyes. “Aren’t we?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. We are.”

Your phone buzzed again this time, a DM from someone you hadn’t spoken to in months. The kind of message that only came when people sensed the air shifting around you. Fame had always been a double edged sword. Now, it felt like you were holding both blades.

You turned the screen off and placed it face down.

“I don’t want to be part of a spectacle,” you said quietly.

“You won’t be. Not if we control the story.” He exhaled. “You’re not a fling. This isn’t gossip. If people are going to talk, let them talk about how I respect you. How you own every room you walk into. How I’ve never met anyone like you.”

You looked at him, stunned by the honesty, the weight of it.

“But that means stepping into this with me,” he added. “Even when it gets messy.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached for his hand again, lacing your fingers with his.

“I’d rather it be messy and honest than perfect and fake.”

He smiled, the tension in his jaw softening.

“Then let them talk.”

The car pulled up to your original hotel downtown - a discreet location, but even from inside the tinted windows, you could see it. A small crowd forming. Photographers with long lenses. Fans holding signs.

You hesitated.

Lewis turned to you. “Want me to walk you in?”

“I think - ” You adjusted your sunglasses, sat up straighter. “I think I want them to see me with you.”

A beat passed. He nodded once.

And when you stepped out, the flashbulbs exploded. Voices shouted your names. Questions flew.

But all you could feel was his hand in yours.

He didn’t let go.

Not when the flashes got too bright. Not when a reporter yelled something about “rumored romance.” Not even when a gust of wind blew your hair wildly around your face, catching your laughter in the chaos.

Because in that moment, standing beside Lewis Hamilton in front of the press, the world watching and spinning madly around you -

And you, weren’t afraid anymore.

#lewis hamilton one shot #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton #f1 x reader #lh44 #x reader #lh44 x reader #lh44 imagine #met gala #lewis hamilton x you

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better-setterv2 · 3 days ago

Text

𝒯𝒶𝒾𝓁𝑜𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒯𝓌𝑜

Authors Note: Hi All! Wow. Lewis Hamilton absolutely slayed this look! I should be studying for an exam right now but I couldn’t help but write something for the Met Gala 2025. I hope you all enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis Hamilton and his girlfriend share an intimate reveal of their outfits before making a stunning entrance at the Met Gala, capturing the spotlight with their love and style.

Warnings: mentions of sexual content

Taglist: @hannibeeblog

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning sun filtered through sheer curtains, casting warm golden streaks across the hotel room. The air was still quiet, humming softly with the calm before chaos.

You stirred awake to the steady rhythm of Lewis’s breathing, his body curled behind yours, arm slung over your waist, holding you like something he couldn’t afford to lose.

You didn’t move for a long time. Just laying there, pressed against him, listening to the world spin slowly outside while his presence grounded you. In these rare hushed moments, Lewis wasn’t the 7x Formula 1 World Champion, the activist, the fashion icon. He was just yours. And you were his.

A sleepy kiss pressed to your bare shoulder made you smile.

“You’re awake,” you whispered.

“Mhm,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Been awake. Just didn’t want to let go.”

You rolled over gently to face him, fingers sliding between his multiple braids that framed his face. His eyes blinked open, warm and full of something deeper than just affection. Something heavier, quieter.

"Big day," you said, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone caressing it.

"Biggest," he replied. “But not because of the carpet. It’s because I get to walk in with you.”

He said it so casually, but the words hit you like a warm wave. You kissed him, soft and unhurried. Your hand sliding to rest on his bare chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palm. He rolled over you delicately, pinning you beneath him with a smile that was both teasing and reverent.

“Do we have time for” he trailed off, nuzzling into your neck, “just a little more?”

You laughed, pulling him down into another kiss, slow and languid. Time stretched and folded into itself. Even if the world outside demanded perfectly tailored tuxedos and curated appearances.

This moment was gloriously undone, just the two of you tangled up in sheets and skin. Whispering promises and breathless giggles between kisses that lasted too long.

When the knock at the suite door finally broke the spell, it was with an audible sigh that Lewis rolled away, mumbling, “Why can’t the Met Gala be tomorrow?”

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The room buzzed with an intensity that almost felt electric. Stylists, assistants, and fashion press worked tirelessly to prepare the final touches for the Gala.

A mix of anticipation and excitement filled the air, but amid the controlled chaos, there was a quiet understanding between you and Lewis.

Both of you had decided to get ready separately, not out of superstition but because you wanted to preserve the sacredness of the moment when you saw each other for the first time. Fully dressed, in your Gala attire. No cameras, no flashes just the two of you. In a private world of your own. It would be a reveal just for you.

Your dressing room was a sanctuary of elegance. Soft, golden light filtered through the windows. Bathing the room in a warm, almost ethereal glow. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, freshly pressed fabric, and the soft sound of music playing in the background - classical, yet full of emotion.

You stood in front of a full-length mirror, a whirlwind of stylists and assistants working around you, their hands moving in rhythm as they made their final adjustments.

Your gown was custom, of course. It was everything you had imagined and more. The color was a stunning shade of bronze silk, so rich it almost seemed to glow under the lights. The fabric shimmered with every subtle movement, as though it had a life of its own. The corseted bodice fit your frame perfectly, hugging your figure with a sculpted precision that felt like second skin. The waist was cinched in just enough to create an hourglass silhouette, while the skirt billowed outward, its shape reminiscent of the regal gowns worn by queens of centuries past. The way it moved, catching the light and swaying ever so slightly made you feel like royalty.

But what truly set the gown apart were the intricate details. Geometric embroidery, inspired by African diasporic design, was woven into the fabric in rich metallic threads, glistening with every angle. The embroidery wasn’t just a decorative touch.

It was a bold statement, a celebration of culture, history, and tradition. It felt like the very embodiment of power and beauty, as if you were wearing not just a piece of art though a piece of your own heritage.

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror and for a moment, you almost didn’t recognise the woman staring back. There was something about the attire that transformed you. It wasn’t just the design or the craftsmanship, it was the way it made you feel. Empowered. Strong. Confident.

Lewis had introduced you to the designer and you could see now why he had been so adamant about this specific choice. He wanted you to feel more than beautiful. He wanted you to wear something that spoke to your strength, to your identity and to who you were at your core. The designer had crafted a piece that was a perfect blend of tradition and rebellion, history and modernity, just like you.

"He's going to lose it when he sees you," your stylist whispered, her voice filled with admiration as she pinned the final piece of fabric into place. "You’re going to take his breath away."

You felt a warmth spread through you, a flutter of nerves mixed with excitement. The idea of revealing yourself to Lewis, of showing him what he had helped create felt almost surreal.

You could already picture his reaction. The way his eyes would light up when he saw you, the soft intake of breath, the way he always looked at you like you were the only person in the room. But most of all, how everything else fell away when he focused on you.

For just a moment, the world outside your dressing room seemed to disappear. The buzz of the fashion press, the voices of assistants in the hallway and the chaotic energy of the event. Everything was muted. It was just you, this gown, and the promise of a moment that would belong only to the two of you.

You ran your fingers over the delicate fabric one last time, feeling the weight of its significance. It was the culmination of your journey with Lewis, of the moments you had shared, of the power and love you had found together.

And in that quiet sacred moment, as you prepared to step into the world of the Met Gala. You couldn’t help but think that this moment would be one you’d carry with you forever.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The moment finally arrived.

You knocked softly on the adjoining door between your suites. “Ready?”

There was a brief pause, then Lewis’s voice, warm yet playful, “Only if you are.”

You smiled to yourself and pushed open your door just as he opened his, and time seemed to stop.

There he stood, every inch the vision of class and style. He was dressed in a bespoke cream suit designed by Wales Bonner, tailored to perfection. The suit clung to his form with a sharpness that seemed almost sculpted, its rich texture telling stories of past generations while pointing toward the future. His accessories - gold pins gleaming against the cream fabric, stacked rings that caught the light, delicate chain links that added an elegant rebellion to the whole ensemble came together like a quiet revolution in fashion. It was a bold statement, one that demanded attention without shouting.

He looked like the future, wrapped in the finest memories of the past.

And there you were, standing before him in your custom bronze silk dress, glowing with an ethereal radiance. The gown hugged your figure and billowed elegantly, the intricate embroidery shimmering with a life of its own. The light caught your skin and for a fleeting moment, you were both in a world of your own an artwork brought to life.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath blinking rapidly, as though he’d forgotten how to breathe in the face of such beauty.

You couldn’t help but smile, your steps slow and deliberate as you walked toward him, savoring the moment. “Good wow, or too much?”

He laughed, his voice full of disbelief, still unable to tear his eyes away from you. “There’s not enough language in the world for what kind of wow this is.”

Your arms slid gently around his neck, drawing him closer as you leaned into him, your body fitting seamlessly against his. “You clean up pretty well too, Mr. Hamilton,” you teased softly, your lips brushing against his ear.

He grinned, his hands finding their way to your waist as he tilted his forehead against yours. The quiet intimacy of the moment hung between you two like a secret, just the two of you in this space. “You make me wanna skip the carpet, you know that?”

Your heart swelled at his words, a rush of warmth and affection flooding through you. You kissed him softly, lips lingering as if savoring the moment. The taste of him lingering on your tongue. “Let’s give them something to talk about first,” you whispered against his mouth.

And with that, you pulled back the connection lingering between you even as you straightened. The anticipation of what was to come humming in the air. Together, hand in hand you stepped into the world awaiting you - ready to turn heads and ready to be unforgettable.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The limo ride was a soft, velvet pocket of quiet between the chaos. You sat beside him hand resting on his thigh, your fingers intertwined.

He watched you from the corner of his eye, unable to stop himself. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

You turned to face him, blushing. “You say that now.”

“No, I’ve seen podiums, wins, thousand camera flashes. But this?” He lifted your hand to his lips. “This is everything.”

Your gaze softened. “I know tonight is huge for you. I just want you to be proud.”

He leaned in and kissed you. Deep, grounding. “I already am.”

Loud yells and cameras clicking could be heard outside the limo. The slick black car rolled up to the Met Gala before stopping.

When you stepped out of the car, the world erupted.

Flashes exploded like fireworks. Reporters screamed your names. The red carpet was transformed into a living runway, but you two walked it like you owned it.

Lewis kept you close, one hand on the small of your back with an expression proud and protective.

Everywhere you looked, people stared. Some with admiration while some with envy. You weren’t just guests. You were the couple. The moment.

@NYCFashionWatch: “Lewis Hamilton and his stunning girlfriend are the blueprint tonight. Tailored excellence and bronze royalty. #MetGala2025”

@F1InsiderBuzz: “They said power couple, and they meant it. Lewis Hamilton serving cream couture, his partner redefining grace.”

@BlackStyleArchives: “Lewis and his partner pay homage to Black elegance through tailoring and textile. This is more than fashion. This is narrative.”

@VogueOfficial: “We have to talk about the chemistry. The styling. The hands never letting go. The looks exchanged. The whispering smiles. It’s romance, but it’s also power.”

Backstage, stylists and other guests approached the two of you with warm smiles and hushed compliments.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” one editor whispered to you as Lewis stepped away to speak to a designer. “He’s softer. Brighter.”

You glanced toward him, watching as he laughed warmly with one hand still subtly reaching for you.

“He’s just himself,” you said. “All of him.”

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The theme Lewis had co-chaired “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style”, was alive in every curated corner of the Met.

Lewis walked you through the exhibition with the quiet awe of someone who had helped build it from concept to creation. His hand rarely left yours, his voice dipping to a near whisper when he leaned in to share details about specific pieces.

“That one’s inspired by Dapper Dan’s original Harlem cuts,” he said, nodding toward a sharply shouldered double breasted jacket displayed in a glass case. “No label. No runway. But it turned the world upside down.”

He paused at a minimalist charcoal suit designed by Bianca Saunders. “She’s the future,” he said. “Structure, soul and softness too. I love how it folds, almost like origami.”

You looked at him then, not just at his words but the way he stood. Shoulders straight, fingers gently brushing the edge of a plinth like he was touching memory itself. His passion for what this night meant was written in the way he held space for each garment, each stitch.

Every few moments, he turned to you, eyes warm. “This one,” he murmured once, standing before a velvet frock coat hand embroidered with ancestral symbols, “this one I want to show my mum. She’d cry.”

People floated by, murmuring greetings and admiration. Journalists, designers, museum curators. But you and Lewis moved like the eye of the storm still, centred and deeply connected in the whirl of celebration.

And then came the cameras again.

Not the frenzied clicks of paparazzi, but the poised intentional elegance of Vogue, Getty and Vanity Fair. Followed by the host of other publications capturing the official portraits inside the Met.

“May we get the two of you here?” someone from the Cut asked politely, gesturing toward a marbled archway beneath soft amber light.

Lewis glanced at you with a subtle nod. “Let’s give them a show.”

He pulled you gently to him, one hand settling on your waist, the other holding yours just so elegant and firm. You tilted your head slightly toward him, the curve of your lips soft but confident. As the camera clicked, your eyes found his.

And that’s when it happened, the moment.

A brief flicker of something unspoken passed between you. Love, pride, history, maybe even a quiet rebellion. And the photographers caught it.

Lewis with his jaw slightly clenched, standing tall in his cream suit. You regal and glowing in bronze beside him, your hands perfectly clasped between you.

The next shot was a little more relaxed. You turned to him with a smirk as he dipped his head to whisper something only you could hear. You laughed softly, leaning into him.

Click. Flash.

You posed for more, shifting from classic to casual. One photo had you seated beside each other on a velvet ottoman. His hand resting on your thigh, your fingers loosely laced with his, your gown cascading in a pool of silk. Another showed Lewis fixing the single curl that had fallen near your eye while you watched him with visible affection.

@VogueRunway: “Tailored storytelling. Hamilton and his partner exemplify everything the 2025 Met Gala aimed to celebrate: legacy, craftsmanship, and unmistakable connection.”

@Essence: “The intimacy. The elegance. The statement. Lewis Hamilton and his partner didn’t just arrive. THEY embodied.”

As the Met wore on, the gala unfolded in waves of live performances, curated cocktails and speeches about representation in fashion. But no matter where you moved, Lewis always found you in the crowd.

Between poses, he kissed your knuckles. Between conversations, he leaned close to ask if you were okay. During the speeches, his fingers remained gently curled around yours.

At one point, a photographer caught you two standing alone in front of a towering black and gold tapestry that mirrored the patterns embroidered into your gown. The lighting framed you like royalty with Lewis whispering something in your ear, your eyes crinkled in laughter, the champagne in your hand forgotten.

That image would later go viral, dubbed by Twitter as - “The Met’s most iconic candid. Not just a look. A love story in motion.”

The rest of the evening blurred in art and elegance, but the thread never snapped between you. You were each other's constant, each other's mirror, muse and memory.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Back at the hotel room, the atmosphere shifted. The bustling energy of the Gala had given way to a soft, intimate quiet moment of just the two of you in a world of your own. The luxury of the night was still present, but now it felt like a backdrop. Almost like a memory waiting to be tucked away as you peeled away the layers of opulence.

You started with your dress, slowly unzipping it. The fabric, once fitted perfectly to your body now slipped from your skin with a soft sigh. Pooling onto the floor in a heap of bronze silk and intricate lace.

The contrast between the elegant exterior and the warmth of your bare skin was almost poetic. You felt an overwhelming sense of freedom. No cameras, no lights, just you and him, as raw as it could get.

Lewis stood behind you, watching every movement. His eyes filled with a quiet admiration that made your chest tighten. As your gown fell, you turned to him, your gaze locking for a moment. His hands moved toward you, fingers grazing the curve of your waist.

He stepped closer, eyes never leaving you. Delicate lingerie covered you and that felt like the only real thing in the room, Lewis’s gaze never wavered. His breath caught in his throat as he took you in, your bare skin and every curve. He looked at you like he was seeing the most breathtaking masterpiece, yet with so much admiration and tenderness that it made your heart flutter.

You reached for him, gently slipping his tuxedo jacket from his shoulders, fingers grazing the smoothness of his suit. The material felt cool beneath your fingertips as you undid his cufflinks one by one before finally removing the shirt that clung to his body like a second skin. When it fell to the floor, revealing the taut muscles beneath, you couldn’t help but admire the quiet strength in him. Everyone about him so sculpted, yet so unassuming.

With a soft gasp, you leaned forward your lips brushing against the smoothness of his collarbone, feeling the heat radiating from his body. His hands cupped your face, guiding you back to meet his gaze. His eyes were darker now, focused only on you, though softness was there, an affection so deep it made you melt inside.

He kissed you then, slow and deep. Lips moving against yours like they had all the time in the world. The kiss was full of everything you had shared tonight, the glamour, the adrenaline and the electric energy of the world watching. But it was also full of something so personal, something between the two of you that no one else could touch.

“I know we were dressed for the cameras tonight,” Lewis whispered between kisses, his voice rough with his lips trailing across your jaw and down your neck. “But every time I looked at you, I forgot the world was watching.”

His words sent a shiver through you, making your heart race. You pulled him closer, your bodies pressed together now. Fingers threading through his braided hair. You didn’t need to say it, but you felt the truth of it in every inch of your skin. Here, in this moment it was just you and him. No one else.

You smiled against his lips, your fingers trailing down his tattooed chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. “That’s okay,” you murmured softly. “I only saw you too.”

He paused for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against yours as if absorbing the weight of your words. The quiet tenderness in the space between you was so palpable. But Lewis’s hands began to roam over your back gently guiding you toward the bed, where the sheets awaited soft and inviting.

As you lay down together, everything in the room felt suspended. Like time had decided to slow down just for the two of you. Lewis’s lips found yours again, but this time it was different. It wasn’t rushed or eager, it was a slow lingering kiss, as though he was savoring every moment.

Your hands roamed over him, tracing the familiar yet always thrilling planes of his body. Feeling the heat radiating from his skin as if he was a flame that you couldn’t stay away from. The air around you was thick with the electricity of desire, but it wasn’t just physical it was the culmination of every glance, every smile, every word you’d shared. It was the connection, the intimacy that no spotlight or flashing camera could capture.

His lips trailed down your neck, pausing over your pulse point, kissing softly before moving lower, drawing delicate patterns on your skin. Your breath caught as his hands caressed your sides, pulling you even closer as his body hovered above yours. His warmth enveloping you completely.

In this space, there were no barriers. There were no cameras flashing. Just the two of you, skin and heart tangled in a dance that was yours alone.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Lewis whispered against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. His forehead resting against yours as his hand caressed your cheek. “No matter what the world thinks, it’s just us.”

The words felt like a promise, a quiet vow. And in that intimate silence as his hands traced the lines of your body with so much care and love. You knew this was real. This moment, this connection, nothing else mattered.

Your hands tugged at his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the warmth of his skin and steady rhythm of his breath. The space between you didn’t exist anymore. It was only love.

#f1 x reader #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #x reader #lh44 #lh44 x reader #met gala #lewis hamilton one shot #f1 one shot #f1 imagine #lh44 imagine #formula 1 #formula 1 fanfic #lewis hamilton x you

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better-setterv2 · 4 days ago

Note

let me kiss your heart, queen, for serving us a met gala fic before the met gala even happened💕

AHHHH so glad you enjoyed it!

Kiss accepted! 🫶🏻

I had to give the people what they deserved. I’m really over here manifesting Lewis showing up looking like royalty.

Can’t wait to see the outfits, and Lewis of course.

If possible when I can, I will try to write something else towards the Met Gala when I see his outfit and tag you.

Although, I have an exam tomorrow. However, Lewis comes first.😭🙏🏻

Lots of love xx

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

#lewis hamilton #lh44

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better-setterv2 · 4 days ago

Text

𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒜 𝒩𝑒𝑒𝒹

Authors Note: Hi everyone! I hope you’re all well. Really appreciate the support. In honour of the Met Gala coming up here's something quick I wrote. Feel free to comment suggestion or advice below. Lots of love xx

Summary: After a glamorous night at the Met Gala. Lewis and his assistant share a quiet, intimate car ride back to the hotel, where the chemistry between them becomes undeniable and the line between professionalism and something more starts to blur.

Warnings: slight sexual content (first time properly writing something like this - I’m sorry if it’s bad)

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You never intended to work in Formula 1. You weren’t into racing, didn’t know the drivers, and couldn’t tell you the difference between a Mercedes and a Ferrari.

But when a job offer landed in your inbox, personal assistant to Lewis Hamilton it felt too surreal to turn down.

The position was meant to be temporary. A few months. Media scheduling, flights and hotel bookings, the occasional errand. You were organized, unshakably calm, and not remotely dazzled by the celebrity.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But working with Lewis meant entering his world, not the public one that flashed across headlines and magazine covers but the real one.

You saw him in the quiet hours before dawn, phone pressed to his ear as he strategised with engineers.

You watched him before race weekends, quiet and closed-off, the nerves settling deep in his shoulders.

You learned the rhythm of his silences, the way he’d absently scratch Roscoe behind the ears when things got overwhelming. You memorised how he took his tea with no sugar but with oat milk or sometimes chamomile when he couldn’t sleep.

You were there when he didn’t speak for hours after a tough qualifying. You were the one who quietly rerouted his flight after a brutal media day, booked the spa that helped him breathe again. You didn’t just work for Lewis, you started to understand him in and out.

And that scared you.

Because somewhere between early morning debriefs and late-night planning sessions, something shifted.

He noticed too.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was the night of the Met Gala that things really began to change. The grand event was nothing like you had ever imagined.

The glamor, the flashing cameras, the laughter, and the chatter. Lewis stood out effortlessly in his custom Valentino suit, the kind of outfit that commanded attention.

You on the other hand, were supposed to blend into the background, as you had so many times before. Clipboard in hand, headset clipped to your ear, double-checking logistics while the world’s eyes focused on him. You were just the assistant, the one who made sure everything ran smoothly behind the scenes.

But that night was different. The clock was ticking down to the event, the last-minute adjustments were being made and then, of course, the dreaded moment you’d hoped to avoid.

His stylist, the one person who was supposed to make sure everything was perfect, had suddenly bailed. And there you were, standing outside the dressing room, catching your breath as the final piece of the puzzle unraveled.

Lewis was standing there, suit jacket half-buttoned, frustration evident on his face. He wasn’t in a panic, but the nerves were starting to show. His sharp eyes flicked to you, but it was more of a passing glance than anything.

“Hey, um, cou - could you - ?” He gestured awkwardly at the final button on his shirt. “It’s just this one. The stylist isn’t here and she usually does it for me.”

The request caught you off guard, but you nodded without thinking moving toward him. You weren’t sure why you were the one chosen for this, but it felt like something beyond mere convenience. You grabbed the button of his shirt, adjusting it carefully your fingers brushing the fabric, the sensation strange but familiar in the most unspoken of ways.

As your hands moved, his eyes followed you in the mirror. There was a weight in the room that you couldn’t quite place.

His eyes flickered to meet yours, and for a moment the world outside the room felt muted. The bustling Met Gala, the celebrities and the flashing lights. It all faded as you met his gaze in that reflection.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a brand,” he said softly, voice quiet but meaningful. “Like I’m just a thing to be managed.”

You froze for a moment, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. The weight of his words, the vulnerability laced in them, had you questioning everything you thought you knew about him. You had seen him at his best and at his worst. But this side of him which was raw, honest, and real was something you hadn’t expected.

“I’m just doing my job,” you replied, your voice steady, but it didn’t feel like a proper answer. Not to him. Not to you.

He smiled, but it wasn’t one of those bright, confident smiles you saw in the press. It was softer, as if he trusted you just a little bit. “I think you’re doing more than that,” he said quietly, more to himself.

You finished buttoning his shirt, but the air between you was different now. You could feel it in your bones the electric charge, the soft pull that existed just beneath the surface. There was an understanding between the two of you now, one that transcended your official roles. He wasn’t just the superstar you worked for. In that moment he was a person. And so were you.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later that evening, after the cameras had moved on and the guests began to trickle out the night took another turn.

The Met Gala was winding down, the last few drinks were being poured and the air was thick with glitz and glamour. But Lewis, ever the enigma seemed content to slip out of the spotlight for a while.

You caught him in a quieter corner of the venue, away from the crowds with his gaze lost in the distance. He wasn’t checking his phone, nor was he concerned with anything happening around him. He seemed to be peaceful, a stark contrast to the image the world often had of him.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The car ride back to the hotel was quiet, the sounds of the city night and the hum of the engine the only things filling the space.

The lights illuminating outside the window blurred as you sat in the backseat, a space across from him. But it felt much farther. The weight of the evening had settled in, and despite the extravagant event you both seemed to want the silence. The peace, of some kind, after the madness of the Met Gala.

Lewis leaned back in his seat, his hand resting lightly on the leather armrest. His tie had been loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, his usually impeccable appearance now slightly disheveled and somehow that made him seem more human. More real. The shift in his demeanor from the confident, public figure to this softer quieter version of himself was disarming.

You had expected him to be a little more distant on the ride back, maybe pulling back into that headspace he often retreated into before a race or a big media moment. But he didn’t. He didn’t close off. Instead, he turned his head slightly, catching your eyes.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low, thoughtful, with an edge of concern.

You blinked, unsure of what to say, but the honesty in his voice made it easy. “Yeah. It’s just been a long day I guess.”

He nodded slowly, a slight frown tugging at his lips. His gaze shifted back to the window, staring out at the streetlights passing by.

There was something unspoken between you two now. Something that wasn’t in the official brief of your job description. It was more than professional. It was now personal.

And somehow, it wasn’t as easy to pretend anymore that it didn’t affect you.

The car slowed as it approached the hotel entrance, the driver signaling for the valet. The movement broke the fragile silence between you, but it didn’t entirely end it. When the car stopped and the door opened, you both stepped out. The cool night breeze hit your skin like a jolt of reality.

You waited for him, your heels clicking against the pavement as you followed him into the hotel lobby.

His usual confidence was there but there was something else, something more grounded and more real about him tonight. The public face was gone, and in its place, there was the man behind it. The man you had been getting to know more and more in the past few months.

Once you reached the elevator, the ride up was equally silent. You pressed the button to his floor, and as the doors closed there was a tension in the air that neither of you could ignore. His hand rested against the railing, fingers tapping lightly and you couldn’t help but glance at him. Wondering to yourself what he was thinking.

When the doors opened, the silence was almost deafening as the two of you stepped out walking down the hallway. His room was just a few doors down and you both made your way toward it, the quiet hanging between you.

And then, in a split second something shifted again. Lewis stopped in front of his door, his back to the frame. His eyes locked with yours, and for the first time that night there was no rush. No distractions. No outside noise. Just the two of you.

It was subtle at first, just the way he turned his body slightly toward you with the slight tilt of his head. But then it happened, as if some invisible force was drawing you together. You took a step closer, and your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. His eyes were searching yours, asking without words if it was okay. If this was okay.

And somehow, you knew. You knew it was. That small, quiet space between you both where the walls you had built up around your professional roles fell away, revealed a rawness neither of you had expected. It felt like you were meeting him for the first time all over again this time, in a way that was far more vulnerable.

Before you could second-guess it, before the noise of the world could creep back in. You closed the gap between you, leaning forward slowly. His lips met yours tentative at first, like you were both testing the waters. But there was no hesitation after that. His hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer as you melted into the kiss. The soft pressure of his lips giving way to something deeper as he let out a small groan.

There was no rush. No expectation. Just the quiet understanding that this moment belonged to the two of you.

When the kiss finally broke with a string of saliva connected, you were both breathless, your forehead resting gently against his. His hands stayed on your back, warm and grounding. Keeping you close.

Neither of you moved for a moment, just savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment. The Met Gala, the bright lights, the hustle it all seemed miles away now. In that small, dimly lit hallway there was only him and only you.

Lewis’s voice broke the silence, his words barely above a whisper. “I’m not sure how to do this,” he confessed, his hand gently brushing the hair from your face, his touch almost reverent.

“You don’t have to know,” you whispered back. “We’ll figure it out.”

The words hung in the air, a promise of something unknown but worth exploring. You were no longer just his assistant. And he was no longer the 7x formula 1 champion you worked for.

For the first time, you were just two people. Two people who had been orbiting each other for so long, without really seeing it. Until now.

Without saying anything more, he gently guided you to his room, the door clicking softly behind you.

The world outside, with all its expectations and roles, faded into the background. And all that remained was the quiet understanding that this was a beginning.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The golden lamplight painted the space in warm hues, casting soft shadows that danced along the walls. But you weren’t looking at the room. You were only looking at him.

Lewis stood in front of you, holding your hand like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His eyes searched yours, as if needing to be sure you were really there. Not as his assistant, not as a part of the job but as you.

You stepped closer until there was barely any space left. Your other hand came up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm.

Your lips found each other again, but this time slower, deeper. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just full of everything you couldn’t say. His hands came up to cradle your face as if he was memorising every inch of it, like he was afraid this would all disappear if he blinked.

He pulled you closer until you were pressed against him. The kiss turning softer, more reverent. A shared inhale. A shared exhale. Like he was breathing for you and you for him.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t say a word just looked at you like you were the most delicate and important thing in the world. And then, with a quiet gentleness that undid you completely he guided you toward the bed, never breaking eye contact.

Lewis’s chest rise and fell rapidly as he laid you down, his usual confident composure crumbling in a second. His fingers traced your jawline starring into your eyes softly as if asking if you wanted this. With a slightly nod his fingers trembled undressing you, revealing your skin.

His body pressed against yours, every muscle tense with restrained passion as he fights the urge to take you completely.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 #f1 x reader #x reader #lewis hamilton #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 #lh44 x reader #f1 one shot #lewis hamilton one shot #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine

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better-setterv2 · 4 days ago

Text

𝒜𝒸𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 - 𝒫𝓉.2

Authors Note: Hey Guys! I wasn’t going to make a part 2 of this, but I got a request by @urmomsgirlfriend1 if I could continue from the last chapter. So I thought, you know what let’s do it. Leave comments for feedback. Lots of love xx

Summary: You decided to stay in the group-chat. Some glimpses of who Hammertime comes to light. Followed by an invite to Monaco by MadMax. Will you go?

Warnings: none

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2, Pt3, Pt4, Pt5

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You hadn’t meant to stay.

Honestly, you’d told yourself it was temporary. Just curiosity, you insisted. You weren’t really attached to the group chat.

You just liked watching it implode in real time. Like a car crash made out of memes, poorly spelled insults, and way too many GIFs of Sebastian Vettel dancing.

That’s all.

Except it wasn’t just that anymore.

Because every time you opened the chat, your eyes searched for one name.

Hammertime.

The name made your stomach flutter in a way that was equal parts exciting and ridiculous. You didn’t even know this man. Not really. Just that he was calm in the chaos. He defended you when Max, aka MadMax and the others went feral. He never tried too hard, but always said something that made your day feel just a little brighter.

You were curled up in bed, scrolling through the chat again, when your phone vibrated with a direct message.

[New Chat: Hammertime 💬]

Hammertime: Thought I’d save you from the madness for a bit.

Hammertime: You doing okay?

Your heart skipped. A private chat. You bit your lip, staring at the screen before responding.

User (You): Oh look, the mysterious Hammertime in my DMs. Should I be honored or concerned?

Hammertime: That depends. Do you usually get DMs from mysterious strangers with impeccable taste and infinite patience?

User (You): Infinite patience? You? You’re in a chat with MadMax and HoneyBadger. If anything, that makes you a masochist.

Hammertime: …touché.

You smiled to yourself. This was dangerous, in a way. He was funny. Sweet. Quick with a comeback and slow with judgment. The kind of person who made you feel heard even in a sea of chaos.

Hammertime: I’m glad you stayed, by the way.

You paused.

User (You): I am too.

User (You): Even if I still don’t know who any of you are.

Hammertime: Maybe that’s the fun part.

Hammertime: No pressure. Just banter. Chaos. And maybe something nice in between.

You stared at that last message for a while.

Something nice in between.

You weren’t sure what it was, but the way he said it made your chest warm. You were halfway into replying when another message popped into the main chat.

Norrified: WHO PUT THAT PICTURE IN THE SHARED FILES

Pastry: Which one? The one of Daniel and the donuts or Charles in the giraffe costume?

SmootherOperator: HEY! What about my photo??

You glanced confused at the names mentioned.

And then—

HoneyBadger: WAIT WHO PUT A SCREENSHOT OF HAMMERTIME’S SIM SETUP IN THERE 💀

You blinked.

Wait.

Sim setup?

Your thumb flew to the group files. You hadn’t really looked at them before, but now - there it was. A screenshot, slightly blurry of what looked like a high-end sim racing rig. Expensive equipment. Sleek setup. In the corner of the screen, you could just make out the corner of a trophy shelf.

Not the usual gaming chair and LED lights kind of setup. This one looked real. Professional.

Your mind whirled.

Wait a second.

Sim rig. Trophy shelf. The username Hammertime.

Could it be—

User (You) to (Hammertime): So about that sim rig…

Three dots appeared.

And stayed.

Until finally -

Hammertime: Busted, huh?

You inhaled sharply. Suddenly, the mystery wasn’t so distant anymore.

User (You): Who are you?

The typing bubble came and went.

And came back again.

Hammertime: How about this. Let’s keep the guessing game a little longer. I like the way you talk to me when you don’t know who I am. But when you’re ready to find out, I’ll tell you.

Your breath caught.

You didn’t reply right away. You couldn’t. Your fingers hovered over the screen, but your thoughts were tangled up in butterflies and curiosity.

Whoever he was, he wasn’t just a voice in a chaotic group chat anymore.

He was something else.

And somehow, you knew this was only the beginning.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You didn't sleep much that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the sim rig, the edge of the trophy shelf and that last message.

“I like the way you talk to me when you don’t know who I am.”

There was something intimate in that. Not in a romantic way well, maybe that too but more in a “you see me without the noise” kind of way.

He liked that you didn’t filter your words. That you didn’t speak to him like he was anyone special. You were just you, and he was just Hammertime.

And yet, your brain refused to shut up.

Trophy shelf. Expensive sim rig. A level of calm in chaos that read as media trained.

No, you thought. You were not going to go full conspiracy theory trying to figure out who he was. That’s what people on Reddit did, and half the time they were wrong.

You didn’t want to ruin it.

And still, you checked the group chat the next morning the moment you woke up.

GridBanterGC 🏁

It was already going off.

HoneyBadger: ok WHO is behind the secret messages in the shared notes

Pastry: I told you it’s a ghost. This chat is haunted.

MadMax: Not haunted. Just hacked.

Norrified: …Or maybe someone *cough* Hammertime *cough* is leaving love notes for our surprise guest

Baugetteboi: whoever did it was hella smooth

User (You): I have done nothing to deserve this attention. I’m barely surviving in here.

SmootherOperator: you’re thriving don’t lie. I saw you send a meme yesterday.

Hammertime: Leave them alone. You’re scaring off the only sane person we’ve ever accidentally added.

You smiled, biting your lower lip.

You (privately to Hammertime): You’re good at that.

Hammertime: What?

User (You): Making chaos feel like calm. Or maybe just making me feel calm in chaos.

There was a pause. You knew he was reading. Typing. Deleting. Then finally…

Hammertime: You have no idea what that means to me. Or maybe you do. Which is worse.

You raised an eyebrow at your screen.

Your heart twisted in your chest. Something about that answer felt, raw. A little too real. Like you’d just pulled back a curtain without realizing.

User (You): So tell me.

Hammertime: Not yet. But I will. Just, not yet.

You didn’t know what to make of it, so you didn’t try. Instead, you sat there for a while staring at the screen.

Then, later that day another message appeared in the group. Not in the chat, not in files.

But in the shared calendar.

You didn’t even know the group had a shared calendar until you got a notification.

[Event: GridBanterGC Meetup – Monaco, Next Month]

Location: Monaco Grand Prix

Created by: MadMax

Notes: bring snacks, sunscreen, and someone to drag you out of drama

RSVP: Yes | No | Maybe

You stared at the invite like it had personally offended you.

Monaco.

That meant they were real. Like, real real. Not just usernames and memes and coded flirting. These people existed. This wasn’t some inside joke of randoms online.

And if they were real…

So was Hammertime.

And maybe just maybe, this was your chance to find out who he really was.

But did you want to?

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You didn’t open the Monaco invite.

You saw it, of course. The notification had been there for hours bright, persistent, smug in the way unopened things are. It sat wedged between memes from Pastry, a voice note from SmoothOperator and BaguetteBoi that you refused to open in public, and a string of "🧢" emojis from Norrified in what was definitely some kind of ongoing insult war.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to look at it.

Because clicking it meant considering it.

And considering it meant something was real.

And you weren’t sure you were ready for that.

Your phone buzzed again. Another message, but this one was different.

[Private Message – Hammertime 💬]

You stared at the screen, biting your lip.

There was something about seeing his name alone. Without the circus of the group chat behind it, that made your heart stutter.

Hammertime: You’re quiet tonight. Everything okay?

You hesitated, then typed.

User (You): Just thinking, about the invite.

The three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then came back.

Hammertime: Yeah. Same.

You didn’t respond. You waited.

Hammertime: I keep wondering what would happen if you came. If I saw you. Would you recognise me? Like everyone does.

Your thumb froze above the screen.

User (You): I don’t even know who any of you guys are even with the nicknames…

Somehow.

A pause.

Hammertime: Maybe you would. Or maybe we’d just stand there. Looking at each other. Not saying a word.And still feel everything.

You bit your lip, pulse humming somewhere between nervous and hopeful.

Use (You): Why message me privately?

Hammertime: Because I didn’t want anyone else reading this.Felt like it should be just you and me. For once.

Silence stretched between you. Not uncomfortable. Just full.

Hammertime: Don’t answer the invite yet. Not for them. If you come to Monaco…Make sure it’s for you.

Your fingers hovered, uncertain.

You didn’t reply.

Not yet.

But you stayed on the chat for a long time.

Just staring at his name.

Just wondering.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 x reader #lh44 #f1 drivers #f1 smau #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton #x reader #f1 text au #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fic #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton x you

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better-setterv2 · 4 days ago

Text

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹 𝐵𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝐼 𝒮𝒶𝓌 𝒴𝑜𝓊 - 𝒫𝓉.𝟤

Authors Note: Hi all! Here is part 2 of The World Bloomed When I Saw You. I really enjoyed writing and setting this out. Feel free to leave any suggestions or advice about my work. Lots of love xx

Summary: After locking eyes with her soulmate Lewis Hamilton in the Melbourne Grand Prix, they meet privately to speak about new beginnings.

Warning: none

MASTERLIST

P1, P2

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It all happened fast - too fast for your mind to fully catch up. One minute you were gripping the barrier as Amilia tried to snag a selfie of a driver she spotted in the distance as well as gawk when Lewis Hamilton spoke to you. The next, a woman with kind eyes and an air of calm confidence was standing beside you.

“You’re Lewis’s just found soulmate, right?” she asked, voice low, almost secretive. “Come with me.”

You blinked. “I - I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m Angela. Lewis saw you and said he saw colour. He’d like to spend some time with you. His soulmate.”

Your heart practically stopped. You turned to Amilia, wide-eyed. She looked like she might pass out, gaping between you and Angela.

But before either of you could speak, a soft-spoken man in Mercedes gear tapped Amilia on the shoulder. “Would you like a private paddock tour? On the house by Lewis Hamilton, who wants the best friend treated with respect.”

Amilia’s eyes sparkled, and for once, she was the one speechless.

You weren’t even given a second to question it. Angela had already turned on her heel, expecting you to follow. And somehow, your feet obeyed.

You were guided through the maze of hospitality suites and trailers, the hum of the paddock growing quieter behind you as Angela led you toward a tucked-away motorhome, away from curious eyes.

She opened the door gesturing for you to go inside.

And there Lewis was. Sitting casually on the edge of a counter, braids loose, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But when he looked at you, it was like the world clicked back into place. Colour still danced around you like a fresh coat of paint, soft and overwhelming, as if your eyes were still adjusting.

“I figured coffee was too cliché,” he murmured, nodding toward the little setup behind him.

There, on a small table, was a tray of chocolate croissants, fruit, and two mugs of chamomile tea.

“I didn’t know what you liked yet,” he said, voice a touch shy now. “But I wanted to do something different.”

You smiled. Heart throbbing from his kindness, it was soft, peaceful. “Chamomile’s actually my favorite.”

Lewis let out the smallest laugh, more breath than sound but it reached his eyes. He looked at you like you were something worth slowing down for.

“I’m glad,” he said simply.

And in that quiet motorhome, with flaky pastry crumbs and warm tea between you, you weren’t two people from opposite worlds anymore. You were just two hearts, finally beating in colour.

You settled into the space slowly, like stepping into a dream you didn’t want to jolt awake from. The hum of the motorhome felt comfortable, the low clink of ceramic as Lewis poured the tea, the soft rustle of his movements. It all felt too gentle, too intimate to belong to a world so loud and fast-paced.

He handed you a mug with a careful kind of grace, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. It sent a spark up your arm, quick and quiet, but you saw the way his eyes flicked up to yours, just to make sure you felt it too.

You did. God, you did. It sent a shiver down your spine.

“Thanks,” you murmured, fingers wrapping around the warmth of the mug. The scent of chamomile soothed your nerves but not as much as the soft low voice of Lewis’s when he spoke again.

“I don’t usually do this.”

You looked up, brow arching in a teasingly way. “Invite random strangers into your motorhome?”

He smiled at that, slow and crooked. “Something like that.”

You took a small sip of tea, feeling it settle in your chest. “I don’t usually let myself get dragged into racing weekends either, so I guess we’re both doing something different today.”

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, watching you with an intensity that should’ve unnerved you. Although it didn’t. It was grounding.

“What changed your mind?” he asked.

You hesitated, eyes flickering down to your lap. “Amilia. She begged. And maybe” You paused, heat rising in your cheeks. “Maybe I was tired of always saying no to my best friend about f1.”

Lewis nodded like he understood more than you said. “I know what that’s like.”

There was a beat of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full of the weight of something new blooming, of the shared quiet silence between two people who hadn’t known each other yesterday but somehow knew everything that mattered today.

He tilted his head, studying you. “Was it really black and white? Before?”

You nodded slowly, remembering the dullness that used to fill your world. “Like living in an old film. I didn’t even realize how flat everything looked until…until now.”

His voice dropped, almost reverent. “Until me.”

You met his gaze, and something unspoken passed between you, something big and wordless. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Until you.”

He reached across the table then, his fingers brushing lightly over your wrist. It wasn’t forward, not bold or demanding. It was simple. It was gentle. But it made your breath catch.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” he said. “Didn’t even know I was waiting. But now that I see you."

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

You blinked, trying to keep from falling apart. “What does this mean? For us?”

Lewis looked thoughtful for a moment, then offered a small, warm smile. “It means we take our time. That we figure it out. Together.”

And maybe that was the most romantic thing of all. That he didn’t make promises of forever, or fate, or fast declarations. He just promised this moment. This beginning.

You reached for another bite of croissant, your fingers brushing against his as you did. “I think I’d like that.”

His smile turned a little brighter, a little softer. The gap between his teeth showing which you thought was cute “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice almost a whisper. “I think I’d like to get to know you and figure it out steadily together .”

The words hung in the space between you like sunlight through a window.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 #f1 x reader #f1 smau #f1 imagine #f1 #lewis hamilton #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 #lh44 x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine #f1 fic

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better-setterv2 · 5 days ago

Text

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹 𝐵𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝐼 𝒮𝒶𝓌 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒫𝓉.1

Authors Note: Hi Guys! Here’s another quick story I created. Hope you enjoy. Don’t forget to leave any comments or suggestions for any improvement. I will write a part 2 when possible for this. Lots of love xx

Summary: At the Melbourne Grand Prix, a law student sees colour for the first time when she locks eyes with Lewis Hamilton. Her unexpected soulmate.

Warnings: none

MASTERLIST

P1, P2

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

I used to think people were exaggerating when they described life without colour. They’d speak of greyscale like it was some poetic ache. For me, it was normal. Mundane, sure, but comfortable. The sky was always the same shade as the pavement, and the leaves on trees held no real difference from the pages in my textbooks. That was just the way it was in my life - until one day everything changed in one small moment.

I never liked loud places. Amilia, on the other hand, thrived in them. She was the kind of person who wore her emotions in neon, who pulled you into her chaos and made it feel like home. We’d been best friends since we were twelve, inseparable even through the noise of my parents’s divorce, through exam stress and the mess of university.

That’s how I ended up at the Melbourne Grand Prix. She practically dragged me here as if I owed her a lifetime of favours. “Come on,” she’d said, bouncing on her heels. “It’s just one race. You need to live a little.” I groaned, wanting to write my criminology paper at home, but she wasn’t having it. So I went, expecting nothing more than engine noise and overpriced drinks.

The paddock was buzzing with life. Team radios crackling, camera shutters clicking, and the commotion fans echoed excitedly as engineers wheeled tires and tools across the asphalt. The air smelled faintly of petrol and sunscreen, warm from the sun bearing down despite a breeze that rustled through flags and banners.

You felt a bit like you were intruding.

Your best friend, Amilia, on the other hand, looked like she belonged here. Her eyes were wide with wonder, practically sparkling behind her sunglasses as she tugged you by the wrist. You both weaved between clusters of fans and staff like she’d done it a hundred times before.

You weren’t sure how she managed it, getting these paddock passes through some university connection or something else but you didn’t ask. You were just the guest, the sidekick. You’d promised her you'd come. Then again, a day in the sun was better than a weekend buried in case briefs.

“This is insane,” Amilia said, practically vibrating. “That’s Charles Leclerc. Oh my God. And that - oh my gosh wait, that’s Lando Norris!”

You smiled at her excitement, even if you still didn’t quite know who anyone was. “Are those real names? They sound made up.”

She snorted and waved you forward. “Don’t embarrass me. Just - ugh come on, if we’re quick we might catch Hamilton before he disappears into the Mercedes garage.”

You rolled your eyes but followed, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “Is that the one you had a poster of in high school?”

“One of many,” she said proudly, already pushing toward a barrier where a handful of fans were holding out items for autographs. “He's still the GOAT, you know.”

You nodded absentmindedly, eyes scanning the crowd, vaguely detached. Everything was grey. The world had always been like this for you. Just shadows and light, never colour. Unfortunately majority of people unlike you had already found their soulmate. Even Amilia. You’d learned long ago not to think too much about it. Soulmates were a lottery. Most people never met theirs.

And if you did, well that kind of connection wasn’t promised forever.

You tuned back in just as the crowd murmured in excitement, a shift in energy that rippled outward. Someone was approaching.

You turned toward the commotion, toward the silver and black uniforms making way for a driver stepping out of a shaded corridor. He moved with quiet assurance, every inch of him commanding attention without asking for it. His race suit was peeled down to his waist, revealing a black team shirt clinging to his frame, dreadlocks tucked into a black cap. His tattoos peeked from beneath his sleeves.

And then he looked up.

It wasn’t instant recognition. It wasn’t like the movies.

It was a shift.

Suddenly, the sun wasn’t white. It glowed gold. The flags waving above weren’t pale anymore but they were red, blue, green. The fan’s signs turned vivid, loud, real. The paddock snapped into colour like the lens of your world had finally come into focus.

You gasped eyes widening, hand flying to your mouth.

And across the crowd, Lewis Hamilton had stilled completely.

His face was unreadable for a moment, eyes locked on yours, lips parted just slightly in what might’ve been shock. And then, a slow shuddered breath. The kind you take when something enormous is happening and you’re trying to stay grounded through it.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The crowd blurred around him. Even Amilia’s excited tug on your arm felt distant, like it was underwater. All that mattered was this thread now tethering you to him. It felt real, palpable, and terrifying.

His gaze held yours, intense but not overwhelming. Soft around the edges. Curious. As if he was seeing you for the first time and like he already knew you.

And you realized your heart was hammering in your chest.

You didn’t know what came next. What you were supposed to say, or if he’d even approach. You didn’t know if it was fate or luck or just some cosmic accident that was by mistake.

But colour bloomed behind your eyes now.

And it had everything to do with him.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Your breath caught in your throat.

It was like the world inhaled with you, holding its chest tight as a thousand muted greys bled into dazzling hues. The air shifted - warmer, deeper and for a dizzying moment, everything was too much. The bright banners, the gleam of cars, the sun glistening in your direction. Colour bloomed around you in a rush. You blinked hard, your eyes watering, and that’s when you realized it wasn’t the world that had changed.

It was him.

He was across the paddock, possibly twenty feet away, walking alongside his team, sunglasses pushed up on his head, dreadlocks tied back loosely. His expression had changed mid-step as his casual confidence replaced by stunned stillness. His deep brown eyes were locked on yours, wide with recognition. You could tell that he was able to see it too.

Amilia hadn’t noticed. She was too busy fawning over Charles Leclerc a few feet away, scribbling something frantically on the back of her media pass.

You didn’t know what to do. Say something? Move? Laugh? Cry? Or just stand there in shock?

You were brought back into reality, when you noticed Lewis Hamilton started walking toward you.

You thought maybe you should turn around and run, or at least pretend this wasn’t happening. However your feet stayed rooted. As he neared, the noise of the paddock dulled into background static. For a second, you weren’t a uni student awkwardly tagging along to a race you didn’t understand. You were someone, someone meant to be here. Though that was not entirely true as Amilia dragged you along. But still. Maybe fate caused this.

“Hi,” he said, voice a little rough. Not because he was impolite, he just sounded overwhelmed same as you.

You managed to nod. “Hi,” you replied in a weak voice.

His eyes scanned your face like he was trying to memorise it. “It’s you,” he murmured.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. “You see it too?”

Lewis smiled softly, almost in disbelief. “Yeah. Everything’s different now.”

You wanted to say something clever, something memorable. But instead in return you laughed quiet and shaky. “I was just dragged here by my best friend. I didn’t even want to come.”

Lewis’s smile widened a bit, more relaxed now. “Guess it was meant to happen.”

From behind you, Amilia’s voice cut in while holding your shoulders roughly - “Wait, is that Lewis Hamilton? Are you talking to Lewis Hamilton?!”

You turned, your head spinning. “I - um - yeah. I think I am.”

Lewis looked between the two of you. “Hey. You must be the reason she’s here,” he said to Amilia with a knowing smile.

She looked like she might faint. “You’re Lewis Hamilton.”

“And you’re responsible for this,” he said, motioning between you and him. “So…thank you.”

Amilia gawked, but Lewis returned his attention to you.

Amilia’s mouth dropped to the ground, glancing between the two of you. “Don’t tell me - he’s - he’s your soulmate!” However, neither of them pay attention to her. Both in their own world gazing into one another’s eyes.

“I know this is probably a lot,” he said gently, “but would you want to maybe get coffee or meet up later? Somewhere quieter?”

Your heart felt full, like it might spill over.

You nodded, smiling back. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 #f1 x reader #x reader #lewis hamilton #f1 smau #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 #lh44 x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine

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