I Hope You Understand That After Monday I Need All Your Lewis Met Gala Fics, So Please Tag Me If You

I think everyone severely underestimates how much iron women need compared to men. Lets put things in context first: beef contains about 1-3mg of iron per 100g/3.5oz, depending on the cut.

men and women are somewhat similar in iron demands up until 14 and then a huge change at 19 onwards. 19 year old+ men need around 8mg of iron a day. so like. a single large, or two small steaks. of course you get iron from things other than beef, and they'll likely get enough on any normal daily diet.

women need 18mg of iron a day and TWENTY SEVEN when pregnant. that's over TWICE the male requirement for your entire life and over three times when pregnant. THATS A LOT?? look at ur own diet for a minute and i promise you, unless ur going crazy on oats and chickpeas or something, you are NOT getting enough iron. probably not even close.

and I'm mind-blown by this because somehow, culturally, meat/red meat seems to be a more stereotypically masculine thing. when eating out, women get a salad and men get a burger or a steak. you google "person eating steak" and vast majority of results are men - when there are women, they've also got a cute little salad on the side, meanwhile men tend to have plates full of meat. (seriously. go google this. it's crazy)

WOMEN: YOU NEED TO EAT TWICE AS MUCH IRON-DENSE FOODS THAN UR BROTHER, UR DAD, UR HUSBAND ETC. MORE THAN TWICE AS MUCH. NO WONDER YOU FEEL TIRED AND WEAK ALL THE TIME.

By the way, for anyone wondering, chicken hearts contain about 9mg/100g and don't taste that bad. it just tastes like chicken. i know this sounds so gross but i pan fry around 500g, pop it in the fridge and eat them cold throughout the day, split it across 3-4 days (don't eat past 3 days refrigeration). i promise its not that bad. (they're SO cheap btw. by far cheapest meat on the market, let alone meat with high iron. i get those 500g batches for THREE DOLLARS meanwhile a 200g steak is $15+ and doesn't even cover the iron i need). chicken liver is also really good and cheap but i cant vouch for the taste.

Today in F1 Kindergarten 🤣🤣

A: "Carlos, Carlos, I'm driving. I'm driving." ☝️

C: (already sitting in the car) "Why?" 🤨

A: "Because I'm the taller driver, apparently the tall drivers need to be in the front." 🧍‍♂️

C: (Stays in the car says something back to Alex. Hands not letting go of the steering wheel)

Lando walking by, stops, and laughs at Carlos 😂

Driver seat secured 🤣🤣🤣

Ollie: We have three projects, nine essays and five presentations due tomorrow. It's time to suffer, right Kimi?

Kimi, chugging 3 cans of energy drink simultaneously: Mama didn't raise no bitch, it's time to gain this grain

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.

if I had a nickel every time two mclaren teammates collided on the pit straight in canada etc

of course, carlos manages to post a gayer shot than anyone has posted on this hell site

Jannik Sinner and Jack Draper talking about supporting each other in press conferences

When tumblr refreshes itself and the fic I was reading fucking disappears forever 💔

I’ve been searching for a smau I was reading for three days 😔

!!!

so. is anyone gonna write about meeting lewis hamilton at the met gala orrrrr