#stepdaughter

The Overprotective Brother Olympics

It didn’t take long before the drivers decided you were theirs.

Charles texted you daily: “good morning, ma petite soeur.” Lando proclaimed himself your “fun uncle” and taught you how to prank George by replacing his water bottles with Red Bull cans. George, in retaliation, tried to be the “responsible brother” who helped with your homework, but he never got very far before you and Lando betrayed him again.

Max, surprisingly, was the quietest about it—but also the scariest. He didn’t hover, didn’t send you memes, didn’t constantly talk your ear off. But the moment anyone—anyone—looked at you wrong, he appeared at your side like a shadow.

One afternoon in the paddock, a fan cornered you, holding up their phone for pictures you clearly didn’t want to take. Out of nowhere, Max was there, expression blank and voice steady: “She said no.” The fan left immediately.

You blinked up at him. “Do you teleport or something?”

Max shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

Homecoming Disaster

It was bad enough when your classmates figured out who your stepdad was. Suddenly you weren’t just Y/N anymore—you were “Y/N Hamilton.” Teachers asked nosy questions, kids whispered behind your back, and one boy had the audacity to ask you to homecoming because, in his words, he “likes fast cars.”

You ranted about it to Lewis one evening. He sat on the couch, nodding patiently as you vented.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” he told you.

“But then I’d miss out,” you said, hugging a pillow.

Unfortunately for you, the grid found out.

Charles declared they should “interview every boy.” Carlos suggested a background check. George wanted a written application. Lando simply said, “we scare him.”

And so they did.

Your homecoming date arrived at your house to pick you up, already sweating bullets. He stepped inside only to find half the Formula 1 grid in tuxedos, waiting. Max, towering over everyone, leaned down and said flatly, “Hurt her and I’ll hurt you.” The poor boy looked like he was about to cry.

Pierre took over as your dance partner halfway through the night, Yuki raided the snack table like it was his personal mission, and Lewis did his best to blend in like a normal dad. The pictures from that night went viral: you in your dress, laughing in the middle of a circle of drivers who looked more like bodyguards than anything else.

Race Weekend Chaos

By now, you were no longer “Lewis Hamilton’s stepdaughter.” You were simply part of the grid.

Netflix even dedicated half an episode to you. The headlines were ridiculous: “Y/N Hamilton: The Grid’s Little Sister.”

No matter how hard you tried, you could not stay out of trouble. You accidentally sat on Ferrari’s pit wall once, fiddling with a headset, and gave a random strategy call. Charles actually listened. Toto nearly had a heart attack.

“You’re not even on this team!” he yelled, but Fernando waved him off.

“She is correct,” Fernando said, smug.

You braided Daniel hair in the paddock and trended #1 on Twitter. Oscar became your quiet study buddy, letting you work on algebra in McLaren’s motorhome while everyone else tried to drag you into chaos. Alex and Lily kidnapped you for shopping trips, claiming Lewis dressed you too seriously.

There was no escaping them, but you weren’t sure you wanted to.

A Family You Didn’t Expect

At first, you weren’t sure what to think about Lewis being your stepdad. He was kind, yes. Patient, yes. But he was also Lewis Hamilton. How were you supposed to fit into his world?

The answer came slowly, in small, ordinary moments. Late-night talks when you couldn’t sleep. Him googling half the answers to your math homework just to sit beside you and try. The way he cheered louder than anyone when you performed at your school talent show.

And when the internet—predictably cruel—made comments about your looks, Lewis was the first to defend you. He sat you down, looked you in the eye, and said, “You don’t need to change for anyone, Y/N. You’re enough exactly as you are.”

The grid, of course, followed suit like an army. No one dared breathe a negative word about you without facing nineteen furious brothers.

The Grid’s Little Sister

You never asked for this life. But now? You couldn’t imagine anything else.

Lando teaching you dumb TikToks in the McLaren garage. Yuki sneaking you snacks when Lewis said you’d had enough sugar. Max appearing silently at your side whenever you needed him. Charles giving you endless pep talks in his mix of English and French.

And Lewis, your stepdad. The one who balanced being a world champion with being your number one supporter.

Family, you realized, wasn’t just about blood. Sometimes it was the people who showed up for you—loudly, protectively, and always—lap after lap, step by step.

End.

Cold sweat collects as the minutes tick by, an itch, a stinging that clouds your thoughts with the mindless tasks you use to fill the time. A little part of you urges you to get out of the house, to escape the self-imposed torture of that toxic proximity. That cruel, brutally emotionless thing though, it reminds you of the freedom, of the access you’ll have. A vision of you in their bed, in your mothers place with her man, with your daddy comes unbidden, and accompanied by a full body shudder. 

You lock yourself in your room instead. Coward, the thing whispers. With a huff, you fall back onto your pillow and drown in the guilt. 

The slam of the front door wakes you from an unplanned nap. 

He’s smiling when you come down the stairs, smiling in that way that makes your stomach drop, in the way that makes your blood pound.

“Why don’t you go get dressed, we’re goin’ out.”

“Where are we going?” You fidget with the bannister, curl your toes into the worn carpet. He narrows his eyes a touch, but only gestures to the top of the stairs in response. With your lip between your teeth, you move to do as he says. 

-

His truck smells like him, like sawdust, like the half empty bottle of cologne you’ve seen amongst your mothers things in the bathroom, like that masculine edge that lingers in his neck and behind his ear. Your thighs press tightly together while his are relaxed and open, spread as much as they can be in his seat. You try not to look at him, but it’s useless. The axe is hanging over your head again and there’s a morbid curiosity as to when it will fall. 

His phone trills, and he answers it. 

“Hey baby, how was your flight?” He tucks the phone between ear and shoulder, turning down a mainstreet. Your heart pounds. 

“Yeah, she’s here. We’re spendin’ some quality time. Thought I’d treat her to dinner since it’s just the two of us.” His hand lands on your thigh then, a tight squeeze that makes your breath freeze in your lungs.

“Yep, she’s good, you wanna talk to her?” He huffs out a laugh at the wide-eyed, startled expression on your face. 

“Well alright, call me before bed and enjoy your dinner, honey. Bye.” 

You let out a shaky sigh, breathe deeply again to calm your stuttering heartbeat. His low, knowing laugh doesn’t help. 

“Why are you like this?” He whistles at the clipped tone, at the clear anger in the question. 

“Why am I like what, babygirl?” His hand is so big, so strong and firm on your thigh, slides further between, curling enough that his fingertips brush the cracked leather under you. 

“You know what I mean. Why are you touching me, why have we…” It dies in your throat, smothered by the memory of him in your bed, in the shower. 

“Why have we what? Go on, say what you’re meanin’ to say.” You clench your jaw, eyes averted from him, but oblivious to the passing scenery. He waits for an answer that you don’t want to give.

“Looks to me like you like it, looks to me like you been thinkin’ ‘bout it a long time, and maybe you’re so uptight because I didn’t do it right.” He laughs a knowing, self-satisfied laugh as he pulls into your favourite burger place, the one you used to beg your mom to take you to when you were younger.

“Don’t worry, we got a couple of days to get you sorted right out. Daddy’ll take care of you.” With another squeeze, he kills the engine and hops out of the truck. 

The worst part isn’t that he’s bold enough to say those things to you and mean them, it isn’t that he’s so unbothered by it all, the worst part is the effect that promise has had on you. The seat of your underwear floods, your skin tingles, your nipples harden. 

He holds out his hand when he finally reaches your door, and you take it.

-

It smells the same way it did the first time you’d gone. Hot oil, salt, charbroiled meat, that milky sweetness of a fresh milkshake. The place is filled with families, young ones with little kids celebrating a little league game or a soccer tournament. 

“Joel?” Someone calls out, the urge to step away, to keep things appropriate almost wins until you realize there’s nothing actually wrong with what you’re doing. 

“Sal, hey there.” He shakes hands with someone you’ve never met, someone about his age, someone who came with their own family. They chat idly while the line moves, about work and family. The man’s wife is introduced, Audrey, she looks about your mothers age.

“And this?” Sal smiles at you. 

“This is my little girl, say hello sweetheart.” Joel’s arm wraps tightly around your shoulder. 

“Hi.” Your jaw is tight enough that you think you might crack a tooth. They smile and shake your hand, happy to see you out with who they think is your dad. The ease with which he plays the part, the convincing way he pulls you in, presses his lips to your temple, rubs your shoulder, it’s truly masterful. These people would never know the things he’s done, the things you secretly hope he’ll do again.

He excuses himself when it’s your time to order, he doesn’t let go of you.

“Go on honey, order whatever you want.” He smiles and for a second you can almost believe him, can almost pretend this is a normal outing, a father treating his daughter to her favourite meal. There’s a little bit of heartbreak in that, but not as much as there should be. Not nearly enough. 

You order; a deluxe with cheese and fries, a strawberry milkshake too. 

“I’ll have the same.” He smiles, benevolent, generous, proud.

Sal and Audrey wave when you move away. 

When they call out your order, he guides you to a booth, leaves you picking at steaming hot fries while he grabs napkins and ketchup. Tells you to dig in when he comes back. 

It’s so fucking good, better than you remember. Maybe it’s because with your mother everything was measured. She never let you get the deluxe, never had enough for a milkshake. It was a treat, sure, but measured. 

He eats, but smiles at your obvious enjoyment and you see that glimpse again, the paternal pride of providing. 

“Good huh?” He smiles through a bite, wipes the grease off his cheek with a napkin, dips his fries in your ketchup. It’s safe enough to be honest. 

“It’s really fucking good.” You put the rest of it down on the wrapping paper, take a breath and sip at your own shake. “I haven’t been here in so long.”

“I know.” He eats more fries, “Your mama mentioned you likin’ this place, she didn’t see the appeal.”

“She hated it. Only brought me on my birthday once.”

He says nothing, merely listens.

“She never really took an interest in anything to do with me.” You aren’t sure why, but it feels important to tell him. Maybe it’s a lifeline, a way to convince yourself the feelings, the urges you have towards him are justified. Maybe it’s okay to fuck your stepdad if your mom doesn’t really care about you. It feels unfair to think that, and instantly there’s a need to rationalize her behaviour. 

“She was young when she had me though.” You add before taking another big bite.

“Not that young.” He raises an eyebrow. “She’s in her head a lot, your mama. I think she might just think you’re more mature than she was at your age.” 

You scoff at that, unsure what his angle here is, so you keep quiet. Enjoy your burger.

He finishes before you do, balling up his trash. There’s still some left, and you start packing it up—

“You done?” He asks.

“I can take the rest to go if you want to leave.” He stills your hands.

“No, you take your time. Eat it here while it’s hot, babygirl. Won’t be as good if we take it home.” He sits back, surveying your expression, the semi lost way you hold yourself within the warm booth. 

“Okay.” Despite everything, that strange comfort is still there. It coats the back of your throat like a lozenge, maybe this is what it’s like to have a patient, caring parental figure. The thought is almost enough to make you roll your eyes. He can’t really be a parent, can’t really be a father. Girls don’t want to fuck their fathers, girls don’t want to be fucked by their fathers. 

He finishes his milkshake while you finish up, smiles and eats the last few fries you leave behind. 

“I’m done.” You scrunch up the paper, gather all the trash onto the tray. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart.” He grabs the tray, throws out the garbage, leads you out while waving his goodbye to Sal. 

-

Something curious happens on the ride home, the urge, the craving grows. He’s perfectly well-behaved, he cracks jokes and blasts the music. He asks if there’s anything else you want, even though you know the pantry and fridge are full. There’s an openness you don’t often see in him, a playfulness that feels special, secret and only for you. The open mouth of a trap stares you in the face, you can almost feel it.

He’s still smiling wide when he pulls into your driveway, that hidden part of him you so desperately want to believe only reveals itself for you on full display. 

“Why don’t you go get all cozy, we can watch a movie.” The palm of his hand lands a crack across your ass. The jolt of which almost makes you smile and it makes you a little sick. 

He’s showered when you reconvene, silver hair slicked back, warm from the water and in soft clothes. Tentatively you sit beside him, a healthy distance, hyperaware of his movements. The flex in his arm as he holds the remote, the spread of his legs, the long line of his throat. 

“Looks like we caught one just startin’, let’s see.” He puts the remote down beside him, and settles in. You can’t help but brace yourself, ears pricked, skin tingling for him to make his move. Your skin crawls with it, that expectation, that…craving? 

The movie plays, scene after scene unfolding, none of which you’re following because you’re too busy waiting for his hand to land on your thigh, for him to say something that makes your blood sizzle–but it doesn’t come. You frown, and a doubt creeps in, a curious insecurity, a confusion. 

“You okay babygirl?” His tone is almost innocent, almost genuinely curious. 

“Yes.” You lean back, bring your legs up. The fact that you lean towards him isn’t lost on either of you. 

“You sure? Come on over here.” He holds his arms open, and the pin drops. There’s a chance, an opportunity to tell him you’re just fine, to set the boundary but you don’t. You crawl right over to him, and bury your face into his neck. 

“Just wanna be Daddy’s little girl huh?” He rubs your back, it burns clean through, pulls on that string behind your bellybutton, soaks the seat of your underwear. You bury your face deeper, practically claw at him. He tsks, squeezes you tight.

“My baby girl just needs some attention.” 

His hands slip under your shirt, rub a soothing circle across the expanse of your back, wholesome, comforting, then slip just under the band of your bottoms, massaging the swell of your ass. You nod into his neck because yes, you do need attention, his attention. His lips press to your forehead, dry, warm, perfect. 

The pressure of his embrace smooths out the sharpness, melts you into a puddle of a girl, makes you sigh. 

When his big hand dips into your panties, when his fingers slide between your legs you moan into his ear. 

“There it is huh baby, that’s what my little girl wants.” It’s not a question, because he knows the answer. The rough edge of his voice when he dips into that wet heat, when he parts you and glides the tips of his finger over your achy clit almost makes you tremble. It makes your toes curl where they’re tucked under his thigh.

“Such a good girl for me.” The words ghost against your skin, crawl into the depths of you while his fingers glide you closer to nirvana. 

Your arms clutch at him tighter, your tongue tastes his neck, teeth scraping softly against his ear. 

“My eager little thing.” It’s said with a fondness that sounds like love, like caring. 

“Faster—“ you beg, voice thin and needy.

“I think you can ask a lil’ nicer than that, use your words baby.” There is no hurry in his task. He holds you, cradled and cared for, legs spread around his wrist. It burns inside, the wrongness, the fucking rightness, feeling this good in the middle of your livingroom. The circuit of his fingers, the blood pounding in your ears, the sharpness of your breath in contrast to his self-control. You lick your lips, swallow thickly around a moan.

“Please Daddy, please, a little faster.” It feels wrong to say it, it feels fucking amazing to say it. He rewards you, speeds up a little, tight circles and your cunt floods, your skin tingles. 

“That’s it baby, that’s it, come for Daddy.” His face dips and he presses his mouth to yours, soft, chaste compared to his fingers and when you come he hums into your mouth, squeezes you tighter, laughs at the way your thighs tighten around his hand. 

“That’s my good girl, so good for me.” He tastes his fingers before hugging you tight, before pressing another chaste, paternal kiss to your forehead. 

“That’s enough movie time, I think it’s time I put you to bed. Hm?” You rest against him, face tucked into his neck again, relishing the steady beat of his heart, the strength in his chest, the broadness of his shoulders. A soft sweep of his hand at your brow, a loving tap against your thigh before he’s urging you to move. 

Slow steady steps up the stairs behind you after he shuts everything off guide you not to your room, but his; your mothers.

It’s different in his bed. Less speaking and more kissing. Less chaste, more tongue. It’s heady, all consuming, it’s his turn now for release and he will have it. Within a moment he has you naked, himself too. The apprehension of being in his bed, of smelling your mothers perfume mixing with him in the sheets is secondary to the way he spreads your legs open, the feel of his cock slipping in the mess he made. 

“This tight little cunt was made for me, wasn’t it sweetheart?” He slips inside in one brutal thrust, sharp snaps of his hips drive away any voice you had. His lips find your nipple, brush softly against the peak before his tongue glides, before he sucks at the plump of your breast. 

“Take it so fuckin’ good baby, take this dick so fuckin’ good.” He bites at your skin, ruts into you just how you wanted him to, just how you knew he would. 

You can’t speak, all you can do is hold your thighs up and open, clutch at the grey of his hair, remember to breathe. 

“You ready for it baby?” He moans, loud, obscene. You nod, opening your legs wider. 

“Here it comes–” You hiss at the swell of it, at the hot spurt of it, commit to memory the exact look on his face. It’ll be the thing you focus on when your mom gets home, when you’re alone in your bed once more.

-

He’d known about her attraction, even though she’d been closed off from the moment he’d stepped foot in her life. Joel could see it clear as day and there was something about this girl he couldn’t ignore. 

When he’d met her mother, he’d only wanted a good time. A quick fuck, maybe an occasional phonecall, an arrangement that worked for both of them but she’d surprised him. She’d made him laugh, she’d offered more than the occasional quickie and he’d been roped in against his better judgment. 

Her teenage daughter had been different. She acted as though Joel didn’t exist, and he respected that. 

When the girl had finished highschool, he’d noticed the change. It was small. Lingering looks, a quiet curiosity about the man in her home, the one her mother slept beside. At first he’d thought she was warming up to him, accepting him as a much needed father figure after the years of providing the food and security her mother had obviously not. 

He’d caught her peeking out the crack in her door once after he’d showered, and the look in her eyes told him everything her avoidance hadn’t but he left it, he didn’t push, didn’t crowd or scare her. She was practically a kid still, and Joel knew what teenage curiosity was. After he’d helped her move away he hadn’t thought about it much, not until she’d come back. 

She clung to him in her sleep, warm, naked, comfortable and so soft. He supposed he should feel guilty, not only with the age difference between them, or the role he was supposed to play in her life, the relationship he had with her mother, none it bothered him though. He lips pressed to his neck, soft and plush and a nagging suspicion took hold of him. Maybe she was the reason he’d stayed so long. 

-

It’s too comfortable, too natural to be alone with him. His big warm hands, callused and rough, find any little bit of skin they can. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head when he sets down your cereal, smiles when you pour yourself a bowl. Coffee steams from the mug in his grip, a smile curls around his lips; a tableau of a father having breakfast with his daughter. 

He pulls your foot up from where it rests at the bottom of his chair and he holds it, massages it while you eat your cereal. You raise the other foot to join. There’s a perverse pleasure in it all, the potential he has to be a great dad, loving and supportive, but then you squirm, feel the remnants of his come pool in your panties and it shifts, a glimmer of impropriety that regrettably makes you ache for him to fill you again. 

“Any plans today darlin’?” He sips at his coffee, squeezes your feet in his lap. 

“I’m off today. No plans. Don’t you work?” The milk is sweet, cold enough that it almost hurts your teeth. 

“Yes, gotta take off in a few or Tommy’ll have my ass.” You knew Tommy, his younger brother, he’d come around a few times over the years. You push the cereal around, curiously hopeful for what, you’re not sure. More time? For him to skip work for you? The idea of it curdles in your gut. This whole thing, this whole interlude wasn’t something you were supposed to want. 

With a deep breath you recall the guilt, the face of your mother, remember just who he is. His smile widens, a conspiracy within himself and you just know he sees everything you’re thinking clear as day. You pull your feet away, rise quickly to rinse your bowl, get away from both him and your own guilt. 

His hand catches yours when you try to walk past, pulls you into his orbit. 

“It’ll be a short day today, we can do somethin’ fun.” You land in his lap, hate yourself for how good it feels. His lips press against your brow and despite yourself, you bury your face in his neck. Those big hands hold you close, slip around your ribs, under your shirt. 

“Be good while Daddy’s at work.” He breathes the words onto your skin, soft while his palm spans your lower back, your hip, your belly. Up it travels until his fingertips find your nipple. You moan into his neck while his thumb caresses the sensitive tip. Your cunt aches, your body turns, opens itself up for him to have more access. He lets out a little huff of laughter but you can’t care enough to be embarrassed, it feels too good. 

“So soft.” He muses, pulling your shirt up to see his handiwork, a soft pinch, gentle plucking.

You watch, enraptured, lip caught between your teeth. 

“Time for me to go.” He dips his head, tastes your breast while you whine. “No touching while I’m gone.” You frown, he smiles. 

“You’re joking–” The words spill out, he knows full well how wet you already are.

“I am not. I want this little pussy aching for me when I get back.” He presses a kiss to your nose, pulls your shirt down and then taps your thigh. “Be good, don’t want Daddy to have to punish you do you?”  

It does something to you, that thought. 

“See you soon, babygirl, lock the door.” He presses a kiss to your forehead again before grabbing his things, and walking out the door. 

-