erikawrites13

[erikawrites13]

Charles where he posts a photo dump for yn's birthday and posts a suggestive pic of them and the media reactions to it aswell as hers asking him about it, it can turn to actual smut between them

"You Posted What?" CL 16

Your birthday started exactly how you expected it to: a soft kiss to the shoulder, Charles half-asleep, mumbling “Joyeux anniversaire, mon amour” against your skin, then pressing closer like he could fuse himself to you.

It was perfect.

Quiet. Intimate. Yours.

Until around midday, when your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Text after text. Instagram tags. Mentions. Twitter notifications blowing up. Group chats exploding with question marks, emojis, and oh my god have you seen what Charles posted?!

You already knew.

You should’ve known the moment he kissed you on the cheek this morning and said, “I might’ve posted something… for your birthday.”

But when you opened Instagram and saw his photo dump, your stomach dropped and then fluttered.

There it was: a carousel of you and him. Beautiful, natural, very you. Some candids, a few selfies, a blurry one of you stealing fries off his plate, and—

Slide six.

You paused.

It was a photo he must’ve taken in the mirror of the hotel in Sardinia. You were in his shirt. Only his shirt. Hair messy. Legs bare. Leaning into his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist, and your head tipped back in laughter. You weren’t looking at the camera, but he was chin on your shoulder, eyes hooded, mouth slightly open.

The vibe?

Intimate. Domestic. Soft.

But the pose?

Suggestive as hell.

It wasn’t explicit. Not even close. But it was charged. The kind of photo that said we didn’t leave the hotel room for hours after this was taken.

The caption made it worse. Or better.

@charles_leclerc: Bon anniversaire à la personne who makes my life better in every way. Love you, toujours. Even when you steal all the blankets.

Cute. Innocent.

Except for slide six.

You refreshed the comments.

“SIXTH PIC?????” “I’m not surviving that mirror photo.” “He really said soft launch x hard launch all at once.” “SHE’S IN HIS SHIRT I’M SCREAMING.” “FIA needs to investigate slide 6 immediately.”

You tossed your phone onto the couch and stood, arms crossed, waiting.

Charles appeared from the kitchen a minute later, carrying coffee and completely unbothered.

“You posted that photo?” you asked, tilting your head.

He blinked innocently. “Which one?”

“Slide six, Charles.”

He tried and failed to hide the grin tugging at his lips. “Ah, that one.”

You stared. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

He set the mug down, coming closer. “I like that photo.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Everyone else likes that photo too, apparently. My group chat is melting.”

“So?” he said, voice low, teasing. “I’m allowed to show people how beautiful you are.”

“In your shirt? With your hands halfway under it? You couldn’t post, like, the one of us at the beach instead?”

He tilted his head. “But you looked so good in that one. All warm, and messy, and mine.”

Your breath caught a little at the last word.

He stepped closer.

“Besides,” he murmured, “you didn’t seem to mind when I took it.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. He smirked.

“And now that the whole internet’s thinking about it,” he added, voice dropping, “you’re blushing.”

“I’m not—” you began, flustered.

He pressed a hand to your waist, drawing you in until your hips brushed.

“You liked it,” he whispered, eyes on your lips now.

“I didn’t not like it,” you breathed, heartbeat picking up.

“Good,” he said, mouth brushing your jaw. “Because I remember what we did after that picture. Very clearly.”

You swallowed hard.

And then his hands slid lower.

And you forgot why you were pretending to be mad in the first place.

You barely made it to the bedroom.

Your back hit the wall beside the door as Charles kissed you like he’d been waiting all day for an excuse. Like posting that photo was a promise, and now he was cashing it in.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan against your throat. He pushed your shirt up his shirt, you realized belatedly and his palms ran up your thighs, over your hips, mapping you out like muscle memory.

“You looked so good in this,” he murmured, lips dragging down your neck. “I should’ve posted more.”

“You’re not posting anything after this,” you breathed.

“Mm. No promises.”

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed, laying you down like you were something precious right before kissing you like he was starving.

He worshipped you slowly. With hands and mouth and words in French that made your skin burn. Every inch of you, every sigh and twitch of your fingers under his touch, made him harder, hungrier.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, hovering over you, his thumb stroking your bottom lip.

“You,” you said, voice ragged. “I want you.”

And he gave you everything.

The teasing. The tension. The slow, unhurried way he moved inside you, eyes locked to yours like he couldn’t look away. His forehead pressed to yours. His mouth murmuring your name like a prayer. His hands holding you together while you came apart.

And when it was over when your bodies were tangled in the sheets and your chest was still heaving he pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“Happy birthday, mon amour,” he whispered.

You exhaled a breathless laugh. “Next time, post a photo after we do that.”

He smirked sleepily, nuzzling closer. “So I can post the after photo?”

You gasped. “Charles!”

“Just saying,” he mumbled, already smug. “Slide seven might be even better.”

[erikawrites13]

Backstage Pass LS 18

Lance Stroll x Reader Set during the Canadian Grand Prix, Circuit Gilles Villeneuve (Montréal)

You’re his secret the one thing he doesn’t share with the cameras.

The roar of the engines still lingered in the humid Montréal air, echoing over the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve. The sun was sinking behind the paddock, casting long gold streaks over the worn asphalt and the scattered crowd of VIPs, team personnel, and media. The Canadian Grand Prix was always emotional, always personal. But this one?

This one was different.

Because of you.

You hadn’t meant to cause a scene. You weren’t even trying to be noticed. But the fireproof green-and-black team mini dress they gave you hugged your figure just a little too well, and the pit wall didn’t offer much of a barrier between you and the photographers. You weren’t just anyone on the sidelines. You were his.

And Lance Stroll? He noticed.

From the second he’d walked into the garage and caught sight of you standing there, lanyard around your neck, smiling like sin in the Aston Martin hospitality gear it was over for him. He hadn’t even put his helmet on yet, and he was already overheating.

Now, the race was done. The media was swarming. Interviews, post-race debriefs, hands shaken, grins faked.

But Lance? He had one destination in mind: the motorhome. And one target you.

The click of the door shutting behind you barely registered before your back hit the wall.

"You wore that to the paddock?" he growled, voice low and frayed at the edges, his breath hot against your jaw. One hand was already under your team-issued skirt, the other pressing into the wall beside your head.

"Everyone saw you. Everyone."

You opened your mouth to reply maybe tease him a little, maybe pretend innocence — but you didn’t get the chance. His fingers hooked beneath your waistband, tugging your underwear down just enough to make you gasp.

"Were you trying to get me caught?" he demanded, voice rough as his mouth found your neck.

"I—"

But he didn’t wait for an answer. He spun you around, chest flush to your back, his hands gripping your hips with possessive heat.

"You have no idea what you do to me when you wear things like that," he muttered into your ear. You felt every syllable, every ounce of frustration and desire he’d built up over the past hour.

The truth was, he’d barely been able to focus during the race. Every pit stop, every glimpse of you on the monitor made his grip on the steering wheel tighten. He’d driven the last fifteen laps hard not just for points, not just for the home crowd but for the promise of this.

Of you.

When it was over or at least when the storm had passed you found yourself tangled in the soft team-issued blanket on the long couch inside the motorhome. The sounds of the paddock were muffled now, distant. The only real sound was Lance’s breathing slowing beside you, his arm thrown lazily over your waist, his skin warm with the afterglow.

His fingers traced small circles on your hip.

"You drive me crazy," he murmured against your shoulder, lips brushing the skin like a secret.

"You say that like it’s a bad thing."

He chuckled, that rare, genuine laugh that only came out when no one else was watching. You rolled over to face him, his curls messy from your fingers, his eyes half-lidded and soft.

"It’s not," he said finally. "It’s… the best kind of chaos."

You wanted to freeze this moment the golden light filtering in through the small window, the scent of fuel and sweat and something sweeter still lingering in the air. The way his voice softened around you, like you were the only thing grounding him.

But you knew what came next.

Soon, he’d have to leave. The media would need him. His team. His sponsors. He’d be Lance Stroll again Canada’s golden boy, the Aston Martin driver.

And you? You’d slip back into the background. The girl with the lanyard. The one the cameras never caught. His secret.

But not just a secret.

His only constant. The place he ran to when the world demanded everything else.

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he didn’t want to let go.

"I wish I could tell them," he whispered against your lips. "Wish I could show you off."

You smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. "Maybe one day. For now… I’m good being your backstage pass."

He grinned at that he smirk that made your heart skip and your legs weak and leaned in for one more taste.

Outside, the world spun with noise and attention.

But inside the motorhome?

It was just you.

And him.

Exactly the way he liked it.

[erikawrites13]

Can you please write something with Fernando and you’re Ayrton Sennas daughter but you where only three when he died. Growing up you didn’t have much to do with Formula 1 until Alain took you to an Price ceremony in the early 2000s where you met an young Fernando you’re pretty sure there is still a picture somewhere. If someone would have told you you would end up marrying an F1 driver let alone that you would have a son you would have told them you’re crazy but the universe had other plans for you and so by the time Fernando finally retires you have a three year old which loves cars over everything and as it is the last race you decide too take him with you too Abu Dhabi and so he ends up sitting in the dark green Aston Martin grinning from ear too ear gripping the steering wheel before Fernando picks him up only for the little boy to get rigid and you hear Andrey Newey laugh beside you and you know exactly what he thinks and so you turn around to Andrey telling him if he gifts him an Kart you two have an problem but as you turn back around you see you’re son is hugging the front tire and you can only sigh there is nothing you can do about fate.💕

"Legacy on Four Wheels" FA 14

If someone had told you twenty years ago that you’d end up marrying a Formula 1 driver Fernando Alonso, of all people you would’ve laughed in their face.

Not just laughed. You probably would’ve said something sarcastic, walked off, and muttered under your breath about how the motorsport world wasn’t your world.

You weren’t supposed to belong here. You never wanted to belong here.

Your father was Ayrton Senna. And that fact alone cast a shadow long enough to make you run in the opposite direction for most of your life.

He died when you were three. You don’t remember his voice, only the echo of it in old interviews. You don’t remember his touch, only what people told you it felt like. You remember the candlelit vigils. The tears. The way your mother never quite looked whole again after it happened.

Formula 1 had stolen him from you before you ever had the chance to know him. So you stayed away. Closed the door. Refused the press requests. Changed your last name when you turned eighteen.

Until Alain Prost asked you to come to a prize-giving ceremony in the early 2000s. You were just starting university, and it felt harmless enough. A charity dinner. Polished silver cutlery. Champagne you couldn’t pronounce. You stood awkwardly in the corner with a glass of water, wearing a dress that didn’t feel like you, when Alain introduced you to a young Spanish driver.

Fernando Alonso.

You didn’t know anything about him then just that he was already carving his name into the sport that had taken your father. But he smiled at you like you weren’t anyone’s daughter. Like you were just you.

Someone snapped a photo of the two of you that night awkward smiles, your champagne untouched, his tie askew like he’d already pulled it loose the second the cameras stopped flashing. You’re pretty sure that photo still exists somewhere. Maybe tucked in an old FIA archive or buried in the back of someone’s drawer.

Back then, it was just a snapshot.

No one could’ve guessed what it would become.

You certainly didn’t.

You tried to keep your distance for a while. He rose through the ranks; you watched from afar. But you kept running into each other Monaco, Montreal, Melbourne each meeting a little less accidental than the last.

It started with coffee. Then dinners. Then long conversations about everything but racing.

You told him about your father once really told him. Not the interviews. Not the highlight reels. The ache. The weight of the name. The fear of being seen only as a shadow of someone else’s legacy.

He listened. And when you cried, he didn’t say he understood. He just held you. Quietly. Steadily.

That was the beginning.

Years passed. Love took root. The world kept turning.

You married in a small ceremony on a hillside in Spain, with no media, no pomp. Just the people who mattered.

If someone had told you then that you’d have a son with Fernando Alonso that this fierce, stubborn, fiercely private man would fall so completely in love with your child you would’ve smiled. Because by then, you’d already seen it happening.

And yet, you still didn’t quite expect what it would feel like watching them together.

You named him Ayrton. Not because you wanted to honor the legend, but because Fernando insisted on honoring your history. Because your son would grow up knowing the name not as a ghost, but as a story. A heartbeat. A connection.

By the time Fernando finally decided to retire, Ayrton was three.

Three years old and completely obsessed with cars.

It wasn’t subtle. His first word was “wheel.” His second was “go.” He built racetracks out of cereal boxes and drove spoons across the dinner table like they were in qualifying. He once threw a tantrum because he couldn’t sleep with a Matchbox car in each hand.

So when Fernando’s final race came Abu Dhabi, after years of chasing glory and grit and proving everyone wrong you knew there was no question.

You were taking your son with you.

The paddock was abuzz. Cameras. Hugs. Faces from old teams and new. Legends walking past like ghosts of different eras. You held your son’s tiny hand, watching him take it all in with wide eyes and an open mouth.

But the moment he saw the dark green Aston Martin, everything else faded.

He tugged free of your grip, little shoes tapping against the concrete, and scrambled straight toward the car. The mechanics laughed, already in love with him, already letting him climb up into the cockpit like he was the next test driver.

You didn’t stop him.

He sat in the seat, the massive steering wheel in his hands, grinning so hard his cheeks turned pink. His little fingers barely wrapped around the grips, but he looked like he’d just inherited the world.

Then you heard the footsteps.

Fernando approached from the side, still in his suit, helmet under one arm, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. You watched him pause—just for a second—as he took in the sight of your son in his car.

Then he reached out and gently lifted the boy from the seat.

Ayrton stiffened.

Not in fear.

In awe.

He stared at his father with wide, reverent eyes like he was seeing a superhero in the flesh.

And beside you, Adrian Newey chuckled under his breath.

“That’s it,” he said. “You’ve got yourself another generation.”

You didn’t even have to look at him to know he was smiling.

“If you gift him a kart,” you said firmly, turning your head, “we are going to have a problem.”

He laughed again.

But when you looked back at the car, your heart squeezed.

Your son had wriggled out of Fernando’s arms and was now hugging the front tire like it was a stuffed animal.

You exhaled slowly. “Oh no.”

Fernando walked back toward you, eyes dancing.

“You see that?” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “He’s already in love.”

“God help me,” you murmured, rubbing your temples.

He leaned in, voice warm and low. “Fate’s got a funny way of repeating itself.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

Because watching your son run circles around the Aston Martin while mechanics and world champions clapped him on the back like he belonged there, you knew the truth.

You had spent your whole life trying to escape your father’s shadow.

But your son?

He was born to chase it.

And deep down, a part of you had already accepted that the legacy you once ran from… was now the road your family would drive into the future.

Four wheels. One heart.

And a name that would always find its way back to the track.

[erikawrites13]

Cooling Down LS 18

Lance Stroll x y/n- 18+- Smut. Slow burn. Enemies to lovers / Rivals to lovers. Intimate scenes (shower, physical touch, kissing). Sexual tension. Emotional vulnerability. Body exploration

The day had been a relentless storm from the screaming engines to the tight corners and split-second decisions that had tested every ounce of your skill and grit. By the time you stepped into the team’s locker room, your muscles screamed for relief, your mind still racing through the chaotic twists of the race.

The hot shower was supposed to be your sanctuary. The water’s steady cascade would wash away the grime, the sweat, the tension that had built with every lap. But as you reached for the glass door, the soft click behind you told a different story.

Lance.

He stepped into the shower space without hesitation, the warmth of his body immediately pressing close behind you. The heat between you didn’t come from the steam it was from him, from that electric charge that had been growing all season, lurking beneath every stolen glance and veiled challenge.

Your breath hitched as his hands settled on your waist, strong and certain, pulling you flush against the cool tile wall. The stark contrast of the cold surface against your heated skin sent a shiver up your spine, but the fire his touch ignited was far more intense.

Steam curled and swirled around you both, blurring the edges of reality until nothing existed but Lance and the heat building between your bodies.

“I can’t believe you actually beat me today,” Lance murmured, voice low and rough, his breath warm against your neck. “Thought I had that corner in the bag.”

You laughed softly, turning your head just enough to meet his dark, intense gaze. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

His smile was a slow burn, a predator’s grin that sent a thrill through you. “More than you know.”

His fingers traced slow, teasing patterns along your sides, memorizing every curve beneath the soaked fabric of your shirt. You swallowed hard, the tension that had simmered between you all season now a blazing flame.

The sound of the water pounding overhead was a steady drum, matching the rhythm of your pounding heart. Lance leaned down, lips brushing against your collarbone, feather-light kisses that made your skin tingle.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he confessed, voice dropping to a whisper thick with need. “All season long.”

Your breath hitched, the heat between you impossible to ignore. His mouth followed the line of your neck, teeth grazing softly, eliciting a soft moan from deep in your chest. His hands slid beneath your shirt, fingertips grazing bare skin, warm and demanding.

You turned fully then, fingers threading through his damp hair as your lips met in a kiss that was slow and exploratory at first, then deepened with fierce urgency. His tongue traced your mouth with a gentle hunger that sent sparks cascading down your spine.

The cold tile behind you was forgotten as his hands roamed your back, pulling you closer, anchoring you in this moment that felt suspended in time. The world of rivalry, competition, and hidden desire fell away until there was only you and him, tangled together in the steam and water.

His lips left yours to trail down your neck, teeth nibbling softly, fingers tightening their hold around your waist. You pressed into him, every nerve alive with the electricity of his touch.

“I don’t want to hide this anymore,” Lance murmured, voice thick with promise and something vulnerable beneath the bravado.

You smiled, breathless, your own voice barely a whisper. “Neither do I.”

[erikawrites13]

Heat of the Garage FA 14

Fernando Alonso x Reader Team Physio x Driver. Post-Hungarian Grand Prix

The sun outside was merciless, pounding down on the tarmac and sending waves of heat rolling through the paddock. Inside the team motorhome, the air conditioning struggled against the stifling Hungarian humidity. But nothing was hotter than the simmering tension between you and Fernando Alonso.

You had been waiting for him all afternoon, clipboard in hand, ready to start his post-race physio session. The team had warned you: “He’s stubborn as hell. Don’t expect him to cooperate.” You knew that better than anyone.

When Fernando finally walked in, every muscle taut and his green eyes burning with that familiar fire, you could practically feel the electric charge in the air.

“You really need to rest,” you said firmly, moving to unlock the cabinet where the recovery equipment waited. “You pushed way too hard today. Your back is screaming.”

Fernando gave you that cocky grin, the one that made your pulse spike and your breath hitch. “Rest is for losers. And for people who can’t handle the heat.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Is that what you call risking your body for glory? Because I call it idiotic.”

His eyes darkened, and his voice dropped low, the kind of dangerous tone that sent shivers racing down your spine. “You think you know me?”

Your voice dropped to match his. “I know how your pulse reacts every time I touch you.”

He stepped closer, closing the gap until the heat of his body pressed into yours, a physical challenge. You could smell the mix of sweat and something uniquely him musk, adrenaline, a trace of cedarwood from his cologne.

“I’m not here to play games,” you warned, reaching out to press your fingers along the tense muscles of his neck. “You need to let me help you.”

He let out a low chuckle that vibrated against your skin. “I don’t think you understand. I’m not the one who’s hard to handle.”

The room felt smaller, the air heavier. Your hands moved with deliberate care, sliding beneath his race suit’s collar to massage the knot at the base of his neck. His breath hitched, and the usual cocky grin softened into something more vulnerable more real.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “But maybe that’s what I like.”

His eyes locked onto yours, searching, daring. “You’re not afraid of me.”

“Not anymore,” you confessed, heart thudding in your chest.

Fernando’s hands found your waist, gripping firmly, pulling you flush against him. The space between you evaporated until your lips were almost touching. “Maybe you don’t know how much I’ve wanted this wanted you all day.”

Your breath caught. You could feel the pulse of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips, strong and erratic, matching your own.

His mouth claimed yours with fierce hunger, his kiss deep and demanding, like a release of months maybe years of pent-up frustration. His tongue traced your bottom lip, begging for entrance, and you answered without hesitation.

Clothes became a forgotten barrier, sliding away under frantic hands. His skin was hot and slick beneath your touch, every inch of him alive with the aftershocks of the race and the heat between you.

He lowered you onto the massage table with gentle care, fingers tangled in your hair as he kissed the curve of your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone.

“Tell me when it hurts,” you whispered against his skin, your hands exploring the tight muscles of his back.

He groaned low in response, voice thick with desire and pain. “With you? It’s not pain I’m worried about.”

Your hands moved lower, tracing the lines of his torso, memorizing every scar, every mark the story of a career written on his skin.

“You’re going to rest,” you insisted, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Whether you like it or not.”

He chuckled against you, a sound full of promise. “I might enjoy being taken care of.

[erikawrites13]

Pit Wall Hook-Up LS 18

Lance Stroll x reader -18+- Romance.Slow burn. Rivalry to romance. Enemies to lovers. Emotional tension. Fluff and smut balance

The final lap had been a relentless blur engines screaming, tires screeching, and the smell of burnt rubber thick in the air. Lance’s hands clenched the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering him to the world as he fought for every inch on the track. Every turn, every inch of acceleration was a battle not just against the clock, but against you.

Since the first race of the season, your rivalry had been fierce, electric a mix of fire and ice. Sharp words exchanged in the pits, calculated overtakes on the track, stolen glances that lingered a little too long, touches that might have been accidental, but never were. You pushed each other harder than anyone else could, testing limits, breaking boundaries.

But beneath it all, something else simmered a raw, tangled tension neither of you dared to name. Until now.

When Lance finally pulled into the pit lane, the race’s adrenaline still raging in his veins, he slammed his helmet down on the pit wall. The sound echoed like thunder, a release of the frustration and longing that had built up all season.

You stood nearby, arms crossed, your gaze sharp as flint. Your breath was heavy, chest rising and falling beneath your racing suit, your own adrenaline not quite ready to leave you.

“Impossible,” Lance growled, voice low and fierce. “You’re impossible.”

You took a step forward, closing the distance between you. “Says the guy who nearly wrecked me at Turn 7.”

“I was trying to win for all of us,” he shot back, heat crackling between his words.

“And nearly lost the whole race because of it,” you said, voice steady but burning with emotion.

The world around you blurred the bustling pit crew, the distant roar of the crowd, the bright floodlights everything except the space between you two faded away. The tension was a living thing, thick and electric, pulling you closer and threatening to ignite.

Then, without warning, Lance’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist with a fierce urgency that made your breath hitch. He pulled you close, the heat radiating from his body warming you through your layers of gear.

“I’ve been fighting this all season,” he whispered, voice raw. “You don’t know how much I want to stop.”

Your heart hammered, every nerve ending alive with a fire that was equal parts terrifying and intoxicating. His other hand slid down to your waist, fingers digging in slightly, anchoring you to him.

His lips crushed onto yours hard, demanding, desperate. The kiss was everything you’d been holding back all year: fierce, hungry, unrelenting. Your hands tangled in the collar of his suit, pulling him closer still, skin against skin through the heat and fabric.

His mouth moved against yours with growing urgency, tongue coaxing yours to dance with his. His hands roamed boldly, memorizing every inch of you, tracing curves and planes as if claiming them.

He slid down to your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. A soft moan escaped you, your fingers threading through his thick hair.

“You’re reckless,” you breathed.

“Only for you,” he replied with a wicked smile.

One hand slipped beneath your jacket, fingers skimming bare skin, sending sparks through your body. You pressed your hips against his, the hard edge of the pit wall forgotten.

His lips followed your collarbone, teeth nipping softly, teasing. His voice was a low growl as he murmured, “Right here you’re mine.”

The world faded into nothing but heat, breath, and the storm raging between you.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, Lance rested his forehead against yours, eyes dark and vulnerable.

“No more games,” he whispered.

“No more running,” you replied, your voice steady despite the pounding in your chest.

He grinned, that crooked, dangerous smile you knew so well. “Race you back to the garage?”

You laughed, heart racing with something new and thrilling. “You’re on.”

Flashback — Two Months Earlier

You remembered the night at the Monaco Grand Prix, the tension just as thick as it was now. After a particularly heated race, you’d argued late into the night in the cramped team garage. Words sharp, voices low.

“You don’t have to be so hard,” you’d said, frustration dripping from every syllable.

He’d looked at you then really looked and for a moment, the armor cracked. “It’s not just about the race,” Lance had admitted, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “It’s you. Every time you’re on the track, it’s like... everything else fades, and I can’t focus. I don’t know how to handle that.”

You hadn’t known what to say.

Now, standing here in the fading light of this race day, the weight of that confession settled between you, unspoken but powerful.

Back at the pit wall, as you both turned toward the garage, hearts still pounding and breaths still ragged, the rivalry had shifted forged into something fierce and real.

The season wasn’t over. But this moment was yours. And nothing would ever be the same.

[erikawrites13]

IM LOVING THESE CHARLES REQUESTS SO I GOT ONE!! Do you know that one Beyoncé song "Ego" that is full of double meaning, I want a imagine about Singer!Reader in which she puts out a naughty song like that, and Charle's reaction to it or his mates messing with him about that

“Drive You Crazy” CL 16

Charles Leclerc x Singer!Reader Genre: Flirty, light smut references, humor, Word count: Around ish 1.7k Warnings: suggestive lyrics, innuendo, teasing, friends being little sh*ts, general fluff

You hadn’t even stepped through the paddock gates yet, and you already knew what kind of day it was going to be.

The moment your newest single hit streaming platforms precisely timed for Quali day at the Dutch Grand Prix your phone had erupted. Mentions, memes, reaction videos. A 30-second snippet of the chorus had already gone viral on TikTok. People were dissecting lyrics like they were part of the FIA technical regulations.

And everyone, everyone knew exactly who the song was about.

You didn’t even try to deny it.

Why should you? You had an international pop career, a very attractive Formula 1 driver boyfriend, and a studio full of metaphors just begging to be used.

So when your boots hit the Zandvoort pavement and the sea breeze hit your skin, you threw on your sunglasses, adjusted your cropped Ferrari tee, and prepared to cause just a little chaos.

The paddock was buzzing as always, filled with media, fans, and team personnel. But this time, they weren’t looking at you like just a celebrity.

They were looking at you like they’d just heard you sing:

“He shifts me smooth like a late apex, No brakes when he’s got me in check, His hands know just how to guide— One touch and I’m ready to ride.”

Subtle? Not even slightly. Effective? Very.

You weren’t surprised when you caught Lando and Oscar whispering by the McLaren motorhome, clearly trying (and failing) to not laugh.

You weren’t even surprised when Sky Sports ambushed you with a mic before you reached the Ferrari garage.

"Y/N!" Nico Rosberg smiled, clearly delighted. "First of all, congratulations on the new single. It dropped just a few hours ago and it’s already charting."

You smiled, playing innocent. “Oh, thank you. Just a little something for the summer.”

Nico raised a brow. “People are saying it’s… inspired. By a certain someone on the grid.”

You tilted your head, mock-thoughtful. “I mean, it’s called ‘Drive You Crazy’ and I’m dating a racing driver. So… you do the math.”

That earned a full-on laugh from the entire camera crew.

You winked at the camera. “He’s got great… control.”

Inside the Ferrari garage, Charles had seen the interview play on the monitor.

He groaned. Loudly. “She’s here?”

His engineer nodded, barely suppressing a grin. “Saw her come through the paddock ten minutes ago.”

“Wearing red?”

“Obviously.”

Lewis leaned in from the other side of the garage. “Bro, she’s dressed like a menace. I think she’s here to finish what the song started.”

Charles dropped his head into his hands. “I told her it was too much.”

Lewis snorted. “She rhymed ‘gearstick’ with ‘makes me tick.’ She knew exactly what she was doing.”

Charles muttered something in French under his breath, but he was smiling.

Because of course you were here. Of course you’d time it perfectly qualifying day, Zandvoort, bright orange flares in the stands and even brighter flames in your lyrics.

He hadn’t even had a chance to call you yet. The moment the song dropped, he was swarmed by PR, social media managers, and a million texts from his friends.

He should’ve expected it. You were always unapologetically bold in your music, in your love, in the way you handled being under the spotlight. And this song? It was the most public love letter he’d ever received.

Well. Love letter with… details.

You found him just as qualifying was about to begin.

He was mid-conversation with his race engineer, but the second he caught sight of you, he stalled.

You looked… smug.

“Hi, baby,” you said sweetly, brushing your fingertips along the arm of his race suit.

Charles narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “You timed the release on purpose.”

You gave him a faux-innocent pout. “What? I would never.”

He leaned in close, low enough so only you could hear. “You wrote a three-minute song about how I make you feel in bed and then showed up wearing my number across your chest.”

You grinned. “Don’t forget the lyric about how you ���handle me like a hairpin turn.’ That was my favorite.”

He groaned. “You’re going to be the one who crashes my car, not Max.”

You stepped back, winked, and whispered, “Break a leg. Or don’t. You’ll need them later.”

He choked on air.

You walked off.

Qualifying went well. Better than expected, even.

Charles put in a clean lap in Q3, landing second on the grid behind Max. The crowd was wild with orange smoke and drums, but even through the chaos, Charles couldn’t stop thinking about your voice.

He heard it every time he downshifted. Every time he pushed through a corner. “Drives me wild, keeps me burning never stalls, always turning…”

By the time he climbed out of the car, hair tousled and suit half unzipped, he already knew the post-quali interviews would be a mess.

Sure enough, the first question wasn’t about tire strategy.

“Charles, congrats on P2. But we have to ask your girlfriend’s new song is setting social media on fire. How’s it feel being Formula 1’s hottest muse?”

He exhaled slowly. “I’m… happy she’s inspired. I think.”

The reporter laughed. “Any thoughts on the lyrics?”

Charles just smiled tightly. “No comment. But I’m banning her from the studio.”

You were waiting for him just outside the Ferrari hospitality suite.

He spotted you before you even turned around. That same glint in your eye, like you’d just gotten away with a heist.

“You’re evil,” Charles said, pulling you into his arms.

You grinned against his chest. “You love it.”

“Mm.” He kissed your temple. “You’re lucky I qualified well or I’d have blamed the entire thing on you.”

You tilted your head. “You drove like you had something to prove.”

“I had to,” he said, lips brushing your ear. “The entire world heard what you said about my… skills.”

You laughed. “I was being generous.”

Charles gasped in mock offense. “Generous?”

“I mean,” you whispered, pressing your body closer, “I had to keep some details to myself. Gotta leave them wondering.”

He caught your chin with his fingers, eyes dark. “Remind me to pay you back for this.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

[erikawrites13]

"First Time After Weeks Apart" LN 4 ☆

Lando Norris x Reader Word Count: ~2,500 Soft smut, emotional intimacy, oral (f receiving), slow burn, praise kink, gentle dominance, lots of “I missed you,” aftercare, comfort

The door barely had time to shut before your back hit it.

Lando’s mouth was on yours in an instant desperate, slow, like he needed to taste the weeks he’d missed.

Your suitcase was still at your feet. His hoodie was still on. Nothing else mattered.

“I missed you,” he whispered against your lips. Again and again, like it was a confession and an apology all at once. “God, I missed you.”

You tangled your fingers in his curls, lips parting as you leaned into him. “I know,” you breathed. “Me too.”

His hands were everywhere your waist, your face, the small of your back like he didn’t know what part of you to touch first.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and wide-eyed, he looked at you like he’d just come back from war. Something soft, reverent in his gaze. He held your face between both hands and kissed your forehead.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

He kissed your nose.

“Still okay?”

You laughed, tears stinging your eyes. “Lando.”

“Yeah?”

“I need you.”

His eyes darkened. “Then come here.”

He didn’t rush.

For once, there was no frantic tearing of clothes, no playful struggle, no race to the finish.

It was quiet.

Intentional.

You stood in front of him, and he undressed you like you were something delicate. Fingers trembling, breath caught, hoodie by hoodie, piece by piece, until you were bare in the dim hotel light.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered, brushing his thumbs up your sides. “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered.”

You reached for his shirt next, and he let you take it off slowly, your palms gliding over warm skin and toned muscle you’d only seen through screens for weeks. He let out a soft breath when your fingers traced his collarbone like even that touch was grounding.

When he laid you down on the bed, it was with care.

He kissed you like he had time like you were the only person in the world who could remind him what time even was.

Your thighs parted for him instinctively, and he moved between them, skin to skin, chest to chest. You could feel how hard he was, pressing against your center, but he didn’t move. Not yet.

Just held your face. Kissed you again.

“Missed this,” he murmured, lips grazing yours. “Missed you.”

“I’m right here,” you whispered, curling your fingers in his hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhaled shakily and pressed his forehead to yours.

“Let me take my time with you.”

He kissed down your chest, slow and reverent. Every inch. Every curve. He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something.

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot. Careful. Starving.

You cried out softly, hand flying to his curls, but he didn’t let up not once. Just kept licking, sucking, working you open with his tongue like this was what he’d been missing most.

Every moan that left your lips made him groan softly against you. It wasn’t just pleasure it was relief. He needed to do this for you.

You came on his tongue with your thighs shaking and his name on your lips like a whispered prayer.

When he finally slid inside you, it was slow.

So slow you swore you could feel every inch, every second, every heartbeat between thrusts.

You gasped, overwhelmed, clinging to his back.

“Lando—”

“I know,” he whispered, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

He moved gently, rhythm steady, forehead against yours. The air between you was thick with whispered nothings.

“I missed your voice.”

“I missed how you feel.”

“I dreamed about this.”

“I love you.”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he kissed the tears away.

“Let go,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

And you did.

You came again, body trembling, and this time he followed—hard, groaning your name like it hurt.

After, he didn’t leave your side.

He wrapped the blankets around you both, pulled you into his chest, and whispered soft things while his hand traced your spine.

“This” he murmured, voice low, lips in your hair, “this is all I need.”

“I’m never leaving for that long again.”

You pressed a kiss to his chest.

“Good,” you said softly. “Because next time I’m hiding in your

[erikawrites13]

LN 4 Masterlist

Lando norris masterlist

-"Unseen Celebration" Lando Norris x Y/n - Afterparty in Monaco 2025. After winning Lando only wants one thing, celebrating with you in his way. , 18+ Only

-"Earning the Reward" Lando Norris x Y/N. Lando begged for your touch, but you held back, keeping him on edge. Making him earn it. , 18+ Only

"Beneath the Surface" Lando Norris x Oscar Piastri- - Dom/Sub Dynamics. Power Play. Praise Kink. , 18+ Only

“In the Quiet” - Lando Norris x Virgin!Oscar Piastri Rating: 18+ NSFW themes, Emotional Slow Burn. Soft Smut. First Time , 18+ Only

“Crash and Comfort” - Oscar Piastri x Lando Norris- Post-race angst. Emotional comfort. Dom/sub dynamics ish. Emotional distress. Guilt and self-blame

"Can’t Keep You a Secret" Lando Norris x Reader — Secret Relationship, Jealousy, Public Teasing, Steamy Encounter - , 18+ Only

"Blurred Lines, Honest Hearts" "Friends with Benefits… or More?" Lando Norris x Y/n Rating: 18+.

Multi part serie's

Love in Contract - Lando Norris x Oscar Piastri. Free use clause - Romance, Angst, Rivalry, Mature Themes, slowburn Rating: 18+.

Part 1- Racing Hearts Down Under.

Part 2 "The Invitation"

Part 3 The Terms of Play

Part 4 Tension on Track

"Familiar Stranger" Part 1 Lando Norris x Y/n - Childhood friends to lovers,Second chance romance, Hidden feelings, Slow burn (past & present)

"Where He Always Goes" Part 2

“More Than Noise” Part 3

[erikawrites13]

“More Than Noise” LN 4

(Part 3 of “Familiar Stranger”)

Lando Norris x Y/n - Childhood friends to lovers,Second chance romance, Hidden feelings, Slow burn (past & present)

You never expected how fast the world would catch up.

After Silverstone, the kiss you shared with Lando—the way he finally let himself be vulnerable—felt like a secret sanctuary. But secrets in his world never stayed buried for long.

The next morning, your phone buzzed incessantly with messages, notifications, and news alerts. Lando’s crash was everywhere, but what caught your breath was the tabloid headlines about him being seen with you after the race. The subtle insinuations about his relationship with Maugi.

You sat beside him in the hotel room, watching his face carefully. His usually bright eyes looked tired and wary, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him all over again.

“We need to talk,” he said quietly.

You nodded.

The conversation with Maugi was inevitable.

Lando handled it with more grace than you expected. You watched silently as he spoke honestly with her on the phone, explaining the truth: that their relationship was more for show than substance, that his heart had been elsewhere all along, and that he owed her honesty—even if it hurt.

You felt a pang of guilt but also relief. Sometimes, the hardest truths are the most freeing.

After the call, he looked at you with a mixture of fear and hope.

“She deserved that. And you deserve better.”

You reached out, squeezing his hand. “We’ll figure it out.”

The next days were a whirlwind of press conferences and media speculation.

Every interview Lando gave was met with questions about the crash, his performance, and the sudden appearance of you in his life. Fans took sides—some protective, some skeptical. Social media was flooded with everything from supportive messages to cruel rumors.

Lando’s publicist tried to spin the story to keep focus on racing, but the narrative was already out there.

You saw the strain it put on him.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling day of interviews, he collapsed onto the couch in his suite, his helmet still on.

“I hate this,” he admitted, voice muffled but raw. “The noise. The questions. The judgement.”

You sat beside him, taking off the helmet gently.

“You’re not alone,” you said softly. “I’m here.”

He looked at you, eyes glassy. “I’m scared this will ruin everything. That I’ll lose more than just a race.”

You wrapped your arms around him, feeling the tension ease just a little.

“We don’t have to face it alone. We’ll be stronger together.”

Over the next few weeks, things changed.

Away from the cameras, you and Lando rebuilt the friendship and trust you’d lost. You went back to your secret spot near the track, where he’d always gone to clear his mind, and talked for hours about everything—the future, fears, and hopes.

He started opening up more, letting you see the cracks beneath his confident smile. You shared your own doubts and dreams. The silence between you was no longer uncomfortable, but comforting.

One evening, after a difficult race weekend, you found him sitting on the balcony of the hotel, looking out over the city lights.

“You’re different,” he said, turning to you. “More... real.”

You smiled, heart fluttering. “I feel the same.”

He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I don’t want to hide anymore. Not from the world. Not from you.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

“We’ll face it all. Together.”

The real test came at the next race weekend.

This time, the media frenzy was unavoidable.

But Lando didn’t shy away. In interviews, he spoke honestly about the crash, his mistakes, and the complicated feelings he’d been wrestling with for years.

When asked about you, he smiled genuinely for the first time in weeks.

“She’s been my rock. My reality check. And my reason to keep going.”

Backstage, as the team prepared for qualifying, he found you waiting by the garage, his racing jacket thrown over your shoulders.

He pulled you into a hug, his warmth steady.

“No matter what happens out there, I’m coming back to you.”

You looked up at him, eyes shining.

“And I’ll be here. Always.”

[erikawrites13]

“Look at Yourself” LN 4 ☆

Lando Norris x Reader (y/n) 18+ Smut- Dom!Lando Norris, Mirror play, guided masturbation, dominance & control, degradation kink, praise kink, overstimulation, eye contact, bondage, dirty talk Word Count: ~2,400

You weren’t sure when he moved the chair.

But it was there now right in front of the full-length mirror in his hotel suite. You stared at your reflection, flushed and breathless, dress pulled down to your waist, thighs spread, chest rising and falling with every shaky breath.

Lando stood behind you, fully clothed.

In control.

As always.

His palms pressed against your thighs, holding them open. You squirmed, trying to close them instinctively, but he tightened his grip.

“No,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Stay open. You’re not hiding from yourself tonight.”

Your eyes flicked to the mirror.

It was dizzying seeing yourself this exposed. Your hair was messy. Lipstick smudged. The lace bralette you wore was pushed up, your nipples hard and visible. You looked wrecked, and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“You see that?” he asked softly, dragging his fingertips up your inner thigh. “That’s what I see every time you pretend you're shy.”

You swallowed hard. “Lando—”

“Look.” His hand cupped your jaw, gently but firmly guiding your gaze back to the mirror. “Eyes on you. Not me. You.”

You obeyed.

“That’s my girl.”

He dragged your right hand forward, placing it between your legs. You gasped at the contact your own fingers brushing your soaked panties.

“You’re going to touch yourself,” he said simply.

“What?”

He leaned down, voice like velvet and smoke in your ear. “You heard me. I want you to watch what I do to you. With nothing but words.”

You hesitated.

And he smirked.

“Oh, suddenly shy?” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You weren’t shy when you climbed into my lap in the sim room. Or when you begged me to fuck you in the back of the hospitality truck.”

You whimpered, heat flooding your cheeks and your core.

“Exactly,” he whispered.

He guided your fingers under the fabric, dragging them along your folds, slowly, teasingly.

“That’s it,” he praised. “Nice and slow.”

You exhaled shakily, watching your reflection as your fingers moved under his direction, under his gaze. He hadn’t even undone his belt. He didn’t need to.

“Circle your clit,” he instructed, voice low. “Just like I do.”

You obeyed. His eyes stayed on yours in the mirror, unblinking. Focused.

“Faster.”

Your breath hitched as the pleasure built. Your body arched slightly, hips beginning to roll on their own. He wrapped one arm around your waist, holding you down.

“No running.”

Your other hand gripped the edge of the chair, knuckles white.

“Tell me what you see.”

You shook your head. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

His voice was calm. Insistent. Completely in control.

“I see…” you whispered, eyes flicking down your own body. “I see myself falling apart.”

“For me,” he corrected. “Say it.”

“I’m falling apart for you.”

“Good girl.”

That earned you a kiss to the side of your neck. Gentle. Deep. Loving.

But then his hand slid between your thighs and replaced yours. You let out a soft cry as his fingers picked up where yours left off faster, rougher, relentless.

He watched you in the mirror the entire time.

“You’re so easy for me,” he murmured. “Such a mess. Look at yourself. You’re shaking already.”

You were. You didn’t even realize it. Your legs were trembling. Your thighs slick. Your head thrown back just slightly.

“Touch your tits,” he said suddenly. “I want to see you fall apart with your hands full.”

You obeyed. He groaned at the sight of your hands playing with your nipples, rolling them between your fingers while he circled your clit faster and faster.

“You’re going to cum watching yourself,” he whispered. “Not even from my cock. Just my voice. My hands. That’s all it takes.”

You whimpered.

“Say it.”

“That’s all it takes,” you moaned. “Lando, I—I’m—”

“Now.”

Your orgasm hit fast and hard, rolling through your body like fire.

You cried out, legs locking around his arm as you shook, your reflection completely wrecked hair stuck to your face, eyes glassy, skin flushed.

And he held you through it.

Never once looking away.

When your breathing finally calmed, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“You’re so good for me,” he murmured. “But next time…”

You blinked, still dazed.

“…you’re going to cum on my cock. While you look me in the eye.”

[erikawrites13]

charles getting caught by the paparazzi innapropiately touching her partner and his reaction to the photos/ his friends making fun of him or maybe someone mentions it in an interview 😉

Cl 16- "Too Public for Comfort"

It was supposed to be just a quiet evening. A rare night off, a few drinks, and a bit of privacy—something Charles Leclerc cherished in the chaos of his public life. You and Charles had decided to sneak away to a secluded bar, far enough from the usual crowds but still close enough to the city to feel like a normal night out. No paparazzi, no fans. Just the two of you.

Or so you thought.

You had just finished a light-hearted conversation about the upcoming race weekend when Charles playfully slid his hand to your thigh. The two of you laughed, exchanged teasing remarks, and then, with the gentle hum of the bar in the background, his hand had stayed there, drifting a little higher as you leaned in to kiss him.

The moment was intimate, passionate spontaneous, even. It felt natural. Until a flash of light interrupted the moment, followed by several more.

You both froze, and Charles quickly pulled his hand away, looking around the room with a frown. You couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it.

"Seriously?" you muttered, looking toward the exit where you saw a photographer darting away, likely just as surprised as you were.

Charles cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "Great. Just great…"

The next morning, the media storm hit. The photos of Charles and you in a rather compromising position his hand not-so-subtly placed on your thigh had spread like wildfire. The headlines were ruthless.

“Leclerc caught in intimate moment with mystery woman!” “Formula 1 star Charles Leclerc gets too comfortable in public!” “Charles Leclerc in the spotlight for PDA - Fans react!”

The pictures weren’t just the kind of playful PDA fans could shrug off they were intimate, and the world had gotten a glimpse of something personal. Of course, social media had exploded. There were memes, endless commentary, and a lot of speculation about who you were, what the relationship meant, and whether it was something more than a casual fling. Fans were divided some loved it, others were less than thrilled with the "too public" display.

But what really caught Charles off guard was the reaction from his friends and teammates.

In the Paddock

As he walked through the paddock ahead of the weekend's race, his phone buzzed nonstop with notifications. The last thing he wanted to deal with was the barrage of questions and comments about the photos. He made a beeline for his garage, hoping to avoid any teasing from the guys, but no such luck. His best friend, Pierre Gasly, was one of the first to call him out.

"Well, well, well," Pierre said, grinning ear to ear as he approached Charles. "Didn’t know you were that hands-on, Charles."

Charles rolled his eyes, trying to act nonchalant, though he could feel his cheeks burn slightly. "Can you just pretend you didn’t see those?"

Pierre laughed, clearly enjoying the moment. "I mean, I was going to, but then the entire internet started talking about it, and well… that’s not something you just ignore."

As Charles groaned in frustration, Lando Norris, ever the mischievous one, walked over, adding to the teasing. "Mate, how’s it feel to be so popular?"

Charles shot him a mock glare. "You’re all so funny," he muttered, clearly not in the mood for any more comments.

Lando leaned in with a grin. "I was thinking, maybe next time, you could show a little more restraint in public. You know, for the sake of your image. I’m just looking out for you." He winked playfully.

"Yeah, Charles," Pierre chimed in, "maybe keep it a little more PG next time. We don’t need the world to see your private life… well, not all of it."

Charles let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing his temples. "I swear to God, you guys are worse than the paparazzi."

Later, during a press conference ahead of the race, the topic came up once again. Charles was hoping to dodge the question, but when a reporter called on him, he knew it was coming.

"Charles, the photos from last night… I have to ask," the reporter began with a sly grin, "What do you make of the reaction online? Some people were saying the PDA was too much, others seemed to think it was cute. Any thoughts?"

Charles shot a quick glance at his teammate, who was clearly trying to hide a smirk. The last thing he wanted was to talk about his personal life in front of cameras, but he had to answer. He took a deep breath, trying to remain calm.

"Look," he said, leaning into the microphone, "I'm a human being. I’m not just a driver. I’ve got a life outside of racing. Sometimes things get a little… spontaneous. People are going to talk, and that's just part of the job. But, uh, I’m not going to apologize for it. I like my privacy, but I can’t control everything."

The reporter pressed on, sensing the discomfort in his response. "So, are you saying the photos were taken out of context?"

Charles shifted in his seat. "I mean, yeah, sure, there’s a context to everything, but if you’re asking if I regret the moment—no. I don’t. So let’s move on to something else.

[erikawrites13]

"Blurred Lines, Honest Hearts" LN 4

"Friends with Benefits... or More?" Lando Norris x Reader (Y/N)

18+ Smut, explicit language, sexual content, angst, fluff, accidental confession, complicated emotions Word Count: Ish 500

It was never supposed to mean anything.

That's what you told yourself, every time you ended up tangled in his sheets limbs exhausted, skin flushed, breathless in the afterglow.

Friends with benefits. Just that.

No rules. No strings. No feelings.

But Lando? He was dangerous without even trying.

Tonight had been one of those nights. He’d shown up at your flat after a race weekend, adrenaline still humming under his skin. One look dark eyes, lazy grin, hat tugged low and it was game over. Again.

Now, your back was pressed against his mattress, the silk sheets beneath you wrinkled and damp with sweat. Lando hovered above, hips rolling, pace rough but intimate, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

"God, Y/N..." he groaned against your throat. His voice was hoarse, broken. You clung to him, nails dragging down his back. He always felt so good like home, like fire. Every thrust made your thoughts blur, made it harder to remember why this was supposed to be casual.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “Just like that, Lando—”

“I know, baby,” he murmured, kissing you hard. “I got you.”

He always did.

Your legs locked tighter around him, pulling him impossibly close, like you could keep him there forever.

And then— “I love you.”

You froze.

The words were whispered into your neck like a secret, a prayer. Maybe even an accident.

But you heard them.

Your heart thundered louder than the pounding rhythm of your bodies. He didn't stop moving at first maybe he didn’t even realize what he'd said. But then his breath caught, and he pulled back just enough to look at you.

Eyes wide. Vulnerable. Shit. He knew.

The silence was louder than any scream.

“Lando,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“I—” He swallowed hard, looking suddenly unsure for the first time all night. “I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did.”

He exhaled like he'd just lost a race. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice thick. “I think I did.”

The air between you shifted electric and fragile.

This wasn’t sex anymore. It was real.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing his flushed skin. “Lando, we said—”

“I know what we said.” He shut his eyes, pressing his forehead to yours. “But it stopped being just sex for me a while ago.”

Your chest ached. Because you'd felt it too.

The late-night calls when he was jet-lagged and lonely. The way he held your hand under the table when no one was looking. The stolen glances, the soft smiles, the way he always stayed longer than he needed to.

You’d fallen for him slowly, stupidly, deeply. And now the truth was out.

He searched your face, desperate. “Say something.”

You took a shaky breath, threading your fingers through his hair.

“I love you too,” you said quietly.

Lando blinked, stunned. “You do?”

“I think I always have.”

Relief flooded his face before he kissed you again this time slower, deeper, like he had all the time in the world.

[erikawrites13]

Race to Pleasure CL 16

The roar of the engines had finally died down, replaced by the muffled hum of the paddock as the Ferrari team packed up their gear. It had been one hell of a weekend long days under an unforgiving sun, the adrenaline spikes, the mental pressure of each lap, and the relentless pursuit of perfection. But now, as the evening light softened, it was time for some well-earned rest.

Y/N shifted the last bag onto the trolley, glancing over at the medical tent. It was nearly empty, save for the familiar figure of Charles Leclerc slumped on one of the treatment tables. His helmet was off, his dark hair damp with sweat, and his expression was a mix of exhaustion and that stubborn determination she knew all too well.

“Hey,” Y/N said softly as she approached, pulling her kit close behind her.

Charles looked up, his usual easy smile softened by fatigue. “Hey, Y/N. You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to this.”

She chuckled, setting down her bag and grabbing the massage oil she always used for his therapy sessions. “Well, you made it through another weekend in one piece. That’s what counts.”

He groaned lightly as he shifted, revealing the tightness in his shoulders and back. “Piece by piece, yeah.”

Y/N’s hands went straight to work, warming the oil between her palms before pressing into the taut muscles of his trapezius. The subtle groan that escaped him was like music, a sign that the knots were beginning to loosen under her touch.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” she murmured, kneading gently but firmly.

Charles’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “You’re a lifesaver, you know that? I can barely feel my legs after all those laps.”

She smiled, her fingers tracing slow circles down his spine. The tension in the air was palpable, charged with something more than just physical relief. Every brush of her skin against his sent tiny shocks through them both.

As she worked her way lower, to the muscles along his ribs and waist, her hands lingered just a little longer than necessary. Charles shifted, his breath catching slightly when her fingers grazed a sensitive spot along his hip.

“Relax,” she whispered, her voice dipping into something softer, more intimate.

He opened his eyes again, locking onto hers, a flicker of something unreadable sparking in his gaze. The room seemed to shrink around them, the sounds of the paddock fading until it was just the two of them, suspended in this moment.

Her hands began to wander, moving from professional therapy to something more exploratory gentle caresses along the contours of his body, tracing the lines of muscle and bone that racing had carved into him.

Charles’s breath hitched, his body leaning into her touch as the heat between them flared.

“Y/N,” he murmured, voice thick with longing.

She paused, fingers hovering over the front of his thigh, the decision hanging heavy between them.

“Do you want this?” she asked, searching his eyes.

He didn’t hesitate. “More than anything.”

The heat between them was palpable, an invisible current crackling in the confined space of the medical tent. Y/N’s hands moved with a delicate balance of reverence and boldness, tracing the contours of Charles’s body with deliberate care, every touch both comforting and charged with something far more potent.

Her fingers lingered at the edge of his waistband, teasingly slow, savoring the feel of his skin beneath her palms. Charles’s breath hitched sharply, a shudder running through him that was impossible to hide.

She met his eyes, searching for any sign of doubt but there was only desire there, raw and unabashed.

With a quiet, mutual understanding, Y/N let her hands slip beneath the elastic of his shorts, grazing over the sensitive skin of his hip and lower abdomen. The slight roughness of his racing suit gave way to the warmth and softness beneath, and her fingertips explored with increasing confidence.

Charles’s muscles tensed, then relaxed under her touch, the tension of the race weekend melting away into something deeper, more urgent. His fingers tangled in her hair, tugging her gently so their lips met again this time with more urgency, more need.

The kiss was slow at first, testing boundaries, but quickly grew more desperate. Y/N’s mouth moved over his with increasing passion, a silent promise of what was to come. Her hands traveled down to his thighs, kneading the strong muscles there, grounding him even as their bodies burned with anticipation.

Charles’s hands roamed over her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. The roughness of his racing suit against her skin was a delicious contrast to the softness of her own touch, the scent of leather and sweat mixing with the faint sweetness of her perfume.

Y/N’s lips trailed from his mouth down to his jawline, and then lower, leaving a path of fire wherever she touched. Charles’s breath came faster, his body responding eagerly to every caress, every whispered sigh.

Her hands moved back up, cupping him with reverence, feeling the heat and hardness that had been building all day. She stroked slowly, deliberately, teasing him as her other hand slid beneath his shorts, fingers brushing along the sensitive skin that made him gasp.

The sound sent a thrill through her, and she leaned in closer, pressing her body against his. Charles’s hands gripped her waist tightly, guiding her hips as their bodies aligned perfectly.

The tent seemed to shrink around them, the outside world fading away until all that existed was the heat between their skin, the sound of their breathing, and the desperate, aching need to connect.

Y/N’s lips found his collarbone again, kissing and nibbling softly as her hands continued their exploration. Charles’s fingers tangled in the back of her hair, pulling her head back slightly to meet his gaze.

“Y/N,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion and desire. “I need you.”

She smiled against his skin, her own need mirrored in her eyes. “I’m here.”

With that, the careful restraint they’d both tried to maintain dissolved completely.

Y/N’s hands moved boldly, slipping inside his racing shorts as she began to stroke him with growing confidence. Charles’s body arched toward her, his breath ragged, his lips capturing hers in a fierce, demanding kiss.

Every touch was electric, every sigh a spark that set them both aflame.

[erikawrites13]

"Where He Always Goes" LN 4

(Part 2 of “Familiar Stranger”)

Lando Norris x Y/n - Childhood friends to lovers,Second chance romance, Hidden feelings, Slow burn (past & present)

Silverstone had always felt like a second home.

For you, it was nostalgia. Family barbecues in the paddock during his karting days. His mum cheering louder than anyone. You, chasing him around the motorhome when you were just kids, stealing his cap and daring him to catch you.

For him, it was more.

It was everything.

That’s why when he crashed lap 39, a split-second misjudgment that sent his McLaren spinning into the gravel your heart sank before his car even stopped moving.

His mother stood beside you, clutching your hand without realizing it. Her face was calm, but her knuckles were white.

“He’s okay,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her.

He climbed out of the car. Physically fine. But there was no wave to the crowd. No nod to the camera. Just a helmet that stayed on and a walk that was too fast, too stiff.

Then he disappeared.

No word. Not to his team. Not to media. Not even to his mum.

“Where did he go?” she asked you, her voice breaking in a way you rarely heard. “Why would he just walk off like that?”

You looked down the paddock, then to the gates.

And you knew.

“I’ll find him,” you said softly, squeezing her arm. “I promise.”

You didn’t need to think twice about where to look.

There was a spot just beyond the back edge of the circuit grounds, a quiet field that overlooked the track from the trees. You’d been there with him when you were fourteen. He told you it was his “reset button.” A place where the noise couldn’t reach him.

It hadn’t changed.

And neither had he.

He sat on the grassy slope, helmet beside him, race suit half-unzipped. His shoulders hunched forward like the weight of everything he was holding had finally won.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just sat beside him.

Minutes passed in silence. Then he spoke.

“I messed up.”

Your chest tightened. “It happens.”

“Not here. Not today.” His voice cracked. “This is my home. These are my people. I had everything. The pace. The shot. And I threw it away.”

He turned toward you, eyes glassy and tired. “I let everyone down. Again.”

“You didn’t let me down.”

He looked away, and then suddenly—

The dam broke.

Tears spilled. Real ones. Ugly ones. And before you could react, he leaned into you, burying his face in your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around him without hesitation, holding him like you used to, when it was just the two of you against the world.

“I’m tired,” he choked out. “Of pretending. Of being something I’m not. Of acting like I don’t—”

You brushed his hair back gently. “Like you don’t what?”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. His were bloodshot, but soft.

“Like I don’t still love you.”

Your breath caught.

He was so close, and so broken, and so honest. And for the first time in years, there was no noise between you. No media. No racing. No Maugi.

Just him.

Just you.

And then—he kissed you.

Desperate. Raw. Full of years of unsaid things.

To be continued

[erikawrites13]

I wanna request an imagine with charles in which u use a slutty outfit 2 go see him race & he finds it very hot he cant even think of driving

maybe that turns into actual smut later? hope u like it and are able to do it

Red Flag (In More Ways Than One) CL 16

You knew exactly what you were doing.

The black crop top hugged your body like a second skin, its hem teasing just below your ribs, while the scarlet-red skirt sat high on your hips, the fabric so short it flirted with indecency every time you moved. A calculated choice, down to the shade of red Ferrari red. The kind that turned heads and sent the message loud and clear: look at me. But it wasn’t just about being seen. It was about him seeing you.

When you stepped into the paddock, heels clicking against the smooth concrete, you walked like you belonged there. Sunglasses perched on your nose, lips painted a soft, taunting rose. A quiet storm. And Charles noticed. Oh, did he notice.

He was deep in conversation with his race engineer, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes squinting against the glare of the Monaco sun. And then his gaze landed on you.

And he stumbled over his words.

The look on his face was priceless eyebrows lifted, lips parted slightly, like he’d just forgotten where he was. His engineer gave him a puzzled look, but Charles wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes followed the line of your legs, the sway of your hips, the wicked little smirk you shot over your shoulder as you made your way toward Ferrari's hospitality area.

You didn’t need to look back to know he was still watching.

Later, in the garage, it showed.

Too hot into Turn 5. A lazy exit from the chicane. Missed braking markers he could usually hit blindfolded. The pit wall crackled into his radio, sharp and annoyed.

“Charles, what’s going on out there?”

Nothing, just made a mistake sorry. Charles said back.

You watched from the sidelines, legs crossed as you sat on a low wall just outside the garage, slowly licking a popsicle that had started to melt under the Mediterranean sun. You could feel his gaze flick toward you every time he passed by. Helmet on. Helmet off. Suit zipped. Suit unzipped.

You didn’t even need to speak.

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, and you loved every second of it.

By the end of qualifying, he was done pretending.

Charles ripped off his gloves the second he climbed out of the car, jaw clenched, ignoring the waiting cameras and journalists shouting his name. His suit hung low on his hips, the fireproof shirt clinging to his chest, still damp from the heat of the car. He didn’t even look in your direction as he walked he stormed toward you.

And then suddenly, his hand was around your waist, pressing you back against the side of a trailer, eyes dark with something between fury and hunger.

“You did that on purpose,” he hissed, his breath warm against your neck.

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Did what?”

His grip tightened, voice dipping low and rough, thick with that Monegasque accent you never could resist. “That outfit. The way you walk. Licking that damn popsicle like you want me to crash the fucking car.” He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “You know exactly what you’re doing. And you’re driving me insane.”

You could feel the heat radiating off him from the race, from frustration, from the way your thigh was now pressed flush against his. His hand slid higher, fingertips tracing the bare skin beneath your skirt.

“And you like it,” you murmured, fingers curling into the fabric of his race suit.

He groaned softly, forehead resting against yours for a moment. “I couldn’t think straight all day.”

“Maybe you should stop thinking.”

Your lips met his before he could reply, the kiss rough and desperate, all the tension from the track exploding between you in a clash of mouths and roaming hands. You tugged him closer, and he let you gladly, fully. The sound of team radios, clattering tools, and distant cheers faded as his body pressed against yours, pinning you to the cool metal wall behind you.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips.

“Take me somewhere.”

His eyes were wild. “Hotel?”

You shook your head. “Too far.”

He looked around, pulse racing and found the locker room.

Neither of you made it back to the hotel.

Not right away, anyway.

The door slammed shut behind you some tucked-away locker room in the paddock, definitely not meant for this.

But you didn’t care.

Neither did Charles.

He had you up against the wall before you could even catch your breath, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other tugged your leg up around his hip. His lips were all heat and frustration, kissing like he was trying to make up for every lap you’d distracted him today.

“You think you’re so clever,” he growled against your mouth, breath ragged, voice rough and low. “Parading around in that little skirt, acting like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

“I do know,” you whispered, grinning as you nipped at his jaw. “And I’d do it again.”

That look he gave you then hungry, possessive, wrecked made your stomach tighten. He grabbed both your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, your back pressing against the cool wall as your arms looped around his shoulders. The faint buzz of team radios crackled from beyond the door, but it only added to the thrill. You were still at the track, barely behind closed doors but Charles wasn’t stopping.

He didn't want to stop.

“Touch me,” you murmured, grinding gently against the hard bulge in his suit. “Come on, Charles. You’ve been thinking about it all day, haven’t you?”

A low, guttural sound left his throat. He kissed down your neck, teeth grazing your skin before trailing his hand up under your skirt.

“No panties?” he hissed in disbelief, voice sharp and accented. “Putain, you’ve been walking around like this all day?”

“Just for you,” you breathed.

His fingers found you easily wet, aching, needy and he let out a laugh that was more like a groan. “You’re unbelievable.”

You rocked against his hand, letting your head fall back against the wall as his fingers teased, circled, slipped inside. It was fast and messy and desperate, the kind of touch that came from hours of tension simmering under the surface.

“Fuck,” you gasped, tightening around him. “More don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He pressed in deeper, curling just right, his thumb finding that sweet spot that made your hips buck. You were moaning against his neck now, fingers tangled in his damp hair, both of you breathing like you’d just sprinted half the circuit.

“I’m going to come,” you whimpered, voice breaking. “Charles, please—”

“Let go,” he whispered roughly, lips against your ear. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard.

It ripped through you like a wave, fast and overwhelming. You clung to him, thighs trembling around his waist, mouth open against his shoulder as he held you through it.

“Mon ange,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Look at you. Fucking perfect.”

But he wasn’t done.

He laid you down on the table some forgotten stack of tires and tarps pushed aside and unzipped his race suit with shaking hands. You watched him through hooded eyes, still dazed from your orgasm, but craving more. Craving him.

“Now me,” he muttered, guiding himself to your entrance. “I need to feel you. Now.”

The first thrust stole the air from your lungs.

Deep. Sharp. Intimate.

He set a rhythm quickly, the slap of skin on skin filling the room, mixed with broken moans and the creak of whatever makeshift surface you were on. He braced one arm beside your head, the other gripping your waist as he moved faster, harder, hips crashing into yours with ruthless, focused energy.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he growled, voice breathless. “You wanted to ruin my fucking qualifying. You wanted me to lose control.”

You could barely answer your voice dissolved into a moan as he hit a perfect angle that made your legs tighten around him.

“Say it,” he demanded, leaning in close. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” you gasped, nails digging into his back. “God, yes wanted you to lose it. Wanted this.”

He kissed you again, open-mouthed and hungry, and you felt him start to unravel. His thrusts got sloppier, deeper, losing rhythm as his own climax loomed.

“Inside,” you whispered. “Come inside me.”

That was it.

He buried himself to the hilt, swearing in French as he came hard, his whole body shaking with release. You held him through it, fingers in his hair, forehead to forehead as the moment stretched and blurred.

For a long time, there was only breathing.

Heavy, ragged, satisfied.

[erikawrites13]

Secret Comfort CL 16 & MV 1 & Y/N

Charles Leclerc x Max Verstappen x y/n-

Y/n and max realationship is out to the public but not the part that Charles abart of it to.- Hidden relationships. Emotional distress and frustration (due to race DNF) Angst and feelings of isolation.

The roar of the crowd had barely faded when Charles’s race ended in a crushing DNF. The weight of it pressed heavily on him — the lost opportunity, the frustration, the sting of disappointment. Meanwhile, Max’s victory celebration played out under the blinding lights, with Y/N by his side, smiling for the cameras as if everything was perfect.

But Y/N’s smile was a mask. Her heart was split in two — because she and Charles shared a bond no one knew about, a secret tether that wasn’t allowed to exist in the public eye. To the world, she was just Max’s girlfriend. And now, seeing Charles retreat quietly, crushed and alone, she felt utterly helpless.

She watched him leave the paddock without a word, shoulders slumped, eyes distant. She wanted to run to him, to hold him, to tell him it wasn’t his fault — but how? The media’s gaze was relentless. To reach out to Charles now would spark questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

The hours dragged on. Once the noise died down and the cameras packed away, Y/N slipped away from Max’s buzzing celebration and made her way through the dimly lit corridors of the hotel.

The door to Charles’s room was cracked open, a sliver of light spilling into the quiet hallway. Max was already there, leaning against the doorframe, his face softer than it had been all day.

“Hey,” Max said quietly as she slipped inside.

Y/N nodded, biting her lip. Together, they stepped into the room.

Charles was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, his head bowed low. The tightness in his jaw, the way his hands trembled slightly — it was all so raw and real.

“Charles,” Y/N’s voice was soft, barely a whisper.

He looked up, eyes red and tired. “I screwed it up. I ruined everything.”

“No,” Max said firmly, stepping forward and placing a steady hand on Charles’s shoulder. “You didn’t.”

Charles shook his head, voice cracking. “I did. The team counted on me. You guys… you won. And I just…”

Y/N moved closer, sliding onto the bed beside him. She reached out, her hand finding his, fingers weaving together gently. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Charles’s gaze softened when it met hers. “I wish… I wish I could tell the world. That you weren’t just ‘Max’s girlfriend.’ That you’re here for me, too.”

Max crouched down next to them, wrapping an arm around Charles’s shoulders. “No one needs to know. This moment — it’s ours. What matters is that we’re here, together.”

For a long time, none of them spoke. The weight of the day lifted slowly, replaced by the quiet comfort of shared space.

Y/N leaned her head against Charles’s shoulder, and Max pulled them both into a warm embrace. The room felt like a safe haven, a secret shelter from the world’s prying eyes.

“You’re not alone,” Y/N whispered, her breath warm against Charles’s skin.

He closed his eyes, letting the quiet strength of their presence wash over him.

In this hidden corner of the world, away from the cameras and the chaos, their secret was safe. Their love, complicated but true, was a quiet flame burning bright in the darkness.

And for tonight, that was enough.