Erika

I write somethimes i guess F1

[erikawrites13]

Masterlist 13. ☆

All my works

Masterlist 18+

Requstes list here ask away!

Done star requstes ☆

Masterlist multi part serie read- Here!

Op 81

CL 16

LN 4

Im open to write requests!

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

-"Heat of the Track" Max Verstappen x Y/N. After a crushing loss, Max pushes Y/N away—until her love reminds him he doesn’t have to face the fallout alone.

-"Burnt Rubber and Broken Promises" Lewis struggles with anger pushing Y/N away as his world unravels at Ferrari. But her love trieds fights through his walls.

-“Say It Again” Charles Leclerc x Y/N. Charles shifts from race tension to fierce desire, taking control in a heated, intimate moment with Y/N.

-“Throttle Down — Full Lap” Max Verstappen x Y/N. Post-race, hotel room. Both still riding the adrenaline. Challenge and control

-"Driven by Desire" Kimi Antonelli x Y/N. Exploring relationships, power dynamics, and desires.

-"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.

-"In Control — No Holding Back" Oscar Piastri x Y/N. Post race Y/N tries to take control but fails.

-“Racing Secrets” Max Verstappen x Elizabeth Piastri. Max Verstappen and Elizabeth Piastri share a secret romance at Monaco. But then somebody finds out...

"Driven by Love" Sebastian Vettel x Y/n (wife ) “What’s next for us?” you asked. “A lifetime of moments like this,” he smiled. In his arms, you felt home.

"Victory Lane Hearts"- Oscar Piastri x Y/N (female reader)- Fluff, sweet post race in Spain.

"Smoke and Shadows in Barcelona" Max Verstappen x Female Reader (Y/N). Post-2025 Spanish Grand Prix. Angst and smut.

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

"Dominating the Track" Charles Leclerc x Max Verstappen Dom/Sub. Jealousy, Power Play, Tease and Denial, Light Bondage

"Falling Where I Shouldn’t"- Oscar Piastri never meant to fall for Aurora Sargent—Logan’s off-limits, younger sister. But late-night texts and stolen moments make staying away impossible.

"The Letters I Never Sent" Lewis Hamilton x Nico Rosberg. Rivals to Lovers to Rivals. Post-Retirement Reunion. Canon Divergence. Emotional Angst. What Could Have Been.

“A Future with You”- Carlos Sainz x Reader (female)- Baby fever smut

"No Tomorrow”- Jenson buton x reader Smut- One night stand

"Through the Storm" - Charles Leclerc x Reader : Romance, Hurt/Comfort, fluff. Bad race, charles not feeling well.

“Off-Track Desires”- Charles Leclerc x Reader (female) - Smut, Baby Fever, NSFW

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

Racing Hearts- Oscar Piastri and the reader share a dangerous, electrifying connection during a Formula 1 race weekend, pushing boundaries.

"Three's a Heated Crowd"- Smut- 18+ NSFW: Kimi Antonelli x Ollie Bearman x Reader (You’re caught between them literally.)

"The Edge of Control"- Max Verstappen x Virgin!Reader: Smut- Dark Romance, virgin reader

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

“Under Control” - Fernando Alonso x Virgin!Lance Stroll- Rating: 18+ NSFW.

“Only Yours to Lose”- Lance Stroll x reader NSFW- Male Sub. Dom!Reader. Dom/Sub Dynamics. Rough Sex Praise. Degradation. Orgasm Control. Begging

“When the Time Feels Right"- Sebastian Vettel x Reader (female) - Smut Baby Fever, NSFW

"Mine Before You Knew"- Max Verstappen x Virgin!Charles Leclerc Smut-Rating: 18+

“Lesson Learned”- Fernando Alonso x Mark Webber x Virgin!Sebastian Vettel- Rating: 18+

"Smoldering Doubts and Silent Fears"-Part Two - Lewis Hamilton x Y/N. Relationship conflict,slow burn romance, intimate but gentle make-out scene. Mental/emotional struggles (implied)

“Too Close for Comfort” OP 81- Oscar Piastri x Y/N (Lando Norris’ younger sister) — with secret hookups, jealousy, teasing, close call. Rating: 18+Req ☆

Crash and Burn - CL 16 ☆-. Enemies with Benefits, Rough Sex. Aftermath of a Fight – angry → spicy make-up. Rating: 18+ . Req ☆

The Breaking Point- Mark Webber x Reader- Aftermath of a fight → jealousy, pain, and intense make-up passion. Rating: 18+. Req ☆

Just Breathe SV 5- Sebastian Vettel x Reader. Post-race weekend, quiet night in his hotel room. First time together Rating: 18+. Req ☆

Melt Into Me- Jenson Button x y/n - NSFW Themes. ☆5. with Aphrodisiac Chocolate. Rating: 18+. Req ☆

"Unspoken Terms" - Kimi Räikkönen x Reader- Workplace AU, CEO x Employee. Rating: 18+. Req ☆

“What We Don’t Say” Fernando Alonso x Reader- Secret hookups, friends to lovers Req ☆

Crossed Lines Kimi Antonelli x Reader.- Rough Sex, Aftermath of a Fight – angry → spicy make-up. Rating: 18+. Req ☆

“Right Beside You” Jenson Button x y/n-Friends to lovers and mutual pining Req ☆

After the Storm. Fernando Alonso x (Y/N)- Angst, Romance, Smut, fluff ish in the end. Story About- Private hotel room after a race Rating: 18+. Req ☆

Pretend to Love (me?) Oscar x Y/N. -Fake Dating and mutual Pining Req ☆

“Control off tack" Mark Webber x Virgin!Sebastian Vettel Rating: 18+.

Ice Burns Hotter Kimi Räikkönen x Reader- Jealousy, Angst, Hidden Romance, Rating: 18+. Req ☆

“Through the Years” Oscar Piastri x y/n- Friends to lovers, slow burn, reunion, fluff Req ☆

Under the Helmet Fernando x reader Power dynamics in relationships. Age gap romance. Secret/forbidden relationship Rating: 18+. Req ☆

Clause – By Any Means - Max Verstappen x Charles Leclerc ; Lestappen. Free Use Clause. The clause states that between races, the higher finisher in each Grand Prix can make any personal request of their teammate, and it must be obeyed — within legal and team policy limits. Rating: 18+.

"The Fastest Line to You" Oscar Piastri x Reader- Post-Sprint Quali - Spa 2025

“After the Flag Drops” - MV 1 ; Max Verstappen x Reader - 18+ NSFW One-Shot Spa- Belgian GP Sprint – 2025; fluff, Slow Burn, Post-Race. Rating: 18+.

The Cost of the Drive - George x toto x reader George is trying to prove to toto he’ll do anything to save his seat Rating: 18+. Req ☆

No One Teaches You This Fernando Alonso x reader- power imbalance, second chance romance, angst with comfort, age gap, emotional smut Rating: 18+. Req ☆

One Bed, Two Hearts- Nico Hulkenburg x reader; ☆- 2Friends to Lovers and ☆-11 “Only One Bed” Trope Rating: 18+. Req ☆

"Off Limits" - Jenson Button x reader ☆3- Forbidden Love & ☆7- Mutual Pining. Req ☆

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

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

"Where He Always Goes" Part 2

“More Than Noise” Part 3

The Edge of the Grid- George Russell x Max Verstappen Rating: 18+. Multi part serie

Secret Comfort CL 16 & MV 1 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.

Red Flag (In More Ways Than One) CL 16 Slutty outfit,Charels get distracted and turns into fustation that turns to smut- Rating: 18+. Req ☆

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

"Too Public for Comfort" Charles getting caught by the paparazzi innapropiately touching his partner y/n. Req ☆

“Look at Yourself” Lando Norris x Reader (y/n) Smut- Dom!Lando Norris, Mirror play, Rating: 18+.

Pit Wall Hook-Up LS 18 - 18+- Smut- Slow burn. Rivalry to romance. Enemies to lovers.

"Legacy on Four Wheels" FA 14 Req ☆ - Your Ayrton Sennas daughter

Backstage Pass LS 18

"You Posted What?" CL 16 - Rating: 18+. Req ☆He posted some spicy pic's

“Don’t Push Me” LN 4 - brat reader gets it Req ☆

"Hands On" CL16 Req ☆Piano lesson get out of hand

"Encore" Cl 16 Req ☆ Baby fever

After the Finish Line KR7 Req ☆

“You're Too Hot, That's the Problem” CL16 Req ☆ Funny tweets

“Soft Spot” CL 16 breast kink for both of Cl and y/n Req ☆

☆

[erikawrites13]

His comfort

The apartment was quieter than usual.

Not peaceful quiet, heavy quiet.

The kind that sat in the corners of the room and pressed against the walls.

Lando Norris dropped his keys onto the counter without saying much, shoulders tense beneath his hoodie. No sarcastic comment. No teasing grin. Not even the exhausted half-smile he usually managed after rough weekends.

Just silence.

You looked up from the couch immediately.

“Hey,” you said softly.

“Hey.”

One word. Flat. That was enough.

The last few races had been brutal. Bad qualifying. Strategy mistakes. Near misses. Headlines picking him apart, fans arguing online, interviews where he kept forcing jokes that never quite reached his eyes.

He’d brushed it off every time.

“I’m fine.”

“Just frustrating.”

“Next race.”

But tonight, he looked tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix.

You stood and walked over slowly, giving him room to step away if he wanted.

“Do you want food?” you asked. “Or quiet? Or… do you want to be annoyed at the world for a bit?”

A tiny huff of laughter escaped him, but it disappeared quickly.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m just so tired of messing things up.”

Your chest tightened.

“Lan…”

“I know everyone says it’s not all my fault,” he continued quietly, staring at the floor. “But when it keeps happening, you start wondering if maybe you’re just—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “I should be doing better.”

You stepped closer. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he did.

“You care more than anyone,” you said. “That’s why this hurts.”

His expression cracked slightly.

“But one bad stretch doesn’t suddenly erase who you are,” you continued. “You’re still ridiculously talented. Still hardworking. Still the same person who gets back in the car every single weekend and tries again.”

He looked unconvinced.

You reached for his hands. “And for the record? I hate seeing you talk about yourself like you’re only worth the result on a screen.”

His eyes flickered to yours.

“You’re allowed to be disappointed,” you said softly. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t suck. But you also don’t have to carry all of it by yourself.”

For a second, neither of you said anything. Then his shoulders dropped.

Barely. Like he’d finally stopped holding his breath.

“I just…” He swallowed. “Feels like I keep letting people down.”

“You’re not.”

A pause.

“And even if the whole world decided to be dramatic about racing for five minutes,” you added gently, “I’m still here. Bad races, good races, terrible interviews, grumpy moods all of it.”

That finally pulled a real laugh out of him.

“Grumpy moods?” he repeated.

“You’re unbelievably moody after bad Sundays.”

“Oh, wow.”

“It’s brave of me to tell you, honestly.”

He rolled his eyes, but he stepped closer anyway.

Then, quietly. “Can I just… stay here for a bit?”

You wrapped your arms around him before he even finished the sentence.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Course you can.”

For the first time all weekend, he let himself stop pretending he was okay.

And standing in your arms, forehead pressed against your shoulder, the noise of bad races, criticism, and expectations finally went quiet for a minute.

Because here, he didn’t have to fix anything.

He just had to breathe.

[erikawrites13]

“All the Noise, and Then You” OP81

The rain had finally stopped.

After the chaos of the Dutch Grand Prix the sudden downpour, the safety cars, the pressure from behind the paddock had exploded into celebration. Cameras flashing, champagne spraying, team radios shouting in disbelief.

Oscar had done it.

His win. On one of the trickiest tracks on the calendar. And he'd done it with calm, with focus, with that quiet intensity that always sat just beneath the surface of him.

Now it was quiet. Not in the world Zandvoort still buzzed far below the hotel balcony, the streets full of orange and flags and music but in the room, and around him. He stood with the glass door half open, letting in the cool sea air as he peeled off his team shirt, his skin still smelling faintly of champagne and track rubber.

You watched from the edge of the bed, legs curled beneath you, wearing the McLaren hoodie he’d thrown at you.

Oscar turned toward you finally, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. He looked exhausted but alive. Like every nerve in his body still hummed with the rush of speed, pressure, the weight of making history.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer at first. Just walked to you slow, steady and dropped to his knees in front of where you sat. His hands found your thighs, warm and steady, and his forehead came to rest against your stomach.

You slid your fingers into his curls, gently.

“I can’t think straight,” he murmured, voice muffled against the fabric of your hoodie. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

“It is,” you said, smiling softly. “You won. You earned that win.”

He looked up at you then eyes wide, almost disbelieving. But also burning.

And then he reached up, kissed you slow and deep and searching.

This wasn’t rushed, wasn’t frantic, not anymore. It wasn’t the wild need of post-race adrenaline trying to burn itself out. This was something else. This was Oscar grounding himself. Claiming calm. Claiming you.

You leaned down into him, kissed him back with just as much care, and let him pull you down with him onto the bed, both of you tangled in limbs and quiet breaths. The world could keep spinning out there. You had nowhere else to be but here.

His hands moved under the hoodie slowly, reverently, like he wanted to memorize the feeling. His fingertips brushed your ribs, your sides, the bare skin of your waist soft and warm and real. You could feel the tremble still lingering in his arms, from hours of racing and celebration and restraint.

“You’re still shaking,” you whispered, brushing his jaw with your thumb.

“Not from nerves,” he replied. “Not anymore.”

He kissed your neck gently, down your shoulder, slow trails of heat blooming everywhere his mouth touched. It felt different tonight every movement was intimate, deliberate, heavy with emotion. Like he was pouring every bit of that win into you.

When your bodies finally came together, it was soft not in hesitation, but in knowing. His hands held you like you were the only real thing in the world, and he moved with quiet desperation, like he needed this connection to come back down to earth. Like you were his checkered flag.

You both moved in sync like breath, like rhythm. Eyes locked, mouths brushing, the soft creak of hotel sheets beneath you, the low hum of city noise through the open window.

It was slow, and it was perfect.

No rush. No pressure. Just that adrenaline-fueled tenderness, the way only two people who had waited all day to be alone could understand.

He whispered your name into your skin.

You ran your hands down his back, anchoring him as his forehead pressed against yours, both of you gasping softly through the rising heat between you the closeness, the friction, the intimacy of it all. He moved inside you with purpose, and every sound, every sigh, was shared, soaked in emotion.

No one else in the world got to see him like this open, raw, heart bare.

And no one else ever would.

Afterward, the room was still. Only the sound of the sea and his heartbeat beneath your ear. Oscar curled behind you, an arm draped across your waist, his chest rising and falling slow, like he’d finally let the day go.

You laced your fingers through his.

“You know this is just the beginning,” you said quietly.

He kissed the back of your neck, voice soft against your skin.

“Not just the beginning,” he murmured. “This is everything I wanted.”

You turned in his arms to face him. His eyes were tired but warm, shining even in the dark. You kissed him again, gently this time, just because you could.

There was still noise outside. The city still danced in celebration. But in this bed, in his arms.

[erikawrites13]

"Not Worthless" LS18

The garage still reeked of fuel and burnt rubber. His car was a mess. Again. Front wing gone, side pod shredded like paper, and Lance… well, Lance looked like he was gonna snap someone’s head off with his bare hands.

You watched him storm past the engineers, helmet still on, jaw clenched so tight it looked like he’d break a tooth. No one dared to speak. Not even the mechanics. Not even Mike. Just the hollow silence only a bad crash could bring.

You waited. Waited until he disappeared into that back room near the motorhome where he usually changed. You knew better than to follow right away. He needed a second. But god, you hated seeing him like this. All that fire, all that anger… turned inward. It wasn't fair.

Five minutes later you knocked, pushed open the door gently.

“Lance?” you said softly.

He was sitting on the bench, suit peeled halfway down, hair matted with sweat, staring at nothing. Red flush in his cheeks, still breathing heavy.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Don’t come in here trying to fix this. I don’t need—” he spat, still not looking at you, “—a fucking pep talk.”

You stepped in anyway. Closed the door behind you. “I’m not here to give you a pep talk,” you said, voice a little tight. “I just… I saw the crash. And I saw your face when you got out.”

His eyes finally met yours. God, they were burning.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You think you know how I feel right now?” he snapped, standing up fast. You flinched a little, but didn’t back off. “You think it’s that easy? Just 'you’re not worthless Lance, you're good enough, smile through it'?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It’s what you always say!” he yelled now, voice echoing off the cold walls. “Every single time I fuck up. Every time the car ends up in the wall. Every time I look like a joke compared to Fernando. You keep acting like I deserve this seat. Like I didn’t just get it 'cause my last name is on the damn team.”

You swallowed. “Because you do deserve it.”

“I don’t. I fucking don’t. I’m not good enough. I’m not fast enough. And everyone knows it.”

Your voice cracked. “That’s not true.”

“It is. And I’m sick of you pretending I’m something I’m not.”

You stepped back then, a sharp pain in your chest. He was glaring at you like you were the enemy. Like your love was an insult.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “You want to sit in here and hate yourself, fine. I won’t stop you. I just… I didn’t come here to make it worse.”

You turned. You were already halfway to the door when you heard it the sudden shuffle of his feet, then a hand wrapping tight around your wrist.

“Wait,” Lance said, his voice low. Sharp, but… scared.

You didn’t turn right away. You didn’t trust yourself not to cry if you saw his face again.

His grip tightened. Not painful, but insistent. Like letting go wasn’t an option. Like he knew if he did, you’d really leave.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, quieter now. Breathing heavier. “What I said. I was—fuck. I was just mad. At myself. Not at you.”

You still didn’t look at him, but your voice came out small. “You said I always pretend.”

“I didn’t mean that either.”

You finally turned, slow, his hand still around your wrist. He looked… wrecked. Eyes a little glossy, jaw clenched like he was holding something in. Anger? Regret? Tears?

“All I ever do is try to believe in you,” you whispered. “Even when you don’t believe in yourself. Especially then.”

He looked down, ashamed, shaking his head. “I know. I know. And I fucking yelled at you like an asshole anyway.”

You nodded once, like, yeah, you did. You weren’t gonna sugarcoat it. You didn’t have it in you.

“I get why you’re mad,” you said, finally pulling your wrist free not yanking it, just enough to breathe. “You’re allowed to be. But I’m not the enemy, Lance. I’m not the wall. I’m not the car.”

He swallowed hard, stepping closer. “I know,” he said again, and it cracked something in his voice this time.

You looked at him properly now, saw it the pain under the anger. The way his fingers were twitching like he didn’t know where to put them. The way his chest rose and fell like every breath hurt a little.

“I just… I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he said. “Like I’m coming undone.”

“But I did see you,” you said. “I always see you. Even when you can’t.”

That did it. His shoulders dropped. His hands came up, hesitated then cupped your face so suddenly and gently that you gasped.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft at first. It was rough and fast.

Like he was trying to swallow the pain. Like kissing you was the only way he knew how to shut his brain off. His lips were hard against yours, hands gripping your waist like he was holding on for dear life.

You barely had time to breathe before he was backing you up pushing you gently but firmly toward the nearest wall, bodies pressed tight, the air around you crackling with everything he hadn’t said out loud.

His hands slipped under your shirt, thumbs dragging over your ribs, slow and purposeful now. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was controlled. Focused. Like he needed to own every second of this, of you.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his breathing shallow. “Take this off,” he said, voice low, edged with command.

You didn’t question it. You reached down and peeled your shirt off in one slow motion. His eyes didn’t leave yours for a second, but you could see the flicker of heat in them. And something darker underneath it. Hunger. Frustration. Desperation.

“God, you drive me fucking crazy,” he muttered, pulling you back into a kiss this time slower, deeper, his hands dragging down your sides until they found the button on your jeans. He popped it open with a flick, then worked the zipper down, his lips brushing against your neck as he pushed them down.

You gasped when his fingers trailed over your thighs, dragging your jeans with them, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes moved down your body like he was memorizing it no, owning it.

“You don’t get to walk away from me,” he said, low and firm. “Not when you’re the only fucking thing keeping me from falling apart.”

Your breath hitched. “I wasn’t going to—”

He pressed you against the wall, cutting off your words with his mouth. “Shut up,” he whispered against your lips. “Let me have this. Let me have you.”

You nodded. “You have me.”

[erikawrites13]

Hii! Would you write a fic where reader is Charles’ best friend and they read a smut fanfic about him for fun, but both of them are so amused they start “following” the fanfic to understand how “Charles and YN” are positioned (ex. the ff says “she straddled him and then he flipped her over” and they do it irl for giggles), but then they completely forget about the ff and end up fucking? Sorry if it’s too complicated, I just had this idea and I love your work!!🤎🤎

“Purely for Research” CL16

You were sprawled across Charles’ couch in his Monte Carlo apartment, legs dangling off the side, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and your phone screen glowing with the words “Charles Leclerc x Reader — Smut” in bold at the top.

“I can’t believe you’re actually making me read this,” Charles said, half laughing, half horrified, as he leaned over your shoulder to peek at the text. “Is this what people do online when they’re bored?”

“Oh no,” you grinned wickedly. “They’re not bored. They’re inspired.”

Charles narrowed his eyes, snatching a piece of popcorn. “Wait—what’s my line again? I say something about... her voice being ‘sweeter than champagne’? Ew.”

“Charles, shut up, we haven’t even gotten to the good part,” you said, scrolling. “Here. This paragraph ‘She straddled him, her hips grinding against his lap, his hands gripping her thighs like she was the only thing anchoring him to the Earth.’ That’s poetic.”

“That’s dramatic,” he shot back, laughing harder now. “Wait read that again?”

You repeated it, fighting the giggles. His face turned mock-serious.

“Okay, hang on.” He sat up straighter. “For science. I wanna know how this even works.”

“What?”

“Get on. Straddle me,” he said, gesturing at his lap. “I just wanna see if that’s even logistically accurate. Purely mechanical curiosity.”

“You’re an idiot,” you laughed but you were already moving, planting one knee on each side of him, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

He blinked up at you.

You both paused.

“This is stupid,” you whispered, but it came out breathier than you meant.

“I told you,” he said, not moving his hands from where they hovered at your waist. “Okay now... I think I flip you over next?”

You burst out laughing. “That makes no sense. If you're sitting, how do you even—”

But he was already shifting, arms wrapping around your waist, laughing into your neck as he half-playfully, half-clumsily tipped you backwards onto the couch cushions. You yelped, landing with a soft thud, limbs tangled.

“You’re such a menace,” you muttered, trying to wriggle free, but he was hovering over you now, hair messy, dimples showing, eyes suddenly too focused for it to still feel like a joke.

You both stilled.

Your chest was rising a little faster than it should have been. His hands, once playful, weren’t moving anymore. They were holding you now. Warm. Firm.

And something between the two of you shiften, unspoken, unmistakable.

“You still following the script?” you asked quietly, not sure why your voice cracked.

His lips quirked. “I don’t remember what comes next.”

“Liar.”

Another beat of silence. His gaze dropped to your lips.

“Should we improvise?” he said.

And you didn’t answer.

Because by then, his mouth was already on yours warm, eager, real and whatever line you’d been walking together for the past however-many years completely vanished.

You forgot about the fanfic. Forgot about the popcorn. Forgot about laughing.

Everything blurr

His lips were soft at first testing, unsure but the moment you kissed him back, everything changed.

Charles deepened it like a man who had been holding back for years. And maybe he had. Maybe this had been bubbling under the surface for far too long — through all the late-night drives around Monaco, the sleepy phone calls from different time zones, the “just friends” excuses when his hand lingered too long on your back or your head found his shoulder a little too easily.

Now, all of it was unraveling at once.

Your hands slid up under his shirt warm skin, lean muscle, familiar and new all at once. He groaned softly against your mouth, like the sound slipped out without permission, and pulled back just enough to look at you.

His eyes were darker than usual. Less Charles the goofball and more... something else. Something hungry.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough around the edges.

You nodded, already breathless. “Are you?”

His grin was crooked and dangerous. “I stopped being okay when you read that line about me gripping your thighs. That did irreversible damage.”

You laughed or tried to but then he kissed you again, harder this time. His hands found your waist, fingers pressing in with purpose, and your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips, drawing him in closer. His body fit against yours like it belonged there.

Clothes started disappearing, slowly and then all at once like neither of you could decide whether to savor it or tear it all off. His shirt hit the floor first, yours next. You gasped when his mouth moved to your neck, kissing and nipping just enough to make your back arch. Every nerve lit up like fireworks.

And when his hands slid down, finding the back of your thighs and pulling you deeper beneath him, you remembered the line from the fanfic:

“He touched her like he already knew every part of her — but still wanted to learn it all over again.”

You almost laughed at how right it felt.

But you couldn’t. Not when Charles was murmuring something in French against your collarbone low, messy praise wrapped in heat. Not when his fingers traced lazy patterns along your ribs like he was trying to memorize them.

“Still research?” you asked, voice shaky, teasing.

He pulled back, just a breath away from your lips. “Not even close.”

He kissed you again slow this time. Deep. With that kind of intensity that said this wasn’t just some accident. This wasn’t the heat of the moment.

[erikawrites13]

can i request leclerc and yn both having a breast kink? in the sense that charles is obsessed with her breasts but she’s even more obsessed with the idea of him playing with them 🙈

“Soft Spot” CL 16

Charles liked to think he had good self-control.

He could handle tire degradation at full race pace, aggressive overtakes, media circuits, and even Ferrari’s pit wall occasionally forgetting what Plan B was.

But what he could not handle at all was the sight of you, lying on the couch in his old Ferrari tee, clearly braless, and stretching like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to him.

You glanced up at him, eyes innocent. “Why are you standing like that?”

Charles blinked, caught in the act, mouth slightly open.

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve seen God.”

He crossed his arms to try and look normal. “That shirt is a war crime.”

“I’m in your shirt.”

“Yes, and it's hanging off you like a sin. You’re doing this on purpose.”

You gave a smug little smile. “Maybe.”

Charles groaned and dropped onto the couch next to you. You didn’t even flinch when his hand found its way under the hem, like muscle memory. Warm palm, slow glide fingers brushing just under your breast.

“You always go straight for them,” you teased.

“They’re my comfort zone.”

“You treat them like a stress ball.”

“Because they work.” He scooted closer and cupped you properly now, thumb circling slow and lazy, his voice dipping into that low, husky tone. “They’re the softest thing I’ve ever touched. Perfect. Like they were literally made for me.”

You shivered not just from the contact, but from the way he said it. Like a prayer.

“You’re obsessed,” you whispered.

“And you're worse,” he shot back. “Don't act innocent.”

Your grin was criminal. “Okay, but hear me out. I think I’m more obsessed than you.”

“Pardon?”

“I think about you playing with them constantly.”

Charles blinked, stunned. “Constantly?”

You nodded, leaning in close, teasing. “When you’re doing normal stuff. Like reviewing telemetry. Cooking pasta. Folding your race suit. I just imagine you casually walking past me, slipping your hand up my shirt, squeezing once, and moving on like it’s your God-given right.”

His jaw dropped. “So I’m the problem?”

“Oh, you are. But you made me like this.”

He laughed breathlessly, then leaned forward and pressed you gently back onto the cushions, crawling over you until his hips were pressed to yours.

“You fantasize about me fondling you while reviewing race notes?”

“Yes.”

“That’s so hot, mon dieu.”

You tugged him down by his collar. “Then do something about it.”

Charles didn’t need to be asked twice. Your shirt was off before you could finish blinking. His hands already familiar, already worshipful molded to your breasts like they were crafted for him.

“Perfect,” he muttered, pressing kisses to the tops, then down to the curves. “So soft. So reactive. You always get like this when I touch you here…”

Your breath hitched as his tongue flicked across your nipple, slow, then again with a little more pressure. One hand squeezed gently while the other toyed, his thumb working you like he had all the time in the world.

“You like it when I play with them like this?” he murmured, lips brushing the sensitive skin.

“Yes,” you gasped. “God, yes. I think I like it too much.”

He grinned against your skin. “Not possible.”

Every flick, every squeeze, every lazy circle of his tongue made your back arch and your thighs press together. Your hands threaded through his hair, tugging slightly — a silent encouragement.

“I could do this forever,” he whispered.

“Then do it.”

[erikawrites13]

Actress reader where charles and her do a "reacting to thirst tweets" and him.being playfully jealous of what the fans say about her and the scenes she does!!

“You're Too Hot, That's the Problem” CL16

The studio lights were bright, and the tiny camera red light glowed like a threat. Charles was sitting beside you, arm thrown casually behind your back relaxed in theory, but you could feel how tense his fingers were against the couch.

He smiled for the camera, but you'd known him too long to miss the edge in it.

“Welcome back to another chaotic episode of ‘Reacting to Thirst Tweets,’” the producer said cheerfully off-screen. “Today, we have Formula 1 driver Charles Leclerc and award-winning actress Y/N L/N who also happen to be dating.”

“Unfortunately,” Charles deadpanned, glancing your way.

You snorted, elbowing him lightly. “You love it here.”

He grinned. “I love you. Not this.” He gestured dramatically to the phone in his hand. “I already don’t trust the internet.”

You leaned into his side, smirking. “You're just scared of what people say about me.”

“You’re an actress who makes out with people for a living,” he muttered. “I think my fear is valid.”

You winked. “Acting, baby.”

Charles groaned as the first tweet lit up the screen.

Tweet #1: “That scene where Y/N shoved that guy against the wall and whispered in his ear? I barked. Out loud. Like a dog.”

You stifled a laugh. “Okay, wow.”

Charles blinked at you. “What scene?”

You tilted your head innocently. “Velvet Knife. Remember the premiere where you couldn’t look me in the eye for two days?”

“Oh. That scene.”

You looked at him, playful. “Don’t tell me you're jealous of a choreographed wall push.”

“I’m jealous of the whisper,” Charles mumbled, scrolling to the next tweet. “You whisper at me like that and I crash the car.”

Tweet #2: “Charles Leclerc can parallel park in me if he wants. Like. Immediately.”

You let out a surprised laugh. “I don’t even know what that means—”

“I do,” Charles muttered, cheeks tinged pink. “And no. I will not.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bit possessive, no?”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “You’d be the same if people tweeted about me ‘parking’ in Margot Robbie.”

You choked on a laugh, swatting his arm. “Touché.”

Tweet #3: “Y/N in that black lace dress at Cannes? I saw God. And she was pissed I was thinking the things I was thinking.”

Charles frowned. “What dress was that?”

“The sheer one. With the slit.”

Charles stared at you. “You left with me that night. Looking like that. And people expect me to act normal?”

You smiled sweetly. “You didn’t act normal. You practically dragged me out of the afterparty.”

“I will do it again.”

Tweet #4: “Charles could read the phonebook and I’d still moan.”

Charles raised his brows. “Good to know.”

You snorted. “Let’s test that. Say, ‘Aaronson, Amelia—’”

Charles leaned in, voice suddenly low and dripping with faux seduction. “Aaronson… Amelia… 482… 7639…”

You blinked. “Okay that was unfair.”

He smirked, satisfied. “You’re not the only actor in this relationship, amour.”

Tweet #5 “If Y/N and Charles ever break up, I will lose faith in love, oxygen, and the stability of the Earth’s crust.”

You glanced at him. “No pressure.”

He looked at you, gaze softening. “We’ll keep the Earth together.”

You laughed, leaning your head on his shoulder. “For science.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “For love.”

Later that night, back in your apartment, Charles tossed his phone onto the couch.

“I was very chill today,” he said casually, pulling his shirt over his head.

You raised an eyebrow from where you sat cross-legged in bed. “You glared at a tweet. And a fictional co-star.”

“‘She could ruin me and I’d say thank you,’” Charles repeated mockingly. “You expect me to not react to that?”

You crawled across the bed toward him, looping your arms around his neck. “Want to know a secret?”

He tilted his head, lips brushing yours. “Always.”

You whispered, “I could ruin you, and you would say thank you.”

He groaned, pulling you into his lap. “See, this is why people tweet that stuff.”

“And you love it.”

He kissed you like an answer deep, claiming, and completely his.

[erikawrites13]

Hi! I wanted to ask you to write a smut with Kimi Räikkönen. Let's imagine that he comes home after a long racing season and doesn't let the reader out of his arms, and then he simply throws her over his shoulder and carries her to the bedroom, where they spend a passionate night together. ❤️

After the Finish Line KR7

Kimi Räikkönen x Reader

The house was quiet. That late-autumn kind of quiet, the one that feels like the world is holding its breath. The last golden leaves stirred in the wind outside, casting shadows through the tall windows. Inside, the air was warm but empty, and she sat curled on the couch, a book in her lap but her eyes unfocused. She wasn’t reading. She was waiting.

The clock on the wall ticked in steady rhythm. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its glow casting flickers of orange light along the walls. Everything in the room was familiar, yet it all felt incomplete. She hadn’t realized how much space he took up in her world until he was gone.

The key turned in the lock.

Her head snapped up.

The door creaked open and Kimi stepped inside, the cool night air following him like a shadow. He was still in his travel clothes—black jacket zipped halfway, boots worn from the road, and that unmistakable calm expression on his face that she had memorized long ago. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, but his eyes found her in an instant.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

She stood slowly, the book slipping from her lap to the floor without a sound. The silence between them was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was charged, heavy with longing and the weight of weeks spent apart. She took one hesitant step forward.

“Kimi,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

He crossed the distance in seconds. No hesitation. No words.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her against his chest in one swift, almost desperate motion. She buried her face in his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him—leather, faint engine oil, the crispness of the outside air. She felt his heartbeat pounding beneath the layers of his jacket, faster than usual, uneven.

She tried to pull back, to look up at him, to speak, but his arms only tightened. One of his hands slid up to the back of her head, cradling it gently as if he were afraid she might vanish if he let go.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

He let out a breath, the kind that sounded like he’d been holding it for weeks.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse from travel and exhaustion. “Even in the car. Between laps. At the podium. Always you.”

She felt something melt inside her, like all the lonely nights, unanswered texts, and early morning race streams had been waiting for this moment to finally dissolve.

Then, with the quietest little grunt of effort, Kimi suddenly bent down and hoisted her up over his shoulder. She let out a surprised laugh, half squeal, kicking her feet lightly as he carried her down the hallway like she was weightless.

“Kimi! What are you doing?”

His grip stayed firm, one arm wrapped around the backs of her thighs, the other hand bracing her lower back. She could hear the amusement in his voice when he answered.

“I’ve had enough of waiting.”

Her cheeks flushed. Her heart raced. He hadn’t even taken off his boots, but he didn’t seem to care. He pushed open the bedroom door with one hand, stepping inside like a man who had just won the last race of the season—and knew exactly what he was claiming as his reward.

The room was dim, lit only by the glow of the moon through the window. Shadows danced along the walls, soft and silver. He laid her down slowly on the bed, as though she were something fragile, something sacred.

Then he leaned over her, one hand brushing her cheek, the other tracing down the side of her neck. His gaze locked on hers, steady and unreadable, but filled with a storm of emotion beneath the surface.

“I’m home now,” he said quietly.

She reached up, brushing his hair back from his face, her fingers lingering on the familiar lines of his jaw.

“And you’re not going anywhere,” she whispered.

She felt his breath catch at her words.

For a moment, Kimi didn’t move. He hovered just above her, his weight supported on his forearms, eyes locked on hers like he was memorizing every detail of her face. The room was still, but everything inside her felt like it was burning, glowing hot beneath her skin.

He leaned down slowly, brushing his lips against hers with maddening restraint. A whisper of a kiss. Barely there, but it sent a jolt through her chest.

“I don’t want to,” he murmured, the words falling into her mouth more than they were spoken.

And then he kissed her fully deeply, hungrily like he’d been starving for her, like he needed to feel everything all at once just to believe she was real. She arched into him, fingers tangling in the back of his shirt, pulling him closer, grounding herself in the solid weight of his body.

His hands slid along her waist, steady and unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world now that he was finally home. He moved with quiet confidence, every motion precise, like muscle memory — not rushed, not rough, just sure. She felt like he was relearning her with every touch, and she welcomed it.

Their kisses deepened, messier now, full of the kind of longing that didn’t come from just weeks apart, but from years of always wanting more time. He whispered her name against her neck, and her hands fumbled to push his jacket off his shoulders, needing to feel more of him. The soft thud of it hitting the floor barely registered over the sound of their shared breaths.

She let out a soft sound when his fingers brushed under the hem of her shirt, not just from the contact but from the tenderness of it how he touched her like she mattered, like she was something he’d been aching for every mile he drove.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. “You feel like home.”

Her heart clenched at the honesty in his voice. She cupped his face in her hands, guiding his mouth back to hers, lips meeting with the kind of intensity that said everything words couldn’t.

Clothes became an afterthought. The space between them disappeared. He moved above her, around her, with reverence and urgency all at once, as though he was rediscovering something sacred.

That night, time didn’t exist. There were only the quiet murmurs in the dark, the soft rustle of sheets, and the way his hands never stopped moving as if letting go would break the spell.

And when it was over, when their bodies had melted into the sheets and the air had gone still again, he gathered her against his chest without a word. One hand settled in her hair, fingers slow and absentminded as he breathed her in.

She looked up at him, lips swollen, heart full.

[erikawrites13]

May I request a fic with charles where they have a kid but charles has baby fever and it grows into actual smut?

"Encore" Cl 16

Charles Leclerc x Reader Explicit (18+ only) smut, breeding kink, baby fever, soft dom!Charles, aftercare, unprotected sex, intimacy, married life, parenthood.

The sound of tiny feet pattering down the hallway echoed earlier than expected, followed by a high-pitched giggle and a dramatic thud of a stuffed animal hitting the floor.

“Maman!” your daughter called, and before you could even turn around, she was already wrapping herself around your legs like a koala.

You laughed, picking her up instinctively and kissing the crown of her messy hair. “Good morning, bébé. You’re up early today.”

“Again,” Charles said with a soft groan behind you, rubbing his eyes and leaning against the doorframe. His hair stuck up in four different directions, and he wore nothing but low-slung sweatpants and exhaustion.

“She’s on race weekend schedule,” you teased.

“She’s relentless,” he muttered, but there was nothing but love in his voice as he took her from your arms. She immediately laid her head on his shoulder, thumb in her mouth, body relaxed like he was her personal mattress.

You watched them for a long moment, the two people you loved more than anything, your chest swelling at the sight. Fatherhood had turned Charles into something unreal soft, fiercely devoted, more patient than you’d ever seen him even in an F1 car. It made you love him differently. Deeper. And every now and then, it made you crave more.

But lately, he’d been the one looking at you like that.

Later that morning, after breakfast and some chaotic toddler energy had passed, you found Charles in the hallway, rocking your daughter gently in his arms as her eyes fluttered closed for her nap.

“She’s finally out,” he whispered.

“I’ll put her down,” you said, brushing his arm. He handed her to you carefully, reverently, kissing her forehead. Then, as your eyes met, there was a spark familiar, slow-burning, and just slightly dangerous.

By the time you tucked her into the crib, he was already waiting at the bedroom door.

The kiss was slow, but desperate the kind where you’re not trying to seduce, you’re trying to feel. His hands roamed your waist, pressing you into him as his mouth claimed yours, tongue sliding against yours until you were both breathless.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured into your mouth. “You gave me her. You gave me everything.”

You felt the swell of love in your chest, your fingers tugging at the waistband of his pants. “You’re the one who keeps looking at me like you want a whole football team.”

He grinned, eyes hungry but warm. “What if I do?”

“Then you better make a start, Leclerc.”

That was all it took.

He took his time every touch slow, every kiss deep. He undressed you like you were breakable, like you deserved to be adored piece by piece. His mouth traced the stretch marks on your hips, the curve of your stomach, the softness of your breasts every part of you that had changed since becoming a mother, he worshipped.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, crawling up your body to kiss you again.

The way he looked at you his wife, the mother of his child it was like devotion incarnate. When he slid inside you, it was slow and purposeful, stretching you open as you both gasped from the sheer rightness of it.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around his waist as he began to move deep, steady thrusts that pushed your back into the mattress. “Charles…”

“Let me give you another one,” he said, breath catching. “Want to see you pregnant again. Want to feel you carry our baby. Let me do that for you.”

You moaned at the rawness in his voice, the way his thrusts grew heavier with every word. “Yes… please—”

He gripped your thigh, pushing it higher. “You want it?”

“Yes, fuck, I want it,” you gasped. “Want to feel full. Want you to come inside me.”

His head dropped to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin. “I’m not stopping until I’ve filled you, bébé.”

The heat built fast your orgasm hit like a wave, making your entire body clench around him. Charles groaned at the sensation, thrusting harder as he chased his own release. His voice turned ragged, French spilling from his lips like a prayer.

“Putain… je viens—fuck—je te remplis, ma femme—”

He came with a sharp cry of your name, spilling into you with a shudder, his body collapsing into yours as his weight pressed you into the bed. You held him, both of you panting, still connected, still wrapped in each other like nothing else existed outside that room.

[erikawrites13]

hi can i request a smut AU where charles is a piano teacher and reader is his student? 👀

"Hands On" CL16

Charles Leclerc x Reader | Piano Teacher AU | Smut (18+)

Setting: A quiet, upscale music studio in Monaco. Charles is a sought-after piano teacher charming, talented, and maybe just a little too good-looking for your focus. You're a university student, taking private lessons in hopes of improving your technique... but the tension between you two has long outpaced the tempo of any sonata.

Monaco always felt like a dream. The kind of place with sunlight caught between palm leaves, classical music drifting through open windows, and polished marble steps that echoed beneath heels like something out of a movie. But for you, fresh off a long flight and brand-new to the principality, it was overwhelming. You were here on an exchange year, studying literature at the university, but what had really drawn you wasn’t books.

It was music. And a man named Charles Leclerc.

You’d first heard his name in a late-night conversation with your host family’s daughter, Amélie, who casually dropped it over wine and dessert.

“He’s a friend of mine. Teaches piano. Very good. Very pretty. Bit intense.”

You’d laughed it off at first, until she showed you a photo.

Intense was an understatement. Charles Leclerc looked like he’d stepped out of a black-and-white film all sharp cheekbones, soft eyes, and a lean, poised elegance that made it impossible to look away. His reputation wasn’t just for his looks, though. He was known across Monaco for his classical performances and private lessons, especially to rich expat children and the occasional ambitious adult student.

Amélie made a call. One week later, you had your first lesson.

—

The music studio was tucked into an old villa with arched windows and ivy climbing the white walls. It smelled like old books and sandalwood. The grand piano sat in the center of the room like a sleeping animal black, polished, and beautiful.

Charles was already there, waiting for you, his sleeves rolled up and a small smile on his lips.

“Bonjour,” he said, voice low and smooth with a faint rasp. “You’re the writer who wants to play?”

“I’m not very good,” you admitted, stepping inside.

He looked you over once not in a sleazy way, but with that same quiet intensity you’d seen in his photos. “That’s alright. It’s not about being good. It’s about feeling.”

Weeks passed, and the lessons became routine. Every Tuesday and Friday at 5 p.m., you sat beside him on the bench. His cologne always lingered between you fresh, woodsy, understated. He was kind, but firm. Sometimes quiet, sometimes playful. Always focused on the music.

But beneath the notes and techniques, something else was growing. Something unspoken.

You’d feel it in the silence between songs. In the way his fingers brushed yours to correct your positioning. In the way he’d lean over your shoulder, voice low and close, breath warm against your cheek.

And God the hands. Long fingers, strong wrists, veins that disappeared under a rolled cuff. It was impossible not to imagine how those hands might feel elsewhere.

You told yourself it was just a crush. A fantasy.

Until the night it wasn’t.

—

It was late. Your lesson had run over. Rain tapped against the tall windows, the room dim except for the standing lamp near the piano. You’d been struggling with a Chopin nocturne, frustrated, tired, nervous. Charles had been quiet, watching you.

“Again,” he said.

You sighed and tried. The notes came out messy. Hesitant. Wrong.

He stood up suddenly. You flinched, but he just walked behind you slowly until he was right there, body warm against your back. You could feel the tension in him, coiled like a bowstring.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

“What?”

“Close them.”

You did. His hands came around yours, placing your fingers gently on the right keys. “Don’t think about it. Just play what you feel.”

You pressed down one note, then another. His hands never left yours.

“There,” he whispered. “Good. You’re too in your head. You need to let go.”

It wasn’t clear who moved first. Maybe it was both of you. But suddenly you were turning, heart pounding, and he was there closer than ever his lips inches from yours.

“Charles,” you said softly.

He hesitated. For once, his confidence cracked.

“I shouldn’t,” he muttered.

“I don’t care.”

And that was all it took.

His mouth crashed into yours all fire and frustration, slow-burn tension finally snapping. You gasped as his hands found your waist, pulling you up from the bench and into his chest. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, and he groaned against your lips.

He kissed like he played: precise, passionate, devastating.

The room felt hot. Your clothes came off in a slow, desperate blur your shirt first, then his. His skin was warm and smooth, muscles lean beneath soft freckles. You didn’t even make it to another room. He lifted you gently onto the piano bench, kneeling between your thighs, trailing kisses down your collarbone.

“I’ve thought about this,” he admitted against your skin. “Far too many times.”

“Show me,” you breathed.

And he did.

He took his time fingers exploring like he was learning a new melody. Every brush of his touch was a crescendo. His mouth found every place that made you gasp. He whispered in French praise, filth, poetry all of it for you.

When he finally sank into you, it was slow and deliberate, like a song that had been building for hours. You clung to him, nails in his back, mouth at his throat. He moved deep and steady, watching you, learning you.

“Just like that,” he murmured, kissing your jaw. “You’re doing so well for me, mon ange.”

The bench creaked beneath you. The rain kept falling. And when you came legs shaking, head thrown back he held you through it, following seconds later with a soft, broken curse in your ear.

—

After, the room was quiet except for your breathing and the soft hum of the piano’s strings, still echoing faintly from your bodies.

He sat beside you, shirtless, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “That was… maybe not in the lesson plan.”

You laughed, flushed and glowing. “I don’t mind a little improvisation.”

His smile returned lazy, crooked, perfect.

“I think we’ll have to schedule more late sessions.”

“Definitely.”

Outside, the rain stopped. In the dim light of the studio, wrapped in his arms, you felt like you’d found your own music not on the keys, but in him.

End.

[erikawrites13]

Can you do 6, 7 and 12 with lando? Y/n being a brat and teasing with lando and he takes care of it at home

“Don’t Push Me” LN 4

6. Jealousy Turns Heated & 7. Rough Sex & 12. Public Teasing / Almost Getting Caught

You weren’t even trying that hard… at first.

The Monza afterparty had started innocently enough — a champagne toast, an overpriced rooftop venue packed with familiar faces from the paddock, and the buzz of adrenaline still lingering after the race. You’d been on the grid all weekend, Lando’s guest pass hanging from your neck, and the quiet kind of pride swelling in your chest every time he shot you a tired smile after debriefs.

But tonight… he wasn’t giving you anything.

He was distracted. Talking shop with Oscar. Half on his phone. Laughing at Max’s dumb impersonations while you nursed your drink and stood two steps behind like scenery.

So you got bored. And when you got bored, you got a little bratty.

Nothing too crazy — just a little shoulder touch here, a soft laugh there. A subtle lean-in when Charles said something in French you barely understood. All harmless. At first.

But then you looked across the room and saw that look in Lando’s eyes.

Dark. Narrowed. Like he was trying to decide whether to drag you out of there or make you wait. You could practically feel the warning in it — and your stomach flipped.

You smiled sweetly and turned back to Charles, just to push it one more inch.

You didn’t even get to say goodbye before Lando was at your side, hand settling low on your back, guiding — no, leading — you toward the elevator without a word. His jaw was tight. His grip, firm. He was simmering just below the surface.

“Lando—”

“Not here,” he muttered under his breath. “You wanna act like that in public? Fine. But don’t think I’m letting it go.”

The ride back to the hotel was silent, except for the tension crackling in the space between you.

His hand landed on your thigh — not playfully. Not tender. It stayed there the whole time, thumb pressing into the soft flesh like he was anchoring you, like he needed to feel you squirm under it.

You did squirm. And he noticed.

By the time you reached the hotel room, the air between you was so thick you could barely breathe.

You opened your mouth to say something — maybe to play it off — but Lando had already backed you against the door the second it clicked shut.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” he said, voice low, rough at the edges. “Flirting with them while I watched?”

You bit your lip, heart pounding. “Maybe.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You know what you were doing. Every touch. Every laugh. You wanted me to get pissed.”

You tilted your chin up, defiant. “You were ignoring me.”

His laugh was humorless, breath fanning across your face. “So you decide to act like a brat in front of the whole grid?”

“You weren’t paying attention.”

“Oh, I’m paying attention now.”

And just like that, he spun you around — not too rough, but firm enough to remind you that teasing Lando was never without consequences. His hands found your hips, his voice a whisper at your ear.

“You like games?” he murmured. “I’ll give you one.”

What followed wasn’t gentle.

It was heated. Tense. Controlled.

Clothes came off in a trail from the door to the bed. His hands weren’t soft, but they knew you. Knew how to draw out every sound, every tremble, every bite of your lip as he took his time — slowly, deliberately proving a point.

“You want attention?” he rasped, lips against your neck. “You’ve got all of it now.”

You writhed beneath him, completely at his mercy — and loving it.

Every now and then, he’d pause just to look at you.

“You're mine,” he said, voice dark, possessive. “No more games.”

You reached up, breathless, lips brushing his. “Then don’t make me wait next time.”

His laugh was low and dangerous. “Brat.”

But his kiss told you everything — that you were forgiven, that you were his, and that next time… he’d be watching closer.

Next morning, bruises bloomed on your hips where his hands had been. You winced when you sat up — and Lando just smirked from where he was drinking his coffee, shirtless, a single eyebrow raised.

“Still bored, babe?”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

But your grin said it all.

You’d push him again.

Eventually.

[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.