Systemicoppression - Ronan

Mon Soleil

Charles Leclerc x high school sweetheart!Reader

Summary: you don’t belong in the shadows, but selfishly Charles loves that you’re only his there (in which Charles Leclerc has kept his girlfriend hidden from the world for years and years … until he didn’t)

The door shuts softly behind him.

That in itself is telling — Charles always shuts it gently when he’s trying not to bring the world inside with him. Shoes scuffed, travel-worn jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes a little too tired to be young, he exhales like the weight of the grid is still pressing against his spine.

Silence greets him, familiar and warm. It’s not the absence of noise, but the presence of peace.

He walks through the apartment slowly, like something might break if he moves too fast. The city hums outside, Monaco golden and quiet beneath the early evening sky. From the living room, the sliding balcony doors are cracked open just enough to let in the scent of sea salt and sun-warmed stone.

That’s where you are.

Curled up on the balcony chaise, legs tucked beneath you, a loose cardigan slipping off one shoulder. There’s a book in your lap, but it’s long since fallen shut. Your eyes are closed, head tipped toward the sky like you’re soaking in the last of the daylight. Hair soft, skin glowing in the low sun — it hits him all at once, how desperately he’s missed you.

Charles leans against the doorframe, watching for a moment, throat tight.

“Mon soleil,” he says softly, barely more than breath.

You blink your eyes open, slow and sleepy, like your mind’s still somewhere inside the pages or the sunlight or the quiet. Then you smile.

“Hey,” you say, voice rough with rest.

He crosses the distance in seconds. The moment his lips brush your temple, everything else dissolves — the cameras, the interviews, the brutal double-header, the fake smiles. All of it gone. You tilt your head so he can press a second kiss just under your ear, and his arms wrap around you from behind, grounding.

“You’re home early,” you murmur.

Charles huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “It’s nine.”

Your fingers find his. “Early for you.”

He exhales, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “Didn’t want to go to the after-party. Couldn’t take another question about the championship.”

“Did you win?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, simply, gently. Like you mean it and nothing else. No noise. No expectations.

He closes his eyes.

“You know they had me filming a social media bit with Lewis twenty minutes after I crossed the finish line?” He says, muffled against your collarbone. “I was still sweating. I hadn’t even called Maman yet.”

“Sounds like a dream job.”

Charles snorts. “Yeah. The dream.”

You twist a little to look at him. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like something he hasn’t said yet is still sitting there, waiting.

“What is it?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he brushes your hair back, fingers gentle at your temple, then your jaw. The kind of touch that says you’re real. I need that right now. You lean into it.

“They want me to fake date someone,” he says finally, eyes fixed on yours. “For a brand thing. PR stunt. ‘Broaden my audience appeal.’ Some model who’s apparently very into vintage cars and barely has a pulse.”

You blink.

He watches you, gauging the flicker of emotion across your face. “I said no,” he adds, quickly. “Obviously. I didn’t even let them finish the pitch.”

Your voice is dry. “But you told me anyway.”

“I had to,” Charles says. “It’s your life too.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Do you think they’d actually push it?”

He sighs. “They’re not stupid. They know I’d walk before I let them touch this.” His thumb presses to the space over your heart. “But they’re not used to me saying no to everything else.”

“You’ve said no to a lot.”

He smiles faintly. “Yeah, but only when it’s worth it.”

You reach for his hand, the one still resting on your shoulder. Your fingers link instinctively.

“Was it hard?” You ask. “To say no?”

“No,” he says immediately. “What’s hard is not being able to tell the world why.”

There’s something deeper in that — something that aches.

You look at him. “You’d want to?”

He hesitates.

“I would,” Charles says quietly. “But I know what it would do to you.”

That stings, a little. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s true.

He sees it in your expression. “Hey,” he says, gently. “I didn’t mean that like — like you can’t handle it. I know you could. I just … I like this. Us. The quiet. The privacy.”

“I like it too,” you admit, leaning your cheek into his shoulder. “But sometimes I think … maybe I’m hiding.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately, and there’s something fierce about it, the way his arms tighten around you. “You’re not. You just like peace. And that doesn’t mean you’re hiding.”

You shrug.

He shifts to face you more directly, hands cupping your jaw now. “You don’t belong in the shadows,” Charles murmurs, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks. “But selfishly, I love that you’re only mine there.”

You exhale a shaky little laugh. “That’s kind of possessive.”

He smiles. “Yeah. It is.”

“You’re usually not.”

“Not with the world, no,” he says. “But with you? Yeah. I am. I want to be.”

You look at him for a long time.

There’s still sea breeze in the air, warm and thick with salt. The sun is low now, slipping behind the hills. The light on your skin is rose-gold, and he looks at you like you hung the sun there yourself.

“I wrote today,” you say finally.

His eyes brighten. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Couple thousand words. Not great ones. But better than the last few days.”

“I want to read them.”

You raise a brow. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

“I’m not ready.”

He doesn’t push. “Okay.”

You smile, just a little. “But I like that you ask.”

Charles leans forward, brushing his lips across your forehead. “Always will.”

The wind stirs a strand of hair across your cheek, and he tucks it behind your ear with a kind of reverence.

“How long are you home for?” You ask.

“Five days.”

“Before Spain?”

“Yeah. I was going to train tomorrow, but I think I’ll take the morning off.”

Your voice is quiet. “For rest?”

“For you,” he says, and the way he says it makes your heart stumble.

“Charles-”

“No,” he says, gently. “You don’t have to earn it. I want time with you. You’re the only place I feel human lately.”

You swallow.

He leans in and kisses your cheek, slow and warm. Then your jaw. Then your neck, just above your pulse. You shiver slightly, but it’s comfort more than anything else — being found, being known.

“You want to go to bed?” He asks quietly.

You nod.

So he takes your hand, and it’s not rushed — it’s not hungry or dramatic. It’s grounding. Soft. He guides you inside, flicking off lights as you go, easing you into your shared room like he’s placing you somewhere safe.

In the bedroom, he pulls off your cardigan for you, brushing your shoulders with his hands. He peels back the covers, helps you climb in, then joins you. Not an inch of space between your bodies. His arms come around your waist from behind, holding you steady.

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re not hiding,” he whispers. “You’re home.”

You reach back for his hand under the sheets. “Even when I’m quiet?”

“Especially when you’re quiet.”

He’s tracing patterns across your ribs now, soothing. Breathing slow. The world doesn’t exist here.

“Mon soleil,” he murmurs again, a little sleepier this time. “Even when the lights go out.”

You hum. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“I always come back to you.”

And in the hush of the room, you believe him.

He holds you closer.

Outside, Monaco sleeps.

Inside, he dreams only of you.

***

The car pulls up to the curb in front of the Palais de Tokyo, slow and deliberate like it knows what’s waiting outside.

Flashes ignite immediately — paparazzi like moths drawn to the promise of fame. The bulbs flicker against the polished black of the car, against the glittering heels stepping out before them, against the tension sitting thick in Charles’ chest.

He glances over at you.

“You sure?” He murmurs.

You nod, hands smoothed over the deep navy fabric of your dress. His fingers brush over yours where they rest in your lap — one soft, grounding touch.

“Okay,” he breathes. Then he adds, a little lower, “Stay close to me.”

The door opens.

The noise hits first — camera shutters, yelling voices, someone shouting his name in five different accents. It’s not unusual. It’s just … amplified. Paris amplifies everything. This isn’t a race weekend. This is Fashion Week. Which means the crowd outside isn’t just motorsport fans — it’s models, influencers, press junkies, people who invent rumors for fun and watch them come to life in real time.

You step out first.

And it’s small, the moment. Barely three seconds between your heels touching pavement and Charles following behind you, hand briefly ghosting the small of your back.

But it’s enough.

The buzz changes pitch the second he emerges.

There’s a flicker — a sharp inhale among the crowd, someone saying “Wait, who is that?” and another whispering your name as a question. Not as a fact. Just an idea. But ideas are dangerous here. Ideas spark headlines.

“Keep walking,” Charles mutters under his breath, close enough for only you to hear. “Just smile. Straight through.”

You nod. You’ve done this before — stepped through this minefield together. But something feels different tonight. Sharper.

Inside, the noise doesn’t follow. The air changes. The show hasn’t started yet, and the room is full of champagne flutes, soft designer scents, the low hum of fashion people pretending not to care who else is watching. You don’t drink — your fingers toy with the stem of a glass while Charles excuses himself for a brief interview across the room.

You watch him go.

He’s good at this. Too good. Easy smile, charming accent, sharp tux — he blends in so well it’s almost hard to remember how badly he used to flinch under attention.

The memory hits like a whisper.

***

It was at school, back in Monaco. He’d shown up to class ten minutes late, hair still wet from training, a smudge of grease on his collar. You were already sitting near the back, half-hiding behind a copy of Little Women.

He slid into the seat next to you, awkward and quiet. Everyone knew who he was. Charles Leclerc — the golden boy. The kid with the karting trophies and the tragic backstory. But up close, he didn’t seem golden. He seemed … tired.

He hadn’t spoken until three days later, when you’d accidentally left your notebook behind after class. He ran it out to you — literally ran. You were already halfway down the hall when he called your name.

You turned.

He held it out. “You forgot this.”

You took it, quietly. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, then blurted, “You write poems in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You read it?”

“No, I mean, just that one page. The one on the train. It was … good.”

You tilted your head. “You read poetry?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. Then, “Sometimes. I don’t understand most of it.”

You smiled. “That’s okay. Most people don’t.”

He paused. “Can I sit next to you again tomorrow?”

You nodded.

That was it. That was the moment it began.

Not with a spark. But a softness.

***

Now, across the room, Charles finishes his interview and makes his way back to you, expression slightly tight.

“Are we okay?” You ask under your breath.

He kisses your cheek. “Fine. One of the photographers caught a weird angle of us getting out of the car. It’ll blow over.”

You nod slowly. “You sure?”

“No,” he admits, low. “But I’m pretending.”

The lights dim then, and conversation dissolves into applause as the show begins. Your friend’s collection floats down the runway — fluid and sharp, dramatic and quiet all at once. You squeeze Charles’ hand, and he leans in to whisper, “He’ll be huge after this.”

You smile. “I know.”

But it doesn’t last.

After the show, as the crowd floods the exit, there’s a moment — a flash of something too fast to be fully seen. A journalist stepping forward, recorder in hand.

“Charles, Charles, one question?”

He stops out of habit. You hesitate beside him.

The journalist glances at you, sharp and curious. “Is this your girlfriend?”

Silence.

For a second — just one — he doesn’t say anything. The beat stretches, too long, too brittle.

Then, “No comment.”

You flinch, barely. But he feels it. Of course he does.

He wraps a protective arm around your waist, not possessive but anchoring. “We’re here supporting a friend.”

The journalist tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Right. So the matching entrance was just coincidence?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

You can feel the tension in his body, coiled and barely held.

He pulls you away before it escalates. No scene. Just a quick exit, one hand in yours as you disappear back into the private car waiting in the alley.

The moment the doors shut, the silence is deafening.

You stare out the window.

He speaks first. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” you say, too quickly.

“But it didn’t sound like-”

“I know, Charles.”

Another pause.

“I just …” he sighs. “It wasn’t the moment.”

You nod. “It never is.”

He closes his eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not. But it’s true.”

There’s a sharp quiet between you now, the kind that doesn’t come from anger but from ache.

Charles leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. “I’m trying to protect you.”

You stare at him. “And I love you for it. But I’m not breakable.”

“I know that.”

You exhale, soft. “Do you?”

He turns to face you fully. “I do. But you didn’t see the headlines they almost ran after Monaco. They twist everything. I don’t want you swallowed up in that circus. I want you safe.”

“And I want you honest.”

His jaw tightens.

You look away. “This is the first time in months we’ve fought.”

“I hate it.”

“Me too.”

The car pulls up to the hotel. You walk inside together, quiet, each step heavy with words unspoken. You ride the elevator without touching. Not out of distance, but because neither of you knows how to fix this yet.

The second the hotel door clicks shut, Charles exhales.

You kick off your shoes, walk toward the window. The Paris skyline is lit in gold and white. The Eiffel Tower gleams in the distance, unbothered.

You don’t hear him cross the room, but you feel it when his hands come to your waist.

“I didn’t say it,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But I thought it.”

You swallow.

His lips brush your shoulder. “I always think it.”

“I know.”

His hands move slowly, drawing you back into him, arms around your waist. His voice dips lower. “I’m yours. Always. Even when I can’t say it out loud.”

You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “You shouldn’t have to hide the things you love.”

“I’m not hiding,” Charles says, quiet but certain. “I’m guarding. There’s a difference.”

Your eyes search his.

He leans in, forehead resting against yours. “Don’t shrink from the light,” you whisper.

“I don’t,” he breathes. “I just want the light to stay mine.”

You kiss him first.

And then everything slows.

There’s no rush in the way he undresses you — just reverence. His fingers skim your spine, your ribs, the sides of your thighs. You feel his breath at your neck, his lips brushing over your skin like apology and promise all at once.

He lifts you gently, lays you back against the sheets with a kind of sacred care. Like the whole world could fall apart and he’d still hold you steady. Every movement is deliberate, grounding. He touches you like you’re sunlight made tangible — something fleeting he wants to memorize again and again.

His hands stay on your hips, firm and steady, even as his mouth whispers over your skin — your collarbone, your chest, your stomach.

“I don’t need the world to know,” he murmurs, voice thick. “But I need you to know.”

“I do,” you breathe. “I’ve always known.”

He kisses you like that’s the only answer he’ll ever need.

When it’s over, your limbs tangled, breath synced, he brushes a strand of hair off your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For freezing.”

You shake your head. “You were scared.”

He holds you tighter. “I just want to keep you.”

“You have me.”

He nods.

Outside, Paris lives loud. Inside, Charles stays quiet — arms around you like gravity.

He says it again, barely audible.

“Mon soleil.”

And you fall asleep knowing he means it.

***

It’s early when Charles wakes, the sky outside a soft watercolor of dawn. The city’s barely breathing yet, Paris muted under pale blue and silver. The sheets are warm. You’re tucked against him, one arm slung across his ribs, your face buried somewhere near his collarbone.

He stays still for a moment.

Watches you.

You’re beautiful in the way only people at rest can be — unguarded, soft-edged, not thinking of the world or the weight of it. And Charles, for all his fame, for all his speed, has always worshipped slowness with you. He memorizes the shape of your mouth, the curve of your spine under the duvet. It makes him ache, how safe you look here, next to him. Like maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t ruined that yet.

He slips out of bed carefully, not waking you. Pads across the hotel room barefoot, dragging his fingers through sleep-mussed hair. There’s a note of stillness in him this morning, unusual but welcome. The weight of last night is still there, but it’s different now. Muted.

Your suitcase sits open in the corner, a paperback wedged between layers of clothing. The spine cracked, corners worn.

But it’s not the book that stops him.

It’s the manila folder on the desk.

The pages are stacked neatly, a thick rubber band holding them together. His name’s not on the front, and you haven’t told him much — only that it’s your second book, slower going than the first. But the edges are filled with your handwriting, your margin notes, your scratched-out titles.

He tells himself not to look.

Then he does.

Just one page, he promises.

Then two.

Then-

A line.

To the boy who lives at 320 km/h but holds me like I’m fragile porcelain.

Charles stops breathing for a second.

The words blur.

He sinks into the desk chair, pages cradled in his hands like they might shatter. He flips through more — just a few at first, then faster, scanning blocks of dialogue and prose, your voice echoing in every line. It’s fiction. Of course it is. But he knows himself in the spaces between. In the way the protagonist runs from everything except her. In the way he comes back. Always.

There’s a passage — midway through — that hits too close.

He doesn’t know how to rest. His body hums even in sleep. But when he touches her, something changes. It’s not desperation — it’s reverence. He holds her like she’s a map, and he’s finally found home.

Charles exhales, long and slow.

He reads on.

The world never asked him who he was. They only told him what to be. But with her, he can become something else. Someone honest. Someone flawed. Someone who doesn’t always win but is still worth loving.

He closes the manuscript after that, heart pounding. A different kind of pressure — intimate, unbearable, right under his ribs.

You see him.

You always have.

And suddenly, he wants to speak. To tell you everything he never quite knows how to say out loud.

So he finds a notepad in the hotel drawer. Quietly, without thinking too much, he writes.

***

Letter one.

Found tucked inside your book the next morning.

I am so tired of being the world’s Charles Leclerc. But I never tire of being yours.

***

Letter two.

Slipped between your sketchbook pages a few days later.

Sometimes I think you’re a quiet kind of genius. The world sees flashes, but I get the whole storm. You make me want to be more than fast. You make me want to be still.

***

Letter three.

Folded into the pocket of your jacket before he leaves for Spain.

I dreamt once that we lived in a house by the sea. No press. No racing. Just your words, my hands, and time. I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve that. But I want it.

***

He doesn’t sign them.

Doesn’t say they’re from him. Doesn’t need to.

You’d know his handwriting anywhere.

***

The morning after you return from Paris, you find the first one.

It’s there, plain as anything, pressed between two chapters of the book you’ve been reading for weeks. You weren’t even sure where you’d packed it. But it finds you.

You don’t say anything.

You just … sit with it.

Read it twice. Three times.

Then you place the paper back inside the pages and slide the book onto the nightstand like nothing happened.

When Charles stirs, you’re already watching him.

He groans a little, stretching. “What time is it?”

“Still early,” you murmur.

“Mm,” he rolls closer, eyes half-lidded. “You’re staring.”

“Maybe.”

He grins. “Lucky me.”

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s longer than usual. Slower. More certain. His hands come up to cradle your face, a little confused but not resisting.

When you pull back, he’s blinking at you. “What was that for?”

You shrug. “Felt like it.”

He hums, pulling you in again. “Do it again.”

So you do.

***

That day, he flies out for a press shoot in Spain. You stay in Monaco, returning to your writing, to your own quiet world.

But something’s shifted.

You start noticing the notes.

They don’t come every day. They’re not dramatic or poetic. They’re just him. Honest. Raw. Tucked where you least expect them — inside your journal, between the receipts in your wallet, once even in the fridge, stuck to the almond milk.

And still, you don’t mention them.

Because that’s the thing about Charles.

He’s loud on track. Loud when he’s winning. Loud when he’s fighting.

But when he loves — it’s quiet.

***

A few nights later, you’re on FaceTime. He’s sprawled across a hotel bed, hair wet from a shower, wearing a T-shirt that used to be yours.

“You find any new letters?” He asks, casual, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

You tilt your head. “Should I be looking?”

He smirks. “Maybe.”

You smile. “No new ones today.”

He feigns offense. “That you found.”

“Exactly.”

He laughs, soft and real. “You like them?”

“I do.”

There’s a pause.

“Even when I’m not good at saying it out loud,” Charles murmurs, “I’m thinking about you.”

“I know.”

He leans back, arms crossed under his head. “I think about how we met, sometimes. How I didn’t talk for like two weeks. You probably thought I was an idiot.”

“I thought you were shy.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. You were always rushing somewhere, but you looked like you were trying not to bump into anyone.”

He laughs. “Because I was. Monaco’s small but brutal.”

You soften. “You’ve always been good at seeing everything.”

He nods. “But you were the first person who saw me. Before the racing. Before the trophies.”

“I still do.”

He swallows hard.

***

Later that week, another letter finds you inside your typewriter cover.

Letter four.

I don’t always know who I am to the world. Sometimes it changes by the hour. But with you, I never have to wonder. You anchor me. You make the noise stop. I hope I do the same for you. Even if I don’t say it, I’m trying.

You fold it gently, slide it under your pillow.

He’s not with you tonight, but the space beside you feels a little less empty.

***

A few days later, you call him out of the blue.

He answers on the second ring, breathless. “Everything okay?”

You smile. “Yeah. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

He sighs, soft and happy. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks.

You blink. “Stop what?”

“The notes. The letters. If it’s too much.”

Your heart twists. “Charles. No. I love them.”

He lets out a breath. “Okay.”

You add, quieter, “I keep them. All of them.”

“I know,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I figured.”

***

That weekend, he comes home.

No cameras. No entourage. Just him, shoulders looser than they’ve been in months.

You open the door in sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, and he smiles like it’s the only thing he’s been waiting for all week.

“Hi,” you say.

He drops his bag and kisses you before you can say anything else.

Later, curled up on the couch, his head in your lap, he murmurs, “You wrote about me.”

You pretend not to know what he means. “Everyone writes about you.”

“No,” he says, tilting his head to look up at you. “You wrote about me.”

You brush your fingers through his hair. “I write about what matters.”

He closes his eyes. “I hope you always do.”

You kiss his forehead. “And you’ll keep writing letters?”

He grins. “Until I run out of hiding spots.”

You smile. “Then you’ll just have to start saying them.”

He nods. “I will. One day.”

But until then-

The notes are enough.

***

He sounds like someone else on the phone.

The call comes after the sprint race in Miami, crackling with poor reception and exhaustion. He’s finished P2, and the media's already torn him apart for not converting pole into a win. Again. You can hear it in his voice — the frayed edges, the clipped tone he tries to soften for you.

“They said I’m not aggressive enough,” Charles mutters. “That I’m too emotional. That I’m-” he breaks off, breathing hard. “That I don’t have the killer instinct.”

You’re silent for a moment. “Do you believe them?”

“No,” he says, too fast. “But maybe … I don’t know. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m-” he trails off again, breath catching in his throat.

You sit up straighter, your grip on the phone tightening. “Charles.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

“Charles, look at me.”

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You’re not here.”

And that’s all it takes.

You’re already moving, throwing clothes into a carry-on bag with more purpose than coordination. You book a last-minute flight while brushing your teeth, your laptop balanced on the bathroom counter. The Miami heat feels a world away, but you can already see it — the chaos of the paddock, the swarm of cameras, the sound bites dissecting his every word.

And underneath it all: him.

Raw. Alone.

Not anymore.

***

By the time you arrive, the Sunday sun is already bruising the skyline, and you haven’t slept in seventeen hours. But the moment you step through the paddock gates, heart pounding behind your lanyard and sunglasses, you know exactly what you’re looking for.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s talking to an engineer, brow furrowed, body wound tight like wire. But then someone taps his shoulder, nods in your direction, and Charles turns.

His whole face shifts.

Like breathing after holding it too long.

He doesn’t say anything. Just strides across the paddock like the ground might collapse between you if he doesn’t close the distance fast enough. And then he’s there — eyes wild, chest rising and falling fast.

“You’re here,” he breathes, voice cracked.

You nod. “Of course I am.”

He grabs your wrist — not roughly, but with urgency. “Come with me.”

He pulls you through a back hallway you’ve never seen before, past mechanics and closed doors, until he finds an unlocked storage closet that smells like tires and adrenaline. He drags you in, shuts the door behind him, and exhales like he’s finally allowed to fall apart.

And then-

His arms are around you.

Just like that.

He buries his face in your neck, hands shaking at your waist. “I couldn’t do it anymore,” he whispers. “I tried. I really tried.”

“I know,” you say, threading your fingers into his hair. “I know you did.”

“They said so many things,” he murmurs against your skin. “Not just about driving. About who I am. About what I’m not. It was so loud, and I just — I needed you.”

You pull back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “Charles. Listen to me. You are not what they say. You’re still my Charles. Not just Ferrari’s. Not theirs.”

His eyes close, a single tear slipping down. “You always say the right thing.”

“No,” you say, brushing it away. “I just say what’s true.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you — hair a mess from travel, skin tired from the flight, sunglasses still tangled in your hair. And he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Like if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, the world will take you too.

Your back hits the supply shelf with a soft thud, and his hands are on your jaw, your shoulders, your waist — everywhere at once. You kiss him back just as fiercely, anchoring him with every breath.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

“You’re still mine,” you whisper. “Always mine.”

***

That night, the hotel room is dark and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of Miami’s skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. You’re on the bed, curled up in one of his shirts, freshly showered, still buzzing from the day.

He sits on the edge, towel around his neck, hands braced on his knees like he’s holding himself together.

You crawl over to him slowly, wrapping your arms around his torso from behind.

“Hey,” you murmur against his shoulder.

He exhales. “I keep thinking I have to be perfect. Not just on track. Everywhere.”

“You don’t.”

“I know,” he says. “But they make it feel like I do. Like if I’m not smiling enough, or fast enough, or hard enough, I’m … replaceable.”

You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “You’re not.”

He turns to face you, eyes dark and heavy with everything he’s been carrying.

“You always know how to make it stop hurting,” he whispers.

You crawl into his lap, straddling him slowly, hands cupping his cheeks.

“Because I love you,” you say simply.

His lips find yours again, slower this time. Less desperation. More reverence. His hands slide under your thighs, then up your back, anchoring you to him like you’re the only solid thing he has left.

“You’re my girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “My warmth. My sun.”

You kiss his temple. “Then let me be.”

And he does.

He lays you back on the sheets like you’re fragile and sacred all at once. His touch is soft but sure, worshipful, his hands tracing every inch of skin like it’s familiar scripture. He whispers in French sometimes, half-prayer, half-plea. His mouth brushes over your collarbone, your ribs, the inside of your wrist.

“Mon soleil,” he says again and again. “My girl. My warmth. My sun.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, breath catching as he kisses a slow trail along your sternum.

“You don’t have to prove anything here,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “But I still want to show you.”

His voice trembles — not from nerves, but from feeling. Too much of it, barely contained.

“If I crash out of everything,” he says, forehead resting against yours, “I want to crash into you.”

Your heart stutters.

“I’d catch you,” you breathe.

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s softer. Slower. Full of promises neither of you speak aloud. He moves like he’s memorizing you. Not rushing. Not conquering. Just … loving. Tracing you with quiet devotion.

When it’s over, he doesn’t let go. Just holds you to his chest, face buried in your hair.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Eventually, you say into the silence, “I’m coming to the next race.”

He nods, arm tightening around you. “Good.”

“I’ll be at the track. No press. Just watching.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “Knowing you’re there changes everything.”

You press a hand to his heart. “It’s still yours, you know. Even when you think you’ve lost yourself.”

He closes his eyes. “You always bring me back.”

***

And in the morning, before you leave for the airport, you find another note.

Folded into the pocket of your hoodie.

His handwriting, scrawled but certain.

You saved me this weekend. You keep saving me. I love you more than the silence between races, more than the moments I win. You are the only finish line that matters.

You don’t cry.

But you hold it to your chest for a long time before tucking it into your wallet.

Where all the others live.

***

The mirror glints with a kind of reverence.

Your reflection blurs around the edges, not because of the makeup or the soft updo or the silk pooling at your ankles, but because tonight — the first time ever — you are not just his secret. You’re stepping into the light with him.

He’s behind you in the hotel room, shirtless and warm from the shower, towel still low on his hips. His eyes are on you like you’re something he dreamed up. Slowly, he crosses the floor, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You look like starlight,” Charles murmurs against your skin.

You smile softly. “That’s poetic.”

“It’s just true.”

Your fingers rest lightly over his. “You still sure about this? We can still back out. Stay here. Order room service. Watch old races until you fall asleep in your pasta again.”

He laughs quietly, that low, melted sound. “And miss the chance to show you off? No, mon solei.”

He kisses your shoulder, breath warm. “Besides,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper, “you’ve been mine in the shadows for too long.”

***

The carpet is a blur of white lights and velvet ropes, of camera flashes and murmured names, but his hand never leaves yours.

Not once.

You step out of the car together, and everything slows.

You feel the collective intake of breath from the press line, from the onlookers who’ve speculated, dissected, whispered. Your dress shimmers under the strobes, and his tux is impeccable — tailored like the life he lives — but it’s the way he looks at you that steals the attention.

Not just affection. Not even pride.

A kind of awe. Like he can’t believe you’re real, and that you chose him.

It’s the kind of look that writes headlines before they’re even typed.

Charles doesn't falter. He doesn’t glance around to see who’s watching. His eyes are only for you. Fingers laced, thumb rubbing the inside of your wrist in slow, grounding circles.

You hear one journalist gasp softly into her mic, like she’s realizing it in real time.

“That’s her,” someone murmurs. “The girl Charles Leclerc looks at like she hung the stars.”

And still, his eyes don’t leave yours.

“Too late to run?” You whisper as cameras flash like lightning.

He grins. “You run, I follow.”

A dozen questions are hurled in your direction as you move down the carpet together.

“Is this your girlfriend?”

“Are you official?”

“When did it start?”

Charles only smiles — polite but cool. Still untouchable. But his hand never wavers in yours. He lets the silence answer for him.

A look. A touch. A truth held in the space between bodies.

The world sees it.

And for once, you let them.

***

Later, when the speeches are done and the champagne has long gone warm, you both slip away.

Charles leads you up to the rooftop of the venue — one of those quiet, off-limits spots only someone like him could access without question. The wind brushes against your skin, and the lights of Monaco twinkle in the distance, reflected on the sea like fallen stars.

You kick off your heels the second the door closes behind you.

“God, I thought I was going to trip over a camera cable and faceplant into Toto Wolff,” you mutter.

Charles laughs, pulling off his bowtie and pocketing it. “I was watching your feet the entire time, just in case.”

You walk to the edge of the rooftop together, city stretched out below you like something painted. He stands behind you again, wrapping his arms around your waist, just like in the mirror hours ago.

“Everyone was staring,” you say, voice quieter now.

“Good,” he murmurs.

You turn your head, just enough to see him. “Not too much?”

He shakes his head. “I wanted them to see. Finally.”

There’s a silence — comfortable, but heavy with something unsaid. You rest your head against his shoulder and close your eyes, letting the night soak into your skin.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“For being brave. For letting them see the real thing.”

He exhales slowly. “It wasn’t hard. Not with you next to me.”

You feel him shift behind you, hands moving, and then he’s stepping around to face you. His expression is unreadable — tender but serious, eyes darker than usual under the moonlight.

Then he pulls something from his jacket pocket.

A ring.

Small. Delicate. Not flashy.

Two stones nestled together, pressed into a slim gold band.

One for his birth month. One for yours.

Not a proposal.

But something more sacred, somehow.

A promise.

“Charles-”

“I don’t want headlines,” he says quietly. “I don’t want statements. I don’t even want to trend on Twitter.”

He takes your hand.

“I want you to know, here and now, that even if no one ever saw us, if this had stayed ours forever — I would still love you like this. With everything.”

He slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly.

“It’s not for the world,” he adds. “It’s for you. For us. For the days you stayed when I gave you nothing but exhaustion and travel and chaos. For the nights you held me when I came home empty. It’s a reminder. That no matter where I am, what I win, how loud it gets …”

He cups your cheek.

“You are still the only thing I want to come home to.”

You’re crying before you can stop it.

He pulls you into his chest, rocking you gently as you try to speak.

“You always make me feel like I’m not just … orbiting your world,” you manage. “Like I belong.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes.

“You are my world.”

You shake your head slowly, overwhelmed. “You’re always giving and giving. Aren’t you tired?”

His expression softens. “I am,” he admits. “But I’m less tired when I’m with you.”

You lean your forehead against his, the ring cool against his skin.

“I’ll wear this every day,” you whisper. “Even if it’s just for me.”

He smiles. “It’s always just for you.”

***

Much later, back in the hotel room, you sit on the balcony while he undresses inside. The city hums below, faint and electric. The air smells like salt and roses.

He comes out in soft cotton and bare feet, moving quietly.

And he sees you — bathed in the golden spill of the balcony lights, skin glowing, hair a little undone from the night, ring catching the faint glint of stars.

It mirrors the first night you sat like this, back at the beginning.

When he came home unraveling and found you, grounding him without even trying.

Now, he stops in the doorway, watching you like he’s memorizing it.

Like if he looks away, the light might disappear.

You glance up. “What?”

He smiles, slow and quiet. Walks over and leans down to kiss the top of your head.

“Mon soleil.”

You tilt your face toward him, teasing. “You’re really not gonna retire that nickname, huh?”

“Never,” he says simply, kissing your temple again. “Because it’s still true.”

You shift so he can sit behind you, and he wraps his arms around your waist, legs bracketing yours as you both look out at the water.

“The world saw you tonight,” he says after a long silence.

“And?” You murmur.

He presses his lips to the curve of your neck.

“And they finally know what I’ve always known,” he whispers.

You turn to look at him.

“That I revolve around you.”

The wind tugs gently at your hair, and his hands find yours again. His grip is warm. Steady.

You lean into him and close your eyes.

And for once, the world doesn’t feel too loud.

Because it’s not just you in the shadows anymore.

It’s you, glowing.

And him — right where he’s always been.

Yours.

1K notes View Post

systemicoppression

7 months ago

cool guys don’t look at explosions

5K notes View Post

systemicoppression

1 year ago

"how does sucking dick one time make me gay? if i cook once does that make me a chef?" - modern day questions need modern day answers say what now

pt 2 to my previous textposts + top gun

a helping hand - ʟɴ⁴

in which, lando is well and truly fed up of the countless guys she's been bringing back to their apartment - and he's about to do something about it.

contains; NSFW, smut; thigh riding, oral (f), fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, squirting, dom!lando, masturbation (f); and a little bit of fluff.

lando norris x unnamed female character

...

...

lando awoke to the poorly concealed giggles of his best friend, gently echoing around their shared monaco apartment. there was undoubtedly a second set of footsteps following hers, and a frustrated groan almost left his lips.

he was well and truly tired of hearing his best friend with other guys - it was clear she wasn't getting what she wanted. the countless amount of times he'd heard her fake an orgasm was outrageous, not that it didn't turn him on.

not when her soft moans resonated through the thin walls, not when he could tell the exact moment she came (not that it happened often nowadays), and especially not when she left little to his imagination in the mornings, leaving her room in a baggy shirt and underwear.

meanwhile, she had her legs wrapped around a random guy's waist as he rutted into her with no care for her pleasure. forced moans left her lips and she pretended the magic knot was building in her lower tummy. purposely clenching around his cock, she arched her back and let out a long, high-pitched moan as he spilled into the condom, pushing his head down to hers to press a quick kiss to her lips.

"there's a bin in the bathroom, over there." she spoke quietly, and the man nodded, before pulling out and walking off.

he re-emerges, dressed with his phone in hand - "i'm uh- i'm gonna go, if that's okay? i had a good time with you, we should uh.. go out sometime."

"yeah, sure." she nodded, knowing she was telling a complete lie - she had no intention of ever making contact with this man ever again.

he left, and there she was, once again, left frustrated and aching for a release. to hand it to him, he had brought her relatively close - but not close enough that she could fix her problem with a few quick circles over her clit.

her fingers shamefully traced down her tummy and down to her inner thighs, gently massaging the sensitive skin. she was so sensitive already that she let out a small moan, resulting in her hand clasping over her mouth. she didn't mind that lando had heard her having sex, she heard him and (sometimes numerous) other girls frequently - it was kind of an unspoken rule between the two that it was okay. however, it was obvious the man had left, and she was not ready to let her roommate hear her finish the job off.

on the other side of the thin wall, lando had one million things running through his mind. the guy had clearly left, but he could have sworn he had heard her moan? it was obvious to lando that her orgasm was fake. there was only a few times that he'd heard her really cum, and funnily enough, it was when she was alone, and when she had no idea lando was even in the apartment.

for example, when he had left for his flight to australia, but forgotten his car keys on the side. lando had only left the apartment for a few minutes, yet when he quietly returned to grab his keys, the apartment was softly echoing with needy whimpers and moans.

it was clear she was frustrated sexually, this was the third guy this week, and it was only thursday. oh, how he wanted to help her. he didn't think she'd object to sinking down onto him, wet and needy, and using him in every way she needed - and he would let her, over and over and over again.

her mind wondered into her deepest fantasies, the secrets she kept locked away from everyone. she imagined that her own were lando's hands, thick and rough, rubbing over her needy pussy. just the thought made her clench around nothing. he was only a wall away, she could just ask him? no, she couldn't do that, she wouldn't ruin their friendship and make everything sexually tense because she couldn't make herself cum and clearly, neither could anyone else.

she was over this, staying quiet. she was desperate, her hips pushing upward toward her hand, aching for more. whines and whimpers tumble from her lips, his name on the tip of her tongue. tweaking her clit between her fingers, resisting the strong urge to call out his name - she grinds her hips into her hand, teasing her damp entrance - but it's not enough.

she whines out a frustrated 'please' as her high faded away, she wanted to cry.

lando was over this too, hearing her frustrations. he pitied her in some way, but he also needed her so badly - and had done for every single year they had lived together.

she was so frustrated, so built-up, so pissed off, that she lauched the closest thing she could grab across the room, her phone. it landed with a loud thud.

this was his chance - check if she's okay, ask her what's wrong, fix her problem.

"you okay in there?" lando said as he knocked on her door gently. "can i come in?"

"yeah, um.. come in." she replied, as she was actually decent, still in her bra, and the rest covered by her duvet.

"what's the matter, sweetheart?" he asked softly, sitting down beside her.

"nothing, nothing, i'm okay, just uh.. dropped my phone." she said with a laugh, hoping lando wouldn't notice her phone was halfway across the room.

"all the way over there? come on, i'm not stupid, what's wrong, love?"

"just frustrated... that's all, lan." she replied - now he was getting somewhere.

"how come?" he pried, knowing the answer still.

"um..." she contemplated lying to him for a moment, but he most likely knew about her issue already, so there was no point. "okay, promise not to judge, yeah?"

"of course not." lando nodded, encouraging her to tell him about her frustrations.

"i haven't cum in three and a half months." she hoped the room was too dim for him to notice the crimson blush that spread across her face, but that was the least of lando's worries then and there.

"oh, pretty girl." lando cooed, cupping one side of her face. "no one's making you feel good?"

she shook her head with innocent eyes - how could she look so innocent when she had just told him about that? god, she was going to be the death of him one day.

"what about yourself, can you do it, sweetheart?"

"i've um... been trying, but haven't been able to recently." she spoke quietly, as if she was ashamed of her failed endeavours.

"oh, darling." he softly replied. "come here."

he tapped his thigh, gesturing for the young woman to sit on his lap.

"but lan... i don't have um.. any underwear on."

"that's okay, you won't needing them, love." he tapped his thigh again, and she reluctantly swung her leg over onto him and sat down.

"relax, okay? let me make you feel good." lando whispered into her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

he expertly shifted her so she was only on his thigh, and he quickly flexed it, causing a small moan to fall from her lips.

"that's it babygirl, use me." he nodded, tilting her chin up toward him.

instinctively, she pushed her head forward to press her lips to his, kissing him without a thought. it felt so good, it made all her previous worries melt away - she wasn't even bothered about the fact that she was about to get off on her best friend's (extremely muscular) thigh.

as they made out, his other hand began to grind her hips back and forth, and he flexed and bounced his leg as her moans grew needier than he had ever heard.

she wasn't even ashamed of how quickly and how wet she had grown in the past minute or two. her juices coated her inner thighs and dripped onto lando's grey joggers with every bounce of his leg. she was whining and moaning into his mouth, running her hands through his hair as he drove her so quickly to the edge.

"go on, sweetheart, cum for me."

she was hot, throbbing all over, her body craving a release so badly that she couldn't help herself. it was his voice - god, his voice - that did it for her. it was soft but demanding, gentle but all-consuming at the same time.

her whole body trembled as her first orgasm in months crashed pleasantly over her body. she dug her nails into lando's scalp and he whined out at the sensation.

"lan... fuck!" she moaned, pressing her head into the crook of his neck.

"that's it, baby." he kept flexing and relaxing his thigh through her orgasm, and although he felt it beginning to cramp up, he kept going.

"lando..." she whined loudly as he continued to flex his thigh, bouncing it momentarily to allow her high to be dragged out for as long as possible. "shit.."

"good girl." he cooed into her ear, breath fanning across her face.

lando was so impossibly hard, it was actually painful. his joggers or boxers weren't very constricting so that was good, but his cock was throbbing and most likely an angry red due to her sounds alone.

he would say, never out loud, that the whines and moans of his roommate had the ability to make him cum quicker than he ever had before. and, now that he thought about it, he had no idea how he was going to last more than a few thrusts. whether or not he was going to have her was out of the question now, it was going to happen. he now knew she'd happily, and maybe even eagerly, oblige to sitting on his lap, wet and needy and fucked out, and letting him sink his cock nice and deep.

"you okay, darling?" he whispered, tilting her head up by the chin.

"need you, lan." is all she could muster to say - although the much needed orgasm sent relief pooling in her body, it also sent her sex drive through the roof, and now something else was literally pooling on lando's leg.

"come on, let's get this off." he said quietly, unclasping the blue lace bra, and throwing it to the side.

his hands briefly glided over her hardened nipples,

"lie down, baby." he spoke softly with a commanding voice, lifting her gently off of his thigh. "go on."

"need you.. inside me... please." she breathed out needily.

"be patient, pretty girl." he shook his head as her head fell back against the pillow.

still sensitive, she slammed her legs shut around his hand when the pad of his thumb swiped over her clit. but, it was no use, he simply pried her legs apart with his muscular hands, and hooked them over his shoulders.

"lando... please, need you." she babbled incoherently - she was drunk on his touch and he'd barely even touched her.

he lurched forward and licked a bold stripe up her cunt, making her a boiling hot sensation tingle up her spine. he lapped at the leftover juices not soaked up by his thigh, and god, she tasted divine.

her inner thighs glistened with her juices, and a wet patch slowly began to form on her sheets. he had absolutely no mercy anymore, and his lips latched straight onto her clit, her back arching starkly upwards. the most lewd whine left her lips and her hand flew down to his head, tugging at his curls for more.

a staggered groan left his lips, the vibrations making her eyes roll and her back arch - he was addicted.

still sensitive from her previous orgasm, the next one was barrelling towards her at breakneck speed. and it certainly sped up when lando slipped his tongue gently into her, his nose nudging against her clit as he began to grind his hips against the mattress.

"lando, fuck-" she arched her back up again, but a large hand on her stomach pressed her back flat to the bed, keeping her pinned down.

lando's face suddenly found itself trapped in between her thighs, she had clamped them around his head, a sign of her impending high. he didn't let up, not even one bit, if anything, his efforts doubled, as his tongue was quickly replaced with two thick fingers thrusting deep inside of her.

it was mind-bending. the red hot pleasure spread down to her thighs and up her stomach, the orgasm ripped her apart. warm liquid squirted from her pulsing heat, and her legs shook as she came so hard she thought she was going to pass out.

after what felt like an eternity, lando removed his head from between her legs, gazing up at the woman underneath him.

"you with me, angel?" he spoke softly, gently squeezing the sides of her stomach.

"fucking hell." she breathed out, her eyes fluttering open and closed.

lando dragged his thumb down her slit slowly, collecting any leftover slick and sucking it off of his thumb, and then wiping the remaining off of his chin and nose. her hips bucked up toward him and something like an electric shock ran up her body, and a smirk raised to his lips.

he quickly pulled his joggers and boxers down, his painfully hard cock springing up and pressing against his abdomen harshly. hovering over her, he pressed soft kisses all over her face, making a smile show itself. he left a trail of hot open-mouthed kisses on her neck, running his cock teasingly through her slit, her body wriggling beneath him with sensitivity.

"sensitive, sweetheart?" he cooed softly.

"yeah." she hummed, swallowing deeply as he stared down into her eyes.

"poor baby." lando pouted sarcastically, sitting down against the headboard and swiftly pulling her on top of him. "think you can take one more?"

a soft nod of her head signalled a yes, but that wasn't enough.

"i need words, pretty girl." he tilted her chin towards him, pulling her in closer to his lips.

"yes.. sorry.. need you, lan- please." she babbled, her hazy eyes telling him she was fucked out but still needy.

and there she was. sat on his lap, wet and needy and fucked out, happily obliging to letting him sink himself nice and deep. it was like a fever dream, a wet dream come true.

"so pretty." he praised as she lifted her hips up, allowing him to run his cock through her throbbing folds. "good girl, just be patient, don't want to hurt you."

she whined as he slid the tip in, letting it sit there and allow her to adjust to the thickness. the stretch was delicious, palpable almost - her walls screamed for more.

"well done, beautiful." he said softly, allowing more of himself to disappear inside of her impossible tightness.

lando pressed his head into the crook of her neck, whines and whimpers leaving his lips with every inch he pushed in slowly. it was deliciously torturous, and he loved every second of it.

"fucking hell." he whined out, gently biting down on her collarbone, a small purple mark forming on her delicate skin. "so tight."

finally, her thighs felt the warm embrace of his own, pressing down onto him as she fully took him. his tip was definitely nudging at her cervix, and he was crammed against her g-spot already - she could cum from sitting here alone.

similarly, lando thought he was going to come undone when she gently clenched around him, having bottomed out into her now.

noticing the lack of control lando suddenly seemed to possess, she raised up off of his cock, running it through her folds again, before reinserting it and slamming back down onto him.

the dirtiest moan left his lips and he gripped her hips firmly, looking up at the literal angel of a woman before him. he tilted her chin down to him and kissed her roughly, letting her find her own rhythm on his cock - as lando had previously said, he'd let her use him as she pleased.

she grinded her hips back and forth as she rode him, boobs gently bouncing as she fucked herself on his dick. lewd moans and needy whines travelled from her mouth into his, his mouth into hers.

his hand travelled between her legs, tracing over the small disappearing and reappearing bump on her stomach, before finding her clit and pressing quick, neat circles over it, spreading her wetness even further. it's safe to say things were not going back to normal after this, this could not be a one time thing.

"lan..." she moaned loudly, her fingernails digging into the back of his neck.

"i know baby, i know." lando cooed, now raising her hips for her and helping her bounce up and down on him. "you're close?"

"fuck.. yes, lan." she whimpered, feeling that magic knot build up for the third time tonight - but this time it was a lot tighter and a lot bigger.

"shit, i'm close." he whined. "where do you want me?"

"need you inside.. please... on the pill." she pleaded, cupping his face and pressing a kiss to his lips again.

a lewd moan tumbled from his lips, and her words sent him over the edge with a guttural groan. feeling the hot ropes of cum inside of her triggered her own orgasm, her marked body doubling over into his.

"come here." he whined, pulling her face into him and smashing their lips together.

the sight was disgusting, but it looked so good. his cock stuffed deep inside of her while his cum seeped down onto his balls, it was a wildly lewd sight, if he could take a picture he would.

"wait here, darling." he said, slowly lifting the woman off of him and getting off of the bed.

he headed to the bathroom, after slipping a clean pair of joggers on, and came back with a damp flannel to clean her up with.

"um.. if you want to go back to your room.. i completely understand." she nodded, pursing her lips.

"what?" lando furrowed his eyebrows. "i'm not going anywhere, love- unless you want me to go?"

"no, i don't want you to go.. i just assumed you would." she shrugged.

"oh, pretty girl, aftercare is very important."

2K notes View Post

systemicoppression

8 months ago

NEED THIS FOR MY FUTURE REFERENCES ALALAALALAL

📚 Master List of My Stories 📚

Hi, my lovely readers! Here’s a list of all my works in one place to make it easier for you to explore my stories. Click on the titles to read the full piece. Happy reading!

🏎️ Max Verstappen 🏎️

The First Time - Max Verstappen x Reader

Control - Max Verstappen x Reader x Charles Leclerc

Punishment - Max Verstappen x Reader x Lando Norris x Nico Hulkenberg

Praise - Max Verstappen x Reader

Slow - Max Verstappen x Reader

Work for It - Daniel Ricciardo x Reader x Max Verstappen x Carlos Sainz

Secret - Max Verstappen x reader

🏎️ Lewis Hamilton 🏎️

Hunger - Lewis Hamilton x Reader

🏎️ Lando Norris 🏎️

On the Edge - Lando Norris x Reader