Pairing: Lando Norris x Female reader
Word count: 4.6k
Summary: With the aftermath of celebrating Lando's victory comes the consequences of not using protection... Or that one time Lando won more than just a championship.
Tags: a tooth rotting amount of fluff, pregnancy, first time parents
You’ve been pacing the apartment for twenty minutes. Not even pacing properly, more like walking in short, frantic lines from the couch to the kitchen and back again, chewing on the inside of your cheek like that might somehow solve this.
The pregnancy test is hidden in the bathroom cabinet. As if hiding it changes anything.
You hear Lando before you see him, humming, keys clattering onto the counter, absolutely radiating post–world champion energy like it hasn’t been weeks and the world hasn’t already adjusted to the fact that he did that.
“Baaabe?” he calls out. “Why do you look like you’re about to confess to a crime?”
You freeze. “…Funny you should say that.”
He appears in the doorway, eyebrows instantly knitting together. “Okay. No. I don’t like that tone.”
“I need to tell you something,” you say, voice already shaking.
He straightens immediately. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. I mean— physically, yes. Emotionally? Questionable.”
“Right,” he says slowly. “You’re scaring me.”
You gesture vaguely toward the bathroom. “Can we… sit?”
Now he’s fully alert. You sit on the edge of the couch, hands clenched together in your lap like you’re bracing for impact. Lando sits next to you, turning his body toward yours, knee bumping yours gently.
“Talk to me,” he says softly.
“…Do you remember the night you won the championship?”
He snorts. “Do I remember the best night of my life? Yes.”
“No, I mean,” you rush on, “after the party. In Abu Dhabi. In our hotel room.”
His grin grows. “Oh. That night.”
You wince. “Okay, don’t smile like that.”
“Why?” he teases. “We had sex. Very good sex, might I add.”
“Lando,” you say, mortified. “Focus.”
“Sorry,” he laughs. “Continue.”
You take a deep breath. “We were drunk. And emotional. And very… enthusiastic.”
“And we maybe,” you swallow, “weren’t exactly responsible.”
His smile fades just a little, curiosity replacing it. “Okay…”
“And then weeks passed,” you continue, words tumbling faster now. “And I felt weird. And tired. And then I missed my period and—”
You stand abruptly and grab the test from the bathroom, hands shaking as you hold it out to him.
Silence. Lando stares at it. Then at you. Then at it again.
“…That’s a pregnancy test,” he says helpfully.
“I’m pregnant,” you repeat, voice cracking. “With your child.”
Another pause. Your heart is in your throat.
“I know we talked about the future,” you rush on, panic fully setting in. “But not like right now right now. And I know your career and the travel and the pressure and— and if this is too much, I swear I understand, we can talk about options, I just—”
He laughs. You stop talking immediately.
“Why are you laughing,” you whisper. “This is not funny.”
He’s still staring at the test, eyes wide, like it might start glowing.
“You’re… pregnant,” he says again, softer this time.
“Oh my god,” he breathes.
He looks up at you, and instead of fear, instead of panic, his face breaks into the biggest, most incredulous smile you’ve ever seen.
Your eyes sting. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” he says, standing so fast he nearly knocks into the coffee table. “Why would I be mad?”
“Because we forgot protection during championship sex!” you blurt out.
He laughs so hard he has to sit back down. “That should absolutely not be the headline.”
“So am I,” he says, grabbing your hands. “You’re telling me that I won a world championship and then accidentally knocked up the love of my life?”
“That sounds worse when you say it like that.”
“It sounds incredible,” he says, eyes shining.
You shake your head, tears finally spilling over. “I was terrified to tell you. I thought you’d feel trapped.”
His smile softens instantly. “Hey,” he says gently. “Look at me.”
“I don’t feel trapped,” he says. “I feel… shocked. And excited. And slightly terrified. But mostly— happy.”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “I love you. I’ve loved you for years. This doesn’t scare me away.” He pauses, then adds, “Okay, it scares me a little. But in a good way.”
You laugh through your tears. “You’re insane.”
“Probably,” he agrees. “But also— I get to be a dad?”
He looks down at your stomach like it’s going to wave at him.
“There’s a tiny human in there,” he whispers. “Because we had championship sex.”
You groan. “Please never call it that again.”
“I absolutely will,” he grins. “That kid was conceived in victory.”
You bury your face in his chest, laughing and crying at the same time. “I can’t believe this.”
He wraps his arms around you tightly. “I can. Somehow, this just feels… right.”
You pull back slightly. “You really mean that?”
He presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another.
“I mean it,” he says softly. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Like we always do.”
You rest your head against his shoulder, finally breathing again.
“…You’re going to be such an annoying dad,” you murmur.
He beams. “Oh, I’m already planning.”
You smile despite yourself. Terrified. Overwhelmed. But held, completely and unquestionably, by the man who just proved that sometimes, the scariest surprises turn out to be the happiest ones.
Time starts passing in small, ordinary ways.
In weeks measured by doctor’s appointments. In mornings where you wake up hungrier than usual. In evenings where Lando has somehow made you tea without you asking.
He becomes… attentive. Not in a dramatic way. Just constant.
“Sit,” he says one afternoon, already pulling out a chair.
You find snacks appearing in places you don’t remember putting them. A blanket draped over your legs. Your water bottle magically refilled.
“Are you nesting,” you ask him once.
He looks genuinely offended. “I’m preparing.”
He spoils you. Not flashy, not public, just soft, domestic spoiling.
He orders your favorite food on days you feel emotional. He buys pillows because “your back looked uncomfortable.” He replaces the candles because he read strong scents might be overwhelming now.
You catch him one night, curled up on the couch with his laptop, eyes serious.
“What are you watching?” you ask.
“…How to swaddle a baby.”
You blink. “It’s month three.”
“I like to be early,” he says defensively.
You laugh, heart swelling. “You’re going to be amazing.”
He shrugs. “I’m just trying not to mess it up.”
Sometimes the research turns emotional. You find books stacked neatly by the bed. Not just about babies, about being present. About breaking cycles. About raising kids with kindness and patience.
How to be the dad your child deserves
That one makes you pause.
You don’t mention it. You just kiss his cheek and let him hold you a little tighter that night.
The world still doesn’t know. Your absence turns into rumors. People speculate. The internet invents breakups that don’t exist.
“Do we correct them?” you ask one evening.
Lando shakes his head. “Not yet. This is ours.”
You nod. “I like it being quiet.”
“Me too,” he says. “It feels safe.”
Only close people know. His mum calls more often. Asks how you’re feeling. Sends recipes. Max texts unhelpful advice. Pietra sends baby clothes “just to be annoying.” Lando reads every message carefully.
He talks to your stomach now. Tells it about tracks. About racing lines. About how lucky it is.
“I’ll teach you everything I know,” he whispers. “Except how to drive fast. That one’s optional.”
You catch him one afternoon standing in the doorway, watching you nap.
He smiles softly. “Nothing. Just… happy.”
He’s protective, but gentle. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk. He insists on slow mornings. He kisses your forehead like a promise. And sometimes, when you’re curled together at night, he rests a hand over your stomach, voice low.
“I want to be good at this,” he says quietly.
“You already are,” you reply.
He exhales, holding you closer. Outside, the world waits. Inside, he’s learning how to love in a way that lasts forever. And somehow, without trophies or headlines, this feels like the most important thing he’s ever done.
The summer has been gentle.
Slow mornings with sunlight spilling across rumpled sheets. Long breakfasts that turn into naps on the couch. Walks taken at an embarrassingly careful pace because Lando keeps insisting you “don’t rush, please, I read something.”
You’re eight months pregnant now. Round and radiant and very aware of it. Lando, meanwhile, has spent the off-season like it’s his last chance to hoard time.
He’s home more. Present. Distractingly affectionate. He takes you on short trips, cooks dinners he’s absolutely Googled beforehand, and talks to your stomach like it’s already a fully sentient person with opinions.
“I’m going back to work soon,” he murmurs one night, hand warm over your belly. “But I’ll be back before you know it.”
You smile softly. “I know.”
Zandvoort comes quicker than either of you want.
Packing his bag feels heavier this time. Every hug lasts a second longer. Every kiss feels like a promise.
“You’re going to be fine,” you tell him, hands resting on his chest. “Go do your thing.”
He presses his forehead to yours. “I hate leaving you like this.”
“You’re allowed to race,” you tease gently. “Even very pregnant girlfriends can survive a few days.”
He exhales, then kisses you again. “I love you.”
At Zandvoort, everything snaps back into place. The noise. The cameras. The press room packed with journalists and flashing lights.
Lando sits at the table, headset on, posture relaxed in that familiar way. World Champion. Confident. Smiling easily.
The questions start simple.
“How was the summer break for you?”
“Did you feel refreshed coming back?”
“Are you feeling pressure to defend your title?”
“It was great,” he says. “Really quiet. Exactly what I needed.”
Then someone asks, “Did you manage to disconnect from racing at all?”
He nods without thinking. “Yeah, definitely. I mean, I spent most of the time at home, just enjoying—” he pauses, then continues easily, “—being with my partner before the baby comes.”
The room goes very, very quiet.
Lando blinks. Once. Twice.
“…Before the what?” a journalist says slowly.
Lando’s eyes widen just a fraction. He glances down at the table like maybe the words will crawl back into his mouth.
“Well,” he says, letting out a small, helpless laugh. “I guess that’s out now.”
“Wait— you’re having a baby?”
“Did you just announce you’re going to be a father?”
“With your long-term partner?”
“When is she due?”
Lando lifts his hands slightly, laughing in disbelief. “Okay, okay— that was not the plan.”
He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushing faintly. “Yes. We’re— we’re expecting. Very soon.”
There’s a ripple of surprise, then smiles. Genuine ones.
“That’s incredible,” someone says.
“Congratulations,” another adds.
Lando’s expression softens immediately. “Thank you,” he says, quieter now. “Yeah. It’s… it’s the best thing.”
Later, when he finally gets his phone back, it’s already vibrating in his hand.
He laughs out loud, right there in the paddock, earning a few confused looks. He types back quickly.
I slipped. I’m so sorry. Are you mad?
A few seconds pass. Then:
Mad? No. Terrified you announced it before I could breathe, yes.
He grins, relief flooding his chest.
You okay?
I’m fine. Everyone’s already texting. Your mum cried. Again.
The reply comes almost instantly.
I love you too. Guess the secret’s out, dad.
He stares at the screen for a moment. Dad.
He presses his phone to his chest, smiling like an idiot.
Accidental or not, the world knows now. And for the first time, Lando realizes he’s never been prouder of anything he didn’t win on track.
Not the gentle kind of waking, not the I need water kind, but the sudden, unmistakable awareness that something is wrong. Different. Your body feels heavy and alert at the same time, like it’s trying to tell you something very important without giving you the full sentence.
You push yourself upright, heart immediately picking up speed. The room is dark, quiet, still. Lando is beside you, completely unconscious, sprawled out like a man who has never known responsibility.
You sit there for a second, blinking.
“…Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”
You swing your legs over the side of the bed just as another wave of discomfort rolls through you, sharp enough to make you suck in a breath.
“Lando,” you try again, nudging his arm.
He groans. “Mmm… no meetings today.”
“I think my water broke.”
The response is instant. He sits up so fast he nearly knocks the headboard.
“Lando,” you say quickly, “don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking,” he says, eyes already wild. “What do you mean your water broke?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
Silence. Then: “Oh my god.”
He scrambles out of bed, nearly tripping over the duvet. “Oh my god,” he repeats. “Okay. Okay. This is happening.”
You stand carefully and immediately have to brace yourself as another wave hits. You groan softly.
Lando freezes. “Was that pain?” he asks, voice cracking. “That sounded like pain.”
“That’s pain,” he decides. “That’s definitely pain.”
“Right,” he nods frantically. “Pants. Hospital pants. Or— your pants.”
He opens the dresser, pulls out something wildly incorrect, throws it back.
“These are jeans,” he mutters. “Why do we own jeans.”
You can’t help but laugh, which immediately turns into another groan.
Lando spins toward you. “Okay, no, don’t do that. Don’t make that noise.”
“I know,” he says quickly, moving closer, hands hovering uselessly. “I just— tell me what you need.”
“Just help me,” you breathe.
He does. Carefully. Gently. Like you might shatter if he moves wrong. “Okay,” he murmurs. “You’re doing amazing. You’re literally perfect.”
“A little,” he admits. “But I’ve got you.”
You make it to the hallway, then the front door, Lando moving at your pace, eyes flicking to you every two seconds like he’s expecting you to collapse.
Another contraction hits. You groan again. He stops dead.
“That one was worse,” he says, horrified.
“It is not fine,” he says. “Should I call someone? Or— or speed up?”
“We’re already leaving,” you remind him.
The drive feels surreal. He buckles your seatbelt like it’s a sacred ritual, hands shaking.
“I’m driving carefully,” he says. “Very carefully.”
You grip the door during another wave, breathing through it. Lando glances over and immediately looks like he’s about to cry.
“Talk to me,” he says. “Please.”
He swallows. “I hate that I can’t do anything.”
“You’re doing everything.”
He nods, jaw clenched. “If this baby had picked a race weekend—”
You huff a laugh. “It’s Tuesday.”
“Thank god,” he whispers fervently. “Thank you, racing gods.”
When the hospital finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
“We’re here,” he says, voice thick. “We’re here.”
He parks badly, but he doesn’t care. He’s out of the car in seconds, opening your door, offering his arm, his shoulder, his entire existence.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, softer now.
And as you walk into the bright lights together, fear and excitement tangled tight between you, one thing is very clear—
He’s terrified. But he’s not going anywhere.
The room is calm in a way that feels fake.
Soft lights. Machines humming quietly. A nurse adjusting something with practiced ease while you lie there, breathing through another wave, knuckles white around the sheets.
Lando stands at your side like a guard dog who has no idea what he’s guarding against but is deeply committed anyway.
“You’re doing amazing,” he says for what has to be the twentieth time.
“I am literally just lying here,” you pant.
“And you’re doing it incredibly,” he insists.
When the anesthesiologist comes in, Lando straightens immediately.
“Hi,” the man says calmly. “We’re going to place the epidural now.”
Lando nods. “Great. Amazing. Love that.”
Then he looks at the needle. His face drains of color.
“That,” he says faintly, “is bigger than I expected.”
You squeeze his hand. “Don’t pass out.”
“I’m not going to pass out,” he says quickly. “I’m just— I read about this. I did read about this.”
“You need to sit down,” the nurse says kindly.
You hiss softly as they position you.
Lando immediately panics. “Okay, no, I don’t like that sound. Are you okay? You’re okay, right?”
“I’m okay,” you breathe. “Just— stay with me.”
“I’m here,” he says instantly, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m not looking. I am absolutely not looking.”
When it’s done, he exhales like he’s been underwater.
“You survived,” he says to you reverently.
“So did you,” you mutter.
Hours pass in strange increments, measured by checks, encouragement, soft voices telling you you’re doing well. Lando never leaves your side. He feeds you ice chips. He holds your hand. He counts breaths when you lose the rhythm.
When the doctor finally says, “Okay, it’s time,” Lando freezes.
“Yes,” the doctor smiles.
He looks at you, eyes wide. “Okay. Okay. We can do this.”
You groan as another contraction builds.
He immediately looks wrecked. “I hate this. I hate that you’re in pain.”
That grounds him instantly.
“I’m here,” he says, voice steady now. “I’ve got you.”
The contractions ramp up fast, fast enough that whatever sense of control you thought you had disappears entirely. The room fills with sound, monitors beeping, nurses moving with purpose, your own breathing turning sharp and uneven.
Lando is right there. Always right there.
“Okay, okay,” he says, voice trembling as he grips your hand. “Breathe with me. In— out—”
You scream. Like, actually scream.
“Okay,” he blurts, panicking. “That was— that was louder than before.”
“I AM IN PAIN,” you yell. “THIS IS YOUR FAULT.”
“I KNOW,” he says immediately. “I TAKE FULL RESPONSIBILITY.”
Another contraction hits and you grab his arm with surprising strength. “I am NEVER,” you gasp, “EVER having sex with you again.”
He nods frantically. “That’s fair. Completely fair. I accept this.”
Time stretches. Hours blur together, pushing, resting, pain returning despite everything. Lando wipes your forehead, feeds you ice chips, murmurs encouragement like it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality.
“You’re incredible,” he says over and over.
“I’ve never loved anyone like this.”
“You’re the strongest person I know.”
When the doctor finally says, “Okay, we’re ready to push,” Lando freezes.
“…Now?” he asks, terrified.
He looks at you. Really looks at you. “Okay,” he says softly. “I’m here. I’ve got you. Whatever you need.”
Another contraction hits. You scream, gripping him hard. “I HATE YOU,” you cry. “I LOVE YOU BUT I HATE YOU.”
He laughs shakily. “I’ll take it.”
You push. He counts when they ask him to, voice breaking halfway through.
“One— two— three— okay, okay, breathe—”
At one point, overwhelmed, he whispers, “I’m so sorry you’re doing this.”
“I KNOW,” he says, crying now too. “AND I’LL SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE MAKING IT UP TO YOU.”
“I can see the head,” the doctor says.
Lando lets out a sound that might be a prayer. “Oh my god,” he whispers. “Oh my god.”
You push again, everything in you focused on this moment, Lando right there, grounding you through every breath.
“Oh my god,” Lando breathes again, tears streaming freely now.
The doctor smiles. “It’s a girl.”
Lando breaks completely. “A girl,” he whispers, laughing and crying at the same time. “We have a girl.”
They place her on your chest, warm, tiny, wriggling, very real. You sob openly now, exhaustion and love crashing together.
Lando leans over you both, kissing your forehead, then your cheek, then her tiny head with reverence.
“Hi,” he whispers shakily. “Hi, sweetheart. I’m your dad.”
She quiets almost instantly.
He lets out a broken laugh. “She knows.”
You smile through tears. “Of course she does.”
He curls around you both, careful and protective, eyes shining.
“I’ve won races,” he murmurs. “I’ve won a championship.” Then, quieter: “This is better.”
You rest your head back, daughter safe against your chest, Lando’s hand warm over both of you.
What’s left is soft and overwhelming and perfect. And somehow, in the middle of all that noise and love, you know this is the moment everything changes. Forever.
The first weeks blur together.
Days don’t have names anymore, just before the next feeding and after the last time someone cried. The apartment is quieter and louder at the same time, filled with soft coos and sudden wails and the constant hum of something always needing to be done.
Sleep becomes optional. Lando discovers this very quickly.
He moves through the nights half-awake, hair a mess, T-shirt inside out, scooping your daughter up the second she makes a sound.
“I’ve got her,” he whispers every time, even when you’re already reaching. “You stay.”
You watch him learn her rhythms like it’s instinct.
The way he rocks her gently. The way he hums nonsense songs under his breath. The way his entire face softens the second she quiets against his chest.
“You’re obsessed,” you murmur one morning as he stands by the window, bouncing her carefully.
“I am deeply in love,” he replies without hesitation. “She blinked at me earlier.”
Postpartum hits you in waves.
Some days you feel okay. Other days, everything feels heavy for no clear reason. Lando notices every shift.
He brings you water without asking. He reminds you to eat. He sits with you in the quiet when words feel like too much.
“You don’t have to be strong,” he tells you softly one night when you cry into his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”
At 3 a.m., bleary-eyed and yawning, he changes diapers like it’s a sacred ritual.
“Why is she this small?” he whispers once, marveling. “How is she real?”
“She’s ours,” you say, smiling tiredly.
He talks to her constantly. Explains Formula 1 like she understands. Apologizes when he fumbles a onesie. Promises to always show up.
“Daddy’s here,” he whispers whenever she fusses. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You catch him one afternoon asleep on the couch, her curled against his chest, one hand resting protectively on her back. Your heart aches in the best way.
“Girl dad,” you tease softly.
He grins, eyes barely open. “Best job I’ve ever had.”
The world outside still moves fast. Inside, time slows.
Messy. Tender. Exhausting.
And somehow, through the sleepless nights and the learning curves, love keeps growing, quiet, steady, unshakeable.
This is the life you built together. And Lando wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Six years later, life is loud in the best possible way.
The house is full, not just occupied, but alive. Voices overlap, laughter drifts in from the garden, someone’s arguing about where to put the cake table. Balloons bob lazily in the late-morning breeze, pink and white streamers tied to the fence.
And in the middle of it all is Emma. Six years old today.
She’s barefoot, already a little sugar-hyper, hair half-up and falling out in wisps just like Lando’s does when he forgets about it. She’s darting between relatives, showing off the glittery “6” badge on her shirt like it’s a medal.
Lando is not relaxed. He’s hovering near the garage, hands shoved into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like he’s waiting to be called into a meeting.
You waddle over, five months pregnant, still comfortable but very aware of your body, one hand resting protectively on your belly, the other balancing a glass of lemonade.
“You’re pacing,” you say.
“I’m not pacing,” he replies immediately. “I’m… mentally preparing.”
“For a six-year-old,” you deadpan.
He glances toward the garden, where Emma is currently trying to convince her grandparents that she’s “basically seven.”
“What if she hates it?” he whispers. “What if it’s too pink? Or not pink enough? Or— what if she wanted a scooter?”
“You bought her a kart,” you remind him gently.
“A small kart,” he corrects. “A very controlled kart.”
You smile, reaching out to smooth a hand over his arm. “She’s going to lose her mind.”
He exhales shakily. “I just want it to be perfect.”
You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. “You already are.”
He softens instantly, then bends to kiss your belly too, hand resting there like it belongs.
“Please don’t let your sibling be born on a birthday,” he murmurs. “Let me survive one major event at a time.”
You laugh quietly. “No promises.”
Eventually, cake plates are set aside and everyone gathers in the garden. Emma bounces in place, eyes wide, hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“Okay,” Lando announces, clapping once. “Birthday girl. One last present.”
Emma gasps dramatically. “Another one?”
“Possibly,” he says, suddenly very aware of the tarp covering something large behind him.
He grips the edge of it, pauses, looks at you one last time. You nod. He pulls it away. The world seems to stop for a second. There it is.
A perfectly sized kart, bubblegum pink, glossy, sparkling in the sunlight. Barbie decals along the sides. Her name painted carefully in white on the front.
Emma freezes. Her mouth falls open. “…Is that,” she whispers, “mine?”
Lando crouches immediately, heart in his throat. “It is. But only if you like it.”
She lets out a shriek that could wake the neighbors. “I LOVE IT!” she screams, throwing herself at him.
He laughs, caught completely off guard as she wraps her arms around his neck.
“Okay— okay— easy—” he chuckles, voice thick. “Careful.”
She bolts toward the kart.
“HELMET,” Lando shouts instantly.
Emma skids to a stop, groans. “Daaad.”
“Helmet first,” he insists, already grabbing it. “Safety is cool.”
You watch, smiling, as he kneels to secure it properly, adjusting the strap, checking it twice like he’s prepping her for Monaco.
“Okay,” he says seriously. “No sharp turns. Slow at first. Brake early.”
She nods solemnly. “I know.”
She climbs in. Pushes off. And immediately takes off.
“Oh my god,” Lando breathes. “She’s fast.”
“She’s yours,” you call, laughing.
Emma zooms around the garden, laughter ringing out, hair flying behind her helmet, pure joy written across her face.
“She likes it,” he says softly, like he needs to say it out loud.
“She adores it,” you reply.
He turns to you, eyes shining, and kisses you, slow and warm and grounding, then drops down to kiss your belly again, palm resting there protectively.
“You see that?” he murmurs. “That’s your sister. She’s already cooler than me.”
“I’M LOOKING,” he yells back. “BUT BE CAREFUL!”
You laugh, surrounded by family, by noise, by love, hand resting on your belly, heart so full it almost hurts.
Six years ago, he was terrified in a hospital room. Now he’s here, proud, emotional, slightly unhinged, watching his daughter race in circles and loving every second of it.
World champion. Girl dad. And somehow, still winning.
