#fashionable reader

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ (ᴠɪꜱɪʙʟᴇ ʙᴜᴍᴘ, ꜰᴇᴛᴀʟ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ)

ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴇxᴘᴏꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ (ᴘᴀᴘᴀʀᴀᴢᴢɪ, ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱ, ᴄʀᴏᴡᴅ ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ)

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀɪᴅᴇ

ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ɪɴᴛᴇɴꜱᴇ ᴍᴏᴛᴏʀꜱᴘᴏʀᴛ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛʏ (ʀᴀᴄᴇ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ)

ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏʀᴍᴏɴᴀʟ/ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ

ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʟ ᴀꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ (ɪɴ-ʟᴀᴡꜱ, ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɴᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴᴅᴇʀɴᴇꜱꜱ, ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ)

ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴘᴇʀᴄᴇᴘᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ (ᴛɪɢʜᴛ ꜱʜᴏᴇꜱ, ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇʟʟʏ)

ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴇᴀꜱɪɴɢ/ꜰʟɪʀᴛɪɴɢ ʙʏ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴍᴀʟᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʀʏ ᴏɴ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀʜᴏᴏᴅ ɪɴ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇꜱ

ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴍᴇ, ᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ/ᴛᴀʙʟᴏɪᴅ ᴇxᴘᴏꜱᴜʀᴇ

Silverstone had always been special to Lando. But this time, the meaning ran deeper.

It wasn’t just the home crowd or the national anthem echoing over the starting grid. It was seeing (Y/n) step out of the paddock suite that morning, visibly pregnant, hand tucked beneath her small bump that had finally become undeniably noticeable, especially under the late morning sun.

She wore a tailored ivory midi dress that hugged her second-trimester silhouette, the soft structure flattering her new curves without hiding a thing. A papaya satin belt sat just above her bump, a quiet nod to McLaren. Her coat in muted slate blue fluttered behind her in the breeze, and her nude block heels clicked with confident calm as she made her way across the paddock.

And even from a distance, the photographers noticed. Long lenses peeked over barriers. Snaps came rapid, some capturing her brushing a hand over her stomach, others catching the moment Lando leaned in to whisper something only she could hear.

It was clear now. There wasn’t just smoke. There was proof.

She didn’t flinch. Not once.

Because after everything, she was done hiding.

The McLaren team already knew. They greeted her with respect, gentle gestures, and genuine affection. The team principal personally saw to it that she had a shaded suite, a padded chair, and water on hand throughout the day. A few mechanics made subtle jokes about keeping curious photographers away with pit tools.

"You alright?" one of the staff asked, smoothing down (Y/n)'s sleeve.

(Y/n) nodded. "Yeah. Just… trying to take it all in."

The engines roared. Lando's car zipped into position. The race began.

Every lap, she held her breath. She clutched the edge of the armrest, flinched every time a tire locked or a car clipped a kerb. It was thrilling and terrifying, and somehow still beautiful.

And around Lap 36, one of the babies kicked again. Firm, determined.

(Y/n) whispered, “You’re really watching him, aren’t you?”

By the final laps, Lando was leading. Fastest on track. Controlled. Relentless.

The crowd held their breath as he crossed the line.

P1. At home. In front of the people who raised him, and the woman carrying his future.

The cheers were deafening. McLaren’s pit wall erupted. Confetti rained down.

(Y/n) pressed a hand over her heart, the other over her bump. She couldn’t hold back the tears, relief, joy, and pride all mingled in her chest.

On the Podium

From below, (Y/n) watched as Lando stepped up to the top step, helmet off, curls damp with sweat. He lifted the trophy high as the British flag was raised and the anthem played.

And then, his eyes searched the crowd.

Found her.

He didn’t care about the cameras when he brought two fingers to his lips and blew a kiss downward, right at her. Then, with one hand flat over his chest, he pointed to her bump.

The crowd might’ve thought it was for the win. (Y/n) knew it was for them, the three of them.

Moments later, when the ceremony ended, and the podium started to clear, Lando rushed past security just for a second. The cameras snapped wildly as he reached her.

“You did it,” she whispered, stunned by the glow on his face.

He pulled her into the softest hug he could manage with the bump in between. “No, we did.”

She laughed tearfully, overwhelmed. “Don’t make me cry again.”

“You already are,” he said, thumbing away a tear and kissing her cheek. “They’re going to talk about this photo for years, you know.”

“Let them.”

Evening – Podium Dinner

The quiet garden room at the team’s private hotel was lit with soft bulbs and laughter. Champagne flutes clinked, voices buzzed low with pride, and the mood was relaxed.

(Y/n) had changed into something equally elegant: a deep emerald-green velvet wrap dress, ankle-length, its fabric rich and soft against her skin. The v-neckline framed her collarbone, and her bum, now prominent, rounded the dress’s silhouette like a gentle hill. She had swapped her heels for jeweled flats, her hair still in its graceful low bun.

Lando’s mother greeted her first, pulling her into a soft hug.

“You’re glowing,” she whispered with a teary smile. “And you look like you stepped out of a royal photo shoot.”

“She is royalty now,” Lando’s older sister Flo teased nearby. “You didn’t see the way Andrea Kimi Antonelli bowed earlier.”

(Y/n) laughed, but the teasing didn’t stop there.

Midway through dessert, the F1 rookies filtered in—Andrea Kimi Antonelli, Ollie Bearman, Isack Hadjar, Jack Doohan, Gabriel Bortoleto—like a group of honor students crashing prom.

“Ma’am,” Ollie said jokingly, bowing exaggeratedly as he passed her chair. “Permission to breathe the same air as Lando’s lady?”

Isack elbowed him. “Don’t get us banned from the paddock, man.”

Jack Doohan raised his glass toward her. “We’re terrified, in case it wasn’t obvious.”

Andrea just nodded solemnly. “She carries twin champions. We respect it.”

“You’re all ridiculous,” (Y/n) said, cheeks hurting from smiling.

“They’re not wrong,” Lando murmured at her side, lacing their fingers beneath the table.

As the dinner wound down, Lando slipped outside with her to a quiet corner of the garden terrace, where the stars flickered faintly above the trees and fairy lights strung overhead shimmered gold.

“Did today feel too much?” he asked gently, rubbing his thumb over her hand.

She leaned against his shoulder. “No. It felt… grounding.”

“You were brilliant,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “They’ve never seen someone walk in and own the place like that.”

She looked down at her belly, gently stroking the velvet fabric. “They’re gonna grow up in this world, huh?”

“Loved. Protected. And maybe a little spoiled.”

She laughed.

Behind them, one last camera flash caught their silhouettes through the garden gate. Another blurry tabloid photo would hit the internet by morning. But for now, it was just them, Lando, (Y/n), and the steady beat of twin heartbeats between them.

To be continued... 🧡

🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 25: ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀ 🧡

📝 Note from the Author: Third post for today, and I have zero regrets. 😭💛 I had to get this chapter out, Silverstone magic, podiums, twin kicks, champagne, velvet dresses, and a garden terrace kiss?? I’m crying, you’re crying, we’re all crying.

This chapter was everything. Lando winning P1 at home, and pointing to (Y/n) and their bump on the podium??? That photo will go down in F1 history. The family support, the rookies being utter menaces, the quiet moment under the stars... I melted writing it all.

If this chapter made you feel like you were there, hand on your heart, please drop a 🏁 or 🧡 or 🤰🏽 down below. Let's talk about that papaya ribbon detail. Let’s talk about the garden terrace goodbye. Let's cry together.

Thank you for following, reading, screaming in the tags, and holding my hand through this fic. You're part of the story too. More soon.