ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ʜɪɢʜ-ꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ʀᴀᴄᴇ ᴀᴛᴍᴏꜱᴘʜᴇʀᴇ

ɪɴᴛᴇɴꜱᴇ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ-ᴜᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ʟɪᴠᴇ ꜰ1 ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛ

ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜱᴄʀᴜᴛɪɴʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ (ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ, ᴄʀᴏᴡᴅ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ, ʜᴇᴀᴛ)

ꜱᴇɴꜱᴏʀʏ ᴏᴠᴇʀʟᴏᴀᴅ (ᴄᴀᴍᴇʀᴀ ꜰʟᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ, ʟᴏᴜᴅ ᴇɴᴠɪʀᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ)

ᴏᴠᴇʀᴡʜᴇʟᴍɪɴɢ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ-ʀᴀᴄᴇ (ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴀꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴛ)

ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪɴɢ ꜰ1 ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛɪᴢɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ

Race day in Spielberg buzzed differently.

The sky over the Red Bull Ring was mercifully clear, but (Y/n) still wore her large sunglasses, not just for the sun but for the stares. Her dress today was custom, soft champagne silk that glinted like starlight, cinched above her now very pronounced baby bump. Her hair was pinned loosely to keep her cool, a soft gloss across her lips, but her eyes were fixed on the monitor inside the McLaren garage.

Her heartbeat matched every rev of Lando’s engine.

From the team principal to the tire specialists, everyone was dialed in, and every now and then, someone would glance at her with a reassuring nod. She wasn’t background anymore. She was his person. The one the team had promised to look after too.

The lights went out.

(Y/n)’s breath caught.

Lando shot off the line clean, holding his position, then climbing. First sector: solid. Second sector: better. By lap 18, he was pushing hard into P3. By lap 40, he was in the fight for the lead.

She barely moved, one hand resting across her stomach as if to calm the babies inside, the other gripping her water bottle. McLaren staff whispered updates, but she heard none of it, just the voice of the race engineer crackling from the feed.

“Box, box. Let’s go for the undercut.”

Pit stop — clean.

Outlap — tight.

Two laps later, he emerged in P1. And this time, he didn’t give it back.

Final lap.

“Lando Norris crosses the line in Austria—P1!”

The garage exploded. Engineers jumped, radios screamed, the McLaren pit wall burst into cheers. (Y/n) clutched her belly with both hands, overcome.

He did it. Again.

Someone opened the door for her as the chaos spilled into celebration. She walked slowly but steadily out onto the paddock, escorted gently by two McLaren staff members who cleared the path, shielding her from the more aggressive photographers now sprinting for shots.

Lando stood on the top step of the podium, champagne bottle in hand, trophy raised above his head. He scanned the crowd, squinting through the flashbulbs and camera lenses, and then his eyes locked on her.

The smile he gave wasn’t for the press.

It was for her.

Later, when the confetti had settled and the champagne soaked his suit, he came straight to her. No detours. No distractions.

“God, you’re glowing,” he breathed, brushing damp curls from her cheek.

“You’re dripping champagne,” she said, laughing.

He wrapped her in his arms anyway, careful of her bump. “They kicked during the race?”

“They didn’t stop,” she whispered, pulling back slightly. “They knew.”

He kissed her, short and sure, while flashbulbs popped wildly in the background. But for a moment, they were just Lando and (Y/n). The world could wait.

To be continued... 🧡

🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 30: ꜰɪʀᴇᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰʟᴀꜱʜʙᴜʟʙꜱ 🧡

📝 Note from the Author: Second post for today! Thank you again for all the love you continue to pour into this little AU. It means so much to see it resonate with so many of you, the reblogs, the tags, the gentle comments that feel like hugs. I see them, I feel them, and I carry them with me every time I write.

As always: 🧡 Likes are sweet, reblogs are golden. 🧡 Comments feed my soul. 🧡 If it made you feel something, anything, let me know.

More soon, always.