#soulstruckseries

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇꜱ + ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ + ꜰᴀᴛᴇ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜱᴄʀᴜᴛɪɴʏ

ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ʜᴀʀᴀꜱꜱᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴠᴀꜱɪᴠᴇ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴɪɴɢ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ

ᴠᴇʀʙᴀʟ ʙᴜʟʟʏɪɴɢ/ᴏꜰꜰꜱᴄʀᴇᴇɴ ʜᴀᴛᴇ

ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴜʀᴛ/ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

The morning they left for the next Grand Prix, the sky over Woking was iron gray, clouds curled like question marks above the rooftops. The kind of sky that made everything feel a little too sharp, too exposed, too vulnerable. (Y/n) stood at the foot of the bed in Lando’s flat, arms folded across her chest, eyes trained on her suitcase as if it might give her permission to stay.

She hadn’t traveled with him before. Not like this. Not in front of the world.

Lando walked up behind her, placed a hand gently on her back, and whispered, “It’ll be alright.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Just turned slightly, enough to glance at him. Her eyes flickered with something he had come to understand, fear. Not of him. But of what came with him. The lights, the cameras, the headlines waiting to dissect her like a curiosity. She was a woman who had lived in silence for years, and now the noise was coming for her.

Still, she packed.

Still, she followed him to the car.

At the airport, the world didn’t wait. As they stepped through the private terminal entrance, lenses shifted like predators sensing movement. Some of the photographers had been tipped off early. There were no barriers yet—just the low murmur of gossip, clicks of shutters, and the murmured rush of names being exchanged between reporters.

Lando noticed how (Y/n)’s hand stiffened in his. Her fingers went colder, tighter. He could feel the tremble even before she tried to hide behind him, her shoulder tucking just slightly behind his arm, her gaze cast down to the floor as if it might offer shelter.

He slowed down deliberately, tightened his grip.

She wasn’t used to this, not the flashbulbs or the sudden fever of curiosity. She wasn’t just (Y/n) anymore, not to them. Now she was Lando Norris’ soulmate. A label heavy enough to tilt entire headlines. And he knew better than anyone that the weight of that expectation could crush even the strongest spine if not held carefully.

He leaned close to her ear as they walked. “Let them look. They don’t matter. I’ve got you.”

And for a moment, she believed him.

The private jet hummed quietly in the air, a cocoon of silence in contrast to the noise outside. She finally allowed herself to relax a little, curling her knees under herself on the leather seat, eyes trained on the clouds. Lando sat beside her with a hand resting on her thigh, rubbing gentle circles—constant, grounding, wordless. He didn’t speak much during the flight. Just watched her breathe and let the silence do the healing.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

The venue buzzed the moment they landed.

Their suite was already prepared, of course, PR had handled everything in advance. This time, though, there was no double accommodation. No awkward futon in the corner. Just one large, low bed in the middle of the room, its sheets a smooth ivory.

(Y/n) stood at the door for a full ten seconds before stepping inside. Her bag in her hand, a question in her eyes.

Lando gave her a small smile. “Don’t worry. We can build a pillow wall if you want.”

She gave him a look—half grin, half death-glare.

“I’m just saying,” he teased lightly.

They both knew they weren’t ready for something more intimate. Not yet. But sleeping beside each other was no longer a terrifying concept. It was just… new. And new was a mountain she had learned to climb with care.

Soon enough, Lando started changing into his team gear, pulling on the familiar papaya colors that somehow made him sharper. She knew this version of him well—the public-facing, focused, professional side that clicked into place the moment he was back in the paddock. But she also knew the soft-hearted man who snuck strawberry yogurts into their fridge and insisted on reading the fine print on medicine boxes for her when she had headaches.

“I need to head down,” he said as he adjusted his cap. “Come with me?”

She nodded.

“Comfortable?”

“Comfortable enough.”

The paddock didn’t wait either.

It never did.

When they arrived, it swarmed with activity. Mechanics, engineers, VIPs, reporters, camera crews. The sensory overload of color, movement, and noise could crack open someone unprepared. And (Y/n), despite everything she had faced, still wasn’t used to the spotlight.

It wasn’t even the attention that scared her.

It was the expectation.

The questioning looks. The whispers. The way some people looked at her not as a person but as a plot twist.

Cameras started rolling the moment Lando stepped out of the car, and they didn’t stop even when it became clear he wasn’t alone. Microphones extended like claws. Some reporters called his name; others focused on her, their voices too loud and their questions too bold.

“Lando! Who is she—can you confirm?”

“How long have you two been together?”

“Is this your girlfriend or your soulmate?”

“(Y/n), do you plan on staying with Lando throughout the season?”

She hadn’t expected them to know her name.

Her fingers slipped from his for half a second, but he caught her wrist instantly, held it firm, then let their hands re-link.

He could see it on her face.

She was trying.

God, she was trying.

So he leaned toward her and comforted her.

She gave him a small nod. Barely. But then she squeezed his hand.

He felt that.

He needed that.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

The moment they stepped into the McLaren hospitality area, safety returned like a tide. Familiar faces. Familiar colors. The whirr of espresso machines. The scent of tires warming. And there, like a welcome beacon, was Lily.

“Hey, you made it,” she said brightly, pulling (Y/n) into a hug before she could even say a word.

And just like before, they slipped into easy conversation, the kind that filled in gaps and made everything else dissolve into background noise.

Lando exhaled when he saw it. He nodded to Oscar, who was already waiting in the briefing room, then ducked into engineering discussions with his race engineers. Even through the walls, though, his ears stayed half-tuned to the room beyond.

When the meeting wrapped, he walked over to where Lily still stood beside the hospitality bar.

“Where’s (Y/n)?” he asked.

Lily looked up, smiled. “Bathroom.”

Lando nodded, about to leave, when she added something with a grin, “You know, she’s brilliant. We talked for like twenty minutes about brake heat and tire pressure fluctuation.”

He blinked.

“She’s really passionate,” Lily added. “Said she wanted to be a Performance Engineer, actually.”

Lando’s heart thudded.

It was the first time he’d heard her say that out loud.

Performance Engineer.

It made sense. The late nights watching telemetry videos. The way she sat with him during his simulator sessions, barely blinking. The notebooks she carried with small calculations scribbled into the corners. And suddenly, he was already thinking about what universities offered the best programs. What courses she could audit first. What internships McLaren might offer if—

But the thought died the moment he saw her.

She was coming back from the hallway, but her steps were wrong. Hesitant. Uneven. Her eyes shimmered with too much light, not the kind that came from joy, but from something threatening to collapse inside her.

She looked lost.

He was already walking.

“Hey, hey,” he whispered, arms already pulling her close.

She didn’t say anything.

Just buried herself in his chest like she had been waiting for that one moment all day.

Then, finally, the whisper came.

“They said… I don’t belong here.”

His body went still.

“They said I’m not supposed to be with you. That I’m not good enough. Just some… small-town nothing. That I’m embarrassing.” Her voice cracked, eyes downcast. “And I believed them,” she whispered. “Back then, in Austria… I ran. Because it felt easier than staying. Easier than risking all of you seeing what they said I was.” She swallowed hard. “I didn’t think you’d want someone like me, once the dust settled. Once you remembered who you were and who I wasn’t.”

His jaw locked. She didn’t even finish the rest.

Tears began to leak against his shirt, and he could feel them—hot, frantic, ashamed.

He didn’t need more details.

He knew enough.

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly, rubbing her back.

But inside, something darker surged.

Later, he called PR.

He didn’t ask.

He demanded.

Names. Outlets. Credentials. Time stamps.

It didn’t take long.

By the time Free Practice 1 ended, he knew who it was.

And as the garage quieted and the teams shifted into prep for FP2, he found the man alone near the media zone, smug and still reviewing his notes.

Lando didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

He walked up to him, steady, deliberate.

“You say one more word about her,” he said, low and sharp, “and I’ll make sure every paddock knows you don’t belong here. I’ll make sure every driver refuses to give you interviews. You’ll be invisible. Understand me?”

The man blanched. Tried to mutter something.

“I said do you understand?” Lando repeated, inches from his face.

He nodded. Pale. Quiet.

Lando didn’t look back.

He walked away.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

By the time he returned to the suite, the night had sunk in. The curtains had been drawn partially open, letting the moonlight spill across the bed like silver thread.

She was curled on the left side, limbs tucked, one hand still near her face as if she’d fallen asleep crying.

He didn’t turn on the light.

Didn’t say anything.

He just sat beside her, slow and careful, then slid beneath the covers and pulled her gently toward him.

She stirred faintly, eyes fluttering.

“Lando?” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

She didn’t ask what happened.

But she curled into him tighter, tucked her head beneath his chin.

He held her until her breathing evened out.

She didn’t run.

And he wasn’t letting go.

Not now.

Not ever.

To be continued...🧡

🫱🏼‍🫲🏼ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 12: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏɪꜱᴇ🫱🏼‍🫲🏼

📝 Note from the Author: My dear Alarwynnites, Second post for today because, apparently, my brain doesn’t believe in rest and the muse is running on espresso shots and zero chill. I told myself I’d maybe take a break… and then Chapter 11 of SOULSTRUCK practically wrote itself at 2AM with sad music in the background and my heart screaming, “Let them hold hands more aggressively!”

Let’s just say: the press? Needs a timeout. A suspension. Possibly a public apology and mandatory soul-searching. Like… who gave them microphones and permission to speak that boldly? The audacity! The sheer volume!!!

Anyway, this chapter is a swirl of soft intimacy, harsh reality, and Lando in full-on protective-boyfriend mode like he was literally born to wrap his arms around someone and whisper, “I’ve got you.” Honestly, if this man had decked that reporter, I wouldn’t have stopped him. But he didn’t, and for that, we clap. Growth. Restraint. Media-trained rage.

Also, can we form an emotional support circle for (Y/n)? Blankets, snacks, forehead kisses, give her all of it. She walked into that paddock with shaking hands and still held her head up. She’s trying so hard, and honestly? She deserves an award. Or at least a nap.

This chapter made me tear up in places I didn’t expect. It reminded me that strength doesn’t always look like standing tall, it sometimes looks like holding on to someone even when everything inside you says to run.

Thank you for reading. For being here. For waiting patiently between updates and still choosing to feel every word with me.

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇꜱ + ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ + ꜰᴀᴛᴇ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴄʏ

ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ, ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ

ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ᴍɪʟᴇꜱᴛᴏɴᴇꜱ

ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

The rhythm they eventually found was neither instant nor effortless. It took time. Gentle time. The kind of time that didn’t rush or demand or try to solve everything at once. Instead, it unfolded in the small, ordinary hours—the quiet mornings, the soft dusk returns, the slow, steady learning of each other’s space.

In Woking, when there wasn’t a Grand Prix looming or a trackside briefing tearing him away, Lando stayed. And so did (Y/n).

Sometimes they cooked dinner together in the little kitchen that once felt too clean, too silent, but now pulsed with the low hum of music playing from someone’s phone speaker, or the faint sound of laughter slipping from one room to another. They had made a small habit of brushing shoulders while preparing meals, of sharing soft glances while plates clinked and water boiled. And sometimes, when the food was finally ready and set between them, they didn’t rush to eat. They just sat. Together. Comfortable in the knowledge that they weren’t going anywhere.

Lando had always been a fast driver, a quick thinker, someone who lived off instinct and milliseconds. But with her, he slowed down.

And she let him.

There were mornings when she was the first to wake. She would tiptoe to the kitchen, barefoot on cool wooden floors, preparing coffee in two mismatched mugs. By the time he appeared—hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep—she’d have one waiting for him, and he’d smile that sheepish smile that always made her breath catch for a reason she couldn’t yet name.

Some nights, when the weather was cooperative, they would sit on the balcony of his flat, knees drawn to their chests, blankets wrapped around shoulders, just watching the Woking sky. It wasn’t filled with stars like back in Greece, but it was theirs for now, and it was enough.

And sometimes, they would talk.

About everything.

About nothing.

She told him stories about Ajax, about the tiny island village they’d grown up in. He listened. Really listened. His favorite was the one where they’d gotten lost as children and ended up discovering a hidden cliffside covered in wild lavender. Her eyes lit up when she told it. He would always remember that.

And in return, Lando told her about karting in the rain, about his first-ever podium, about the fear that came with pressure and success, and the loneliness he never admitted to anyone, not even himself, until now.

She listened too.

There were no promises between them yet. No declarations. But they tried. Every day, they tried.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

One warm Saturday afternoon, Oscar and Lily invited them out to a café tucked beside the River Wey. The place had ivy crawling over its windows, and old wooden benches warmed by the sun.

The moment Lily saw (Y/n), she grinned. They had fallen into conversation so effortlessly the first time, and nothing had changed. Talk of books, of music, of mechanical engineering dreams filled the space between their drinks and shared slices of cake. Occasionally, their laughter would draw glances from nearby tables.

Oscar, sitting across from Lando, leaned back in his chair and nudged his teammate with a knowing smirk.

“She fits here,” he said simply.

Lando looked over at her, watched the way her hands moved when she spoke, the way Lily leaned in closer with every word. He didn’t say anything, just smiled faintly. Quietly. Thankfully.

Later, when the four of them took a walk along the river, Oscar and Lily stepped ahead, hand in hand, talking about something Lando couldn’t hear. That left him and (Y/n) trailing behind. A breeze picked up, pushing strands of her hair into her face. He reached out without thinking, gently tucking them behind her ear. She blinked, surprised. He dropped his hand quickly, embarrassed, but she didn’t pull away.

That night, back in Woking, they didn’t talk about it. But something settled differently between them. Softer. Warmer.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Max Fewtrell was next.

Lando hadn’t seen him in a while, not properly. The chaos of the season, the shifts in his own life, everything had made it harder to hold space for old friends. But this time, he wanted Max to meet her.

They went to a little pub near town, not loud, just busy enough. Max showed up in his usual hoodie and that same casual air he carried since karting days.

When he saw (Y/n), he grinned wide and said, “So this is her, huh? The one who makes you look less miserable in the paddock.”

(Y/n) laughed, instantly liking him.

They talked easily, the three of them, but more than once, Max pulled Lando aside for quick words, always with that grin.

“She’s good for you,” he said once, after (Y/n) had stepped away to take a call. “You’re less annoying.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but he smiled anyway.

Before they parted that night, Max gave her a quick hug and whispered, “Don’t run again. He’s different now. Because of you.”

She nodded slowly. And this time, she meant it.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

A few weeks later, Ajax flew into London for a weekend off from Formula 2 testing. They had planned a brother-sister date, just the two of them, but Ajax insisted that Lando join too.

“He’s family,” he said firmly, in Greek. “Whether you like it or not.”

So Lando went.

They spent the afternoon wandering through Camden Market, trying street food and vintage shops. Ajax and (Y/n) slipped into rapid-fire Greek more than once, their laughter bubbling up into the air. Lando didn’t understand all of it, but he understood the sound of her happiness—and that was enough.

At one point, she turned to him mid-conversation, still smiling, and asked, “Do you want us to speak English?”

He shook his head. “No. I like listening. Even if I don’t understand.”

Ajax clapped him on the back. “He’s alright.”

And in that moment, Lando felt something ease in his chest. A small validation. A quiet welcome.

That night, when Ajax left to meet friends, (Y/n) and Lando walked back to the car under a silver-lit sky. She was quiet for a long stretch, then said softly, “He likes you. He doesn’t say that about many people.”

Lando looked at her, his voice steady. “I want him to.”

She smiled, eyes distant. “I think he always wanted to. He just didn’t know if you’d still be around.”

Lando didn’t answer.

But he reached out and took her hand.

She didn’t let go.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Three months passed like this, stitched together by shared meals, laughter, missed trains, engine sounds, lazy Sunday mornings, tangled chargers, and whispered apologies after small arguments.

Three months of figuring each other out.

Three months of slowly pulling back the layers.

By the time he brought her to Monaco, spring had settled like silk along the coasts. The air was warmer. Softer.

She had never been to his house there. Not yet. He’d waited. He wasn’t sure why, but he had. And now, it felt right.

The flight was smooth. Quiet. She fell asleep against his shoulder somewhere over France, and he didn’t move, even when his arm went numb.

When they landed, the drive through the winding streets of Monte Carlo brought its usual charm: high-end cars, glimmering storefronts, the sea curling up against the stone like a lazy promise.

His flat overlooked the water. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Clean lines. He opened the door for her like he always did, and for a moment, she stood there, taking it all in.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.

“You’re the first to see it,” he replied.

That made her turn.

“No one else?”

He shook his head. “No one that mattered.”

She looked at him for a long time. Then nodded.

They didn’t rush the evening. They went for a walk first, down to the harbor, watched the boats. He pointed out his favorite restaurants, told her which corners the fans usually hid during race week, laughed as he recalled sneaking out during media days when he was younger.

They bought gelato and shared it, because hers melted too quickly and his tasted better. At least, she said so.

Back at the flat, the sun began to dip. Orange bled into lavender. The sky split into soft ribbons of dusk.

He stood on the balcony, watching it.

She came up beside him, brushing against his side.

“This feels like a different world,” she murmured.

“It is,” he replied. “But I don’t like it alone.”

She turned toward him, unsure of what to say.

But Lando had already turned, too. His eyes searched hers—carefully, hesitantly.

And then, slowly, he leaned in.

It wasn’t urgent.

It wasn’t desperate.

It was deliberate. Fragile. Real.

Their first kiss wasn’t fireworks or symphonies. It wasn’t some cinematic climax. It was something quieter. Deeper. A tether clicking into place. A breath held. A wound slowly healing.

When they pulled apart, she looked at him,  really looked.

And whispered, “You waited.”

He nodded. “You’re worth waiting for.”

She exhaled like she hadn’t in weeks.

They didn’t say anything more.

They didn’t need to.

That night, they didn’t talk about labels. They didn’t talk about the future. But when they curled up on the couch, legs tangled, her head on his chest and his fingers running through her hair, it was clear.

They were trying.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like trying too hard.

It felt like breathing.

It felt like home.

To be continued...🧡

🫱🏼‍🫲🏼ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 11: ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ, ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏɪꜱᴇ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ🫱🏼‍🫲🏼

📝 Note from the Author: My dear Alarwynnites, It’s Tuesday, and I know, I know, I was meant to post this yesterday. But alas… I was too sleepy and, more truthfully, a little too brokenhearted. Our boy didn’t get P1😭. Still, he fought hard. He did his best. And what a day for McLaren, right? Huge congrats to Oscar for the win! A double celebration in orange.

So! Here's the first post for today. Consider it a soft reset. And this chapter? It's the slow burn of all slow burns. A love story that simmers, not sizzles, until it finally does. (Also, how many cafes, rivers, and soft glances can two people have before kissing? Apparently, a lot.)

Thank you to everyone who still finds time to read my works. Whether you’re curled up in bed, on your lunch break, or just escaping the real world for a moment, thank you. Truly. You make these late-night writing sessions worth it.

Please don’t forget to reblog, like, or leave a comment if something touched you. Or made you laugh. Or scream. Or sigh. Your reactions bring life to this little fic world we share. But if you’re just silently enjoying from the sidelines? That’s perfectly okay too. Thank you for simply reading.