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pankowcrumbs · 11 hours ago

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Stylist X Lando Norris (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: Lando Norris x Reader: Reader is the Stylist for the them and it is love at first sight.

There’s a kind of chaos that exists in the world of Formula 1 that most people never really see. The roaring engines, the flashing cameras, the pit lane buzz all of that’s just surface noise. The real frenzy happens backstage fittings, last-minute wardrobe emergencies, PR shoots that turn into full-blown campaigns overnight.

And somewhere in the middle of it all: me.

I’ve been working as a personal stylist for about four years now. When McLaren offered me the chance to style both of their drivers Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri I said yes before the email had even finished loading. I'd worked with athletes before, but this? This was something else. These two weren’t just racers they were brands. And I was about to dress them like they owned every room they walked into.

The first time I met Lando was in a hotel suite in Monaco, three days before the Grand Prix. I was sorting through suits, hanging a few casual pieces near the wardrobe when I heard the door open behind me.

I turned and there he was.

Messy curls, warm hazel eyes, tan skin that made my breath catch. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way he looked at me. Like he’d forgotten what he came in for.

"Hi," he said, blinking like he was pulling himself back to earth. "You're… not what I expected."

I raised a brow. “What did you expect?”

“I dunno some guy named Trevor with measuring tape around his neck, I guess.”

I laughed, shaking his hand. “Y/N. I’m here to make sure you don’t end up wearing shoes two sizes too big in front of a billion people.”

He grinned. “Then thank God for you.”

That was it the spark. Instant. Unmistakable. It danced in the air between us, subtle but alive.

Oscar arrived minutes later and, thankfully, didn't seem to notice the way I kept stealing glances at Lando while adjusting their jackets. Or how he kept glancing at me through the mirror while I worked.

“You have a favourite?” Lando asked later, as I fussed with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Driver or suit?”

He smirked. “Both.”

I hummed like I was thinking hard. “Oscar’s very cooperative. Doesn’t argue about colour theory. And this navy double-breasted on him? Magic.”

Lando placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “Harsh.”

I tilted my head, pretending to assess him. “But you? You wear the hell out of anything I put you in. Even when you whinge about skinny trousers.”

He laughed, full and boyish. “Fair enough.”

We were flirting. Obviously. But nothing about it felt forced. It was… effortless. The kind of connection you don’t question because it just fits.

By the end of the weekend, I was gone for him.

And judging by the way he pulled me aside after the race, still flushed from adrenaline, I wasn’t alone.

“I know this is probably unprofessional,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “but I’d regret it forever if I didn’t ask”

“Yes,” I cut in.

He blinked. “I haven’t even said what I was asking.”

“You were going to ask me out, right?”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “Yeah. I was.”

“Then yes.”

He looked stunned for half a second, then laughed again. “Okay, wow. Great. I didn’t expect this to work.”

I grinned. “Neither did Trevor.”

We kept things quiet at first. The paddock is a rumour mill, and the last thing I wanted was to look like I’d slept my way into the job. But behind closed doors, it was magic.

Lando was everything I didn’t expect. Thoughtful, self-aware, hilarious. He’d text me photos of ridiculous fashion items

“This bucket hat. Yes or hell no?”

I’d show up to fittings with inside jokes written on the garment tags just to make him laugh.

We stole moments after media days, during travel days, in hotel corridors when no one was looking. And each one made it harder not to fall completely.

Then came Silverstone.

It was a massive weekend. His home race. Pressure everywhere.

I was backstage helping Oscar with his last-minute tie adjustment when Lando appeared in the doorway, already dressed, looking far too good in a sharp charcoal suit I’d custom selected just for him.

“Y/N,” he said, nodding toward the hallway. “Quick word?”

Oscar raised his brows but didn’t say anything.

Out in the hallway, Lando ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice low.

“Dangerous,” I teased.

He smirked, but the nerves were there. Real ones.

“I want to stop hiding it,” he said. “Us. I don’t want to act like you’re just my stylist anymore. You mean more than that.”

I swallowed hard. “Lando…”

“I know the timing’s crap and the world’s always watching, but I’m tired of pretending you’re not the first person I look for when I walk into a room.”

I blinked, heart thudding.

“I’m not asking you to post a picture or walk the grid holding my hand,” he added. “Just… let’s stop being afraid of it.”

I took a breath. The risk was real. The headlines would be brutal. But standing there, looking into those honest, earnest eyes I knew I couldn’t say no.

“Okay,” I whispered.

His smile could’ve powered the whole circuit.

We didn’t make a big announcement. Just started being a little more… obvious. Sitting closer during briefings. Sharing the odd touch. And yes, a few photos did slip through the cracks one of me laughing in the background while he beamed at me, one of us walking out of a restaurant late at night, hand in hand.

The media storm came fast, as expected.

“Lando Norris Dating McLaren Stylist?” “Love on the Grid: Fans Divided Over Norris’ Romance” “Should Teams Allow Relationships This Close to Home?”

We read them all, shared a bottle of wine, and decided to go on a proper date anyway.

Because for all the noise, the truth was this: we’d found something rare. And it was worth protecting, not hiding.

Eventually, the fuss died down. People got bored. And in its place came something warmer support, even. Fans commenting on how happy he looked. Journalists noting his improved focus. Some even calling me a “lucky charm.”

And maybe I was.

Because a year later, Lando stood at the Monaco GP in a tailored white linen shirt I’d helped pick out, sunglasses perched on his nose, and pulled me into a kiss in full view of half the paddock.

He smiled against my lips. “Still think Oscar’s your favourite?”

“Close second,” I teased, resting my forehead against his.

And just like that, the world faded again.

Because in a life full of chaos and engines and cameras, somehow I’d found peace in the one person who could never sit still.

Lando Norris.

Tailored perfectly to me.

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inkedtension · 6 hours ago

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Hypothesis: You’re Mine

requested. Nerd Gojo x reader (smut)

***********************

You don’t know exactly when he started studying you, but if you asked him, Gojo Satoru would say it was the first time you beat him.

Not at math—that’d be too predictable. He had pride in his equations. He had owned that mathlete crown since middle school. But you walked into physics lab on the first day of your second year, not just knowing the concepts, but folding space-time diagrams like origami, talking about entropy like it was a bedtime story.

You were beautiful. It hurt. And worse—you were clever. Unforgivingly clever.

He was done for.

From that moment on, you were the only variable worth solving. And Gojo, loser among men, gangly and twitchy with glasses and pens sticking out of his hoodie pocket, began documenting you like a Nobel prize experiment.

“Subject: [Name]. Lab Partner. Goddess. Entity of Devastation.”

You always looked perfect. Not just cute or pretty—sharp. Lip tint just enough to make him bite his own. Glasses? Rarely. You didn’t need them—your vision was already too clear. And your answers in class? Always correct. Always concise. You didn’t speak often, but when you did, people shut up.

And he listened. He recorded. He analyzed.

He had a whole Google Doc titled:

“Nobel_Potential_Tensor_Calculations.”

The Complete Observational Thesis : Personality, Patterns, Perfections, and Maybe One Day… Consent.

It had tabs:

Wardrobe rotation patterns (updated every week)

Pencil preference (Which he archived when you left them behind)

Tone shift when addressing classmates vs. him ("Everyone else = flat or neutral. With me = teasing, sarcastic...flirty?? Hypothesis: She knows. She wants me dead.")

He was beyond salvation.

Everyone thought you had a thing for the basketball team. Guys with tattoos and overconfident smirks.

But no. You weren’t into the jocks. He’d studied that, too. Watched how your eyes barely twitched when they flirted. But in the lab, when he muttered something under his breath and you leaned in with a smirk and said, “Come again, Satoru?”—

That was the first time you called him by name.

Yeah, he almost did come again.

His brain exploded. Then imploded. Then exploded again.

He fumbled with his notes, his pen, his mouth. You’d said Satoru like it meant something. Like you were letting him in on something private. And that was the moment.

He got worse after that.

He rewound that syllable in his mind on loop, like a prayer: Satoru, Satoru, Satoru…

In the privacy of his dorm room, he’d press his face into the hoodie you once borrowed when the classroom was too cold. He never washed it. He never could. It smelled like your shampoo and something divine.

His hand would drift down. His breathing shallow. And all he’d see was your expression when you said his name.

He wasn’t proud of this part of himself.

He nearly died. From arousal or humiliation—or arousal by humiliation—unclear.

But he wasn’t sorry, either.

You knew.

God, of course you knew.

You noticed the way he twitched when you leaned too close during lab. The way his hand would tremble if yours brushed it by accident. The way he stared—like he was watching a star about to collapse into itself.

You weren’t oblivious. Just patient. Meticulous.

You knew what he was. A pervert. A loser. A genius. And you liked it. You liked him. How can you not?

But why let him know all that? It was more fun this way.

You wore a little more perfume when you knew you’d be lab partners. Purposely tied your hair up so your nape showed. Sat next to him in the library, thighs barely brushing, and didn’t move.

You whispered his name sometimes—only sometimes—just to watch him suffer.

"Satoru, can you hand me that? Thanks."

And that one time you said, "You smell nice today."

He didn’t breathe for twelve whole seconds. He counted.

He didn’t want it to stop.

He had dreams. Filthy ones. You, in his hoodie and nothing else, sitting on his desk with your legs parted. Wearing his glasses, and they were fogged from the heat of it all.

He didn’t want it to stop.

He'd wake up sticky, aching, and trembling, whispering your name like a lunatic. Then he’d go to class and pretend he hadn’t spent the last eight hours picturing your moans.

Every time you leaned over to help him debug a line of code, every time you tilted your head and smiled lazily at him like you knew he wanted to ruin you on a lab bench—he choked. Figuratively. Sometimes literally.

He’d beat off after class so often it started to feel like a Pavlovian response to the sound of your voice.

But he never asked you, never touched you. Never even tried.

Because Gojo Satoru, freak that he was, needed your yes more than he needed oxygen. He'd wait. Forever, if he had to.

But if you ever whispered that consent?

He’d ruin you with the kind of obsession that doesn’t come back from the brink.

One rainy Thursday, you sat next to him during a lab session and sighed dramatically. “Laptop’s dead. Guess I’ll just wait.”

He offered his. A little too fast. “You—you can use mine.”

“Oh?” You blinked slowly at him. “Won’t that leave you helpless and alone without your lifeline?”

He flushed. “I–I can manage.”

Of course, that was the moment Suguru texted. Something about the court. Satoru hesitated. You looked up at him from under your lashes, already pulling the laptop toward yourself.

“Go. I promise not to look at your other things.”

He laughed nervously. If only you knew.

Except… you did.

And by the time he returned—sweaty, flushed from playing one very bad half of basketball—he opened the lab door and nearly dropped dead.

There you were, brows slightly raised. One finger delicately on the trackpad. Lips formed in what could only be described as a fell-from-hell smirk and—

Amusement.

A single chill ran down his spine.

“Uh,” Gojo wheezed, stepping closer, dread forming in his gut like a black hole. “What… are you reading?”

You turned your head slowly, like a predator who’d just caught something squirming.

Your voice came out smooth. Too smooth.

“You’re thorough, Satoru. I’ll give you that.”

Well in your defence, his hard drive had an entire folder encrypted under layers of fake research data—labelled as “Nobel_Potential_Tensor_Calculations.” Inside was the real data. About you.

It had everything. What coffee you liked. How often you changed your perfume. A spreadsheet of your class schedule. A compiled zip of your voice memos from shared project meetings. A screenshot folder filled with blurry images from zoom meetings—your face caught mid-laugh. He had graphs of your seating preferences. Charts of your skirt lengths per semester. Hypotheses filed under “Effects of Verbal Affirmation on My Autonomic Response.” Subfolder: She Called Me ‘Satoru’ Twice This Month.

Creepy, you'd call, if you hadn't done some 'research' on him yourself.

well, he doesnt have to know that, right?

You looked up slowly. Smiling. “’Behavioral Log, 3:52PM. She touched my hand accidentally. Temperature spike. Heart rate elevated.’” You raised a brow. “This is... dense research, Satoru.”

His mouth opened. Closed. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt dry. His cock? Already twitching like a traitor.

“I—It’s just a dumb— It’s not real research, I just—”

You tilted your head. “Didn’t know I was the subject of an ongoing study.”

He stepped back, hard, like your chair was a landmine. His whole face flamed. His breath was shallow. You were still reading. Still smiling, smugly.

“I especially liked the part where you documented what lip balm I wear.” You tilted the screen toward him. “‘Subject applied Burt’s Bees pomegranate at 9:42 AM. Lip-to-cup contact observed. Resisted urge to bite desk.’ That’s cute.”

His soul left his body.

You kept going, merciless.

“Also, I can’t believe you actually made a flowchart about my laugh. What were the categories again? ‘Soft and rare,’ ‘cynical chuckle,’ and…” You grinned, devilish. “‘Accidental wheeze—induced during suggestive jokes.’”

He was going to combust. Right there. Just explode into a puff of shame, lust, and regret.

He wanted to fuck you on that desk. With his glasses slipping down your nose, with his name on your tongue, with your thighs shaking around his head while he shoved that smugness right out of you. Right here. Now.

And then—you walked away. As if you hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it into the very core of his existence.

Well, you were wet.

Gojo sat down. Hard.

He stared at the screen.

His entire manifesto was still open.

“...fuck,” he whispered.

He came in his boxers on the way to the locker room. No hands. Just the memory of your voice purring the word Satoru while reading from his worst-kept secret.

Arousal by humiliation, it is.

He didn’t talk to you for three days.

You didn’t make it easy.

You laughed a little too loud when he passed by. You pressed too close at the vending machine. You dropped your pen on his desk. And today—today you “accidentally” fell into his lap during the club meeting.

“Oops,” you whispered, blinking up at him.

He’d frozen. Completely. You were sitting on him. Right on him. His cock pressed against your ass through just four-maybe layers of fabric. He was stiff in more ways than one. If he didn’t move you soon, he’d—god, no. Not again.

You stood too late.

He excused himself with a choked, “Sorry! Be right back!” and nearly tripped out of the room.

He ran to Suguru again. “Spare pants. Please. Please—”

“You came again?”

“Shut up, it’s not—shut up—”

Gojo didn’t even want to know how much Suguru already knew. He didn’t even want to think about how Suguru might’ve pieced this together.

The next day, you were nowhere. No hallway run-ins. No sarcastic greetings. No sly jokes. He was almost relieved.

Until someone grabbed him and yanked him into the abandoned AV room.

“—wha—!”

You. Chest heaving. Eyes angry. Hands gripping his collar.

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Shut up.”

You shoved him against the wall, your body flush against his. He could feel your warmth through your clothes. Your breath on his neck.

“You wanna fuck me, right?” you asked lowly.

He blinked. “What?”

“You wanna bend me over this table and fuck me like a little experiment, right?”

His knees nearly buckled.

“Well?”

He opened his mouth to stammer something—anything—when you slowly, deliberately, knelt.

He stopped breathing.

“Tell me to stop,” you said, undoing his belt.

“Tell me,” you repeated, glancing up at him. “Tell me no.”

He was shaking.

When you pulled his pants down and his hard, flushed cock sprang free,

Your lips parted slightly in awe, eyes widening at the full length of him, flushed and twitching, precum already smeared against your lower lip. You let out a low, breathy gasp.

“Oh my god, Satoru—” That broke him.

A sharp growl escaped his throat—one you’d never heard from him before. He yanked off his glasses with one hand,

“I wanna see you in them.” he murmured. His voice was hoarse now. Deeper.

His fingers brushed against your hair as he bent slightly, lifting the frames.

You watched him , even though your heart was thudding in your chest. There was something raw, desperate in the way he handled the glasses. Something that made your pulse spike.

He pressed the glasses back onto your face. The delicate weight of them slid down your nose slightly.

The moment your mouth wrapped around him—warm, wet, slowly easing him past your lips like you were savoring him—Satoru’s mind went blank.

Gone. No equations, no frantic calculations, no escape route. Just the heat of your mouth and the dangerous way you were watching him, eyes half-lidded, smug, daring him to breathe.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re really—ah—”

Your hand gripped the base of his cock, stroking him gently while your tongue flicked over the head. His legs trembled.

His hand on your head tightened slightly, clutching your hair, not pushing, just guiding. You moaned—just faintly, just enough—and the vibration nearly made him lose control. He throbbed against your tongue.

“Shit—okay, yeah, like that, just—fuck, you’re perfect—”

You were trying to keep control, but he could see the strain in your throat as you took more of him. Could feel your saliva sliding warm and messy down the base. Your jaw trembled around him. Your hand squeezed his thigh for balance, and that alone made him buck forward just a little, hitting the back of your throat.

You choked, just a bit. Gagged. Pulled back with a small whimper and your eyes watering.

And then—then you looked up again. When did he pull up his oversized cardigan and put the edge in his mouth? You didn’t know but God, was it hot.

The glasses were a little crooked now. Your lips were swollen. And you smiled.

He let out the loudest moan yet. Desperate. Raspy. Feral.

“God, you’re—are you even real?” he whispered, breath hitching again. “Been jerking off to this for months. And you—you just—fuck—”

You moaned around him again, deliberately this time, teasing.

He let out a choked curse. His grip in your hair tightened more firmly now, finally taking control of the pace—slow, deliberate thrusts into your mouth, watching his cock slide between your lips. His thighs were tensing. His voice was breaking.

“You wanted this,” he hissed, gently rocking his hips into you. “All those little games—you knew. You knew what you were doing to me.”

You pulled off for air, nodding.

He groaned—long and low—and then pushed back into your mouth, deeper, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, desperate now. “Fuck, don’t you dare stop—just like that—”

he came down your throat while pushing your head down so that your nose touched the base of his happy trail.

He swears he never came that hard his entire life.

Well, it was safe to say he didn’t hold back after that day.

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