Flustered And Blushing

જ⁀➴ pov: your camera roll whilst dating percy jackson ! ♡

PRINCE OF MONACO ୨୧

♡: following his victory at the monaco grand prix, charles comes home late, back to you, drunk on moët champagne & love.

notes: charles leclerc/reader, established relationship, suggestive content & touches, alcohol, humour, use of french phrases, domesticity & fluff, baths, nudity but no explicit details or sexual activity, charles is a lovedrunk fool in this.

word count: 1.9k

a/n: more cha content out of my own indulgence <3 i wrote this at 11pm & it's a little ridiculous but this is also me projecting my manifestations for him to win his home grand prix this weekend. love you all mwah ᥫ᭡

♡ ✧ 。*・.

The sweet aroma of your Miss Dior: Eau de Parfum in damask rose and incense against pink peonies, clean linen sheets mussed about the inviting embrace of the bed, café au lait from a drained mug on the nightstand beside sweet-smelling lilies, and white, lace stockings abandoned and draped over the velvet loveseat.

Charles' claim of 1st at the Monaco Grand Prix was most blessing, and the perfect excuse for a long night of a plentiful of Moët & Chandon champagne, honorary chants, and celebratory reverie: announcing him the 'prince' of his beloved home, a victory he has been yearning for, since forever.

You had remained with him through the week, watching and admiring through every practice session from your usual seat, enjoying luncheon together and laughing over the usual lovey-dovey or noncommittal subjects as a means to distract him from his nerves before qualifying – the kind of thing he doesn't admit to but you know is only human – and your never-leaving gaze throughout the Grand Prix itself.

Until you got to watch from below with love hearts in your eyes when he stood on that podium, in his true and most divine stature whilst the crowds called for him and the Monégasque anthem resonated like the music of the heavens.

Now, it is quiet in the apartment you both call home, all minimalist but comfortable interior in a palette of white, créme, beige and hints of colour against the décor that define it as yours: the polished trophies before the white-varnished piano, heavy and velvet curtains stirring lazily about closed balconies of their rocaille-esque motifs, the abandoned sweater forgotten on the sofa, your rose crocheting yarn on the coffee table beside a copy of last month's Vogue.

Peaceful and content, stood before the ornate mirror in the en-suite of polished marble and quiet luxury, humming some gentle and absent tune to yourself as you comb your hair – dressed down to the comfortable, white gossamer silk of your négligée – whilst the only tune that resounds being the hushed television down the hall.

It is only a minute later that you are interrupted from your daydreaming by the sound of the mahogany front door as it draws open and closed. The familiar clink of keys set down on the oak furniture in the foyer, shuffled footfalls a little less balanced than usual, quickly silenced against the sound of a familiar voice like melting caramel on the subtle, slurring song of inebriation.

"Chérie?"

Hair comb set down on the neat counter beside the porcelain embellished basin, you absently gnaw at your lower-lip whilst silent feet wander the parquestry of the flooring through the flat in your approach to the source of your boyfriend's return, tucking a hair behind your ear, "Charles, I'm–"

The words are lost on the edge of your tongue the second you emerge from the bedroom's suite, down past the plush sitting area to be met by the sight of him where the corridor joins the rest of the homely setting.

"Bonsoir, bébé."

Even when he is slightly hair-tousled with damp, brunet strays falling about his forehead and the linen of his shirt slightly wrinkled, Charles is a handsome man, devastatingly so; the kind of beautiful that renders the air from your lungs a little even when you hold back light laughter at him now.

From his posture, an effort of an elegant curve to his physique like he is trying to be some suave, pretty flirt from those old, romance comedies you watch, where one elbow is propped against the wood arch of the threshold – the only thing evidently holding him upright – whilst his flushed cheeks strain a little on a dimpled, lazy and contagious smile.

"Hello, Charles."

"Ma belle, I missed you, I'm home," With something close to a brief pout and an attempt at a wink, the man lets his lovely eyes dance down and along your own figure in a lingering admiration and a slow, drawn-out smirk that looks both laughable and far-too-endearing, lithe fingers absently adjusting his loosened shirt collar as you come closer.

"I can see that," In response, you try not to appear amused though it is perceptible on the curve by the corner of your sweet mouth when his eyes follow the subtle shift of your hips as you draw forward until your arms fold around his midriff, breathing him in: champagne and cologne, hints of warm amber and rosewood. "You're drunk."

His arm falls around your shoulder comfortably as he sways against you, kissing the crown of your head like a useless reassurance when he murmurs a lieu of words in the thickened curl of his accent, "Non, ça va, je–"

"Charles." Your face shifts with a look, the both of you stumbling a little backwards where his weight almost has you falling on the edge of a floral rug, a hushed, noncommittal sound close to a chuckle falling from the man as he buries his face into the side of your neck with the punctuation of an open-mouth kiss.

"D'accord, d'accord."

"Stupid," You mutter affectionately, rolling your eyes fondly despite knowing all too well what has him so distracted, the warmth of his mouth and the gentle rasp of his five o'clock shadow tickling the underside of your jaw and the sensitivity there, a purr reverberating from the back of his throat as a response.

"Are you hungry– would you like anything?"

"Just you, chérie, I want to..." The Monégasque trails off momentarily like he is disputing internally with his own dialogue, lightly calloused palms feeling the curve of your waist through pale silk before pausing at your derrière absently – tracing his tongue against the edge of pearlescent teeth – as the two of you move further through the sitting room, his voice a whisper, "Je veux te baiser, mon ange."

With a blush dusting the edges of your cheekbones at the obscène words, you offer a half-apologetic smile whilst stroking back his tousled hair, "How about we get dressed down and settled first, at least?"

Initially, he seems reluctant to offer any hint of acquiescence but he eventually nods a little with a vague sound of acknowledgement, fingertips still feeling over your figure as you walk the path together before reaching the bathroom, the door falling shut gently.

Even when the reality of the presence has you accepting tonight shall be long, the man is undoubtedly his most entertaining and equally sweet as romanticised prophecies when he is intoxicated.

"Mm," It is the only indication you are given when Charles' touch falls upon the lace edges of your négligée, drawing it down the curve of your shoulder slowly as he traces the shell of your ear with his mouth, "You're wearing my favourite."

A soft laugh leaves the depth of your chest – a hushed affirmative sound in reply – before his hands come to cradle either side of your jaw tenderly whilst his thumb caresses the apple of your cheek, the kiss that follows his gentle persuasion more loving, his lips parted softly.

Just as quickly as the almost peaceful, drawn-out intimacy begins, it ends when he gives some hushed, breathless sound of sheer enjoyment whilst his hips absently meets yours until you feel the edge of the basin behind, a palm splaying over his chest just enough to encourage him from pausing.

"We can have a nice bath first and then I might consider your suggestion, monsieur," You offer gently in hushed humour, undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt whilst sealing your sentence with a chaste kiss near his chin.

"I'd much rather have you."

"So romantic," Muttering the words quietly, your nose brushes the bridge of his own fractionally where you see the slight glaze of liquor in his eyes, like gentle moss and warm oak, his mouth shifting almost proudly with momentarily met gazes.

"Only for you, mon cœur, I could write you sonnets of love, la mélodie de tes yeux–"

"Okay, Romeo Montague, how about you wash first?"

The initial hope had only been to coax him into the warmth of the bath waters amongst a touch lavender oil that threatens to lull him further into quiet and peace, wash his hair from your seat and prevent the possibility of any difficulty, though clothes are mutually forgotten on the marble floors and small, white-cotton rug when he guilts you into joining him.

"Charles," A whisper of his name though the cadence of your voice lacks the intent of reproach, bodies close together as he guides you into a comfortable situation about his lap whilst you work nimble fingers through his dampened hair slowly, hoping to distract him from anything but washing and settling down from the dizziness of too much alcohol.

"You smell nice," He mumbles indulgently against your shoulder, tracing a kiss on the jut of your collarbone in the dreamy lull of his voice as though lost in the figments of his own thoughts, "Like les fleurs..."

"And you smell like a bottle of Moët."

The man offers a lowered tune of disagreement, a palm idly stroking the curve of your thigh and down the inside of your knee beneath the warm water as you lather the product through his tresses, holding back a smile when he responds drunkenly like some smitten, hopeless lover of the poets:

"Non, c'est seulement le parfum des nuages."

It is the kind of sweet words that would usually have your cheeks warming or laughing like some conjured image of him in your mind, rifling through books of poetry because you cannot fathom him thinking of such phrases alone, though the moment his lips find the curve of your throat and the sensitive area beneath your jaw, it is harder not to succumb to the gentle temptation and let him have his way, a sigh falling from you.

"What are you doing?"

"Loving you." He says the words so easily, like it is the simplest, most natural truth he could ever admit, the warmth and wetness of his mouth trailing the lines of your throat and across the arch of your shoulders.

"You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love with you," He sounds proud of himself. Then, he is guiding the two of you, bodies pressed flush against one another as you are moved back, the weight of him familiar and the pressure of his mouth meeting yours slowly, "Let me love you, s'il vous plaît, ma chérie."

There are the smallest fragments of his soul and the secrets of his heart within the way his body moves, the gentle touch and the softness, the vulnerability and the passion even in the humour of his intoxicated mannerisms; how he makes love and the manner he holds you after, and there is an undeniable and irrefutable trust you hold for him alone.

a/n: i apologise. this came straight from the recesses of my tired & dreamy mind but i wanted to share, sending love ᡣ𐭩

remus “you smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate” lupin

the tortured poets department by taylor swift

★ kisses as payment ; remus lupin.

info: fluff, remus lupin x gn!reader, less than 1k.

two mugs sit atop the coffee table, completely forgotten as the last bits of steam roll off the lip's edge. the window is up, air fluttering past lace curtains and chilling you along with your tea.

"how's your book, dove?" remus asks, hand gliding along your shoulder as he allows himself to bask in not only your presence, but the soft texture of your (his) band tee that has him keening like a kitten.

"'s good, rem. want me to read to you?" voice soft, barely above a whisper as you run a gentle hand through his coffee hued curls with an absentminded touch. he hums in response, crawling between your legs before lifting the hem of your shirt up slightly to press a small kiss to your hip, a silent agreement as he plops all his weight atop you.

it was almost impressive how easily remus melts into you. his body nestled between your thighs with lanky arms wrapped around your hips to keep you pinned under his weight. now he definitely knows that you can't leave, not like you would ever choose to.

you giggle, reading the next three chapters with an honeyed tone, so full of life that it makes remus feel as if he's genuinely tagging along with the protagonist and their journey when his eyes close.

"love your voice, dovey..." he drawls sleepily.

it doesn't take long for a bookmark to find its way between the pages of your book, the paperback tossed to the side on the coffee table to match with the cups of tea you totally hadn't forgotten about as his voice slurs so sweetly in your ears.

"how about a nap?" you whisper, giggling as a ditzy grin graces his scarred lips. remus lifts up the bottom of your oversized shirt, tossing the fabric over his head before peppering kisses that start from your navel and past your belly button.

"hey!" you snicker, nails gently scratching at his bare back. "where'd you go?" you play along, head tilting back in hysterics as he blows a raspberry to the curve of your waist.

"stop, tha-that tickles!" voice a soft squeak as you choke on your laughter. remus attempts to lift his head and look at you but manages to get stuck between your shirt making a soft guffawing noise that gets intertwined with your own.

his nimble fingers rush to remove the shirt from his head, but not before delivering a fleeting kiss to any random patches of skin.

"you get all cute when you're sleepy," you whisper.

"i do not," he slurs softly, as if offended.

your eyes roll in response, "you never answered my question. you fancy a nap, hun?" you repeat. he takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers before he plants a peck to your wrist.

"what are you doing?" you sigh out once his lips meets the nook of your elbow, kisses littering up your bicep without a single word to exchange. there's a moment of silence that lays over the two of you like a thick duvet, remus hums with another trail of wet kisses up your shoulder and neck.

"i think you deserve kisses for reading to me..." he smoothly replies before planting a fat kiss to your lips.

you snort out, hands tossed around in his curls. "you think you're so smooth..." you whisper softly.

"i am smooth, dove."

★ diwa's notes. hiii tysm for all the love you've shown my drabbles too <3

© hobietopia 2024.

. . . percy jackson

˖°𓇼 bf!percy who asks his mom for help on what to do for valentines day. bf!percy takes you to the beach even though he takes you regardless. bf!percy who takes you to montauk specifically, renting out the little cabin he and his mother used to go to. bf!percy who immediately drags you to the sea, half-pushing you into the waves in his excitement. bf!percy who controls the sea so that the waves are fun but not too big or scary for you. bf!percy who teaches you how to surf because he can control the intensity of the waves. bf!percy who hires a boat to take you to the nearby island. bf!percy who guides you to the deep-ish part to go "scuba diving", which is really just watching fish (the fish ask about you). bf!percy who asks for a favor from his dolphin friends and takes you dolphin-riding during the sunset. bf!percy who runs around in the sand and tumbles in the surf with you, laughing as you squeal at the water licking your feet. bf!percy who kisses you any chance he gets, your lips a little chapped because of the salt. bf!percy who sits with you at night, listening to the song of the sea with the stars shining above. bf!percy who brings you into the cabin, telling you stories that his mom told him when he was a kid and, in turn, listen to your own. bf!percy whose hand crawls over to yours like a hopeful crab, taking it in his grasp and caressing it softly.

"stay away from me!" you squeal, feet slapping against the wet, firm sand beneath your feet, leaving little indentations that are soon defaced by a bigger pair of footprints.

the sea water clinging to your skin is turned cool by the seaside air, making you shiver. you take deep breaths as you run across, the tinge of salt reaching your lungs as you try to get away from the boy with a hermit crab reached out in your direction.

in moana fashion the water assumes the shape of a hand, wrapping around your ankle and pulling you down. the waves cushion your fall, leaving you crawling around in the sand as percy, cackling, squats down beside you with the creature in his palm.

"arnold wants to say hi," he says, smugly. your eyes narrow in faux annoyance, but you can't help the affection swelling in you at this stupid, crooked smile and the wind tousling his hair.

"i don't want to say hi to arnold."

"aw, he's hurt!"

"he pinched my toe!"

"you stepped on him!" he snorts, thrusting his hand into your face where the blue-shelled hermit crab was, and you could feel the creature's distastful look at you.

"percy," you whine. "set me free!"

he shrugs. "well, alright, then." he sets down the crustacean to run off and relinquishes his hold on your ankle. his green eyes sparkle with amusement as he watches you push yourself up, only to widen in surprise when you run in his direction and body slam him down onto the sand.

percy's hands instinctively place themselves on your waist as the breath is knocked out of his lungs. unstopppable laughs are ripped out from him as you assault his torso with sandy punches, a huge smile on your own face as he attempts to salvage his face.

"my hair!" he complains, the black waves literred with grains of sand.

"your hair?" you demand, incredulous. "my hair!" well, sure enough, the salt in the air and water had turned it dry and crunchy.

he catches your wrists. "i like your hair." percy pulls you in, getting up, and kisses you softly.

you pull away, face scrunched up. "you're salty."

"i'm salty? you're salty!"

dividers by: @strangergraphics and @ianrkives

♯ PRACTICE MAKES IT BETTER ; theodore nott

PAIRING! theodore nott x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! struggling with the local slang, you feel out of place until you meet theodore nott, the silent slytherin (based off this req.!!)

WORD COUNT! 2.3k

WARNINGS AND TAGS! fluff, kissing + lmk !

NOTES! reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

AMERICA WAS VIBRANT AND DIVERSE. The music scene was thriving with genres like grunge, hip-hop, and pop dominating the airwaves. To you, it was a place of contrasts and boundless possibilities. It was a land where towering skyscrapers stood next to historic buildings, and where you could find everything from bustling cities to quiet, open countryside. The diversity was striking; every state feels like its own little world, with different cultures, foods, and ways of life. It was a country where you could experience all four seasons, with hot summers, cold winters, and vibrant springs and autumns. The sheer size and variety made it feel like there was always something new to explore, whether it was a national park, a music festival, or just a quirky little town.

Then you moved to England.

Leaving behind the familiar sights and sounds of America, you stepped into a new world of magic and centuries-old traditions.

The first thing you noticed was the climate change. England's weather was full of frequent rain and cloudy skies. You had to get used to bringing an umbrella everywhere with you.

Hogwarts in Scotland was completely different from Ilvermorny, which resided on Mount Greylock. The towering buildings of the castle intimidated you a bit as you were used to the more modern school, but you were excited for the change of scenery.

The stone corridors, moving staircases, and enchanted portraits had captivated your imagination. The castle itself was full of new discoveries. Sure, you missed your old friends dearly, every one of them, but the owls worked hard and you managed to make new friends here.

As an exchange student from America, walking the hallowed halls of Hogwarts was a totally new experience. The ancient castle with its sprawling grounds, enchanted staircases, and hidden passageways was like stepping into a dream. But it wasn't just the magical environment that threw you off balance; it was the British slang that seemed to pop up in every conversation.

During your first week, you found yourself constantly bewildered by the new expressions. At breakfast, when a cheerful Hufflepuff asked if you wanted a "banger" with your eggs, you hesitated, unsure if it was an insult or a menu item. When a Ravenclaw mentioned being "knackered" after a long night of studying, you had to suppress a laugh, thinking it sounded more like a sound effect from a comic book than an expression of exhaustion.

The confusion was endless: "snogging" instead of kissing, "knickers" instead of underwear, "blimey" instead of a simple exclamation of surprise. You did your best to keep up, but the nuances of the language often left you feeling like you were missing the punchline of a joke. To put it simply, you were lost.

One afternoon, you were sitting in the library, poring over a stack of books for a Transfiguration assignment, when you heard a familiar voice behind you.

"Ciao, piccola," Theodore Nott drawled, sliding into the seat across from yours. His presence was effortlessly welcomed, with his cool demeanor and piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. He was a strange boy at first, never letting anyone, but when you warmed up to him, he was a totally new person.

"Hi, Theo," you greeted him with a smile playing on your lips. Theodore had been one of the first students to approach you, his Italian heritage a surprising connection. He often teased you in his native language, enjoying the way you fumbled with the unfamiliar phrases. A nuisance, that he was.

"Come va la tua giornata?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. ("How's your day doing?")

Already hearing this phrase a few times, you learned to understand its translation. With a sigh, you ran a hand through your hair. "It's been . . . interesting. I'm still trying to understand half of what everyone says here."

Theo chuckled, the sound rich and warm to your ears. "British slang getting to you?"

"You could say that," you admitted, leaning back in your chair as you watched his amusement at your misery. "I feel like I need a translator just for conversations."

"Well, if you think British slang is confusing, wait until I teach you some Italian slang," Theo smirked at the idea that appeared on his mind. "It's a whole different level."

Now this got your attention. "Teach me, then. It can't be that difficult from the British slang."

Over the next few weeks, Theodore Nott became your informal language tutor. He started with simple phrases, weaving them into everyday conversations until you began to pick them up naturally. He taught you how to greet someone with "Ciao, amico!" instead of a formal "Buongiorno," and how to say "Andiamo!" when you were ready to go.

One rainy afternoon, as you sat together in the Great Hall, Theo decided to test your knowledge. The rain tapped persistently against the high, arched windows, casting a muted gray light across the large hall. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the sky outside, swirling with dark clouds and flashes of lightning that illuminated the space completely. Despite the dreary weather, the Great Hall buzzed with the soft hum of student conversations, punctuated by the clinking of silverware and the rustling of pages.

Theo, seated across from you at the Slytherin table, leaned back casually, a mischievous glint in his eye. His dark hair fell slightly over his forehead, framing his sharp features. You had grown accustomed to his teasing, the way he delighted in challenging you with phrases in Italian, watching with amusement as you thought through the unfamiliar language. Today was no different, his eyes scanning the hall as if seeking inspiration for his next test.

You had been in the midst of revising for an upcoming Charms exam, your notes spread out around you in a chaotic array of parchment and textbooks. The soft light from the floating candles above cast a warm glow on the pages, making the ink shimmer slightly. As Theo's gaze returned to you, you knew another one of his lessons was coming.

"What would you say if you were really tired?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Theo's questions were always a blend of practical and playful, designed to push you just a little further each time. He spoke with the ease of someone completely comfortable in his skin, his words flowing like the rain outside, steady and sure. His Italian phrases, though foreign at first, began to weave themselves into the mind of your understanding.

Your responses grew more confident, the hesitation in your voice diminishing with each passing day. You found yourself thinking in Italian at times, the language slipping into your thoughts as naturally as your own. Theo's delight was evident, his eyes lighting up whenever you got something right, his praise sincere and heartfelt.

The rain outside showed no signs of letting up, but within the Great Hall, a warmth lingered.

You thought for a moment, then confidently replied, "Sono stanca morta." The phrase rolled off your tongue more smoothly than before, each syllable a small victory in your journey to master his native language. The meaning — "I'm dead tired" — was all too familiar after long days filled with classes and studying.

Theo laughed, the sound rich and genuine, echoing softly in the near-empty Great Hall. His laughter was like a reward, a confirmation that you were getting it right. Silver eyes sparkled with approval, the corners of his lips curling into a smile that made your heart flutter. The warmth of his reaction was comforting against the dreary, rain-soaked afternoon outside.

"Well done!" His voice was filled with genuine pride and delight, making you feel accomplished. His praise was never out of place; it was always heartfelt.

Your heart swelled with a mix of pride and joy. Learning Italian was not just about understanding a new language, but also about bridging the gap between your worlds. Each phrase, each word, was a step closer to understanding Theo better, and a way to connect on a deeper level.

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes searching yours, waiting for your next move. "And if you wanted to compliment someone on a job well done?" His question was another gentle challenge, pushing you to dig deeper into your newfound vocabulary.

"Bravo!" you answered without hesitation. The word felt natural, a perfect fit for the context. As you spoke, you couldn't help but smile, the simple word carrying a world of meaning and mutual respect. Seeing the approval in Theo's eyes, you felt a surge of confidence.

Theo's smile broadened, and his expression softened with pride and admiration. The approval in his eyes was more than just about your grasp of the language; it was about your willingness to immerse yourself in something new, to share a part of his heritage, to make an effort to connect.

The atmosphere around you felt lighter, the earlier tension of the day's studies dissolving into a shared moment of triumph and connection. The Great Hall, with its towering windows and ancient stone walls, seemed to fade into the background, leaving just the two of you in your own little world of language and laughter.

The candles above flickered gently, casting a warm glow that danced across Theo's features, highlighting the pride in his eyes.

One day, as you walked together by the Black Lake, the cold water reflecting the moody sky, Theo turned to you, his expression thoughtful. The gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient trees that lined the shore, their branches swaying rhythmically as if in silent conversation. The scene was picturesque, the expanse of the lake stretching out before you, a serene contrast to the bustling life within the castle walls. It was quiet out here, and you liked this spot.

"You know, you've picked up Italian slang faster than I expected," Theo remarked, his voice carrying a hint of admiration and surprise. His thoughtful tone blended seamlessly with the natural sounds around you, creating a moment of perfect harmony.

You laughed, the sound bright and carefree, echoing across the still waters. Nudging him playfully, you replied, "Maybe I had a good teacher." The playful banter was a reflection of the easy camaraderie that had developed between you, a testament to the countless hours spent learning and laughing together.

Theo's smile softened at your words, a tender expression that seemed to light up his face. His gaze lingered on you, the depth of his affection and pride evident in his eyes. The way he looked at you made your heart flutter, each shared glance made your knees tremble. Like you were the only girl at Hogwarts.

"Maybe," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with a warmth that enveloped you. "Or maybe you just have a knack for languages." His words were a gentle compliment, a recognition of your efforts and abilities.

The path around the Black Lake was peaceful, the occasional ripple disturbing the otherwise mirror-like surface of the water. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and damp earth. As you walked side by side, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you, the rest of the universe fading into the background.

Your footsteps synchronized, a silent dance of familiarity and comfort. The conversations flowed effortlessly, alternating between Italian lessons and shared dreams, each word weaving a tapestry of understanding and companionship. Theo's presence was a constant, steady and reassuring, his thoughtful insights and quiet encouragements a source of strength.

The sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the landscape. The twilight hues painted the sky in shades of pink and orange, a breathtaking sight that added to the magic of the moment. Theo's silhouette against the backdrop of the setting sun was a picture of serenity and quiet strength, a reminder of the stability he brought into your life.

Before you could fully process what was happening, the Slytherin boy took a small step closer, closing the distance between you. The warmth of his presence enveloped you, his proximity sending a gentle thrill through your body. He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against yours, the touch sending a spark of electricity up your arm.

In that moment, with the golden light of dusk casting a magical glow around you, Theo leaned in. His movements were deliberate, filled with a tender hesitation. As his lips met yours, the world seemed to dissolve, leaving only the two of you in a bubble of pure, unadulterated connection.

The kiss was gentle at first, a soft press of lips that spoke everything you needed to know. The taste of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the gentle caress of his hand against your cheek — it all combined to create a sensation that was both exhilarating and deeply comforting.

Theo's hand moved to cup your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. The kiss deepened, becoming more confident, more insistent. Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. The connection between you intensified, the kiss becoming a language of its own, expressing everything words couldn't.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. The world slowly came back into focus, the sounds of nature reasserting themselves around you. Theo's eyes, still holding that mix of affection and awe, met yours. A soft, contented smile played on his lips.

"Grazie, Theo," you said softly, your voice filled with gratitude.

"For what?" he asked confused, his brow furrowing slightly.

"For being patient with me. For this. For . . . everything."

Theo's eyes softened, and he reached out, intertwining your fingers in one. "No worries," he replied, his voice just as soft. "I'm glad I could help."

[3k] a f1 gossip page gets insider knowledge of what might be the paddock's best kept secret. in fact, it is so well kept that even the paddock don't know who it is about (aka a wee crack fic i couldn't get out of my head ft the papaya bunch).

series masterlist

.

It was media day at the Barcelona Grand Prix when the rumours began.

Somewhere between team media duties and the official conferences, a group had found themselves lounging in the shared canteen. It was a neutral zone, the journalists weren’t allowed inside and it was just a place for most of the drivers to relax with their family and friends outside of the garages and motorhomes. 

You were sat in the seat next to Lando, his arm sprawled over the back of your chair and his thigh pressing against yours with how close he was sitting beside you. He was looking over your shoulder, a giddy smile on his face as you went through a few of the shots he had taken on his camera that morning—including an obscene amount of ‘candid’ shots that you made him swear not to post anywhere, despite his reassurances you looked gorgeous. 

It was a startled laugh from Daniel that caught everyone’s attention.

“There’s no fucking way!” Max laughed as he gaped at Daniel’s phone screen, shaking his head as he did. “Where the fuck do they get this from?!” 

Daniel only laughed harder. 

It took a few minutes before the Aussie finally turned his screen around and display the tweet for everyone to see. It took a few more minutes of snooping to find the article that followed the bizarre rumour. 

“Alright, who’s gonna fess up?” Lando joked as his eyes glanced over all the drivers currently sprawled across the various tables. “My bet is on Carlos. He seems like the kinda guy to have a secret kid.”

“Shut up,” Carlos scoffed before he nodded to the boy on his right. “It would obviously be Charles.”

The Monegasque spluttered out a laugh, his cheeks heating up. “It’s not me!”

“That’s what someone who has a secret kid would say,” Max retorted, seeming to enjoy the way the Ferrari driver’s face began to match the colour of his shirt. “You can tell us the truth about Charlie Junior.”

“First of all, I would never name my child that,” Charles said with his nose scrunched up in displeasure. “And I wouldn’t hide my children. I would be proud of them.”

“They could be hiding the children for privacy's sake. A paddock isn't exactly the best place for a child to be roaming around. Or the safest,” another voice spoke up and everyone’s eyes fell to the younger Aussie sitting across the table from you. Oscar squirmed a little under the sudden attention. “What?”

“You wanna tell us something, mate?” Lando questioned, a grin growing on his face.

Oscar’s cheeks burned red. “I-It’s not about me!” 

“You caught him,” Logan laughed as he playfully knocked his shoulder against his friend’s. “He has three kids back in Australia. Our lil’ Oscie is a father.”

Oscar frowned. “Don’t ever call me that again.”

“I’m offended you didn’t tell us,” you joked as you knocked your foot against his shin under the table. “I expected to be the godmother of one of your kids.”

“You would be if I had any,” Oscar quickly countered, making you snort in response. 

“Well, we have some clues,” Daniel commented as he leaned back in his chair, looking far too amused with the situation. “Time to start going through possible suspects.” 

“Maybe you’re trying to throw us off your scent,” you joked.

“Shhh, sweetheart, they can’t know about our secret family just yet,” the Aussie teased as he sent a wink your way.

You felt an arm tighten around you and turned to see Lando glaring—albeit, jokingly—towards his former teammate. “Back off, Ricciardo, if anyone is gonna have a secret family with her, it’s gonna be me.” 

Daniel laughed. “Please, the two of you couldn’t keep a secret from us if you tried!”

“Uh, we so could,” you retorted.

“You two couldn’t even keep Oscar’s surprise birthday party a secret and it was your idea,” Logan pointed out, raising his hands in mock surrender when your head snapped around to look at him. 

“We got excited!” You defended. 

“And you don’t think you would be excited about a secret family?” Oscar countered. 

“I think we could hide a secret pretty damn well if we tried,” you replied with a shrug as you leaned further back into your boyfriend’s embrace.

“Especially as something as serious as a secret family,” Lando added with a nod.

“Who cares?” Max eventually said with a laugh. “The rumour is a load of bullshit anyways. There’s no way anyone is going to believe it.”

As it would turn out, the whole world believed the rumours. The rest of the race weekend was haunted by the ‘new’ piece of gossip. The paddock was full of whispers of ‘who?’, the journalists thought they were being sly as they snuck in a few questions to catch the drivers off guard, and hundreds of fan theories took over every social media platform as the weekend commenced.

Truthfully, you thought it would be one of those rumours that dragged on for a bit as a joke but died down by the next weekend. 

You were very wrong.

...

...

You didn’t realise how wrong you were until the Austrian Grand Prix came about the following weekend. 

With both McLaren drivers wrapped up in some nonsense challenge video the media team had set them up for, you had made your way towards the Williams garage to spend your Thursday afternoon with them instead. 

There was a cosy spot in the garage where you found yourself sat with Logan and Alex as the team buzzed around them, whispers and talks of the car’s potential that weekend. You were laying back in your seat, your feet thrown over Logan’s lap as you chatted away to Alex when the American caught both of your attention.

“There’s two!”

Logan lifted his head to find two matching confused expressions staring right back at him.

“There’s two,” he repeated as he turned his phone around, a single tweet sprawled over his screen with an all too familiar username on display. “Two kids! A driver is hiding two kids!”

You snorted. “You have got to be shitting me. One rumoured kid wasn’t enough so they added another?” 

“This driver has certainly been busy,” Alex mused as he took Logan’s outstretched phone, beginning to scroll through the never-ending comments under the tweet. “I guess the long term girlfriend thing does kinda narrow it down.” 

You raised your brows. “Don’t tell me you think it’s real.” 

“I still have my bets on Oscar,” Logan commented with a grin, his eyes crinkling in the way you knew they did before the boy laughed. “He’s a dodgy guy. I bet he’s Formula One’s own Hannah Montana with a whole double life.” 

“And, what? We are a part of his famous life?” You questioned. 

“It would make sense,” Alex supplied with a shrug. “He could have a normal family back home in Australia and no one would even know.”

You rolled your eyes. “Alex, don’t encourage him.”

“Hey,” Logan frowned.

“If it turns out to be true, you wouldn’t be upset that your best friend hid something like that from you?” You retorted, watching as the boy’s face slowly fell. 

Alex snorted. 

“I need to go talk to….someone about…something,” Logan said vaguely before he quickly stood up, knocking your feet off his lap and rushing out the garage with a serious look on his face. 

“Logan!” You called after him, laughing as you did so but it was a hopeless endeavour. He was a man on a mission and you knew nothing would stop him. “God, I should go before he ambushes the McLaren motorhome.” 

“Life as a parent, huh?” Alex joked, nudging your shoulder and snickering when you rolled your eyes. 

“Who would have thought I would end up adopting an American of all people?” You joked back before standing up. “Time to go stop my eagle son from throttling my kangaroo son.” 

Alex flashed you a smile. “Motherhood suits you.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you rolled your eyes. 

And little did you realise there was a certain pair of ears listening in to your playful conversation with the Williams driver, already drafting up a message before you left for the bright orange building a few garages down. 

...

...

It was odd for you and Lando to find any alone time during a race weekend and it was mostly due to the two rookie drivers you had somehow adopted. 

It started off as a comfort thing at first. Lando knew what it was like to be young and new to the sport. He knew that even if he was coming in with friends, it still felt daunting. It was the reason he seemed to take Oscar under his wings after the Bahrain race weekend, despite the boy’s initial awkwardness. 

It had been you who gravitated towards Logan. Your heart warmed at the sight of your boyfriend helping out his younger teammate, but it completely shattered when you were making your way towards the McLaren garage and spotted a certain blond rookie hidden between motorhomes. He almost looked as though he was trying to make himself seem as small as possible. 

Lando didn’t question it when you started to venture to the Williams garages in between practices and media duties. He saw the look in your eyes, the small spark that showed your determination. He knew your kindness knew no limits and he would never even try to stop you. 

Neither of you realised you were signing up for the roles of the 2023 rookies’ grid parents until Logan and Oscar had sauntered into Lando’s driver room and all but settled themselves between you both on the Thursday of the Baku Grand Prix. 

You didn’t mind it, really. Race weekends tended to be hectic and chaotic on their own, so it was rare that you and Lando would spend much time alone. Beyond the exasperated sighs and joking remarks, neither of you minded when Oscar would lay his head on your laps after a gruelling interview or when Logan would ramble about some American custom he swears all three of you would enjoy. 

It was odd not being the youngest ones on the grid anymore, but there was also something so comforting in knowing you were a safe haven for these two boys in the paddock—and sometimes, even off the track. 

So honestly, it was an utter fucking shock that you and Lando found yourselves alone with time to kill in his driver’s room, especially with it being the Silverstone Grand Prix weekend. 

Neither of you questioned your luck for very long before you found yourself straddling your boyfriend, knees on either side of his hips and ass firmly planted on his lap. His hands were shamelessly groping your ass. Your hands were tangled in his curls, tugging a little harsher than usual just to hear his little whimpers in between kisses. It was shameless and sloppy and a little more than either of you intended—but you didn’t have a single issue with it. 

“Shit,” Lando moaned, his voice a little more high-pitched than usual when your lips met his neck. “I fuckin’ missed this.”

“Yeah?” You murmured against his skin, your tongue dancing along a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear. “I missed hearing how pretty you sound.”

“You can’t say stuff like that,” Lando grumbled, his eyes fluttering shut as he pulled you closer, as he pressed his body against yours. 

“But it makes you blush and you look so cute when you blush,” you teased as you lifted your head, admiring the pink tint to his cheeks. “My pretty boy.”

“You’re a tease,” Lando muttered as he sat up on the couch, as he pulled you closer so he could press his lips against yours again. 

“You love it,” you retorted, the words mumbled in between kisses. 

“So fucking much,” he grinned into the kiss, his hands wandering down your thighs before slowly moving back up to your ass. 

In fact, it had been so long since you and Lando got a chance to utilise your time alone in the paddock that you forgot the first rule of making out like horny teens on the small couch—lock the fucking door.

“HOW COULD YOU—OH MY GOD, MY EYES!” 

“GROSS! WE DID NOT NEED TO SEE BABY NUMBER THREE BEING MADE!”

If it weren’t for the tight hold Lando had on you, you would have been flat on your ass when Logan and Oscar stormed into the room. You stared at the boys in shock, your cheeks heating up as the mortification of the situation washed over all four of you. 

You quickly moved yourself off Lando’s lap, instead sitting on the couch beside him as you stared at the two rookies who currently had their hands over each other’s eyes. 

“Have you ever heard of knocking?!” Lando sighed.

“Have you ever heard of a door lock?” Oscar retorted.

“Touche,” he muttered back with a nod. 

“You know you can look now,” you told the boys, a little amused with their theatrics. “We aren’t naked.”

Logan hesitated. “Promise?”

“Promise.” 

Both boys slowly dropped their hands and, truthfully, you were expecting for them to instantly break out into whatever excited ramble they had come to tell you both. It wasn’t unusual for them to do as much, to want to share something with you and Lando that amazed them but didn’t want to admit to anybody else in fear of seeming like…well, rookies. They knew you and Lando would never judge their excitement to the world of Formula One and all the little quirks they were discovering.

Except, there was no excited storytelling or massive grins. Instead, both boys stood in front of you with frowns on their faces and their hands on their hips. 

Lando’s brows furrowed together. “What? What happened?”

“Why did you two not tell us we are older brothers?” Logan asked bluntly. 

You blinked. “Huh?” 

“Why did you not tell us we are older brothers?” This time it was Oscar who spoke up. “Why are you gatekeeping our little brothers from us?” 

Lando frowned. “Is this a joke? Is that a punchline? Am I being stupid right now?” 

“We get the others on the grid but us? This is a new level of betrayal,” Logan said with a completely serious look on his face. 

You shook your head, utterly baffled by the two boys. “What the fuck are you guys on about?” 

“You have been hiding a secret family from us! You are the ones the tweets are talking about!” Oscar said as he reached for his phone, turning the screen around so you both could see the latest article. 

“WHAT?!”

“You have been keeping a secret from us. Families don’t keep secrets!” Logan accused, his eyes narrowed slightly. “If we even count as your family now.”

You gaped at them. “You seriously think that article is about us?” 

“There’s proof!” Oscar retorted.

“What fucking proof?” Lando questioned, his brows furrowed together in confusion. “How can there be proof for a family that doesn’t exist?” 

As it would turn out, the informant that had been feeding the gossip page the whole narrative had been also secretly recording conversations they had heard around the paddock. Along with the article, a series of 'leaked' audios were also released and they were, in fact, yours and Lando’s voice. 

This person had managed to record countless conversations you shared with Lando and even some other drivers—even the conversation you had with Alex the previous weekend in the Williams garage.

“Remember we have dinner with the boys tonight. Our reservations are at six.” 

“Did you remind them to put sunscreen on before they went out? I don’t want them to burn.” 

“Who knew being a parent was so hard, huh?”

“Your son is bullying my son for his accent again. Make him stop or you’re both getting grounded.”

“Well, he definitely takes after you!” 

Random lines of conversations taken completely out of context and, truthfully, you could understand why Twitter was going crazy. It seemed undoubtable that you and Lando were talking about your kids, it sounded like you truly were two parents discussing your children—if it weren’t for one large and missing piece of information.

“We were talking about you two, dumbasses!”

Both boys stared at you, blinking a few times. “Huh?”

“We are talking about the both of you in every single one of those clips,” you told them and you couldn’t help but let out a disbelieving laugh. “There is no secret family—just you two.” 

“Oh,” Oscar murmured. 

“But—oh,” Logan muttered a few seconds later.

“So this whole rumour started because somebody thought we were talking about actual kids,” Lando noted before snorting. “Fucking hell.” 

“Everyone thinks you’re a dad,” you remarked with a laugh. “The boy who has one piece of tupperware that’s hanging on for dear life.”

Lando grinned back. “Well, I may not be a dad but I am a—”

“If you call yourself daddy, I am breaking up with you.”

Lando only laughed harder. 

“So…you don’t have secret siblings you’re hiding from us?” Logan piped up, a shy smile on his face.

You shook your head.

“Oh thank god,” he breathed out, pressing a hand on his chest. “I knew you wouldn’t betray us like that! We would obviously be the first ones you tell, right?” There was a pause. “Right?”

“Well, we walked in on them almost conceiving a child,” Oscar pointed out with a shrug before his nose scrunched up in disgust. “Please don’t conceive our little sibling in front of us.”

“You were the ones that stormed in on us,” Lando retorted.

“Still.”

“Well, consider this your warning to get out in the next thirty seconds, otherwise you’re gonna see something that will really scar you—”

Your cheeks burned. “Lando!”

“What?” Lando flashed you a cheeky grin. “If they are gonna make up rumours about me being a dad, I may as well start practising for the real deal.”

You rolled your eyes.

...

liked by charles_leclerc, danielricciardo and 354,762 others

landonorris does this mean i officially get the dilf status?

view all 15,866 comments

user aww cute!

user WAIT THIS IS WHO THE RUMOUR WAS ABOUT

user lando needs to pull a carlisle cullen and adopt me into the family

yourusername in my humble opinion, i think dilf suits you perfectly ;)

oscarpiastri ew

yourusername you're too young to be on instagram

logansargeant and you are too old to sexting on instagram

yourusername you're grounded

user I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS

user okay but the photos are actually so cute wtf

user THEY BECAME GRID PARENTS INSTEAD OF ACTUAL PARENTS

maxverstappen1 they had to start somewhere

danielricciardo i'm just happy the safe sex talk we gave lando actually worked. got worried for a second

yourusername you were just scared you would become a grid grandpa

danielricciardo GRANDPA???

user nothing will ever beat this rumour

user THE FACT PEOPLE ACTUALLY THOUGHT HE HAD A KID

user TWO KIDS

user FAMILY JPEG ACCOUNT WHEN

landonorris 👀👀👀

.

Hey hey! Can you wirte this one "wait, don't go, please.." for Charles?

30 more minutes | CL16

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

summary: the c in charles stands for clingy.

warnings: none. just tooth-rotting fluff.

a/n: my first piece for charles damn…

“wait, don’t go. please.” the plea leaves his mouth before he can stop himself and you see the regret form in his eyes.

he’s being clingy and he’s embarrassed that he is.

charles knows you enjoy your personal space and he’s always careful to not overwhelm you with physical affection but sometimes he just needs 5- no, 10- wait, that’s not enough… ah! 30 more minutes of cuddling with you.

you smile at him, understanding what it is exactly that he needs from you.

“it’s okay, i’m not in a hurry to go home.” you assure him and slot yourself back in place, in his arms.

you snuggle closer and you hear charles let out a content sigh as he holds you to his chest.

a sense of peace washes over you and you can tell that charles feels the same way. you swear he’d be purring in happiness if he were a cat.

“this is perfect.” he whispers against the top of your head. “thank you.”

you chuckle and press a quick kiss to his collarbone. you find it endearing that he thanks you for doing such a small gesture of just staying.

he holds you tight like he doesn’t want to let go. every minute and every second he spends with you is precious and he’s determined to make the most of it.

“what are your plans for tomorrow?” charles asks. he sounds hesitant and you immediately guess what’s up.

“i’m free in the evening.” you tell him, smirking slightly as his face turns pink from being found out so quickly.

“the whole evening?” he questions. his green eyes seem to sparkle with anticipation at the thought of having an entire night with you by his side.

you nod your head and grin up at him.

“and i won’t go home if you don’t want me to.”

your words bring on the brightest smile you’ve ever seen on his beautiful face and you melt like butter.

his happiness is contagious and you shift yourself so you can kiss him comfortably.

“i already can’t wait for tomorrow,” charles mumbles against your lips. “but for now… you are all mine for 30 more minutes.” he smiles and presses his lips to yours once more and lets it linger.

“30 more minutes.” you repeat with a soft smile, reserved only for him.

—end.



MY BABY CHARLES FINALLY BREAKING HIS CURSE AND GETTING THE VICTORY HE DESERVES😭😭❤️❤️❤️

to be loved by tom riddle

summary: Tom Riddle is in no way the perfect lover, but he tries, he always does, for you.

Tom Riddle is far from perfect, and deep inside, even his narcissistic self knows that. Being a lover, your lover, he has been discovering many new things about himself. Before, he wasn't even aware that he was capable of loving someone, due to what he went through, due to the lack of love he had before. Before you.

He tries, though. Your dark and power-hungry lover always tries to love you properly.

Tom Riddle, who loves you beautifully in his own way, who prepares a note while confessing to you, only to tuck it into his pocket after folding it, and look at your properly. Love flowing from his eloquent confession and passion evident in his eyes, as he holds your hand softly—his grip like his love; soft and uncertain, yet not wanting to let go, wanting to hold on. Scared, yet willing.

("There is nothing I find more beautiful than you, and my heart beats violently when you are around, even at the thought of you. After a long time of contemplation, the only reason for this is..."

"Love?" you supplies softly.

He falters, his mask crumbling slightly as he nods. Scared. He then regains his composure and says, "That is my assumption, yes.")

Your lover, who hesitates in abandoning his dream to achieve more power, to be Lord Voldemort. The same hesitation that dissipates whenever his mind drifts to you, and he knows that if he continues, he cannot be with you. It physically makes his heart ache, to leave what he wants the most, but you, just you, can easily cure that ache of his. He knows then, that it isn't power that he wants the most. As he thinks about your heart that reciprocates his love and your beautiful mind that is perhaps (and hopefully, he adds desperately) thinking of him as well, he comes to a decision, for a future with you in it.

Tom Riddle, who despises physical touch, simply because he doesn't understand it, doesn't understand how it matters to most people he knows. He flinches, when you rest your hand on top of his. There was a moment of silence between you two, as you look into each other's eyes.

("Why?" he asks.

"To show that I love you.")

He hates that, how forward you can be with your feelings, how he can't do the same. He tries to be like you, to make sure to show that his feelings for you are clear. He realises that this is him showing that he loves you too.

Your lover, who chases after your touch despite the voice at the back of his head telling him that it's unlike him to do so. His dark eyes closing when he feels your familiar hand on his cheek, and his warm hand catching your wrist when your hand pulls away, only to let it go when he realises that he's doing things on impulse now, always whenever you start touching him.

("And every time my skin brushes against yours, even just a light touch—it just... astounds me," he explains.

You hummed, as your hand hovers over his, silently asking for permission.

Please, he wants to say. He decides to nod instead.)

Tom Riddle, who still craves for Dark Magic, only to remind himself that you, you, you—that you're his, and that he shouldn't risk that, risk losing you.

Your lover, who always finds a way to make the things that he wants work, who caves in to temptation and continues using Dark Magic, except that now, it's for you. The excitement he feels when performing Dark Magic on the ones that hurt you, on the ones that cause even the slightest frown on your lips.

Tom Riddle, who doesn't understand how you can keep on loving him even after finding out what he does to people who do you wrong.

("I'm sorry—"

"I should be sorry. I'm sorry that you feel like you have to hide this from me.")

He comes to a realisation that this is love, to accept everything about the one you love. This is you accepting him.

Your lover, who takes care of you without realising it himself. A hair clip that he keeps in his pocket for when your hair falls to your face while you're doing work, a scrutinising gaze being sent your way because you seem a little down instead of directly asking you about it, because that's how he is, and the fast steps that he makes whenever you two reach the door of your destination, just so he could open it for you. Only when he finds two hair clips in his pocket that he notices the little things he has been doing for you.

Tom Riddle, who learns that he cannot win everything. Despite how much you two love each other, it cannot easily change the massive ego he has and his astonishing stubbornness. He always feels the need to win, and that includes arguments. He hates how you have the same massive ego and astonishing stubbornness he has.

He pauses at this thought. He should learn to accept you, and all your flaws, shouldn't he? He tends to be harsh when he wants to win, completely disregarding any feelings. He immediately blurts out an apology, earning a very confused "Huh?"

Your lover, who loves you too much because he has never loved anyone like this. You can even say it's obsession, or something close to it. He has to know every thought that occurs in your mind, and every plan that you decide to make.

He explains it's only because he's afraid that you would get away from him, in which you have to explain that you are not going anywhere at all. You mention how he has to trust you.

Tom Riddle, who likes the idea of trust between the two of you, and wonders just how much you trust him. He feels himself getting lost when he sees you trembling and breathless. It then instantly clicks, and he has seen this before. Once again, he's grateful for his constant curiosity.

He holds onto both of your hands, making sure you're looking at him. His soft voice reminds you to breathe, to look at him and only him. He doesn't know how much time has passed, nor does he care—it always feels timeless with you anyway.

As he's engulfed by your arms afterwards, receiving gratitude from you, he feels lucky to be the one that you're able to be vulnerable around. Trust, he thinks.

You're always so strong, for him and for everyone else. Despite how, sometimes, he can see that you're putting up a mask, you always appear strong. This vulnerable side of yours doesn't make you weak, now that you've shown him. It only makes him think that you're so much stronger. Trust, he repeats.

Your lover, who loves you beautifully, and learns to love you beautifully. Your lover, Tom Riddle.