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omg im so obssesed w meovv rn!!! what if a gawon fic 😏
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not really familiar with F1 terms but what is wag? is that like a wife of someone thingy like how wife of those famous football players has their own term to?
yup its wives and girlfriends !
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HELLOWODKWKDKQKJDQJJFJWJDJJWJQD WE NEED A PART 2
yes yes im working on it!!!
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OMGOMGOMGOMG I LOVE ITTTTT BUT I NEED A FREAKING PART 2 LIKE I NEED EXPLANATIONS WHY IS MANONS CONTACT ON READERS PHONE "don't reply" HELLO??? WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN THEM IM CURIOUS NOW YOU CAN NOT DO THIS TO MEEE🥹🥹🥹 -🌧️
thats a secret for now *wink wink*
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slytherin sophia laforteza has me on a chokehold 💞💞💞💞
esp me!!! im obsessed.
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hey author just wanted to say, goodnight :) Currently 1:04 in the morning haysz HWHAHAH- ge1st
well it's 6:20 here so good eve!
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YAY i use this with another writer here actually lol but im 🌧️ anon😁 i srsly cannot wait for another release🥹💔 -🌧️
nice to meet you 🌧️ !! you dont have to bc i just released a manon fic hehe!
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ɢᴏᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴘᴏᴘᴘɪɴ ᴘɪʟʟs (ᴀɴᴅ sʜɪᴛ)



pairing. f1wag!manon x f1driver!reader
warnings. mentions of substance use. curses. lwky cheating that's it.
Monte Carlo, Monaco, 2025.
You were indulging in the opulence of the Monte Carlo lifestyle. You were the newest rising star on the grid, and this was your first ever GP in Monaco, signed under Scuderia Ferrari. To say the least, you were pretty much nervous. Especially when the view from your million-dollar hotel suite stared straight down at the grid.
Outside, the city pulsed with legacy and wealth. Classic Monte Carlo. But inside, there was you. A hardworking kid who only got here because of pure passion. Not wealth, not last names, not family friends with sponsors. Just grit, long nights, and a go-kart your dad kept alive with duct tape and prayers.
Your overlooking view made you see how different your life was from these people. The Mediterranean Sea contained yachts that looked like floating mansions, each one a symbol to old money and older power. The balconies were filled with champagne flutes and designer sunglasses. Brands you used to only see in magazines now hung casually on the shoulders of people who’d never had to check a price tag.
You pressed a hand to the giant window glass of your hotel suite. Somewhere out there, mechanics were prepping your car. Somewhere out there, your name was printed on the Ferrari garage wall. But inside, it was just you and the quiet weight of everything you’d sacrificed to stand here.
The old you, the kid from a two-bedroom flat who spent weekends fixing busted engines, wouldn't believe it. Wouldn't believe the view, the hotel, the red suit with the prancing horse stitched on your chest.
But even with all that, you didn’t feel like you belonged. Not really. Not when everyone around you made luxury look like second nature.
You'd still prefer cheap wine over their thousand-euro champagne, a late-night take-out from McDonald’s over whatever they served on yachts. You still checked price tags out of habit. The heavy Rolex on your wrist felt more like borrowed time than status.
You reached for the pill with hands that shouldn’t have been shaking. You didn’t know if it was habit, desperation, or survival at this point. Maybe all three. But you knew the feeling that came after: the slow, spreading calm, like slipping into water just warm enough to forget how cold the world had been.
Your eyes closed, just for a second. And in that second, you saw it. The life you’d once dreamed of. The roar of the crowd. Your name on a race suit.
And when you opened your eyes, the dream was real.
Below, the grid pulsed with life. Cameras flashed. Revealed your infamous orange-and-black rival stepping out of his car, immediately engulfed by media and attention.
But it wasn’t him who made your breath catch.
It was the woman at his side.
Manon Bannerman.
She clung to your rival like she was built for the cameras. Her lips were red, her sunglasses oversized, her posture elegant and lethal all at once. The world moved around her, but she moved like the world belonged to her.
She was everything Monte Carlo epitomize: wealth, beauty, scandal. But to you, she was something more dangerous than any of that.
You knew her in ways your rival never could, in places no cameras had ever caught.
And that was the problem with Monte Carlo. It had a way of blurring lines. Yet she was the only line you saw clearly. And the only line you kept crossing.
Everyone expected it. You ended the GP night with a spot on the podium. Not first place, but not bad for a 22-year-old like you. You hadn’t beaten your rival, but it was a good start to your career. The crowd cheered, your team celebrated, and the press didn’t waste any time, jumping on the chance for interviews and congratulations.
People kept inviting you to the after-party at Amber Lounge, but you weren’t in the mood for any of it. Tonight wasn’t about the spotlight or the champagne. You just wanted peace.
Your phone buzzed constantly. Your family, back home, had flooded your messages, especially your father. You’d decided to reply to them tomorrow. Right now, you just needed a break. You were about to activate Do Not Disturb when a notification popped up on your screen.
dont reply: hey! congrats, champ. can i come over?
You stared at the message for a moment. Of course it’s her, you thought, your mind flashing back to the last time you two had been together. The temptation was undeniable.
You: i didnt win manz. anw arent u spposd 2 b celebrating w yk who?
dont reply: lol, he’s grown. i think he can handle himself.
dont reply: so?
You hesitated. The pull between you two had always been impossible to ignore, even when you knew you shouldn’t give in.
You: ugh. fine
dont reply: i’ll be bringing your fave wine and takeout. 🍷🍟
The clink of wine glasses echoed in your marble suite. Manon sat on the couch, clad in a plain oversized shirt, old pajama bottoms, and her hair tied back like it was any other night.
This was the only version of hers that only you get to see. No designer heels, no red lipstick, no flushbulbs painting in her gold.
You placed your wine glass carefully on the rare wood table, the liquid swirling inside as you took in its deep, rich color.
The metallic taste of the alcohol now soothed you. You didn’t even like it the first time you tried it. It was too bitter and too pretentious. But now? Now it slipped past your tongue like second nature. Like everything else that used to feel foreign before you got good at pretending it belonged to you.
“Gosh, this brings me back.” she murmured, tugging your usual order out of your hands to sneak a bite. Her half-eaten cheeseburger sat forgotten on the table as she reached over to steal a handful of your fries. “You still eat like your seventeen.”
You laughed, wiping the side of your mouth with the back of your mouth. She looked at you with plain disgust that she used to always wear whenever you ate like you haven’t seen food in days.
“You’re so uncivilized, Y/N.” She said, shaking her head but there was no real bite behind it.
“Sorry, rich kid,” you shot back, mouth half-full. “And you keep stealing my food, so maybe we’re even.”
Her eyes darted to the ketchup still clinging to your mouth that you failed to wipe off. Without thinking, she leaned in and wiped it away with her thumb gently and deliberately.
Then with that same efortless boldness only she could pull off, she brought her thumb to her lips and licked it clean.
She caught the way your eyes followed her every move, and the flicker of attention only made her bolder.
“Still so messy.” She murmured, her smirk curling like it knew exactly what it was doing to you.
The room felt smaller to you. Warmer. Like the air had thickened.
When the heat crept up your neck and settled low in your stomach, you reached for the little bottle on the table like its muscle memory by now. You let one rest beneath your tongue, closing your eyes for a beat as the familiar weight pressed down just enough to steady you.
Just enough to keep her from unraveling you completely.
When you opened your eyes, she was staring at you. Frowning.
“I thought you stopped that.” She said quietly.
And that was when it hit you, how familiar this felt. How it mirrored a different night, 5 years ago, when you were seventeen, and she was still the girl who tasted like wine she wasn’t old enough to drink and talked like nothing in the world could hurt her.
You remembered her frowning then, too.
But that time, it was over a half-empty bottle of cheap painkillers and a race you thought you’d never win.
And for a second, it almost felt like seventeen again.
South Garda, Italy, 2020.
“Fuck!”
It was the fourth time your kart had sputtered out halfway through practice, and the frustration was boiling over. You slammed your gloves down on the steering wheel, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
From the corner of your eye, you saw your dad sprinting down the pit lane, waving his arms like he could will the damn thing back to life. Sweat clung to his shirt, darkening the fabric, but he didn’t care, not when it came to your kart.
You pulled off your helmet, the heat and anger mixing with the weight of disappointment in your chest.
“Again?” your dad huffed, already crouched beside the engine. “This thing’s gonna kill us, kid.”
“It’s alright, dad.”
You looked at the sky like maybe the clouds could answer for all of this.
The clouds felt so far like the dreams you swore you’d reach, even when the world kept telling you otherwise.
Then an angelic, familiar voice called out from the fence.
“I told you to stop naming it after your exes,” Manon teased, arms folded over the track barrier, her Chanel sunglasses sliding down her nose.
Your dad chuckled at Manon’s comment, shaking his head as he wiped his hands on an oil-stained rag.
“And you, Manon, get out of the sun. The heat’ll kill you and your dad’ll kill me after.”
But Manon, like the headache she so proudly was, simply pushed her sunglasses up her nose and didn’t move an inch.
“I’m not a kid, Bill,” she said with that lazy grin, like she knew exactly how far she could push before anyone would stop her.
You caught her smirk as she climbed over the barrier anyway, sticking out like a sore thumb amid the grit of this poorly managed track. Her designer clothes so expensive it felt like even the dirt was too intimidated to touch her.
She didn’t feel like she belong there, not really. But she was there for you, anyways.
“So what, Y/N?” she said, walking toward you with that careless sway only she could pull off. “Are you just gonna sit there and cry about your kart, the one you named after your ugly ex, or are we actually gonna hang out after this like you promised?”
You stared at her, half-annoyed, half in awe because even when even when the sky felt distant, she made it feel like something you could reach.
The kart was dead for the day, your dad grumbling under his breath as you helped him roll it toward the trailer, sweat darkening the back of his shirt. He gave you a tired nod before glancing across the lot where his real job was waiting.
Manon’s family car gleamed in the sunlight, black and sleek and so clearly out of place in this dusty karting circuit. Her father was waiting for your dad to fetch him some place in South Garda you’re too broke to be familiar with.
Your dad wiped his hands and jogged over, falling into his other role: the one that paid the bills. Driver. Assistant. Sometimes mechanic, sometimes errand boy. Whatever they needed, he became. Because that’s how you afforded the dream.
“I’ll come back for you, kid. I’ll just fetch your father.”
Manon just gave your dad a lazy thumbs up. Like she wanted him to leave the two of you alone already.
Once her family’s sleek black Cadillac disappeared down the hill, Manon reached into her oversized designer tote comically out of place against the grime of the paddock and pulled out a crumpled paper bag of fries. Then, like it was the most casual thing in the world, she revealed a half-wrapped bottle of wine.
You immediately recognized the label, one of those expensive vintages you’d only ever seen in the wine magazines her dad left scattered around the Bannerman property.
Your eyes widened. “No way. I’m not drinking that. That bottle’s probably worth more than my entire kart!”
Manon just smirked, already working the cork loose like she did this every weekend. “Exactly why we’re drinking it. Papa won’t even notice. He doesn’t drink red.”
You watched, half-horrified, half-impressed, as she reached into her bag again and pulled out two mismatched plastic cups. The kind you’d usually rinse out and reuse during long weekends at the track.
“Your sommelier, m’lady,” she teased, pouring the deep red into one and handing it to you like it wasn’t a crime against luxury.
You took it, still stunned. Fries in one hand, a wine worth a month’s rent in the other.
Once the metallic taste of the alcohol hit your tongue, you winced. It was unfamiliar and sharp, nothing like the sweet sodas or watered-down iced tea you were used to. You looked at the cheap plastic cup in your hand, then at Manon, who was already taking another sip like it was juice.
She laughed when she saw your expression. “You’ll get used to it,” she said, nudging your knee with hers. “It’s an acquired taste. Like me.”
You snorted, trying to mask how fast your heart was racing, faster than you could ever drive your kart. You didn’t know it then, but she was right. About the wine. About her.
And about how two kids from entirely different worlds: one born into grit, the other into gold, were somehow casually enjoying the time of their lives in the middle of a dusty paddock. Sharing cold fries and smuggled wine like the world wasn’t waiting just outside the barrier, ready to split you apart the moment it noticed.
Back then, nothing tasted right like it was all just waiting for you to acquire it, to grow into it. Yet something it still felt right.
Especially when she leaned over, brushing the salt from your lips with her thumb before pressing hers against yours in a kiss.
Her kiss tasted like the expensive wine you were drinking: rich, heady, a little dizzying. A kiss that overwhelmed you in the quietest, most dangerous way.
The kind of feeling that settled in your chest and made everything else blur out. The kind only Manon could make you feel.
Neither of you were sure when it started. But suddenly, you were just kissing in one of your hangouts like these when both of your knees brushed against each other and suddenly she just pulled you in.
And in moments like these, it felt like you were rich. Not in money, but in possibility. Like you could have it all as long as she was there, laughing with you in the dirt, lips stained with stolen wine. Like becoming an F1 driver was more than a dream, it was inevitable.
But then came the floating. The dreaming too far. The way your mind would start to spin, faster than your kart ever could.
And just before you let yourself drift too far, you pulled back to reach into your pocket, slipping a cheap little pill onto your tongue. Just something to remind you the world was still waiting to pull you back down.
She arched an eyebrow, her tone laced with mock offense. “Really? Should I be offended that my kiss makes you reach for a pill?” Manon frowned, her arms crossed as she studied you. “Or is this just how you handle feelings now?”
“Oh shit, my bad. But I’m not exactly in the mood for a lecture right now.” You shrugged, trying to play it off even though the slight tension in your voice betrayed you. “And it’s not you.. it’s just.. this whole driving thing. The pressure and the expectations. It gets to me sometimes. But don’t take it personally, Manz.”
You didn’t have to explain everything because she knew already. Manon had seen it all, felt it, even. The way you wore the weight of your ambitions like armor, even when it was cracking beneath the surface. She just didn’t know how to fix it, or if you even wanted her to.
All she did was grip your jaw, her fingers warm and firm against your skin, pulling you back in. The kiss was deeper this time, almost as if she was trying to anchor you, to pull you back from whatever spiral you were drifting into. Maybe, just maybe, it would make you feel grounded again.
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this is the prettiest woman I've ever laid my eyes upon, OH MY GOD


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I GENUINELY WANT TO SEE MORE OF YOUR WORKS HELP😭 btw would it be cool if i could be your first anon🥹
OMG OFC!! u r now my fave anon ❣️
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I LOVE BOTH YOUR WORKS OMG IM MELTING😭🥹🫠
U make me melt 🥺 TYSM !!!
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YES PART 2 OMG IT WAS SO GOOD I LOVE IT SO MUCH PART 3 PLS 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 HAHAHAHAHA
YAY THANKS FOR LIKING IT 😓 thought i wasnt able wirte it as well as part 1 so that really means a lot ! for the part 3, mhm let’s just see 😔
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uh sorry quick question, is ur fic fem!reader? im sorry i don't mean to bother u i just wanted to know, thank you!
ur not bothering me at all, anon ! but yea i didnt specify anything abt the reader so feel free to imagine them however u want <33
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once again reminding author that you now owe me a jealous quidditch player sophia😵💫😵💫 - ge1st
oh oops mb,, i wasnt able to add it to the part 2 since it wasnt the story im going for, but will most definitely do it after this manon fic i’m cooking !
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happy 200 ! ty for d support u guys.. 🙁❣️
ᴄʀᴀᴡʟɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ



pairing. bratty!slytherin!sophia x quidditchplayer!gryffindor!reader
warning. mentions of alcohol. curses. and a bit of kisses. i think.
a/n. pls bear with me. its my first time writing. :') part 2 is up!
You were bored out of your damn mind, and the fact that the annual Quidditch Cup was only weeks away did absolutely nothing to help.
As Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain, you were supposed to be focused, fired up, strategic. Instead, you were just bored.
You’d been in the library for nearly three hours, and at this point, you were aimlessly sketching out plays with your quill, dragging it across just to litter the parchment with Quidditch formations and crossed-out plays.
Until a familiar, grating voice cut through your thoughts.
“Oh, sweet Salazar! Look who's swapped their broom for a book. Can’t you stop thinking about Quidditch for once?”
You snapped out of your reverie, jaw tightening. That squeaky, shrill tone could only belong to one person. Sophia Laforteza. The ever-annoying, ever-bratty Slytherin who had somehow been assigned to this godforsaken group project with you.
Her voice never failed to make you want to rip your hair out.
“And can’t you lower your voice for once?” you hissed, glancing nervously toward Madam Pince’s desk. If the library’s vulture-like guardian heard Sophia screeching again, you’d both be thrown out faster than a rogue Bludger.
“For Merlin’s sake, Laforteza,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “You’re making my ears bleed.”
“And you’re making my blood boil,” she shot back, dramatically flicking her perfectly styled hair over her shoulder. Her green-painted nails glinted in the light, long and sharp enough to make you think of snakes.
Typical.
“I’m so telling Professor Binns that you didn’t even lift your calloused, dirty fingers to help with this assignment,” she huffed, flipping through a textbook as if she’d been doing all the work.
You smirked, leaning back with that all-too-familiar cocky grin, like a boy who’d just thought of a very inappropriate joke.
“Oh, you wouldn’t imagine what these dirty hands could do?”
Her quill froze mid-sentence.
Sophia turned her head slowly, eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted in disbelief. You could practically see the scandalized gears turning in her head. And for a second, you swore she looked flustered but that was probably wishful thinking.
“You are disgusting,” she muttered, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
You only laughed, peeking over at the shared parchment covered in her perfect penmanship. Judging by how little she'd actually written, it was going to take at least two more hours to finish this godforsaken History of Magic project.
“I already told you,” you muttered, scribbling something half-useful just to fill the space, “if we just focused on Muggles, you wouldn’t be bitching right now. You’d be lounging in your mess of a common room, probably bragging about your new designer hand bag or something with your other bitchy friends, because we would’ve been done by now.”
Sophia rolled her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time. “Like I’d give a damn about Muggles. Dark magic shaped Hogwarts history! I'm just finding it a bit difficult to—”
“—To find something different? Yeah, because it’s always dark magic this, dark magic that. You Slytherins think so highly of yourselves, FYI, dark magic has shaped Hogwarts history in a bad way. If you actually wanted to be original, you'd lower that inflated ego for five minutes and listen to me.”
Her green scarf slipped slightly from her shoulder as she adjusted it with a huff, the signature Slytherin silver threading catching the light.
“Why must you Gryffindors be so damn boastful?” she snapped, nose crinkling in annoyance. “Fine. Muggles it is. But only because you wouldn’t cooperate if I pushed for dark magic.”
You leaned back in your chair with a satisfied grin, quill twirling between your fingers. “Admit it. I’m right.”
“I’d rather swallow a Fanged Flyer,” she muttered.
“You’re welcome.”
She didn’t answer, but the slight tug at the corner of her lips almost made you forget that you were supposed to hate each other.
“Catch up, Sophia! We’re going to miss the match!” Daniela squealed in excitement, her footsteps echoing as they practically skipped down the hallway.
Or rather, Daniela only did, since Sophia didn’t like breaking a sweat or wasting energy on anything that might tire her out. Even the thought of a few beads of sweat sent her into a mini fit.
“You know,” Sophia muttered, dragging her feet, “actually, you might want to go ahead. Lara’s waiting for me in the common room. We’ve got some work to do.” She quickly came up with the first excuse that popped into her head.
Daniela arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “I might just do that—only if you can come up with a better lie.” She leaned in with a roll of her Slytherin-colored eyes. “Shut up, Sophia. Just Apparate to the pitch, or something. Lara already told me she’d be there too, watching the game.”
Sophia let out an exasperated sigh, muttering under her breath. “Oh, for the love of the Dark Lord…”
"Plus… don’t you want to see your crush? Heard Y/N’s absolutely annihilating it against Hufflepuff today.”
“My crush?” Sophia smirked, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “More like I’d love to crush their head. And for the last time, stop with the rumors, Dani. I hate that Gryffindor .”
Dani raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the teasing. “It’s not a rumor, Soph. Just something I’ve observed—and trust me, it’s hard to miss with the way you’re always glaring at Y/N during matches.”
Sophia rolled her eyes, but before she could respond, someone down the hall waved at her. “Hey, Sophia!” they called, but she didn’t even spare a glance, strutting past them with her usual air of superiority.
How dare they greet her? They were just a pair of common wizards, nothing special. Meanwhile, she was THE Sophia Laforteza, descendant of one of the Sacred 28, a Slytherin legend. She didn’t have time for pleasantries, especially not with people who weren’t worth her attention.
Dani snickered, crossing her arms. “See? That’s how hard it is to get your attention. You wouldn’t even acknowledge someone saying hi, but with Y/N? You can’t even stop glaring.”
Sophia shot Dani a dark look, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush. “And don’t you think I glare at her because I hate her?” She asked like stating the obvious.
An amused smile tugging at Daniela's lips, “Oh, I know you glare at her. And if I’m being honest, that’s just your way of giving her all your attention.”
Even more irritated now, Sophia made up her mind. There was absolutely no way she was going to that bloody Quidditch match. Daniela could throw the biggest fit in the world for all she cared. She did not have a crush on Y/N.
Y/N savored her glory: 200 to 20. Gryffindor had completely obliterated Hufflepuff, and she stood on the second floor of the common room, overlooking the sea of red and gold as her housemates chanted her name. MVP of today’s game. With a smug smirk tugging at her lips, she thought, Yeah… I could get used to a few more parties like this.
The afterparty was in full swing. She and her friends had basically invited the entire year, and now students from all houses were packed into the Gryffindor common room—dancing, laughing, and sipping from cups laced with smuggled Firewhisky.
“Hail Y/N for beating those arses of a house called Hufflepuff!” Megan screamed from below, half-dancing, half-stumbling through the crowd. Everyone laughed and cheered, including the Hufflepuffs who are so drunk they could barely register what the orange-haired had shouted. Megan was loud on a regular day, add a few drinks, and she was practically a human megaphone. You could probably hear her from three floors up.
Thankfully, Manon, ever the genius of their chaotic little friend group, had already cast Muffliato. As bold as they were, Gryffindors through and through, none of them wanted to risk an earful from Professor McGonagall if the noise spilled beyond the portrait hole.
Manon approached her smug friend, handing her a drink that was probably twice as strong as the last. Why? Well, they were Gryffindors. They liked it strong like that.
“The tournament’s only just begun and we’re already throwing the year’s wildest party,” Manon said with a laugh, flashing her perfect pearl-white teeth. “Honestly, kind of a Slytherin move.”
Her smile could charm half the student body, and it often did. But not Y/N. She merely raised an eyebrow, unfazed as always.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Y/N scoffed, swirling the firewhisky in her cup. “We wouldn’t want to be associated with the likes of them, now, would we?”
Manon didn’t reply immediately. She just gave a knowing hum, eyes flickering past Y/N’s shoulder. “Funny you say that..”
From your view, your brown eyes caught a glint of green near the portrait pole. But not just any green. That green. Silk scarves and robes that probably cost more than yours and Manon’s whole lives combined, intimidating expressions and that aura that scream we’re better than you and we know it.
The infamous trio had finally arrived.
Lara, already looking unimpressed with the playlist. Daniela, waving to someone like she wasn’t crashing enemy territory. And right in the middle: Sophia LaForteza, arms crossed and gaze sharp, like she’d rather be hexed than be in a room full of celebrating Gryffindors.
You sipped again, slower this time.
“Well, speak of the bloody devil,” you muttered, eyes locked at the certain Slytherin who was looking down on everybody with utter disdain. But somehow, people still made space without her asking, like she was kind of royalty. Well not really kind of. She was royalty.
And yet she still looked pissed to be there. And for some reason that intrigued you.
You didn’t even realize you were already making your way through the crowd, drink still in hand. Manon’s voice trailing behind you.
“Didn’t wanna be associated, huh.” She laughed knowingly as she head her way to the other side, entertaining other students.
You stopped just in front of her, leaning against the red and gold pillar with a nonchalant smirk. Offering your firewhisky, you half-expected a grimace or a quick rejection. Instead, to your surprise, she took the glass and chugged it down in one smooth motion.
Sophia’s eyes flashed as she set the empty glass down with an ease that made you pause. The girl had no hesitation.
You couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Well, well, LaForteza. Here I was thinking you were above all this noise. Yet, here you are, crashing the Gryffindor afterparty. Didn’t feel like being a queen tonight?”
Sophia’s gaze flickered, but there was something else in it now, something more raw than the usual indifference. She liked the burn in her chest, the firewhisky coursing through her veins. Just exactly what she needed tonight.
It wasn’t that she was bored—not entirely, but the stress was eating at her. The weight of everything back at Slytherin, her family, the pressure… sometimes, a drink was the only thing that helped drown it all out.
She was actually thankful for you, in a way. No need to go to the drink table and mingle with the rest of the students. You’d brought it right to her, and it was a damn good drink. The last thing she wanted was to be around more people approaching her who doesn't know their place.
She tilted her head, her lips curling into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. “And here I was thinking you were above all this celebration noise. Your first time winning?”
You shrugged nonchalantly, unfazed by her jab. “First time winning? Please. I think I might need to invite you to one of my games. You must’ve missed more than I thought if you think this is a first.”
Your eyes shifted to one of the lower years you had invited to the party, someone you and your friends liked to send on errands.
“Oi, kid! Pass me two more cups! One for me, and the other for the princess here,” you called out, eyes glinting with mischief as you nodded toward Sophia. “Wouldn’t want royalty leaving the party early now, would we?”
“U-uhh… of course not, Y/N.” The younger student looked at you, wide-eyed clearly starstruck, then hesitantly offered a shy smile in Sophia’s direction. But Sophia, still disinterested, just rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed by both the kid’s awe and even more by your smug theatrics.
"You Gryffindors really do have a knack for being so loudly arrogant, no? Like if you save the day, you’d want the whole world to throw a parade in your name,” Sophia scoffed, taking the new drink from your hand.
She eyed you over the rim of her cup, her gaze razor-sharp and unblinking. You took a sharp breath, caught off guard by how intense the eye contact suddenly felt—like she was reading every motive behind your smirk.
You cleared your throat, doing your best to play it cool despite how her stare was already crawling under your skin.
“Who wouldn’t want the spotlight?” you quipped, flashing a grin. “It’s kind of like when a girl’s screaming my name in bed. Why keep it quiet when you can let the whole castle know who’s winning?" You laughed.
Sophia didn’t know why. Maybe it was your cocky tone or that maddening grin, but something about you just got under her skin. With a dramatic roll of her eyes and a sharp swig of her drink, she turned on her pointy, green heels, already set on walking away from whatever this was.
But before she could get far, your fingers wrapped gently around her wrist.
“Wait—what? You’re leaving already?” you asked, genuine confusion flickering across your face. “Was it something I said?”
Your teasing faltered for a beat, replaced by something unreadable, like you hadn’t actually expected her to walk away.
Sophia froze. Not because of your hold, but because of your stupidly irritating question. She scoffed, snatching your drink from your hand without warning and taking a sip, her eyes never leaving yours. Her glossy lips left a faint mark on the rim of your red plastic cup, and somehow, that tiny, thoughtless act shifted something inside you.
The nerve. The audacity. The way she could steal your drink, challenge you with a single stare, and still make it feel like you were the one off balance.
"You talk like that and then act surprised that someone walks away?" she said coolly, though there was an obvious tint of annoyance in her voice.
Oh, so that’s it. Was she jealous? That you just casually mentioned your bed escapades?
"Talk like what, LaForteza?" you shot back, your confusion quickly turning into a playful smirk. You leaned in just enough, watching her closely, almost daring her to admit whatever was making her so irritated.
Sophia’s eyes narrowed, and for a split second, she looked like she was trying to decide whether to hex you or kiss you, or maybe both.
But then, she paused, her jaw tightening, clearly weighing her options. There was a flicker of something—maybe annoyance, maybe something else—across her features before she quickly masked it with a cold expression.
She took another sip of your drink, which was now probably hers, her voice laced with sarcasm as she responded, “Please, don’t flatter yourself. I couldn’t care less about whatever you do behind closed doors. But keep it down. Not everyone’s interested in hearing about it.”
You took a step closer, smirking as you leaned in just slightly. “I wouldn’t want them to anyway,” you said, her voice lower now, the playful edge still there, but with something more intense beneath it. “I just want you to pay attention, LaForteza. That’s all.”
Your gaze flickered to Sophia's lips for a brief moment before meeting her eyes again, the tension thickening between you two. Everyone at the party who noticed the silent standoff between the two powerhouses of Hogwarts dared not come any closer. The air around you seemed to pulse with unspoken words, and it was as if the entire room held its breath, aware of the electricity crackling in the space between you. It was obvious to anyone paying attention, this wasn’t just another verbal sparring match.
"What, cat got your tongue?" You teased. Snatching your drink back and taking a sip exactly from where the Slytherin had left her lipstick mark.
Sophia followed your actions with her eyes, suddenly feeling hot. And she abhorred feeling hot. But why was this different? Why didn't she mind this at all?
"I'm not the one running my mouth."
"Oh, yeah? Prove it then, princess."
Sophia raised an eyebrow, but you could see the tension tightening in her jaw. You smirked, expecting her to retort, to snap back like she always did. But instead, before you could even react, her lips were suddenly on yours. It was unexpected, and for a moment, you froze, completely caught off guard by the softness and heat of her kiss.
She pulled back just as quickly, eyes narrowed, but there was no mistaking the hint of something unspoken lingering in the air between you two.
"Don't act so surprised, I can play your game, too." Her voice was hushed enough just for the both of you to hear. Yet it was laced with challenge.
You observed how her eyes were now hooded with lust, her usual composure unraveling, and how her thick, glossy lips were slightly parted from the kiss you two just shared. She looked so damn irresistible in that moment, like every challenge she'd ever thrown your way had led to this exact point. The sharp, undeniable magnetism between you two made your head spin.
Merlin's beard, kill me now… You cursed under your breath, your pulse racing as you fought the urge to close the distance even more. But you couldn’t help it—the way she was looking at you, like she was daring you to do something, ignited something deep inside.
Finally, you closed the distance between you two once again but this time you deepened it even more. Your kiss was nothing like the playful teasing before. It was strong, harsh, and passionate. The two of you wanting to dominate.
She gripped the back of your neck like she was claiming territory, nails digging just enough to make you grin into the kiss. You responded in kind, hands confidently sliding down to lift her leg, anchoring it against your waist with practiced ease. The movement made her gasp, and that alone felt like a win.
Sophia kissed like she argued: sharp, challenging, and with no intention of backing down. She bit at your lower lip, a bratty kind of defiance in the way she tilted her chin, daring you to lose control. But you kissed her like you played Quidditch: cocky, calculated, and always a step ahead. You swallowed her challenge with a smirk, deepening the kiss until her bravado cracked, just slightly.
She tried to pull away, to regain upper hand, but you were already chasing her lips again, murmuring against them, “What’s wrong, LaForteza? Thought you could keep up.”
Her answer was another tug at your collar, another press of her mouth against yours, fiercer this time like she’d rather die than let you have the last word.
“I’ll show you how to keep up. Bring me to your room.”
And just like that the game has changed.
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