hello everyone, welcome to my blog. my name is anais, i’m east asian, and 18 years of age. i have been in the formula 1 fandom for around two years now, but i'm still learning all the tidbits and facts behind the sport! my favorite drivers are yuki and alex. i love music (even though some of my friends say my music taste is basic) and reading. i've always wanted to write for a fandom and never had the guts to, but i've decided to give it a shot on this blog. feel free to leave a message or like! :)
📣: requests are closed
my works:
pool maintenance 💦 (new✨)
cl16
bite me!🩸 (new✨)
ka12
under 2k word count masterlist
shapeshifter!reader au blurbs
2023/2024 grid
shapeshifter!reader series: a spinoff - (on hold ⏸️)
when the clock strikes 12’
yt22
money, money, money
- birthday celebration?
- suikerbrood
mv1/33
i promise
dr3
👻anais' halloween blurbos 👻
yt22, op81, zg24, pg10, gr63, cs55
come over, baby!
- headcannons - pt. 1 - pt. 2
op81
lovers in every timeline
cs55
kimi x tiger shapeshifter! reader masterlist
ka12
friendly neighborhood boyfriend
eo31
i'm a feminist obviously (but i wouldn't mind him saving me)
ka12
strategy
ln4 *(18+)
amortentia
cl16
navigation support:
#📝- full length works
#anais talks🎙 - responses to any requests or questions from my inbox
#💬 - small blurbs based off of thoughts from you lovely people :)
🏷 taglist: feel free to message me or leave a comment if you would like to join my taglist for general works or my shapeshifter!series :)
summary: a new bombshell has entered the villa. a new pool boy arrives at your father's estate.
(mdni 18+) - kind of an asshole!reader, but also mean!charles, brat taming, p in v, belly bulge, unintended voyeurism (?)
a/n: a little treat for charles' first win since 2024 :)
“whatever,” you scoff. “it’s not my fault he was moaning so damn loud. no wonder the neighbors put in that complaint to father.”
your friend laughs through the speakers of your phone, lightly rattling the device against the pool deck chair as you lather another generous helping of sunblock onto your skin.
“whoever heard it probably thought you were filming some type of kinky porno in your backyard.”
“hmph, i have pretty good idea who it is. he probably enjoyed that shit before he had to go and ruin it all by calling it in.”
you stood by what you said. your nosy neighbor, mr. christian horner, was always a little creep. he probably watched the entire thing unfold, from you seducing then sucking off the pool maintenance boy, all the way from his third floor balcony with binoculars before calling your father to tattle-tell.
“figures. how’d you deal with the aftermath though? my dad would’ve cut my allowance for an entire week.”
“i didn’t.”
you pause dramatically to let the suspense brew, taking the time to sip some of the freshly-squeezed lemonade on the glass table next to you.
“father just threw a few hundo bills at the pool maintenance company to keep quiet and had me write a pitiful little sorry letter to mr. “horny” next door and that was that.”
she whistles.
“wow. you’re like … what’s her face? that little girl from charlie and the chocolate factory with the obsession with squirrels and, like, fucking nuts or something.”
“veruca salt?” you offer, biting back your giggle.
“yeah, yeah, veruca! imagine having that kind of influence on your parents — like a spoiled little brat.”
you gasp dramatically, throwing your half-capped sunscreen onto the recliner next to you, instead opting to occupy your hands with grasping your phone to your mouth.
“you did not just call me a spoiled brat.”
“well…” your friend stretches out, voice teasing. “you got the poor pool maintenance guy fired after sucking him off in plain sight, and then proceeded to get away scot-free from your father. that’s kind of pampered behavior.”
“for your information,” you snip back, “not only were we on own private property, mr. horny was literally peeping, and on top of that, carl or carlin or whatever his name was doing kind of lousy work at pool cleaning anyways. he always left a leaf or two floating on the water. i should've gave him one star on the app for not doing his job.”
“-maybe because you were busy sucking his dick,” she mutters under her breath.
“HEY, i heard that!”
your friend giggles on the line. she somehow always knew the best ways to annoy you.
but then again, she also knew the juiciest questions to ask.
“mhm. sure. so…who’s the new guy that they are going to send in placement? is he cute?”
“oh girl,” you say, propping your sunglasses up on your head and adjusting your skimpiest bikini. “i can’t wait to find out.”
ferrari pool maintenance prided themselves at being fast and efficient at the jobs. that’s why your father hired them after all, to take care of the infinity pool, indoor pool, and saltwater pool, along with the jacuzzi situated on the other side of the property. they dealt with cleaning, chlorinating, and testing the water — awfully boring stuff.
however, you discovered early on that their company had another appeal — their pool boys. dressed in their company red with hair like it was from a l’oreal ad, it didn't make sense why they were in your backyard, strutting around the perimeter of your pool scooping leaves instead of strutting down a runway. did they have some type of modeling clause in their job contract?
whatever it was, you were never one to lose an opportunity when it was right in front of you. especially in the form of a fit red figure approaching your pool chair.
“hello,” the new guy says, french accent molding it to an "allo". he towers over you with a huge pool skim net in one hand and a length of tubes in another. “i’m charles, your new pool maintenance technician.”
he flashes a smile at you after his sentence, dimples dotting his shaded cheeks. his hair ruffles stylishly in the wind.
holyfuckhewasgorgeous.
your friend, sensing a new voice, blurts out.
“WAIT SEND A PICTURE I WANT TO SEE—”
you don’t hesitate to jam your thumb towards the general direction of the red button on your phone while maintaining eye contact with the pool boy.
“charles," you say, testing out the word on your tongue.
mm. this will do.
you're three licks into your strawberry popsicle, tongue suggestively swiping over the tip, when charles speaks up from the end of the pool, mid-leaf-sweep.
"i know what are you doing, you know."
"yeah," you shoot back, cupping a hand over your eyes to see him better, "and what is that?"
annoyingly, he just laughs, shoulders shaking under his obscenely tight red shirt.
"it's a real pathetic attempt at seducing me," he snorts.
to add insult to injury, he continues scooping the sad, wet leaves from the bottom of the pool without sparing you even a glance.
your brows wrinkle.
you? pathetic? seducing?
your shock and confusion only lasts a second before you automatically smooth out your features. all of the money that you spent on face masks and anti-wrinkle cream using your father's black card shouldn't go to waste.
sitting up, you draw in a deep breath.
deny, deny, deny.
"i'm not seducing you," you huff. "jeez, can't a girl can't eat a popsicle these days without being accused? besides, i'm not into guys who scoop dead leaves out of people's pools."
charles dumps a dripping net full of pool skimmings into a neat black trash bag.
"mhm. sure. tell that to my good friend carlos sainz. you might know him. choked on his dick a few weeks back?"
ah, so that was his name—carlos.
"i-" you sputter out, mind racing for an excuse. there was no point in hiding it anymore. you decide to go for the angle where you laid everything out there.
"well, part of your job is to keep your clients happy, which—"
"which involves sweeping leaves and dumping the right chemicals in your pool and usually does not include having any genitalia in anyone's mouth." he says, tone disapproving.
yet, you can see it in his eyes when he turns back towards you. it traces down your scantily dressed body.
you smile when the tip of his tongue, pink and wet, inadvertently peeks out to lick his lips in salivation.
"usually?" you echo.
charles slams you roughly back against the canvas of the pool deck chair, with absolutely no consideration of the fact that each one was artisanally crafted.
it creaks concerningly.
"hey!" you cry out on instinct, "my father imported these from italy! they're fucking expen—"
your words die off in your throat as he climbs up onto the recliner to hover over your body, knees bracketing around your sides firmly. his green eyes bare into yours, demanding, in the type of way that makes you feel immobile, predator on prey.
"ask me if i care," he spits.
there's a small part of you that jerks back in offense. a pool boy? talking to you in this way? yet, under charles' gaze, the rest of your body gives. instead of biting back with a response, you let out a noise of indignation and lay back, pliant.
charles scoffs, face so angelic but his words so sharp: "that's what i thought."
under your watchful gaze, he lifts one of his hands to cup your jawline firmly, and capturing your lips with his.
charles tastes like summer; all citrusy and minty. you wonder what you taste like to him. strawberries and lipgloss, perhaps.
he only pulls away when he gets his fill, a fact evident from the trail of spit connecting the both of you. it's wiped away by a flippant swipe with the back of his hand.
"so fucking easy for it, aren't you?" he hums, the same hand beginning to trail down your body. it leaves goosebumps in its wake as it skims over the swell of your breasts and the plane of your stomach.
his hand stills when it reaches your navel, finger toying at the little coquette bow that adorns the seam stitching of your bikini bottoms.
toying—playing with his food.
"say it," charles teases, breath hot against your pebbled skin, "how easy you are, that even a pool boy can get you this way."
humiliation settles in your bones, but you realize the truth in his words. how pathetic you were, splayed open and vulnerable. the flare of anger that typically would have engulfed you lights a flash of heat in the depths of your core.
"no, i- " you grit out, but it comes out more hesitant than defiant.
charles can see right through you.
he raises a brow, prompting.
"i'm- i'm so—" you swallow. "i'm easy for you, charlie."
getting what he wanted, a corner of charles' mouth quirks into a dimpled smirk. his fingers switch to a hook that catches atop the lining.
then, he yanks.
your bikini set lies in a crumpled heap next to the canvas deck chair, torn off and discarded by charles. his khakis crown the pile.
"yes, yes, yes," you whine, breaths rapid as he pistons his dick into you, "i want—"
"i want," he snips. i bet you get everything you want, you spoiled little thing. and still, you want more, no?"
he laughs cruelly, just to see you whimper underneath him.
"i want, i want, i want," he mocks, thrusting forward harder with each time.
the chair squeaks underneath the two of you, mixing with lewd squelches, charles' groans, and the gentle gurgling of the pool.
"charlie, hah, please,—"
you can feel him stretch you obscenely wide, cock bottoming out each time. you can't do anything but take these big gulping breaths, the kinds that people tell you to do when you are having a panic attack, squeeze your eyes shut, and dig your nails into the wood of the deck chair for purchase. a nagging pressure builds in your stomach.
you suddenly feel charles hand grasp your jaw, forcing your chin downwards.
"fuck, look, baby,"
your eyes jerk open from the unexpected pet name and the firm grip on your jaw, and you have to blink a few times to understand.
next to charles' bruising grip on your hip, you see the bulge of the tip dick through you, protruding each time he snaps his hips forward.
god.
wrenching a hand free from your steadfast iron grip on the chair, you reach toward your navel where the bulge is.
when you press down with the heel of your hand, you think you see stars.
after charles comes with a strangled, breathy "fuck" a few minutes after you, he's gentlemanly enough to drape a nearby pool towel over your body before starting to slide his khakis back on.
"bigger and better than carlos, eh?" he jokes, buttoning the front of this pants.
you just snort, baring him a straight answer.
your mind flits back to carlos, who you certainly felt was respectably big. although, it might have not been accurate since half of the time he was down your throat anyways.
whatever.
"it was good enough where i hope they don't fire you."
he nods, amused at the answer, before scurrying off to finish his job.
you bathe in the afterglow for a while after charles leaves.
it's what you deserve, after all that work.
tendrils of sunlight warm the slivers of your bare skin where the pool towel doesn't cover, sending you into a sleepy, hazy state. the leaves rustle gentle, a lulling melody in your ears.
you're about to be sent into dreamland with visions of ruffled brown hair, green eyes, and dimples, when your phone jerks you awake, buzzing incessantly.
lazily groping towards the general area, you feel for the vibrating electronic before raising it to your ear.
your friend, probably back to hear the tea.
"holy fuck girly," you start off, sighing in contentment. “no joke, that was genuinely the best fuck of my li—”
“hi darling,” you hear your father cut in instead, voice stern. “i just received a call from mr. horner. now what’s this i hear about the new pool boy charles?”
warnings (mdni 18+): humping, dub con-ish (?) in the beginning because he's lowk in a hunger frenzy but everything is still very much consensual dw, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap b4 u tap guys) graphic descriptions of blood
a/n: ok so what if vampires just get rlly feral and horny when they are starved what then. also im sorry this is lowk putting merc in such a bad light
a REQUEST by @alexisheresworld!! i hope i did your prompt justice :)
the call lights up your phone at the worst moment in the small, near-silent brunch cafe. your ringtone, a traitor to the peace, completely overtakes the shop's calm ambient music with its merry little jingles.
many of the shop's patrons shoot you a side-eye and the cashier, who was oh-so-sweet when delivering your flaky pastry, now delivers a firm glare at your direction.
way to go.
it was your first day in china, and you've already pissed off the locals and embarrassed yourself.
"er, hi?" you whisper into your phone, trying to cover the embarrassment by using a hand to shield your face.
"hello my dear," the voice on the other line responds, voice tight.
who the fuck is this? some creep? you say to yourself mentally. who starts a call with that?
you remove the phone from your ear to glance at the contact, before your heart drops.
toto wolff.
a brief realization settles in that you were talking to your boyfriend's employer, his boss, his team principal.
"—it's torger here, em, toto wolff," he is saying when you raise the phone back to your ear.
"right! toto hi, yes," you respond back, almost a little too quickly. "is everything alright?"
toto sighs, and you can just visualize him in his office, a hand clutching his forehead and the other throwing an imaginary headset in frustration.
"there's been a situation," he starts off before his voice drops an volume, "—with kimi. the, ah, food shipment was ordered late then delayed, so he wasn't able to eat."
your polite, cautionary tone with toto completely goes out the window.
"what..? how does that happen? he hasn't eaten since australia!"
you were never one to play with when it came to kimi's wellbeing. every feeding was planned out, on time, in order to prevent the vampire "hunger frenzy" that was well documented in the media. mercedes had paid a pretty penny in order for the blood dispensary to send discreet deliveries to satiate kimi's hunger.
this time, toto's tone sounds apologetic, almost.
"yes, i understand. we are hoping his previous feed can last until after the race today, but we are checking to see if any shipments can be expedited. for now, it seems like kimi has shut himself in his drivers' room."
we are checking...taking a page out of ferrari's book, huh?
"the race is starting in a five hours and we really need kimi... out in the garage by then. he's refused to talk to anyone and keeps asking for you. will you be able to get here—?"
toto didn't have a chance to finish his sentence before you snip back, angered at mercedes' incompetence.
"don't touch him before i get there. mercedes better fly the bags to shanghai, first class, priority shipping, whatever you need to do, now."
"kimi, open up please," you whisper through the crack of his drivers room door. "it's me."
a hiss sounds through the flimsy aluminium— a warning sound that would typically scare off anyone else.
however, ten months into your relationship, you were practically immune to his tactics—he was all bark and no bite—so you yank open the door anyways.
at once, familiar metallically sweet scent wraps around you, beckoning you forward naturally like a moth to a flame. it's the smell that naturally seeps from kimi, lulling you into a familiar sense of comfort.
the room is a mess. sergi's resistance bands were all over the floor, his mercedes team kits laid in crumpled heaps on the ground, and stack of unsigned fan cards sprawl everywhere, corners creased and bent. kimi curls up in the middle of it all, back heaving, gasping.
"-i need, i need," kimi repeats like a broken record.
fuck.
once you slam the door closed, you hurriedly drop down in a kneel by his side. kimi stirs at the sound of your knees thumping to the ground, letting out a weak whimper at your presence.
your fingers loop into his brown curls in order to raise his head towards you, allowing you to assess his features in a desperate attempt to see how far he is gone.
kimi's eyelids flutter open and closed, exposing wandering eyes and pupils blown so wide that you could barely see the whiskey brown of his irises.
when his hazy mind finally lets his eyes lock onto the sight of your face, his mouth immediately drops open, wet and pink, exposing his fully extended fangs.
it's like the sight of you unlocks something feral in him — something dark and untamed.
unstable hands scrabble frantically at you, yearning.
"kimi, i—"
what the fuck did toto expect you to do? you weren't a vampire expert. the majority of the knowledge you had came from google searches and vampire movies that kimi complained were inaccurate, and of course, from kimi himself. however, it didn’t take an expert to know that kimi was in no condition to head out the the garages.
wrenching yourself from kimi's grasp, you ransack his bags, looking for anything substantial. notebooks, his paddock pass, and racing gloves make their way from his shelves onto the floor, and yet you come up with nothing.
behind you, kimi stumbles up out of his curled-up state. he looks as desperate as you feel when his fingers wander towards you again— towards your body. you can feel the imprint of his muscled body press against you, firm but with no warmth. his mouth finds a home on pulse point.
as far gone as he looked, kimi had some type of semblance to restrain himself from breaking the skin. still, he did not restrain from clamping down hard enough to satiate his biting instincts and break the delicate vessels that lie underneath.
a strangled gasp leaves your mouth.
kimi must be able to feel it — the thing he hungers for, lusts for, all in one, close enough that he can almost taste it.
you try to fumble through his bag again to find any hidden compartments with an emergency blood supply while kimi's hands begin to wander up under your shirt, tracing. vessels, veins, arteries with names he doesn't bother learning.
it's only when kimi's hand start to dip under your belt when you realize his intention.
you stand up quick enough that you feel lightheaded and push him away with great difficulty than before.
"why don't you lay down on the couch," you suggest instead, breathless.
as much as you want to reciprocate, you restrain yourself. it's not him— the kimi you know. he's under some type of spell of hunger, yes, a hunger spell, that somehow makes him act like this. you just have to keep him at bay long enough for mercedes to come with the blood bags, and then he will be normal again, the sweet and kind kimi that just so happens to have a pair of fangs.
he whines like it's painful when you are severed from his touch, and you have to practically wrestle him into a lying position on long end of the the small l-shaped couch.
kimi settles for grasping ahold your arm, grip bruising, while you sit at the head of the sofa. it's subtle, but you can see the way he twitches, hips jerking up subtly.
fuck.
you're not sure how long you can hold this up for, seeing your boyfriend in this state.
fumbling for your phone, you dial toto.
one ring, two rings, three rings, go by.
"the person you are calling is unavailable. please try—"
sergi.
"you have reached—"
rosa.
"hi there! it's rosa venegas. i'm not available to take your—"
you grit your teeth.
bono.
"hello?"
"ohmygodbono," you exhale in one breath. "no one is answering my calls. is there an update on the delivery or...?"
his english accent peeks through as he speaks.
"everyone is trying to fix the issue. i heard it was on it's way, but i'm not sure the exact whereabouts of the shipment. i'm really sorry. is everything alright there with kimi? do i need to call anyone? the medics?"
you turn your head to look at kimi. his eyebrows are scrunched, almost in pain, and he mouths at the pulse on your wrist. when he looks up at you, his irises, edging out toward the sclera, are almost jet-black.
you're quick to voice your refusal to bono. the chance of this incidence spilling to the non-mercedes media would skyrocket, ultimately causing the ruination of kimi's career. they would chalk up his success to his supernatural abilities and call him a monster behind his back.
"i'll manage," you sigh.
bono sounds unsure but ultimately murmurs an agreement before hanging up.
kimi lasts all but ten minutes before he starts hyperventilating again, breaths heavy. your bare touch becomes insufficient; he needs more, craves more.
"mi bella, per fervore," he moans, voice all slurred. he resorts back to his native language, mind too hazy to translate.
your eyes rake over kimi's writhing body before flickering back to your phone where a google page is pulled up to a frantic search.
google spits out one singular match: here are results with the keywords "vampire", "hungry", "horny".
you pull up the anonymous post, last updated twelve years ago.
vampires in heat ??? the title reads. i read somewhere that apparently some vampires get frenzied, both in hunger and lust when they are starved long enough. is this real? can anybody confirm??
nuttinbutt295 replies: 100% real. i have a friend who is involved in that stuff and his boyfriend literally went ballistic after he missed his feeding time once. some omega in heat shit. crazy stuff. you didn't hear it from me though.
right.
you weren't sure how much you could trust a user named nuttinbutt295 from twelve years ago, but it was all the information you had. a confirmation of kimi's symptoms.
from the look of it, kimi was already too far gone. quote on quote ballistic. in heat.
with the promised delivery nowhere in sight, what else could you do but to quench kimi's thirst?
you both have done this before, but never in this state.
kimi's anguished pants become low guttural moans when you finally comply with what he's begging for.
your perfect pussy, enveloped around his needy cock.
it's slippery and wet in the place where you meet. kimi slides in like he belongs there, like he's meant to be there. it's how a plant reaches for a sun and a river reaches for the ocean— instinctual and natural.
kimi manhandles you with his muscular arms, moving you up and down his dick like it is nothing. gone is his weak, fatigued state. he moves with a sense of purpose now, tongue tucked in the corner of his mouth next to his fangs in the way he does when he's concentrated.
he somehow hits that spongey spot in you that makes your toes curl and eyes roll into the back of your head every time. you wonder if he uses his heightened senses to feel that rush of ecstasy in you.
all too aware of your position entrapped in the paper thin walls of kimi's driver room, you force yourself to bite your lip to constrain your moans, yet there's nothing you can do to quiet the lewd slaps of skin on skin that echo through the room.
"kimi— hah— fuck—"
a cry bubbles up in your throat, vulnerable and mortifying, causing you to muffle it by biting down on your bottom lip hard.
you realize your mistake the same time kimi smells it.
blood.
a scarlet rivulet drips from your mouth from the wound, tracing a trail down the swell of your bitten-raw lips.
kimi's head snaps from its home in the crook of your neck to face you, watching the rivulet like a child at a candy store. his breaths quicken, brain going into overdrive.
it's primal instinct, the way a wolf zeroes in on its prey, senses sharpening.
kimi's mouth chases yours, and you feel him ferally licking up the sweetness dripping from you. his hips lurch and thrusts become frantic.
a fountain of ichor, flowing just for him. so addictive and syrupy, ambrosia on earth.
"bite," you suddenly whisper into his mouth, voice thin and ragged.
kimi's rhythm falters minutely.
your voice raises a pitch higher, firm.
"bite me, kimi."
kimi can see it when you come on his cock, pushed over the edge by his bite, body shaking in his arms. he hears you too, ears ringing with your strangled gasp. best of all, he tastes it—the rush of adrenaline in your blood that he licks up from the wound on your neck as he chases his own high.
when he finally comes, seed pumping into your sopping pussy, his eyes glow black and his mind goes blank.
you both bathe in the calm afterglow, lazily redressed.
kimi laps like a puppy dog at your neck, catching the drizzles of thick blood.
he moans in contentment.
"that good, huh?" you giggle, running a hand through the sweaty curls that line the nape of his neck.
"mm, like morphine," he replies, tone light and hazy.
he reminds you of those videos online of the soup-shaped kittens, bellies full and satisfied.
a sudden sharp rap on the door the both of your attentions.
an employee with mercedes insignia plastered all over his shirt scoots in, a medical-grade bag filled with deep maroon liquid in his arms.
his face goes white when he sees the sight in front of him.
"the— the delivery for kimi..?" he stutters.
although you understand the poor employee has done no wrong, you can't help but to sneer at the sight of the overdue blood bag while kimi reattaches himself to your neck.
"tell toto that there's no need for that anymore," you instruct.
lando had taken you to many places over the course of your relationship — the crystal beaches of bali, cloud forests of costa rica, and snowy swiss alps, to name a few.
they were breathtaking of course, but you figure your favorite sight of all was something else entirely.
you run a hand through lando’s curls, and he has enough consciousness in his glazed-over eyes to strain upwards towards your touch despite his limbs being tied down spread eagle on the bed. a sheen of sweat dots his temples, making him looking like he just finished in singapore — if you ignored the fucked-out look on his face.
cute.
your fingers trail down towards his stomach, past his still-heaving chest, and swirls into the pool of his own spend from the last two times that you’ve jerked him off with your hands while he writhed with your name on his tongue.
“oh lando,” you say slowly, watching the glistening viscous liquid streaked against the swells of his abs, and it sparks something feral inside of you. “i think you can do one more for me, mmh?”
and just because you can, you reach over to teasingly rub over his flushing tip.
the reaction is immediate. lando lets out a ragged, keening moan, and his cock, despite being soft against the freckled plane of his abdomen just minutes ago, twitches and starts to become hard again.
with the genes of a champion encoded within him, you knew lando always had that streak of competitiveness in him, always reaching to take and take, determined to push his limits, so of course, like a good boy he is, lando nods.
you smile.
“i thought so.”
scrambling up, you climb into his naked lap and sink down on his hard cock, pre-lubed from your ministrations before. it feels long and thick, taking you a few tries to fuck yourself down all the way before your ass sits flush with the base of him. although you feel a wave of selfishness, moving so fast when he was so sensitive, you couldn’t help it — it was like your mind had been taken over from a wave of lust.
“ah—” he gasps out, hands scrabbling in the air for purchase as soon he feels your warmth enveloping the entire curve of his dick “too fast, too fast, i can’t—”
he pulses inside of your heat as you rabbit your hips, length twitching too quickly, too soon.
“do you want me to stop, lan?” you mock sweetly, purposely reducing your body’s movements in order to lean forward and wipe a big fat tear that drips down the side of his face in a shiny streak. it’s pathetic, the way he looks when he cries with overstimulation — the rims of his eyes red, lips quivering — the opposite of the cocky, confident demeanor he prefers to showcase. it sends a thrill through you, drawing out this side of lando that was hidden from the public.
his answer comes back in a hoarse string of words.
“nononono keep going, keep going, please,” he whines with breathy little huffs, sounding more pathetic than he looks. lando’s hips even piston up automatically as he begs, actively seeking for more friction now that he was chasing his third high again.
and who were you to deny the pretty little thing in front of you?
lando is still sprawled on the bed when you lift your digital camera to your eyes. you can tell the moment he recognizes the device when his eyelids flutter slightly — he was the one who bought it for your four year anniversary, anyways.
“smile,” you say jokingly, but he’s too far into subspace to even listen.
the shutter clicks and the photo loads up on the lcd display.
he’s beautiful — the epitome of adonis laid out beneath you.
(mdni 18+) - fingering/handjob, cum eating, risky behavior, public setting (gala)
a/n: happy valentine’s day <3
many people say that oscar had a “polite cat” look to him — the kind that made you mm and awee and want to pat him on the head.
and usually, you would agree, but there’s something different in the way he’s looking at you now.
there’s a teasing, devilish glint in his eyes, more like a lion zeroing in his prey, and his lips is stretched in a smile that looks more like a knowing smirk.
it’s almost like he knows that he has you impossibly turned on, right at his work gala.
in an effort to be the more sensible one, you send him a disapproving glare, even as you squeeze your thighs together in an effort to ease the feeling and your fingers grow twitchy against the silverware. mark webber and his wife were sitting straight across the both of you, for god’s sake.
and yet, all oscar offers you is his smirk and a humorous twitch of his eyebrow.
halfway through the meal, when oscar catches your eye, he stops circling the rim of the glass with his fingers and lifts the glass to his lips. then, he leans back farther than he should before baring the length of his neck to you. in your stunned stupor, your vision centers in on two moles that you are all too familiar with that dot the side of his neck, before trailing towards the thick column of his throat that bobs as he takes a drink of the maroon liquid. afterwards, he sticks out his pink tongue to swipe at any traces of the wine on his lips.
you bite your own tongue to prevent yourself from saying anything stupid.
the other members at the table stay none-the-wiser as oscar continues his little act, chatting to mark across the table or sampling a few bites of his buttered halibut before doing something mundane in a downright sinful way that made you want to push him against the table and fuck him dumb, dinner guests be damned.
however, you realize, two can play at this game.
after a quick glance around the table, your hand reaches out below the tablecloth and straight towards the zipper clasp of oscar’s suit pants. teasing, you experimentally brush the tips of your fingers against the fabric, where his dick has obviously chubbed up.
next to you, oscar’s eyes widen imperceptibly, and he chokes on his words to mark. it makes you want to giggle.
you wonder would happen if you pulled him out and stroked him there, right under the table, to teach him a lesson for teasing you. would he beg you to keep going? or would he chastise you and punish you for being bad at home? maybe he would pull you away to his mclaren and ruin his leather seats with your juices straight after the gala.
before you could find out, you feel a strong hand grip onto your wrist under the table, preventing you from moving your hand.
oscar.
you find that his conversation to mark has stopped, and instead, he’s looking at you again with a darker look in his eyes.
“oh baby,” he drawls, lips close to the curve of your ear. “if you want it that bad, you better be able to take it.”
before your brain, still processing from his words, can catch up, oscar reaches underneath the tablecloth and hitches the edge of your skirt up.
you let out a sharp gasp that you quickly muffle with a dinner napkin.
“oscar, what are you-?” you croak out, voice raspy from biting back your words all evening.
his fingers make quick work in pushing your lace panties to the side, dipping themselves in the slick dripping from your pussy, and slipping into your core. he pumps them into you, hand flexing, slow at first, then into a steady rhythm that he knew you liked. the second his thumb drifts up to press at your clit, you think you are going to faint, right there into your salad.
you must bite your lip bloody in an effort to look composed and normal when you come all over oscar’s hand.
your head feels dizzy from coming so hard and your mouth tastes metallic, yet you smile your “everything is normal” smile to mark’s wife across the table and snatch up your fork to shovel the newly served dessert into your mouth like everyone else is doing. you hope no one has noticed.
below you, oscar’s hand rescinds from the mess between your legs.
no sooner had you placed a bite of the dessert, a slice of cake, in your mouth when mark clears his throat and speaks up.
“you sure are enjoying your dessert, aren’t you, oscar?”
you spare a sideways look at your boyfriend, only to almost choke on the sweet frosting.
oscar’s fingers, the ones that were in you half a second ago, were now in his mouth. he licks them with relish, tongue obscenely dragging across the tips of his digits, licking them clean.
a/n: practicing writing more smut fics (bear with me here 🥴)
you knew max would do anything you wanted him to, even if that meant dropping to the ground and barking like a dog, tongue lolling like when he was in subspace last night. willing and eager, you usually had max right in the palm of your manicured hands.
yet, in the hazy lighting of the nightclub, bass reverberating in a hypnotizing thrum, max's entire personality seemed to have shifted into something you had never seen before.
max has you pressed against the door of the dingy club bathroom now, tits smushed against the plastic laminate. one his hands circles around the nape of your neck, holding you still as his cock drives into you.
"you better thank the gods that no one's in here," he hisses, accent thick. "or else they would have to hear your bitchy whines"
you pant in response, tears spilling out the corners of your eyes.
it didn't start off this way — max had been oh-so-sweet just twenty minutes ago, smiling his giddy little smile as he brought you a redbull vodka and a gin and tonic for himself.
he had danced with you, moving your bodies with the crush of people and letting the flow of alcohol numb your senses.
and when he left to replenish your rapidly diminishing drink at the bar, you supposed you should have known what would happen when max came back to you engaged in a friendly conversation with a random man on the dance floor. the man had seemed nice enough, talking about his recent trip to monaco.
if you weren't so focused on your conversation, you might have noticed the sharp glint in max's blue irises, different from the round-eyed gaze usually reserved for you.
thinking back, when your mascara still held perfect and your panties weren't a ruined mess on the floor, the signs were there. max started becoming more clingy than usual, nimble fingers threading its way around your waist as you nodded along to the man's words. he even tried ducking his head into the junction of your neck, trying to suck a hickey on your neck.
when you didn't bat an eye to his antics, even after he attempted to grind against your ass, he resorted to pouting directly beside you, sending scathing glares toward the man, who continued talking ecstatically, gesturing in the air with a cigarette between his fingers.
you had brushed it off easily, dismissing his mild horniness because of the carcinogen laced smoke wavering in the air and from the alcohol surging through both of your systems.
however, max's limit came the second the man offhandly commented on your skimpy little outfit that was no more than a scrap of material.
aside from the gurgles of water flowing in the drippy pipes, the only sounds echoing in the bathroom were the wet slaps of skin-on-skin, max's breathless huffs, and high, keening noises that were ripped from your throat.
if your face wasn't pressed up against the cold material of bathroom stall door, you would have seen the way max's eyes fixated on you, watching how his dick disappeared inside of your wet heat.
"maxie, please, i-" you are barely able to stutter out, hands flying everywhere to try to grab onto to something, anything for purchase as his thrusts get faster. "s' too much-"
max's hand adjusts on your waist, griping tighter underneath the scrunched up fabric of your minidress, no doubt leaving uneven oval bruises where his fingers rest.
"maybe you should have thought about that sooner," he grits out, hips stuttering erratically, "-before you took the chance while i was gone to talk with some douchebag."
although his words are firm and rough in an attempt to chastise you, you can hear the obvious notes of jealousy seeping into his words.
jealous much? you try to shoot back, but it only comes out as a stuttery "je-je-jealous-" as his cock hits a spot in your pussy that has you seeing stars.
max seems to get your mocking quip, as he spits out a low growl into your ear, with no consideration for poor clubgoers who could be in earshot outside the bathroom door.
although you knew max was pretty strong from way his muscles always stretched out the short sleeves of his shirts, you realize you underestimated his strength when he easily pulls you off his dick and pushes you onto your knees with a shove of his hand.
his dick glistens in front of you, throughly coated in your juices and slightly bowing from the weight. the tip is a blushy red, twitching in the way that you know means he is close.
"for that, i'm coming on your face," he spits.
you reach up, attempting to wipe at the mess that max had left on the bottom of your face— streaks of his cum, traces of your salty tears, and even hints of your own juices. some of it drips slowly down your chin. however, the back of your hand never gets a chance to reach your face, as max shoots out his hand and firmly grasps onto your wrist.
“no,” he says firmly.
no. the one word that you know all too well, but from all the times you’ve said the same thing to him. often paired with stern shake of your head or a sound of disapproval, you said it most often to max when he had his hands tied up, unable to touch, while he begged you to please please please to let him come.
but now, with his seed on your face and you on your knees in front of him, it was his turn to say it.
"no." he repeats. "leave it."
you nod. obediently.
when you walk out on unsteady feet, your lips are coated in a different sheen. it's thick and glossy, shining under the laser beams and disco lights of the club.
max walks behind you, back to his normal considerate self, gently guiding you around the people lining the border of the undulating crowd.
you're no more than two steps from the exit when a hand comes out to grip your shoulder.
it's the man from earlier, paying no mind to max. there's a beer in his hand now, and he lightly sways back and forth, completely wasted. judging from his state, it was probably his fourth or fifth bottle.
"ah, you're back," he slurs. "i was wondering where you went."
he gestures to your face.
"you touched up your makeup eh?" he suggests, waving his hand in a way that sloshes half of his drink onto the floor. "new lipgloss, yes yes."
Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI, fem!reader, oral (f!receiving -> reader), somno (dubious consent), semipublic (does the kitchen count?), face riding, natasha loves food, sort of proofread -> credit to my friends, please let me know if i missed anything!
WC: 636
Nova Notes: my first installation of BILLIE BARNES & NOVA! enjoy xx
You’ve learned that Natasha loves to eat. Having spent most of her life within the strict rules of the Red Room, she likes to savor and enjoy her food now that she is able to. She usually favors traditional European cuisine—its comforting, aromatic essence probably being the appeal. She’ll explain to you the details of the food, the notes, the ingredients, how they come together to create the taste. To her, food is an art, but even among all of those flavorful combinations and exquisite cuisines, you are her favorite meal.
Natasha wants you, needs you, craves you. She could starve for days, but if she has you, she’ll be full. Best part? She’ll eat you anywhere.
Kitchen?
You’re hauled onto the counter, butt dragged to the edge, leaning back on your forearms as Natasha throws your legs onto her shoulders and starts lapping at your core. Her tongue teases your slit, from bottom to top, barely grazing over your most sensitive part. You beg her to stop teasing. She responds with a firm lick up your pussy. When she reaches the top, she finally pays attention to your clit. Her lips latch on, sucking while her tongue swirls—no, spells N-A-T-A-S-H-A. You moan softly as you throw your head back in ecstasy. The sounds are obscene, and you’d be worried about getting caught if she wasn’t so fucking good at this.
Shower?
She ambushes you, playfully pushing you against the cold tile on the wall. She sinks down to her knees, bringing her hands up to the back of your thighs to hold you steady. Turns out…you need that support more than you thought you would. By the time she kisses her way down to the spot just above your clit, your legs are already wobbling from anticipation. When you cum? You lose all balance completely, and Natasha has to lift you up to hold you against the wall as her tongue works you through your orgasm.
Sleeping?
No worries, Natasha was craving a midnight snack anyway. You don’t register it immediately, but a harsh suck and tug on your “precious little pearl” breaks you out of your twilight daze. She’s not directly in your line of sight; you have to pull the sheets up slight to see her ravaging your core. She pauses, and acknowledges you by turning her head and pressing chaste kiss to your inner thigh. You fling the sheet behind her and bring your hand to her head, twirling her hair in your hands softly. You don’t like to push, you never do, but something tells you to in the moment. Gently, you guide her head to face your pussy once again. She follows you, more than eager, and continues until she’s satisfied.
Cuddling in bed?
She’ll lift you on top of her, and suggest you “ride her till dawn.” You made a joke about that once. Now you regret it. Kind of. Not really. The ache in your thighs is nothing compared to the pleasure you get from grinding on her face. Natasha helps, of course. Her hands are placed on your hips, helping to rock you back and forth. Sometimes, her mouth catches your nub, suckling it while her tongue cradles and swirls. Then, she releases it, allowing you to continue your ministrations as you please. You brace your hands on the headboard to give you more stability because your legs are spent. You don’t know exactly how long you’ve been at it for. All you know is that you did in fact ride till dawn—evidenced by the morning sunlight passing through the windows as the sun begins to rise.
So yes. Natasha loves to eat. She’ll tell the others that her favorite food is homemade, or from some obscure European style restaurant...but you both know that you taste the sweetest.
warnings: graphic descriptions of blood, allusions to sex
summary: kimi's real hungry. luckily, you're there for him!
a/n: inspired by all those pictures of kimi’s ridiculously sharp vampire-like canines.
picture credits from pinterest
even before you shove the silver key into the lock to crack open your apartment door, you can detect a sickening sweet smell, like that of overripe fruit, that seeps through the invisible cracks all around you. it only strengthens in intensity when you crack open the door, enveloping you in a drowsy haze.
the glow of the moon, red through the polluted fog, shades your apartment a maroon color. it supplies just enough light for you to see where the hook is to hang your coat.
"kimi, i'm home," you echo softly.
you know that he's in the house somewhere.
even so, it's still dead silent by the time you place your keys in your catchall tray and slide off your shoes.
"kimi," you try again, louder.
it stays dead quiet.
your leather bag bumps your leg as you cautiously make your way to the kitchen, making viscous gurgles as it shifts.
if the bag inside popped and made a mess inside your purse like last time, you were genuinely going to kill kimi.
once you arrive at the kitchen counter, you gently pull out the blood bag. the medical-grade plastic and its contents squelch as you heave the pouch onto the flat plane of marble. you watch it spreads from an amorphous form into the neat rounded-rectangle shape of its container as it lays flat. you give it a couple of experimental pokes for fun, watching as the liquid jiggles in ripples.
it can't help but feel insane to you. two months ago, you were the epitome of a perfect, model employee of mercedes hospital, but now, you were doodling hearts on the labels of blood bags to mark the freshest batches of nutrients for your boyfriend. however, you reason, it was better than kimi flying out and satifying his hunger via fresh prey. you were basically doing the hospital a service — a favor — by preventing its morgue from filing up with "unidentified" blood-drained bodies.
lost in thought, you don't realize the coldness that seeps into the room.
not until it clamps down on your neck.
kimi's canines, sharp, yet not extended into fangs, digs into the delicate beating skin of your neck. they lay gently against the pulse point, internalizing the tantalizing thrum of life that he lacked.
when you don't make an effort to move away, he bites down harder, yearning to break the skin and taste the sweetness that flows out.
you roll your eyes.
he always acted like a madman when he was starved.
combing your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck, you yank his head away with minor difficulty. there was no doubt it that his teeth marks were starting to bruise in splotchy purple-blue marks, layered on top of previous barely-healed marks.
he flashes you a cheeky grin when met with your glare.
“i said no hickeys, kimi. i don’t own enough turtlenecks to cover all of them up.”
“ah, mi bella,” he retorts, reaching up to your neck to gently thumb the marks. “it looks so beautiful though.”
you huff, bringing your eyes to match his intense gaze. his usual whiskey brown eyes flicker red.
“well, i don’t want all the other nurses thinking i’m a freak—”
kimi purposefully digs his nails into the sensitive depressions on your neck, earning a hiss from you. it stings, but with an ache that hurts so good, a pain that makes your senses go fuzzy. your eyes flutter.
he laughs at your response, colorless lips curling up at the corners.
“ … and you were saying?”
you weren’t in the mood for his silly games.
“behave, kimi,” you snip, albeit with no heat, pushing his hand away. “or else i’m leaving the apartment window open for you to go hunt for your own food.”
to this, he crosses his arms exaggeratedly like a little child who doesn’t get what he wants, because you both know the embarassing truth.
for a vampire, he was terrible at hunting.
this whole thing started with his pathetic hunting skills anyway, as he tried to jump you behind your own apartment building, only to be noticed by you midway through his attack. he seemed more like a hissy cat than an actual vampire, swiping at you with claws that hadn’t drawn blood in days. it was more pity that led you to bring him bags of blood from your workplace.
“now hurry and drink up, i know you’re hungry,” you tease, shoving the cold bag into his arms. you pat his cheek twice as encouragement.
he grudgingly takes the blood bag, jaw tight, eyes flicking up as if daring you to tease him any further. it only takes a second for him to extend his fangs into the prominent long fangs associated with vampires and another for him to sink it into the bag.
it always intrigued you to see him feed — the way his pale skin seeps back with color, the way he shudders faintly as he drains the blood, and the way thick drizzles of the red liquid spill out the corners of his mouth, dripping in scarlet rivulets down the side of his neck. it trails tantalizingly slow into the neck of his shirt, staining the material. as kimi drinks, his head slowly falls back against your cabinets in ecstasy, exposing the tinted length of his neck. the dim light of the moon only helps stretch the shadow of the blood bag against the walls.
you swallow thickly.
it mirrors the way you were last night, arching against him, hands fisted in the sheets, neck thrown back in pure euphoria.
you can’t help but wonder what if —
what if you were that euphoria for him, his essence of life, his supply of youth? all you had to do was to bare our neck and wait for the sting of his fangs and then it would be you he would be addicted to, not the filmy sacks of PVC plastic with the blood of some faceless person.
when you snap out of your thoughts, kimi is looking at you with a dark look in his eyes. there’s no doubt he has sensed your heightened emotions.
the drained bag crumples easily as he scrunches it with his hand, allowing a few weak spurts of leftover blood to leak out of the punctures on the sides.
he leans over to you, a satisfied grin on his blood-stained lips.
“grazie mi bella,” he says, inches way, accent thick.
kimi leaves a kiss on the side of your cheek, a wet imprint that engulfs your senses with the heavy twang of iron, before turning away to dispose of the bag.
before he does, you grasp the back of his shirt and pull him backwards.
“wait.”
he looks at you curiously, head cocked like a puppy. it’s a drastic contrast between the bloody fangs that sits at the corners of his mouth.
summary . . . During your first date with Yuki in Faenza, he compliments your curly and you start talking about how difficult it is to maintain. By the end of the night, you're already so enamoured by him
request . . . yes!! based on this request!
word count . . . 1.1k+
warnings . . . none!
faceclaim . . . N/A
alexavia yaps . . . okay so um hello i'm back.... ayway my keyboard is lowkey broken and tweaking so i'm begging you ignore the million typos! sadly not proofread </3 i used the ristorante cinque cucchiai for inspo on the restaurant they went on their date to so you can look at that for imagination!!
. . . The pink hues of the setting sun peeked slightly over the Faenza clock tower, painting the streets in a washed out colour. Wind rustled the trees surrounding the plaza as you walked to the restaurant you'd be having your date in, the breeze raising goose bumps on your exposed arms, jacket hanging on your shoulders.
From a distance, a small house-like building appeared, sitting in the middle of a patch of grass with two routes paved around it. As you pushed through the glass doors, a wafting aroma of delicious food filled the air around you, the sounds of utensils clinking against glass plates echoing throughout the room.
White tables and chairs were spread throughout, but you weren't searching for an empty one, but one occupied by the man who'd asked you out when he saw you in the Red Bull garage. To be fair, you were still in denial that he'd actually wanted to take you out on a date, Yuki Tsunoda, a professional Formula One driver.
Still, you found him sitting in a table set up by the corner, with an excellent view of the outside gardens. When he noticed you standing by the entrance, he motioned for you to come over, a soft, small smile on his face.
Returning the expression, you crossed the room, before sitting in the seat opposite to him. He extended his hand for you to shake, and you noticed the slight tremor in it, which somehow filled you with…. relief?
Relief that maybe he was just as nervous as you are for this date.
Clearing his throat, Yuki shifted slightly in his seat before speaking, pulling your attention from adjusting your jacket on the chair to him. "I hope you had a good trip on the way here, Faenza is beautiful."
"I did, I loved walking around in the plaza, it's gorgeous." You replied, the corners of your lips lifting up at his slightly relieved expression. Maybe this date wouldn't be as awkward as you thought it would be.
A waiter came over to you, handing you two pristine white menus with gold writing and listing the dishes of the day along with the wine options. Yuki gave her his order before gesturing for her to take yours, which you chose at random since everything on the menu looked good anyway.
She nodded and gave you two a knowing smile, leaving you to continue the conversation you'd been having beforehand.
For a moment, silence settled between you, not uncomfortable, but hesitant like neither of you wanted to be the first to break it and risk saying something wrong. You reached up absentmindedly, fingers brushing through your curls as you exhaled.
Yuki's gaze flickered up, lingering just a second longer than necessary before he spoke. "Uh,,can I say something?" he asked, a hint of pink dusting his cheeks and ears.
You looked back at him, nodding. "Yeah, of course."
"I like your hair," he said, scratching the back of his neck, a sheepish grin on his face. "It suits you. The curls, I mean."
The compliment caught you off guard, warmth blooming in your chest as you let out a small laugh. "Thanks. It looks good until the humidity hits." you joked, pausing for a second befor continuing. "Then it's just… chaos."
That seemed to ease him, his smile widening slightly. "I get hatw you mean." he said. "One of my friends has curly hair, he says it's a bother to style before racing. He once told me that he has to wash it in the hospitlality bathroom sink to make it look good."
You tilted your head, amused at his friend's efforts. "Let me guess, one gust of wind and all the effort is gone?"
"Exactly!" he replied, laughing softly. "And don't even get me started on how long it takes to wash it properly. God, the stories I've heard."
"Imagine taking the effort to wash for like, what? Two hours? And in the end you end up with wet frizz which ruins it all." you huffed, shaking your head at the memories, although a smile still painted your face. "I'm extremely jealous of people with straight hair."
He let out a laugh, raising his hands up in the air at your words. "Thank god I have straight hair then."
The conversation began to flow more easily after that, the initial nerves fading as you both found comfort in the shared complaints and quiet laughter.
Your food came a few minutes later, plates steaming from the heat, the food arranged fancily with some kind of sauce drizzled over. You took a sniff, mentally melting at the declicious aroma, and picked up a spoon to start eating.
But while he thought you weren't looking, Yuki snapped a picture of you, smiling to himself softly at the sight.
Gods help him, he was already so smitten with you.
Some time later, night time had fallen and you'd decided to talk a walk with him. The stars shone in the sky, clear and blinking as if sending signals to you.
"So, will you ever teach me your hair routine?" Yuki asked, hands in his pockets as he walked beside you.
You laughed slightly, brushing a stray curl away from your face, giving him a brief glance before facing the road ahead of you.
"My hair routine? I thought you were glad to have straight hair."
"Maybe someday I'd want to show up to the paddock with pretty curls."
His smile widened as he heard your muffled laughter, watching as you struggled to gain composure. The sight alone made butterflies slowly creep to his stomach, heart beating a little faster than normal.
"Sure, Yuki, sure. We'll get you a perm if you want curls so bad." you shook your head, cheeks aching from his jokes.
If you were having so much fun already, only on your first date, you couldn't begin to imagine your second.
He glanced at his watch before looking at you pitifully, his nose slightly red from the cold breeze. The light of the moon reflected on his face, highlighting his features. You swallowed, forcing a small smile, understanding that it was time for you to go your seperate ways.
Stepping forward to give him a brief hug, you exhaled slightly, closing your eyes as he embraced you, the sound of crickets somewhere in the bushes grounding you.
"See you soon?" he asked, voice hopeful.
"Yeah, see you soon."
As you watched him walk away, you turned back to walk to the plaza, where you'd parked your car.
It was… weird. How attached you'd gotten to Yuki only after your first date together.
frat boy!logan sargeant x pizza delivery driver!reader
w.c.: 1.6k
warnings: like, two curse words. that's it.
summary: logan hunter sargeant from alpha phi kappa either really fucking likes pizzas or has a big fat crush on you. maybe both.
picture credits from pinterest :)
honestly, was prema’s pizza that good? sure, it might have been made with sauce from vine-picked tomatoes, hand-grated cheese, and italian-sourced pepperonis, but was it good enough for someone to order a grand total of fifty pizzas within a five day period? probably not.
still, you stand corrected, because the unmistakable order receipt, a carbon copy of the one from yesterday, again, states the same order: 10 x-large pepperoni pizza - extra cheese.
it cannot be healthy eating this many pizzas per day.
nevertheless, you hurriedly rip the receipt from prema pizza’s tiny, half-broken printer and head past the front of house towards the kitchen to fetch the order to deliver. the yeasty smell of fresh dough and aroma of garlic bread intensifies as you slide between a few employees and squeeze into the kitchen. to your surprise, a neat stack of exactly ten pizza boxes are placed on the counter, along with a sticky note with your name on it.
frederik, one of the longtime pizza makers, nods his head in greeting at you before pointing towards the stack.
“arthur told me to tell you that he stacked all of your orders over there before he clocked out for the day,” frederik notes, before turning back to rolling out the pizza dough. there’s somehow a glob of dough in his hair and flour in the shape of a hand imprint on his back, but you pretend you don’t notice.
instead, you beam at him and give him a mock salute.
“thanks, fred!” you respond. “it’s actually just one whole order, though.”
he whips around, brow wrinkled.
“one order?? who hell is this guy??”
you shrug, and instead turn your attention to shoving as many pizza boxes as you can into one warmer bag. as hard as you try, you can probably get a max of three in the bag.
“eh, don’t remember his name.” you say dismissively. “kinda cute, blonde hair, blue eyes? he’s been ordering the same thing for the past five days, though.”
frederik wipes his dough-covered hands on his apron before snatching up the receipt you set on the counter.
nosy fuck.
“okay, well, why is this kinda-cute, blonde hair, blue eyed-” he squints at the name on the paper- “logan sargeant possibly having a twenty person pizza party every day?”
oscar, the main cook, stops his rapid throwing of pizzas into the oven and perks up when hears the name.
“logan sargeant?” he asks, head tilted in question. “i swear he’s in my tuesday morning english lectures- i’m kind of mates with him. he’s literally so american, though. perhaps that’s why he’s obsessed with pizzas- all that typical american culture and stuff.”
frederik “hmms”, tapping his chin exaggeratedly.
“i think, he has a big fat crush on our little pizza delivery girl here- why else would he order, like, a billion pizzas? plus, it’s not like oscar here does our pizzas any justice when he’s out here hurtling ingredients onto pizzas then shoving them into the oven at top speeds.”
you roll your eyes before snatching the receipt back from frederik.
“you don’t get to have an opinion on anything pizza related- we still remember you’re a psycho who likes pineapple on pizza,” you shoot back.
oscar laughs at your words and throws a handful of flour from the dough board at frederik’s head.
“yeah, fred, pineapple on pizza is a crime, mate.”
by the time you split up fred and oscar from having a full blown fight with the pizza ingredients, shove all the pizza boxes into your warmer bags, and arrive at the allotted house, you are sure you are about to get yelled at by kinda-cute-logan-sargeant for being late with his absurd amount of pizzas.
the warmer bags weigh down your arms and you basically teeter towards the door that has the same ugly hand-painted, peeling sign that you had eyed up the first time you delivered the pizzas. it crudely labels the house as the frat house “alpha phi kappa.” you take account the other things on the porch as you wait-
three empty beer bottles.
one tattered miami dolphins’ football flag.
two beat-up traffic cones.
one upside down, dusty, motorcycle-looking helmet with a giant american flag printed on the side.
four broken string lights + one working string light.
one questionably green couch that had a giant spring coming ou-
the door creaks open suddenly and the porch light comes on, effectively startling you and blinding you at the same time.
a guy with bleached-blonde hair sticks his head out, eyeing you wearily. one of his eyebrows has a sharp slit, leaving a clean gap in the arch.
“yeah?” he asks, as if you haven’t been at this god forsaken frat house for the now-fifth time in a row.
“oh-” you stutter out. “i’m- i’m here with your pizzas? um, for logan?”
he breaks out in a wide grin immediately, before shoving the door open with a bang.
“oh, well why didn’t you say so?” he jokes, tilting his head to the side. he pats his forest-green hoodie, obviously looking for his phone, but when he comes up with nothing, he lift one finger towards you.
“give me one second, let me get logan for you,” he says, before bolting away.
the door is still wide open, so you just stand there uncomfortably in the open doorway. you can literally see their entire floorplan, from the semi-trashed living room to the cluttered kitchen, to even the backyard sliding door that leads to a glowing swimming pool. a dude you are pretty sure is franco from your mechanical physics class stalks by the stairwell next the door, sipping something that looks suspiciously like maté. you give him an awkward wave that he returns.
a minute later, the blonde guy thunders down the stairs, dragging a concerningly red-faced, kinda-cute-logan with him.
“okay, here’s logan for ya,” the guy says, beaming once more, before full-on galloping back up the stairs.
“al-right,” you drag out. tearing your eyes away from whatever that was, you face logan, who has somehow turned more red than before. “your pizza?”
you slide all ten boxes towards him, making sure to open the lid of the first one to show him pizza one of ten that was handcrafted to meet his specific needs- x-large pepperoni with extra cheese.
logan barely looks at the pizza before giving you a quick thumbs up.
“yeah, that’s um, perfect! you know me too well, haha.”
you begin to see where this is going. maybe frederik was right.
raising an eyebrow, you nod.
“well, considering this is your fifth consecutive order in a five day period…yeah.”
logan leans against the doorframe, obviously trying to look cool.
“what can i say? your pizza is.. um… top-tier. like if it was a race, it would go, like first place podium over all the other pizza places.”
before you can respond, a car swerves into the driveway of the frat house. a guy with the fluffiest brown hair you have ever seen climbs out the car. when he sees you with the pile of pizzas in the doorway with logan next to you, a devilish grin spreads across his face.
“ah, it’s the pizza delivery girl, eh, cabrón?” he remarks to logan. turning to you, he cups a hand dramatically around his mouth like he was telling a secret. “did logan here tell you about his pizza shrine?” he asks, before squeezing past the two of you into the house.
logan’s eyes widen almost immediately.
“CARLOS, no-”
a what?
this must be a joke, right?
alas, when you tilt your head into the doorway, past logan who was trying to look inconspicuous, you spot it.
a corner of the freaking frat house was turned into a pizza shrine. each one had multiple sticky notes on them, one of them reading: “great delivery today, she smiled at me.” and “her laugh is cute.” in scrawled, messy handwriting.
ok, frederik was definitely right.
“so, uh… do you typically do this with all your pizza delivery girls?” you interrogate, fighting back a smile.
logan looks at you with visible panic.
“wait, wait, i can explain!”
carlos, or whatever his name is, yells from inside the house.
“HE EVEN FRAMED THE RECEIPT FROM THE FIRST TIME YOU DELIVERED! IT’S ABOVE THE FIREPLACE!”
the blonde in front of you huffs, one hand covering his face in embarrassment.
“i’m gonna kill him,” he mutters.
you laugh at his reaction, feeling oddly endeared by the presence of the literal shrine and apparent framed receipt atop the frat house fireplace.
“do you even like prema pizza?” you gently question.
logan scratches his head sheepishly.
“i mean, the pizza is cool an all that, but like, you’re like, um, cooler.”
well, logan couldn’t be more apparent. if he wasn’t going to make a move, though, you would. you couldn’t keep making pizza deliveries forever.
you pull out your phone.
“if you, you know, ever want to hang out- without the pizza excuse, just text me okay?”
logan looks like he’s about to implode.
he nods aggressively, before taking at least two tries to type his phone number with the speed he’s trying to input his contact info.
“a pizza shrine??” arthur shouts, voice blaring from your phone. “ugh!! why do i always miss these things when i go home! -and then what happened?”
frederik laughs from his spot next to oscar, huddled close in a semi-circle around you in the dark, the only light coming from the call on your phone.
“and then, he gave her his number, that’s what, arthur. because i was right!” frederik trills, leaping around the just-cleaned kitchen of the empty pizzeria. “i just knew that it wasn’t because he liked the pizzas here.”
oscar rolls his eyes.
“well, i’m just saying it could be a factor, frederik.”
just then, your phone lights up with a ding.
logan 🇺🇸🍕: are you down for a pizza date? i actually do really like prema pizza.
oscar leaps up with a celebratory shriek, directed at frederik.
a collection of my most popular works!
check out more through my masterlist :)
money, money, money
- normal!max verstappen x billionaire!reader
synopsis: you introduce max to the good and bad sides of having money - (roughly inspired by crazy rich asians)
secret admirer
1st grade teacher!max verstappen x 1st grade teacher!reader
synopsis: a rose appears on your desk every day. who is it from??
shapeshifter!reader au blurbs
- 2023/2024 grid x shapeshifting!reader
synopsis: certain drivers around the grid seem to always have a pet by their side 24/7. a ferret in lando's garage, a cockatiel flying around alex's head as he walks down parc ferme, and yuki carrying a grey bunny into the media pen?? reporters and fans all swear they saw charles walk into the ferrari motorhome with his beautiful girlfriend but how come he walks out with a hedgehog cupped in between his ringed fingers?
or: some moments featuring the drivers and their shapeshifting girlfriend.
come over, baby!
- rancher!oscar piastri x city girl!reader
synopsis: oscar sneaks you onto his family's ranch. it doesn't go as smoothly as he planned.
gladiator
- gladiator!ollie bearman x goddess of victory!reader
synopsis: yet another young gladiator prays to you in your temple.
bruises...?
- toto wolff x reader
synopsis: kimi tries to be helpful.
you can hear it — the unnatural rumble of earthen wood that slices against your home’s foamy waves. the scuffle of boots and rustling of canvas sails are unmistakeable, but it’s the low timbre voices of men that truly confirms your suspicions.
when you peer over, they appear in the distance — a tiny, insignificant dot that bear the lives of pirates with short, unimportant lives.
it doesn’t matter to you, anyways. you already had your fill of the souls onboard the last poor cargo ship that had stumbled upon your siren territory.
one simple tune, and they were practically jumping off the sides of the ship in order to get to your divine form on the rocks.
the incoming ship gets closer now — close enough for your perceptive eyes to see the calligraphy painted on the side.
mercedes.
from all the ships you seen, you can recognize that it’s a beauty. dark polished wood, tall, polished masts, ropes coiled neatly along the deck — it amuses you to see its insignia, a three pronged star, engraved at the head of the ship instead of a figurehead.
whoever the captain is plays it close, barely steering his ship away from your unyielding rocks. the ocean tries its hardest pull the beast of a ship into its fateful death, but somehow the ship still swiftly dodges the danger.
it catches your brief interest, something rare these days.
aboard the deck, a figure strides out of the captain’s cabin, a hand on his scabbard. he’s different from the sailors you’ve seen, as he exudes confidence and poise with a simple commanding stare.
for once, you think you are the one that is captivated.
when he puts his silver-accented spyglass to his eye, the glow of the sun filters through the thin, billowy fabric and highlights the thick curve of his bicep. the wind billows strands of his rich brown hair.
you know he sees your glowing figure on the rocks, so you play it up, gently flicking ur tail and toying with the strings of pearls on your neck. making sure to test your charm, you lean towards him and send a seductive wink.
he hides it well, but you can hear how it affects him when he sucks in a brief gasp of air in a startled manner. you can see it when he tightens his lips and clenches his jaw, deepening the weathered expression lines on his face.
how fun.
when your fascination with him reaches its peak, you leap from your rocks and dive into the rough sea. its unrelentless waves calms when it touches your body, recognizing you as one of its own, which allows you to propel yourself with your fins towards the edge of the boat.
his face tightens when he sees your presence. he’s obviously not daft; he understands you for what you are — a deadly yet alluring siren.
you’re not here to kill him nor his crew, though.
as you study him, one of his sailors, a boy no older than nineteen, spots you and bravely steps forward, blocking your view of older man.
“toto, it’s a siren,” he says, voice shaky. “don’t—”
you bristle under his words, sending the boy scurrying off.
come, you say, using your charmspeak.
he does, knees gently hitting the floorboards.
toto, if that was what his name was, looks devilishly handsome up close. his dark eyes, pupils blown wide from your presence, looks like something you could get lost in.
you lean in close and press a chaste kiss on the stubble of his face.
when you draw back, you send him a sly smile.
i grant you safe passage in my waters, toto — smooth sailings.
amortentia: known as the elixir of love and most powerful love potion in existence, one sip instills a sense of obsession and infatuation into the ingestor.
picture credits from pinterest :)
even though you were a seasoned student, there was no way you would ever get used to hogwarts’ dark hallways and rotating stairways at night. every flicker of the torches that lined the halls and creak of a door that desperately needed oil struck a twang of fear inside of you. even though you were no gryffindor, you swore to yourself that the second you saw movement, you were bravely hitting whatever it was with a quick stupefy before sprinting the hell away.
admittingly, you technically weren’t supposed to be shuffling down the halls like this, wand lumosed in your hand and a plate of warm butter cookies in the other, but who could blame a girl for being hungry? even the kitchen elves were happy to help make you something to fill your empty tummy when you sheepishly climbed through the painting of the fruit bowl.
you round a corner, feet softly padding against the ground, keeping as quiet as you can, only to almost break the silence when you collide with something soft — something warm.
the first thing you see after you miraculously save all your cookies from death by dirty-floor-germs is the prefect badge pinned to a black cloak. trailing your eyes further up, you take note of the person’s features.
pink barely-bitten lips, slight hint of stubble, freckle on the right side of his face, wide green eyes that glowed under the light of your wand, and soft brown curls that you stared at a little too often in charms class.
charles leclerc, prefect and golden boy of gryffindor.
“sorry,” he breathes out quickly, the same time you jerk back with surprise with a few apologies.
you quickly realize all the rumors you hear about his kindness must be true, because even though he should be yelling at you for being out in the halls after dormitory checks or taking points away from your house, he steadies you and tilts his head concerningly.
“you alright? i didn’t see you there,” charles says softly.
you nod quickly, feeling nervous under the power of his full gaze.
his eyes flicker to the plate on your hand filled with butter cookies, before he smiles. “i understand why you are still up. if only i didn’t have to do my prefect rounds, i would’ve snuck to the kitchen to get those too.”
“did you want one?” you ask, offering up the plate.
if someone had told you that you would be sharing cookies with the charles leclerc at 1 in the morning, you probably would have think that a joke charm was at work.
his face lights up with glee, and you watch as he playfully snatches a cookie before exaggeratedly stuffing it in his mouth.
and as if things couldn’t get luckier for you, charles shoots you a wink that girls would die for.
it's still surprisingly charming with half his mouth full of cookie.
“ ‘ont worry—” he exclaims around a mouthful. “i won’ tell anyon’ you were up.”
the ends of your scarf flutter in the wind, collecting snowflakes that melt into dark dots in the wool material. your winter boots crunch through the fresh layer of snow in the courtyard, imprinting your unique patterns on top of the hundreds of other students' footprints as they head to their own classes.
in the moments that you take to stop and wipe off a stray cluster of snow off of your eyelashes, a figure barrels through the crowd and takes a flying leap onto your back.
the figure loops her arms around your neck, teetering you dangerously off balance, before leaning close and whispering in your ear.
"didya miss me?"
you don't even have to look back to know who it is — the flyaway hairs that tickle your cheek, faint smell of sweat, and giggly personality tell you all you need to know.
"dorianne!" you screech, hurriedly attempting to pushing her off of you while she cackles in glee. "get off me — you're all stinky from quidditch practice!"
dorianne was always the hyper one between the two of you — maybe that's why she was the captain of the slytherin team, comparable only to gryffindor's carlos sainz, whose father was a legendary quidditch star.
still, you manage to wrestle her off of your back and pin her to the ground as she flails around dramatically. her shrieks of laughter draw the attention of several other students walking by.
however, a wandering ravenclaw prefect stops you from delivering your payback move with a stern glare as she passes by. like a mother duckling, a gaggle of 1st years waddle behind her, wide eyes blinking at you and doriane on the ground, covered in snow.
"she always looks like she has a stick up her ass," doriane notes as she pulls you up off the ground and dusts off her quidditch bag.
you heft your bookbag on your shoulder with a frown.
"yeah, she's no fun."
as soon as the last of the flock round the corner with the prefect, doriane turns to you with a devious smirk.
"well now that she's gone-"
she takes off sprinting.
"i'll race you potions!"
you yell in protest, but clutch your bag and dash after her.
professor slughorn looked quite thrilled as your class slowly filters into the classroom. he stands gleefully next to a table of bubbling cauldrons, occasionally lifting up a lid to stir liquids that looked like they were on the brink of boiling over.
you wedge yourself and doriane into the corner of the classroom, careful to space yourself from charles, a few paces down. even when the only part of him visible to you was the back of his head, his dark brown strands of hair practically glowed in the darkness of the potions room, under a singular beam of light streaming from the window. he laughs once, the sound echoing across the stone walls.
when he turns his head around by chance and sees your gaze, he gives you a tiny wave.
you curse yourself for getting caught doing such a stupid act and give him a quick nod that in hindsight, probably looked idiotic.
you tune back in to your surroundings, skimming the textbook on advanced potion-making that doriane flips through and purposefully ignoring the annoyed protests of lando and carlos about the thick snow coated on your cloaks.
you scoff at lando's pointed twat, that was directed at the two of you.
as if carlos and him weren't throwing snowballs at each other four minutes ago.
once the clock tower bell rings to signal the beginning of class, slughorn clears his throat, quieting everyone down.
“now, class, i’ve prepared some concoctions. any ideas what these might be?”
like always, his eyes drift over towards charles, anticipating a well thought-out answer.
slughorn is right, of course.
charles’ hand shoots up into the air.
“ah yes, charles my boy,” he smiles, gesturing for him to explain to the class. there's a twinkle in professor slughorn's eyes that shines only for him, and it makes you want to cringe.
"this is amortentia. the most powerful love potion in the world. it's rumoured to smell differently to each person, according to what attracts them."
slughorn nods proudly as charles continues on.
"for example, i smell..." he closes his eyes, softly breathing in the silver spirals of smoke. "apple cider... vanilla... bu—"
he stops himself in a weird pause halfway through the sentence, choosing instead shaking himself from a trance-like state and stepping back in place next to his best friend, pierre.
"right, thank you charles," the professor states. "now, amortentia doesn't cause actual love -- that would be impossible. but, it does cause powerful infatuation or obsession."
looking over, you exchange a glance with doriane, conversating without speaking. she mimes the tell-tale walk of professor marko and downing a drink, threatening whispers of laughter to spill out of your mouths. the idea of spiking helmut's drink with amortentia and making him fall in obsession with a poor ghost — wait no — peeves the poltergiest, is more than enough to bring you to tears.
"ladies!" professor slughorn snaps, impatient.
the both of you shut up enough for slughorn to lay his attention back on the golden boy of gryffindor, but you continue to elbow each other with muffled giggles.
you crash onto your bed with your dirty robes still on. after a long day of classes and a big dinner, you can't be bothered, anyways.
doriane takes a pillow from her bed- the crocheted golden snitch that you made for her last christmas- and chucks it at your head.
"you're digusting, laying on your freshly-made bed with your snow-stained cloak on!" she chastises, half sternly and half joking. "the apple cider you spilled on your shirt is rubbing all over your white linen sheets right now, and you're still going to sleep on there?"
you don't move from your position, face still buried in your own pillow.
"gahrrr," you grunt, voice muffled. "not like you haven't been on your bed in your dirty cleats, miss pin!"
she hmphs, but you know it's all good banter in the end. it was the way the pair of you joked.
when you lift your head to give her a cheeky smirk, she takes it as a chance to pick up the crochet snitch and — quite-rudely — bonks you on the head with it before fleeing into the common room.
it earns her a roll of your eyes, but it gives you a burst of enough energy to untangle yourself from your scarf and actually lift yourself off of your butt to pull out your three page essay on wizarding currency reforms in the early 1200s (part 3 of 6).
you rack your brain for the first 15 minutes, given the fact that you had slumped over and slept on your quills and parchment papers for the first half of his class due to his constant monotone, droning voice. soon, you get into a good rhythm and finish inking 2/3 of your essay by the time doriane scurries back.
her blonde hair poofs slightly, just washed. in one hand, she holds a plate of cookies.
"i hope you don't mind," she remarks, twirling exaggeratedly. "i used one of your body lotions- the one you use that always makes you smell like you belong in a butterbeer float."
you laugh at the vision of doriane floating in a giant vat of butterbeer, butterscotch syrup drizzled everywhere.
once your giggles subside, your gaze drifts over to the cookies.
when doriane sees where your gaze settles, she perks up.
"ah, yes, these are your cookies!"
she shoves the plate into your lap, causing a few crumbs to spray onto the still-drying ink of your essay.
"it was in the common room, i think, with your name marked next to it, so i brought it in for you."
in the next hour, you gobble down eight butter cookies, in a pace rapid enough where doriane had to take the physical plate away from you so you wouldn't choke.
"it can't be that good, right?" doriane notes, looking at the dwindling amount of cookies left on the plate.
you throw your finished alchemy papers in the rough area where your bookbag is, before responding.
"well, just try one."
her nose scrunches disgustedly before she casts the plate aside and turning back to her n.e.w.t. practice problems.
"no, i would rather not. i think someone clearly charmed this plate from the rate you are unnaturally devouring this."
it earns a snort from you.
even if someone had put some type of pesky charm in the cookies that turned turned you purple the next day, you truthfully would still devour the whole plate.
you start to shoot back a remark, a keen observation on the way she scarfed down the milkshake that she ordered at the three broomsticks inn, when a warm, fluttery feeling fills your stomach.
it spreads through your body, making your limbs feel sluggish, yet rabbits your heart's tempo.
doriane, observant as ever, notices your wrinkled brow.
"are you... are you okay?" she asks, putting her quill down. "are you having cookie withdrawals, or..?"
you blink hard, shaking off the feeling, and reassure her before turning back to your blank parchment, but you can't help but feel your brain fogging up. your senses seem to heighten, and the smell of the butter cookies overwhelm you. however hard you try to correct your brain to something strictly academic, your mind keeps snagging on something unrelated, warm and distracting.
the scent of the cookies take you back to the dark hallways near the castle's kitchen, the shifting of shadows under the candlelight, colliding with something warm and soft...
you can't help but giggle.
warm and soft, just like the cookies you ate, but... it smelled different, like cologne and ocean breeze. a scandalous thought fills your head, painting a scene of dimples and green eyes and what would happen if you had reached out and he reached back and took ahold of your face and leaned in and...
"hello?"
hands your realize belong to doriane shake clarity into you.
"what are the fuck you doing?"
you find yourself in front of the floor-length window in the common room, one palm on the glass, gazing towards the moon.
"are you cosplaying those cringy muggle movies with the lovestruck female leads gaze at the moon or some bullshit like that?" she says, bewildered.
"no, i was-- i was..."
a flash of charles beaming at you crosses your mind.
what were you doing? when did you walk to the common room?
"right... okay," doraine says, clearly unconvinced. "you're clearly going crazy. you need to go to bed."
even as the wind whips through the air, stinging the tips of your ears, the red and gold scarf looped around you warms your neck. charles' hand is clasped in yours, mindlessly swinging as you make your way through the school grounds.
when you glance over at his face, you notice the tips of his nose and cheeks are brushed pink due to absence of a scarf that was currently on your neck.
he notices your staring and flashes you a grin. dimples frame an amused smile, something that can never stop making your stomach erupt in butterflies.
"is there something on my face, or are you just admiring?" he questions cheekily.
charles leclerc was someone who knew he was handsome, and he wasn't always shy about it.
instead of answering immediately, you press a kiss to the tip of his nose.
"your face just looked like it needed a kiss," you state matter-of-factly.
charles exaggerately bows to you.
"well, thank you my lady," he says, in a mock-posh accent. "for bestowing this gift on me."
when the pair of you pass by a window, charles glances upon his reflection and finds that the tip of his nose had a smudge of red where you had delivered a kiss.
"that makes me like rudolph the red-nosed reindeer," he laughs, pointing at his reflection. "look!"
you giggle and look towards the window reflection, only to find nothing standing in your place. from your point of view, charles stands alone in the window, still giggling and unaware of your missing mirror image.
suddently frantic, you whip your head back towards charles, only to find glimmering white that soon fills your vision.
you startle awake, immediately ripping your blankets off of yourself. the plate of butter cookies, somehow still slightly warm and emitting an enticing smell, lays on your nightstand innocently.
the dream felt a little too real. phantom snowflakes still brush past your ears and charles' scarf still felt like it was draped around your neck. hell, you swore you could still feel the warmth of his hand emitting through your palms! even in the snowy weather, you remember the smell of butter cookies somehow wrapping around you.
it kind of made you hungry.
i mean, another cookie didn't sound bad, right?
your hand begins to grasp one off the plate, when a crochet golden snitch suddenly flies out of the darkness and hits you square in the face.
the tip of a wand begins glowing, lighting up an unamused doriane.
"stop lying to me. i know there's something wrong with you."
crawling off the bed, she snatches the barely-filled plate away.
"ever since you started eating these cookies, you've been acting so weird."
growing up together, doriane had always been very eagle-eyed, whether it was with feelings or on the quidditch pitch.
still, you can't help but curse her for putting you on the spot like this. what were you going to tell her? your increasingly weird romantic thoughts plus one dream about gryffindor prefect charles leclerc?
"say something," she says again, stern.
so, it just kind of spills out of your mouth.
the first thing doriane does is to yank open the closest window and chuck the entire plate of cookies out.
"what the fu- you can't- it's going to hit someone, or like, someone's delivery owl or something!" you stutter out, trying to peer through the frosted glass to see if the plate had caused any possible damage.
doriane grasps your shoulders, pulls you in close, and looks directly into your eyes.
"this. is. bad." she enunicates, like you didn't know that already. "i was right. someone has definitely put something on those cookies."
doriane had a glow in her eyes, something that you only see when she has a breakthrough idea — most commonly seen when she spots the snitch during a quidditch match. knowing that her plan's usual success rate was a 90% when it came to catching a snitch, you swallow your protests.
"were you listening when professor 'president of the charles leclerc fanclub' was talking about amortentia? the potion that would cause the user to have extreme obsession with the person that administers it?"
you nod slowly, still unsure.
"well," doriane says, shaking you softly. "stay with me, here. i think, charles took advantage of his connections with slughorn, brewed up some amortentia, and then gave it to you in the form of butter cookies — which he knew you liked after you bumped into him that night!"
she scoffs.
"i can't believe it. this so-called golden boy prefect is out here charming unsuspecting girls!"
somehow, someway, doriane's explantation made sense. your seemingly infatuated state with charles was getting pretty insane. a whole dream about his- his lips.. his smile.. his eyes.. the way he laughed, bubbling out of him like a cascade of joy.
you wish you could just dive back into the dream again, where his hands can loop around-
"hey! snap out of it!" doriane whisper-shouts. "you are falling into this stupid boy-induced coma again!"
a sudden streak of anger flows through you at the doriane calling charles stupid. you know it's dumb, but your body acts against your will and launches the crochet golden snitch as hard as you can at her.
"don't call him stupid," you grumble.
doriane expertly dodges the pillow due to her fast reflexes developed on the quidditch pitch. with a glare, she scoots backwards and catches it before it hits some innocent sleeping classmate.
"i'm only forgiving you for that murder attempt because you are under some sort of weird spell right now," she snips pointedly. "tomorow, you pay charles a visit and force him to get an antidote from professor slughorn. i don't think i can deal with a lovestruck you for long."
you spot charles halfway through the day, after charms with flitwick and transfigurations with mcgonagall. his stupid hair is lit up again because of a singular beam of sunshine that has to land perfectly in a halo around his head. his attention is laser focused on a fifth year bundled in a thick blue and silver scarf who animately waves his hands around as he talks. his friend, wrapped in a similar scarf but with hufflepuff insignia, excitedly nods along to his words.
you feel bad for interrupting their conversation, but you feel your situation is infinitely worse. you doubt they had ever felt the pain of having to sit through two whole classes being under the spell of amortentia. you had enough of almost blurting out charles' name instead of the correct answer in front of mcgonagall.
the few charms that doriane swore gave the user courage seemed to be working, because you don't falter nor turn back as you march up towards charles.
"—which is really cool, because i didn't even think they could build something that fast without any magic at all," the ravenclaw boy was saying.
his words stumble to a stop when he senses your presence, quickly glancing at charles for help.
"hi," you start, taking a shoot in the dark. "sorry for interrupting, but i have something really important to discuss with charles here."
you internally cringe after speaking aloud. the fifth years must think you were so rude, cutting them off for some bullshit reason.
to your surprise, charles back you up, softly reassuring the pair that he would catch up to them later.
"kimi, ollie, i apologize, but i do owe a conversation to this lady here. we can definitely continue talking at a different time!"
to this, they nod politely, before bidding you and charles a quick goodbye.
in their absence, charles turns to you innocently, cocking his head.
"you wanted to talk?"
your mind starts to drift again, with him so close to you. the cologne you smelt in the dark halls and in your dream surrounded you, stronger than before. when you analyze his features, you swear that he must have veela blood somewhere in his family tree. the feeling channels into your skin, thump-thumping your heart into a rapid pace.
it must be the amortentia talking.
you shake it off, a sense of anger replacing your infatuated state. he spiked your cookies on purpose.
reaching up, you grasp ahold of his tie and practically drag him into an empty classroom.
he comes, stumbling a few times, but willingly nontheless.
the classroom is completely empty, save for a few overturned desks and half-filled bookshelves.
you push him roughly against one of them.
"listen to me, asshole," you snap, the minute his back hits the varnished wood of the bookshelf.
a swirl of dust, caught in the slight motion, curls around him in a slow, careless spiral. although the sunlight is dampened due to the snow outside, it reflects off of the flecks.
stupid fucking amortentia.
even when he was treated in a harsh manner, charles still manages to look heavenly and act kindly to you.
"i'm not sure what this is all about. are you alright?"
he reaches forward, patting your shoulder in a calming manner.
you don't have time for this.
"charles," you say, pinching your nose annoyedly. "i know you put amortentia into my butter cookies. i ate like, half the plate yesterday, and now, i can't focus in class, nor on my homework. hell, i even had stupid dream about you. lucky for you, i'm going to ignore the fact that you drugged me, but i need you to take me to slughorn now, and get me the antidote."
he stares at you slackjawed.
"drugged— drugged you?"
he shakes his head furiously.
"i would never drug anyone, especially you, i promise!"
you continue staring at him, unbelieving.
"i admit, yes, i did deliver the cookies, but i did not, under any circumstance, put any spell or charm or potion into those cookies. they were taken straight from the kitchens."
when you analyze his body language — steady eye contact, relaxed shoulders, and no fidgeting, you realize that what he is saying must be the truth.
"swear on godric gryffindor," you say, as one last attempt of validating his words.
"i swear on godric gryffindor," he parrots back.
by now, an amused grin has slipped onto his face the same time you feel a flush of heat under your skin.
the severity of this situation hits you.
you've admitted that you had been thinking about charles all day and all night long. and had a dream about charles. in front of charles.
you note to yourself to never, ever, trust doriane again.
"dreaming about me, huh?" charles says, with a stupid smirk. his dimples stare at you.
he lightly pushes himself off of the bookshelf and creeps toward you.
"you know, if it makes you feel better, i think of you too. a lot."
your pulse starts to race. even though it is still because of charles, you know it's not caused by the amortentia.
"i wondered if you knew i liked you, when i said my amortentia smelled like apple cider, vanilla, and butter cookies. i notice, you know, your favorite drink, the smell of your body lotion, and your favorite snack..."
he finally stops, inches away from your face.
"i guess i got my answer."
there's not much to say, so you don't say anything.
instead, you press a hungry kiss to his lips that he reciprocates enthusiastically.
he tastes like butter cookies.
the snow falls in thick sheets. it's a few extra snowflakes away from being labelled as a snowstorm, but you and charles still bear the cold for chance to get away from your friends — you away from doriane's light teasing and charles away from pierre's excited rants about his new obsession, muggle football.
the only neck protection you have, charles' red-and-gold scarf, is looped around the both of your necks, forcing the pair of you to walk close together. even so, it's not a problem anyways because you were glued into charles' side like velcro, hands clasped together for warmth.
although the scarf is thick, it's hardly long enough to pull over both your noses'.
when you look over at charles, you see that he is already looking back at you, green eyes scanning your face.
"your nose is a little red," he laughs, "kind of like—"
"rudolph the red-nosed reindeer?" you finish, beaming back him.
"yes!" he blurts, slightly surprised. "how did you know?"
"mmm, just had a feeling," you remark.
if you told him the truth, you knew you would never hear the end of the teasing from him. you already had enough coming from doriane.
when the pair of you come upon a familiar frosted window, you pull charles to stand in front of it.
charles shoots a funny face at his reflection, sticking out his tongue.
