#it was nice to have it recognized for a second

[cressidagrey]

Girl at Home

Pairing: Andrea Kimi Antonelli x Chiara Battista (Original Character)

Summary: When Chiara finally kisses him back—and then really kisses him back—Kimi’s carefully calibrated emotional control vanishes faster than tire grip in Miami.

Notes: Part 2 of So High School. This was supposed to be an one shot y'know...

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Chiara had been pacing near the front window for exactly eleven minutes.

Not because she was nervous. She was just… adjusting her earrings. Repeatedly. And triple-checking that her dress wasn’t wrinkled. And definitely not panicking over the fact that Kimi Antonelli—yes, actual rookie F1 driver, technical prodigy, the boy who once asked her for a pencil and accidentally stole her heart—was picking her up for their first date.

At precisely 6:28 p.m., she heard it.

Not a knock. Not a doorbell.

An engine.

A loud one.

She peeked through the blinds—and then immediately pulled back, eyes wide. "Oh my god."

Outside, parked with the subtlety of a blockbuster premiere, was a matte blue Mercedes AMG GT63, low and sleek and aggressive, like something a Bond villain would drive.

Her father passed behind her with a cup of coffee and muttered, “If he drives that thing like he’s got something to prove, he won’t have a girlfriend by dessert.”

Chiara opened the door a second later, trying to school her face into polite composure. “You’re early.”

Kimi grinned from the driver's seat, one arm slung casually over the wheel like he hadn’t just pulled up in the most ridiculous car imaginable. “I was too nervous to wait at home.”

He jumped out and opened her door like a gentleman—a slightly sweaty, very overdressed gentleman. His hair was still damp from a too-hasty shower, and he smelled faintly like aftershave and leather car seats.

“You look—” he started, then paused, clearly panicking mid-compliment. “You look like you’re better at this than I am.”

Chiara laughed, climbing into the passenger seat. “Nice car. You brought that?”

Kimi shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged, suddenly very interested in the gravel on her driveway. “It’s… new.”

“New as in you bought it, or new as in it was delivered with your F1 contract and a bow?”

He cleared his throat. “There may have been a bow.”

Chiara raised an eyebrow, amused. “Do I need a helmet?”

“Not tonight,” Kimi said, suddenly serious. “I’m on my best behavior.”

And he was.

He didn’t speed. He didn’t weave through traffic. He didn’t even rev the engine at a red light, which might have been a personal record.

In fact, he drove so politely that Chiara side-eyed him somewhere near the first roundabout and muttered, “Okay, who are you and what have you done with Andrea Kimi Antonelli?”

“I’m being respectful,” he said, with dignity. “You’re wearing a dress.”

“I’m wearing sneakers with the dress.”

“Same point.”

Dinner was at a quiet little trattoria tucked between two bookshops—his choice. Kimi, who usually lived off race-weekend catering and Ollie’s stolen granola bars, had somehow found the cutest restaurant in a three-mile radius and even remembered to make a reservation.

She noticed he didn’t touch his phone once.

Not when it buzzed in his pocket. Not when someone clearly recognized him near the front counter and whispered something excitedly to their friend. Not even when the waiter asked if they wanted a dessert menu and Chiara ordered the tiramisu and the panna cotta without shame.

He just looked at her, smiling like he couldn’t believe she was real.

(Chiara tried very hard not to notice.)

After dinner, they walked to the tiny movie theater two blocks away, the kind with velvet seats and too much charm, where the popcorn came in paper bags and there was always at least one older couple on a date night.

They saw a re-run of La La Land, which Kimi absolutely didn’t understand but watched attentively anyway, sitting so still she thought he might have stopped breathing during the planetarium scene.

Halfway through, their hands brushed on the armrest.

Chiara didn’t move hers away.

He glanced at her.

She didn’t look at him.

Their fingers curled together like it was muscle memory.

When he walked her to her front door, the silence between them was sweet, charged. Not awkward. Just… full.

The drive back to her house was quiet—but not in the awkward way.

It was that soft, sleepy kind of silence that settles after a good night. Streetlights passed in a golden blur outside the windows, the low hum of the AMG engine filling the spaces between their thoughts.

Kimi glanced at her at a red light.

She was leaning her head back against the seat, watching the city roll past like it belonged to her. Her hand was still in his, their fingers loosely tangled across the center console like neither of them quite wanted to let go.

“I had a really good time,” he said, voice low.

Chiara smiled without looking at him. “You were… alarmingly well-behaved.”

“I told you I could drive like a normal person.”

“You signaled at a roundabout, Kimi.”

“Romantic gestures come in many forms.”

She laughed, and his heart stuttered in the best way.

Outside her building, he parked with exaggerated care, triple-checked the handbrake, and turned to her with the nervous energy of someone trying to seem cooler than he felt.

He walked her to the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

She stopped just before the steps and turned toward him. The porch light was casting a soft glow across her hair, and Kimi felt like he was looking at the sun.

“Well,” she said, a little teasing, “no near-death experiences. Good food. Minimal popcorn theft. You’ve passed.”

“I studied hard,” he said, smiling.

She stepped forward, closer now.

“I had a good time too,” she added. “I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

Kimi shifted slightly, suddenly nervous. “I mean, I didn’t know if this would be… weird. Like, going from worksheets to this.”

“It’s not weird,” she said, softly. “It’s… nice.”

They stood there for a beat. Close. Still.

“Thanks for tonight,” she said, voice softer now. “You were… incredibly well-behaved.”

Kimi let out a breathless laugh. “I practiced. Like… a lot. In my head.”

Chiara tilted her head. “And do you usually rehearse your goodnight lines too?”

Kimi opened his mouth. Closed it. “I had… three options. All of them sound stupid now.”

She smiled.

“You can just kiss me,” she said. “If you want.”

He looked at her like she’d just handed him a trophy he hadn’t dared dream about.

And then he leaned in.

No panic this time. No overthinking. Just warm fingers brushing her cheek and a kiss that was sweet and unhurried and full of all the quiet things he hadn’t known how to say.

Chiara’s hands curled into his jacket like she’d been waiting to do that for weeks.

He kissed her like he didn’t want to let her go.

And when they pulled apart, barely an inch between them, she was smiling—dizzy and flushed and completely gone.

“So,” she whispered, breath catching, “are you always this good at first dates?”

Kimi grinned, absolutely wrecked with happiness. “No. Just this one.”

She kissed him again.

When they finally pulled apart, her eyes fluttered open slowly, and he didn’t move far.

Then she stepped back toward her door, pausing just before slipping inside.

“Goodnight, Kimi.”

“Goodnight, Chiara.”

She lingered one second longer, smiling like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. Then the door closed behind her with a soft click.

Kimi just stood there on the porch, staring at the door like an idiot.

And whispered, “I’m so screwed.”

Then practically floated back to the car.

***

It was a sunny, sticky kind of morning—the kind where everyone moved slower, more tired than usual, as if spring had arrived just to make them sweat. The courtyard buzzed with the usual low-grade pre-class chaos: students lounging on the steps, trading last-minute homework corrections, someone blasting music faintly from their phone.

Chiara adjusted the strap of her backpack and turned to look over her shoulder, where Kimi was parking his scooter like he was auditioning for a car commercial. He took his helmet off, ruffled his curls, and jogged over to her like the day wasn’t already too hot to be that energetic.

“You remembered your math binder?” she asked as he caught up, teasing.

“I remembered you,” he replied, grabbing her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Chiara’s breath caught.

It wasn’t the first time they’d held hands. Not really. But it was the first time here. At school. In daylight. In full view of every student on campus, including the ones who hadn’t even known they spoke to each other outside class.

Her heart was doing this annoying fluttery thing again.

But she didn’t let go.

They walked toward the building together, his thumb brushing against the back of her hand, and Chiara didn’t look around until they were halfway to the main hall and she noticed something strange.

People were staring.

Not in a mean way. More like… blinking. Processing. A few whispered too loudly, and a girl from biology class actually did a double take so dramatic it nearly made her trip on the steps.

And then—

“Wait, wait, hold on,” came Giulia’s voice, slicing through the noise like a spoon through gelato.

Chiara turned just as Giulia stormed across the courtyard in wide strides, eyes huge, clementine nowhere in sight for once.

“Are you holding hands with Kimi Antonelli?”

Kimi raised their joined hands like it was evidence in court. “Confirmed.”

Giulia looked between them. Once. Twice. Her brain visibly short-circuited.

“But—I—what?”

Chiara arched an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

“No!” Giulia flailed slightly. “No. I mean, yes. I mean—how long has this been going on?”

Chiara smiled, just a little. “A while.”

Giulia looked personally offended. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“You said he was using me for worksheets.”

Kimi snorted, completely unbothered. “I would’ve failed three subjects just to keep talking to her.”

Giulia blinked. “I was trying to protect you!”

“I know,” Chiara said, gentle now. “But you were wrong.”

Kimi gave her a small squeeze. Their hands stayed together, warm and solid and completely obvious.

Giulia narrowed her eyes at him. “If you break her heart, I will break your face.”

“That’s fair,” Kimi said easily. 

Chiara laughed. Giulia groaned and stomped off, muttering something about dramatic people and how she was never going to live this down.

Kimi leaned closer as they stepped into the hallway. “That went well.”

“I think she might be having a crisis.”

“She’s not the only one. Did you see Enrico’s face? I think he dropped his sandwich.”

“Your fault,” Chiara said, deadpan.

“I know,” Kimi replied, smiling sideways at her like he was still slightly in disbelief. “But I like the view from here.”

She rolled her eyes, cheeks warm.

But she didn’t let go of his hand.

Not even once.

***

The terminal was loud in that strange, hollow way airports always were—echoes of wheels on tile, distant boarding calls, someone’s baby crying three gates over. Kimi Antonelli had headphones around his neck, a hoodie pulled up over his curls, and a carry-on slung over his shoulder that was 30% race gear, 20% protein bars, and 50% badly folded hoodies.

He had time to kill before boarding.

Normally he would’ve scrolled through sector data. Or texted Ollie something unhinged about the last sprint weekend. Or found a quiet corner to panic about Miami corner exits.

But instead, he found himself drifting into one of those sleek little airport gift shops.

It wasn’t planned. It never was, with her.

He didn’t go in thinking I should buy Chiara something—it just happened. Like most things with her lately.

He walked past keychains and overpriced Toblerone bars and wandered toward the little glass case near the register, half-distracted, until something caught the corner of his eye.

A delicate silver necklace.

Simple chain. Tiny charm.

A star.

Small enough to fit on her collarbone. Soft enough that it didn’t scream anything too loud. Not flashy. Not cheesy. Just… her.

Something about it felt right. Like a thing she’d keep in her pencil case. Like a secret.

He stared at it for a long second.

Then waved down the cashier like a man on a mission.

“Can I see that one?” he asked, pointing. “The star.”

It came in a small navy box, matte and ribboned and stupidly elegant for something from a duty-free gift shop.

He paid in cash. Tucked the box carefully into the zippered inside pocket of his backpack. Patted it once, like a promise.

And when he texted her from the gate five minutes later—

Kimi A.: Boarding now. Will miss you for approximately all hours of the next five days.

—he didn’t say anything about the necklace.

Not yet.

He wanted to give it to her in person.

***

Ollie Bearman had barely taken a sip of his coffee before Kimi Antonelli flopped into the chair next to him with all the subtlety of a race restart in the rain.

“She kissed me,” Kimi said breathlessly, like he’d been holding it in since sunrise.

Ollie blinked, mid-sip. “…Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m serious. She kissed me,” Kimi repeated, eyes wide, hands flailing slightly like the words alone weren’t enough to contain the magnitude of the event. “Well, technically, I kissed her first. But then she said ‘do it again,’ and I did, and then her mom brought us biscotti, and I think I blacked out a little because I haven’t stopped smiling since Tuesday.”

Ollie set his cup down slowly and carefully, like he was worried the caffeine might accelerate the madness. “Okay. So we’re in love now?”

“Yes.”

“Like—mutually?”

Kimi nodded emphatically. “Yes.”

“Not just in your head?”

“She said it with her mouth, Ollie. Multiple times. There were words. And kissing.”

Ollie squinted at him. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Kimi said, grinning like a lunatic. “She made me tea. I love her.”

Ollie stared at him for a moment. Then said, very carefully, “Alright. That escalated.”

“We had a date,” Kimi went on, hands already gesturing again, like he was narrating a podium finish. “Like a real one. I picked her up, opened the car door like an actual gentleman, drove like a sane person—used my indicators, Ollie—and took her to this little restaurant my nonna likes.”

Ollie raised an eyebrow. “So you didn’t drift into the parking lot?”

“I parked. Backwards. Smooth. Perfectly aligned.”

“I’m genuinely terrified of who you’ve become.”

“And then,” Kimi continued, undeterred, “we went to a movie, and I bought popcorn even though we were full, and I waited a whole hour before trying to hold her hand because I’m a respectable man, and then at the end of the night she kissed me again.”

“You’re glowing,” Ollie said, deadpan, picking his coffee back up. “You look like a Disney princess.”

“I feel like one,” Kimi sighed, head falling back against the wall, a dreamy look on his face that made Ollie physically cringe.

“I hate you,” Ollie said mildly. “But also? Congratulations. You somehow fumbled your way into the softest, most romantic high school relationship in motorsport history.”

Kimi beamed. “I’m gonna marry her.”

“You’ve been dating for a week.”

“I’ve been in love for six months.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ollie muttered, staring into his coffee like it might offer him an exit strategy. “I’m putting a helmet on just to be near you.”

Kimi only grinned wider, the kind of grin that couldn’t be contained by race suits or track limits.

Love looked stupid on him.

But it also looked really, really good.

***

Toto Wolff was halfway through reading an engine temperature report, brow slightly furrowed and espresso cooling by his elbow, when Kimi Antonelli stormed into the Mercedes hospitality unit like a springtime thunderstorm wearing sunglasses and way too much emotional momentum.

“Toto.”

The teenager dropped into the seat across from him with all the coordination of a driver exiting the pit lane too hot—coffee nearly sloshed in its cup, data sheets rustled, and Toto didn’t even look up.

“Did you remember your math assignment?”

“No. Better.” Kimi leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice hushed like he was about to share state secrets. “She kissed me.”

That got his attention.

Toto blinked, lowering the report slowly. He peered over the top of his reading glasses like a man who regretted asking the question in the first place.

“Chiara?”

Kimi nodded, eyes bright, like he’d just won Monaco on foot. “Twice. Technically three times if you count the goodbye kiss, but the third was more of a soft-lean moment and her mom was in the hallway with biscotti, so it was kind of spiritual.”

Toto stared at him for a beat. Then exhaled and leaned back in his chair, expression caught somewhere between fond exasperation and something dangerously close to amusement.

“Alright,” he said. “Give me the briefing.”

“It was perfect,” Kimi declared immediately. “Like—quiet, private, just us working on the project and then boom, full emotional breakthrough. She thought I didn’t actually care. Can you believe that? Me!” He pointed at himself as if Toto had forgotten who he was. “I panicked and kissed her and she kissed me back and then asked me to do it again.”

“And did you?”

“Toto. I nearly cried.”

Toto pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to be completely useless this weekend, aren’t you?”

“I slept four hours last night because I kept replaying it in my head like onboard footage.”

“You do know there’s a sprint qualifying tomorrow.”

“I’m aware. I’ve never been more focused in my life. I’m in love. I’m unbeatable.”

Toto tried not to smile. He really, really tried.

“She called me brilliant,” Kimi added, like the word still echoed in his chest. “Not even about racing. She meant it in the human way. Like—brilliant, as a person. I didn’t even know what to do with that.”

Toto cleared his throat. “Well. That’s… very nice.”

“It’s life-altering,” Kimi said earnestly. “I brought her a necklace from the airport gift shop. It’s got a tiny charm. I saw it in the store and I just thought of her.”

Toto rubbed his temples. “Christ. He’s gone.”

“I asked if she wanted to come to the next race,” Kimi went on, now completely oblivious to the way Toto was slowly dying inside. “She said yes. We might hold hands. In public. I’m not okay.”

“No,” Toto agreed. “You are clearly not okay.”

Kimi looked like someone who had been struck by lightning and was thriving. His curls were a little too windswept. His hoodie collar was slightly askew. And his face was open, lit up, unguarded in a way Toto wasn’t used to seeing from boys who spent their lives measured in lap times and pressure compounds.

There was a pause.

Then Kimi beamed. “Do I seem different?”

“You seem delirious.”

“I think I’m glowing.”

“You need to hydrate.”

Kimi leaned forward, lower lip tugged between his teeth like he was holding in a full victory speech. “Toto, you were right.”

Toto sighed, already knowing what was coming. “I usually am.”

“Thank you for telling me to talk to her.”

Toto raised a hand, already done. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t crash during FP1.”

Kimi nodded solemnly. “I’ll win this whole weekend for her.”

Toto gave him a look that said God, please don’t try anything dramatic.

But Kimi was already halfway out of his chair, practically vibrating with joy.

As he bounced out of the room, sunglasses crooked and earbuds already in, Toto just stared after him and picked up his espresso.

He sipped it in silence.

“Teenagers,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Worse than tire degradation.”

*** Peter Bonnington had worked with world champions, legends, egos the size of pit walls, and drivers who wouldn’t say more than five words across a whole season.

He thought he’d seen everything.

Then he met Kimi Antonelli. Specifically: Kimi Antonelli in love.

“Okay, engine modes look good, tire temps are holding steady,” Bono said, flipping through his notes as he leaned against the garage wall. “We’ll run the new setup from FP1. Any questions?”

Kimi nodded, fully suited up, helmet tucked under one arm.

Then he hesitated.

“…Do you think it’s a stupid idea?” he asked.

Bono didn’t look up. “No, the rear wing adjustment is fine.”

“No, I mean the necklace.”

That made Bono look up.

“What necklace.”

“The one I got her. It’s got a little star on it. Like, subtle. Classy. Minimalist. From the airport gift shop but the expensive side.”

Bono exhaled, adjusting the tablet in his lap. “Kimi. We are literally in a pre-sprint quali run plan briefing.”

“I know,” Kimi replied, clearly in a state of romantic emergency, “but it’s burning a hole in my backpack. It’s wrapped and everything. I even kept the tiny tissue paper.”

Bono blinked. “Is this for the girl from school?”

“Chiara,” Kimi confirmed solemnly, like Bono should have memorized her name by now. “She likes  green highlighters. And me, apparently.”

Bono closed his eyes for one long, prayerful second.

“We are about to go out for Sprint Qualifying,” he said, voice patient. “And you are asking me about jewelry?”

Kimi shrugged helplessly. “It’s not just jewelry. It’s meaningful.”

“To her?”

“I hope so.”

“To you?”

“She’s the only reason I passed Ethics.”

Bono sighed. “Look. If she likes you—and I cannot believe I’m saying this with a headset on and tire data in front of me—then it won’t matter where the necklace came from. If it’s thoughtful, she’ll love it.”

Kimi’s whole face lit up like he’d just put it on pole.

“You really think so?”

“I think,” Bono said, straightening up and pointing toward the car, “if you don’t get in that car right now, I’m going to call Toto and tell him you’re emotionally compromised.”

Kimi was already climbing in. “Too late,” he called. “I’ve been emotionally compromised since she kissed me next to a tray of biscotti.”

Bono muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “I worked with Hamilton and never had to deal with this much romance.”

The car fired up.

Bono checked his comms.

Kimi’s voice came through crystal clear.

“Bono?”

“Yeah, mate.”

“Thanks.”

Bono sighed again—louder this time.

“Go out and put it on pole, Romeo. Then maybe you can give her the whole jewelry section.”

“Copy that,” Kimi replied, voice back to full grin. “For Chiara.”

Bono sighed as he switched channels. “I miss the days when teenage drivers just worried about tire warm-up.”

***

She told herself she wasn’t going to check.

She’d promised herself that this weekend — just this one weekend — she’d let it go. She’d go for a walk, make tea, maybe do some revision like a normal person whose boyfriend wasn’t out there throwing a car into corners at 300 km/h in front of the entire world.

But by the time SQ3 started, Chiara was sat cross-legged on the couch, laptop open, live timing glowing like it held all her oxygen.

She told herself she just wanted to see how it went.

Just a peek.

Just a— “Oh my God,” she whispered, sitting straighter.

Sector 1: purple. Sector 2: purple. Sector 3—

“Are you kidding me,” she breathed, clutching a cushion to her chest.

P1.

Kimi Antonelli. Pole. In Miami. Sprint Qualifying.

The commentators were yelling. The team radio crackled through her speakers. She could barely hear it over the sound of her own heart.

“YES, Kimi! That’s pole! Brilliant job, mate—brilliant lap!”

Chiara couldn’t stop smiling. It hit her like a wave, dizzy and warm and so full of pride she could barely sit still.

She watched the onboard feed as he crossed the line, saw the little fist pump, the boyish grin he tried to hide behind the visor. Then she saw him roll into parc fermé, helmet off, curls wild, smile stupidly wide.

And in that moment, it hit her all over again.

That was her person.

The boy who drank her tea, wore mismatched socks, asked her for French homework at midnight, and kissed her like she was gravity.

And now he’d put it on pole.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, flopping back onto the couch, half-laughing. “I’m gonna have to start watching every session.”

Her phone buzzed beside her.

Kimi A.:🏁✨🤯🏆😳 (i did the thing) you watching?

Chiara B.:Of course. I screamed. I may never recover.

Kimi A.:good. that one was for you.

She stared at the message for a second longer, then pressed her phone to her chest.

She wasn’t breathing properly. She wasn’t sure she cared.

***

She wasn’t expecting him until later.

So when the knock came just past seven, she was still in leggings and an oversized hoodie (his, technically), hair scraped into a bun, halfway through reorganizing her bookshelf. She padded barefoot to the door and opened it—

And there he was.

Kimi Antonelli, post-Miami, sun-touched and sleep-deprived, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair still messy from the flight, and looking at her like he hadn’t breathed properly in days.

“Hi,” he said softly.

Chiara blinked. “You’re early.”

“Couldn’t wait.”

She smiled before she could stop herself and stepped aside. He dropped his bag by the door and wrapped his arms around her like it was instinct. Like this was home.

They stood like that for a moment — just pressed close, no rush, no need for words.

Eventually, Kimi pulled back slightly, hands still warm on her waist.

“I got you something,” he said, suddenly shy.

Her brows lifted. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know. But I saw it before the flight and I thought of you. And then I panicked and bought it and kept it in my backpack all weekend and didn’t tell anyone because it felt… special.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tiny, crinkled paper bag. Unwrapped it carefully, fingers unusually gentle, until a delicate silver chain pooled in his palm. Hanging from it: a small star charm. Simple. Subtle. Perfect.

“It reminded me of you,” he said.

Chiara’s breath caught. “Kimi…”

“You don’t have to wear it,” he said quickly. “I just—I saw it and thought, that’s her. I know it’s not fancy or whatever. But it felt right.”

She looked at the necklace, then at him.

And smiled — slow and radiant and utterly undone.

“Put it on me?” she asked.

His fingers were careful at the clasp, brushing her neck, lingering just a second too long. When he sat back, the charm gleamed gently against her collarbone.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered.

Kimi looked at her like she’d just put him back together.

Then leaned forward, kissed her slow, and breathed the words into her skin:

“You’re my favorite part of coming home.”

[authorhjk1]

Graduation

(Jiu X SuA X Gahyun X Male Reader) word count: 2043 words

(Thanks for hosting this prompt @suchsweetstories)

"Do you like it?"

Words can't really describe what you're experiencing right now. Gahyun's plump lips take their rightful place around your cock once more. They glide up and down your length as she resumes her blowjob.

"Y-Yes."

There's so much more you want to say, but you have to grit your teeth and hold onto the edge of the chair you're sitting on to not let out a loud groan. You and Gahyun snuck out of the hall where your graduation is currently taking place. It's probably the last time you and her will ever set a foot in this building ever again. It was Gahyun's idea to celebrate the day accordingly. Both of your families are still sitting next to each other, watching the ceremony, unaware that the two of you aren't even there anymore.

"Your cock tastes really nice."

Gahyun is holding your cock with one hand and is now dragging her entire tongue along the underside of your length. From the base to the top, a swirl around the tip, and back to the base. You feel her lips wrap around one of your nuts as she's sucks on it, her hand gently stroking your dick.

"I'm gonna miss this place."

She backs away a little and looks around your old classroom. The two of you spent five days a week here throughout the last couple of years.

"So many memories."

Gahyun gives you a devilish grin before wrapping her lips around your tip once again. You reach out to brush a strand of her hair out of her face. Your girlfriend continues to give you head in the middle of your old classroom. It's definitely not the first time, but it will almost certainly be the last time.

You hear faint noises coming from the direction of the graduation ceremony. You’re sure that no one is looking for you and there won’t be any teaches checking if someone is sneaking around. At least that’s what you think. Because as you feel Gahyun take the first half of your lenght down her throat the door to the classroom gets pushed open. Neither of you hear it. The sound of Gahyun choking as she tries to fit your entire cock inside her mouth drowns out everything else. She’s facing away from the door, while your eyes are focused on your girlfriend on her knees.

“Why aren’t the two of you at the ceremony?“

You and Gahyun both jump. You look up and she turns around. Two of your teachers are standing in the door. You don’t know what to do. You’re too shocked to say or do anything.

Ms. Kim Bora is your homeroom teacher. She always looks intimidating and sexy at the same time, and you can’t help but glance at her suggestive outfit for a second. It’s not the most revealing thing she’s worn this school year, but the combination of her blonde hair and the black lace that is covering her upper body makes your cock in Ganyun’s hand twitch. The two of you joked about Kim Bora being hot before. Gahyun even wanted to bet that your teacher would be down for a threesome if she asked her.

But your homeroom teacher isn’t the only person standing in the door. You recognize the other as Ms. Kim Minji. She stopped teaching your class around two years ago, but you still saw her at school on a regular basis. You honestly couldn’t decide between the two of them. While Kim Bora is the strict, sexy one Kim Minj is the calmer, elegant one. But it seems like today the two of them look especially tempting. You can’t remember how often you missed parts of their classes because you were just staring at them.

“Don’t look so surprised that you got caught.“

Just like right now it seems.

“I really expected more from you, Gahyun.”

Your fromer history teacher looks genuinely dissapointed. Gahyun opens her moth, trying to apologize or find an excuse.

“Someone with such beautiful lips as yours should definitely know how to deepthroat their boyfriend without any problems what so ever.”

Both you and Gahyun are too stunned to speak. You expected a horrible lecture about breaking the rules, consequences, contacting your parents and so on. Intsead, Kim Minji is commenting on your girlfriend’s throat game?

“And you, young man…”

Kim Bora walks closer.

“If your girlfriend takes your cock down her throat you better hold her hair up properly.”

You don’t know what to say. It almost feels like you’re dreaming. How is it possible two of your teachers are telling you and your girlfriend how to be intimate?

“Here, let me have a go at it.”

Your eyes widen when your homeroom teacher joins Gahyun on her knees. You never expected Kim Bora to be this close to your cock.

“I can see why you’re having trouble.”

She purrs as she wraps one hand around your length. You take in a deep breath. Gahyun watches with a shocked expression. She doesn’t know if she is supposed to be angry, or corncerned, or grateful. Her brain can’t properly comprehend what’s going on.

“Now take her hair in your hand like this.”

Kim Minji stepped closer as well. She reaches down and gathers a fistful of Gahyun’s hair starting from the bottom and moving upward. She gives it a small tug which makes Gahyun let out a small moan. You hesitate as you look down at the blonde in front of you. But when Kim Bora gives your cock a long, teasing lick while looking up at you, you follow Kim Minji’s instructions. Reaching behind her head, you let your fingers glide through her blonde silk like hair. When you’re holding a fistful of it in your hand, you look back over to your former history teacher.

“Nice job. This way you don’t really hurt her when you pull on it.”

She gives you a warm smile, but her eyes sparkle with amusement and mischief.

“And now give it a tug.”

You heitate once more. She’s basically telling you to pull your teachers hair. Kim Bora looks up at you and her dark eyes tell you to do as you’re told. You give her hair a tug, which makes the blonde moan in satisfaction. Your homeroom teacher bites her lip.

“Good boy.”

“Now pull her onto your cock. Really make her take it. Don’t stop until her lips kiss your base.”

You glance at Kim Minji who’s hand is still holding a fistful of your girlfirend’s hair. Gahyun looks up at you, your own confusion but also lust is mirrored in her eyes.

“Do it.”

Kim Bora lets go of your dick and places both her hands on your thighs. You push against the back of her head and pull her down. A loud groan escapes your lips when you feel her warm mouth take most of your cock within one go. For a moment she hits a small barrier and then your entire length disappears inside her throat. You hear a small gag and the silence. Bot you and Gahyun stare at your teacher who just took your entire cock down her throat.

“Yes, that’s it.”

Kim Minji compliments you and moves Gayhun so she can get a better view of the action.

“You see? She’s taking it all. You just have to open wide enough and be patient. Even if your body fights it, just let it happen, alright?”

She sounds like she’s explaining upcoming homework and not how to deepthroat your cock.

“Yes, Ms. Kim.”

Kim Bora backs away now, the walls of her throat and mouth gently massaging your length.

“Try it.”

Her lips are still connected with your dick by a strand of saliva. She wipes it away with her hand and lets Gahyun scoot closer. You watch her look at your cock which is coated in your teacher’s spit. Then she looks up at you and you realize she’s waiting for you to grab her hair. Once she feels you pulling her twoards you, Gahyun opens her mouth to welcome your cock. Her soft lips glide along the length of your shaft. Just like before, she comes to a halt around the half way mark. You hear her choke and you feel more spit run down your cock. You stop, waiting for Gahyun to continue on her own. A couple of seconds later you feel her pushing further.

“That’s a good student.”

Kim Minji say that with pride and you catch your homeroom teacher bite her lip yet again.

Gahyun stops again, but this time her lips are closer to your base than they ever were before. Her throat squeezes your cock as she gags, her body rejecting the foreign object.

“Just try to hold it. That’s it.”

Your head rolls back as more pleasure rushes through your system. You still can’t belive that your two hottest teachers are teaching your girlfriend how to deepthroat your cock.

But they don’t stop there. After Gahyun successfully took all of your cock, they decided to teach you how to fuck as well.

“Yes, give her another slap.”

You follow Kim Minji’s order.

Kim Bora is lying on your table as you thrust deep into her pussy. Her top is lying at your feet. You take your hand off one of her tits and strike again. A deep moan of pain and pleasure leaves the lips of your homeroom teacher.

“That’s a good boy.”

Whenever Kim Minji calls you that you feel newly energized.

“Another one.”

The younger of the two teachers gasps when your palm strikes her chest. Your other hand is tightly holding onto her thigh to make sure she doesn’t fall off the table.

After you fucked her for quite a while, your former history teacher tells you to bend your girlfriend over the same table. You push into Gahyun’s pussy, elicting a sharp moan from her. Hers and Kim Bora’s juices mix around your cock.

“Now take her really deep.”

You pull Gahuyn’s hips towards you as you thrust forward.

“Grab her hair again.”

You do as told and take a fistful of Gahyun’s blonde hair.

“Push her into her pussy.”

Your girlfriend yelps in surprise when you push her face between Kim Bora’s thighs.

“Be a good girl and lick my pussy.”

Eventually your former history teacher is the only one who hasn’t touched your cock yet. Which she changes when she tells you to pull out of your girlfriend and kneels down next to you. Intsead of deepthroating you like the two others before her, she only gently sucks your cock. One of her hands is holding onto your thigh, while the other strokes your base. You feel yourself closing in on your incoming orgasm. You don’t know how she was able to tell, but she’s now doing her best to make you finish. Her mouth feels nice and warm around your tip and her tongue doesn’t miss any important places.

Kim Minji then makes you cum in her mouth. You let out a loud groan as your seed spills onto her tongue. She humms im appreciation. But instead of immediately swallowing it like Gahyun usually does she opens her mouth. You watch how her tongue pushes your cum around. Gayhun and Kim Bora join her on her knees in front of you. Your eyes grow wide when the younger of the two teachers pulls the other closer for a kiss. You and Gahyun watch the two of them making out while sharing your cum. Then Kim Bora turns around and captures Gahyun’s lips with her own.

“It just tastes so good.”

Your former history teacher comments while looking up at you.

“Since the two of you aren’t students anymore, why don’t you stop by at my house once a week so we can give you another sort of aducation?”

Before you can answer she wraps her lips around your cock once more. Kim Bora pulls away from your girlfriend, their lips still connected by a small strand of your cum.

“I’d love that.”

Gahyun whispers and Kim Bora gives you a knowing smirk while Kim Minji cleans your cock of your cum and their juices.

[theodorka]

SNAPE IN LINGERIE: THE FANFICTION

It's done. It's finally posted.

Inspired by this and definitely also this ( @wisteria-lodge @fafodill )

This was so much fun! I got a bit extremely carried away. It's 46k words, so I can't post it all here, but you can read an excerpt under the cut and/or read it on AO3.

It takes place over three years, because I think it would take Severus about 3 years to get to a point where he's putting on lingerie for his boyfriend and, for some reason, I decided I was going to write the entire Strangers to Lovers Relationship Arc.

I genuinely love this fic. I may need to write the full happily ever after at some point. I really want to write Kasimir being icy to Lupin when he turns up and maybe have him punch Sirius in the face or something as a treat 🥺 we'll see :) Please enjoy

Perfect Poison Pearl by Theodorka

Severus Snape x MaleOC

CW: I write SMUT, it's SMUT, which is Explicit Sexual Content; not in this excerpt though. Implied & Internalized Homophobia. Read tags on AO3 if you read the rest

The first time Severus met Kasimir, it was because Minerva McGonagall wheeled the weedy brunette into the staff room and plopped him down across the table from him. She forcibly introduced the new Arthimancy professor and said rather pointedly,

“Professor Kobza was at Durmstrang and finished his studies the same year you did. I’m sure you’re relieved to finally have someone your age on the staff.”

Minerva, who repeatedly struggled to remember twenty-three year old Severus Snape wasn’t a teenage student of hers any longer and hardly wanted help making friends, promptly left the room, though not before leveling him with be nice glare she reserved just for him.

Kasimir and Severus exchanged curt nods. They shared a look in which they assessed the other’s interest in abandoning this farcical playdate, then nodded at one another again. Both left the staff room without another word.

The second time Severus met Kasimir, the man was wearing a dress.

Severus didn’t recognize him initially as he entered the Hog’s Head—the willowy youth had let his hair down from the messy pile usually stacked on top of his head, secured in a bun. Instead, it spilled over his shoulders in smooth waves. He’d also shaved the ever-present stubble from his face and wasn’t wearing his reading glasses, on his face or perched atop his head.

And he was wearing a dress, of course.

It fit him well. Long-sleeved with a high neck, a loose fit skirt that fell to the knees, it wasn’t a particularly enticing ensemble.

(not that Severus was evaluating it thusly; it was merely an objective, distant observation, disentangled from subjective preference because Severus Snape didn’t have a preference, subjective or otherwise, for men in dresses)

But it was intricate. The fabric was dark, crimson netting and lace embroidered into it. The buttons on the collar were small and shiny white, mother of pearl maybe, and the same on the cuffs of the sleeves. A little ruffle of milky silk peaked out from the cuff, drawing Severus’ attention to the dark red manicured nails and holding it until he was too close to miss who they belonged to.

It was only when Severus was halfway to the bar and Kasimir turned that the two saw one another. Kasimir blinked, amber eyes dressed up in a dusky, faintly shimmering shadow, his lashes long and black, and a manicured hand tapping the side of a crystal glass filled with something dark.

Severus didn’t even know Aberforth had crystal back there.

Kasimir nodded curtly to Severus and he returned it automatically. Kasimir turned away and Severus went to sit at the opposite end of the bar to immediately mind his own business. Neither so much as looked in the other’s direction the entire night.

The next day he saw Kasimir in the staff room, marking Arthimancy homework with a familiar expression of resigned disappointment, looking like he did every other day of his life. Weedy. Tired, purple shadows beneath his eyes, no longer hidden beneath well blended concealer. Truly abysmal posture. A bit of a mess, really, sleeves of his frock rolled up, stubble smattered across his cheeks and chin, ink stains on his hands, thin framed glasses perched at an angle on his long, narrow nose.

Severus saw it now. The effeminate qualities in his features he hadn’t noticed until he was confronted with the man wrapped up in a dress, face and nails painted. Thin wrists, bony, soft-looking hands with long, slender fingers. High, delicate cheek bones.

Kasimir was conventionally attractive, but evidently doing his best to conceal that from the world with a slovenly appearance. Preferring to preserve the effort for his evening activities, it would seem. Severus wondered whether he struggled at Durmstrang—he rather got the impression androgyny wasn’t looked on fondly over there, if Karkaroff was any indication; a man so full of masculine bravado it turned Severus’ stomach every time he’d the distinct displeasure to be in the man’s presence, back when he’d been a Death Eater and then a double agent.

Not that it was looked on any more fondly here. He had plenty of personal experience to speak to that, having thin, delicate wrists, preferring his hair long, and being rather weedy himself. Severus wasn’t pretty, not like Kasimir, but that just made him an easier target—he was freakishly hideous and looked like his bones were made of glass. He could hit much harder than it looked like he could though. One of the only ‘benefits’ of growing up in Cokeworth—you learned how to fight. You learned how to fight or you’d fucking die before you needed more than both hands to count to your age. You could learn how to run too, but eventually, you’d have to fucking fight.

Severus watched Kasimir flex a cramp in his hand, and his eyes fell back to the forearm and that was when he saw them:

The scars.

Jagged, black streaks ran like poisoned rivers beneath the skin, veins stained black and deformed. As Kasimir adjusted his quill between his slender fingers, Severus saw one particular vein protruding unnaturally, as if someone had taken his veins and tied them into knots, and when they finally untangled, they couldn’t lay flat anymore. They twisted at strange angles, disappearing and reappearing and doubling back where they shouldn’t.

Poison. Severus thought immediately. His fingers rubbed the spine of the book which lay in his lap, pressing against a ridge in the binding, petting it, fingers itching to examine the injury—but Kasimir wasn’t his patient. Kasimir wasn’t his anything—well, his colleague, but that wasn’t a reason to hold his hand, for the express purpose of medical examination, of course.

It could have been a curse, he supposed. He would need to biopsy a vein to be sure, and if it was poison, he could figure out which then too. Severus had his doubts about the hypothesis already—certainly, there were malignant and virulent poisons which could do such a thing…but only in the seconds immediately before they killed the victim, after many, many hours of pain. Some poisons killed quickly, discreetly. The kind that might have once run through Kasimir’s veins was meant to kill slowly, painfully, and to send a message. But if it had once pumped through his veins, how on earth did he survive?

Severus could think of a few possibilities, but they seemed unlikely. A bezoar would work and was likeliest. While rare, virtually any wizarding hospital would have one on hand for dire emergencies. Additionally, some of the poisons which inflicted such injury had antidotes, particularly those meant to extract confessions and information from the victim, in exchange for an end to the pain and the opportunity to live.

But such poisons were difficult to brew, the ingredients dangerous and/or expensive to acquire; no sensible poisoner would administer such a poison under conditions in which the victim could then simply walk themselves to a hospital. And if Kasimir’s scars were caused by poison, then he was moments from death before the antidote was administered. He would be extremely lucky for it to work in time.

Yes, poison seemed more and more unlikely the more Severus thought about it. Indeed, who on god’s green earth would be poisoning this man to begin with? This weedy, crossdressing, scruffy, slouching, slender-fingered, messy-bun bearing, pretty little twerp? The man was an Arthimancy professor, for Merlin’s sake, the second most boring subject at Hogwarts after History of Magic.

How infuriatingly mysterious.

Kasimir looked up and blinked. He nodded politely at Severus through the rectangular lenses of his frameless reading glasses. Severus nodded back and immediately shoved his book in front of his face, hoping the man didn’t think he was leering. His cheeks reddened behind the opaque covers, due to his being caught leering.

Severus frowned at the pages, heat rising higher on his cheeks. Kasimir wasn’t pretty. Where had that thought even come from? Not him, surely. They’d all been wrong, of course: his father, his fucking tormentors, everyone—Severus wasn’t queer, he wasn’t a fairy, even in spite of his skinny body and long hair and the fact no woman would ever look his way, much less touch him.

Kasimir wasn’t pretty. He just did his makeup well and looked alright in a dress. He probably wasn’t even queer either—just a man with a fucking weird hobby. It’s not like it was illegal to wear a dress. And maybe if Severus looked half as decent in a dress, he’d take to dressing up in them too—who fucking knows?

It didn’t matter, the point moot; Severus looked fucking ridiculous in everything on account of the fact it was his weedy, skeletal body stuffed inside of it, his hideous face attached to said body, his sallow, pallid skin wrapped over said face and body and head, his ugly, hooked nose tacked onto to the center of said face, his filthy-looking hair growing out of said head, his crooked teeth crammed haphazardly inside the mouth of said face—Severus was himself, his wretchedly hideous self. Quite frankly, he shouldn’t be seen ever, regardless of the clothes he wore.

It wasn’t even the end of the first week when Severus started fielding complaints from his Slytherins.

He’s horrible!

He’s unfair!

He threw my abacus out the window!

Professor Kobza said if he saw another abacus in his classroom, he was going to brain its owner with it!

“Then…don’t…bring your abacus…to his classroom.” Severus explained slowly, for the fifth time that day. He pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered what on earth the man had against the abacus. Maybe one killed his mother.

Severus, who had a perfectly acceptable habit of listening at keyholes and around corners and behind tapestries and statues, overheard Minerva say Kasimir had quarreled with Dumbledore about not being allowed to threaten to brain students, that he couldn’t damage student property, and the most he could do was confiscation. Ultimately, Kasimir must have conceded the point, considering Severus started to receive only complaints about confiscated abacuses.

Patrolling the castle one evening, Severus overheard Professor Sprout and Madam Hooch gossiping behind a greenhouse. Nothing better to do and hoping to learn something interesting, he strolled behind a high garden wall where he could better overhear—only to find Kasimir leaning against it, cigarette smoking delicately between two slender fingers. The two made startled eye contact and then nodded politely, once both had a moment to recover.

Kasimir reached inside his cloak, produced a silver cigarette case and extended it toward Severus, the engraved lid popping open. Cautiously, as if the man might suddenly snap it shut on his fingers, Severus accepted one. The two smoked quietly while they learned all about who Madam Hooch had been hearing about from Madam Rosmerta, until the two women bid each other goodbye until the next time.

Severus and Kasimir quickly learned their schedule. They’d share a cigarette as they eavesdropped, exchanging pointed glances and amused smirks whenever they overheard something particularly interesting or scandalous. When the women parted, the two put out their cigarettes and went their separate ways, without ever speaking a word to one another.

It was Christmas before they finally exchanged two words. The words were Merry and Christmas, accompanied by polite nods. They both immediately went back to nursing their mulled wine and discreetly eavesdropping on Minerva and Poppy gossiping in hushed, but not hushed enough, whispers.

It was New Year’s Eve when they finally had an actual conversation.

Severus was lightly inebriated at three in the afternoon—as one is on New Year’s Eve—inebriated enough to take a risk and, with any luck, sate his curiosity. He’d developed a hypothesis about Kasimir and—being a man of science—had been waiting for an opportunity he felt brave enough to test it. And so, he took an oversized cloak his mother had made him years ago hoping he’d grow into it—he never did—bounded through the castle to the tucked away Arthimancy wing and knocked thrice upon the door to Kasimir’s quarters.

He heard something crash inside.

A few moments later, Kasimir cracked open the door. He blinked at Severus and opened the door the rest of the way, removing his reading glasses and perching them atop his head. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame; Severus had observed in the passing months the man was incapable of standing up straight for longer than three seconds. Behind him, Severus saw a tower of books and confiscated abacuses stacking itself into an unsteady pile, looking like it would collapse again if you sneezed too close to it.

Kasimir said nothing by way of greeting, the two only exchanging brief nods, so Severus launched into his hypothesis:

“You sew, yes?” Severus held up the large bundle of fabric by way of explanation.

Kasimir’s face twitched, almost a flinch, like he thought Severus might throw it in his face. Severus glanced between the cloak and back to Kasimir as he waited.

Slowly, a smile crept onto Kasimir’s countenance and he nodded, holding out his hand. Severus handed him the cloak. Kasimir stood aside and gestured for Severus to step through. Entering, Severus examined the deeply disorganized space.

Books in half a dozen languages were stacked haphazardly and if Severus wasn’t so pleased about his hypothesis being correct, he’d have considered pointing out it was a fire hazard. And that it was making him anxious. He dearly hoped Kasimir didn’t smoke in here.

Large unfurled scrolls were stuck to the walls, scribbled with…numbers and such, by the looks of it, other symbols Severus didn’t recognize, but vaguely remembered being associated with Arthimancy. He saw one covered in some kind of advanced algebra, drawn runes glowing gently on the parchment, shuffling themselves around an equation which bent itself into concentric circles. Repressed memories of revising for his Arthimancy N.E.W.T. resurfaced and Severus stopped looking at all the math on the walls for the sake of his sanity.

Kasimir led Severus through a narrow and concernedly unsteady maze of stacked books and scrolls, past random whirring magical devices, several dozen dead and dying houseplants, a harpsichord, and an empty terrarium. A fluffy white cat with amber eyes leapt from where it had been napping on a cluttered writing desk that was very obviously the cat’s. It immediately attempted to trip Severus, winding around his ankles, as if herding him through the maze.

At the end, the room opened up into a converted sitting room, what was obviously a studio of some kind. Fabric was piled on every available surface and mannequins wore dresses Severus had yet to see on Kasimir during the nights they politely ignored each other in the Hog’s Head. They were half finished and with a flick of his wand, the brunette covered them with a sheet, looking a bit sheepish.

“Helmi likes you.” Kasimir said approvingly, nodding at the cat.

With three whole words to go off, Severus clocked a light accent he couldn’t place. Which made sense, if he’d gone to Durmstrang, Severus supposed, wondering where he was from, what it was like there, and could he please tell him everything else about himself while he was at?

But Severus controlled himself—he knew how much his intensity was responsible for so much of his misfortune; the friendship it cost him, in a time long since lost forever. It grated on people; he needed to rein himself in if—if nothing. Severus was just testing his hypothesis, sating his curiosity. Nothing more.

“Feel honored, for she’s hard to impress.”

“Helmi?” The cat jumped onto a nearby stool and Severus held out his hand for the cat to sniff. She nudged his knuckles with her fuzzy forehead, then licked his ring finger. Severus frowned and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“It means pearl in Finnish.”

Severus nodded; Finnish then. Kasimir was Finnish or part Finnish or grew up in Finland. This was going well, he was learning so much already: Kasimir had a cat and was maybe Finnish. It was only a matter of time before he told him about the scars and let Severus hold his hands—to examine said hands, for medical evaluation purposes.

Kasimir gestured to a large mirror taking up most of the wall.

“Stand here, please.”

Severus frowned, but supposed he asked for this. It would be rude to be uncooperative, so he went to stand before the mirror, hands in pockets, avoiding eye contact with himself. With a dramatic billow of dark fabric, Kasimir levitated the cloak over Severus and let it fall into place. He circled him, adjusting the garment’s drape.

“Mm.” Kasimir summoned a measuring tape, measured Severus’ shoulders, then wrapped it around the shoulders horizontally, then again vertically down the middle of both shoulders.

Severus…disassociated, Occluding out of instinct, wishing now he’d never left the safety of his dungeons. He didn’t know what he expected. Not to be so…seen, he supposed. Maybe that Kasimir could just eyeball the cloak and then eyeball Severus, tell him everything he wanted to know, and then he’d be on his merry way without having to meet the man’s cat or stand in his sitting room, having his measure quite literally taken.

“What was it that gave me away? That I can sew?” Kasimir asked, as if seeking to force Severus to be present in the moment by way of uncharacteristic conversation.

“The…intricacy.” Severus said slowly, feeling a bit under a microscope and, not for the first time in his life, regretting being a man of science and a pretty nosy person in general.

“I realized you must make them.”

“You’ve been admiring my handiwork?”

Severus shifted uncomfortably, hands so deep in his pockets he was discovering a lost world of forgotten, crumpled notes to himself that had long since disintegrated in the wash.

“I just, er…recognize craftsmanship when I see it, I suppose.”

Kasimir hummed, summoning several pins from across room. He’d pinch two parts of the fabric together and stick a pin in to designate where to take the garment in at.

“You have such excellent posture—you ought consider modeling.”

Severus snorted, because it was among the most absurd suggestions he’d ever hear in his life.

“Oh?” Severus said, instead of Oh, be fucking serious, you twat.

“Mm—if you can walk straight like that for the thirty to sixty seconds every other minute, you’d make a small fortune.”

Severus scoffed. He could model. Absurd. But Kasimir’s tone was flat, like tacit acknowledgment of a known fact—not sarcasm at all. Severus was something of an expert on the subject, but his eyes narrowed nonetheless.

“Do you? Model?” It seemed a strange thing to suggest otherwise. And unlike Severus, Kasimir was conventionally attractive—in the objective sense, Severus didn’t have subjective preferences about men’s appearances—but Kasimir laughed at the question.

“Oh, no. Don’t have the posture for it—mother did her best, of course, but I never cooperated.”

Well, the man did have terrible posture. And now Severus was starting to think it was deliberately terrible. Spitefully terrible, even.

“Your mother…what? Tried to turn you into a model?”

“Mm. She’s a retired one herself. Runs a fashion house in Milan now. She says I’ve a strut only a mother could love.”

Kasimir arched an eyebrow at the mirror and Severus laughed—genuinely laughed—trying to imagine the man strutting down a catwalk. The vision shifted, imagining him in one of the dresses he’d seen Kasimir in—the burgundy one with billowing sleeves, a jade brooch affixed to the high collar, and a cinched waist which created a dramatic silhouette Severus spent most of that evening pointedly ignoring—and he stopped snickering abruptly.

Once all the pins were in place, Kasimir removed the cloak. The man moved very carefully. At no point during his standing like a mannequin—one with pockets and hands, to shove hands in pockets—did Severus feel the other man’s touch against him, slender fingers deftly making contact with only the fabric. Like the man knew a single touch could send Severus fleeing back to the dungeons.

Severus wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t fled regardless.

A few days later, Severus received a note at lunch.

I’ve finished altering your cloak. Come by later.

-Kas

Kas. Severus swallowed looking at the note, reading and rereading it, staring at the name, until Kas was burned into the back of his eyelids.

It’s just a name. A pretty normal, single-syllable, name. Kas.

After lessons were finished, Severus swept to the Arthimancy Wing and knocked thrice upon Kasimir’s door.

He heard something crash inside and he frowned. The place was a death trap. The door cracked open and Kasimir smiled at him, an even larger pile of confiscated abacuses rearranging itself.

“What’s your problem with abacuses?” Severus said and immediately frowned.

He’d meant to say hello, Kas, test out the name on his tongue. Kasimir gestured him in and Severus followed him back to his studio. Helmi purred at his ankles as he shoved his hands into his pockets. After last time, he’d gone back to the dungeons and cleaned out the pockets of all his robes.

The cat was leaving bright white fur on his dark robes and Severus frowned. He picked up the creature and held it out at arm’s length, before it could trip him and he died from the blunt force trauma of falling face first into a stack of random garbage and abacuses. She chirruped at him, attempting to wiggle free, ignoring Severus’ pointed glares.

“The problem with abacuses is that the abacus is an unnecessary crutch for the mind.” Kasimir began.

“Before the O.W.L.s, an abacus shouldn’t be necessary as the rigor of the arithmetic should be within a student’s reach using only mental math. After the O.W.L.s, it swiftly becomes something which only holds the student back, as the speed of calculation is severely hampered by using a mechanical, external device.”

Severus nodded, not really caring, but enjoying getting to hear the sound of Kasimir’s accent on so many different words.

“The sooner students learn to perform calculations of significant rigor in their head, the better off they’ll be—there is simply no incentive to permit them use of an abacus, except that it makes children feel better because they are insecure in their abilities. But how will they get better otherwise? That’s a rhetorical question, by the by—I’m not open to suggestions on the policy.”

They reached the studio and Kasimir rounded the mannequin wearing Severus’ cloak. He leaned onto it, arms wrapping around its shoulders from behind as Severus put Helmi down on a stool. She swished her long, fluffy, white tail irritably at him.

“Do your students cry to you excessively about my cruelty? The other Heads of House have told me theirs do.”

Severus smirked. “Yes, especially the ones who have very expensive abacuses. One student told me you threw one with bejeweled beads through a window. An unopened window.”

Kasimir scoffed. “Bejeweled, pfft. Ridiculous. Can I tell you something? I really just hate the noise they make. Their being unnecessary crutches just also happens to be true.”

Kasimir hid half his face behind a mannequin, mischievous smile playing on his lips. Severus watched the way the other man’s fingers smoothed the fabric against the mannequin and felt his throat go very dry.

“Yes, well, you should see what I do when a student turns up with a gold bloody cauldron. It’s certainly a mistake no one makes twice.”

Kasimir snickered, cheek rubbing against the cloak’s collar; where the nape of Severus’ neck would be, were he currently wearing it. Severus looked away, finding it hard to catch his breath. It was rather dusty in here, he supposed.

“Would you tell me about this cloak?” Kasimir asked quietly after a moment.

Severus glanced over. “What is there to tell? It’s just a cloak.”

“It’s just nothing, I assure you.” Kasimir said swiftly, sounding almost a little offended.

“Someone made this, no?”

Severus blanched. “Oh, er—yes. My…mother…did.”

“She was quite skilled.” Kasimir said, lifting the back of the cloak and raising it to show the underside, revealing a dark seam.

“You can barely tell it’s stitched together, rather than a garment cut from a single cloth. Your mother clearly cared about how you’d be perceived.”

Severus frowned, pretty sure he was being insulted, but Kasimir didn’t make it sound like an insult. Doubtlessly, his mother had stitched it together from scraps: things his father had worn through, dark curtains she found at a boot sale or flea market, whatever she could get her hands on for nothing, or very near to it.

“I’m sorry?” Severus snipped, crossing his arms.

Kasimir’s eyes flashed to Severus’ and he frowned, eyes darting through the space.

“Er—my mother, she says the clothes make the man. In her world—fashion—this is something taken as fact, as well as everything associated with it. There is no pretense about why clothes are worn, the purpose they serve. It is about image, always—I did not mean to—it is not wrong that your mother cared about how you looked, no?”

Severus blinked, digesting the excess of information.

“I…suppose…not.” He said finally.

“I don’t generally consider myself vain…” Severus added. “The cloak just…didn’t fit.”

Kasimir nodded, looking relieved, and gestured to the mirror. Severus, reluctantly, went to stand in front of it, avoiding his own reflection, hands enpocketed. With a billow of fabric, the cloak fluttered over Severus’ shoulders. Kasimir circled him, examining the reflection in the mirror every now and again.

“Spin?”

“Excuse me?” Severus’ snapped his head toward the man, a disgust in his voice like Kasimir asked him to throw himself from the window.

Kasimir arched a finely shaped eyebrow. Severus wondered if they were like that naturally or if he shaped them. They were very nice…eyebrows, Severus observed, trying to decide if it was strange to notice such a thing or if he shouldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed.

“While I find your ability to be so very still enormously impressive, you are not, in fact, a mannequin and I’m a little worried how the garment will look when you inevitably are forced to move in it…please?”

Severus rolled his eyes, the small sound of please ringing in his ears as he spun slowly in a circle, not at all flattered by Kasimir and his eyebrows being enormously impressed with him.

“Cross the room and back…please?”

Severus scoffed, but did as he was asked. Kasimir then had him cross and uncross his arms, forcing him to free them from their pocket prisons. Then, he conjured some wind, which knocked over half the labyrinth and made both the cloak and Helmi’s fur billow majestically while Kasimir observed. Finally, he had Severus pace around the room a few times.

“Good, it looks good.” Kasimir said at last.

“A shame I’m the one wearing it.” Severus sneered at his reflection, lifting the hem of the cloak and releasing it, watching the dark fabric flutter dramatically as it fell back to his side.

Kasimir was quiet walking him back to the door, the labyrinth rebuilding itself to let them through. At the door, Severus turned to find Kasimir leaning against the frame, a vexed expression on his face as he held Severus’ gaze. Severus tilted his head.

“You look good, Severus. Not just the cloak.” Kasimir said after a moment.

Time seemed to slow for Severus, analyzing every tiny movement in Kasimir’s face but it was for naught. He was sincere. It wasn’t as if he could lie, he’d said it staring straight at him. But still, he couldn’t…mean that. Surely not. Severus knew exactly what he looked like.

Maybe I’m standing too close…he does usually wear reading glasses.

Severus nodded politely and promptly fled the Arthimancy Wing, cloak billowing and adding a flourish of drama to his every step. There was a faint scent of cologne on it, citrus and spice, and Severus couldn’t get the image of Kasimir—long arms wrapped around the mannequin’s shoulders—out of his head until he took a long, cold shower and chain smoked several cigarettes.

Properly introduced, the two started talking at the Hog’s Head or, more accurately, ignoring each other whilst seated side by side, instead of at opposite ends of the bar. Kasimir evidently spent his evenings at the pub sketching new designs or reworking old ones. Severus typically read, occasionally glancing over to watch Kasimir’s progress. And every now and again Kasimir would turn up in something Severus had watched him design.

“Why don’t you do this?” Severus asked one spring evening, uncharacteristically inebriated and chatty. He’d drunk more, as he’d stayed later than he usually did due to it storming out, flashes of lightning glinting through the window and thunder rattling the windows of the old, worn-down pub. Aberforth was reading a paper behind the bar, smoking a cigar and paying them precisely zero mind—with the exception of Severus and Kasimir, the place was empty.

“Do what?” Kasimir asked, sipping his gin and tonic, condensation clearing the charcoal dust from his slender fingers. His nails were dark purple tonight, the faintest amount of glitter catching the light. It matched his dress, two-toned, black skirt and amethyst on top, made of what looked like velvet or something else warm. He’d have to touch it to be sure. Or simply ask, but Severus wasn’t going to do that, not that he was planning or wanted to touch Kasimir or his clothes either. It was just an observation—he would have to touch, to be sure. He wasn’t going to.

“Clothes and such—fashion? Whatever it is, why do you teach Arthimancy instead?” Severus had a book open in front of him though he’d yet to read a word all night, plagued by his questions and curiosity.

“Fashion isn’t quite the same in our world as the one I’m familiar with.” Kasimir said.

Severus blinked. “Oh. Your mother’s Muggle?”

“Indeed.” Kasimir nodded.

“Are you not fond of wizarding fashion?”

“Oh, I am. I just feel a bit…behind, perhaps. For whatever reason, Muggle and wizarding fashion diverged centuries ago. Magical fashion is influenced by history and factors that feel alien and unapproachable, no matter how long I spend in the wizarding world. I don’t think my interpretation of wizarding fashion would be successful, or even welcome.”

Severus nodded, having very little idea what Kasimir was talking about, but thrilled to be harvesting information from him about anything frankly. He was surprised to learn Kasimir felt he possessed inadequate knowledge, considering he didn’t know anyone who knew so much about fashion or thought as much about it as he obviously did.

Maybe Lucius and Narcissa did. Their clothes were all very finely made. Not that they were making their own bloody clothes—perish the thought. Dumbledore might be fashionable. He was known to wear heeled boots with buckles and purple robes with intricate embroidery—was that a fashion?

“And…” Kasimir continued. “I think I would struggle to run any business in the wizarding world. Fashion almost necessitates an international business organization and my name is too…”

Kasimir sighed as he sharpened a charcoal pencil magically. Severus arched an eyebrow so high and so fast, it would have breached the stratosphere if it could leave his face.

“You were about to divulge critical information about your mysterious past?” Severus prompted when Kasimir didn’t continue, making the other laugh.

Though he was pretty sure he quite literally couldn’t help himself, Severus often regretted being nosy. But nothing bad ever seemed to happen when he and Kasimir were being nosy together and eavesdropping on people. He figured he could probably be nosy about Kasimir too, without something horrific happening or nearly getting murdered. And maybe he’d finally learn something about how Kasimir got the possibly-poison-scars on his arms.

“It’s not so interesting.” Kasimir said. “And requires excessive context.”

Severus awaited his excessive context, expression expectant. Kasimir glanced over and rolled his eyes, smirk playing at his painted lips—dark red, ever so slightly leaning towards purple.

“Oh, fine. My father’s surname is Auvinen. I expect that doesn’t mean anything to you, but in wizarding Finland, it’s the name of an ancient and noble pureblood family.”

“You’re a ba—illegitimate?”

Kasimir nodded, lips quirking at Severus’ choice of words.

“A bastard, yes. My mother gave me my father’s surname out of spite after discovering he was married when she told him she was pregnant. Though, I imagine she wouldn’t have, if she’d known what it would lead to. Or if she’d known he was a wizard.”

“Your name isn’t Auvinen.” Severus observed. It was Kobza. Kasimir Kobza.

Kas.

“That’s because my father is a Professor at Durmstrang—of the Dark Arts—and when I turned up at the school, all of eleven years old, with his family’s name, he attempted to have me expelled when he couldn’t get his friends in the Finnish Ministry to bully the Muggle government of Hungary—my mother’s Hungarian, don’t ask me why she gave me a German name, I don’t know—into forcing me to forsake the name.”

Kasimir blew away some charcoal dust off his sketch, not quite purple lips puckering while Severus froze, blinking rapidly, drink halfway raised to his lips.

“Cowing to the Auvinens, the esteemed headmaster of Durmstrang at the time informed mother I would be expelled if I didn’t change it. They called it what I think is known as slanderous defamation—one of the two—in English. She complied for my sake, but at that point unfortunately, I’d gotten a nickname. More unfortunately, it stuck. Puoliverinen Auvinen, meaning half-blood Auvinen in Finnish, but it quickly morphed into puoliverinen avioton: half-blood bastard.”

Severus nursed his firewhisky, trying to look casual, like he wasn’t hanging on Kasimir’s every word, internally cringing at the memory of his own half-blood affectation, something he was never going to mention to him now. He didn’t particularly feel like offering his own horrible nickname from school either.

“I take it your father didn’t favor you?”

“No.” Kasimir breathed. “Though he favored my older half-brothers and they favored me, as an easy target, if nothing else.”

Severus frowned, fingers tensing around his glass. Could he have gotten those scars at Durmstrang? The school did have a notorious reputation for being…darkly competitive: students breaking into factions, infighting breaking out amongst them. If Kasimir was already a target, by a Professor no less…hm.

“It’s all in the past, of course. But you see how it might prove difficult for any business venture of mine to thrive with all of that waiting for me out there. Better to go abroad, do something quiet, try not to remind my father or his family I exist by staying out of the way, don’t you think?”

“And do you…enjoy this?” Severus asked with a smirk, knowing enough to suspect the answer.

Kasimir laughed. “Not as much as I hoped I would. There aren’t a great many careers in Arthimancy that keep the lights on, so I hoped I’d enjoy one of the few that does. Alas, I keep having to hold my tongue and remind myself the Headmaster said I can’t threaten the students—does that answer your question?”

Severus nodded.

“Well, go on. Tell me all the mysterious details about why you work a job you clearly hate.”

Absolutely fucking not. But despite himself—and he chalked it up to being three firewhiskys deeper than he typically ever got, and that it was storming, and that there was no one else in the Hog’s Head except Aberforth, who already knew everything there was to know about it—Severus told Kasimir.

“I…owe the Headmaster. He got me acquitted after the war, since I was…useful to him. He wishes to keep me close at hand, so here I am, day in, day out.” muttered Severus, eyes fixed on his glass as he swirled the firewhisky.

“Oh, that was true.” Kasimir nodded, not even looking up from his sketch.

“When I overheard Madam Pince talking about it with Madam Pomfrey, I wondered if it wasn’t…exaggerated.”

Severus frowned for about three different reasons.

“I’m shocked you talk to me at all.”

It was not what he meant to say.

Kasimir glanced at him, smoky-shadowed eyes flitting up and down Severus in a way that made him feel…exposed.

“Severus, why on earth would I judge you?” He held up a hand, as if gesturing to the entire world by way of explanation.

“Because…because I’m not a good person and have done horrible things?”

“But you haven’t tried to assault me for talking to you, have you? You haven’t insinuated I’m a subhuman pervert, have you? You don’t pretend you don’t recognize me when I’m dressed like this, do you? Severus, if you accidentally killed a student, I would probably provide an alibi on your behalf if you asked, do you know that?”

Severus stared, unblinking, stunned, watching Kasimir’s ears turn adorably pink as he scribbled furiously in his sketchbook. Then, he laughed.

“Good to know. I might need to take you up on that someday. We’ll have to kill Aberforth if it ever comes to that though.”

The man grunted from behind his paper and Kasimir laughed, a light, melodic, musical sound that made the nape of Severus’ neck tingle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just going to slap another link here for your scrolling convenience:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66675931

[femmefitz]

Can we take away the term moral OCD from Tumblr actually it's getting annoying seeing people misinterpret it as "something I can use to dodge accountability" or "something people use to dodge accountability". If you don't know what something means then stop talking about it.

Moral OCD does not, in fact, reflect any sort of morality on the person that has it. You are not a worse or better person for it, and your capacity for harm remains the same as anyone else's.

Just shut uppppppppp

[wasabi-gumdrop]

Kabru has a secret admirer in the castle!

[vargaslovinghours]

Say it like you mean it

[rustedleopard]

Still thinking about how Clover on the No Mercy Route likely would've given up their quest for vengeance and lived with Martlet had Axis not told them that he killed Integrity. The only real difference between Aborted No Mercy Run Clover and No Mercy Run Clover are a few more destroyed robots and the knowledge of what Axis did, which sent their LOVE skyrocketing to LV 19.

Look at them. They can't even look Ceroba in the eye after they inflict the final blow.

[lynxfrost13]

Holt’s vision was basically the first thing to go as she became infected with the corruption happening in Sierpinski-23 and it absolutely wrecks me

[queerlycarter]

the whole time izzy has been at my house my mom has just been demonstrating over and over that she actually does not give a fuck about my needs and the fucking icing on the cake this morning was two-fold. it was a two course meal of icing on the cake

first: she tried to tell me she thinks i Need to do my medicaid shit before we leave. (when i ALREADY TALKED TO HER ABOUT THIS. and she agreed with me that there's no reason i cant do this shit from izzy's house.) and did not seem convinced when i told her we literally talk/think about it Every Single Day

second: ive lived here for. Three Months. and she was surprised by my most basic and consistent need (the fucking SUN HURTS). izzy and i came out to the living room for lunch and i was closing the curtains and saying how the sunlight is painful and uncomfortable for both of us rn and she was whining about me closing all the curtains

like holy fuck you dont even want me to like. make it comfortable to exist in the living room for like a fucking hour. I HOPE. i fucking HOPE she says something before we leave. so i can tell her to her fucking face how poorly cared for she makes me feel. but like im not gonna start that fight myself you know.

[j-esbian]

again i get it because. time. but i wonder how/if they’re going to do the meat man thing. because “do you spice” was just a one-off joke so far and jarett never sent them on a spice quest, which means scanlan never got tricked, and the meat man wouldn’t mean anything to vm when they hear the name the second time around.

[choclilies]

I waited until 11PM for the premiere to listen to caramel. It's got sleep token all over it, it's raw, kept me there, and I enjoyed it overall.

The lyrical content and this being the song to come out after the absolute abysmal behavior of some fans this week is not lost on me.

[indi-glo-archive]

me still being on tumblr is like. i think i got so used to suffering that i just do it for no reason now

The kinds of things the Heartstopper and Young Royals fandoms put me through as a child were genuinely so fucked, and the only reason I didn't bat an eye was because I'd already developed dissociative disorders from my other child abuse (shoutout to the person who told me it was obvious I'd never been bullied bc I sympathized with a fictional fellow victim!).

People called me woke trash, racist, and repeatedly accused me of being an abuse/rape apologist for pointing out flaws and being able to put myself in characters' shoes (AKA write good analysis?). I got hate asks on a regular basis, people coming into my inbox just to tell me how much they hated characters I related to, trying to convince me that these characters, that people like me, are the scum of the earth because our trauma responses aren't palatable enough for them.

These are people who straight up do not give a fuck about child abuse if the child doesn't respond to it in a way they're comfortable with. These are people who will demonize abuse victims and make joking death threats about teenagers whose lives are implied to be in active danger. These are people who dismissed every one of my attempts to bring up racism and ableism in these shows because they were so fucking fragile and terrified of acknowledging their own imperfections. They attacked me for noticing and added to the racism and ableism I had to deal with instead of sucking it up and learning something.

And I know that this had a real impact on people who weren't me and didn't have my kind of armor because I also had people in my inbox who related to them like I did. I had adults agreeing that if they'd encountered these fandoms when they were younger, it would've made them suicidal. I had teenagers who related to the characters saying that they had been similarly abused. I'm really glad I was able to be a safe person for them, and I'm disappointed that I was one of the only ones there to do it when there are so many so-called "allies" here.

There is something seriously fucking wrong with these fandoms, and you all should be ashamed of yourself for cyberbullying teenagers off the internet. You need to reflect on that shit and fix it if you want to consider yourself any kind of ally or empath or cool gay teacher or any kind of positive influence in the spaces you’re in

(P.S. I swear to fucking god if people respond to this post with "but he sexually assaulted someone" and ignore literally every other personality trait/experience he had that could've been relatable to a child abuse survivor and the way people mistreated me, a real human being, which Charlie is not by the way, I will start doing the things you wanted to do to Ben)

[dragoninahumancostume]

I love how people here consider blocking others as something chill you can just do when you don't feel interested in their posts because I am definitely not chill. If I block you it means I hope you lose your posts and account forever and I want to forget I ever saw you. I'm killing you in my life. Out of sight and out of the same existence plane as me. I'm closing the curtains.

[mainfaggot]

the problem is that i have the temperament of a caged animal, but i also have no end goal lol haha isnt that funny. everyone start pointing and laughing already

[todayisafridaynight]

One of my fave jackets is this green jacket with a fur hood im wearin rn because 1.) its green 2.) my dad gave it to me 3.) it reminds me of saejima. Who also reminds me of my dad

[prismaticsaltedink]

My pet snake enjoys being pet too, especially after she's eaten she likes me to pet her tummy there.

(The really unusual thing is she will pet herself there with her chin to show me what she wants, and I do it every time she asks so I guess I've been reenforcing/rewarding this behavior. She will stop directing me and relax when I pet her. She also pets ME sometimes too. She'll sit with her body in the crook of my arm and gently and repeatedly move her chin over my arm in the direction my short arm hairs flow, lift up and go back and do it again several times. I'm not sure if she enjoyed being pet and decided to try it for herself and liked it, or just enjoys the feeling of petting her human. She's very sweet, gentle, and cuddly. Does anyone else's snake do this? I've seen nothing like it posted anywhere by anyone else. She's a Western Hognose.)