#sub teacher

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The echo of her footsteps down the empty hall was deliberate, teasing. The late-afternoon light filtered through the narrow windows of Moordale Secondary, casting long, accusatory shadows across the tiled floors. She stopped at the door to his office, her knuckles brushing the wood in a mock gesture of politeness before she pushed it open without waiting for a response.

Michael Groff looked up sharply from his desk, his pen stilling mid-signature. The familiar scowl he wore didn’t faze her—it never did. She thrived on his discomfort, relished the crack in his veneer when he realized it was her.

"You should knock," he snapped, though his voice betrayed more nerves than authority.

"I did," she lied effortlessly, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. "Besides, you said your door is always open for students."

Michael groaned, setting his pen down and pinching the bridge of his nose. "What do you want this time?"

She perched on the edge of his desk, crossing one leg over the other in a way she knew would draw his gaze. The school uniform skirt didn’t leave much to the imagination, and she noticed the way his jaw tightened when he caught himself looking.

"Relax," she purred, leaning forward slightly. "I just wanted to make sure we’re still on for tonight."

His gaze flicked to the door, double-checking it was locked. "This is getting out of hand," he muttered, though the weight of his words lacked conviction.

"Oh, come on, Mr. Groff," she teased, her tone lilting. "You wouldn’t want me to accidentally let slip about our little arrangement, would you? What would the PTA think?"

His face darkened, but not with anger—something closer to shame, mixed with a flicker of resignation. "You’re playing a dangerous game," he said, his voice low.

"I know." She rose from the desk, her movements unhurried, purposeful. Her eyes flicked to his tie, the only part of his otherwise immaculate suit that looked slightly askew. With a faint smirk, she leaned in, her fingers deftly catching the silk fabric.

"Do you know what your problem is, Mr. Groff?" she murmured, giving his tie a sharp tug to bring him closer. His breath hitched, his body rigid with tension.

"Enlighten me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips brushed against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. "You’re far too serious," she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. She lingered for a moment, letting the charged silence stretch between them before tilting her head, her lips catching his in a brief but deliberate kiss.

He froze, his hands gripping the arms of his chair as if he were afraid to move. When she pulled back, she wore a satisfied grin, her fingers still holding his tie.

"See? That wasn’t so hard," she said, her voice laced with mock sweetness.

Michael swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to the door again. "This is… inappropriate," he managed to say, though the way his eyes lingered on her suggested otherwise.

"Then stop me," she challenged, releasing his tie and stepping back.

He didn’t.

Her smirk widened as she turned toward the door, her skirt swishing with every step. Before she left, she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes glinting with mischief.

"Don’t be late tonight," she added.

Michael sat back in his chair as the door clicked shut behind her, running a hand over his face. He should have put an end to this the moment it started. He should have reported her, set boundaries, done anything but let her get under his skin like this.

But it was too late now.

Jeffrey recites his answer in a monotonous, lilting voice. He’s got every word memorised and Michael isn’t surprised at all. Fucking swot. Michael knows he’s only doing this because it’s Laurent’s class. They are the ‘twins’ they do not need to revise. Magic comes as naturally to them as breathing. 

Laurent accepts Jeffrey’s answer and Michael’s twin glances back at him, smirking wide as he catches Michael’s eye. He can’t take the satisfaction when there’s a cough from beside him. One of his minions, Michael can’t call them friends, has a paper ball ready on his desk. His eyes slide from Michael to Jeffrey and without any need for further clarification, Michael sends the paper ball zooming across the short distance, smacking Jeffrey on the back of his head. 

Jeffrey wheels round at once, ‘Fuck off, Michael.’ 

‘What?’ Michael makes sure he looks like the epitome of innocence. His mind disconnects from the class, thinking about lunch, about his advanced Telekinesis class later today, about how Mr Banks tears taste so good rolling down his cheeks, the saltiness catching on Michael’s tongue as he devours him. It’s a busy schedule he’s made for himself, and for the first time Michael has made a name for himself that doesn’t carry around the words ‘Jeffrey Harmon’ attached to it. He only realises he’s being called on when every single face has turned to him. Michael swallows, ‘Sorry, Sir?’

Laurent scowls at him, ‘Perhaps if you were more like your brother, you would be fairing better in my class, Mr Langdon.’ He snarks, ‘But if you find it so dull, then take your parlour tricks out into the foyer and perform like a Court Jester for the cleaning staff.’ 

His chair comes crashing to the ground. Michael wasn’t even aware he was doing it. His cheeks flood with colour, ‘I’m sorry, Sir.’ 

‘If you don’t control that magic, it will lead to your ruin.’

‘Yes, Sir.’ 

Michael’s never apologised to a teacher before and it shows on the faces of his minions. They look to each other in mild surprise, before facing the front again. Jeffrey’s knee is bouncing jubilantly. He adores it when Michael’s told off. He always has. Michael can’t stand him, or Laurent. Perfect, hot fucking teacher. 

No.

Not hot…he’s just got nice eyes.

Another paper ball flies through the air, intent on meeting the back of Laurent’s black curls when it freezes in mid-air. The paper ball twitches and the bursts into flames. The Warlocks gasp at the adept display of magic and even Michael admits he’s impressed as Laurent turns his eyes upon him, ‘Detention, Mr Langdon.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘You cannot prove it was me.’ Michael denies, maintaining eye contact. His record isn’t perfect, but he’s the one everyone at Hawthorne is watching. He must keep up his example. Michael must remain on top. ‘I do not get detention.’

Laurent’s bearing down upon his before Michael can say another word, ‘What you are, Mr Langdon, is a pathetic little boy who has to get attention from childish tricks rather than proving his own worth. If you think that will impress me, you are sorely mistaken.’ 

Fury washes over Michael as Laurent eases away, dismissing him as if he’s nothing. No, Michael will make this man see who he is…and what he’s capable of. Jeffrey leans back in his chair, looking up into Michael’s eyes. He doesn’t care Laurent is watching him, ‘He’s right, you know.’

Fuck you, Jeffrey. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

Jeffrey’s hand smacks across his own face before Michael can control it. ‘Ow! Mr Reveers!’

‘DETENTION FOR A MONTH. LANGDON.’ 

Michael doesn’t collect his things, he storms out of the class, setting the blackboard alight as he goes. The flames blaze behind him, the Warlocks alarm rising as Michael strides towards his bedroom. Once inside Michael’s fist slams against the wardrobe. Jeffrey’s things are hovering in the air, already targeted by Michael’s negative energy. They fall in a heap as Michael flings himself on his bed, shame and fury and mortification all dwindling inside him. Tears prick at his eyes. 

He just wanted to be the one seen for once. Recognised by those who matter. But he never will, not with Jeffrey in the picture. 

It takes the Warlocks an hour to control the blaze. It nearly burns the entire school down and rumours are flying of Michael Langdon’s possible expulsion. Alpha or not, he is rash. Uncontrollable. 

Jeffrey doesn’t bother knocking. He expects the room to be a mess, to find Michael crying on his bed, whining for Jeffrey to hold him and tell him that everything will be okay. That he didn’t mean it, did he? But Jeffrey knows better, Michael has meant every single accident that ever happened in his presence. 

But Michael sits at his desk, scrying. He ignores Jeffrey at first, ‘How was class?’

‘Eventful.’ Jeffrey replies, ‘Enjoy having dentition with Laurent every day till you graduate.’ 

Michael turns to face his brother, ‘Oh my stupid, naive brother. Who’s to say that isn’t exactly what I wanted?’