#sat act prep classes

[academy4achievement]

SAT vs ACT: Which Road Will You Take?

Your college journey starts with a decision—and this blog is your compass. 📍 Whether you're a high school student staring down the SAT/ACT challenge or a parent trying to guide the way, this post unpacks it all: 📘 Test patterns 📗 Key differences 🧠 Self-study strategies 💻 The power of online prep

No jargon. Just clear, helpful info to boost your score and ease the stress.

👉 Read the full guide to SAT and ACT prep online now and take the first confident step toward your college dreams.

#SATPrep #ACTPrep #StudySmart #CollegeBound #HighSchoolLife #TumblrEdu #TestTips #OnlineLearning

[eliteprepsat]

Clause (n): a unit of grammatical organization next below the sentence in rank and in traditional grammar said to consist of a subject and predicate. — New Oxford American Dictionary

Search the internet for “run-on sentences” and you’ll likely find examples of long lines (some run-ons, some not) by William Faulkner, Charles Dickens, Lewis Carroll, and other authors famous for their verbosity. Some sites (which will go unnamed) tell you that one of the iconic lines of twentieth-century American literature—the first line of J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye (1951)—is a run-on sentence.

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

This is, indeed, a long sentence—63 words and six commas, to be exact—but it is not a run-on. On the other hand, this sentence is:

Julia likes cats, however, she prefers dogs.

Just seven words and two commas, but a run-on. (By the way, that last line is a fragment, a sentence lacking even one independent clause.)

How is the second sample sentence a run-on if the first is not?

The answer hinges on the definition of a run-on sentence. Contrary to popular belief, run-on sentences are not defined by length or complexity; a 1,000-word sentence could be grammatically correct and a four-word sentence could be a run-on.

A run-on sentence is something far more precise. It’s a sentence that contains two or more independent (aka main) clauses not properly separated. Generally speaking, independent clauses can be separated by a period, a semicolon, a colon, a comma and a conjunction, or a dash (though not all of these solutions work for all sentences).

We might fix the run-on above to read:

Julia likes cats. However, she prefers dogs.

or, more commonly:

Julia likes cats; however, she prefers dogs.

or even better:

Julia likes cats, but she prefers dogs.

The reason why the original “Julia” sentence is a run-on is fairly arcane: a conjunctive adverb like “however” cannot separate two independent clauses. Students preparing for the SAT and ACT should learn how to identify independent clauses, dependent clauses, relative clauses, relative pronouns, conjunctions, subordinators (words that make clauses dependent), and conjunctive adverbs—all terms and ideas that need to be understood in order to master the art of avoiding and fixing run-ons and fragments. This is likely the most important cluster of grammatical issues to master for both tests.

But my purpose here is not to unpack the nuances of these issues (you’ll need to take a class for that). It is simply to note that preparing for the SAT and ACT requires that students begin to see conventional English sentences as things constructed along pretty exacting guidelines. Sentences, like machines, are objects made out of properly connected parts.

Like an automobile, a sentence is made of interlocking units. Just as there are many correct and incorrect ways to build a car, there are countless ways for the parts of a sentence to interlock correctly or not. And just as a good auto-mechanic sees a car for its parts and knows exactly what to do under the hood to fix a mechanical problem, SAT and ACT test-takers need to be able to see sentences as constructed things made of clauses, which need to be connected with the right tools and in the right ways.

This is precisely the kind of thinking at work in Salinger’s opening sentence in The Catcher in the Rye. The sentence is something of a master class in English grammar.

If you really want to hear about it, | the first thing | you’ll probably want to know | is | where I was born, | and what my lousy childhood was like, | and how my parents were occupied and all | before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, | but I don’t feel like going into it, | if you want to know the truth.

This sentence contains nine clauses total, 7 dependent and 2 independent, all properly separated. A clause consists of, at minimum, a subject and a predicate. I have highlighted only those terms necessary to complete each subject and predicate and italicized all conjunctions used to connect clauses. Things get tricky at the beginning of the second clause, whose subject is “thing” and whose verb is “is,” followed by an entire dependent clause (“where I was born”) that acts as the object of the verb “is.” In this sentence, “you’ll probably want to know” acts as a dependent clause since it is contained within a larger independent clause.

As a whole, a good SAT or ACT grammarian should see this sentence like this:

Dependent clause 1, Independent clause 1 Dependent clause 2 Independent Clause 1 continued Dependent clause 3, and Dependent clause 4,  and Dependent clause 5, Dependent clause 6, but Independent clause 2, Dependent clause 7.

We could dig into this complex sentence further by looking at, say, how Salinger subordinates those seven dependent clauses, or by considering how to identify when a clause begins and ends. But, again, the point here is not to explore all these complexities (though that’s an important task for those preparing for the SAT and ACT).

My point is at once much simpler and more challenging: it is to show you that sentences are made of smaller units called clauses, and that there are rules for connecting and separating these units from each other. This is all to say that improving one’s grammar isn’t about memorizing countless rules or running your eyes over countless pages of writing.

It’s first and foremost about changing the way you see sentences—as constructed machines made of individual parts rather than as finished wholes.

[pocketramblr]

What do you teach Pocket? I picture you teaching math.

Not math, social studies! Though I do have a tendency to end up math tutoring more than I expect lol. Writing too

[distantdarlings]

SOMETHING TO BE OWNED // t. riddle

RATING: PG-13 / 3.1K WORDS

Tom Riddle x Fem Reader Insert

+ SUMMARY - *Requested, based on this* After watching your boyfriend, Abraxas Malfoy, mistreat you for months. Tom decides to explain what love should be. (Song fic)

+ WARNINGS - Sensualilty, Tom is persistent in talking to you, crying, Abraxas is an asshole, implication that Abraxas may have hit reader at some point, language, not fully proofread (let me know if I missed any)

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Figure You Out - Voila

---

The way he looked at you sickened Tom. 

His eyes would curl over you like a rotting parasitic plant, climbing up your body and wrapping around your chest and throat, suffocating you from the outside in. Your eyes would flicker nervously from his predatory gaze to the floor more times than he could count, trying to draw his attention away from you. 

Tom couldn’t fathom what about Abraxas Malfoy was attracting you. The only thing that made an ounce of sense was his family’s money. That was it, though. He was loud, obnoxiously prideful, annoyingly materialistic, and anything but handsome. Still, though, you stayed with him. Always forcing your hand within his, swallowing bile down your throat when he leaned in for a too-wet kiss, concealing a shudder when he wrapped his arm around your shoulder. 

Tom didn’t get it. Why stay with him?

Those questions circulated his mind as his group of peers sat around the rounded table positioned in the far corner of the Slytherin common room. They passed jokes around noisily. Every time Abraxas would laugh especially hard, he would slap a gaunt, white hand on the table, and you would jump at the motion. Tom couldn’t help but feel his jaw clench at the notion of you being so jumpy around him. What reason would you have to act this way around him unless he was treating you wrongly?

“Oh, so, speaking of Potions class,” Abraxas started, guffawing unattractively. “Last week, we had to make some kind of…er…I can’t even remember. It was some kind of melting brew we were going to test on whatever the fuck, and—”

“Abraxas?” you piped up suddenly. Your voice was soft like a bell tingling in the distance beneath stone floors. Tom’s expression perked up as you leaned forward slightly from your cramped space between the arm of the sofa and Abraxas. 

The blond paused and turned back to look at you. His hands splayed out in a gesture as if to ask what was wrong, though he seemed annoyed. Tom’s knuckles clenched. 

“What?” Abraxas demanded. 

“You…,” you chuckled nervously, eyes glancing down to your twiddling fingers as the rest of the group stared you down. “Can you not…tell that story? It’s just…It’s embarrassing.”

He paused for a minute, as if considering your words, before shrugging his shoulders. “No, it’s okay, babe. It’s not embarrassing. They won’t laugh.” He turned back to the rest of the group. “You guys won’t laugh, right?”

Murmurs of dismissive agreement went around the group, but Tom remained silent, his eyes staying on yours. Your cheeks flushed wildly as you looked back down at your lap. Whatever this story he was about to tell was, you clearly didn’t want it spoken aloud. Tom’s lips parted to speak. 

“Anyways, so we were partnered for making this potion, right? And there was some kind of herb that you had to prepare very specifically before dropping it in. This was totally my fault. I was reading the instructions, and she was doing the work, which is typically what we do in projects like this—we just work well like that, you know? So, I was reading the preparation for the herb and she was doing it, and then I realized a second too late that I missed one super important thing about the prep, and, boom! This fucking thing blows up in her face!”

He’s laughing aloud—spit flying about, hand slapping roughly on the table in front of him. The rest of the boys around the table burst out in noisy fits of giggles. Tom remained silent. 

His eyes found you. The blush on your cheeks had made its way up to the tips of your ears, and glistening sparks of tears welled in your eyes. Your lips parted slightly as you tried to hold back the impending sobs.

“It makes the loudest fucking sound! The professor’s looking, and everyone else is looking over. I’m cracking up, of course. Dude, her face is straight black from the soot, and the herb is just puffing in her hands—”

Tom watched as you sniffled once and easily slipped out of your space on the couch, easing your way silently to the common room bathrooms with a hand pressed to your nose. Tom’s hand clenched beneath the weight of his anger.

“And, Merlin, I’m dying laughing and she—”

“Abraxas!” Tom shouted suddenly. “Shut the fuck up for once in your goddamn life!”

He jumped to his feet and made his way after your retreating figure, already concealed by the shadows cast by the narrow hallway. He didn’t bother to linger long enough to see the young Malfoy’s reaction to his outburst. He was only focused on one thing. 

Perhaps he was out of his league. Perhaps he had no business trying to talk to you, to check if you were okay, to watch you in the ways he did. Perhaps you wanted nothing to do with him. But, fuck, he knew there was no way you could stay with Abraxas. He wouldn’t be good for you either; he knew that. But he couldn’t stand to see that stupid boy mistreat you any longer. He had to say something. 

He weaved through the hallway leading to the single bathrooms, where he could have sworn he’d heard you crying more than once. 

He’d watched you for months—the cringing, the choked sobs, the concealed anger. He’d watched the way Abraxas treated you as though you were nothing more than an accessory. You weren’t a beautiful woman, desperate to be loved and held and worshiped. You were nothing to him. You were a status symbol, something to hang his money and title on and watch as you fell behind. It made Tom feel ill.

He didn’t have anything to give you, anything to show you. His possessions were resigned to the things he could fit into the little leather trunk beneath his dormitory bed. He didn’t know love—familial or otherwise. He didn’t know how to touch, how to worship, how to care properly. But he did know how to protect, how to defend, how to fight. Especially when concerning something he cared about. He couldn’t care well, but he couldn’t deny the feelings he felt toward you. You were something he couldn’t explain. But an explanation had never been his concern. Only your well-being had.

He stopped in front of the girls’ lavatory, knuckles lingering inches away from the door’s wooden surface, weighing out his options. 

He could turn away from this—not get involved, take an early night in, study a bit extra before tomorrow morning, and pretend like nothing happened. Or, he could knock. He could ask if you were alright, show you what it was like to be properly loved in his own delusional portrayal of it. He hadn’t felt desire like this in a long time. In fact, he rarely felt desire, but the feeling that circulated his body when he thought of you, saw you, breathed you in, could only be described as such. The closest thing he could find to describing the way he felt about you was possession. You were an article of his belongings that he could not lose, could not imagine losing.

But you weren’t a belonging. You weren’t a possession. You weren’t something to be held down. 

He knocked. 

He heard a distant sniffle and a small voice. “Just a minute.”

“It’s…er, Tom…Riddle,” he said, unsure. He cleared his throat, shrugging a bit of confidence back into his body. 

“Tom?” 

The door clicked and slowly slid open, revealing your swollen lips and tear-streaked cheeks. You looked positively ethereal. He cleared his throat once more. 

“Is something wrong?” you asked. “Just tell Abraxas I’ll be out in—”

“No,” he interrupted. “I was coming to check on you, to see if you were alright. I’m not sure what he’s doing.”

You looked shocked. “Oh, well, I’m alright, Tom. Thanks, though.”

Just as you began to push the door back closed, he spoke up once more, placing a gentle but firm hand on the door. “Actually, I was hoping we could talk.”

“About what?” you asked suspiciously, fingers twitching anxiously against the door. 

Tom refrained from rolling his eyes at himself. Of course, you’d be unsure why this quiet friend of your boyfriend’s wanted to speak with you. Tom had barely said two words to you the entirety of the time he’d known you. There would be no reason for him to speak with you, if not to just benefit Abraxas. 

“About Malfoy,” he said, clenching his jaw around the name in disgust.

“Why?” you asked, eyes flickering around.

“Allow me a few words, please?” he said, knuckles rolling against the door where he prevented it from closing. You seemed to be questioning his being here. It seemed that his concern that you’d mistake this for him trying to help Abraxas out was weighing on your mind. 

“I’m not here because of him,” Tom explained. “It’s about you.”

“Okay,” you finally breathed. “We can go to my room if you’d like.”

“Sure,” he nodded, once again painfully unsure. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. He just wanted you to know what you were worth, what you meant to people other than your asshole boyfriend. 

He held a hand out, asking silently for your will to go with him, to trust him with your whole being, just for a few seconds. Hesitantly, you placed your smaller hand into his and sucked in a breath as the two of you whipped upwards in a swirl of magic. He controlled the Disapparation, but you imagined your dormitory, if only to help angle the route. Whether or not you were aware he was a Legilimens didn’t matter to him. He tried not to pry into your mind too much. Still, for just a second, he glimpsed into your quiet brain to see your destination. 

Then both of your pairs of feet touched cold, stone ground, surrounded by endless quiet and darkness. You whispered a quiet spell, and Tom’s attention was snagged by the fireplace in the corner as it roared to life, bringing with it easy warmth and ambient noise. 

You let out a sigh and, with your arms crossed tightly over your shuddering body, turned back to him. “Alright, Tom, what is it?”

“I think you should leave Malfoy,” he said abruptly, not giving himself any time to question if this was a good idea any further. 

Your lips parted in unmistakable disbelief. A nervous chuckle quickly spilled from your mouth before you were able to stop it. 

“What…?”

“I don’t understand what you could possibly see in him,” Tom said, shaking his head frustratedly. He took a step closer to you. “Please, understand what I see from my point of view.” 

You shuffled your feet nervously, trading your weight back and forth between each one. Your eyes flickered around just as they always did when Abraxas was using you as a symbolic punching bag. Tom flinched at that. He didn’t want you to be nervous around him. 

“Please,” he said. “Don’t be nervous. I don’t want you to be frightened of me.”

He took another step closer, drawing your eyes back to him. You couldn’t believe the words leaving this infamous Slytherin king’s mouth.

“That’s silly, Tom,” you scoffed. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, trying to force your eyes back to his no matter which way your head turned. He didn’t want to upset you further, but you needed to see your worth. He wouldn’t give up until you did. 

“That’s like your whole thing,” you chuckled, your smile genuine for a moment. “Everyone’s scared of Tom Riddle. Even Abraxas.”

“Is that so?” he asked, smirking ever so slightly. It was satisfying to him that such a bighead moneybag was frightened of him. With all of the ego and pride and wealth that Abraxas boasted every single day, it seemed impossible that he’d be willing to bow down to anyone. Except for Tom, it seemed. 

“Oh, yeah,” you smiled. “He used to prattle on about how annoyingly perfect you were—your grades, your reputation, your looks…” Your eyes flickered away.

“He said that?” Tom asked, holding back a laugh.

“Yes, he’s said those things multiple times,” you sighed. “He’s so pathetic, I—oh, sorry. I know he’s your friend.”

“Please, that boy is not my friend. Especially not after I’ve witnessed him treat you the way he does.”

“Why does that even matter to you?” you scoffed, refraining from rolling your eyes at his sudden interest in you. For Merlin’s sake, he hadn’t even spoken with you for more than a few seconds at a time before this. 

“Because you…” His options for a response rapidly danced in his head. He didn’t want to screw this up. Anything he said right now could completely throw this whole thing off the rails, and that is the last thing he wanted. “You deserve better. Someone better.”

“What, like you?” you laughed meanly, rolling your eyes. “I should’ve known that this was just a ploy to fuck with your friend’s head. Find a soft spot in the relationship, wiggle your way in, and then show me off, right? That’s how this was going to go.”

“No, that wasn’t my intention at all,” Tom responded. You seemed shocked, like you genuinely couldn’t imagine his desires were anything but cruel and selfish. “All I wanted was to check on you and to give my opinion on the way Abraxas treats you. You truly don’t deserve it.”

“And what do I deserve, Tom? Since you know me so well.” You were getting angry. He could tell. He didn’t know what to do to turn this conversation back around, so he decided to give his honest thoughts and hope for the best. If you never wanted to talk to him again after this, at least he’d hopefully been able to sway you away from Abraxas. 

“Someone…loving. Someone to know the way you like to be held, like to be talked to, like to be touched as if it were their own desires. Someone who puts your needs before theirs and then some…” Tom took another step toward you. He was now only a foot from you. He could hear your stifled breathing, could hear the sound of your fingernails picking nervously along the side of your fingers. 

Though your nervousness had kept you from looking into Abraxas’ eyes as often as you could, the kind of anxiety you felt around Tom was not the same. This kind made it impossible to tear your eyes away from his. His lips parted gently as one of his hands raised between the two of you. 

“What else?” you murmured, swallowing thickly, the motion not being lost on Tom’s ever-watchful eye. 

His hand rose even more, slowly coming forward just enough to press a slow, cold fingertip to your hairline. He eased a strand of hair away from your face, tracing its length all the way down to where it met behind your ear. You shuddered beneath his gaze and touch. 

“He wants you to be something you’re not,” he whispered. You could feel his breath on your face. “You’re not silent, you’re not dumb, you’re not something to be owned.”

Your chest began to move quicker, your breaths shortening and intensifying all at the same time. Tom’s eyes flickered down to where your uniform shirt parted at the third button, only slightly teasing the part of your cleavage and the scattered beauty marks that resided there. If he stepped an inch closer, he’d be able to glimpse your bra. 

“You don’t like his music, you don’t like his friends, you don’t like anything about him,” he continued. “The only good thing about him is his money, and I can get you that.”

Your lips trembled. The hand that had pushed the hair out of your face rose once more. His thumb traced across your bottom lip with a featherlight touch, so gentle that you weren’t sure you’d even know it was there if you couldn’t see it. His other hand selected your hand and brought it up between the two of you.

“You need love—gentle and clawing and all-encompassing. Don't you want to be loved? To be satisfied? He cannot give you that. Let me give it to you.” He placed his lips to the palm of your hand, dark eyes never leaving yours.

The tiniest gasp permeated the air between the two of you as he knocked out of the haze you set across his body. He’d walked you up against the post of your bed and had trapped your body against it, knee separating your thighs, lips so close they brushed against yours with every move.

“Fuck,” he whispered, slowly pulling away from you. You let out a deep breath as your body seemed to decompress. “I’m sorry.” His voice was nothing more than a murmur. 

“It’s okay,” you responded. “Would you?”

Tom’s eyes flicked back over to you. “What?”

“You asked me to let you give it to me, that love you described…,” you said, voice suddenly a bit more confident than it had been. “Would you give it to me?”

“I can’t love you right,” Tom breathed. “But I could love you in the way I know how—with undying, all-consuming obsession.”

You didn’t say anything. Just chewed your lip nervously, though you seemed to have made up your mind.

---

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[juliettejwnewinesa]

Omg i love your works so much i have literally binge read them

If you are taking requests can you do one enemies to lovers for baekjin angst and smut

I really loved the seongje version

Title: "If I Hate You So Much, Why Do I Miss You When You Leave?"

Character: Baek Jin (Weak Hero Class 2) x fem!Reader POV: Third person, using Y/N Setting: Canon universe, set post-Weak Hero Class 2 Tone: Sharp tension, brutal arguments, desperate kisses, hate-fueled sex that turns messy and emotional Warnings: Angst, rough sex, hate sex, enemies to lovers, hair-pulling, dirty talk, some emotional vulnerability, unresolved tension, fighting, possessiveness, choking (consensual), creampie, swearing, and emotional whiplash

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Baek Jin had a way of walking into a room and making it feel colder.

It didn’t matter if the heater was on full blast or if sunlight poured through the windows—when his eyes landed on her, the air turned sharp.

And Y/N matched that energy every single time.

They weren’t always like this. Once, before shit hit the fan, they sat next to each other in class. Passed notes. Shared pencils. She used to think his smirk was hot.

Then something changed. He got cold. Cruel. She got louder. More reckless. They clashed like thunderclouds—volatile and electric.

Now, they couldn’t go a week without a screaming match in the back alley behind the school or tension that made even the Union boys step back.

Baek Jin would lean in close, say something filthy like “You’re not worth my spit,” and walk away before she could slap him.

Today was no different.

Except she slapped him.

Hard.

And he caught her wrist right after.

“Try that again,” he said, jaw tense, voice low. “See what happens.”

Y/N’s pulse thundered in her ears. Her wrist was in his grip, his chest practically touching hers, heat crawling up her neck.

“You gonna hit me?” she bit out. “Go ahead. I’ve taken worse from prettier guys.”

His nostrils flared.

But he didn’t hit her.

He kissed her.

No, slammed his mouth into hers like it was punishment.

Teeth. Tongue. War.

Y/N shoved him into the wall. He groaned, lips breaking only to hiss, “You’re insane.”

“You kissed me first.”

“You kissed me back.”

She was about to throw another insult when he grabbed her waist and lifted her—straight onto the old, abandoned classroom desk, knocking papers to the floor as his hands clawed up her thighs, yanking her skirt up like he hated the fabric for being between them.

Their mouths were still fighting. Her fingers twisted in his shirt. She hated him. She hated that she wanted this. She hated how fucking good he tasted.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled into her neck, breath ragged.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“Not what I asked.”

Then he slid two fingers into her panties and her world shattered.

Baek Jin didn’t make love. He took. Rough, raw, relentless.

His teeth sank into her collarbone as he grinded against her soaked core through his jeans. Her hands were clawing at his back. His belt clanked open, pants shoved down. He didn’t even hesitate—just lined himself up and shoved in.

No prep. No teasing.

Just angry, breathless, messy fucking.

“Still hate me?” he rasped into her ear.

Y/N moaned so loud he slammed a hand over her mouth.

“Thought so.”

Each thrust knocked the desk against the wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist without her permission. Her body burned. Her pride cracked. She wanted more.

“You act so high and mighty,” he grunted. “But you’ve been wet for me since we started arguing.”

She bit his palm. Hard. He growled.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he snapped. “Should’ve done this months ago.”

His pace grew faster. She clenched around him, and he lost it.

Hand on her throat now. Not choking—just pressure. Control.

“Come for me,” he ordered.

And she did. Like a switch flipped. Her back arched, nails dug in, body trembling under him.

He didn’t last much longer.

One broken groan, one stuttered thrust, and he spilled into her, hips jerking as he held her tighter than he should.

The silence was unbearable.

They both stared at the ceiling for a moment, breathing hard. Baek Jin zipped his jeans. She smoothed her skirt down.

“You done throwing tantrums?” he asked, voice quieter now. Almost shaky.

Y/N didn’t look at him. “You didn’t have to kiss me.”

“You slapped me.”

“You deserved it.”

He sighed. “Yeah.”

Beat.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he added, eyes locked on the floor. “Back then. I just… I thought if I pushed you away first, it wouldn’t hurt as bad when you left like everyone else.”

Her heart clenched. “That’s stupid.”

“I know.”

Another beat.

She got up. Grabbed her bag. Walked to the door.

Paused.

“You coming?” she asked without turning around.

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re walking me home, dumbass. Someone might try to kiss me again and I’ll need someone to slap.”

A slow smirk tugged at his lips.

And he followed her out.

[tsumuus]

Bokuto with 💐 but he just forgot to add the note and is confused why you haven't talked to him all day?? The only reason you find out is cuz akaashi has to get him prepped for the game and he's still whining about the flowers.

Valentine’s Day had never been a particularly important day to you. It was sweet, sure, watching your classmates exchange gifts and letters, but it never held much weight in your own life. So, when you walked into the classroom that morning and found a bouquet of flowers resting neatly on your desk, you were more confused than anything else.

The arrangement was beautiful- warm-toned roses mixed with delicate baby’s breath and eucalyptus leaves. Whoever had put it together had clearly taken care in choosing the colors and balance, and the scent was fresh and crisp. You blinked at it, looking around the classroom for some kind of clue as to where it came from. There was no note. No card. Just the flowers.

Your first assumption was that one of your friends had left them there as a joke, or maybe they had been misplaced and were meant for someone else. You entertained the possibility that they were actually for you for all of five seconds before shaking your head. That was unlikely. With a small shrug, you placed the bouquet carefully to the side, not thinking much more of it.

Bokuto, however, was thinking about it a lot.

He had woken up extra early that morning, painstakingly picking out each flower at the shop near his house, making sure the colors were just right. He had nearly been late to school just to sneak them onto your desk before you arrived, his heart pounding the entire time. He had imagined you seeing them, lighting up in excitement, maybe even rushing over to hug him.

But that didn’t happen.

The morning had passed in a blur, and you hadn’t spoken to him once. Not even a casual “hey” in the hallways. He had spent most of his classes staring blankly at his notebooks, thoughts running wild.

Had you figured out they were from him and just… ignored it?

Did you not like them at all?

By lunch, his usual boisterous energy had all but disappeared. He barely touched his food, responding to Akaashi’s comments with half-hearted hums and nods. Akaashi had noticed the shift immediately, but trying to cheer Bokuto up was like trying to push a boulder uphill. When practice rolled around in the afternoon, the setter had had enough.

Bokuto was terrible at practice.

His spikes lacked their usual power, his receives were sluggish, and his energy was nowhere to be found. He was moody, barely speaking to anyone, shoulders hunched in defeat. Fukurodani’s coach called for a break when it became obvious that he wasn’t getting better. Akaashi approached him, exasperation evident on his face.

“Bokuto-san,” he said, arms crossed, “what is going on?”

Bokuto muttered something under his breath, barely audible.

Akaashi sighed, rubbing his temples. “What?”

Another mutter, this time slightly clearer, your name hidden in the jumble of words.

Akaashi straightened, connecting the dots in an instant. He pulled out his phone without another word and shot you a quick text.

Akaashi: If you’re free, come to the gym. Bokuto needs some cheering up.

You had just finished packing up your things from your club when your phone buzzed. Seeing Akaashi’s name flash across the screen, you quickly read the message, a frown tugging at your lips. Bokuto? What could possibly be wrong?

You didn’t hesitate before grabbing your things and making your way toward the gym.

When you arrived, you spotted Bokuto sitting on the bench, staring at the ground with his elbows resting on his knees. His usual lively presence was nowhere to be seen, replaced by an unfamiliar gloominess.

You approached cautiously. “Hey, Bo.”

His head snapped up at the sound of your voice, golden eyes wide. “yn?”

You sat down beside him, concern evident in your expression. “What’s wrong? Akaashi said you were acting off today.”

Bokuto deflated further, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s stupid.”

You nudged him. “Come on. You can tell me.”

He hesitated for a moment before finally mumbling, “Did you… get anything today?”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like, I dunno… flowers?”

Your mouth parted slightly in realization. “Oh. Yeah, actually. I found some on my desk this morning. I’m still not sure who they’re from, though.” You laughed lightly. “For a second, I thought maybe they weren’t even meant for me.”

Bokuto stared at you like you had just spoken another language. “You… don’t know who they’re from?”

You tilted your head. “No. There was no note or anything.”

Bokuto’s entire body tensed before his hands flew up to his hair, gripping at the strands. “Oh my god.”

You frowned. “Bo?”

“I forgot the note,” he groaned dramatically, burying his face in his hands. “I had it- I wrote this whole thing, and I was gonna put it with the flowers, but I must’ve dropped it somewhere, and you never said anything, so I thought- ”

You felt your heart stutter. “Wait. You… you were the one who left them?”

Bokuto peeked at you through his fingers, cheeks dusted pink. “Uh… yeah.”

A warm feeling spread through your chest as you took in his expression- sheepish, nervous, a little hopeful. You couldn’t believe you hadn’t pieced it together sooner.

Slowly, a soft smile curled at your lips. “Bo, they were beautiful.”

His hands dropped slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, reaching out to gently take one of his hands in yours. “And if I had known they were from you, I would’ve said something sooner.”

Bokuto visibly perked up at the contact, his eyes searching yours. “Does that mean…?”

You squeezed his hand. “It means I’m really happy they were from you.”

For a second, he just stared, processing your words before his entire face broke into a blinding grin. “Really?!”

You laughed, nodding. “Really.”

With a sudden burst of energy, Bokuto pulled you into a tight hug, nearly knocking you off the bench. “You have no idea how happy that makes me!”

You laughed against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his embrace. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

valentines event | masterlists

a/n hes my baby i love him so much were literally married

[dovesdreaming]

More than enough

Summary: You overwhelm yourself trying to keep up with too many expectations, Ben makes sure to calm you down.

Requested

Masterlist

The library at Auradon Prep was quiet, save for the soft scratching of your pen against paper and the occasional sigh as you flipped through your textbooks. Piles of books surrounded you, the history of Auradon, royal etiquette guides, diplomacy manuals, all of them demanding your attention. On top of studying, you’d spent the day helping friends with their own assignments, organizing a student council event, and preparing for yet another lesson on royal protocol. Being engaged to Ben, the future king, felt like a privilege and a responsibility, a balancing act between the person you were and the queen you were expected to become. Most days, you managed to hold it all together. Today was not one of those days.

Your eyes burned from exhaustion, and your head pounded from trying to memorize treaties and lineages. You leaned your head against your hand, fingers pressing against your temple as you tried to fight off the urge to cry. You didn’t have time to fall apart. There was too much to do.

“Hey,” a gentle voice broke through your haze. You looked up, and there stood Ben, his expression soft with concern. “I’ve been looking for you”.

“Oh, hey” you mumbled, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Sorry, I got caught up in studying”.

Ben’s eyes drifted over the mountain of books surrounding you. “It looks like more than just studying”.

You let out a strained laugh. “It’s just… a lot. Classes, helping everyone out, learning all this royal stuff. I’m supposed to know how to do this. I’m supposed to be ready for this”.

Ben’s brows furrowed as he sat down beside you. He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “You don’t have to be perfect, you know”.

“I know, but... I feel like I have to be” you whispered. “Everyone has expectations, and I don’t want to let anyone down. Least of all you”.

Ben’s expression softened further, and he turned your hand over, lacing his fingers with yours. “You could never let me down. I love you, not because of what you can do or how much you can handle, but because of who you are”.

Your eyes stung again, but this time it wasn’t from stress. “I just want to be good enough. For you. For Auradon”.

Ben leaned in closer, his gaze steady. “You already are. You give so much of yourself to everyone else, but you don’t have to carry it all alone. Let me help you, okay?”

His sincerity broke through the weight pressing on your chest. You nodded slowly, your grip tightening on his hand. “Okay”.

Ben’s smile warmed you, the same way it always did. “Why don’t we close these books for tonight? Just for a little while. We can take a walk, clear your head. The studying will still be here tomorrow”.

A shaky breath escaped your lips, and a genuine, grateful smile finally broke through. “Yeah... I think I’d like that”.

Ben stood, gently helping you to your feet. As you stepped away from the towering stacks of books, his arm slipped around your shoulders, a steady, reassuring presence.

[cupcakeinat0r]

Your loser, Middle-aged Genetics professor with a dadbod <3

pt. 6

The semester is almost over, and finals are just around the corner. Miguel and you had been tutoring students for test prep. Your help was greatly appreciated by Miguel, cutting his work basically in half, and he sees that you were good at it, too. It seems that paying attention in his class the whole year paid off. Granted, Miguel was fine as hell, so you never wanted to miss class.

You had to be honest, though, when you volunteered yourself to be Miguel’s little TA, you didn’t think it’d be this difficult. Is this what Miguel went through? For five years? Damn. Poor baby probably hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since he started this job. You didn’t know how he did it, and it’s only been your third day of tutoring. 

Not to mention that some students were, and you hate to admit it… incompetent. There were moments where you had to refrain from making certain faces toward students who acted like they hadn’t been to a single class of Miguel’s. But because you were so kind and patient, you sat with those few and made sure they left that hour feeling prepared for their final. Now you understood why Miguel’s temper was a bit short. Yours would be too if you had to deal with students who never put in any effort. Of course, some classmates also knew as much as you did, only needing the sessions for review.

Aside from tutoring, you and Miguel’s relationship was evolving. Your heated kiss in the lecture hall has been on Miguel’s mind non-stop, replaying the scene over and over again as a bedtime story for the past week. He couldn’t believe that his dreams were coming true. You had him whipped. That one kiss was what broke the dam, and now, Miguel was unleashing kisses on you. He’d sneak one in at every opportunity he had. Every little interaction would go something like this:

Say you were on your way to a session with a classmate, it’s early in the morning, the hall is empty, and no one is around other than Miguel who you consequently pass by as he leaves his private office. The scowl on his face immediately softens when he sees you, all done up pretty like always.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He still sounds as if he’s just woken up, his velvety timbre filling the quiet hall. It felt like you were Juliet and he was Romeo, forbidden lovers meeting in secret.

“Oh! Professor O’Hara-“A small squeal leaves your lips when he pulls you into his embrace, his brawny arms enveloping you completely. You giggle into his chest, your hands snaking up his soft belly and around toward his back, where they almost touch. “Calmate, mama, no one’s around,” he whispers into your hair, pressing a sweet kiss there. You breathe in and smell a manly musk from the fabric of his turtleneck. You had to lift your head from his chest or else Miguel would not stop kissing you all over. It was like there was no ‘off’ button, there was only ‘on’ when it came to you,

“Miguel, I’m already running late, they’re waiting for me!” You loudly whisper, only half-trying to push him away since he felt so warm and soft, but you really did need to go.

“Lo siento, mamita, but how can I resist when you look like this? Can you blame a guy?” He steps back and raises your hand to twirl you like a princess. You smiled bashfully, your cheeks going red. He was so corny and he knew it, slightly cringing at his own effort to be “cool”. It made you laugh because he would NEVER act this way in front of anyone. Anyone except you. He smiled, laughed, and made cheesy remarks only for you. God, you needed this grumpy dork. 

“Migggg, stop it, I really need to go!” You softly laugh, covering your cheesy smile.

“Nunca, preciosa,” His voice is low when he pulls you back in, “But alright… for now. how ‘bout a kiss before you go?” and with a smile, you get on your tip toes, and Miguel lifts you into a tender kiss, and when he kisses you, he breathes you in. It’s like you’re his life supply when he kisses you.

Just when you thought the kiss was over and you were about to be on your way, he didn’t let go of your hand. You look back, and you’re met with those damned puppy dog eyes, “Wait, one more? Please?” He was so pathetic, but how could you tell him no? Of course, you wouldn’t, so you come back and give him another deep kiss.

Once you two pull away, his forehead remains on yours and he whispers, “Otra mas? Porfa?” He coos. “I thought you said one more?” You teased his adorable pleading, but you took his chin with both hands and kissed him anyway. 

Two more kisses turned to three, four, five, six… and Miguel wouldn’t stop; “One more?”, “Okay, now one more.”, “Another one.”, “Otro besito…”, “no, not yet, one more, one more”, “mkay, last one.”, “wait wait wait, one more…” and the two of you broke into soft laughs as he kept asking for more kisses, you slowly trying to pull away as you were passed late now. With each step back you took, Miguel would step closer, keeping your body against his with his bulky arms. The once silent hallway was now filled with quiet, giddy laughter as Miguel attacked you with pecks. There was something so innocent about it all, the harmony between your high-pitched giggles and his low chuckles, accompanied by the continuous smacking of his lips on yours in a peaceful, early morning within the high-ceiling school walls.

“Miguel O’Hara, please!” You snap at him, still in a whisper, but you both just laugh. “Okay, okay, fine,” he finally lets go of you, watching you leave with a content smile,” I’ll see you later? Don’t leave without passing by, please,” you smile back at the buff nerd and his concern for you. “I will! I promise!” You scurry down the hall to meet with the student who’s probably wondering where you’ve been. Miguel doesn’t step back into his office until you’re out of sight, his mind still a little foggy from the interaction. 

If someone had told him at the beginning of the year that the grad student who always showed up in the cutest outfits, sat front row, and always gave him the prettiest, lip glossed smile would requite his feelings, he would laugh at their face (or simply just stare menacingly at them, more like). When he chose to settle down and take this job, he would’ve never thought he’d find you. You were that something he didn’t know he needed.

<3 

    You might’ve bitten off more than you can chew. By fault of your sweet nature, you decided to take in a few extra students, which left you in the library hours later, your forehead on your forearm, a bit of drool pooling on the table, and snoring.  Miguel had been doing some tutoring as well, though, he finished earlier than you and started doing some other collegiate duties. It was unknown to him that you did this, so he thought it was strange when you didn’t come by for that long. He knew you wouldn’t have left without saying anything, so he began to grow worried as hours went by. He made his way down to the lecture hall, but there was no sign of you there. He immediately started thinking the worst, a million different horrid explanations running through his mind as he picked up his pace through the hallway.

His heart eased when he saw your sleeping form in the library, the only light coming from the aged lamps on each of the tables, but the relief is short-lived once he realizes how long you’ve been working and how tired you must’ve been to fall asleep sitting like that. Making sure to be quiet as there were still two or three other students there, Miguel walked towards you, faintly smiling at your snoring.  

“Mama… Mamita…” he whispers, nudging your back gently, waking you up. Your eyes, blinking continuously, adjust to the dim lighting of the library and you make out the large figure beside you. It’s your sweet, darling professor.

“Mph… huh?” you stretch your arms above your head, letting out a yawn, “Oh my God, sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” you say with a tired chuckle, your eyes still adjusting. 

“Mama, what are you apologizing for? Ugh, I should’ve come to check on you sooner.” He sat beside you, but then one of the students quickly hushed him, giving him a dirty look for interrupting their study sesh. He raised his hand mouthing ‘sorry’.  

"Did you need something?" you softly asked him, not wanting to be hushed as well, and he just replied by intertwining his long, girthy fingers with yours under the table where no one could see. "Nothing, mamita, however, I need you to go home. You weren’t supposed to stay so late.” He tuts, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles like he always did. He already didn’t like that you were tutoring on top of your own schoolwork, the only reason why he let you help in the first place being that you wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Oh, Miguel, always worrying about everyone but yourse-” You were cut off by another hush by the same irritated student. You both looked back at them, Miguel looking back with a scowl this time. He looked like he was about to say something, but you pulled away his attention with a sheepish smile, “Maybe we should go talk somewhere else.” You whisper. Taking your advice, he stood with you and followed you to a more private section of the library.

Settling in a small nook area where the two of you are surrounded by shelves of books, you sat on the floor, Miguel following shortly after. “So, care to explain why you’re still here?” He speaks while finding a comfortable position. 

You both lay against the shelf, your head tilted upward as you respond, “I just figured I could help a couple more students, is all. I guess it was after I finished with the last student and started studying for my other classes was when I knocked out.” Miguel lifts his arm so that he can wrap it around you, offering a cushion between you and the hardwood of the shelves. 

“Do you ever not study?” he raises a brow, but you’re quick to retaliate, “Do you ever not work?” You both chuckle. “Touché.”

“How do you do it?” you ask. 

“What do you mean?” You lay your head on his shoulder. “You basically run this entire department on your own. All I’ve done was tutor for a couple of days and look where that got me.”  Miguel chuckles at this. “I know sometimes it may not seem like it, but in all honesty, I love what I do, and you’ve gotta give yourself more credit than that, mama. You’ve truly been amazing, sweetheart. Always have been.”

“Well,” you snuggle into him a little more, relishing in his natural warmth that rivals the library’s cold air, “You helped.” Miguel returns the gesture by wrapping his arm tighter around you, sensing that you are becoming cold. “We helped each other, how ‘bout that.” you look up and smile at him, your cheek against the soft fabric of his cable-knit sweater (that fits juuust right on him). 

“Speaking of which, what’s this class you’re studying for?” you sit up straight and let out a tired sigh. “It’s another lecture,” you grab a hefty textbook from your bag beside you, letting Miguel take a look at it, “On top of creating a thesis, I have to memorize all of this.” He looks through his glasses that are hanging low on his nose and skims over the material.  

“How much of this have you memorized?” he still looks at the pages. “About half maybe.”

“Let’s fix that.” he sat up straight, positioning the book to where you can’t see its contents. “What’re you doing?” you’re suspicious of Miguel, knowing very well that he should be going home and not staying to help you study for a class that he didn’t even teach.

“I’m helping,” he clears his throat, “Which years did the ‘Modernist’ era in English literature begin and end? Please provide a short explanation of what catalyzed this period-” You ignore his question, attempting to take the book. “Miguel, you’ve done enough for today, you should be going home!” but he doesn’t let you have it.

“Mama, I just found you dead asleep while sitting up. You were gonna stay either way. I’d much rather be here so you don’t pass out again n’ make sure you get home safe. Please?” 

He’s literally the most perfect man ever. The person currently sitting in front of you just left his office doing whatever important task he usually occupies himself with to check up on you and is willing to stay here until you feel ready for your final. You’re convinced he’d do anything for you, and you’re right in thinking so. 

“Fine,” You’re beginning to realize how hard it actually is to say ‘no’ to Miguel, but you know Miguel was a bit of a pushover when it came to you as well, so you guess it’s alright, “But I feel like there should be some sort of incentive, though… some motivation.” you cheekily smile.

Miguel’s eyes shift above his lenses, intrigued by your proposition. “How ‘bout this. Every time I get something wrong… you get a kiss.” He chuckles. “Alright, and I’m guessing if you get it correct, then I should reward you with a kiss, right?” he says matter-of-factly, making you smile again. You were hoping he’d suggest something like this. 

He’d ask a question, you’d answer, and depending on if you got it right, Miguel would give you a kiss, or if you got it wrong, you “had” to give him a kiss (not much of a punishment, to be frank). You didn’t even wait for him to finish asking you a test question at times, you would just give him a tender kiss on the cheek just because. Some kisses, though, Miguel would get distracted, taking it from an innocent peck to a heated, handsy kiss, and reluctantly, you’d get him back on the task at hand. It got to the point where you ended up seated between his legs, and you'd start getting all these answers correct, so Miguel would plant kisses on your neck, sucking on the skin there. They would surely leave hickeys for the next day, but you didn’t care.

With your back against his hard chest and tummy, it was very hard to not delve into both of your fantasies. It was when Miguel began faintly bucking his hips against yours, his hardness expanding as he got blinded by lust again. "Miguel! Not here!” you'd whisper, and Miguel would groan in defeat. Trust, if you two weren’t in public, you would’ve let him do anything and everything he was thinking about doing to you.

That, having to stay quiet, and making sure no one was coming, it all made it feel like you were both teenagers again who were out later than they should be, laughing and shushing each other. 

The incentive being kisses actually worked in the sense that it kept you up, so not only was it an excuse to make out in the library, but it did technically help you memorize…

An hour or so passes by and you’ve gotten to the point where you know everything you need to for your final, but you didn’t want your time with Miguel to quite just end yet. You don’t know if it was the making out or what but you were suddenly wide awake now.

Miguel is about to test you on a topic one more time when he sees your eyes wandering the shelves, “You like to read, Mig? Just curious.” You look up at him. You were too tired to care whether or not you looked presentable enough for him, but he thought you looked absolutely adorable like this. Your hair lost its volume, your lip gloss was no longer shiny, and your mascara was a bit smudged from when you fell asleep earlier, but he found it so endearing. He wouldn’t have minded waking up to the sight every day for the rest of his life.

He closes the textbook, taking this as your way of ending the study session, “Yeah, I like it. I’ll read recreationally when I have the time.” He chuckled, looking at you like you were the only source of light on the planet. You shifted your head from where it rested against his arm and laid down on the floor, your head now resting against his soft stomach like a pillow. Your gaze focused on his hand that was now in yours. Your soft touch brushes against his more calloused, warm skin, playing with his fingers as you speak.

“What do you like to read? Fiction? Non-fiction? Give me details.” You continue to fiddle with his fingers. 

He starts to play with your hair with his free hand, moving any on your face, “Hm… I tend to gravitate toward non-fiction. You?"

"Anything romantic for sure," it doesn't take you even a second to answer, "Ever since I was a little girl, I always envisioned myself in those fairytale stories. Princesses, royal balls, a prince charming..." your eyes glanced up at him when you mentioned princes, and his smile grew.

"Oh, yeah?" He smirked, his brow raised. "Mhm. I kinda feel like I’m in one right now, actually.” His cheeks darken at this, licking his lips as he looks away to hide them. “Has anyone ever told you how handsome your smile is?” You add on, making him melt furthermore. He honestly can’t believe you’re saying all this about him. Miguel was usually the man that always knew what to say, but romance? Not his field of expertise, and much less when it came to you.

“Not really, no. Don’t show it much these days.” He looks back down at you, completely smitten by the angel currently lying in his lap.

“Well you should do it more often, it looks nice on you.” You’re not sure what came over you. It was so easy to praise him and watch him become goo from your words and touch.

“Then maybe I should spend more time with you.” Now it was your turn to be bashful. “I make you smile, huh?”

“Quite frequently in fact. It’s ruining my reputation, making me go soft.” You chuckle along with him. “Just face it, you’re my big, scary teddy bear.” Miguel’s heart skips when you say ‘my’. As much as his past self would’ve hated being called that, he loved the possessiveness in it. He was truly yours, since the beginning. “Only if you’ll be the princess I protect.” You smile like an idiot. You hated him (you wanted him so bad).

“This actually reminds me of a certain story...” He ponders on a specific story, one that brings old memories. A faint smile grows on his plush lips.

“Oh, yeah? Mystery, sci-fi, romance…?” you say romance with a badly executed French accent, making him chuckle, “Eh… maybe it’s a romance…” He says with a growing smile. 

“Awe, I knew it, ya big softy. Which one?” You two began discussing your favorite romantic books. Turns out Miguel is a bit of a hopeless romantic himself, though, he’d never reveal that to anyone. You feel compelled to get up and search for your favorite book from the shelves surrounding you, which you both end up doing. Once you’ve found y’all’s respective books, you both return to the same position on the floor, but Miguel’s mood makes a shift. There’s a moment when Miguel’s spirit seems to die down, and you catch it. He looks down at the book with somber eyes. He flips through its pages, his brows furrowed and eyes narrow. “You alright, Miguel?” 

Miguel clears his throat. “I’m fine. Um...” He thinks about what he’s about to say and whether he should even share it. There’s a beat between the two of you. 

“What’re you thinking about?” You can see the gears in his head turn. 

“Nada, mamita, I’m fine.” He lies. He looks at you with a weak smile, but his eyes say differently.

“Anything you have to say is important to me.” You give his hand a small squeeze. “Please?” 

He squeezes back your hand and kisses your wrist. Miguel then worked up the courage to share something he hadn’t told anyone in what felt like years. Sure, his two closest coworkers knew about it, but that’s about it. Miguel didn’t have many, if at all, true friends outside of his work, but he felt you could be trusted. He felt that comfortable with you. Your softness tore down his tough walls. 

You learn that he had a daughter. Her name was Gabriella. He mentions how much she loved playing sports, being outside in the park, and how much she loved it when he read to her. The book currently in his hand was what she would pick almost every night. He’d read it in different voices for each character, making the story come alive for his precious little girl. No matter how many times he read it to her, she listened as if it were the first time. Seeing the little smile on her face made all the fatigue from work melt away. That’s why he chose it as his favorite book. 

He lost Gabriella to what he described as an ‘incident’, but you didn’t urge him to say anything more than what he was comfortable with, respecting his boundaries. 

“Sometimes, I’ll come back to this book and it almost feels like she’s here again.” He opens the book to the first page. Its cover and spine were intricate, the title reading ‘Beauty and The Beast’. 

He branched away from the book for a moment and began to go on and on about what Gabriella was like upon your request to know a little more about her, and instantly, his mood lifted. He speaks about her kindness, intelligence, curiosity, and her extensive imagination. He spoke about her favorite foods (sweets, of course) and even the foods she wasn’t a big fan of. He talked about their post-soccer game rituals of getting ice cream and how they would spend their mornings together eating their favorite cereal before school. With the way he spoke about her, a ball started to form in your throat. It was evident that he loved being a dad. You didn't think you could fall for Miguel harder than you already did until now.

Maybe that was why he was so hard on everyone in his class; maybe it was simply the paternal desire to see your pupils do their absolute best and succeed. It made you sad because this meant that not only has Miguel been alone for all these years, but he’s been alone on account of losing someone he loved so dearly. His precious daughter. And to you, that’s even worse.

You wanted to say how sorry you were for his loss, but you figured he’d heard that millions of times. You wanted to say something that actually meant something. 

“Gabriella sounds like a wonderful person,” You say with a small smile. Miguel looks at you, not really expecting a response like that, “And If you were the one raising her, then I know for sure she was absolutely wonderful.” 

“She was. Thank you.” Miguel looks down at you, you both sharing a quiet moment. “She would’ve really liked you.” He says softly, looking down at his lap where you were. His thumb caresses your cheek, making you smile even wider.

“Yeah?” You try to hold back any tears. This had to be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to you. “Yeah.” 

The moment is so sweet and so soft and it felt so nice to be able to just relish in the small silences with him. And when you spoke, your voices were barely above whispers. “She would’ve thought you were a real-life princess for sure. I know I do.” You blush at this, Miguel’s hand on your face only adding more heat to your rosy cheeks. 

“Well, I think I would’ve really liked her, too. I wish we could’ve met.” You place your hand on top of his. Despite you also feeling saddened by this, there’s still a sense of gentle positivity in your voice.

“Me too.” Miguel’s face softens at your response, scenarios playing in his head. Moments between you and his daughter. What life could’ve been like had his daughter still been here to interrogate you as soon as she had the chance, and then just as quickly become your #1 fan. He’s quiet when he’s thinking about this, and you feel the urge to hug him. 

You sit up from his lap and wrap your arms around his neck, Miguel’s face buried into the crook of your neck. “Thank you for sharing that with me.” You whisper in his ear before kissing his head. You rub his back with your other hand, feeling his breathing deepen.

Miguel lifts his head to look straight at you as if to admire you, “Thanks for listening.” You can’t help but pepper kisses all over his face: forehead, nose, cheeks, eyelids, and Miguel feels like he’s in heaven. At last, he takes your face in both hands and kisses you on the lips. No other dialogue needed, the two of you sit in peaceful silence again, literally just appreciating each other’s existence. The moment is interrupted by the opening of a door in the distance. Surely a night-time guard.

 “Y’know… we can get in an awful lot of trouble if we’re seen together like this.” You break the silence with a whisper. The teenage-like ambiance returns, winning a smirk from Miguel. “I know. I guess I just can’t bring myself to care right now.” His eyes trail all over your face, landing on your lips. He kisses you again, his lips descending to your neck and his hands squeezing the flesh of your butt. Ticklish and breathless, you begin giggling, ‘Miguel!” but he doesn’t stop, “Miguel O’Hara! What if they see us!” you whisper. 

“Mm, like it when you say my full name.” he muffles into your neck. “Miguel!” you laugh again, trying to push him off. “Take me home! We have class tomorrow!” is what finally stops him. He may or may not have let the heat of the moment get the best of him. “Yeah,” He runs his hand through his hair and fixes his glasses, “You’re right, you’re right.” He stands up, offering you a hand. Without making it look suspicious, you both walk past the guard as well as a few students (who were either passed out or too deep in their downward spiral of an all-nighter). 

<3

Miguel drives you home in something you didn’t expect a college professor would be able to afford. He had his hand on your thigh the whole way, but not before he asked if that was okay, to which you happily granted. The entire car ride, Miguel had you smiling, blushing, laughing at his dated jokes. You were so sad when he pulled up to your place, still not wanting the night to end even though you were tired out of your mind. 

“Thank you for taking me home, my knight in shining armor.” You lean over, puckering your lips as you wait for a kiss. “Of course, Princesa, anything for you.” You both share probably the billionth kiss of the day before he speaks again. “See you tomorrow bright n’ early?” you nod, letting out a soft ‘yeah’. “Alright, get some rest, beautiful. And don’t be late.” he playfully enters professor mode for the last sentence, and you play along. “Of course, Professor O’Hara. Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Miguel kisses you again and bites your lip, the tension rising once again. “Mm, that’s one you haven’t called me in a while.” You giggle from how easy it is for you to excite Miguel, your absolute loser of a professor, but he’s your loser, and that’s all that matters. You feel his hand snake to your inner thigh, his tongue making its way down your throat, “Mm—Don’t get any ideas, mister, you should head home and get your sleep as well.” He lets out a defeated huff, “ay, Mamita, can’t keep doing that t’me…”

As much as you also wanted to be there with him, having him bounce you on his lap or taking it in the backseat, you also didn’t want for Miguel or yourself to miss class the next morning. Miguel agrees, sharing the very last, tender kiss of the night before finally saying goodnight to each other. You close the car door behind you and say one last thing through the window, “We should do this again. It was nice.” Miguel smiles at you, promising you he’ll take you to the public library one of these days. 

In exchange for more kisses, that is. Or perhaps more.

a/n: Haiiiiii, I hope you enjoyed <3 He's so cute n needy ur honor!! He simply just wants to be held!! I have 5k ish words to prove it!!! (So sorry omfg)

Want more Dadbod!Miguel? Here's my masterlist, bae! <3

<3 Tags <3

@safixiovi @mukeovernetflix @mochikisses @miguels-cock-piercings @miranexx @bunnibitez @deepdiveintothedeephive @faretheeoscar @sillygardeneggperson @librababe99 @sariespi @little-lovelace @monstersimp @oharasfilipinawife @obi-mom-kenobi i @hyjionie @maomaimao @pomakori @pinkhelados @mochimoqa @princesatracionera @queerponcho @walmaerts @froggygal @yaysposts @koko-1025 @kikaaauu @lauraolar14 @anotherprettyprincess @kaidxra @farrowroyale @pigeonmama @exactlyyoungchaos @fayeofthenightingale @s4dow @hartsucks @amberbalcom14 @wait2nourh @tatooieve @helen-j-magnus @cl3stevu @mintssanctuary @ghost-lantern @snails-doodles22 @love4saturn @sukunash0e @tinythebunni

[twistedheartsclub]

Executive Orders Male X Female Reader

⚠️ Warnings: Non-consensual sexual acts, power imbalance, grooming, forced intimacy, obsessive behavior, emotional manipulation, captivity, breeding themes, alcohol-impaired scenes, workplace abuse, misogyny, emotional blackmail. Reader discretion advised.

Her heels clicked too loud.

That was Y/N’s first thought as she walked through the sleek, silent lobby of Voss International, the kind of building that reeked of old money, litigation, and bloodless ambition. The floor gleamed so brightly she could see her reflection — pale, a little nervous, holding onto her tote like a lifeline.

She’d graduated with honors. Top of her class. Letters of recommendation. And yet here she was, delivering coffee.

"You're the new one," someone sneered behind the front desk. A woman, maybe early thirties, in all black. “Don’t bother learning names. We don’t stay long.”

Y/N smiled weakly and nodded, stepping into the elevator. Floor 49 — the top.

That’s where he was.

Nolan Voss, CEO. Forty-three. A man known more for his litigation threats than public appearances. Notoriously private, infamously impossible to work under. Rumor said he went through assistants like tissues. The only ones who stayed were the ones too scared or too smart to cross him.

Her job title was “executive assistant,” but so far, she’d fetched four lattes, sat through two meetings she wasn’t allowed to speak in, and spent the better part of the day organizing files he wouldn't even glance at.

At 11:07 AM, she knocked.

“Come in.”

His voice was a low drawl, slow and unimpressed.

She stepped inside. The office was all glass and shadows — modern, cold. Nolan Voss didn’t look up from his desk as she approached with his coffee, just held out a hand, fingers twitching impatiently.

“Three minutes late,” he muttered.

“I— The elevator—”

He looked at her then. Finally. And her breath caught.

He was beautiful in the cruelest way — lean, tall, dressed in sharp black with a tie loose around his neck like he didn’t need to impress anyone. His jaw was clean-shaven, his hair slightly tousled like he’d just raked his fingers through it. But it was his eyes that stung — pale, unreadable, bored.

“You’ll learn,” he said coldly, “I don’t care about excuses. I care about results. Are you capable of understanding that?”

Y/N’s spine straightened. “Yes, sir.”

His gaze dragged down the length of her. He said nothing. Just reached for the coffee and took a slow sip. Whatever bitterness it had didn’t show — he was good at masking what he didn’t like. But there was a pause.

A flicker of interest.

She was younger than his usual staff. Too sweet. Too earnest. The kind of girl who still thought showing up early would earn praise. He hated that kind of hope.

But something about her made him pause. The blush in her cheeks. The way she didn’t wilt. Not yet.

“You’ll also be handling document prep for the board. Filing, printing, copying—if you can’t manage that, I’ll find someone who can.”

“Yes, Mr. Voss.”

“Don’t call me that.” His voice was quiet but sharp. “My name is Nolan. Use it when it’s just us. It’s better that way.”

She blinked. “O—Okay. Nolan.”

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.

He dismissed her with a wave, already bored, already onto the next email.

But after the door clicked shut behind her, he didn’t go back to typing. He stared at the coffee she brought. At the faint smudge her finger left on the side of the cup.

Interesting, he thought. Very interesting.

A month in, and Y/N was already unraveling.

The dream internship had become a waking nightmare.

She barely slept. Her feet ached every night from errands she shouldn’t have been running. She cried twice in the office bathroom, muffling the sounds against her palm in the stall. Once she sobbed the entire train ride home, hands clenched in her lap like she could physically hold herself together.

No one noticed. No one cared.

The other interns avoided her. The permanent staff were worse. Whenever she walked into a room, conversation stalled—then resumed at a murmur, accompanied by smirks or scoffs. And Nolan…

Nolan was relentless.

He snapped at her for everything—typos that weren’t hers, emails she didn’t even send, coffee that was “too warm,” “too cold,” “too late.” She couldn’t tell if he hated her or if this was how he treated everyone, but it didn’t matter. Every morning she felt the bile rise in her throat just pressing the elevator button to floor 49.

The worst part came late one Thursday afternoon.

She’d been running printed reports down to the finance floor. A small conference room door had been left slightly open, just enough to hear the voices inside. Male voices. Nolan’s among them.

She wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.

But the words made her blood run cold.

“She kept pushing my buttons,” one of the men laughed—Mike, in accounting. “So I trained her. You know. Reinforcement. Now she doesn’t leave the kitchen unless I say so.”

“She still mouthing off?” another chimed in.

“Nah,” Mike chuckled. “I break her in every night. Doesn’t matter if she’s ragging or not.”

Disgust twisted in Y/N’s stomach.

Then came Nolan’s voice.

Low. Amused. Cruel.

“Sounds like you’ve got the right idea. God knows the only thing modern women are good for is housework and breeding. They want equality until you fuck it out of them.”

The room burst into laughter. And Nolan—he laughed the loudest. Head thrown back, the kind of sharp, booming sound she’d only heard when he was tearing someone down. But this time it was pure pleasure. Dark, perverse enjoyment.

Y/N backed away before anyone saw her. Her hands were shaking.

She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. Who would believe her? HR was a ghost. The only woman on her floor—Marla, in billing—kept her head down and barely spoke. But that day, when Y/N passed her in the hallway, the older woman stopped.

“Don’t let them break you,” she whispered, quick and low. “They tried with me, too.”

That was the first time anyone had spoken to her with kindness.

But after that day, Y/N moved differently. She avoided staying in rooms too long. Stopped making eye contact with the men who suddenly smiled too warmly. And she never, ever got into the elevator with Nolan alone.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

She was quieter now. Shaky but guarded. Wary like a little rabbit surrounded by wolves.

He liked that.

And when she slipped into his office a few mornings later with a fresh folder, still avoiding his eyes, still polite, still submissive—

He stared too long. Said nothing. But when she left?

He locked the door behind her.

And smiled.

Today was important.

The kind of day where everyone walked a little straighter, spoke a little softer, and dared not breathe wrong in the presence of the powerful.

Y/N had been summoned to the top-floor conference room to take notes — just another invisible task tacked onto her already impossible workload. She sat quietly at the long glass table, pen in hand, spine stiff as the room filled with suits and tension.

Her boss, Nolan Voss, sat at the head of the table like a king. Across from him, a foreign dignitary of sorts — a man whose name she hadn’t caught, only the thick accent that clung to his words like oil.

They laughed as they spoke, cold and detached.

She did her best to keep up, scribbling everything down. But when the conversation shifted, she froze.

The foreign man was chuckling over the numbers. “If we push the acquisition forward, you realize thousands will be without work.”

Nolan’s smirk curled. “A few thousand layoffs is a small price for streamlining. Cuts like that bring up our margin.”

They both laughed. Not a trace of shame in either of their voices.

Y/N flinched.

They weren’t talking about numbers. They were talking about people. Families. Lives.

She dared not look up, but the moment she shifted in her seat, she felt the foreign man’s gaze drag over her.

Then came a low murmur — something in a foreign tongue. She didn’t understand it, but the tone made her stomach turn.

She felt what it meant.

Nolan's face changed.

Gone was the easy smile, replaced with something cold and unreadable. He replied in the same language — slower, firmer.

She didn’t need a translator to feel the weight of it.

“She is mine.”

Y/N swallowed, uncomfortable now. The room felt smaller. Tighter. She shifted her legs under the table and kept her eyes on her notepad, pretending she hadn’t heard anything. Pretending she wasn’t there.

Eventually, the meeting ended. Hands were shaken. Agreements made.

The foreign man gave her one last lingering look as he left the room.

Then, as chairs scraped back and suits filed out, Nolan remained seated.

He glanced at her — once, sharply.

“You. Follow me.”

She didn’t speak. Just nodded and stood, gathering her things. Her heart was beating too fast. Her palms damp.

She followed him down the hall, past the murmuring assistants and the glances that always followed her, to the large glass doors of his private office.

He stepped inside first.

She hesitated.

Then—

The doors shut behind her with a deep, final thud.

The door shut with a hollow finality that made Y/N flinch.

Nolan didn’t look at her at first. He walked ahead, casually shrugging off his blazer and tossing it over the arm of his chair. His movements were calm—too calm—until he turned sharply on his heel.

And snapped.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

Y/N froze mid-step.

Her voice caught in her throat. “I—excuse me?”

He stalked toward her, eyes burning like cold steel. “That blouse. That skirt. Are you trying to look like some pathetic secretary cliché, or are you just that stupid?”

Her mouth fell open slightly. She blinked at him, unsure whether to answer or walk out—but walking out wasn’t an option. Not with the way he was circling her like a predator.

“You think dressing like that makes you look professional?” he sneered. “You look like a little girl playing office dress-up. Heels too high, blouse too tight—do you even know what you’re doing when you leave the house in the morning, or do you just throw something on and pray some man finds you tolerable?”

Y/N felt the heat rising in her cheeks, both from shame and confusion. She took a step back.

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” he cut her off. “Didn’t think? That much is obvious every time you open your mouth. Jesus, I’ve had interns before, but at least most of them understood how to be quiet and useful. You? You walk around with that vacant look in your eyes like a kicked puppy, and you think that’s enough to earn respect?”

She stumbled back another step, her legs brushing the edge of the leather sofa. His presence loomed, towering, all-consuming. She didn’t want to sit. She didn’t want to be here.

But he didn’t give her the chance to decide.

He stepped closer, forcing her down. Her legs gave out beneath her, and she landed on the sofa with a soft whump, her notepad falling from her lap onto the floor.

She didn’t dare move.

He looked down at her then—slowly, cruelly—and let his gaze crawl over her form.

“You wear skirts like this, and you act surprised when men stare?” he muttered. “You dress like you want attention, and then you cry when you get it. Typical.”

Her lips parted. “I—I don’t want attention, I just—”

“Spare me the excuses.” His voice darkened. “You were in a room full of powerful men today, and you flinched. Like a girl. You’re in a man’s world now, sweetheart. No one’s going to protect you. No one’s going to pity you.”

Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them. His words were poison, slipping under her skin. The sharp sting of humiliation burned in her chest, worse than anything she’d endured in the last month.

She tried to wipe at her face discreetly, but he caught her hand mid-motion.

And then, he crouched.

Right in front of her. On his knees.

Something shifted in his expression—not softer, but more focused. Like he was studying a work of art that didn’t yet know its worth.

His thumb brushed along her cheekbone, wiping a tear away.

“You poor, deluded thing,” he murmured. “You weren’t made for this.”

She stared at him, breath trembling, not understanding.

“Women like you…” he said, quieter now, almost reverent. “You were never meant to chase deadlines or carry briefcases. You were meant to be admired. To be protected. Soft things don’t belong in boardrooms—they belong in warm homes. In kitchens. In cradles.”

His hand lingered against her cheek.

“You should be smiling at a dinner table, not crying in my office. You should be mine. My house. My bed. My child.”

Y/N’s whole body tensed. “W-What—?”

“You think this world will ever see you as equal?” he interrupted coldly. “It won’t. And I won’t pretend otherwise. I see you for what you are.”

She looked away, ashamed of how fast her tears were falling now. Of how much his words hurt, and confused her, and dug deep into places she didn’t know were raw.

He leaned in, lips close to her ear.

“I don’t want your mind, sweetheart. I want your obedience. And the sooner you stop pretending to be something you’re not, the easier this will be.”

He stood slowly, gaze heavy.

“Go home early,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Think about what you want to be in five years. Still crying in office chairs? Or barefoot in silk, with someone who knows exactly what to do with you.”

And with that, he turned his back to her, walking to his desk.

Dismissed.

She sat there frozen, heart pounding, eyes blurred with tears.

For the first time, she realized the door hadn't locked when she came in.

But it might the next time.

That evening, the train ride home blurred by. She barely remembered the stops, the people, the way her hands shook in her lap the whole way. Her body moved on instinct, keys turning in the lock, bag slipping from her shoulder to the floor as soon as she stepped inside.

The apartment was small. Too small for the weight she carried in her chest.

“Sweetheart?”

Her mother’s voice came from the living room, soft and lined with fatigue. Y/N turned and found her curled up under the throw blanket on the worn-down couch, a glass of water trembling slightly in her hand. Her cheeks looked pale today, paler than usual, and her once-vibrant eyes were duller—clouded with pain and weeks of sleepless nights.

Y/N offered a weak smile, pushing the dread deeper into her chest. “Hey, Mama.”

Her mother blinked in surprise, checking the time. “You’re home early…”

Y/N pulled her coat tighter around herself, her voice steady despite the ache in her throat. “Meeting ended quicker than expected. I took the rest of the day from home.”

It wasn’t true. But what could she say?

That her boss humiliated her? Claimed her like a possession in front of a foreign investor? Touched her face and whispered things no man should say?

She couldn’t. Not when her mother was already so sick. Not when the medical bills piled higher each month and she was barely staying afloat between rent, debt, and meals.

Her mother smiled anyway. “That’s good. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. Come here, I missed you.”

Y/N leaned down, letting her mother kiss her cheek. The warmth of it almost made her break.

“I’m okay,” she lied softly.

Then she straightened up, clutching the strap of her purse too tightly, and walked to the kitchen.

The moment her back was turned, her smile faded.

She exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the counter as the weight of the day pressed down on her shoulders.

You weren’t made for this.You should be mine.I don’t want your mind. I want your obedience.

She bit her lip hard, forcing the words out of her head.

No. Stop. You’re here to work. Just work. That’s it.

Her hands moved automatically, pulling out a pan, gathering vegetables from the fridge. The kitchen was dim, the light above the stove buzzing faintly, and yet she found herself moving like she had a purpose, as if dinner would be enough to fix the ugly ache inside her.

She would pretend. She would show up tomorrow like nothing happened. She would take notes, fetch coffee, sort files.

Because she had no choice.

Because she needed this job.

And because she couldn’t afford to fall apart.

Not yet.

Not until her mother was safe.

The next morning, Y/N did everything she could to disappear.

Her skirt was longer today, grazing her calves instead of her knees. The blouse was high-necked, with sleeves that hid her wrists. She even pulled her hair into a tight bun — no soft curls or glossed lips, nothing to suggest femininity or invitation. Just a body trying to survive.

The glasses weren’t by choice.

One of her contacts had slipped into the drain that morning, and she couldn’t afford a replacement. Not with overdue medical bills, student loans, and barely enough left over to eat. She hadn’t told anyone about her situation — not in full — except one person.

“Contact fell down the sink,” she muttered as she poured coffee into a chipped office mug, her fingers trembling just slightly. “And I checked. They’re not covered by my insurance plan.”

Behind her, her only friend in the office — Marla, the older woman from billing — gave a sympathetic nod.

“You still look lovely,” Marla whispered, setting her hand gently on Y/N’s back. “And don’t worry. I doubt Mr. Voss is even in today. Says on the calendar he has morning meetings offsite.”

Y/N let out a breath of relief, small and soft. “Good. I could use the break.”

She sipped her coffee and leaned against the counter, her voice dropping as the fatigue settled back over her features. “I just… I’m trying, you know? With everything. My mom’s back on the stronger meds, but they’re expensive. And I haven’t even paid last month’s. I’m the only one covering everything. Rent, groceries, her treatments, my loans…”

She didn’t cry. She refused.

But the quiet desperation clung to her words.

“He doesn't know any of it,” she finished, eyes downcast. “And I’m glad. I don’t want pity. I just want to do my job.”

What she didn’t know was that Nolan was very much in the building.

Just around the corner.

And he had heard every word.

He stood in the shadows, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping against his phone. His expression unreadable — except for the slight, amused twist of his lips.

She hadn’t mentioned yesterday.

Not a single word.

Not to the only person she trusted. Not even in passing. No whisper of protest. No call to HR. No defiance in her tone.

Just fear. Quiet endurance. Exhaustion.

And a sick, pathetic sense of duty to a job that devoured her alive.

He smirked.

That was what he liked most — she still hadn’t accepted what she was. But he had. He saw it clearly now. All he had to do was shift the world around her, just enough, and she’d fall into place like a puzzle piece.

He turned down the hall and walked away without a sound.

As he entered his office, he lifted his phone and made a quiet call.

“Send the payment. Cover everything. Anonymously.” Pause. “Yes. Hospital, pharmacy, previous balance too. All of it.”

He ended the call without another word and set the phone down on his desk.

She wouldn’t know it was him.

Not yet.

But soon… very soon, her gratitude would become a debt.

And he’d make sure she understood exactly what it cost to have her worries wiped away.

It had been two weeks since the anonymous blessing arrived.

Her mother had cried when she told her. Cried so hard she laughed through it, clutching Y/N’s hands and whispering thanks to the universe, to God, to whatever angel had intervened. Their debts were cleared. The medication was delivered ahead of schedule. A new specialist had even reached out for a consultation.

And though she still didn’t know how or why, Y/N accepted it. Maybe someone out there had heard her.

She didn't ask questions.

She couldn't afford to.

Her smile had returned, at least in fragments. Her shoulders weren’t as tight when she walked into the office. She started humming softly as she poured her morning coffee. She still dressed modestly, still kept her head down—but something warm glowed behind her eyes now, and even Marla noticed.

“You’re glowing,” she teased one afternoon.

“I guess I’m just... breathing again,” Y/N whispered back with a smile.

But the fear never fully left. Not around him.

Not around Nolan Voss.

She could feel his presence before he even entered a room. A shift in the air. A chill that spread up her spine. He hadn’t touched her since that day, not really. But he brushed against her more than before—his hand grazing her waist when passing in the hall, the flat of his palm lightly pressing her lower back when handing her a folder. It always lingered just a second too long.

He called her name randomly during the day, for tasks she wasn’t responsible for—just to watch her flinch. Just to see the way her lips parted in quiet alarm when she answered, voice breathy, unsure.

He liked that sound. A lot.

At night, Nolan came home to silence.

The penthouse echoed with the absence of something he hadn’t realized he craved. His maid greeted him at the door with a soft “Good evening, sir,” and disappeared back into her room once dinner was served. The plates were always warm. The wine always poured.

And yet, it all felt empty.

The fireplace crackled. The glass windows glowed with city lights. Everything he had built—his empire, his name—sat like a crown on a corpse.

His so-called peers had families now. Wives they trained to obey. Children they paraded through weekend brunches. He had always thought that part of life beneath him—messy, sentimental, weak.

But lately, the thought of Y/N, barefoot and round with his child, stirred something far deeper than lust.

He didn’t just want her body anymore.

He wanted her obedience, her devotion, her warm breath against his neck as she rocked their baby to sleep. He wanted her weeping with love and fear under him, whispering his name like prayer. He wanted her bound to him forever in the most primal way possible.

And God help him, the idea of fucking her full of him made his cock throb.

Harder than it had in years.

His grip tightened around the wine glass. The clink of crystal against his ring was the only sound in the room.

No more waiting.

He would find a way to fulfill every single desire. Slowly, carefully. No mistakes. No room for resistance.

She would be his.

His wife. His whore. His angel. His legacy.

And when she wept in his arms—pregnant, ruined, loved—she would finally understand that she had never stood a chance.

She hadn’t expected him to speak to her that morning. Not directly. Not like that.

“Miss Y/L/N,” Nolan said, sharp and formal, stopping in front of her desk. “You’ll accompany me this afternoon.”

She blinked, startled, her pen frozen mid-sentence. “Sir?”

He didn’t bother repeating himself. He simply turned and walked away, already expecting her to follow.

She did.

The car ride was silent. His driver said nothing. Nolan only checked his watch once, gaze flickering briefly to her reflection in the window as if already undressing her in his mind.

They arrived at a high-end boutique in the heart of the city. Velvet curtains. Private showrooms. Jewelry so expensive the guards didn’t blink.

“This,” he said, guiding her inside with a gentle pressure at the small of her back, “is for a woman I intend to impress. Help me choose something.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Of course, sir.”

At first, it was simple enough.

He held up earrings, necklaces, bracelets, asking for her opinion. She spoke softly, carefully, afraid of saying the wrong thing. But then—

“Try these on.”

She turned to him, startled. “Me?”

“Yes.” He motioned to the clerk, who handed her a velvet tray. “You have good taste. I want to see how they look on someone real.”

It wasn’t a question.

One by one, she tried on glittering pieces — delicate diamonds that shimmered like frost, sapphires that looked like something from a fairy tale. Her breath caught once at the way the light danced along a rose-gold ring, her fingers splaying slightly to admire it. Nolan said nothing, but his eyes didn’t leave her face.

Then came the dresses.

“I really don’t think—” she started, but he was already ushering her toward the fitting room.

“I do.”

“But—”

“You want to keep your job, don’t you?”

The final word silenced her.

She obeyed.

She tried on dress after dress — silk, satin, velvet. The clerk brought more at Nolan’s instruction. He sat on the velvet bench outside, eyes dark and unreadable, tracking which ones clung best to her curves, which colors made her eyes glow, which ones made her fidget nervously under his gaze.

He made mental notes of every detail.

This one for dinner.This one for when she starts to soften.This one… when she carries my child.

She emerged one final time, cheeks flushed, hands nervously tugging the hem of a pale blue number that hugged her figure just enough to make her feel exposed.

“That one,” he said, his voice low. “That one stays.”

Before she could respond, he had already stood.

Dinner was at a private rooftop restaurant — candlelight, wine, a view of the city below like scattered stars.

She didn’t eat much.

The food was exquisite, but her stomach was tight. Something about the entire day sat heavy on her chest, like she was being molded into something — a doll, a fantasy, not a person.

And then he reached into his coat and set a box in front of her.

“A gift,” he said.

She stared at it. “Sir, I—I can’t accept this.”

“You can,” he said simply, already lifting the lid.

Inside sat a diamond-studded bracelet. Dainty. Elegant. The same one she had stared at too long in the boutique.

Her throat tightened. “Please— I didn’t—”

“Wear it,” he said, cutting her off.

His hand reached across the table and took her wrist gently but firmly. She flinched, her body going still as he wrapped the cool metal around her skin. His fingers closed the clasp with a soft click, sealing it like a shackle.

“There,” he said softly, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “Perfect.”

He leaned in, lifted her hand, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. His lips were warm. Soft. Possessive.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, her mouth dry.

He smiled and leaned back casually, like nothing had happened.

“Now eat,” he murmured, picking up his fork again. “I hate wasting good food.”

And she did.

Silent, trembling, with a diamond bracelet glinting on her wrist and fear blooming behind her ribs.

The morning sunlight cut through the tall windows of his office like a spotlight, catching on the bracelet she still wore.

Y/N entered quietly, setting his coffee down on the edge of Nolan’s desk with her usual soft politeness. She didn’t meet his eyes, but he wasn’t watching her face this time. His gaze had already dropped to her wrist — that delicate circle of diamonds glittering against her pale skin. The bracelet he chose. The one she hadn’t taken off.

Good girl.

“You’re wearing it,” he said casually, but the warmth in his voice startled her.

She glanced down, flushing slightly. “I didn’t mean to... I just forgot to take it off last night.”

“No need to explain,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “It looks right on you.”

His words sank into her, leaving ripples she couldn’t smooth over.

He was kinder today. At least, in his own way. No sharp insults. No barking commands. But he brushed against her three times before lunch. A hand on her lower back as he passed by. Fingers brushing her arm when she handed him papers. His shoulder grazing hers as they stood too close at the printer.

All of it was accidental.All of it was intentional.

By noon, her skin felt too tight.

Later that afternoon, the weekly executive meeting began.

She took her usual spot in the corner of the long conference room, notepad in hand, eyes lowered, ready to take notes. Her glasses slid slightly down her nose, and she pushed them up with trembling fingers.

Today’s discussion was supposed to be financial.

It didn’t stay that way.

“Numbers are strong for Q2,” one man said, chuckling, “but I swear, the only forecast I’ve got my eye on is my wife’s belly. Seven months in, and she’s insatiable. I’m not complaining, but damn—something about that belly just does it for me. Drives me crazy.”

There were laughs around the room. Murmurs of agreement. Someone else chimed in about his second kid and how his wife got needier the bigger she got.

Y/N stared hard at her shoes, her pen stilled mid-note. She didn’t look up, didn’t say a word. But her discomfort was obvious. Her fingers fiddled with the bracelet, sliding it up and down her wrist anxiously. She tugged at the hem of her blouse as if trying to disappear beneath it.

Nolan didn’t laugh.

He didn’t speak.

He just watched her.

Watched the way she flinched at the word “insatiable.” Watched the flush creeping up her neck. Watched how she tried to make herself small, invisible, untouched by the filth in the air.

God, she was so soft. So unaware. She didn’t belong in this room. Not with men like this. Not with wolves.

He wanted to pick her up and carry her out. Lock her away in silk and safety. Swell her belly with his child just to see if her shy little blush would survive it. He wanted to watch her body bloom — innocent, needy, and all his.

His cock pressed hard against the front of his slacks, and he shifted in his seat, jaw tight.

She still didn’t look at him.

But that bracelet sparkled as she moved her hand again — his bracelet. On his girl. Whether she admitted it yet or not.

Patience.

He’d waited this long.

But soon, she’d give him more than her wrist.

She’d give him everything.

It started with a small velvet box left on her desk.

No note. No explanation.

Inside: a pair of earrings — diamond studs with a delicate drop, glittering faintly in the afternoon light. They matched her bracelet perfectly. Too perfectly. Her fingers trembled as she touched one, heart sinking with realization.

There was only one man who would send something like this.

Nolan didn’t mention them that day. Didn’t even acknowledge that she’d opened the gift. But two days later, he approached her desk with something far worse than silence.

“There’s a charity gala this Saturday,” he said coolly. “Black tie. You’ll attend with me.”

She blinked. “Sir, I don’t think—”

“I already arranged everything,” he cut her off. “The dress, the heels, the car, the stylist. You’ll be compensated. Consider it a professional appearance.”

She hesitated.

He smiled, soft and dangerous. “You want that bonus, don’t you?”

She nodded.

She always nodded.

Saturday evening came too fast.

A car picked her up just after five. A silent driver opened the door without a word and drove her through the city toward one of the tallest hotels—its rooftop ballroom already lit up like a palace.

Before the event, she was taken to a suite.

Inside: a professional hair and makeup team waiting for her.

Nolan had arranged everything.

The makeup was subtle but transformative — warm tones to bring out her eyes, a soft flush to her cheeks, a hint of gloss on her lips. Her hair was swept back into an elegant twist, a few soft strands framing her face just right. She looked older. Softer. Expensive.

Then came the dress.

A floor-length slip of pale gold silk. Thin straps. Modest neckline, but the fabric clung to every curve — tasteful only by design. Paired with delicate heels and a tiny clutch already packed with necessities. She didn’t even have to bring her own.

A knock at the door.

Her heart stilled.

Then Nolan entered — black suit, sharp tie, hair perfectly styled. And when his eyes landed on her…

He stopped.

Slowly, he stepped closer, his gaze roaming her form from head to toe like he was unwrapping a gift already his.

“I knew it would fit,” he murmured, voice like silk. “You wear it well.”

Her throat tightened. “Thank you, sir.”

He stepped behind her and lifted something from his pocket — a thin, velvet choker necklace with a matching diamond pendant. Before she could react, he was fastening it around her neck, his fingers grazing her throat.

“There,” he whispered, breath brushing her skin. “Now you’re complete.”

The gala was blinding.

Crystal chandeliers. Endless champagne. The air smelled like money and roses. Nolan walked in with her on his arm, hand resting lightly but possessively at her waist. He introduced her to everyone — investors, board members, foreign partners — always with a casual, charming tone:

“This is Y/N, my personal assistant.”

She smiled politely, trying not to shrink beneath their stares. Their wives looked her over too long. The men smiled toowarmly. Everyone noticed the jewelry. Everyone noticed the way Nolan stood so close.

They all saw it.

She was his.

And then came the photos.

He guided her toward the press wall with the firm touch of a man used to obedience. Photographers snapped pictures of him alone at first. Then—

“You,” he said quietly, “stand beside me.”

She moved to his side.

More flashes. More cameras.

Then with colleagues. With CEOs. With city officials. And always with her.

He kept her close, smiling coolly in every frame, one hand always on her back or waist or hip. The cameras loved it. So did he.

“Just a few more,” he murmured. “I want them to remember how beautiful you looked tonight.”

She nodded, jaw clenched, heart pounding.

Later, at the table, she barely touched her food. The diamond bracelet glinted against her wrist each time she moved. The earrings sparkled. The necklace weighed on her throat like a collar.

She reached for her wine glass to steady her hand.

“Relax,” Nolan said beside her, too close. “You’re doing beautifully.”

“I didn’t know this was part of the job,” she said, her voice soft and bitter.

“It is now,” he replied smoothly.

His fingers brushed her knee under the table.

“I take care of what’s mine.”

She swallowed hard, her heart thudding against the silk inside her chest.

And smiled—because there were still cameras watching.

The gala blurred behind her like a glittering dream she didn’t want to remember.

She’d had a few drinks — enough to take the edge off, enough to breathe easier, enough to keep her smile steady as Nolan paraded her in front of every important man in the room. Champagne, wine, a cocktail handed to her by a woman with too much perfume. Y/N had sipped until her shoulders relaxed. Until the room seemed softer. Until the silence in her own head wasn’t so loud.

She was too tired to protest when Nolan guided her into the car — this time, sliding in beside her in the backseat instead of his usual place up front with his phone.

The city lights flickered outside the tinted windows. It was well past midnight.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was thick. Heated. His hand rested between them, too close to her thigh, and she stared at it without meaning to.

She shifted slightly.

So did he.

His fingers grazed her leg.

She looked out the window, cheeks warm, vision soft from the wine.

Another shift. Closer.

This time his hand didn’t just graze.

It stayed.

Long enough for her heart to skip.

She glanced at him—but he was already watching her.

And before she could speak, Nolan leaned in.

His lips brushed against hers — slow, deliberate, as if he were testing her limits. Her breath caught. Her hands came up instinctively, pressing against his chest, but her body didn’t fight. Her head was heavy. Her thoughts slow.

“Wait—” she breathed, but the word was quiet. Weak.

His mouth moved to her neck, hot and unrelenting, kissing down to the hollow of her throat as his hand slipped further up her thigh. She tensed, trembling beneath him, but still didn’t say no. Not clearly. Not like before.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t move.

She didn’t resist.

So he kissed her again.

Deeper this time.

And she kissed him back.

Soft. Hesitant. Confused.

His hands moved to her waist, pulling her toward him, and he shifted over her, climbing halfway into her seat. His weight settled against her body like a decision already made.

“You taste like wine and fear,” he murmured into her skin.

Her breathing hitched, her fingers gripping the lapel of his jacket, not pulling him closer — but not pushing him away, either.

Outside, the world rushed by.

Inside the car, her silence was the answer he’d been waiting for.

The car’s hum faded beneath the sound of her pulse.

Nolan's mouth devoured the soft skin of her neck, trailing heat along the fragile line of her throat, then down to the curve of her collarbone where the necklace he gave her still rested — his mark.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he whispered, his lips brushing her skin like silk. “Just let go. Let me.”

She didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

Her thoughts were a blur — wine and hands and velvet seats and his mouth kissing places she hadn’t offered. His scent was all around her — expensive, warm, and wrong. His hands were under the thin silk of her dress now, palms flat against her thighs, thumbs grazing higher.

Y/N gasped softly, her head falling back against the seat, exposing more of her throat.

He took it as an invitation.

Nolan leaned forward, kissing her jaw, her cheek, then capturing her mouth again, deeper this time. He swallowed her protest before it could form, his hand gripping her thigh possessively.

When she moved — hesitating — he growled low against her lips.

“No running now,” he muttered. “You’ve been mine since the day I saw you. This… is inevitable.”

His hand slid higher, under the hem of her dress, the heat of his skin burning into her. Her hips shifted against the leather seat, not to pull him closer — but not to stop him either.

And that killed him.

“Look at me,” he breathed, pulling back just enough.

Her lashes fluttered open, wide and dazed, her lips swollen from his kiss. She looked afraid. She looked confused. She looked perfect.

He reached up, brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers, then dragged his thumb across her lips.

“I take care of you,” he said. “I give you everything. This is mine, too.”

She blinked slowly, still trembling, as his mouth dipped to her chest, kissing along the edge of her neckline, lips grazing the top of her breast through the silk.

“Nolan…” she whispered, voice barely audible.

He groaned at the sound of his name in her voice — fragile, uncertain, but real.

“Say it again,” he murmured against her skin. “Say my name.”

Her breath hitched.

His hand was on her hip now, pulling her fully beneath him. The hem of her dress was riding up, pooling around her thighs. His body caged hers in the seat, eyes locked on hers.

“Nolan,” she whispered again, soft and scared and aching.

He smiled, dark and triumphant.

“That’s my girl.”

Her breath hitched as Nolan leaned over her completely now, his frame blocking out the rest of the car. The weight of him, the closeness — it stole the air from her lungs. She had nowhere to look but up at him, nowhere to go but further beneath his shadow.

The silk of her dress bunched at her waist, his knee between her legs. One of his hands pinned her hip down while the other slid along the curve of her inner thigh, deliberately slow, deliberately unavoidable.

“You’ve been walking around like you don’t know what you do to me,” he whispered darkly, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “In that office. Every day. Acting like you’re just another intern. But this body, this mouth—this was made to serve something better than paperwork.”

She tried to move, but his hand tightened — not painfully, but enough to remind her who held the power.

“You want to be useful?” he murmured. “You want to earn what I’ve given you? Then don’t fight this. Don’t deny me.”

She didn’t speak.

Not because she agreed.

But because her voice had left her. Stolen by confusion and panic and the feeling of his hand now sliding up under the delicate lace of her panties. Her thighs trembled.

Nolan pressed his forehead to hers, his breath ragged now. “You’re soft, do you know that? So soft it hurts to look at you.”

He kissed her again, bruising now, swallowing the gasp that escaped her lips as his fingers grazed the most vulnerable part of her. She jerked beneath him, not in invitation—but not in rejection either.

And that made him crazy.

“You’re shaking,” he growled, dragging his lips along her jaw. “Is it fear, or is it something else?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He slid his fingers slowly, deliberately, and groaned when he felt just how unprepared she was — but he didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. His mouth was everywhere now — her throat, her shoulder, the strap of her dress pushed down as he kissed the curve of her chest. He wasn’t asking. He was taking.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “This body is mine. I’ll fill it, claim it, own it. And you’ll take it because you were made for this—made for me.”

He gripped her wrists, pinning them over her head, and looked down at her flushed, helpless face — hair fallen out of its elegant twist, makeup smudged from the heat of his touch. His diamonds glittered on her wrist, around her throat, in her ears.

She looked like a gift he’d already unwrapped.

“You’re going to carry my name,” he said darkly, “and then you’ll carry my child. And when you cry, I’ll be the one to kiss the tears off your cheeks.”

His voice dropped to a possessive growl.

“I want you ruined. Pregnant. Dependent. Devoted. And when the world looks at you, they’ll see nothing but mine written all over your skin.”

And still, she didn’t speak.

The silence was its own answer.

He would take everything.

And she would be grateful for what he gave in return.

The sheets were too soft.

The air too quiet.

Y/N stirred, her throat dry, mouth sticky with the taste of last night’s wine and something bitter she couldn’t place. Her head pounded. Her limbs ached.

She blinked slowly, squinting against the warm morning light pouring through tall windows she didn’t recognize. A crystal chandelier hung overhead. The ceiling alone looked more expensive than her apartment.

Her stomach dropped.

This isn’t my bed.

She sat up too quickly — her body screaming in protest. Her thighs burned. Her hips were sore. And beneath the silk sheet, her skin was bare.

She groaned, one trembling hand coming up to her forehead.

No, no, no—

Last night hit her all at once.

The car. The kiss. His weight above her. Her voice whispering his name. Her legs parting because she didn’t say no fast enough. Her silence mistaken as consent — or maybe never cared for at all.

The flash of how he entered her, slow and deep, how he whispered into her skin like he’d waited a lifetime to claim her—

She shuddered, clutching the sheet to her chest.

Her heart hammered as she scanned the room. Nolan wasn’t there.

She spotted her phone on the floor by the nightstand, screen down. Scrambling from the bed, she snatched it up and checked the time.

11:43 AM. Sunday.

God, I slept here?

The shame came hot and fast.

Her dress was in a heap on a velvet chair, one strap torn. She didn’t even remember when it had been ripped off. She threw it on anyway, skipping her undergarments, slipping her heels into her hands as she crept barefoot toward the door.

The hallway outside was quiet.

Too quiet.

This house — this mansion — was enormous. Marble floors. Gilt-framed paintings. Polished furniture untouched by dust. She crept past closed doors, each one feeling like it might hold something watching her from the dark.

Then she heard it.

A voice.

Low, commanding, cold.

Nolan.

She followed it — cautiously — until she reached a doorway cracked open just enough.

She peeked inside.

He stood by the window, facing away, phone to his ear.

And what she heard made her blood run cold.

“She’s finally softened,” he said quietly. “Last night changed everything.”

A pause.

“No, she won’t fight me. She won’t risk what I’ve done for her. She knows what she owes me now.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

“She’s too sweet. Too soft. She needed to be broken in a little — now she’ll follow.”

His voice dropped lower. Darker.

“I’ll have her living here by next month. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

Her heel slipped against the floor.

The slight tap echoed louder than thunder.

Nolan turned slowly.

Their eyes met.

His expression didn’t shift. He didn’t flinch. He only ended the call and set the phone down with perfect calm.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice deceptively smooth.

Y/N backed away a step, clutching her shoes to her chest like a shield.

“I—I didn’t mean to overhear—”

“You weren’t meant to,” he replied softly, stepping toward her. “But now that you have…”

Another step. Calm. Measured.

“You understand exactly where you belong.”

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t ask what she’d heard.

He just stepped forward with that same unnerving calm, the one she’d come to fear more than his temper. His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured.

Y/N opened her mouth to speak — to say anything — but his hand cupped her jaw, and he leaned in, kissing her lips gently. Slowly. Like they were lovers. Like last night was something shared.

His thumb brushed her cheek.

“You were good to me,” he whispered against her lips. “You were mine.”

She didn’t know what to say.

Her lips trembled as he pulled away, watching her with a look so warm it made her skin crawl.

“You should shower,” he said softly. “Take your time. There are clothes laid out for you on the bed. Everything you need is already there.”

He kissed her forehead like a reward, then turned and walked back down the hall, as if nothing was wrong at all.

The bathroom was like something out of a magazine.

Marble floors. Heated towel rack. A rainfall shower behind glass panels. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and something more expensive than she could name.

She stepped inside slowly, toeing off her heels, her hands still shaking.

Everything she could possibly need had already been placed neatly on the counter — her brand of face wash. The shampoo she’d run out of last week. Even the exact shade of the lip balm she kept in her purse. Toothbrush, toothpaste, body lotion… all of it.

How did he know?

How long has he been watching me?

She stood under the warm spray of the shower for what felt like forever, scrubbing her skin until it felt raw. Her thighs still ached, her chest still throbbed where his mouth had lingered. She closed her eyes and let the water run over her face, as if it could wash away the feeling of him.

Was this love? Is this what it feels like to be cared for… or owned?

Her fingers gripped the edge of the tiled wall.

She wanted to cry. She didn’t.

When she returned to the bedroom, the clothes were already waiting on the freshly made bed.

A white blouse, soft and feminine, with tiny buttons at the collar. A pale pink skirt — short, too short — with a modest flare, like something sweet a housewife would wear. Beside them, a pair of cream-colored slippers and a delicate hair ribbon.

No bra. No underwear.

She hesitated.

Then dressed, her face blank, movements mechanical. She kept tugging the hem of the skirt down, hating how it clung to her hips, how it reminded her of last night. The slippers made her steps soundless as she left the bedroom, entering the hall again with a knot in her stomach.

The air in the house was warm. Familiar. Dangerous.

And somewhere, Nolan was waiting.

The living room was eerily quiet except for the low hum of the television.

Y/N stepped in slowly, the soft soles of her slippers making no sound as she walked across the marble. Her damp hair clung to the back of her neck. She kept tugging her skirt down, the hem refusing to stay where she wanted it.

On the screen, a reporter’s voice played over images of panicked workers gathered outside a corporate office.

“—massive layoffs announced this morning following the acquisition by Voss International. Sources estimate over 3,000 jobs will be cut by the end of the quarter—”

She bit her lip hard, staring.

Her stomach twisted. Nolan had mentioned something like this in passing once. Ruthless efficiency. Trimming the fat. Now it was reality.

Three thousand people.

Gone.

Just like that.

And she was in his house.

Her body flinched as she heard the soft clink of china behind her.

She turned sharply.

Nolan stood just behind her, carrying a silver breakfast tray — coffee, eggs, fresh fruit, toasted bread sliced perfectly.

She hadn’t heard him approach.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he said with a chuckle, his voice low and amused. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

He walked past her like it was the most normal thing in the world and set the tray gently on the coffee table, then sank into the large couch and patted the cushion next to him.

“Sit.”

She hesitated.

His smile faded slightly.

“Now.”

Y/N obeyed.

She perched stiffly beside him, hands folded in her lap until he nudged the tray closer.

“I had it made just for you,” he said. “You didn’t eat last night. You need your strength.”

She nodded slowly, reaching for the fork.

Her hand shook as she picked at the eggs, eating small, quiet bites. The coffee was hot. Too bitter. But she drank it anyway. Anything to keep her mouth busy. Anything to keep him happy.

Nolan watched her.

He didn’t eat. Just sat there, one arm draped along the back of the couch, eyes fixed on her like a man admiring a painting he already owned.

“You look sweet like that,” he murmured after a while. “In my house. In my clothes. Eating from my hand.”

Y/N swallowed, the food heavy in her throat.

She nodded, but her stomach was in knots. Every bite made her feel sick.

He leaned closer, brushing her hair from her shoulder, his fingers warm against her neck.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

She took another bite.

Because not eating felt like more of a risk than forcing it down.

How would she escape?

@cutelittlesugarfairy @lilyalone @alebrasil0101 @amanduhh1998 @bananaasfordewin @rachfart @hopingtoclearmedschool

[wlntrsldler]

poisoned mercury | end up here

a/n: i'm going FERALLLLLLL over this chapter. enjoy poisoned mercury's debut album hehe.

iv. end up here by 5sos

series masterlist | previous | next

“your band name doesn’t even make any sense,” you argued, eyes narrowing at the boy in front of you. 

luke crashed your secret spot, again, and refused to let you smoke in silence until you gave him a detailed explanation of how your day went. he knew you didn’t smoke every day, only on days that were particularly hard. he noticed that your bad days always had something to do with your dad, but it didn’t feel like the right moment to bring that up. 

anyway, you got fed up with his badgering and that stupid smirk on his face because he knew you were about to crack, and decided that if he was going to act like a toddler, you would too. hence, why you were now bringing up his band name. 

luke took offense to that because he thought the band name was cool. he was the one to suggest it. he crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to let his hurt show on his face, “what do you mean? poisoned mercury is a sick name.” 

“mercury is already poisonous. your band name is like redundant or some shit.” 

“then why did so many people in history ingest it?” luke asked, recalling the one thing he remembered from his high school history class before he dropped out. he took a drag from his cigarette, turning his body a bit so the wind didn’t blow the smoke directly in your face. 

“they fucking died, castellan,” you replied, deadpan. 

“oh,” he blinked, staring off, “i didn’t know that.” 

you rolled your eyes, a habit that you’ve picked up whenever you were with him and sat back down on the bench. luke joined you, silent as he thought about what you just said. he really needed to stop zoning out during lessons, but since he was already out of high school, he guessed it didn’t matter anymore. 

as much as you hate to admit it, luke castellan was growing on you. sure, he got on your nerves like nobody else– the boy just doesn’t quit– but, he wasn’t half as bad as you originally thought. not that you’d ever tell him that though. 

when you got back to the cabin last week after helping with concert prep, the cabin was spotless. there were no empty red bull cans in sight, the table tops were free of crumbs, floor vacuumed and mopped, and there was even a candle burning on the counter. you approached your bedroom door to find a post-it on the handle. luke’s messy writing was smudged around the corners, but you could still make out what it said. 

“five star, 

i snitched on the boys and my mom will have a stern talk with them about their cleanliness. can’t promise that people will stop talking about me, but i can promise you won’t have to live in the dojo casa house mojo or whatever it was. 

ps i’m using the spot tomorrow, just thought i should let you know. maybe we can set up a calendar for reservations. 

luke :)” 

the cabin hasn’t been as messy since. whatever may castellan told the boys worked like a charm. there was still the occasional trash, but nothing crazy. it smelled better in the cabin too, still like a boy, but it smelled like expensive cologne more than anything. cedarwood and pine. 

and thankfully, the luke castellan hype train was starting to run out of steam, with many people finally realizing that he was also just a human being and the surprising revelation that luke castellan was not entertaining anyone during his time at camp helped with it as well. you still heard whispers about him here and there, but you were glad the topic of conversation was beginning to switch to something else. 

you and luke walked to the gym and back home every morning together. he and the boys sat with you and clarisse during meals. they tagged along for music lessons and spoke to the kids, which they really appreciated. they helped the older campers with writing music, luke particularly. you’d been around a few musicians in your life and many of them only kissed ass when your dad was around, but poisoned mercury was different. they were passionate about their music. that was clear.

after a conversation with clarisse, where she managed to convince you that not all musicians are like your ex, you began to let loose a little bit. you hung out with the boys more, partly as an excuse so clarisse could hang out with chris without causing too much suspicion, and found that you actually enjoyed their company. and luke castellan? well, he wasn’t half bad. that doesn’t mean he got off easy though. 

you took a hit of your vape, facing him, “are you done interrogating me?” 

“for now, yeah,” he smiled as you shook your head. “are you coming to the concert tonight?” 

“well, i did help organize it.” 

“a simple yes would’ve sufficed, five star,” luke teased, relighting his cigarette. it was burning unevenly and luke was never one to waste his cigarettes. “you gonna watch us play?” 

“don’t have a choice. dad wants me there the whole time.” 

“you can act a little excited,” luke ran a hand through his curls, “we are pretty good, you know.” 

“i know,” you hummed. the sun was beginning to set and there was a slight breeze in the air. goosebumps formed on your skin, the t-shirt and denim shorts you wore didn’t offer much comfort. you shivered, “i have listened to your music.” 

“are you cold?” 

your teeth chattered, but you shook your head, “i’m fine.” 

luke took off his hoodie, tossing it in your direction, “take it.” 

“no,” you tossed it back to him, “told you i’m good.”

always so stubborn, luke thought.  

“if you catch a cold, that’s not on me,” he placed the hoodie on the bench between the two of you. “which songs have you listened to?” 

“kilby girl, of course. it played on the radio so much when you guys first dropped it,” you said, remembering the days where you and your hometown friends would blast it in the car. it reminded you of high school, reckless decisions, life-long memories, and the thrill of knowing you were going to be playing the sport you’d worked so hard to excel in at a d1 level in the fall. you looked at him, sincerity in your eyes, “i really like family line. it might be my favorite.” 

luke’s eyebrows shot up. not many people talked about family line. it was probably their least streamed song. they never performed the song on tour because it was difficult for luke to sing it. it was a personal song to him. it was inspired by his relationship with his father, or lack thereof. 

when poisoned mercury first got signed to olympus records, luke sent a message to his dad on facebook. luke hadn’t tried to contact him since he was ten, not since his father returned his letter to him unopened, no response but a “return to sender” stamp plastered over the envelope. but after the small congratulatory party his mom set up for the band after they signed, luke felt like a little kid again, a kid who wanted to share the great news with his dad, so he found his dad on facebook, made an account, and sent him a message. 

he didn’t get a reply, which was expected, but it felt good for a second to pretend that he had a father to tell his good news to. luke thought he didn’t care about whether or not his dad was proud of him, but when his message went from “sent” to “read” a few days later, he was brought back to those moments in his life when he cried and wondered why he wasn’t enough to make his dad stay. he wrote family line in one sitting, on his bed in his bedroom in connecticut, looking at the little league medals on his wall that seemed to mock him. 

he originally didn’t want it on the album because he felt like it didn’t fit the vibe of the rest of the songs and that it was too real, too vulnerable for a debut album, but then he played it for his mom and she loved it. she cried when she first heard it and luke knew that even if people didn’t like the song, he was going to put it out for his mom. 

“huh,” he cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure, “wasn’t expecting that one. thought you’d be more of a crash my car type of girl.” 

“i like that too,” you shrugged, “but family line. that song. i don’t think i have the words to describe it.” 

“thanks, five star,” luke looked down at his feet, taking a puff from his dying cigarette. “that’s my mom’s favorite, too.” 

“did you write it?” 

luke nodded, looking to face you. there was a new expression on your face, one that you’d never used with him before. it was a mix of disbelief and awe. he tried not to get offended that you didn’t think he could write something like family line, but he couldn’t blame you. he didn’t really portray the type of person who would be able to be that raw and vulnerable on a song. “me and trav write the lyrics for our songs, mostly. chris and connor help too, but the bulk of the lyrics are me.” 

“you need to stop doing that.”

he cocked his head to the side, crushing the cigarette butt on the hardware of the bench, “doing what?” 

“surprising me,” you shook your head, “i don’t like it.” 

“i don’t know what to tell you,” he chuckled, leaning back on the bench. he looked out into the lake, watching the sun disappear behind the mountains, “i have layers. you just gotta give me a chance.” 

“how do you do it?” you sat criss cross on the bench, leaning against the arm rest. “how do you write like that?” 

you’d always been curious about music, even if you weren’t good at it. your dad was never one to answer your questions, especially because you were interested in lyrics more than anything, and that wasn’t his forte. 

luke mimicked your actions, “i dunno. personal experience, i guess?”

you frowned, thinking about the lyrics of family line. luke never talked about his dad, but spoke highly of his mom. was family line based on his own life? if it was, his dad was an asshole. 

you relented to the cold, grabbing the hoodie that he left in between the two of you. you ignored the triumphant smile on his face when you draped the sweater over your bare legs, shielding them from the wind chills. 

he continued, “sometimes things happen to me that get me worked up and i have to write a song about it. sometimes, it’s based on my imagination. it depends.”

you wanted to ask him about his dad, but you didn’t know if he considered you guys friends yet. it’s not like you made it easy for him anyway. you could deal with the banters and annoyance, but you didn’t want to push him to talk about something he wasn’t ready to. you could be a dick, but you weren’t cruel. 

you changed the subject, “okay, let’s play a game.” 

“21 questions?” luke bit his bottom lip, trying not to laugh. he waggled his eyebrows, dodging your arm that reached out to smack him. 

“you’re gross,” you gagged, knowing the implications of the game, “no, i’m gonna ask about the songs on your album and you tell me if it’s real life or from your imagination.” 

“alright, go for it five star,” he beamed, propping his elbows on his crossed knees. he loved talking about music with anyone. he could go on and on for hours. 

“18.” 

“real,” luke snorted, remembering the first time travis pitched the idea for the song to the band, “but not my experience. it was trav. he met this girl at one of our gigs in new york, right after we got signed, and he was obsessed. she was a freshman at nyu and she kept telling him he was too young for her, even though she was just less than a year older. trav was hooked.” 

you could picture it. it was definitely something travis would do. “okay, another one of my favorites. only angel?” 

“not real,” luke shook his head, a slight blush creeping up on his face. “if you tell anyone, five star, i will vehemently deny it, but i had a crush on jade west from victorious and i wrote it about her.” 

there was something about jade west that made luke like a love-sick puppy. ignoring the fact that she was hot, her attitude was something that luke was attracted to. she had a tough exterior and acted like she didn’t care about people, but she had her moments where she was soft and kind to the people she cared about the most. luke liked that. the idea that someone could be sensitive but only to the people they deemed worthy. 

he’d spent so much of his life trying to be worthy, in whatever way the stage of his life defined it, and he craved it– a pat on the back, an approval, a confirmation that he was worthy of it. 

you threw your head back laughing, surprised by his ridiculous confession. the sound of your laughter rang across the woods, making luke smile. your voice echoed throughout the trees and he his senses were surrounded by you. it hit luke like a truck. 

he sucked in a breath, taking out his phone. he jolted from his seat for more than one reason. “shit, five star. we gotta go.” 

you took out your phone too, checking the time. your eyes widened as you got up from your seat. you threw his hoodie over to him, “fuck, we’re late.” 

the two of you raced out of the woods, arriving to the concert venue with flushed faces and rapid breaths. you could feel clarisse’s knowing eyes on you as you got ready for the concert. you tried your best to ignore it. you were going to deal with that later. 

–

“and for the final event, i know you guys are looking forward to this one,” your dad laughed into the mic. the sun was long gone and there were disco lights illuminating the stage. a smoke machine was on either corner, making it difficult to see the bottom half of the stage. you and clarisse stood in the front row, listening to the deafening cheers of the campers. “ladies and gents, welcome poisoned mercury!” 

the screams got louder which you didn’t even know was possible. travis entered the stage first, sticking his tongue out as he expertly twirled his drumsticks around his fingers. connor came in next, smiling and waving at the crowd as he plugged his guitar into the amp. chris walked in with his bass strapped around his neck, eyes immediately finding clarisse and sending her a shy smile. you nudged her teasingly, enjoying the way she blushed under the lights. 

then luke castellan walked in. he ditched his hoodie and t-shirt and walked in with a white tank top on, messing with the curls on his head. he tugged on the silver necklace around his neck as his eyes scanned the crowd. he threw a wink to the group of the older girls in the back, turning to travis to let out a laugh at their reaction. the lights on the boys were blinding and a thin layer of sweat already began to form on their skin despite the bite to the air. 

luke took center stage, picking up his guitar. he leaned over directly in front of you, fingers pretending to mess with the wires connecting his guitar to the speakers, “hey, five star.” 

he straightened his back before you could reply. clarisse’s eyes darted between you and the boy, now nudging you like you did to her earlier. you rolled your eyes, smiling at the rest of the boys as luke began talking on the mic. 

“what’s up, camp half blood?” luke screamed into the mic. the crowd roared. “we’re poisoned mercury and we are so happy to be with you guys here this summer. before we close out this awesome concert, i wanna introduce our lovely band.” 

“on drums, we have the one and only, travis stoll!” luke turned around to applaud travis as he did a little drum solo, head banging as he hit the drums. he turned to connor, “on lead guitar, we have the amazing connor stoll!” 

connor strummed his guitar, leaning over on the left side to soak in the applause of the crowd. the girls beside you swooned as he unleashed one of his award-winning smiles. 

luke faced chris, “and on bass, we have my very best friend in the entire world, my 4lifer, chris rodriguez!” clarisse cheered loudly for chris as he played a tune on his bass, mouthing, “love you, brother,” to luke as he played. the crowd quited for a second as luke addressed them again, “and my name is luke castellan. we’re poisoned mercury!” 

you turned around to look at the crowd. the size of the crowd tripled when the boys got on stage. everyone had a smile on their face, excited to hear them play. 

“the song we’ll be singing for you guys today is from our debut album,” luke adjusted his mic on the stand. he got closer to it, lips touching the metal, “this is only angel.” 

you couldn’t help but let out a laugh at their song choice. this was not the song they were supposed to sing. they’d been rehearsing kilby girl for the past week. luke saw your reaction, laughing along with you. 

the instrumentals began and you nearly missed the beat drop because of the cheers from the crowd. as the song progressed, the boys were one with the music. you watched luke sing, working the crowd like a pro. his skin glistened under the spotlight, beads of sweat tricking down the side of his face. he approached chris when the chorus started, dragging his mic stand with him. he swung his guitar around so it rested on his back as he sang the lyrics. his curls were sticking to his forehead, eyebrows raised in glee as he performed. 

you couldn’t take your eyes off the lead singer, not even when the rest of the band had their own solos in the song. your eyes were glued on luke; how his adam’s apple was on full display as he threw his head back, getting lost in the music, how his arms flexed as he wrapped the mic cord around his fist, how his thin tank top stuck to his body and how it raised when he lifted his arm up to bring the mic closer to his lips. you saw the outline of his abdomen and his v-line. 

but what really got you was his face. he looked at peace on stage, a wide smile on his face, full lips pink and glossy as he licked them in between verses. he looked incredible up there, like that was where he belonged. he was born to be on stage like this. 

“fuck,” you mumbled, applauding at the end of their song. luke’s eyes found yours as he sang the last bit of the song, smiling at you. you hoped clarisse couldn’t hear you talk to yourself. you looked down at your feet, tugging nervously on the collar of your shirt, “i get it now.”

[endofthelinexx]

Driven to You | 1

Pairing: Female!Student!Reader x Lewis Hamilton

TW: Language, fake friend

Rating: Mature, 18+

AN: soooo im back pt 5. I got hit with some inspiration and I'm so excited to start writing again. I'm hyped af for this series, its going to be soooo good and lewis omg he's looking so fine in that brand new red I just had to write about him! comment to be added to the taglist!

Word count: 1.7k

Mini Summary: Lena Carter is just a sorority girl from Texas with big dreams of designing cars, not getting caught up in the spotlight. But when a Ferrari guest lecturer turns out to be none other than Formula 1 legend Lewis Hamilton, her world is thrown into chaos. Between stolen glances, secret encounters, and the growing tension that neither of them can ignore, Lena finds herself racing toward a life she never imagined—one where the stakes are higher than ever.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of it, and claiming it as your own.  

| chapter 1 |

Lena's POV

Lena Carter, a senior in college, was an interior design major with a love for Formula 1. She wasn’t shy about the fact that her Sundays were spent glued to the television, watching races and wishing she had a passion for engineering, but unfortunately, she hates physics with a passion. Her roommates, Jade and Amelia, didn’t quite share the same enthusiasm, but they loved teasing her about her obsession.

“Lena, are you seriously watching another race highlight?” Amelia groaned, leaning against the kitchen counter as she stirred her coffee.

“It’s not just a highlight,” Lena replied, rolling her eyes. “It’s an analysis video. There’s a difference.”

“Okay, well, whatever it is, can you pause it and help me make our breakfast so we can make it to studio on time?” Jade begged, hands together sarcastically. Lena nodded and jumped up, walking into the kitchen to help.

The three girls worked in harmony, laughing and joking as they prepped breakfast. Their apartment, a cozy off-campus rental, was filled with the smell of fresh coffee and sizzling eggs. 

“So, what’s the plan for today? Do you think Ethan will actually show up to class this time?” Lena teased, glancing at Jade as she popped a strawberry into her mouth.

Ethan was Jade's boyfriend, he was an architecture major, so he was in the same building as them, just on the arrogant side. He was of course in a frat, Jade has yet to learn her lesson about dating frat boys, which annoyed Lena since she was always hugging Jade while she cried about them. They’d been dating a few months and honestly, Lena got bad vibes, she didn’t know what it was, but she was sure all the pieces would fall into place sooner rather than later.

Jade groaned, flipping the eggs in the pan with more force than necessary. “I told him last night that if he doesn’t get his act together, I’m done. But you know Ethan—he’s all talk and no action.”

Amelia smirked over the rim of her coffee mug. “Are we still pretending he’s going to change? Because, honestly, I don’t think he even knows where his studio is.”

Lena laughed, tossing a few blueberries at Amelia, who squealed and dodged them. “You two are the worst,” Jade muttered, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

As the girls sat down to eat, the conversation shifted to what their studio project might be. She was hoping it had something to do with car interiors since that is what they’ve been doing their work on recently, but they wouldn’t know for another week or two.

They went to studio, it was nothing of interest, just desk critiques and feedback. Lena and Jade sat next to each other, of course; they talked as they did their work. Unfortunately for Amelia, she sat a row down from them, but she had another friend, Natalia. Natalia was, honestly, a bitch—which was why Jade and Lena sat away from them.

Lena was doing some research on car interior materials when she felt her phone buzz on her desk. She absentmindedly glanced at the screen, expecting another generic school notification or maybe a tiktok from Jade. But what she saw instead made her heart skip a beat.

“Guest Lecture Series: Lewis Hamilton - Formula 1 Champion and Advocate for Innovation in Design.”

Her fingers trembled slightly as she tapped the notification to read the full details. The lecture was scheduled for next Tuesday at the auditorium on campus. It didn’t feel real. Lewis Hamilton? Here? On her campus?

“Lena?” Jade nudged her, frowning when she noticed the look on her friend’s face. “You good?”

“Uh...” Lena’s voice wavered as she struggled to find the words. She turned her phone to Jade, showing her the announcement.

Jade’s eyes widened, “Lewis Hamilton? Isn’t he that hot dude that does your racing shit? What does he know about design?”

“I don’t really care what he knows about design, I’m going to that damn lecture,” Lena grinned as she spoke, already getting excited.

Jade couldn’t help but laugh a little, “Okay okay, no one is stopping you girl. What if he notices you and falls immediately in love?”

“This isn’t a Wattpad one direction fanfiction Jade, this is real life, that won't happen, but I will get to see him, maybe even meet him!” She rolled her eyes at Jade. “I have to ask him a question too!”

As the studio session dragged on, Lena found it impossible to focus. Her mind kept drifting back to the announcement, to Lewis Hamilton, to the idea of seeing him in person. Would she get to ask him a question? Would he actually take time to talk to her?

Lewis' POV

Lewis Hamilton leaned back in his chair, his phone resting face-up on the marble kitchen counter of his Monaco apartment. The gentle hum of an espresso machine filled the space as his assistant, Rebecca, stood by the window, flipping through his packed schedule for the upcoming week.

“So, Tuesday,” Rebecca began, glancing at her tablet. “You’ve got that guest lecture at that university in America. Design innovation, sustainability, and motorsport—your usual talking points. Should be straightforward.”

Lewis nodded, taking a sip of his freshly made coffee. “Yeah, straightforward for you maybe. I’ve got to convince a room full of students that what we do in F1 has relevance outside the paddock.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Lewis, they invited you. Most of those kids are probably just showing up to fangirl over you, not sustainability trends.”

He laughed, setting his mug down. “I don’t know about that. I mean, I hope at least a few of them are serious about design.” He leaned forward, glancing at her tablet. “What time’s the lecture again?”

“Afternoon. You’ve got a private jet booked the night before to get you there in time. And don’t forget the meet-and-greet after. The university’s design department specifically requested it. They’re big on networking.”

Lewis ran a hand through his messy curls, leaning back again. “It’ll be fine. It’s important to me, you know?”

Rebecca smiled. “I know, Lewis. It’s why you’re perfect for this.”

As she continued running through his itinerary, his thoughts drifted. The last few weeks had been relentless: races, training, meetings, sponsor obligations. He barely had time to breathe, let alone think about how much he enjoyed moments like these—engaging with people outside the motorsport bubble.

Still, he couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that always crept in before events like this. Would the students care about sustainability? Would they see beyond the celebrity and focus on the message? He wanted to inspire them, sure, but he also wanted to connect with them, to plant the seed that their work could have real impact.

“…and that’s it for next week,” Rebecca finished, snapping him out of his thoughts. She shot him a pointed look. “Try not to overthink it, yeah? They’ll love you.”

“Overthinking? Me?” Lewis smirked, lifting his mug again. “Never.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes and walked out, leaving Lewis alone with his thoughts. He picked up his phone and opened the university’s email again, scrolling through the details of the event. A lecture in a quiet town in the south—it wasn’t exactly glamorous compared to the glitz of Monaco, but maybe that was the point.

Lena’s POV

Lena stood in front of her mirror, adjusting the hem of her blouse. The lecture was in a few hours, and she was running through her outfit choices in her head. She wanted to look professional—after all, this wasn’t some random event, but a lecture by Lewis Hamilton himself. But she also wanted to look... well, hot. She knew how to balance both.

She settled on a blue button up top, unbuttoning the top few buttons to show a little bit of the black lace bra she wore with it. The top gave her the professional edge she wanted, but the bra underneath was something she knew could catch his attention if he chose to look her way at all. The dark jeans she paired it with had just the right fit, and a pair of low, sleek heels added a bit of height. She glanced at herself one last time, pulling her hair into a low bun with a few strands left to frame her face. She took a deep breath, sprayed her YSL perfume and headed out of the house.

 When she arrived at the auditorium, she moved as quick as she could to get to one of the front rows, smiling and knowing maybe she’d have a chance of making eye contact with him. She took out her notebook to take notes with and glanced around the room, noticing it being filled with mostly girls, some of which not being dressed professionally at all, it looked more like they were going to the bars after. She shook her head, not very surprised. All of a sudden the light dimmed and out walked Lewis Hamilton, her eyes went wide. She didn’t fully realize how close she was to the stage until he walked out and was standing probably within 20 feet of her. Everyone clapped as he waved and made his way to sit down on a couch set up on the stage. It went quiet as he began to speak.

His outfit was simple, all black, dressed professionally, his hair braided like usual, and he had a smile on his face as he spoke. She took notes of course, listened to what he had to say, but every now and then she couldn’t help but stare. As the lecture wrapped up, Lena couldn’t wait to ask a question. She had thought about it all day, rehearsing in her mind how to sound confident without being too forward. She had to make this moment count. When the Q&A session opened, she raised her hand without hesitation.

His attention turned to her hand first, pointing at it, “yes, what’s your question?”

Her eyes widened as they met his, but she had to keep her cool, everyone was looking at her. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to ask the question.

Taglist:

@lh44girl

next chapter >>

[academy4achievement]

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[alldthoughtsinmyhead]

Corporate Maid

Pairing: Elias Moore, Clark Kent, John Stewart and OC Jalene.

Summary: Broke medical student Jalene lands a summer job as a maid for a rich bachelor, only to find she would be serving not one, but three men.

Click to read on dark mode( turn on desktop view if you're reading on mobile.)

Medical school wasn’t cheap. And she was completely broke.

Jalene walked out of class that day in a fog. Summer break meant a chance to find work, but without a license or any real skills, what exactly was she going to do?

When she’d complained to Henessy — the maniac she shared a room with — she’d blown a giant gum bubble, popped it, and said, “Sell it.”

Jalene didn’t even ask what it was. She just rolled her eyes hard enough to give herself a headache and left the apartment.

It was Chloe who saved her. She'd laughed at Jalene’s dramatic retelling of her financial despair and said, “If you can clean, I’ve got something for you.”

Fifty bucks an hour. Free room and board if she lived in. Just one client. A bachelor.

By the end of the week, Jalene found herself standing inside an intimidating, luxury apartment.

She sat on the edge of the pristine couch, back straight, hands clasped, trying not to let her jaw drop at the extravagant furnishings.

"You can use the guest room for the entire three months you'll be here. Familiarize yourself with the apartment. I don't have time to give you a tour. I sent you an email on the dishes I like and my routine. Study it. I don’t like repeating myself. I was told you're a professional, so I expect you to act accordingly."

He refocused on his laptop, effectively dismissing her.

Jalene stood up slowly, picking her jaw off the floor.

He's gonna fuck you and make you his sugar baby! Chloe had screeched when Jalene accepted the job. Elias Moore is filthy rich! she’d said.

Well, that part was true, Jalene grumbled to herself as she trudged off to find the guest room, disappointment turning her legs to lead.

She’d been so excited to meet her boss, her potential benefactor, that she'd spent her last scrap of cash shopping for sexy lingerie and seductive body mists.

She had dressed to impress; classy, but with subtle touches that highlighted her best features.

Struggling to control her trembling, she’d waited for him in anticipation, only to barely be spared a second glance as he laid down a list of rules. It was clear he wasn’t interested in any other kind of service but the one he was paying for.

Five days later, she was immersed in prepping dinner when a tall, pretty white boy strolled into the kitchen.

He sat at the island, arms folded on the marble, and watched her. Boldly.

Jalene flicked her eyes his way. Finally, someone with a functioning libido.

“Hey,” he said, voice smooth.

She nodded back, coolly. Kept chopping.

Elias soon joined them, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

He moved to leave, then paused as if remembering something.

"Jalene, this is Clark Kent. He'll be spending the summer here."

Jalene looked up sharply. “I was told I was being hired by one person.”

Elias looked at her like she was slow. “You are. By me. He’s my guest. Is there a problem?”

Jalene let out a slow breath. “If he’s staying the whole summer, that means more work for me.”

Elias pinched his brows, like talking to her gave him a migraine. “If it’s more money you want, I’ll double your pay. Though I don’t see what the fuss is about. You’re only here to cook and clean, not change anyone’s diapers.”

He walked off, leaving Jalene gaping after him.

Clark chuckled. “You need to calm down. Can’t be healthy to have your heart beating that fast. Also... might wanna unclench all those muscles before you pass out.”

Jalene released a sharp gust of air. She had been clenching, from her fists to her thighs, trying to stop herself from doing something she’d regret. Her heart rate was definitely off the charts... but.

“How’d you know all that?” she asked.

“All what?” Clark smirked.

“My heart rate. My muscles.”

“I have X-ray vision,” he said, winking.

“Haha.” But she turned away with a small grin, hiding it behind her chopping board.

Clark kept her company, teasing and bantering with her while she cooked. In turn, she made him her official taster — handing him bites of everything she prepared as he gushed praise and made her laugh until she had tears in her eyes.

By the time she was ready to set the table, she was grateful Clark was staying.

She walked out with a bowl of steaming rice while Clark followed behind with the sauce.

As she set the table, Elias walked into the dining area wearing grey sweats and a black durag.

Her clit throbbed.

Fuck.

He was fine. An ass, but fine.

She turned quickly to Clark and offered an award-winning smile. He was hot too — and nice. Maybe he could be nice to other parts of her as well.

“Set the table for three,” Elias said.

She turned to him, questioning.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he said sharply. “Set the table for three. I told you I hate repeating myself.”

Clark reached over and touched her hand gently. “We’re expecting someone else, Jalene. I’ll help you get the plates.”

Jalene nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

The table was nearly set when the front door opened. A caramel-skinned, green-eyed man with a body sculpted from stone walked in.

Her heart lurched. The throbbing between her legs increased.

Clark gave her a sly smile and winked.

She shook her head at him and hurried off to her room.

Her fingers were already inside her panties before she realized what she was doing.

Too late.

Her clit was swollen, her body desperate. She circled the aching nub, dipping two fingers inside herself, chasing release.

When she could finally think again, she changed her panties, washed her hands in the sink, and stepped out to ask if they needed her for anything.

Clark’s eyes found her the moment she entered the dining room. All three were eating, but he stared at her as he chewed, heat simmering in his gaze, like he knew exactly what she’d been doing moments ago.

She looked away quickly, unable to bear the intensity.

“Is…” She cleared her throat. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Go and eat,” Elias said, his voice flat with command.

“I’m not hungry.”

“What did I say about repeating myself?”

She hurried into the kitchen, a pulse already throbbing again between her legs.

Get a hold of yourself, Jalene. What is wrong with you? Her brain admonished.

She was still trying to calm down when Clark walked into the kitchen carrying the used plates.

She straightened quickly as he approached, offering an apologetic smile.

"You didn't have to," she said, reaching for the plates.

He sidestepped her smoothly, bringing them to the sink. "It's okay. I don’t have anything better to do."

She snatched the soap just as he reached for it, giggling when he tried to take it from her.

She leaned in to grab a plate, but he caught her arm and gently pulled her into him.

Her eyes flicked up to his. Every nerve in her body reacted to the heat of him so close.

He searched her face, as if asking a silent question — and she leaned into him, tilting her head to offer her lips.

He claimed them.

His mouth molded to hers, his hand sliding from her arm to wrap around her waist and pull her tighter.

His lips moved slowly, sensually — like he was making love to them — reigniting the hunger she’d only just begun to suppress.

She moaned softly, her hands slipping down to grab his firm ass.

A voice whispered in the back of her mind: What are you doing? You don’t even know this man. She silenced it with an annoyed grunt.

She’d been stuck in this house for almost a week with one of the sexiest men she’d ever seen. Her body was starving.

Just as she began to melt into him, he pulled away.

“Eat,” he whispered in her ear. Then he was gone.

That night, she finally dug out the lingerie she thought she’d never wear.

She didn’t know exactly what was going to happen, but she craved it.

The silk teased her nipples as she ran her hands over the short, flimsy dress. She skipped the panties. The sooner they got to the point, the better.

She had just started to drift off when her door opened.

Through her lashes, she made out Clark’s tall frame moving to her bedside. He wore a robe.

“Hi,” he said softly, sitting down.

She sat up slowly and slipped the dress off.

“Took you long enough.”

Several rooms away, two men sat watching a screen. From the tiny speakers in their ears, Jalene’s lustful moan — with Clark's head between her legs — floated out.

Tag list @daniiwrites @rose-bliss Let me know if you want to be tagged.

[clumsydolly]

Obey me x Deuce Spade!Reader Part 3, Final Part!

Warnings!⚠️: mentions of gang violence

Thank you for the ask! Please send more I'm loving these! This is the last one! Please enjoy!

Diavolo

Diavolo absolutely loved you the moment you opened your mouth. Not because you greeted him with reverence or grace. No. Because the first thing you did was attempt the most polite full-body bow the Devildom had ever seen and completely wiped out on the slick marble floor of the castle.

You popped up with a mortified, flushed face and started profusely apologizing for embarrassing the entire human realm, your mom, and possibly the concept of school uniforms itself and Diavolo? Diavolo was laughing like he’d just been blessed with immortality again.

“Please, don’t worry! That was the most entertaining greeting I’ve had in centuries!”

You had no idea whether to feel honored or humiliated.

Diavolo quickly became your biggest cheerleader. You were trying so hard to be a good student, trying to behave and keep your grades up, trying not to punch demons in the face when they made fun of your dorky rule-following attitude. He saw it all and adored every bit of it.

“You remind me of a much younger version of myself!” he’d say, clapping a massive hand on your back. “So much heart! So much... energy!”

Barbatos and Lucifer gave him a blank stare cause..... that's still exactly how he acts.

You were never sure if he meant that as a compliment or a prelude to accidentally being roped into some kind of ancient demon obstacle course tradition.

He invited you to everything: festivals, council meetings, weird experimental classes, even a Devildom version of spirit week (except with more glitter and sentient confetti). Sometimes he dragged you along just to see what you'd do when faced with eldritch food that blinked at you.

Honestly? It was exhausting.

You'd try to politely excuse yourself, saying you needed to study or prep for an exam, and he'd give you those big golden puppy eyes and say things like:

“But Y/n! You’ve been working so hard! Surely one cursed dodgeball game won’t hurt your academic performance?”

And every time, every time, you’d sigh and agree, because how were you supposed to say no to a demon prince who just wanted to have fun and make his realm less horrifying?

But the best part?

He genuinely respected your goals. The honor student thing? The wanting to make your mom proud? He didn’t laugh. Didn’t call it cheesy. In fact, he often leaned down and quietly said, “That’s very noble of you. I think your mother would be proud already.”

And somehow, that meant more coming from him than you'd expected.

Diavolo also got weirdly competitive with helping you study. Like, full-on quiz-show buzzer system installed in the castle library, glow-in-the-dark flashcards, and surprise pop quizzes in the halls.

“Who needs a tutor when you’ve got a prince, the prince and future ruler of hell at that?”

Lucifer nearly banned him from throwing more events after turning the House of Lamentation into a live-action study anime. But you had to admit… you were learning more than ever.

There were moments, too, when you realized Diavolo understood your stress more than most. One night, after a council meeting went south and you had a panic spiral about failing to speak up, he just… sat beside you. No jokes. No big Diavolo energy.

“I know what it’s like,” he said softly. “To try so hard to make others proud… and still feel like it’s not enough.”

You stared at him in shock. Then nodded. You didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need you to. He clapped your back, gently this time, and just said, “We’re all figuring it out, Y/n.”

Yeah. That was a good moment.

______

Bonus

Diavolo was ecstatic when you told him your mom would be visiting the Devildom for Parent-Student Day. He planned an entire royal reception for her. Trumpets. Banners. A fresh-baked welcome cake that looked like a whole architectural model of RAD.

You showed up with your mom in tow, a nervous mess. “Please, please just act normal,” you whispered.

“Of course,” Diavolo said… as a throne was carried in behind him by two demon butlers in formalwear.

He bowed deeply. “It is an honor to welcome the woman who raised the brightest star of the exchange program!”

Your mom blinked. “Oh. Um. Thank you? That’s very kind. Is—are those fireworks?”

“Yes!” Diavolo beamed. “For your arrival!”

You covered your face. “I’m never going to recover from this.”

Your mom turned to you, smiling with the faintest glimmer in her eyes. “He clearly thinks the world of you, sweetie.”

You turned beet red. Diavolo just gave you a thumbs up behind her back. You were going to scream.

Barbatos

You weren’t afraid of Barbatos.

You were respectful—you weren’t trying to die before midterms—but you weren’t scared.

Which, apparently, made you a rare species.

Everyone else seemed to tiptoe around him like he was going to time-warp them into oblivion for forgetting to bow. But you? You called him “Sir Tea Butler” for two weeks before you realized that wasn’t actually his job title. And even then, you only switched to “Your Grace of Caffeinated Precision.”

“I assume you know I can hear you from across the manor,” he said one afternoon, hands politely folded, voice calm as a blade.

“Of course,” you replied, scribbling notes in the library. “I was hoping you would. I need help organizing my study schedule. I heard you're basically the physical embodiment of a Google Calendar with a soul.”

He blinked. Slowly. Then walked over, took your planner, and began reorganizing it without another word.

Thus began a strange alliance.

Barbatos never outright said he liked you. But he never corrected your dumb nicknames. Never scoffed when you asked for study help at 2 a.m. And he definitely didn’t not smirk when you turned your hallway collisions with Luci into tactical flashcard ambushes.

You were always trying to be better faster, smarter, more put-together. Barbatos recognized it in you before you said a word. You wanted your mom to be proud. Wanted to prove you weren’t just some guy from the human world. You were going to graduate honor student or die trying.

He respected the hell out of that.

And you respected him, too. Sure, he was terrifying in that “I definitely know exactly when and how you���re going to mess up” kind of way. But he was also weirdly kind, in a silent-but-deadly-supportive sort of fashion.

One time, you completely bombed a magic test. Like, charred-the-desk levels of failure. You were spiraling hard flashing back to every moment you’d doubted yourself, every time your mom said “you have so much potential” like it was a warning.

You didn’t tell anyone.

But that night, Barbatos casually left a brand-new stack of enchanted flashcards on your desk. No note. No lecture. Just quiet acknowledgment. And a little devil-faced sticky tab that said You’ll get there.

You stared at it for a solid five minutes before blurting, “Oh my god, he believes in me??” into the void.

After that, things changed. Not dramatically. Just… more time spent together in small moments. He’d test you on trivia while making Diavolo’s tea. Ask you to help prep desserts, then quiz you on Devildom law as you piped demon-honey glaze onto cupcakes. He never made it easy. But he always made it worth it.

Eventually, you stopped calling him “Sir Time Knife” and started calling him Barbatos.

(You still slipped in “Captain Crunch of Reality” once in a while, just to see if he’d crack.)

He never did.

But the next time you passed your magical theory exam with full marks, there was a tiny celebration cake on your desk with “Honor Student in Progress” written in pristine frosting script.

You didn’t cry.

You absolutely did not cry.

_____

Bonus

Your mom arrived fifteen minutes early.

Barbatos was waiting ten minutes before that.

He greeted her with an elegant bow so precise it could’ve been choreographed. “You must be Y/n’s esteemed mother. I have heard many wonderful things.”

Your mom blinked. “That’s funny. All I’ve heard is that you might be a time-controlling murder butler?”

There was a pause.

Then Barbatos chuckled softly. “I see Y/n has inherited your sense of humor."

“I see Y/n’s been bothering you with honor student goals and moral anxiety?”

He offered her tea before responding. “They’ve been... refreshingly sincere.”

You were behind them, frozen with a plate of demon cookies and a rising sense of dread. “Mom. Please don’t scare the actual devil butler.”

Barbatos turned to you with a faint smile. “On the contrary, Y/n. I’m rather charmed.”

Your mom looked between you two. Then leaned in with the smirk of a woman who knew. “So, how long has my kid been turning your perfect schedule into controlled chaos?”

“Long enough,” Barbatos replied with a rare glint in his eye, “that I find the castle quiet when they’re not around.”

You nearly passed out, again.

Your mom’s smirk only widened. “Good.”

Simeon

You were already on the verge of a breakdown when Simeon found you in the garden behind Purgatory Hall, arms full of notebooks, eyes twitching, hair sticking out like you'd fought gravity and lost.

“Y/n,” he greeted gently, hands folded behind his back like he hadn’t just caught you aggressively arguing with a textbook. “Studying for the Celestial History midterm again?”

You turned to him with the glazed-over look of a sleep-deprived honor student in crisis. “Simeon, if I don't ace this, I'm going to spiral so hard my mom will feel the academic failure from another realm. She’ll be so disappointed she might start haunting me alive.”

Simeon’s lips twitched with amusement. “I’m not sure your mother would resort to ghostly vengeance over a B+.”

“Then you don’t know my mom.”

You had a plan, okay? You weren’t just some chaotic human spiraling through the Devildom for fun. You wanted to succeed. You wanted to change the course of your life, turn over a new leaf, reinvent yourself, all that jazz. Your past? A mess. Your high school report card? Looked like a crime scene. But now, now you had goals. Big, nerdy, honor-student-shaped goals. And your mom? She was going to be so proud.

Simeon found all of that incredibly endearing.

And mildly alarming.

Because despite your cursing, sarcasm, and emotional breakdowns via color-coded sticky notes, he saw a person who just really wanted to do good. You reminded him of the younger angels he used to mentor all fire and no filter, pure-hearted and prone to crying into exam booklets at 2 a.m.

So he started showing up more often.

First it was subtle, an extra chair at the Purgatory Hall dinner table, a pot of tea placed at your elbow mid-cram session. Then it became consistent. Study sessions under the trees. Notes written in perfect script. Warm, reassuring glances every time you panicked about whether your essay on Celestial War II had enough citations to emotionally move your professor.

He didn’t rush you. He didn’t laugh when you got flustered. And he certainly didn’t bat an eye when you stress-ranted about “academic self-worth trauma” over burnt toast.

Instead, he encouraged you, gently, patiently. His words were always calm, thoughtful. He’d praise your improvements, not just your outcomes. “You’re learning,” he’d say. “And that’s worth more than the grade.”

You wanted to believe him. You really did. But it was hard, sometimes.

Especially when you slipped into old habits, talking yourself down, setting expectations so high you needed a grappling hook just to reach them.

One afternoon, when you nearly set your spellbook on fire during a stress spiral, Simeon simply reached over, took your hands, and said, “Y/n. Your mother isn’t proud of your grades. She’s proud that you’re trying.”

You stared at him. Then burst into tears and immediately apologized for crying. Which he, of course, assured you was completely okay.

(He even handed you a linen handkerchief embroidered with a tiny angel and the phrase It’s okay to have emotions in Latin.)

You weren’t sure if he was trying to be helpful or trolling you.

Probably both.

_____

Bonus

Your mom arrived with one goal: Assess everyone her child interacted with and decide who to grill for details.

Simeon greeted her with the kind of warmth that made even your mom’s iron-willed personality soften slightly.

“You must be Y/n’s mother,” he said, bowing slightly. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet the person they speak of with such admiration.”

Your mom raised a brow. “And you are?”

“Simeon. A teacher, writer, and close friend.”

She nodded slowly. “Are you the one who keeps writing cheesy moral encouragements on their lunch bags? cause that sure wasn't me.”

“That does sound like me.”

You turned red. “Wait, you’ve been seeing those?? I said don’t tell her!”

“‘Hope is the candle in the darkness’ was a little dramatic, don’t you think?” your mom said, smirking.

“I liked that one,” you muttered.

Simeon chuckled. “Y/n is quite capable of handling themselves. I simply enjoy offering support where I can.”

Your mom looked at him long and hard. “So you’re the emotional damage control, huh?”

“In so many words,” he replied serenely.

She clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. “Well, as long as they don’t forget to eat during finals again, you’re doing fine by me.”

You stared. “What?? Mom?? That’s it?? No threats? No interrogation??”

She waved you off. “He’s polite. He’s calm. And he didn’t let you stress-eat fourteen instant noodles in one night. That’s a win.”

Simeon gave you a knowing smile, and for once, you had no sarcastic comeback.

You were too busy silently panicking that your mom liked him.

Solomon

You and Solomon were not friends.

At least, that’s what you told yourself the fifth time he blew up your potion homework because he “wanted to test the density of the stress spell under extreme disappointment.”

“Solomon, I swear to the Devildom—” “Relax, Y/n. You didn’t even lose your eyebrows this time.”

You had goals, okay? You were trying to be better. You wanted to stop being seen as a problem child, stop letting your mom down, stop flunking out of every class that required even a hint of magical discipline. And then this sorcerer-alien-man with centuries of poor impulse control kept showing up like a walking safety hazard wrapped in a smug smile and the scent of singed textbooks.

“Why are you like this?” you’d asked, defeated, as your cauldron disintegrated into ash.

“Charming and curious?” he offered, clearly proud.

You threw a pencil at his head. He caught it without looking.

But somehow, somehow, you kept ending up in his lab.

Maybe it was because he never judged you when you freaked out. Maybe it was because he called your meltdown over getting a B- on a paper “admirably dramatic.” Maybe it was because, even when he teased you, he still stayed up until 3 a.m. helping you master spellwork that made your head hurt.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was because he looked at you like you weren’t a burden. Like you were a fascinating equation he hadn’t solved yet not in a cold, detached way, but with genuine interest. Like you were something he wanted to understand.

“You’re trying so hard,” he’d said one night, watching you glare at your own reflection in the library mirror. “I can see it.”

You blinked. “And you’re not going to mock me for that?”

“I might. But only because I think you’re doing great and I want to see how red your face gets.”

You didn’t say anything. You just shoved your face into your book to avoid combusting from the warmth spreading across your cheeks.

When you asked him why he was always poking around your study sessions or dragging you into dangerous magical experiments, he just shrugged.

“You remind me of me. A little too stubborn. A little too intense. Prone to overachieving and under-sleeping.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

But he meant it kindly. And you knew it. In his own chaotic, borderline criminal way, Solomon was looking out for you. Making sure you didn’t burn out. Teaching you shortcuts (some legal, most not). Making you laugh when you were spiraling. You never quite knew if he was going to hand you a perfectly tailored magical exam guide or accidentally drop you through a cursed mirror into another dimension, but either way he was always there.

And he never once made you feel stupid for wanting to make your mom proud.

He even offered to enchant your final project presentation scroll so it sparkled just right when you held it up. You declined, of course. (But you appreciated the offer.)

______

Bonus

You didn’t warn your mom about Solomon.

Because, frankly, you weren’t sure how to explain Solomon.

He showed up to greet her in full ancient robes, hair too perfect, smile too unreadable.

“Mrs. Y/n’s Mom,” he said, bowing with an exaggerated flourish. “An honor to meet the woman responsible for such a delightful academic overachiever.”

Your mom narrowed her eyes. “You’re the reason they keep stress-vomiting glitter, aren’t you?”

“I prefer to call it experimental resilience training,” he said.

She gave you a look. You gave her a “please don’t disown me” look back.

Solomon continued, entirely unbothered. “Y/n is a phenomenal student. Passionate, driven, very dramatic. I think they get that from you.”

Your mom blinked, clearly torn between skepticism and begrudging pride. “You’re not dating my child, are you?”

“Only intellectually, for now” Solomon said without missing a beat.

You made a choked sound. “I’m going to crawl into a hole now, thanks.”

But instead of grilling him further, your mom sighed. “Well, as long as they’re eating properly and not summoning anything that’ll eat them, I guess I’ll allow it.”

Solomon flashed you a victorious grin. You groaned.

“I hate how smooth you are,” you muttered.

“Careful,” he whispered back. “That sounded almost like a compliment.”

SURPRISE

The thing no one ever warned you about when you decided to get your life together was that doing so in the Devildom meant you’d somehow end up emotionally responsible for a tiny angel child who baked you judgmental cupcakes and followed you around like a self-righteous golden retriever.

“Y/n,” Luke huffed one afternoon as you tried (and failed) to study over his glaring. “That is your third soda this hour. You are going to combust.”

“It’s demon soda,” you muttered without looking up. “It doesn’t even have real sugar.”

“You have two papers to finish and you promised to help me test my lemon cookie recipe!”

“Luke.”

“What?!”

“You’re ten. You don’t get to be my mother.”

Luke crossed his arms. “Then act like a responsible adult and I won’t have to.”

And you’d rolled your eyes and muttered something about “brat seraphs,” but the truth was, he was right. And you liked it when he checked in on you. When he hovered over your notebook and praised your spelling. When he sat beside you during study nights and said things like, “You’re doing great. I’m proud of you, you know.” Like it wasn’t the most casual knife to your heart every time.

Because deep down, you were always trying. Trying not to mess up. Trying to make your mom proud. Trying to be someone worth being proud of.

And Luke? Luke never looked at you like you were a lost cause.

So yeah. You were a little protective of the kid. Maybe even too protective.

You didn’t plan for Luke to be there when your mom visited. Honestly, you were kind of hoping to play it cool you’d cleaned your room, pre-prepared an academic progress report, and practiced saying things like “Yes, I’m sleeping regularly” without blinking.

What you weren’t expecting was to walk into the kitchen and find Luke and your mom bonding over banana muffins like they’d known each other for years.

“...And then he just threw the flour bag, like it was a confetti cannon!” Luke was saying, utterly scandalized.

Your mom gasped, hand to her chest. “No!”

“Yes! I told him, ‘Solomon, you are banned from this kitchen!’ And then he tried to hide behind a mixing bowl, like that would help!”

“Oh, sweetie, you poor thing! That’s it,” your mom declared, scooping him into a side hug with zero hesitation. “You’re my grandson now.”

You stood there in the doorway, jaw slack. “I’m sorry. WHAT?”

Luke beamed. “She says I’m very mature for my age.”

“She’s right,” your mom said. “He has more emotional intelligence than you did when you were (insert age)[idk].”

“....but I'm still (age),....and Luke is ten...”

“Exactly.”

Luke sipped his lemonade with a smug expression that was going to haunt your dreams. “Mrs. Y/n’s Mom, can we adopt a cat together and name it Justice?”

“Oh my heavens, of course we can.”

You had never felt so outnumbered in your life. It was like watching two planets align just to roast you in unison.

“Okay, first of all, this is weirdly fast, and second, I was going to show you my test scores!”

“Later, dear,” your mom said, waving a hand like she hadn’t just derailed your entire life trajectory. “Luke is telling me about his friendship bracelet ministry. He gives them to demons to promote pacifism. Pacifism, Y/n. With glitter thread. What do you do?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

"...I once didn’t punch Mammon?”

Luke reached over and patted your hand gently. “We’re working on them, Grandma.”

Your mom nodded seriously. “All part of the process.”

Thank you for reading! I hope you all enjoyed it! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated! 🩷

[edupunkn00b]

You Know 'Found Family' Is Only an Idiom, Right?

A standard review of Janus' permanent record reveals a secret his teacher, one Mr. Logan Sanders, was uniquely positioned to recognize.

Written for @fandombead/@icycove for the @tss-camp-and-coffee Camp Cartoon writing event. WC: 2168 - Rated: G - CW: None, essentially fluff and snark. There's inherent angst in adoption and the foster system but it's all left to the imagination of the reader. - My other camp stories

For the fourth time in a single afternoon, Logan quietly cursed that day’s fire drill. Originally scheduled for third period, the school’s lacrosse coach had successfully lobbied to have it moved to fourth so that it wouldn’t interrupt the team's practice time.

The Dean had conceded and moved the drill. Right into Logan’s prep period.

With a bit of schedule finagling—and a rushed lunch of a third cup of coffee and granola bar which Patton would not need to know about—Logan had been able to get back on track. By the time his final period of the day had ended, he’d managed to make it work and fit in nearly everything on the day’s task list.

Nearly everything.

He now sat at his desk, five minutes before the start of his office hours and the start of his senior review with the final name on his list. And he hadn’t yet properly reviewed the student’s file.

Janus Woods was not completely unknown to him. Sly and sarcastic, he was the student most other teachers in the school dreaded to see on their rosters. In his years at the school, the boy's behavior had never quite risen to the level of outright insubordination or disruption. He seemed to have a knack for knowing precisely where that line was.

And he relished dancing along its razor sharp edge.

Despite his spotty grades, Janus was frequently assigned to one Logan’s honors or AP classes. Logan had never expressed that strong of a reaction to teaching him and perhaps that explained his other teachers’ eagerness to recommend him for the honors track. Not to say he didn’t belong there. The boy’s snark all-too-often revealed a sharp wit that no doubt foretold of a strong academic career. If only he’d drop the ‘above it all’ act and genuinely apply himself.

Shaking away his own internal lecture, Logan opened Janus’ file. If this was to be a productive meeting in which to review Janus’ post-graduation plans, he needed to go by more than ‘vibes’ as his seniors liked to say.

Janus’ transcript was much as he expected. Barely passing phys ed the few semesters he hadn’t managed to be formally excused. Attended the honors track but without distinction. No clubs or associations. He turned the page, wincing when he saw the electronic records now even included when students purchased tickets to after school events. Janus had attended a few school plays, but no sporting events. No dances.

His SAT scores were phenomenal but there was no note of which college he planned to attend. There were records of any transcript requests from any of the schools he’d applied to.

Frowning down at the file, his eye caught on Janus’ address.

204 Center Street

That was… Logan pulled up his phone contacts and confirmed his memory. 204 Center Street was the address for the group home where their sons had lived before he and Patton had adopted them.

He checked the parental contact page again. No names, only a phone number.

The same phone number to the central social work line Logan had memorized during Virgil's early years.

Logan flipped back to Janus’ cover sheet. Janus was four months away from eighteenth birthday. It had taken over a year for them to finalize the paperwork for the twins. Virgil, being older and somewhat more complicated, had taken twice as long.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Sanders?” Janus drawled from the doorway. A thick paperback book clutched to his chest, the boy stood stiffly, face a neutral mask. While some students approached their senior planning session with giddiness, others with a blasé case of senioritis, Janus appeared cautious, unsure of what Logan might want with him.

“Yes, please, come in, Janus. I—if you’ll forgive me, I must make a very brief phone call.”

Janus half-shrugged and sat down in the seat closest to the door. And furthest from Logan's desk. He pulled out a battered copy of Les Misérables—in French—and began to read.

Logan unlocked his phone, watching him. There were no French classes on Janus' transcript. He'd fulfilled his two years of language requirement with Spanish and German.

“Well, hey there, Logie! What a nice surprise!” His husband’s cheery voice melted away the icy knot growing in his chest and he smiled. "Hi Daddy!" the twins called from the background.

Janus glanced up at him then quickly looked away.

“Is everything okay?” The sound changed as Patton clicked the call from car speakers to his earbud. Logan glanced at the time. They were likely mid-afternoon pickup, on their way to get Virgil from the middle school.

“Everything is fine, well, it… I don’t have much time, but do you remember what we were talking about over the weekend? About…”

“You mean Virgie joking about getting a new brother to replace the twins?”

He cleared his throat, stifling a chuckle at the tumult his little statement had sparked. And the long conversation that followed. “More what came out of it.”

“Oh,” Patton’s voice went low. “Are you having second thoughts about applying?”

“On the contrary,” Logan said, catching the moment when Janus became absorbed in his book, curling around it as his eyes danced over the words, expression shifting as the tale unfolded. “Pat, do you trust my judgement?” he asked quietly.

“We—well, of course, Logie. Are you okay?”

“I am fine, I am… More than fine. I will explain everything when I get home,” he promised. “See you in a few hours. Love you,” he murmured, cheeks warming when Janus’ eyes darted up at him.

“Love you, Logie,” Patton called, switching the phone back to speaker mode. A chorus of “Love you, Daddy!” poured through from the twins in the back.

Still smiling, Logan ended the call and put away his phone. He looked up at Janus, the boy’s sharp eyes already fixed on him. The book had disappeared.

“You always call your wife after class?” he drawled, drumming his fingers on the desk.

“Husband,” he corrected, noting the flash of surprise. “And, no.” Logan gestured at the seat next to his own desk. “Would you like to sit here or would you rather I join you there?” He looked pointedly around the empty classroom. “Unless, of course you prefer we shout at each other across the distance.”

Janus shrugged and gestured to the seat beside him. Nodding, Logan closed the folder and brought it and a notepad to the new seat. Pose frozen, Janus watched him from the corner of his eye, another lingering spark of surprise in his gaze.

“Most teachers would’ve made me move,” he said as though Logan was somehow dull.

“Perhaps,” Logan admitted. “Am I most teachers?”

Shifting in his seat, Janus looked at him but didn’t answer.

Logan let the silence sit between them for a few beats then opened his file. “When I originally scheduled this time with you, I’d intended it as the standard ‘what are your post-graduation plans’ session,” he began. He turned the folder so Janus could see what was inside.

His hands twitched, peering closely at the thick file, and Logan passed it to him.

“Is that allowed?” Janus said. He didn’t wait for an answer and pulled the file close, flipping through the pages as though searching for something.

“It’s your record,” Logan answered with his own little shrug. He gave Janus a bit of time to review what was inside. “There’s no mention of what college you plan to attend after you graduate.”

Janus’ face tightened and he closed the file. “I’m taking a gap year,” he said. “I thought I might backpack through Europe or some such adventure.”

“A year in Europe,” Logan nodded. “That would be quite an adventure.” Janus remained silent. “What do your parents think of that?”

“They’re thrilled,” Janus lied. “It’s all Dad ever talks about, it’s a bit of a family tradition. You understand,” he said, passing back the file. “So I suppose that’s all you need from me?” he said, beginning to rise from his seat.

Logan took the file but otherwise didn’t move. “And these are your parents at the St. Jerome Foundling Home, yes?”

Janus froze, back still turned. “That’s not what my file says.”

“No, it’s not,” Logan said. “But I recognized your address from when my husband and I adopted our sons.”

Slow clapping, Janus turned with a scowl. “Most impressive detective work,” he spat before quickly schooling his features back into that stiff mask. “I suppose this is where we have a heart-to-heart and you assure me some family out there will be lucky to have me? You tell me not to give up hope, to apply myself and go to college and I skip out of here with renewed purpose and go work at a soup kitchen or something?”

“Is that what you want?” Logan asked mildly.

“What?” Janus sputtered. Visibly taken aback, he sank back down in his seat, bag still hanging from his shoulder.

“A family?” Logan turned in his seat to fully face him. “To go to college?” Emotions flashed over Janus’ face, too quickly for Logan to interpret. “I assume the soup kitchen was sarcasm but you are eligible for service credit if you decide to volunteer.” He pointed to his desk. “I have the forms if you need them.”

“Do you take everything so damn literally?” Janus asked, tone too soft to match his words.

“No.” Logan considered. “Yes. It depends on which of my sons you ask.”

Janus stared at him, mouth twitching with some unspoken comeback. His eyes held the same look they’d had when he’d been reading, though. As much as he wanted to regain the upper hand, it seemed he wanted to know what might happen next even more.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Logan prompted.

“Of course I want to go to college,” he said, crossing and uncrossing his arms. Finally he settled on folding his hands on the desk in a sphinx pose. He jerked his chin at the file still in front of Logan. “I missed the dorm deposit deadline and apartments in transit distance of the school are… prohibitive.”

“Do you drive?” Logan asked. Their high school was over ten miles from the group home. He must spend hours on buses each day.

“No, I usually have Alfred take me wherever I need to go,” he drolled.

“Right.” Logan nodded. “So housing is a major obstacle to attending school next year.”

Janus raised an eyebrow, the silent ‘Duh,’ an expression Logan recognized from Virgil’s snarkier moments.

“You haven’t yet answered my other question,” he said slowly. “Do you want a family?”

“If you ever quit teaching, you could have a career as a comedian,” Janus huffed. “The pay would be just as bad, I presume.”

“I will keep that under advisement,” Logan chuckled. “Thanks to my husband’s family, we do not have concerns on that front.”

Mouth pinched, Janus stared at him. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Do you want a family?” Logan asked again. “If you don’t, there are other ways we can assist you, to help ensure you can go to school once you age out of the foster care system.” He shrugged, palms up. “But if you’d like to be formally adopted before you turn eighteen, we should consider starting the process soon.”

“You’re serious.”

Logan smiled. “Indeed.”

“And this isn’t a ploy to get me to some secondary location and show me how you really want me to earn your assistance?”

Logan’s throat tightened at the flash of fear in Janus’ eyes. “No.” He shook his head and took out his phone. Thumbing through, he opened the photo roll then passed it to him. “This is my family,” he said. Janus stared at him for a moment before looked down at the photos. The most recent set were from the twins’ birthday party, including several of the cake-strewn dining room table, the result of Remus’ proud demonstration of his home-made trebuchet.

“Hate to see what the punishment for that was,” Janus muttered, scrolling through the images.

“We cleaned it up together,” Logan said. “And the trebuchet stays outside now.”

Phone still gripped in his hand, Janus searched his eyes for the lie. He didn’t find one. After another moment, he passed the phone back. “So what do you want?”

Logan pocketed the phone and shrugged. “I would like you to meet my family,” he said after a moment. “And I’d like you to consider joining it.”

“Is this just your kin—thing,” he backtracked, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. “You go around collecting wayward souls like Pokemon? That how you got them?” he asked gesturing toward the now hidden phone.

“That’s an entirely different story,” Logan said. “Would you like to meet them and find out?”

Janus' jaw twitched, eyes distant as he stared out past Logan’s shoulder. Finally, he took a deep breath and nodded. “I think perhaps I would.”