February 14th brought as much pink-and-red heart balloons and hallway make-outs as you had expected, and first period hadn’t even started yet. The hallways were decorated for the Valentine’s Day dance, and you just stood outside Mr. Jones’s door, books clutched to your chest, blushing at the thought of who your Valentine was this year.
The two of you had had a cute, secretive relationship for a few weeks now, and gone on very discreet dates. You wondered if he had anything planned for today, but considering it was a school night, that was probably a no. Just in case, however, something happened during school, you had dressed nice; and by nice, I mean a nice, red, half-to-the-knees skirt and white half-calf boots. A white, fluffy long-sleeved sweater with a scooping neckline showed off only the straps of your red tank top.
You were still very anxious to see him, and waited impatiently outside of your US History class with your fellow classmates.
“Hey,” said the familiar voice of a boy with butterscotch blond hair, almost Mr. Jones’s doppelganger except for the freckles. He was way cute, but had always struck you as rather standoffish. He leaned against the door, quirky half-smile making him look almost amiable. “So…Valentine’s day,” he said shyly, looking down at the floor.
“What do you want, Sam?” you asked suspiciously.
“I, w-well…” The stutter made his already-cute, thick Southern accent even more adorable. “I like you. I kinda have for awhile and, uh…”
His words shocked you. This was news. “I…didn’t know you were into girls, actually.” You hadn’t really meant to say that. A brief spell of anger flashed over his pale blue eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “That just kind of came out. I…I’m sorry, please continue.”
He took a breath, looking a bit shaken. “I was…I was wonderin’ if, um. If you’d like to be my Valentine.”
You didn’t know what to say. ”Oh, I’m sorry, Sam, I’m already dating our history teacher.” “I’d love to, but you’ve always kind of been a dick to me.” So you just kind of stuttered. “Uh…I…”
He bit his lip, leaning toward you. Oh no, this was bad.
He closed his eyes, placing a hand on your shoulder, and just before your lips met his other hand hit your other shoulder and you stumbled backward—or tried, but something was stopping your feet from moving, and you tripped backward over what you would later discover was a balled-up Peter Kirkland.
“WAH!” you cried, shutting your eyes and flailing, bracing yourself for contact with the hard linoleum floor to an audience of laughing high schoolers and clattering books.
But the expected impact was impeded by a pair of strong arms accompanied by a concerned cry of your name, and when you opened your eyes you were looking upside-down into Mr. Jones’s face, all your weight supported by his hands as he helped you back up to your feet. “You okay?” he asked, picking up your scattered books.
“Yes,” you panted, blushing. “Yeah, I’m fine…”
He smiled, relieved, and then glared past you at Sam. “Do you think that’s funny?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” Sam replied indignantly, clearing his throat from a cackle fit. “Did you see her face?”
“Will you quit trying to be such a rebel?” Mr. Jones growled. “No one thinks it’s funny.”
“They all did,” said Sam, nodding at the other students.
“Well anyone who laughed at that is incredibly immature,” said Mr. Jones, looking around at the others. Many of the girls of the class looked away, ashamed. The hallway quieted and Mr. Jones unlocked the classroom door, letting everyone shuffle in.
“Thank you,” you whispered as you passed.
“Any time, sweetheart,” he whispered back, giving you a wink and handing you your books. You smiled brightly and took your seat.
You wrote the warm-up quickly and dedicated some time to giving the teacher a good once-over. Very festive today, you noted, as his shirt was light pink and his tie was purple and silver. You estimated the number of immature gay jokes that would be thrown in his direction today, and then admired his boldness for wearing the colors despite this inevitability. Obviously, he didn’t care what anyone thought.
Except, maybe, you.
He finished up what he was writing on the board and made his way to your desk, smirking as he whispered, “Checkin’ me out?”
“I could feel your eyes on me.”
You flushed. “Don’t get so cocky just because you’ve got me. You’re still my teacher, not some lady-killer.”
“Apparently, I’m both.”
It had been a packed first period, so you didn’t get much one-on-one time with your beloved teacher before the bell obliged you to head to the next class. But as soon as lunch started, you nearly bowled people over in the hallway, so anxious were you to reach Jones’s classroom.
“Hi!” you said, closing the door behind you and smiling over at the teacher behind his desk. He smiled back, walked over to you and removed your backpack, relieving your arms of the weight of your textbooks.
“Hi,” he echoed, kissing your cheek. You heard him lock the door behind you. “Happy Valentine’s day.”
Your heart sped up. “Are we gonna…?”
“If you want,” he whispered against your lips. You leaned forward and kissed him, blushing darkly. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off the ground, and backed up into a desk.
You let your lips travel to his neck, just above the collar of his shirt, and you sighed, kissing and sucking.
“H-hh, below the collar, s-sweetheart,” he said, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt.
“Hmmm, Alfred,” you sighed, nibbling at the spot that you knew would drive him insane, just above the middle of his left collarbone.
“Oh! God,” he breathed, chest heaving already. Obviously attempting to regain control, he pulled away from your appraising lips and slipped a hand into your skirt. You swallowed a whimper and tried to keep face, pushing him back until he sat on the desk.
“Well, that’s a familiar position,” you said, undoing his shirt the rest of the way and climbing up onto the desk to straddle him. He slowly brought your legs around his waist, prompting you to hook your ankles, and once he’d accomplished this he stood with his arms supporting your back as he spun around and placed you on the desk in his old position. “Hey!” you giggled as he kissed down your neck and collarbone, slipping off one strap. “Hmmm…”
His face came level with yours again, blue eyes warm and hungry. He kissed your lips once and pulled back, kissed between your breasts and pulled back again, and then locked his eyes with yours as he sank to his knees, drawing your thighs apart. Your breath caught in your throat and you perched yourself at the very edge of the desk, allowing him to lift your skirt and n-nuzzle-- “Oh, nnh…” You ran your fingers through his golden locks, scraping the back of his head with your festively painted nails. A high whimper cracked in your throat at the feeling of his warm breath on you.
It was a very small sound, but the rattling of the door startled you both so much that you froze. Mr. Jones immediately tucked his shirt back in and began to button his shirt. “Hello? Jones,” called Mr. Kirkland through the door, knocking. You hopped off the desk, sure to land on the toes of your feet, and ducked behind Mr. Jones’s desk, suddenly feeling very exposed.
“H-hey, one sec,” Mr. Jones said, a slight waver in his voice. You heard the door open.
There was a pause. “Why was the door locked?”
“Uh, don’t know. Probably one of my students when they left. Hah, how childish…”
“Right…” the Brit said, skeptically. “Speaking of students, mine stole all the dry erase markers last period. May I—“
“Yes, here.” You heard a metallic scrape. “Bye, then.”
“Jones, is there a reason you won’t open the door all the way?”
“I…no, but you have what you need, so—“
The door closed and you heard a steamed protest before Mr. Kirkland stomped away down the hall. Mr. Jones’s steps grew louder and he crouched behind the desk.
“Well, uh…” He chuckled nervously. “Don’t worry, I don’t think he suspects.”
He loosened his tie, blushing. “Do you want to continue or not?”
It took a moment for you to decide, but you nodded, sinking to your back on the dirty linoleum and spreading your legs again. He bowed his head between them.
He had said he’d walk you to his truck after school, but you had been waiting at the curb of the parking lot for some minutes after last period, and he still wasn’t there. So you took a deep breath and braced yourself for the suicide that was walking across the school parking lot.
A Dodge nearly dodged you and another car nearly backed into you out of its parking spot. Your feet jumped and skittered, and occasionally you’d blend in with a flock of crossing students, but none of them were exactly headed toward the teachers’ parking spaces. They weren’t even that far away, but you didn’t trust moving ten feet in this parking lot.
Right now you were safe between two parked cars, your faded blue target within thirty feet. You looked around you, waited for a ’67 Impala to finish careening around the corner, and brisk-walked to the truck, checking your left and right out of the corners of your eyes.
“Watch out!” A strong hand grabbed tight hold of your wrist and you were whisked to your right, out of the way of a distracted parent’s minivan. It’s back bumper was now where you had been standing. You would have been a pancake. “You okay?” Mr. Jones asked, hands gripping your shoulders firmly. You were practically nestled to his chest, and when you looked around there were a lot of bewildered students staring at you. Some were gaping. Your initial reaction was panic, because obviously they knew of your secret affair!
One girl with straight, blond hair and bumped bangs walked up to you two, smiling through perfectly straight, white teeth. “Wow, Mr. Jones. You’re like, totally a hero…”
Oh, right. That’s why they were staring; you’d nearly been run over by a minivan. That was a relief.
“Hah, uh. Thanks, I guess…” he said. You could feel his heart racing. He was still holding you.
“You guess?” another girl squeaked. “That was totally awesome, you’re like…Superman and stuff!”
The fangirls multiplied and you sighed, shrugging away from Mr. Jones with a quiet “thank you.” Before you had made it out of the sudden flock of females, however, you felt a hand on your back and looked back to see him rolling his eyes good-naturedly.
“Don’t you think it’ll be a bit suspicious? You know…you walking me to your car? On Valentine’s day?” you asked.
He shrugged, having walked you safely to his vehicle, and held the door open for you. “In this parking lot? Come on, the drivers don’t even notice who they’re supposed to avoid hitting.” He nodded over at the girls on the curb, all fawning and swooning and retelling their versions of what happened. “And they’re far too busy…with their uh…whatever it is they’re doing, exactly.”
“We call it fangirling.”
“Mm.” He closed your door and got in the driver’s side, turned on the car and waited. “Hope ya don’t mind waiting a couple minutes. This parking lot…”
“I totally get it.”
He smiled. “So…would you like to know where we’re going?”
“It would ease my wondering mind, yes.”
“I dunno, maybe I’ll just tell ya later,” he teased, clicking on the radio. “Nah. I was thinking…I mean, if it doesn’t sound boring to you; I’m totally open to other ideas…we could just go for a drive, you know; you, me, and the truck. And then we can go to Mel’s because they have amazing bacon burgers. And then tonight we could go to a drive-in movie, and not watch it.”
“You are so American,” you giggled.
“Hey, I teach US History for a reason!”
“And um. Why would we go to a movie if we weren’t going to watch?” But you knew the answer as soon as the words left your mouth, and you blushed. “Oh.”
“You’re smart, I like you.”
“You’re cute, I like you,” you echoed, successfully earning a blush. “Sounds like a very cute, American Valentine’s day date.”
“Is that a yes? Because I’m still open to new—“
You interrupted him with a kiss, ruffling his hair. “It’s an of course, hero.”
“Oh stop it, I’m not a hero!”
“Yes you are. You’re my Captain America! And I’m your Peggy. Or Tony. Depending on what you ship.”
“Oh, god,” he groaned. “Shipping. Ruining comics for me.”
“Yeah, yeah. So we goin’ or what?”