![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
abc prompts; k+s: teacher/student
He takes his glasses off, and Kirsten gets caught up staring raptly at the bones in his hand and wrist as he lays them aside on the desk. She almost forgets to look back up at his eyes, now that she can see them better — dark and fringed with thick lashes, the corners creased with crow's feet from smiles she's never seen.
It's not that he's so serious, really; she's heard him laugh (derisive or surprised, amused, not necessarily happy). He has a sense of humor, he knows how to take a joke, he's fairly friendly for a teacher, but he doesn't really smile, not the way she'd like him to: perfect teeth and dropped lashes as he glances down, eyes crinkling at the corners.
She daydreams about winning a smile from him. Maybe she stays after class to ask a question, maybe she's there to make up a test she missed. She talks at him (he's quiet, grading papers, looking her way only rarely), tells him about her trip to Italy over the break, the museums she visited, the things she learned. She says something funny — she's honest enough to imagine it's unintentional, not a joke but something silly, something stupid — and he laughs (surprised, amused, but not smiling). She tells him she loves his laugh, and he looks startled, looks down, but then he's smiling.
He's lacing his fingers into his hair now, thumb pressing to his temple. There's no grey there, not yet, but she imagines it's coming soon. He'll carry it off well.
She thinks she'd love to run her fingers through his hair. It looks soft, thick. Maybe he'd shiver if her nails grazed his scalp just right.
His phone on the desk buzzes, drawing the attention of the front-row students. He picks it up and Kirsten watches as he reads, his terse expression lightening. Her eyes fix on his hands again while he fires off a text. His hands are a work of art, every bone weighty and pronounced, the span of his fingers broad. If he put his hand on her face, he could cup her whole jaw, brush a thumb over her cheek. She runs her fingers through her hair absently, around to the back where she can imagine him cradling her head while he kisses her.
His hands are gentle — she knows. He's touched her before, accidentally or innocently, a hand on her shoulder or arm, a brush of the fingers when she hands in a paper. It's always so gentle, and she takes that, wraps her daydreams in it.
But he doesn't kiss gently, she bets. He takes her at the waist, a hand buried deep in her hair, and those are firm and warm. His mouth on hers is different: fierce and hot, possessive, inspired, like she's under his skin. He kisses her like he was born to do it. She kisses him like a hurricane.
The bell rings, jarring her from her reverie, and she sighs her surrender. She'll get caught up in schoolwork and homework for the rest of the day, and he won't cross her mind again until tonight — in the bath or in bed, as she sinks into hot water or cool satin, where her hands can find skin and more, where she can put her imagination to better use.
She's halfway to the door when her bravery gets the better of her, and she turns around. She'll talk to him before she goes, burn his voice into her mind for later.
He glances up as she approaches. His glasses are still lying on the desk, forgotten for the moment, and she's so thankful for it. When he looks her way, his eyebrows lift, and then his expression warms: he smiles, and his eyes crinkle while her heart skips a beat. He's happy to see her.
She smiles back, all teeth, and so does he. He's absolutely gorgeous.
Then he's standing up, and he's not looking at her at all — he's looking beyond her, at the open doorway, and when she turns to follow his gaze, heart already sinking, she can see why.
There's a woman smiling back at him, all sloe-eyed beauty and long, dark curls. She's older than Kirsten, just as lovely as Kirsten, with a grin that lights up the room and puts deep, charming dimples in both cheeks. When she lays a hand against his chest, it's with an unmistakable intimacy. She kisses his jaw and he wraps his arms around her petite waist, drawing her in close.
"Missed you," he says when she extracts herself from his hold. It looks difficult. Kirsten wants to imagine him holding her that tightly, but she keeps turning into someone else, now. Her heart settles to the bottom of her stomach.
The woman laughs, takes his hands and laces their fingers together. "I was only gone two weeks, Shane."
"Two weeks with no cell reception," he clarifies. As the woman laughs, he finally lays eyes on Kirsten. "Miss Harper," he remarks, untangling his hands and stepping back. His voice is different instantly, with none of the warmth it had a moment ago. "Can I help you?"
Kirsten summons up a smile from somewhere, blank and automatic. "Oh, no, Mr. Thompson. I just wanted to remind you I have to make up yesterday's test, since I was at a student council meeting."
"Right." He glances at the clock. "Lunch or after school, whichever works for you."
"Lunch is fine," she chirps. "I'm not very hungry today."
Luckily for Kirsten, she's had plenty of practice at faking a smile. She'll keep it on until she's facing away, and she'll keep her shoulders straight until she's out in the hall.
After that, all bets are off.
It's not that he's so serious, really; she's heard him laugh (derisive or surprised, amused, not necessarily happy). He has a sense of humor, he knows how to take a joke, he's fairly friendly for a teacher, but he doesn't really smile, not the way she'd like him to: perfect teeth and dropped lashes as he glances down, eyes crinkling at the corners.
She daydreams about winning a smile from him. Maybe she stays after class to ask a question, maybe she's there to make up a test she missed. She talks at him (he's quiet, grading papers, looking her way only rarely), tells him about her trip to Italy over the break, the museums she visited, the things she learned. She says something funny — she's honest enough to imagine it's unintentional, not a joke but something silly, something stupid — and he laughs (surprised, amused, but not smiling). She tells him she loves his laugh, and he looks startled, looks down, but then he's smiling.
He's lacing his fingers into his hair now, thumb pressing to his temple. There's no grey there, not yet, but she imagines it's coming soon. He'll carry it off well.
She thinks she'd love to run her fingers through his hair. It looks soft, thick. Maybe he'd shiver if her nails grazed his scalp just right.
His phone on the desk buzzes, drawing the attention of the front-row students. He picks it up and Kirsten watches as he reads, his terse expression lightening. Her eyes fix on his hands again while he fires off a text. His hands are a work of art, every bone weighty and pronounced, the span of his fingers broad. If he put his hand on her face, he could cup her whole jaw, brush a thumb over her cheek. She runs her fingers through her hair absently, around to the back where she can imagine him cradling her head while he kisses her.
His hands are gentle — she knows. He's touched her before, accidentally or innocently, a hand on her shoulder or arm, a brush of the fingers when she hands in a paper. It's always so gentle, and she takes that, wraps her daydreams in it.
But he doesn't kiss gently, she bets. He takes her at the waist, a hand buried deep in her hair, and those are firm and warm. His mouth on hers is different: fierce and hot, possessive, inspired, like she's under his skin. He kisses her like he was born to do it. She kisses him like a hurricane.
The bell rings, jarring her from her reverie, and she sighs her surrender. She'll get caught up in schoolwork and homework for the rest of the day, and he won't cross her mind again until tonight — in the bath or in bed, as she sinks into hot water or cool satin, where her hands can find skin and more, where she can put her imagination to better use.
She's halfway to the door when her bravery gets the better of her, and she turns around. She'll talk to him before she goes, burn his voice into her mind for later.
He glances up as she approaches. His glasses are still lying on the desk, forgotten for the moment, and she's so thankful for it. When he looks her way, his eyebrows lift, and then his expression warms: he smiles, and his eyes crinkle while her heart skips a beat. He's happy to see her.
She smiles back, all teeth, and so does he. He's absolutely gorgeous.
Then he's standing up, and he's not looking at her at all — he's looking beyond her, at the open doorway, and when she turns to follow his gaze, heart already sinking, she can see why.
There's a woman smiling back at him, all sloe-eyed beauty and long, dark curls. She's older than Kirsten, just as lovely as Kirsten, with a grin that lights up the room and puts deep, charming dimples in both cheeks. When she lays a hand against his chest, it's with an unmistakable intimacy. She kisses his jaw and he wraps his arms around her petite waist, drawing her in close.
"Missed you," he says when she extracts herself from his hold. It looks difficult. Kirsten wants to imagine him holding her that tightly, but she keeps turning into someone else, now. Her heart settles to the bottom of her stomach.
The woman laughs, takes his hands and laces their fingers together. "I was only gone two weeks, Shane."
"Two weeks with no cell reception," he clarifies. As the woman laughs, he finally lays eyes on Kirsten. "Miss Harper," he remarks, untangling his hands and stepping back. His voice is different instantly, with none of the warmth it had a moment ago. "Can I help you?"
Kirsten summons up a smile from somewhere, blank and automatic. "Oh, no, Mr. Thompson. I just wanted to remind you I have to make up yesterday's test, since I was at a student council meeting."
"Right." He glances at the clock. "Lunch or after school, whichever works for you."
"Lunch is fine," she chirps. "I'm not very hungry today."
Luckily for Kirsten, she's had plenty of practice at faking a smile. She'll keep it on until she's facing away, and she'll keep her shoulders straight until she's out in the hall.
After that, all bets are off.