Gerard has a strict policy when it comes to teachers, namely that they should be avoided at all costs because every last one of the bastards is out to get him.
(Mikey says Gerard is paranoid. Gerard says that's exactly what they want him to think.)
What's getting to Gerard is that he's never had any reason to doubt his theory before now. He's suffered through years and years of teachers who were more childish than the kids they were teaching, teachers who he's pretty sure were escaped convicts, teachers who went out of their way to seem nice and then turned out to be cruel, bullying assholes. Gerard hasn't so much had a bad experience as one big, long, clusterfuck of bad experience.
Now, though... well. All of a sudden, Gerard does have a reason to question his policy, and it wears ties and cardigans and ridiculously dorky sweater vests and gets all excited about metaphors. Past experience would lead Gerard to suspect that Mr. Iero falls into the third category - the teachers who pretend to be sweet but are actually agents of Satan himself - but Gerard has been watching him like a slightly chubby, greasy hawk since day one. If it's all an act, Mr. Iero deserves a fucking Academy Award. It's flawless. He hasn't put a single foot wrong. If Gerard didn't know better, he'd be beginning to suspect that Mr. Iero really is just a decent human being.
The thing that Gerard finds more confusing than anything else is how enthusiastic Mr. Iero is. At first, Gerard put it down to the fact that Mr. Iero looks about twelve when he smiles, so this is almost definitely his first teaching job. But that relentless cheerfulness should have been ground out of him after a few weeks, and now it's halfway through March and he's still going strong. It's weird, is what it is. It's weird, and Gerard doesn't trust him. And he definitely doesn't melt a little every time Mr. Iero starts beaming and talking with his hands when he finds, like, a simile that he wants everyone else to appreciate as much as he does.
Liking a teacher is totally against Gerard's principles, obviously, but if there's one thing to be said for Mr. Iero, it's that he's not a pushy teacher. It's just one of those fucking days - Gerard got another D in history, and when Miss Fitzgerald gave him back his trig quiz from last week, it had an angry SEE ME AFTER CLASS scribbled in the corner instead of a grade. And then, on top of all that, Mr. Whitman is making him come up with a whole new proposal for his art project because apparently vampires ripping people's throats out are inappropriate. All Gerard wants right now is to be invisible, so he waits for the stream of people filing into the English classroom to thin out before he slopes in, takes his usual seat in the back row and slumps down in his chair with his hands clamped over his ears. He flinches when some asswipe throws a balled-up piece of paper at him and it hits him square between the eyes, but apart from that he does a pretty good job of tuning the rest of the world out.
When Mr. Iero finally fucking bounds in and starts the register, Gerard answers with an unenthusiastic grunt when his name is called and sinks a little lower into his seat. It's not that he doesn't like English - it's the least tortuous lesson on his timetable after art, although even art is stressing him out right now. It's just one of those times when he needs to be left alone to stew in his misery and contemplate is many, many failings for a while.
By the end of the lesson, Gerard hasn't taken in a single thing Mr. Iero said, but he doesn't feel like he's going to puke anymore, which he considers a plus. He's just slouching back through the door on his way out when Mr. Iero calls his name.
"Gerard? Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Gerard groans inwardly. Motherfucking fuck on a cracker. This is it, the moment when the apparently nice teacher reveals their true, scumbaggy colors and hits him with detention every day for the next twenty years. He knows how it goes. Slowly, reluctantly, he turns back. It really doesn't help that Mr. Iero is-- well, the only word for it is cute, with untidy hair and big, round eyes and a face that's practically fucking cherubic.
"C'mon." Mr. Iero perches on the edge of his own desk and points to the smaller desk directly in front of it. Gerard sits down gingerly in the plastic chair tucked underneath it, and stares fixedly down at the artistic rendering of a cock and balls that someone has scratched into the pockmarked wood. Whatever it is, Gerard hopes it's going to be quick. This day feels like it's been going on for about a month. Gerard just wants to go home, barricade himself in his room and destroy his ears with Marilyn Manson at full volume.
"So," Mr. Iero says, and Gerard looks up. "What's up?"
Gerard blinks at him, confused. Is this some kind of trap? What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? "Uh," he says. Mr. Iero's eyes are fucking huge, all earnest and concerned. "Not much, I guess?"
"Okay," Mr. Iero says, looking distinctly kicked-puppy-ish. "I just - I mean, you looked kind of out of it today and I wanted to make sure you were alright. There anything you want to talk to me about?"
Gerard waits for the other shoe to drop.
"I mean it," Mr. Iero insists. "Whatever it is, okay?"
"It's just... you know, grades and sh-- stuff," Gerard says, the words tumbling out of him before he even has time to think. Fucking Mr. Iero and his fucking ninja interrogation tactics. Gerard is still kind of expecting some kind of punishment, but now he's started talking he can't stop himself. "Like, I'm failing everything, even art, and if I don't get into art school because my portfolio's not good enough then I'm not going to get into college because I don't have the grades, and--"
"Whoa, whoa! Stop. Back up a minute." Mr. Iero hops down off his desk and puts his hands down on the edge of Gerard's instead, leaning forwards and looking practically distraught, and Gerard cannot deal with this. Stupid cute teachers and their stupid mind games. "C'mon, you're not failing English! And what makes you think you won't get into art school?"
Gerard shrugs, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. "What makes you think I will?"
"Don't give me that." Mr. Iero takes a step back, folding his arms. "Don't think I haven't seen you doodling in this class."
Mr. Iero cracks up. "Your face, oh my god. Don't worry, your secret's safe." And he taps the side of his nose and winks, still fucking giggling, and holy shit, how did Gerard never realize what a massive dork he is?
"But seriously," says Mr. Iero, "is there anything I can do? I mean, I'd offer to tutor you, but I don't think you really need it."
"Thanks," says Gerard, feeling his stupid, treacherous face opening up into a smile. "I mean - yeah. Is there anything I could do for, like, extra credit?" he asks, on a sudden impulse. He could really use some extra credit, and Mr. Iero actually seems like an okay guy. For a teacher, that is.
Mr. Iero eyes him shrewdly. "Hmm," he says. "How are you at filing?"
It's one of those obscure coffee house shows that Mikey finds out about through his bionic hipster radar, and he was the one who insisted that Gerard needed to get out of the basement after the shitty week he's had. Mikey promised him that he wouldn't see anyone from school, which was what finally persuaded Gerard to go.
He pulls a face at his reflection in the smeared mirror in the cafe's bathroom and runs his fingers through his hair for the umpteenth time. His eyeliner is good, he thinks, smudging it a little on one side so it's even. He mooches out of the bathroom and over to the temporary bar, where he orders a diet coke and slopes off into a dark corner to spike it with the vodka stashed in the pocket of his hoodie. The band haven't started playing yet, but the people milling around have started to gravitate towards the stage. He scans the crowd, and sighs. There's no sign of Mikey, of course. That bastard, he promised he wouldn't abandon Gerard this time. He knows Gerard isn't good with crowds. Gerard is about to go look for him, then thinks better of it when he realizes that Mikey is probably playing tonsil hockey with one of the many scene girls who are inexplicably drawn to his pointy hipbones and sleepy eyes. Gerard settles deeper into his little corner, and shudders. No big brother needs to see that shit.
And then the band take to the little makeshift stage, and Gerard forgets all about Mikey.
That's Mr. Iero up there, in skintight black jeans and a white button down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a gorgeous sprawl of colored ink. There's a broad, shit-eating grin on his face, and he looks - Gerard doesn't know, comfortable in a way he never has in front of a chalkboard. Gerard doesn't know shit about guitars, but the one slung over Mr. Iero's shoulder is beautiful - bright white, with PANSY emblazoned on the body in bold, chunky letters. Mr. Iero adjusts the volume dial on his guitar and tweaks one of the tuning pegs slightly, and Gerard can't tear his eyes away from Mr. Iero's hands. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Ladies and gentlemen," says Mr. Iero, and Gerard can feel everyone in the room shifting their attention to him. Mr. Iero is practically glowing with it, and, wow, this guy is totally wasted on teaching disinterested teenagers at Belleville High. "Thank you all for coming out tonight!" Mr. Iero continues, still grinning. "We're Pencey Prep, and this song's called Ten Rings."
Gerard gets ready to book it if Mr. Iero's band turns out to be cringe-makingly terrible, but then Mr. Iero starts playing and Gerard abruptly forgets all about that. Mr. Iero is holding his guitar practically fucking sensually, and the look on his face is-- fuck, it's just pornographic. His eyes are half-closed and his mouth drops open, wet and shiny. Gerard has only ever seen that look before on porn stars, usually when there's another porn star between their legs. Between that and the wealth of ink on his arms, Gerard doesn't think he'll ever be able to look at his English teacher the same way again. Mr. Iero's voice is rough and scratchy (smoker, Gerard thinks, please, God, let him be a smoker), a little nasal, just like it is when he speaks, but it suits him, somehow. It's kind of endearing.
It's warm in the coffee shop, which Gerard would normally bitch about to Mikey, but Mikey isn't there. More to the point, it's starting to make Mr. Iero's pristine button-down stick to his skin. Gerard is positive that there's more ink under there, and as Mr. Iero throws his head back, exposing the line of his throat and dropping down to his knees, Gerard lets out a little involuntary whimper. What the motherfucking fuck. Teachers are supposed to be boring. They are not supposed to turn out to be the tattooed, guitar-playing embodiment of Gerard's wet dreams.
Gerard watches Mr. Iero, mesmerized. He's throwing himself around like he's caught up in some invisible current, playing like a man possessed. Gerard can see the faint sheen of sweat on his skin under the lights and can't help imagining getting close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. God, he is so completely fucked.
He adjusts his jeans and keeps watching.
Gerard is sort of dreading seeing Mr. Iero in school on Monday. He's irrationally terrified that Mr. Iero will look at him and be able to tell what Gerard was thinking about when he jacked off in the shower after the show. And what he was thinking about when he woke up the next morning with a raging hard-on and humped the mattress until he came in his pajama pants. And what he was thinking about when-- well. The point is that if Mr. Iero is a mind reader, Gerard is going to spontaneously die of embarrassment on the spot. This stupid, inconvenient crush or whatever it is has gotten out of hand alarmingly quickly, and Gerard has a nasty sinking feeling that spending time with the guy isn't going to help.
Gerard walks as slowly as he can to English that afternoon, even though he knows an extra minute or two won't make a blind bit of difference. And, of course, because he's an idiot, he fucking volunteered to help Mr. Iero with his filing, so he's going to be alone with him for an extra hour after school. Gerard tends to say stupid things (more often than usual, that is) when he's around attractive people - a category into which Mr. Iero has just unexpectedly crashed. Fuck his life, seriously.
His mood isn't improved when he eventually gets to the classroom and sees that some douchebag has taken his usual seat in the back row. And, of fucking course, the only seat left is right in the front, directly in front of Mr. Iero's desk. This is totally the universe punishing him for jacking off to the thought of his English teacher bending him over a desk.
Mr. Iero is already in the classroom, and when he catches Gerard's eye, Gerard could swear he flashes him a little knowing smile. Gerard's stomach lurches, but he manages not to fall on his ass or do anything else too embarrassing. He takes his seat, and resigns himself to two hours of utter torture.
The lesson isn't actually going too badly until Mr. Iero plays an H-bomb of a trump card. He leans over the front of his desk to look for something, and, oh god, his ass is right there. It's a really, really fucking nice ass. Gerard bites the inside of his cheek, letting the pain knock some of the impure thoughts out of his head. It's not good, exactly, but it's better. At least, it's enough that he can pretend to be a functioning human being instead of the melted puddle of loser that Mr. Iero has reduced him to.
Mr. Iero threads his way between the tables, handing back last Friday's quiz. Gerard resists the urge to bang his head repeatedly against his desk. He was right in the middle of his personal crisis on Friday; he doesn't even remember doing the fucking quiz. He really, really can't get afford to fail anything else right now. When Mr. Iero drops his quiz in front of him then makes his way back to his own desk, Gerard feels faintly nauseous. He braces himself, picks it up and flips it over.
It's blank. He didn't answer a single question. But there, written in one corner in Mr. Iero's sprawling handwriting, is an A. Underneath, it says, For your awesome music taste. Ssh. And then-- Gerard has to pick the sheet of paper up and peer closely it, unable to believe what he's seeing, but no, that's definitely a little smiley face. A winking smiley face.
"So, uh," Gerard says, as soon as the rest of the class have left and he's alone in the classroom with Mr. Iero. "My quiz, you--"
Mr. Iero waves Gerard's question away. "No big deal," he says. "I could tell you were having a shitty day. Oops." He looks around guiltily. "You didn't hear me say that. And then I saw you at my show!" He's practically beaming, as if he's really, genuinely pleased. Gerard is momentarily reminded of an excited puppy.
Logically, Gerard knows that this is the part where he tells Mr. Iero how great his band is and how much he enjoyed the show, but suddenly all he can think about is how good Mr. Iero looked on his knees. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The silence is getting awkward and he's probably blushing, oh god, where was he when the social skills were being handed out? He can't think of a single inappropriate response that won't sound like a hopelessly inept come-on.
"Yeah! You were, uh, awesome," he eventually manages to choke out. He sort of wants to punch himself in the face, but at least he's through that particular minefield.
Mr. Iero's grin gets impossibly wider, practically blinding. "Yeah? Thanks, man! I mean, just because I have a real job now--" he rolls his eyes and sketches air quotes around the words "--doesn't mean I should have to give it up, right?"
For a bizarre and disorientating split second, Gerard completely forgets that Mr. Iero is a teacher. He nods, not trusting himself to form a coherent and appropriate sentence, and Mr. Iero chuckles.
"C'mon, you can start sorting out these papers for me. I might as well take advantage of you while I've got you here."
Gerard almost chokes on his own spit. What the fuck, the universe is actually trying to kill him. Of all the ways Mr. Iero could have put that, he had to pick that one. Gerard tries not to think about all the ways he'd like Mr. Iero to take advantage of him. He fails miserably. Over a desk with Mr. Iero's hand between his shoulderblades, holding him down, or up against the chalkboard. Jesus Christ.
This is going to be the longest hour ever.
By the time Gerard gets home that afternoon, he's exhausted from the effort of keeping his mouth shut. It doesn't help that he's starting to suspect that Mr. Iero isn't really a teacher at all - he doesn't take himself too seriously, and he's funny. Gerard has never met a genuinely funny teacher before (the ones who think they're funny are another story). He's finding it all very confusing.
It turns out that while Mr. Iero spends hours reading and marking the essays he makes them write, his filing system is... well, Gerard would describe it as non-existent, and that's coming from someone whose bedroom looks like a disaster area no matter how many attempts are made to tidy it up. Grinning like a total asshole, Mr. Iero dumped a mountain of papers in front of Gerard, pointed him to the filing cabinet and told him to "work something out" before sitting down at his desk to mark the assignments from one of his other classes.
Gerard had been hoping that he'd be able to just sit there quietly and pretend his was on his own, consequently avoiding any further embarrassment. But apparently his karma is even worse than he'd realized, because Mr. Iero kept talking to him - making jokes about his other students' spelling, their mistakes, the places where they were obviously just making it up. At first, Gerard tried just acknowledging him with a polite smile and trying to look busy (he had a complicated fucking system going, to which the five different kinds of sticky-notes were pivotal), but Mr. Iero didn't stop.
What really threw Gerard was the way Mr. Iero didn't talk to him like he was just another bratty teenager, didn't talk down to him or watch his mouth. Gerard kept finding himself fucking wheezing with laughter at Mr. Iero's dramatic readings of some of the more slapdash essays - "Oh my god, look at this one. That's not even a word. Not on this planet, kid, try Mars."
Gerard had sort of been hoping that Mr. Iero would turn out to be boring as hell, or that he'd have some other unattractive personality trait that would put a lid on Gerard's persistent urge to just fucking bend over for the guy.
Obviously, that didn't work out.
In the shower that night, Gerard jerks off with two fingers in his ass and comes so hard his vision bleeds white at the edges. He is so fucked. And not in the way he'd like to be, either.
He doesn't have English on Tuesday and he manages not to run into Mr. Iero in the hallways once. He can't quite decide if that's a disappointment or a relief - on one hand, perving on Mr. Iero is fast becoming one of Gerard's favorite pastimes (and, god, when did he turn into such a fucking creep?). On the other hand, this whole mess is redefining Gerard's idea of sexual frustration. It's maddening. Mr. Iero is right there, close enough to touch, but he might as well be locked up like a princess in a tower for all the walls there are between them. He's older, he's way out of Gerard's league, he's a fucking teacher - Gerard's teacher - and on top of all that, Gerard doesn't even know if he's into dudes.
He almost wishes he hadn't let Mikey drag him to that stupid show, because that way he would probably never have realized how insanely attractive his English teacher is and could have avoided all this. Really, it's all Mikey's fault.
Gerard's last hope is exposure therapy - that if he spends enough time with Mr. Iero, he'll get over this inconvenient crush before too long. The odds are slim, he's willing to admit that much, but he's all out of ideas.
Sitting in Mr. Iero's classroom for an hour after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays becomes so deeply embedded in Gerard's routine that when he shows up one week only to be greeted with a quizzically raised eyebrow, it sort of throws him for a loop.
"Uh," he says, hovering in the doorway.
"Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?" asks Mr. Iero, his eyebrows drawing together and his lips pursing to form an adorably concerned expression.
"I - filing?" Gerard says, because Mr. Iero's face is highly distracting and not at all conducive to Gerard's ability to form coherent sentences.
Mr. Iero gestures to his tidy desk and meticulously labeled filing cabinets. The little radio on the window sill is playing the Cure. "All done, remember? You finished last week. I mean--" he flashes Gerard a wry smile. "--I'd give you extra credit just to sit in here so I'm not talking to myself, but I'm sure you've got things to do, right?"
"No!" blurts Gerard, before he regains control over his mouth. "I mean, no I haven't. Uh. That'd be-- yeah."
He still lives in hope that one day he'll wake up and magically become a functioning human being. It hasn't happened yet.
Mr. Iero beams at him as if he actually wants Gerard around. "Yeah? Well, c'mon in."
Gerard isn't entirely sure how he managed to swing extra credit for hanging out with the dude he's got a major hard-on for, but he can hardly believe his luck. It's a pretty fucking sweet deal whichever way you slice it. Mr. Iero is chatty without being one of those people who feel the need to fill every silence with small talk, which is a relief. Gerard isn't very good at small talk. He usually ends up babbling about Star Wars. It's just... nice. Pure torture, of course, especially when Mr. Iero rolls his sleeves up and Gerard can see all that ink, but nice.
It might just be wishful thinking, but Gerard suspects that Mr. Iero lets him get away with more than the rest of the class in lessons. If he's spaced out, Mr. Iero never seems to call on him to ask him questions. If he forgets (or sometimes just doesn't bother to do) the homework, Mr. Iero turns a blind eye. Gerard isn't sure how to feel about this. Being the teacher's pet is an entirely new experience for him.
And then he has to bite his tongue and force himself to concentrate on what Mr. Iero is saying about iambic pentameter, because the phrase teacher's pet fills his head with the kind of thoughts that lead to inconveniently mistimed boners.
Mr. Iero calls him back at the end of the lesson, and Gerard gets a few smug looks from his classmates, who obviously think that Gerard's stint as golden boy must have come to an end. Gerard approaches Mr. Iero's desk with apprehension curling in his belly. He's suddenly very worried about Mr. Iero being able to read minds, irrational as he knows that is.
"You, uh, wanted to talk to me?" he says, and Mr. Iero looks up from the copy of Much Ado About Nothing that he's thumbing through. His hands, oh god. Gerard is willing to bet he has guitar calluses. Fuck.
Mr. Iero's face splits into a broad, disgustingly gorgeous smile. "Yeah! Don't worry, I wasn't gonna put you in detention or anything. It's just that my band's playing another show on Saturday at the Loop, I thought you might wanna come. It's, like, five bucks to get in, but I could put your name on the list if you want."
Gerard does want. Gerard really, really wants. Also, he thinks Mr. Iero might just have invited him to his show. "Seriously?" he says. He can feel himself grinning like a total loser. "I mean, yeah! That'd be awesome."
"Alright," says Mr. Iero, with a smaller smile, warm and pleased. "Maybe I'll see you there."
Gerard had sort of been hoping that knowing what to expect would take the edge off his frankly embarrassing reaction to Mr. Iero playing with his band. His hopes weren't high, sure, but if anything this is even worse than last time. He dragged Mikey with him for moral support, and Mikey predictably disappeared almost as soon as they got to the Loop, but Gerard doesn't mind. His strategy for gigs usually involves lurking at the back of the room, avoiding the crush of the crowd, but he makes an exception for Pencey Prep.
And, fuck, is he glad he did.
Mr. Iero is wearing a white t-shirt that stretches taut across his chest, revealing the faint outline of an impressive chest piece that Gerard fucking aches to get a better look at. The ink wrapping around Mr. Iero's forearms doesn't stop there, reaching up to his biceps, and Gerard knows he's staring, but he can't tear his eyes away. He doesn't know much about tattoos, but he knows they're not cheap, and he wonders how many years of his teacher's salary Mr. Iero is wearing on his skin.
Mr. Iero plays as if he's been plugged in like the guitar slung over his shoulder, as if the music is so much bigger than him that all he can do is let it take him. Again, Gerard wonders what the fuck he's doing teaching when he can do this. Maybe it's true that those who can't do, teach, but Mr. Iero definitely can do.
Gerard stops over-thinking and starts enjoying the music and Mr. Iero's truly gorgeous mouth.
Despite all the times it's got him into trouble, Gerard still hasn't learnt not to let his imagination run away with him when there's a pencil in his hand. It's a pretty rough sketch, but it's unmistakably Mr. Iero, down on his knees with his guitar cradled close to his body, his eyes closed and his mouth slack with ecstasy.
Unfortunately, that fucking asshole Gabe Saporta spotted it on Gerard's desk and is now taking full advantage of his stupidly long arms to try to swipe it and get a better look. He's only getting away with it because Mr. Iero is really getting into his point about the effect of the caesura in the middle of the line (Gerard can tell by the increasingly enthusiastic hand gestures). Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to have noticed Gabe, which means Gerard is left trying to fend him off by jabbing at him with a viciously sharpened pencil when he gets too close.
Mr. Iero has started to pick his way between the desks, handing out copies of the poem for them to annotate. Gerard is fatally distracted for a moment by the way Mr. Iero's crotch is right at his eye level, and Gabe pounces on his moment of weakness and whips the sketch off his desk. Gerard's stomach lurches. Jesus fuck, now would be a really good time for the ground to open and swallow him up.
And then someone snatches the page out of Gabe's hand, and Gerard doesn't even need to look up to see that it's Mr. Iero.
Gerard wonders if it's possible to commit suicide with nothing but a pencil. This is it. He's going to be denounced as a creep and a pervert in front of the entire class and within ten minutes the entire school will know and he'll have to move to fucking Alaska or somewhere and change his name and get reconstructive facial surgery.
He risks a glance up at Mr. Iero. What he sees isn't what he's expecting.
Mr. Iero doesn't look disgusted or horrified. His eyes are dark, a little unfocussed, and Gerard could swear he just heard his breath hitch. Then the weird expression is gone as quickly as it arrived, and Mr. Iero is folding the page neatly into quarters and telling Gabe to stop disrupting the lesson.
Mr. Iero finishes the lesson as if nothing happened, but Gerard knows what he saw. His stomach is churning. He doesn't know what to think. He considers staying after class to talk to Mr. Iero, but what would he say? It's going to be awkward as fuck even if he does try to play it off as a joke. In the end, he bottles out, and scurries out of the classroom without meeting Mr. Iero's eyes.
Gerard means to go to Mr. Iero's lesson the next day, he really does. He means to go right up until he finds himself walking down the hallway towards Mr. Iero's classroom, and it strikes him that he's going to have to sit there and meet Mr. Iero's eyes as if he hasn't jerked off to the thought of him every night for the last three weeks and then fucking drawn him looking like porn.
He just can't do it.
He brutally suppresses the twinge of guilt and slinks back down the hallway.
Miss Halliday, the school secretary, might look like she's made of spun sugar, but Gerard has learnt from experience that she's actually made of pure, distilled evil. Right now, he's running away from her. Or walking briskly away, at least, because running in the hallway would only give her something else to bust him for. Fucking hell, he should have known she'd be all over him for cutting that English class.
He can hear her heels clicking on the stairs. Fucking fuck. There's a supply closet just up ahead, if it's unlocked he'll be able to hide in there until she's gone. He half-runs the last few meters, yanks the door open and ducks inside just as he hears her footsteps rounding the corner.
The supply closet is very, very small and very, very dark. There's a shelf digging uncomfortably into his back and another one pressed against his ass. There has to be a light switch in here somewhere. He puts his hand out to the wall and gropes blindly for a switch--
--and shrieks when his fingers brush something warm and soft and alive.
"Motherfuck," says a voice in the dark, with feeling.
It's a familiar voice.
"Mr. Iero?" says Gerard disbelievingly. "The f-- what are you doing hiding in a closet?"
He sort of hears it as it comes out of his mouth and feels a sudden urge to punch himself in the face. But Mr. Iero just laughs that painfully adorable pot laugh, his face becoming clearer as Gerard's eyes adjust to the gloom.
"Same as you, if you're hiding from Miss Halliday. I stopped hiding in the metaphorical closet years ago."
Gerard tries to sound politely interested and accepting while choking slightly on his own spit. He's suddenly acutely aware of how close Mr. Iero is, so close Gerard can smell ink and cigarettes and clean cotton. Mr. Iero's eyes are big and bright, his grin pale in the dark, and Gerard just - wants. This is the first time he's seen Mr. Iero since the incident with the drawing, he realizes, and it looks like Mr. Iero has just had exactly the same thought. His breathing quickens, just a little, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
Gerard is so, so sure he isn't reading this wrong, but the risk sends a tingly, sparkling wave of adrenaline through him. Slowly, slowly, he leans in towards Mr. Iero, and butterflies blossom in his stomach when Mr. Iero doesn't back away, just tilts his head a little, his eyes fluttering half-closed. Gerard can feel Mr. Iero's breath on his own lips and it's too much, too hard to resist.
Gerard closes the gap between them and ghosts his mouth over Mr. Iero's. Mr. Iero makes a soft noise, low in his throat, and kisses back, chaste and close-mouthed and gentle.
And then there's someone knocking angrily at the door, and they spring apart like they've been burnt.
"I got this," murmurs Mr. Iero, touching Gerard's wrist lightly. "Where's the fire?" he drawls, sauntering out into the hallway and kicking the closet door shut behind him.
"Who were you talking to?" asks Miss Halliday suspiciously. Gerard can almost hear her eyes narrowing.
"No one. Just talking to myself," Mr. Iero says nonchalantly. And wow, the guy must have balls of steel or something, because Miss Halliday's suspicious look cuts right through most lesser mortals and leaves them a gibbering wreck in a matter of seconds. "First sign of madness, right? See you later, Karen."
Gerard spends the next few hours in a daze, wondering if he dreamed the whole thing. He kissed his English teacher. He kissed his English teacher. He kissed his English teacher. And his English teacher - his English teacher - kissed back. It's so fucking surreal.
It isn't long before the disbelief turns into flat-out rage at Miss Halliday, the fucking cockblocker. His first sober kiss, his first kiss with the guy he's already totally gone for, and thanks to Miss fucking Halliday, they barely got to first base. It's not fair. Gerard sits on the bus on his way home and seethes with resentment and sexual frustration.
Staying angry turns out to be surprisingly tiring to sustain, and before long he can feel it draining out of him, leaving him feeling flat and vaguely unhappy. Maybe getting interrupted brought Mr. Iero to his senses, and he's grateful that the whole student-kissing situation didn't go any further than it did. And, of course, if that's the case, then Gerard's chances are well and truly blown and things are going to be weird and awkward with the one teacher who doesn't hate him and he basically might as well just die.
By the time he goes to bed that night, he's so exhausted that he doesn't even jerk off to the thought of Mr. Iero tying him up with his own tie. Which, in his opinion, is definitive proof of emotional trauma.
Fuck his fucking life.
He's dreading English the next day from the moment he wakes up. He considers skipping it again, but not knowing where he stands with Mr. Iero is killing him. Also, he knows he had a lucky escape with Miss Halliday last time, and the safest course of action is probably just to lie low for a while.
Of course, because the universe can be a real douchebag sometimes, English isn't until last period, giving Gerard the whole day to work himself up into a state of nervous wreckage over the whole thing. He doesn't really like sneaking outside to smoke during school (half-expecting a teacher to appear out of nowhere and bust him for smoking on school property kind of stops him enjoying it), but today is an exception.
He bolts his lunch so fast he feels sick, and makes for the narrow space outside the school's back fire door. There's another, larger space by around the side of the school's main building - that's where most of the smokers go, which is exactly why Gerard avoids it. How the fuck is he supposed to enjoy a well-earned cigarette on a particularly shitty day if he has to worry about making awkward small talk with other people over borrowing a lighter or something?
There are cigarette butts on the concrete that he's almost sure he didn't leave there, he notices as he steps outside into the damp, chilly air. He's pretty sure there are one or two other people who use this spot as well, but as long as he doesn't have to see them, he can deal with that.
He fishes his almost empty packet out of the pocket of his hoodie and lights up. He feels better already. In fact, he thinks, exhaling smoke, he feels almost ready to face Mr. Iero this afternoon. He can totally do this.
And then the door swings open and Gerard's good mood vanishes instantly. He drops his cigarette (almost new, he thinks, dying a little inside) and quickly grinds it out under his heel, trying to look like a model citizen who just needed some fresh air. It's probably just another student, but he's not willing to risk it.
It isn't another student.
It's Mr. Iero.
Gerard blinks at him like a rabbit caught in the headlights, and Mr. Iero's face lights up with a bright, genuine smile. Gerard's first instinct is to say something to break the ice, but nothing springs to mind, so sort of ends up just standing there with his mouth hanging open.
"Don't worry, I'm not here to bust you for smoking," says Mr. Iero, rolling his eyes with that fucking lopsided smile. Gerard is confused and terrified and almost-hopeful all at once, and it's making his head spin.
Mr. Iero pulls a squashed carton of smokes out of his jacket pocket. "Fuck," he says. "Left my lighter at home, can I--?"
Gerard fumbles for his own and hands it over. "Why d'you curse in front of me?" he asks, before he can stop himself. It's one of the many, many things about Mr. Iero that confuses him.
Mr. Iero doesn't look too put off by the weird question. "Well," he says. "You know, you're..." he waves his hand descriptively at Gerard (his hands, god, his fucking hands). "You," he finishes unhelpfully, and an uncomfortable silence falls. Mr. Iero hands Gerard's lighter back, mumbling a thankyou around the cigarette between his lips. Gerard reaches out for the lighter, but he's so distracted by Mr. Iero's mouth that it slips through his fingers.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Gerard drops to his knees on the cold, damp concrete, feeling his cheeks burning as he scrabbles for the lighter. Once he's got it, he heaves himself upright again, carefully looking everywhere but Mr. Iero. Instead, he stares fixedly down at his own hideous school shoes. He hadn't thought anything could possibly be this awkward, but apparently he was wrong.
The silence is getting unbearable. He has to say something. "So--" he starts.
"Listen--" Mr. Iero says at exactly the same moment, and they both stop. Gerard looks up, meeting Mr. Iero's eyes, and his stomach flips.
"You first," says Gerard. His mouth has gone all dry, and his voice comes out as a sort of hideous croak. He can't see how this could get any worse, but that doesn't mean it won't happen.
"Okay," Mr. Iero says, taking a drag on his smoke. His voice is steady, but Gerard could swear his hands are shaking, just a little. His eyes are huge and earnest and, god, Gerard has never wanted to kiss him more. "Yesterday, what... happened, I shouldn't have done that. If you wanna - uh, report me or something then I get that, or if you just wanna forget it ever happened then, you know, that's fine too. I'm not gonna start grading you differently or--"
"But I don't want to," Gerard blurts. Both of those options are a step back from what he wants, namely a chance to kiss his fucking English teacher for real.
Mr. Iero looks at him quizzically.
"I don't wanna report you," Gerard says. His heart is fucking pounding, he can't believe he's doing this. "And I don't wanna just forget about it. Unless, I mean-- obviously you don't have to if you don't want to, but. Uh."
"Gerard," says Mr. Iero seriously. His right hand is hanging loose at his side, his cigarette forgotten. "I mean it. I'm in a position of authority, it'd be wrong of me to... I couldn't."
"But you could," insists Gerard. Some weird sixth sense is spurring him on, telling him he's close, he's so close, that he just needs to push Mr. Iero a little further and then he'll crack.
"Fuck. Don't do this to me, Gerard," Mr. Iero says, almost pleadingly, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out. "It's not fair."
He looks up at Gerard, so hopelessly torn, and Gerard is stumbling forward and kissing him before he even knows what he's doing. Mr. Iero makes a startled noise against his mouth and Gerard has a sudden moment of blind panic - maybe he's been reading this all wrong, maybe all this is just Mr. Iero's way of letting him down gently - but then Mr. Iero starts kissing back, licking tentatively at the seam of Gerard's lips. Gerard feels warm, strong hands coming up to cup his face, and he's on fire. It's like his skin is singing, sparking and glowing in all the places where Mr. Iero is touching him.
It's so, so good.
Mr. Iero's mouth is hot and smoky-tasting, and, fuck, it's intoxicating. It's so much, the sensation going straight to Gerard's head and making him feel dizzy and weak-kneed. Mr. Iero's being so gentle, taking everything deliciously slowly as if he's worried about scaring Gerard away, but it's not enough. Gerard opens up eagerly, letting Mr. Iero's tongue slide hotly against his own.
And - fuck. That's his teacher's mouth, his teacher's hands in his hair, his teacher's breath catching when Gerard's teeth graze his lip. Gerard is pretty sure he'd have a pathetic, starry-eyed crush on Mr. Iero even if he wasn't a teacher, but there's something secret and guilty about this thing between them, and that's fucking hot.
And then Mr. Iero is untangling his fingers from Gerard's hair, bracing his hands against Gerard's shoulders and backing him up against the wall, and Gerard's thoughts scatter like leaves. He can feel Mr. Iero pressed up against him, hot and close, his weight pinning Gerard in place. He nips at Gerard's lip and gets hold of his ugly school tie with one hand, kissing him harder, deeper. It's like he's suddenly become a completely different person, smooth and sure and almost predatory.
Gerard can feel his body responding, going pliant under Mr. Iero's hands. He wants this, god, in ways he hadn't even thought about, ways he hadn't even realized existed. Mr. Iero makes a low, wanting noise, and Gerard's stomach flips. He did that. There's this gorgeous, stupidly talented guy who could charm his way into anyone's pants with nothing but a smile, and Gerard is the one making him moan like that. Gerard feels exhilarated, punch-drunk, powerful. He's no stranger to the quick, fumbling hookup with another wasted, desperate loser like himself, but this is brand new.
It's a buzz like nothing else he's ever known.
He lets out an involuntary noise of his own, high and thin and needy. Mr. Iero breaks the kiss and leans in to rest his forehead against Gerard's. He's breathing hard, his cheeks a little flushed, his pupils blown wide and his lips swollen and spit-slick. He looks like a fucking wet dream brought to life.
"Fuck," he breathes, his voice rough and ragged at the edges, and that alone is enough to knock the breath out of Gerard all over again. "The things I'd do to you, if I had the chance."
A shiver ripples through Gerard, anticipation curling low and hot in his belly. That sounded like a promise.
"Want you to," he says weakly. He'll take whatever Mr. Iero will give him. He glances down and then back up at Mr. Iero through lowered lashes. "Sir," he adds, softly. He doesn't know what makes him say it, but it somehow doesn't sound as ridiculous as he thinks it should.
Mr. Iero moans at that, a shameless, filthy moan right out of one of Gerard's go-to jerkoff fantasies. "Oh my god," he says, staring hungrily at Gerard. "Fuck. Fuck. That's got to be the hottest thing I've ever heard."
Gerard shivers again, all lit up by the thrill. He's never been looked at like that before, and it's getting under his skin. "What--" he starts, and licks his lips. "What do you wanna do to me?"
He's mentally flicking through the possibilities even as he says it. He wants Mr. Iero to make him beg, he wants Mr. Iero to hold him down and make him wait and make him love whatever he's given.
Mr. Iero rubs his thumb over Gerard's cheek and trails two fingers teasingly lightly down the side of his neck. "Pretty thing like you, I wouldn't know where to start," he murmurs.
And then the bell shrills for the end of lunch. They both start guiltily, and the spell is broken. Gerard feels sort of off-balance. One corner of Mr. Iero's mouth pulls up in a lopsided smile.
"Some other time," he says, and Gerard nods eagerly, still completely unable to think straight. Mr. Iero straightens his tie, runs a hand through his hair, and steps back towards the door. He pushes it open, then looks back over his shoulder at Gerard. "By the way," he says, flashing another devastating smile, this one playful and just a little dirty. "My name's Frank. But I'm never gonna stop you calling me sir."
Gerard's head is still spinning when he gets to the English classroom, a minute behind Mr. Iero - no, Frank. God, that's weird. It's like he's two different people, opposite sides of the same coin. One is Gerard's cute, dorky English teacher, the other is a tattooed guitarist with a filthy mouth and an unfairly nice ass.
The dissonance between the parallel Franks is making it very difficult to concentrate. Knowing that the dude Gerard was making out with five minutes ago is right under the surface of the guy currently talking enthusiastically about the flow of iambic hexameter is pretty distracting, as is Mr. Iero's mouth.
He'd feel pathetic for letting it get to him like this, but he's sure Mr. Iero is looking at him more often than is really necessary. Gerard wonders if Frank is watching him like he's watching Frank, his eyes catching on Frank's hands, his mouth, remembering how he felt and how he tasted.
"What do you think, Gerard?"
Gerard startles at the mention of his name, snapping to attention a moment too late. "Um," he says.
"Or were you spacing out instead of listening?" purrs Mr. Iero, perfectly deadpan, raising an eyebrow. "Detention, I think."
It's then that Gerard realizes two things. Firstly, that Mr. Iero is kind of an asshole. And, secondly, that he fucking loves it.
When the final bell rings, the rest of the class start to leave, chatting and joking, their chairs scraping against the floor. Gerard stays where he is, feeling so jittery and wired that he can hardly breathe. An hour. A whole hour, alone in a classroom with Mr. Iero. Fuck.
It takes a fucking age for everyone else to get out of the classroom, but when they're finally the only ones left, Mr. Iero gets up from behind his desk and saunters lazily over to the door.
Gerard hears the lock click shut, loud and clear in the silent classroom.
Mr. Iero turns back and looks Gerard slowly up and down. Gerard feels hyper-aware of everything - his tie feels too tight, his shirt is sticking to his skin, his pants are itchy and he feels young and clumsy and awkward.
"Shit," says Mr. Iero softly, with a grin, "All the time I spent watching you and feeling like an old perv." He moves back over to his desk and leans against it, facing Gerard. Gerard can't help but notice the way Mr. Iero's belt buckle is right at his eye level. "If only I'd known I wasn't the only one looking."
"I was watching you at your shows," Gerard says. His mouth is dry, and he's sure Mr. Iero must be able to hear his heart pounding.
"Yeah?" Mr. Iero's - Frank's - eyes have gone hot and dark, and he takes a step towards Gerard. "Shit. Please tell me you went home and jerked off afterwards."
"Twice," Gerard says. Mr. Iero looks like he's mentally undressing Gerard, and it's making him brave. "And again the morning after."
"Fuck," groans Mr. Iero. "C'mon, get up."
Gerard stumbles out of his seat, kicking it away, and Mr. Iero reels him in for another kiss. Gerard lets himself be nudged backwards towards the desk and obediently hops up onto it, spreading his thighs a little so Mr. Iero can get between them. Mr. Iero edges closer with a low, satisfied noise, moving into the space Gerard's made for him. Gerard can feel Mr. Iero's chest pressed flush against his own, one of his hands on the back of Gerard's neck, the other pressed flat against the small of his back, warm through his thin shirt. Mr. Iero is kissing him teasingly gently, with barely a hint of tongue or a brush of teeth, and it's slowly driving Gerard insane.
"Never thought I'd actually get to see you like this," Mr. Iero says softly, and Gerard's breath catches, because - fuck.
"You, uh. You thought about this?" he manages.
"Uh huh. You sitting up here on my desk for me." he runs one hand up Gerard's thigh and Gerard realizes how he must look, sitting here with his legs spread like this - willing and needy, and, fuck. Yeah.
Mr. Iero grins, settling both hands just below Gerard's hips. "You look fuckin' good enough to eat. Can't even do my job with you around. I had to sit through that whole lesson trying not to think about you."
And then he slides his hands around Gerard's back and pulls him in so that Gerard's hard-on rubs up against Mr. Iero's belly, and Gerard lets out a startled, involuntary gasp.
"Shit," he says weakly. Now his dick has realized how fucking good it would feel to just rub off against Mr. Iero, rut against him until he comes in his pants, he's having trouble holding himself back.
Mr. Iero drops one hand down to palm at Gerard through his ugly school slacks, and Gerard whimpers. That's Mr. Iero's hand. Mr. Iero is practically touching his dick. Gerard wonders wildly when his life became this fucking awesome.
"Wanna see you touch yourself," says Mr. Iero, his voice low and hot. "You gonna do that for me?"
Gerard nods shakily. God, he hasn't even got a hand on his cock yet and he already feels hot all over, riled up and wound tight.
"Good boy," says Mr. Iero, taking a step back to lean against the other desk behind him, watching Gerard hungrily. Gerard is so turned on he can hardly think, fumbling with his belt buckle. This feels so fucking surreal; he's half expecting to wake up any second now in his own bed with a raging boner.
Eventually, he manages to get his belt undone and his zipper down, and he braces his hand against the desk so he can lift his hips and shove his pants and his underwear down around his thighs. He's hard already, and he feels self-conscious spitting into his palm before he wraps his hand around his cock. It's good, it's so much better than jerking off has ever been before, all because of the way Mr. Iero is looking at him. He starts slow, dragging precome down over the length of his dick to ease the slide. He twists his wrist a little, playing up to his audience, and his breath hitches on a moan.
"Shit," breathes Mr. Iero. "C'mon, show me how you like it."
Gerard lets his head fall back, bearing his throat, lets his mouth fall open on another little gasp. He's feeling his way through the dark, just making it up as he goes along, but he likes it. Fuck, he really likes it.
"Your mouth, oh my god," Mr. Iero groans. Gerard notices the bulge in his pants, and that sends a hot tingle through him. "Want that pretty mouth on my cock."
Mr. Iero's own mouth curls obscenely around the last word, and Gerard's rhythm falters. He wants that too.
"Bet you make some pretty noises, too," Mr. Iero carries on. Gerard's cheeks feel hot and he's breathing hard, letting little moans slip out when he hits his sweet spot just right. "Bet you're really loud, fuck. Gonna make you scream next time, wanna hear you. Wanna hear you lose it right here, where anyone could hear you. Anyone could walk right in and see you with your pants down, moaning for me."
"Oh, fuck," Gerard chokes out.
"You like that? Maybe I'd make you beg, get you so close and not let you come until you said please. You gonna come for me now?"
"Please," groans Gerard. "Sir, oh fuck--" and then he's coming so hard he sees stars, spilling hot and sticky over his fingers.
"Fuckin' gorgeous," says Mr. Iero softly, while Gerard's still coming down and he's warm and loose-limbed.
"Yeah?" he says, glancing shyly up at Mr. Iero, suddenly feeling nervous and fluttery, but... good. Definitely good. It's fucking ridiculous that he's chosen now to come over all bashful - he's just jacked off in front of his English teacher, for fuck's sake - but he's never been told he's gorgeous before. He's under no illusions about the fact that his role in his previous hookups has been as a warm body to facilitate an orgasm and nothing more, but this feels different.
"Oh, yeah. And I meant about next time, too. I... assuming you want a next time, I mean." For the first time, Mr. Iero's confident front cracks, and he looks uncertain.
"I want a next time," Gerard insists. "Fucking - I really do. I want you." He feels kind of stupid saying it, but it's the truth. It feels like something's just started, it's too soon for it to be over. "You want me to--?" He makes an abortive motion towards Mr. Iero's crotch.
Mr. Iero chuckles. "Uh uh, not today. But - yeah?" his smile is slow and warm, and for the first time, Gerard doesn't have to work to see him as Frank, not Mr. Iero.
If there's one thing Gerard should have learnt after almost two months of fucking his English teacher, it's that he underestimates said English teacher at his peril.
Like right now, for instance. Gerard hasn't come for five days, fourteen hours, thirty-two minutes and counting. It's not like he hasn't thought about rubbing one out on the sly (because he has, god, he has), but Frank would know. Frank just knows these things. What it comes down to, really, is that Frank promised him something special if he could hold out until this afternoon, and he doesn't know if it's just a normal symptom of fucking one's teacher or what, but there's a small, insistent part of him that wants to be good for Frank, for Mr. Iero.
In theory, Gerard just has to get through the rest of this lesson, then they'll have the classroom to themselves so Frank can do filthy things to him, possibly over a desk or up against the blackboard (again).
In practice, though, because Frank is a bastard, his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off his gorgeous ink, and he's talking with his hands even more than usual - which, Gerard thinks, surreptitiously adjusting his pants under the desk, is even worse for knowing what those fingers are capable of. Gerard catches a few of the girls in the class looking him over with interest, which makes Gerard's stomach twist. And then, because Frank is apparently playing for some kind of all-time high score in douchebaggery, he keeps giving Gerard this fucking look. It's a hot, dark look, as if he's already imagining what he's going to do to Gerard, and Gerard is just about ready to crawl out of his fucking skin.
Gerard bites back a whimper, and goes back to highlighting examples of hyperbole on the sheet in front of him.
The rest of the lesson drags. Gerard spends several minutes devising a complex color-coding system for his highlighters, but when that fails too, he resigns himself to thoughts of Frank's hands, his mouth, his cock, the noises he makes when he's about to come, the way he sounds when he's telling Gerard how good he feels.
This time, Frank isn't even pretending to be patient. He holds the door open when the lesson is over, chivvying the rest of the class out, and Gerard can only wait at his desk, practically vibrating with sexual frustration. Frank all but slams the door behind the last stragglers and locks it, before going back to pull Gerard out of his seat and push him over to the corner of the classroom that can't be seen through the little window in the door. Gerard lets him do it, because he's made his peace with what the idea of being manhandled by Frank does to him. Frank guides him back, sitting him up on one of the desks, then crowds in close, running his hands up and down Gerard's sides and pressing his face into Gerard's neck.
"Fuck, I can't stop touching you," he says indistinctly, his mouth moving against Gerard's skin, and Gerard draws a long, ragged breath. He's still not happy with the flab on his hips and thighs and his belly, but Frank seems determined to change his mind.
"Now," Frank says, stepping back to look Gerard in the eye. "We made a deal last time.
Gerard nods frantically. "I kept it," he says, wrestling with the urge to stick his hand down his pants. "I haven't-- not since last time, I swear."
"Yeah? You been good for me?" Frank moves in again. "You been doing what I told you?"
Gerard nods again, not trusting himself to speak coherently, and a thin whine slips out. He needs Frank to start touching him now. Fuck, even that's too late. Yesterday, ideally.
"Not once?" Frank presses. "You didn't jack off in the shower? Didn't wake up and take care of your morning wood?"
"No," Gerard says, not looking away. "Sir."
Frank's eyes have gone dark. "Fuck," he breathes. "God, you must be so ready for it. I didn't think you'd actually-- fuck, oh my god." He leans in for a rough, messy kiss. "You've been so good, gonna..."
And then he drops to his knees in front of Gerard, and Gerard could swear he stops breathing for a split second. Frank looks up at him, his head on one side, questioningly, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Gerard sits there for a moment in gobsmacked silence before he catches on - that questioning look really is a question, because Frank always likes to be sure that Gerard is down with whatever they're doing, but this has got to be the fucking dumbest question Gerard has ever heard.
"Please," he says, resisting the urge to squirm in place. "Jesus fuck, please, I need..."
"Ssh," says Frank softly, deftly flicking Gerard's belt buckle open and running the zipper down. "C'mon, let me-- that's it. I promised you something too, if I remember rightly."
Gerard can only look down with his heart pounding at Frank as he ducks his head, his breath ghosting over the obvious bulge in Gerard's boxers. Gerard is achingly hard - fuck, he feels like he's been hard since forever, or at least half an hour ago - and he shivers. Frank flashes Gerard a sharp, bright smile, then dips his fingers under the elastic and tugs Gerard's underwear down. Gerard makes an involuntary noise and bites down on his lip as the cool air hits his cock, and Frank looks up at him approvingly.
"Shit, you really are ready for it," he says, his voice low and rough already, and before Gerard can say a word or even string together a coherent thought, Frank is wrapping his hand around the base of Gerard's cock and sinking down, his mouth hot and wet and tight.
"Oh my-- fuck," he chokes. He stares down at Frank - fucking hell, at Mr. Iero down on his knees, the mouth that featured in several of his wet dreams stretched around his cock. It's so surreal; he's spent so long imagining this, and it's so, so much better than he could ever have expected. Frank's cheeks hollow as he sucks and Gerard groans, because, god, Frank's good with his mouth. He does something with his tongue that's probably illegal in several states, and Gerard's hands clench convulsively on the desk.
He hasn't had an orgasm in nearly a week, and now his insanely hot English teacher is sucking his dick in a deserted classroom.
He's going to die. He is actually going to die, because he's only human and this is a lot to take. Frank pulls off, jacking almost lazily while he looks up at Gerard.
"Wanna hear you," he says. "How 'm I supposed to know what you want if you won't beg?" He goes down again without waiting for an answer, and Gerard's mouth drops open on a moan. He's helpless, putty in Frank's hands, and it's worth every cold shower and every time he had to sit on his hands and think about unsexy things.
Frank takes him deeper and Gerard makes a noise that's embarrassingly close to a sob. He doesn't want this to be over but he can feel it coiling in the pit of his stomach and the way Frank is licking and sucking at him, sloppy and messy, is dangerously close to pushing him over the edge. His hips jerk forwards of their own volition, and when Frank makes a low, satisfied noise around his cock, the vibrations rattle right through him. Frank has his hand around what he can't get in his mouth and he pulls off, jacking Gerard faster. Gerard's fucking toes are curling and he's going to explode, fuck.
He opens his mouth to warn Frank, but a slight twist of Frank's wrist puts paid to that, and whatever he'd been going to say comes out as a rough, wrecked moan, and he comes harder than he ever has before, fire zinging through every inch of him and burning out to warm, lazy relief as he comes harder than he ever has before. That more than makes up for not being able to come for almost a week, fuck.
And then he opens his eyes to see Frank - Mr. Iero - with come striping his face, licking his lips clean and looking up at Gerard.
"Oh my god," Gerard blurts. "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
"Did you hear me complaining?" Frank says, and he's grinning. He gets to his feet, brushing dust from his knees (and, wow, that's an image Gerard wants to keep for later), and wipes his fingers through the mess on his face. He holds his hand out, looking at Gerard expectantly, and Gerard doesn't stop to think before he ducks his head to lick Frank's fingers clean, sucking at the rough pads of his fingertips. Frank makes a low, appreciative noise, and Gerard is still too full of afterglow to resist when Frank withdraws his fingers from Gerard's mouth with a filthy, wet noise, turns him around and pushes him down with a hand between his shoulderblades.
"What--" Gerard starts, but then Frank is tugging his pants and boxers down, and Gerard's brain sort of short-circuits. He's bent over a desk, his ass bare, his teacher close behind him, his thumbs digging into Gerard's ass as he holds him open. Fuck, that's hot. That's right out of a porno, not something that actually happens.
And then he feels Frank's tongue licking at his hole, and he makes a loud, shocked noise. He's still tingling and over-sensitized from just coming and, god, this is actually going to kill him. He hears Frank's low, dirty chuckle behind him, and he shivers again. He knows Frank well enough to be absolutely positive that that was a promise, or maybe a threat.
Frank's clearly done this before, because he's not holding back - he's fucking going for it, holding Gerard open while he eats him out. That's Frank's spit slicking his skin, Frank's fingers digging in just below his hips, Frank's tongue teasing and tasting and opening him up, and it's almost too much for him to take. He's almost sobbing, his breaths loud and ragged and uneven, and he can feel himself getting hard again.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he pants, pushing back when Frank drags his tongue up the cleft of his ass and back down. "Oh my god, Frank, sir, you're-- ngh, fuck!"
He knows, distantly, that he's babbling and that he's probably only embarrassing himself and not even making any sense, but he doesn't care. Frank's hot, clever tongue is working him open and it's filthy and amazing and so fucking hot he can't even think straight.
Frank takes a step back and Gerard can't help the noise he makes, suddenly feeling horribly exposed, but then he hears the sound of something ripping, and then Frank's cool, slick fingers are pushing into him, slow and sure. Gerard hisses at the stretch, but Frank doesn't let up, and as too much begins to tip over into not enough, Gerard rocks back, bearing down on Frank's hand and fucking himself on his fingers. Frank swears softly and adds a third finger.
"'M ready, fuck," groans Gerard, because he is, god, he's so ready.
"Yeah? Ready for what?" Frank purrs, sliding his fingers out. That's just not playing fair, Gerard thinks, gritting his teeth.
"Ready for you to fuck me," he says, and Frank presses the tip of a single finger into Gerard.
"No, fuck. I want your fucking cock, come on."
Frank slaps his ass just hard enough to sting a little. "What do you say?"
"Please," Gerard manages to choke out. "Sir."
Frank makes a noise of satisfaction, and the next thing Gerard knows, he can feel the blunt press of Frank's cock, and he lets out a sob of pure, unadulterated relief. This is what he needs, Frank rolling his hips forward and filling Gerard up, stretching him out.
"God, that's good," Frank says, breathless and throaty, thrusting deeper into Gerard, and Gerard manages a moan of agreement. Frank is settling into a rhythm now - slow, but gathering speed, and Gerard can feel the drag of every inch of Frank's cock inside him when Frank finally sinks balls-deep into him, his hips pressed flush against Gerard's ass.
Gerard knows he's making too much noise, little high, desperate ahs every time Frank pushes in, and it hits him again that he's not going to last. Frank's getting close, too, he can tell. His rhythm is faltering, his hips bucking forward erratically, ad Gerard clenches around him.
"Shit," Frank says, and he slams into Gerard one last time. Gerard feels one of Frank's hands reaching around to wrap around his dick and start to stroke while Frank pulls out.
Gerard groans and gives in to it, and he comes with Frank's weight against his back, and Frank's voice in his ear telling him that he's fucking perfect.
(Another two months later, Gerard graduates with a smile on his face and a scrap of paper in his pocket. On the paper, there's a string of numbers scrawled above the words please call.)