Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/329744.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom, My_Chemical_Romance
  Relationship:
      Frank_Iero/Gerard_Way
  Character:
      Frank_Iero, Gerard_Way
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, First_Time, Teenagers, Awkwardness,
      Inexperience, Public_Sex, Facials
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-01-30 Words: 3913
****** Faceless Crush ******
by synonomy
Summary
     He's this slouching ink-stained greaseball in the back corner of the
     art room.
He's this slouching ink-stained greaseball in the back corner of the art room.
Frank sees him every day for the two straight weeks he has detention; by the
third day he's forgotten what he did this time. It's just routine, like
everything else.
For the first few days Frank trudges in at lunchtime, tripping over the
trailing threads and denim at the bottom of his jeans and skidding his half-
dilapidated book bag across the long row of tables at the front of the
classroom. The supervising teacher never sticks around long after Frank starts
to pretend to write his lines - trying out increasingly inventive variations of
I must not be disruptive to keep himself looking absorbed - until they're
slinking off to the staff room for a sly cigarette under pretense of having
work to do and leaving the two of them alone.
I must not have fun, I must not speak my mind, I must not be myself, I must not
question bullshit-- it gets old pretty fast, especially since Frank's not even
really angry about it anymore. Day five is when he finally breaks and can't
pretend he's not paying more attention to the sporadic skritch-skritch behind
his ears any longer, and turns around to get a proper look.
The dude is seriously fucking weird, Frank can tell just from looking -
wouldn't even have to bring into the consideration the fact he's actually here
by choice, in a classroom for his entire lunch hour every day without fail.
He's practically the model of angsty teenage isolation, all black-covered and
twitchy-fingered, long hair hiding his face where he's hunched over the wide
slew of paper and various drawing implements, easy and cliché.
Frank's interested anyway, but he forgets about it over the weekend, until he
jerks awake Monday morning hard and desperate and remembers, suddenly, as he's
fucking his hand against the sheets: this vague, faceless, brooding image -
white, slender fingers - and comes messy and juvenile inside his underwear.
Frank doesn't turn around that lunchtime, even though he's pretty sure the guy
doesn't know he exists anyway. The skritch-skritch has been replaced with shh-
shh, like watery brush strokes or the flat drag of the side of a piece of
chalk, maybe graphite. Frank drops his chin in his hand and stares blankly out
of the window for the hour, lets himself listen as his eyelids droop, mind
wandering with the motions, trying to imagine the picture taking shape.
As the end of lunch bell sounds the teacher returns and starts making shooing
motions at them. Frank takes his time shoving his shit back into his bag,
watching the guy carefully sliding paper into a folder out of the corner of his
eye, slotting utensils into their proper places in their little boxes. He's
wearing a plain, stained hoodie with ripped, tattered cuffs, and when he
straightens up and his hair falls away from his face there's a dark smudge on
one high cheekbone.
Frank can't stop thinking about it the entire day. When he gets home he locks
the bathroom door and jerks off in the shower to images of the white flash of
wrists between straggles of dark fabric, chipped black nail polish and tiny
front teeth nibbling nervously at an already red bottom lip, sore flesh and
ragged skin.
It's not as easy to stay facing forward the next day. For some reason the dude
seems louder - sniffing and shuffling in his seat, clattering things against
the table, raspy breathing. Frank's always first to leave no matter how long he
dawdles, and, like, he can't hang around outside, because the hallway is
already full of people. He couldn't anyway, of course, but by Thursday he's
toying with the idea that he wants to. The teacher fucks off about ten minutes
in and Frank turns around immediately, drops his elbows back against the table
and just lets himself look, considering. It had happened again last night, and
Frank might not be the brightest spark but he knows himself, even if he doesn't
quite know what, exactly, this is yet.
It's warm today, and the guy's dressed refreshingly sparse, wearing a band tee
and baggy, paint-splattered jeans, arms bare. He's drawing something with a lot
of sweeping lines, charcoal smudged all the way up his right forearm from
sliding widely over the paper. Frank gets glimpses of something dark and
whimsical; his messenger bag is covered in doodles of violence, zombies, gore.
Frank thinks about horror movies, mind flashing back to the last Tim Burton he
saw - and that's when he realizes he's going to talk to greasy art room dude.
There's a brief rush of panic before he resolves not to think about it too
much. He sweeps his untouched, crumpled piece of paper and blunt, chewed up
pencil into his bag and slides into the outside aisle. The guy doesn't look up,
hand stilling only when Frank walks around behind him and dumps his bag heavily
on the table, dropping down into the seat beside him.
"Gerard Way," Frank reads off the front of his folder. Well then. "Beetlejuice
or Edward Scissorhands, go."
Gerard, apparently, doesn't say anything, and Frank shakes his head lightly.
"Yeah, you're right, that was a lame conversation starter. I mean, it's
obviously Beetlejuice, so that was kind of a pointless question."
"Why." Gerard Way's voice is thick and nasally, slow with caution. "Why are you
talking to me?" It's not accusing, it's more like he actually wants to know. It
probably doesn't happen much, Frank realizes.
He hesitates. He doesn't feel like trying to come up with a lie. "Because I
want to fuck you."
There's a long pause. And then Gerard says, "Oh." He's still looking down,
index finger tapping against the head of his pencil.
Frank sighs. He is so smooth. "Sorry. I'll leave you alone."
"No. I mean." Frank stops mid-rise from his chair as Gerard inclines his face
toward Frank, not quite looking at him, but close. "It's okay."
Frank breathes out, slowly sinking back into the seat. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, um." Gerard mumbles something under his breath, slowly lowering his
pencil to the table. "...Bathroom?"
Frank tries to pretend his insides aren't squirming. "Sure."
He sways on the spot and shuffles his feet awkwardly while Gerard packs away
his things, stealing glances at the slope of his back shifting under his t-
shirt as he ducks and rises. Frank barely knows what it's like to be attracted
to someone yet, but he's pretty sure this isn't how it is for other people. It
interests him more than it bothers him, which is interesting in itself, since
Frank's spent nearly all his years of high school feeling mostly sedated.
He winds up leading the way, Gerard walking a few paces behind him, burning the
back of Frank's neck. The hallways are mostly empty, everybody still at lunch
and outside. Frank's glad of it, because it means there's nobody in the
bathroom either. He stops in front of the row of cubicles and dithers for a
moment, suddenly a lot less sure of himself. It almost makes him jump when
Gerard just shuffles straight past him, into the very end cubicle farthest from
the door, dropping his messenger bag with a heavy thud. Frank can see his
battered old Converse under the divide, the dirty hems of his jeans brushing
the floor, waiting.
Frank takes a breath and immediately wishes he hadn't, wrinkling his nose
against the pungent smell of disinfectant. He shakes his head to himself,
counting a couple of beats inside his head before following Gerard in and
shutting the door behind himself.
And, wow. Up close greasy art dude is seriously pretty, which seems really
bizarre for some reason, even more bizarre than this whole thing. He's taller
than Frank, too, which is nothing unusual - but he's, like, broader as well,
bigger in general, maybe even kind of chubby - though Frank hadn't really
thought about it like that before. In his mind, Gerard is this silent, hulking
presence at the back of the art room, and it's strange to see him like this,
standing in front of him like a human being, starting mostly at Frank's shoes.
There's nowhere to hide now, no windows to avert his eyes to or things to keep
his hands busy, other than--
It's Gerard that moves first, startling him, taking a slow step forward and
hovering close - not quite pinning Frank, bare arms providing only slight
pressure on his chest as he leans in. Greasy art dude kisses slow and messy, a
little clumsy, mouth soft and wet and crooked. Frank responds mostly by
instinct, heart thudding a bit, and hesitantly brings his hands down to the
small of Gerard's back, where his t-shirt is riding up. The skin there is warm
and soft, a little damp already, and Frank feels himself flush from the bottom
of his stomach right up through his face, pushing into the kiss.
He's a little unnerved by how rapidly he climbs the notches from mmm, nice to
yeah, really fucking turned on as they make out like that, hot and tense
against the cubicle door. Frank's not entirely inexperienced, but he can't
remember being this affected by any of his drunken party hook-ups. He lets out
an overwhelmed breath against Gerard's mouth and wraps his fingers around a
delicate white wrist, tugs Gerard's hand down to press against Frank's hard-on
through his jeans, covering Gerard's bony knuckles with his own palm.
Gerard's mouth falters and Frank quickly whispers, "Been like this since I
fuckin' saw you," because he isn't being pushy, and he isn't that kind of
asshole - and, for whatever reason, he really doesn't want Gerard to think
that. Frank's cheeks burn but he ignores them, tells himself he doesn't give a
shit even if Gerard does walk out of here right now. But when he glances up
Gerard's just looking down at their hands cupped together over Frank's crotch,
breathing shallowly through his mouth - dark, greasy bangs hanging between
their faces.
He's got the longest fucking eyelashes Frank's ever seen on a guy.
"Oh," Gerard finally says again, soft and breathless, and something kicks in
Frank's gut. He has to wrap his hands around Gerard's arms, tug forwards with a
coaxing noise because he's unsure how coherent he'll be if he tries to speak.
Thankfully Gerard's pretty pliant, letting himself be moved easily, which is
good because Frank can barely contain his impatience; awkward limbs and
breathing audibly in each other's space as Frank shuffles them around until,
finally, Gerard's the one against the door and Frank can crowd him, brace one
hand against the door and use the other to push his t-shirt further up.
Gerard makes a distressed, protesting sort of noise, but leaves his hands where
they are, where they've slid up to rest lightly on Frank's hips, thumbs dusting
the skin under the edge of Frank's tee. Frank doesn't get it, because Gerard's
belly is pale and round and perfect, the soft flesh of his hips spilling
slightly over the waistband of his jeans. For a while he gets stuck just
looking, their faces still hovering close but not meeting eyes yet, until
Gerard squirms a little and Frank suddenly knows exactly what he wants.
"I wanna blow you." He says it out loud, because apparently that's how he rolls
with people he likes.
Gerard makes this weird sound-- like a scoff, almost, but more breathless.
"Uh," he says, fingers fidgeting against Frank's hips. "Okay?"
Frank isn't entirely sure what that means but when he strokes his fingers
lightly over the faint, barely-there trail of hair on Gerard's lower belly
Gerard twitches into it and Frank goes hot all over. He curls his fingers
around the buckle of Gerard's belt, thumbing it open with a metallic click, and
Gerard doesn't say anything else - just lets his breaths wash hot and thick
over the side of Frank's ducked neck, ink-smeared arms and hands vibrating a
little as Frank opens his jeans.
He's wearing boring, grey, utterly unremarkable boxer-briefs, wrinkled and
faded, a small hole near the waistband. His dick's tenting the front and it
looks just as stupid on him as it does on Frank when he catches sight of
himself in his bedroom mirror after rolling out of bed in the morning, but the
urge to laugh isn't there - just the urge to take the material away, see how
he'd look standing up hard and dark over his stomach.
Frank doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he's eased Gerard's jeans
down over the curve of his ass, until he hooks his fingers over the edge of the
underwear and Gerard's feet shift minutely apart. Frank feels vaguely light-
headed as he sinks to his knees, like a dream or a movie, like he's watching
his hands tugging Gerard's briefs down from the outside.
He puts his hands on Gerard's hips, uses that leverage to shuffle forwards on
his knees. It's not something he's ever done - sucked dick - and Frank knows
he's staring. He blinks a few times to try and clear it, but Gerard's hard and
already wet at the tip and fucking big, jesus christ-- and Frank can't really
think past it, this, how much he wants that in his mouth. This is new, this
need, so far removed from the fumbling curiosity of before.
"Are you-- I mean." Gerard sounds vaguely terrified and a lot turned on, and
it's stupidly reassuring. Frank leans in and presses his forehead to his
stomach, closing his eyes and exhaling through his mouth. Gerard hiccups out a
sound and goes quiet, hands fluttering over Frank's shoulders. His belly is
fleshy and yielding under Frank's forehead, skin slick; it's fucking hot in
here, or maybe it's just them. When Frank breathes in now all he can smell is
that heady, unwashed boy smell - not entirely pleasant but it makes his cock
twitch in his jeans anyway, throbbing where he's straining against his zipper.
He goes for it all at once, opening his mouth around the head and sinking down
as far as he can. He gags, of course, but it's not-- it just spurs him on even
more, the hot surge of panic, that brief, weightless moment where it was like
he couldn't breathe, mouth entirely full. He pulls back, coughing a little,
then takes a breath and goes straight back down. Gerard makes a couple of
strangled noises above him, hands finally tightening up on Frank's shoulders as
Frank half-chokes himself on his dick a few times - getting a feel for it,
getting used to the strange, hot sensation of it in his mouth. He tastes kind
of like he smells, sharp and sweaty, and it makes Frank's mouth water like fuck
the more he goes at it, drool escaping out the corners of his mouth and
dribbling messily down his chin.
Which-- yeah, drool is good, he knows that himself. Drool makes things slicker,
easier, better.
He pulls back and spits in his hand, smearing it over his palm with his
fingers. Gerard makes that noise again, and Frank looks up without thinking
about it. Their eyes finally meet and it's awkward as hell, but then Frank sees
the way Gerard's looking down at him, eyes huge and dark and shocked, and
something shifts and suddenly he's grinning, slowly, holding Gerard's eyes as
he wraps his slippery hand around his cock, working the spit along the length
of him with a few slow, thorough strokes of his palm.
Gerard's eyes, somehow, get wider, mouth hanging open as he pants. It's a good
look on him, Frank thinks wildly. He looks even better when Frank leans back in
and licks at the head - his eyebrows drawing tight, fingers pulling Frank's
shirt away from his shoulders. It's weird, Frank kind of figured (and maybe had
it confirmed by all the porn he may have started watching a little more
frequently this past week) that in a blowjob situation the person getting their
dick sucked would be the one in control, but watching Gerard's face as Frank
sinks back down, it doesn't feel that way at all. Frank actually feels
strangely, ridiculously powerful down here on his knees; Gerard's belly exposed
and vulnerable under Frank's hand, rising and falling, hitching when Frank's
mouth meets his fist and he has to finally break eye contact.
It's hot. It's so fucking hot. There's some vague notions of technique that
he's read about floating around in his head-- lips over teeth, breathe through
your nose, tongue and tight suction-- and he tries his best but he's not sure
how faithful he's being to them when he actually manages to get himself
together enough to get a rhythm going. Gerard's cock is hot and thick and
stretching his mouth wide, lips already getting sore after only a little while
of slick, steady strokes, back-forth, back-forth. It's mind-numbing in the best
fucking way, feels dirty and overwhelming like all Frank is is mouth and dick,
eyes shut so that's all he can register - the thick, salty taste of come,
leaking over his tongue like Frank's leaking inside his underwear; that heady,
can't-get-enough-of smell of sweat and boy musk.
Frank groans and kicks the pace up, suddenly urgent for reasons that have
nothing to do with the imminent end of lunch bell. Gerard's making more awesome
noises, quiet little gasps and whimpers, tight and muffled like he's biting his
lip. Christ, Frank already wants to do this again somewhere else, somewhere
where Gerard wouldn't have to hold himself back, so Frank could hear him. His
hands have slid around the back of Frank's neck, fingers tugging light and
frantic at the short hair at the base of Frank's skull.
Frank wants, he wants-- but he's not stopping to tell Gerard to pull properly.
Not this time, maybe later - maybe he'll skip the rest of the day if Frank asks
him, let Frank take him home and fuck him on his clean sheets before his mom
gets in from work. Sheets Frank had to change because of Gerard and whoa, this
is so weird. So fucking weird, so fucking hot.
"Um, Frank? Fuck, I can't--" Gerard's voice is breathy and quietly desperate,
thighs shaking. Frank had already made up his mind about staying on; it's only
the sudden jab of confusion that overrides that and makes him pull off, but
then-- then Gerard's come is streaking his face, all hot, sticky pulses over
Frank's mouth and jaw and Frank forgets about everything because he's coming in
his fucking pants.
He shoves his face into the soft give of Gerard's belly to muffle his moans,
smearing jizz all over the heated skin. Gerard practically whines, but he
doesn't push Frank away, just cups his hands behind Frank's head and trembles
with him as they ride it out, until they're both slumping and panting.
Jesus. Frank can't remember ever coming that hard, and nobody even touched him.
He doesn't try to move for a long moment, just breathes heavily against
Gerard's now-sticky skin, listening to him breathe right back. Frank knows he
fucking reeks-- he can smell where Gerard's all over his face, and it makes his
dick twitch in a way that's both hot and slightly scary, because fucking hell,
when did Frank get all kinky and shit?
Biting the bullet, Frank slumps back on his heels and looks up. Gerard's
already looking back at him, eyes blown and mouth open, hair everywhere. He's
boneless against the door, legs sprawled apart as far as his bunched-up jeans
still caught around his thighs will allow, stomach shining with sweat and come
and oh god, Frank could totally get it up again if he wanted, that image is
going to stay with him for a while. Though he'd maybe lose the fear he can see
in Gerard's face, but Frank understands-- he'd probably be a little freaked out
too if some random dude announced they wanted to fuck him and then dragged him
off to the school bathroom to make him come on their face.
"Um," Frank says, trying for something close to casual and reassuring and...
failing. "Hi?"
"Oh god, I'm sorry," Gerard suddenly blurts out, and then he's off, words
tumbling out of his mouth, "I didn't mean to, I tried to-- I tried to tell you,
but you, you just-- oh god, I'm such a creep, what the fuck, did I really just
do that? Oh my god, I'm so sorry--"
He finally rambles to a stop, and Frank can tell it's costing him to meet
Frank's eyes right now. Frank has never been more confused in his life; he
feels the slowly drying come flake on his face as he frowns, and-- "Oh! You,
er, said my name."
"Ugh," Gerard says, slapping his hands over his face, hiding his eyes, muffling
his voice in his palms. "Okay, fine, I looked at the teacher's register to find
out your name. Please don't punch me, I'll just-- I'll go and leave you alone.
I'm sorry."
Frank blinks. "Dude. Really?" Gerard groans behind his hands and Frank goes on
hastily, "No, no, I just. That's really, uh. I didn't think you even knew I was
there."
Slowly, Gerard peeks at Frank through his fingers. "What. Really?" When Frank
raises his eyebrows and nods, he lowers his hands, leaving a faint smear of
grey over his nose. "Fuck. I, er, no. I mean, I knew."
There's something hovering between freak-hysteria and joy curling in Frank's
stomach; the twitch of his mouth muscles once again draw his attention to the
jizz on his face, and he rubs at it awkwardly with his forearm, which doesn't
help at all. "Fuck," he says, half-giggling now, because what the hell, right?
"This is so-- fuck."
"Here, um." Gerard shuffles a little, and then he's cupping the back of Frank's
neck, tilting his head up into the clumsy swipe of Gerard's t-shirt over the
lower half of his face. Frank goes very still, stares very hard at Gerard's
forehead, and tries not to squirm. It still doesn't do much by way of making
him decent, but at least his face isn't wet and sticky anymore when Gerard
pulls away. "Oh, and maybe I should, um--"
"Yeah, bell's soon," Frank agrees tightly, but inside he's kind of disappointed
to see Gerard tuck his soft dick back into his pants and zip himself up,
putting himself back together. You'd never know anything even happened; the
stain on Gerard's shirt isn't that obvious with all the shit on it already.
Frank really needs to change his pants, but still. No one would ever have to
know. Not even him, if he really wanted.
He says, "I knew too. Well. Obviously."
There's a long pause where Frank can't quite meet Gerard's eyes. Fuck, why is
he still on the floor? He gets up hastily, feeling suddenly silly, but Gerard
reaches out and touches his arm. "You, er, wanna get lunch?"
"Canteen's closed now," Frank says stupidly, and then catches Gerard's nervous
little smile. "Oh. Yeah." He laughs, lets himself calm down, drawls, "God, how
fucking meet-cute is this? I'm a freak, I swear."
"Mmm," Gerard widens his eyes and hums pointedly, fingers fidgeting, and yeah,
okay, Frank doesn't know exactly what that means yet but he's gonna find out.
He is, he wants to.
He can't wait.
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