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Frank has these hands that most certainly do something for you.
Sure, the tattoos help, but it's really his fingers. They way they move deftly over the fretboard. Like the guitar is less instrument and more an extension of him. Sometimes you find yourself feeling jealous of the inanimate object.
“Are you even paying attention?” Frank’s sigh snaps you back into yourself.
He’s scolding you for not having practiced your pentatonic scale like he had told you to, which is technically the reason why your mind had wandered in the first place.
Frank telling you off is also doing something for you.
You nod quickly, clutching onto your guitar harder praying to god he doesn't notice the heat rushing to your face. He gives you a weird look before demonstrating the scale again, fingers gliding across the strings in a smooth waterfall of notes. Then he looks at you expectantly. The slight uptick of his mouth says, Go on. your turn.
You have practised this. Obsessively. You wanted to impress him so badly it was honestly pathetic. But god, he smells good today.
Your fingers fumble immediately, creating a pathetic buzzing sound that is nowhere near what Frank had just played.
He shakes his head.
“I guess I can’t be that annoyed.” He says with an easy shrug “Longer you fuck around instead of learning the more easy money I make” He says it offhandedly. A shrug of one shoulder.
He’s joking, you know his deadpan tone by now.
Still, you would gladly give him easy money for an eternity.
Anything to keep coming here. To sit in this cramped little room with its bright red walls and crooked Ramones poster hanging behind him. To get lectured by Frank once a week and, every once in a blue moon, earn one of those rare warm looks from him. The crooked grin, the soft eyes whenever you finally nail something he’s been drilling into you for weeks.
Today is not a warm-look sort of day.
“Alright kid, I’m gonna go get coffee.” Frank stands, stretching a little before setting his guitar aside. “Use this time to get that scale right. When I come back, I expect a perfect run through. Got it?”
You nod immediately, eyes wide and guitar practically clutched to your chest.
Frank snorts slightly at the sight before heading for the door. You watch his tattooed hand pull it shut behind him, hear his low chuckle fade down the hallway toward the lobby.
Jesus fuck.
You had practiced this all week. Ran it perfectly four times over before coming here.
But sure.
Obviously the five minutes it will take Frank to make a shitty keurig coffee will finally force your hands to cooperate.
You run through the scale. And now that Frank isn’t in the room it comes out fucking perfectly
Of course it does.
You do it over and over again praying for muscle memory to sink in deep enough to survive Frank’s presence.You are so focused that when the door opens again, you jump hard enough to miss a note.
Frank settles back into his chair with a quiet sigh.
“Sounds great kid,” he says. “What the hell happened five minutes ago?” He holds out a paper cup toward you. Coffee with so much cream and sugar it borders on a sin. He remembered how you take it. Which is somehow both sweet and deeply terrifying.
You reach for the cup too quickly and immediately knock into it sideways, splashing coffee across Frank’s lap. He stares down at his jeans with the exhausted expression of a man reconsidering every life choice that led him here.
“Sorry!” you squeak.
Frank waves you off with a tired little sigh, already digging through his bag for one of those microfiber towels he always carries around. He wipes at his jeans while muttering,
“Your awful jumpy today”
Then he tosses the rag into the corner and takes a long sip from his own coffee. Black, because of course it is.
You don't respond. Just carefully take a sip of your sugar coffee and then set it under your chair, pushing it safely out of kicking distance.
Frank watches you over the rim of his cup.
“You nervous about something?” he asks.
“No.” The answer comes way too fast.
His eyebrow lifts. “Right.”
Heat crawls higher up your neck. You absently drag one finger along one of the strings, letting the ridges bite into your skin.
“Okay,” Franks says after a moment, setting his coffee down beside him. “Run the scale again.”
You nod immediately, repositioning your fingers. This time you’re determined not to fuck it up. Frank leans back in his chair, one ankle hooked over his knee, tattoos disappearing beneath the sleeves of his black hoodie as he folds his arms.
You make it halfway through before making the mistake of glancing at him. Frank’s watching you too closely. Not in his usual teacher way either. There’s something curious in it now, intent. Like he’s trying to solve you.
Your fingers slip. The note buzzes ugly and dead.
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands.
Frank snorts softly. “Okay, now I know something’s up.”
“Nothing’s up.”
“You’re acting like I’m holding you at gunpoint over a pentatonic scale.”
You laugh weakly into your palms. “I mean… aren’t you?”
“No,” he says, grinning now. “But if you keep murdering that guitar, I may have to confiscate it.”
You groan. “I practiced, okay? I swear I practiced”
“I believe you.”
“Then why do I suddenly suck?”
Frank studies you for another second before leaning forward, forearms braced against his knees.
And there it is again.
That look. Warm and focused. Enough to make your stomach twist painfully. Frank’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s finally noticing a pattern.
“Kid,” he says carefully, “Are you scared of me or something?”
“What? No.”
“Then why are you looking at me like I’m about to ruin your life?”
God, maybe because he already kind of did.
You stare down at your guitar instead, flexing your fretting hand trying to loosen the sudden tension in your fingers.
“Look at me.”
The tone is different from anything you’re used to hearing from him. It’s still calm but commanding in a way that makes your mouth go dry instantly.
So you look at him.
There doesn’t really feel like another option when he says it like that.
Frank tilts his head slightly, eyes darting between yours, your mouth, the sharp rise and fall of your chest. Then he wets his lips slowly and says, “Run it again.”
You nod and take a deep breath. Place your fingers carefully where they belong and this time start slow. Making sure each note rings out clean and precise. Eyes locked on your hands and focused.
“Keep going,” Frank says quietly. “Loop it.”
You obey automatically, feeling yourself fall into the flow of it. Muscle memory finally kicking in. Your fingers glide smoother now, forearm beginning to burn pleasantly as you pick up speed.
Not as fast as Frank could play it. But clean and consistent.
“Good,” he murmurs “keep going.”
The praise sends warmth straight through your chest. You nod, not even fully paying attention to your hand anymore. Just letting the motion take over. He’s had you do this before with other songs and simple scales. He will have you keep going until you fuck it up or until he gets bored and right now you are determined to make it the latter.
“Keep playing, but look at me.”
Ah, fuck.
You look up automatically but aim for the Ramones poster behind him instead. He’s done this one too, wants to see if you can play blind.
“No.” He says, same tone back in his voice. “I said look at me.”
Your eyes snap to his face.
The intensity in his expression hits you like a truck and your hand immediately locks up, another awful buzzing note breaking the rhythm.
A grin spreads slowly across Frank’s face.
“Oh,” he says softly.
Your stomach drops.
“Got a crush on me kid?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
You shake your head so fast the room blurs.
Frank breaks into startled laughter.
That fuck.
“Oh my god,” he wheezes, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That’s why you’ve been acting insane.”
Humiliation burns through you instantly. You start shoving things into your guitar bag without even looking at them.
Cool. Great. Awesome.
You’re never coming back here again.
“No, no- hey!” Frank reaches out quickly, catching your hand before you can zip the bag shut. His laughter dies the second he sees your face. “Oh, shit,” he says immediately. “Hey. I’m sorry.”
You don’t look at him.
Frank’s hand loosens against yours, thumb brushing once across your knuckles before he pulls back slightly.
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he says quieter now. “I just…” He exhales hard through his nose. “Honestly thought I was imagining it.”
That makes your head tilt a little despite yourself.
Frank leans back in his chair again, studying you carefully now. Less teasing. More nervous than before.
“I like you too, okay?”
You freeze.
The room goes completely silent.
Frank huffs out another small laugh, softer this time. “You have no idea how relieved I am that you’re freaking out because you think I'm hot and not because you secretly hate me.”
“I don’t remember saying anything about thinking you're hot” you say dryly. Still flushed with embarrassment, but at least no longer actively dying.
He laughs at that. Warm and open.
“Get your guitar out again, we still have some time left.”
You nod and do as you're told. Glad to have something to focus on besides him.
“Run it again.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.” his mouth twitches “Run it again.” And there’s that stupid tone again. You roll your eyes mostly to preserve some tiny scrap of dignity before starting the scale over.
Frank watches you for a moment. Same lazy posture, arms crossed, ankle hooked over one knee. Then he slowly leans forward. Both feet on the ground legs spread.
“Look at me.”
You take a deep breath and look up, willing your hand to keep moving, to keep playing. The scale stutters briefly before smoothing out again. Sloppy compared to usual, but recognizable.
“Good” he says, eyes dark and focused. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
You swallow hard and keep playing. He leans closer, invading your space inch by inch until all you can smell is coffee, cigarettes, and something darker underneath. Velvet and smoke.
By some fucking miracle you play on. Notes still ringing out clean.
“Stop playing only if you want me to stop.” He murmurs. One of his hands lifts, hovering near your jaw like he’s giving you every possible chance to pull away.
You keep fucking playing. Please god dont let me fuck up now you think desperately.
Frank moves unbearably slow.
Then his lips brush yours.
Technically a kiss.
But so light it almost feels imagined. Barely there. Just warmth and breath and the soft press of his mouth against yours.
Your brain short circuits instantly. The scale dies in a horrible buzzing note.
Frank pulls back immediately. Hands open on his thighs. Eyes searching yours carefully now.
“No,” you blurt out quickly. “I didn’t want you to stop. I just fucked up”
Something tense eases out of Frank’s shoulders.
“You know” he says lightly, though you can hear the strain underneath it, “if you ever play on stage, you're gonna have to learn how to play through distractions.”
“Yeah?” Your laugh comes out shaky.
“Yeah.”
He studies you for a second like he’s testing the edges of something dangerous. “Play the song we were working on last week”
You start automatically, fingers finding the chords almost on instinct now.
“Stand up”
You obey immediately. And that seems to do something to him.
Frank’s expression shifts, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches you rise with your guitar still hanging from its strap. A dangerous little smile pulls at his mouth.
“No.” he says suddenly. “You missed your solo. Back to the second chorus.” His fingertip drags lightly along your collarbone as he says it, making your entire body shiver.
You go back without argument, restarting the section while trying desperately to focus. This time you hit the solo with only one tiny mistake.
Frank notices immediately. Of course he does.
“Again.” He says, shaking his head once.
You reset obediently and play through the chorus again while his lips brush yours for a second time. Longer now. Not enough to stop you from playing. Just enough to make your hands shake.
When you finally stumble through the section, Frank sits back down. Leaning back in his chair and watching you quietly for a moment. His gaze feels impossibly direct, like he can see straight through you.
Something about him suddenly feels like deja vu and pancakes. Familiar comfort wrapped around something devastating.
“From the top” Franks says. Then crooks two fingers at you. You move closer automatically. Frank catches your elbow gently, turning you before pulling you down onto his lap in one smooth motion. The sudden movement throws you off completely and the song dies in another ugly stutter of notes.
“Want me to stop?” He asks immediately. His voice is quieter now. Open and serious beneath all the teasing.
You shake your head.
“then why did you stop playing?” You let out a mortified little sound and start strumming again while Frank laughs softly against your shoulder. “C’mon,” he murmurs, pulling you closer against his chest. “from the top again.”
Your breathing is uneven now, impossible to steady with the warmth of him underneath you. You can feel the shape of his grin against the side of your neck every time you mess up.
And worse
You can feel his arousal beneath you. Tangible proof of exactly how much he’s enjoying this. You shift a bit, more to get under his skin than to get comfortable.
Frank brushes your hair aside slowly before pressing a line of kisses beneath your ear.
“No” he says, tapping lightly against your elbow “Quarter notes. You know this.”
You bite your lip and correct yourself, trying to force your focus back onto the song while his hands drift lazily along your thighs.
“That’s a pick up note, sweetheart,” he says softly “Again”
A Frustrated noise catches low in your throat. Because honestly, concentrating on timing becomes nearly impossible when Frank Iero’s fingers are wandering ever further up your inner thigh and correcting your technique like this.
You can feel him smile against your skin. Like he’s waiting for something.
Testing you.
Waiting to see how long you can last before the music falls apart completely.
“Again,” he whispers as your solo approaches. This time his fingers dip between your legs and up your skirt. Thumb tracing slow circles that make your fingers threaten to lock up around the fretboard.
“Keep playing.”
He tugs aside your panties and gently caresses you. Groaning at how wet you are for him. It’s enough to make you stumble on your solo.
Frank immediately pulls his hand back, making you whine at the sudden loss of touch.
“I taught you better than that.” He says words hot against your neck. “Run your solo again.”
You do as you're told and his hand slowly caresses back between your legs. His fingers find your clit and circle it gently. Touch feather light and slow. Your hands are playing through pure muscle memory now as you throw your head back against his shoulder and moan in desperation.
Now that he has started you need so much more.
But Frank keeps his touch light and continues whispering corrections about your playing into your ear. Voice unbelievably smug now.
“Please Frank” you whimper reduced to strumming the same chord over and over again because he has latched onto your neck and is biting a mark into the sensitive skin.
“What is it sweetheart?” He asks fingers toying with you ruthlessly. “Forgot how the bridge goes?”
You make a frustrated noise and grind your hips into him. trying desperately to find more stimulation than his featherlight strokes provide. And it feels like a victory when he gives you an answering groan.
He takes the guitar from your hands and sets it gently aside. “You wanna do this?” He asks voice deliberately gentle. The question feels ridiculous to you right now because you are practically vibrating in his arms but he waits patiently for you to answer.
“Yes. So fucking much.”
Frank lifts you off of his lap just long enough to pull out his cock. Already solid and glistening at the tip with precum. The head is the loveliest shade of pink.
He wastes no time lining himself up and pulling you onto his length with a movement so sudden it makes you gasp in surprise before moaning out your pleasure.
Jesus, Frank was direct.
“Been thinking about getting this pussy around my dick since you walked in asking for lessons” he growls hips immediately snapping into you. “Looking so god damn innocent”
His hands reach under your shirt and twist at one of your nipples making you cry out.
He uses his other hand gripped right at your hip to lift you up and slam you back down. Filling you so completely it makes you dizzy.
“Always so eager to please” his fingers are back on you clit and he is thrusting up into you with a wild abandon. The noises coming out of you would be embarrassing if it wasn’t for the fact that you are so gone right now.
“Looking at me with those big eyes” he stands suddenly lifting you with him and placing you onto his desk never breaking the rhythm of his thrusts “waiting for my next instruction.”
The new angle hits just right and you find yourself whimpering beneath him. Babbling. Asking for more, always more.
“Taking it like a good girl hmm?” His thrusts come harder now. Hands grip tighter. Like he can claim you through touch alone. “Take it sweetheart. Take it”
You can feel your body respond to him as you claw at anything within your reach desperately chasing your release.
“Gonna come for me?” And you nod, lips parted and eyes fluttering.
“Fuck.” He buries his face into your neck and continues his assault. Little whimpers escaping his lips now between breaths. “Such a sweet girl. My favorite student—Jesus doing so good”
You can feel yourself unraveling as his words push you closer and closer.
“That’s it baby” he coos into your ear “let go for me. Come all over this dick” and it’s all too much so you come undone. Calling out your release and letting pleasure crash over you. Dragging you down and leaving you breathless.
You are vaguely aware of him following just after you. Your pulsing walls taking him with you and he collapses onto you murmuring words of praise. Calling you his favorite girl. Telling you how you are such a good little teacher's pet.
And all you can think about is how you can’t fucking wait until next week to do it all over again.