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Damon pushes through the school’s main doors just after seven and far too motivated already as he practically bounces towards the usual madness. Manchester is rather cloudy this morning, but the sun is said to come out within the next two or three hours, a forecast he is looking forward to.
The corridors are still quiet enough to echo with his footsteps, but not empty, as a few early students are already drifting in, and they light up when they see him.
“Morning, sir!”
“Mr Albarn, the posters look sick!”
“Alright, sir?”
All of them receive a warm smile as well as quick greetings as he walks by, the usual. A couple of the younger lads do that awkward half-wave thing, trying to look cool, the more bolder ones even dabbing him up, something they only started doing once they realised he was ”proper chill, Sir”.
It always is like this, though he can’t quite work out why. Technically, all he does is turn up and do his job.
Alright, perhaps with a tad bit too much enthusiasm, but still, that can’t be the sole reason they all seem to like him. Though maybe, it can.
As he continues on his merry way, his eyes catch on the new posters as he turns the corner by the canteen. Bright, colourful A3 sheets announcing the upcoming student art exhibition, properly hung up at last. About time.
He stops for a second, adjusting one that is slightly crooked, a small satisfied grin tugging at his mouth. The kids have worked hard. This is going to be good.
“Sir?” A Year 10 girl appears at his elbow, sketchbook clutched to her chest. “I was thinking about the exhibition, maybe I could do an extra piece for the corridor display? Or perhaps we could run a lunchtime session on collage again-”
Damon chuckles softly, holding up a hand. “Love, it’s not even half seven. Put it on ice until class, yeah? Go sit down, have a biscuit or something. Chill before the madness starts.”
She blushes but nods, smiling as she scurries off.
Eventually, he finally arrives at the staff room, pushing the door open to the familiar smell of cheap coffee. Most of the department is already in, most notably Mr Thompson, who is complaining about the photocopier again (rightfully so, hellish object, that one), and a couple of the younger teachers who wave him over.
“Damon! Did you see the new timetable? Absolute shambles.”
“Tell me about it,” he laughs, shrugging off his coat and slinging it over the back of a chair. “Still, at least it gives us Friday afternoons free for once.” He chats easily, leaning against the table.
His place of work truly is the best, since not just the students love him, which of course is the biggest blessing of all, but the other teachers too. And he doesn’t even do much to deserve that, if he may humbly claim so. Sure, he is the one who organises the staff socials that aren’t completely dire and the one who doesn’t just always remember birthdays, but also reminds everyone else but really, all that is merely the bare minimum. In his eyes anyway.
The man slumped deep in the sagging armchair by the window to whom his attention automatically keeps drifting to, would definitely disagree and call him a bloody keen bean.
And Damon would probably only grin at him and, depending on where they are and who is around, either pretend to be annoyed and claim ”someone has to do it, or give him a peck and say ”you love me for it.
Anyway, there he is, Liam, with his PE kit on as usual, trackies and a faded hoodie, as well as his trainers kicked up on the low table. His head is tipped back, eyes barely open, and his hair is a mess and if Damon had to take a guess, he doesn’t just look like he rolled straight out of bed and into school, he probably did roll straight out of bed and into school.
Judging by his remaining grumpiness, it is still only his first coffee, second one maximum. That man truly inhales the shite and will still be sleepy.
As per usual, Damon can’t help but let his gaze linger. There simply is something about Liam like this, sleep-rumpled and scowling at the world, that makes heat curl low in his stomach. Maybe because he just so happens to know what this exact version of Liam looks like in bed after they spent a night together.
Or maybe it is because Damon would love nothing more than to drag him into the supply cupboard down the corridor right now, push him up against the shelves and wake him up properly in exactly the messy way that always leaves them both breathless and late.
Shame about the bloody bell any minute now. He bites the inside of his cheek.
Liam doesn’t look his way, but Damon knows he is aware of him since let’s be real, he always is.
The other teachers around them start gathering their folders and whatnot, chairs scraping as everyone prepares to face the hordes. Damon picks up his own things as well, albeit slowly so, very much intending on hanging back until the room empties out, leaving only the two of them behind.
Last to move, Liam unfolds from the armchair in one lazy movement and crosses the small distance between them. Before Damon can say anything, a large, warm hand slides down and squeezes his arse firmly through his trousers.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that look of yours,” Liam mutters right against his ear, cocky smirk all too audible in his voice. “Filthy fuckin’ thoughts before registration, Mr Albarn. Should be ashamed, Sir.”
Damon’s breath catches, a flush creeping up the back of his neck. He turns his head just enough to meet Liam’s eyes. “Later,” he says quietly, promise and warning all at once.
Then, he has to seriously will his body to behave, that little traitor. It is far too easy this morning, somehow. Has Liam’s voice always been this rough?
He adjusts his bag and hurries to slip out of the staff room before he does something stupid like drag Liam into the stationery cupboard and do… No, he shouldn’t go there.
Much better to focus on his first lesson instead, Year 9 Music. He throws himself into it with his usual energy, pacing the room, waving his arms about the wonders of imagination and the likes, while the kids actually listen. Well, they always do, which is curious really, as the other teachers so often complain about quite the opposite.
When the bell rings, he leans against his desk, sunglasses already perched on top of his head in preparation for a little stroll, as he calls out cheerful goodbyes whilst everyone file out.
“See you tomorrow, sir!”
“Great lesson, Mr Albarn!”
He watches the last of them disappear down the corridor, then steps out himself. The sun has finally decided to make an appearance, weak but bright enough to warrant the shades, which means his quick lap of the campus will be quite pleasant. He should definitely check on the exhibition posters again, simply because he loves the way his heart fills with pride for the youngsters.
However, a soft voice stops him and his plans: “Sir? Can I talk to you for a second?”
It is Sally from Year 11. Without him realising, she must have lingered behind. Damon turns, friendly smile already in place.
“Of course. Everything alright?”
She takes a deep breath and blurts it out, just like that. “I’m in love with you, Sir. Properly. I know you’re my teacher but I can’t stop thinking about you and I just… I had to tell you.”
For a second his brain short-circuits. Like some bad movie, his sunglasses, balanced so casually on his head, actually slide forward an inch and nearly tumble off before he catches them with an undignified grab.
No doubt comically wide-eyed for a moment, he blankly stares at her before pulling himself together.
“Sally,” he says gently, ensuring to keep his voice both warm yet firm as he crouches slightly to meet her eyes. “That’s incredibly brave of you, and I’m very flattered, really. But I’m your teacher, love. It wouldn’t be right. You’ve got so much ahead of you, university, adventures, people your own age who’ll be mad about you. This stays between us, yeah? No awkwardness in class.”
Clearly embarrassed but taking it better than some have in the past, she nods, and he gives her a kind smile, then waits until she is gone before letting out a long breath and running a hand through his hair. Always a slippery slope.
No campus walk, then, he figures, heading straight back to the staff room.
Most of the other teachers are there, of course, nursing coffees between lessons, already snacking even. They look up when he enters and his expression appears to be giving him away.
“Another one?” one asks with a grin, spotting the look on Damon’s face first.
Damon sighs, half-laughing as he drops into a chair. “Year 11. Proper confession this time. Sunglasses nearly fell off my head. It was tragic.”
Several people laugh, and someone cackles. “That’s you extending your lead in the Confession Cup, then. What’s that now, six this term?”
“Seven,” Damon corrects, pulling the ridiculous little chart they keep hidden in a drawer to add a neat tally mark next to his name. “And yes, I’ll fill out the proper report for the head. Better safe than sorry.”
He writes the brief, factual note as required, date, year group, how he handled it. Standard procedure these days.
Across the room, Liam is sprawled in the armchair again, reading the sports pages, though Damon suspects he is more pretending than actually doing so, as he catches the subtle glare he shoots over the top of the paper.
Ridiculously jealous, as always.
Not because Liam gives a toss about their stupid teacher game, Damon knows he genuinely doesn’t, but because the thought of anyone else, especially students, wanting Damon makes him quietly furious. He outright told Damon that one time and whenever he remembers it, Damon feels a little thrill at the knowledge.
Their eyes meet for just a second and yeah, alright, Damon is so in..
Liam stands up first, stretching lazily like he couldn’t care less. “Right. Got a Year 10 football lot to torture,” he mutters to no one in particular before heading for the door.
The thirty seconds Damon forces himself to wait before carefully following were probably the hardest seconds of this day. But no reason to raise suspicion, ever. After all, they simply are two colleagues who happen to leave the staff room a minute apart. A lot,
A few steps down the corridor, a hand shoots out from the side, grabbing a fistful of Damon’s shirt in order to yank him sideways.
The broom closet door clicks shut behind them with a hasty shove, plunging them into the dim, cramped space that smells of floor polish and old paper.
Liam is on him instantly.
Their mouths crash together impatiently, loads of practice making it easy to find the right angle straight away. Damon groans quietly into the kiss as Liam pushes him back against the shelves, one thick thigh slotting between his legs.
Hands are everywhere, Liam’s sliding under Damon’s shirt, palms greedy over his stomach and ribs, while Damon fists the front of Liam’s hoodie and pulls him closer.
“Another fuckin’ confession, eh?” Liam mutters against his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. “Little girls linin’ up to tell Mr Perfect they’re in love with him.” His voice drops lower. “But yer mine, aren’t ya? Only I get to have you like this.”
The possessiveness hits Damon like a spark. He nods breathlessly, chasing Liam’s mouth again, tongues sliding. Liam’s hand slides down to palm him through his trousers, squeezing just right, and Damon’s hips jerk forward with a sharp inhale.
They don’t have long.
With surprising graze for someone who claims to hate mornings, Liam drops to his knees. He tugs Damon’s zip down, frees his dick, and takes him into his mouth in one smooth motion, wet heat and perfect pressure that make Damon’s head thunk back against the shelf.
In an attempt to stay quiet, he bites his own knuckle, using the other hand to thread through Liam’s messy hair. “Fuck, Liam…”
Liam works him hard and fast, one hand braced on Damon’s hip, the other stroking what his mouth doesn’t reach.
When Damon feels himself getting close, Liam must too, as he pulls off, stands up, and spins him round so Damon’s chest is pressed to the shelves.
Damon can hear Liam spitting, very likely into his own hand, before he reaches around, jerking him with tight, slick strokes while grinding his own hard cock against Damon’s arse through their clothes.
This will do it for sure, the time pressure itself driving Damon mad more often than not. Let alone the location…
With a choked gasp, Damon comes first, spilling over Liam’s fist. Liam follows seconds later, cursing low and filthy into the back of Damon’s neck as he finishes in his own hand.
They clean up quickly with a handful of tissues from the shelf, old habit. No mess. No evidence.
The bell rings loud and shrill through the corridor outside, their timing remaining unmatched.
“Shit,” Damon breathes, legs trembling as he tries to tuck himself away and straighten his clothes. His knees feel properly weak and his heartbeat simply won’t slow and all Liam used were his mouth and hand. Wanker.
Said wanker already looks mostly composed. A quick tug at his hoodie, a wipe of his mouth with the back of his hand, and he is smirking like he just finished a casual stroll rather than getting them both off in a cupboard. Yeah, wanker indeed.
“How the fuck do you look so unfazed?” Damon hisses, still catching his breath.
Leaning in to steal one last rough kiss, Liam murmurs against his lips, “Practice, darling. Now move that pretty arse before yer proper late.”
Casual as anything, he slips out first, Damon waiting ten seconds that probably wouldn’t do much if anyone were to look, then follows, hoping no one notices the flush on his cheeks or the slight unsteadiness in his walk as he heads towards his next class.
The usual madness, that’s what this is, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
The usual madness until one Friday.
About half an hour ago, the final bell rang and the school was emptied out, leaving only the distant echo of lockers slamming and the occasional shout from the playing fields. Damon stays behind in his classroom, sleeves rolled up, shirt unbuttoned a bit at the top.
Today’s last lesson had been properly chaotic. A successful chaos, sure, but still. Paint pots, scattered sketches, and too much laughter and bad karaoke. He is still humming to himself even as he is tidying the mess, when he hears footsteps in the corridor.
A low wolf whistle cuts through the air.
Damon turns just as Liam steps into the room, eyes dragging slowly over the exposed strip of chest and collarbone.
“Fuckin’ hell, look at ya,” Liam calls, his voice dropping into that filthy register he knows Damon can’t resist. “Tartin’ yerself up after hours like a proper little tease. Want me to bend ya over that desk and fuck you stupid while the whole school’s gone home?”
Feeling his ears burn up, Damon lets out a breathless laugh. As Liam crowds him against the edge of the desk, hands sliding straight under the open shirt, thumbs brushing over his nipples, that laugh turns into an absolutely inappropriate groan.
“Christ, Liam…” Damon’s eyes flutter shut, head tipping back as Liam hungrily mouths at his neck. He doesn’t hear the soft creak of the door, nor does Liam seem to.
When he opens his eyes again, a Year 11 girl, Elsa from his Wednesday band, he recalls, is standing frozen in the doorway.
“Fuck,” Damon shoves Liam back hard, fumbling to button his shirt with shaking fingers. “Elsa! I, we… this isn’t, you shouldn’t…”
Liam, the absolute bastard, doesn’t even look properly sorry. He just leans against the desk with his arms folded, looking mildly annoyed at the interruption rather than panicked.
Elsa’s face is scarlet. “I’m so sorry, Sir, Sirs, I just came back for my sketchbook, I didn’t… see anything. I mean I did but… I won’t tell anyone, I swear on my life. Not a soul.”
She backs out quickly, nearly tripping over her own feet.
Damon drags both hands down his face, heart hammering. “We are going to get sacked. This is it. The end. I’m going to have to move back to bloody London and teach some toffs-”
The door creaks open again, Elsa poking her head back in, visibly still mortified, but determined too, it seems. “I just… I’m really happy for you two. Like, properly. You seem good together.”
A tiny squeak. “Bye!” and she disappears, hopefully for good this time.
Remaining blissfully uncaring and rather amused now, Liam barely waits half a second before he lets out a low chuckle and pulls Damon back in by the waist.
“See? Crisis averted. No issue at all.”
Disbelieving about how one can be so calm after what just happened, Damon tenses even further and already readies to argue, but then Liam leans in and kisses that exact spot just below his ear and he lets his teeth graze skin and like an idiot, Damon melts right away, knees going weak as he sags against Liam’s chest.
Wanker, that clearly never changes, yet perhaps, admittedly, Damon probably needs that. His wanker…
And who knows, maybe that poor girl went home that day with her world properly rocked, kept their secret like she promised, and spent the rest of the weekend furiously typing her first yaoi fanfic.