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The sun is setting off on the horizon, shadowing everything in a cool, hazy orange.
His heart is beating in his throat, making everything fuzzy, but Louis’ got no intention of giving in. He has to make a statement. Has to prove just how much he wants this. If anyone has a problem with it, they should take it up with him, personally, rather than going and complaining about it to the coach.
“Fucking run, you pansy!”
Max throws a glare over his shoulder, huffing out a heavy breath that comes as a light mist on the air around, winter air turning everything cold. He speeds up his movements, nonetheless, and ends up hitting the end of pitch in a new record.
Louis smirks at that, crossing his arms over his chest. The fabric of his jersey crinkles under his movements, and all eyes are on him, as usual. His teammates are out of breath, all hooded eyes and trembling muscles. Louis’ nerves vibrate under the attention, loving every second of it.
“See, lads,” Louis announces, trainers digging into the dirt. “If you’d actually give it some effort, we might get somewhere other than second best, yeah?”
Tom rolls his eyes, wiping his dirt-covered hands on his shorts as he pushes himself up. “You’re just a prick, Tommo. Need to feel in control at all times, even if it means that everyone hates you.”
The sun’s behind him as he walks off, some of the other players following him out. Louis doesn’t let the words get to him. Knows that they’re just upset because he’s the reason they manage to win at all, rather than with their own abilities.
He stares Tom down, and instead of making a snarky comment back, makes a mental note to run him into the ground next practice.
“Go on, boys,” Louis says. The rest of his boys head out, Max eyeing him, deadly, until they’re all back in the locker room, leaving Louis on pitch by himself.
Being disliked doesn’t bother him, not anymore. At first, when he was twelve and always running about, making a fuss whenever one of the boys would muck up a run, it had hurt to be called off, made out to seem like a prick. Football’s his life, though, and he’s not going to let a couple of weak, seventeen-year-old pricks ruin his chances at Man U.
He clears his throat to the empty air, sun having slipped further down past the skyline. Louis’ knees are exposed, shorts stopping just above the skin there, and Louis can feel bruises forming from the amount of falls he’d taken.
It’s fine. He’ll rub them up with some lotion when he gets home, take a long bath to soothe the ache in his bones. Everything will be great, because his team’s getting better, all under his control.
♡ ♡ ♡
“Tomlinson, my office. Now.”
Coach Harry Styles doesn’t bother searching for him in the locker room, just shouts out his name. It echoes for a bit, team gone silent, and Louis stops soaping up his armpits to glance back at the doorway. He only catches the only man’s back as he stomps out.
Louis goes a bit rigid, because Harry has always made him feel like a teenage boy (which he is, but eighteen doesn’t really count as a teenager, now does it). If he starts to feel butterflies in his tummy, getting a rush of nervousness that’s usually never present for the cocky boy, Louis doesn’t let it be seen.
He finishes washing up, makes sure to dry himself good. He rubs the towel all over until he’s able to slip his joggers and tank on with ease.
Everyone’s eyeing Louis as he throws his black duffel over his shoulder. He ignores it, just smirks at their envy and sways out the door with swagger.
Each step up to Coach’s office makes Louis’ throat tighten. He can feel it now, Harry’s watchful eye on him, the way he’ll glance over every part of Louis’ face, how he always calls him in to yell at him for being too forceful with the boys.
Louis will do what he always does, which is cock it up before he’s even had a chance to make the coach proud. He’ll sit down, throw his bag down, and let the older man know who’s actually running the team instead of sitting behind a desk all day, playing Scrabble or napping or wanking—whatever it is that twenty-six-year-old men do when they aren’t doing their job.
He knocks twice on the closed door, makes sure to listen for the familiar grunt of approval. When it comes, he holds his breath, pushing through until he sees Harry hunched over his desk, hand working on some papers. He doesn’t acknowledge Louis, just waves for him to close the door and sit down.
Louis does as he’s motioned, trying not to think about how the older man’s collarbones peek out from the V of his shirt, or how his eyes are dark, narrowed in concentration, or how the muscles of his arms ripple under skin as he flips pages.
The air is thick, all warm and stuffy. Louis breathes it in, then out, lips falling open.
“What’cha need, Coach?” Louis asks, finally. There are droplets of water falling from his fringe, coming to rest on his nose and cheeks. He wipes them off, quickly.
Harry clears his throat, finally giving Louis his attention. When their eyes meet, Louis’ gone soft, a bloody teenager out to impress.
He tries to make himself seem bigger, like an equal, and ends up puffing out his chest uncomfortably and sticking his chin out too far. He probably looks like a toddler, but Harry doesn’t comment on it.
“I’ve got more complaints, Louis.” He’s got a scowl on, supposed to be serious.
Louis snorts. His team always does this, always makes a fuss about something that’s completely fine. “Course you do. Wouldn’t be a normal Friday without ‘em, now would it?”
“It’s not a joke,” Harry says, firm. “You’re pushing your third strike in two months, Louis. If you don’t start acting like a proper teammate, instead of a coach, there will have to be consequences.”
“Oh, c’mon!” Louis almost shouts, eyes rolled so far back in his head that he’s surprised he doesn’t lose them. “Let’s be real here, Harold. I am the entire reason that this team even has a chance at regionals! I’m practically the second coach, and you know it!”
Harry’s gone tough, shoulder’s seeming to become more broad as he puffs out his chest. “First off, it’s Coach Styles, not Harold. Second, you have as much to thank for our string of wins as the rest of the team. Third, you aren’t the second coach, Louis, because you are a teenager. I’m the coach, what I say is how it goes, alright?”
Louis’ skin doesn’t go hot at seeing his superior get harsh with him. His mouth doesn’t go dry when Harry’s tongue pokes out to lick at his chapped lips, leaving them wet. He doesn’t have to suppress a gulp, forcing himself to come off nonchalant.
He glances past Harry, at the wall behind him. There are trophies, years of wins and celebrations, all covering the expanse of brick and paint.
Finally, with Harry’s irritation grown obvious, “Do you understand me, Louis?”
Louis rolls his eyes. He doesn’t get why everyone’s got to protest about him. He’s a bloody genius, always pulling through and making their team look somewhat decent on pitch. He doesn’t want to argue though, not really sure if his brain could process the image of Harry getting worked up, vein in his neck bulging as he shows his dominance.
“Whatever,” Louis mutters, settling on it. It’s not a yes, not a no, just something to give him a false sense of security. Harry would never punish Louis to harsh, anyways. Louis’ to valuable of a player to toss off to the side.
The older man seems somewhat satisfied with the reply, only staring at him for a moment before waving him off. “Off you go, then. Busy day tomorrow. Get plenty of sleep.”
Louis nods, pulling his duffel with him as he stands. “See you, Harold.”
“It’s Coach Styles.”
Louis smirks. "Harold.”
♡ ♡ ♡
Saturday practice is set for noon, but Louis shows up thirty minutes early.
The midday sun is beating down on him, and while it should be warm—make his cheeks heat up and his scalp go hot—it does nothing, the cool breeze washing away any bit of warmth that could be. He’s the only one on pitch, legs spread out on the grass as he stretches his muscles.
He sits by himself for some time, just pressing his hamstrings into the dirt as he rubs at the skin, loosening up. When he finally hears someone come up, only ten minutes after his own arrival, he turns his head to get a look at them.
“Morning, Louis.”
If his tummy knots up at it, the sight of Harry standing over him, hair hanging loose around his shoulders and sun radiating around his figure, Louis doesn’t give it away. He just waves up at the man, a smile on his lips. “Morning, Harold. How’s it going.”
Harry rolls his eyes, dropping his stuff by the benches. “Quit calling me that. I’m your teacher.”
“Coach, actually,” Louis clarifies, his fingertips sliding up under the hem of his shorts as he presses into his thigh. “Not a teacher. Last time I checked, you haven’t got a teaching license.”
Harry only stares at him for a moment, look of irritation in his eyes. “Still.”
Louis snorts, and his fringe is falling in his eyes again. Quickly, gently, he shoves the hair back into place, forcing his cheeks to stay cool as the man’s eyes follow his movements.
“It’s inappropriate. Just follow your classmates and call me Coach Styles, ‘kay?”
“’m not like me classmates, old man,” Louis jokes. He finishes with one muscle and moves to its adjacent, fingers massaging at his left thigh.
“Course you’re not,” Harry replies, eyes still on him as he plops down beside his things, fingers gripping on to the edge of metal. He looks like a deity, all hazy and fuzzy, the sun sending light around him.
Louis forces himself up, maybe patting the dirt off his bum with a little too much pizazz, and doesn’t bother to check if his coach is looking. Instead, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a football, dropping it onto the ground by his foot and kicking it off towards center field. “Gonna warm up a bit.”
Harry doesn’t object, just nods as he turns his attention to his phone.
Louis doesn’t act hurt at the lack of attention and tries to come off as subtle when he jogs after the ball. He plays with it for a bit, just knocking it between his ankles, kicking it into the net. He glances over in Harry’s direction occasionally, hoping to find eyes on him.
He ends up disappointed, realizing that not only is Harry ignoring his presence, but others are showing up as well.
Nothing could happen, anyways , Louis tells himself.
♡ ♡ ♡
“Calm the fuck down, you bloody wanker!”
Max is charging at him, cheeks puffing out as he breathes deep. He’s got this look of pure hatred in his eyes, and all Louis had done was tell him his kicking technique could use some brushing up on. (Okay, maybe it had been, “Fuck, Max. When’s the last time you even hit a goal? Grow a pair, and get your head out of your arse!”)
Now he’s got a big boy, twice his size and buff as can be, completely out to get him. He’s moving faster than Louis has ever seen, and he knows that the impact will bloody hurt, but refuses to back down. This is his field, his team, and he’s not going to let some crybaby push him into defeat.
“I’m gonna kill you, Tomlinson!” Max hollers, shoving Tom off when he tries to grab his shoulders to slow him down.
Louis’ a bit scared once the boy has managed to push half the team out of his way, coming head on for Louis. There’s a chance he could die today, but he, being the stubborn Tomlinson that he is, just braces his body for impact, tightening his muscles.
It’s about to happen, his body slamming into the ground with Max’s weight pummeling into him, when Harry sprints up, grabbing Max’s shoulders as he yanks him back.
“That’s enough! Calm the hell down!”
He’s strong enough that he can stop Max with ease, wrapping his arms around the younger boy’s shoulders until he stops thrashing out and reaching for Louis with everything he’s got. To say that Louis is grateful for the older man would be an understatement.
Thing is, he looks weak, now. He won’t fight Max because Harry’s come in and saved him, and plenty of people will talk about it on Monday. He can’t have that—can’t have people questioning how much he’s in charge.
Like he hasn’t got control of his mouth, he’s suddenly shouting, “Fucking prick,” and running forward until he can throw his fist in Max’s face.
The bigger boy is immediately riled up, throwing his fists out and kicking against Harry’s hold. Louis lets at him, punching at his face and hands, until Harry throws Max backwards and jumps between the two. His hand presses, firm and rough, into Louis’ chest, bunching up the fabric of his shirt.
Louis can’t see, but he figures that the same is happening to Max. That doesn’t make him even more angry, the thought of Harry treating Louis like one of the children. He doesn’t force himself forward with more effort, grabbing at Harry’s wrist.
“How about you shut the fuck up for once in your pathetic life!” Max shouts.
“Oh, really! That’s a bit rich coming from someone who’s only just learned what the word consent means!” Louis throws back.
Harry butts in, fingers pressing harder into Louis’ chest. It’s firm and hard, and works Louis up more. He’s on fire.
“Grow the hell up, both of you! Quit this now, or you’re both off the team!”
Louis freezes, both his hands on Harry’s arm. “You wouldn’t .”
“I bloody well would!”
Max huffs, and shakes his head. “Fuck it. I don’t care anymore. Footie’s supposed to be fun. Fucking Tomlinson makes it shit, and I’m gonna get punished for it? Fuck no. I’m out.”
Louis’ chest swells at that, because he’s not the one who’s fucked it all up. He didn’t charge at someone half his size, didn’t start a fight for (almost) no reason.
When Max stomps off, cleats leaving holes in the dirt, Louis’ eyes follow him until he’s off pitch. The rest of the team is waiting for an order, and Harry finally gives in, shouting, “Practice is over. Go home, all of you.”
They do as they're told, but Louis’ still holding onto Harry’s skin, can feel the thrum of his own heartbeat wracking in his chest. He’s pumping adrenaline through his veins and Harry is so close, closer than he’s ever been. It’s a sensory overload, and he’s trying to process how the air is freezing but his nerves are like nebulas, bursting heat and energy through him.
It’s not until everyone’s gone that Harry lets off completely, arms falling by his sides and a scowl on his face as he eyes Louis. Louis can’t tell if it’s rage or disappointment in his eyes. There’s a heartbeat in his throat, a clutching in his chest, and he’s got to look up at Harry because he’s so much smaller.
“Why do you always do this, Louis?” Harry asks, voice lack of emotion, almost given up.
Louis’ eyebrows scrunch. “I didn’t even start it! Max was the twat who had to—“
“I don’t care what Max did! You always act like you’re in control here, and you aren’t! You’re a blooming child, Louis! Stop acting like you own this field, like you get to choose what happens on it!”
Louis shakes his head, anger bubbling up in him. Harry’s wrong, because he doesn’t act like a twat. He tells the truth, tries to better his boys and prepare them for each game. If they can’t handle the heat of his words, it’s their own faults for being raised weak.
He won’t take this slander. He’s got a reputation to uphold, got morals and standards. So, he pushes past Harry, shoulder colliding with the older man’s as he storms off the field and into the locker room.
“Don’t walk away while I’m talking to you, Tomlinson!” Harry’s voice follows him, not five steps behind.
“Really?” Louis says back. “I’m just living up to what you see me to be! Following my own rules and not giving a shit about anything else, right?”
Louis pushes through the locker room door, the bang that comes from it hitting the wall echoing through the room, sound waves bouncing off the lockers. Louis’ breathing harsh, fists balled up as he storms to his bag.
Everyone’s gone by now, eager to get home, far from practice. Of course Louis isn’t, though. Apparently he’s too much of a prat to act like a normal teen, to just go about his business with no amount of ambition behind his actions.
“Louis, quit bloody moving!” Harry shouts, slamming the door shut behind them.
Louis pretends not to hear, his face hot as he grips the hem of his shirt and yanks it over his body. He drops it into his bag, and before he can reach in to grab another, he’s got hands on his shoulders, spinning him around.
The sudden contact surprises him, making his skin jump with the force of it, his belly flutter at the feel. Harry presses him back against the lockers, cool metal sending shivers throughout his body. The adrenaline is still there, barely worn off, and Louis’ fingers twitch as he stares up, jaw slack.
‘What are you doing?” Louis asks, voice a little off balance.
Harry shakes his head, nails pressing in Louis’ skin in a way that should be more inappropriate, feel more wrong. It doesn’t, though, so Louis just watches his coach, breath falling from his lips as he stands, anxious.
“Just, fuck. You piss me off so much, y’know? Always acting like a bloody kid, then having the nerve to go around like you’re hot stuff.”
“’m not a kid,” Louis says, breathless.
Harry gives him a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Course that’s all you took from that. Fuck.”
They’re so close, and Louis can feel Harry's words against his skin, the way they send cool brushes against his eyelashes. His heart is throbbing, and his throat is tight.
“Why’ve you got to be like this, Louis?”
Louis’ nose scrunches, barely. “Like what?”
“So bloody rambunctious. So tempting .”
And, okay, that’s a bit of a shock. He’s confused, because Harry’s supposed to be his coach, always ignoring the looks that Louis gives and the want that shows in his steps. He’s taken notice, though, and now he’s so close that Louis could reach out, give in to how much he wants Harry’s mouth on him, and it’d be a mutual want. Probably.
He’s not going to test it, he decides, the moment before he breaks and leans up, his lips grazing over Harry’s. The man doesn’t flinch at it, just lets off the pressure that he has on Louis’ skin and sighs at the contact.
It’s exhilarating, filling Louis up like helium in a balloon. As Harry starts to press his mouth against Louis’, proper, his warm, red lips sliding against the younger lad’s, Louis feels like he could fly away.
In a moment’s time, Louis got his head back against the locker, Harry’s mouth working against his own, all wet and warm and soft. He’s got stubble, a grown man’s hair, and it’s making Louis feel so young. He can’t help when the adrenaline pumping through him, mixed with how bloody hot Harry’s making him feel, causes him to thicken up in his pants.
He’s only just turned eighteen, and when Harry’s hands come up, his fingertips grazing against Louis’ cheek, soft and rough, all at once, he’s reminded of it.
“Fuck,” Harry sighs, forcing his mouth away from Louis’. The warmth is gone, and Louis tries to follow him as he moves, only to have his body held harder against the lockers.
They’re still so close, though, and Louis’ looking up at him through his lashes. This seemed so impossible not too long ago, but now it’s happening, and Harry wants him too. Decidedly, Louis’ going to act like his normal, bossy self, much more, especially if it ends in this.
“If you don’t want this,” Harry says, voice barely above a whisper, “tell me to stop, yeah?”
Louis nods, sticking his chin out, asking for more. Harry only takes a moment before he’s coming back for more, like a magnet connecting poles. He licks into Louis’ mouth this time, tongue catching on the ridges of Louis’ teeth as the younger boy sighs.
Harry’s right hand grazes his side, moving from his cheek to his shoulder, then down to his waist. His left hand stays put, holding his jaw still as he presses into his mouth, sucking on his bottom lip as he moves.
Even though it’s not a lot, Harry’s just kissing him like you do anyone, Louis’ half-hard because it’s his first time ever doing anything like this. Doing something so wrong. Harry’s his superior, got this power over him that should be disgusting, but it’s so bloody hot.
His hips come up by themselves, wanting to feel more of Harry, get all of him. When they connect with Harry’s, Louis can feel that the man is already working himself up some too, pants tented in the front. The feeling of his clothed prick against Louis’ makes him whimper, and Harry’s pulling back at the sound, out of breath and lips gone raw.
He’s eyeing him, pupils blown. “How old are you, even?”
“’m old enough,” Louis replies, and his voice isn’t nearly as steady as Harry’s. He’s out of breath, cheeks and neck and chest flushed as he waits for Harry to continue.
“Really, Louis,” Harry says.
Louis wants to play around, make Harry work for an answer. He wants so much though, and he knows that Harry won’t give in and do him until he tells. “Eighteen. Just turned it, too, so we’re good, yeah?”
Harry watches him for a moment, hesitant, until Louis frowns and huffs out. He misses the feel of Harry’s mouth on him, misses the attention of it.
“C’mon, please.”
The older man doesn’t wait anymore, just comes back up into Louis’ space, his lips falling against Louis’ neck. Louis shudders at the feel of it, teeth and tongue and lips marking his neck, and it’s so unbelievably hot that Louis just whines out, fingers clutching onto Harry’s arms.
Harry works at his neck for a bit, sending shivers throughout Louis until he’s literally begging for something more, dick visibly hard through his joggers. He presses a quick, chaste kiss to Louis’ mouth, before pulling back again, resting his forehead on Louis’.
“Can’t tell anyone, alright?” Harry’s eyelashes tickle his cheeks, and Louis’ trying to keep his hips still. “Could lose my job. Could get you blacklisted for all the good football scholarships. Don’t want that, now do we?”
Louis’ mouth falls open at that, murmuring a quick, “Nuh-uh,” before he tries to shove their lips together, messy. Harry pulls back before he can, shaking his head.
“No, Louis. Need you to promise.”
Louis watches for a second, sees just how serious Harry is. “Fuck, alright. Yeah. I won’t tell anyone, promise.”
Harry’s lips tug up at that, a smile settling on the swollen arch. He’s nodding, happily, before bringing both his hands down to Louis’ joggers, sliding his thumbs under the waistband. The feel of his nails on Louis’ skin, so close to where he’s aching for it, makes Louis whimper again.
His dick is leaking pre-come at the tip when Harry tugs the fabric down, drops to his knees, and Louis’ not sure that he’s been this hard in his life. Harry’s mouth is so pretty, all warm and wanting, and the excitement that fills Louis up at the idea of it on his prick makes his nerves vibrate.
Harry’s breath is hot against his skin. It takes everything in him to keep from rutting his hips forward, putting his dick where he really wants it, so he settles on running his fingers through Harry’s hair. Scratching at his scalp seems simple enough, and Louis goes straight for it, easing Harry along.
“’m gonna suck you, alright?” Harry’s looking up at him, all wide eyed and loaded. It’s enough to make Louis’ cock twitch, and he nods, wanting nothing more. (On a regular occasion, he’d throw in some comment about how no, idiot, I didn’t know that you were gonna give me a blowjob, what with your mouth two inches away from my dick , but this isn’t a regular occasion.)
In a quick movement, Harry’s pressing one hand into Louis’ bare hip, gripping his dick in the other. Louis shudders at the contact, fingers tightening in Harry’s hair.
When Harry starts to properly jack him off, spread the pre-come over his length to ease up the drag, Louis can feel heat prickling at the back of his neck. There’s stardust in the air around, and Louis can imagine it all coming into him, lighting him up.
Harry’s mouth follows suit, lips coming to wrap around the tip. It’s the first time in a long time that Louis’ had another person on him like this, felt want so thoroughly, and when Harry’s tongue slides against the underside of his prick, he wants to cry out.
It’s slick and warm, Harry’s skilled mouth working up Louis’ length, then back down, lips pressing into the curve of its head. He sucks lightly, Louis’ thighs trembling with how good it feels, until he’s twisting his hand over the bit that’s not in his mouth, palming at Louis’ balls.
Louis has his fingers tugging on Harry’s locks, little moans falling from his lips each time the older man goes down far enough for his nose to nudge at the light dusting of hair at Louis’ pelvis. It’s hard to stand up, anymore, and Louis’ whole body is prickling with fire, the feeling so good.
Harry pops off after a minute, casually jacking Louis’ length as he looks up, eyeing the younger boy with his lips raw and slack. “Like that?”
Louis nods, doesn’t even bother to speak. His muscles feel weak, and he’s pretty sure that the only reason he’s still standing is because Harry is pressing him up against the locker, strong hold there to support him.
“Want me to finish you off, or do you want to take this in my office? Could give us more time.”
Louis forces himself to breath, to remember where he’s at and how open they’re being. Anyone could walk in at any moment, no matter how unlikely it is, and he doesn’t exactly want someone coming in on his dick down his coach’s throat.
Plus, he’d like to find out how far Harry will go—if he’ll stick it in him, proper, and make him whine as he fucks the life out of Louis. So, he sighs, fingers dropping from Harry’s hair as he says, “Your office. Now.”
The older man nods, dressing Louis in his clothes as his fingers reach them. Once the younger boy is fully dressed, cock rubbing uncomfortably against the cloth of his pants, Louis lets himself glance down. Harry’s as hard as he is, shorts tented with it.
“Didn’t think today would end up like this,” Louis says, honest.
Harry doesn’t look at him, just grabs his hand and tugs him out the door. The hallway’s clear when they step out, and it stays that way, making it easy for the pair to slip into Harry’s office, hands still entwined.
“Hop up there,” Harry demands, pointing at his desk. It’s cluttered with papers, and while Louis would love to put his bare arse on them, mess them up so that Harry will have to explain to his boss why there are sweat stains on important documents, he doesn’t get the chance, Harry stacking them up and setting them to the side. “Clothes off, too.”
Louis rolls his eyes, saner now that he’s had time to breath in some air, feel the oxygen pumping into his lungs. Harry’s being officious, which is a bit rude.
“Could ask nicely,” Louis jokes, tugging his shirt off from the bottom up. It catches on his nipples as he moves, and he only hisses a little, eyes landing on where Harry’s bent over his duffel.
“You’re one to talk,” Harry grumbles, fumbling with his wallet. Louis’ already tugging down his pants when Harry continues, “always acting like you do. Bossy one, you are. Ought to teach you a lesson.”
It’s a bit hot, the idea of Harry bending Louis over his lap, giving him a few spanking to hush him up, as if he were a child in need of a punishment—although, getting spanked by Harry would be less of a punishment, Louis figures.
“Do it,” Louis plays, moving to pull off his shoes. “Give me a good whipping.”
Harry rolls his eyes, huffing as he drops his wallet back into its place, coming back with a foil packet and a little tube of lube.
“I told you to get up there, didn’t I?”
Louis smirks, not the slightest bit embarrassed that he’s completely naked in his school building, an older man—his coach —ready to fuck him. He does as he’s told, keeping his eyes on Harry as he moves to sit on the desk, arse barely on it as he lets his feet hang off the end, swinging.
Harry comes up into his space again, dropping the things onto the desk before placing his hands on Louis’ thighs, fingers circling the soft skin there. It makes Louis’ skin tingle, his already hard dick sitting hot and ready against his tummy.
“Lay back,” Harry orders, lips pressing into Louis’, quick, before he pushes him back gently.
Louis lets himself fall back, his spine pressing into the uncomfortable wood, neck only half-supported as his head lulls off the side. He’s completely exposed for Harry, thighs open and fingers splayed across his belly, waiting. Harry’s watching him back, eyes dark as he scans over the expanse of skin, takes in each little edge.
“Get a move on,” Louis says. Harry ignores him, though, taking his time as he lets his hands press into skin.
Fingertips graze at his thighs, working up and around until he’s lightly scratching at Louis’ tummy, earning goosebumps at the touch. He’s so hard, so ready to be touched. If he whines, it’s too low to be noticed, Harry’s hands sliding up further until he’s pinching at the younger boy’s nipples, rolling them between the pads of his fingers.
Louis bites at his bottom lip, hands coming up to grip Harry’s wrists. “C’mon, please. Want more.”
Harry finally gives in, lips quirking at the corners. He makes to pull off his own shirt, his chest all muscled and defined, littered with ink. Louis’ mouth falls open at the sight, wanting to taste, to feel along each edge with his tongue and teeth.
He doesn’t get a chance to, Harry already tugging his jeans down, cock hard and pressing, obvious, against his pants. It’s a sight, and Louis’ gulping at air, nails digging into his thighs. While Harry works at his clothes, Louis’ wanting again, reaching for the lube that Harry has pulled out. He twists off the top with shaky hands, pressing on the end until he’s got a good amount in his palm.
“Gonna open yourself up?” Harry asks, fully undressed as he brings his hands up to grab at Louis’ knees. He lifts easily, until his legs are spread wide, heels sitting up against the back of his thighs on the desk.
Louis nods, dropping the tube beside him as he coats up his fingers, gets them nice and wet. He reaches down, forcing himself to avoid his cock, and tries not to shiver under the attention that Harry gives him as he presses a finger to his hole. It’s cold, and with Harry’s eyes dead set on the movement, Louis’ dick twitches on its own.
He lets his finger graze over his rim, teasing himself until he wants it too much, just presses it into the knuckle. It’s uncomfortable, but not painfully so, and he shallowly thrusts the finger in and out, over and over. After a bit it’s not enough, his dick leaking and wanting more, so he adjusts his angle and lets another finger follow, sliding in beside its adjacent.
He struggles not to whine at it, the feeling of being stretched coming as a burn. Harry’s stroking at his thigh, dick bobbing with each movement. Louis wants to reach out, pull him closer, so he takes the hand not up his arse and reaches out for him with grabby hands.
“C’mere,” Louis murmurs, voice barely coming out.
Harry doesn’t have to be told twice, easily and eagerly slotting himself as close to Louis as he can without pressing into his hand, still fingering himself. He leans over until his face is level with Louis’ chest, his breath ghosting over the smaller boy’s nipples.
It’s a hard position, and Louis’ having trouble scissoring himself open. “Can you, fuck .”
“What’s that?” Harry asks, thumbs brushing up against Louis’ pecs.
Louis frowns, trying to drive his fingers in deeper. “Can’t reach.”
“You asking for something?” There’s a smirk on Harry’s face, and Louis’ cheeks go hot at it.
“Just, please, Harry. Help me out.”
The man doesn’t continue to play, nodding his head as one of his hands slides down Louis’ body, rubbing deviously into Louis’ dick for a moment before he finds what he’s looking for. He doesn’t pull Louis’ fingers out, not yet. Instead, he lets his hand press Louis’ up into himself, causing his fingers to slide deeper.
“Fuck,” Louis groans, pulling his fingers apart.
Harry’s smirking again, Louis can feel it, and he takes hold of Louis’ wrist to fuck his fingers into him. It’s overwhelming, Louis’ skin on fire from the feel of it. When he feels ready, adds another finger, stretch burning intensely this time, painful pleasure deep in his belly.
“Gonna fuck me?” Louis asks, impatient. He continues to fuck into himself with Harry’s lead, fingers filling him up until it hurts, but still not enough.
Harry nods, letting the other boy go. Louis’ fingers follow suit, leaving him empty as he pulls both his hands up to rest on his chest. “Make it hurt? Punish me good, yeah?”
Harry snorts, tearing open the condom wrapper.
“Who carries condoms and lube with them at all times, anyways?” Louis asks. Harry’s taking too long, fumbling with the rubber as he tries to slide it over his prick.
“Someone who’s prepared, and not a complete wanker.”
Louis rolls his eyes, legs starting to cramp. When he goes to drop them down, let them hand off the edge like they were earlier, Harry shakes his head and grips his calves. He lifts them up until his legs are on either side of Harry’s head, resting on his shoulders.
He slicks himself up and leans forward so that he’s got Louis bent in half, pre-come bubbling against his tummy.
“Tell me if you want me to stop, alright?” Harry’s got a hold of himself, all but touching Louis’ hole.
Louis nods, ready. “Yeah. Alright, just. C’mon.”
Harry gives in, finally pressing up and into Louis, all warm and wet and hard. He’s stretching Louis more than his fingers had, a burn spreading through the younger boy. Louis gasps at it, tries to keep his body relaxed as his coach fills him up, but ends up groaning out at the ache of it.
“Want me to stop?” Harry asks, still sinking himself deeper. Louis shakes his head, sweat forming at his upper lip. There’s a twinge of heat at the back of his neck, and Louis sighs against it, forcing himself to bite through.
Harry stops once he’s got his hips pressed to Louis’ arse, cock buried deep with a throb. He’s got a pained look on his face, like he’s using all his willpower to keep from fucking up in even farther. Louis doesn’t tell him not to, just bites his lip hard as his body adjusts to the pressure and the weight of another person inside of him.
He’s still hard, but reaches down to grope at himself, wrapping his fingers around the swollen head as Harry finally starts to move. The older man pulls back, slowly, with Louis’ bottom half supported. The grind of it is hot, has Louis’ lungs gasping for air.
“Fuck,” Louis groans, tightening the hold on himself. He slows his movements, dragging his fist, rough, over his dick. Harry’s in him, which is so surreal, and he’s moving so slow, like he’s afraid to break something.
It’s still a burn when Harry’s pulled almost out, pressed back in just as slow as before, but Louis’ starting to like the feel of it, all full and trembling. His bones feel like fire, body heated like a flame.
“ Faster .”
“You sure?” Harry asks, voice raspy.
Louis doesn’t waste time responding, just forces his hips up until he’s practically grinding on Harry’s dick, filling himself up with more of it. The burn is good, and Louis can’t help the moan that falls from his lips at the feel.
In an instant, Harry is pressing against his legs, bending him so that their mouths are aligned as Harry grinds into the boy below him. His lips are slick, sedating him to how much he’s starting to like Harry’s movements, how they’re starting to send pleasure to his dick with each drag inside of him.
When Harry’s thrusting into him proper, got a rhythm built up as he thrusts up, he finally manages to catch something inside of Louis. It has his muscles shaking, vibrations thrumming up his spine and through his tummy.
He can feel himself leaking, cock dripping pre-come against his belly, and Louis’ tugging on himself. His thumb swipes at the underside, running along the sensitive skin. With each upstroke, flick of his wrist, Louis’ letting out these little noises, high off pleasure and the taste of Harry’s lips.
He’s so turned on, can feel it from the tips of his toes, all the way up to his nose. He’s grinding back onto Harry, trying to get as much of him inside as he can; and when Harry starts driving in faster, letting his hips slam up against Louis’ body before jerking back until he’s almost falling out, Louis’ toes are curling up in the air.
Harry’s mouth is soft, tongue licking into Louis’ mouth like it’s the first sign of water in a desert. He’s got such a good grip on him, fingers tousled in Louis’ hair. The younger boy can’t even mind, too busy sliding his hand against himself.
The sighs that Harry puffs into his mouth, against his cheeks and nose, has Louis copying him, little moans and groans falling from his lips every time that Harry’s hitting against the right spot in him, dick nestled up inside.
“Fuck,” Louis whimpers, hand moving over himself too fast. “Wanna come.”
Harry nods, pressing his forehead against Louis’. He’s still working himself inside Louis with quick, rough drags, and Louis can feel the hot pressure building in his tummy, spreading warmth from his thighs to his groin.
His muscles are trembling, thighs shaking under Harry’s weight. It’s got him breathing heavy, palm kneading against his prick, eager to get off.
Harry’s long gone as well, cheeks flushed and eyes dark. He’s watching Louis with persistent eyes, like he’s waiting to see his face as he’s coming undone.
“’m close,” Louis managed to whimper. Harry speeds up his pace at it, going deeper and deeper.
Louis’ at the edge, he can feel the pleasure coming onto him as Harry’s dick presses into him, working against his prostate. The feeling of that, and his own hand wanking him, has Louis already gone, body wracking as he comes. His shouts are muffled by Harry’s lips on his own, pounding into him as Louis rides out his orgasm.
When the waves of pleasure subside and Louis’ got spurts of cum streaking his and Harry’s chest, Louis’ eyes open to watch as Harry follow his lead, jaw slack and moans falling. He’s still thrusting into Louis, his movements ragged as he fills the condom, head hanging low.
Louis lets him, clenching tight around him to help him along, sending him into another fit of moans, all worked up and loose. When Harry finally finishes, panting against Louis’ skin, they’re both layered in sweat and cum.
They breath for a minute, just taking in what they’ve done. It’s not until Harry finally pulls out, making Louis wince, that he realizes that he’s just been fucked by his football coach.
Harry drops his legs, helps him sit up proper and presses another kiss against his lips. Louis smirks into it, because he’s just done something so wrong.
“Got you all worked up, didn’t I?” Louis plays, watching as Harry steps back. The older man rolls his eyes, dropping back into his seat.
“If that’s what you’d like to call it.”
Louis nods. “Got you all worked up, then you fucked me good. Had to teach me a lesson, didn’t you?”
“Louis,” Harry says, eyes narrowing at him. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
The air’s thick around them, full of sex and banter. Louis’ breathing it in, not wanting to release.
“Being a wanker,” Harry says, hit of his words dissipated by the smile on his face.
Louis shakes his head. “Being myself, Harold.”
“Well,” Harry says, “you ought to lower it down a bit. I can’t fuck it out of you every time you act up. Plus, it’s Coach Styles, not Harold.”
Louis snorts. “You like me acting up.”
“I like putting you in your place after you act up,” Harry corrects. He’s running a hand across his thigh, scratching at the skin there.
“Whatever. Still got you hard, didn’t I?”
Louis can tell that Harry doesn’t mean to laugh, but can’t control the smile that fills his face when he does.
If they kiss after cleaning up, take their time dressing one another and arguing over Louis’ place on the team, no one has to know. No one has to know any of it, especially the part where Louis’ going to be stuck over Harry for quite some time.