If We Ever Meet Again: Chapter 3. [Larry Stylinson]

There’s a stranger sitting across the bar, and Louis can’t look away - he won’t look away. Drunken nights don’t lead to anything. But sometimes, they do.

(Teacher/Student AU.)

When the bell rang, Louis was vaguely aware of it.

He had been sitting at the teacher’s desk – feeling intensely awkward – and had been grimacing at Zayn’s last text – Mate, would you please just let me study? What sort of a teacher ARE you? – when he had been forced out of his self-induced state of calm, courtesy of the obnoxious ringing that had sounded from down the hallway.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to discuss the fact that he had been screaming his student’s name out in bed. It was that he didn’t want to discuss the fact that he had been screaming his student’s name out in bed with that very student…and his very un-student-ly smirk.

In short, Louis was losing his mind.

“Alright, guys,” He called out, rising to his feet and glancing around the room, “just hand in whatever it is that you’ve written.”

One by one, the class got up and placed their essays upon the polished, albeit worn, mahogany of the desk; each glancing up – or, in a few cases, down – at the new teacher. Most were nonchalant; merely sending him curious stares that obviously stated what the fuck did you do with Harry, but some were devoid of even that. A few girls had bent forward and sent their best attempts at sultry grins his way – or in Louis’ opinion, had looked like constipated ducks for the most part – and had creeped the Doncaster boy out completely.

Unprofessional as his thoughts were, Louis was still a kid at heart (and in mind, as Zayn would, no doubt, argue) and was hungover, damn it.   

Lastly, a vivacious blond boy came up; depositing a single sheet upon the pile of assignments, and quickly said, “Thanks for the class, Mr. T,” in his Irish brogue, before pausing at the door and waiting for Liam Payne to hand in his own essay – or novel, whatever worked.

It was all of about three seconds after the two walked out, that the tension in the air became palpable. Louis trained his eyes onto Harry: whose lithe stride from the back of the class to the teacher’s desk was entirely too feral, and Louis could feel his heartbeat increasing tenfold. Harry was looking way too sober for his liking, and he was dressed in the same fucking clothes from the night before. The white shirt clung to the younger boy’s torso and concealed absolutely nothing, for all it was worth. A faint whiff of sex, alcohol, and something very sweet emanated from him, and Louis had to shoot down the moan that had been rising up at the back of his throat at the mere proximity of the boy.

Harry, on the other hand, was enjoying the entire scene immensely. Walking up behind Louis, he placed each of his own hands on the teacher’s shoulders, and had felt the muscles there tense at the touch; the thin, sable barrier of his t-shirt accentuating the movement. Pressing lightly with just his fingertips, Harry forced Louis down into his chair, and then strode back to the front of the desk: a smirk formulating upon his lips, as a sudden emerald flame lit up within his eyes.

Louis was trying his very hardest to stay his thought process.

I will not pull him over this table. I will not pull him over this table. I will not stare at those lips. I will not pull him over this table. Oh, look at the bruise on his neck – did I do that? No, I will not think about him on top of me. No. NO, LOUIS, STOP STARING AT HIS LIPS. LOOK AT HIS EYES. YES, THERE YOU GO, HIS EYES. Oh, fuck.

“So,” Louis began, swallowing around the lump in his throat, and praying to the Lord Almighty that his voice didn’t sound like that of a weak-willed little girl, “Did you not do the assignment?”

Harry snorted in response, “No, I didn’t.”

“I could give you detention for that, you know.”

“I know.”

It really didn’t help that Harry had a perpetually hoarse and sexy voice that made every single syllable that alighted his mouth sound like a pick-up line, a moan, or just any bloody thing that would interest Louis’ cock.

“You didn’t tell me you were still at school,” Louis warned, finally – thank you, blessed Mary – finding his inner killjoy, “You should have mentioned that, right about the time I was buying you your fifth shot.”

“You didn’t tell me you were a teacher,” The reply came; short and crisp, and yet underlined with a slight stroke of determination that said don’t you dare try regretting last night.

 Louis huffed in response, and contorted his lips into a frown; his cerulean eyes dilated as he stared up at the student, and realised that he was simply unable to look away. “Well, what now?”

“Now,” Harry enunciated slowly; placing his palms of the surface of the desk, and levering downwards on his forearms until Louis could feel his breath on his own lips, and had such an intense magnification of those green eyes, that he ended up with a pounding heartbeat, and a rush of adrenaline that seared his insides to a char. “I’m going to kiss you, and you’re going to kiss me back, and we’re not going to tell anybody about it.”

The younger boy leaned in, and it took all of Louis’s willpower for him to turn away before the lip-lock could occur. He wanted to do it; he wanted to do it so bad, but he knew no good could come of it that wouldn’t be short-lived.

“No, Harry,” He mustered; his eyes flickering back to Harry’s, only to see a slight hint of hurt flashing there, “we can’t.”

Harry didn’t move an inch, as he said, “I can.”  

He moved in again, only to be obstructed by Louis’ palm this time. Not one to be deterred, Harry closed his eyes, and pressed a series of chaste kisses upon the flesh there. He could feel Louis’ hand retract, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“No,” is the only answer Louis offered, because it was the only one that didn’t sound like a plea.

Harry retracted himself: he pushed back on his forearms, and prepared himself to go; the slightest hint of a frown embedded into his alabaster visage. “See you around then, Mr. Tomlinson.”

And that was when something in Louis snapped.

As Harry turned to leave, Louis plunged forward, and grabbed a fistful of his shirt; using that to drag the boy towards him. Wasting absolutely no time, Louis pressed their lips together in a fervent kiss, because damn the fucking system, he couldn’t handle it anymore. And it didn’t help that Harry was reciprocating like a sex-craved maniac.

One of Louis’ hands was twined into the younger boy’s luscious curls; the fingertips massaging his scalp while simultaneously pulling him closer in case there was any possibility of him moving away. The other was planted upon the desk; helping him lean into the kiss with more ease.

Harry, however, was balanced precariously on his elbows; most of his torso plastered against the table. As the lip-lock intensified from a single kiss, to Louis’ tongue swiping his bottom lip and begging for entrance, Harry happily opened his mouth and allowed them to be transported a whole different level. Their mouths became a single orifice; a vacuum where the need for oxygen had been trumped by the carnal need to taste more of each other. Harry ran his tongue of Louis’ teeth; plastered itself against Louis’ tongue; strived to devour as much as he could. But when he ran the tip over the roof of his mouth, repeatedly carrying out the action with such tantalising ability, it struck Louis that he needed to stop.

Wrenching himself away, Louis gasped for air; his eyes not breaking away from Harry’s: a marriage of blue to green that seemed to blur the world around them into absolute oblivion, and destroyed the need to acknowledge the fact that anything else existed beyond them, and this, and there right then.

But it did.

Harry was a state, though; his lips swollen; his chest rising and falling so rapidly and his eyes sparkling with such unbending lust, amalgamated with something that Louis couldn’t quite place, that it was a wonder that the Doncaster boy found it in himself to not reach out and hold his lithe student in his arms.

“Last time, Styles,” Louis panted out; smiling slightly, before reclining into his chair.

“If you say so, Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry replied; mirth highlighting his words.

Fourteen hours later, however, Louis Tomlinson was torn.

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A/N: This is a very ugh chapter, imo. But thoughts?