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middlingmay · 16 days ago

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Coach Bucky and Gale, alone in the locker room... (3.5K)

Shoutout to @johncleven who sent me a fic request for something set in a locker room and let me run wild with it. I know this isn't what you originally had in mind, but I hope you like it all the same!

A fun romp of a fic set in my Footballer!John AU. This comes after the last installment at Christmas, after John takes up his position as head coach of a veteran's charity football team.

Summary: Football coach John Egan and his report boyfriend, Gale Cleven have some fun roleplaying in the locker room after hours.

Enjoy! Wordcount is over 3.5K so I've put most of it under the cut. Get's a li'l filthy, just to warn you.

It was a quirk of John's, collecting vintage football strips. But unlike most collectors, he favoured the shorts over the shirts. People hired experts in hunting down shirts all over the world with this misprint, or that stitching from this year, and that particular game. But not John.

"It's too much pressure, Buck." He'd told Gale once when he questioned his oddity. "You have to keep them pristine and perfect, and God forbid you touch 'em without gloves. And do you have any idea the kind of pretentious assholes who collect football shirts? You think I want to be part of their circle jerks? No thank you."

So he collected the shorts instead. The earlier the better. The black 1997-'99 home shorts of FC Bayern Munich with the red splash and white stripes. The high cut of the white Aberdeen away summer shorts with the Umbro diamonds and geometric detailing of 1990-1992. The 1980s Manchester City burgundy set with white and blue stripes, and the classic bold red block shorts with the yellow liver bird of Liverpool, used from the 1970s well into the '80s.

Which sat very high on the thigh. They were several sizes too small for John to ever wear, but on Gale they sat perfectly. Just below his belly button, pressed tight against the toned muscle and trim fat of his middle. Snug around the groin, and they left most of his long, muscular legs on display.

It meant that he felt every bit of John's size eleven sneaker covered in an expensive, sturdy, matte black leather where it sat perched on the bench between Gale's spread legs, brushing against the skin and hairs of his thighs and the soft clutch of the underside of the silk-soft shorts.

"What the hell do you call that today?"

Gale curled his toes in his boots and clamped down on his muscles to stop himself from wriggling close to the pressure of John's foot. With one foot on the floor and one foot on the bench between Gale's legs, John loomed over Gale. His elbow rested on his knee and he looked down at him, almost fatherly.

Dressed in those vintage shorts, true to the shamelessness and carefree fashion of the '80s with how short they fell below the crease of his thigh, and a skintight compression shirt that protected players against chafing and perspiration, Gale felt simultaneously starkly aware of his body, and much smaller than John than he actually was.

He normally resented any implication towards delicacy and softness, but sometimes, just sometimes, he didn't mind when it was with John. Gale had to fight and claw and scrap for everything he got in life, even his relationship. John's steady determination to take care of him with every inch Gale allowed was a relief sometimes, an opportunity to let go and hand off the reins to someone else, and trust they weren't going to derail his hard fought and hard-won life.

John shifted his foot until Gale felt the pinch. His eyes fluttered shut and his teeth left purpling dents in his lip.

"I said, what was that today, Cleven? Because it sure as shit wasn't anything I told you to do."

"I'm…I'm sorry." Gale wasn't sorry at all. How could he bring himself to regret a single thing that had led to him here under the mercy of John's heel and his gaze.

"Coach."

"John."

"You say, I'm sorry coach."

He shifted his foot away from the crook of Gale's groin, and not even Gale's desperate clutch on the back lip of the bench kept him from lurching forward for the hem of his pants in a desperate grab to bring him back.

But the foot hit the ground in a disappointing clack.

"You let me down today, Cleven."

Gale's stomach lurched. Thick, calloused fingers skirted along his jaw, and anchoring balm in the face of John's disappointment. They settled under Gale's chin and forced his head up at such an angle, it stretched the front of his throat and made it difficult to swallow back the build-up in his mouth.

You, Gale wanted to swear through a mouthful of John's leather belt. And maybe John read it in his wide, wet eyes and parted lips. Because he tssked anyway and put a whole two feet between them.

"I think you need a lesson in focus." John crooked two fingers, his other hand propped on his hip. "On the floor."

Gale looked down. The floor was shiny and smelled of lemony chemicals. Freshly cleaned.

"Gale. Get on the floor."

Gale slid off the bench onto his knees and sat back on his haunches.

But John still wore that sad frown and twisted purse of his lips. It made Gale want to collapse into those thighs which no amount of fine tailoring could slim down, and beg John what he wanted to stop looking at him like that, so he could just give it to him.

"Down further." John stepped back and Gale slapped clumsy hands against the rubberised flooring as he swallowed up John's retreat until his was pressed stomach down, leaning up on his forearms. His legs kicked up, entirely without his asking. Like a school girl prostrate before her crush.

John took two careful steps closer. One heavy sneaker slipped into the space between his forearms, where his chin might be if he laid face down on the floor.

"Further."

Gale almost wished he hadn't foregone the boots and knee-high socks as he lowered his legs back to the floor and the chill of the floor seeped in and cooled the tense muscles. Only John's sneaker protected Gale's face from the same fate. Gale swept his palms to press under his shoulder and leaned down and down until his mouth and his nose hovered above the leather.

John would be cross if he drooled all over it. He swallowed back a mouthful.

John didn't say anything, but Gale felt the weighted burn of his stare on his nape, the flex and shift of his shoulders and hips as he settled into position, the curve of his ass that felt like it was only just hidden under the shorts, despite the tiny, entrapping pair of briefs he'd been made to wear under them.

Goosepimples erupted up his arms and down his legs, all the little hairs standing on end.

"How about we start with twenty?"

Gale slipped for a moment and grinned into the floor. John did love an excuse to see Gale get physical. He adjusted his form, set his wrists under his elbows, rolled his shoulders back and pressed up. He held it for a sec, letting John admire the line of him. He always waxed lyrical about the lines and angles and juts and refined strength in Gale's body, so he flexed his heels up and down under the guise of perfection his push-up position. He made a show of making sure his ass wasn't sticking out and held himself high up on his arms to show of the strength up his forearms, biceps, triceps.

He heard the tiniest thump of John's toes tapping inside his sneakers. And just as Gale started to lower himself down to complete his first push-up, John lifted the tip of his foot and stuck it under Gale's jaw tilting his head up.

It was a long stretch, and an uncomfortable distance for his eyes to look up. But it was worth it when he saw John gazing down at him, square jaw tight and eyes burnin'.

"Count 'em."

"One." Gale followed John's foot back down.

For the first ten, John simply watched him, sharp and critical like he did his players when they'd performed less than their best and John knew it. It powered Gale's body and his ego like little else and sent him tearing through the next ten with ease.

At fifteen, John started to loop his body, and Gale's rhythm slowed and fell in time with his steps, burning his muscles up a little more than the quicker pace he had before.

"Eighteen. Nineteen." At the top of number twenty, John lifted his foot and pressed it against the thin, barely-there material of Gale's shirt. It was a light touch at first, the simple weight of John's foot. Then he pressed harder. And harder. Until Gale could feel the skin of his back pinch and his muscles had to push against the downward force of John's sneaker.

"You said twenty," he gasped as he tried to hold against the unspoken order to lower himself back down. "John—"

"Coach."

"Coach! You said twenty. You said twenty."

"But look at you," John crooned and Gale didn't have to look at him to know exactly which of his smiles he wore right now. "Not even out of breath. Not a lick of sweat on you. Do it. Again."

With a final push John brought Gale down onto the floor with a grunt. He kept his foot on his back, making Gale press on through the weight. As he rose and fell, rose and fell, his skin rubbed against the hard sole of his sneakers, interspersed with slivers of metal, specially designed for walking around football pitches as he coached. he felt the skin ruddy and redden, fancied he could start to make out the pattern of the treat by the time he got to twenty again, and was so distracted when John's heel slipped into the curve of the small of his back, Gale didn't get chance to muster a single shred of resistance when John pushed him down to the floor again.

"Ah, God." His erection twitched and pulsed against the floor. He couldn't stop the helpless, tiniest thrusts against it searching for the barest modicum of relief. John was so gentle and good to him all of the time, but when he got like this, focused and a little mean, a little physical? Gale never stood much of a chance at any kind of stamina.

"Hmm." John toed a rough line down the small of his back and over the crease of his ass. He sunk his heel into the meat of it, and Gale nearly bit through his lip. The copper was bittery sweet. "We're not doing this right if you're enjoying it so much."

He shifted his foot and it rucked up the short hem of the shorts and Gale felt John's sneaker against the bare curve of skin that peeked out of the briefs.

"M'not. I'm not, coach. I promise."

"It's no good?" That fucker. That smug-faced tricky little bastard. It was heavenly. Hurt in all the right ways and had the back of Gale's eyes burning just as much as his muscles and the heat in his belly. But he couldn't let on or it would ruin the game, and John would stop.

So he clamped his mouth shut, and locked his muscles until the shook from the effort of not rolling between the twin resistance of the floor and John's foot pressing on him.

"Again."

After the first two push-ups, Gale doubted he was going to survive this. The push against John's foot had it massaging his ass and slipping over the seam of him; whilst the press down against the floor jolted against his cock begging for any kind of touch. Twin agonies derived to drive him out of his mind.

His arms were shaking by the time he got to five.

John tutted in false sympathy. "You don't look too good, Cleven. You need to stop? Learned your lesson?"

Like hell.

He pushed down and up, down and up. Then he heard John sit on the bench behind him. And he slipped his foot down further, trailed the hard curve of the toe of his sneaker down Gale's ass, round over his thigh, and all the slow slide under until it pressed against the crowded pouch of his briefs and where he strained under the shorts.

He pushed in hard.

"Oh, God. John. John."

"If I have to tell you one more time…"

"Coach! Fuck, I…"

"You're not done." John's voice was rough and Gale shivered at the only evidence he had that John was just as affected by this as he was, lounging on that bench, watching Gale from behind as he made him rut against his foot like an animal. In his mind he pictured the wide sprawl of his thighs, the strained fabric of his beautifully tailored, navy blue dress pants. The shine of his lips where he licked at them as he tried to catch his breath.

"Keep going, or you can pack your shit up and get the hell out of my locker room."

Gale barely swallowed a whine and pushed down, his arms shaking with the effort not to collapse. John made him push his foot down as he went, and kept the pressure on as Gale pushed himself back up. No relief. No reprieve. Just a constant, blinding pressure as he shook and forced his way through push up after push up. His cock was no longer dripping so much as it was leaking. John's foot rubbed and pressed and wiggled against him. Started dragging back and forth in little pulses and Gale couldn't hold back the moans and whimpers that fell from him with every exertion. His pace picked up, even through the sweat that curled around his forehead, off his hair and splattered on the floor.

The simmering heat in his belly started to bubble and forth. His moans were getting louder, his form sloppy, and behind him John rumbled straight from his chest,

"Fuck that's it, baby. Almost there."

Gale choked on his own spit and a little felt out in a sliver of drool as John pressed against him and stimulated him in earnest now.

"Coach. Coach. I—Jesus. Fuck, I…" Gale was babbling. Nonsensical and desperate pleas to the man above and behind him. For it to keep going, For it to end. For anything he deemed fit to give him.

He gave him it all. Whether from Gale's pleading or his own painful impatience, but John pressed his foot against Gale so hard, that he felt the sensitive skin of his sack pinch like the knife needed to cut through the knot it pierced through Gale's pitiful last defences. He collapsed onto one elbow as his other hand plunged down to clutch John's ankle and keep it there as he rode and rode out his pleasure. The minimal space left inside his tight briefs flooded with sticky heat, and kept flooding. Gale wasn't in a locker room, but somewhere above and outside time and space as he chased the trembling heat and frothy exaltation of his orgasm as far as it would go.

By the time he came back to, his mouth was blabbering against the floor, and he shook from head to toe.

A noise came from John, a little wounded, but like the good boy he was he stayed still. They weren't done.

"You—" his voice shook and John cleared his throat. Shifted it lower and calmer and more in character. But even then he couldn't quite shake the tremor. The softness. "You've got something of mine. Give it back."

The shorts. He meant the shorts. Gale gazed stupidly, on his belly, down the line of his body, realising he'd have to move to get them off.

"One minute, coach, please. Just one. I can't," he gasped through sharp breaths and spittle, "I can't."

"You can. And you will. Give."

Gale cursed and let out helpless little noises as he worked the shorts over his hips, his sensitive cock brushing against the unforgiving floor. Once under the curve of his ass, gale managed to flop over, and wiggled and kicked his legs, but the shorts were too tight, and wouldn't budge. One look at Gale sent his head thumping back against the ground. His eyes blazed with heat and he looked like a starving man staring at his favourite meal.

"I will leave you here, if you don't give me those now, Cleven."

Gale heaved himself up, the idea of being out of John's sphere right now too much to risk. Shaking hands shoved the shorts down his legs and over his feet, and he threw them in John's direction, before leaning back on the palms of his hands, panting.

John felt all over the slippy fabric, inspecting for any signs of wetness or sticky texture, but there were none. Gale's brief had seen to that.

"Good," he murmured, surprised and pleased and Gale flooded with a different kind of warmth when he added, "You did good, Cleven. You did exactly what I wanted."

He let a tentative, exhausted smile twitch across his face.

"But now I want those, too."

John nodded at Gale's crotch, nostril's flaring. His briefs. Wet and damp and squidgy with his release. They were uncomfortable and messy, and—

"I want them. Give them here."

Gale couldn't look away as he sat up straight, slipped one thumb and then another under the waistband and slowly peeled the ruined briefs off himself. Gale looked at John and John's looked at his prize, as Gale peeled them down one leg then another, trying not to get himself any messier than he already was.

Gale held the briefs in his hand, pinching the dry fabric of the waistband between two fingers. He looked between then and John.

"This what you want? Coach?"

Before Gale could tease him, John's hand snapped out and clamped over his wrist, and hauled Gale's whole body into the space between his legs. From the floor, Gale's head fit perfectly in the crook of John's thighs, and he let his head fall there against the ample padding of one of them, and stared unblinking as John yanked the briefs out of his grip, and unfastened belt, buckle, button and zip with one hand. He drew himself out, and thank God Gale was already on the floor, because the sight of John drawing himself out of his pants and wrapping Gale's briefs full of his some around his cock and using them to jerk off would have brought him to his knees.

It looked painful. Hard and swollen and red and straining. Gone too long without attention, love, worship. Gale licked his lips. His hands twitched to touch, and John noticed.

He smirked down at Gale as he denied him. "No. You just sit there and watch." He groaned through a twist of his own wrist. "Maybe—maybe next time you'll— l-listen. Fuck. Then I might let you touch."

Gale's head felt heavy against John's thigh, and his long fingers white-knuckled their grip on the fabric on John's pants. John worked himself at speed, the tenons in his neck straining, his chest heaving.

"Fuck, your panties are so wet."

Oh my god.

"And all for me?"

Gale nodded weakly. His trembling hadn't subsided. Even when he wasn't touching him, John had him riding that edge of overstimulation.

John was almost there. The muscle in his thigh was twitching and his stomach clenched under the crisp white shirt he wore. His grip on himself tightened and a well of absolute filth fell from his lips the way it always did when Gale edged him and he finally got close enough to the edge to feel it.

"Look so fucking good on that floor, Gale. Under my foot and doing what you're told? Shit. Shit. What else would you do for me? Huh? Fuck. What else would you do?"

Gale took a risk and pressed a line of kisses down John's inseam. Just as he reached the apex of his thigh he looked up at John through his lashes and said, "Use you. To get what I want."

John's free hand snapped to Gale's hair and yanked. Gale gasped as his throat was exposed and he heard John curse and moan and felt him thrash through the throes of his orgasm. "Fuck. Fuck. Buck!"

It took minutes before John's hand turned to petting him instead. Gale looked up to see John weakly removing the now sodden briefs and gingerly setting them on the bench next to him.

He made grabby hands down to Gale. "Get up here."

Gone was the clip of Coach Egan. In his place, the attention-greedy and devoted Bucky.

Gale let himself be pulled up and gathered onto John's lap. His curly head dropped to Gale's chest and his arms wrapped all the way around Gale's waist. Anchoring and soothing both, and Gale scraped his fingers through John's curls and smelled the sweet scent of his hair.

Eventually John pecked sweet kissed against his cloth-covered chest and rested his chin in the valley between his pectorals. His eyes were bright with contentment whilst Gale's were heavy and sleepy and sated.

"Was that what you had in mind?" He asked, almost shy. John and Gale were adventurous in bed before they got together. They'd never been shy about exploring new things in their relationship. But those occasions when Gale wanted John to take the reins, Gale knew he worried about pushing too hard or swinging too far out of their dynamic for Gale's comfort.

"Mhm," Gale murmured against his forehead. "Though buy bigger briefs next time, Jesus. Damn things nearly cut off the circulation."

John rubbed a soothing hand over his flank. "I couldn't risk it, Buck. They had to keep everything…contained."

"Oh, so you can risk my cock but not your vintage 1980s Liverpool shorts?"

John's silence was far more indecisive than Gale would have liked.

"Boy—" Gale moved to get off, but John clamped down and pinned him there.

"I'll buy bigger next time; I'll buy bigger next time," he giggled into Gale's neck. "You bring a chance of clothes?"

Gale nodded to his backpack in the corner.

"Get dressed, and we can go home."

But Gale didn't budge. "We can't leave the place like this, John." Drips of both of their slick had escaped the confines of the briefs and were dotted across the floor and the bench. A sizeable puddle of Gale's drool also lay there where his mouth had panted and watered as John put him through his push-ups.

"Buuuck." John whined like a child.

"You remember what the cleaners said?"

"Come on!"

"If they find one more unexplained bodily fluid in here, you're goin' to have a strike on your hands. You want that? You want to be the one to clean up after Crosby? Or explain to Brady why he can still smell Bubbles' socks the next day?"

John flinched at the thought of an irate, upset Brady.

"You get dressed, I'll get the mop."

#fic request #clegan #buck x bucky #football au #footballer!john au #mota au

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