Part 154: Under Pressure
`Honey, I'm home!'
The cheesy phrase always put a curling grin on Declan Rice's face, letting the apartment door fall noisily shut behind him and dropping his West Ham kit bag messily to the hall floor before stomping forward inside; the tall defender rolled and stretched his shoulders and arms, still a little sore from the late gym session that had ended his day at the training ground.
Mase?' he called out, when there was no clear answer to his first clichéd call. The Fulham flat was not huge, so he briefly wondered if his boyfriend was actually home or not, but then game the quiet Hey' back, and he turned the corner into the comfortable open-plan heart of the flat.
Across the kitchen counter from him was Mason Mount; his 21-year-old lover was hunched over an array of chopping boards and bowls and scattered ingredients, a look of frustrated conversation on his slim goateed face. Declan paused to look him up and down, enjoying the squeaky-clean freshness of his pink face and the neatly trimmed spikes of his dark hair, the faded old indie band tshirt pulled over his slim torso, the little chew of his lip as he focused on making their dinner. Declan smiled uncontrollably to look at him, and pulled down the zip front of his West Ham tracksuit top. His smile paused rather than faded as Mount failed to look up from the veg prep to address him, or so anything more than a vague distant `Hey'.
`Everything okay, babe?' the young West Ham star asked quietly.
Mmm? Yep, cool -- er, stir-fry for dinner, Dec...?' He looked up, a tense flash of smile, the faint sparkle of those dark almond eyes. Dec nodded, holding his loose grin, and stepped right up to the kitchen counter that divided it from the pristine lounge of their, well Mason's, London abode. He reached in and nipped up a sliver of red pepper to crunch on. Oi,' Mount chided him without feeling.
`What's up?' Rice demanded knowingly.
`Mmm? Nowt, nowt, just getting food on the go, y'know...'
`Huh. Right.'
Declan watched him for a few more moments with a mixture of enjoyment (the kitchen lighting hit his clenched jaw at the right angle and made him even more beautiful than normal) and concern (his shoulders were hunched and he was jabbing the sharp knife at a courgette with a high risk of stir-frying a finger instead). He left him to it, crossing into the main bedroom and slipping out of his club tracksuit, pottering the room in just his black CKs for a moment or two, whistling idly to himself. It had been an upbeat but tough last day of training for the East London players: their Premiership position was secure at last but they knew their final home game would have its challenges, fighting the desperate underdogs of Aston Villa.
Pulling a slack old sweatshirt over his upper body but not bothering with the bottom half, he made his way back through the flat to see what Mason was up to. Vegetables neatly chopped and arranged, he was fussing at a small bowl to make their sauce; Declan paused out of his view and watched him, seeing the hard set of his jaw and the narrowed frustration of his eyes. He smiled now not with his own idle satisfaction or at a simple appreciation of the best friend he got to spend his nights with, but at the rising challenge of cheering the handsome fucker up.
He slid quietly into the kitchen space and appeared behind Mount, swinging long arms about him and holding him from behind, stilling his frantic hands and nuzzling at the fade cut down the back of his head and neck. You're tense,' he pointed out quietly, purring at him. He squeezed on his lean wrists and pulled his hands away from the food prep, pressing his firm chest into his shorter shoulders. Is it about tomorrow...?'
`Yeah,' Mason admitted, sounding embarrassed.
Big last day,' Declan said acceptingly, lifting Mason's arms and curling them about his front in a tight hug, rocking him a little from side to side as he held him. But you guys will be fuckin' fine. Who've you got, for god's sake, Wolves...? Relax.'
The scores will settle whether we get Champs League or not,' Mount complained faintly, not resisting the comforting hold from behind whatsoever, settling his weight back into Rice's arms and chest. It's just a bit... I dunno. Feelin' a bit under pressure tonight, huh.'
Hmm.' Declan applied a bit more pressure' to him and leaned in enough to pop a pecking kiss on his cheek. It's Wolves mate, and you're on fire. Relax and enjoy tonight, eh?' He held his head there, brushing his nose and lips against the other lad's face. Let me help you relax,' he added, pressing his hips as forward as his upper body so the loose bulge of his uncovered underpants rubbed at the bottom of Mason's thin PJ bottoms. Gratifyingly, the Chelsea player made a little murmur of pleasure, but tinged with worry. Declan sighed and loosened his grip, but held his crotch there and brought his hands down to the lad's hips. `It's him, ain't it?' the West Ham player asked in a grim whisper.
He's really under pressure,' Mason said a little defensively, but... yeah. He was hard on us all this afternoon. He's been even more on edge since Liverpool, to be honest.'
Mmm.' A little noise of controlled judgment. Declan had endless respect for Frank Lampard as a footballer, of course he did, but... he was becoming less sure of him as a manager, the things Mason had admitted to him. Well, forget Fat Frank for a night, eh?' He pressed his lips to his neck in another kiss. Let Declan take control, won't you...?' He turned him gently around away from the food prep, reached down, and loosened his semi-hard cock from his undies. The main course can wait, I've already got starter for you here...'
Frank Lampard stood at the side of the townhouse kitchen, a glass of red wine clutched in one hand, the other rubbing repeatedly at his jutting chin. To the side, his wife was putting the finishing touches to their curry dinner, filling him on the apparently crucial events of her day. He made little noises and expressions in all the right places, experienced enough in his second marriage to feign the perfect listener, but in between he stared crossly across their kitchen and out of the French windows onto the empty green of their garden.
On the counter beside him, his discarded mobile phone pinged. He looked at the header of the work email with a tight frown: another media request trying to get an interview out of him, claiming to want to review his first season as Chelsea boss. Fuck that, it would just be another sod wanting him to bitch about Liverpool and Klopp; the media had been fucking loving his foul-mouthed outburst at Anfield earlier in the week, the last thing he needed as he primed the team for tomorrow's important final clash. A tiny handful of points stood between Chelsea and definite top 4 finish, Champions League football next season. It was not something Lampard was interested in narrowly missing out on.
Christine was laughing lightly at her own joke and he forced out a gruff chuckle too while he thought back on today's intense sessions with the Chelsea squad. He'd lost his cool a bit and ranted at them a lot at the end of the day, more than he'd intended to. But he'd been so frustrated, had been all week, longer really. Professionally and... the other. The football manager leaned heavily on the counter, glancing between his smiling wife and the silent brooding presence of his mobile phone.
`Give me a minute will ya, babe?' She made some vague noise of assent and he snatched the device up from the counter then marched past her, sliding the French window open and shut as he let himself out onto the patio.
He walked enough of a distance from the house before turning to face the amber-lit windows and pulling the device up to his ear, thumbing through his contacts to call him. He hit call and listened to the generic chiming dial, eyes fixed on the glowing squares of the big house in front of him, children already in bed and dinner soon to be served. It should be a soothing scene, he knew, but his mind was stretched tensely across twin issues: Chelsea's fortunes tomorrow, and... him.
`Hey,' grunted John Terry's voice when he finally answered.
`We need to talk,' Lampard told him through gritted teeth.
`I told you. We will, mate.'
We need to talk tonight-
Tonight? Fella, we both have games tomorrow, and-
`Exactly. You're in London, aren't you?'
A long pause. `I am, Frank, I am, but...'
Tell me where your hotel is,' Lampard insisted quietly but firmly. Please, John. We need to talk this through. I've been trying to call you all week!'
An even longer pause. I'll WhatsApp you to the location, okay? And we can... I dunno, we can meet nearby and... Yeah, I agree buddy, we do need to talk. You're right. May as well be tonight.' He sounded like he wanted to say more, but all Frank could hear down the line was his heavy thoughtful breathing. Let me know when you can be here, mate. I'll send you the details now.'
The Aston Villa squad were holed up in a small but slick East End hotel on the edge of a shiny new development. The squat building sat glowing into the still-bright summer night, all chrome and soft lighting, the courtyard in front of it punctuated by incongruous tropical plants and a few abstract sculptures. Between them, the relegation-battling team's captain walked slowly, hands stuffed sulkily into the pockets of his dark tracksuit bottoms, fat headphones wrapped about his head, staring at the ground and scuffing his toes on the flagstones.
Ben Chilwell watched him as he approached, hands in his pockets too, a devious grin on his neat handsome features. He had not intended to sneak up quite so cheekily on his lad, but this was too perfect: moody-faced, Jack Grealish scuffed across the hotel courtyard onto the kerb, seeming to look about awkwardly as if unsure what direction to take on his solitary stroll. Unnoticed, Ben curved in towards him, reached over, nabbed his elbow and felt him jolt away in shock, almost tumbling off the kerb onto the empty road. Jack stared wide-eyed at him for a moment then was yanking his wireless headphones off and gawping in shock.
`Wotcha,' Chilwell chuckled, pulling softly on his elbow and glancing cautiously back towards the hotel entrance. He laughed as Grealish stammered his surprise at him, and patted him gently on the arm before returning his hand to his pockets. Hands in pockets was a good idea, he told himself, otherwise he'd be grabbing his lover out here on the London street with no regard for discretion.
`What the fuck you doin' here?' Jack exclaimed almost complainingly in his broad Brummie tones.
`Alright, what a welcome,' Ben chuckled softly back, rocking on the heels of his designer trainers.
But -- you're -- what -- I don't...' Jack came to a frustrated pause and laughed awkwardly, then fiddled with the volume controsl of the fat headphones still blaring around his neck. He scrabbled at his disturbed slick of hair and blinked furiously at him, finally cracking a tense smile. Fuckin' hell, man, you could have told me...!'
You ever heard of surprises?' Ben questioned lightly, not for a moment doubting the decision to zip down here on the motorway. The hotel had been easy to find, given that they had been texting each other all afternoon and evening as the Villa squad travelled south. How you doin', buddy?' He kept his hands in his pockets but gestured caringly with his shoulders, smiling warmly at the other young footballer and trying to read his creased face. `Feeling the pressure...?'
Huh, an' then some,' the Brummie captain confessed. Everything hangs on tomorrow, man. We need to beat West Ham, or we need others to fuck up worse... huh. Sometimes I wonder why the hell anyone made ME captain...' Ben shushed this self-deprecating nonsense and kicked their toes together idly. Fuckin' hell,' Grealsih sighed again. Just came out for that breath of fresh air, didn't think I'd be... bloody hell, Benny. I mean, it's good to see you obvs, but...'
`I'm booked in down the road,' Chilwell told him with a thinly suppressed grin of mischief.
Oh are you,' Jack said with a nervous chuckle. But Ben, luv, I need to...'
Text your roomie. Who'd you say it was? Just text them. Say... oh, I dunno, some chick you used to fuck is hitting you up for a bootie call, or...' He couldn't stop the smirk spreading over his sharp features. I mean, it ain't untrue.' He winked. `There's a hot slut here who wants you in their hotel room, so make your excuses. Doesn't have to be all night, if you're worried, but you could be back in here before breakfast. I'll set four alarms. Five. Come on, bud.'
Jack just gawped at him, as stunned as when he'd first seen him. `You came all this way just cos you knew I'd be tense?' he asked in a quiet, disbelieving voice.
Ben laughed disarmingly and shrugged. Well, it's not like I can play tomorrow, is it? And I can be back in Leicester before the game to show my face, so...' He trailed off, seeing the note of disappointment in Jack's face as he played on this more pragmatic and convenient explanation of his behaviour, and he smirked again with irresistible mischief. For fuck's sake, of course I came down to see you, Jack, you've been texting me in a tizzy all day. You think I was gonna leave you down here sweatin' on your own and with only your crappy Villa mates to look after you? Send your excuses now and come fuck my brains out, Captain Jack, no arguments.' He grinned triumphantly at his secret boyfriend and began backing off, nodding down the quiet street in the direction of his own last-minute hotel.
`And still without Ben fucking Chilwell, apart from anything else,' he added a little bitterly, already regretting showing any weakness in front of a League rival, even one he knew as closely as this. He led the way down the quiet Leicester street, away from busier central bars of the small city, aiming for a quiet pub with a smattering of heated outdoor seating, and less chance of inconvenient football fans crowding either of them. Jamie Vardy needed a discreet beer and could do without being spotted sinking one when he had a decisive final Premiership game the following afternoon.
`You sure this place is sound?' his companion grunted heavily beside him.
`It'll do,' Vardy promised vaguely, leading the way into its sprawling garden area, dotted with pairs of drinkers. He jabbed a finger at the button of the electric heater and sank into one of the wooden pews about the table, grinning challengingly at the bigger fella as Harry Maguire joined him opposite, awkward and hulking in his dark hoody.
He'd been a little surprised when the Man Utd captain actually agreed to join him for one tonight, but he supposed Maguire was feeling the same nauseating tension as him; their teams' game tomorrow would really settle the top four of the Premiership table, between themselves and Chelsea, and decide who missed out on a top four spot and Champions League place. Vardy was largely pleased with the season he and his team had enjoyed, but the possibility of leapfrogging traditionally `big' clubs like United and Chelsea and bagging third-place, behind only Liverpool and City, well... it would be pretty fuckin' tasty.
With that on his mind, he hadn't been keen on a long evening at home. None of the Leicester lads had been responsive to his hints of a cheeky pint, especially not his preferred option: Harvey Barnes could barely look at him since the send-off for King. He'd had high hopes for getting some fun out of that ginger twink, but that showy orgy in his hotel room seemed to have done nothing but alienated most of its participants. Even James Maddison seemed a little off with him these days. Well, he'd get a good shag in with the wife when he got back after this pint or two, he supposed, and for now catching up with his former teammate was as good an excuse as any to order a round.
`I don't think we should talk about the match,' the big hefty Yorkshireman sat opposite announced, pawing at a beer menu on the tabletop.
`No? Then what the fuck will we talk about?' Jamie asked jokily, eyeing him up.
They had been thick as thieves at one time, central to Leicester's underdog achievements for several years; he'd been pretty dismissive of big Maguire as soon as he sold out to Manchester's siren song, though, and their little clashes over juicy Chilwell had hardly helped them to repair or maintain their former friendship. But it was still there, a tight bond forged in former Premiership battles; he'd been reminded of this when Maguire called on his help against Lingard, that old begrudging trust that only came from hard-fought wins and mutually suffered losses. So apart from just wanting an illicit pint of beer and an escape from the pre-match pressure, Vardy was actually quite keen to spend time with big Harry and dip into memory lane.
Fine,' he conceded, no talk of tomorrow. Just yesteryear, eh?'
Aye,' Harry agreed in a vague grumble. Summat like that.'
Mason lay on his back, limbs outstretched, every nerve in his body dancing. He lifted his head a little to stare down the smooth ripple of his torso, wide-eyed in amazement and gratitude to what his Declan was doing. Bent forward at the foot of the bed, the other young footballer met his eyes, his heavy brows furrowed in concentration and a controlled smirk still on his lips as he did it: his protruding tongue stroking in long circular laps around the head of Mount's hard prick. He had kissed and gently stroked it into this straining erection and now was refusing to put it in his mouth or hold it properly; instead he just caressed it in the most fleeting and ginger of motions, circling his tongue about the tip and making Mason's whole slim body tighten and shudder with ecstasy.
`You're driving me crazy,' the Chelsea midfielder whined to the ceiling.
`That's kinda the point,' muttered Declan filthily in a pause, then pushed the tip of his tongue against the slit of his cock-head again and then pulled it away and then licked around the edge of his head and made him shudder and moan some more.
Mason's mind was a million miles from today's intense training, from Frank's rants and accusations, from the pressure of tomorrow's final Premiership match. All he could think about was the strong hunched figure of Declan at the foot his bed, positioned between his own spread legs, stroking the soft hair of his thighs as he did it. Declan's long back arched up behind him and he still had his undies on, the CK waistband tight and his cheeks rising up in black circled mounds, a bit wedgied between his muscular cheeks. Ohhhh, another circular lick, ohhhh...!
Declan,' Mason panted, edged mad with pleasure, just... ohhhh...' He wanted it to stop, no, to go on forever, no... He stretched his arms out further to the sides, grasping at the sheets until they bunched and twanged beneath his fingers. His head rolled back onto the pillow, his back arching a little. Oh god, his cock hadn't been between those lips or even been fully touched and he already felt like if he just let himself go, he could cum, or if Rice just told him to, he could blow his wad all over him, oh fuck...
Then the licking sensation was gone and it was just the cool ticklish sensation of Rice's breath on the head of his dick. Mount looked up and his boyfriend still hovered there, but a little higher, straightening his tall frame, grinning wickedly up his body. `Are you ready for a fucking, Mase?' the sturdy West Ham defender asked pleasantly.
Mason just groaned out his words in a needy rush, oblivious to their abandoned dinner preparations in the kitchen, their shed clothes on the way into here, oblivious to anything but what lay in Declan's pants and he needed in him. `Destroy me, Declan...'
They had met on the street corner, but officially the plan had been to meet in the bar facing the hotel. John Terry looked across at it with itchy skin, pulling at the tight collar of his zipped-up tracksuit jersey, then back at the other ex-footballer, both of their faces looking more aged and lined in their late-night tension. Lampard had a hood pulled up for some hint of discretion, but he was a very recognisable man.
Well,' the Chelsea boss muttered at him in a not entirely friendly manner, are we gonna sit down and have a drink and talk about this like men?'
John Terry couldn't hold in a little scoffing noise. He shook himself, pulling idly at the pockets of his tracksuit top and eyeing the frontage of the bar again; it didn't look busy, but he could see a few punters and he could see the young barmaids dashing back and forth in the yellowed lights of its front windows. It didn't look busy but it looked public. He'd pictured them disappearing into a booth in some quiet proper East End boozer, but where the fuck were such relics in this modern area of development?
We can't talk about it in there,' he said curtly. It's too risky.' He scowled at nothing in particular and shuffled on the spot. `We shouldn't have met tonight, Frank, we both have too much on...'
JT,' Lampard murmured at him, please, it was... I mean, you said it, you texted me, you said we ought to talk, and...' Suddenly the other bloke was reaching for him a little bit, his hand brushing at his sleeve; Terry yanked his arm back and frowned crossly at his long-time best mate.
`Yeah, maybe,' he grunted at him, irritated that this issue was coming up tonight, that the call from Lamps had pulled him from his tense night in the team hotel; it's not that he actually had work to do or that HIS lack of sleep was going to be what made the difference to tomorrow's match, but he resented being pulled away for this confrontation when he was here for work and on the eve of such an important game. Villa's future seemed to rest on how things played out tomorrow. The last thing he needed here was his old Chelsea wingman sniffling about getting prissy because they fucked some Scottish slut in a room together.
I meant what I said,' JT grunted at the other middle-aged coach, lingering on the kerb. It can't happen again. Glad you understand that, pal, so-`
That's what I wanna talk about,' Frank said in an almost apologetic way -- he was reaching to touch him on the arm again and JT pulled away, bristling. Look, John, geezer, let's just talk about this like we used to, y'know, we were so open with each other back in the day, no secrets, and...'
`Frank, this ain't like those days, you know it ain't. Mate, get home, go back to your missus; you've got a big day tomorrow too, we ain't got time for this shit. Seriously. Forget the drink.'
Okay, okay,' Lampard said to him in a bit of a rush, I get it, the bar IS risky, you're so right. We can hardly sit in that pub with a pint in hand and discuss the fact we're both bi!'
Terry narrowed his eyes at him. `What?'
`Well, anyone could overhear us, I get it, I was stupid to suggest it, so why don't we just go up to your room in here, pal, we can talk proper there, we can really figure it out, and...'
Bi?' the Villa assistant manager and ex-defender snapped at his friend. He took one step back. Who the fuck you callin' bi, pal? You callin' me queer? Fuck's sake, Frank. What's this shit about?' Lampard stared at him, his face seeming to sag a little bit. `Mate, you've got the wrong idea, alright fella?'
`But...' His old Chelsea pal stared mournfully at him, mouth hanging open a bit, his hands reaching forward in a vague and unfinished grab at him. Terry stared back at him with hardened eyes. He didn't have time for this bollocks. The shittest thing about it was that there was something oddly familiar in Frank's watery eyes and sagging face, the look of mournful distress on his handsome features. It reminded Terry of another conversation, another rejection. Eden Hazard had been distraught when he ended things with him.
You're getting' confused, old pal,' Terry almost snarled at him, making the contact this time, grabbing his upper arm where they stood in the shadow of the hotel. You're talkin' bollocks, okay? We're both straight. STRAIGHT. We got WIVES, pal, yeah? So none of that shit about bein' bi. Okay we've done stuff but it don't need fuckin' analysing or nowt, does it? Fella! Fuck!' He shook him by the arm and glowered at him. `Go home, Frank, go back to your wife. I dunno what funny business you been up to, but...'
I spoke to Danny,' Frank hissed at him suddenly. I know that weren't a one-off, JT.'
He paused at this but shook him again and pushed him away a little bit. What the fuck does that mean? What fuckin' business is it of yours? Jesus, Frank. You comin' here accusin' me of summat are ya? You'll be going home with a black eye if you don't-
`Drinkwater, McGinn, who else?' Lampard demanded of him in a whisper that almost sounded jealous. He was scowling too now, the two Chelsea hardmen face to face in the quiet of the street. Terry was reaching his limit with this. He pushed Frank in the chest again and backed off, whirling back towards the big open doors of the hotel foyer. He instantly felt Frank's hand on his arm and he reacted instinctively, swinging back with that arm and following through on a threat he had never meant; he felt the hot wet blood of Frank's nose on his fist and stared dismally at his best friend's reeling expression as he reacted to the punch.
Beneath him, Ben whined and groaned, and the noises from his cherished buddy were as intoxicating and satisfying as the tightness of his ring around his thrusting, sliding cock. Jack grabbed roughly at him, really pouring his pent-up frustrations into the rapid and forceful movements of his strong hips, his tight hard buttocks clenching furiously as he shoved himself deeper and harder into the broad strong backside of the Leicester defender.
`Ohhhh JACK... ohhhh yes... fuck, fuck, yesss...' And so on.
Chilwell's body was so sturdy and firm to hold and cling to and drive into, he loved it, he loved the compact muscle of him, the smoothness of his torso, the hairiness of his legs. He loved grabbing and running his fingers through the smart brown flop of his hair, yanking on it just a little sometimes as he pushed his own thick tool inside the stud and made him erupt in a fresh squeal of delight. He loved the smell of him, a mix of his raw sweat and the familiar Ralph Lauren aftershave he always wore, and a kind of vague laundry scent of his hyper-clean clothes. More than anything, he loved hearing his own name spilling from those lips, loved to know that he was claiming beautiful Ben as his own!
Sweat was slimy on his skin now -- the air-con in this cheaper hotel was shite, and Chilwell's room was distressingly hot, sauna-like. His own hair flung loosely over his brow and into his eyes, loose and bouncing and ragged as he topped his lad, driving him into the bedding and clinging to him firmly as he did. He was never great at dirty talk, felt silly when he tried, but tonight he could find no words at all, just dogged grunts; he let Ben do all the talking, the gobby bastard, and loved every word of it.
`Yes, yes, right in me mate, oh yes, fuck me there, oh god oh god oh god, oh JACK...!'
But sometimes this position wasn't enough. It was amazing to hold onto Ben like this and be so firmly inside him, but he wanted to look at him properly. He pulled back, squeezing his cock out of the strong meaty arse of the 23-year-old defender, holding it at the base to keep it fully erect, and dragged clumsily and needily on one firm bicep. On ya back,' he panted in treacly Brummie, on ya back man, let me...' He pushed over and down until Chilwell was beneath him in missionary, and struggle to get into position to fuck him afresh, his sweaty knees sliding over the bedding as he did so, almost tumbling aside disastrously. Ben laughed and grabbed and supported him at his slim waist, staring up hungrily.
Yeah,' the Leicester hunk groaned at him, get in me, Jack, get in me now...!'
`Oh fuck,' Grealish moaned eagerly, and pushed his cock between the splayed cheeks, crashing down on him and pressing their faces heavily together for a kiss, tasting the sweat on Ben's lips as he did.
He's a good fuck, y'know.' Jamie leered at Harry across the table and rocked the pint glass in his hand slowly, watching its amber contents swirl lazily. He grinned at the obvious discomfort on Maguire's big crooked face, the way he shifted in his seat and looked about to check if anyone could actually over-hear them. Oh don't come over all shy, pal,' Vardy wheezed, resting the near-empty pint glass and picking up his phone to get the table service app up.
`Not another round, two's defo the limit,' Harry told him quietly.
You're right, a third would be dangerous,' Jamie agreed, but pressed repeat order' anyway.
He smirked again at the big defender and relaxed back in his wooden seat. Reminiscing about Leicester memories had led quickly to discussion of mutual friends and, thus, back to Ben Chilwell, the injured defender absent from tomorrow's squad. Discussing how madly talented their younger pal was and how he'd be mad not to accept offers from the likes of Chelsea one minute, him segueing into how fun it was pounding the buff lad's backside the next; not subtle, he'd admit, but it had been fun to say aloud and watch Harry's hypocritical prudishness.
`You haven't fucked him yet, then,' Jamie said in a lavish whisper.
Maguire scowled at him. `We ain't havin' this chat tonight, Vardy.'
Oh, you're missing out,' Jamie told him simply. I know he was up visiting you the other week, y'know, no need to be coy about it. He wouldn't tell me any more than that, but...'
`It's none of yer business, Vard. Leave it. You ain't ordered another round, have ya? I need to be back at the hotel, serious. This ain't like our old Foxes days when you get away with it, buddy, we...'
Tell me,' Jamie cut him off quietly, enjoying the similarity in their Sheffield monotones as he talked across him, just how close ARE you and Luke Shaw these days...? How serious is it getting...?' He enjoyed the quiet fury of the younger bloke's glare, the contained violence of his stance on the other side of the table. Oh, he loved big Harry, he did, but he loved winding him up even more. Aha,' he concluded in a teasing tone, even more serious than I thought...'
Jamie,' snapped the United captain harshly but carefully quiet, I dunno why you're pushin' at all this. I thought we were havin' a nice pint and a catch-up tonight, not...'
Well, YOU banned discussing the game tomorrow,' Vardy reminded him, so that more or less rules out footy as a topic, you big cunt... And besides, can't blame a fella for being curious, can you? Can you imagine how shocked I was when we met in Ben's hotel room that time? Big boring Harry, swinging his dick in the wrong direction, who would have ever thought it...' He knew his voice was getting a little recklessly loud and clear and he saw the fear in Harry's eyes. He grinned and quietened down. `Sorry, sorry, my bad, I won't shout it from the Leicester rooftops, big man.'
`You're being a dick, Jamie. I'm gonna go.'
Nah, nah, stay for this last one, I only ordered half pints,' he lied happily. We don't have to talk about your shifty Man United sex life, haha, don't worry. We can... well, we can talk about mine! Just wait til I tell ya some of the Premiership backsides I've had my way with, you big dirty bugger...' He sniggered tipsily and drained the remains of his pint; he could see the alarmed fascination in Harry's beady eyes, could see that he'd hooked his interest again. Harry,' he growled mischievously, did I ever tell you about the time I shared a hotel room for a few nights with... Raheem Sterling...?'
Dec pulled furiously on the lad's cock, lying on his side and holding Mason's body to him; his own firm dick was still buried in his hole, but slowly relaxing, its load already emptied inside his lover. Now he was cuddling lazily into him, high on the rush of his own orgasm, and jerking his cock to completion while he hoped his own dick was still doing something to stimulate him from within. Judging by the ecstatic yelps and whinnies the Chelsea boy was squeezing out as he jerked him, it was working.
That's it,' Rice growled into his ear, stroking at his chest and nipples and just below his throat with one hand, pumping his slim rock-hard dick with the other, feeling the slow retreat of his own softening meat inside his backside. That's it, Mase, oh yeh...'
I'm so close,' Mason gasped, so so close, ohhhh...'
`That's it, baby, come on, come on now...'
`Oh fuck it feels good, oh man...'
`Cum for me, Mase, come on, shoot for me... who's my fuckin' hero, eh? Who's my gorgeous man?'
`Oh Declan...'
Who's gonna get that goal tomorrow?' he questioned in the same intense voice, leaning in with his lips just against the lobe of his small ears. Who's gonna score and smash Wolves? Who's gonna be a fucking Prem star tomorrow, eh, eh?' He kissed his neck and asked it again. Who's gonna be a fuckin' Chelsea legend tomorrow afternoon, eh? My sexy boy...' He felt Mason's smooth sweaty back press against his chest as the 21-year-old midfielder convulsed and choked out an orgasmic cry, spilling his load onto the bedding beside them. Rice shouldered him up a little and twisted his body so that their faces could meet and they could kiss, both of them aglow with the joy of sex, tongues lapping and clashing and faces twisting happily together. Declan Rice didn't give a fuck if Mason scored or won tomorrow, he was already his little Chelsea hero, but he wanted it so desperately to happen, because all he could really think about tonight was knowing that Mason was happy and contented. He broke the kiss to whisper at him. Stop worrying, you're amazing,' he told him firmly, `you're on fire. You're gonna be pissing all over those Wolves bell-end from kick-off to full-time... now... sexy lad... are you gonna make me my dinner, or am I gonna starve...?'
The two naked lads pulled apart as they burst into contented sleepy laughter, and pushed their lips together in another kiss.
`I didn't mean to do that, fella -- it was just instinct -- Frank, mate, stop... look, buddy, I never... Frank!'
He staggered away from the voice, holding his face, feeling the heat and oily slick of his own bloody on his lips and nose and fingers. What he couldn't really feel was the pain, he was in too much shock. He hurried on, the hood of his top flapping about his head and ears as he did. There was a mad pressure inside his head now as he ran on, hurtling down the deserted London street. But he wasn't moving quickly, he was too dizzy and confused; Terry must have caught up with him easily, was yanking at his arm now, pulling back and to the side.
Lampard felt himself shoved into the blacked-out windows of a closed shop; the cool glass rattled a little against his body, tugged off the pavement and into this darker nook against the shop front. He blinked dizzily and groaned in pain, looking across into the wild-eyed and aggressive face of the man he'd played more matches with than any other fucker in the league. The man who'd smashed him in the nose for even suggesting that he might be remotely interested in fucking lads.
JT was grabbing at the collar of his hoody, bunching the material up in his fists, pressing him quite roughly into the window, standing over him, managing to look huge and intimidating though only an inch or two taller in reality. Frank began to find his focus and his balance, and the pain of the injury began to throb in his face, the initial shock and horror fading a little.
`Frank,' muttered John desperately.
Get off me,' he panted, scared for the first time by this man he knew to be rough and violent and unsteady, but in the past, always on his side. He pushed at him but Terry held on, and he screwed his eyes and face up in the fresh pain. You fuckin' cunt... why'd you do that... jesus Christ I just wanted to talk to ya, John... get off me! You prick...'
`I just lashed out,' pleaded JT, shaking at him.
`You mentalist,' Frank yowled at him, pushing at his arms and his shoulders, slipping aside and just falling shoulder-first into the corner of this nook, bashing his face a little on hard wall and feeling fresh stabs of pain in his nose and his jaw and his lip. He spun around and was face to face with Terry again, pressing him into this corner and holding him. Their eyes met, Frank's misty with unwelcome tears of pain, and they stared each other blearily out.
Then, shocking him more than the violent blow, the other man lunged in -- for a second he thought it was an unprovoked and ungentlemanly headbutt. But then lips were on his and another nose was pressing agonisingly against his own. His whole face stung with pain and he snatched madly at the other guy's shoulder muscles through his tracksuit, clinging to him as the sudden and painful kiss rocked between their faces. As quickly as it had started, it stopped; he blinked the misty half-tears out of his eyes and stared John in the face, seeing traces of his own blood on his nose and cheek. For a long moment, they stared into each other's eyes again. Frank felt like his entire body and every organ had just been hit with a pause button, and then with a sickening rush, it all seemed to pick up and work and he could feel blinding pain more than anything else. He let out a weak cry of distress as it consumed him, and felt JT pull immediately away.
Never meant to hit ya,' he was muttering, but more to himself. Fuck, Frank, why... what... jesus fella, what are you... I...'
Frank pulled his hands to his face and twisted against the wall, waiting for his head to stop pounding quite so horribly, waiting for the sensory overload of that pause and restart to fuck off. He leaned heavily into the firm concrete of the wall and then pushed off it with one hand, finding his feet properly and leaning a bloodied hand over the glass of the shopfront windows. When he pushed away form that and blinked his eyes properly open, tottering fully onto the pavement... he was alone. He stared up and down the street, but John Terry was gone.
Two stories above in the next building, Jack was thrusting his dick in and out Ben's arse in missionary, bodies tightly interlocked, his face pressing past Ben's shoulder and into the pillow. Ben lay there with his legs spread and high, taking it -- Grealish had already shot inside his hole and was now just pushing rope, thrusting clumsily and helplessly into him, caught in the rhythm of the shag, even though both men had reached their climaxes and fired off their creamy spunk.
Chilwell remained on his back in position, hugging the slowing piston movements of Grealish's body, letting him pump the last of his frustrations, gasping weakly into the pillow by his head. He hugged him, strong arms wrapped about his upper back, enjoying the lingering judders of penetration in his arse, but knowing Jack's cock would soon be too soft. He was basically dry humping him, although not so dry, Ben's cheeks and thighs slick with cum and lube.
That's it,' he muttered soothingly in his ear, that's it, baby...'
When the Villa star had shuddered to a sleepy halt, he turned gently and eased him onto his side, releasing his frantic top from the cuddling thrusts of their fuck. Jack's eyes fluttered open and met his, closely face to face on the pillow. `Was that good?' Grealish asked immediately. He often asked the same needy question after he'd been top, seeming paranoid that he was inept or inadequate. Ben chuckled softly as he always did and answered with a kiss.
`You mug,' he teased.
In theory, they took it in turns. In reality, he knew he was ridiculously well-endowed and that it was much more of a struggle for Grealish to bottom than for him; not that he hadn't fucked him a good few times, but nowhere near as often as he'd given up his own hole for the sweet Brummie chav. He chuckled at this happy imbalance and held onto Jack's body, locked together by limbs, both clammy with sweat and lube and streaks of cum. He realised Jack was staring adoringly into his face and he smiled eagerly back.
Did that help?' he asked. You feel better, sexy boy...?'
The dazed, satisfied look on the 24-year-old's face flickered uncertainly. `Lot riding on tomorrow, Ben. That's all. I'm not being a dick, y'know.'
I know, I never said you were!' he protested. I do understand, y'know, Jack. We're both proper footballers, haha. And Leicester have got a lot resting on tomorrow, yeah?'
`It's not the same...'
I know, I know. Whether or not the Foxes get in the top four is a bit different to your relegation battle, sorry... I just meant, like, you can talk to me about it, Jacko. You know I understand.' He stroked a couple of fingers over his cheek and over the downy pale brown of his goatee. You can tell me what you're thinking, stud.'
Jack let out a long sigh that tickled at his stubble. It ain't just tomorrow's game, Chill. It's what happens after.' He took his time finding the words. It's what happens if we lose or if we win, y'know, if we go down or stay up... it's me and my fuckin' career.' Ben stroked back up his cheek and played with his ear gently as he listened. `If we lose and we go down tomorrow, I know I need to leave them, y'know, I can't settle for the Championship... but I'll feel awful. Villa is everything to me, y'know? And even if we stay up... there's so much pressure... do I stay there and captain my team, or do I...' He trailed off into the empty indecision that had consumed him for months, and Ben stared sympathetically into his eyes.
If I stay at Villa, I can be a hero,' Jack sighed sadly, but a hero on a losing team... if I go somewhere else I can be a winner, but I'll be a traitor, a scumbag, I'll be nobody's captain, and...'
Ben frowned a little and shook his head, and silenced him as he often did, with a kiss. `Shut up, Jack Grealish. You'll figure out your career in your own time this summer, stop driving yourself mad. And just remember that you'll be my fucking hero no matter what. Okay?'
Jack looked back at him, eyes brimming with gratitude, and nodded.
I ain't gonna name drop,' Harry slurred at the Leicester goal machine, leaning forward over their shared table with the loose body language of the inconveniently drunk, but if I did, you'd lose your shit, seriously... you think you're the only one who's fucked a few England stars, do ya...? Heh...' He sneered competitively at the other man, then glanced down at the empty pint glass in his fist. Oh fuck, was that the third, or the fourth...?
Over the table, Vardy smirked infuriatingly at him in that special way only he could. `Getting a bit competitive now, ain't you?' he chuckled.
Harry bristled at this and squared his big shoulders. I'm not sure there's much competition between you and I, Vards,' he boasted in a more controlled voice, then chuckled at his own honest arrogance. You're just a horny rat. I'm... you know... a fucking Captain.' He fingered awkwardly and greedily at the pint class, wishing he could order another. But he'd already drunk too much. The stagger back to the hotel room and his sleeping roommate would be difficult enough; tomorrow was gonna feel terrible! Fuck.
Well, be good to see that fight in you on the pitch,' Jamie teased him, breaking their ban. Harry was too drunk to chastise him, and just laughed back. Be good to see you really fighting for it, mate, since you've been a big pussy since you left the Foxes, hehe...'
Ah fuck off,' Maguire said with pleasant venom, swinging a fist lazily in his direction and failing to make contact with his shoulder. You've been watching the wrong Manchester team if you think that, bell-end...! I've brought the fight back to the Red Devils, you not seen our record lately...? Fuckin' hell.'
Hey,' murmured the other guy thoughtfully, what say we make tomorrow's game a bit more interesting, eh, give you summat to play for...?'
Harry scoffed and rubbed drunkenly at his forehead. `There's plenty to play for, idiot. There's enough on the line for both our teams tomorrow, in case you forgot the pressure we're under... dickhead...!'
`Aye, aye, aye... same old same old... that's not REAL pressure, Slabhead. Not to lads like you and me, not really, lads who've played serious footy on the streets of Sheffield and worked our way up to the big leagues. We ain't spoiled Premiership pussies like the lads we play with, like that ponce Chilwell who's noshed us both of, haha...'
Harry grinned deviously and rapped his knuckles clumsily on the table. The only reason you've fuck him and I haven't is cos you've got a pencil dick, and I've got a-
Forget about him,' Jamie laughed, pushing at his clunky fist and tapping a finger on the side of his own empty glass. He was lowering his voice, signalling for Harry to do the same. Look, let's make tomorrow really fuckin' interesting shall we, big man...? Let's say... the fella on the losing team... has to take the cock of the other up his jacksie... heh... If United win, you get to pop my dirty cherry, you big twat. If I smash in a hat-trick and Leicester win, though, I get to top you, Big Harry...'
Maguire stared blearily at the older footballer, enjoying the mischief of his tone and the twinkling naughtiness of his rough features. He grinned heavily and gripped the table, feeling unsteady in his seat, disproportionately drunk after a long day and very little alcohol since the season resumed. He turned over Jamie's indecent proposal and laughed loudly at it. You're mad,' he concluded. We're gonna win. You couldn't even take my big monster if you had to, Vardy... Fuckin' idiot.'
`You sound confident. You wanna make a bet on that, H?'
`Fuck's sake! This is stupid, Vardy, this is...'
`Put your money where your mouth is. Or should I say, your arsehole.'
Harry gave a booming laugh and swung back a little in his seat, gripping both huge hands against the edge of the tabletop and squinting blearily at the other player. You guys don't stand a chance,' he boasted again, swollen with the assertive confidence of the over-drunk. We're gonna ruin you.' He lifted and stuck out one of his big, long-fingered hands, and saw Jamie reach to grip it. `It's a deal, you dickhead. Tomorrow, United win, and you're gonna be crying for mercy. Trust me.'
Jamie squeezed his hand and grinned wickedly back at him. `We'll see about that, mate. We'll see about that.'
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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