Part 293: Date Night in London
Declan Rice hurried through the car park, almost forgetting to pause and click a button on the smart key that would fully secure the excruciatingly expensive vehicle he was leaving behind in the small West London underground complex. In a clumsy hurry, the 23-year-old footballer negotiated the buttons of a payment machine in the corner, receiving a slim card that he pushed into the inside pocket of a tracksuit jacket, before racing up a couple of stairwells and out onto street level.
A humid London was drenched beneath sudden late afternoon rain, and the tall young footballer paused to brace himself against the May weather, hunching his strong shoulders, pushing his hands into the pockets of his slim-fit tracky bottoms, and screwing up his long face in response to the wet conditions - then he jogged the final burst of this journey, rushing around the block until the signage of the independent cinema was visible in the silvery screen of bad weather.
He'd been delayed getting out of today's light training session by another big meeting with his agent and the club bosses, and the latest salary offers and EIGHT YEAR contract were mind-boggling to the humble Kingston lad, all a bit much for him to take in his stride; this week's `Hammer of the Year' award at a club event had carried him into the latest meeting on a wave of self-assurance, but still Rice couldn't quite believe the way West Ham were fighting tooth-and-nail to keep him, and some of the Premiership and European offers that his agent was whispering in his ear. It was all a bit much - he loved his success, he loved his sport, and he loved his options, but he hated decisions, and his best attempts to keep a level head were repeatedly tested by the hype around him.
He'd tried to exit the meetings earlier, pointing out that he'd made social plans, but this was rather laughed off by the suits on both sides of the negotiation, and the defensive player had been stuck in his tracksuit in a corporate space at the East London training ground. Once freed, Rice had hared to the car park and across the capital city at such speed that he wouldn't be surprised to get a fine or two - though that would certainly dent his pretty spotless and wholesome reputation, he thought.
Declan Rice didn't particularly give a fuck about reputation, because the only person whose perception of him really mattered was just ahead, hovering just out of the rain with his arms folded and a cheeky grin on his face, waiting for him on date night.
`I'm sorry,' Dec huffed quickly, pulling in close to the other athlete and out of the heavy drizzle, wet and warm and unwelcome - he grabbed at one of Mason Mount's arms through his thin raincoat and pulled close to him in a brief, matey hug, holding back the instinct to grab him more fully and push their mouths together in a greedy kiss. Not here. Instead, he just grinned apologetically at the Chelsea man.
Don't be,' Mount insisted quietly, unfolding those arms and giving him a mutual squeeze, just a bromance of footy lads, the shared look in their eyes showing the simmering passion beneath that conventional surface. You already warned me you'd be late. Don't worry - got the tickets sorted and everything.'
`Thanks babe,' Dec said quietly, a little self-consciously, staring at him for a lingering moment and wondering if a little snog would be such a risk - the wet street was almost deserted, and nobody was looking their way, but... He pictured the headlines with a little internal twist, and pushed those public questions aside for another day, another era.
Come on,' Mase said, let's get out of this!'
The cinema foyer felt clammy and warm, but it was still good to be out of the rain. The hurry here and the humid conditions made Declan feel as sweaty as if he'd not showered after team training, but he tried to relax and feel comfortable, always appreciative of these precious times they carved out in their sporting schedules. His hand almost slipped straight into Mason's at his side, but he lifted it and rested it on his shoulder instead, following him towards the food and drink stands. Mason was chatting in a quiet, cheery voice, telling him about his own day's training work at Chelsea's camp, making Declan think a little awkwardly about one of the offers he knew his agent was working with - playing together next season was a very real prospect for the lovebird footballers, and he had mixed feelings about whether that would be best for their relationship.
`This is gonna be so sick,' Mase mumbled happily, pulling two printed tickets from the pocket of his ripped skinny jeans and fumbling them in his hand whilst Dec plucked selectively at the pick and mix options, already well aware of what he and his partner liked and didn't; he scooped a small portion of horrific chocolate raisins in, aware of every little quirk and preference of Mason's tastes by now.
Yup,' he agreed, can't wait.' Dropping his voice a little, `And just great to get a proper evening together, huh?'
The Chelsea ace smiled warmly at him and Dec grinned back, feeling a spot of blush in his cheeks, as if they were just a pair of little teens on a first date. What was it about Mount that brought out that goofy pleasure in him, every time, after all this time? He scrunched the bag of sweets in one fist and then went to the counter to order their soft drinks; it was hard to fully enjoy the look of admiration and recognition from the serving girl, since it came with a hint of risk around their hidden love, but he played it cool. They were besties and the footballing world knew that, he didn't need to make any lies up to cover them having a cinema date and a bit of dinner together.
How was the meeting?' Mason asked him with a slightly unconvincing casualness, when Dec had thrust the diet coke and fanta into his hands, and nodded in the direction of the screens. Dec made a vague, uncertain noise, and then a slightly more serious look flashed across his face. Can we not talk about it?' he grunted. `I just wanna enjoy Dr Strange.'
Mase nodded and nudged their arms together. `Sure, sure, movie time. I almost wore my Spiderman costume, but I thought...'
`That we'd look like total bell-ends?'
`That I'd get too horny.'
`Haha, shut up! Come on. What screen are we? I'm so psyched for this.'
The same rain was bucketing down on a few miles north of that corner, and Ross Barkley had not really planned for it after such a warm afternoon at Chelsea's pre-FA Cup final training in Cobham. He sat in the car for a few minutes too long, questioning whether he was leaving the Merc at the most convenient spot, calculating the dash he'd have to make through the summer rain to the sleek little gallery spot that loomed ahead of him between a hipster coffee joint and what looked like an old sex shop. The 28-year-old Liverpudlian drummed his fingers irritably on the dashboard and chewed his lip, then glanced over one broad shoulder to check he didn't have a waterproof somewhere in the car, or some other layer he could drag on before braving the dash; Ross checked a heavy expensive watch on one wrist, figuring that he could just stick it out in here and see if the weather improved, but he hated to be late.
With a resigned sigh still laced with date night excitement, Barkley unlocked his door and swaggered cautiously out of the vehicle, temporarily slow while he pushed shut the door and made sure it was properly locked, then did that instinctive stare around him to make sure there were no paparazzi waiting around to catch him out and print more nasty stories about a Chelsea has-been languishing in the shadows - they seemed to have plenty of appetite for it.
His slow moment was quickly replaced by a fast jog-walk up the narrow street, realising just how quickly he was going to get soaking wet - he clutched his car keys in one fist and propelled himself down the road, fixing his rugged face into a set frown of acceptance and beginning to colour in his high cheekbones. Soon he was at the door to the Soho gallery that had been arranged as their meeting place, but he knew he was already sopping wet - for a second, Ross caught a look at a glossy haze of reflection in the big door: the tight white shirt, short-sleeved and muscle-hugging, was rendered even tighter and almost translucent by the rain, and pale denim skinny jeans had gone a darker shade of blue. He could feel a slight squelch to his summer shoes as he stepped forward - the glass door was being pulled inward and a black-clad gallery assistant was greeting him with a glassy expression that the working-class Scouser could quickly interpret as dismissive judgement, even if it might just be the half-smile of a bored employee who'd been doing the same menial task all day long.
He was inside, and immediately self-conscious - a long bright space stretched ahead in the ground floor of the Soho townhouse, sparse artwork on either side, and stylish couples positioned curiously at angles to it. It seemed to paranoid Ross that their tilted gestures and low murmurs were immediately directed at him, the muscle-bound yob strutting into their world, and he tensed up uncomfortably, wondering if his clothes really looked so immediately sodden and ridiculous as it seemed in that brief reflection.
Barkley took a few long strides in through the gallery floor, inordinately worried by the flickering looks and quiet half-interest of the art wankers he passed, and then fixing his eyes very quickly on the only lone figure in the art show - Dier was turning this way, and a soft smile lit his stubbled mouth as their eyes met and Barkley's arrival was noticed. He hurried himself towards the other Premiership bloke and grunted out a quiet `Hey' once he was close to the Hotspur.
Eric stood calmly in front of him, but his narrowed blue eyes bulged a little and he immediately looked Ross up and down, confirming his horrified sense of his outfit's wet clinginess. `Oh, it's raining?' It was said with a joking lilt and grin, but Ross felt his cheeks burn and he suddenly wanted to be anywhere but in this low-ceilinged arty space with all these poser couples and his coolly relaxed lover - Eric was just grinning idly at him in dry comfort, a dark beanie pulled low over his cropped hair and a plain white t-shirt draped loosely over his muscular torso, a thin summer coat over one arm.
Yeah,' Barkley answered, the word coming out as another grunt, just a bit.' He frowned crossly and bristled under the thin wet fabric of the shirt - a glance downward confirmed the visibility of his nipples through the white, and he wilted self-consciously. He'd spent ages getting dressed in the flat, stressing about what might look right for the trendy Soho date they had planned, but wouldn't draw too much attention his way - when had he started to overthink things quite so much?!
Eric was about to say more, but they were interrupted by a smiling gallery assistant with a tray of champagne flutes - the thirty-something woman gave Ross the briefest of looks before making some friendly comments to `Mr Dier', who took the two glasses for them, and answered her lightly - some comments about a piece he'd purchased, or whatever, and how none of this new show were what he was looking for next. The exchange lasted less than a minute, but Ross felt his face burn and he felt like some huge ugly painting himself, unwanted at the show and wholly inappropriate to fit into the apparent art collector's roster, just like he didn't fit into Tuchel's Chelsea visions.
He took the fizz and paused briefly before downing almost the entire flute in one glug, unnoticed at first by Dier, who was drifting forward a bit to get a closer look at the nearest - what would you call it, was it even a painting? Some kinda collage? Ross, lingering at the other player's side, stared critically at it and wondered if it was actually upside down.
Eric was saying something about it, and he almost sounded like he thought he was still talking to the gallery assistant who had vanished, murmuring in a low voice, and saying a few arty-sounding words that Barkley hadn't even heard before - he'd only been in the gallery for a few minutes now, but the pressure in his head was too much. He downed the final third of his glass and then turned hurriedly away from his boyfriend, marching back exactly the way he'd come. He felt even more self-conscious, aware of his loud steps and odd behaviour, but suddenly unable to cope with the soft lighting and gaping white walls, the vague whisperings that were nothing to do with him and yet somehow...
He tried to put his glass down on the tray that the woman was carrying as he passed her, but too heavily, too quickly, and he knocked other full ones. A slow-mo tumble of champagne and glass followed him as he sped on towards the door - the same glassy-eyed assistant was already holding the door open for him, staring blankly his way as he raced back into the street, completely overwhelmed.
Mason loved his Marvel movies, and this one was particularly flashy and stimulating, and yet the Multiverse of Madness didn't quite have all of his attention. Well, this fucking stud was sitting next to him, so it was neither his or the director's fault, was it?
The little independent cinema they came to had small screens and very comfortable seating, so he was nestled quite happily into his recliner with Dec to his left, and the scattering of other customers not too close by them. Enough privacy in the muffled dark to hold hands for moments at a time, anyway, and to just enjoy the sense of intimacy and comfort that had existed between them almost before they even became more than friends.
But Mase's eyes flicked constantly from the bright Hollywood action of the screen to look at Dec instead - earlier on, as they got comfortable and settled into the movie, Dec had returned those looks, a lot of soft loving grins between them as they resisted the risky urge to have a snog, but now the other player was totally fixated on the film, an adorably serious frown settling on his bony features and his eyes tracking the characters on-screen. Mason could hardly feel jealous of a film, and yet he did long for Declan's attention, knowing there was something childish or even ADHD in his upbeat personality - or at least, in his greedy twink appetite. Just sitting next to the other football player was enough to make his dick and balls stir in his underpants and skinny jeans, and he was already thinking about what they would get up to when they were back at the flat together tonight.
Some naughty urge that should have stayed below the surface was playing on Mount's mind, sucking noisily on his fanta, and reaching across to dig his fingers into the pick-and-mix back on his boyfriend's lap. He played his fingers in amongst the remains of their diet-breaking sweets for a few moments, not quite seizing anything to snack on, just wondering idly if his touch was obvious against Dec's leg as he did so - there was no significant reaction to confirm this, so either Dec couldn't feel the tickling gesture, or was just being very well-behaved and staying focused on the movie. Mase, feeling the hint of unspoke challenge in the situation, withdrew his hand from the paper bag and popped a sour chew into his mouth, but then slid his hand back across to the other seat, down beside the bag, and rested it on Declan's upper thigh instead. For a moment, Rice glanced this way and smiled, but then turned his eyes back to the screen - and so Mount just smirked privately and reached his hand further over, finding its way onto the crotch of the other lad's pants.
Mason, grinning wickedly, turned his face away from his lover and he pretended to watch the film, no longer following its confusing plot, and just leaving his fingers naughtily upon the bulge of Dec's tracky bottoms. He found the outline of a chunky cock in there and rubbed it quietly, his wrist rustling slightly where it touched the bag of sweets - he felt or sensed Dec tense up a little at this, knew that the West Ham hunk was probably giving him a censorious look for being so dangerous, but he went on anyway, until Rice was moving the paper bag out of the way to stop the noise, and resting a nervous hand on his arm.
The 23-year-old Pompey lad smirked, his eyes falsely fixed ahead on the screen, and he gently squeezed and massaged the prize cock through the nylon, shifting a little to the left in his seat, wanting to be even closer to his partner, despite the chunky arm rests that divided their lithe bodies. He kept a grip on the cock, feeling it swell hot and plump against his hand, rubbing back and forward and listening for the awkward shift in Declan's breathing.
Then, that same naughty grin breaking his handsome face, the young midfielder turned to look at the lad next to him, and found Rice's attention anywhere but the film, fixed now on him, just staring intensely across the short distance in their dark corner of the screen. He was biting his lip, as if to stop himself from moaning, and he looked both worried and excited; Mason stared back, really squeezing on the increasingly firm girth of his piece, and then delicately running his tongue against his lips, ostensibly picking up flecks of sour sugar, but really teasing and exciting the other young man.
Mason winked, aware of his own face lit up with the same garish screen colours as he could see glowing on Declan's. One last swipe of tongue across his bottom lip, then relaxing his grip down there in the hot crotch of his man. With his other hand, he brought his soft drink cup up to his face and sucked on the paper straw, pursing his lips provocatively and holding Declan's gaze. Then he turned back more comfortably in his seat, patting Dec on the thigh and turning his eyes back to the screen, innocently pretending to be fully immersed in the Marvel blockbuster after all. A beat passed: blares of music and action noise from the speakers, another lurid bit of CGI on the screen. Then Declan's hand was squeezed on top of his on the arm rest and he could feel the West Ham's lead breath on his cheek and neck as the words were whispered in his ear: `Wait one minute then meet me in the loos.'
`Hey, hey, hey...'
It was just drizzling now, the air warm and sticky in the early evening, but he still thrust the thin macintosh at the other main with some force, slapping his other hand to his back and feeling the thick muscles beneath the wet linen before helping him into the waterproof in a pushy, uncompromising way, rubbing and patting the centre of his back and leaning in close to him as he spoke - `Just relax, take a deep breath, okay?'
Eric had hurried out of the gallery as soon as he'd realised he was standing muttering to himself like a pretentious twat - he'd paused awkwardly beside the disaster zone of spilled drinks and broken glass, and then sidled over to the gallery manager to hiss a terse apology - `I'll make a donation, call me tomorrow' - then exited abruptly onto the Soho pavement, staring up and down and trying to spot that beautiful pillock.
He'd found Ross off the street, in a thin alleyway a few buildings away, connecting this to a small square, and now he was forcing the other 6ft2 brute of muscle into his own waterproof coat, pulling it against his shoulders and squaring up to him face on in the narrow space, keeping his voice soft and reassuring. `What's got into your head, eh, big man?' the Tottenham player demanded with some energy, but making sure he didn't sound too confrontational or disappointed.
Barkley stared miserably at him, and it actually looked like the threat of tears in his deep hazel eyes - S-s-sorry,' the Scouser grunted, and the hint of stamer jolted Dier with concern, grabbing at the lapels of the designer waterproof and pulling even closer to the other man. Barkley was mumbling something at him about showing you up' and `feeling like a tit', but he just ignored these answers and grabbed him in a tight solid hug, enclosing him in his own bulky arms, ignoring the wetness on his chest and neck, just holding him still and shushing him.
He'd become quickly aware of Barkley's social anxiety when they begun to hang out more intimately, though he'd never known the other footballer term it in that way, or particularly want to discuss it - it was just something that Dier was sensitively watchful and protective of, and though he was concerned, he knew this panic would quickly be over. He silently blamed himself - he'd just really wanted someone to join him at the little gallery launch, had liked the idea of a boyfriend on his arm as he returned there, even if he wouldn't feel able to introduce Ross in that way or properly touch him in the show. It had been a silly little fantasy in his head, strutting about Soho feeling sophisticated, with this stud holding his hand like he saw openly gay guys do in this area. He should have known Ross would hate it... although he would have struggled to anticipate such a strong response.
When he thought he could feel a lightening in the thunder of the other man's heartbeat, he loosened the hug, shushing him again as he mumbled, and just stroked the back of his head, running his fingers over short damp hair and warm skin, then taking one cautious glance to the left and right before planting a reassuring kiss on the lips, snogging Ross into silence and letting the kiss linger between them.
`Tough day?' he asked gently.
Ross paused before answering. `Just normal. So, uh, yeah.'
Eric nodded, kissing him briefly again. He considered some sporting platitude for the other footballer, then stayed quiet - he'd been there himself, a couple of times before, the droughts in performance and minutes, the sensation of being side-lined and overlooked in your squad, and he knew how difficult it was to keep your head high in those circumstances. And this was quite a long dry spell for the other former England player, wasn't it?
I'm sorry,' he said. Ross quickly made to counter this with mumbled apologies of his own, but Dier talked gently over him - I obviously didn't make you feel welcome in there, or I chose badly, I dunno - but just forget it. Everything's fine.' He found and squeezed one of his hands, their large palms and thick fingers latching together. `No worries, no worries.' He smiled a bit more positively, tilting on his ankles and bringing their faces teasingly close for another kiss, though it was silly to do it here, in this little connecting jut - Soho was buzzing even on a damp weekday like this.
`I felt stupid,' was all Barkley sighed now as summary to his attempted explanations, and Dier just shook his head and shushed him some more. He threw caution to the wind and kissed him again, more deeply, knowing it was the best way to soothe and calm the anxious hunk in his arms, though it had an opposite effect on himself - it made his heart race and goosebumps prickle his skin, and his fat cock twitch and strain inside his white briefs and loose chinos. The swelling of sexual desire felt inappropriate against the intimacy of the moment and his concern for Barkley's mental health, but he couldn't help himself - he'd almost sprung a boner just looking at the tight see-through shirt and the torso beneath it as the wet beefcake joined him in the gallery. THAT'S why he'd said so little and had to look away, not embarrassment, just outright lust.
Ross gave a nervous half-laugh, and Eric realised it was because he could feel his bulge against his own, the waking up thickness. The Scouser gave it a slight rub, a hangdog expression of self-loathing still clouding his good looks. `Oh yeh?' he chuckled through his cloud of gloom.
Eric sighed for a moment, feeling that surprisingly tender touch on his crotch, holding Ross by the thick shoulders and upper arms, and wanting to let loose with him - but they were in this tiny dark alley and it was bright daylight at either end as the rain cleared up. With a great show of will, he pulled back with his hips, echoing Barkley's laugh. Don't get me excited,' he huffed reluctantly. I promise you you're gonna like this restaurant a lot more than the gallery, okay? Come on - it's early but I'm sure they'll still take us in. They want us to put them in an add for the app.' He pulled away, just creating enough distance between their bodies to try and calm and retreat his own fierce desires, but he squeezed his boyfriend by the hand again and gave him a measured look, checking for a calmer and more comfortable look to him. He stopped himself, and dropped his voice to a sensitive whisper. `We can just go back to yours if you'd rather?'
Barkley cleared his throat. `No, no, I've been enough of a disappointment already.'
Dier's heart ached at that comment and he didn't quite know what to say - perhaps his disappointment did show on his face and body now, betraying his desire to comfort and reassure. He was about to insist on a change of plan, but Ross pulled him by the hand and adopted a brittle bravado in his voice - `Right, which way to this pretentious hipster place then, ey?'
Declan lurched forward as soon as the door to the men's toilets reopened, having stood awkwardly by the mirrors for a painfully long two minutes after entering himself - in a flash, he imagined the awkwardness if the wrong guy came in first, and he was lunging clumsily into them in the doorway, but no- it was Mase, and he grabbed at his forearms immediately to pull him in and plant a hungry kiss on his lips, and then retreat immediately, walking backwards into the first of two cubicles. He reached over Mason's shoulder and shoved the door shut behind them, trapping them in the tight space and kissing his boyfriend again, stooping to meet the slightly shorter guy.
`You tease,' he breathed in a soft accusation, riled and excited by the other lad's touch - he'd had to walk out of the cinema screen and down the corridor very carefully, a solid erection pressing against his briefs and pants, and throbbing now as it rubbed against Mason's own crotch, their bodies locking together in a hug as they kissed and sniggered and breathed against each other's short scruffy goatees.
`Can't help myself, can I?' wheezed the Chelsea lad playfully.
`And you think I can? I wanted to fuck you in that rain out there.'
`You shoulda. Right on the kerb.'
`Mmmm...'
`Here, let me past...'
Their bodies wriggled against each other in the narrow space, and then Mase was at the rear, crouching down into a sitting position on the closed toilet lid, with Dec stood over him - he pushed his hands to either side of him on the thin cubicle walls and felt his cock touched and stroked through the layers again, this time by Mason's mouth rather than his hand. Fingers reached under his clingy t-shirt, sliding up his pale strong torso, while lips played with the tip of his cock through shiny dark blue nylon. `God,' the 23-year-old whispered, keeping his voice as low and inaudible as he could.
You are,' Mason agreed cheekily, looking up at him with devoted eyes and naughty smile, and Dec couldn't help but giggle stupidly back, then flex one arm, exaggerating his bicep and letting Mase stroke his six-pack - yep, sex god me,' he chuckled quietly, then gasped as his tracky bottoms and the sports brief below were peeled hurriedly down and his cock was freed to play against that tongue and those lips - ohhhh, yes.
He closed his eyes and steadied himself as his cock was taken deep into Mason's mouth, this boy who knew EXACTLY how to push his every button, could probably make him cum in a minute if he wanted to, but preferred to tease and tantalise him... Dec controlled his gasps and moans as best he could, and when he struggled he bit on his knuckles and muffled the noise that way, feeling his shaft and balls and head teased and set on fire by Mason's skilled sluttish mouth.
He took more control, pushing that hand downwards and running his fingertips through the short growth of Mason's brown hair, gently encouraging him to take more of his big meat, gobbling it down to the base, his sensitive tip hitting the back of the midfielder's throat and making him gag noisily - too noisily, really, for this risky setting.
A little alarmed, Dec let his hand slide more limply to the side of Mason's head, stroking the shorter fade there, tracing the outline of his delicate ears, then rubbing his strong neck; he leaned his body heavily to one side against the thin wall, which creaked, and he let out a nervous giggle. `What about the film?' he asked, dopily, and Mason paused, wet lips and bright eyes, and stared at him in what briefly looked like annoyance - but then they were both laughing at his stupid question and Mase was up at his height, arms about his waist, and Dec was stooping once more to snog his plump lips. He held his boy tightly, squeezing their bodies together, letting the wet tip of his erection rub damply against the hip of his boyfriend's jeans, feeling the mutual hardness tight-packed in there.
I love you,' he said gruffly, I really fucking love you.'
`You actually wanna finish the movie?' the other 23-year-old asked in a light giggle.
I wouldn't have a clue what was going on,' Dec admitted in a huff of breath, kissing Mason heavily on the neck and cheek, and dragging his hands across his t-shirt, wanting it to be just his toned skin. Let's get out of here.'
`What about the Nandos?' teased his lover, grabbing his cock gently.
`Nah, don't be distracting me with my lemon and herb,' Rice chuckled back, moaning as his foreskin was teased back and forth.
And your macho peas!' quipped Mason, fondling his balls and kissing him on the throat. Rice hugged the shorter player to him, feeling his increasingly thick muscular form between his long arms, wanting to fuck him here but knowing it was taking the risk too far. I'll order the Deliveroo on the drive back to mine,' Mase whispered, between licking his pouting lips, `and you're gonna fuck me senseless, okay?' Dec nodded, breathless and eager. Okay.
The food was good, he supposed - in a small-portions-on-big-plates and everybody-seems-to-be-photographing-it-rather-than-eating it kinda way. And he was drying out slightly. But he still felt somehow ridiculous - the both of them 6ft2 muscular lads hunched on low stools at their corner table towards the rear of the South American place, and the white shirt feeling totally shrunken by the rain, every button under pressure on his muscular front, and the sleeves chafing against his biceps where they cut in. But he forced a smile and poked at one of the shared dishes unfinished between them, watching Eric's hesitant smile as he chattered about a `sister restaurant' in East that he and his brothers always went to, and how long he'd been meaning to try this place.
Ross was being annoying quiet, he knew, but what had happened at the gallery just made him feel terrible. He didn't really understand his own whirlwind moods at times, and he wanted to just feel purely grateful that, impossibly, Eric seemed to - but he had a nagging sense that he'd ruined their evening, and not for the first time. And all he could think about was whether his name would feature anywhere on the Chelsea line-up on Saturday, when they would face Liverpool for the Cup. He supposed so many of his teammate friends didn't have to worry like that once they left today's training, just casually assuming that they would feature. Ross could go weeks without being listed a substitute, and even longer without getting a run on the pitch.
But it was selfish to let that career anxiety spoil moments like these, so he tried to smile and nod along, though he'd kinda lost Eric's point, and was no longer sure which restaurant the other guy was even talking about.
With a hint of his earlier paranoia, the hunched over midfielder glanced about the noisy restaurant, oddly busy for an early sitting (they'd skipped a queue on arrival, and the chefs had come out to fuss over Dier several times), but assured himself that nobody was looking their way - nobody was wondering why two Premiership players were out eating together, or thinking that one of them was way too cultured and cool to be seen with some Everton lout who should never have moved to London.
`And for dessert, they even serve pan-fried rat with a coulis of sewage and bin juice.'
Ross jerked his head back to face his dinner partner, blinking twice and staring levelly at Eric's light smile and fluffy short hair from the removed beanie hat. `Oh,' he said vaguely and disinterestedly, then turned the words he'd heard over again and frowned awkwardly, his mouth hanging open.
`I knew you weren't listening,' teased Dier quietly.
`Oh, ha, uh...'
`You sure you're feeling okay?'
He nodded vigorously, and speared some shellfish with his fork as if it proved the point. `All gravy.'
`Do you want to look at desserts...?'
`Er. Not the one you described.'
`No, sure. Haha. I think they do nice churros.'
`What's that again?'
`Doughnut thingies.'
`Right.'
`I was gonna suggest a couple of cocktail bars.'
`Oh?'
`Yeah, there's some great favourites of mine in the next street, and...'
`Yeh, er...'
`Or you could just drive us back to yours and I could rip that shirt off you?'
Ross blinked again, staring silently for a few moments at the other guy, then coyly smiling a little. `That does sound better than dessert, not gonna lie.'
`Yup. That's what I was thinking. I'll just get the bill...'
No,' Ross insisted quietly, thinking that the whole evening was limited and curtailed by his own bad behaviour, let me.' And he dragged a wallet from the damp denim of his skinny jeans, slapping a credit card forcefully against the table and staring Eric down assertively - the other footballer just grinned and shrugged, and rubbed ankles with him under the table. Ross stared hungrily at him as he did, still chewing his last mouthful of the meal, and promised himself that he would relax and get used to this - he needed to stop panicking and questioning things, seeing the warmth and eagerness in Eric's face.
Back at the flat, there had been a giggling stalemate of foreplay: the Nandos delivery was on its way and neither hot-blooded young footballer wanted their fucking to be interrupted by going to the door to collect it. So they opened bottles of cold beer and lounged about the living space of Mason's apartment - his too small apartment, which the lads were already talking about replacing with a bigger joint that they might co-own - and put on a current favourite comedy to replace the abandoned Marvel movie. But hands and lips wandered quickly - if the two 23-year-old footy studs weren't snogging distractedly, then Mason was down on his knees, licking Rice's cock like a lollipop, or being pushed lengthways on the long couch and having Declan prise open his tight jeans to nuzzle his bulge through his boxer briefs.
When the food arrived, Mount greeted and tipped the delivery bloke, having carefully rearranged his hard-on to be less obvious, and trying to believe that the sheen of excited sweat on his face and arms was not totally visible. But then he dumped the brown paper bags in the kitchen area, picked up and finished his beer, and walked to the edge of the living room space, staring at where Declan was still sprawled on the couch with his cock poking over the waistband of his tracky bottoms.
`Eat first, fuck later, or...?' he asked quietly, smirking knowingly across at the tall muscular form of his West Ham lover.
What am I eating?' Rice almost purred, and Mason shivered with eagerness - he still had slight trouble convincing Dec of the joys of rimming, but he picked up on the joke and thought that the other lad was feeling horny enough to give it another go. He strode over and hovered near the sofa. Come on stud,' he laughed, reaching out a hand and helping the horny bugger up from the couch - Dec was grabbing him immediately and kissing him with a delightful roughness, and he reciprocated by grabbing at his dick and nipping his lip. Whoa - now Rice was hoisting him into his arms and all he could do was throw his strong footballer legs about the other man's waist to hold on as he was carried from the lounge and rapidly through the two doorways into his master bedroom.
The bed squeaked and buckled as his body was thrown against it and he laughed, always thrilled when the gentle shyness faded away and Rice became more animalistic like this - usually on a match night when the Hammers had won, to be fair, returning to the flat like a beast uncaged! The London club's European exploits of late had made Dec more frisky and powerful than ever, though he'd been a little more reserved and melancholy since that tournament dream was punctured - Mason supposed that all the career talk at West Ham had got his boy riled up again now though, or just his own naughty provocations in the dark of the cinema. So much for date night, but they were skipping to the best bit.
He wrangled his t-shirt off whilst Dec pulled roughly at his jeans, dragging the skinny denim down his muscular legs, leaving him in just tenting trunks of black cotton, which he reached for but Dec removed for him, yanking them away and exposing his cock and balls and neatly shaven pubes - but ignoring them to hoist up his thighs and slide a finger immediately against his crack. All yours,' Mason gasped sluttishly, and it was true, he'd been so loyal this year, had held his insatiable lusts in check and saved his tight ring for this guy alone - make me your pussy, Dec,' he tried in a hissing slur, never sure what dirty talk did or didn't work for Rice, who swung from gentlemanly prude to rabid fuck machine.
`You want me to eat your arse?' the defensive player barked at him - attempted dirty talk from him too, but also that tremor of uncertainty, because he'd really protested when Mase first suggested this to him, and had seemed unsure of it in the past.
So bad,' Mason begged, taking the cue. He spread and lifted his legs more, hooking his hands under his own thighs. Make me wet, babe. Get me ready. Fuck me with that tongue.' He saw the wild light in Rice's eyes at all this begging and encouragement, and the tall stud was stripping off his top and dropping to his front on the bed. Mase watched his face descend between his legs, pausing to kiss and lick at his tight round bollocks before going lower - he loved the inquisitive flicker of Rice's nervous tongue on his gooch, loved the tight pawing of his peachy buttocks as he was pushed further back into the bed. And more than anything he loved the sound and sensation of Rice spitting against his arse-crack then fingering at his entrance before pushing his face in and jabbing it with his tongue - the tickle of Rice's scruffy beard against the insides of his cheeks made his skin feel electric and he had to stop himself from wanking desperately at his cock and cumming too soon.
Is that okay?' Declan asked, after a minute or two, and the pause was agonising - Amazing!' Mount blared at him. Don't stop!' He reached his hand in to yank at the attractive long wave of hair on top of Dec's head, pushing it down, loving the feel of his licking tongue, the digging of his fingers and thumbs as his cheeks were spread more. Ohhhh, yes...' He wailed out his pleasure, having long given up on the thoughts of his neighbours up here in the Chelsea apartment block.
And yet, amazing was the rimming was, it wasn't something that could go on for long - he knew how desperate Rice would be to fuck him and he was equally desperate to feel his boyfriend inside. So he cut off his own rich enjoyment and pushed away at Declan's brow and beautiful hair, a new begging in his panting voice: `I need you in me, babe, I need you to make me your cunt.'
And true to this animalistic form, Rice was immediately manhandling him. The West Ham skipper could look gangly to some, but he was loaded with strength, and though not much bigger than Mason, he could really throw him around - he was soon flipped and tossed and positioned, his face squashed down into the bedding and his arse in the air, with Declan over him and kissing his neck and grabbing his biceps. He felt the tip of that precious cock in against his wet hole and he pushed back as best he could, always ready for it, always wanting it in him. His cries of pleasure were muffled, his face squashed down into the bedding and held there by one of Dec's huge hands - wow, rough!
He relished it, glad to be made a plaything for Rice's lust, all muffled squeals and heavy pants, sweat dribbling across his own taut muscles as the bigger lad slammed into him from above, stretching him out and thrusting with such rhythmic speed that he thought it would all be over far too quickly. Perhaps Dec thought the same thing, because he slowed, syncopated bursts of deep hardness, and sloppy wet kisses where he twisted Mason's face to meet his. Mase told him he loved him with his eyes and his mouth and his open body, panting wordlessly and wanting it to go on forever.
Eric took it slow, even though his cock and balls wanted him to race into every bit of it. He had insisted on buying wine before they left Soho, and they were drinking it in huge glasses in the bedroom of Barkley's apartment, getting gradually drunker as items of clothing were sporadically shed in between bouts of passionate tonguing. Right now, he had shirt top off but his chinos still on, sagging a little below his Armani waistband, and a few dark droplets of spilt wine caught his grey-brown chest hair.
Ross was against him, less clothed - it had been a matter of practicality for his wet shirt and jeans to be abandoned, and even his bulging black trunks were a little damp when Eric rubbed and grabbed at their contents while they snogged. But every time Barkley tried to speed things up, jittery and eager to please, Eric pushed him back and kissed him calmly, holding back, keeping things slow and tender, trying to show him that everything was okay and he didn't have to perform' to make up for embarrassing' him out there in the stupid gallery.
Even now, Ross pushing a hand into the front of his pants and cupping his hard-on through his briefs, he resisted, pulling away and leaning off the bed to fetch the bottle and top up their glasses. But Barkley's hand was insistent and his touch did special things to Dier every time, and he laughed as his cock was loosened out of the side of the briefs, wanked against his thigh inside the chinos. `Slow down,' he urged in a drunken giggle, sipping red wine and then sloppily kissing at Ross and his clumsy head-butting motions.
No,' growled the Chelsea guy. Come on. I need you.'
`We've got all night,' he laughed back unconvincingly, sipping more merlot.
Then we'll fuck five times,' grunted Ross dismissively. Let me have it.'
And he pushed downwards eagerly, refusing a kiss on the lips and stooping to lick and peck at Eric's chet instead. He gave up deferring the gratification and relaxed back, almost spilling his entire chalice of rouge, but pushing it onto the bedside table as he sprawled into the pillows - Ross was kissing down his abdomen and to the waist, wrestling at the button fly of the chinos, trying again to hurry, his big body hunched there, all glistening back muscle from this angle. Dier groaned and relaxed into the insistent blowjob that transpired, his chinos yanked down and his briefs left on, his cock jutting out sideways and sucked ferociously by wine-stained lips, mmm.
Eric let out long sighs of enjoyment, arching his back away from the bedding, pushing his bare shoulders back, letting his cock be wanked and slurped, the briefs finally twanged over it and away so that Ross could kiss and nuzzle his loaded balls too. Mmm... He groaned out his pet names and encouragement, his gratitude and love, and he felt roving hands caress his hips and his six-pack and up to his pecs to tweak his nipples.
All of that slow tender build-up was disappearing, and soon this oral action wouldn't be enough for him. The angle of Barkley's body meant that he was staring up at his arse, jutting upwards where he stretched back to lean in and suck him off. Two big dark peaches in the black cotton of the trunks, a perfect silhouette of that booty. Eric sat up with a crunch of abs, stroking Ross on the back of the head but reaching past, tickling up his spine to grab and squeeze his arse through the fabric, fingering the crack a little through the underpants, desperate to get to it.
Barkley didn't need telling twice, slurping off his dick and rolling loosely aside, clearly as rapidly wine-drunk and cock-stoned as he was himself. He threw himself on top of him and kissed his damp red lips, their thick strong bodies tumbling about on the bed while he reached down and peeled those trunks away so he could close a hand about one massive cheek of the big Barkley butt. He gripped it strongly and slid fingers into the furrow between them, teasing then fingering him as they rolled and kissed and ground their hard bodies together, warm and clammy and fierce.
Impatience on both men's part pushed away this rolling fun, and soon Barkley was falling into that surprisingly submissive position that he seemed to love, hands and knees and arse pushed back ready, with Eric up on his knees behind him, spitting into his palm and against the thick rod of his prick. But he couldn't just go straight for it, because that strong-muscled arse was just way too tight - he had to really dig his finger in, going quickly from one to two, stretching and opening the hole that he'd fantasised about for months before they finally consummated their love in a posh hotel suite last year.
Doggy style in front of him, Ross whimpered and gasped for him as always, and Eric fingered him in smooth controlled jabs, opening him up whilst his cock leaked pre-cum against the buttock it slapped. He practically drooled to look at it, the masterpiece of glutes and downy hair, and the glorious man it belonged to. Ugh, fucking hell - he needed to see all of him, not just this!
Strong arms cradled Ross by the torso and flipped him off hands and knees and onto his back instead, and he lifted and pushed each of those massive legs, spreading their powerful muscles and looming over his boyfriend - this was better, their eyes locking and his view of Ross's nervous excitement making it all so much sweeter. Now he angled his cock down there and teased it against the twitching entrance, lowering his body against him and finding his way, going slowly and carefully as he always had to, but not even blinking as they stared hungrily at one another.
Rice shifted his lover into missionary when he was ready to cum, wanting to look at him properly as he did, feeling those talented Chelsea legs and feet close about his back, sliding into him with speed and force, pinning him down and holding him, their eyes locked together, their mouths almost but not quite kissing. He pounded his bottom, dripping sweat onto him from his pecs, his chin, his forehead. I'm gonna cum,' he said hoarsely, without losing pace in his thrusts. I'm gonna cum in you.'
Do it,' Mase hissed. Breed me.'
Outside of these moments, such slang gave him the ick, but right now, it was all he wanted to hear. He loved how Mason could swing from such playful innocence to this absolute slut - it was hard to remember how painful the jealousy had been at other times, thinking about the other guys who'd taken his boyfriend in this way, but now it almost sweetened the pleasure. He thought of the likes of Lampard or Barkley, even Chilwell, and he didn't feel threatened in the way he once had - it wasn't that Rice had fully lost his old insecurities, but time had built confidence in what the two of them shared, and he knew Mount was HIS. And vice versa.
Cum for me,' Mase begged quietly, wanking his own dick and letting its head slap against Declan's tummy. Let's cum together...'
Yes,' he panted heavily. Yes, cum baby, cum... shoot it on me... mmm...'
`Fill me up!'
`I'm gonna, I'm gonna...'
`Fuckkkk, I'm cumming-'
`Me too, me too!'
Almost completely in sync, they climaxed - Declan feeling the hot wet splash against his abdomen, even as his own bollocks seized and throbbed and he unloaded deep inside the tight muscular arse. He heaved forward, clinging to Mase more tightly, squashing him down against the bed, resting his face down onto the sweaty sheets over his shoulder, letting out wild gasps of release. FUCK,' he yowled, fuckkkkk.'
Mason's breaths were quick and excited and tinged with naughty laughter. His hands were on Dec's back, scratching short nails over clammy muscle, then reaching down to slap a little at one of his arse cheeks. Declan's cock throbbed inside him still, and he held it there, their bodies interlocking, their chests heaving together. Then, exhausted, he lifted and shifted his head, and found Mason's mouth to kiss, letting their tongues connect. You're amazing,' he whispered. You're incredible.'
And now,' chuckled Mason's voice, thin with physical satisfaction, lemon and herb chicken pitta, babe...?'
Ross was close to cumming, and he pumped both fists about his swollen cock. After a long solid fucking from Eric, he had shifted off his back, taking some control, and he was now sitting on that precious dick instead, riding Eric surfboard, and seconds away from spilling his jizz all across his lightly fluffed six-pack and pecs. Eric was holding the sides of his thighs, gasping without words and just staring intensely at him - hopefully close too, though Ross couldn't hold on much longer and wait for him, the big tool inside him felt too good as he bounced on it. He always struggled a little at first, needing to be guided and encouraged by Dier's natural confidence and calm, but once he was into it, he gained this greedy assertiveness, what his boyfriend would jokingly call a `total power bottom' - and he loved this position too, riding him like some sexual cowboy, stared up at and enjoyed, and able to finish himself off while controlling the pace and force that ploughed his big bottom.
Inevitably, he let go, jetting streaks of glossy white over Eric's torso, heaving out loud sighs of satisfaction, his legs aching where they spread. The last bursts of his seed glittered on his fingers and oozed out against Eric's lower tummy in a mess. `Oh god yessss...'
As he began to relax, the other 28-year-old took over: thrusting upwards into him on his own race fo the finish line, while Ross hovered there, legs spread further to each side, feeling Eric's fingers dig into his muscle, watching the muscle tension and redfaced eagerness - and then seeing and hearing his orgasm, feeling it inside him, knowing how much his arse could pleasure and dominate his beautiful man.
Yes,' he groaned weakly, OH YES....'
`FUCK,' Dier roared, pummeling him from below, emptying his bollocks.
Ross threw back his head and groaned wildly, riding the wave of his own orgasm still, feeling each bash of his prostate and never wanting it to stop, just wanting to take Eric's force and power for as long as he could, though both men would soon roll apart and collapse in exhaustion, their bodies already shiny with the sweat of their passion.
They ate naked in the living room, Disney+ loaded up on the massive telly and an older favoured Marvel film playing with enjoyable familiarity. Declan was sprawled behind him and Mason lay against his hot body, a low table close by with plates of their peri-peri chicken and selected sides, and fresh beers barely touched. Mason enjoyed the buzz of the Avengers movie, volume lowered, and the sticky spice of his food, fingers dirty with it and crumbs on bare muscular chests. But more than that, he enjoyed the feel of Declan against him, his absolute rock, and the drape of one arm loosely over his shoulder and pec to hold him, whilst the man's other hand plucked at chips dipped in perinaise.
`You never told me how the meeting went,' Mount prodded quietly in a lull in the film's action sequences.
Rice just made a vague, non-committal noise, and reached for more chicken. Mason turned gently, and snatched the spicy wing from him, giving him a teasing smile then proceeding to feed it to him, letting his own sticky flavoured fingers become part of the snack. Then he licked the bone clean himself and tossed it to the table, and rested his fingers against Dec's jawline. `You know it'll be okay, whatever you choose,' he said in a sincere murmur, uncharacteristic for his playful personality.
`Big choices,' Dec grunted, a little evasively, his eyes flicking from the TV and back to him.
But you're a big boy,' Mason said, finding and rubbing his limp cock as playful emphasis to this, then stooping to kiss him once on the chest where they lay. But seriously. You're making it big, and if you move on, it'll be so exciting - but you're doing nothing wrong if you stay, and just keep going with the team you love. I mean, look at Jack.'
A slight grunt from the other 23-year-old stud. `Are you saying Grealish isn't loving City?'
`Tch. Just look at it. He's gone from the biggest fish in the smallest pond, to-'
`But that's what scares me...'
`You're not like him...'
It could be just like that,' Declan muttered. And - is Jack even unhappy? I bet he LOVES the attention up there. Didn't you say you thought him and Phil were at it like rabbits, babe? Can't see it myself, but-'
`Oh they are definitely fucking,' Mason said thoughtfully, a self-professed body language expert. He almost said more - how he also thought Grealish probably still pined for Ben, and how the same was true of handsome Chilly, mooning about the Chelsea training ground and going quiet whenever Manchester City were mentioned - but Ben's good looks had almost ruined everything between the two of them, so he left that unsaid. Some scars needed to be left alone.
I just mean, it can work out either way,' he said, feeling he'd lost his point somewhat. No harm in staying - you've built a special place for yourself at that club.'
And what about Chelsea?' mused Rice very quietly. What about us playing together?'
Mount now found it a little difficult to fully meet his eyes. They both felt conflicted on this, he realised, though Dec far more. For Mason, the prospect of spending even more time with Declan, and some seedy images of their lovemaking christening Stamford Bridge, far outweighed the risks to it - the fatigue of being TOO much in each other's lives, the impossibilities of continuing to keep their love quite so private and discreet, the rivalries that might be stoked between Dec and some other amorous Chelsea players who Mase had dallied with. For Declan, though, he knew there was a bitterness in the past - Chelsea had let his stud go at a young age and almost crushed his career, where West Ham had rescued and nurtured him... whilst he, Mason Mount, remained a golden boy of the West London club, a triumph of its homegrown talent.
Well, that's always an option,' he said quietly and, as far as he could manage, neutrally. He had to not take it personally if his boy didn't rush to play there with him, there was so much to think about here, and he couldn't be selfish about it. I mean, you know I have only ONE opinion on it all, REALLY.'
`And what's that?' Declan asked, stroking his shoulder and eyeing up more food on the table.
`If you take a contract in La Liga and leave me for Spain, I'm never sharing a Nandos with you again.' He pouted sulkily at his boyfriend, knowing that Rice was more amused than tempted by the European offers his agent had toyed with - and so Declan was laughing immediately, grappling with him on the sofa and pulling him in for a snog that tasted of chicken and spice. Their toned nakedness slid against the couch and they held each other lovingly, almost ready for round 2, but not just yet - for now, they could just cuddle into one another and snooze off the piggery, and watch Thanos get defeated over and over.
Barkley's attempts to switch the TV on had been strongly resisted. Music,' Eric insisted quietly but firmly, and he had won - some chilled out R&B was playing on a voice-activated speaker somewhere, their bodies still locked together in a tangle of sheets, Ross held to him while they waited for their dicks to recover and round 2 to be a real possibility. Through his arm, draped over the man's shoulder and chest, he felt Ross take a very deep breath, tensing up, and he knew what was coming. I'm s-' the big Scouser began in a low voice, and Eric just immediately shushed him, bringing his other hand over and placing two fingers against his lip.
You listen to me, Ross,' he said in a low growl of a voice. You never need to apologise or explain yourself to me, you hear that? When you're with me, you're okay, and you can't do anything wrong. You just let me do the worrying for once. I'll always look after you.' He sounded calm and sure but he felt passionate and reckless as he said it all, knowing it could be patronising or hit the wrong note, but meaning it all - it was pretty much the only thing he wanted to do, look after this man!
Ross didn't really say anything, and for a minute his body still felt tense against him, hard muscle and thoughtful quiet - but then it relaxed, sagging into his hold, and a loose sigh escaping those lips, playing against Eric's two fingers. He stroked them against his chin and leaned over to kiss him on the temple. I mean it,' he whispered. I've got you, okay?'
Ross didn't turn to look at him, but his finger on his cheek felt a sudden streak of damp that could only be the roll of a single tear. When Barkley spoke, his voice sounded choked, but with happiness more than worry: `Okay.'