Part 379: Defending His Honour
Their game against the Serbian hosts was only hours away when the fight broke out, interrupting a light morning training session at a local sports centre close to the hotel - sulking over the incident later on, dropped from the coach's starting line-up to a position on the bench, Tyler Morton wasn't sure what had come over him. The boy-faced 21-year-old from Wallasey wasn't the most aggressive or belligerent of the young men who made up England's Under-21 line-up this winter, far from it, and in fact his superiors at his loan club Hull City tended to point out the opposite, and tell him that he needed to bring more aggro and fight into his game, to really stake his place in the Championship midfield; why else did big Premier League institutions like Liverpool farm out their youngster to the lower leagues for loan seasons, after all?
But here Tyler was, grabbing the chest of the other lad's shirt in his fists, squaring up to him even though the big lad dwarfed his own 5ft10 stature. Red-faced and furious, the Scouse footballer tore into the other guy, ready to fight as hard as he had to. As soon as the first punch was thrown, they were surrounded by a flurry of the others, an ambiguous reaction of superficial concern - Hey, guys, chill out!' - laced with the schoolyard thrill of young men on the edge of violence - You gonna let him hit you like that, fella?' - and a combined mass of noise and physicality just totally enveloping them.
The tension that snapped that Serbian Saturday had begun days ago, he supposed, quite quickly after they all met up in the lesser quarters of St George's Park, coached and accommodated at a frustrating periphery to the nearby senior men - close enough to watch the main squad hard at work and pass each other in single file, but never really mixing with them socially or getting much chance to catch the eyes of the senior staff. The transfer on day one of Cole Palmer and Rico Lewis, replacing injured names on the main England team-sheet, sent a ripple of envy and frustration amongst the younger lads here, one that perhaps added to Morton's discomfort.
But ambition was not at the forefront of the Liverpudlian's mind during those tense days and nights leading up to the Serbia away game - not so much as friendship, honour, and Anfield pride.
The first joke, as far as Tyler heard, came over dinner on that first evening, when Palmer and Lewis were the main topic of conversation, and he and his buddy were queuing up with their trays at the serving hatch. A fragrant Thai curry was served to them and they picked at the accompaniments, thanking the staff with the deferential politeness that football academy had drilled into them, two Liverpool graduates who were representing the club here in England-branded tracksuits. Ahead, they had cold dessert options to grab at, and Tyler was just eyeing up the small glass bowls of key lime pie and strawberry cheesecake when he heard the weighty thud on his pal's tray, and the rattle of crockery and cutlery that it caused - he glanced sharply up the slow-moving queue of them, noting the jolting body language of his shorter friend and teammate. Harvey Elliott's mop of curly hair juddered as he flinched in shock at the short-range missile landing next to his dinner, and Tyler blinked and tensed, confused at what had happened - but just beyond his mate Harv, Leeds defender Charlie Cresswell as bristling with gruff laughter, having tossed the weighty banana from the fruit bowl into the midfield's dinner.
Here,' the big rugged Lancastrian barked quietly at Elliott, get your lips round that for pud, Harvey lad, get some practice in for after the Serbia game, haha.' Proud of his non-existent wit, the big lanky fuck boomed with further laughter and high-fived the next lad in the queue, and Tyler just stared at them in irritation, before glancing cautiously at the other Liverpool youngster.
`What the fuck?' Morton mouthed, unamused, bumping elbows with the curly-haired Surrey lad, one of his best mates at his parent club, someone he was always delighted to reunite with when international duty brought them back together.
Harvey turned this way, brow creased slightly, but an ambivalent look on his face, neither quite amused nor offended by Cresswell's banter. Tyler paused, trying to read the other young guy's reaction, but also looking past him to study the way big Charlie sauntered confidently away to one of the dining tables. `You alright?' the temporary Hull midfielder asked discreetly, sidling closer to Harvey as they lingered at the dessert station of the hotel canteen.
Harvey made a vague noise, pausing indecisively over a key lime pie conundrum, then picking himself one of the small portioned cheesecakes. Huh? Oh, what? Haha, of course I am-' He paused, shoving the weaponised banana over to one side of the tray, and placing the sweeter dessert down next to it. Just a bit of banter, mate,' he said calmly, flashing one of his big grins at a nervously frowning Tyler, looking totally unfazed by the tall defender's innuendo and insult. And Harvey picked his tray up in both hands and backed off, whilst Tyler paused briefly to decide what had alarmed him so much there - just the silly violence and surprise of the gesture, or the potentially nasty homophobia of the Leeds player's joke...?
It had happened again though, on Thursday afternoon during training, and again in the showers on Friday, and Tyler had begun to feel very worried and protective towards the cocksure right winger whose Anfield success he both admired and envied - though a little younger than him, he'd always looked up to the street-smart maturity of the southerner, and saw Harvey's Blackburn Rovers spell and subsequent first team status as an important role model for his own career trajectory at Liverpool.
On Thursday, it was actually big rosy-cheeked goalkeeper James Trafford who made the remark, the Burnley player bursting between the two friends on the way back out from lunch, and throwing long arms about Elliott's shoulders to hug and shake the attacking player. Here, is Morton your boyfriend, then?' the celebrated young goalkeeper had butted in, breaking up their inane chat, and practically dragging a chuckling Harvey into a mild headlock, whilst Tyler himself was somewhat elbowed aside. Or is it more of a three-way you Scouser boys have with Jarell Quansah...?' Trafford gave Harley's highlighted curls a good ruffle before letting him slip free, laughing heavily at his own accusation.
`Very fucking funny,' Morton muttered, but half under his breath, somewhat intimidated by the height and physique of the big Cumbrian goalie, one of the most prominent young guys on their team following his spotless record at that last tournament.
`Aw, have I interrupted a lover's tiff?' the Burnley signing continued, hands still on Elliott's shoulders in a jokily affectionate man, rocking along between them.
It was Harvey himself who put an abrupt stop to this, smiling quite pleasantly along to James' banter, and just nodding his head - Yeah, actually, we were just arguing over how many goals you were going to let in this afternoon, you big bell-end,' the short stocky winger declared coolly, slipping away from the other lad's tactile joviality. Tyler here thinks just 200, but I've got my money on way more...' The Liverpool starlet smirked and leered and flipped a middle finger at the goalie, who laughed loudly and jogged ahead of them, off to catch up with the leaders of the pack, leaving Harvey to just let out a long wheezing chuckle.
Tyler was about to say more about it, irritated, before stopping himself - it had been the silly banana moment that made him so sensitive to Trafford's insinuations, and he didn't want to make a big deal of the banter aimed at himself, so he kept his question to himself, and failed to ask `What's his fucking problem?' - instead, he tried to mirror Harvey's own casual disinterest and stomp along into the training pitch in the drizzle and mist, ready to shrug off such casual digs like everyone else.
The moment the following day was a little worse though, he thought, and left him more firmly uncomfortable and defensive. It was Taylor Harwood-Bellis, the Man City loanee, who made the next unnecessary dig at Harvey's masculinity or sexuality, and this time he really saw the panic and upset on his friend's face.
They were changing for the showers after their longest and hardest day of training, just yesterday, on other sides of the central row of hooks and rails, with Tyler himself pulling away clingy kit items and baring his lean pale torso as he did, flushed and blotchy from working hard in the damp cool. But across the metal frame from him, his buddy was undressing too, unzipping and wriggling out of his England training jersey, then dropping his shorts so that just the layers of compression lycra were hugging his compact muscular form - which turned a little to one side as their on-off captain called at him.
`How are you coping without Curtis here?' the skin-headed Southampton defender asked gruffly, shirtless and gleaming sweaty under the electric lighting; in one sharp gesture, he flicked his sweat-damp training shirt at Harvey's back and shuffled closer, another big burly figure next to Harvey's 5ft7 stature. Across the rail from them, Tyler paused in the process of taking down his shorts, hearing a suggestive tone in Taylor's question.
`Oh, he just has some ligament thing,' he heard Harvey say quietly, vaguely, distantly.
`Ligament in his stupid big dick, ha ha?' came the City export's low chuckle.
`Something like that,' Elliott quipped back.
`You'd know!' boomed Harwood-Bellis, awkwardly loud.
`Sure...'
Haha, you know,' egged the centre-back, leaning a heavy arm into the metal frame that separated them from Morton's own position, cos you suck the big dope off every night on Merseyside, I fuckin' bet...' The defender lad was cracking up with laughter and so were a couple of others, and Tyler just froze where he was, holding onto a folded towel; he couldn't quite see Harvey's face properly for the lattice of metalwork that separated them on different sides of the changing room, but his pal was unusually quiet, no big comeback for the brutish humour of their team captain.
Probably sucked him too much and he couldn't make it down here,' sniggered Taylor incoherently, lingering there, close and almost threatening - the pause was over and there was a more familiar acidity to Harvey's tone as he responded - Oh no, he's definitely injured, otherwise shite like you wouldn't have made the cut, y'know?' - and Tyler Morton just felt tense and uncomfortable, not liking the tone of the conversation he was overhearing. And for a long moment the two seemed to remain that way in front of him, Harvey still and head slightly hung, and the centre-back looming over him, ripples of grimy muscle against the harsh lighting. When someone else called for Taylor HB and drew him away, Harvey shifted and moved, and through the gaps in the metal, Tyler caught better sight of his face: there was a bitter little frown to his goateed features, a quiet thoughtfulness that didn't seem right, and he could tell that the other guy's comments had affected him somewhat.
Acting as if he'd heard nothing, the 21-year-old dropped his shorts and his sweaty briefs, and he wrapped the towel about his slim waist, then came moving around the edges to pass Harvey on his way to the shower, giving his pal a nudge - but then noticing that the 20-year-old Surrey lad was already pulling a clean grey hoody over his clammy upper body, jogger bottoms tugged up over his compression shorts.
`Er, not showering?' Morton asked, hesitating next to him.
Harvey, his face poking through the neck-hole of the hooded top, met him with seemingly calm and casual eyes, then wrinkled nose, then the softly bearded thin mouth: `Oh, nah, gonna take one up in our room, I promised I'd ring my nan, just remembered.' And he turned his attention to his belongings, clothing his sweaty training-weary body rather than joining the huddle of lads heading for the showers, coursing past Tyler now in a miasma of youthful sweat and bluster. He let himself be carried away by this general movement, a concerned frown creasing his slim youthful features - towel off and hung on a hook, slim toned body disappearing into the obscuring steam and humidity of the showers, but a long sidelong glance connecting with the mighty frames of Taylor Harwood-Bellis and his cronies, the big heavy muscle of the England youth team, Trafford to one side and Cresswell to the other, their stinging words lingering on Morton's memory - something weird was going on here, and he wasn't going to let his buddy just suffer it.
All of this, and a generally dissatisfied mood, had the nervy young football player ready to snap by the time they'd travelled to Serbia that night, and kitted up for a morning runaround in advance of the fixture itself - when he heard the careless comment from the bigger guy on the training pitch, he wasn't just going to let it go. He wasn't going to have these dickheads saying weird shit about his buddy, his pal, his role model - he wasn't going to have the yobs of the England U21s squad casting aspersions on the Liverpool `star-boy' Harvey Elliott, who to the best of his knowledge still had a girlfriend back home!
They were doing the rounds with some pretty basic fitness activities, kitted up against a cool East European day, and Tyler's low mood was hidden behind a scrunched-up face of determined effort, throwing himself into the prep work with the same quiet determination as everybody else who wanted to prove themselves in the game - every U21s fixture felt like a coaching showcase where they were trying to prove that they, like Cole and Rico, could make the switch up to the Three Lions roster, Southgate's next protegee.
But not everybody was dour with effort and focus - Harvey himself, Tyler noted, was full of grins and quips, something leering and excitable in his behaviour as he threw himself about the pitch in his stretchy slim-fit tracksuit and zipped-up training jersey, all grins and smirks and cheeky winks. It's a front, Morton assured himself, those guys must be getting to him, making jokes at the canteen queue and digs in the changing room, implying things about him and our other absent mate, Curtis! No, Tyler was not to be convinced by Harvey's brave-face or banter, because he'd seen the thoughtful pause, the quiet awkwardness, and seen him slip discreetly away from the showers as if he was suddenly shy for the first time in his life - that wasn't the Harvey Elliott he knew from the youth ranks of the Liverpool Academy, getting in trouble every other week for his cockiness and boundary-pushing.
This must already have been weighing on Morton's thoughts, even if only subconsciously, when he turned away from the passing drill and heard the big guy make the comment - `Hey, Harv, get that next shot past Traff and I'll let you lick my bollocks, haha' - followed by a scrunching tousle of that curly hair, and a switch snapped in Tyler's body and brain. Like an unhinged XL Bully dog, the Scouse youth shot assertively towards the dickhead in question, even if he did tower up at 6ft5, a giant even amongst this squad of well-built young athletes on the rise.
`What was that?' Tyler practically snarled, squaring up to the Evertonian - was that old city rivalry part of it, he later wondered, was he quicker to snap because he couldn't bear hearing a Toffee dare to make such a comment to his Harv? Perhaps, but that was nothing next to his loyalty and sense of honour, desperate to defend and protect a fellow honorary Scouser!
Rising over him, Jarrad Braithwaite barely turned his head, the most dismissive and amused of expressions briefly curling at his rugged features. You what?' was the big Carlisle lad's simple grunted response, looking him up and down and then, seeing his posture, squaring up himself, all broad shoulders and puffed chest - but there was no slowing or calming the path that Tyler had launched himself down, and he threw the first punch. Jarrad ducked back from this, genuine surprise flashing over his face, only to be replaced by a burst of heavy disbelieving laughter - What the FUCK?'
And just like that they were fighting, Tyler's blood pounding - `Take that back, you stupid big bastard,' he yelled stupidly at his opponent, thinking about the ridiculous comment, and Trafford's complicit sneer from over by the goalposts; he swung for another punch and grasped desperately at the other guy's England shirt. Instantly, others were rushing to them, he could feel the explosion of male energy and physicality against him - there were hands all over his back and arms, trying to drag him forcibly back, but he was not the skinny lightweight he might appear, rather wiry and steely - he elbowed a couple of lads away from him without even noting who was intervening, rushing at big Braithwaite and throwing a third punch, this one catching him hard in the side of his long face, so hard in fact that Morton's fist instantly stung and burned and he almost went flying sideways as his own ferocity broke away from the hold of others. The air roared with mixed voices, and he was too frenzied to detect the authority of coaching voices amongst the yell of his teammates - but as he turned and threw himself back towards that stupid big bastard who thought he could speak down to Harv, here was Elliott himself, whip-sharp out of the crowd and up in his face, leaping in his way and pushing him hard in the chest.
Leave it,' the 20-year-old barked fiercely in his face, just leave it!'
Tyler surged forward but the winger grabbed him about the middle and shoved into him, rugby tackling him away from the swinging fists of Jarrad, who was being similarly grasped and dragged at by the bodies of others - Trafford, Cresswell, Harwood-Bellis amongst them - until the moment's utter violence had dissipated, and Tyler felt the slow return of sanity and rationality, and with it a kind of crushing shame. He could see a look of sheer confusion and even almost amusement on Harvey's face, but over his shoulder, he could also see the red-faced rage of the gaffer, the top coach and two assistants bearing down upon them with arms full of clipboards. Oh, fuck.
Back at a top-flight club, or in the world of their senior counterparts, Tyler's outburst might have been met with an instant ban or expulsion; as it was, the U21s were handled a little more carefully, and the young midfielder was simply told that he would be taken out of the starting line-up and remain an unlikely substitute. And even at that, it turned out, he still got game time, shamefacedly allowed onto the pitch in the 74th minute for McAtee, and even sharing the field with Braithwaite for almost ten minutes before the big centre-back was benched for another Liverpdulian, Quansah. By this time, of course, the young Englanders were 3-0 up, including Harvey's own moment of triumph not long into the second half - a great game for the team, but a lacklustre 20 minutes' runabout for Tyler Morton himself, after a long sulk on the subs bench. Funny looks from almost every team member, ranging from surprised admiration to distrustful wariness, from sour disapproval to outright snubs.
By the end of the big win, their qualification for the U21 Euros another step closer, Tyler hardly felt able to partake in the celebrations, and found himself distant from the big group hugs and rowdy displays of the other lads - his training ground aggression had made him a pariah, and he wondered if the effects would be lasting or not. In the long dressing-down he'd received form the gaffer on the way to the stadium, it had been mentioned that he could easily be sent back to Hull tonight rather than remaining with the squad for their second fixture of the camp; by the time the Young Lions were showered, dressed, and enjoying a traditional Serbian supper in the hotel restaurant, Morton found himself wishing that was the case, just wanting to get out of here. His annoyance and resentment at the lads who'd made their mean comments to Elliott hadn't gone anywhere, but jostled with shame and embarrassment and regret, and an absolute confusion at the casual untouchability with which Harvey himself continued to be at the centre of the team, joyously celebrating the result and his own goal with dickheads like Taylor or Charlie or James, or that big smug bastard Jarrad too.
Whilst the bulk of the team moved from the restaurant to the bar, strict beer limits shouted out by the gaffers, Tyler slipped away and went for an early night. He grimaced at his reflection in the bathroom of their shared suite, noting the split lip and grazes on his knuckles, not even sure if these marks of damage were from the brief fight or from his short part in the win against the host team. Quiet and low, the Scouse lad went to bed, daring to hope that this would all be a silly blip and not a big blot on his national team reputation - he had as much hope and desire for the senior squad as anyone else on the trip, he was just less braggartly and vocal about it.
Tyler lay awake with these thoughts for what seemed a long while, but must have slipped into fitful sleep, perhaps poxed by dreams of being sold by Liverpool to a permanent place in the Championship, because at some other point he could feel himself begin to wake, disturbed as if from great distance by suggestions of noise and presence.
He lay there, his face squished into his pillows, warm in the heated room, and sleepy hands beginning to pull at the thick pyjama t-shirt and shorts he wore under the covers. He turned gently, tumbling through that uniquely disorienting hinterland between sleep and wakefulness, only half-aware of opening/closing doors and footsteps in the suite. Eyes still glued shut, he opened his mouth wide in yawn and pulled at the covers, rolling over twice more, side to side, until consciousness began to gather force against his brief sleep, and a clattering noise somewhere on the edge of his universe really grabbed hold of his semi-woken attention.
Eyes opening, he lay there on his back, experiencing the brief confusion of an unfamiliar hotel room, and then remembering where he was, who he was, how he'd made a prick of himself on the training ground; righteous indignation, the defence of his friend's honour, felt far away in earlier daylight, and all that was left was the embarrassment and the worry, the fear that no further call-ups would come his way. What if that was it, and he'd never pull an England shirt on again...?
Pushing away this resurgent thought, the 21-year-old heard what sounded like a... giggle? A little thump, a suppressed snigger, a knock of foot or elbow on plastic; and then a voice, low and husky, chuckling When you started on that big Serbian fella... so fucking funny, he looked like he was shitting himself even though he was twice yer height...' Tyler only half-recognised the voice, not clear enough in his fugue, but the voice that giggled back was clearer instantly, even if it was low and secretive, I woulda knocked the fuckwit out if he'd raised a hand, you know that, I don't take shit - although I could have blown his mind in other ways, I guess, haha...' Harvey?
Tyler brought one sore knuckle up to rub across his eyes, yawning again. He felt hot, uncomfortably hot, sweating under his bedclothes, and it was a relief to pull the thick winter duvet away from him, to slide across the bed, to place one bare foot uncertainly against carpet. Another bump or two, muffled sounds, coming from the room's adjoining bathroom, and more voices, similarly low and suppressed, but now indiscernible - the previous quiet comments seemed so unclear and unlikely that Tyler thought perhaps he'd dreamt them, surely there weren't two lads in there? Harvey fair enough, his roommate, but that first voice- it became more clear and familiar to him, its heavy Northernness, the distant Cumbrian tones, the smug authority of a huge defender like the Evertonian.
And so he got up, bleary and unsure, and pulling uncomfortably at his top, his shorts, his wedgie; lanky pale legs tottering him across the room, dark but for the thin ray of light that crept out from the not-quite-closed doorway to the en suite; more bumps, more whispers and chuckles, and... he lurched close, unsure if this was a dream, and laid a hand to the door, pulling it slowly outwards, and staring into the illuminated space, as if expecting to tumble through the doorway into another universe, a sci-fi dreamscape, and not the simple square bathroom of their basic hotel suite.
Wha'...?' groaned the Scouse youth, dimly, his sleepy eyes blinking against the light - the light that revealed the big hefty build of Jarrad Braithwaite, leaning back against the hot silvery bars of their heated towel rack, his top off and clutched in one huge paw; big bulky chest muscles on show, stretching down from his gurning face, down washboard abs to the waist, which gave way to a bush of mousy pubes, and the protruding mast of his manhood, on which Harvey's head bobbed gently up and down, the other England youth player hunkering down there in front of the towering centre-back - Tyler stared down, still blinking, at the crouching figure of the Liverpool ace, then slowly and uncomprehendingly up, tracing Jarrad's powerful body, past large soft nipples and gently haired pecs, to his blocky jawline and lazily half-closed eyes, which stared bluntly this way to meet his own. Morton mouthed another puzzled question, but Braithwaite barked simply at him, Oh, here he is, Tyson Fury himself...' A bronze bruise shone on the side of the big Cumbrian's face, right where Tyler Morton had landed that single effective punch; his knuckles ached just looking at it, and he wilted confusedly in the doorway.
`What the hell?' groaned Tyler dimly.
Slurping back noisily, Harvey turned on his haunches and looked this way, his lips wet and drooling; he looked drunk, they both did, and he looked confused too, but also bright and excitable. He licked his lips and took a good grip of the huge hard cock in his face, licking its fat tip without removing his eyes from Tyler's bewildered expression, the two friends locking eyes - Tyler had to reach out for the doorframe. This must be a dream, he told himself, but why the fuck am I dreaming about this...?
Here,' grunted Jarrad's sleepy slur of a voice, come in...'
Yeah,' murmured Harvey too, not getting up, but kneeling down on the bathmat more comfortably, come here, matey...'
More out of confusion than any desire he could name, Tyler drifted into the awkwardly bright space with them, slow unsteady steps, until one of Jarrad's big hands was brought up to his warm shoulder and then the back of his neck, encouraging him to pull in closer next to them... and one of Harvey's hands was on one of his legs, sliding up and down about his knee and onto the downy muscle of his thigh, edging curiously into the leg of his pyjama shorts. Tyler swayed a little on his feet, looking from Harvey's flushed cheeky face and up to Jarrad's strange bruised leer. No hard feelings,' the centre-back chuckled in his face, but I think now you understand. Show him what you can do, Harv.'
`What he can... huh?' mumbled Morton.
The hand up the leg of his shorts was touching him gently but decisively, and he wobbled more where he stood - his warm sleepy balls stroked, his soft slim cock pulled softly, his bristly trimmed pubes rubbed by fingertips... and then that shorts leg bunched up as kisses climbed his inner thigh, until those kisses met his cock, soft goatee on his skin, shorts pushed up and open, soft cock sucked and tasted down their leg... Tyler leant into the supportive strength of the taller lad, and turned his confused face to Jarrad's snarling enjoyment, a beery laugh blowing into his face. Tyler didn't know what time it was, how long either his roomie or enemy had been in the hotel bar, how far they'd exceeded the gaffer's limit or curfew, or what the hell they were doing here in the bathroom - but he knew how good his cock felt, slowly entering a wet and warm stiffness, released properly as his PJ shorts were pulled slowly down his long slim legs. When he looked down, he saw Harvey's wet mouth travel slowly from his own slim average meat to the big thick whopper that juddered and towered from Jarrad's crotch, trails of spit stretching from cock to mouth as Elliott rapidly switched between lollipops. Oh, fuck.
Every lad likes a blowie,' Braithwaite grunted loudly, and if Morton had been more fully awake, he might have heard the way the big Carlisle lad was saying it more for his own assurance than for anyone else. A mouth's a mouth, ain't it?' the 6ft5 Cumbrian groaned on, more quietly. `Just... mmm... a mouth...'
A mouth, Tyler thought, pushing one hand into the wall and latching the other about Jarrad's towering shoulder; a mouth is just a mouth? Nah, this is... HARVEY'S mouth, he thought in a sleepy daze, but god it felt good, and this was so weird... hot wet lips going up and down his thin shaft, slowing then pausing about the tip, tickling his foreskin with tongue, spitting against it then sliding back down again. Harvey's wide eyes rolled up to look at him and he just stared back in a frown of disbelief. He thought about all of those lewd comments over the week, and wondered... had his mate... been... down on his knees... for them? He blinked, lids falling and rising slowly, and shuddered sensitively against more oral, before Harvey switched cocks again.
Fuck,' Tyler slurred, his accent stronger in his sleepy state, fuckin' hell...'
`He's good, ain't he?' Jarrad growled.
`You both taste good,' Harvey panted, momentarily without a mouthful.
`Jesus,' Morton whined, and Braithwatie just laughed gruffly.
This was mad enough, this man-on-man oral service, this dirty experiment between friends, madder still to be shared with someone he'd lamped in the face earlier in the day and then been unable to make eye contact with as they passed each other on the pitch. All mad enough, mad sensations and mad revelations - but maddest of all, the madness that would really haunt him when he woke up the next morning, ready to pack his bag and fly on to the next fixture, was the hand that crawled down his back, fingers kneading his spine, his tension, his uncertainty. All the way down his back went Jarrad's hand, slowing and lingering on the small, curling up the hem of his t-shirt a little, pawing at the slightly damp sweaty skin there at the base of his spine, whilst his body rocked with the force of Harvey's mouth on his prick, taking him deep; and Jarrad's fingers then, the touch electric, pushing into the soft tight elastic of his PJ shorts, which were low at the front but bunching over his pert buns. Until they weren't, pushed down further, so that Jarrad's big questing hand was cupping his downy buttocks, holding him there, almost pushing him forward so that his cock fucked in and out of Harvey's eager mouth - his cock which touched Jarrad's cock now as the crouching lad tried to take both into his gob all at once. Madness, so much madness, but nothing as mad as the feel of one finger running down his sweaty crack, one finger pushing at him there, rubbing over a spot that made him feel queasy and sensitive, pushing so hard that a funny little burning pain joined the intense pleasure; maddest of all, maybe, that he just stood there, supported, with his cock pulsing and his hole being gently opened up, a single thick finger entering him in hesitant little prods, so that he turned his clammy face and stared into the bruised face that he'd punched. Jarrad's eyes were glassy and his grin kinda brittle, a look of sleazy enjoyment, but also uncertainty, and Tyler was awake enough to sense that the big guy was no less sure of all this than he, but was drunk enough to roll with it - and so Tyler didn't tense up, didn't protest, didn't ask questions, but he just felt the fingertip, feeling so much huger on his virginal ring, prod in and out of him in the same rhythm with which his wet cock was slurped and gobbled, until he was cumming all over his friend's face, watching his cum ooze into that facial hair and over that nose, looking at the feral desire in those pretty eyes.
Me too, me too,' Jarrad was grunting, I'm gonna shoot...'
And then there was more mess on Harvey's handsome face, something confusing from a porno, an oil slick of pearly whiteness drooling over the lad's cheeks, lips, chin. Tyler gasped wordlessly and felt the uncomfortable release of the pressure in his arse, felt a greasy fingertip wiped on his hip. He staggered back a little, grasping for the sink, his cock swaying, and he turned on a cold tape. Jarrad pushed past him to run a finger under that tap, and when Tyler looked up at him, he saw panic and regret on the big face, not the surly enjoyment of a minute ago.
`Fucking hell,' moaned Harvey decadently, clambering upright.
Braithwaite wasted little time in getting out of their way, a big pushy force in the cramped en suite, and then a huge absence when he was gone - pulling his tracksuit up even as he grasped open the door into the corridor to ditch them, his panting breaths still echoing in the warm air. Tyler washed his hands, his face, found a towel to rub against his cock, and then turned wild eyes to Harvey, who was leaning on the towel rail and jerking off, a dreamy expression on his face as he pleasured himself. Tyler just stood there and watched him cum, watched him spurt his juice into the air between them, and letting it fall upon the tiles below. And then, gingerly, the Scouse lad passed him the spare towel, hand shaking, and watched as Harvey wiped it over his face and then his crotch.
`Guess I best shower,' the right winger murmured, sounding very drunk and tired.
`Maybe,' Morton grumbled uncertainly back, staring at his friend in a totally new light.
`He's not so bad,' Harv grunted then, nodding out across the room.
Tyler remembered, with sudden intensity, his fist connecting with Jarrad's face, attacking the big guy over what sounded like vicious homophobia; had it just been a friendly agreement, and he'd just misunderstood everything? What the hell had been going on around him all week, he now wondered? He felt faint. He took a step back, rearranging his tangled shorts, and stumbling back through into the main room. Listening to the murmur and hum of Harvey drunkenly showering, the 21-year-old crawled into the heat of his own bed and re-entered the vague half-world of sleep, utterly dazed, utterly satisfied. He'd pushed the boundaries and broken the rules, first to defend his friend's honour, and then to... to join in the madness, he thought dreamily, to experience something dangerous and new.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share