Date: Tue, 14 Jul 2020 23:46:31 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 145: The Birthday Cake

Part 145: The Birthday Cake


It was a cute little place, a real biscuit tin image of rural comfort.
Thatched roof and everything, small squares of windows, a chubby little
structure in the patchy Peak District woodland. Inside, its downstairs
seemed to be about 50% comprised of a huge inglenook fireplace, and the
other 50% of twee wooden beams and chintzy décor. Upstairs, there was
just one big bedroom and tiny bathroom, where they had spent last night
curled up. Hot and stuffy in the July humidity, but cute and much-needed
all the same.

Luke Shaw surveyed the sleepy little building from outside, stood on the
patchy lawn of its very private garden, the dry grass tickling his feet,
bare but for the heavy wrap around one injured ankle. He hugged his arms
to the front of his tshirt; not HIS tshirt, actually: Harry's from last
night. He'd picked up the white garment, a size too big from him, from
the bedroom floor when he eventually woke up -- had he sought its
comforting lingering smell of the man it belonged to, or was it just more
convenient than searching for his own discarded clothes...?

Luke had woken alone in the big, squeaking old bed of the cottage. He'd
slept in extraordinarily, sleepless new-parent nights catching up with
him and the hot comfort of the little country Airbnb rental utterly
consuming him. Limping groggily from bed, he'd been shocked when he
found his Rolex on a rickety side table and saw the time, almost midday!
That shock had then been coupled by the emptiness of the cottage,
birdsong flooding in through the open bedroom windows -- he made his way
downstairs in just tight-fitting boxer shorts and the borrowed tshirt,
and then out here into the garden, marvelling at the chocolate box scene
he found himself in.

It had looked nice in the dark, but only a vague scene. It had been
fairly late when they made it down here into the Peaks, having snuck away
from the post-match fuss at Old Trafford and escaped Manchester for their
night away. Luke smiled up at the place with a mixture of indulgent
fondness and mild confusion. It certainly hadn't been the night he'd
expected.

Two days ago had been his actual 25th birthday: a gentle family-oriented
weekend, a seeming blessing that United's match was scheduled for Monday
night this time, meaning only a brief morning training session
interrupting his day of celebrations. Of course that also meant only a
brief hidden snog with Harry Maguire behind a changing room partition,
but he knew it was foolish to try and invite the captain to his homely
garden barbecue with the family. He had invited a couple of players and
their partners, in the end, including a covetously smiling Dan James, and
young Brandon Williams seemingly convincingly satisfied with his airhead
missus -- but he and Harry had agreed that it would be difficult to hold
back from each other if he attended. So Sunday had been cute and fun and
relaxed, but Harryless. Luke had enjoyed it, relaxing in the bosom of his
family and being spoiled by everyone, but he had to confess that the most
exciting moment of the whole day had been answering his phone after a
single cider and stealing away to the bottom of the garden to listen:
`Tomorrow night, after the match -- make a story for your missus, okay?
I'm taking you away.'

The cover story had turned out to be easy enough. Luke had dreaded trying
to negotiate it, but no sooner had he mooted the idea of a cheeky night
stopping with the lads for post-match drinks as an extension of his
birthday than she was eagerly agreeing to it and insisting that he needed
the break from dad duty. Her excitement for him that brought the sting of
guilt, but he was getting better at swallowing that down. By the time he
was leaving home on Monday afternoon to prepare for the game against
Sheffield United, he'd even convinced himself that yes, he really did
deserve the night away, the treat...!

When he'd gone off the pitch with a knock to the ankle, he'd briefly
worried it might look serious and scupper the plan. He was in pain but
not excessively, and though he had to wait for some scan results being
sent over today, he was reasonably confident he might be fit enough to
continue starting for the recently unbeaten squad by their next game on
Thursday evening.

No wonder he'd slept so long and so heavily, thinking about the
hard-fought draw to Southampton last night, 2-2. It wasn't ideal, every
point mattering heavily to Manchester United as they sought a top four
finish to the season, but it extended a long unbeaten run and before the
moment of injury, Luke knew he'd put in a good battle in defence
alongside big Harry Maguire.

Luke hobbled back over the lawn, kicking idly at the patches of longer
grass, admiring the heavy banks of wildflower, the little feeding table
for birds, the few aged hunks of garden furniture littering the
cottage's amorphous grounds, which blurred with the thick sloping
woodlands of this remote spot. He supposed that was what Harry had looked
out for when booking it: discreet remoteness. Or, he thought with a
chuckle, maybe Maguire did have a fetish for this twee country life;
pulling at the heavy white tshirt, Luke looked back at the place and
tried to imagine it being the United captain's secret fantasy. No,
probably not. In all likelihood, Maguire had just searched for the single
most remote property he could hire, and here it was. A surreal
fairy-tale.

On the drive here, Shaw had been giddy with pleasure. The Southampton
stalemate had left a frustration over all of the players, but it
disappeared as soon as he was in Maguire's car and swinging out onto the
roads, leaving behind the fraught masculinity of the post-match banter.
The concept of an overnight getaway with Harry had been thrilling him for
about thirty-six hours, and he felt like a child going to Disneyland,
wriggling about in the passenger seat of the man's jeep and stealing
cautious strokes and grabs of his thigh as they whizzed down suburban and
then country roads, away from the fringes of Manchester. On top of the
exciting freedom of the night away, he'd enjoyed Harry's coy excitement
at the mystery of it, dropping little clues about their destination and
what he had in store for them. Every five minutes or so, the big
centre-back would turn and look at him with a crooked grin of
anticipation.

He headed indoors, pausing to inspect the swelling of his ankle and
really take in the garishly countrified interior of the little cottage,
then limping upstairs to see about taking a shower. In the bedroom, he
thought about last night: his romantic excitement as their car wound deep
into the countryside, his eagerness as he almost fell out of the jeep.
His injured foot had gone pretty numb and Harry had ended up having to
support him on the way across the crunching gravel driveway into their
pastoral idyll. This had enhanced rather than detracted from the cutesy
cosiness of the place, Harry lighting candles and revealing a bottle of
expensive red from the back of the 4x4.

Luke paused in the undersized doorway at the top of the uneven, ancient
staircase, looking into the bedroom where there things were scattered
messily. Somehow, dazed with sleep, he hadn't noticed the message on the
mirror before. He hobbled over and plucked the scrap of paper from it,
recognising Harry's bold but scruffy handwriting: `gone to pick
something up from station, be back soon x'. Luke had more or less
assumed this, clumsily wandering the cottage and its garden alone, but
there was still something tender and sweet in finding his lover's note,
left for him to wake to.

But last night...

He didn't want to dwell on it, but it was definitely odd. The elephant
in this bedroom, other than his secret boyfriend's massive trunk, was
that they'd stolen away in the night to this uber-romantic location,
away from their hetero commitments as dependable father figures and
boyfriends, and yet... they hadn't fucked. Still holding the note, as if
the scrap of paper and the heavy cotton tshirt on his body could connect
him to the absent man, Luke looked at the vague untidiness of the big old
bed, something from a period drama about aristocratic marriage, and
pieced together his memories of last night.

Nibbling posh cheese and supping vintage red wine in the comfy furniture
downstairs, laughing at the décor and curled up against each other in a
tiny sofa. That, he thought with a smile, had been a special kind of
bliss. Long wine-flavoured kisses and roaming hands, punctuated by a few
pained groans as he would sit with his injured ankle at the wrong angle
or Harry, getting carried away, would push or pull him the wrong way. And
then Maguire's playful attempt to carry him upstairs, abandoned before
they even reached the stairs, because the confines of the cottage were
claustrophobic, and Luke was no petite fella.

In bed, tearing their United tracksuits away, exposing aching muscles
from a tough night match. Harry kissing at his throat for so long and so
aggressively that he was surprised not to be covered in teenage hickeys,
despite having just turned 25. Clothes tossed everywhere, still evidence
now: he saw his tracksuit top draped on a windowsill, a sock of Harry's
snaking about a lamp. Bodies bared and hands and lips going everywhere,
but not QUITE everywhere, and... to put it simply, from his jagged
memories, dulled around the edges by tiredness and red wine, Harry had
edged him into the night, obsessed with his enjoyment but refusing to let
him... finish. One minute Maguire had been going down on him in the bed,
huge and hulking under the sheets, and then he'd been tickling his balls
from behind and kissing his neck; he'd ran his finger down Luke's crack
but not pushed at all at his tingling, eager hole. Whenever Luke had
reached for Harry's monstrous dick, as hard and ready as ever, he'd
been pushed away, scolded playfully, told to wait.

The windows were wide open, just as they were this morning, but the loft
bedroom was hot and stuffy and their bodies had dripped in sweat after
over an hour of this frustrating back-and-forth -- in the end, they'd
found sleep before they could find completion, or before Harry would let
them. Luke had only given up trying to grab hold of that big tool, or rub
his bare cheeks provocatively into the bigger man, because he'd ended up
on his side in a tight vice of spooning, Harry purring sleepily into his
ear and saying it would be better in the morning, it would be better
tomorrow... so he'd given up, let the aching tiredness of the night
consume him, and fallen asleep in the captain's thick arms. And then
woken alone.

He showered, hopping about the small bathroom a little bit and
discovering that for all its old world charm, plumbing was not among the
cottage's strengths. He endured alternating bursts of icy cold and
skin-melting heat, laughing off the inconvenience and discomfort and
scrubbing himself dry with a towel that seemed to have been produced in
the middle ages. He was just pulling on fresh clothes -- a new pair of
Tommy Hilfiger briefs, denim shorts and a plain pink tshirt -- when he
heard the muffled engine noises and gravel crunches coming in through the
bedroom windows, joining the woodland opera of the songbirds.

As quickly as his injured ankle allowed, Luke made his way downstairs,
jogging through the small interior and out of the door, then around the
thick corner of shrubbery towards the driveway entrance, where his
expectations were immediately confounded: not Harry's big solid jeep, a
four-wheeled metaphor for his own indomitable physique, but a smaller and
slicker BMW, at least two figures inside it. Luke paused at the corner of
the house in mild alarm, the intense privacy of Maguire's chosen
destination called suddenly into question; he rested one hand on the
solid old stone of the cottage and pulled the other up to stroke his
bearded chin, staring at the vehicle as it crunched to a halt, trying to
read the situation. And then his eyes fixed on registration plate, dimly
registering the personalised lettering: GR34L15H.



Luke stared at the three of them from behind a slightly fixed grin,
standing in the big living area that dominated the downstairs of the
cottage, holding an open wine bottle in one hand and a couple of glasses
in the other. In front of him, the three arrivals were restlessly engaged
in their new setting, crackling with the same odd energy from which
they'd bounded out of the car and inside with him at his vague,
bewildered invite.

Jack Grealish, looking somehow shifty in his stance by the fireplace, was
inspecting the long row of objets d'art that decorated the wooden
mantel, hands shoved into the pockets of tight-fitting casual shorts --
his taste in casualwear was as carefully undersized and leg-hugging as
his Aston Villa kit, clearly. The 24-year-old had been the least
enthusiastic of the trio, stepping out of his BMW and giving the cottage
(and Luke) a slightly dubious, cynical look, then grinning almost
aggressively and following everyone in. Now the small solid midfielder
was inspecting the interior of the country getaway with the marvel of a
young man who'd never left his urban roots.

Not far from him, James Maddison had flopped into one of the two massive
armchairs, behaving like a bored child in Ikea testing out new furniture.
The slim, bearded 23-year-old stuck his legs out in the air and brought
his hands up behind his head in a chuckling pantomime of a king on his
throne, clearly satisfied with the rural luxury of Maguire's chosen
venue for this `party'. He'd chattered excitedly since bursting from
the back of the car, all hugs and eagerness, the one to demand that Luke
should get the drink flowing already, rather than waiting for Harry to
get back.

And most calm of the three, Ben Chilwell was stood close by him now, an
expression almost of apology for the other two on his quietly handsome
features. The young Leicester hero had his arms folded about the chest of
his light oxford shirt, turning to give Shaw a faint grin, and holding
his own empty glass ready for the first pour. Luke held out the bottle
and sloshed some of the white wine out for him, fixing his slightly
strained grin on the 23-year-old left-back. `Cheers,' Ben said
brightly, `that'll go down nicely. Happy birthday again, mate.' He
held the glass aloft in a moment of Gatsby-like charisma, sparkling with
grin behind the floppy curtains of his hair.

Shaw was very aware of the close bond between Maguire and Chilwell, and
dimly aware that some stuff had occurred between the former teammates in
the early days of their own relationship. He'd never pushed for details
and Harry had never been forthcoming. He himself liked and admired his
young fellow defender, but their paths had barely crossed, he didn't
know him well; nor Grealish or Maddison, for that matter. Fleeting
England teammates in training if not actual matches, these three slightly
younger fellas had been excelling in the Under 21s squad while he made
his own short-lived dents on the national team. To Luke, they were a
slightly different breed of footballer to himself: flashy, social media
savvy, celebrity pals. The question burning behind his slightly awkward
grin of welcome was why the hell Harry Maguire thought this was an ideal
crowd for a small birthday party for him...?

`Such a cute place,' Ben said to him, sounding just a bit awkward
himself, helping him now to pour more wine, and passing glasses to the
other two. Maddison made some jokey comment about a girly drink and
Grealish stared at the glass as if wondering why his pint was small and a
funny colour. `Nice wine,' Chilwell added, after a quiet sip, `but I
think we'll move on to cocktails after this. I've brought a few
things.'

Luke nodded, slowly, feeling his sense of hosting control slipping away,
and still really quite startled by the interruption to what he'd gently
assumed would be 24 hours of utter privacy and discretion. His quiet,
private escape with Harry seemed to have been discarded somewhere in the
wooded Peaks and replaced with a scene from a lads' holiday. He was just
wondering how the hell to reply to Ben's cocktail offer without sounding
resentful or totally lost when the door to the cottage sounded behind
him, shunting open with its already familiar creaks and groans. He turned
in time to see Harry stoop through, that mysterious crooked grin on his
big face, shoulders hunched down to let him through the cottage's small
space -- a building never designed for strapping men of 6ft4. It would be
a miracle if the United skipper left without a concussion.

In his hands were a couple of loaded plastic bags, making it look like
he'd raided the closest shop for all the supplies he could. So much for
a well-planned escape? Luke felt the instant comfort and reassurance of
his presence, but eyed him quizzically, trying to communicate his baffled
questions in just a smile. `I see some of your surprise turned up
early,' Maguire remarked coolly, something scolding or unimpressed
behind the humour of his comment. Next to Luke, Ben chuckled, and the
other two began bickering quietly about travel plans. `But here's the
rest of it,' Harry added then, and Luke stared at his shopping bags,
half expecting something significant to leap out of them and explain the
comment. But Harry, still stooping, just came closer to him, and stepped
aside a little, allowing Luke to realise another tall figure was hunching
through the doorway, 6ft2 of heavy muscle wrapped in Jack Wills clothing.

`Hey birthday lad,' said Eric Dier smoothly, holding a big carboard box
in his thick arms, grinning from behind the gingery-blond fluff of his
beard, following Maguire into the cottage, his charming eyes fixed for a
moment on just Luke, sparking memories of admiration and friendship with
the more experienced England player as they made their early appearances
side by side. The Tottenham midfielder cast his ruggedly charismatic
smile over at the other guests, a jerking nod of acknowledgement, then
back at Luke. `I hope there's another couple of glasses for that?'



The six men ate lunch outside, since there wasn't really enough
furniture indoors; a cute rural picnic, just not of the private and
intimate kind Shaw had fantasised about as he was swept off his (injured)
feet and out of Manchester for one night. One night, he reminded himself,
neither of them had thought it possible to lie to their families and
secure a second -- surely the cottage was booked over tonight, too, but
they would both need to return to their partners and duties with fake
stories and real hangovers.

But Harry had taken great pains to organise this, he reminded himself,
and at least his story to his girlfriend was less of a lie. Here he was,
drink in hand, sat out on the cottage lawn, surrounded by fellow
footballers, all seeming to toast his 25th. For another moment of sulky
inner protest, he thought how he might liked to have invited Dan James or
Brandon Williams, if he'd actually known the plan, and that led him to
think of young Brandon's bleeding face as the substitute left the pitch,
injured too after replacing Luke in the second half. He hoped the teen
defender was okay.

He was brought back to the here and now by the feel of Harry's hand
creeping onto his shoulders, discretely stroking just below his neck,
toying with the neckline of his tshirt. The gentle contact made him
shudder a little with desire, all of last night's sweaty unfinished
business rising up in him. But he turned and grinned awkwardly at the
other man, slumped as they were on the grass, a mess of leftover food in
front of them. His eyes aid `take me upstairs and fuck me, baby' but
his frowning mouth said `not in the front of this lot!' Luke could feel
a simmering tension in the air but he didn't yet know how to feel about
it, or what it could mean. He was piecing the scenario together with what
little he knew of Ben and Eric's alleged experiments, but he was still
recovering from the disappointment that he wasn't alone with Harry.

Letting Maguire's fingers continue their magic on his upper back, he
turned and looked curiously at the small party of men. Dier, such a
looming presence though he was only an inch taller than Shaw himself, sat
cross-legged just to his right, barely saying a word, just seeming to
laugh along at whatever story Maddison was now telling. And opposite them
all, Grealish and Chilwell, somehow removed from the conversation in
their own private way. Jack sat with his strong legs outstretched and his
lean body propped up with arms behind him, his scruffy long hair falling
over his face a little from on top; Ben sat more delicately, close by
him, leaning over as he spoke quietly, and then... Luke watched as the
Leicester defender placed one hand in a gentle squeezing pat on Jack's
thigh as he grinned and chuckled at him, their faces close for an
instant. Realisation dawned slowly, wading through the rigid belief that
he must be the only closeted footballer enjoying a secret romance: Jack
and Ben, together...?

Harry's finger seemed to stop moving at the top of his spine, a shift in
the bigger guy's posture where he sat; perhaps he too was noticing
something new about those two? Then his hand was squeezing Luke's
shoulder, then leaning on it, as he hoisted himself up off the ground in
his long chinos and tight-fitting shirt. `I think it might be time for
this lad's birthday cake,' he announced in an oddly formal grunt,
addressing their little gathering, making Luke look curiously up at him.
`Can I get you guys to give me a hand?' Maguire was asking now. While
Luke sat there, comfortable on the lawn, questioning whether it took five
men to light some candles and cut a cake, the other footballers got up
one by one and trailed indoors until he was here alone.

He looked idly at the scrappy mess of food on trays and platters. They'd
all barely touched it, and his own appetite had faded dimly with nerves
and confusion. He wasn't sure if he could face some sickly birthday
cake, though judging by the fancy box Eric had been carrying on the way
in, Harry had spent a lot of money on it from some local baker's or
whatever... He sat there, gripped by the age-old dread of anyone about to
be sung `happy birthday', combined with a strange sexual awareness. All
of those abortive touches last night, the frustrating almost-sex, and now
all of these fit young men around him, under the idle humidity of early
afternoon...

No awkward singing of `happy birthday', as it happened, but the
creaking swing of the cottage door, and rustling footsteps. He turned,
propped up on his elbows, and opened his eyes wide at the sight of them.
Eric came first, leading the way, a bronzed adonis in his tight white CK
trunks, which bounced enjoyably at the front and clung to his thick waist
as he trudged this way, not another scrap of clothing on him. After him
came James, fiddling self-consciously at the waistband of his black
boxers, and grinning behind his tufty lockdown beard. Ben was bulging
monstrously in skimpy black briefs as he strolled forward, hand in hand
with Jack, whose own dark blue trunks left little to the imagination.
Harry himself marched along behind this near-naked tribe, carrying the
big ornate birthday cake in front of him reverently, while his package
swung neatly in the same pair of black CKs he'd worn when they first
shared a Dutch hotel room.

In moments, Luke was surrounded by bare rippling muscle, hairy thighs,
swollen packages, nervously seedy grins. The cake, its little candles
flickering at the jerky movement, was laid on the lawn in front of him,
and Harry's warm hand was back on his shoulder. Nobody said a word, and
he just grinned foolishly around at them and back at his partner, then to
the cake itself, all buttery icing and primary colours. He stared at it,
seeming to fixate on his lack of an appetite for eating, because the
other appetite being stimulated right now was really just too
overwhelming. Then Harry, still silently, reached a hand down and dug his
fingers savagely into the presumably expensive masterpiece of craft
baking and tore out a messy chunk. He brought his hand up and pushed his
savaged hunk of cake, jam and icing straight into Luke's gawping mouth,
smearing its creamy decadence against his lips and beard, squeezing on
his shoulder as he did. Uncontrollably, Luke let out a little groan of
sugary and physical satisfaction, chewing on the sample of cake and
licking its messy decorations from around his mouth, breathy and taken by
surprise.

Relaxing into the mood of the moment, Luke reached forward and plunged
his fingers into the cake where Harry had broken it. He scooped up a
large messy chunk of it, weighted it in his hand, slapped it lazily
against the fold of Harry's left pec. Giving in to appetite, Luke leaned
close and licked a mix of jam and icing from near the big hunk's nipple;
Harry groaned softly and stroked the back of his neck with sticky
fingers. The party had begun.

As he ate cake off Maguire's chest and chuckled through sticky lips, he
felt hands settle on his other shoulder, and fingertips stroking one of
his hairy calves. He twisted his head a little to see Maddison on his
knees, stroking up his leg, beginning to reach for the hem of his denim
shorts. `We can't be getting these messy,' the slight Leicester player
murmured playfully. He was reaching up the leg of his shorts towards the
fly, letting his knuckles graze Luke's twitching bulge.

He turned his head more to see who was gently pulling at the shoulders of
his tshirt, found Dier on his knees behind him, smiling down. `James is
right,' the Spurs man whispered, and both he and Maguire now pulled on
the soft pink garment, dragging it up until Luke's torso was exposed to
the warming sunshine. He could feel Eric's strong hands on his back now
as he folded back in against Harry's body, licking more cream from
amongst his sporadic chest hairs then slowly tilting his neck until their
faces could meet in a much-needed kiss. Even as their lips locked, out of
the corner of his eye he could see a parallel snog: on the other side of
the cake, Jack and Ben were up on their knees now, gripping each other
and grinding their mouths together.

Luke rose onto his knees, surrounded by their bodies, and grappled with
the button fly of his shorts, keen to shed them, but not because of the
messy cake. He giggled uncontrollably, feeling his face still sticky with
icing, and pushed the shorts down over his thighs and arse cheeks,
slipping back onto the grass and letting James take control, feeling the
denim dragged past his knees and then, more carefully, around his ankles
and hoyed aside. Almost instantly, he was pulled into a cuddle by Harry,
who'd got more cakey mess on his fingers, and slid them provocatively in
against his lips, letting him suck sugary goo from his digits with
puckered lips, their strong bodies interlocking on the scratchy dry grass
beneath.

Luke was obviously lost quickly in the hold of his favourite man, but he
was still dimly aware of his surroundings. Even as Harry began to cup and
squeeze at the contents of his fresh white briefs with a big hand, he
could see Eric still on his knees, pulling James' head down to kiss his
rock-hard abs; he could see Jack and Ben squeezing and grabbing at each
other's bulges as they kissed and rolled down onto the grass. Fucking
hell, what a scene of his wildest dreams...! But back to Harry, hehe. It
was all well having these beautiful distractions beside him, but... Harry
had one strong arm curled beneath him, supporting his abdomen, and the
other glued between his thighs, toying with his semi through his briefs,
kissing him roughly on the neck again like last night. Luke let out free
gasps, liberated by the remoteness of the cottage and the muffling circle
of trees that rose over them, stretching up into the blue sky. The
birdsong felt like a challenge to be noisy now, to drown out those cheeky
winged fuckers with his own chorus of groans and sighs.

With his own hands, he found the size and shape of Harry's whopper and
teased it through his black briefs, loosening it down the inside leg of
the undies, thumbing at its fat tip and provoking a little howl of
enjoyment from the big brute of a man. They rolled over, bodies twisted,
and Luke felt his limbs brush others, grazing at a muscled thigh that
must be Eric's, tickling at a firm shin that was probably Jack's. He
closed his eyes and lost himself in a passionate embrace, Maguire's body
heavily on top of him, and the messy cake now rubbing at his side,
smearing icing onto his thick waist and tummy. Harry was moving aside and
someone else was coming to kiss and lick this off -- Madders -- making
Luke ticklish and excitable in his chuckles. `Oh mate,' he groaned,
feeling the tickle of the younger player's beard on his smooth skin, the
gentle caress of his lips.

In a series of rapid tugs, his briefs were off, pulling over his chunky
buttocks and letting his bare arse scratch against the grass instead. He
felt Harry's hand caress his cock as it came to life, and he stretched
back; Harry's hand was replaced by James' lips, and the smaller
footballer, a lad he barely knew, was going down on him with relish, his
overgrown dark hair falling out of place in a messy tangle as his head
bobbed up and down.

He turned to the left to snog Maguire, still supported by his hold,
tasting sugary icing on his strong lips, laughing into his mouth at this.
Harry was pulling away to get up though, and unleashing his cock from his
pants. Shaw sat there, waves of pleasure coming up from the work of
Maddison's tongue, and pulling his own mouth open around the girthy size
of Maguire's tool. He heard a loud gasp and muter, clumsy and Brummie,
that must be Jack Grealish getting a similar service or mouthful!

The ensuing half hour dripped by in a series of sunlit images that were
scorched on Luke's brain, birthday gifts he couldn't have conjured up
in his wildest wank fantasies.

First, he was pushing his cock more forcefully into the young Leicester
player's mouth, fucking James Maddison's tight lips and curling his
fingers through his hair and beard as he did; now up on his knees,
looming over the slender midfielder, making him choke and gurgle on his
own thick meat, its above-average length pushing deep inside a hungry,
sluttish mouth, perhaps the best blowjob he'd received -- in physical
terms, anyway, since it could not compare to the intensity of having a
man like Harry Maguire go down on him.

But minutes later, that was happening: he was on his back, on the grass
again, writhing around with his underpants around his ankles, and Harry
sucking ferociously on him while dragging big paws over his thighs and
tummy, slurping on his cock noisily, the debasement of the alpha male
somehow all the more enjoyable and special for the fact that he was
happily doing it in front of others. The comfortable position gave Luke
the chance to stare around, getting an upside down view of fragmented
pairings: Grealish was cuddling up to and jerking off Maddison from
behind, and Chilwell seemed to going down on Dier, his big arse in the
air, stretching those black briefs.

And then, not long later, Luke himself was going down on Dier, swaying on
his knees as he took hold of the Hotspur's big thick member and licking
at the tip, feeling it slick with the other lad's spit as he stroked on
the shaft, enjoying the depth and tone of the England player's groaning.
He loved the solidness of Dier's smooth torso in front of him, running
his hands up those tight-packed abs and resting his hands into the crook
of firm biceps, tasting his precum as he swirled his tongue around his
foreskin and the thick head of his hard-on.

Next, he was suddenly between the lovebirds, a hand each on Jack and
Ben's cocks; both lads were very well-endowed, but whilst Jack's
Brummie boner was similar in length and girth to his own, Ben's huge rod
seemed more or less equal to Harry, all the more vivid on a less towering
fella. He gripped and stroked both of them, enjoying the feel of the two
lithe, tightly muscled players, who were stroking hands up and down his
back and kissing his shoulders, fawning over him as if commanded to spoil
the birthday boy by the party organiser -- speaking of whom, Luke stared
ahead to where Harry and Eric were taking it in turns to shove their big
cocks in James' face, stood over him like two monoliths of footballing
excellence.

Soon, Luke found himself back on the floor, sucking now on Chilwell; it
was amazing how similar his huge thing felt to sucking on Harry, the only
cock he'd been near that could actually compete with that massive
weapon. He fondled the Leicester defender's heavy balls and rested an
arm across his tight six-pack, enjoying his wail of enjoyment.
Simultaneously, Luke was being tossed off by Dier, crouched by him,
feeling up his cock with slow, teasing motions, patting another hand
against his buttocks very gently; the chubby glutes felt sensitive and
tense against this touch, since nobody but Harry got to touch back there!

Titillated by the Tottenham player touching up his arse cheeks and
thighs, he slurped off Ben's cock and grinned up the glorious sight of
his chiselled six pack at his grinning features, warming to this
bright-eyed bestie of Harry's, a lad he'd previously just felt a vague
jealousy towards. Jack was sinking down next to them, grabbing a little
possessively at his waist and shoulder and kissing him on one cheek;
there was something shy in the peck, and Luke felt that perhaps the Villa
captain was less sure of himself here, less confident in sharing his
sexuality with the others. Luke saw something incredibly sweet in the way
Ben took this kiss and returned it, on the lips, then cradled Jack's
hand in one hand and rubbed their brows gently together. Sweet fuckers.

Luke was distracted by that view as Eric grabbed one of his cheeks more
firmly; he looked his way and just saw a sheepish, hopeful grin on the
hunky defensive midfielder's face. Eric was rolling his palm over the
big buttock and slipping fingertips into his crack, tickling at him
excitingly. He smirked back at him, torn between desire and loyalty.
Automatically, he swung round to see Harry, realising how close the
bigger guy was now, sat close to them with his long mighty legs wide open
and Maddison curled up between them, licking his shaft and balls and
making giddy whines of hunger, wanking his own prick excitedly as he
worshipped his former teammate's tool. Harry and Luke's eyes met over
this scene, Eric's hand still wandering, and Luke saw a warm grin curve
over the United skipper's face. Their eyes danced for a long moment and
Luke formed a silent question with his lips; Maguire just nodded. Luke
looked back at Dier, pulling up alongside him and stroking up from his
butt cheeks to his lower back, then planting a single kiss on his
shoulder, ticklish but sweet. Luke looked at him and saw that this was
his real gift. Eric saw that he understood and grinned back, determined
and horny. Oh, yes.

Luke turned gladly, pushing his palms into the grass, lifting onto all
fours, doggy-style, while Eric's hands squeezed and played with his
buttocks before beginning to finger between them again, pushing and
running down his crack. Someone had brought some lube, apparently, as he
felt some squirted at the top of his crack and then slicked down it by
one thick rough fingertip, which hovered over his hole gently in each
stroke. While his arse was gently prepared by the hot 26-year-old, Luke
was getting a good view of Jack and Ben, who had pulled away from them a
little, kissing passionately and grabbing at each other's sizeable
dicks. Ben was manhandling Jack into the same position as Luke now
occupied, and he began to see some of the dynamic between them: watching
as Jack, wild-eyed and giggling, pressed his face and elbows low into the
grass and stuck his chunky round backside in the air for Ben to kiss his
cheeks and spit between them. Wow. Just as he saw this, he felt one of
Eric's fingers slide into him -- ohhhh -- and he looked over at Harry
for more approval, but saw James being pushed down roughly as Harry bit
and kissed at the back of his neck and slapped his cock against his lean
buttocks. This was a free-for-all.

Eric Dier was a gentle but powerful lover. Luke moaned and gasped as two
fingers worked his relatively experienced hole, working him up and
preparing him for the impending meat. He made wordless noises of
appreciation and parted his thick legs more to give Dier access, sweat
trickling down his face from his short sandy hair, pooling in his thick
short beard. Then the fingers were gone and it was the head of his dick
being pushed slowly between his cheeks, and he could hear Eric's
concentrated moans. He tried to look over his shoulders, catching a
sliver of the beautiful sight, the big muscular midfielder beginning to
mount him. Ohhhh yes...

Soon Eric was pushing into him, stretching him. Luke yelped and
whimpered, exaggerating his noises a little bit to turn the rugged
charmer on, and enjoying the sound of his own pleasured voice mingling
with the other two bottoms -- `Oh Ben,' gasped Jack, `oh yes baby',
and `Fuck, fuck, you're HUGE,' James was whimpering -- as the three
pairings began to fuck. Luke alternated between staring at the other two
couples and just letting his eyes close so he could really focus on the
sensual delight of Eric's thick member entering him and sliding back and
forth. It was hard to just relax and centre himself on the intense
pleasure of that when he was being treated to these sights, though! Ben
Chilwell, stocky with muscle, piling down on Grealish, fucking him into
the ground with powerful strokes, holding his slim waist and ploughing
the cheeks that Luke had always admired tightly packed into Aston Villa
shorts; Harry Maguire on his side, gripping Maddison to him and pushing
his dick with some difficulty inside the young lad. This was clearly not
James' first fuck, but it was likely the Leicester player had never
taken anything so big.

`God you're tight,' Dier whimpered at him from behind, now buried deep
in him.

`And you feel amazing,' Shaw whispered back. `Fuck me, mate, go on...'

Eric began to slide back and forth artfully, his actions ringing with
confidence and experience as he handled Luke's big body and fed his big
prick into his tight muscular hole. Luke kept position, enjoying the
doggy-style fuck and the views it offered him, excited by the outside
setting and the beautiful natural world around them. He gasped in rhythm
with the strokes of Eric's strength, and couldn't help but fantasise
about what blokes big Dier had been inside to do this with such masterful
assertion. Ben and Harry, those two big-dicked former teammates, were
ploughing their chosen arses more roughly, and Luke was enjoying the
smooth carefulness of his temporary lover, something different and
entirely sexy. Eric Dier was his gift, and he was taking it with the love
it was intended, his cock rock hard between his shaking thighs.

But then another gift was offered to him. Chilwell, panting, was climbing
off Jack's body, flopping aside with a weary laugh, and playing with his
big nob; then slapping and stroking Jack's bare back, and looking over
his body, right at him. `Your turn?' he asked teasingly, whilst kissing
Grealish between the shoulderblades then on the crown, stroking and
messing with his shaggy loose hair. As Luke stared at this offer, he felt
the slow drag of Eric withdrawing from him, leaving his hole gaping for a
moment, then slowly rubbing the wet tip of it against one of his cheeks;
with his other hand, the sexy top slapped him on the side and chuckled.
`Go on, birthday boy,' he murmured.

Luke clambered eagerly forward for his next treat. Grealish remained in
position and twisted his head to look up at him, grinning, their eyes
meeting briefly -- but then he was turning away, because Chilwell was
pulling at his face and stooping to kiss him, controlling and relaxing
him as Luke clambered up to his backside and took the lube that Dier
tossed his way, squirting some into his palm and rubbing it thoroughly
over his own hard cock. Wow, he thought, just look at those buttocks. Was
Jack Grealish's the sexiest little arse in the Premiership? (Luke had
sometimes privately wondered if that title belonged to his own heavy
behind, but he supposed it was really just a matter of taste.)

He pushed a couple of fingers inside the Villa stud first, though he'd
already been opened up by Ben's massive one, but it seemed only polite;
then he pressed his dick forward and rubbed and pulled open those
gorgeous tanned globes above the thick hairy thighs. Jack was up on his
knees in front of him, supported and cuddled and kissed by Ben, so that
actually Luke reached over to grab and squeeze that hunk's firm muscular
backside too, staking some claim in both gorgeous fellas as he began to
shove his cock inside Grealish. Ahead of them, he saw, Maddison was on
his knees, spit-roasted by the two powerful figures of Dier and Maguire.
Yet again, Shaw's attention was fragmented by the excitement of the
orgy, unable to fully focus on the intense delight of a tight ring on his
member because he was also trying to enjoy everything he could see and
hear. Still, even distracted, this felt GOOD.

He entered Jack and stroked up and down his back and his sides, trying to
be firm but soothing, knowing as he did how it felt to be taken like
this. Ben was moving around to simulate the action of the others too,
moving into position so that Jack could stoop down and lick and suck at
his massive dick whilst Luke pushed deeper in him. Grealish and Maddison
were both fully occupied now, fucked at either end by the other studs.
Luke met eyes with Ben again over the gorgeous shared property of Jack's
body, and he realised just how handsome and lovable young Chilwell was --
but instead of a return to previous simmering jealousy, he just felt a
strong appreciation that he was getting a bit of everything here. He
tried to imagine Harry ringing Ben up at some point to suggest this wild
meeting, calling in favours with these sexy friends, all to satisfy HIM...
wow...

He could have lost control then and just fucked Grealish until he filled
him up, and he did pick up some pace and begin to pound him more heavily,
loving the fleshy slap of Jack's buttocks on his pelvis. But Jack,
moaning wildly, began to pull away from him, and he relented, sliding
back with weak, ecstatic groans. Jack was grappling for Ben, clearly done
with playing bottom for now; ah, Luke realised, a bit of equality there,
then... Ben was happily sliding onto his back on the grass and lifting his
thick defender's legs while Jack bore down on him for his turn in
charge. As Grealish began to fuck Chilwell, Luke realised that the other
threesome had also separated, and he picked himself off the ground to
shuffle forward. Maguire and Dier were in the middle of swapping ends,
Eric taking up position behind Maddison, but Luke reached out and grabbed
Harry by the end.

`I need you now,' he said demandingly, loud enough for them all to hear
it. Well, they all needed to know. This mountain of a man was HIS.

Harry, who was holding his big lubed up cock in one hand and wobbling on
his knees to go round to slap it against James' red cheeks, turned and
fixed him with the most intense stare before answering. `Oh aye,' he
grunted, `you fucking do.' And then he was tugging Luke's wrist
forward, pulling him rapidly into a hug, both of them on their knees
beside James, who just groaned and whimpered as Eric slapped and pinched
his bottom and lubed up his cock afresh.

The world span as Harry's strong hands grabbed Luke around the sides and
pushed him roughly back down into the grass, which scratched and
irritated his broad bare back. The outdoor scene cast him back to
Christmas Day and the icy woods near that rented home, where Maguire had
first tried to mount him. God, things had been so different between them
then. How far it had all come in six and a bit months. Luke lay there and
realised he didn't need to do a thing, not move a muscle; his lover
hoisted and parted his strong legs into the air so he could mount him in
almost missionary style, guiding his cock between his chubby cheeks and
finding his twitching hole, readied by Eric. And then Harry was on top of
him and inside him, everything to him; it was like the sights and sound
of the two fucking pairs either side of them on the lawn just VANISHED
and all that remained were two things: the deep, penetrating power of
Maguire inside him, and the intensity with which their eyes connected,
their mouths hanging an inch or two apart, caught on the edge of a kiss.
In this position, Harry railed him to the ground, thrusting like a piston
and claiming his arse completely.

`Yes,' Luke screamed, letting go like never before, here in the middle
of nowhere, `oh yes, oh yes, fuck me, fuck meeeee, FUCK ME...'

Grass and leaves and twigs scratched at the back of his arms, at his big
shoulders, at the upper curve of his meaty behind, but his hole was
satisfyingly pulverised and the almost bruising touch of Harry's hands
on his chest and biceps felt like magic. The gap between their mouths
closed and his squeals were lost in a long, wet kiss. Harry's sweat
dripped on him and mingled with his. When the kiss broke, they were still
staring into each other's eyes, and now their voices were low and
private, nothing for the other four to hear. `I fucking love you,'
Harry reaffirmed in a deep growl that he almost felt inside him, `I love
you so much.'

Luke silenced him with a fresh kiss before saying it too. `You're all
I've ever wanted,' he admitted, knowing it to be true.

Harry fucked on, grunting with each thrust, but the deeply satisfied
groans of Ben and James had ceased or quietened or at least changed, and
the men were scrabbling closer again, bodies brushing and stroking. Luke
felt Harry slow then stop then pull out, but his disappointment was
shortlived; Maguire gripped his forearms tightly and yanked him up in one
movement, then flipped him around, with the kind of grace and ease that
their drunken attempt to carry him upstairs last night had failed at.
Luke laughed loudly at the rushing sensation of it, his big sturdy figure
a ragdoll against the big defender's strength, pressing him into new
position. `OH YES,' he groaned, his arse pressing back down on Harry's
cock in a sitting position, slipping onto the big man's lap and held
back against the tight hard muscles of his torso. Luke began to work his
legs too to follow the bouncing motion, sitting into Harry's upward
thrusts, fucked in this seated position whilst Ben Chilwell was suddenly
between his legs, kissing his bollocks and the underside of his cock.
Jack was on the floor, sucking Ben. James was next to him, leaning in and
kissing one of his nipples. Eric, he suddenly realised, was standing on
the other side, wanking furiously, guiding his cock towards his face so
that Luke could lean over a bit and suck the tip, even as he was fucked
powerfully from below.

The gorgeous position could not be sustained for long, too uncomfortable
and strenuous for both Luke and Harry's aching bodies. Luke even felt a
twinge of new pain in his injured ankle, forgotten about in the heady
rush of the orgy. The other men's bodies stretched and posed around him,
a dazzling buffet of options. But all he really wanted was Harry! Once he
was off his dick, he was turning around and pushing him down towards the
ground, shoving his pecs back so his big towering figure fell onto the
bouncy lawn, allowing Luke to drop down and suck on him, wrapping his
lips around that beautiful rod. Someone was sucking his own dick too but
he no longer knew or cared if it was Ben or Jack or James. In fact, he
realised, there were multiple mouths down there.

Luke was the first of them to cum, which seemed to be the desperate
effort of them all. He was lying in Harry's open crotch licking the
treat of his big throbbing hard-on, but as his body crashed with
pleasure, he had to look around and down himself, finding Jack sucking
him off and Ben kissing his balls, and Eric on the other side of his
horizontal body, gently kissing his cheeks and reaching to flick his
tongue against his crotch. Three mouths, one goal: his climax. He turned
and stared up Harry's body, meeting his eyes, seeming the sheer
enjoyment on his face, and not just at the greedy blowjob he was giving.
It amazed him to see how much Maguire could enjoy his enjoyment. He could
have blown then and there, with three tongues flickering against his most
sensitive areas, but...

`Come here,' Harry growled at him, reading his mind. Luke pulled
instantly away form the others, who took the message. He clambered up
alongside Harry, who wrapped an arm about him, gripping their sweaty
bodies together; mentally, the past twelve hours vanished, and it was
late at night in the sweaty loft bedroom, when Harry had edged and teased
him into exhaustion. Harry's hand was on his cock and their lips met.
For all the sucking and fucking, this was all it took. Luke whimpered
into his lover's mouth and blew his load, spilling sticky cum all over
the ridges of his man's six pack, whole body shaking at this
long-delayed orgasm.

The rest of it became a dizzy blur for Luke Shaw. Having spunked over
Maguire, he still grabbed at his own dick, which refused to stop being
hard and still felt weirdly sensitive, but the movements of the other men
were in a glamorous slow motion and he felt like he was truly enjoying
the filth of the party from a distance, his own private porno to watch
and enjoy over and over in his head.

He saw Ben Chilwell grabbing James Maddison to him and pulling him close
in standing position, clearly entering him from behind and thrusting
madly at him. He saw Jack Grealish on his knees, sucking off a loudly
moaning Eric Dier. He saw Harry lying beside him, wanking himself off and
watching the others, while cuddling one arm about his own body and
keeping him close. But then Luke blinked and it all seemed to flip
around: now Ben was on his knees sucking on Harry in front of them, and
Jack was behind him, fucking his chunky backside, and it was James on his
knees taking Eric's load as the Tottenham star howled out his pleasure.

One by one, the men completed. Dier fed his heavy load to Maddison and
left streaks of it in his beard and hair then collapsed onto the grass,
body glistening and heaving; Maddison came in a frenzy of wanking,
shooting much of it on Luke's body and some on Harry's, lost in an
almost transcendental climax; Grealish seemed to cum inside Chilwell and
collapse on top of him in a moaning cuddle, still impaling his arse;
Maguire and Chilwell seemed to cum at the same time, the United beast
oozing into his ex-teammate's mouth while the Leicester star's seed
spilled over his and Luke's thick hairy calves. And then, spent, the men
were a heap of bodies, heaving and panting and sweating and laughing.
Above them, the birds sang and the treetops swayed in a breeze, and the
sun shone gloriously.

Luke felt something sticky against his face and tried to figure out whose
messy load he had missed out in his dazed voyeurism, still toying with
his aching cock; he twisted his head a little, getting more gooey mess on
his beard cheek and then his nose an then his lips... He was turning his
face straight into the broken remains of the birthday cake, squashed
where he lay, smearing his neck and shoulder in multicoloured icing and
leaking crumbs and jam on to the grass. He licked his lips and burst out
laughing, overwhelmingly happy.



`Thanks for, erm, coming,' Luke said with a bashful laugh. It felt
strange, wrapping his arms around the chunk body of the 6ft2 footballer
in pleasantly intimate goodbye; he'd had his cock in him at both ends
and seen him unload, but hugging through their dry clothes and feeling
his ticklish beardy peck on the cheek still felt strange and taboo. Eric
patted him gently on the back and eased out of the hug, smiling warmly at
him. Dier turned to Maguire, next to him, and the two men didn't quite
hug, just a manly handshake that almost made Luke laugh again. Oh, of
course, too manly for hugs, right...

The currently banned Spurs player gave a final wave over at the other
three, who he'd already bid his goodbyes to, and climbed into his car,
at the far end of the cottage's sweeping driveway. Luke watched his
hesitant, rosy-cheeked grin, seeing just how much Dier had enjoyed his
secret trip to the north, away from his London teammates. He wondered how
the big guy felt about coming all this way as a meaty present for the
birthday boy, summoned by Maguire based on their shared experience with
Harry Winks. For a second, Luke allowed himself that greedy decadent
thought: god, if only Winks had come up here too...! You spoiled prick, he
told himself with a sickly grin, haven't you had enough for one day...?

So that was Dier gone, pulling out onto the country road and disappearing
between trees that muffled the disappearing sound of his vehicle. Harry
was seeing the others into Jack's BMW, and Luke joined for hugs,
squeezing the shorter, slimmer forms of James and Jack and Ben, grateful
to these handsome young studs and feeling incredibly close to them now
after what they'd shared. He enjoyed the almost manic cheerfulness of
Maddison's goodbye, the smaller lad unable to resist a cheeky grab at
the crotch of his denim shorts before disappearing into the back of the
car with a chuckle. He could feel how much more relaxed Grealish was as
he squeezed him, and the muscular firmness of Chilwell was a pleasure to
briefly hold again. Then, in a blur of chatter, they were going too,
reversing and turning and disappearing.

That left the two of them. He felt Harry's hand slide about his and pull
him slowly into a hug. He rested his face on his shoulder and pulled his
arms about his body, breathing in the mixed scents of soap and
aftershave. The afternoon delight had ended in quiet outdoor naps, then
cosy indoor naps, then a procession of alternatingly hot and cold
showers. A hurried feast of the lunch they'd barely touched, and then
these driveway goodbyes. Above, the light was becoming golden as evening
crept over the Peaks.

Still holding onto Harry, Luke looked up at the cottage, squat and cute
and soon to be deserted. He reluctantly released the hug and steadied
himself, sighing wistfully at the rented venue of their debauchery.
Booked for another night, but needing to be left behind as the men drove
back to Manchester and their `real' lives. Shaw knew better than to
voice his mixed emotions and hopeful fantasies right now -- one glance at
Harry's wilting smile told him that the wish to stay a second night (if
not a third, a fourth, a hundredth) was perfectly repeated in his lover.
There was no point crushing the magic of it by saying it out loud.

Harry was pulling away from him now, dragging on his palm a little,
needing to disappear around the corner and back inside to finish packing
up their things, readying them for the slow winding drive back down to
the city. Luke, petulant and full of love, resisted. He tugged on that
big firm hand, holding his ground on the gravel drive beside Harry's
jeep. The United captain turned and gave him a lopsided, playful grin.
`I need to get our things,' he said unnecessarily, then laughed softly.
His gravelly laugh was full of all today's pleasures, everything they'd
shared. Including the more intimate second fuck and orgasm they'd
enjoyed in the creaking bed upstairs while the others either napped
downstairs or got up to their own communal mischief.

`I know,' Luke sighed. `Just...'

`Don't say it,' Harry told him with a smile that covered their shared
pain.

`No, not that. I know we need to go. Just...'

`What is it?' An almost fearful pause. `You loved it, didn't you? The
cottage, the plan, the lads...?'

`I loved it,' Luke confirmed brightly. `I did, I really did.'

`I feel a but coming that's as big as yours, Lukey.'

`There's no but, baby. It was... amazing. I can't get over that you
planned that, and... It's just -- okay, a JUST is not a BUT... It's only
that I want you to know...' He pulled him back closer as he said it, not
wanting to shout out his thoughts for the woodland birds to hear this
time. `I want to make sure you know that if you'd booked this cottage
and driven me out here and it had just been you and I for the night and
day... it would be enough.' He looked at him as sincerely and lovingly as
he could, needing this to be clear. `You are enough, always.'

He saw the tender relief in Harry's eyes, felt the squeeze of his hand.
`I wanted you to have everything,' Maguire told him faintly.

`And I loved it,' Luke said very firmly. `I loved it. I loved sharing
those guys with you, sharing you with them. I loved what it felt like,
what I saw, what happened... I loved seeing YOU with THEM. And Eric Dier
might be the best toy any boy was given for his birthday. Just... don't
think that I need that, Harry. Don't think that you ever have to push to
give me more, or share me, or... You ARE everything to me,' he concluded
lamely, before his monologue ran on. `You want me to have everything,
but I already got it. I am NOT complaining about a picnic orgy, I'm
really not. I just hope you know how happy I was as soon as we were in
your car leaving Manchester. Okay?'

Harry stood there stiffly, as terrible as ever at showing emotion. All he
responded with was a slight jerk of his big head, and a squeeze of his
warm palm, and then he turned away to head indoors and grab their stuff.
Did Luke see the faint spark of a tear in one of his eyes? Or was that
just the emotion misting his own? Alone for a minute, he wiped his
knuckles over his moist eyes and blinked away the summertime sadness of
the moment. A beautiful birthday party, but parties always had to end. He
trudged around the corner to follow Harry indoors and collect their
stuff, ready to finish the trip and head back to reality.



*DUNNO ABOUT YOU GUYS, BUT I'M JUST GONNA GO FOR A COLD SHOWER NOW...
HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUKE SHAW!*


'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
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Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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