Date: Tue, 1 Sep 2020 18:34:03 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads part 174: Benchwarmers Part 174: Benchwarmers Harvey Elliot watched the Community Shield game, the annual clash between the League winners and FA Cup victors, slip away from Liverpool with one dodgy penalty. Like everyone else on the edge of the pitch, he gasped into sweaty palms and sat back tensely in his seat, feeling the difficult pre-season game swing into Arsenal's favour yet again. He was not just a committed young player for the Merseyside club, but a lifelong fan in spite of his Surrey roots; and on a game like this where he hadn't even been brought on for a short spell at the end of the match, he regressed into simply watching as a fan rather than a professional, buttocks clenched and lip bitten down, hoping for more silverware at Anfield but sensing that luck was not on their side, hadn't really been since early on in the 90 minutes. He was sat with the team's other unused substitutes, their bench-warmers, sulking a little at not getting to play his part, but also just gripped by the high drama of it. Young Frenchman Koumetio stared out in awe and Serbian midfielder Grujic seemed to be sending out a prayer; burly Spanish goalkeeper Adrian was stood with his hands on hips, poised as if in physical affinity with the stressed-out goalies at work. An empty Wembley Stadium stretched about them, perhaps giving Arteta's Gunners an unofficial home advantage compared to Liverpool, freshly landed from Austria and passing through London on their way north. The Liverpool boss, Jurgen Klopp, was stood with his legs wide apart and his arms folded, seeming to bite the nails on hand and as he studied the men lining up to finish the penalties; about him, a gaggle of coaching assistants, a couple of players recovering from injury, the still-panting figures of lads who had been taken off earlier in the match. Key players like their captain Hendo, their solid Ox and plucky young Alexander-Arnold, all posed with the edgy frustration of blaming their own absence, and sweaty substituted Milner and Firmino slumped almost defeatedly in front-row seats; Elliott's close pal and former housemate Williams sat between them, puffing and red-faced and anxious. As one, the assembly craned forward a little to watch as Takumi stepped up to take a fourth shot for Liverpool, the score now standing at 4-3; only poor Brewster had failed, putting the London team ahead. Takumi's goal went neatly in, but then so did the Arsenal counterpart. Finally, Harvey's other young pal on the squad was making his way up to the line and playing his part, Curtis Jones ready to fire one in -- he watched with a mixture of rapt optimism and selfish envy, wishing he was taking one of these pot-shots and helping to deliver a final flourish to an amazing domestic season. And in it went, the final penalty for Liverpool! 4-4 now, with just one opportunity left for Arsenal. The problem being, Harvey realised, that they had saved their best til last... He couldn't actually bring himself to see Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang step up and do it. The chances of the French striker fluffing it here and now felt infinitesimal, and it made Harvey queasy with acceptance at the loss. As a footballer, he respected Arsenal's surprising resurgence this summer; as a Liverpool fan, he wanted to bound down the edge of the pitch and kick the shins of every Gooner cunt standing watching. Partly with this heated annoyance and partly because it was too painful to watch Aubameyang limber up, he stared down the line at the Arsenal camp on the other side of the tunnel mouth instead. It was the rush of gold-blond hair that caught his eye before the familiarity of the face, but once he recognised him he momentarily forgot the ridiculous tension mounting around Arsenal's last penalty. The other young player was in a similar position to him, club-branded sweatshirt stilled pulled over his kit, arms looped about his bare knees, hunched forward to watch the match be decided from his bench-warming position on the second row of distanced seats: Emile Smith Rowe, Arsenal's 20-year-old attacking midfielder and fellow Surrey scally. He'd kinda forgot that big Emile played for Arsenal -- the broad six footer had been out on loan first in Germany and then in Huddersfield (what a contrast) last season, only now seemed to be back in contention at the club he'd trained for. Harvey and Emile didn't quite know each, hadn't quite grown up together, but they were both conscious of their similar routes on the southernmost fringes of London. They'd played for similar local youth sides, a couple of years apart, and had a number of local friends in common. At some point in the past two years, the two then-teens had struck up a bit of DM banter about it, amused that their young lives criss-crossed so much in Croydon and in the League, but never having met properly face-to-face. Now here he was, 20 now and looking fucking burly, in pretty much the same up-and-coming career position as Elliott, despite his three-year head-start. When the Arsenal winning penalty crashed into the net and Liverpool's last job at a bonus trophy clattered aside, Harvey was still staring thoughtfully across the gap at the other young player, who was immediately leaping up to celebrate with the lads around him, his shorts pulling tightly about his thighs as he grabbed at the neighbouring player and shook a triumphant fist as hard as if he'd shot the winning goal himself. He was a big handsome fuck, Harvey thought with free licentiousness, more than happy now to appreciate the handsome buggers that occupied this sport. The groans and muttering around him brought the Liverpool player back to reality and disappointment, though there was a lot of air-clapping for the opposition and magnanimous sighs; it was hard to take the defeat too hard when every one of them was still riding on the unadultered joy of the Premiership win, from manager and chairman to unused benchwarmers. Andy Robertson had to take a moment to catch him on his way past and off the pitch; it would be bad form to make much of it, or to congratulate him too heavily, here and now, but he could hardly exit the lost game without a pause to acknowledge his fellow mighty Scot. He swerved his slow route off the grass and swung out an elbow to knock gently with his in the now familiar affectionate gesture of social distancing. `Kieran,' the Liverpool defender grunted gruffly, looking the exhausted Arsenal left-back up and down and slowing his stride for a moment, the two of them very distant from the penalty showdown that had settled the match, but integral to the slow draw that had necessitated it. `Andy,' gasped the younger left-back immediately, pausing in his own stride towards the celebrating mass of his teammates. `Well played, pal,' his fellow Caledonian said quickly and respectfully, but Andy cut him off with a brusque laugh and shook his head. `Deserving winners,' Robertson told the ex-Celtic man, lingering for a moment at his side as other red-clad Liverpool players streamed by and into the tunnel mouth, quietly dejected with the outcome. Andy hovered there, grinning through his bearded sweaty face at Scotland's other great Premiership breakthrough of the past year, always glad to bump into him on English soil. `You could tell your face though. Everything okay? You do not look like a winner right now?' `Huh?' Tierney's response was a little sharp and distant, frowning and staring at him, then looking sharply past him at the antics of the other Arsenal men, then softening again. `Oh, sorry -- just. Tiring game!' He dragged a sweaty arm over his thin face and shook himself, looking like he'd played a heavy extra time as well as the majority of 90 minutes. Andy paused with a note of concern, his smile fading a little. `It is tough getting back to match fitness,' he said vaguely. `Aye,' Kieran agreed quietly, not looking at him. `I'll let ye go celebrate with yer pals then...' `Aye, aye...' Glancing back, rubbing his pointed chin, seeming to pause uncomfortably. Just then, the lad's manager passed them by and reached out to squeeze his shoulder through his shirt before hurrying on into the fray of celebrating players, ready to lead them in accepting their prize, the Community Shield; Andy glanced for a second at Arteta, the wiry young Arsenal manager and former ace, then back at Kieran, who was pulling uncomfortably away from him as if he didn't want to be seen speaking to an enemy in here. Fair enough. `Catch up soon,' Andy said quietly to him, unsure if he was heard, backing off into the disappearing ranks of his teammates. `Aye,' he heard Kieran mumble as he turned away and walked slowly, hands on hips, after Mikel and the others, something heavy and uncertain in his gait. By now, most of the Liverpool players had already retreated, but Klopp never had any issue with his young athletes witnessing and appreciating the success of others: Harvey lingered on the pitch in his fresh, unsoiled kit, letting his narrow eyes hunt out his prey amongst the jubilant Arsenal men milling about, posing with the slick silverware and revelling in the auspicious forerunner to a new season. In all fairness, there were a good few men there who could catch the teen's eye, just as there was in his own squad -- he'd considered abandoning this curiosity to rush on into the Liverpool locker-room now so that he could make faux innocent eyes at deeply conflicted Mo across the room, or get a good eyeful of Big Joe in the showers, even sniff out Trent for a second munch -- but right now the sexually charged young sportsman was set on one target. There he was, bumbling about the edge of the celebrations with that awkward air of someone who knows they haven't really contributed to the group work, but really still wants the credit. Tall and thick-legged, the blond midfielder shifted about from boot to boot, clapping and hollering sporadically, but not really drawn into the hugs and posing of the main squad who he must barely know after his loan spells. Harvey picked his moment and sidled through the melee to approach him, appearing at his side with a nudge of elbow and shooting him a little wink. `Hey big man,' he muttered, `congrats on the silver...' `Oh, hey,' Emile barked in obvious surprise, seeming to expect an Arsenal teammate as he whirled about, but then grinning broadly at the indirect praise and nodding his head furiously. `Yeah, what a few months for my boys, eh, think we might have you guys on the run when the season gets going, what you sayin'?' They both laughed happily at the free ambition of the claim and their own peripheral roles in the success they were batting back and forth. Up close, Harvey thought, the Croydon lad was even more attractive, a mix of angelic youth and street-smart dirt in his good looks, shoulders almost bursting out of his red Arsenal sweatshirt, thigh muscle bulging below the low cut of his shorts. The teen looked him up and down shamelessly, always relatively safe behind the obscure assumption that all footballers are 100% heterosexual. Except that this screen that usually allowed the 17-year-old to ogle his Liverpool teammates with impunity wasn't quite working -- he looked back up the other Surrey lad's lofty physique and caught a bemused grin on those curving pink-red lips that made him feel suddenly foolish. Here they were, metres from where the main Arsenal squad were gallivanting around their trophy in front of a camera, and he was so obviously checking out a lad in public. `You know what I mean?' Smith Rowe grunted at him. `We are on our way up, bruv.' `Eh? Oh, sure,' Harvey sniggered back, shrugging, more aware suddenly of the few years between them. `See you in the top four then, right?' He smirked challengingly at this sort-of friend who he'd barely spoken to face to face, just tagged in Croydon memes and fired banter at by message whenever one of their sides had a bad game. `Top four? Top two,' Emile chuckled at him. Yeah, there it was again, that odd mix of attractive innocence and suggestive naughtiness in his face and his whole manner. He seemed to have grown up a lot in his season of loan work, a man rather than the boy who Harvey had first become familiar with when he used to hear about his talents from shared local coaches as kids. `Oh yeh don't be cocky,' he teased him. `Can't held that, bruv, born that way!' Emile laughed back and winked. Harvey had become increasingly confident and demanding in his curiosities; the days of overdoing the weed and shyly initiating gentle fumbles with Welsh Neco had quickly given way to the bolshy appetite of going down on Joe Gomez and Trent, of crawling into Salah's bed and luring him into the woods four nights in a row in Austria; if he had to spot a turning point, he knew it had been getting his chops around Ross Barkley's massive piece in the front of his motor. Since that delicious midnight snack, he'd felt invincibly lucky and free to dip his toes in any kinky sea he passed. But in spite of all that, he found himself blushing now, seeing that knowing leer on Emile's face -- after all, how could you ever really tell? Was the young Arsenal fella joking about? Winding him up? Showing off? Inviting him in...? `Community Shield not the only fuckin' prize round here, innit,' Emile burst out in a low snigger, punching him once in the arm then glancing about them at the chaotic whirl of his own teammates, then stroking at his glossy blond hair and eyeing Harvey up in a way that was unmistakably predatorial. Harvey gave him a toothy grin back and threw caution to the wind. `Well Community Shield isn't the only fuckin' prize I wanna get my hands on,' he muttered back, not actually daring a look at the other lad as he said it, just grinning about them and watching as some of the more senior Arsenal players hoisted one another on shoulders and waved the gleaming prize in the air for a rush of photographers on the turf. `Shame your mates can't all take penalties then,' teased the big Croydon lad, and Elliott felt a mild stab of annoyance and doubt, feeling the banter between them shift back towards footy as was normal, the moment's frisson maybe just an illusion of his own oversexed imagination; he was probably making a tit of himself here, lingering about with the winners when he should be listening to irritable loser talk behind the scenes, admiring safer targets and wondering if he could get his tongue around that thick Muslim cock once more before Mo Salah lost his cool. `But then they didn't let you have a go,' Emile added, just as he was about to back off, `and I bet you take a shot really well.' Lower voice, gruff and murmured but audible against the excitement around them, `Take it all over your pretty face, kiddo.' Fuck. Harvey looked directly at him, feeling a little burn of blush somewhere in his high fuzzy cheeks, grinning through his tight lips, scanning Emile's eyes and smirk for irony. `Who you callin' pretty, choirboy?' he fired back, keeping his own voice hot and low. `You're right,' chuckled the Arsenal player, `pretty's not the word, bruv...' He leaned in, resting three fingers for a moment on Harvey's shoulder, `but you'll look prettier with my load dripping off your beard, you little cunt...' Harvey shuddered with the naughty thrill of it, the rough dirty talk and the riskiness of muttering it right here and now, fuck! He grinned wide-eyed at his opponent and target and felt his cock twitch in his clean briefs. `Don't be teasin' me now, big boy,' he whispered, elbowing him again and shuffling a bit on the spot, `don't be promisin' what you can't deliver...' Emile's hand grabbed at his shoulder a bit more and he leaned in closer, confidentially muttering in his ear before pulling sharply away to re-join the celebrations. `Upstairs mens toilets in ten minutes, the first ones you come to after the changing rooms, got it?' The invite came quick and rushed and Emile was instantly being pulled into a little dancing hug and celebration with some of his older more established teammates, finally seeing fit to include the young substitutes in their revelry. In the changing rooms, Neco Williams pulled off his Liverpool shirt and enjoyed the way stray drops of cold water struck his neck and chest as he glugged from a sports bottle, finding his spot in the busy Wembley locker-room surrounded by his champion teammates. Defeated but optimistic, he thought, glad of the camaraderie and acceptance; they'd won too much in recent years to take this hard, but nobody wanted to seem complacent or casual. For himself, he was just glad to have been given a start by the gaffer, a sure sign that he would make more and more appearances as the real season got underway in a couple of weeks. The tall young Welshman guzzled more cooling water from his bottle, pulling and fidgeting at the waist of his shorts and underpants, but keeping his lean muscular torso bare to cool off in the instantly crowded space, not quite tuning in to the buzz of conversation around them -- jokey dismissal of Arsenal's recent silverware, ambitious banter about what would happen when they faced each other next in the league, that sort of thing. Automatically, Neco looked about for his fellow younger members of the Premiership squad, seeking their take on the defeat and the penalty shootout. But Curtis Jones was over the far side of the room talking to Salah, and Harvey Elliott was nowhere to be seen; Neco was left here in this corner, with Milner quietly undressing at one side and the big goalkeeper Alisson singing to himself on the other. And then suddenly another figure was with them, approaching through the close gathering -- still out on injury, their beloved captain Jordan Henderson was kitted out in team tracksuits all the same, leaning out of nowhere suddenly and grabbing him in a surprising hug. `Oh, skipper,' Williams yelped, almost hefted off his feet by the force of the embrace from the Liverpool leader, one of his strong arms wrapping about his bare back to pull him in for the hug, the other reaching up to tug briefly at his dark curls and then pat the back of his head. `Great lad!' Hendo yelled somewhere by his ear, pulling him forward and squeezing him a little, holding onto him for thirty seconds, then releasing him with the same force. The Sunderland-born star stood right in front of him, grinning happily into his face as if they'd won the match and the Shield; Neco stared blearily back, taken aback by the force of his captain's admiration. The 19-year-old steadied himself, finding a humble grin back for the fellow 6ft man, very pleased to hear the simple compliment hollered out for everyone around them to hear. `Thanks,' he began dumbly. `Excellent work out there, Neco,' Hendo told him earnestly. `You did well, Klopp will be so fuckin' pleased, marra.' Another brash reach forward and clumsy tussle of Neco's curling mop, then a pinch of his cheek that would be patronising and infuriating coming from almost anyone else. `You've a great future here, Williams, you sure do,' the skipper enthused. `Shame we couldn't clinch it, but I'm so fuckin' proud of how you fought out there today.' The praise now was so strong and incongruous that he almost felt embarrassed, saw Milner lift a cynical eyebrow and Alisson chuckle vaguely to himself, but Jordan himself was just beaming proudly at him. `I always give my all,' Neco said blandly to the older guy, hugging his water bottle to his chest and avoiding a little blush of pride at being singled out by the skipper. `But fuckin' kind of you to notice, Hendo, really is...' He grinned awkwardly at him now, receiving a final gesture of appreciation, a simple pat against the hard bare flesh of his shoulder before Hendo was pulling back, limping slightly still, and bustling across the dressing room making other little reaches and gestures to men -- accosting this or that player and shouting some words of encouragement, ever the strong leader even when his fitness wasn't allowing him on the pitch. Neco paused, still half in his kit, the two older men beside him vanishing for the showers, leaving him alone to stare after the captain and consider two things: the giddy pleasure he felt in receiving Henderson's captain's praise... and the oddly immature little bursts of envy at spotting other teammates receive the same encouragement now. He skulked away as discreetly as he could, fiddling a bit at the tight knot of his man-bun and glancing back over his shoulder as he eloped through the echoey Wembley passages and found the stairwell. He could still see the little glint in Rowe's eye and the twisting smirk on his plump lips as he leaned in to mutter so invitingly in his ear. Behind him, the Liverpool players were still licking their wounds and beginning to make jokey references back to the Premiership win, drawing on that greater achievement to drown their dismay at how this evening had gone against Arsenal. Harvey's absence was unlikely to be noticed too heavily, though he supposed he would need to be quick. He was already a bit stiff and swollen in the tight grey briefs beneath his footy shorts, had been since he was gently pulled close to the older substitute and told when and where to meet. Fuck, this was fun, he'd already more or less loss interest in the poor outcome of the match, thinking only of the ambiguous fun that would await him. He grinned wickedly from ear to ear and cleared the steps two at a time, hurrying onto a spacious landing and immediately spying the gendered doorways across it. Another furtive glance behind him down the stairs -- he could still almost hear the echoing voices of winners and losers following him down the tunnel -- and across the landing and then quick steps of his thickly muscled short legs taking him to the doorway, which he opened with a shove of one shoulder, spilling into the dimly lit space and pausing immediately. He wasn't sure if he'd expected Emile to be up here already before him, or still hanging about the likes of Aubemayang and the other penalty-winning Arsenal players, soaking up the fun of the Shield. But the tall blond lad was already here, out of his heavier sweatshirt and just in the new red-and-white marbled look of his unused Arsenal shirt, a heavy shoulder slouched into the pole dividing two cubicles; but, as Harvey quickly registered, the grinning 6ft attacker was not alone. Two more Arsenal benchwarmers occupied the small rectangular room too, two more young lads still in full kit but for their boots, thick socks rolled down to almost their ankles. There was Tyreece John-Jules, bent forward over one of the sinks using some kinda hotel key card to cut a line, and sitting back against the other sink with a moody look on his face was James Olayinka. The two 19-year-old black lads turned their eyes distrustfully towards the door as Harvey stumbled in, but he fixed his worried gaze on Emile himself, trying to establish how far he'd misread the banter or jokes and how he was gonna reassert himself now this wasn't quite what he'd expected. There was a heavy sniff from the sink and Ty backed away from it, tapping at one nostril and shaking his head a little, flashing a toothy grin towards Harvey. `Want any, mate?' the young Londoner offered vaguely, still wrinkling flared nostrils and blinking as the drug fizzed through his lean athletic body. Emile had slid across in two steps and stooped over to the do the same and James had stepped forward, that sulky glower still in his vivid eyes and pouting lips. Harvey just stood there looking from one guy to another, far from averse to a bit of fairy dust, but thrown by the scenario and conscious of the bulge in the front of his red shorts. Emile was turning back this way, wiping a forearm over his nose and giving a heady little giggle. `Nah, this one isn't even old enough for the booze, lads,' he was muttering dismissively, though his grin and eyes were fixed on Harvey in that same lusty and attentive manner that was so confusing. A loud snort from Olayinka behind him. Emile's grin tightened and his head jerked a little to the side, nodding over to the open of the two cubicles. `Well, come on,' the Croydon lad barked, and Harvey dared to shape a new idea of the situation. In confirmation of his suspicions, he saw the grin widen on Tyreece's handsome face, and one of his hands slide down to the front of his dark maroon shorts to hold himself there. Harvey let out a slow breath, nodded once, and stepped forward into their midst, then angled his steps to the cubicle. The cameras flashed and buzzed -- there had been dozens of photoshoots and selfies out on the green already, but the attention and self-praise carried on indoors as man after man, pair after pair, group after group, all posed with the Shield or in various positions of celebratory excitement. And now it was Kieran's turn, the big silver dish shoved into his callused defender's hands as he beamed clumsily at a team photographer just outside the Arsenal changing room, struggling to convey all his pride and ambition in a few simple expressions for the lens. Tierney never felt too comfortable in front of a camera, doubtful about his own looks and charisma, jealously cynical about his more attention-seeking football friends. And then he wasn't alone, the cameraman was gesturing at someone else; a hand was on his shoulder, reaching around, and a warm place presence was beside him, taking some grip of the big silverware, posing with him. Mikel Arteta's smell was so distinctive, a woody and expensive aftershave, luxurious and foreign-smelling. The short tanned Spaniard leaned in beside him in his suit, gripping both the dish and Kieran's shoulder, flashy white teeth and arched dark brows all posed for the camera, something slick and corporate in the ex-player. Tierney held his awkward pose for the snap, knowing he needed to look even prouder and happier now for this moment -- Arteta had been so publicly lavish in praising him and commenting on his solid role at the club, his importance to the upcoming campaign, his potential for captaincy. Kieran had respected the young Spanish manager, this up-and-coming Guardiola, all through last season, appreciated his faith and support at all times, especially during his injury spell... But... As soon as the photographer was distracted, lunging away to catch some laddish banter between two other players, Kieran instinctively yanked his sweaty body away from Mikel's hand and from his beaming smile, thrusting the weight of the trophy into his grip. He looked at it and felt triggered, picturing another piece of silverware the team had won this summer, picturing it in his own apartment, dragged there drunkenly in the night, and... `Kieran?' hissed Mikel's rich voice concernedly, hovering still beside him and seeking his eyes with his. Tierney glared at him, filled with the same doubts and worries as every time they had neared each other in the pre-season training that had preceded today's giant-killing. His memories of the FA Cup night were hazy and incomplete, but in the murky gaps lay horrible suspicions about how far his drunken lust had taken him -- questions hid in his bunched-up muscles and tense posture, and unwanted answers lay in Mikel's glittering eyes and cool grin. Before the manager could form the question that seemed to hover on his lips, Kieran brushed away and back into the changing rooms proper, yanking his footy shirt up and off his strong slim upper body, rushing for the showers to escape Mikel's wandering eyes. The 5ft7 winger pressed his knees against the lino of the floor and hunkered back, instantly feeling dwarf by the other three young footballers piling into the cubicle around him, pulling the door to with a little rusty clatter. Two out of three of them were at 6ft and so now they felt huge over him, his face perfectly at crotch height; surly James was a little shorter than the other lads, but one of his hands was already shoved down the front of his Arsenal shorts and there was an aggressive certainty in his face that made him just as excitingly intimidating. He reached quickly for this prize, pushing his hand against James' own through the shorts fabric, then bringing his right palm in against one of Emile's chunky inner thighs. Almost as one, the three Arsenal substitutes sniggered and murmured -- `Horny little fag...' `Wonder if he's a Champion cocksucker?' `God, that coke's got me horny...' The dirty talk went straight to Harvey's head, the deep rumbling late teen voices and London rude-boy accents. He licked his lips instinctively and pulled down on the material of Olayinka's shorts, grabbing and doing the same to John-Jules. Arsenal shorts were hurriedly dropped around him, thighs more thrillingly exposed; he pawed at them, running his hands over firm young muscle, a forest of hairy leg surrounding him as he swayed on his knees. He nuzzled in now against Emile's crotch first, rubbing his nose and lips on the sizeable shapes in the white trunk underpants, feeling the musty warmth there with his tongue. A mixture of his own dragging fingers and the eagerness of the London youths brought three sets of underpants down as quickly and easily as the stretchy shorts before them, adding cocks and balls to the forest of flesh that circled him in the cramped cubicle. He kissed at Rowe's prick first, loyalty and admiration for his Surrey online pal, and respecting the vague sense that Emile was leader of this naughty little gang. He kissed down the centre of the floppy thick shaft and then rubbed his tongue along the loose fold of foreskin until it stretched and lifted and he could mouth it properly -- but no sooner had he teased some life into the big white lad's nob than he was shifting to his left and pulling James' prick out to run his tongue forcefully over the glistening pink head, then abandoning it and nuzzling at Ty's fat shaven balls. He moved sporadically like this, letting his mouth and his hands flit between the three excited young studs, who were all antsy mutters and coarse swearing. He wondered how new this was to them, whether it was fun they'd dabbled in before, or some and not others? So many questions, he wanted to know everything, but his mouth was too busy to ask questions. In turns, he played the three dicks with the youthful confidence of his limited dabbling: sucking more fully and wetly on Emile's now hard thick length, taking it into his mouth properly, while his hands slid in gentle simultaneous curves around the chubby brown meat of James and Tyreece, his own saliva lubricating his nimble fingers. And then he would swap, leaning over to Ty JJ, noshing down on that tall black stud, pushing up at his white-and-red shirt to rub a little at his impossibly dense abs, so developed for his 19 years; then whirling about and licking under the tight excited ballsack of James, rolling his tongue from there to the shivering rod of his erection. All the while, they muttered at him -- shit talk from team to team, much of it, some enjoyment of Liverpool FC brought to its knees, some stupid shite about Arsenal being the next winners, haha. Harvey couldn't give a fuck, he loved it. He loved being on his knees like this, loved tasting cock after cock, was as stiff as anything in his own pants. Like going down on legendary Mohamed Salah in his own marital bed, it was the setting and the scenario as much as the physicality that made his teenage prick leak with semen in his briefs: a rough young footy lad like himself brought low at the crotches of these three virile London scallies, fuck yes! `Where the fuck is Elliott?' he heard one of the assistant managers ask, brushing past him as they milled out of the changing rooms and through the rabbit warren corridors on the ground floor of Wembley Stadium. The Scottish left-back glanced at the Liverpool coach aimlessly, unable to answer, unable to remember when last he'd noticed Harvey anywhere near them since exiting the pitch. He just shrugged his shoulders and continued on, fresh and warm beneath his lightweight tracksuit, showered and scrubbed from the efforts of the match. Injured and out-of-action like Henderson, Alex ambled heavily at his side, all bulging muscle in a stupidly close-fitting Liverpool tshirt, his hands in his pockets at just the right angle to make his biceps pop and draw the eye. Andy glanced at him and registered the playful smirk on his long smile beneath those adorable freckles, the little glimpsed gap between his front teeth. `What are you grinning at, eh?' the 26-year-old Glaswegian demanded pleasantly, nudging him as they pottered down another echoey hallway towards the doors into the teams car park. `You don't wanna know,' Oxlade-Chamberlain teased quietly, still on a bit of a high every time they were alone -- it was like that morning in the cold Austrian river had intensified the existing lust and affection between the two sportsmen. The both of them seemed to have to fight to keep their hands off each other in even the most stolen moment of isolation, like this, as they exited into the concrete world of the underground car parks and were, for a moment, separated from the rest of the team. `Don't I?' Robertson teased back, enjoying the quiet moment. `Just thinking how much I wanna spend the whole coach trip home wanking you off on the back seat of the bus,' Ox told him in the sort of blandly pleasant tone you might used to comment on the weather, then winked, and shot ahead with a quicker pace. Behind, the doors clanged and opened and shut and opened again as more players emerged, following them out onto the concrete and towards the squat outline of their two decorated coaches. Nearby were similar vehicles for the more local team, the winners, who could be seen spilling out of another exit, Aubameyang leading the way with the Shield hoisted in the air. Andy paused behind Alex to look enviously over, smirking a little with a pretence of disdain, but spotting his Scotland national teammate among the throng and feeling distracted by that -- by the hunched way Kieran padded along behind the exuberant North London players, hands dug into his tracksuit pockets, eyes on his feet, none of the Community spirit rattling through him. The sight of it made Robertson pause metres from the coach, letting others overtake him, half-hearing their muttered bitterness about how Arsenal had to get excited over little things, because the title would never be theirs. Andy was in no mood for petty Premier League rivalry -- he watched with an almost brotherly concern as Tierney vanished aboard a coach like the others. `Oi.' Alex's voice, paused by the steps onto the bus, gesturing at him. `Get on here. We need to get the back seat, remember.' Andy snapped out of his worried daze and looked at him. `What? Oh -- fuck's sake, Ox, drop that joke, huh... coming...' He took a final look back towards the departing Arsenal entourage, thinking about the odd manner of his little tete-a-tete with Tierney on the pitch, the obvious tension in him as he marched out of Wembley a winner on a team that seemed in love with him. Weird. Something there was definitely not right! The dirty talk got more intense, and so did the lads' enjoyment -- at points, James in particular couldn't even mutter out the swear words or empty aggressions, just panting and kissing his teeth. JJ would clatter at the cubicle divide a bit, hardly able to stand properly as he was pleasured by mouth and hand in turn. Even Emile, pressing back to the locked door and squaring his broad shoulders, made delicate little moans of enjoyment behind his smirk, and his mumbled `Fucking Liverpool fag, eat us up, bitch' sounded more gentle and enjoyed than rough and intimidating. Harvey moved between them so quickly and decisively that he could have kept them going on for ages, he was sure -- the word `edging' was pretty new to him but he enjoyed the notion of it, prolonging the shivering enjoyment of these three London studs. But he was half-conscious of his absence from the ranks of his team, of the risks of their location, and more than anything else, of his sluttish hunger for the salty taste of manhood. With that in mind, he plunged onto Olayinka more meaningfully, abandoning the other two (he heard and felt them wank furiously at their saliva-wet cocks without him to do the work, the tips brushing at his neck and ear and hairline) to deeply consume the thin black tool and squeeze from beneath at those tight loaded balls -- it worked. He pulled back clumsily just as James peaked, meaning the silvery-white load largely coated his tongue but still spilled onto his pouting bottom lip and dribbled into the fuzzy brown hair of his goatee chin as he gasped. He stuck his tongue out, drooling a mix of his own spit and cum back onto the lad's black cock, then whirling about to find Ty. He spat on the thicker paler brown dick, still tasting James on his tongue, and then took it into his mouth and wanked its base, running his free hand back onto the lad's six-pack, which felt almost as defined and incredible as Salah's -- not quite though. Like James, Tyreece was quickly finished, sucked and sucked, but -- just as he thought he was about to receive a tasty mouthful of more London cum, his head was ragged to the side quite roughly. Emile, he realised, was grabbing him by the topknot, pulling his face round and shoving his own fat white bone in between his slicked lips -- as a result, when John-James climaxed, his seed gushed and spilled down the side of Harvey's head, coating the tightly tied hair and dribbling down the cropped sides towards his cheek. He felt sticky warmth on his left cheek too as James' cock slapped there. And with a series of grunts, his mouth was filled up with Emile's own cum, which felt like a massive massive load, more fluid and potent than the mess on his chin and his cheeks. He swallowed what he could but had to gasp for air, a cocktail of Arsenal jizz oozing from his mouth and drooling off his hairy chin as he sucked in breaths. `Fuuuuck,' Tyreece was moaning, `fuuuck lads...' `He sucked good,' James was gasping, but sounding more confused than impressed. `Oh shit,' Emile was whispering, shaking and pulling on his satisfied prick, spurting a drop more cum onto the tip of Harvey's nose. `Is he okay?' `Yeah he looks a bit done in...' `Think we were too rough?' `Nah, he's just a Liverpool player, so...' `God, is he really queer, you think?' Still on his knees, Elliott burst out laughing at their gibberish, leaning back, opening his mouth wide, breathing in and feeling the curdling spunk on his skin and fur. He reached his elbows back against the lid of the toilet to yank himself up a bit and heard the door lock click open as the lads spilled clumsily out ahead of him. Harvey followed them out and made a beeline for the sink, dropping forward and twisting on cool water. He kept laughing to himself as he rubbed soapy water at his face, rinsing away their seed and then looking up into his flushed, maniacal reflection, wild-eyed and excited. `Here.' It was Tyreece, and Harvey enjoyed the faintly guilty, confused expression on the 19-year-old player's face as he gestured at the freshly cut line of coke on the edge of the next sink. He hadn't noticed the other three hurriedly inhaling more magic dust to lift them out of any post-orgasmic worry; Harvey smirked happily at John-James then leaned over and took it in his left nostril with ease, licking a stray few dots from his upper lip and moustache. `Dirty fucker,' he heard James say vaguely before grasping at the door to go, Ty making to follow him with those wide guilty eyes. Emile alone was still grinning, swaying a little as he stuffed the little plastic bag with the rest of his cocaine stash inside the lining of his shorts, and hovered in the centre of the mens' bathroom, ready to follow his two Arsenal teammates back out into the echoey corridors of Wembley and away to find their winning colleagues. Harvey lingered at the sink, resting his hands to the porcelain and giving the sniff a moment or two to fuck its way into his bloodstream. He met Emile's gentle smirk with his own wolfish grin, hard as a rock in his undies and still tasting the salty tang of semen in his mouth. `Huh,' murmured Smith Rowe now, watching him shake himself and ride the coming high, `guess I was write... you are a pretty boy, aren't ya? See ya round, Harvs...' And with that, the tall blond midfielder was gone, skittering out of the bathroom and after the other two, leaving Elliott alone and excited, delirious with the dirty deeds he'd been drawn into. Williams heard the mocking cheer erupt around the front of the big team bus, welcoming their tardy final colleague aboard; he hadn't been paying much attention to the irritable mystery of one teammate's presence, just leaning idly against the glass of the window and looking out across the gloomy concrete of the underground car park. Thinking a little about his performance today and whether it had really merited that affectionate congratulation from the captain. (Thinking a little about the way Henderson had stopped to congratulate others, and trying to settle whether it had been as strong and personal as the way he'd leapt over and hugged Neco...) But now he lifted his head and shifted in his seat as Elliott stomped noisily up the aisle towards him, shrugging off the jeers and playful questions of other players for holding up the coach's departure, and therefore their homecoming to Liverpool. `Some of us have wives waiting for us to shag!' someone was bellowing. `Yeah, and won't you have to be home before curfew, schoolboy?' another bloke from further down the vehicle chipped in. Grinning and giggling, Harvey slid into the opposite pair of seats to Neco, stretching his limbs over it and kicking his chunky Adidas trainers up onto the seat with him; the jeers and fake applause died off and were replaced by a singsong being led from near the front, more odd behaviour as if they'd won the match rather than lost out to Arsenal. Neco shook himself awake, adjusting his tracksuit top, and looked over the aisle at his former housemate, his curiosity roused. `Oi,' he murmured. `What kept ya?' Getting comfortable in his seats, checking his phone and using his selfie cam to see if his distinctive hair was correctly in place, Harvey half-turned this way and shot him a filthy grin of delight. Neco stared at him for a moment and understood immediately why the 17-year-old looked so relaxed and satisfied and -- did his pupils look a bit dilated too? He couldn't help but grin even as he sighed judgmentally, and the only question in his head was: has that cocky little fucker scored with a bird or a bloke? Seems just as happy with either...! And then he leaned back on the window, sighed again, and went back to wondering just how much Jordan Henderson really did admire and respect him, or whether he was just being kind and avuncular because he's been temporarily dumped with him as a lodger. It had been good, he thought, living at the captain's place for a while, hadn't it? His thoughts were broken off as a trainer reached over the divide and kicked him briefly in the thigh to grab his attention. He looked back at Harvey, who had found his slouching position of choice, and was leering his way with a boastful glint in his eyes. He lifted up one hand with three fingers raised, then winked. He mouthed rather than spoke the words: `Three of the fuckers... three of them, all to myself...' And then he burst out laughing, pulled his legs back closer to him, and turned away to sink into a nap as the coach rolled out onto the London roads. Neco stared at him in mixed horror, admiration and... jealousy? **I know the stories have slowed down a lot but hopefully the quality remains the same...! Be great to hear what you think. Enjoy!** Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share