Date: Fri, 18 Dec 2020 12:26:45 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads Part 215 Part 215: From Ancient Grudge He hit skip on his usual early alarm and rolled over, indulging in an hour or two more of comfort in the lonely warmth of the kingsize bed, sighing sleepily into soft pillows and letting the memories of last night drift back into the forefront of his mind. Another big win, he thought blearily, bringing the folds of sheets up against his smooth chest beneath his bunched arms, picturing the scenes in the Anfield changing rooms after a big home win. 2-1 over Tottenham, one of their strongest title challengers, and the slapped-arse expression on Mourinho and all his players, hehe. For a local lad like Trent Alexander-Arnold, whipping the arse of a London team like that never lost its extra spice. The young Liverpudlian footballer pressed forward into the bed and stretched his body out comfortably, enjoying the cocoon of heat his body had created overnight, relishing the slow start to today. The gaffer had minimised training as a treat for last night's performance and the lads now only had a very light session in the late afternoon, the rest of the day theirs to recover and relax. Trent was as delighted as anyone by this move, though it was a different prospect in his lazy bachelor pad when he knew some of the other guys would be savouring the pre-Christmas family time. It crossed his mind, cuddling against the bedding and stretching his thick bare legs down to the cooler sheets beyond where he'd lain, that he could make a trip to visit local family of his own, perhaps have lunch with his parents or something. The earliness of the morning came and went as the 22-year-old right-back allowed the lie-in to continue and the day's endless possibilities to waver in front of him. He slipped in and out of sleep a few times, at least a little, and scratched idly at his bare smooth body and the heavy sag of his dark grey boxer shorts. For a moment, enjoying the memories of adrenaline and testosterone at the stadium last night for that big win, the young athlete began to pull and rub at the front of those boxer shorts, adjusting himself there and feeling the slow burn of morning wood. But a second alarm jangled noisily from the beside table, shocking him that already two hours of luxurious lie-in had dwindled by, and the day was really started outside. Muffled traffic and street noises leaked through double-glazing and heavy curtains and made him huff sulkily at the obligation to get up and do something productive. His fingers pulled reluctantly away from the package in the front of his undies and he yawned into the side of one hot arm, onto his back and stretching out once more. A morning off from training, time to recover, but he was a young man not yet in his footballing prime -- his muscles twitched for action, not just his cock, and he decided that a morning run was a good idea. It would wake him up and kickstart a relaxing Thursday off -- and keep him from just wasting the whole morning tossing off in bed, which the hot-blooded young Scouser could picture all to easily of himself. On days to himself, the talented young bachelor could easily knock out too many wanks and make his cock and wrist sore, flipping idly from straight to gay porn now and feeling the weird liberation of it since being introduced to new pleasures by his older teammates, whose secret clinches he felt more and more excluded from. Trent lunged out of bed in a concerted effort, knowing that a minute more of cosiness would keep him trapped there for hours, shoving a hand down the front of his undies, and taking the problem in hand; instead, he ignored the vague hormonal throb of his sweaty privates and fussed about the spacious master bedroom of his city apartment, finding mismatched gym clean gym gear and readying for a quick winter jog that would snap him into productivity. The handsome youth grinned at himself in a big wall-mounted mirror, laughing at the memory of the pic of him at the end of yesterday's game, shorts pulled up about his boyishly smooth thighs, assertive that the `best team won'; he knew he was really coming into his own now, as a man and a player, and his recent outing with the captain's armband had been next-level enjoyment. He dropped the slept-in undies down over his thighs and knees, bouncing along naked for a moment before stuffing his tight balls and curving semi cock into the clean mesh of some running shorts, then wriggling into a vest and hooded top. Socks were yanked on and feet stuffed into fresh trainers, then earbuds and keys snatched, and off out of the musty man-smell of his big bedroom and down through the building, out into the damp chill of the December morning, hitting the pavement at a run. And he also hit skip on his usual early alarm and rolled lazily over, indulging in the same hour or two more of comfort in another warm lonely bed, sighing sleepily into soft pillows and letting the memories of last night drift back into the forefront of his mind. A solid win for them, he thought blearily, wrestling at the folds of sheets over his fluffed chest, picturing the scenes in the King Power Stadium after an away victory against the Foxes. 2-0 over Vardy and company, former underdogs-turned-champions, the great work by all of his teammates and coaches that had been displayed last night down in Leicester. For a local lad like Jonjoe Kenny, it was a beautiful achievement for the resurgent Merseyside team, but the lifelong Everton fan could not help but wish he had played a slightly bigger role in it than coming on for the final two minutes of stoppage time... The young Liverpudlian footballer pressed sideways against the bed and stretched his wiry body out uncomfortably, frustrated by the cocoon of body heat and mildly resenting the slow start to today. The gaffer had minimised training as a treat for last night's performance and the lads now only had a very light session in the late afternoon, the rest of the day theirs to recover and relax. But Jonjoe was fresh and wired, having played so briefly, and he was just facing a dull day rattling about in his bachelor pad since quarantine prevented him visiting family indoors and he had already spent so much time here alone during his injury rehab. It crossed his mind, scratching angrily at his stubble and then his chest hair, that those few minutes last night might be the only play he got for his beloved Everton, since there was already rumour of another loan spell for him once the January transfer window began to open up. The earliness of the morning came and went as the 23-year-old right-back allowed the lie-in to continue and the sullen career reflections to continue in his head. He slipped in and out of fitful sleep, becoming more wound up and agitated, patting energetic hands down his lean tummy and into the front of his loose pyjama bottoms, toying with sweaty foreskin on his plump soft cock. For a moment, taking comfort in the weighty feel of his own privates, the young scally considered a little wank to soften his anxiety, then pictured himself wasting another morning just jerking stupidly off and wondering what he wanted in his bed with him. But a second alarm jangled noisily from the bedside table, shocking him that already two hours of luxurious lie-in had dwindled by, and the day was really started outside. Loud sirens and grinding engines leaked through double-glazing and heavy curtains and made him grunt belligerently at the need to get up and do something productive. Kenny stopped playing with his bits and adjusted the waistband of the novelty print PJs, knowing he should use the day to work on his fitness since his return from injury was going so fucking slowly. A morning off from training, for those who'd played a whole fucking 90 minutes, but he was a young man desperate to prove himself -- his muscles twitched for action, not just his cock, and he decided that a morning run was a good idea. It would wake him up, he supposed grumpily, and maybe then he wouldn't waste another Thursday off -- jerking his dick in a fug of lust and self-loathing to porn that he would immediately wipe from his browsing history with a shame that had festered in him since his harsh induction by Gareth Barry back in his confused teens. The 23-year-old thought queasily about the way he'd given in to that curiosity at last and terrifying risks it had exposed him to in that enemy lad. Jonjoe slunk out of bed with a sniff and a yawn, knowing that he would get both angry and horny if he thought about that scummy Liverpool player for too long; instead, he ignored animal instincts and jolted about the long bedroom loft space with the PJs hanging loosely halfway down his muscular little arse. The rugged youth scowled at himself in a large industrial-effect mirror by the bed, casting a critical eye over his pigeon chest and skinny limbs, not quite seeing the benefits of the gym work he'd been committing to throughout 2020. No wonder the bosses hardly thought him worth bringing off the bench! Ugh. He slid off the bedclothes, scratching at his wiry red-brown pubes, then snapping tight lycra undershorts onto his bottom half and finding the rest of his running gear in a mess of disorganised laundry. Out he burst, blasting loud retro dance music in each ear, dashing out onto the damp streets and exploding into a frustrated run that would hopefully clear his head and make him more upbeat for the day. Trent regretted the run slightly once he was on it: for all his fresh youthful energy, he could still feel the burn of last night and the battle against Tottenham Hotspurs. He slowed his pace and adjusted his route, curving through one of the big city parks not far from his neighbourhood, and then feeling a silly jolt of recognition as he pounded a frosty path across its quieter stretches and let his eyes fall for a moment on a familiar concrete block by the edge of the trees. He hadn't passed through this park since that night, he realised, slowing his pounding legs more and puffing out heavy breaths, the buds in his ears continuing to chime away with the old-school R&B he'd picked for his run. The young local padded to a halt on his path, resting his hands against his hips and staring at the spiky silhouettes of bare trees on the grey sky, and the squat ugly toilet block below them, its open door seeming to gape and glare at him accusingly, taking him back to that foolhardy incident on the way between home and Ox's. He'd been so listless and snubbed, no wonder he'd taken risks, but... a stranger was risky and terrifying enough, but to encounter a fucking Everton lad, ugh...! He felt sick to his stomach at it. Thinking back to his school days, lads had been jumped on for even LOOKING at a lass who supported the wrong team, the dirty fuckers. Though Trent was doing his best to be relaxed and open-minded about his dabbling with other guys, he felt sick when he remembered having an Everton cock in his mouth, one of the enemy...! That rat-faced loser! The idea that someone in the enemy camp had seen him on his knees, had used him like that, ugh... One foot took the first step of the path unbidden, at complete odds with the rueful direction of the sweaty footballer's thinking. Glancing suspiciously side to side, he quit the main track and jogged over the gross, his running shorts bunching about the top of his thighs and sweat trickling down the shivering skin on the back of his legs. He frowned beneath the rolled brim of his Nike woolly hat, pouting moodily as he approached the toilet block -- it would be innocent by day, he supposed, just another skanky public convenience, none of the sordid infamy that it held under darkness. So why the fuck was he approaching it, anyways...? Trent couldn't stop himself. He was just drawn regretfully close to it, slowing to a nervous walk and carrying out some performative stretches of limb after limb, lurking on the edge of the concrete paving outside that gendered door, thinking about himself shivering here on such a different occasion, not so many weeks ago. He paused before even putting one throbbing foot on that paving, remaining on the grass, glaring at the offending rectangle of the door and the chipped little stick-man that declared it a masculine space -- a space where he'd got down on his knees to experience that masculinity, opening his mouth for a `stranger' then tussling angrily with the identity of that nobody once they had both shot their dirty loads. He hadn't been able to confide this in Robbo, mostly out of shame, imagining how furious Scotch Andy and so many other passionate Liverpool players would be at any such fraternising with the local rivals. Somehow, he couldn't help but feel that Robbo and Ox would fully shut him out if he told them about that -- about the risk of it, the publicness, the stupidity, the Toffee. But then... it wasn't like he had the same intimacy and specialness that Andy and Alex had obtained, was it...? Those two studly bastards had each other, AND their women, and Trent just had to skulk about on his own... or make unsubtle moves on a big yob like Joe Gomez who laughed afterwards and told him he had girly hands and lips. Was it any wonder Alexander-Arnold had looked elsewhere...?! But today, in the damp light of day, the 22-year-old Scouser thought better of even going in there. What if there were guys using it for such seedy purposes, even mid-morning? The park was near deserted right now, after all. He shuddered and backed off, feeling even more uncomfortable with the memory now he could see how aged and dilapidated the little toilet block was after all, not wanting to contemplate how dirty and grim it would appear inside if he looked, and started picturing himself down on his knees by the chipped urinals... He turned away, the heels of his trainers slipping a little on the grass, and he burst straight into a run, and crashed into the other guy with a blunt thud. The other guy had been moving at loping jog, but Trent had no sense of there being anyone there, and he crashed straight into his path, their knees knocking painfully and his chin smacking into the other guy's cheek, so they both reeled awkwardly back from the collision and had to steady them. Trent was muttering out loud apologies even before he'd pressed the earbuds out to quieten the blaring grind of music, and then stumbling into silence as the recognition occurred again. Sweating profusely beneath a thin waterproof, the other 5ft9 runner glared frostily over at him, mouth hanging open a little and those beady eyes sparkling Everton blue beneath his frowning dark brows. His hair was scruffy wet with the thin rain and his young face grizzled with a little too much beard, but it was definitely him. Trent gulped awkwardly at the accidental reunion, and did his best not to vomit up his self-disgust that he had ever touched this Blue scum. Kenny finished the final stages of his run at a hurry, not to challenge his recovering legs or to beat his PB, but to put the park and the surprise encounter way behind him. The right-back dashed onto his street, his trainers slapping at a few shallow puddles, and only slowed when he was in sight of the foyer of his apartment building, his chest fit to explode with breathless exhaustion. With slowing lunges of his body, the Everton defender skittered down the pavement and stopped in front of the bulky locked doors of the shared building, patting for a moment at the tight chest of his zipped top and then flicking strands of his wet brown fringe away from his face. Jesus, he thought, what were the chances?! Sure, it wasn't a huge city, but running into that prick again, right there in the park...! Jonjoe hadn't really intended to swoop through that place, it wasn't on his usual route for a quick jog about this corner of the city, but he'd craved the openness of it compared to the gloomy streets, and then he'd found himself close to that fateful location and been drawn magnetically towards it, needing to prod at the shame and disgust that it provoked in him ever since. He'd noticed another guy outside it as he approached, tried not to give him too much of a look, but he hadn't recognised the Liverpool star beneath his discreet gear, not until they were crashing painfully into each other and reeling apart... It hadn't taken him long enough to mutter a few swear words at the gormless lad and dash away on his own jog, more horrified to be caught at the scene of his own crime than anything, no interest in engaging with the other guy. He'd tried to look as blankly as he could at Trent, refusing to acknowledge their shared knowledge of what had gone down in that ugly little outbuilding. He'd sped away from him and the loos and the entire fucking park...! Jonjoe scratched angrily at his arms and his neck and fumbled at the zip pockets of his waterproof, hopping foot to foot on the pavement and glaring at the impassive glass of the doors and adjoining intercom system. The young Scouser huffed and pouted as he reached for his keys and fob, not really registering the emptiness of that pocket at first, then investigating the other where his phone rested, still blasting dance music into his dainty porcelain-thin ears. Huh, no keys there either. He patted at his flanks through the stiff layers of nylon and then frowned into his own dim reflection in the glass. He had locked the flat on the way out, he knew he had, so he'd definitely pushed the keys in his pocket right here, stepping out and hurrying into action with his run. Kenny found himself scanning the damp flagstones below his feet stupidly, as if he might have dropped it here on the way out, but part of him instantly knew there was only one confused moment where his hands might have fumbled about and dropped something important while fiddling with the zips of his pockets. He stepped further back form the doors, off the pavement and onto the silent road, grunting his frustration to the drizzle that was reforming in the sky. One by one, he pulled his earphones away and scrunched them aggressively inside a curled fist as if it was their fault he was now locked out, then instinctively glanced to the right at heavy breathing and faint damp footsteps. His fellow morning jogger was padding this way, a single hand held up in a weird gesture that looked for a moment like some protest fist, then turned out to a gesture of peace and, as it turned out, salvation: Trent was holding his little bunch of jingling keys against one black-gloved palm, and holding it this way as he approached him on the road. Upstairs, Trent accepted the tall glass of water quietly, looking curiously about him at the high-ceilinged top floor flat the other lad occupied. He hadn't known what to say when the Everton right-back, his counterpart in many senses, invited him after the handover of the dropped keys, and he got the impression his monosyllabic host felt quite the same. It seemed the right thing to do to offer, he supposed, and it also seemed the right thing to do to accept, even if there was no love or interest between them, die-hard fans of the clubs they played for and thus sworn enemies since they first kicked a ball. Well, maybe sworn enemies was a bit dramatic, the footballer told himself, standing in the centre of the sprawling open-plan pad, clutching the clammy glass in one hand and feeling cool water on his dry lips. Jonjoe was stood looking at him a few yards away, one hand resting on the edge of his kitchen counter, the other holding a matching dimpled highball of water, but not taking a sip. He just watched him, kinda warily, like now he'd invited him up, he was about the ransack the place and run out with his prized possessions. He'd been staring after the other enigmatic sportsman when he'd noticed the dropped keys in the muddy grass and picked them up. He'd followed instinctively, of course he had -- the consequences of the loss had seemed obvious and enormous and his urge to help and do the right thing had certainly been stronger than his wariness of the Everton guy and what had happened between them. He wasn't sure how much gratitude he'd expected, but Kenny had glared at him when he handed him the keys down on the pavement, and the invite up here had been through gritted teeth. Those buck white teeth, he thought resentfully, eyeing up the scruffy opponent now silently judging him. Trent downed the rest of his water, trying to hurry up his short visit to the Everton loser's apartment, keen to be back in the lift down to street level and winding through the streets to his own place, which wasn't so far after all. He'd realised that as he ran after Jonjoe through the familiar lanes, an unsurprising but somehow jarring piece of knowledge. Only a couple of other big building blocks separated the streets where they owned their city pads -- this place looked a lot more urban and trendy, he thought, but it wasn't as homely or slick as his own place. `Thanks,' he said in a quietly formal voice, holding the empty glass up. `Needed that.' `Yeah,' agreed Jonjoe in his nasal voice, still not touching his own, just holding it aimlessly. Trent eyeballed him back, loitering pointlessly in the centre of the room, feeling the body heat rise of himself as he lingered there, sweating down his legs and arms and somewhat regretting the rush to follow and help out this unfriendly prick. Jonjoe Kenny, he thought, one of those `wonderkids' that don't seem to amount to much: where had he even been playing last season, again? Certainly not in the Premiership. And now he was back at Everton proper, you didn't hear much about him... it occurred to him that, like Liverpool, the city's other (and lesser) team had been playing just last night, but surely not home, they must have been... `Wins for us both last night,' muttered Kenny then, perhaps thinking the same thing, hesitating where he stood. He had the look as if he regretted even this bland gambit of conversation, putting down his cool glass of water and rubbing a hand across his blotchy face. `Yeh, erm,' Trent agreed vaguely, `who was it you were...' He frowned thoughtfully. `Leicester? Did you, erm, get any minutes, or...?' This, apparently, was the wrong polite attempt: it made his host snort in a derisive way and his eyes and nostrils flared angrily. Trent shrugged disinterestedly, not wanting to get into it. He really ought to be getting out of here, he thought. He'd probably already overstated his Red welcome. `We smashed Leicester,' Jonjoe informed him in an assertive voice, but not quite meeting his eyes. `2-0, you know. Fuckin' quality, like.' `Right, sweet. Erm.' `Clean sheet,' the opposition player pointed out a little too keenly. `Not like your lot.' `Oh,' Trent murmured back, finding the difference petty -- it had been Spurs `his lot' thwarted after all, even if they had let in a single goal at the time, the comparison hardly seemed fair, so... `Well, you know, we have a different style of play, we take a lot more risks, so...' `Busy whinging about injury gaps,' muttered Jonjoe in a quiet little snigger of a voice. `That's all anyone heres from your Klopp, innit? Huh.' Trent just raised his eyebrows and tried not to let his defensive irritation on the gaffer's behalf show, trying to appear coolly disinterested in the random comments of the other Premier League lad whose flat he was now keen to get out of. He walked closer to him, holding out the empty glass his way then reaching over to place it on the counter when Jonjoe seemed to ignore it. `I'll leave you to your punditry, then,' he sniped. `Guess you get a lot of time to form these opinions lad, when you don't get out there to play so much...?' He caught his fellow right-back with a meaningful look, trying to assert the key differences between them now: HE was an integral member of his squad, a real youth success story for his club, a homegrown talent making waves. Jonjoe, he thought, was a hyped-up nobody who was being whored out to any squad who'd take him whenever Everton needed to make space and generate income. `Huh, bit rude,' Kenny muttered, placing his own glass down firmly beside his, still full. `You come into my flat to insult me, do ya?' He didn't sound particularly aggressive, but his expression looked it. Trent just rolled his eyes and backed off, wanting out. `Let's not get into it,' he said dismissively. `I don't think there's any need for rows over which is the real Liverpool club any more, do you, matey...?' He shrugged at the other lad, moving away from him and in the direction of the doors they'd entered through, but then the other diminutive lad was hurrying this way, less broad and well-built than Trent now. He eyed him irritably, disliking the confrontational body language and need to shit-talk their two clubs. `Unbeatables? Unbearables more like,' Jonjoe was muttering. `You're being exposed this season, the lot of you, nothing but a flash in the pan, you lot, and-` `Easy, lad,' Trent rebutted. `There's plenty I could say about your waste-of-time team and-` `Then say it!' demanded Jonjoe more belligerently, squaring up to him, matching him inch for inch but far thinner around the shoulders and chest, the both of them just in their fairly skintight running tops, the Everton lad's waterproof hanging open about his shoulders now. His eyes flashed a dangerously blight blue and he seemed to tense up like some real mardy scally on the street who you've looked at the wrong way -- his whole manner seemed intended to threaten but Trent found his attitude amusing, paused here between him and the way out. `Calm it,' he said bluntly, `you're making a twat of yourself...' `Huh, you did that when you pulled on a Liverpool shirt...' `Hilarious, lad... Bloody neglect, I call it, raising a kid in this city and letting them wear blue.' `You'll be blue,' Jonjoe threatened, `black `n blue if you talk to me like that in me own flat, lad...' `Fuckin' hell, you're a cliché!' he chuckled back at him, the other guy pulling aggressively close to them, almost chest-to-chest here in the middle of the flat, both still exuding the heat of their exertion out on the running route. And Trent's own temper was flaring, his usually mild-mannered attitude scalding in the face of this weaselly rival and his obnoxious comments. `Typical bitter Everton fan,' he spat at him, puffing out his chest and shoulders and squaring with him. `Absolutely embarrassing, you meff, just leave it off and get to fuck...' `Ah, go suck Salah's cock!' spat the other lad in his face, and it was probably meant as generically offensive and homophobic slurring with the cross-city rivalry that burned between the lads -- but their eyes caught and Trent felt the horrible knowledge they shared of each other as he searched rapidly for his comeback, glaring furiously at this stuck-up little scally and his scruffy beard, the little shitface, the... `Fuck off,' he grunted stupidly at his Everton counterpart, about to say more, but grabbed suddenly by the upper arms by the other lad and pulled at, expecting a glancing fist but then tugged forward by the front of his thin hoody until their faces clashed, sweaty skin to sweaty skin, and he was hit not with a fist, but a kiss on the lips. Jonjoe pulled backwards, taking a few unsteady steps, grabbing at the damp fabric of the other lad's hoody, pulling him further into the flat and locking their lips in the urgent and taboo kiss. At least snogging this smug fucker shut up his grating voice, he thought, pushing his tongue in and feeling Trent's slide resistantly against it. Not that he was `thinking' as such, just acting. Instinctive and suddenly uninhibited. He wrenched at the hooded top on Trent's body, feeling for the warm firmness beneath it, wanting to feel how rigid and strong the other right-back's body actually was. But then Trent's hands were on him too, alarming and strong, pushing him backwards and making them skitter across the wooden floor, faces twisting against each other in an almost competitive snog of aggression and resentment. Jonjoe curved against the other defender, clinging on to his top and stretching at the material, feeling their bare lower legs brush and graze. Desperate for breath, he broke the kiss, and simultaneously staggered further back, pulling on the drawstrings of that hoody. `In here,' he gasped in rasping authority, jerking his head away to the bedroom door and glaring frostily at this sexually irresistible enemy. `What?' Trent demanded quite stupidly back at him, also gasping for breath and that big puppy-dog expression all over his handsome brown features, flushing pink over his cheeks. `In here!' Jonjoe gasped again, muscling him by the arm and almost dragging him that way, reaching for another kiss but denied as Trent squirmed apart from him and hesitated in the doorway. Kenny grabbed at one of his hands and pulled it downwards, planted it on the front of his loose glossy shorts where his cock was semi-hard, perhaps been for much of the argument about their teams. `Fuck,' whispered the Liverpool player bitterly. `You liked it before,' Jonjoe grunted through his teeth, narrowing his eyes crossly. `Fuck you,' elaborated Alexander-Arnold. `Come on, you cock slut,' he hissed, mouthing out the inane insults of the pornos he'd daringly searched for and then cringed away from after orgasm. He barged backwards through the half-open door of his own bedroom, back into the untidy mess of his bachelorhood, dragging at Trent's sleeves and his growing erection still bouncing and poking at the front of his running shorts. `You hard for me, Everton scum?' his enemy was demanding, grabbing more freely at that appendage and following him in. God, his strong hand felt so good there, Jonjoe thought bitterly, as angry at himself as at the smug-faced Red in front of him, barging into him and teasing the tips of their noses, threatening another kiss but not delivering. He nodded uncertainly at this question. `You suck cock so good, bitch,' he barked weakly at his opponent, immediately betraying his harsh tone by angling his lips for that kiss and being denied again, then peeling up at the layers of Trent's hoody and vest, feeling the thick smooth strength of his midriff, the bumps of his developed abs against Kenny's thumbs and fingers. He pushed roughly upwards, dragging the clothes onto Trent's chest and upwards, feeling that sturdy defender's body pushed into his own more wiry frame, their feet skidding over the floorboards and almost tripping on the rug. `Go on, you wanna suck it again,' the 23-year-old snarled at this intruder who had committed the obnoxious offence of returning his lost keys, pushing up on the hoody and vest until they were over his smugly handsome face and being tossed off away to the ground, allowing him to look properly at the strong young swell of Trent's bare chest and the gym-primed strength of his caramel-brown shoulders. Jonjoe panted loudly and grabbed the hard front of his shorts, reaching the other hand for Trent's shoulders and neck, pushing forcefully down. `Get on yer knees, scally,' he muttered angrily at the infuriatingly good-looking fella, but felt his firm resistance, saw the trouble in his deep brown eyes. `Nah buddy,' said the Liverpool defender in a low voice of command, `your turn.' He reached around and pulled Jonjoe's face in and down, so that Jonjoe's parched lips were pressed in against that chest and he could not help but kiss against it, taste the salty warmth of the smooth skin, racing down and to the side to kiss and lick at one pink-brown nipple. He shuddered with resistance at this conflict, clutching at the sides of Trent's waist, confused and hungry. `That's it,' he heard the growl of Trent's Scouse accent over his own gasps, `go down, lad, go down...' Kenny shuddered and whined but couldn't help himself -- he was already scooping his thumbs inside the waist of those tight running shorts, feeling the body heat below, the clamminess of the sweaty skin, the inviting mesh lining... He felt himself pushed backwards by the shoulders and then his arse was connecting with the edge of the bed, falling into a seated position and coming face-to-bulge with Trent's proud semi. He looked up with his sharp blue eyes, full of accusation and anti-Liverpool hate, and just saw the other footballer stare stonily down at him, his eyes wide and firm beneath the branded brim of his black beanie. `Suck it,' murmured Alexander-Arnold, but with a new softness to his voice, `go on...' Kenny reached for it and squeezed the shape of that cock through the slippery damp shorts, feeling just how rigid Trent already was, god yes... he really wasn't thinking now, just carried on lust, and he pressed his mouth to the shorts, tracing the outline of it, feeling the firmness of another lad's cock there, the taste he'd been wondering about since his teen years. He daren't look back up at Trent's face but he could hear a breathy sigh from that Anfield fucker, and a voice at the back of his head screamed `Why him?! Why did it have to be HIM?' Then he could feel fingers and thumbs in his hair, rubbing softly against the fuzzy brown, quite soothing and helpful -- finding the edges of his ears and the tense muscles in the back of his neck, stroking and holding and encouraging... the Everton lad couldn't hold in the little muffled gasp of comfort as he finally peeled down the waist of those shorts and inhaled the crotch smell of the Liverpool champion, then parted his lips against the side of that slim hard shaft. His lips wobbled and quivered as he pulled back on the foreskin and let the plump tip into his gob, still yanking down on the shorts until they were stretched right over the almost bulbous thigh muscles of them legs... `Mmm, that's it,' came Alexander-Arnold's deliciously soft yet laddish voice, `that's good, bro...' He opened his mouth wider, how could he not? He felt it on his tongue and bumping the roof of his mouth, trying to take as much of the hard brown cock into him as he could, wanting to taste every inch of it. He really was shaking and shivering as if the temperature of the room had dropped insanely. He was shaking because he knew what he wanted, the taste he'd wanted since he was seventeen in that passenger seat with his old mentor, being fed a finger-load of Barry's Welsh cream... Jonjoe sighed madly and rolled his tongue over the curved head of Trent's cock, willing on the taste of his dirty Liverpool seed. Trent pushed him back gently, not wanting to get his cock accidentally grazed by the enthusiastic pearly whites in that gnashing mouth. He withdrew his cock, loving the sight of it slick and shiny with this scally yob's spit, and then he pushed it roughly against his bearded jawline, locking gazes with him down the length of his own bare torso. `On the bed,' he purred hopefully, hooking his hands beneath Jonjoe's clammy armpits to pull up on him and dragging off that jacket and the tight short-sleeved running top below it. Then he pulled him in for a kiss, rubbing their shirtless bodies together, feeling the slim hardness of Jonjoe's chest and tummy on his own, wrapping his thicker arms about him and moving their lips together, tasting his own dick on the other guy's tongue. Kenny was rough and urgent but that wasn't how Trent liked to kiss so he exerted some firmness on the idiotic scally, holding at his face to restrain him and mouthing more sensually at him until something in his manner relaxed and accepted this pace, this tenderness, as Trent liked it... At the same time, he pushed his hand inside those shorts, feeling for the stubby thick heat of his cock, quite impressively large and solid, wow... mmm, it was bigger than he remembered, perhaps he had deliberately diminished it in memory out of resentment and disgust. But now he just wanted to taste it again, and he was pushing Jonjoe back against the bed and flopping onto it with him. He reached down for his own shorts, tangled at his knees, and shoved them down -- he was still in his socks and trainers and nothing else as he clambered onto the bed with his rival, hunching down on all fours and pushing his face into Jonjoe's crotch, kissing him through his shorts as had been done to him, then pulling them away so he could lick and kiss that thick scally cock instead, tasting the Everton scumbag's big tool and wrapping his own plump lips around it. Jonjoe whined and gasped and reached for his shoulder muscles, his back, his neck... pushing up at his beanie hat until it slid away and then stroking at his frizzy afro in a way that might have earned him a smack in less sensual circumstances. Trent shifted his body in a series of artful thrusts, positioning himself over the Everton lad without taking his mouth away from his hard-on. He pushed his hands into the bedding firmly on either side of Jonjoe's furry thighs and lined up their torsos the wrong way round until his crotch hung over the other guy's face and his big smooth thighs were planted just over his shoulders. He felt Kenny's hands trace his muscular flanks and his hips and then, gingerly, his mouth reaching up for his cock to complete the 69. The two lads buckled in mutual pleasure now, Trent surprised by how good Jonjoe's clearly inexperienced mouth felt against his sensitive neglected cock, snuffling up at it from below and squeezing his thumbs into the sides of his thighs. For his part, he sucked artfully on the long thick equipment of the skinnier right-back, mouthing at him with all of his year's experience since that first awkward blowie for Gomez, before he'd had time to practise and develop his confidence in Andy's fiery Scottish crotch and on Alex's big strong member. This was a whole different thrill, dirty and sweaty and so wrong, so wrong! Sucking Everton cock again! Ugh! But he was in too deep to reel away in disgust, if anything the revulsion just made his body all the more sensitive and greedy. He rolled out of the 69 and onto his side, and pushed his mouth in against Jonjoe's, kissing him with the same roughness as that first clash of their bodies, reaching one hand for his own cock and one for the other lad's, pumping both of their dicks with rapid desperate movements until his own cock was leaking all over him, streaming white cum up the brown skin of his arm and his tummy and down one thigh. He gasped and whimpered into Kenny's bearded face, looking down at his own mess and seeing the other lad's blue eyes follow. Jonjoe took over wanking his own big hard-on but Trent brought his right hand up, sliding it over his and the other lad's chests, then brought two fingers smeared in his own bright white juice up to those quivering lips, which opened obediently for him to slide it in and wipe his juice across the tufty brown hair of his tache and into his hungry mouth. The eyes were wide and bright and fixed loyally on him as, still gasping from his own orgasm, he fed his cum into the other Scouser's pursed mouth. Then, sensing Kenny was close, he shifted, kissing him on the fluffy centre of his chest then down his bare six-pack, then wrapping his mouth about his cock again just as his body tensed and his balls tightened. Trent enjoyed several heavy mouthfuls of the strong sour cum, tasting all of Jonjoe's anger and resentment and shame, letting it ooze on his tongue and run over his lips and onto his smooth chin. He stared up his shaking body, their eyes locking intensely again, and he licked his bottom lip clean, stifling a laugh at the seedy honesty of the moment. Then he began to come to, remembering who this sexy rugged chav in front of him was, and he pulled uncertainly back on one elbow, reaching for the mess of jizz now trickling down his cheek and neck, feeling it sticky and cooling on his skin. He looked to the side for the mess of items strewn on the bedroom floor and picked up the first thing he could, bringing it to wipe against his face and chest where Jonjoe's messy load had spilled... he pulled it away and stared at the item in his hand, the way the cum smeared against its bright blue fabric and printed pattern, then tossed it away. Ergh, an Everton shirt! He sat upright, the reality of it all hitting him a bit more. Naked but for his white Adidas socks and running shoes, at the foot of the bed of a cunt like this... jesus! He felt silly and exposed, his still-hard cock shuddering against the side of his leg. He looked at Jonjoe, who was propping himself up on his elbows and just staring at him, his big nob flopping to one side. Neither lad said anything, just remained where they were. `Fuck,' moaned the Everton lad weakly, dragging up his legs, away from Trent so that his trainered feet rubbed on his leg. Trent looked down at them, the tight hairy calves, all the little bruises and scratches of a fellow tough right-back. He backed off and climbed off the bed, staring at the cum-stained Everton shirt he'd dropped to the floor, then trying to identify his own clothing dropped amongst the mess. This fucker lived like a teenager! He stood there, feeling embarrassingly naked enemy territory, but then heard the creak of bedpsrings and movement and suddenly Jonjoe was up on his knees on the edge of the bed beside him, his eyes half-closed and sweat glistening in the centre of his slightly haired chest. Without a word, Kenny was reaching for him, and to his surprise, he didn't shove him away, just let him reach for him in a silent cuddle, pressing their sweaty forms together. Very slowly, Trent allowed himself to be pulled back and falling against the bed in this hold, not really looking at him, but allowing their arms to lock around each other and their naked forms to settle side for side, finding warmth and reassurance in their well-matched physiques. `Just a minute, please,' came the Everton yob's voice in a shaky whisper. `That's okay,' Trent returned with uncertainty in his own murmur. He held on to the heat of Kenny's body, unsure what the hell they were doing, still picturing the old 2015 Everton shirt he'd snatched up off the ground to wipe his body clean on. He was alarmed by how tightly and needily Jonjoe was holding him now, it almost sounded from his breathing like he might burst into tears. Trent's caring instincts overrode his dislike for this Goodison Park reject, and he hugged back, holding strongly onto him until his rapid breaths seemed to slow and calm and the trembling of his body was less noticeable. Then, very gently, he patted him on the back. `You're alright, lad,' he said uncertainly. `Our little secret again, right...' `Right...' Alexander-Arnold separated from him and left the bed again, unable to risk meeting Jonjoe's blue eyes as he heard him sniffle weakly. Back to the Everton loser, he bent over and found his dropped running shorts and tops and began to dress, stretching into the shorts without bothering to remove his trainers. He looked at himself in the pretentious chipped mirror on the wall, glaring judgmentally at his own rueful face and then catching sight of the retro Everton posters behind him, the framed 90s shirt with load of signatures on, the framed pictures of a much younger Jonjoe posing with various has-beens of that shitty club.... Yuck. When Trent silently left the bedroom, Jonjoe finally moved from where he lay, grabbing a fluffy towelling robe from the ground and pulling it about his body. He looked ridiculous, wrapping the bath gown about himself with a pair of Reebok trainers still on his feet, plodding through into the main space of the loft apartment and following the Liverpool guy's slow steps. They were both still panting a little, the air smelt of sweat and sex. `That can't happen again,' the 23-year-old barked, stopping short of following Trent to the door. The afro-haired Liverpudlian turned and gave him an accusing frown. `Who said they wanted it to?' he demanded in a quiet but frosty voice. `Well,' stammered Jonjoe, `I mean -- it has to be a secret. Don't you fuckin' tell anyone.' Trent narrowed his eyes a little. `Why would I? Ugh. Everton scum.' The insult had none of the force and aggression that had preceded their kiss and Kenny could only stare wonderingly at him, unsure what he needed to say to demand that silence and discretion. `This is a one-time thing,' he said in a reedy voice of desperation, and he saw Trent's little grin and smirk before he chuckled back his contradiction: `What, a one-time thing, twice...?' `Just get out,' the right-back huffed loudly, marching towards him in his ridiculous robe and trainers get-up, needing now to be alone and away from that infuriating boyish face. Trent moved quicker than him, leaving before he could be thrown out, tugging open the door and disappearing into the hallway; Jonjoe shoved the door firmly shut after him with an unnecessary slam and remained there for several moments, pressing into it and feeling the shakes run through his lean body once more, trembling shivers of sensual wonder. It took him a couple of minutes to move away from the door, and even then he found himself pushing his face against it and peering through the peephole, as if the smug figure of Liverpool's young star would still be out there in the corridor of the apartment block, staring at him with those big brown eyes and urging him to get on his knees again. In the wetroom, he dowsed himself in hot water and expensive shower gel and grimaced at the picture of himself being fed cum from Trent's fingers and, worse, trembling against him for comfort in a little post-orgasmic breakdown. What the actual fuck?! Alexander-Arnold himself made the short chilly walk from building to building in a slow daze, his cock limp and sticky in the lining of his shorts, his chest heaving with deep thoughtful breaths, and his arms aching oddly at the memory of holding onto the other lad in bed. He looked frowningly back down the street after him as if he half expected Jonjoe Kenny to come following him, mouthing off more anti-Anfield insults and trying to pretend there was more than one real football club in Liverpool. Trent shook off these thoughts, agreeing internally with their bitter shouted assertions -- never again, and no soul ever needed to know...! What a crock of shite. Ugh, that skanky little chav and his stupid big cock. His stupid blue eyes and crooked teeth, his ratty little beard and the tight alabaster of his six-pack under Trent's lips... He shuddered and convinced himself it was just the cool December morning, mounting the steps at the foot of his own apartment building, fishing a key from his hoody pocket and glad that he hadn't idiotically dropped it in the mess of laundry on Jonjoe's dirty floor. He headed inside and upstairs and drew a hot bath, unable to stop picturing those bright blue eyes.