Date: Sun, 28 Mar 2021 10:25:57 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads Part 251 Part 251: Glasgow Kiss The 5th goal went in and England's easy win was confirmed, leaving less than 10 minutes for World Cup `minnows' San Marino to claw anything back at Wembley. As instinctively as if he was sat on the edge of the iconic pitch, rather than nestled on a sofa over 400 miles away, Trent Alexander-Arnold brought his hands gently together in supportive applause. It was good to see another England newbie, Ollie Watkins this time, bag a goal for the Three Lions, adding to the efforts of Sterling, Ward-Prowse and, of course, that Everton show-off Dominic Calvert-Lewin. Mostly good, anyway -- as the successful game trickled to a close on the TV screen, the young Liverpudlian chewed at his bottom lip and stared with wide mournful eyes at the international action; the international action from which he had been surprisingly snubbed, ditched from the squad by Southgate after his own and Liverpool's wobbles. Being the sweet-natured young player that he was, Alexander-Arnold could not bring himself to resent the manager's decisions, nor the competing defenders in the line-up, but the drop had definitely come to him as a slap and a shock. Left at home while many of the Premiership's strongest players assembled for a triplet of World Cup qualifiers -- these easy matches themselves weren't the issue, as such, but it was popularly argued that nobody snubbed this month would resurface in Southgate's Euro campaign this summer. Watching the whole 90 minutes of English dominance, Trent felt a dull support for his national teammates, but also a great sadness at missing out and being so far from the fun. Banter with the likes of Chilwell and Stones, chess with Dier and celebrating that brilliant Watkins goal to induct the Villa man into the England fold. The 22-year-old footballer pouted heavily and hugged his lean arms across his chest, pressing back against the thickly cushioned sofa, watching the clock wind down on the England game, and now wondering if he would be able to stomach the next two matches lined up on Sunday and Wednesday. `Good goals by our Dom,' grunted the lad next to him, but in a disinterested and sleepy tone, as if he'd practically slipped into a nap during the second half of the match. `Overrated,' was Trent's automatic response, too used to slagging off the handsome fashionista of Everton's attacking force -- as soon as he'd said it, he glanced guiltily and stupidly at the lad next to him, whose bent knee rested gently against his thigh. `Sorry. He scored two good uns.' `He's top class,' Jonjoe Kenny muttered at him, but without conviction. `Boring game, though.' The slim pale Evertonian rested back away from him at an angle, hands folded in his lap and a complacent smile on his face. `You ain't missin' out on much, la'.' Trent started at this claim, both because he firmly disagreed, and he hadn't realised his FOMO had been quite so obvious in his face and posture. He straightened his back and shrugged his shoulders unconvincingly, looking back at the screen just in time to witness the final whistle and an official end to the action. `I wasn't even thinking that,' the young Liverpool star lied quietly, fumbling at the remote control in his hand, already flicking channels away from the post-match discussion and browsing the other channels available here -- he slipped onto a news channel and found the intensely Glaswegian accents jarring and alien, making it more apparent that he was north of the border. Suddenly Kenny was lifting up and shifting towards him though, his non-committal attitude shifting -- one of his hands slid in to stroke Trent's back a little through his t-shirt, another coming to rest over his forearm, fingertips tickling against soft hair there. `Their loss, buddy,' the other Scouser muttered to him in a warmer voice. `Fuckin' idiots.' Trent shrugged again, still lost for another moment in his sadness at dropping out of the England ranks after an exciting couple of years on Southgate's chosen elite, then turned to catch the friendly, comforting expression on the other guy's face -- it brought a little thrill to his chest, a pang of warmth to be here in the Glasgow apartment of his... friend? Rival? What were they? `Forget `em,' Jonjoe grumbled now, but playfully. `We're Scouse before English, eh?' Trent nodded. `That's what they say down the Kop.' Jonjoe sneered. `Wrong stadium, ugh.' He grimaced and retched but with comic exaggeration, marking their growing comfort over the local rivalry that stood between them, a far bigger gulf than either lad's sexual uncertainty on what they were doing here together on the sofa. `Fuck the England team,' the Everton loanee said emphatically though, rubbing at his arm and back, leaning closer, pressing his knee a bit more firmly at Trent's tensing thigh muscle. `We aren't even in England now, are we...? So forget `em...' Trent grinned shyly at the 24-year-old fellow right-back, softening his stance, allowing himself to fold gently towards the other guy, bringing his face in towards Jonjoe's, parting his sulky lips, holding his breath, then being allowed to reach in and take the soft wet kiss of intimacy. There was still something stiff and uncomfortable in the way Jonjoe's face met his, a reserve at the mad prospect of kissing another fella, but there was also comfort and tenderness in the gesture, the way he grabbed and stroked at Trent as their mouths brushed and pecked. Gently parting, Trent fluttered his thick lashes and made a bashful little burst of giggle. `Erm, sorry for making you watch the England game if you aren't arsed,' he said, `maybe we can find a movie to put on now, or summat, so...' Jonjoe lifted one straggly eyebrow, pursing his lips over his slightly crooked teeth. His fingers kneaded a bit more firmly over Trent's forearm; the other hand lifted from his back to push gently at the skin of his neck. `If you want,' Kenny muttered. `I was thinking it might just be bedtime, though? Up to you, T.' Trent sucked in a shivering breath and then released it in a sigh of agreement. `Yeah, maybe that's a much better idea, JJ.' He had felt very strange and conspicuous arriving in Glasgow Central in the afternoon, thumbs hooked into the straps of his backpack, baseball cap pulled discreetly low to obscure his face as he hopped off the train and strolled through the sprawling platforms of the city-centre train station. An England snub might bring a whole bunch of emotions for the youngster, but it also brought a couple of free days when the Liverpool training regime was loosened -- just enough time for him to arrange a journey up through the North West and over the border into Scotland. He found Jonjoe waiting as arranged near the Caffe Nero, hands shoved into the pockets of a large baggy parka coat, its shaggy hood as anonymising as Trent's cap. The wiry 5ft9 Scouser managed to look exceptionally shifty in his hooded coat and attempts at inconspicuous patience, stepping from foot to foot and staring moodily about. Trent was embarrassed and excited by the little buzz that ran through him to see the Everton player across the concourse from him -- they'd not met in person since a loan deal took the rival defender out of Liverpool and up to Celtic, only chatted and traded the odd dirty picture over the phone, flirty and self-conscious. It had been Kenny's idea for him to come up, surprisingly; sure, Alexander-Arnold had dropped enough hints, whilst his flirty secret friend had offered such surprisingly comforting messages following the England squad announcements, but it had still been independently suggested by the shy and conflicted other lad, rather than requested by him, and Trent had been longingly wondering about an overnight stay in Glasgow for some weeks beforehand. Sure enough, when the shifty figure of the Celtic transplant looked this way and spotted him approaching, he caught a flash of pleasure and gladness on Jonjoe's slightly gaunt features, reflecting his own buzz of excitement. He hurried the final steps and knocked elbows with the other lad, both of them making muttered rattling greetings and visibly straining at the urge to hug. There had been a handful of meetings between them at the end of last year, following the coarse confrontation where they had first played about. It was mad for Trent to look back on the late-night madness of their original meeting, the fact that he'd sucked off a `stranger' in a notorious cottaging spot, only to find out the much worse truth: an enemy from Everton! But when they'd bumped into each other and had that tense confrontation in Jonjoe's flat, they'd both shocked themselves, not only with the cheeky fun they had discovered, but in the little cuddling moments that followed. The few occasions that followed were often similar -- tension and discomfort, a little sparring about their sides' performance, followed by rabid appetite and then post-orgasmic intimacy. And Trent lying quietly in hotel room beds messaging the Everton defender and feeling a stupid generalised terror at what his Liverpool teammates would think if they knew. Walking out of the station and onto the streets of central Glasgow, the pair spoke in harmless circles -- the topic of Trent's England disappointment was as heavily avoided as the fact they'd both sucked each other's cocks. Jonjoe spoke about his Celtic experiences, his pleasure at regular first-team football and the camaraderie of his new colleagues -- he'd been nervous and unhappy with the move when it first came out of nowhere, Trent knew, but he now just seemed excited to be part of Scotland's biggest club, apart from some homesickness. Trent was happy for his friend's career twist to dominate the chat, far from keen to discuss Liverpool's season. They bought takeaway milkshakes from a fast-food joint and wandered through a hipster quarter of the city, Kenny pointing out particularly impressive graffiti murals, and behaving so stiffly and tourist-like that Trent began to wonder if he was really just here as a friend, that his brief stay in Glasgow might be nothing more than an inexpertly guided tour of local street art. So he took decisive action, flashing with the cheeky spirit that had been fostered in him during his formative sexual adventures in the past year, inducted by sleazy Gomez at the Premiership title party last summer. Sucking noisily on the straw of his milkshake, Trent deviated sharply from the pavement they followed, disappearing into a narrow alley between two large buildings, a space dominated by a row of heavy wheeled bins; Jonjoe came lurching after him, asking a gawping `Mate?' as they dipped into the sudden dark cover of the alley mouth. And Trent, still gripping the milkshake in one hand, brought his other in directly against the crotch of Jonjoe's skinny jeans, grabbing the sizeable package held in a tight casement of denim. Both lads gave heavy ragged breaths. `I didn't come here to suck on a straw,' the Liverpool starlet hissed eagerly. A sharp intake of breath and a nervous gulp from his Everton counterpart. `I know, sorry...' `Fuck, I forget how hung you are,' Trent murmured, lips still playing against the thin plastic of the straw, tasting strawberry milkshake, but his fingers playing against the lumpy front of the other lad's jeans. `Not that you aren't a good tour guide, but...' `Ahem, erm, lad... maybe it's time I give you the tour of... my flat?' Even in the dark, the wide blue eyes on Jonjoe's face caught the light, foxy and intense. `Yeh?' `Yeh,' Trent agreed, giving his thick soft cock a last squeeze then pulling his hand away and patting it against one of the other guy's shoulders, then taking a few short steps back into the sunlight on the pavement. `Sounds good -- which way, then?' The right-backs' afternoon fun had been limited, rushed, immature: bursting in through the inner door of the top-floor city centre apartment in a flurry of sharp kisses, fingers grabbing and tearing at each other's clothes. Trent didn't even have a chance to pull the backpack off his shoulders, fully dressed in a fairly anonymous black tracksuit, as they snogged in the hallway and Jonjoe tugged at his raging hard-on through two layers -- Trent had been hard since the alleyway interruption, and his cock leaked pre-cum into his underpants. This continued in a mad rush that took them clattering into the living room, pushing against walls and dislodging a couple of dubious modern art pieces, all part of the furnishing of the club-owned flat that had been given to Jonjoe as part of his loan contract. Kenny's heavy coat was finally shed and Trent could run his hands under his jumper to feel the tight-packed white muscle of his torso; his own tracksuit top and backpack were also dumped heavily to the rug and then they were on the sofa, grabbing at each other and kissing more intensely, stubble-burns and clacking teeth. It just turned out that both young men were so intensely horny that the fun could not go on for long or actually get very far. Trent was shocked when he shot his load without his cock ever leaving his pants, just wanked sideways against his thigh by Jonjoe and making a creamy mess down between his muscle and the nylon. Jonjoe's heavy veiny prick did it make it out of the flies of his jeans at Trent's desperate efforts, but only for a minute before it was spewing thick cum on his leg and on the sofa, staining the upholstery. They continued to kiss fiercely for a few minutes, rubbing their bodies together and feeling the frustration of having peaked too rapidly, neither of them able to control or measure their antics. When the kissing subsided, the pair of them laughed about it, Jonjoe fussing about in search of cleaning materials to rescue the couch, and Trent gladly accepting the offer to go and change his cum-soaked pants. He giggled at his own rush of pleasure to select a pair of plain white briefs from a drawer in the bedroom, dragging his friend's undies over his legs, his arse, his loose cock. He thought for a moment that he would instantly get hard again, but the premature orgasm had been too intense, and he just felt a relaxed enjoyment, now that the welcome was consummated. Once Kenny had given up and left the stain to mar the sofa (`I'll just tell them it's mayonnaise, right?'), the two young athletes whiled away the afternoon on a series of increasingly video games, before Jonjoe started offering him dinner options, self-deprecatingly admitting that he could barely operate a microwave without ruining a meal. Trent kissed him silent and retrieved a wadge of takeaway menus he found on a shelf, and they ordered in. An early evening feast of Chinese food, greasy gloopy sauces and dishes their club nutritionists would never allow, gave way to more video games and then trash TV and then, at last, the England game. Trent suspected that some of his host's disinterest in watching it was for his own sake, dismissive and evasive about his own Under-21s success a few years back, but perhaps Jonjoe did feel a genuine detachment from the national team, a true Evertonian. But the game was forgotten now, and all of the complicated feelings it represented -- the two of them were shuffling through the threshold into the apartment's huge main bedroom, which was every bit as scruffy as Trent's memories of the 24-year-old's nest in Liverpool. Not that he cared a bit. He had attention only for the wiry strength and pulsing heat of the older lad's body as they wrangled at clothing and skittered across the clutter to the incongruously neat bedding. He could feel the nervousness in the way Jonjoe gripped at his tshirt and his wrists, always a sense from the sexy scally that he needed to be guided and encouraged, otherwise he would run for the hills. Fortunately, the Liverpool defender was more than happy to do the guiding and the encouraging. He grasped back at his sexy lover, breaking the kissing and smirking confidently into his eyes. `You gonna put those lips to better use, buddy?' he whispered sensuously, letting the tips of their noses rub gently and indicating downwards. `You're getting so good at it.' `Am I?' murmured Kenny with a genuine thirst for approval. Trent kissed him on the brow as he pushed down at his shoulders, then allowed himself to flop backwards, crashing onto the bed. His tshirt rode up his tummy and Jonjoe stooped instantly to kiss about his belly button whilst simultaneously struggling with the waist of his borrowed sweatpants and the borrowed whiteys beneath. Trent wondered if it was as sexy for Jonjoe to see him in the pants as it was for him to wear them -- perhaps not, given how rashly and hurriedly they were peeled away, and the Everton boy was mouthing at his crotch. Clumsy, uncertain, still inexperienced, but so fucking sexy -- the way his stubble rubbed sharply against the inside of Trent's muscular thighs and against his own sensitively smooth balls, then lastly at the slim curve of his rigid prick, pink-brown and leaking pre-cum yet again. On his back, Alexander-Arnold moaned out all the encouragement and guidance he could find. `Ooh, that's it, yesss... mmm, your tongue feels great... mmm, no, not like that, ohhhh... mmm YES... oh that's it, baby, that feels SO good...' Rasping out each burst of praise or redirection, of filthy enjoyment. `Yes, you sexy fucker, oh god yes, suck my cock good...' He ran his fingers through the short scratchy brown hair on Kenny's head, tickled at his small prominent ears, massaged at his neck and shoulders. He kept bracing himself against the urge to let go, fearing he would cum too soon again, just like this afternoon, creaming his pants. After a short while he knew that such a quick messy conclusion would be unavoidable unless they swapped places, and he pushed back at the hard lean muscle of the other lad's shoulders. `What is it?' gasped Jonjoe, his lips shiny and his eyes wide. `Did I do it wrong?' `No,' Trent murmured, enthralled by the other guy's vulnerability. `No, just... here, my turn...' He helped his host to clamber up onto the bed with him and then kissed again, forcibly slowing the pace of Jonjoe's hot clumsy snogs, rubbing at his muscular chest and then dragging his polo shirt away from him, tossing it down onto the messy chaos of the bedroom floor. He rolled onto him, pinning him back against the bed and holding hands, kissing him and rubbing his loose wet hard-on against the front of the other lad's jeans. Then he kissed his way slowly and sensitively down, following the pale contours of his body, and roughly unbuttoning the denim. He shuffled back on his haunches and dragged the skinny-fit over hairy calves -- once the jeans were tossed aside, he sank down and kissed the raging boner through the silky black boxer briefs, nibbling and nuzzling and making Jonjoe sigh wildly where he lay. `Oh mate,' wheezed the Celtic defender, pleading through his pleasure, `that is... ohhhh...' Trent giggled, knowing how good he was at this, so pleased by how wild he could drive his Evertonian without even pulling his pants off him yet! But he did so now, doing it slowly and spitting against the large meaty tool and the wrinkled balls beneath, taking his time before applying his lips to them all, kissing and licking and eventually sucking, making Jonjoe whimper with none of his streetwise toughness or scally aggro. `Baby,' he groaned affectionately, and Trent felt his hands on his own bare strong shoulders. He held the base tightly and flicked his tongue back and forth in rapid moments across the raging red tip, intent on driving his boy mad with enjoyment, making the 24-year-old footballer wheeze and gasp and buckle on the squeaking mattress. As he sucked, Trent rubbed and poked just below the balls, then running a thumb down over the hairy stretch of his gooch, tickling and pleasuring him more as he took more inches of the thick shaft into his hungry mouth. He felt the other Scouser's body twitch and tense, heard the intensity of his moans, and he became more curious to push boundaries, slipping a single finger into the crack of Kenny's arse, feeling how damp and hairy it was to the touch, wondering if he could... again, the moans became louder, more focused, and Jonjoe's fingers squeezed bruisingly at the back of his neck, but... `Nah,' groaned Kenny weakly, `don't, mate...' Trent's long index finger was just circling about the firm bud of arsehole and he left it there teasingly, disappointed by the fear and aversion in Jonjoe's voice. He had felt a momentum there that might carry forward, and the thought of popping this nervous `straight' lad's cherry made his cock leak and throb! But he knew it was too much too soon and he reluctantly dragged his finger away, running it down the crack and teasingly over the gooch once more as he did... then, licking up off the lollipop cock, he stared up the pale heaving length of the other lad's torso, meeting his fearful blue eyes. `That's okay, I was just testing,' he said, licking his lips performatively. `Sorry,' Kenny mumbled, `I don't know if I could...' `You want to fuck me?' Trent offered, tickling gently at his balls with two fingers. `Really?' the 24-year-old asked in a sharp breath. Trent just nodded. He kissed the red tip of the big cock again then pulled his body up until he was side-by-side with the other lad, enjoying the contrast in their skin tones, his own lean muscles so smoothly cappuccino brown against the freckled white of his lover, except for blotchy red patches as he overheated with lust. He brought their faces together, kissing through the taste of one another's cocks, then hugging him sideways. `I've wanted you to fuck me for ages,' he said, savouring the truth. `I reckon I can take that thing.' `I don't wanna hurt you, though?' `It'll feel good.' `You've done it before?' `Er, maybe... heh. Does that bother you?' `Nope, just... I wanted to, I just never thought you would... erm... hah. I really really want to fuck ya.' `Then what are you waiting for, JJ...?' Trent grinned and beamed at the sudden force of lust from the other lad, who pushed at him with a flurry of biting kisses, then rolled on top of him and wanked their cocks together in one chunky handful, then started reaching under and finding his peachy bottom. But practicality briefly interrupted sexuality. `You got lube or anything?' Trent prompted, feeling a few experimental and graceless jabs of a finger at his clenched cheeks. Jonjoe looked briefly panicked, then pulled away and hopped to some bedside drawers, rifling through. Trent sniggered at the other lad's nervous energy, the dutiful way he found the small thin bottle of lube and squirted too much of it into his hand, dashing back onto the bed. Trent hooked his hands beneath his broad thighs and rolled fully onto his back, arse in the air, grinning over the silhouette of his hard-on as Jonjoe crouched in front of him and began pushing cold lubed fingers between his muscular buttocks. He moaned for him, pretending it was more pleasant than chilly, feeling it warm up as Jonjoe's rough fingers slid in between, jabbing mistakenly at the wrong spot, then finally finding his receptive ring. Breathless with urgency, Jonjoe was slapping his lubed hand about his cock too, smearing it all over the thick veiny weapon, then trying to poke it prematurely at Trent's arse -- laughing kindly, the more experienced of the two reached down to finger himself helpfully, stroking and teasing at his own entrance and maintaining sultry eye contact with the wild impatience on Jonjoe's face. Next came the slightly awkward struggle of insertion, the other lad seeming incapable of finding the right angle and positioning in this almost missionary stance. His breaths became increasingly frustrated as his impotent thrusts just brushed from cheek to cheek and slid unsuccessfully away from the teased hole. Trent reached to stroke his arms encouragingly, murmuring `Don't worry, slow down, you're just really fucking big, mate...' and then eventually deciding a new position was needed. He flipped over onto his knees and lifted his pert backside up in front of his love, who grabbed and pawed at his cheeks and began to try again. Trent slid forward, arms flat to the bed beneath the chin, staring over the edge of it, while feeling the monstrously thick head of Jonjoe's cock edged between his cheeks. `Ohhhhh,' he moaned gratefully and encouragingly, `oh god it's MASSIVE...' (Actually, he thought, it ain't so thick or long as Oxlade-Chamberlain, but still...) Finally, Kenny was fucking him, pushing inside him with quite surprised gasps, grabbing quite roughly at his sides, forcing himself deep in -- it was a good job this was not Trent's first time, he was confident enough to withstand the discomfort and struggle and know how good it could become. And it did. Once deep inside him, achingly thick, the Duracell bunny energy of the other lad came into play, and he was being fucked in rapid shoves, deep and hard and with hot wet kisses to the back of his neck. He gasped and groaned with genuine delight, feeling the hard internal pressure of Kenny's cock far into him over and over. Fucked doggy-style over the side of the bed, he gripped the duvets with his fingers and let his face hang over the edge, staring down into the scruffy mess -- the tangled form of Jonjoe's jeans where he'd thrown them, lying over a bundle of other clothes and what looked like some empty crisp packets; a men's fitness magazine hanging open to the side, and a knot of wires seeming to come from a couple of spare discarded phone charges; then, between this miscellany of almost teenage mess, a flash of red, something lacey and eye-catching that stood out between the more manly detritus of Jonjoe's bedroom floor -- what looked like a pair of women's undies. `FUCK,' growled the man balls-deep in him, `you're so TIGHT-!' Trent whimpered his enjoyment and felt his balls tingle with the long-delayed orgasm, something quicker and more ferocious now in the way that the other lad crashed into his behind. He felt Jonjoe's hands tighten at his sides, pulling back, and he straightened up, lifting until he was vertical with the humping fucker, cuddling his waist and kissing him passionately on the neck and cheek then spluttering out a wordless moaning nonsense as... mmm yes, the hot wet feel of his cum inside him, deep inside him, breeding him... and then one of Jonjoe's hands on his sensitive cock, giving it the few pulls it needed to spurt a second load of the day over the bedsheets, thick droplets of pale cum hitting the bold stripey fabric. `Fuck yes,' Kenny panted in his ear, `fuck fuck fuck, you feel so good...' `And you,' Trent groaned happily, still stretched by that girth, no long pounding him but just filling him up, `that was amazing,' he whispered, glad to be held like this, pumped and shagged so firmly and energetically, hoping there would be a repeat performance later tonight or first thing tomorrow, but really just happy with the way Jonjoe's arms clung to him and his reedy breaths tickled his smooth skin. `Sex makes me hungry,' the Evertonian right-back announced a little while later, when they had spooned and cuddled until both men had pins-and-needles in at least one limb. He hopped easily from the bed, and Trent was pleased and amused by the lack of self-consciousness with which he did so, baring his slim freckled back and surprisingly dense white arse, not bothering to pull on even boxer shorts or something before exiting the bedroom to go and raid the leftovers of their takeaway, whistling jauntily as he did so. Trent laughed quietly to himself and spread out on the bed, feeling the warmth of where Jonjoe's body had lay beside him, then wincing a tiny bit at some pain in his rear -- he'd loved the forceful speed of it, but he might also have to advise the inexperienced lad on how to treat him a BIT more tenderly...! The young Scouser smirked complacently and wriggled about on the bed, reliving it mentally, the mutual cock-sucking and furtive novice struggle that had preceded the intense fucking. He visualised the different positions they could try, the different spots in the flat that he wanted to soil with their juices, everywhere he wanted to be slammed by Kenny's big one. But he also felt a little flickering memory, somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, and found himself rolling to the right, dragging his naked form to the edge of the mattress, and peering over into the messy dump on the bedroom carpet. His eyes found the slash of red quite easily but reaching over to retrieve it without falling out of bed was slightly more effort. He tugged on it, dragging the skimpy garment out from the general chaos of clothes and junk, and then rolled back more fully into bed. He lay on his back, his head and shoulders propped up by a mess of pillows, and dangled the red knickers from one finger, staring at their offensively lacey appearance. Then Kenny was at the door, a tray of tinfoil containers held grandly in front of him like it was a silver salver of haute cuisine, his flushed pink chest showing above it and his proudly grinning features; below it, his heavy cock swinging pendulously between his lean thighs, below the trimmed curl of brown pubes, still a little shiny with excessive lube. He stood there, naked with the Chinese food, and his expression shifted, his eyes fixing on the red panties in Trent's hand. Trent shot him what he hoped look like a playful grin. `Erm, lad... whose are these, eh?' Jonjoe cleared his throat, took a few steps into the room. `Oh, some girl. You want some noodles?' `Some girl?' Trent asked, unable to just say it in his head. He stared at the dangling lace panties and then, the tray being lowered to the side of the bed, he felt one of JJ's grazed knuckles pushing roughly at him to snatch the panties and throw them away, back into the anonymous clutter of the room. `Yeh, some girl,' Kenny repeated, a sulky edge to his voice. `I'm defo having these spring rolls, I love `em cold, y'know?' He swung his naked body into bed, dick settling loosely between his parted thighs, and he dragged the tray between them, not looking up to meet Trent's furrowed face. He found himself staring out the past the bed, as if trying to see where the knickers landed -- no, as if trying to discern more female items among the mess. `Aren't you hungry?' he was asked tartly. `I just go so starving after a good fuck, and THAT was... well...' `Just a one-night stand?' Alexander-Arnold asked, hearing a prim judgement in his thin voice. `What? Oh, well -- not quite, this lass I've been kinda seeing...' `Seeing?' `Yeah, just... Oh god, cold Chinese -- so wrong, but so right...' Trent just stared at the grimy array of food, letting his eyes follow Jonjoe's fingers. He felt a hot colour rising in his face and his smooth pecs, a horrible little nausea in his tummy, and it wasn't food poisoning from this low-rate takeaway. He sensed the tensing and stiffening of the other lad's body as he drew quietly away a little, finding himself bizarrely unable to even look at the other guy. `What?' barked Jonjoe through a mouthful of food. `Are you annoyed?' `No,' Trent said, too quickly. `Of course I'm not.' `Cos... we're just friends, aren't we?' `Yes! Course we are. Friends!' `I mean, you don't have to get funny just cos I-` `Just cos you're seeing some girl,' Trent murmured, hearing accusation in each echoed word. Finally he looked at Jonjoe, frowning unhappily at him, even as he saw the wide-eyed innocence of the other lad's confusion. Not so long ago, he'd been bending over and giving up his arse to his sexy fucker, so happy to be his first, and so excited by the growing closeness between them, but now... `What?' demanded Kenny again, more moodily. `Why are you looking at me like that? I'm sorry you found them, I didn't know it would upset you, I just...' `I'm not upset!' The way he shouted it back said otherwise. He felt stupid and embarrassed, and he pulled an important couple of inches further from the other guy and the overpowering smell of the takeaway. `I'm fine,' he said in the same heated voice. `It's all good. It's fine. Just friends, like you said. Honestly, no big deal...!' `Okay... erm... so why do you look like yer about to cry...?' The snores cut through the air like a chainsaw, thick and unpleasant, but provoking just a little grin of affection rather than the annoyance they might under different circumstances; he looked across the hotel double-bed at the sprawled dozing figure of the other footballer, head lolling back to the pillows at the funny, open-mouthed angle that was making the Scotsman's snores quite so violent and unhealthy-sounding. Below the unattractive facial angle, the young lad's arms dangled and folded over his bare pale torso, and his satisfied cock still hung out over the waistband of his cheap supermarket boxer shorts, next to the shiny crusty of drying cum by his hip. Away from this mess stretched his open thighs, huge muscles relaxed into folds of bedding, calves disappearing under this cover and large bare feet sticking out at an angle on the other side. They'd just given hand-jobs, that was all -- it seemed the best way, remembering the misplaced affection that Kieran Tierney had drunkenly directed his way when they played together on the previous Scottish international duty, just part of the heavy-drinking debauchery that marked their biggest success in decades. Conscious of the vulnerability he'd seen in Kieran that night, Andy Robertson had been reluctantly to let any mischief occur between them -- but they had both been so horny and their friendship was now so very close, so he'd given in, texting Alex first just in case, and huddling in next to the Arsenal defender to jerk each other while watching straight porn on the hotel TV. This still played in the background, all seedy muzak and excessive whines, and he slid off the bed to find the remote and bring a stop to it. The 27-year-old paused at the foot of the bed, juggling the TV remote between his sweaty palms, and then dropping it onto the foot of Kieran's bed -- he took another long appreciative look at the snoring brute who had so quickly vanished into comfortable sleep only a couple of minutes after his braying orgasm made a mess of his own tummy and Robertson's fist. The big dumb jock, Andy thought, smiling but also worrying slightly for the younger Scotland hero -- as Kieran had made his vague boasts to him about how a couple of different guys in London were obsessed with his massive Glaswegian meat, there had been a vulnerability and desperation to it. Andy suspected that being an exciting piece of meat to a couple of Arsenal pervs wasn't quite making the young stud happy or secure, and he hoped that the mutual jerking they'd engaged in wasn't just making things worse or more confusing for Tierney. But the night's Scotland game against Austria had left them both riled and in need of some proper release, a frustrating 2-2 draw. With care not to wake him, he moved over and took some control of the bedding, throwing it over Kieran's big strong legs and slimmer upper body, covering him and then shuffling the pillows a tiny bit until his face fell side ways and the snoring dropped into more shallow, contented breaths. Andy rolled his eyes at his own caring interventions, unsure why he felt so protective of his younger friend, then moved away in the direction of his own bed. He tugged at the front of his own loose boxers, feeling the wet patch of his own seed -- he'd cum long before Kieran, who grunted wildly and needed much encouragement to reach his explosive peak. Robertson whistled quietly to himself, finding his white tshirt on the floor and pulling it over his body, then going through into the bathroom to wash his greasy hands and face, surprised when he heard the chiming of a phone call coming from the main room. He strolled back through the room, glancing at the almost comatose other Scotland defender, glad the call hadn't broken his slumber -- he found and picked up his phone, scratching his balls through his boxers, and surprised by the name that was ringing him at this time of night. `Okay, okay,' the Liverpool left-back sighed, after the emotional tirade had begun to subside down the line. `Where are ya? Can you get yourself to...' He turned and squinted at some stationary on the same table near his bed, and mouthed the hotel's name and address down the line. `Calm down, mate. It'll all be perfectly grand. Okay?' Robertson took another cautious look at gently snoring Tierney and then dressed himself further, pulling Scotland-branded sweatpants up his furred legs and over his boxers, then buttoning up a raincoat over his clingy white t-shirt. He pulled a woollen hat down over his head and snatched phone and room key from the table, then let himself quietly out -- alone, the Arsenal stud just snored quietly on, rolling into a more comfortable position and dreaming his dreams. About ten minutes passed, and then the hotel room door opened once more -- Andy shuffled back in, but not alone. Trent Alexander-Arnold stood awkwardly in the room, wiping the back of a jacket sleeve over his eyes, then thumbing at the bag straps over each shoulder. Andy closed the door gently behind him and just stared at the sniffling figure of his younger colleague, sighing sympathetically before moving over and helping him out of the bag straps and tracksuit top. `What about him?' the emotional youngster asked in a sniffy voice. `What, KT?' grunted Robertson. `Oh, he won't mind. He'll keep his mouth shut. But you will have to be gone early, mate, like we said -- first train out of Glasgow. I can't have you caught in here by anyone else on the Scotland team -- sorry!' He patted his gently on the upper back, looking apologetic for these stern conditions on which he'd met and rescued the tearful 22-year-old from the local streets and brought him up here. Trent gave him a miserable look, full of shame and regret. `What are you like, eh?' Andy asked him with a gentle growl. `Come on, you can bed with me, mate.' He jerked his head in a nod at the unused bed, and then began to undress, unbuttoning his jacket and wriggling his feet out of loose trainers. He moved quickly but quietly, not watching as his Liverpudlian pal pulled out of his tracksuit and trainers too, still sniffing occasionally and mumbling sour little admonitions to himself. Once they were both down to t-shirts and underpants (Andy took a moment to admire the tight white ones his friend was wearing, very cute), he walked up to him and grabbed him in a rough manly hug, just as he had on the street, squeezing the tightly muscled young hero to his own chest. `This,' he informed him simply, `is why you don't go anywhere near Everton scum, okay? Honestly, what were you thinking?' He stopped that line of questioning, seeing how much more miserable it made Trent's expression, then guided him into the bed -- but he was still in shock himself, so baffled to find that Trent was up here in Glasgow too during the international break, wandering the streets alone after realising he was far too late for a sleeper train south. It had still taken Robertson a little while to figure out the confused and emotional confessions -- Alexander-Arnold had been so reluctant to name the guy he was visiting, but a muttered `JJ' had allowed the penny to drop. `I'm sorry, Robbo,' murmured Trent pathetically. `For what?' Andy asked in a sensitive sigh, hugging his young friend more tightly. `Come on, get into bed. It'll all seem less terrible in the morning.' He didn't quite understand the argument or what had gone wrong, but his natural antipathy to the Everton squad made it easy to side with innocent young Trent -- so that scummy Kenny lad had been leading him astray, or something, tagging him along and then breaking his heart up here? He didn't really need to know the full story to loathe the Everton lad and want to look after his own Scouse pal. Trent clambered uncertainly into bed, and Andy glanced once at Kieran, mentally calculating how he would explain this to the Arsenal defender in the morning if required, then wriggled under the duvet and took hold of the 22-year-old once more, spooning him from behind and closing him in a tight hug in the cool sheets until their body heat cocooned them. `It'll all be grand,' he murmured for him, patting his arm. `You've just had a bad night, that's all. Forget about that cunt, mate.' Thinking longingly of his Ox, just as he had when pumping on Kieran's big equipment, he hugged at the slim muscular form of Trent, murmuring more comforting words that would lull them both to sleep. He planted a single reassuring kiss on the nape of the lad's neck and then closed his eyes, squeezing the heartbroken lad until his shaking subsided and both athletic bodies relaxed into comfort. Elsewhere in the city, another young player who wished they were on the England senior squad watched late-night highlights of the international fixture flicker over the screen across from him, a quick relay of the 5 goals -- the 19-year-old aspiring striker had already watched the full 90 minutes against San Marino, as fixated as any other player his age on seeing the cream of English football in action, and picturing himself in their ranks. Seeing lads as young as Foden and Bellingham in the mix stoked his ambition and frustration, and he wasn't sure why he was annoying himself by watching clips of it again now, slumped on a sofa and delaying the inevitable commute from family room to the guest bedroom he currently occupied. Bobby Duncan had spent almost three weeks here already, suspended as he was from his life at Derby County -- `mental health leave', according to the grizzled manager who had urged him to take the break, though Bobby knew full well that he was in some way being weirdly punished for the repeated oral sex that went on between them. He was being exiled until that old perv Wayne Rooney could resist sucking on his thick young cock, he told himself bitterly, unsure why he was taking the consequences for what was really all Rooney's fault. Of course, his low mood as he resided with his family in Scotland was not just resentment at yet another unwanted pause in his football, or bitterness at being mistreated by that conflicted DILF Wayne -- he actually pitied the Derby manager for his sexual conflict and there was something weirdly ego-boosting in being such a distraction to the fledgling head coach. It was certainly a contrast to the way he was apparently so unimportant and unwanted to the other man who had touched his cock this year. Bobby was still struggling to recover from the teenage heartbreak of Patrick Cutrone's fly-by-night visit, taking his virginity and failing to tell him that he would be moving to Valencia the next day -- the Italian stud had tried ringing him numerous times since that night, and Bobby had just blocked his number, confused and ashamed. It was all a bit too much for young Duncan to cope with, and he slumped sulkily in the same sofa spot that he occupied most nights in the home of his relatives. It was slightly easier hiding out here than with his more immediate family down on Merseyside, primarily because it meant he could isolate himself without question, and wander around Glasgow where he knew nobody at all. He was aware of being an incredible teenage stereotype in his doldrums, but he didn't care, he was a young man angry at the world and at a couple of men in particular. His uncle, well his cousin technically, passed fleetingly through the corridor beyond the nearby open door of this upstairs separate lounge, the one Bobby had more or less claimed as his own when he couldn't stand to be around the main boisterous family whose home he was cuckoo in. Bobby stared back at the TV, watching a regurgitated interview clip with Ollie Watkins about his debut goal, wondering if he would be anywhere near so successful by 25. `Ah, good for him,' crackled the distinct Liverpool accent of his relative at the doorway, interrupting his sulky reverie. Bobby sat upright a little and looked towards the open door, where his Uncle Stevie had doubled back on the way past and now hung at the doorframe. Clearly, the 40-year-old was on his way to bed, some tight buttoned pyjamas on and a pint glass of water in one hand. He looked into the dimly lit lounge with concern in his creased blue eyes. `You okay in here, Bob?' The teen switched the TV off with a dismissive flick of a button and he stared awkwardly over at Uncle Stevie, embarrassed to be caught scowling pointlessly at the footage on his own. He nodded his head. He didn't want to be petulant and moody with his cousin, who was kindly hosting him up here in Glasgow during his leave, but he was also in no mood for a late night heart-to-heart with one of England's greatest living footballers. The Glasgow Rangers manager might be under a lot of pressure in his current coaching role, but he was still revered throughout the Premier League for his playing career. `I'm fine,' Bobby told him quietly, `just gonna head to bed myself in a minute.' `Right,' Gerrard said in a slow, curious voice. `I'm going for a run early tomorrow if you want to join.' `Maybe,' muttered the 19-year-old, unable to stop himself sounding sulky and dismissive. `Just a thought,' Uncle Stevie pointed out softly, backing from the doorway back into the corridor. He seemed to hesitate there, sipping clear water from his pint glass, glancing away at a vague noise from the bedroom down the corridor, the voice of his wife. He looked back Bobby with the same penetrating concern that he had shown since his arrival at the start of the month. `Well, see how you feel in the mornin', kid. And...' A long pause between the two of them. `Just let me know if you need to talk, lad, you know? Man to man?' Bobby squirmed with a mixture of cringe and sadness. He stared back at his older and world-famous cousin, shifting about on the sofa and twitching uncomfortably beneath his worried blue eyes. When he didn't answer, Steven made to move, patting the doorframe pointlessly and backing off into the hall, and just as his pyjama-clothed frame began to vanish around the corner... `Uncle Stevie?' Bobby trilled in a shaky, anxious voice. In an instant, the retired England and Liverpool hero was leaning back around the doorway, concerned posture resumed, face open and ready to listen. The brief urge to confide and confess left Bobby behind. He wilted, sagged. `Erm. Thanks,' he said dryly. `Thanks again for having me here, I mean.' He left it at that, staring dismally at his concerned older cousin, who just nodded slowly and looked even more weighed by concern. `Any time,' Gerrard told him simply. `You're family, Bob. You can always rely on me. Goodnight.' And the heroic midfielder vanished away down the corridor off to his own bedroom, leaving Bobby staring after him and sighing sadly to himself over his teenage miseries, wishing he could just tell someone about what he was going through. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share