Date: Mon, 14 Jun 2021 22:00:19 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 265

Part 265: Coupling


The Aston Villa captain was the last back to the hotel from an evening of
media duties; he grinned pleasantly to himself as he crossed the sweeping
gravelled drive and climbed some steps onto the deserted rear terraces of
the hotel, quite happy to have been so busied with interviews. He was not
normally one to revel in such attention, but he seemed to be the name on
everyone's lips for this tournament, and it was hard not to let that go
to his head. Jack Grealish, the one to watch -- the last journalist he
had been speaking to had thrown all sorts of quotes at him from big names
in the sport, all excited to see what he could do for his country this
month.

Jack's hair bounced loosely with his cheerful gait and he made his way
into the surprisingly quiet communal spaces of the team's hotel. He'd
expected a few of the lads to still be up and about, though it was much
later than the lingering sunshine outdoors made it feel, and tomorrow
would be a busy one: a last Saturday of formalities and prep before
Sunday took them to Wembley and the start of their campaign. The
tournament had finally kicked off this evening, and Jack's only
resentment at being called away for more interviewing and photo-call was
that he hadn't been able to enjoy the Italy-Turkey game that launched
the competition.

The 25-year-old's faint sociable disappointment at strolling through a
quiet bar lounge area was quickly tempered by what awaited him upstairs.
If the whole squad had decided to call it an early night and were
retreating to their rooms, then Grealish could disappear to his two, and
enjoy some one-on-one time with its other occupant. The affable grin on
his bearded face turned into a broad, bashful smirk, and he quickened his
bouncing step through the plush interiors of their accommodation,
mounting the stairs in a hurry.

The excitement built rapidly and by the time he was scuttling down the
right corridor with a key pulled from the pockets of his tight England
shorts, Jack the lad was whistling a jaunty tune and scratching
mindlessly at his bulge with his other hand. He let himself into their
generously sized corner suite and tumbled eagerly in. `Alright, man?'
he called out in his gruff Brummie accent, letting the door fall firmly
shit behind him and casting his eyes uncertainly about the room -- it at
first appeared to be empty and Grealish felt a little sting of
disappointed confusion.

`Heya.' Ah, there he was -- managing to make brushing his teeth look
utterly seductive. Ben Chilwell was just emerging from their en suite
bathroom, stood in the doorway with the toothbrush jammed in his mouth
and a few beads of milky-white froth dribbling on the dark fluff of his
overgrown stubble; the short curtains of his dark hair curling
attractively above those tanned features, and the muscles of his exposed
upper body all on show from there to the waistline of his loose black
bed-shorts. He pulled the brush away and wiped the fluoride mess from his
mouth with the back of one arm, giving Jack a grin of warm welcome.

Fuck, Jack thought, is he the most beautiful lad in the world?

Sharing this room up here with Chilly was the icing on a very
multi-tiered cake. Apart from some injury absence, Grealish had enjoyed a
brilliant season of personal success, and it had all felt like it was
building up to entering this tournament with the Three Lions; he was
living his boyhood dream, and to do it so closely with a guy who had gone
from best mate to boyfriend to vague fiancé, well that was just the last
bit of magic. He knew that they had to be careful not to overdo it, had
even discussed avoiding a room-share at one point, but even the discreet
morning cuddles were an important bonus for Jack as he faced his first
big international competition.

`Finally done for the night?'

`I am. Come here.'

`Mmm. Babe, I'm still...'

`Kiss me.'

It tasted of Colgate. He slid his hands down the firm muscular sides of
Ben's torso, letting his fingers edge just inside those shorts, while
their mouths locked and kissed and their scruffy short beards tickled at
each other's faces. It began as a simple kiss that should have parted so
they could go on with their ablutions and winding down, but Jack pulled a
little more firmly on Ben, letting their lithe bodies press together, and
really letting their tongues meet. He found he could not quite let go of
the handsome Milton Keynes lad, whose muscular body he rubbed and
stroked, all up and down his back and sides, then inside those shorts to
grip and squeeze his firm round glutes.

`Someone's frisky,' chuckled Ben amorously, nuzzling him and rolling
up his taut navy t-shirt until it was level with his nipples, which he
stroked circles around with a single fingertip in a figure-of-eight.

`Well, that's all your fault for being so fine,' Jack returned
flirtatiously and coyly, blushing red in his chubby boyish cheeks. He
angled his head to kiss at Ben's cheeks then neck, and gladly shifted
his posture as one of Ben's hand disappeared inside the front of his
shorts to grope him through his boxer-briefs. The two prime footballers
teetered and cuddled in the bathroom doorway, enjoying the heat and feel
of their athletic bodies and only gently resisting the urge to rush on
into fuller action, Jack's mood and lust clearly infectious.

When impatience began to win against the slow enjoyment, he gripped one
of Ben's warm hands and dragged him backwards, gesturing towards one of
the two big beds that dominated the space -- they had taken to
alternating between assigned beds night by night, a clutter of personal
photographs and belongings surrounding each. He guided Ben towards his,
wanting to `host' him there in some silly fantasy of their one day
properly sharing a home. He wanted them to be given a room with just one
bed, properly coupled and not just `bros' to the wider footballing
world. Two superstars, he thought grandly, and Ben the handsome-as-fuck
trophy husband to him as England's great new forward!

Full of ambition and self-satisfaction, Grealish dragged his t-shirt up
and away and wrestled his lover onto the crumpled bedding, snogging him
so more and dragging his hands across those washboard abs and back into
his shorts, where he could feel Ben's enormous appendage swelling and
straining for him. He jerked him slowly inside his shorts whilst kissing
him teasingly on the lips and letting their thick leg muscles rub
repeatedly.

Both young players moaned and sighed happily, no more words between them
as they became more and more physical -- rolling into new positions and
still not quite naked, just grabbing and dragging at one another's
shorts and the stiff contents, stroking and clutching at meaty backsides
as if in some private competition over whose arse would be taking it
tonight. Jack thought back to some of their earliest tumbles together,
but especially that afternoon in the barn last summer, opened up and
brought to life by proper sex with this confident left-back stud.

Ben, who had been all grinning casualness since Jack approached him for
that kiss, became firmer and pushier now, pinning him down on his back
and yanking his shorts and undies over his thick hairy thighs to really
get at his privates. Jack just lay there and giggled stupidly, parting
his well-worked legs and feeling the layers slide past his ankles and go
flying off the side of the bed. He stared lovingly into Ben's handsome
face and watched as the shirtless stud stooped over him and began to kiss
all around his mid-section, anywhere but the raging hard-on and fat balls
beneath it. Ben's hands pushed Jack's wrists down against the bedding
so he could not give in and begin to wank himself, instead just shivering
with anticipation as Ben's tickling kisses roved about his navel, his
hips, the insides of his hairy thighs, then at last, kissing him on the
sack and sliding his tongue up the shaft.

`Fuck, baby,' Grealish moaned into the warm air.

Ben met his eyes cheekily, flicking his tongue back and forth over the
glossy pink tip of his hard-on, then backing away a little bit... rising
up on his knees, pushing down on the front of his bed-shorts, letting his
own whopper loose. Its size took Jack by surprise every time, even now,
and he instantly was unhappy to just lie here and be pleasured by him...
he pulled himself forward in a sit-up and grabbed hold of it, then pushed
his head down and began to suck on it with none of Ben's agonising delay
and teasing.

Ben laughed and stroked fingers through his hair, wobbling side to side
on his knees while Jack hunched uncomfortably between his legs, mouth
wide open, taking as much of that big cock into his gob as he could,
gagging a little on it and shifting positions. He held onto Ben's
buttocks, squeezing and feeling the globed muscle, and enjoying the taste
of him. Ben's playful laughter turned to deeper and more sensual moans,
the fierce earnestness that always replaced his cheeky-chappy persona
once they were hard at it.

Jack brought one hand across to grip the thick base of it and give him
better control, working his tongue and lips around the long thick tool,
eyes opening wide to stare up Ben's chiselled stomach and chest and up
to his gurning, delighted face, his little moans of `yes, yes, yes...'
and `that's it', and then, just as Jack began to peel down the back of
the shorts too and slide one finger in between those glutes, the
beautiful lips forming a name in distinct pleasure, moaning out in
response to his oral work... but the name wasn't his. `Oh, Mason,'
sighed Chilwell above him, shuddering with pleasure. Beneath him,
Grealish just froze.



Two weeks earlier, Porto: another hot hotel, this one with better air
conditioning. Even so, they were throwing the windows open as soon as
they were in the room, both of them fired up with a mixture of adrenalin
and champagne. Tonight, Chelsea had won the UEFA Champions League and
become the top team on the continent, and these two Englishmen had been
as central to that campaign as anyone.

Ben was as pissed as a fart and knew it. He could feel the ruddy heat in
his face as he unlocked and thrust open one of the big double-windows
that looked out on the bustling glow of the Portuguese city below, the
national stadium dominating the nearby skyline, the venue for tonight's
all-Premiership finale and the delicious win over League-winning
Manchester City. Somewhere else in the European capital, Pep Guardiola
and his elite men would be licking their wounds and mourning a final big
win of the season, just as Tuchel's Chelsea Blues had been partying hard
from the moment the whistle blew.

The celebrations had been messy even at the stadium, the lads raucous as
they hoisted the cup and received their medals, marauding indoors to
popping bottles and repeated rounds of song. Ben felt the importance of
the win, the crowning achievement of his first season at the West London
club, a big and obvious vindication of his move here from Leicester last
summer, one that he had laboured uncertainly over. Coming as it did on
the verge of a summer international period, the UCL final was a beautiful
turning point for Chilwell and his teammates -- and few more than his new
bestie, Mason Mount, who he had consistently gravitated to in the
locker-room partying, the riotous short bus ride to the hotel, the
sprawling reception in the restaurant on the top floor, and now here,
trying to let some air into the heavy atmosphere of their shared room.

Still glowing, Ben backed away from the window and its view of the hazy
Portuguese sunset, scratching irritably at the tight fit of his Chelsea
polo shirt, and watching as Mase poured them a nightcap from the mini-bar
and almost danced a jig with every cheerful step, his lean face bursting
with goofy pride, all matching blue and equally red-faced. Ben, smiling
drunkenly, took an extra moment to appreciate the way Mase's shirt
hugged his surprisingly well-developed back and shoulder muscles, the way
the 22-year-old was really becoming a man.

`Yes, you beauty,' Ben trilled admiringly. He took the drink, a measure
of neat bourbon, and then he hooked his arm in alongside the other
lad's, interlocking their right arms so they were pulled stupidly close
as they both knocked back the glasses and took long, satisfying sups of
its sweet burn. Mason giggled and shook his head as he disentangled
himself, shoving him playfully in the chest and stepping aside, that
little dance and jiggle to his step -- both of them were fizzing with the
energy of the big win, and might still be partying if things hadn't
reached a natural end: Kai Havertz passed out in a heap against Timo
Werner, Jorginho and Rudiger having to carry the captain out, and even
their severe German gaffer looking worse for wear on his way into the
elevators.

Chilwell had suggested that the two of them called it a night, and as he
did, his intentions had been only half-conscious, maybe less. Now,
looking at Mount, they were clearer than any other thought in his boozy,
testosterone-drenched brain. They were even clearer in the clammy pouch
of his briefs, contained within leg-hugging Chelsea tracksuit bottoms.

`Mm,' Mounr murmured speculatively, `this might be one drink too
many.'

`You think?'

`Mate, I am ruined,' sniggered the 22-year-old star. `I'm gonna be
gross in the morning!'

`Doesn't matter,' breathed Ben dismissively, sipping more.
`Pressure's off. Tomorrow will be chill.'

`Chill Chilly,' the other young player returned stupidly. Mason drifted
further from him, flopped backwards onto the edge of a bed, spilling a
little of his drink onto the blue chest of his shirt, then relaxing there
with a few clumsy sips and a sprawling stretch of his other arm. Ben
moved closer, very close, until his leg was rubbing at one of Mason's,
stood over him at the edge of the bed, swirling his bourbon about in the
glass then finishing it in one swill.

`You cute bugger,' he said teasingly at the lounging Pompey lad -- the
comment just earned a lazy, drunk giggle from the attacking midfielder.
Ben rubbed one of his legs against one of his, letting the knees brush
and the shins graze, and then their feet make contact -- socked toes
poking out of Adidas sliders and tickling together. Mase giggled some
more, finishing his drink and then letting the glass roll aside with a
little brown streak against the sheets. He grinned, eyes hooded, and he
looked really fucking angelic -- such a sweet boyish face, even as his
body bulked up and his little tufty goatee attempted to render him
mature.

Ben went to his knees on the carpet and laid hands just past Mason's
knees. He rubbed his thighs very gently through his trackies, thumb
against his body heat, and he gently parted the legs a bit further before
creeping forward. The strong left-back lunged carefully over the edge of
the bed and lowered his face in against Mason's crotch, where he could
quietly nuzzle his privates in the front of those clingy trackies. In
turn, the longer-serving Chelsea lad moaned softly, and Ben really
stroked at the bulge of his strong thigh muscles -- het let his lips and
tongue find delightful shapes in the synthetic material, and he felt
himself get rock-hard.

`Mate,' laughed Mount faintly.

`Yeah?' Ben sighed, shifting further onto the bed, reaching a hand in
and giving him a good feel through those pants. He licked his bottom lip
and twitched his face, then lowered his mouth again to the growing,
lengthening outline of Mason's prick. More moans signalled some
enjoyment, some appreciation, some agreement -- Ben held off from
anything more than this blocked oral, licking and kissing at the shape of
it until it was straining hard against dark blue nylon.

Then he pulled himself up over him, pinning the leaner man against the
bed, pressing his own compact muscular form over him. He breathed
heavily, ragged lusty sighs into the hot air, and he rubbed their
crotches together, letting Mase feel the sheer size of his horny rod,
dry-humping him through their clothing and matching his friend's light,
tipsy giggles of noise. `Fucking horny,' he whispered. `Can't help
it... never won the Champions League before, to be fair...'

`Mmm,' murmured Mount, `you silly bugger...'

`You can feel how horny I am?' Chilwell demanded a little more firmly.

`I can...! Mmm...'

`All yours, if you want it? You up for some fun, mate...? Yeah...?' He
reached under Mason's shirt, stroking up the side of his muscular torso.
`You up for it, Mase...?'

Mason turned his red, gurning face on him, all foolish grin and dull
sleepy eyes. `Calm it, Chilly, I'm not sure we ought to,' he said, but
his grin became a needy leer, and there was something intense about the
way he returned Ben's hungry gaze. His hands were on Ben's muscles,
reaching under his polo shirt, knuckling against his intense six-pack.
Ben moaned back to him and leaned in, not actually kissing him but
letting their noses brush and their chins bump. Their breath mingled.

Ben crawled back, peeling the shirt away so he could dip in and kiss him
just below the pecs, and work his way down the groove between his bas,
kissing and letting his stubble tickle his pale skin. Mason alternated
between gasps and giggles. When Ben peeled down the waist of those
trackies and kissed his hard-on through his black undies, the 22-year-old
shuddered and whined his name. `You like that?' Ben asked raggedly.
`You want my lips on you?' He kissed it again and Mason just yowled
with anticipation -- so Ben gave it to him, pulling the pants down and
planting the slim firm prick straight into his hot wet mouth.

He sucked on him generously and slowly, drooling saliva against the hot
red of Mason's tip, rolling his tongue about the head and then taking
much of the length inside his satisfying mouth. Ben dipped up and down
with his head, curls of his hair stroking damply against his own sweaty
brow. He held the sides of Mason's body and felt him grind and writhe in
frustrated enjoyment.

`Oh, Ben, mate...!'

Chilwell didn't say anything, couldn't, because his mouth was so busy.
He gagged himself on it, rose and spat some more, slathering over it and
treasuring the oddly sweet fresh taste of his prick. He drooled across
the head and shaft and gave the balls a lick -- a few good rough licks,
then the gooch below, pushing Mason's privates up and teasing a little
of his undercarriage, making him wiggle and gasp. He pushed the legs
further apart, or tried to, but the position wasn't working... so he
flipped him over and pulled the undies and trackies down some more,
leaning over his mate's body and fondling his round peachy cheeks,
spitting between them and then sliding a finger down his crack.

`Mmmmm, oh god...'

Ben rubbed and poked at him, not quite invading his hole, but slicking
and tickling his crack, and kissing the base of his spine. Again, he
climbed onto him, pinning him to the bed with his own strong frame; he
kissed the nape of his neck, massaged at his back muscles, ground his
hardness against his pillowy buttocks. The lads ground and dry-humped
more, all groans and gasps and some hesitant playful murmurs of `Don't,
Ben!' always followed by pitchy giggles of enjoyment.

`It's just a bit of fun,' Chilwell promised, rolling him onto his side
and hooking arm about his waist; again their faces were very close, but
no kiss. `It's all good, isn't it? We've played before? Nobody minds,
do they?'

Mount looked on the verge of a hesitant `Well...' but he had Ben's hand
on his cock and Ben's hard-on pressing into his leg. `Just oral,' he
whispered eagerly. `Nothing more tonight.' And with that, he began to
wriggle and disappear downwards, ready to return Chilly's favour. Ben
just spread onto his back and pulled up on his shirt, stripping it away
to show off his chest and six-pack, allowing Mase a lovely view as he
went down on him. Ben's big meat was removed from its tenuous cloth
prison, and drooled over now by Mase, who still looked cute and innocent
with his lips all over a veiny monster.

`Suck it,' Ben ordered quietly. `Suck me good, mate...'

Mason groaned through his mouthful. Ben stroked the lightly gelled tufts
of his hair, ruffling and messing it, playing with his ears and his neck.
He pressed up with his crotch, guiding more of his massive on into that
receptive mouth. Their skin slid against skin, both of them really quite
sweayt with their drunken heat and the sudden late-night lust of the
room. Sheets and clothing rustled as sliders were kicked off, socks
rolled away, t-shirts tossed off the bed. Trackies unfurled and thrown
aside, undies dragged free of strong athletic legs. Both lads naked now,
tangled and sweaty and hands all over each other.

Ben ignored the oral only idea, fingers damp and back in Mason's crack;
he reached under his balls to finger him while kissing his shoulder and
thumbing his nipple. It made Mount groan and whinge wordlessly, happily
lifting one leg to allow better access, gladly taking a length of finger,
then two fingers, inside his strong ring. Ben pushed and thrust at him,
frigging his man-pussy and kissing up his neck, nuzzling their faces
again and then, at last, daring a kiss... bringing his stubbled mouth
close, and just sighing as Mason twisted aside, leaving it unclear
whether he even acknowledge the near-snog that Chilly had gone for. Ben
ached with drunken frustration. He jabbed his fingers in more, opening
him up, and began to shift their positions, moving Mase onto his back and
angling his cock that way.

`Let me fuck you,' he hissed. `Please.'

`Ben,' groaned Mount uncertainly, `I dunno, maybe not tonight,
just...'

`Please,' he whined.

`God,' mumbled Mason, `I want it in me so bad.'

`I knowwww,' Ben hissed back, `so let's just...' He pushed its tip
between those cheeks, bearing down on him in missionary position, kissing
him on the cheek, which felt so slick with sweat. `You need a dick in
you, I can feel it...'

`I do, I really fucking do... mmm, Benji...'

`Yesss...'

`Put it in me,' gasped the 22-year-old, and Ben wasted no time.

He pushed his cock, helping it from the base, angling it between those
cheeks and its thick brutish head against the tickled wet entrance. He
bore slowly into him, holding him tightly in his arms and letting their
faces brush and graze and make a quiet awkward dance of not kissing. He
inched into him, mounting Mount, pressing him into the comfortable luxury
of the bed, pinning him between firm biceps. `God you feel good,' he
whispered.

`You dirty bastard,' Mason returned in a quiet drawl, `your cock is
ridiculous...'

`Feel it in you,' he groaned eagerly, `feel it up you...'

`God you're horny...!'

`Horny for you...'

`Hehe, horny for the trophy!'

`Horny for YOU...'

`Mmm, it feels good haha, it's... just... so... thick...'

`For you,' Chilwell groaned again. He was pushing more of his thickness
inside the tight resistance of his mate's hole, pinning him to the bed
with it and with the weight of his upper body. And then he began to pull
back and forward and fuck him, making erectile thrusts and gasping out in
joyfule eagerness. `For you,' he repeated gaspingly, and Mount's
response to that was a bit strangled and awkward.

Mason groaned in the physical force of it, feeling Ben inside him, and
his cries were musical to Ben's ears; there was something so joyful and
exciting about Mount and his energy, there really was. He was
intoxicating in his bizarre innocence. Oh god. Ben pushed deeper with
each roll of his hips, and then the words were gushing out of his mouth.
`Feel it,' he whispered, `feel me in you, that's how much I want you
baby -- you beautiful fucker...'

`Mmm?'

`I love you,' he mumbled breathily. Mason's eyes jolted open beneath
him and the ecstatic mask was a bewildered frown. Ben stammered awkwardly
between half-started sentences, still buried in his arse, but pausing
over him in the intimate hold, their faces so close. Because actions
speak louder than words, he pushed forward with his face and went for the
kiss, but got cheek rather than mouth, and then felt the other land's
hands begin to push at his arm muscles and his chest. Ben gasped, sighed,
wilted -- he retreated, feeling the little pop of release as the first
half of his thick cock left Mason's arse. He sucked in air, staying
awkwardly over him, his mouth tasting sour with the foolish words he'd
let out.

His cock ached and he wanted to push back in and go on fucking. Mase
looked and felt so beautiful beneath him. But his face was becoming
angry, his hands were pushing more forcibly at Ben's muscles, urging him
to rear back and roll aside. And Mason was rolling away, muttering
something as he whirled on him, cock wobbling side to side. He mumbled
some vague accusation that Ben didn't quite pick up the words of, and
then they were just crouched there, naked and sweaty, staring at one
another across the king-size bed. `Ben,' gasped the midfielder, `what
the hell is going on?'



`Mmm, babe...!' He resisted, very slightly, the hold from behind; the
strong feel of Declan's big arms encircling him in the close space of
the hotel bathroom where he was trying to finish a quick wet shave. His
body rocked to the rhythm of Rice's bigger body, holding him and leaning
in to peck kisses at the inside of his neck and shoulder, bare back and
chest muscles rubbing as the defensive midfielder grappled possessively
at him. `I'll cut myself, careful...!'

Declan Rice heaved a long sigh and lowered the hold of his arms further
down Mason's bare torso, still squeezing him but less eagerly, kissing
gently at the backs of his earlobes whilst Mase removed the last flick of
white foam from his jawline and dipped the little manual razor into the
suds of the sink. A wet kiss landed on his freshly shaven cheek and
Declan's hands flattened against his washboard abs. `Come to bed,'
murmured his England teammate encouragingly, before at last releasing him
from the cuddle and backing off into the doorway.

Mount blushed and grinned at him in the mirror that connected them,
splashing water on his cheeks and neck and washing away little white dabs
of shaving foam. He smiled but said nothing, dropping his posture to
carry on washing at his face, letting big Rice drift out of the en suite
and leave him here alone for a moment to compose himself.

A skimpy white towel knotted about his waist, fresh from the shower, the
Chelsea player followed his boyfriend out into the main room and folded
his arms across his developing pecs. He stared self-consciously across
the room to the broad back of the other London footballer, who was just
clearing some things off the bed to make space for him, then turning to
grin invitingly over. Declan looked tall and powerful, naked but for the
white boxer briefs that fitted him so well; he looked more confident in
his smalls than Mason had seen him in the earlier days of their romance,
and it wasn't just because he got fitter and fitter.

Childhood best friends and now so much more, two 22-year-olds living
their dream here, due to step out at Wembley in less than 48 hours... and
yet Mount could not quite let himself go. He could not quite relax into
the shared fantasy of the experience that the two special men were racing
into together. More specifically, he now stood awkwardly in his towel and
watched as Rice got comfortable on the bed, tall and well-built and all
affable smiles.

`Get over here,' laughed the West Ham hero gently.

Mason hunched his body a little as he crossed the room, a lopsided grin
ghosting across his face. Declan was laughing quietly again as he neared
the bed. `Lose the towel then, won't ya?' he murmured, shifting onto
his side and patting the expanse of bedsheets next to him. Mason smirked
and winced at the same time, undoing the knot in one deft little
movement, then sliding his toned naked body onto the bedding besides his
man, who immediately enveloped him in the same strong hug as in their
bathroom, pulling him in close. Mason responded instinctively, always so
comfortable and excited to be held by this big loveable brute. Instantly,
Rice was lowering his head and kissing his chest, rubbing his lips close
to Mount's permanently perky nipples, making him giggle and shake and
sigh.

`Declan...'

`Mmm.'

`Dec...?'

`Mmm?'

`Declan!'

The long blocky face was lifted up and close, smirking at him, eyes
intense. One of his hands was rubbing softly at Mason's shoulder and the
other was playing beneath his strong sharp chin. `What?' the defensive
player demanded calmly. `What's up with you, Mounty?' He was smiling,
a little laugh in his voice, his body language so tender and affectionate
-- but as Mason paused awkwardly and failed to answer, some awareness
seemed to register in Declan's face, and his body stiffened and tensed
beside him. `What?' Rice asked again, more quietly but more seriously.
`What is it?'

Mason pushed a protective, hopeful arm about his waist before he said
anything. `Dec, I feel like there's something I have to tell you,' he
confided.

`Do you have to?' muttered Rice with strained humour. `Cos I really
really want to fuck you.'

`You can fuck me fifteen times if you like,' Mason told him with a
forced lightness in his whisper, `but before you do, just... promise me
not to overreact and be all extra about this, will you?' He could hear
the feeble wobble to his own voice as he asked the question. `Let me
tell you something, then you can pound me good, yeh?'

`Mase, you're making me nervous.'

`I know, I know. But... don't be. It's just...' Deep breath. `Some
stuff happened with Ben.'

Declan's response was slow, his face quietly stormy. `Yeh. I know. You
told me.'

`Mm.'

`What about it?' Rice said, a little hiss edging into his voice.
`You've sucked him off again? He's sucked you?'

`Well, it went a bit further than that...'

`I know,' Declan told him through clenched teeth. `What are you trying
to tell me, Mase?'

And now the Champions League truth rushed from him more earnestly, the
stuff he'd been unable to say to Rice for the past few weeks, even as
they reunited on Teesside in the England friendlies, or in any of their
hot training days here in Surrey leading up to this weekend. But here in
his lover's embrace, Mason's guilty worry got the better of him, and it
all came out. Just how much he'd been allowing himself to play about
with Ben near the end of season and on the Portugal trip to beat City in
that final -- the tenderness and affection Chilwell had started to show
him, and of course, the grunted admissions mid-fuck that had chilled and
shaken him. The four-letter word that had broken it all.

`He's in love with you?' demanded Dec in a voice that sounded truly
broken. It made Mason grab and cuddle at him quite desperately, pulling
their bodies closer than close. `I don't get it,' mumbled the West Ham
man. `I don't get it...'

`He got the wrong idea,' Mount told him rapidly. `He's messed it all
up. He thought me and him were... oh, I dunno. It was just fun! It was
just a laugh, you know? He and I, well, we get on so well and we got so
close and just-` He could see this was going badly. He wasn't sure what
he'd expected but Declan's expression looked brutal, his body felt
stiff and distant. `I'm telling you this so you know it means
nothing,' he added weakly. `I made him sleep in another room that
night. I told him he was being ridiculous. He's with Jack, for fuck's
sake! He's just being daft, he isn't REALLY in love with me, he's just
kidding himself and-`

`And fucking my boyfriend whenever he wants,' Rice finished, his voice
barely audible.

`Only a couple of times,' was Mason's trembling reply. `And I never
thought it was... I didn't think he... I mean, as soon as he said that, I
stopped it, and...' He forced a cheerful energy into his voice. `I'm
all yours, Dec, you know that -- all I want is you. I'm so happy to be
here with you. England, you and me. Three Lions. We're gonna bring
football home. Don't let's get worried about confused Chillwell
and...'

`So is he in love with you, or is he confused?' Declan was angrily
demanding. `Which is it?'

`I dunno, both?' Mason hissed at him. `Look, don't be like this,
babe, I didn't want to...'

`We should have just fucked,' Rice muttered.

`We still can,' Mount pleaded. And he began his wheedling work now,
reaching inside those underpants and teasing life into Rice's privates.
He kissed him on the throat, between the pecs, on the bulge of his
shoulder. He murmured desperately, `You know nobody turns me on even a
fraction of what you do to me, Rice Cakes, you KNOW it...' He moved on
top of him, cowgirl, so he could rub his broad strong arse over his
bulge, while massaging his chest muscles and staring pleadingly into his
face; but Declan wouldn't look him in the eye, shifting his face to the
side a little and letting his eyes fall half-shut.

On it went, but it wasn't like normal between them; it moved from
Mason's eager redemptive foreplay to rough kisses and grabbing. All
through it, Declan couldn't seem to look him properly in the face. He
grabbed at him, responded to his touch, became hard and dripping for him,
but said nothing, barely made a noise -- in fact, their sex was eerily
silent, just rustling gasps and fleshy thumps. Mason was thrown about the
bed until they were in position and then Dec was fucking him. From
behind, so that there was no need to look at each other; even when the
Chelsea player tried to look over his shoulder, he found his face pushed
away, his neck and hair shoved down, his body just slammed with hard but
mechanical fucking, push after push until the strangled groan of Rice
unloading his balls in him and making strange, vulnerable gasps to
himself, but not letting Mason turn or rise or cling to him for kisses
and cuddles. He was held at a distance, even as Declan reached beneath
him and wanked him furiously towards completion, not a word said. Mason
reached a miserable orgasm, and the ghosts of tears welled up in his eyes
-- it felt like he'd just ruined something very important.



On a sunny Saturday, just over 24 hours from the England side's
tournament opening win over Croatia, the men shifted back and forward in
a melee of Marks & Spencer suits, readying themselves for an official
team photograph outside the hotel.

Declan Rice stood a little way from anyone else, busying himself with
carefully knotting his own tie. The 6ft1 Londoner cast his shadowy and
sleepless eyes in all directions, moving warily from foot to foot. Near
to him, some of the other young Lions could not actually manage their own
knots -- in a different mood, Rice might have sniggered a little to see
Arsenal's Bukayo Saka having his collar and knot sorted out by
Liverpool's Jordan Henderson -- but then the Sunderland man was moving
on from Saka to help out another befuddled looking player. At 25, surely
Grealish should be a little lest clueless with a tie, but then the Villa
guy didn't look himself: he looked dazed and as if he'd had as restless
a night as Rice's own, staring intently back at Hendo and letting his
tie be sorted out by the team's token father figure.

He was not proud of the way he'd behaved last night. The faceless,
unkind sex he'd enjoyed with his lad, fucking him roughly but quietly in
the shared bed, finishing messily inside him and holding onto the usual
sweet words of lust and adoration that he should whisper as he did so.
And afterwards, moving silently away across the room, pulling his boxers
back on and then getting in to the other bed with his back defiantly
facing Mason. His sulk had burned straight through the sleepless night
and into breakfast, and he had found himself avoiding being too close to
his boyfriend as they collected their new suits and began getting ready
for the photoshoot.

Mason was over there now, stood looking a bit lost on his own,
immaculately dressed but hovering anxiously next to Coady and
Calvert-Lewin. It was unfair to be cold with him, Declan thought, but he
was struggling with the admissions and confusion of last night's pillow
talk. Mount was beginning to look this way, but Rice avoided meeting his
questing eyes and expression of hurt innocence, staring hard back at
Henderson and Grealish instead: one Premier League captain patting the
other on the shoulders and then leaving him to it. Rice tried to study
Jack's expression -- he was smiling and proud, but there was something a
little glassy and artificial in it.

The men were moved into position, guided into three rows by the
photographers and their own bosses. Declan took his own place near the
centre back, tall and rigid with his shoulders squared and an awkward
half-smile finding its way onto his long face. To his left, Marcus
Rashford looked oddly severe and focused, perhaps nervous to be so
central in the formal photograph -- on his right, young Jude Bellingham
was contrastingly buzzing, his whole face cracked by a big dazzling
smile, the 17-year-old showing not a single scrap of nervousness about
what awaited them tomorrow.

But no sooner were they in position than Rice was staring forward across
the rows, past the central trio of goalkeepers, and on to where Mount was
seated towards the left of the front row. Just beyond him was his Chelsea
teammate, beaming confidently ahead towards the photographer. Declan saw
Ben turn briefly to flash a smile at Mason. From here, he could not see
Mason's reaction at all. His stomach did somersaults.

And then Declan was looking back along the upper rows again instead,
finding the handsome profile of Jack instead, where he stood flanked by
Sancho and Phillips: like himself, Grealish was staring broodingly down
his height at the seated men in front, the two dark-haired Chelsea stars
seated so closely side-by-side in the front row. From here, Jack's
nostrils could be seen to flare, his brow knotting, his shoulders lifting
and falling. There too was a jealous and angry man trying hard to put a
brave face over his heartache.

`Right, big smiles!' crowed the voice of the team photographer
somewhere in front of them, and Rice turned his stern expression that way
just in time, the hint of a smile being forced onto his lips. Flash went
the camera, the formal photograph was taken, all smiles.



'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
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