Date: Wed, 14 Jul 2021 13:52:44 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 271

Part 271: Shawberto


Luke Shaw woke on the day of the Euro 2020 Final without any of the
nervousness or excitement he might have assumed; instead, the 25-year-old
footballer woke up in a feeling of deep satisfied calm. He was lying on
his back with his head nestled in soft white pillows, bedsheets covering
only half of his chunky physique where it sprawled. One long arm draped
across his front, just below the chest, like a weighted security blanket
pinning him down in this comfortable spot.

With a sleepy grin lighting his lips, the England left-back turned his
head and opened bleary eyes -- mainly, he could see the back of
Maguire's head, his chocolatey-brown hair disturbed and ruffled by
movement in the night, and his clenched face just pushed down into the
groove between pillows next to him. Below that and the thick neck, Luke
could see the big shoulder muscles of the centre-back giant, and his own
fingers emerging on the other side, where they still cuddled against his
side. Luke's own arm had gentle pins-and-needles from being stuck
beneath the other man's chest, but he didn't mind the pleasant
numbness.

Harry's back stretched down away from him at a slight angle, a long pale
expanse of English muscle, cut off eventually by the Jeff Banks waistband
of his black underpants, which then rose in a perfect domed heap before
meeting the edge of the duvet. The tall body lifted and shook gently with
each sleepy breath (frankly, they were snores, but Luke had never found
the heavy growling noises of his man in the night anything but
reassuring) and as it did that big muscular arse also seemed to rise and
fall a little against the bank of bedding covering his tree-trunk legs,
framing it in Luke's sleepy morning view. It was a great arse, he mused
with some flickering of frustration in him, picturing it not just in
those tight dark trunks but in white England shorts and on display when
Harry showered and dressed. His own dick was responding very quickly to
these thoughts and he made an irritable little whine at his own restless
energy, knowing that they had been naughty enough to mess around last
night, this morning had to be out of bounds!

After the passionate night in Rome, they had done their best to stay
strong and disciplined, but the pent-up needs had met with the sheer joy
of the approaching Euros Final, and last night the pair had been unable
to keep their big strong hands off one another. They were in a different
hotel room in London, away from the love-nest of St George's Park where
they had been based for so much of the last six weeks, and they had
practically trashed this one in the heated activity of their desire for
each other. Lifting his head a little and beginning to slide away from
the loose hold of Harry's heavy arm, Luke could see an overturned chair
and the mess of clothes and towels piling in the doorway to the bathroom,
where they had bathed together in between fucks and lost even more
self-control.

He tried his best to ignore the dull throbs and wakenings in the crotch
of the shorts he'd pulled on for bed, and carefully extracted himself.
Picking his way across the room, he gently corrected a few disturbed bits
of hotel furniture, more amused than regretful at the chaos the sober
lovers had caused after last night's early curfew. In the bathroom, he
pissed and washed his hands, finding no clean or dry towels available,
then went to find his phone where it had fallen and checked the time; ah,
quite early after all, the lances of hot sunlight cutting across the room
were misleading in the July morning, and there was a good hour or more of
bed allowed before either of them would need to show face at the hotel
breakfast and begin the rituals of the day.

Holding the phone loosely at his side, the big broad United player
stopped, still grinning, and admired the view spread across the bed,
seeming bigger and lazier without his own form cuddled at the side.
Harry's resting muscles and 6ft4 proportions all stretched out in front
of him like a breakfast buffet, one that he shouldn't have played with
last night, thrown about the room and fucked three times, three delicious
energy-sapping orgasms that had made a mess in three different parts of
the suite. Fuck, they'd been naughty, but they were both in such good
fitness and so fucking ready for tonight! Surely if anyone could get away
with it, they could?

Luke allowed himself an indulgent moment more, patting at his tummy and
scratching himself in the front of the shorts. He looked at the big swell
of Harry's backside with that same little flash of frustration
disturbing his calm. Obviously, he never hesitated at the rabid sex
between them, he felt almost incapable of ever refusing it now if Harry
greedily initiated it, but every now and then he wished... He hardly dared
think it even to himself, the little pang of longing to revisit that role
reversal, because he knew that as soon as he acknowledged the thought, he
was ruining the easy comfort that had settled between them. That Harry
had once allowed him to go there in the interests of reconciliation was
incredible, and really that had to be enough for him! If he began to
question now the dynamic that they shared, then he was pissing on his own
paradise.

But last night he'd wanted it. Mainly, he'd wanted him, anything. But
as they broke their own rules and grabbed for each other, he'd found
himself groping repeatedly at the thick muscular cheeks back there, not
quite wanting to be pushed down and dominated in the way that he so
typically embraced. Not that this clash had lasted long, since he was
soon spreading his legs and loving every thick inch of it, but there had
been a moment of disappointment where he would rather take it in a
different direction... Damn it. There it was. The shady little thought
here to spoil the perfectness of the moment, he thought ruefully,
climbing back onto the bed and sliding his legs beneath the covers until
his toes were tickling at Harry's ankles; with a gentle groan, Maguire
shifted on the way out of sleep and lifted that big arm again to grab and
spoon him, pulling close and pushing him instinctively onto his side so
he could be cuddled and grabbed from behind. For Luke, being held like
this was heavenly, but it was now a heaven chinked by a dangerous little
thought -- why couldn't it be his turn to top after so long?



It didn't have much opportunity to play on his mind as the morning got
going. Yes, he stared dreamily across the room at the way Harry's trunks
held his rump on the way into the bathroom and yes, he watched their
hairy shape exposed again when the big man was dressing by the bed, but
he admired every other bit of him even more and enjoyed the familiar
little ache in his own arse to know he'd been taken by such a powerful
beast in the night before.

At breakfast, distractions came thick and fast. The mood in the camp was
electric, full of light-hearted confidence and little eruptions of boyish
eagerness for the evening to come and the showdown with Italy to take
place. A little more tired than he wanted to admit, having spent half the
night being topped by Maguire, Luke kept quiet and to himself, but
enjoyed the banter and hijinks of the others around the breakfast tables,
and noticed a certain smugness radiating from his boyfriend's own
behaviour -- a smugness that came from being so well-serviced and
repeatedly sated, one that Luke usually took possessive pride in, but
found himself oddly envious of this morning. It made no sense to feel
that way, as if he hadn't been emptying his bollocks in delight for
hours in their room too -- well you've really woken up on the wrong side
of bed, ain't you? He scolded himself and tried not to stare at the
tightness of Harry's shorts as he went back up to the drinks area to get
them fresh coffee and orange juice.

The day was one of light-touch preparations, nothing that would stress or
tire the men with such a massive game loitering on the near horizon. The
post-breakfast meeting was full of fuzzy reflections on what an awesome
tournament it had been, lads being asked to share their highlights and
praise the players and support staff who'd made it special for them --
Luke could only smirk as he avoided the obvious and made no euphemistic
tribute to the loving arms of his Manchester captain. Instead, he gave a
shout-out to one of his newer friends on the squad, Declan Rice, and
laughed about their intense Love Island bingeing at the training camp.

He ended up paired again with the defensive midfielder later in the
morning, out for some very light training in the restrictive facilities
of the spa hotel they were occupying. Rice was one of several players who
he'd gotten to know much better this last month, being pretty knew to
the existing England squad after his own long exile, and he'd really
appreciated the 22-year-old's friendship.

Only a few days ago, the two defensive players had shared a bonding
moment to cement this new link. Luke had been moving quietly through the
hotel the evening after the Semi-Final, a bit lost in his thoughts,
moving up through the carpeted stairways and high-ceilinged corridors on
the way to his and Harry's room; he heard them before he saw them, the
murmur of voices and the slight squeak of box-fresh trainers, but then
there they were in front of him. Declan, the taller of the two, leaning
down with a huge smile cracking his dace, nuzzling his prominent nose in
against the forehead of the slighter lad, who was clinging to his sleeves
and leaning in very close where they stood in the corner together.

Luke's immediate reaction was to backtrack stealthily, but his heavy
footfall was too much for that plan, and he couldn't really control the
little gasp of surprise at what he'd disturbed. It was a surprising
image, but not a shocking one; he'd had his suspicions at times about the
famous London bromance, and heard enough jokes to wonder what seed of
truth lay in the humour. There was shock, though, on the disturbed faces
of Rice and Mount, staring this way and loosening their hands from each
other's jerseys. Luke acted quickly to just smile and nod his wordless
greeting, then advancing forward and past them with nothing more than a
firm pat of friendship to Dec's upper back -- he stole a last fond
glance at them, noting Declan's expression of awkward defiance and
Mason's blushing cheeks and twisted grimace, but just grinning
supportively and moving on down the corridor without saying a thing.

Today though, passing balls gently from foot to foot, felt like a time
for saying things. Quiet, careful and confiding voices between the two
Kingston lads. `Things are good between you now, then?' Luke asked
conversationally, stopping the ball beneath his boot then tapping it back
in Dec's direction. `I mean, at least it makes sense to me why you were
so down the other week, if things between you felt a bit rocky...'

`I think it's sorted now,' Rice told him in a dismissive, blokey tone,
`but... yeh, it's good. It was just a...'

`Blip?'

`That's it. Yeh. Just that.' He looked stony-faced and unsure. `It's
just gonna be tough, when all this is over, and he's back with him at
Chelsea. I do trust Mase, but...'

`You don't trust Ben?'

Declan made a worried shrug and glanced self-consciously away down the
pitch. Handsome Chilwell himself was busy throwing tackles at Reese James
and Bukayo Saka, and Mason Mount was further away, practising his
finishing with Raheem Sterling and Jack Grealish. Dec looked back this
way and Luke caught his eyes with an encouraging smile. `If you two have
sorted things out, then that's that,' he said with what he hoped was
real confidence. `Don't let it weigh you down, mate. Mase is a lucky
guy to have you, you know.' He meant it in most platonic terms, but he
heard the little fleck of flirty admiration in his words, saw a
bashfulness in the younger lad's laugh and grin.

The question came out unbidden in Luke's sudden urge to shift the topic
and make his friend less worried about the threats to his relationship.
`So with you two, how does it tend to work?' he asked with a stupid
bluntness of hurry.

Rice gave him a puzzled little frown and laughed. `How d'you mean,
mate?'

Luke laughed too, knowing how insensitive and rude the question was, but
needing to just follow it through now he'd said it, and glad at least
that Dec looked pretty amused. `I mean, y'know...' He gestured vaguely.
`Who is erm, giving and who is... taking? Haha.' He grinned foolishly at
the 22-year-old and rubbed a palm over the short fuzz of his hair, unsure
if Rice would now be pissed off at him for such an invasive question.

`Jeez, you're bold,' the West Ham player teased him, passing the ball
back his way with a bit more force and then rolling his eyes
dramatically. `What do you think?'

`Er -- I'm thinking you are the giver and...'

Declan looked embarrassed by the obviousness of their dialogue, a feeling
Luke strongly shared except for the welling curiosity and frustration
that had struck him morning by the bedside. `Sorry,' he blurted. `This
is stupid. I shouldn't be asking, pal...'

`Nah, it's cool,' coughed Rice uncomfortably. `But... erm, yeah.
Like... it's usually me doing the... well, you know.'

`Usually,' Shaw echoed absent-mindedly, stopping and chipping the ball
up into his palms. He didn't really mean to push further or continue his
rudeness, but the question in his tone was his own reflections spilling
out.

Dec seemed even more disconcerted by the implied admission of being
fucked, and his freckled face coloured deeply. `Well, sometimes he wants
to do things differently, and I want him to enjoy it,' he mumbled
sheepishly. `I mean, I know what I prefer, but we're both lads, and
sometimes a lad just has to, you know, take charge and...' He burst into
nervous uncomfortable laughter, grabbing the ball in both hands as Luke
tossed it his way. Luke grinned and nodded and cleared his throat,
feeling guilty at pushing such details out of the reserved 22-year-old
just because he was feeling a little neglected in that department. Mind,
he now also couldn't help but check out the profile of the midfielder as
Rice turned away to look down the field, noting the strong rise of his
backside beneath the close-fitting England gear they both wore. He
noticed that Declan was looking down the field towards Mase, catching his
eye and giving him a sweet wave across the half dozen players that
separated them at this distance, and he felt less bad for asking those
questions -- it was obvious that the young stars were just besotted with
each other and becoming less and less secretive about the strength of
feeling between.

Luke just strolled closer to his teammate and grabbed him by the
shoulder, giving it a squeeze and pat. `Like I said, he's a lucky
little guy, and I hope he knows that...!' With that, he pushed him
playfully away and let his strong arms flop at his sides, staring about
instead for sight of his own big sturdy king, finding Maguire deep in
conversation with Pickford and Walker nearby, joined by one of the
coaches. The big centre-back had his back this way and once more Luke
found himself looking at the big muscular arse of his Sheffield man, and
wanting to claim it more fully as his own.



Hour by hour, Shaw lost this undertone of frustration. He was so deeply
grateful for the way his career had revived this season and the fact that
he was back in the England line-up after several years of being written
off; he was determined to fully prove his worth in tonight's climactic
Italy game, and he knew that worrying about his sex life would be a
massive barrier to this. He kept himself focused and calm throughout
their late lunch and afternoon's relaxation, and resisted some furtive
kisses from big Harry on brief return to their hotel room before it was
time to head to Wembley. `Not yet,' he whispered to the bigger United
defender, keeping his lips pursed and away, and patting that big firm
chest. `Too much rests on tonight.'

But in the changing rooms before the game, where the anticipation and
ambition were almost rapturous among the England teammates, Luke found
himself faced with fresh temptation and distraction in the form of the
perfect globes at the top of the most coveted hairy legs in England right
now. Luke was sat pulling up his socks on a bench at the side of the
famous locker-room, and beside him Jack was in the middle of stepping
into the clingy tracky bottoms that he would don for the subs bench until
called on, yanking the stretchy material up first those mighty calves and
then onto the powerful thighs, halting a bit at the peachy swell of his
briefs-clad arse. Then, at last, ragging the pants fully up and letting
them snap over his glutes, which were so neatly packaged there at head
height whilst Luke failed to finish tidying his socks and shinpads.

It was surreal to think that he had already fucked Jack, and something he
could be in danger of forgetting. It had been a fleeting connection in
the messy fun of his 25th birthday, almost exactly a year ago: Ben and
Jack arriving with James Maddison in tow to join the taboo celebrations
of that English country garden, finished off by the presence of Eric
Dier. At some point in that sunny scene, he'd climbed on top of the sexy
Brummie and slid inside him, and it was a dreamlike snapshot that had
very occasionally returned to him in lonely wanks if separated from his
Harry; now it was more vividly present in his head, making his dick
twitch in his own clingy undershorts, forcing him to adjust and fiddle
with his privates as he stood up next to the sub player. Jack turned this
way with a swing of his curtained hair, raising his neat eyebrows and
giving him a questioning half-smile.

`All good, mate?' the Aston Villa captain demanded, nudging elbows with
him.

`Perfect,' Shaw returned, the word having floated about his head at the
sight of Grealish's behind a moment ago, and now seeming useful to
describe many other things. The charismatically handsome lad gave him an
uncertain grin then moved away from him, turning to the wider room to
clap his hands together and join in with a chant started by Conor Coady,
the red-clad England substitutes trying to contribute in energy and
enthusiasm to the starting line-up they must secretly envy.

And then, as if the centre-back could somehow read his mind and was
feeling possessive about his reminiscence, he was being grabbed and shook
by Maguire himself; the 6ft4 Yorkshireman was bellowing out the same
warlike cries as the other guys, getting into the spirit of the crucial
game, and shaking one fist in the air to join the battle-cry. They had
their backs away from the rest of the guys in the room, and Harry's
other muscled arm came reaching around behind, dipping below the waist of
Luke's fairly baggy England shirt, and finding his arse in those
dark-blue shorts, always a little bit over-sized on him out of
self-consciousness. Unseen but risky, Maguire gave one of his arse cheeks
a satisfying squeeze in the public danger of the England changing rooms,
claiming and reassuring him; a gesture that might normally have made a
semi press against his undies and his heart wobble meaningfully, but at
this very moment filled him instead with a kinda defiant challenge.

So, setting his face into an embattled frown, Luke brought one arm of his
own back behind Harry's back, as if to grab him about the waist, but
then reaching lower and giving him a good squeeze of the arse, feeling
that firm clenched muscle through shorts and briefs, a couple of
fingertips almost sliding into the crack. He glanced his fierce
expression to the left a little and caught the faint alarm in Harry's
expression, surprised or amused or concerned to be grabbed this way in
return -- his eyes seemed to suggest it was okay for him to take this
risk but not both of them, something wary and warning in his small beady
eyes. The two men separated instinctively as the yells and claps of their
teammates grew louder and guys began advancing on the exits, ready to
step out there and sing the national anthem.

With the same frosty focus that he'd resisted a hotel room snog, Luke
pulled a little further from Harry and marched on, finding some empty
little victory in the fact he had returned that arse grope and not just
been made muscular property by his man -- though he was sure the meaning
of the gesture could only be lost on someone as straightforward and blunt
as Maguire -- and he headed out into the beginnings of the Euros Final
full of vigour and self-assertion. He caught the hints of a worried or
guilty look on the centre-back's face as they lined up in front of the
roaring crowds and TV cameras, but he ignored it to focus on himself and
the growing sense that he wasn't quite getting what he needed and
deserved...

So he ran out to prove himself, and within two minutes had scored his
first England goal.



By the time the penalties and failed and football, it turned out, wasn't
going to come home, Luke's triumph seemed an epic distance away in the
past -- he was as gutted as any other lad on the pitch, almost forgetting
the screaming glory of his surprise early goal and the temporary
superiority it gave the Three Lions in the first half of the match.
Scoring then and there had made Shaw feel entirely invincible and
unstoppable, but the game had slipped further and further away from them,
and now he had been forced to watch impotently as the oddly-chosen
penalty line-up failed in its valiant efforts, and the Italians went
crazy with their victory.

Luke stomped through the ritualistic endings, taking his turn to hug and
console the lads who had been unlucky in front of the Italian goalkeeper,
taking time to grab and congratulate Jordan Pickford on what he'd
managed for them; he made begrudging and muttered praise at the Italians
who approached him, trying to clap respectfully for them, but like many
of the other ambitious young guys, he stripped off the runners-up medal
he was presented with, unhappy to have this loser's trophy hanging over
his heaving chest.

The end of the Sunday night unfurled with anti-climax and disappointment
for them all, and Luke could hardly believe that two hours ago he had
been pelting back and forth over the pitch as the nation's own
goal-scorer in this historic finale. And as it carried on, he started to
think about how gutted he was for the tournament to be over -- it had
been one of such consistent highs, not least in the time it had given him
with Maguire. Shaw watched as many of the players approached friends and
family across socially distanced barriers, excited to be reunited with
them; he found and spoke to his own siblings and parents, though his
girlfriend and son were still up north in Cheshire and wouldn't be seen
until tomorrow afternoon when he got home.

So after an awkwardly distanced reunion with family, he just traipsed
through the final difficult scenes at Wembley -- watching as tearful
young Saka was repeatedly held and comforted by the other guys, grabbed
and reassured himself by Southgate after a while, and casting some
slightly jealous little looks at the way Rice and Mount confidently held
each other in public, because their bromance was too notorious to
successfully hide and repress. All the 25-year-old could do was offer up
faint applause to the diminishing crowds and skulk about behind his
teammates on the way indoors; he looked across to the barriers on the
nearest concrete staircase, where Harry was leaning heavily over the
rails to kiss his fiancée, a big mass of the Maguire clan there around
him. It felt like a special honeymoon was over, and now he had to give
his Harry back to the world -- how fucking typical that he'd let himself
sulk through the last day of it, just because he was feeling petty about
the dynamic of their fucking...!



Arrangements for the players that night varied: some were exiting the
camp immediately, especially those who already lived in the capital. He
hugged his goodbyes to Rice and Mount and others and watched that couple
in particular climb into the private hire care that would zip them back
to their West London love-nest; others were switching hotels to
accommodation where their visiting families were based, and in some cases
friends and family had been allowed to join them at the secretive hotel
they used near to Wembley.

For Luke and one or two others, it was a quieter end to matters: for
various reasons, he wouldn't be joining his family properly until
tomorrow, and the journey back up north to celebrate his 26th birthday.
Instead, he had one last night in the usual hotel room here, roomed alone
to contemplate the night's disappointments. Maguire was already moved
away to another hotel and back with his missus and would be travelling
the same direction separately tomorrow with them. Of course, he had known
these plans for the past couple of weeks, but somehow the separation
still felt sudden and crushing. There was only so long he could stand at
the twentieth-floor window with a few other players and coaches watching
the riotous behaviour on the streets below, and so he said some sombre
goodnights and disappeared to the room.

It still bore the marks of last night's inappropriately timed passion,
though he'd tidied much of it in the morning while Harry was showering.
Now, he just peeled out of the t-shirt and vest he was wearing, moving
around the room topless in slack sweatpants, finding the items of
clothing that Harry had missed when packing up to go; he corrected a few
disturbed lamps, hangings and ornaments from the way their bodies had
crashed around the night before. Dully, he noticed on the clock that
midnight had passed ages ago and it was his birthday after all, a
landmark he'd largely ignored because his attention had been so fixed on
the Euros.

Luke lounged on the bed and took a short call with his girlfriend, the
third or fourth tonight, hearing her irritation that he couldn't get
more excited about tomorrow; he apologised and blamed the defeat for
crashing his mood, professing his love for her before ending the call and
slumping back on his own with a heavy heart. He cursed his own low
spirits, knowing that he would need to enjoy what summer break remained
before re-joining Man Utd training very soon, but with a strange sense
that more than the tournament was lost and over, for some reason. He
couldn't shake an image of himself standing by this bed early in the
morning, feeling that tug of doubt, or make mental comparisons to what
he'd seen and felt at other points in the day.

It was after 2am when he heard the knock at the door, and he had just
been about to slip into a fitful sleep, exhausted but still crackling
with adrenaline. He frowned confusedly across at the door and pawed at
the bedding on either side of him, which still smelt of their mixed
scents. The knock came again, a light hesitant sound on the other side of
the door. Luke pulled himself to the side and off the bed, casting about
for a top to pull on but finding nothing convenient; instead, he just
clambered across to open it, peering concernedly out into the corridor.
He was momentarily alarmed by the big hooded figure outside the room, but
then both the hood and the cap beneath it were being pushed back away and
it was just Harry's big concerned face staring down at him under this
weak disguise.

Maguire was breathing heavily. `I hurried over,' he growled softly.
`As soon as I could slip away. I shouldn't stay all night.' Luke felt
himself murmur a sleepy, confused `But...' and had it silenced as Harry
pushed forward and stooped to kiss him. His mouth tasted of alcohol and
someone else, but it felt good.

Luke, stunned and waking, backed into the room with Harry holding his
arms. The two big defensive players stumbled and steadied, grasping one
another and pulling very close. They kissed heavily and breathily at one
another's dry mouths. Luke grabbed and felt at the strong arms beneath
the sleeves of the black rain-damp hoody, then played with its zip where
it exposed a little bare hair-flecked chest. He sighed longingly and
gawped at this man who had crept through the streets to be with him here,
not in the new hotel room where he surely had already fucked his fiancée
tonight.

`You came for me,' he sighed languidly.

`You're surprised?' Harry questioned. `I'm sorry that it's so late.
I couldn't just fuck off immediately. But I couldn't go into our
holidays without seeing you. Without...' He growled lustily. `Without
congratulating Shawberto Carlos on his goal. Without... wishing you happy
birthday.' He leaned in and kissed Luke's cheek, neck, shoulder; his
powerful hands roamed up and down Luke's bare back and stroked low and
close to the waist of his undies and sweats. That straying contact seemed
to reawaken some uncertainty in Luke, in spite of all his joy at seeing
and feeling his man back here with him after all. Part of him wanted to
confront the issue, to explain why he had been cool with him earlier on,
why he had grabbed him like that before the game, but... he couldn't
spoil it now, could he?

`It was like a warzone out there,' Harry grumbled. `I'm glad they
love us, but... some of those England fans are just fucking mental.' He
fully unzipped the hooded top, under which he was wearing nothing, his
skin smelling richly of his sweat, of manly aftershave laced with a
woman's perfume. Luke stroked and held his torso, feeling oddly
conflicted.

`I'm glad you came,' Shaw said, feeling this sentiment hardly covered
it. Just enjoy it, he told himself, and stop having these stupid doubts!
Stop sitting around wondering if Dec would let you fuck Mason, or wishing
you could top Jack Grealish again... stop questioning this special thing,
just because it goes a certain way, it's what you wanted for so long...!
What did it matter, really? You've fucked other guys, it doesn't matter
much! And you fucked him once. He gave that up to you.

Again, just as in the changing rooms before the losing game, it suddenly
seemed as though his heartthrob captain, this big rugged brute, could
read his thoughts -- Harry was grabbing at one of his hands where it
rested on his side, dragging it back and round, pushing it down until it
was at the edge of his tracksuit bottoms. Harry pushed Luke's fingers in
under these materials, in against his arse cheek, pushing him to hold it
skin to skin, his hand really thrust down into the warm privacy. Harry
held his hand there and kissed him again, and then purred into his ear,
`I know, I know. I've known for a while.'

Luke felt a flare of panic. `I'm happy,' he whispered back. `Last
night was amazing.'

`It was,' Maguire agreed in a smug murmur, `but... it's your turn.'
And then, with a sleazy edge to his snigger, `I've already fucked
tonight, so... I guess it's time I was fucked...?'

At once, Luke squeezed and felt his arse, and looked meaningfully into
his rugged features. `I just want to really make you mine,' he breathed
very quietly, `and I want you to know how much I need you.' He pushed
one finger into the very hairy crack. `You know you're my everything,
right?'

Harry's answers were kisses. They grabbed and clawed at each other. Last
night's passion returned with a new fury, defiant against the night's
defeat and sense of an ending. Luke and Harry's hands fought away the
unzipped hoody until they were both shirtless, chests and six-packs
rubbing in a tight manly hug. Luke groped and squeezed at Harry's arse
but this time his was left alone; instrad, Harry pushed one hand into his
pants to grab his dick, and used the other to just stroke and scratch at
his scalp, neck, ears. Then they were falling back onto the bed, rolling
side to side and then Maguire on his back whilst Shaw pressed down on
him, grinding their crotches together to unite their rock-hard pricks.

Even in the promised submission, Maguire couldn't help but be rough and
commanding, and it turned Shaw on as much as it ever did -- the force and
strength of his hands, his lips, his cock once it was let loose from his
trackies and boxers, already leaking frothy pre-cum. But he returned this
physicality, feeling and seeing Harry's surprise as he pushed and pulled
at him, pinning him down alternatingly and grabbing then slapping at his
arse. With pushy hands, he forced Harry's face down to his crotch to
suck him again, as enamoured as ever with the sight of Slabhead going
down on him and taking his veiny meat in between stretched lips; and as
he did, he reached around and played with his bottom, pushing a wet
finger in against his hole to tease it repeatedly. The finger disappeared
inside the tightness and he knew it hurt and stressed his inexperienced
lover, but he was bold and frenzied, and added a second finger too
rapidly.

When Harry broke the noisy blowie, he thought maybe he'd gone too far,
his lover's craggy face staring at him across his own heaving body. But
Harry's eyes were loving and his wet lips smiling. He shuffled position,
moving into a doggy pose on his hands and knees, so huge and sexy and
naked there. Luke scrambled upwards without taking his fingers from the
prized hole, kneeling up next to him and stroking his back while he
stretched his entrance a little, the wet tip of his cock rubbing against
one hairy thigh.

Luke kneeled over then, stretching down so that he could hold Harry's
back muscles and kiss the top of his spin, positioning himself behind him
in this doggy position and beginning to slid his shaft up and down the
hairy crack, slow and teasing before eventually nudging the fat tip in
against the little pucker. He took his time, lavishing kisses on Harry's
back and shoulders, pulling and massaging his big meaty cheeks while
playing his dick in and out of that gap, prodding his hole a bit more
firmly each time, preparing to go for it.

Before, when they'd fucked that one time, Harry had sat on him and
remained in charge. Now he was splayed out before him on hands and knees,
panting and gasping and lifting his big arse a bit into the air.
Submitting totally to him as Luke had to him so many many times. Luke
wasn't sure he'd last long enough to fuck him, he was so titillated and
tender. But he went ahead and pushed his dick in, feeling the tension in
that muscular ring. Harry groaned and gasped his name, `Lukey, Lukey, oh
baby, Shawberto...' The silly team nickname became an impassioned growl,
and Harry seemed to lock his muscles and push back determinedly; in went
Luke's cock, filling him up and stretching out his rear. Oh god, it felt
magical. He interlocked their bodies and leaned over him for more kisses
on the back of his neck, holding him in both thick arms, pressing down on
him and entering him as deeply as he could go.

Then they were going for it, making the bed squeak and their bodies slap
sweatily together. Luke pressed both hands down on the small of his back
and fucked him like crazy, just as he had used to pound petite Daniel
James and once Jack Grealish, just as he'd long fantasised about
properly doing to his beast of a captain. And Harry took it well, the
pain coming through in his voice but his body set and strong, giving
himself up to it, groaning nothing but encouragement and praise, `oh
fuck yes, slam it in me you sexy fucking bastard', and other assorted
filth.

The position was not enough for Luke, as empowering as it felt. He needed
to see his man. He guided Harry onto his back instead, with his arse
hanging off the edge off the mattress. He squatted down to meet him,
bending his knees until he could push his cock, with some difficulty,
back inside him, and then locked one arm about each upended leg. They
stared at each other, a mixture of loving eyes and snarling mouths, and
he slapped in and out of him with even more furious energy, knowing how
close he was to his own orgasm but urging Harry to begin wanking his own
cock, wanting them to cum together as close as possible.

When it came, it was as simultaneous as could be managed. Luke was
spilling his juices deep inside his skipper, gasping out without words,
as he watched Harry's fist really tighten and yank, and then saw the
backwards jet of glossy white spill up over his six-pack and chest. Still
he fucked, emptying his balls and clinging to the two huge legs. `Yes,'
he whined, `oh fucking hell, yes!' He pushed in and out for as long as
his softening tool could, eyes half-closed and sweat dribbling across all
of his handsome face. Then, when he could thrust no more, he just
collapsed forward so that his body covered Harry's, hugging him from
above and kissing their sweat-flavoured lips together.

When they had kissed enough, for now, he backed off and helped Harry up
to his feet, the both of them standing naked and sweaty. Luke hugged
Harry's waist and kissed him on the side of the neck. Into his ear, the
centre-back whispered, `And after three fucks, you can still play a 90
minute game...? Fucking hell. I'm not sure I'll walk tomorrow.' They
both laughed giddily at the partial exaggeration, and Luke made
sympathetic sighs, patting and stroking Harry's red buttocks and
wondering if he had perhaps gone a bit too hard on such an inexperienced
bottom. He tried to mutter apologies but Harry kissed them away and
stroked his soft fat cock, whispering instead that he was `so fuckin'
powerful'.

Shaw led them into the bathroom and to the shower, where
expensive-smelling lotions were squirted against toned skin and they
massaged a cleaning lather against each other while they kissed and
cuddled under the water, the only conversation little snatches of
passionate affirmation. `I fuckin' love you,' Maguire would growl, and
Shaw would kiss close to his ear and tell him that he was `everything'.
They stayed under the hot blast for too long and felt chilly and exposed
when it was turned off. They took white towels to each other's bodies
and then lay on the cleaner of the two double beds, spooning back in a
more traditional pose, Luke curled in with his back and arse against the
bigger man. It was a cuddle that could not last for long, since Harry
must drag on his clothes and sneak back through the short distance to a
separate hotel, but for precious minutes they would enjoy it -- clinging
to the closeness and consistency that Euros life had brought them. Night
after night together.

Once the cuddle was broken, Luke stayed on the bed, wiped out, a towel
tied very loosely about his waist but hanging open so that his cock and
balls were visible beneath his big thighs. He lay on his side and watched
Harry pull clothes on, collecting up the few items he'd forgotten before
that Luke had thoughtfully collected on the desk.

`I'm gutted,' Harry confessed quietly. `I really thought we were
bringing it home, y'know.'

`Same,' Luke sighed. `But... it's been amazing, hasn't it?'

`Incredible,' came the sweet, mumbled agreement. Luke smiled lovingly
at him.

Harry came and sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand over his exposed
thigh, which Luke took hold of and squeezed, smiling wearily up at him
without lifting out of his sleepy posture. `I'll miss you,' he said.
`It'll be a tough couple of weeks without you before training starts.
But then... new season. New challenges. We'll keep each other right,
won't we?'

`We always do. I'll miss you too. But it's what we need, ain't it?
The rest. The space.'

`Yeah. Remember Mykonos?'

`Some bits of it I'd rather not. But you coming to the rescue...'

`Always. Whatever happens.'

`God, I fuckin' love you.'

`Love you more.'

Harry, zipping up his hooded top and stooping his tall body down to bring
their faces close, gave him one last kiss, this time gentle and brushing.
They smiled at each other and then Maguire went to go, pushing big feet
into slack trainers and slipping out into the corridor with just a gentle
wave goodbye. Shaw sighed luxuriously to himself and stretched out lazily
across the sheets, reliving the hectic and messy fuck on the other bed,
and relishing how his man had actually understood his desires, but more
importantly, responded so urgently to them. This was true love, he knew
it now.




'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/

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