Date: Thu, 15 Sep 2022 22:42:39 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 313 Part 313: Luke's Needs Luke waited on the bed, lounged comfortably back against the excessive pillows of the Moldovian hotel that was hosting them; his broad strong shoulders sank back against the wall of squish, his fingers tracing lazily over the screen of an iPad as he scrolled through some emails to kill a little time. A thin white t-shirt clung to the bulk of his upper body, and slim-fit sweatpants stretched over the powerful legs that spread on down over the bedding, ending in the bunched white gym socks of his size 12 feet. From the door of the small en suite bathroom, wisps of steam would occasionally curl, hazing the warm air of this top floor hotel room, and drawing the 27-year-old footballer's eyes up from the dimmed glow of the screen to check the bathroom entrance instead, his ears pricking against the muffled hiss of water and creak of pipes; the cessation of these noises, and the loud huffing breaths through that half-open door, made Shaw look up more alertly from his device, staring expectantly across the suite for a few moments before going back to the screen and piling on through a few uninteresting message threads and then closing down the app entirely. With a light, weary smile curling his lips, the handsomely bearded outer Londoner sat up a little, reaching his arms to one side and depositing the iPad on a bedside table rather than the lap of his dark grey sweats. He scratched instinctively at the golden-brown hair of his neck and chin, then ran fingers through the slightly fluffy growth of his hair, which he'd allowed to grow out somewhat from its recent years of close crop, self-conscious about how it looked at the moment. He'd already showered back at the Moldova national stadium following their 2-0 win over Europa League opponents FC Sheriff; he'd only played the last 20-odd minutes of the cup match, of course, excited to get off the bench and take Dalot's place in left-back, having half-expected to get back on the starting formation this week - whilst his roommate here had only spent a few minutes on the pitch in the end, despite remaining their official captain, and had eschewed the team showers to loom about the post-match media instead, either lending his support to interviews with other players, or loitering to insist that he was still the main man at this wobbly Premiership club. Harry Maguire emerged from his delayed shower now, a 6ft4 monument pulling open the bathroom door and pausing in it, one grey-blue towel wrapped about his waist and the other bunched in his large hands, still rubbing it across the dark shag of his hair, then dragging it over his face and shoulders, big and wordless and so damned sexy: Luke, still sitting on the bed, stared over and drank in the long muscular slope of his stomach and chest, lined with a stripe and patch of dark fur that he hadn't waxed in a while, and matched by the thick pelts in the hollows of his armpits. `Feel good for that?' Shaw called quietly across the room, resting his hands atop his knees and sitting up a little from the nest of pillows. The 29-year-old centre-back made only a muffled sound of reply, but he did have a towel over his face; he finished drying himself, swiping it over his pecs, blinking in a flustered manner as his eyes fell briefly this way, an almost shy expression on his stony features. He looked far from cheerful, and Luke understood it: another key win for United away, and another one where the captain's armband had been mainly around a Portuguese arm, Bruno Fernandes taking the lead whilst Cristiano Ronaldo returned to centre-forward. And the pair of them, the old guard, stuck on the subs' bench, watching for the majority of the win... It was more than a little frustrating, though for Luke, ultimately the positive outcome overshadowed the streak of resentment. Maguire disappeared briefly back into the steam of the bathroom, having typically failed to switch on the extractor fan, a messy slob when he was distracted like this; once he'd skipped off the bed and crossed the room, Luke found the switch by the door and clicked it on, waking the ugly droning sound of the fan, and standing by the doorway as the topless giant returned, striding past him and clutching at the knot of the towel covering his lower half. Behind him now, Luke drank in another view, liking the breadth of those big shoulders and the obvious strength of that bare back. Quietly, not asking another question, he followed Harry back towards the bed, slumping sideways onto it so he was sat behind the towel-clad hunk who sat on the far edge. Luke picked up his own hands and planted them warmly over the knotted muscles of his Harry's shoulders, massaging them inexpertly and leaning in a little closer as he did, keeping his voice low as he urged, `Relax, big man, and just let me...' He put his own muscular strength into the job, massaging finger and thumb-tips over the network of tight muscles, working around the upper back and the base of Harry's thick neck. `You don't need to,' the Yorkshire-born England player murmured. `I want to,' Luke told him simply, intensifying the pressure a little. But then, just as Luke softened his touch and ran his palms over each plateau of shoulder, Harry twitched and pulled away a bit, getting up from the bed and leaving his paws hanging, falling back down to his front and then against the creased sheets on the imprint of Maguire's damp towelled arse. Standing up in front of him, Maguire loosed the towel and gave him an unintentional peek at the hairy cheeks of the real thing, which he would have reached out to pinch if his bigger boyfriend had been in a better mood. Luke shuffled forward, replacing Harry's seated position on the edge of the bed, and pausing thoughtfully there whilst the Sheffield man was briefly naked in front of him, his large flaccid cock swinging from that trimmed bush whilst he stepped into fresh dark trunks and then slid the black underpants up his legs and about his crotch, letting the waistband twang into place then catching Shaw by the eyes. `What?' the 29-year-old asked, sounding quietly sad rather than defensive or surly, but still the monosyllabic question took him aback, since he thought the flirty glint in his own eyes was obvious enough. The 27-year-old United star was up off the bed again, smiling supportively at the jaded captain, climbing in close to him and stroking his side, helping him to unfold the t-shirt in his hands and slide into it, with a certain reluctance of his own, letting his hands linger on the shower-hot skin under it and angling his face up towards Maguire's, searching for a kiss that gently relented, but only briefly. Harry was pulling away in an instant, his breath a sigh, and in a little burst of frustration, Luke clung to his t-shirt and pulled in all the closer where they stood, letting their bodies rub and kissing Maguire on the side of the neck instead, moaning to himself as he dropped the heaviest hint. `No,' the undermined United skipper said with a strained gentleness, his strong grip finding Luke's upper arms, but holding him at bay. `Not tonight, babe. I'm- I've got such a headache, really.' Again? Luke might have asked the question aloud, in a less relaxed mood of his own, but he suppressed his annoyance, nodding his head slowly, and just stroking Harry on the sides, not lifting his face fully to meet his eyes, but just cuddling against him. `That's okay,' he mumbled quietly, enjoying the loose embrace, then releasing Maguire for a moment before stepping after him and reaching for his shoulders to resume the massage, rubbing those shoulders even through the pyjama t-shirt and almost guiding the 6ft4 stud to bed with his touch, but- `Luke, no,' grunted Harry, less gently, pulling away from his touch and shooting him an odd look, but then turning away and moving around to the other of the two beds. `My head is really shit, sorry mate.' `Oh.' Shaw stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, a bit surprised to see the other player snub it and start to climb into the unused double on the far side of the small room, leaving him standing there with his rejected massage hands dangling at his sides. `Right,' he said, half to himself, `fair enough.' He heard a mumbled sorry from Harry, but he talked over it - `I get it, it's been one of those days. You just get your head down, you need to rest.' His voice sounded a robotic monotone, and he wondered if his man could hear it quite as clearly as he could. Another night where they got to share a hotel room together far away from their separate family commitments, and another night where his seductive gestures had been shrugged away by his hunk. But... yeh, Maguire was sure stressed right now, perhaps even more than last season, or than before they'd tried to make a proper peace and renew their commitments to each other a couple of weeks back, whispering to each other on the substitute bench at a home game. And Harry had been more attentive, to be fair, in certain ways - certainly they'd spent more time together and communicated more than in the summer or in some of the distant months of late last year. But... Respect his mood, Luke told himself, give him space. `I might pop back down for a nightcap,' he said, again partly to himself, since Harry was already under the covers and trying to get comfortable, and Luke pushed his socked feet into Adidas sliders and picked up a thin hooded top to slip over his t-shirt. `I'll leave you to get to sleep, and be quiet coming up in a bit,' he murmured with nervous politeness, padding about the hotel room and glancing uncertainly at the occupied bed and the outline of that big body, hovering reluctantly at the door - he had a strong urge to just climb into that bed and spoon against the tense muscles of his boyfriend, which had felt hard and resistant under his thumbs. But it would seem pushy or needy now, he thought, after two or three little moves in the intimacy of their warm suite, and so he had better leave it, and hope for a different mood in the early morning, before breakfast and the flight to Manchester. Leaving the suite, Luke Shaw couldn't help but recall a conversation the night before, punching idly at a boxing target in a gym at Manchester's Carrington training centre: another moment of killing time, really, as the travelling squad gathered at the training ground for their late flight across Europe to check into this same hotel and spend a day warming up for the Sheriff game. As he often did now, Luke was taking to a bout of boxing to keep working on the increasingly trim definition of his upper body, pummeling the punching bag and working up a sweat in the camo-like dark green print of his training shirt, tight black trackies chafing against thick sweaty legs. As he punched and swayed, he'd spoken to Brandon Williams, the sprightly younger defender perched on a weights bench to the side, repeatedly tying and untying another pair of boxing gloves from his hands, as if any minute he'd get up and offer to spar with his thickset left-back rival. Luke now couldn't really remember all the details of their chit-chat, since his mind had been more on the Europa trip than Brandon's little flurries of gossip about other players on the team, or about the Chelsea management situation and what games were or weren't cancelled for the long weekend of the State Funeral. But he did remember the sudden awkwardness with which Williams, staring at his toes, had asked him quite directly about Maguire: `So, are you and the skipper still a thing, then?' The question had been such a non-sequitur that Luke had stopped and almost got bowled over by the returning swing of the punching bag, which he held between both gloves, his chest heaving and his face lined by sweat. He stared curiously at his younger friend, a little surprised by Bran's directness, and suddenly unsure what to say. `Yes,' he asserted after a moment, since that was definitely true and there was no point hiding anything from this lad. `Yeh, it's still on - why?' Again, the details of the late-evening chat became dim for him. Had Williams immediately tried to change the subject again, after the odd question? Luke knew that he'd had to push at the topic, and give up on his boxing workout, drawing a little closer to his audience of one, and give him a gentle prod in the shoulder with one glove. `He's not like you think,' he told the Manc lad firmly but quietly. Bran ignored that, and asked him about something else, but Luke had, for some reason, pushed it further. `Why were you asking about him? What were you going to say?' He'd began to unstrap his gloves, finding a small square towel to rub over his face and neck. `Just wondered, didn't I?' the 22-year-old defender said with a general shrug of his kitted body, slumped slightly where he sat, a picture of youthful resentment since he hadn't been named in the travelling squad that would shortly be driven to the airport. `I wasn't sure, that's all. Mixed signals. You never know with you too, the Ross and Rachel of-' Luke laughed then, embarrassed but also mildly touched by the sitcom comparison, throwing his gloves into the tray and giving a bare-fisted single punch to the target before shaking off his limbs, still curiously watching the youngster. `Fuck that,' he chuckled. `You ought to be careful with him, though,' Williams told him suddenly in a low voice, slow to glance up and meet his eyes beneath his messy blonde fringe. `What?' Luke said, his voice an awkward laugh. `Bran, mate - is this a conversation from about two years ago, or something?' He smiled patiently. `We've been here before, bud, and I'm not going to play with your cock in the rehab room, okay?' He smiled broadly to show that this was more teasing than scolding, thinking of the couple more times that the 22-year-old had made little moves in his direction since that near-brush in this same training centre a little while back. Those following incidents had been gentle and jokey, rather than pushy or greedy, and he thought that Brandon knew the boundaries once more, had taken his answer, but his expression now... `I'm just sayin',' Williams grunted pointedly, `watch out for yourself, Luke, he's...' Reading his expression and tone, Shaw frowned at him and dropped his indulgent smile, squaring his big shoulders and tautening the camo Utd shirt over his chest. `Drop it, Bran,' he had said in a low voice of his own, giving him a more serious look. `Like I said, it's not two years ago, we've been here before and it's not fair to talk to me like that.' He dropped his voice further, an impatient and irritated growl: `Just because you and he had a bit of a misunderstanding way back when, doesn't mean he hasn't grown since and that what he and I have isn't... isn't...' He struggled to finish that, unsure quite it was these days, but still completely sure that he wanted to get it back to where it had once been. He let out an exasperated sigh and shook his head. `You're just a kid,' he snapped. `You wouldn't understand it.' Already, Brandon was murmuring an evasive apology, and sliding his lean little body off the high bench, hovering awkwardly at his side and still fiddling with the other pair of gloves. Luke spoke over his plaintive voice. `You've got a cheek,' he barked at him, annoyed. `It isn't really any of your business, mate.' `Forget I said it,' Williams had muttered, sounding quite cross himself, but flashing puppy-dog forgive-me eyes at Shaw, and then backing away from him and starting to pull the gloves over his fists. Luke had hesitated, a little bewildered by the shifts in the younger lad's mood and attitude, and a bit lost over what they'd been warmly discussing before it shot in this direction - but also glancing at a clock, knowing that he was due in the car park very soon, and that the long night journey over to the city of the Zimbru Stadium. He'd hesitated, wondering if he should prod his friend more over the aimless questioning, and tell him more about the status quo in his secret relationship - but he'd been annoyed with him, and annoyed by his timing, and relatively sure that it was just preamble to Bran offering to blow his cock. `I best go,' he said levelly. `You coming to wave us off?' `Nah,' Williams grunted, not looking over at him, `I just wanna do a bit of punching of my own before I call it a day. Have fun.' Not even a look over his shoulder - moody brat, you'd think he was 18 rather than in his 20s. Luke had rolled his eyes and left him to it, rolling his shoulder muscles and scratching his tummy under his shirt as he exited this gym, grabbing his pile of things from a chair and letting the doors thud gently behind him on the way out. Now, in the upper bar area of the Chisinau hotel that was hosting United for a second night, Shaw found himself almost looking out for Williams, as if the moody younger left-back would be skulking about the bar and available to argue with over those half-hearted interfering comments last night in Manchester. But nope, Brandon wasn't here, he was still in England, snubbed from the squad arrangements yet again, and left behind. `A toast to tonight's super scorers!' insisted Fernandes again, and every man at the table lifted their drink - all of the drinks alcoholic but for the sparkling water held aloft by one of said scorers, Cristiano Ronaldo, one of those strained faux-relaxation grins cracking his tanned face as he mimed humility in front of the gaggle of his teammates, who seemed to be lingering in the hotel bar more because they were too tired to find their rooms, rather than out of any real impetus to party on. The other of the two goal-scorers of the night, Jadon Sancho, was sat more or less opposite from the iconic striker, his own hand clutching a third half-pint of lager, and pretty damn smug to be toasted in the same breath as CR7 himself, even if it would be a lot more affirming to have the tall impressive Portuguese guy acknowledge the achievement more openly himself, rather than just basking in his own praise. Sancho knew it was a bit lame of him to need that validation, but in the circumstances it didn't seem a lot to ask. There were only the six of them left up, and other than his own half-pint, most of the glasses were drained pretty much to the bottom by this latest toast. Fernandes was finishing his now, sat closest to Ronaldo, and behaving as if he was much more drunk and exuberant than his occasional stifled yawn might suggest. Jadon couldn't do the math to work out what time it was in the UK, but it felt stupidly late here, and the theoretically easy victory over the local side had left them all pretty shagged out. Brazilian new guy Antony, Spanish teen Garnacho, and beloved Danish hero Eriksen completed the jumbled mix of players still in the quiet bar, and Jadon still felt plenty of validation in being toasted repeatedly by them. But a bit more praise or attention from Cristiano, he couldn't help but think, that would really MEAN something at this point in his Manchester journey, wouldn't it? It would be a real seal of approval on his sudden good form and his string of decisive goals after such a dry spell in his debut season. Although... the young Londoner's interest in the man across the table from him, now screwing the lid onto his sparkling water and puffing out his chest in his black t-shirt as if to assert yet again that he was the alpha male at the table, well it wasn't JUST professional or football-oriented, not really. The truth, he thought, was that he couldn't look at Ronaldo the same after what he'd witnessed in the gym a few weekends ago, and he'd had at least three more wanks replaying the mental footage after his voyeuristic climax peeking through the small window in that doorway at the time. Even now, in this company, looking at Cristiano all clothed and fairly low-key, he couldn't help but picture him in a different mode: all naked and gleaming, spitting with physical intensity, and powering against the bigger body of their captain, prone on the weights bench in front of him, being ploughed by the Portugal hero. Wowser. And Jadon stunned at the window, his breath condensing against it, the taste of Marcus fucking Rashford still on his tongue, and his cum damp on his knuckles as he jizzed down the front of his pants. He'd still been thinking about it as he scored a goal that night and really began to assert himself as a real asset at Old Trafford, at last, and he'd thought back to it so many times since, so many. Goodnights were being said by Eriksen, and hazy refusals of another drink from a sleepy-eyed Garnacho; their little extended nightcap of drinking and chat was winding up and it was time to head away to their rooms, he thought. A wily part of his brain allowed itself to freefall into fantasy: he'd avoid the route back to his own room, where Zidane Iqbal would be snoring, and instead he'd follow the black-clad god in front of him, trailing after him and hovering nervously at his door and begging to be his next plaything. And, tipsy on three half-pints and dehydration, he'd offer himself up like that, and let go of his fears and shame and inhibitions - he'd be dragged into Ronaldo's suite, which in this fantasy was like the Playboy mansion and not just another identi-kit hotel room of Eastern Europe, and it would finally happen. Jadon Sancho would lose his cherry. The Camberwell youth shuddered at his own imagination, especially as Ronaldo's intense eyes fell against his at that very moment; like a couple of the others, the striker was pushing his hands flat on the table and pressing away, sliding from his high stool and back up on his feet, gesturing goodwill to one and all. In the glow of his private fantasy, Sancho briefly thought the stare was loaded and knowing, and he was being silently invited to follow, just like in his head, but then there was just blandness and politeness, and he knew that the 37-year-old legend was as tired out as anyone else. He was turning away and leaving, and the moment of desired possibility was passing, and Jadon felt... Relief? Yes, relief. Okay, he was very aroused by the power and intensity of the returned United star and everything about him, not least his reputation and planet-sized ego, for sure. But he was every bit as scared of him as turned on, that was the truth. There was something almost psychotic about Ronaldo's fitness and commitment, and something terrifyingly unreadable about his entire persona! CR7 was... too much. It was a bit like the captain, in a way; the real one, that was, not the Portuguese pretender, Bruno. He'd felt similar pangs of desire for Harry Maguire, even before he'd witnessed the first sordid moment between the two titans, having been there for that showy clash when big Harry dominated and tamed Cristiano against the wall of the shower block. Jadon had seen it both ways, equally shocked each time, as Maguire tupped Ronaldo, and Ronaldo plundered Maguire, and in both scenes, his torturous longing to try it out had shot up a few impossible notches, driving him quite mad with desire and fear. And yet neither of those blokes felt right... Sancho was very confident in many ways, but he felt unclear whether either of those egotists would be remotely interested in him physically, if he offered up his virgin backside to their startling equipment and monstrous appetites, and yet he was far too scared to try it. He could fantasise about it, like just now, and wank himself silly in the small hours, but he knew he'd never be able to handle it, not really. He'd seen them at it, and those were two men moving in a different world to him. Lately, Sancho had allowed himself to expect an England call-up, and he'd fixated on that international break as a big chance for it, thinking of the different guys on that squad who might be amenable, but finding himself equally scared and horny when he ran through the potential roster. But the latest Three Lions squad had been announced this afternoon, and his name was missing again, and he was beginning to wonder if he'd EVER find a comfortable moment where he might dare to try something properly. As their little party broke up, Sancho's lager-horny eyes hovered over each of his drinking partners before they left: on Fernandes himself, wondering if the tall slim forward got up to much naughty whilst sharing a room with Ronaldo every other trip - but if he did, then Sancho had to assume that the acting captain would probably be the one bending over and thinking of Portugal; he looked a bit more seriously at their recent acquisition, Antony dos Santos, and felt a dominant energy from the Brazilian winger that certainly brought him excitement, but the newbie spoke little English, and again he had a really scary seriousness to him that made Jadon rethink his sexual ambitions and doubt that he'd ever be able to surrender himself to a fella like this after all! Eriksen was a safer companion, he supposed, but the Danish man was so straitlaced and respectable, and Alejandro Garnacho Ferreyra... well, he was intrigued by the quiet Spaniard, especially as he readjusted himself in his tracksuit bottoms right now before downing the rest of his whiskey drink, but he was really just a kid, only 18 a couple of months ago. Sancho scolded himself for evaluating each of his teammates like this, drawing them into his silly fantasies, and picked up his glass, embarrassed that he had so much drink left whilst everybody else was making their exit. He picked it up and stood, lingering beside their table whilst Garnacho, the last of the others, waved a quiet goodbye and ditched him, trailing after Eriksen; but their presence was almost immediately replaced, because another member of the United crew was making their way here, yawning widely like a male lion, but clutching a fresh pint in each fist. `Will you join me for one more?' Luke Shaw asked quite brightly, though his eyes were tired beneath his friendly brows. `Last pint before crashing to bed?' Jadon paused, still holding onto the remains of his half, and glancing after the departing drinkers who'd been here a minute ago, then nodding his head at approaching Luke, glad that some company was here, and noting the tightness of that white t-shirt below the loose hoody, and the way those slate grey sweats perfectly hugged the defender's legs... oh Jadon, stop it, stop sizing every bloke up...! `Sure,' he chirped, supping his drink and sliding back onto his stool, clenched buttocks rubbing over the flat cushion as he watched Luke step up opposite him, planting the two fresh drinks atop the table. He smiled gratefully at the more experienced Manchester player, reaching to down the remains of his current drink, and meeting Shaw's smiling eyes. It was now half an hour later, and Luke shaw was taking an uncharacteristic toke on the small roll-up joint that Sancho passed him; the two of them were perched on a bench on the roof terrace above the bar, and Luke could hardly believe how gladly he had suggested Jadon's furtive suggestion when the bar service closed just before their pints were over. The terrace was deserted, though he felt self-conscious about the strong smell of the marijuana, sucking in another lungful before passing it back to the other lad, and refraining from asking him how the hell he managed to get a little stash of the green stuff here across two airports and security checks, never mind the strict sports management of their squad. Luke didn't want to question it, he was enjoying the buzz, and allowing himself to relax away from the worries over his bond with Harry Maguire, who presumably was snoring a couple of floors above, solitary in bed as he'd wished. `Here,' grunted the younger player. `Finish it.' When Luke had taken it, the 22-year-old South Londoner shoved both hands into the pouched front of his black hoody, apparently feeling the chill, and leaned back against the wall, both of them surveying the deserted terrace, and the failed smoke rings that Luke had just attempted to blow from his pouting lips. He slipped into a little coughing fit and laughed at himself. `Never did get the hang of this stuff,' he admitted slyly, taking one last drag and flicking it against the decking below their feet, stomping on it. `Misspent youth being healthy and sporty, I guess...' Sancho sniggered. `I tried to have the best of both, but I guess we have to put our bodies first,' he said. He gave him a confidential smirk from the side. `We don't have to be fucking mental about it like Cristiano though, do we.' Luke smiled back but shrugged one bulky shoulder. `I mean, he's 37, and you've seen him... But, yeah. That shit comes at a cost.' He briefly turned over the thought of his own body insecurities over the years, but now was not the time for that, he'd moved past that bullshit. He studied Jadon's profile, noting how thoughtful and introspective the younger footballer seemed tonight, when he should be more buoyant with success. But it was late, and they were both quite tired, so maybe it was fair enough. `I don't think I could ever be that ripped,' he said idly, meaning to put an end to discussion of their arrogant colleague, but quickly interrupted by Jadon's low voice. `Huh, but you're in great shape anyway, you look so buff at the minute,' he was informed by the South London accent, and when he glanced back at the winger, Jadon looked both earnest and embarrassed. `You know what I mean,' Sancho added then `You're so well-built, bruv, and you're like... I mean- You've got way more-' He sounded like he was struggling to pay the right compliment, and Luke just smiled gratefully at him. `I'm feeling good,' he said assertively, unwilling to comment on weight lost or gained, or the shifts in muscle mass, and just wanting to relax here with the buzz of the marijuana in his system. `I think I'm at my best fitness, I just need to convince the gaffer to start giving me more chances - maybe a couple of England games next weekend will help.' Having quite forgotten about the finer details of the international line-up announcement, Luke didn't really pick up on Jadon's downcast features there, or pause to acknowledge that only one of them would be wearing the national kit next weekend. `If I can show off on that stage, then maybe I'll come back to a better prospect here for the rest of the season, eh?' Luke was thinking not just about the upcoming short break, but about the controversial World Cup, and all of the opportunities it contained. He noticed that Jadon had fallen quiet, but didn't speculate on the reason, and just nudged him encouragingly, murmuring a congratulation to him on his goal in the Sheriff game. But Sancho just hung his head and laughed it off, so he grabbed him about the shoulders in a sideways hug and gave him a slight shake, emphasising the point. `You've really come into your own,' he told him, a penny finally dropping, `and Gareth is a tit for not calling you up for this set of matches, mate, when you think about some of the people he's giving chances to.' He knew the implication of what he was saying, given Maguire's stats, but he meant others, and his guilt was complicated. `It is what it is,' Jadon said brusquely. `I'm not bothered, man.' `Next time,' he told him vaguely, giving his shoulder a squeeze, and they both fell quiet. `You don't have another joint, then?' Luke laughed, after the comfortable pause, and Sancho shook his head regretfully. `Only brought that one by accident, it was tucked in a pair of socks in my bag. Hah.' `You rascal. But I'm glad.' `Rascal!' the younger player chuckled at him. Luke shrugged at this tease, still holding one arm about Jadon's shoulder in the cool night air, and feeling his 6ft1 body relax quite heavily back into the bench. `I shouldn't be smoking dope,' he pointed out. `I'm a fucking daddy now.' `Pfft. You sure are,' sniggered Jadon. `No more twink phase.' `What?' he exclaimed, a little disoriented by the other lad's choice of language, but suddenly turning those fitness comments over in a new light. `Don't be weird, you daft bugger...' `Haha, you know what I mean,' Jadon spilled on, squashed quite tightly against his side by the size of the bench and by his own hugging arm, `with the body, the beard, and all that... quite the DILF these days, I bet they all say, haha... you used to be one of them pretty boy types, didn't you, I remeber-' `You think I'm pretty?' `Oh fuck off, that ain't what I said bruv...' `Aww, how sweet of you...!' `Fuck off, haha, I just meant-' `What a charmer you are...' And Luke hugged him playfully close, squeezing at him, and their thigh muscles rubbing together, and then suddenly he could feel how tense and shaky the younger player's body was against his, and his hand rested more firmly at that shoulder, their faces turning silently to meet eyes. `Huh,' he mouthed thoughtfully, holding the position, not rushing to let go of his hold on the slighter man, or to part their warm connecting legs, and yet resisting the urge to immediately move his other hand across and start something - he'd only had the one beer, really, and a few puffs of smoke, but he felt... free. `Just sayin' what I think,' Jadon said in a slow way, not letting his eyes move, holding Luke's gaze, and also doing nothing to disentangle the closeness of their bodies. Luke could feel a nervous energy in him, a tremble to his muscles, and he thought he could sense the thunder of his heartbeat as he stared back. `You're... I mean. Ronaldo might look like an anatomy lesson, but you...' `More compliments?' the 27-year-old purred gently; he allowed his thumb to rub a little through the thick cotton of Jadon's hoodie, and he inched closer, pressing the girth of his thigh against his leg... `You're gonna get me as big-headed as that prick, if you aren't careful...' Jadon didn't say anything more now, his eyes quite wide and his mouth hanging open as he nodded slightly, his face seeming to drift inexorably in, and Luke instinctively matched that, leaning to the right, rubbing at his shoulder a bit more, those tactile urges of earlier on resurfacing in his tender hands... and over came his other hand, resting on Jadon's sleeve, and then his chest, and then moving down, until it was cupping the front of his tracksuit bottoms, and their faces were very close. The younger guy's parted mouth was inching to his for a kiss, but Luke kept his lips pursed, not willing to give that away... but he did redirect his mouth, and peck him upon the neck, just below his ear, and make him sigh approvingly. `Shall we go inside somewhere?' he asked, his voice a gentle growl in the younger lad's ear. `Y-y-yeah,' Sancho murmured to him, still trembling. `You sure?' Luke insisted, feeling his nervousness. `I'd like that,' coughed the 22-year-old, a bit more firmly, but sounding forced. `Cool,' he said, kissing him again upon the downy skin of his neck. `Let's find a spot.' They couldn't go to either of their rooms, though Jadon did think of suggesting it, and just pointing out what a heavy sleeper his roommate was - but that was ridiculous, and so he followed Luke's firm but tender direction. The bigger, older lad closed a supportive hand about his when he slowed his pace, not quite dragging him along, but giving him a reassuring pull, as they worked their way back into the dark quiet of the closed bar, ignoring the signs, and slipped through another door into a sort of private dining room with bigger and more comfortable-looking couches of seating on offer. Jadon's eyes adjusted to the darkness quite slowly, and he just trusted in Luke's pull and direction, glad of the quiet strength of this rugged left-back who had fallen into his path tonight. And then Luke was holding him, hands on his arms, and mouth on his neck: the tickle of that scruffy beard made him shudder in a nice way, and he loved the feel of those kisses on either side of his throat, and on his jawline, though refusing to connect with his damp lips. His own hands reached out and felt for Luke's thick body, slipping under the open hoodie and clutching at his sides through that white tee. `Oh,' he moaned nervously, `ohhh.' In a few moments, one of Luke's capable hands was stretching the waist of his tracksuit and pushing in, holding the bulge in his boxer briefs, massaging it and making him tingle all over, and let out more shaky whispers of `oh yeahhh'. They both moved slowly - well, Luke moved slowly, full of apparent confidence, and Jadon just went with it, trembling gently but already rock-hard downstairs. He wanted to yelp out exactly what his experience and hopes were, wanted to ask Luke what he wanted, to check whether the special thing might happen after all - and yet he felt scared again, just like when his eyes had met with Ronaldo's earlier on. Not quite so scared, though, because Luke was a different sort, wasn't he? Big and powerful, yeh, and really quite rugged and fierce-looking these days, but... gentle, and sweet, and... wow, so tender with his hands and his lips, so knowing and intuitive... `Ohhhh, gosh...' In a minute, Sancho was on his back on one of the couches alongside a table, and his tracksuit bottoms were being pulled away, and then his clingy grey boxer briefs, and his cock was loose, and in Luke's hand, and he was sighing even more loudly, whilst that tickling kiss landed on his tummy, circling his belly button as the other strong hand pushed his hoody all the way up his lightly defined six-pack. Jadon grabbed it by opposite sleeves and dragged it overhead, taking the t-shirt below with it, shedding it behind him in a small struggle, and then blinking fiercely as he watched Luke's face hover over his young hard-on, then... Ohhhhh, FUCK. Jadon wriggled back against the leather seating, unable to express his pleasure properly now, just letting out choked groans, as his cock was licked and kissed and teased, and Luke's hands massaged down the sides of his thighs and back up his hips, and he reached down and scratched one hand down the back of his hair and onto his neck, then down inside the back of his t-shirt, over the rippling muscle... `Ohhhhhh, god yes...' `How's that?' moaned Shaw's voice, and he just nodded in the dark, unable to really voice his full approval and enjoyment. And then the other player was standing up, away from his trembling cock, and stripping off - he was sad of the dark, wishing he had a fuller view of Luke peeling that t-shirt away and exposing his broad chest and sturdy arms, garments rustling past them to the floor. But he could feel it with his hands now, Luke on top of him and kissing the side of his neck again, love-biting him and rubbing on top, allowing Jadon's hands to explore his pecs and hard nipples and then run down his thick flanks, eventually finding the borderline of his tight sweatpants and rolling them away and down, so that he could take it in his hands - wow - the thick vein meat that he'd knew would be down there, and which now smeared pre-cum over his tummy. `Do you want me to suck you again?' Luke hissed in his ear, and he shivered excitedly, but then, `Or do you wanna do me...?' Jadon was nodding again, breathless, and scrabbling down for a better feel of it, hearing Luke's little chuckle of approval; the other man was upright and Sancho was hunching over, unable to take it slow and tease, just throwing his lips about the fat head of it, sucking on the big cock and choking himself on it almost immediately, pulling away to cough and recover, then trying again. Luke helped him into a more comfortable position, holding him by the ears, still that same intoxicating mix of strength and tenderness, and Jadon tested his own abilities, seeing how much of it he could take in his mouth without gagging, and testing out his tongue along the sides and against the tip, again wishing it was less dark and he could capture strong mental images of this fantasy-come-true. He was hunched forward on the long couch, face pressed between Luke's furry thighs, and he could feel one of Shaw's firm hands cradle the back of his head, brushing past the tight afro curls and down the fade cut to his smooth neck - the other hand on his back, pressing down massagingly, over and over his spine, but then reaching further until Luke was patting gently at the start of his rump, making him shiver and yearn so much more. As much as he could, Jadon arched his back, bringing his arse up a bit more prominently, hinting at his okay, and mouthing hungrily at Luke's thick meat. He was rewarded with a single finger sliding into the upper entrance of his furry crack, just a little, and it made him shake and sweat. It dabbed and stroked there, and he pushed his body forward, resting his face in against one of those mega thighs, and glad to feel Luke's digit slid a bit further between his cool cheeks, tapping somewhere just above his virgin's rosebud. He heard a thoughtful murmuring noise from the sexy man, and he slurped on his cock again, relaxing a little, and rubbing at those mighty leg muscles, then kissing on Luke's tummy instead, and wrapping arms about his waist. But Shaw pulled him up, and held their faces close but apart. `Can I fuck you?' the left-back asked him in the darkness, his voice an eager hiss. Sancho stared back, dumbstruck, but quivering with desire. He rubbed and scratched at Luke's chest and biceps, and struggled to control his breathing. `No?' whispered Luke tenderly, rubbing at one of his shoulders but also reaching round to give one round cheek a good squeeze and pull, that middle finger creeping into his crack again. `I want that,' gasped Jadon almost inaudibly. Even in the dark, he could see the little flash of realisation on Luke's kind, handsome features. `First time?' he asked, and Jadon nodded gratefully, too embarrassed to say it out loud himself, and trying to relax as his cheeks were pulled apart and the cool air tickled at the hair over his hole, and then a warm finger did that same job. `Please do it though,' Sancho muttered. `I want it, I do. Just...' `I'll go gentle. And you just tell me if you need me to stop. Okay?' `O-okay, okay. Yeah. Yeah. Mmm.' They held that position, Luke's big arms cuddling and steadying him, but one hand reached down to his bum, and rubbing the single finger up and down over his ring, tapping some more, dabbing over his bud and waking it up, and then Shaw was spitting against his digits and now Sancho could feel a slick wetness over his arse-crack... and the slow nudge of a fingertip finding his hole, just like Kyle Walker and Phil Foden had done for him before, waking up this slow-burning need for... more. `Bend over,' gasped Luke Shaw's firm voice, and he nodded fiercely. The 22-year-old player turned, clinging over the rise of the sofa back support, his tracksuit still about his ankles, and Luke behind him now, kissing the top of his spine, and rubbing down his sides, over his hips, then patting and parting his cheeks, and drooling spit into the gap between. Fuckkkk. `That okay?' growled Shaw's voice, as his wet finger massaged his hole, and Jadon could only pant out a thin `Yes' - `Yes, what?' chuckled his defender, and he felt a surge of fresh excitement, even against Luke's humour - `Yes, daddy, yes!' `That's it,' Shaw sighed into his ear, pushing the digit into him, `open up for me...' `Mmm, god...' `Relax, relax...' `I'm trying-' `That's it, good lad, mmm...' `Ohhhh fuckkk... is that still just... one finger...?' `It is, but... THIS, Jay, is... two... mmm...' `Ohhhh...' `That okay? Can I keep going?' `Yes, daddy, yes.' Jadon lunged further forward, arms dipping over the back of the couch, and face pressing on the ridge of leather, his back pushing out and offering up his chubby young arse to the England defender. Two fingers, wow, working his hole and lubed by spit - ohhhh, yes. Luke kissed up and down part of his spine as he did it, working up a rhythm, and he loved the feel of stray muscles rubbing against his. `Yes,' he sighed, `yes that feels...' `Now stay chill,' panted Luke's voice, `I'm gonna...' He could feel it, the head of that meaty cock, huge on his hole, and he felt a little clench of dismay: it'd never go in him, this was ridiculous, it was so different to taking a finger like he had before! He must have tensed up and made it obvious, because Luke's hand gripped his bicep firmly and there was a very tender kiss on his jawline, then lips at his ear: `Trust me, you can do this, Jay... you can take it.' And Luke's other hand came reaching around to hold his throat and tilt his face up, making him feel quite enclosed in Shaw's thick arms, whilst that hard wet presence pushed against him, rolling against his tiny hole, and - and - and - `That's it, open up for me...' `Yes daddy-' `Feel it in you...' `YES, ohhh...' `Relax relax, you can do it-' `Ah-!' `That's it, that's it!' Jadon made a whimper, Luke's arms closing about him, and he felt himself entered and filled, and he allowed his body to relax back against the top's, wondering how much of that veiny dong was inside him, but scared to ask, just whimpering out in pleasure. `You okay?' came Luke's slurred kindness in his ear, and he just nodded silently, then yelped `Yes, yes,' and then it was happening, he was being fucked on the leather couch, slow strokes as however many inches of it went in and out of him, stretching him out, and Luke kissed and stroked at him and whispered more encouragement, telling him to `Relax' and `open up' and `just let me support you', then `I wanna make you cum, mate' and `Don't touch your cock, don't cum yet, okay?' The leather squeaked and the wooden frame within creaked. Jadon felt like a limp puppet in the strength of Luke's hold, and he listened to the fleshy rhythm of his cheeks and hole, feeling the Kingston man's cock deep in him, so deep in him, filling him up and finally breaking him in. Cherry popped. Luke kept reminding himself to go slow, to take it easy, careful with the inexperience of this beautiful body in his arms, and the doughy welcome of this untouched arse, wondering if the tight thing had even taken fingers before his. He kissed at Jadon's neck and behind his ears, whispering his encouragement and demands, pinning those arms so the stammering London bruv couldn't play with himself and end it prematurely, as his aching young cock surely would - Luke fucked on until he himself was so close, and then he reached down and took hold of Sancho himself, wanking his short thick bone in the identical rhythm of his gently thrusting hips and arse muscles. `Cum for me,' he insisted. `Cum, you sexy fuck, cum for me. Oh god. I'm close. Ohhhh.' With his final few strokes, he really drove it in, slow but hard, and forgetting to take it easy, then emptying his seed in the winger's backside, and understanding from the throaty squeals that Jadon too was emptying his balls, slicking his load against the dark leather of the couch, and some of it on Luke's fingers and palm. Still, he held onto him, kissing at his shoulders, hugging him reassuringly as he began to very gently withdraw, feeling the clenching tightness around his girth as he coaxed himself out of the virgin's arse, both of them trembling in the wake of their orgasms. `You did great,' he huffed, patting Sancho on the side, clambering backwards, off the couch, his cock swinging and dripping spunk. He pressed the back of one hairy forearm over his throbbing head, then laughed gently. `I think one tiny joint might be too much for me. Boring old man now.' He backed off, sweat beading all over his muscular body, and then started casting about for his and the younger lad's shed clothing. He sensitively helped the 22-year-old out with his chunky hoodie in the dark, guiding him back into his clothing whilst dealing with his own, but then flopping sideways onto the couch and relaxing weekly on the leather, his energy all spent. `That was... incredible,' he heard the other Londoner whisper in a daze. `You felt good,' he returned, but with a little less of that breathless intensity. He closed his eyes and pawed at his privates, pushing his cock and balls into his undies, yanking up the sweatpants and tying the cord at the front, while his chest rose and fall, and his pits dampened with fresh sweat. Jadon was beside him and stroking at his legs through his pants, and he allowed him to lie against him and over him, face nestling down just above his waist, and they lay there to recover, one of Luke's hairy arms pinned over his neck and shoulder to hold him, both of them breathing deeply for long spun out moments. `I didn't think I could do it,' Jadon admitted in the dark, and Luke smiled complacently, very happy with himself to pop that cherry and initiate this seemingly macho young bloke, United's rising star - he was excited by and for Sancho as a surprising playmate, but also just relieved for himself, the released tension of it all, when he'd needed it so badly. Once upon a time, he thought, there'd been an arrangement, and a sense of what was okay for him to do with other men - was that still the case, and was this okay? Did it matter? He'd needed it, really needed it. Perhaps his own needs mattered more than anything else these days, after all... `I didn't think I could take it, even though I knew other guys did it,' mumbled Sancho, and Luke made a vague sighing noise of confirmation, not quite stating how many times he'd had his hole ploughed, but enjoying the less experienced lad's marvel. `I mean, even Ronaldo,' panted the 22-year-old, who of course had once witnessed THAT - it made Luke flinch a bit, since Harry's topping of the arrogant rival had almost put an end to their closeness once and for all, but- `Even he took it,' Jadon went on in a thin whine, `and that properly shook me, y'know, like what the fuck, so...' He nestled more closely against the heat and comfort of Luke's body, muscles for cushions, and he stroked the back of his neck carefully, trying not to be TOO romantic, but allowing himself intimacy, and- `And then Harry too,' Jadon was saying, as Luke toyed with the folds of his hood and played his fingers inside the neck of the top, rubbing the spine where he'd kissed it - `Seeing Maguire like that, fuck,' muttered the 22-year-old, so quietly that Luke wasn't entirely sure what he'd heard, `that made me think it must be okay, right, and lots of guys must try it, and it don't have to make me a gay or nuffin', you know...?' Realisation was slow - Luke was achingly tired, and actually rather stoned, and also struck by the immediate lethargy of ejaculation. He stared into the dim shadows about them, and repeated the words. `Seeing Maguire like... what?' His whole body went stiff. He heard the nervous false starts of Jadon's lips, and felt the wriggle of the other lad against his waist, against his legs, against his fading hard-on in the front of his sweats. `What'd I say?' the lad was mumbling sheepishly, probably knowing he'd revealed too much, but then going for it anyway. `I saw them at it, in the gym, not so long ago, and-' `Who?' Luke barked. `Who'd you see?' `H-harry, er, and Ronaldo, and-' `And Harry took it? Harry Maguire, getting fucked by Ronaldo? Is that it?' He could heard the barking urgency in his voice, the swell of his bad mood, and he could tell how confused and panicky Jadon was, staring across at him as their bodies parted. Sancho just nodded, and Luke pulled further away, one hand gripping painfully at the edge of the leather, and his stomach suddenly inviting him to throw up. `But I've taken it now too,' Jadon was murmuring, not looking at him any more - but Luke was already getting off the couch, adjusting the waist of his pants and reaching for his fallen hoodie, dragging it over broad shoulders. `What, do you need to go?' the other footballer whispered to him, reaching for his hand. Luke jerked his fingers away, but then paused, softening his face. `Yes,' he grunted. `Yes, got to go. Sorry. That was... good. That felt good. Are you okay?' `Er, sure, it just stings, but...' `Take a bath before bed, maybe,' Luke whispered at him in a slight rush, agitated. `And lie on your front if you need to tonight, but you'll be okay. You... you felt so good.' He didn't want to be here any more, but he understood the enormity of what he'd just done for the other player; he reached down, squeezing weakly at the 22-year-old in a hug then yanking himself away, backing off into the shadow. `I really gotta go. I'm sorry. Sorry about this, Jay...' But he didn't wait for answers or comments - he dashed away, out of this dining room and through the dark empty bar, almost pausing to throw up or collapse, or just scream up and down a corridor like some banshee from The Shining. HARRY AND RONALDO. Maguire fucking that twat to assert himself as captain, that was something he was trying very hard to accept. But... Ronaldo fucking his boyfriend, and in front of watching eyes? For Luke Shaw, the world was imploding. He stormed through the hotel to their shared room. He was woken up by Harry's voice, muttering to himself. Maguire was out of bed, in his t-shirt and undies, moving about the room and incapable of softening his footfall. Luke was surprised to be waking up, because he was surprised he'd actually slept. When he'd got back to the room, pumped up with outrage, he'd been faced by Harry's snoring form, huge and diagonal in one of the beds, and he'd been unable to let himself wake him - it was the morning after the revelation, and yet he still didn't know what he was going to say. What he was going to do. Luke lay there, feeling leaden, and he twisted his head to watch Harry move in and out of the bathroom and around the room, clearly under the impression that he was being quiet and delicate, in spite of noisy evidence. And then he paused between the beds, catching Luke's eye, and looking vaguely surprised to find him awake already. Luke, eyes hooded, stared up at him, lying on his side, covers pulled tightly over him. He couldn't help it: his stare was cold, accusing, indignant. `Oh. Mornin'. Hey.' Harry stooped there, scratching his balls through his black underpants, and then coughing a little bit. `Did I wake you?' Shaw ignored the question, staying very still, his breaths shallow sighs. In front of him, Harry descended his big body slowly, falling into a sitting position on the side of the bed he'd chosen. He coughed again, and began to speak: `I'm sorry about last night, I just really needed to get to sleep and have some space, I would have kept you up all night I think, and...' Luke's voice cut across his, gravelly with sleep, but icy cold. `Is it true?' `Is what true?' the 29-year-old grumbled at him across the gap between their beds. `I felt shit, I had a bad headache, that's it, I wasn't really with it - can't wait to get back on that plane to England, I tell ya, and-' `Did you really let him?' Shaw demanded, not bothering to move any part of his body, one hot blushing cheek pressed to the pillow, eyes glued to Harry's big gormless face. He could see, immediately, that the meaning of his questions was dawning on the other bloke, but he pushed on: `Did you really give your fucking arse to him, after everything we've said and been through, Harry?' `It's not how it sounds,' Maguire was blurting instantly, and `Why the fuck did he tell you? I'll kill him. I'll break his legs, he'll never play again-' `He didn't need to,' Luke grunted. `You were seen.' And then, refusing to say another word, he rolled over, turning a cold shoulder to his partner and captain, and burying his face against the cooler end of the pillow as the tears welled up. And behind him, hovering between their beds, voice weighed with desperation: `Wait, Luke, let me- Luke, listen to me- Luke, will you look at me, please? Luke? Luke.' Quiet, shaky, pleading. Ignored. Luke squeezed his eyes shut and felt the tears course onto his cheek and nose, pressing himself into the hotel bed, unable to turn around and look at the traitor. '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