Date: Thu, 9 Mar 2023 20:43:29 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 350

Part 350: Lisbon


The cold blast that had swept over Western Europe this week, pausing the
advent of spring, was pleasantly mitigated here on the Portuguese coast -
he wasn't sure if these temperatures were standard for Lisbon in March
or not, but his phone reported a balmy 18 degrees under the soft grey
clouds, and the Arsenal squad had all felt the difference in the air as
they disembarked from the plane late last night. The night had been cool,
but not compared to the velvety snow of North London that they had left
behind, though apparently today it was already being washed away by
drizzle. The 25-year-old football player felt particularly conscious of
the comparative warmth, his thin puffer jacket zipped up high and a
beanie hat pulled low against his ears, dark clothing hoping for some
discretion as he moved through the city centre, and approached the large
low squat of the market building.

Inside, Kieran Tierney had to contend with the hustle and bustle of the
late lunchtime rush, but he was glad of the crowds, which made him feel
as anonymous and invisible as in the most touristy spots of London. The
Arsenal defender could move quietly and thoughtfully through the busy
lanes and food court of the Mercato da Ribeira without worrying so much
that he might be spotted or acknowledged, and that was definitely for the
best.

He'd first suggested that the other lad came to him - after all, why
shouldn't Arsenal's prodigal son be allowed a little visit to the club
that had raised him, now that the tournament had brought them together?
But Kieran had known it was unlikely even as he wrote it, and part of him
hadn't wanted it at all. He wanted to see him properly, and not just
share niceties and banter as part of a link-up with the rest of the
visiting Premiership team - so he'd been glad when his former teammate
dismissed that ideas unprofessional and unpopular, and asserted that they
should try to meet in the city once Tierney was able.

Getting away had been a little touch and go, but he'd managed it, and
he'd taken a cab most of the distance from the upmarket suburban sports
club where Arteta's lads had based themselves for the day, preparing for
tonight's first-leg knockout match against Sporting Lisbon. As far as
anyone knew, the young Scot was resting at the hotel like he was supposed
to, although he'd spent much of the car trip musing that he couldn't be
the only lad trying to get a little flavour of the Portuguese city before
the match, rather than taking a swim or siesta or just video gaming at
the accommodation. That little mental argument had meant to comfort and
reassure himself in the cab... but it was also partly why Tierney was now
shuffling through the busy food market with such self-consciousness,
thinking that he would round a corner and find White and Ramsdale
sneaking a custard tart, or Saka inflicting a spelling test on some local
beauty.

But he wasn't doing anything wrong, not really - they'd been given a
few hours to themselves before they had to report for duty, and staying
at the hotel had sounded more like a request than an instruction. Plus,
he reminded himself, there was nothing wrong with meeting up with a
former teammate, even if they were now on opposing sides of the Europa
league fixture! Nothing weird or untoward in it, nothing suspicious or
inappropriate, nothing that anybody needed to get funny about. So,
Kieran, why didn't you tell or invite anyone...? Hmm.

Kieran moved through the popular food market, paying little attention to
the stalls, pulling at the chest of his jacket, and wishing he'd just
gone for a lighter hoodie instead - when suddenly there was a steering
hand on his shoulder, and he wasn't alone in this brief space between
the herds of lunchers. He jolted slightly but glanced sharply aside and
met the broad welcoming grin beneath Bellerin's thin dark moustache; a
large pair of designer sunglasses covered much of his face and a pale
bucket hat sat atop of his short crop of hair, but those high cheekbones
and Iberian looks were so distinctive.

`Here he is,' cooed the 27-year-old Spaniard. `Here in my new city -
how weird. Here, give me a hug, Kier - welcome to Lisbon!' And then
Hector Bellerin was grabbing him in a side-on hug and Tierney was gladly
reciprocating, feeling immediate warmth and pleasure in seeing the former
Gunner, this fashionable Barcelona fella in his slick Euro clothes, but
with his gently East End accent picked up in formative teen years at the
Arsenal academy.

`I'm sorry I couldn't come to the camp,' the slightly older defender
was apologising instantly, patting him on the upper back and steering him
down a row of stalls. `I just don't think it would go down well,
y'know, with the bosses and such - I mean, we're "enemies" for the
day, right? I don't think I'd get some hero's welcome greeting all the
Arsenal lads, just cos I used to be...' He laughed and shrugged one
shoulder beneath the loose striped t-shirt that he wore, juxtaposing with
Kieran's winter coat. `I'm not one of you any more, I guess.'

`Well,' Kieran mumbled back, `everyone will be glad to see you
tonight, game aside, you're a real Arsenal man, everyone knows that,
wherever you go.' He grinned awkwardly at his friend, allowing himself
to be guided along, and digging his hands into the warm pockets of his
zipped-up North Face. `Ah, it is good to see you,' he told him
earnestly. `I've been hoping to get over for months.'

`Oh, don't worry,' Hector said pleasantly, `I understood that you
were too busy when I invited you - I know what it's like in London.'

Tierney paused thoughtfully at that, feeling that there actually hadn't
been a very specific `invite' at any point this Bellerin's Barca loan
shifted to a new deal at Sporting CP, and that if there had been, he
probably would have made it happen - just like he had to reach the other
man's party at his Barcelona penthouse once before, accompanied by no
other Arsenal players. He shuffled in next to Bellerin at the chosen
stall, and listened in feeling ignorant whilst Hector trilled and
exclaimed in fluent Portuguese to the stallholder on the other side of
the counter, ordering for them both. Kieran didn't know if it was pretty
standard for Spanish people to also know Portuguese, or if it was just
another testament to how much more cultured and sophisticated this guy
was compared to himself. In London, it was hard enough to convince people
he could speak English, and the thickness of his Lanarkshire accent was
one of the reasons he was so open to the contact made by scouts at
Newcastle United.

`So,' he said slowly, `what are these?'

They were seated to the right, on high stools aside from the dimming
queue, and he was staring at a row of three crumb-coated orbs on his
platter, supping form the open can of fruit soda. Hector grinned at him
in that slightly odd fashion that he suspected was a touch patronising or
amused, but might just be genuine friendship. `Bacalhau,' he said, and
then chuckled a little at the Scotsman's blank face. `Salt cod
croquettes, my friend - you'll like them.'

It didn't sound great. He peered suspiciously at the light salad on
Hector's own platter, topped with a crumbling cheese that might be feta.
The handsome man in sunglasses was just plucking a juicy olive from the
prongs of his wooden fork. `So what are you having?' Kieran asked, a
little of his resentment and uncertainty coming into his voice. `Is this
some horrible thing you just give to tourists...?'

Another chuckle from the 27-year-old, but Bellerin gave his shoulder a
squeeze. `I'm vegan, remember - and hey, they're basically deep-fried
fish balls, I thought a Scotty would be really into them. Just try it,
haha.'

Perched on his stool, the 5ft10 defensive footballer blushed slightly and
toyed with his zip, then picked up the small wooden fork and gave it a
go. Bellerin paused and watched him, and seemed to laugh at his fussy
pause and slow smile of enjoyment, and then Tierney couldn't help but
laugh too, almost spitting out a mouthful of the salty dish, finding his
own suspicions ridiculous in the face of Bellerin's welcoming warmth.


Hector was glad that he got him to the bar, though he would be gladder if
the pair of them were allowed an alcoholic beverage; for himself, the
Spanish player felt less concerned about the night's commitments,
because he felt it unlikely that he would make the manager's starting
selection for the Europa knockout. Though Bellerin had been in good form
since New Year, his Arsenal roots were well-known and he suspected that
he wasn't going to be fully trusted in the defensive line for a match
with the Premier League leaders right now. And so he felt like he'd love
to sink a few beers or cocktails up here in one of his favourite drinking
spots in Lisbon, somewhere he'd visited on holiday trips long before his
transfer to Sporting.

The barmaid brought their sugary mocktails and he slipped the generous
notes of payment against the printed bill on the tray. They were sat at
the line where the indoor bar met its outdoor terrace, positioned neatly
to enjoy the sprawling view of city rooftops and the gaping river estuary
that coursed seward against the cloudy city.

There was something uncomfortable in Kieran's posture in the chair
across from him, and Hector wondered if he'd been a bit unkind in
pushing his Scottish amigo to spend longer in the city, rather than
hailing a car back to the suburbs. But there was still plenty of time
before the Arsenal players would be needed, and they hadn't really
spoken much in the loudness of the food market, other than about the
food, about the weather, and about how close the Spanish and Portuguese
languages were or weren't.

Up here on the balcony of the cocktail bar, Bellerin wanted to know more,
and he asked Tierney about the transfer rumours, about whether he was
really becoming so dissatisfied at Arsenal even as they raced towards the
Premiership title. When the 25-year-old admitted that he expected to
spend tonight on the bench again, Hector half-jokingly suggested that
they say `fuck it' and order cocktails with some real spirits in after
all, but he knew not to push it any further. It would be a disaster if
either of them arrived drunk at their respective team talks, and neither
of them needed to jeopardise their careers like that.

Sipping disappointedly on the faux mojito in his hand, the more
experienced player quizzed his friend on life in London, on his family in
Scotland, and generally dug away at Kieran's seeming shyness with a
charm that came natural to him, full of genuine curiosity about the world
behind this pink-cheeked jock. He mined at Tierney with questions about
his birth on the Isle of Man, his early years playing in Glasgow, and how
the SPL and English equivalent measured up for him. He hardly minded that
his visitor barely had a chance to fire back with his own questions,
though he did slow down or pause whenever he thought that Kieran looked
stressed or particularly private. At one point, he thought how much it
felt like a first date, and he laughed to himself, but then chewed his
lip thoughtfully, and toyed with the arms of his sunglasses in one hand,
staring curiously at the other lad whilst he spoke confidingly about his
longings for Celtic.

The 25-year-old had certainly calmed somewhat, though, since it was
Hector himself who had to roll up a sleeve of the loose cardigan that the
breezy balcony had urged him to pull on, and look at the face of his
vintage watch. `An hour,' he told his friend warningly, but added,
`minus the five minute taxi out of the city.'

`Five minute?' Tierny asked him sceptically.

`Thereabouts,' Bellerin insisted quietly, and only half-inaccurately.
`Time for another?'

Kieran seemed to think about it. `I think I'll be on a sugar high and
crash,' he grumbled. `If we were drinking the real stuff, like you
said, then I'd happily go for one more, but...' He smiled that cute
awkward smile of his. `No whiskey for me before a game, haha, not like
at Celtic...! I'm... mainly joking.'

Hector smiled patiently at this, slowly hesitant before making the
suggestion that had passed through his mind. He put down his glass with a
clink, and cracked his knuckles meditatively. `You see over there?' he
murmured, leaning back in his seat and gesturing the other way, away from
the river view and the soft orange glow of the Lisbon rooftops. He
gestured instead across the street below, the one they had traversed to
come up here to his new favourite bar, and Kieran followed his directions
with a blankly dutiful expression. `Top floor, the big windows; that's
my place, actually.'

`Oh,' came Tierney's fairly anodyne response, but then his face looked
almost cross. `You didn't say,' he said limply, with something like an
accusation in his Caledonian gruffness.

Bellerin smiled casually at him and shrugged, playing with the soft
lapels of his own cardigan. `I'm saying now,' he told him with a
playful curtness on his lips. He'd consciously decided against
mentioning it as he led his friend through the quiet street of converted
factories turned hipster food joints and bookshops, because... well, it
had felt too suggestive, too leading, too... risky. And yet here he was,
two alcohol-free cocktails later, and...

`I just wondered if you wanted to pop over and see it,' he added, less
brusquely, picking up and sliding on his sunglasses. `Before you need to
go,' he added gently. He could see the thought process on Kieran's
honest face, could see the cogs turning over and over. The lad's
uncertainty was understandable, and Hector was prepared for a negative
response... fair, they both had teams to join and a game to psych up for,
they shouldn't really be hanging out, it was hardly kosher pre-match
protocol. But the 25-year-old wasn't saying `no'.

`I would like to see it,' Kieran told him ambiguously.

`It's just over there,' Hector said, keeping his voice a little
intimate, but not quite meeting the other man's furtive eyes. `Two lift
rides, is all. I think you'll like it - it's very like that place I
rented in Barca.'

`Oh, right,' murmured the Arsenal defender.

`We can make sure you're in a car on time,' he told him gently,
patting the arms of his chair, and folding one leg thoughtfully over the
other, tilting his head to one side. He let his smile curl and broaden,
and saw a flicker of enjoyment play across the pale pink of Kieran's
lips. Hector just nodded encouragignly at him. `What d'you say,
amigo?'

A flick of a nod. `Just a quick look, yeh?'

`Sure. Just a quickie. Come on.'


In the elevator of the other building, a similar converted industrial
block opposite the rooftop bar, Kieran felt even more self-conscious at
the market, even though it was now just the two of them in a sizeable
industrial elevator, as shabby chic as the one that had creaked up and
down in the building of the bar. On this side, they cruised slowly
upwards away from the Thai restaurant and expansive bookshop that lay at
ground level, and crunched and clicked through the many floors until they
were arriving at the penthouse that was Hector Bellerin's latest rented
luxury. The elevator was a broad cuboid of space and they stood
comfortably apart, but Kieran's hands fidgeted in the pockets of his
clingy maroon sweatpants, and he felt foolish and clumsy with every step
once they were alighting at the top floor, and a simple lock was opened
to let them into the airy open-plan space of the loft apartment.

Bellerin was right, it was similar to the pad in Barcelona, the one where
he'd hosted that party, and Tierney had been the solo Englishman in the
artsy crew of continental socialites that buzzed around the vegan
footballer. The one where he'd stayed over in Hector's spare bedroom,
but not spent the full night in there alone. Gulp.

Hardly hearing himself, the 25-year-old footballer walked slowly through
it, churning out bland generic compliments for a coolly accepting host,
telling him how much he liked the space and the decor and the art that
had travelled from one hip loft to another. He rubbed his hands together
stupidly and stared out of one huge window after another, taking in the
similarly impressive views that he'd enjoyed over two mocktails - this
was a cool city, he thought, and he would want to come back here soon, if
he could.

He looked at his smart-watch and felt surprised that only a couple of
minutes had passed in their short journey from bar to loft, and that
actually maybe he didn't need to be so worried about time, so on edge.
As if it was the time that was making him on edge.

He heard himself answer positively as Hector offered him a water or hot
drink, though he'd already forgotten what he said when the Spanish man
was back beside him at the window and passing him a small espresso to
wake him up, a single Italian biscotti resting with it on the saucer. As
he took it, he felt humiliated by the way his knuckles trembled and
spilled the hot dark liquid before he could sip it, surely seen and noted
by the other 5ft10 football player right next to him, though Hector's
face told nothing. In fact, neither man said a thing, just stood
companionably there, looking down into the hipster street they'd crossed
- Kieran was contriving to look relaxed and grateful as he drank his
espresso, but his whole body was tensing up, the soft muscle relaxation
of the morning's exercises being rubbished by a psychological tension
that ranged from neck to glutes.

Despite his best efforts, Bellerin must be able to tell.

`Are you okay?' the Lisbon resident asked him calmly.

`Great,' Tierney said stiffly.

`You look tense.'

`Oh, no, I'm good. This is good coffee.'

`It's decaf - I didn't think you needed the hard stuff, ha.'

`Oh, right. Ha. Thanks.'

`You're tense enough without caffeination.'

`Hmm. Maybe.'

`Here. Let me.'

`Hmm? Oh-'

Before he could stop it, those hands were on his shoulders. He was
standing before the window and the pale grey afternoon sky, holding the
cup and saucer, and Hector's fingers and thumbs were working through the
layers of his open North Face jacket and the t-shirt below, and then the
man's tongue was clucking in his cheek. `Take this off,' Bellerin
insisted, and he did, letting the loose coat drop away halfway down his
back, so that the Spanish hands could grip and stroke his shoulder
muscles through the white cotton alone. `That's better,' Hector told
him, and dear god it was. Tense but tingling, he stood there and let it
happen, the firm but tender rubs up and down each shoulder, then back to
his neck, and... a shiver ran over him, and he thought about his watch,
about the time, about the cab that he needed to catch in order to-

`So tense,' purred the Spanish-London accent behind him.

`Sorry,' he mumbled aimlessly, making his friend just chuckle a little.

`Am I making you nervous?' came Hector's insistent question, and he
didn't know what he could possibly say to that - he was thinking about
where these little massages had led before, lying on the leather bed in
the physio suite of the Arsenal training ground, and again in that
near-identical loft apartment of the Barcelona Latin Quarter. Nervous
didn't quite cover what he felt.

`Here,' suggested Bellerin in an even lower voice. `Why don't you
come lie on the daybed, and let me do this properly for a moment? Before
you go, Kier, before I call the cab for you. Yeah?' His voice had just
the hint of breathy eagerness to it, Kieran thought, behind the cool
charm and confidence that marked Hector's persona.

`Sure,' Arsenal's neglected defender said limply, because a `No thank
you' felt impossible for all sorts of reasons. He was being steered by
the shoulders, away from the window, but not away to the partitions that
must lead into the loft's bedroom space - just to another line of
windows, high enough to loom over the highest views of the nearest
buildings. A long couch of sorts sat lengthways by the window, and it
didn't look the comfiest... but Hector was shifting past him, fingertips
trailing across a patch of bare skin on one arm. Ahead of him, the other
5ft10 man with a similarly lean build ducked in and fiddled with the
chaise longe until it was extending into a cushioned square, a day-bed as
he'd called it - and Tierny was staring at it, knowing he was meant to
get down on it and allow access to his tense back muscles. Just to them?
He didn't know. He didn't have much time. Could he let it happen again?
Was that what Hector wanted? His mind buzzed with questions and his body
locked up even further, and he felt stiff and clumsy as he moved forwards
to lie face-down on the square of cushioning, as if he hadn't spent
hours warming up on a training ground with his teammates this morning in
the Portuguese warmth.

`That's it,' he heard Hector purr, and something in him relaxed.


`That's it,' he told him, and he wondered how unfair or risky this was
- the timing was poor, and perhaps so was the decision. But the lad DID
look ridiculously tense, and his shoulders had responded to just a little
touch, so... So in he went, stooping over the day-bed, and reaching for
the shoulders again. He brought himself onto his knees on it, stepping
one over Kieran's slim waist, resting both into the soft cushioning, and
leaning forward to get the right angle, working both of his hands into
the upper back, eliciting moans from the jock on the day-bed beneath him
as he worked across one shoulder then another, then against the base of
his thick neck.

Just a little of this, Bellerin told himself, and then I should back off
- he needs to go, he needs a car out of here. And Hector himself was
hardly at leisure, he had his own deadline for reporting to the Sporting
assembly and stadium. He'd hoped to take a long bath before then, or
ring home to his family in Catalonia. But here he was, digging the heels
of each hand into the white cotton that covered Kieran's upper back, and
making little puffs of noise escape the reserved Scotsman as the strong
rubs were dragged in loops against his shoulder-blades.

Just a little of this, he was telling himself, even as he reached down
and took hold of the hem of the white t-shirt, rolling and pushing it up
to expose much of the pale skin across Tierney's back, and also expose
the waistband of his supermarket-brand underpants - well, something cheap
and unknown to fashionable Bellerin, anyway. He rubbed his hands together
for more warmth and then lay them on bare skin, rubbing up and down the
exposed length of back, his own breathing soft and rapid as he did so.

Beneath him, a long low moan from the Arsenal boy. Hector paused, his
hands back up the near the top of Kieran's back, so that his thick
fingers were slid under the folded cotton of the tee, in against that
warm soft skin. He hovered there on his knees, his hands still and firm,
and he felt the quizzical shift in the prone body beneath, could hear the
silent question in the younger lad's breaths. `Is this okay?' the
27-year-old asked, his voice a little firm and demanding - he couldn't
quite word the full question that he was putting out there, but he hoped
that his friend could understand it nonetheless.

`It's fine,' came the quietly ambiguous response. As passive as
before, he thought, remembering the sheepish accent of the sexy lad's
body, letting him explore and test him when he massaged him on the physio
table - and then so uncertain in his expectations as he hung out after
that party. And yet both times...

For some reason, perhaps the cool light of day, the sobriety of the
afternoon, their impending appearances for different football clubs... he
needed something more than `It's fine'. He needed a greater clarity at
where he could go. This wasn't enough, even if it had been excitingly
okay twice before. He left his hands where they were, fingers firmly
still, and felt Kieran's back muscles rise and fall just a little under
his pressure. Hector himself let out a long sighing trail of breath,
hovering there, knees pressing into the cushions. He considered his
options: pulling back, and sliding off this, and seeing his visitor out.
He could use any number of apps to summon an urgent taxi to the street
below and whisk Kieran into the leafy suburbs of his team hotel. He COULD
do that. In some ways, sure, it would be preferable to this languorous
uncertainty, this ambiguous quiet, this sheer passivity in the face of
his wandering hands.

But he keeps coming back for more, some inner voice reminded him, making
his hands press more firmly into the upper back, and he didn't slide off
to go and call that cab. No. Instead, he ran his hands down the sides of
that bare back, inadvertently pulling the t-shirt some of the way too.
But when his strong hands reached the waistline of the prone body, they
didn't stop and circle back; they carried on, over the broad rump, until
they were gripping and rubbing the big mounded cheeks through the clingy
soft sweatpants, rubbing against that maroon fabric and whatever layer
law below, in gentle circles. Another moany breath from his massaged
visitor.

When Hector spoke, it was his own voice that seemed to tremble and
hesitate, not just Kieran's stiff reserve - he could hear himself and
marvel at the tense excitement that had entered him. `Wait here,' he
heard himself say. `Let me get the massage oil.'


Tierney lay still in the brief pause in physical contact - what else was
he going to do? The rigid erection in the front of his sweatpants was
enough of a reason to stay still where he was on the day-bed. He
couldn't bear the thought of tottering across the open-plan apartment
with a tent in his sweats, unable to meet Bellerin's eye, and paranoid
about whether any of the other penthouses could see into this high loft
space. Yeah, you're just lying here out of caution, a sarcastic inner
voice told him, and he was glad at the quick footsteps of his friend
coming closer.

He was gladder, it turned out, to feel his t-shirt pulled back up his
torso, and then gladder still at the firm voice - `You should take this
off' - before firm hands held him too, rendering him shirtless where he
lay, and casting the light t-shirt off to some spot on the floor. The
oily tickle on his pale skin preceded the strong warm rub of those big
hands, working unctuously up and down his back, and then... back down
south, so that he could feel his sweatpants and then his grotty black
Asda undies yanked back over each globed cheek. Hector's strong oiled
hands taking one cheek each and rubbing skifully at them in a way that
was both relaxing and exhilarating - oh, wow.

`Lift your hips,' he was instructed, and he did so, allowing these
layers to be pulled further away, down his thighs - he wondered if his
masseur could hear the thump as his loosed hard-on thwacked into the soft
furnishing below his body, freed from his pants but pinned there at an
awkward angle as he lay back down, his friend's hands exploring each of
his gently hairy upper thighs, then back to his big buttocks, then lower
back, then...

It happened more quickly and less subtly than before: he felt Bellerin's
presence heavy and close over them, then he felt one of his own big arse
cheeks pulled to one side, and the oily finger found its way into his
crack, as it had so eventually on that hot post-training afternoon on the
physio bed. His body reacted with tension and tremor, but he knew that he
wanted it - the questing fingertip against his ring, and the sense of
Hector poised over him, knowing what he was doing. In it pushed, quicker
and more forceful, and he felt fresh nervousness - it was broad daylight
in this strange space, in the wrong city, on the day of a game. He
daren't look at the watch on one of his wrists, both arms hanging limply
over the sides of the day-bed in a state of readiness.

He could feel the shifts of Hector's knees on the cushioning at his
sides; he could feel the rub of one hand on his lower back, side to side;
he could even feel the very gentle tickle of slow hot breaths on his
upper spine; but mainly, he could feel the single finger working its way
into his clenched arse-hole, opening him up again, entering and relaxing
him at the same time as it hurt, and he wanted to cry out his relief at
feeling this sensation... this sensation that he'd craved for weeks and
months. All he could do was push back a little with his hips to show his
approval and acceptance, little his bottom a little towards the other
man, allowing him to finger him DEEPLY now, and letting out a little
gurgling yelp of emotion, pulling his hands and elbows back onto the bed
at his sides, sweat beading all over his bare skin.

The finger stopped, pushed deep into him, and he heard a fierce growl in
Hector's breath; it almost sounded annoyed or unhappy, and he waited to
feel the finger pull back out of him, the message to end. He'd wondered
what was in it for the other player; why would this cool guy want to
waste his time playing with him like this, in secret?

`You like that?' Bellerin asked fiercely after a pause.

Tierney took a moment to answer. `Yep.' He was trying to sound aloof,
cool about it. But his voice came out as a whimper.

`How about this?' the Spaniard asked in the same almost confrontational
voice; he could feel a second finger rub at his hole, and the first
retreat, then try to re-enter, the two of them straining at the tight
muscle of his ring.

`Ye-ep,' he whimpered less certainly. `Erm...'

`You can take it,' the Lisbon player grunted. `You just need to
relax.'

`Ergh,' grimaced Kieran uncomfortably, thinking how different this was
- had either of them spoken before, when stuff happened? He didn't
really think so, remembering the way he'd been able to lie in an
exhausted stupor after training, or... sozzled on fine wine last time,
fired up with rioja and curiosity. But now... he could feel his plump
cheeks clenching and his body becoming tense again, hands pushing roughly
against the daybed. `It's too much,' he muttered grimly, feeling the
two digits push and wiggle at his tight entrance.

`Just relax,' was Bellerin's gruff response, and he didn't like it -
didn't like the insistence and the pressure, replacing the oily charm.
He tensed up his whole 5ft10 physique and pushed forward, pulling his
bare arse aware - in doing so, lifting and swinging his throbbing hard-on
too, flashing it for Hector's view as he twisted aside, shaking a
little. `This is mad,' he grunted, and looked dramatically at his
watch. `I got to go.' He was clumsy as he got up from the daybed, his
pants just below his knees, and he almost fell right back down.

`Wait,' gasped the Spanish accent, and the 27-year-old was in his way,
right in front of him and grabbing his sides; he hadn't realised that
Hector had pulled off his -tshirt too, shedding the green-and-off-white
stripes from his upper body, which was a little more tanned than his own,
and decorated in many spots by tattoos of different styles, never mind
the sprouting of dark hair in the centre of his chest. `Wait,' Hector
repeated. `I was too rough. Sorry.' He stood there, strong and firm,
and Kieran wavered in front of him, unsure what he was doing - but one of
those big hands was off his elbow and down, taking firm hold of his hard
prick where it bounced and bobbed, and Hector's eyes were staring
intently to his. `Don't go,' urged the Spaniard's voice.

Wordlessly, Tierney opened and shut his mouth, ashamed of his erection,
though he wasn't sure how he thought he might have been pretending to
Bellerin that he wasn't aroused by a little prostate massage, at this
point. Still, he couldn't believe his cock was out and the other guy was
holding it, taking him by his tangible excitement and squaring up to him
like this, exuding that sexy power that had lured the curious jock back
into his hands. Though hardly as inexperienced as he'd like to pretend,
Kieran felt terrified and lost - this was nothing like his dabbling with
Xhaka, or the brief intensity with which he'd fucked his young manager
senseless, only to be cast aside when Arteta became bored of him.
Perhaps, he thought, he could try to tell Hector some of that, like he'd
told nobody else; perhaps he could finally offload to someone, and be
understood?

`Sit down,' the Barcelona man told him gently. He hesitated, but those
frowning eyes were hard to refuse. He sank back, allowing himself back
down onto the cushion on his bare arse, and planting his hands awkwardly
at his side. Hector sank at the same time, down to his knees in front of
him, between his spread bare thighs, his pants sliding right down his
shins and calves to his ankles. Hector's hand was still on his cock, but
not for long; in a moment, it was replaced by his mouth.


Greedily, Hector took the big pale cock into his mouth, sucking on the
head through the foreskin and then edging it back, swirling his tongue
about the dark pink head, and then taking more of its hot hard length
into his hungry mouth. He planted and rested his hands on those meaty
Scotch thighs and sank in, sucking on Tierney and snuffling into his wiry
pubes once he was deep-throating his full length.

For his part, Kieran gasped and moaned, falling back onto the daybed with
a little encouragement from Hector's hands, which inched up the thighs
and over his hips, pushing him by his soft six-pack until he was on his
back and the legs were fully apart, allowing him to gobble down on the
hard cock in long messy slurps.

Bellerin allowed himself to go into a frenzy, unsure why he had resisted
going for the horny lad's cock, having claimed his experimental
territory at the rear. Now he slurped on his uncut cock, rubbing eagerly
up and down his legs and sides, glad of the fresh sweat that slid against
his palms. He lifted his face to spit heavily on the big weapon and then
ran his lips back over it, taking it all in with practised ease,
luxuriating over his big cock like he'd once done to his treasured
Welshman.

On his knees, Hector serviced him with gusto, bobbing his face up and
down and gripping the hips of the sexy Scottish bastard, loving the way
his body twisted and jolted, loving his gruff moans and little whimpers
of surprised pleasure - the Spaniard didn't know if a man had sucked on
him before, but he could tell that nobody of HIS skills had been down
there, for sure. No - and just to really make the 25-year-old convulse
sweatily on his daybed beneath the huge exposing windows, he dragged one
hand down the inside of his thigh and tickled at his flopping hairy
balls, scratching and tugging on the sack and making Kieran really howl
for him, a long strangled `Yessss'.

But now that his fingers were down there... Bellerin spat again, first on
the thick cock and then on his two fingers. He sucked on the rod again
but slid the two fingers past the lad's balls and over his fluffy gooch.
Down he dug, between the doughy cheeks and the cushions, and in against
the hole - two fingers went right in this time, pushing that hole open
and entering him, making him whimper another `YES'. Hector lifted and
parted the heavy thighs, encouraging them up onto his strong fingers, and
now he had better access - he could stick one and then two fingers deep
into that gorgeous bottom whilst his lips quivered about the exposed head
of the throbbing cock. He pushed and poked with his two digits, testing
the strong ring, while tonguing about the tip of the cock and then
slurping all the way down its length and almost gagging on it.

With his free hand, Hector couldn't help it; reaching down and squeezing
his own erection in the leg of his loose-fitting cargo pants, where it
had sprung loose from the confines of his briefs. He jerked and squeezed
it and wanted to get it out, his fingers and lips making Kieran twist and
moan and shudder.


Tierney now had no interest in his smart-watch, nor taxis or hotels or
football matches; he just lay heavily back against the cushions, damp
with his own sweat, and let his legs be lifted and spread, let his arse
be plundered by two fingers, let his cock be licked and kissed and
sucked. Fuck, it felt so good, and he couldn't believe he'd almost
stumbled dizzily out of here to escape this intimacy - he'd been craving
it for so long, hungering for this powerful man across the Channel and
the continent.

He'd been lying there and enjoying this with his eyes clamped shut, just
enjoying the raw physicality, taken back to his first tender experiment
with Granit and Lacazette, dumb and eager and readily manhandled by those
two kinky older blokes at the club; or the first time he'd drunkenly
engaged with shocking Mikel, unsure what he was doing. This was
different, better. He was so excited to be here with Hector and to be
exposed like this to him; it was by far the best blowjob he had ever
experienced.

`Fuck,' the Lanarkshire lad groaned at the world, `fuck fuck fuck!'

He opened his eyes and propped himself up a tiny bit, digging his elbows
down into the cushion. He stared down his pale toned body as Hector's
moustached lips slid up and off the end of his hard-on, pausing to smirk
this way at him, tongue running side to side over pouting lips. So
handsome, so charismatic. He wanted to feel that mouth on his cock again,
because it was so comforting and helpful as he felt the two exploring
fingers push further into him, really finding his G-spot and making him
quiver; but Bellerin was rising up on his knees as if it was over, just
rubbing one hand at one of Kieran's thick thighs. Kieran felt his eyes
bulge and his mouth drop open as he saw that, poised between his legs,
Hector had pushed down his own pants and his dick in hand, a hug thick
member with an angry red tip staring shinily at him. He stared at every
detail of the Spanish player's bare body and dark hairy patches, and he
knew what was on offer here.

Bellerin must have seen the panic in his eyes. `Only if you want it,'
murmured the gorgeous man.

`I don't know,' Tierney whispered, unsure if his voice was even
audible.

`Your hole feels so good,' groaned the other man, shifting his fingers
as if to prove his point.

`Mmmm,' the Scotsman murmured uncertainly.

`So tight,' gasped his masseur.

`Fuck,' Kieran murmured anxiously, thinking about how he'd wielded his
big weapon and stepped up behind his head coach those times the other
year; he'd never really allowed himself to think how it might feel the
other way round, not properly. And yet, the fingers felt so good up
there, and... oh fuck, was the man trying a third now...?

`I'll go gentle. I'll just try it. You feel SO good.' Hector's voice
was closer now as he said this. The other man was over him, still
fingering him but practically lying on top of him, their faces close,
their bodies brushing; underpants and sweatpants and cargo pants sliding
over ankles, shed and discarded to the wooden flooring. Over him, Hector
sighed and gasped, and licked his own lips, telling him, `You have no
idea how good you feel, Kier.'

`I don't know if I can take it,' he told him weakly.

`Let me try?' The Lisbon player's voice was almost begging.

`Oh god,' Kieran moaned to him, `that feels... ohhh, fuck...'

`It feels good to me too,' he was told hotly. `It feels so fucking
good. I want to...'

`Ohhh,' the defender groaned, because he could feel the fingers slide
out of his hole, and this relief was its own strange pleasure as well as
a disappointment; but Hector was holding him tightly at the sides,
hugging him and pressing down on him, their faces so close they were
almost kissing. Kieran's thick legs were still apart, thighs open, legs
closing about the hairy cheeks of the Spaniard's arse. He could feel
something hard and wet rub between his cheeks, and it was no finger.

`Fuck,' Bellerin rasped, `you are SO tight...'

`Go slow,' he found himself whimpering, locking eyes with the other
man, and slowly lifting his face to meet him, unable to resist; before he
knew what he was doing, he was reaching with his open mouth, and their
lips and tongues met in kiss, and he was surrendering entirely to the
charisma of the ex-Arsenal hunk, drawn towards him inexorably for many
months now, and finally giving himself up entirely.


The 27-year-old football star pressed forward, steeling himself to be
slow and gentle, in spite of every hot-blooded desire; in it went, slowly
but surely, the hole loosened by his skilled fingers, and his gentle
shushing and cooing between the hot wet kisses that he stole from
Kieran's gasping mouth. He pinned him to the daybed, locked in his
tattooed arms, and gradually he pushed his raging cock into him, pressing
between those plump cheeks, filling him up, pressing into him, pushing
him into the cushions, and almost screaming in pleasure of feeling a
strong arse about his mighty cock.

`That's it,' he moaned after breaking a kiss, `you can take it,
baby.'

`It feels huge,' gasped Kieran, and his sincerity was both endearing
and arousing; that was no cynical dirty talk, as if Hector's ego needed
the same attention as his cock, but the genuine shock and fear of a
virgin being opened up, and it both boiled the Spaniard's horny blood,
and forced him to be slow and tender, to take good care of his sexy jock,
fucking him now with the same slow patience and attention to detail as
he'd once merely massaged him, oily hands on pale freckled skin.

`Is it okay?' Bellerin whispered attentively. `Are you okay?'

Slow sweaty nods, whimpered `yes', more furtive kissing. Oh god, this
boy was like an angel, a big dopey sexy angel, and Hector just wanted to
cuddle him and keep his hard cock inside him forever - fuck the Europa
League. He was deep in him now, spreading his cheeks, opening up his
hole, really filling him up with his own thick veiny rocket; he didn't
push for more, just settling in, letting Kieran adjust to it, letting him
gulp in deep breaths, then silencing him with long tonguing kisses,
until... `I'm going to fuck you,' he announced quite severely, looking
seriously into his eyes. `Just hold onto me, and tell me if it's too
much.' Kieran stared silently back at him, and said nothing, until a
slow pitchy `Oh!' With slow but assertive force, Hector pulled back and
forth with his hips, his hairy arse lifting up and down, and his cock
pulling in and out of that virgin hole, fucking his man in slow heavy
jolts, eyes locked together, lips barely parted, waiting for Tierney to
whimper it was too much and to tell him to stop. They kissed, and Kieran
just told him, `Oh, fuck me like that' and `Fuuuuuuck, that's
insane'. He kept it slow, holding back, controlling his power, just
humping his cock deep into the man's plump arse in these slow forceful
pushes, feeling himself get closer and closer to unloading, but holding
back, wanting to make his lover climax first; he reached between their
sweaty torsos to play with him, wanking it against his own six-pack, and
pushing his tongue deep into the unresisting mouth.


Having Hector's body pull away from him felt exposing and scary, as if
he just needed to be held by his Spanish lover forever; but the big cock
was still in him, his own body lain on the daybed and Bellerin kneeling
at the end of it, pushing in and out of him very very slowly. But this
position meant that the older defender could jerk him off properly,
wanking him heavily whilst grinding back and forward inside his hole.
There was only so much of it that Tierney could cope with, lying there
and staring down his body at this; soon he was watching his own volcanic
climax as if in slow-mo, the drool of white stuff over his foreskin and
shaft, the flecks of it on his own skin, and some of it up the tattoos of
Hector Bellerin's forearms.

The orgasm left him shaky and giddy, and he just watched the final few
juddering thrusts as Bellerin held his legs up and apart, and picked up a
tiny bit of speed; the thrusts seemed to hurt a bit more now, as his own
balls and cock ached in completion, but it didn't last long until his
Spaniard was clearly finished, eyes shut and mouth wide open, silent but
ecstatic. Kieran lay still and just felt the throb of his tight hole
around the buried cock, both of them still but trembling, sticky and
shiny with sweat on every inch of skin.

When Hector pulled out of him, he ached and stang, and it left him a bit
frightened and regretful for a moment, until the other man was on top of
him again, cuddling him and pressing down, and finding his lips for a
slow kiss. Their sticky dirty bodies rubbed together on the daybed, and
Kieran relaxed into his hold, unwilling to overthink what he'd allowed;
he reached searchingly with his mouth for another kiss but the
27-year-old was leaning away from him and looking at something.

`What is it?' the Scot groaned.

`The time,' Hector grunted back. `You shouldn't be here.'

Hearing this, despite its obvious truth, was vaguely alarmed, so he was
glad when the hands pulled back about his face and the lips landed on
his, their tongues connecting. It was the longest and deepest kiss yet,
but it had to end eventually. `Let me call you a taxi,' Bellerin purred
languidly. `We both need to get ready for the subs bench.' Off he went,
clambering away with a satisfied grin on his face, and Tierney just lay
still for a few moments before rolling over and scrambling up onto his
feet, unsteady and sore.

He dressed in a daze, pulling up the weak elastic and fraying material of
his supermarket undies, then tight-fit of his sweatpants, which stuck to
his sweaty and cum-splashed legs. On went the white t-shirt, so thin that
sweat patches became damp and visible in its fabric until the coat was on
and zipped up. He caught sight of his blotchy red face in a reflective
window and he just laughed awkwardly at himself.

Hector walked about naked but for no socks, no concern for the windows
apparently; he was on an app on his phone, sorting out two different taxi
routes, and talking to himself quite distantly, as if nothing
life-changing had just happened. Kieran traipsed uncertainly after him,
unsure what he was feeling, but already beginning to wonder if he'd let
things go too far, his arse screaming at him with the sting of lost
innocence.

The 25-year-old's thoughts turned to his watch and the time, and how
late he might be at the hotel, when he was already seemingly out of
favour for starting positions most weeks. He grimaced distractedly and
followed his host to the doors, out into the vestibule and through the
creaking doors of the large elevator; he turned to face the Lisbon
player, unsure if they should hug, or more, or what. He stared awkwardly
at him, and found that Bellerin just stared back, a slightly bewildered
expression on his lean handsome face. Neither man did anything, and then
just a vague wave of a hand from the other defender. `Well, see you
tonight,' the Spanish man said very slowly and oddly, backing off from
the lift doors which began to close - and Tierney just nodded back with
the same slowness, blinking his eyes and wiping sweaty palms on the
sleeves of his coat. `Tonight, see ya,' he echoed uncomfortably, his
voice lost in the rusty creak of the lift doors, which excluded the sight
of naked Bellerin from him; his stomach and body lurched as the elevator
descended, taking him back down to earth.


Bellerin sat out the game, not even a named substitute after all, but
certainly not about to miss a cup clash between his old and current
clubs; his attention, however, drifted regularly from the 2-2 first-leg
draw between the English and Portuguese clubs. He leaned forward in his
seat and stared over at the other dugout, seeking out the tracksuit
silhouette of Kieran Tierney at one end of their subs bench. Now and
then, quite by accident, he would make eye contact with other members of
the travelling Arsenal squad, players who he knew from his own brief
return there - he waved and smiled in a discreet, professional manner,
not wishing to irk any of his Lisbon cronies, and then tried to go long
stretches without looking at or thinking about the Scottish defender.

He'd felt quite overwhelmed after he shot his load inside that handsome
boy. He'd felt so intimate and intense during the shag, in a way that
had become alien to him in the years since Ramsey ended their affair...
and as he'd wandered around the flat trying to organise practicalities
like cars, he'd felt an odd panic in his hairy chest. And then he'd
seen Kieran look so gormless and regretful and he'd felt a weary
certainty settle on him, that this really was just an experiment, a game,
that this big Scot lad wasn't really open to anything between them - was
just curious about what his big arse could take.

Their goodbyes at the apartment had been terse and bleak, and he'd felt
that was necessary and right... though he'd stood naked and sad in the
vestibule for ten minutes after the lift groaned downwards away.

It was crap, but predictable and obvious; he'd let himself get a bit
over-excited and imaginative there, taking things so far with the
handsome bugger. He'd been so controlled and playful before, recognising
the curious needs, but not allowing himself to feel anything but
bemusement and arousal. And now...

In the latter stages of the game, the footballer felt gloomy and sad,
unable to enjoy his team's relative success in drawing level with the
visitors. The hot intensity of what had happened with his visitor had
left a strange sort of emptiness in his chest, and he couldn't bring
himself to focus on the football whatsoever. When the game ended, he
didn't rush to go join the players in the home changing room, but
dawdled outside instead, watching the slow departure of the fans, and
taking his time before entering the brightly-lit tunnel.

He hesitated at the noisy doorway of the home changing rooms, able to
hear some loud celebratory chants from within, as the Lisbon players
psyched themselves up for a second leg where they could take the lead
over the Londoners. He pulled back, arms wrapped about the chest of his
jumper, and found himself staring interestedly across at the other door,
further down the tunnel, instead - in there, he thought, the Arsenal mood
would be different, more gritty and determined, and less satisfied with
the midway outcome.

Bellerin moved on down the tunnel, passing first his own door and then
that of the opposition, deciding to move on down and find his way through
the stadium interior to await his freshly showered colleagues for their
debrief meeting upstairs. But he'd barely gone a few yards down the
tunnel past these doorways into the changing rooms when he heard his name
as a hissed whisper, behind his back.

`Hector...'

The footballer turned around in surprise, arms hanging loose at his side;
fully kitted out in an Arsenal away tracksuit, the Scots lad and his
blushing red cheeks were lunging out of the door to the away quarters.
Out he scampered into the empty glare of the tunnel, hurrying this way,
eyes wide. `Kieran,' Hector began uncertainly.

In seconds, Arsenal's unused defender was in front of him and then in
his arms, grabbing and holding him about the middle. Hector opened up to
receive the abrupt kiss, feeling lips and tongue on his, and sliding his
hands onto the glossy back of the tracksuit, where they ran up and down,
and briefly sank lower to cup and pat the big arse - and then he
remembered where he was and jolted backwards a little. But the tunnel was
empty apart from the two defensive players, and he stared from their
surroundings back to Tierney's earnest panicky face.

`Sorry,' the Scotsman whispered. `I just needed to.'

Hector paused only briefly, unable to hold in the smile on his face.
`That's okay,' he murmured back, and he let his hand stroke up part of
the other man's arm, very gently, resisting the urge to grab and snog
him. `I think I needed it too.' Then, his thoughts catching up with his
new excitement, he dropped his voice more: `Are you okay? Not too
sore?'

A little grimace on those handsome features, a vague shrug. `A bit, but
- oh, man, it was...' He giggled uncomfortably, self-consciusly, shyly -
and become a dozen times sexier to Bellerin, whose cock was semi in his
tracksuit bottoms. He held himself back, but played his fingers down the
sleep and wrapped his hand briefly about Tierney's. `It was amazing,'
he whispered. `I just hope you're okay. I'm glad you enjoyed it.' And
then, taking the risk, surprised at his honesty and openness - `I hope
we can do it again sometime soon, amigo.' He smiled bravely, waiting for
disappointment.

But the Scot nodded, furiously. `I can fly out soon,' he promised.

`No,' Hector promised quietly. `I'll come to London, to you?'

`Anything,' breathed the younger player.

`Soon,' he promised, not wanting to say his thoughts out loud here, not
quite - but picturing himself deep inside the chunky arse, making this
beautiful man his again and again. He wanted to snog him again but it was
too dangerous, and so he just squeezed his hand, and backed off. `We'll
organise it. Make it happen. Okay.' He backed off, cautiously, and
Kieran did the same, nodding fervently to him - both of them keeping
brief eye contact and shifting away from each other and the temptation,
back to their rival teams.

Bellerin only turned around once Tierney was out of sight, walking
backwards initially, then spinning on his heel. He marvelled for a moment
at himself, shocked to find himself being so open and eager with this new
man, after steeling himself against such feelings for several lonely
years - shocked, but not unhappy. Fuck it, he thought, it's time to take
the risk.


'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
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