Date: Mon, 20 Nov 2023 20:25:18 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 379

Part 379: Defending His Honour


Their game against the Serbian hosts was only hours away when the fight
broke out, interrupting a light morning training session at a local
sports centre close to the hotel - sulking over the incident later on,
dropped from the coach's starting line-up to a position on the bench,
Tyler Morton wasn't sure what had come over him. The boy-faced
21-year-old from Wallasey wasn't the most aggressive or belligerent of
the young men who made up England's Under-21 line-up this winter, far
from it, and in fact his superiors at his loan club Hull City tended to
point out the opposite, and tell him that he needed to bring more aggro
and fight into his game, to really stake his place in the Championship
midfield; why else did big Premier League institutions like Liverpool
farm out their youngster to the lower leagues for loan seasons, after
all?

But here Tyler was, grabbing the chest of the other lad's shirt in his
fists, squaring up to him even though the big lad dwarfed his own 5ft10
stature. Red-faced and furious, the Scouse footballer tore into the other
guy, ready to fight as hard as he had to. As soon as the first punch was
thrown, they were surrounded by a flurry of the others, an ambiguous
reaction of superficial concern - `Hey, guys, chill out!' - laced with
the schoolyard thrill of young men on the edge of violence - `You gonna
let him hit you like that, fella?' - and a combined mass of noise and
physicality just totally enveloping them.


The tension that snapped that Serbian Saturday had begun days ago, he
supposed, quite quickly after they all met up in the lesser quarters of
St George's Park, coached and accommodated at a frustrating periphery to
the nearby senior men - close enough to watch the main squad hard at work
and pass each other in single file, but never really mixing with them
socially or getting much chance to catch the eyes of the senior staff.
The transfer on day one of Cole Palmer and Rico Lewis, replacing injured
names on the main England team-sheet, sent a ripple of envy and
frustration amongst the younger lads here, one that perhaps added to
Morton's discomfort.

But ambition was not at the forefront of the Liverpudlian's mind during
those tense days and nights leading up to the Serbia away game - not so
much as friendship, honour, and Anfield pride.

The first joke, as far as Tyler heard, came over dinner on that first
evening, when Palmer and Lewis were the main topic of conversation, and
he and his buddy were queuing up with their trays at the serving hatch. A
fragrant Thai curry was served to them and they picked at the
accompaniments, thanking the staff with the deferential politeness that
football academy had drilled into them, two Liverpool graduates who were
representing the club here in England-branded tracksuits. Ahead, they had
cold dessert options to grab at, and Tyler was just eyeing up the small
glass bowls of key lime pie and strawberry cheesecake when he heard the
weighty thud on his pal's tray, and the rattle of crockery and cutlery
that it caused - he glanced sharply up the slow-moving queue of them,
noting the jolting body language of his shorter friend and teammate.
Harvey Elliott's mop of curly hair juddered as he flinched in shock at
the short-range missile landing next to his dinner, and Tyler blinked and
tensed, confused at what had happened - but just beyond his mate Harv,
Leeds defender Charlie Cresswell as bristling with gruff laughter, having
tossed the weighty banana from the fruit bowl into the midfield's
dinner.

`Here,' the big rugged Lancastrian barked quietly at Elliott, `get
your lips round that for pud, Harvey lad, get some practice in for after
the Serbia game, haha.' Proud of his non-existent wit, the big lanky
fuck boomed with further laughter and high-fived the next lad in the
queue, and Tyler just stared at them in irritation, before glancing
cautiously at the other Liverpool youngster.

`What the fuck?' Morton mouthed, unamused, bumping elbows with the
curly-haired Surrey lad, one of his best mates at his parent club,
someone he was always delighted to reunite with when international duty
brought them back together.

Harvey turned this way, brow creased slightly, but an ambivalent look on
his face, neither quite amused nor offended by Cresswell's banter. Tyler
paused, trying to read the other young guy's reaction, but also looking
past him to study the way big Charlie sauntered confidently away to one
of the dining tables. `You alright?' the temporary Hull midfielder
asked discreetly, sidling closer to Harvey as they lingered at the
dessert station of the hotel canteen.

Harvey made a vague noise, pausing indecisively over a key lime pie
conundrum, then picking himself one of the small portioned cheesecakes.
`Huh? Oh, what? Haha, of course I am-' He paused, shoving the
weaponised banana over to one side of the tray, and placing the sweeter
dessert down next to it. `Just a bit of banter, mate,' he said calmly,
flashing one of his big grins at a nervously frowning Tyler, looking
totally unfazed by the tall defender's innuendo and insult. And Harvey
picked his tray up in both hands and backed off, whilst Tyler paused
briefly to decide what had alarmed him so much there - just the silly
violence and surprise of the gesture, or the potentially nasty homophobia
of the Leeds player's joke...?


It had happened again though, on Thursday afternoon during training, and
again in the showers on Friday, and Tyler had begun to feel very worried
and protective towards the cocksure right winger whose Anfield success he
both admired and envied - though a little younger than him, he'd always
looked up to the street-smart maturity of the southerner, and saw
Harvey's Blackburn Rovers spell and subsequent first team status as an
important role model for his own career trajectory at Liverpool.

On Thursday, it was actually big rosy-cheeked goalkeeper James Trafford
who made the remark, the Burnley player bursting between the two friends
on the way back out from lunch, and throwing long arms about Elliott's
shoulders to hug and shake the attacking player. `Here, is Morton your
boyfriend, then?' the celebrated young goalkeeper had butted in,
breaking up their inane chat, and practically dragging a chuckling Harvey
into a mild headlock, whilst Tyler himself was somewhat elbowed aside.
`Or is it more of a three-way you Scouser boys have with Jarell
Quansah...?' Trafford gave Harley's highlighted curls a good ruffle
before letting him slip free, laughing heavily at his own accusation.

`Very fucking funny,' Morton muttered, but half under his breath,
somewhat intimidated by the height and physique of the big Cumbrian
goalie, one of the most prominent young guys on their team following his
spotless record at that last tournament.

`Aw, have I interrupted a lover's tiff?' the Burnley signing
continued, hands still on Elliott's shoulders in a jokily affectionate
man, rocking along between them.

It was Harvey himself who put an abrupt stop to this, smiling quite
pleasantly along to James' banter, and just nodding his head - `Yeah,
actually, we were just arguing over how many goals you were going to let
in this afternoon, you big bell-end,' the short stocky winger declared
coolly, slipping away from the other lad's tactile joviality. `Tyler
here thinks just 200, but I've got my money on way more...' The
Liverpool starlet smirked and leered and flipped a middle finger at the
goalie, who laughed loudly and jogged ahead of them, off to catch up with
the leaders of the pack, leaving Harvey to just let out a long wheezing
chuckle.

Tyler was about to say more about it, irritated, before stopping himself
- it had been the silly banana moment that made him so sensitive to
Trafford's insinuations, and he didn't want to make a big deal of the
banter aimed at himself, so he kept his question to himself, and failed
to ask `What's his fucking problem?' - instead, he tried to mirror
Harvey's own casual disinterest and stomp along into the training pitch
in the drizzle and mist, ready to shrug off such casual digs like
everyone else.

The moment the following day was a little worse though, he thought, and
left him more firmly uncomfortable and defensive. It was Taylor
Harwood-Bellis, the Man City loanee, who made the next unnecessary dig at
Harvey's masculinity or sexuality, and this time he really saw the panic
and upset on his friend's face.

They were changing for the showers after their longest and hardest day of
training, just yesterday, on other sides of the central row of hooks and
rails, with Tyler himself pulling away clingy kit items and baring his
lean pale torso as he did, flushed and blotchy from working hard in the
damp cool. But across the metal frame from him, his buddy was undressing
too, unzipping and wriggling out of his England training jersey, then
dropping his shorts so that just the layers of compression lycra were
hugging his compact muscular form - which turned a little to one side as
their on-off captain called at him.

`How are you coping without Curtis here?' the skin-headed Southampton
defender asked gruffly, shirtless and gleaming sweaty under the electric
lighting; in one sharp gesture, he flicked his sweat-damp training shirt
at Harvey's back and shuffled closer, another big burly figure next to
Harvey's 5ft7 stature. Across the rail from them, Tyler paused in the
process of taking down his shorts, hearing a suggestive tone in Taylor's
question.

`Oh, he just has some ligament thing,' he heard Harvey say quietly,
vaguely, distantly.

`Ligament in his stupid big dick, ha ha?' came the City export's low
chuckle.

`Something like that,' Elliott quipped back.

`You'd know!' boomed Harwood-Bellis, awkwardly loud.

`Sure...'

`Haha, you know,' egged the centre-back, leaning a heavy arm into the
metal frame that separated them from Morton's own position, `cos you
suck the big dope off every night on Merseyside, I fuckin' bet...' The
defender lad was cracking up with laughter and so were a couple of
others, and Tyler just froze where he was, holding onto a folded towel;
he couldn't quite see Harvey's face properly for the lattice of
metalwork that separated them on different sides of the changing room,
but his pal was unusually quiet, no big comeback for the brutish humour
of their team captain.

`Probably sucked him too much and he couldn't make it down here,'
sniggered Taylor incoherently, lingering there, close and almost
threatening - the pause was over and there was a more familiar acidity to
Harvey's tone as he responded - `Oh no, he's definitely injured,
otherwise shite like you wouldn't have made the cut, y'know?' - and
Tyler Morton just felt tense and uncomfortable, not liking the tone of
the conversation he was overhearing. And for a long moment the two seemed
to remain that way in front of him, Harvey still and head slightly hung,
and the centre-back looming over him, ripples of grimy muscle against the
harsh lighting. When someone else called for Taylor HB and drew him away,
Harvey shifted and moved, and through the gaps in the metal, Tyler caught
better sight of his face: there was a bitter little frown to his goateed
features, a quiet thoughtfulness that didn't seem right, and he could
tell that the other guy's comments had affected him somewhat.

Acting as if he'd heard nothing, the 21-year-old dropped his shorts and
his sweaty briefs, and he wrapped the towel about his slim waist, then
came moving around the edges to pass Harvey on his way to the shower,
giving his pal a nudge - but then noticing that the 20-year-old Surrey
lad was already pulling a clean grey hoody over his clammy upper body,
jogger bottoms tugged up over his compression shorts.

`Er, not showering?' Morton asked, hesitating next to him.

Harvey, his face poking through the neck-hole of the hooded top, met him
with seemingly calm and casual eyes, then wrinkled nose, then the softly
bearded thin mouth: `Oh, nah, gonna take one up in our room, I promised
I'd ring my nan, just remembered.' And he turned his attention to his
belongings, clothing his sweaty training-weary body rather than joining
the huddle of lads heading for the showers, coursing past Tyler now in a
miasma of youthful sweat and bluster. He let himself be carried away by
this general movement, a concerned frown creasing his slim youthful
features - towel off and hung on a hook, slim toned body disappearing
into the obscuring steam and humidity of the showers, but a long sidelong
glance connecting with the mighty frames of Taylor Harwood-Bellis and his
cronies, the big heavy muscle of the England youth team, Trafford to one
side and Cresswell to the other, their stinging words lingering on
Morton's memory - something weird was going on here, and he wasn't
going to let his buddy just suffer it.


All of this, and a generally dissatisfied mood, had the nervy young
football player ready to snap by the time they'd travelled to Serbia
that night, and kitted up for a morning runaround in advance of the
fixture itself - when he heard the careless comment from the bigger guy
on the training pitch, he wasn't just going to let it go. He wasn't
going to have these dickheads saying weird shit about his buddy, his pal,
his role model - he wasn't going to have the yobs of the England U21s
squad casting aspersions on the Liverpool `star-boy' Harvey Elliott,
who to the best of his knowledge still had a girlfriend back home!

They were doing the rounds with some pretty basic fitness activities,
kitted up against a cool East European day, and Tyler's low mood was
hidden behind a scrunched-up face of determined effort, throwing himself
into the prep work with the same quiet determination as everybody else
who wanted to prove themselves in the game - every U21s fixture felt like
a coaching showcase where they were trying to prove that they, like Cole
and Rico, could make the switch up to the Three Lions roster,
Southgate's next protegee.

But not everybody was dour with effort and focus - Harvey himself, Tyler
noted, was full of grins and quips, something leering and excitable in
his behaviour as he threw himself about the pitch in his stretchy
slim-fit tracksuit and zipped-up training jersey, all grins and smirks
and cheeky winks. It's a front, Morton assured himself, those guys must
be getting to him, making jokes at the canteen queue and digs in the
changing room, implying things about him and our other absent mate,
Curtis! No, Tyler was not to be convinced by Harvey's brave-face or
banter, because he'd seen the thoughtful pause, the quiet awkwardness,
and seen him slip discreetly away from the showers as if he was suddenly
shy for the first time in his life - that wasn't the Harvey Elliott he
knew from the youth ranks of the Liverpool Academy, getting in trouble
every other week for his cockiness and boundary-pushing.

This must already have been weighing on Morton's thoughts, even if only
subconsciously, when he turned away from the passing drill and heard the
big guy make the comment - `Hey, Harv, get that next shot past Traff and
I'll let you lick my bollocks, haha' - followed by a scrunching tousle
of that curly hair, and a switch snapped in Tyler's body and brain. Like
an unhinged XL Bully dog, the Scouse youth shot assertively towards the
dickhead in question, even if he did tower up at 6ft5, a giant even
amongst this squad of well-built young athletes on the rise.

`What was that?' Tyler practically snarled, squaring up to the
Evertonian - was that old city rivalry part of it, he later wondered, was
he quicker to snap because he couldn't bear hearing a Toffee dare to
make such a comment to his Harv? Perhaps, but that was nothing next to
his loyalty and sense of honour, desperate to defend and protect a fellow
honorary Scouser!

Rising over him, Jarrad Braithwaite barely turned his head, the most
dismissive and amused of expressions briefly curling at his rugged
features. `You what?' was the big Carlisle lad's simple grunted
response, looking him up and down and then, seeing his posture, squaring
up himself, all broad shoulders and puffed chest - but there was no
slowing or calming the path that Tyler had launched himself down, and he
threw the first punch. Jarrad ducked back from this, genuine surprise
flashing over his face, only to be replaced by a burst of heavy
disbelieving laughter - `What the FUCK?'

And just like that they were fighting, Tyler's blood pounding - `Take
that back, you stupid big bastard,' he yelled stupidly at his opponent,
thinking about the ridiculous comment, and Trafford's complicit sneer
from over by the goalposts; he swung for another punch and grasped
desperately at the other guy's England shirt. Instantly, others were
rushing to them, he could feel the explosion of male energy and
physicality against him - there were hands all over his back and arms,
trying to drag him forcibly back, but he was not the skinny lightweight
he might appear, rather wiry and steely - he elbowed a couple of lads
away from him without even noting who was intervening, rushing at big
Braithwaite and throwing a third punch, this one catching him hard in the
side of his long face, so hard in fact that Morton's fist instantly
stung and burned and he almost went flying sideways as his own ferocity
broke away from the hold of others. The air roared with mixed voices, and
he was too frenzied to detect the authority of coaching voices amongst
the yell of his teammates - but as he turned and threw himself back
towards that stupid big bastard who thought he could speak down to Harv,
here was Elliott himself, whip-sharp out of the crowd and up in his face,
leaping in his way and pushing him hard in the chest.

`Leave it,' the 20-year-old barked fiercely in his face, `just leave
it!'

Tyler surged forward but the winger grabbed him about the middle and
shoved into him, rugby tackling him away from the swinging fists of
Jarrad, who was being similarly grasped and dragged at by the bodies of
others - Trafford, Cresswell, Harwood-Bellis amongst them - until the
moment's utter violence had dissipated, and Tyler felt the slow return
of sanity and rationality, and with it a kind of crushing shame. He could
see a look of sheer confusion and even almost amusement on Harvey's
face, but over his shoulder, he could also see the red-faced rage of the
gaffer, the top coach and two assistants bearing down upon them with arms
full of clipboards. Oh, fuck.


Back at a top-flight club, or in the world of their senior counterparts,
Tyler's outburst might have been met with an instant ban or expulsion;
as it was, the U21s were handled a little more carefully, and the young
midfielder was simply told that he would be taken out of the starting
line-up and remain an unlikely substitute. And even at that, it turned
out, he still got game time, shamefacedly allowed onto the pitch in the
74th minute for McAtee, and even sharing the field with Braithwaite for
almost ten minutes before the big centre-back was benched for another
Liverpdulian, Quansah. By this time, of course, the young Englanders were
3-0 up, including Harvey's own moment of triumph not long into the
second half - a great game for the team, but a lacklustre 20 minutes'
runabout for Tyler Morton himself, after a long sulk on the subs bench.
Funny looks from almost every team member, ranging from surprised
admiration to distrustful wariness, from sour disapproval to outright
snubs.

By the end of the big win, their qualification for the U21 Euros another
step closer, Tyler hardly felt able to partake in the celebrations, and
found himself distant from the big group hugs and rowdy displays of the
other lads - his training ground aggression had made him a pariah, and he
wondered if the effects would be lasting or not. In the long
dressing-down he'd received form the gaffer on the way to the stadium,
it had been mentioned that he could easily be sent back to Hull tonight
rather than remaining with the squad for their second fixture of the
camp; by the time the Young Lions were showered, dressed, and enjoying a
traditional Serbian supper in the hotel restaurant, Morton found himself
wishing that was the case, just wanting to get out of here. His annoyance
and resentment at the lads who'd made their mean comments to Elliott
hadn't gone anywhere, but jostled with shame and embarrassment and
regret, and an absolute confusion at the casual untouchability with which
Harvey himself continued to be at the centre of the team, joyously
celebrating the result and his own goal with dickheads like Taylor or
Charlie or James, or that big smug bastard Jarrad too.

Whilst the bulk of the team moved from the restaurant to the bar, strict
beer limits shouted out by the gaffers, Tyler slipped away and went for
an early night. He grimaced at his reflection in the bathroom of their
shared suite, noting the split lip and grazes on his knuckles, not even
sure if these marks of damage were from the brief fight or from his short
part in the win against the host team. Quiet and low, the Scouse lad went
to bed, daring to hope that this would all be a silly blip and not a big
blot on his national team reputation - he had as much hope and desire for
the senior squad as anyone else on the trip, he was just less braggartly
and vocal about it.

Tyler lay awake with these thoughts for what seemed a long while, but
must have slipped into fitful sleep, perhaps poxed by dreams of being
sold by Liverpool to a permanent place in the Championship, because at
some other point he could feel himself begin to wake, disturbed as if
from great distance by suggestions of noise and presence.

He lay there, his face squished into his pillows, warm in the heated
room, and sleepy hands beginning to pull at the thick pyjama t-shirt and
shorts he wore under the covers. He turned gently, tumbling through that
uniquely disorienting hinterland between sleep and wakefulness, only
half-aware of opening/closing doors and footsteps in the suite. Eyes
still glued shut, he opened his mouth wide in yawn and pulled at the
covers, rolling over twice more, side to side, until consciousness began
to gather force against his brief sleep, and a clattering noise somewhere
on the edge of his universe really grabbed hold of his semi-woken
attention.

Eyes opening, he lay there on his back, experiencing the brief confusion
of an unfamiliar hotel room, and then remembering where he was, who he
was, how he'd made a prick of himself on the training ground; righteous
indignation, the defence of his friend's honour, felt far away in
earlier daylight, and all that was left was the embarrassment and the
worry, the fear that no further call-ups would come his way. What if that
was it, and he'd never pull an England shirt on again...?

Pushing away this resurgent thought, the 21-year-old heard what sounded
like a... giggle? A little thump, a suppressed snigger, a knock of foot or
elbow on plastic; and then a voice, low and husky, chuckling `When you
started on that big Serbian fella... so fucking funny, he looked like he
was shitting himself even though he was twice yer height...' Tyler only
half-recognised the voice, not clear enough in his fugue, but the voice
that giggled back was clearer instantly, even if it was low and
secretive, `I woulda knocked the fuckwit out if he'd raised a hand, you
know that, I don't take shit - although I could have blown his mind in
other ways, I guess, haha...' Harvey?

Tyler brought one sore knuckle up to rub across his eyes, yawning again.
He felt hot, uncomfortably hot, sweating under his bedclothes, and it was
a relief to pull the thick winter duvet away from him, to slide across
the bed, to place one bare foot uncertainly against carpet. Another bump
or two, muffled sounds, coming from the room's adjoining bathroom, and
more voices, similarly low and suppressed, but now indiscernible - the
previous quiet comments seemed so unclear and unlikely that Tyler thought
perhaps he'd dreamt them, surely there weren't two lads in there?
Harvey fair enough, his roommate, but that first voice- it became more
clear and familiar to him, its heavy Northernness, the distant Cumbrian
tones, the smug authority of a huge defender like the Evertonian.

And so he got up, bleary and unsure, and pulling uncomfortably at his
top, his shorts, his wedgie; lanky pale legs tottering him across the
room, dark but for the thin ray of light that crept out from the
not-quite-closed doorway to the en suite; more bumps, more whispers and
chuckles, and... he lurched close, unsure if this was a dream, and laid a
hand to the door, pulling it slowly outwards, and staring into the
illuminated space, as if expecting to tumble through the doorway into
another universe, a sci-fi dreamscape, and not the simple square bathroom
of their basic hotel suite.

`Wha'...?' groaned the Scouse youth, dimly, his sleepy eyes blinking
against the light - the light that revealed the big hefty build of Jarrad
Braithwaite, leaning back against the hot silvery bars of their heated
towel rack, his top off and clutched in one huge paw; big bulky chest
muscles on show, stretching down from his gurning face, down washboard
abs to the waist, which gave way to a bush of mousy pubes, and the
protruding mast of his manhood, on which Harvey's head bobbed gently up
and down, the other England youth player hunkering down there in front of
the towering centre-back - Tyler stared down, still blinking, at the
crouching figure of the Liverpool ace, then slowly and uncomprehendingly
up, tracing Jarrad's powerful body, past large soft nipples and gently
haired pecs, to his blocky jawline and lazily half-closed eyes, which
stared bluntly this way to meet his own. Morton mouthed another puzzled
question, but Braithwaite barked simply at him, `Oh, here he is, Tyson
Fury himself...' A bronze bruise shone on the side of the big Cumbrian's
face, right where Tyler Morton had landed that single effective punch;
his knuckles ached just looking at it, and he wilted confusedly in the
doorway.

`What the hell?' groaned Tyler dimly.

Slurping back noisily, Harvey turned on his haunches and looked this way,
his lips wet and drooling; he looked drunk, they both did, and he looked
confused too, but also bright and excitable. He licked his lips and took
a good grip of the huge hard cock in his face, licking its fat tip
without removing his eyes from Tyler's bewildered expression, the two
friends locking eyes - Tyler had to reach out for the doorframe. This
must be a dream, he told himself, but why the fuck am I dreaming about
this...?

`Here,' grunted Jarrad's sleepy slur of a voice, `come in...'

`Yeah,' murmured Harvey too, not getting up, but kneeling down on the
bathmat more comfortably, `come here, matey...'

More out of confusion than any desire he could name, Tyler drifted into
the awkwardly bright space with them, slow unsteady steps, until one of
Jarrad's big hands was brought up to his warm shoulder and then the back
of his neck, encouraging him to pull in closer next to them... and one of
Harvey's hands was on one of his legs, sliding up and down about his
knee and onto the downy muscle of his thigh, edging curiously into the
leg of his pyjama shorts. Tyler swayed a little on his feet, looking from
Harvey's flushed cheeky face and up to Jarrad's strange bruised leer.
`No hard feelings,' the centre-back chuckled in his face, `but I think
now you understand. Show him what you can do, Harv.'

`What he can... huh?' mumbled Morton.

The hand up the leg of his shorts was touching him gently but decisively,
and he wobbled more where he stood - his warm sleepy balls stroked, his
soft slim cock pulled softly, his bristly trimmed pubes rubbed by
fingertips... and then that shorts leg bunched up as kisses climbed his
inner thigh, until those kisses met his cock, soft goatee on his skin,
shorts pushed up and open, soft cock sucked and tasted down their leg...
Tyler leant into the supportive strength of the taller lad, and turned
his confused face to Jarrad's snarling enjoyment, a beery laugh blowing
into his face. Tyler didn't know what time it was, how long either his
roomie or enemy had been in the hotel bar, how far they'd exceeded the
gaffer's limit or curfew, or what the hell they were doing here in the
bathroom - but he knew how good his cock felt, slowly entering a wet and
warm stiffness, released properly as his PJ shorts were pulled slowly
down his long slim legs. When he looked down, he saw Harvey's wet mouth
travel slowly from his own slim average meat to the big thick whopper
that juddered and towered from Jarrad's crotch, trails of spit
stretching from cock to mouth as Elliott rapidly switched between
lollipops. Oh, fuck.

`Every lad likes a blowie,' Braithwaite grunted loudly, and if Morton
had been more fully awake, he might have heard the way the big Carlisle
lad was saying it more for his own assurance than for anyone else. `A
mouth's a mouth, ain't it?' the 6ft5 Cumbrian groaned on, more
quietly. `Just... mmm... a mouth...'

A mouth, Tyler thought, pushing one hand into the wall and latching the
other about Jarrad's towering shoulder; a mouth is just a mouth? Nah,
this is... HARVEY'S mouth, he thought in a sleepy daze, but god it felt
good, and this was so weird... hot wet lips going up and down his thin
shaft, slowing then pausing about the tip, tickling his foreskin with
tongue, spitting against it then sliding back down again. Harvey's wide
eyes rolled up to look at him and he just stared back in a frown of
disbelief. He thought about all of those lewd comments over the week, and
wondered... had his mate... been... down on his knees... for them? He
blinked, lids falling and rising slowly, and shuddered sensitively
against more oral, before Harvey switched cocks again.

`Fuck,' Tyler slurred, his accent stronger in his sleepy state,
`fuckin' hell...'

`He's good, ain't he?' Jarrad growled.

`You both taste good,' Harvey panted, momentarily without a mouthful.

`Jesus,' Morton whined, and Braithwatie just laughed gruffly.

This was mad enough, this man-on-man oral service, this dirty experiment
between friends, madder still to be shared with someone he'd lamped in
the face earlier in the day and then been unable to make eye contact with
as they passed each other on the pitch. All mad enough, mad sensations
and mad revelations - but maddest of all, the madness that would really
haunt him when he woke up the next morning, ready to pack his bag and fly
on to the next fixture, was the hand that crawled down his back, fingers
kneading his spine, his tension, his uncertainty. All the way down his
back went Jarrad's hand, slowing and lingering on the small, curling up
the hem of his t-shirt a little, pawing at the slightly damp sweaty skin
there at the base of his spine, whilst his body rocked with the force of
Harvey's mouth on his prick, taking him deep; and Jarrad's fingers
then, the touch electric, pushing into the soft tight elastic of his PJ
shorts, which were low at the front but bunching over his pert buns.
Until they weren't, pushed down further, so that Jarrad's big questing
hand was cupping his downy buttocks, holding him there, almost pushing
him forward so that his cock fucked in and out of Harvey's eager mouth -
his cock which touched Jarrad's cock now as the crouching lad tried to
take both into his gob all at once. Madness, so much madness, but nothing
as mad as the feel of one finger running down his sweaty crack, one
finger pushing at him there, rubbing over a spot that made him feel
queasy and sensitive, pushing so hard that a funny little burning pain
joined the intense pleasure; maddest of all, maybe, that he just stood
there, supported, with his cock pulsing and his hole being gently opened
up, a single thick finger entering him in hesitant little prods, so that
he turned his clammy face and stared into the bruised face that he'd
punched. Jarrad's eyes were glassy and his grin kinda brittle, a look of
sleazy enjoyment, but also uncertainty, and Tyler was awake enough to
sense that the big guy was no less sure of all this than he, but was
drunk enough to roll with it - and so Tyler didn't tense up, didn't
protest, didn't ask questions, but he just felt the fingertip, feeling
so much huger on his virginal ring, prod in and out of him in the same
rhythm with which his wet cock was slurped and gobbled, until he was
cumming all over his friend's face, watching his cum ooze into that
facial hair and over that nose, looking at the feral desire in those
pretty eyes.

`Me too, me too,' Jarrad was grunting, `I'm gonna shoot...'

And then there was more mess on Harvey's handsome face, something
confusing from a porno, an oil slick of pearly whiteness drooling over
the lad's cheeks, lips, chin. Tyler gasped wordlessly and felt the
uncomfortable release of the pressure in his arse, felt a greasy
fingertip wiped on his hip. He staggered back a little, grasping for the
sink, his cock swaying, and he turned on a cold tape. Jarrad pushed past
him to run a finger under that tap, and when Tyler looked up at him, he
saw panic and regret on the big face, not the surly enjoyment of a minute
ago.

`Fucking hell,' moaned Harvey decadently, clambering upright.

Braithwaite wasted little time in getting out of their way, a big pushy
force in the cramped en suite, and then a huge absence when he was gone -
pulling his tracksuit up even as he grasped open the door into the
corridor to ditch them, his panting breaths still echoing in the warm
air. Tyler washed his hands, his face, found a towel to rub against his
cock, and then turned wild eyes to Harvey, who was leaning on the towel
rail and jerking off, a dreamy expression on his face as he pleasured
himself. Tyler just stood there and watched him cum, watched him spurt
his juice into the air between them, and letting it fall upon the tiles
below. And then, gingerly, the Scouse lad passed him the spare towel,
hand shaking, and watched as Harvey wiped it over his face and then his
crotch.

`Guess I best shower,' the right winger murmured, sounding very drunk
and tired.

`Maybe,' Morton grumbled uncertainly back, staring at his friend in a
totally new light.

`He's not so bad,' Harv grunted then, nodding out across the room.

Tyler remembered, with sudden intensity, his fist connecting with
Jarrad's face, attacking the big guy over what sounded like vicious
homophobia; had it just been a friendly agreement, and he'd just
misunderstood everything? What the hell had been going on around him all
week, he now wondered? He felt faint. He took a step back, rearranging
his tangled shorts, and stumbling back through into the main room.
Listening to the murmur and hum of Harvey drunkenly showering, the
21-year-old crawled into the heat of his own bed and re-entered the vague
half-world of sleep, utterly dazed, utterly satisfied. He'd pushed the
boundaries and broken the rules, first to defend his friend's honour,
and then to... to join in the madness, he thought dreamily, to experience
something dangerous and new.




'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