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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 206: The Last Temptation of Eric Dier Part 206: The Last Temptation of Eric Dier It was the England players’ final afternoon of training, the penultimate night of their international break together — the sense of ambivalent finality, their last game of 2020 looming tomorrow night, gave a nervous energy to the final drills in the various paddocks of the special training centre. Those who had travelled abroad for the 2-0 loss to Belgium were still smarting somewhat and whilst the remaining clash, against Iceland, now technically meant nothing (their Leagues Nation chances having been dashed by the Belgians), there was a simmering energy amongst the Englishmen who wanted to end the difficult year on a high, and a statement about their chances in next year’s European tournament. It was a mood that was striking particularly at Eric Dier, one of the most seasoned Lions in the squad now at 26, as he dodged his way through the latter stages of some intensive training with some of his younger and quicker colleagues. He huffed out great balls of condensation into the air, steam rising from the broad chest of his training jersey and clingy black under-armour leggings holding at his sweaty calves and thighs as he recovered. As the centre of the national team’s defensive midfield, Dier felt the sting of the Belgium loss more than most, and he took his duties here under Southgate particularly seriously. He envied the more sprightly and light-hearted mood of the other lads at this end of the training pitch in the late afternoon gloom, freshly activated floodlights cutting through the slow descent of an early winter evening overhead. Still panting, Dier craned his neck to look at the guys nearest him, seeing the likely lads band together in a moment’s break between instructions from the coaches. Instinctively, he moved their way, keeping one eye on the action further down the field and wondering what activities the afternoon session would end on. The 26-year-old rested his hands on the backs of his hips and swung his thick aching legs towards them, moving to join the bright-eyed future of the England squad centred in a foursome of grinning lads: Mount, Rice, Grealish, Chilwell. `Hardly,’ he heard Grealish saying in the low thrum of his Birmingham accent, `you can hardly compare me to the likes of Barkley, can you…!’ The surname obviously pricked at a different part of Dier’s attention as he pulled up next to the 25-year-old England newcomer who was getting much of the positive attention this week. `Well, you can hardly compare ANYONE to him,’ he heard the Chelsea transplant Chilwell announce in a gruff laughing response, throwing an arm about Grealish’s shoulders. `Yeah, his arse is summat else,’ chirped the higher voice of Mount, a little red-face as he sniggered and joined in the jeering laddish body language of Chilwell, all of their backs to Dier as he hesitated to join them, ears and eyes alert and intense football-focus briefly disturbed. `Well, you’d know,’ jibed Ben now, cue more gruff laughter from Jack; between their heads and shoulders he could make out the huffing frown of Declan and the giddy sniggers of Mason, before Ben carried on, `It’s like a fucking planet or something, that lad’s booty, it’s-` `Bro is like some J Lo fucker,’ sniggered Grealish, and Rice too was making some casual comment along those lines: `Junk in the trunk, for sure, looks ridiculous in his shorts, haha…’ The four young footballers’ voices blurred a little as they spoke, and Eric heard one of them remark `Big-Butt Barkley, that’s what they call him…’ `For fuck’s sake,’ the Tottenham defender found himself bursting out in an officious growl, bustling between the four of them with his elbows apart and his brows creased into an angry expression, meeting their eyes one by one. `What’s wrong with you fellas? Ross Barkley is a top quality fucking footballer like any of us, why you chatting shit about him like that?’ At least one of them began to say something in retaliation to his sudden and imbalanced outburst, but he found himself going on regardless. `He ain’t some piece of meat for you lot to laugh about, you stupid kids,’ he snarled, ignoring the fact that Jack at least was only a year his junior. `Jesus Christ, lads!’ `Just messin’,’ came Rice’s frowning answer, rolling his broad shoulders and wrinkling his nose, hopping restlessly from foot to foot; next to him, his best friend (yeah, Eric thought, just friends, right!) looked mortified and bright pink, rubbing his gloved hands down his torso in a nervous gesture. `Heh, take it easy!’ cooed Chilwell, looking less embarrassed than the others. `We all love Barks, we were just-` `Just talking shit,’ the sturdy Spurs man barked at them irritably, giving them all a stern, disappointed glare then backing a couple of steps away; he could feel the heat rising in his face and he could hear the disproportionate severity of his tone as he’d interrupted the younger guys’ chatter, disrupting whatever subtle dynamics existed between them. He was well aware of something between Chilwell and Grealish, having shared the afternoon of Luke Shaw’s birthday with them, but he didn’t know how official they were or if his suspicions about the other two youngsters were correct. He had the distinct feeling he’d behaved like an old grump and stomped into their jokey conversation like an idiot, but their sneering tones and the dismissive jibes against Barkley’s physicality had jabbed him somewhere he didn’t like to think about. `Sorry,’ muttered 21-year-old Chelsea star Mason, sounding quite sincere about it, `let’s just all focus on the training, shall we, look, think gaffer wants us over there, erm…’ And he was tugging on Declan’s arm now, moving away from Eric’s bristling wrath; he couldn’t soften the annoyed expression on his handsome craggy face, even as he tried to cool down and relax his posture. In a moment, all four of them were drifting rapidly away from him and he was stomping slowly after them to re-join the main group, embarrassed and hot-tempered. At the other wing of the slowly assembling squad, the team’s other defenders were puffing with the same battered weariness — the coaching team had been tough on them all day, desperate to shape up their technique after the struggle against Belgian attacks on Sunday night. Harry Maguire hated to admit to feeling quite so worn down, but he could see that big Mings and chunky Walker were equally wiped out as they slowly trailed in towards the gathering of their countrymen, being addressed in the quiet nasal voice of Gareth Southgate. `Huh, look at Kano,’ sniggered the pitchy voice of the Manchester City right-back beside him, catching Maguire’s attention and drawing it across the group to the tall serious-faced silhouette of Harry Kane, `front of the class’ beside Southgate himself, teacher’s pet in his captainly stance. `Geek,’ whispered Walker playfully, low and broad between the two taller defenders, thick arms folded across the chest of his shirt. `You’d think he was in love with the gaffer, the look in his eyes…!’ The balding 30-year-old sniggered wheezily and Harry couldn’t help but grin his agreement, particularly knowing what he knew about the iconic striker’s backstage behaviour. `Maybe he is,’ joined in Tyrone, towering on the other side of Kyle. `Bless them.’ Harry just made a vague grunt. `One way to get a captain’s armband.’ `Well,’ sniggered Walker, prodding an elbow into his arm. `You’d know, I guess. You and Ole gonna get married, are ya?’ He winked and chuckled sleazily to himself, the three of them lingering on the fringe of the group like the bad boys of the year group, reluctant to move forward and shut up to listen to the earnest oration of the England chief. Maguire muttered a `fuck off’ at his defensive ally but smirked all the same, always a fan of Walker’s blunt humour and their shared Sheffield heritage. He watched Captain Harry posed thoughtfully at the front of the group, scratching his bearded chin thoughtfully with one of those handsomely vacant expressions he was so good at — Maguire had watched him closely all week, wondering how likely a repeat of last camp’s little flurry was. It had felt so good to fuck someone as famed and respected as Kane, he had to admit, a special extra thrill to topping and dominating when the guy was someone as theoretically `alpha’ as the much-capped striker. `Oh he’s definitely noshing off the gaffer,’ chuckled the other tall defender, surprising Harry with his sexual humour. He and Kyle both grinned and sniggered at Ty, who was normally much more civilised and respectable, but apparently not this afternoon in the winter chill. The Somerset giant grinned broadly over at them, fumbling with the drawstrings on his tight dark slim-fit trackies. `Or the other way round, I dunno. But it’s the look of love alright. Hehe.’ `Bumboys,’ chuckled Walker idly. `Defo,’ grunted Maguire in vague agreement, holding in a deeper rumbling laugh of approval, picturing the gentlemanly England forward down on his knees in the pool-room like when he and Winks had shared and then abandoned him on the last international outing — his petty, playful vengeance on Kane for somehow upsetting Dier. That thought made him glance sidelong across the gathering at Eric himself, who was brooding at the far side of the group, a real teenage scowl on his short-bearded features, staring away into the middle-distance and paying no attention to the team talk. Well, Harry thought, was that stocky bastard still hung up over slutty Kane…?! He looked idly at his phone, relaxing his body after the day’s hard work and standing shirtless on the edge of the large open-plan changing facilities of the training complex. Eric thumbed through the dining-out app he co-owned, trying to distract himself from his funny mood with the vague satisfaction of seeing his idea in glowing reality on the screen. Inevitably, his attention slipped to social media more generally, and to… Ah, another one of these. The well-built defensive player sat himself down back on the wooden bench, sweaty back to the cool metal of his locker door, looking at the latest gym selfie in the feed of the Aston Villa player: Ross fucking Barkley posed idly by the machine he’d been using with his legs spread and the sweat marks painfully obvious in the grey nylon of his training gear as he snapped his efforts. Whatever happened to the shy Scouser? Weird. It wasn’t even the first such snap Barkley had popped online in the last couple of weeks. Eric had, obviously, noticed. He stared a little at the image in his friend’s `story’, tempted to send a couple of jokey emoji responses to it, but holding back — he couldn’t quite formulate why in his head, but he imagined himself as some flirty teenage girl if he sent the little fire symbols he wanted to in response to the rather attention-seeking post. What did they kids call it these days? A `thirst trap’? Nah, he wasn’t gonna be such a sucker…! Of course, the thought had occurred to Eric that he MIGHT be the intended audience of such efforts, but only for a moment. They were out there for public consumption, after all, rather than sent to him in private. No, the only pictures Ross seemed to send him privately were odd little close-ups of his lunch or a new pair of boots he’d had delivered, or the Netflix menu screen when he was struggling to choose a film — nothing so interestingly provocative as those big sweat patches in his story for his general following…! The show-off! And Eric had long dismissed him as a shy and retiring Premiership player like himself, not a media-whore poser like… like THEM… he found himself scowling vaguely across the room at the slippery wet figures of Grealish and Mount emerging from the steamy showers, Rice and Chilwell trailing after them. The poster boys of English football, pretty little fuckers! He disliked the resentment in his mind there. They were great lads and he loved them all. He was just smarting from his own clumsy behaviour as much as their daft throwaway comments about Barkley. He shook his head, dismissing his own moodiness, and looked back at his phone, tapping onto the Scouser’s profile after all, something he had tried not to do this week after noticing himself checking it a few times in a row on the journey over here from North London last Monday. Around him, the wind-down of the showering and changing footballers buzzed on, but he delayed his much-needed shower, sullen with the nervous anticipation of tomorrow night and the burning little sensation of his minor tiff with the young midfielders. Dier hunched his rounded shoulders and huffed at the screen, thinking for a moment how unfair it was that Barkley was missing out on this week, really; they’d broken through into the senior squad about the same time and Eric’s early memories of playing for England all featured a younger, curly-haired Ross somewhere in the mix. With Ross now getting much more action on his Villa loan (a move that Eric kept thinking of as inconvenient and irritating, despite his pleasure at seeing his friend’s success), he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe next year Southgate would call on them, and they could play together as national teammates. Maybe, maybe. He smirked for a moment at the thought of leaving some jokingly flirtatious comment on the most recent training selfie on Barkley’s feed, the way some of the other young players did for each other these days, all bromance and heart emojis. Eric, conscious of his blossoming bisexuality, had kept an old-fashioned stance on that shit, self-conscious of his youthful fumbling and then, eventually, his heated affair with married Kane. If he’d ever given any public `bromantic’ affection to Harry on social media, there would have been a shitstorm from the touchy striker. Sigh. As if on cue, Kane himself came trotting past at a slight distance, not noticeably looking this way or acknowledging his presence at all — he was in deep conversation with Trippier on his way over to peel off clothes and head into the showers, making Eric even more keen to delay his own. He looked back down at the selfie of Ross Barkley and composed a joking little `LOOKING Gr8 BRO, YESSS’ message in the comments for a moment, then paused at the comments he saw there. Shy boy Ross had actually replied a few times to one of them, he noticed, glancing at the succinct flirty comments of a certain supermodel he half-recognised. Oh. Right. He clicked on her profile and his eyes boggled at her half-exposed tits in the first picture, then the comments underneath it from… yep, well. Flirty. Huh. Blinking distractedly and blacking out the phone screen, Eric sat up a little, shaking and stretching his thick torso and dumping the device heavily into the open backpack beside him, shaking away the sight of those silly emoji-packed little Instagram comments he’d briefly scanned. Silly stuff. She was hot, probably just Barkley’s type — good for him! Hah. Well, clearly his little moments of poser behaviour were paying off, haha, all good fun really… He scratched irritably at his chin and cheek, rubbing his fingertips over the rough fluff of his beard, feeling that same rising heat and discomfort as when he’d stumbled into the younger lads’ convo. He was just getting up, rubbing his discarded shirt across the sweat curves of his pecs, when a taller figure loomed in beside him and rubbed him briefly but intimated on the neck then laughed gruffly in his ear. `Oi,’ they barked, rubbed their hot damp hand across his shoulders for a moment, `what are you doin’ sulking on yer own today, pal…?’ It was Maguire, towering over him with with friendly eyes and a crooked smile, his body steaming shower-damp. `All good, mate…?’ `Fine,’ Eric said in a knowingly sulky voice, unable to shake the afternoon’s bad mood, but grimacing appreciatively at Harry’s interest. `I best go get washed down, I stink.’ `Huh, yeah, don’t wanna go turning anyone on with that manly scent,’ muttered the Man Utd player with a dirty little leer to his expression, hovering beside him, clearly naked but for the pale blue towel tight about his waist, knotted at one hip and convex where its crossed over the loosely swinging appendage between his long muscular legs. He seemed to be posing himself in a way, shoving one elbow against the lockers as he propped himself up beside Eric, using his other massive hand to slick his dark hair to the side, some 20th century chat-up posture surfacing in his manner. `What?’ Eric asked with a little laugh. `Nowt,’ muttered Harry, but then he brought that hand down and grabbed slightly at the front of the lucky towel. `Just wondering what you’re doing before dinnertime, that’s all…’ `Mate,’ the Spurs player huffed back, shaking his head dismissively. `What? We got time to kill,’ said the big United captain in a quiet and almost purring voice. He winked, and Eric found himself bristly and severe again like he’d been with the boys, shaking his head at him and shouldering aside his looming presence. `Come on,’ he heard the big Yorkshireman growl, and felt one of Maguire’s big imperious hands reaching for his chunky muscled butt in his trackies, making him flinch at the risky publicness and pull sharply away from his teammate. `Oi,’ he hissed, `leave that…’ `Come on, we know what’s what,’ muttered Harry in an infuriatingly dismissive and expectant manner that, on a different day and in a different mood, Eric might have found incredibly sexy. But right now he just found mersin escort the presumptuous lean of the 6ft4 defender infuriating and offensive, seeming to cast more of a shadow on his pre-match nerves and the odd little soap opera of social media he’d stumbled across in his sulk. `We’ve had fun, ain’t we?’ Harry said now, leaning discreetly closer, the spicy soap-scent flooding off his broad chest and bulky plateauing shoulders. `Yeah, don’t mean you can touch me like that, fuck’s sake,’ Dier spat back in the same frosty growl he’d used on Grealish and his mates, backing off from him and snatching up his own folded towel from where it sat waiting, giving Maguire a warning glare and ditching him here at the lockers, craving the roar and steam of the showers and being tucked in a corner there rather than in this room full of slippery wet naked bodies, gleaming muscles and shaggy damp hair. He found himself picturing that gym picture of Barkley and then the plastic tits of his female admirer, and scowling as he stripped off and stormed into the showers. Harry Kane emerged from the showers in a little bit of a hurry — he had a family call with the wife and kids booked in shortly on Zoom and needed to be dressed and out of the training complex sharply to keep the appointment. He chanced a glance at the sturdy glistening form of his ex at the other side of the showers, having seen Eric muscle his way in a few minutes ago and move straight past him — things were better between them now, but there was definitely something a bit odd and on-edge about Dier this past few days. He sorely wished they were close enough again for him to confront it and ask what was up, but it still felt too soon and raw for that. Instead, the 27-year-old striker just dripped his way back across the changing room, unhooking the towel about his waist and drying his long smooth body in a few heavy rubs, rushing himself in his own corner of the long sweep of available lockers. He ran the towel over his face and across the disturbed shaggy mass of his hair then lowered it, and found himself looking instead at his fellow Harry. Maguire, a pair of long black boxers pulled on and a ruffled heap of his other clothes held under one arm, was right beside him now, making him hyper aware of his own nakedness as the bigger England player filled his personal space and paused on his way past, clasping a large hand to his arm. `Hey,’ Harry grunted distantly. `Alright,’ Maguire muttered at him, `what you doin’ now?’ Kane could hear the gruff impatience in the Yorkshireman’s leaden voice. He paused, dangling the towel in both hands so it covered much of his torso and, importantly, the twitching privacy of his crotch, and he felt both thrilled and appalled by the closeness of the other Harry, here in the changing rooms where so many of their mates were in the middle of getting dressed and just within earshot. `Family call,’ the striker said back in rapid syllables, throwing the towel discreetly about his waist and hoping his semi didn’t show, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes and glancing about at the other nearest players to check nobody was paying them any attention. `You know how it is,’ he said meaningfully, trying to convey some caution or fear in his stare. `Wife. Kids. Duty.’ He could hear the nervous defensiveness in his own tone. Maguire just made a little grunt and hugged the armful of clothing to his chest, moving to pass him by wherever he was headed, but one hand still against his upper arm. On his way past, he leaned in, stooping a little to close the two-inch gap in their heights, and brought his smirk close to Harry’s small ear. `Well I’ll have to fuck you later on tonight then, bitch. I’ll text you after dinner.’ The words came out in a breathy hot rush against his skin and then the taller lad was moving on, his big feet making heavy slaps on the tiled floor, Harry stood frozen to the spot with a tingle in his balls and an itch in his arse-crack. He tightened the towel about his waist and breathed deeply, hearing the deadpan heavy words of the tall northern bloke echo in his brain, mingled memories and fantasies on slideshow in his brain. He sighed with the resigned knowledge that resistance was futile and his own appetites were not easily ignored, and ran one clean palm wearily over his face. Then he glanced anxiously about him in case something had been utterly exposed in that brief exchange, in case the boisterous youthful likes of Jadon Sancho — buttoning up a tropical-print shirt a few yards away while laughing and bickering with his Dortmund teammate Bellingham — or the guffawing Brummie heartthrob of Jack Grealish — dragging a tshirt over his head and being amusingly helped with it by a giggling Ben Chilwell — might have picked up on his burning lust for the dominant fella. But nah, the other members of the England squad were busy in their own chuckling banter and relief that the day’s hard work was over, gripped by a giddy anticipation of tomorrow night and Iceland. Kane reached guiltily for his clean clothes, needing to dress quickly and get upstairs to his hotel room, ready to be the perfect straight alpha male for his partner and family, even though at the back of his mind he would be turning over the threat-or-promise of Harry Maguire’s words. Who the fuck was she? Dumb slag. Nowt natural about her. Who the fuck would know what she even looked like under all that over-the-top contouring and the Instagram filters blanketing her image…? Still, here he was, skulking across her socials, his body thrown back across an uncomfortably stiff couch in one of the quiet communal lounges of their hotel. He was cringing at himself even as he did it: glancing stupidly into the comments of most of her uploads this year and checking if there were any comments under them from a certain someone, but finding them only evident on the past few. He found himself idiotically fixated on a little wink emoji on a selfie of her a week ago. AND she’d liked the comment. Slut. This was daft. He’d been dependent on a bloke before, and he’d been significantly burned. He’d been stupid when he ever allowed himself to feel more than a bit of bromance with his Harry, in those exciting first few months after the Russian World Cup. How and why had he let his private life start to fix and circle around the routines and availability of a married dad who could never quite mumble much back at him or look him in the eye after sex, whether in comfortable hotel rooms or stolen moments in kit cupboards at the Tottenham training ground. He didn’t wanna be back in that hole — waiting around on the chance of a sly message and a free slot in another bloke’s schedule. Checking his phone every five minutes and setting a different message and ringtone to a certain number, just in case. Waiting around after training sessions and home games and hoping that maybe there was half an hour in their busy professional schedules were maybe, just maybe, they could- Nah. Not again. Not that shit. He gritted his teeth, looked away from the screen, stared out at the dark November sky and the pattering rain on the long windows, shaken rather suddenly by the unexpected but soft-spoken voice of someone close behind him: `Hey…’ He’d thought he was alone in here in his after-dinner stupor, since a lot of the other lads had started playfully gambling in the alco-banned bar downstairs or gone for an illogical stroll of the hotel’s attractive grounds despite the lack of lingering daylight. But here was his own roommate, hovering quite hesitantly just away from the sofa, hands in the pockets of his slim black sweatpants, a thin friendly smile on his doll-like features. Eric heaved his torso off the sofa and leant his arm across it backs, giving an almost apologetic nod to the other Spurs star, who he’d been rather neglecting in their stay here together. `Wotcha,’ he said vaguely. `You good?’ Harry Winks stifled the beginning of a yawn, flexing his lean arms against his sides, the thin white tshirt he wore stretching over his tightly muscled trunk, then shrugged his young shoulders. `Bit on edge about tomorrow, I guess,’ he said. `I know we’re out of the comp, but still… got a lot to prove, huh?’ He smiled vaguely. `Still, been a quality week, all things considered.’ Eric nodded his slow agreement, conscious of how moody and removed he’d been at the long evening meal, their last together as a full national squad. Tomorrow night after the late Wembley finish, at least half of them would disperse to their own corners of London and the home counties, himself and Winks included. The younger Tottenham lad moved closer, kicking his bare feet idly against the back of the couch, and Eric gave him a thoughtful gaze, conscious of the unspoken little tensions between them these days, since becoming a little more… acquainted. `What you up to?’ the 24-year-old Harry asked him softly. `Uh, not a lot. Wasting my time on stupid social media.’ A little chuckle from Harry, who was quite singular in his disinterest for the apps at his age. `Standard. Heh, Jose would love that,’ he added playfully, thinking of their legendary coach and his meme-worthy posts of them in the dressing room occupied by their devices. `Eric, buddy, I was just hoping we could talk about-` `I know, I know,’ Dier said quickly, looking away, bunching his hand into a tense fist. `I’m sorry, I really should have let us have this chat before, I mean god knows I owe you that, I just thought if we… uh, mate, I just thought maybe if we left it unsaid then maybe it would be easier for us to just… forget how we, how you…’ He turned back to Harry, trailing off, and catching the faintly amused surprise on his handsome boyish features. `Aaaand you were definitely not talking about the time Slabhead and I jazzed all over you, no…’ He grinned affably at the guy. `Ignore me!’ Winks, smirking, kicked his toes off the leather again and pulled his hands from his pockets to lean on the back of the sofa, one of them noticeably close to the tickling hairs of Eric’s forearm. `I WAS just gonna say we need to talk about getting our car booked up to North London after the game tomorrow night, hah… but er…’ He glanced over his shoulder, confirming they were alone in here. `But yeah I guess maybe we could talk about… that.’ A soft laugh, more suggestive and relaxed than Eric might have expected from the freaked-out ingenue he’d toyed with in the midst of his own heartbreak. He studied him more closely, that cheeky little smirking pout, the wandering of his eyes, the way his knuckles now grazed a little down the side of his arm, resting near his elbow. He brought his eyes back to his, studying those deep browns beneath the dark furrow of his brows. Winks winked. `Maybe it is too awkward to talk about,’ he said quietly, `but I definitely think about it often.’ `Oh, do you?’ Dier asked slowly and carefully, shifting his strong arm across the leather until he pushed against that resting hand more, and his own fingertips could stray against the waist of that white tshirt. He smirked too. `I thought maybe big Harry and I just freaked you out that night, or… well, that time in the showers…’ His sincerity was muffled by their quiet breathy laughs, but it needed to be said: `Look, sorry if I was a bit off with you around then mate, I was just going through stuff then and…’ `I kinda know,’ Winks told him evasively, which was a bit confusing, but Dier wasn’t quite following his sharp intellect any more. The younger midfielder was stroking his elbow and letting his soft fingertips play against the slight curve of his tricep; for his own part, he was pressing finger and thumb over the hem of that tshirt and pulling the fabric away from the warm skin of his tummy. Their eyes met again. `You’re being nicer to me now though,’ Winks said, almost purred, his grin broadening. `And hey… we got a room, so…’ He’d waited uneasily for the after-dinner text, making excuses not to join his roomie Trippier for the little poker session in the closed bar, and instead skulking about in the quiet high-ceilinged hotel corridors; by the time the phone vibrated in his shorts pockets, he was standing alone in a porch like a lonely smoker, watching his condensing breath peel away into the misty rain, enjoying the little splashes of drizzle that cooled his burning cheeks and bare arms. He read the message and blinked his eyes, snared by the brutal simplicity of it: `Room 106 now, fella. Come take my load.’ FUCK. He bit his lip and shook himself, wondered if maybe he could just slip down across the venue and go into that bar where some of the other guys were having their little gambling session, using heavy notes as if they were small change, the smug cunts. But he knew with a dreadful certainty that there was no resisting a message like that from Maguire — the way he’d just lumbered past him in the showers this afternoon, that imperious hand on his shoulder, fuck…! He thought guiltily of Eric, wherever he was. As finished as things might be between them now, he still worried that doing mad shit here was some extra betrayal — it had been crushing to rely on Dier’s intervention last time when Harry left him bound in the basement of the hotel gym, risking all sorts of scandal and humiliation. And yet… god, how many times had he wanked at that memory since?! As much as he tried to avoid being too close or intimate with Winks at Spurs training sessions, the memory of being used by two Harrys still gripped him with excitement; almost as much as excitement as his recent stopover at Joe Hart’s. He found himself picturing wild and rattled Gareth Bale in the dawn light, fidgeting and denying everything. The phone in his paw buzzed again and the England star, now capped 50 times for his nation in yet another important statistical milestone of his career, read it almost hesitantly, as if squinting at it could in anyway protect himself from the masculine siren call. `Where u @? Hurry fuck up, Kane.’ And then, buzz, beep, click. There were dick pics, Kane thought, and then there was a Harry Maguire dick pic. Fuccccck. He wasn’t exactly Eric’s type, whatever that was, but he did feel good. Soft and smooth beneath his hands as the tshirt came up and off within seconds of bustling into their shared room and shoving the door firmly shut behind them. Their breaths were short and uncomfortable with the rapid little thrill of it, Eric rubbing his hands up and down the outside of his arms warmingly, then reaching one to rub and tweak a nipple on his smooth chest. Harry made a gentle little moan at this then giggled at the tickling sensation. Eric leant in, playing with the possibility of a kiss, unsure what boundaries he was dealing with here, but sensing Harry’s uncertain reciprocation as their mouths teased closer then swerved apart in the fumble of the moment. He grabbed at the front of those slim-fitting sweatpants, feeling the semi that already bulged there, glad at the quick moan of excitement this forwardness provoked in the Spurs twink. He kept his curled fist there, rubbing at the outline, and used his other hand to rub and pinch the other nipple now, getting more shuddering noises out of Winksy and pushing him further into the room. He let go of him, grabbed at and yanked up his own loose top, dragging the retro England shirt off his thicker body, baring his muscles and light chest hair in front of the slimmer guy. The appreciative little intake of breath from Harry was exciting for Eric — it was so good and important to feel so desired once in a while, perhaps more important than returning it. Not that the midfield ace wasn’t a handsome lad, but he was just that little bit too clean-cut or youthful for Dier somehow, something a bit too safe or soft. But right now, such fussiness was irrelevant — all of the week’s hard work and physicality was mounting in him and he could feel his cock stretching at his silky trunks beneath his trackies; and so could Winks, since he was fumbling down for it and grabbing at it in return, both men fondling and stroking at the growing shapes of their manhood. `Dirty lad,’ teased Eric fondly, `I thought you were way more shy…’ `I can be shy,’ Winks said in a slightly forced tone that was almost coquettish, `but not around you, mate…’ He leant in and kissed him on the shoulder, something ceremonious and formal in it that confirmed his inexperience and desire for Eric, who was wondering what the hell his teammate had been up to in recent weeks. He laughed off the provocative comment and wrapped his thick bare arms about Harry’s slim waist, almost lifting him off his feet and back towards the nearest bed, cuddling into him and grinding their hardened crotches. Dier slipped a hand inside of the sweats and undies to feel Winksy’s dick properly, remembering the size and shape of it from before — jerking it furiously in the showers in a half-successful bid to provoke and lure Kane, and again, in the handsome guy’s bachelor pad, joined by fucking Slabhead. Now Winks moaned and writhed, kissing againt Dier’s shoulder muscle and the base of his neck. Eric finally gave him what he wanted; he grabbed the side of his head and pulled their mouths together, rasping their facial hair and massaging their fat soft lips, treating him to what was surely his face man-to-man kiss, mmm…. Hmm… why did it feel so… soulless…? Harry’s hand was reaching into his trackies and fumbling at the diagonal stiffness of his hard-on in his white undies, then peeling the escort mersin waistband down, knuckling at the short fuzz of his pubes. Mmm, it had been a bit too long since Eric was touched down there, since his little Saturday stopover with a certain Villa player in fact, and… mm, it was good to be touched, but also… He kissed again at Winks, more hungrily, trying for more of a reaction or some more intense sensation that would really bring him alive. Maybe it was just how inexperienced this cute lamb of an athlete was. Dier took firmer control to try and wake himself up. He gripped Winks by the hips and span him, grasping him close again but from behind, cuddling into his back and planting his lips against his nape, nuzzling the soft trim of his brown hair, and also thrusting his tented bulge into the soft broad bottom of his pants until the outline of his erection was digging in between those sturdy cheeks. Little surprised and maybe panicked moans came from Harry now, no more attempts at cheeky flirtation or awkward dirty talk. Eric nuzzled and cuddled him and threatened more, rubbing his crotch into him and playing his own 6ft2 strength, totally in control of the slight midfielder and teasing him with the prospect of what might be to come. God, when was the last time he’d actually topped anyone…? Would it be the summer cottage garden of Shaw’s birthday bash, sprawled in the grass with Maguire’s other guests, or…? No, not that long ago, surely! That’d be mad for him. And yet… `Eric, I’ve never,’ came the near-whimper of Winksy’s voice, as he pushed and wriggled at the waist of his sweatpants and boxer shorts, exposing half of his soft pale cheeks and stroking a thumb into the crack between them. The tremble of his inexperience was exciting in itself, bringing back old memories of when such things had been newer and more taboo to the now confident top that he’d become. He kissed the back of his ear. `I’ll go gentle,’ he said, but his voice came out as a mean and determined grunt, contradicting the words. He squeezed and pulled at those cheeks, pushing the pants waistbands down further, and loosening his own hard-on from his pants, taking it in hand, impressed and pleased by his own girth and length and thinking how good it might feel to deflower this shivering stud in his arms, whose voice sounded terrified but whose body was instinctively grinding backwards and responding excitedly to the faint physical promise of greater intimacy. This could happen, Eric thought, he’s really fucking up for it. Well, who saw that coming? Winks had looked like he’d been hit by a train when the three of them had messed about that night, when he’d been gently inducted by two strong muscular alpha males, and yet now… he was pushing his bottom backwards even as he whimpered and murmured again, `I’ve never tried it, I dunno if…’ and then, as his cheeks were slapped and parted a little, just moaning `Eric, oh Eric, ohhhh…’ Dier leaned his craggy forehead in against the soft hair on the crown of Winksy’s head, licking his lower lip slowly, staring down at the jutting strength of his hard prick, beginning to purse his lips to spit down on it as some perfunctory lube to get things going, but… he took sharp awkward breaths, rubbing his other hand around Harry’s smooth shoulders and down his slim arm, and… he looked at those doughy cheeks and the dark crevice exposed when they parted, thought about its virginal tightness and all it, promised, but no… His cock, beastly as it was, was wilting and softening in his hand. His chest felt tight and his tummy felt kinda knotted. He huffed out his breath in a frustrated and beastly growl that made Winks just shiver and whine excitedly, `Be gentle with me?’ Gentle! Dier pulled away, closing his eyes, grunting irritably at it all: at his own body and manhood, at the situation, at the sudden inner conflict of it. He heard the little gasps of confusion and then the creak of the bed as Harry leant on it then shifted away from him, turning to stare expectantly. He just stood there with his dick and balls flopped over the top of his waistband, sensing a hunger and a worry in Winks’ look. `I can’t,’ he blurted. `I can’t do it. Sorry. I’m not — I’m not in the mood, it’s just…’ He was uttering the loathed cliché before he could avoid the rom-com plot he was stuck in: `It’s not you, mate, it’s me, just-` The other Spurs player was instantly red-faced with embarrassment, or was already red-faced with heated excitement; he was shuffling off the bed, dragging up his boxers and his sweatpants, muttering inaudibly to himself. Dier huffed another sigh and reached for his arm guiltily, but was brushed away dismissively as Harry slipped by him and grabbed his tshirt up off the floor to struggle into. `Mate,’ Eric breathed impatiently, `stop a sec, let me just get my bearings, it’s been a while and I think I’m just…’ `It’s okay, pal,’ he was told sourly. Harry moved away from him, adjusting his tshirt and then fussing at the brown combover of his neatly parted hair. `It’s okay — I can take a hint, huh!’ Before the pleading `No, buddy…’ could leave Dier’s lips, the Hemel-born footballer was dashing away, twisting the door open and disappearing into the corridors of the hotel. Eric swore under his breath, pausing where he was, then sank backwards, dropping his weight body onto the side of the bed with his privates still splayed at his middle. He growled and buried his face in both clammy palms, his body hot and irritated and his mind battering against the same blocky thoughts: why had he freaked out and lost his mojo there? Why had he felt so queasy about the prospect of some long overdue real action? Fucking hell…! He knew the sickly feeling in his tummy only too well, though. He’d felt it on a flight home to London from Russia that glorious summer, staring dreamily up the aisle at his England captain and thinking about the trace of his seed still crusted on his soft brown leg hair right now as they travelled home from the World Cup. Kane had twisted in his seat and looked over the aisle back at him, their eyes meeting and their grins radiating the newfound pleasure they were bringing home from the tournament. On that flight, Dier had felt dizzy and nauseated by the strength of feeling and he was struck by the same sensation now, sitting miserably on the hotel bed after the impotent failure of playing with his roomie. Harry Winks paced the corridor twice and then moved onto the landing, staring gloomily down into the hall below, then out of the windows at the obscure dark view. His cheeks and brow still burned red with the sharp embarrassment of a shy guy who had put himself out on a limb and felt it snap. The horrible sense of not being quite exciting or manly enough for his close Tottenham friend made him feel small and stupid and was rapidly converting into a kind of anger against Eric — one minute so tactile and forceful, so excitingly and terrifying powerful against him, and the next so damp and uninterested, so cool and awkward. The little foray between them was a microcosm of their friendship this year! They’d been good professional pals, and then that friendship had burned up into little bursts of something else, and then Dier had been coolly distant and ignorant with him, never quite acknowledging what went on and keeping his safe, platonic distance…! Winks found the serious-faced defender aloof and mysterious and he felt he understood him less than ever after tonight. He looked at his own faint reflection in the double-glazing, annoyed to think that he would now be embarrassed to go back to the suite and face the vague, shapeless defeat of the incident hang between them — not just here, but surely there in their relationship once back in Tottenham, playing together in that club squad… Ugh. Why had he even approached him and let anything start to simmer between them…? He should have known it would end badly. Just then, the dull weight in one side of his black sweats thrummed against the twitching muscle of his thigh and disturbed his little moment of self-pity. He tugged it out from beside his leg, opening up his phone and thinking angrily in anticipation that if Dier was texting him an apology instead of coming after him to talk man-to-man, then he was a total- Nah, not Eric… He goggled at the name of his big teammate on the screen and the simple message: `Come help me with this’. Winks had barely opened and registered the attach dick pic before he was replying: `Room number???’ It took a good ten minutes of sulky back and forth before Eric (his ample cock and balls now back inside his clingy trunks) decided that he needed to be less of a twat and find poor Harry and explain himself, as best as he could. He washed his face in cold water, resisted the sexually frustrated urge to punch a wall, and tugged a light hoody over his 90s England shirt before quitting the room and jangling down the corridor in search of him. There was no sign of Winks on this corridor or out on the landing, or in fact on the reception room at the other side of their floor where they had met up while he sulked on the couch; nor was there any sign of the other athlete downstairs around reception or in the bar when he peaked through the gaps in the glass frosting to see if he’d joined the cards table. He tried ringing him as he padded quietly through the hotel, conscious that the evening curfew was approaching and that soon neither of them should be wandering around the Surrey hotel at all, or face some harsh sanction from Southgate like missing out on the Iceland game altogether. With that in mind, Dier did eventually give up his futile search and start winding back up the stairs and towards Room 114, where he was beginning to suppose he would just find Winks anyway, because really where else could he actually be? The defensive midfielder mounted the broad staircase and crossed the landing, passing through open doors into the long main corridor that ran the length of the floor, past the first few rooms and staring sullenly ahead towards the far end where he and Winks occupied the last suite in the row. Past 101 and 102, strolling by the door to 103 and 104, pausing just by 105 at the muffled sound of voices, then reaching a firm stop outside the door of 106 where he heard Harry Winks’ voice more clearly, the loud assertive swearing of a man in a rather bad mood — and he, he thought, was the obvious trigger of that mood! He heard him swear again and didn’t pause to question what other moods and sensations might provoke a grown man to exclaim `Fuck him!’ quite so passionately or excitedly. First, he rapped his knuckles against the dark panelled wood of the door, but admittedly he didn’t wait for long for an answer; he was gripped by a kind of impatience comprised of righteous indignation and desperate apology. He grasped the golden metal of the door handled and tested it, and finding 106 unlocked, he shouldered his way in. When Harry Kane looked up and saw his ex half-enter the room, his mouth was already wide open in the groan of reception, but now his eyes boggled too and he raised his brows steeply in response to the sudden appearance of Eric Dier at the scene of his delicious degradation. Just as the thick tool was being pressed inch after inch into his rear, his gawping open mouth was now filled too as a second cock was pushed roughly against his spread lips and forced in against the flicker of his pointed tongue. His eyes remained glued on Eric as he stretched his mouth open and tilted his head to welcome this invasion, two cocks entering him at opposite ends as he rested there on the big bed in doggy style, stripped naked but for the Nike socks bunched about each ankle. He could see the shock on Dier’s face, his blue eyes wide beneath his brows, his lips pursed tightly and his stance almost ready for a fight, lurching there in front of the door and holding it shut protectively behind him while he watched. It was horrible to see him here, to know he was seeing him in this position, and yet it was also totally arousing, because now the prospect of another guy joining in floated on the edge of Harry’s hazy reality, and… Ohhh… the dick behind him pushed in more firmly, edging inside him and opening up his practised ring. He wanted to yelp out but his mouth was rather full already and he could only open wider to take more of that rod too, spit-roasted now by the two men who he had almost least expected to ever experience in this way. The guy in front grabbed his head controllingly and he leaned forward responsively, tightening his lips around that chubby veiny shaft; the hands on hips also tightened their grip and the man at his rear pressed almost aggressively forward, piling inside his aching arse. Through hooded eyes, he watched Eric hover and struggle on the spot, his mouth opening and closing, his strong chest heaving in his footy shirt, his arms lift and flail and droop. And next to him, his pants around his knees, Harry Winks stood, being teasingly masturbated by the dominant figure of a bigger Harry, Maguire turning to leer welcomingly at the sixth man in the room. `Alright Eric,’ grunted the United captain, the current centre of all Kane’s fantasies. `Good to see ya. Get yer kit off mate, there’s room for one more…’ Dier stared from Maguire to the scene in front of him, his voice lost somewhere in his throat. He tightened his hand on the door behind him, tearing his eyes away from the almost sinister towering form of his friend and the awkward huddle of Winks beside him, back to the bed where Kane was spit-roasted between two muscular bodies of different shades of brown. There it was again. The little sicky feeling in his tummy. The chaotic butterflies. He watched as Kane buckled and steadied himself, propped up on long outstretched limbs, his tall pale golden body statuesque between the hunched physiques of the other men. Tyrone Mings kneeling behind him, pushing his crotch almost experimentally against the arse that Dier had fucked so many times, his short mop of dreads jiggling about his crown as his giant ripped body bucked and thrust; Kyle Walker reaching over to high-five him where he crouched, feeding his own piece into his former teammate’s drooling gob. The two handsome men of colour overpowering and enjoying the languid body of their England captain. `Fuck him,’ moaned Winksy again where he stood, fumbling in return at Maguire’s dong, the two men feeling each other up where they stood, just to Dier’s left. `Fuck him hard,’ said Winks now in a breathy whisper, his eyes just fixed on the action on the bed. Maguire was still looking this way, a crooked smirk to his big features, the sense of invitation in his loose posture and slowly beckoning hand. Dier met his eyes, seeing a sort of generalised shrug in his manner. It was a gesture of complacency and assuredness, someone clearly very at home in the intense atmosphere he’d created. He tilted his head as if in vague insincere apology, then repeated his comment. `Come on Dier,’ he growled, `get that shirt off and…’ He didn’t wait around to hear the rest of that sentence. He stumbled backwards, wrenched at the doorhandle, and freed himself from the sordid pick-and-mix of England’s hunkiest players, spilling out into the cool air of the corridor and slamming the door shut behind him. He leant against the frame, breathing heavily, and stared halfway down it as he heard the turn of a convenient lock within, barring him from the five-man orgy he’d rejected. Ty Mings pushed and pushed, enjoying the feel of a bigger stronger bottom than that of McGinn. It was nice to fuck a bigger block nearer his own physique, to dominate a guy he admired and respected as much as Kane. He couldn’t quit believe it was happening but he carried on with it all the same, almost afraid to blink in case he reopened his eyes and was just lying on his back in this bed, bored and frustrated as he had been many nights during the training camp. He squeezed his dick deeper into the arsehole of England’s goalscorer, gripping him by the sides and looking across his sweat-sheened back muscles to where Walker was now pulling away and releasing his cock with a flicker of spittle flying between it and Kane’s beard. The City defender laughed gruffly as he reeled away against the bed, slapping and stroking one of Kane’s shoulders as he did, then grabbing his own thick tool in both hands and jerking playfully on it until Kane stooped over and bent down further to lick at it once more. But the other two were mounting the bed now as well, and now Mings was eye-to-eye with the only player that matched his 6ft4 height. Now it was big Slabhead himself who was the other end of the spit-roast; his big pale musculature rising up on the other side of their shared slut, holding Kane’s fluffy golden-brown hair in both hands and cradling his face into his crotch. The two tall powerful defenders locked gaze as they both thrust and ground their equipment inside the writhing gasping body of their captain. Mings almost came right then, so turned on by the filthy sharing, by the twisted power dynamic of slamming it to his team captain (he could never imagine fucking Captain Jack, who he’d gladly played around with before but never dared to imagine topping in the way he did McGinn!); but even more turned on by the brooding presence of Maguire, casually forcing his MASSIVE erection into Kane’s gob and manhandling his head to the side. Beside them, Walker was sprawled out on mersin escort bayan his back and Winks was going down on him, nestling between his open thighs, running hands over those tattooed pale brown muscles, while applying his lips and tongue to the cock already slick with Kane’s drool. That sight just made him throb and tingle more and Mings felt himself almost crest the wave of his enjoyment — to preserve that golden moment he had to pull back and retract his long prick with a fleshy pop, resisting the urge to jerk himself off and spill his load on the long muscular glutes of his captain’s backside. Walker got his turn to fuck his former Tottenham ally next, taking a different position to the doggy-style thrusting of the massive Aston Villa defender. Kyle spooned with Harry, gripping him side-on, shorter but more thickly built, pressing his slick wet nob between the cheeks and finding the twitching neediness of his hole that had been opened up first by Maguire’s fingers and then Mings’ well-proportioned cock. Getting inside him was almost amusingly easy to Walker, who had mostly only fucked inexperienced John Stones; it was almost like being with his missus, Kane’s hole was so relaxed and receptive now as he thrust his girthy member inside him and wrapped his thick-muscled tattooed arms about his torso on their sweaty flanks. Still, even in this side-on position, the others were tending to their shared sub too. Mings was on his knees to the right, slapping a huge hand aggressively at his thighs and calves while slowly teasing his own nob and then letting Winks take over wanking it, while the youngest member of their filthy fivesome just groaned and sighed and loomed over the bottom, jerking off and letting frothy little spits of pre-cum splashed down on him as he did. Next to him though, Maguire was contorting into an awkward diagonal position so that he could feed his mammoth prick to the eager mouth of the slut, so that he was being double-fucked yet again, pounded side-on by Kyle Walker and face-fucked by the Man Utd beast. It was horny to see but it was just a side-show to the brilliant feeling of plunging his big Sheffield dick inside this southern nancy. He humped wildly at him, making the bed creak and whine beneath their big strong bodies, the bed crushed beneath the twisting bodies of five men of their size and physicality. Kyle was surprised to find himself climaxing so quickly, but then this was easily the most insanely hot and taboo gathering he’d ever been part of; perhaps it was no surprise that within minutes and shoving himself between those big cheeks, he was unloading his week-load of spunk into his hole, creaming inside him and whining aggressively into the back of his neck, pushing his head further into the hairy paradise between big Harry’s thighs. The spunk inside his older teammate just lubed Winks’ cock as he pushed it inside of Kane, on his feet now with his striker friend bent forward over the bed so that he could give him a standing fuck from behind, holding the side of his glutes and jacking back and forward in a frantic rush, a Duracell bunny of sexual energy that had been building up all through the international break. As he fucked, he was being manhandled by a drowsy, groaning Kyle, fondling his neck and shoulders and rasping dirty talk into his ear. `Fuck him harder, make your big mate squeal, fuck that bitch striker, make him SCREAM Winksy lad, yesss….’ Mings was on the other side of Kane, lounging over the bed, huge long legs wide open so that the striker’s face could be buried between them, tonguing his balls and the base of his quivering dick, which had just exploded with cum too, dribbling spunk over that long handsome face and his furry beard. The sight of that, and the slick feel of Walker’s seed, well it was too much for Winks, shoving himself inside his senior colleague and letting go of the frustrations that Dier had stoked then neglected earlier tonight. When Maguire himself pushed his cock inside the other Harry, his supposed superior but not any more, he was satisfied by how easily he could force his footlong member into him, his entrance prepared by the fucking of three lesser blokes. Kane was face-down beneath him, spread out on the bed and pinned beneath the United player’s bodyweight as he pressed between his damp cheeks and entered him with inch after inch of his thick Yorkshire sausage. He pressed his palms down over his biceps and rested his meaty thighs either side of his legs, sliding the last few inches into him and enjoying the wild moan that the Spurs striker emitted into the muffled creases of the bedding below. Maguire loved the way the others lounged around them and watched, all dizzy and sweaty and panting from their own climaxes, but still luridly fascinated as he topped and dominated their shared treat of the England hero, slamming stroke after stroke into his beautiful sensual arsehole. The exhibitionist in him, so removed from the shy and quite inarticulate bloke he knew himself to be in most social scenarios, loved his own place in their unspoken hierarchy — the last to fuck but the most well-hung and the one that Kane had undoubtedly craved. He loved that an `accidental’ dick pic had been all it really took to confirm his suspicions about Mings and Walker, who had enjoyed joking about cocksucker Kane that little bit TOO much. How easy it had been to lure them here and bring them all together in this heady little orgy…! They were both such big burly fellas, real manly men from rival teams, but now they were supine and weak, just staring on as he railed their group bitch and made Kane really squeal and whimper. He made plenty of noise himself, growling and yelping as he mounted towards his orgasm, propping himself on elbows and piledriving his hips up and down so that the huge length of his prick ran in and out of Harry’s quivering cheeks until — OH YES — he too was filling him up, spunking messily inside him but also, cock slipping and missing its target, spurting his ooze over the cheeks and his upper thighs too, making a creamy mess of his arse and gasping into the back of his hair, squashing down on him in his prolonged moments of satisfaction. Kane trembled with satisfaction, his arse almost numb now from the increasingly powerful movements of the other men, but his own hard-on pinned down beneath his abs and waiting desperately for attention. As soon as he could, Maguire’s body shifting away, he rolled onto his back, his whole form feeling slippery with sweat — and in places, he supposed, with cum. He gasped for air, having been almost choked by the way his face was pressed into the duvet and pillows while he was pinned and fucked by the dominant Harry; and he stared lustily at the bodies of the other men draped either side of him, wanting to kiss and lick at the shiny sweatiness of their muscles: of Kyle’s big pronounced pecs and tight bullet nipples; of Tyrone’s long tight-packed washboard and the little inked patterns that traced it down the middle; of young Harry’s fluffy thighs and doughy bottom where he sprawled, gasping and groaning in exhaustion. He reached for his cock to play with it, supposing that now all the men were spent, he would need to just finish himself off, but not particularly disappointed by that notion. The smell in the air, the heaving presence of their bodies, the knowledge that their seed was drying in different parts of him, all of it was magic to him as he toyed with his sensitive hard-on and stroked his sticky tummy. Lying weakly on his back, he was staring up at the plaster of the ceiling and the intricate cornicing at the edge, but then his view was shadowed and blocked and he realised that Harry Maguire was coming back onto him, on top of him, but wait… no… He was on his knees over his chest, straddling over him, that long snake dangling close that he could mouth at its soft sticky tip, tasting cum on it, mmm… but Harry was moving forward, shuffling on his knees, pinning his shoulders beneath his pins, filling Kane’s vision with his presence, and then… oh, wait, what was he… oh! All Kane could do as the United captain squatted over his face was breath in and shudder, feeling the teabag of those unloaded balls rest over his eyes and brows and the long fleshy monster curl over his fringe, his mouth meeting the clammy inside of those strong buttocks. `Eat my arse, you slut,’ he heard the Yorkshireman growl commandingly, and he had no choice but to comply, craning his face up and darting an experimental tongue against the dark wiry hairy and the warm tender flesh of gooch and crack and hole. He wanked as he did it, jerking furiously on his nob and letting his arms and legs brush damply against the wriggling shifting bodies of Walker, Mings and Winks, but mainly just fixed on the faceful of Maguire’s undercarriage. He breathed and licked it, the musty manliness of him, just squatting down on his face and pinning him as he wanked and licked and shivered. When he came, the moments of climax made him bolder, and he really pushed his curious tongue against the rosebud of Maguire’s hole, wondering if this alpha male ever parted his cheeks and allowed himself to be used like he just had, over and over — surely not! Who could ever top this monster of a man?! His moans of pleasure were swallowed in the meaty cheeks over his face as he jazzed over his hand and wrist and abdomen, unloading his balls and finding completion in the sweaty bed, pinned down by the bodies of his solid teammates, covered in cum and sweat. Dier had found himself a spot on one of the ornate wooden benches outside of the hotel bar, resting there alone for a while under the cool blustery drizzle of the night, half-listening to the muffled voices of the men indoors as they finished their poker games and divided the winnings. He’d gone back to his room first, then tried to enjoy a soft drink at the bar and watch the card players, then sought the refreshing chill of outdoors and solitude. He was thinking dimly about what he’d witnessed upstairs, the deviousness of seemingly straightforward men like Kyle and Ty; and more glaringly, the sudden realisation that his three Harrys were interconnected. That not only had Winks found his curiosity and confidence in surprisingly familiar quarters, but his so-called friend was enjoying his heart-breaking ex. He wasn’t sure if he was more angry or amused, but it all felt incredibly fucked-up and complicated right now. The thought of sharing breakfast with the lot of them, awkwardly meeting their eyes over the buffet table, and then prepping to play a final international fixture with them at Wembley Stadium… jesus. Whole new levels of awkward! So he just sulked out here on his own, hoody pulled shut about his broad torso and hood over his head, bracing himself against increasingly icy raindrops blowing into his face. He thought in a detached mechanical way about the training drills of today and yesterday, all of the strategy discussions for the Iceland match and their planned `last hurrah’ of a very strange 2020 on the international stage. It was better thinking about that, and getting a little worked-up about the game, than thinking about what he’d walked in on, or what he’d almost done with Winks, or that Insta-slut and his Scouse pal’s sudden social media presence. Inside, lights were dimming as the bar closed and the card players were broken up by curfew. Eric listened to the fading cheer of their voices and supposed that he should head indoors and make his way to his room too. It was hard to know if Winks would be there, or just passed out in a spare bed in Room 106, body interlocked with one of those big fellas he was playing with. Dier dwelt in bewildered awe on the sight of Kyle Walker and Ty Mings going at it either end of the England captain. Just behind him to the left, he heard the rattle of a door slipping open, and felt a presence emerge to join him in the pool of lamplight on the edge of the rains. He glanced left and was a bit embarrassed to find it was Jack Grealish, wrapped up in a heavy puffer coat and beanie hat, dropping down onto the damp bench beside him and knocking elbows warmly. Dier was reminded of his sulky behaviour this afternoon at the end of training; already that incident felt a long time ago after the other events of his evening…! `Alright buddy,’ the Brummie 25-year-old murmured, his voice almost drowned out by the wind and drizzle. `All good,’ Dier told him drily, unsure he had the energy to really engage with the charismatic Villa talisman. `Win much?’ Grealish ignored this question. `Can I say sorry for earlier?’ he said, boyishly nervous in his thick accent as he leant over, hands in pockets. `Mate, we meant no disrespect y’know, we were just being dicks and laughing, erm…’ Eric gave him a puzzled little look, a bit surprised that the Villa party boy had even dwelt on that little conflict as much as he had. He shrugged and shook himself and tried to appear unconcerned, still mortified by his protective behaviour. `Forget it,’ he mumbled, `I was just tense, so…’ `Ross is a great pal of mine,’ Jack insisted. `Of all ours. We love him. Great lad.’ `Yeah,’ Eric said stiffly, his mouth feeling dry and unable to elaborate on his agreement. `I just mean… er… well, we meant nothing bad about him, laughing about his big arse or whatever! It was just banter. We were saying before how much we miss him, wish he was down here with us, y’know. He deserves it, big time. He’s a sweet guy. Love having him with me at Villa, y’know.’ `Mmm.’ `But I’m sure he’s having plenty of fun up there,’ Grealish suddenly added with a hollow little chuckle. `Oh?’ That — fucking — SLUT — `Yeah, think so,’ murmured the other footballer speculatively, `I reckon he’s got some new girl on the go, to be honest. Reckon he’s kinda smitten, y’know? You know how you can just tell, and-` `Yeah, yeah,’ Eric said gruffly, cutting across the other young Premiership hunk’s sleepy thoughtful voice, bracing himself to get up and walk back indoors, not liking the turn of this conversation. `Well, you just can tell, can’t you?’ Grealish mumbled on regardless. `Like, he’s always taking pictures of his food to send to SOMEONE, y’know? Proper lame, hehe! And of his kit and boots, like he’s showing off for someone, it seems — and all these fuckin’ gym selfies. And…’ here, Jack’s voice became pitchy and excited with the heat of gossip, `he told me about going away to see some fuck-buddy for a dirty weekend between games the other week, actually. Definitely not quite kosher with the quarantine rules, haha, but he was so chuffed about it, proper beaming when he tells me after our next match. Said he’d had such a quality time with her, whoever she is, the lucky slag! Haha. Yeah, honest, shoulda seen the look on his face… he’s definitely getting it somewhere and good for him. I wouldn’t worry about our Ross the Boss, y’know. He’s good.’ Eric blinked rainwater out of his eyes and turned to stare for a moment at Jack’s profile, his handsome vacant face smiling vaguely into the night and then standing first, inviting him to follow. `Right,’ he said quietly, shuffling in after him, away from the blustery weather and into the dimmed out space of the hotel bar, tables still all shifted about from the makeshift casino of the other players’ night in. Dier trailed after Grealish, deep in thought. Halfway across the room, he paused. `I better just grab a drink of something before I head up,’ he called, letting the Brummie lad wander ahead and leave him, giving him a dismissive wave. `Let me see if they’ll still serve me. Catch you at breakfast, G. And — don’t worry about earlier. Forget it. I was being a cock. Night, mate.’ The handsome 25-year-old gave him a little wave and then wandered on into the reception area, disappearing onto the stairs where his partner-in-crime seemed to wait for him halfway up, discreetly impatient and chewing his lip, waiting for god-knows-what when he got Grealish back to their room. Dier watched them disappear up the stairs and stayed on his own in the dark empty bar area, devoid of staff or guests, just lofty and isolating. He took his phone out, embarrassed when the screen unlocked back on a pathetic voyeuristic view of some women he didn’t know and her social media posts. He dismissed that app and just went to his contacts list instead, finding and dialling the number that he was starting to know off by heart, digit for digit. Maybe it was a bit late, although how busy could he be on a Tuesday night in the international break? Certainly no game for him tomorrow. He held the phone to his ear as it dialled, listening to the bleeping tone and wondering if it was silly to disturb him tonight. But he couldn’t stop turning Jack’s oblivious words over in his head, a new perspective on the casual distance of the Scouse midfielder up in the Midlands. `Hey lad,’ drawled Barkley’s voice down the line. `Hey,’ Dier said quietly and softly down the line. `Hope I didn’t wake you…’ `Nah… nah… It’s nice to hear from ya.’ A long pause. `How you feelin’ about tomorrow…?’ Eric couldn’t help but smiling into the gloom of the empty bar as he rocked on his heels, pulling the rain-damp hoody about him and speaking breathily into his phone, unburdening himself over the connection to his friend in Birmingham, just glad to hear his voice and have him murmur responsively and supportively back at him as he spoke, while those butterflies fluttered and squalled in his tummy. *DIDN’T QUITE MEAN THAT TO TURN INTO SUCH AN EPIC, OOPS… AND IN THE TIME IT TOOK ME TO WRITE, ENGLAND WENT AND HAD A MUCH MORE EXCITING MATCH LOL. LUCKILY WE ALL KNOW EXACTLY HOW DEC AND MASE CELEBRATED THEIR GOALS THIS WEEK, PLUS LIL PHIL FODEN… ?? *

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