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Looking back, it’s this that Bradley remembers from the game: Eoin’s legs a pale blur across the green pitch, feet whipping off the ground so the soles of his shoes appear with each step; a bloke from the other team running into him and Eoin going down, laughing, hair coming loose and falling across his sweaty cheeks; Team Merlin making a goal and Eoin jumping up, fist in the air, cavorting with an easy grace, body light, as if gravity is a foreign concept.
Bradley’s entranced. Sure, they’ve played together before but this time it’s different. Eoin’s like a machine, movements efficient and purposeful, perfect for whatever’s needed in that moment. It’s eye-opening. Nothing gets Bradley’s attention like brilliant footie play.
Team Merlin huddles together, heads bent in a circle to decide on their next move. Everyone’s pumped, blood singing, their chests still heaving from running up and down the pitch and Eoin’s arm is around Bradley, familiar. After watching Eoin play all afternoon, Bradley’s whole body is alert to his touch, newly sensitive to the weight of his arm on Bradley’s shoulder. Eoin’s hand dangles casually, just inside Bradley’s vision, fingers relaxed and slightly curled. Round Irish vowels loop and sway in Bradley’s ear, in a way that’s guaranteed to charm despite Bradley’s every intention to resist. When did his life become a never-ending battle to withstand the forces of Irish charm, anyway?
“You good with that, Bradley?” Tom says and gives him a weird look that jars Bradley out of his reverie. He has no idea what Tom’s asking him about - presumably a play of some sort.
“Sure.” He clears his throat. “Sounds good to me.” He keeps his eyes trained on the grass at his feet. When they start playing he’ll catch on. He hopes.
He catches on and more. Eoin continues to play like he was born to it and they win the game, hoisting the trophy exuberantly above their heads like children with a toy at Christmas. They’re both so happy, the whole team is, and it carries them like a wave through the rest of the day, and into the pub to celebrate. Bradley clutches the trophy like a lucky charm until someone pries it out of his hands and replaces it with a pint.
It’s brilliant, celebrating after a match with the rest of the blokes, especially when they played as one like they did today. Nothing can go wrong, it seems; all’s right with the world. A couple of beers in, things are even more fuzzy and warm at the edges and everyone’s his best mate for life.
He’s in this relaxed, blissed out state when Eoin sidles up, talking a mile a minute, glass in one hand, the other gesturing energetically. Eoin’s still hyped up from the game, face flushed and his hair all fly-away and unruly, not the gleaming mane they tame it into for filming. Bradley leans back against the wall, a smile on his face, watching Eoin as he talks. Get a few drinks in Eoin and he tends to start on a monologue, Bradley’s learned - no response required. Bradley lets the Irish accent roll over him and sips his beer, enjoying the tired ache in his legs. He chuckles when appropriate, nods, all the while observing the way Eoin’s hair falls in his face, the glow in his eyes. They’re almost the same shade as his hair, Bradley notices, although it’s a bit dim and hard to tell for sure. He sways away from the wall toward Eoin to see better.
At that, Eoin’s words drift off and his lips slide into a grin. Eyes soft - definitely a deep chestnut brown - he draws closer, leaning a hand on the wall behind Bradley. “Bradley James,” he says in a new tone, low and intimate. Bradley swallows. A lock of Eoin’s hair catches on Bradley’s lip before Eoin brushes it back in a characteristic gesture that seems suddenly provocative. His eyes flick to Bradley’s mouth, and back up to his eyes. “Here I’ve been running off at the mouth and you haven’t said a word. Great game, by the way. You going pro after this, mate?”
Bradley holds very, very still. “Haha, hardly,” he manages to choke out. It’s alright, it’s fine; Bradley refuses to let go of his phenomenal mood. Eoin’s a good mate, they’ve bonded over the endless hours of filming and football, and Bradley has always liked him. After Eoin’s performance today, which, okay, does something inexplicable to Bradley, he’s having trouble thinking of any reason why Eoin’s close proximity might be a problem.
“You were amazing today,” he blurts out. “You were the key.” He nods. “Yeah, couldn’t have done it without you, man.” He moves his arm to clap Eoin on the shoulder or something equally manly, he’s not really sure what. But instead his hand lands closer to Eoin’s neck and moves of its own accord, smoothing over Eoin’s t-shirt and tangling in his hair. Maybe he really is buzzed now; this isn’t something he would normally do, but he can’t seem to help it.
Eoin grins at him, completely at ease with Bradley’s hand on his neck and in his hair. “Thanks, man. It was a blast. I hope we can play again some time.” The suggestive lilt in his tone makes it sound like he’s talking about something other than footie. His hair is still damp at the ends from showering, and Bradley has a flash of Eoin shirtless from the game. He seems to whip off his shirt at the drop of a hat, and who can blame him, really?
Without warning, Eoin reaches out and curls his hand around Bradley’s neck. They’re standing there, almost in an embrace, and Bradley can’t seem to breathe as he watches Eoin’s eyes drop to Bradley’s collarbone, up his neck and back up to Bradley’s eyes. Eoin leans over to place his pint glass carefully on the half wall behind Bradley, and his body brushes against Bradley’s in the process. Heat spreads up Bradley’s neck and he makes a low gargled noise in his throat because this is all a bit overwhelming. He doesn’t remember ever feeling this attracted to a man. There have been moments, sure, when he’s vaguely wondered how it would feel to have someones dick in his mouth, but it’s fleeting and never anything he’s needed to act upon.
But this, well. Eoin’s acting like it’s all fine and good, and now his hand is on Bradley’s waist. Oh god. Bradley tentatively returns the gesture to see how it feels. The muscles feel taut under Eoin’s shirt; it makes him want to grab onto Eoin to see how the rest of him feels under his hands. Eoin leans in closer and his fingers tighten on Bradley’s waist. He smells fantastic. Jesus, how did he get in this situation? The other guys are right over there, they’re getting wasted, yeah, but someone could turn and look at any moment. Clearly Eoin’s used to this sort of thing - never knew he was bi, Christ, why don’t people tell Bradley these things? He’ll have a thing or two to say to Morgan when he next sees him, the lazy non-football playing sod.
Eoin’s hands graze up Bradley’s sides, pulling him closer, all hot and sinuous. Bradley knows exactly what his chest looks like from all those shirtless moments, and he can’t help thinking about that stupid necklace of Eoin’s, how he’d like to press his mouth against it, feel the cool metal lying over all that smooth warm skin, not a hair on him. More than once Bradley was distracted on set by the sight, and that day Eoin’s trousers were practically falling off was the worst. But maybe if he does this, keeps going, he’ll get it out of his system.
That’s it. He can feel something give way inside, something that was holding him back. He slides a hand down Eoin’s back and feels the muscles glide under his fingers - feels good - and Eoin chuckles.
“Football - makes you all hot and bothered sometimes, doesn’t it?” he murmurs. Bradley can’t help grinning because obviously it’s true. He decides just to go for it, although it’s not really a matter of decision, more an irresistible wave of need. He pulls Eoin forward by the hips so their crotches press together and lust jolts up his spine. He wishes they weren’t in a pub. He’d like to strip Eoin of his clothes and throw him down on a bed - see what this is all about for real. Since he can’t do that right now, he settles for kissing, pressing his lips against Eoin’s lewd smile and making him moan in his mouth, teeth sucking his bottom lip and tongues sliding against each other, and Jesus, it’s good.
Eoin’s body is all lean muscle under his hands and he knows exactly what’s under that shirt and it’s driving him mad. Eoin’s beard rasps against his face as they kiss and that’s a new one. He brings a hand up to Eoin’s jaw and brushes his fingers along it; he’s surprised that it’s exciting rather than just weird, the jaw strong under his fingertips. Eoin’s nothing like a girl, no, he’s the opposite, and suddenly Bradley’s almost feverish with need. He kisses like a fiend, mouth devouring Eoin’s and grinding his groin into his so Eoin can feel what he’s doing to him. Because now he’s hard, throbbing, and if they don’t get out of here soon, something even more embarrassing is going to happen.
“Fuck, Bradley, so good,” Eoin murmurs hotly into Bradley’s mouth. “Let’s go.” Eoin breaks away and grabs Bradley’s hand, pulling him toward the toilets.
“Aw, no, Eoin, are you sure?” Bradley balks despite his desperation.
Eoin twirls around and brings an arm around Bradley’s shoulders, gathers him in. “Come on, yeah, don’t you wanna?” He nuzzles his face into Bradley’s hair. “Want you so much.” He palms Bradley’s crotch which, damn it, is totally unfair. He almost comes just from that, wilting into Eoin’s arm.
“Okay,” Bradley says, unable to resist.
“Good man,” Eoin says, like he’s congratulating him on a well-made play on the pitch.
Bradley’s starting to think Eoin was the one who executed the well-made play.
“Fuck,” Bradley groans as Eoin takes his cock into his mouth. His head slams back against the wall, the flimsy metal stall vibrating under the impact. His entire cock is stuffed down Eoin’s throat and Eoin’s lips are stretched tight around it, applying the most amazing suction. He hums satisfied little sounds as he works his mouth like a fucking expert.
Christ, why has he never done this before. He could have been getting his dick sucked like this for years. He certainly had the opportunity.
He refuses to think about somebody coming in, somebody they know, somebody they work with. No, not going to think about that at all - ah, shit, like that - Eoin pulls some magical move with his tongue and lips, and Bradley jerks his hips up helplessly. His fingers twist hard in Eoin’s hair and he groans, full out. Holy crap, there better not be anybody in here - had he even checked? He was too busy thrusting his tongue into Eoin’s mouth and wondering if it was too soon to try to get his hand down Eoin’s trousers.
Now his own trousers are crumpled at his feet and Eoin’s swallowed him down all the way to the root - how does he do that, it’s fucking amazing. He’s got Eoin’s shoulders in a death grip and he doesn’t even want to know what kind of sounds are coming out of his mouth. Everything about the day comes together in a wave of euphoria, images flash in his mind, of Eoin’s perfect plays, the game-winning goal, the trophy clutched in their hands, all culminating in this moment with Eoin at his feet, giving him an unbelievable blow job.
He breaks utterly when Eoin sneaks a finger in his crack, works it just a bit into his hole with a wiggling motion. Oh. A little further and Bradley pants, wanting more, the hot wet suction of Eoin’s mouth and that probing finger bringing him right to the brink. Eoin adjusts the angle of his finger, and there, Jesus fucking Christ. Everything goes dark for a second and a bolt of pleasure arcs through him, direct from somewhere deep in his arse. It sends him right over the edge, come pulsing into the condom Eoin had frantically conjured up from his pockets.
Eoin grips his hips through it all. When Bradley’s done, Eoin looks up at him, all wet chin and swollen red lips, sloppy grin, looking pleased with himself. Bradley stares at him in a daze, slumped against the stall and Eoin trails his hands down the front of Bradley’s thighs in a caress. Bradley pulls him up and kisses him, big and bold, no holds barred because there’s too much inside. The tease of salt on his tongue tells where Eoin’s mouth has been and the taste sends a fresh wave of desire through Bradley.
Eoin shoves up against him, frantic, undoing his own trousers, running his hands along Bradley’s sides and around his hips, over his arse. He clings there, cups them with his hands, presses Bradley up against the wall with some force, the cheeky bugger, and ruts. “Bradley James,” he mumbles into Bradley’s hair and neck, lips grazing the skin. “You are so...,” he nips just below Bradley’s ear, “fucking,” scrapes with his teeth the long tendon down the side of Bradley’s neck, “hot.” The word is punctuated by a bite, hard enough to make a mark, hard enough to make Bradley shiver with the thought that a bruise might bloom there, dark and purple like a fingerprint, traces of Eoin where everyone can see. He should be annoyed, but he’s inexplicably pleased.
Demanding, Eoin’s cock rubs against Bradley’s softening one and pokes his stomach, wetness from its tip smearing across his skin. Eoin thrusts his hips in staccato bursts and the rhythm becomes staggered, his face contorting with the surge of pleasure. At once there’s come gushing in the warmth between their bodies and Eoin sucks hard on Bradley’s lower lip, a harsh intake of breath the only sound to mark the moment. He clutches at Bradley’s waist and leans his temple against Bradley’s, breath hot and ragged on his neck. Wisps of his hair drag on Bradley’s cheek.
Eoin laughs softly and sinks into Bradley, all the tension gone from his body. “S’good, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Bradley says, looping an arm around him. “Brilliant.”
“As good as winning the game?”
“Almost.”
“Better than the trophy?”
“Don’t push your luck,” Bradley says, but it’s for show. Truthfully, he’s overwhelmed and a bit shaky. He’s already wondering how the hell he’s going to get through the rest of filming without giving himself away completely. Because this isn’t going to be the last time they do this, if he has anything to say about it.
“About that trophy...” Eoin starts, nosing along Bradley’s jaw in a way that will soon destroy his remaining defenses. “I’ve got the perfect spot in my flat.”
A line has to be drawn somewhere. “No way, Macken. Not if you want any more of this,” he rolls his hips into Eoin’s, just to be clear, before he kisses him, soft and fond.
“Oh, is that an option?” Eoin sounds eager, lips hunting for a deeper kiss.
“Definitely,” Bradley says, wrapping his arms around him. “And if you're good, conjugal visits with the trophy might even be on order.”