Archive of Our Own

There are so many things Trent loves about football.

The clink of the back of the net when the ball strikes it with force. The feeling of a perfectly weighted cross leaving his boot. The roar of the Kop. (Football, for Trent, has always meant Liverpool football.)

The small things, too. The hash browns from the kitchen at Melwood. The stupid memes that Marcel sends him that he always forwards to Curtis. A proper massage that aches in the best way.

Somewhere in the middle—not as high as scoring a goal, but better than a hot shower after training—is how much people touch him.

Trent loves to be touched.

He knows he’s chosen the right profession for it. He loves the shove of Joe’s shoulder in training, the press of Darwin’s forehead against his temple when he scores. Virg’s hand, warm and big on the back of his neck as he steers him down the tunnel.

It’s one of the many, many reasons he and Robbo had hit it off right away. Trent’s not always comfortable around new people, and accepts that it takes time for him to ease up enough to be himself. Two hours into knowing each other, Robbo had wrapped his arms around Trent’s waist, leaned his cheek against his shoulder, and said,

“D’you think Fab’s hairless everywhere?”

Trent had almost pissed himself laughing, and Andy had squeezed him even tighter as he doubled up. They all live on top of each other in a lot of ways, all shove and roughhouse and embrace, but Robbo is uniquely free with his physical affection.

Trent loves him for it.

Dom’s been different from the beginning.

Trent meets him and Alexis on the first day of proper team training after the summer. The two of them are loitering in the lobby, half a dozen guys filtering through to welcome them. Trent’s familiar with Dom’s football, he’s done his research, and he vaguely remembers playing against him in preseason last year.

Dom looks different, though, slotted into Trent’s familiar context. Fuck me, he’s fit, is Trent’s first, unfiltered thought, and then Dom stretches out a hand for Trent to clasp, pulling him in for the half-hug, and his warm, strong grip has Trent experiencing something of a personal crisis at the bottom of the stairs at Melwood.

A flicker of attraction to a teammate isn’t a new experience. Trent’s awareness of every place they’re touching is.

“Alright?” he says, a half beat too late, and Dom squeezes his hand again, trailing a hand down Trent’s arm as he pulls back.

“Yeah,” Dom says, grinning. His eyes travel down Trent’s body, the entire fucking way, and then back up again, blatant. “Really good.”

And Trent feels something else; a strange flicker of kinship.

The thing is, it’s not, objectively, different to how any of the other lads touch him.

It does something to Trent, though, the way Dom will sling an arm around his neck and pull him in, close and tight against his body, talking some shit in his ear. The way he’ll lay out his mat next to him in the gym and bump their shoulders together, trying his best to tip Trent over. The way he’ll stretch his legs out across Trent’s as they lie on the grass, panting from sprints, his thigh straddling Trent’s knee.

Trent kicks out at him half-heartedly when he does that, but Dom just laughs and turns it into a lazy wrestling match.

“Hey hey,” Ibou protests when Trent lands a kick on Dom’s calf. “Don’t damage the goods.”

“What about my foot?” Trent says, sitting up, offended. “Isn’t that the goods?”

“Nah,” Andy says. He reaches down to rub Trent’s head affectionately. “You’re old news, lad.” Trent shoves his hand away and Andy cackles.

Dom’s got a hand around Trent’s ankle, a gentle restraint Trent could break with the slightest effort. He doesn’t move and Dom doesn’t let go.

His thumb brushes idly over the jut of Trent’s ankle, a gentle caress. Trent can barely feel it through his socks but his heart rate still takes an awfully long time to come down.

Trent’s memories of the 25th of June 2020 are piecemeal. He remembers every second watching the City game, the bubbling anxiety slowly melting away into complete, ecstatic joy, but after that they come in snatches.

He remembers kissing Andy, right on the mouth, sometime after two. Andy had laughed until he almost made himself sick and then kissed Trent back, a big smacking one on the lips, then a second, and a third, and then he’d slipped him some tongue, which had made Trent laugh, and the whole stupid process had repeated itself. It’s the feeling of it, more than the experience, that he remembers. He’d never wanted Andy, not like that, but that night he remembers wanting to climb inside his skin, inside all of his teammates’ skin, inhabit their space, be as close as he could possibly be to them.

He remembers trying to explain this to the boss, even later that night, and remembers him nodding along seriously, even though Trent knew his accent was incomprehensible when he was that drunk and Klopp was mostly listening in German by that point. But he must have understood it because he’d folded Trent into a hug, one of his tight, heavy ones that make Trent feel invisible in the best way and Trent had almost started crying for the sixth time that night.

He remembers waking up the next day with his head in Hendo’s lap, Hendo’s hand in his hair, and wishing he could hold on to the feeling—pounding head, itchy eyes and all—forever.

Dom comes up behind him in the dining hall, and Trent knows this because he, unfortunately, recognises Dom’s cologne. He’s anticipating the contact before it happens, but his back still straightens when Dom’s hand lands on the back of his neck and squeezes.

Kostas is in the middle of a story that Trent is no longer following, because Dom slides his hand up, until he’s cupping the base of Trent’s head, his fingers rubbing idly at the short hairs there. It makes Trent’s spine tingle.

“What are you eating?” Dom bends down to inspect Trent’s plate. His hand drops to Trent’s shoulder, his thumb sliding into the hollow at the base of his skull like it was designed specifically for the purpose.

“Breakfast, leave it alone,” he says, preempting Dom’s attempt to take a sausage off his plate with a slap to his hand reaching towards it.

“You should share with me,” Dom insists, and then Trent’s wrist is in his grasp and his other hand sneaks around to take the sausage, so he has Trent fully in his embrace. He takes a bite, bent over, inches from Trent’s face. It’s objectively unattractive, because he’s chewing with his mouth open, but the knowledge does nothing to spare Trent.

“You’re an animal.” The indignation sounds hollow even to himself. Dom just laughs and takes back his arms and Trent misses them immediately.

“Just hungry,” Dom says, licking his fingers. Trent stares for a second and then looks down at his plate.

“So get your own,” he says, mulish. Just then Mo walks past and grabs Dom around the shoulders, dragging him towards the buffet.

“I like yours better,” Dom calls over his shoulder, still grinning.

“You’re very pink.” Andy reaches out and takes the rest of the sausage off Trent’s plate himself, and eats it through a shit eating grin.

“Fuck off, Robbo,” Trent mumbles, even as he can feel the heat radiating off his own cheeks. His whole body feels flushed, warm despite the perfectly temperature controlled room.

“Ah, you love me,” Andy says, knocking their knees together, not an ounce of uncertainty in his voice.

Trent can’t deny that he touches right back.

It’s instinctive to seek Dom out, linger an extra few seconds when he hugs him, succumb to the arm around his neck instead of pulling away.

It bleeds into his fantasies, too, and he doesn’t fight it. Trent has them about teammates, sometimes. He’s always been of the philosophy that what happens on the inside of his brain isn’t anyone’s business if he doesn’t make it theirs.

There are well-worn ones (getting on his knees for Jordan after winning a trophy, sticky with champagne and high on endorphins) and ones he’s never revisited (he still thinks it had been a perfectly natural reaction to meeting Virg for the first time, even if it makes him feel unbearably awkward to think about now), but they’ve all always had a tinge of the absurd, too far removed from the flesh and blood people to ring properly true.

When he thinks about Dom with his hand around his cock, it’s different. He thinks about Dom pinning him to the ground, the way he did in the gym last week except this time he doesn’t stop, he rolls their hips together and lets Trent feel what he actually wants. He thinks about Dom’s arms after a match, tight around his waist in the change room, sliding lower and lower until the image shifts and it’s just Dom’s fingers inside him, his mouth on his neck, biting and playful. He thinks about Dom here, in his house like he is every other week it seems, tugging Trent to the edge of the sofa by his hips and kneeling between his thighs, filling his lush mouth with Trent’s cock.

Every fantasy starts the same way, rooted in some memory of Dom’s hands on him.

When he thinks about Dom, it feels real.

Trent knows the ball is going in the second it leaves his boot. It’s one of those crystalline moments, where everything freezes for a fraction of a second, and Trent feels like he can see it all. The arc of the match, the path to victory, the fucking curvature of the earth if he tried.

When he takes off for the corner flag in celebration, it feels like flying, and then the boys are tumbling into him, the Kop is singing, and these are the moments Trent lives for.

After, when Dom finds him on the pitch, Trent feels a small pang of regret that he hadn’t been on it for that moment of victory. Dom opens his arms, and Trent slides into them.

“Magic boy,” Dom says, like he’s Trent’s captain and ten years his senior.

“Fuck off,” Trent mumbles into Dom’s jacket.

“You are.” Dom cups the back of his neck and squeezes. Trent leans in and turns his head, lets his mouth brush Dom’s neck, quick enough to be incidental as he pulls back.

“Your turn next time,” he says, and it sounds like a promise.

Even if it isn’t, objectively, different to how any of the other lads touch him, none of the others look at him like they’re picturing him naked.

Trent had thought it was just how Dom looked at first. He’s got that undeniable smouldering thing going on, after all. But it's been months now and Trent knows the difference. Dom’s free with his smiles with everyone, but there’s something appraising in his gaze when he looks at Trent. His eyes linger, and there’s something in them when they do that sings in Trent’s blood.

He does it everywhere; in training, when they go out, when he comes over and sits on Trent’s sofa and humiliates him at FIFA. His eyes always find Trent, heavy like a physical touch, and he doesn’t look away when Trent meets them.

“It’s embarrassing,” Dom says, as Trent tosses away his controller, trying to squash his genuine irritation at losing again. “You are very, very bad at this.”

“Too busy playing the real thing,” Trent retorts.

“Me too, and yet still I beat you seven times in a row now.” Dom’s sprawled in the corner of the sofa, legs wide. His shirt rides up enough to give Trent a good eyeful of his abs. He looks beyond pleased with himself.

“You have too much time on your hands, then,” Trent says, and hauls himself off to the kitchen. “Need to get laid or something.”

He flicks the kettle on, and he’s on the tips of his toes, reaching into the back of the cupboard for his favorite mug when Dom’s voice comes from right behind him.

“You are actually annoyed about it?” It startles Trent into spinning around, and Dom’s hands land on his hips to steady him. He’s slow to take them back.

“Not really,” Trent says. It’s not that, really. Beyond his inherent competitiveness he doesn’t really give a fuck. But Dom’s knee had kept knocking into his despite the sofa being big enough for six people, and he’d spent most of the last two games sneaking long looks at Trent like he didn’t even need his full attention on the game to beat him. It had flustered Trent, made him even worse than usual. There’s a tension humming today that he’s not used to, here, and he hasn’t known what to do with it.

Dom’s appraising him again now and Trent leans back against the counter and tries not to squirm under the scrutiny. “I don’t like losing, is all.”

“Mhm,” Dom hums, like he doesn’t believe him. He keeps looking, and Trent watches as Dom’s eyes find and linger on his mouth. “No need for you to worry,” he adds. “I get laid—” he attempts a dreadful imitation of Trent’s accent—“enough.”

Trent has no trouble believing it.

“Not worried,” Trent says. His heart is beating a little harder, but it’s almost a relief to be so blatant, an outlet for whatever’s been building, “Just think it might be a better use of your time than FIFA.”

Dom shrugs like he’s conceding the point. He takes a step towards Trent, and rests his hands either side of Trent’s hips on the counter behind him.

“Is that what you are doing all the time instead of playing?” Dom asks. His eyes track down again, lingering, and Trent knows, somehow, that he’s picturing Trent having sex.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, only half paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth. He sways forward until his arms brush against Dom’s, the sensation of skin on skin an unbearable tease. His heart is pounding now; for all his relentless seeking out of Dom’s touch, for all the freedom with which Dom has given it, he hadn’t ever quite imagined they’d end up here in reality.

Dom leans in closer, his breath on Trent’s lips, and he tilts his head and—

Trent’s phone buzzes on the counter next to him and he startles. Dom doesn’t flinch, but he stops moving and drags his eyes back up to Trent’s, a question in them. Trent takes a deep breath.

“Food’s here,” he says. Dom huffs, and dips in to touch his forehead to Trent’s, just for a moment.

“Okay,” Dom says. His voice sounds a little deeper than normal. He steps back. “Let’s eat.”

Trent spends all night worrying.

He worries that that was his only chance, and that he’d fucked it up. He worries that he’s getting sloppy, that he hadn’t had the foresight to think about what he’d do when faced with what he wanted made real. He worries that Dom will pull back now, that he’s fucked up their dynamic, that it will bleed out into the rest of the team and they’ll never win again.

He walks into training the next day, tired and grumpy, and Dom pulls him into the same hug he has every time he’s seen him for the last three months, and the knot in Trent’s chest dissolves into nothing.

Trent’s worry that Dom would pull back prove especially unfounded. It becomes a spiral, to Trent, swirling inexorably towards something. It becomes—

Dom’s arms around his waist after a game, digging divots into Trent’s sides as Trent wraps his arms around his shoulders and lets Dom lift him off the ground and place a smacking kiss on his cheek when he sets him back down—

Dom pressing their knees together under the table while they eat, an ankle hooked around Trent’s—

Dom falling asleep on his shoulder at the back of the coach, forehead pressed into Trent’s neck, his hand on Trent’s thigh—

Dom Dom Dom, fucking everywhere.

Trent’s used to teammates that don’t speak the same language; it’s another thing he loves about football, how understanding can live in a shared vernacular of hand gestures and swear words and playful shoves. He knows how to read his teammates’ body language; he can recognise what Dom’s body is saying.

Trent just has to say it back.

Dom reaches around him to fill up his drink bottle, knocking Trent’s out of the way and pressing himself all along Trent’s back. It’s not even close to private, so Trent makes a show of trying to shrug him off, but all it amounts to is squirming pleasantly back against Dom’s body.

Dom presses in harder in response.

“You think you’re being subtle?” Trent turns his head to get a glimpse of Dom, but it just brings them almost lip-to-cheek.

“Subtle?” Dom says in that way he does when he’s pretending not to understand something. At this angle, Trent can see the curve of cheek from his smile.

He rests his free hand on Trent’s hip, his thumb slipping into the waistband of Trent’s shorts. Trent tries to hold his body still, but he can’t stop the slight shudder and he knows Dom can feel it.

Fine.

Trent glances behind him; there’s only a few other people around, everyone absorbed in what they’re doing. He arches his hips, pressing back into the solid wall of Dom’s body, into the cradle of his hips. It’s not much pressure, but it's slow and full of intent. It’s a stupid game to be playing here, now, but Trent can’t help himself. He does it again, a tiny rolling movement, and feels the hand on his hip tighten, holding him still.

A beat, and then Dom laughs quietly, and Trent bites down to stop from smiling himself.

“Okay,” Dom says. He lets go of Trent and steps back. “You win.”

He slaps Trent’s arse as he turns and leaves, and the shiver it sends through Trent’s body suggests it is, at best, a draw.

Trent’s least favorite thing about football is when he can’t play.

He takes the news quietly; he knows by now not to protest, to let the medical staff do their job. It’s not a catastrophic injury, but it’s at least a few weeks out, possibly a month. It’s only January, he tells himself. Better now than in a month’s time.

Andy texts him a million sad faces and then tells him to come round his to watch the Fulham game with his kids. Trent loves all the Robertsons, but he’d really rather sulk for a day and it’s hard to do that in the face of Andy’s daughter putting her clips in his hair and criticising his passing. He texts back an apologetic next time?

Dom’s offer is harder to turn down.

come over for the game?
we can be sad together :)

Trent’s usually the one inviting Dom round, or Dom is inviting himself round, because Dom’s place is still a personality-less box and Trent likes having Dom here, in his space.

Something new, then. Trent taps his phone screen, considering, although he can already feel the anticipation simmering in his gut.

i’ll be there at 7:30.

The match is tenser than Trent was expecting; down a goal inside twenty minutes and still behind at the break was not on the agenda. It’s frustrating for so many reasons, not least of which it means that he can’t fucking relax.

Dom had opened his door with a smile, and steered Trent into his TV room with a hand on the small of his back like he was ushering him into a restaurant on a date. His sofa is even bigger than Trent’s, and the only saving grace of what is otherwise a bland, fairly unwelcoming room.

Dom’s sprawled out, his socked feet in Trent’s lap, alternately restless and reassuring as the minutes tick by. And Christ, Trent wishes his attention wasn’t split, when Dom’s this close and this distracting, one hand pushed up under his shirt to rest on his abs, his eyebrows furrowed as he tracks the movement of the game.

Dom leaps to his feet when Curtis's rocket hits the back of the net, and Trent joins him involuntarily when Cody finds the target again minutes later. It’s a different feeling, watching at home versus in the stadium—closer to relief than exhilaration. Dom’s body against his feels the same, though. Trent dips his head down against Dom’s chest for a second as Dom squeezes him, slapping his shoulder in excitement as he does.

Five minutes later, Cody passes the ball in, a beautiful arc in from the right, and Dom, worked up now, is back on his feet with Darwin as he twists and heads the ball in towards the goal. His hands go comically to his head as he groans when Leno punches it away, and Trent laughs.

“Sit down, lad,” he says, snatching the back of Dom’s shirt and tugging. “Can’t see when you’re carrying on.”

There’s more force in it than Trent intended, or Dom’s already off balance, or just willing to take advantage of gravity, because he stumbles and topples back onto him, ending up half sprawled across Trent’s lap.

Trent’s first instinct is to shove him away, friendly-like, but the second Dom moves like he’s going to climb off him, Trent grabs his hips and keeps him there.

Dom goes very still, and then turns, bringing them almost nose-to-nose.

The sound of the TV fades into the background as all of Trent’s focus is sucked into the black hole gravity of Dom’s gaze.

“Turn around,” he says quietly. Dom does, shifting until he’s straddling Trent’s lap, facing him.

“Finally,” Dom says, with a crooked grin. His hands are braced against the back of the sofa, and he’s holding himself upright, no real weight on Trent’s body. Trent slides his hands up Dom’s thighs to his waist, sneaking under the hem of his shirt to mimic the way Dom had been touching himself earlier.

“Fucking tease, you are,” he says, as severely as he can manage. Dom shrugs and spreads his knees wider, sinking his weight into Trent’s lap. He tips forward until his nose makes contact with Trent’s cheek. Trent pushes his hands up further, brushing over Dom’s nipples, hearing the way his breathing changes when he does.

He keeps pushing until Dom raises his arms, and then he’s got a lapful of a shirtless Dom and suddenly Trent’s feeling everything he has for the last six months; every touch, every look, every thought in a rapid onslaught.

It’s not complicated, he tells himself. It doesn’t have to be. Trent turns his head, and their noses bump, and—

A sudden burst of volume from the television startles him and his and Dom’s heads both whip around simultaneously in sudden anxiety. The ball is in Ali’s hands and the camera cuts to Virg yelling, and Trent presses his forehead into Dom’s collarbone and groans.

Dom, understanding, slides off his lap. Trent takes a deep breath.

“After,” he says. “Okay?”

If pressed, Trent could not answer a single question about the last fifteen minutes of the match.

After, Trent expects Dom to climb back into his lap, expects it to be fast and frantic and desperate, like the feeling bubbling up in his chest.

Instead, Dom tugs him by the shoulders, turning Trent to press him back into the sofa. He hovers over him, just out of reach of Trent’s mouth.

“Your knee is okay?” Dom looks serious and Trent huffs.

“Fine,” he says, impatient. “C’mere.”

Dom shakes his head, and tugs at Trent’s shirt until he wrestles his way out of it, and then he’s gazing down at Trent, eyes hungry.

The first touch of Dom’s lips to his neck is whisper-soft, barely enough to feel, and Trent whines. Dom doesn’t seem to care, tracing his way down along to Trent’s collarbone in a maddening tease. He keeps going, across Trent’s chest, pressing a gentle kiss, without a hint of his tongue, to Trent’s nipple.

“C’mon, Dom, please,” Trent gets out, and finally, Dom touches him properly, one broad hand against Trent’s chest, following the path of his mouth every which way. He drops his weight down too, rocking forward as he touches Trent, so Trent’s cock is rubbing up against his chest through two layers of clothing too many.

They’re thirty seconds into this and Trent’s already lightheaded, half with the disbelief that this is happening outside of his head. Dom’s so fucking patient, like there’s nothing else he has to do today, this week, this year, except get his mouth on every square millimeter of Trent’s skin.

Trent’s hands are questing too, unable to settle; Dom’s shoulders, his hair, the curve of his throat, all already familiar to him. Dom’s down to his side now, sliding his tongue along the curve of Trent’s waist with an almost scientific curiosity. Trent squirms against the tickle and feels Dom laugh into his skin.

Dom slides a hand over Trent’s dick through his joggers as he licks at the edge of his boxers, firm and tight, the real pressure he’s been denying Trent. Trent groans at it, pushing his hips into Dom’s hand, and wonders how he’s going to survive.

Once Dom gets his mouth on him, it’s so tempting to close his eyes, to focus entirely on the sensation. Trent bucks his hips and Dom doesn’t stop him, and the wet, half-choked sounds are as hot as anything else. Trent’s eyes flutter open, against his will, and then the sight is too arresting to close them again.

It’s Dom, hair falling across his forehead, and Trent’s cock twitches, leaking precum into Dom’s mouth, an outlet for the heat spreading down his spine. It’s Dom, his fucking teammate, whose touch has been filing away at the edges of Trent’s sanity for months, who he’s going to have to see again after this, more than he sees his own bloody family.

Dom, his pretty mouth stretched wide around Trent’s cock.

“Fuck,” Trent chokes out. He grabs Dom’s head, pushing him back for a moment, holding him still. “Wait, I don’t wanna—”

Dom meets Trent’s eyes and slowly, deliberately, he tongues at Trent’s slit.

Trent’s hands slip to Dom’s shoulders, and he holds on for dear life.

Dom’s got lube now (from where? Trent wonders wildly, and his mind conjures up the image of Dom lying right here, slick hand around himself and fantasizing about Trent), and the squelch as he squeezes some into his palm is loud and jarring.

“Yeah, fuck.” Trent slings his leg across Dom’s shoulder, urging him closer with a heel in his back. “Come on, please.”

Dom’s fumbling now, and his haste only makes Trent more desperate. Dom wipes his other hand on his own joggers, leaving a smear of lube on them, and then he’s pushing Trent’s other leg back, his strong fingers digging divots into Trent’s thigh, and sliding one fucking enormous finger inside him.

Trent feels hungry, voracious, like there’s no limit to how much he could take. He wants more, every piece of Dom inside him, and wants bruises on his thighs as a memory of his touch.

Dom gives him two, then three, and then bends to take him back into his mouth, his tongue and throat working in tandem, and Trent wants to stay like this forever but it’s too much, and he pushes Dom away with his knee as he starts to come.

It’s almost better than coming down Dom’s throat; Dom’s pretty face painted with it, his eyes closed as Trent spills all over his cheeks and lips. He’s absolutely filthy.

“Jesus,” Trent breathes out. He reaches down to touch Dom’s mouth, sliding a finger inside his pink lips. Dom’s eyes blink open and he catches Trent’s gaze. He holds it as he bends down and mouths at the base of Trent’s softening cock and sucks one of his balls into his mouth.

“Dom,” Trent whines, cupping his head and torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. Dom’s tongue slips out, sloppy as he licks back along his balls, down to where his fingers are still buried inside Trent, and Trent’s spine arches up off the sofa.

Dom stands and shoves his own pants off and his cock bounces up, heavy and hard. He crawls up Trent’s body and Trent urges him higher until he’s straddling his shoulders, his cock sliding against Trent’s cheek. It’s fucking pretty, just like Trent knew it would be. He curls a fist around it and guides Dom into his mouth.

Dom seems to know exactly what he can take as he pushes past Trent’s lips and starts to fuck his mouth. Trent’s hands slip down to rest on his hips, and he closes his eyes, and feels.

After, Dom’s full weight on top of Trent feels almost as good as his mouth on his dick. They’re both sticky and sweaty, skin sliding together as Dom settles over him.

“Alright?” he asks, pushing a hand through Dom’s hair.

“Dead,” Dom proclaims. He bites down on Trent’s pec and starts to suck. The shallow pain is sweet enough that Trent lets him keep going for longer than he should.

“Alright.” He pushes Dom’s head away, and Dom looks up at him, his familiar grin in place. The sight of it relieves an anxiety Trent wasn’t aware he was carrying. “Enough of that.”

“You like it,” Dom objects. He leans back in and scrapes his teeth against the mark, just once.

Trent doesn’t bother to deny it.

Dom orders food because Trent says that he’s starving, and they eat in the kitchen, Trent perched on the singular stool and Dom standing facing him over the counter. His place is decently fitted out but for some reason the kitchen contains one piece of furniture. Trent eats his noodles and tries not to wriggle on the stool, the well-used feeling making him want to push back against it just to feel the burn.

“You called me a tease,” Dom says, and Trent’s eyes snap up. Dom’s watching him with dark eyes; it seems he wasn’t able to entirely resist the urge. “Look at you.”

Trent shrugs a shoulder.

“Next time—” he starts, and Dom nods.

“Maybe in my bed?” Dom cocks his head to one side. “Or yours?”

Trent pictures Dom in his bed, as more than just one of his countless fantasies.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Or mine.”

The second the door closes behind him, Trent realises that he still doesn’t know what Dom’s mouth tastes like.

The thought stops him dead in his tracks and he plays the events of the night back over and—no, he’s right. He had Dom’s dick in his mouth but not, at any point, his tongue.

He hovers on the doorstep, seized by a moment of indecision. Then he turns and knocks.

“Just—” Trent starts when Dom opens the door, looking confused, and pushes Dom back inside and lets the door swing shut behind him.

He kisses Dom, quick and hungry, and Dom goes with him, pulling Trent in by his hips until he’s sandwiching Dom between the wall and his body. He opens his mouth for Trent’s tongue and kisses him back, his hands tugging Trent’s jacket tight around him.

Trent loses track of time, only realises he’s half hard again when Dom pushes a leg between his thighs and he groans as he grinds back against it. Dom grins, which makes it difficult to kiss him, and Trent pulls back with one final nip at his mouth.

“Sorry,” he says, breathless. “I just—”

Dom shakes his head. He pulls Trent back in and gives him another dizzying kiss.

“It’s good,” he says simply.

They breathe against each other for a moment.

“Okay,” Trent says. He pulls away. “That’s all. See you later, yeah?”

“Later,” Dom agrees. “Whenever,” he amends.

“Whenever,” Trent agrees, and lets himself out with a smile.

Trent’s favorite thing about football is the hope.