Work Text:
𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝙴𝚃𝙾𝙽𝙸𝙰𝙽𝚂 𝟺 — 3 𝚀𝚄𝙴𝙴𝙽'𝚂 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙺
𝙷𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝙶𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚐𝚘𝚠
Arthur hammers one in right before the whistle goes. From the look of the crowd, just about the whole county’s shown up observe the match, undoubtedly going in for the home team, but it’s too magnificent a goal for them to be sore over. Cheers roll across the pitch, some of them going so far as to break into chants of his name, and Arthur can't keep from throwing his arms into the air as he sprints towards the rest of the lads, beaming.
They all but carry him into the changing room. It's ridiculous, honestly, as it isn't a match that'll earn the Cup, but it'd been close there, and Arthur’s back where he'd been born, and the crowd had wanted it so very much — and Arthur had taken that from them. From the Park men, from their supporters, and he'd done it so undeniably that they'd been forced to praise Arthur for it in the end.
He feels a bit feral over it. Blood racing beneath his skin, the air of the lowlands crisp in his lungs, a shock to his system as he steps out into the darkening evening.
There's a pack of boys waiting outside the park, swarmed around those of Arthur’s teammates who finished dressing first. They're dropped once the lads catch sight of Arthur, practically falling over themselves in their haste to get to him, barking for his autograph. A ways off down the road stands a group of young men, seeming to have too much pride to fall so low as to copy the children vying for Arthur's attention. They glance away once they realize that Arthur's eyeing them, breaking apart and heading towards the town, the rest of the Etonian's following along with them, tired and dirty, eager to settle in at the hotel they've taken up for the night, a place to lay their heads before the catching the first train down in the morning.
All but one. He's got to be a handful of years Arthur's junior if he's a day, spotty little moustache dusted below his nose, and he's sizing Arthur up without an ounce of shame.
Arthur grins at him, outright.
Arthur signs each autograph dutifully until parents finally come to collect the boys, dragging them away. The weather's turned, storm clouds gathering overhead like they've been threatening to do all day. Earlier they'd been concerned that the match might not be seen through 'til the end, though it seemed God himself had wanted play spectator and had kept the storm at bay. He glances down from where he'd turned to look at the sky — only to find the man gone.
Arthur frowns, disappointment souring the victory that's been humming through him. Leftover adrenaline festering into annoyance.
"Hell of a goal, that."
"Were you watching?" Arthur feels his mood turn again, emotions a tempest in and of themselves. Or perhaps this man is, and Arthur's caught whatever which way he leads him. "I hadn't noticed."
It gets him a laugh. "Suter," he says, and then nods down the road. "How's about I buy you a pint?”
Arthur finds that he likes the way Suter has to tip his head back to look up at him. Enjoys the curve of Suter’s smirk beneath his moustache. "Isn't that something like blasphemy?"
"I don't go in for Queen's Park," Suter says, "and you're a good Scottish boy at heart, aren't ya?"
Arthur stands to his full height, stepping closer. "I wouldn't claim the good," he says, "but I'll take the rest. I do feel bad, though. How can I repay you?"
"I'll think of something." Suter accent turns husky, thick, and a shock of something races down Arthur's spine.
"An autograph?"
Suter blinks, frowning. Peevish. Arthur finds himself delighted. "How old do you think I am?"
"Sorry," Arthur says, not bothering in pretending to sound anything like it. "It's just, well. The height."
Suter's reaction is something else. The pale cast of his cheeks goes the most magnificent shade of red, pink lips shifting as Suter licks his teeth behind them. "I see you can be taken anywhere but out."
Arthur laughs, using it as an excuse to touch, his arm stretching out across Suter's shoulders, pulling him close even though Arthur knows that he must smell dreadful, a day of travel beneath the exertion of the match. He should be exhausted, but it’s like his body has looped back to being full of energy. It has him feeling like his senses are on edge, keenly aware of Suter pressed against his side, the crackle of lightning in the air.
Potential.
"I'm the one who should be put out, really." Arthur sniffs. "No one's ever turned down my autograph before."
"First time for everything." Suter's hand comes to rest on the shoulder that Arthur hasn't got him pressed up against, fingers digging, strong enough that Arthur can feel it against his skin even past the layers of his lazily done-up suit. "And I am buying." He uses his grip to shift Arthur so that the pair of them are facing northward, toward the city.
True enough, Arthur supposes.
They make it to the other side of the river, which is honestly farther than Arthur thought they would. Suter dallys them towards the Green and that's very much that. A thicket of trees keeps them from anyone's view, but the worn path that gets them to it lets Arthur know that they're far from the first pair of men to have had the idea.
Suter's moustache catches against the beard Arthur's started to grow out, soft and masculine and exactly what Arthur needs to ground him in the moment. Suter's body is a compact thing, muscles wiry, warm beneath his shirt once Arthur's snaked his fingers into it, firm beneath his hand. He lets out delightful little gasps that turn into frustrated grunts as he works to undo all the buttons of Arthur's waistcoat.
"I can show you how to do it," Arthur offers, amusement dripping from every word, grin splitting out across his face at the affronted expression Suter levels him with, even as rain drips down onto them sporadically from the canopy of trees overhead, the earth slowly turning to mud beneath their feet.
Arthur feels like he did when he was a boy and the other lads agreed to play through the weather, both sides eager to see the end of the match. He thinks of Father, and what he'd say if he knew Arthur was celebrating his win with a working-class local, the pair of them rutting in the bushes like animals.
"How's about I show you something, hm?"
It's about all the warning Arthur gets before Suter's down on his knees, undoing the fly of Arthur's trousers. He brings the hard length of Arthur into the cold of the evening, Arthur's nerves on-end again at the feeling of Suter's hot breath. Suter takes the air from Arthur's own lungs as he brings his lips to Arthur, swallowing him down.
Suter's got a wicked tongue, a sinful mouth, and his hands feel like they're everywhere, touching Arthur's thighs, fingernails dragging against Arthur’s stomach.
He looks up at Arthur with his big, green eyes and Arthur chokes on his own tongue.
His hands come down to cup the side's of Suter's face and he feels a rush of something ugly and possessive course through him at how they swallow Suter up, his thumbs tracing the seam of Suter's lips around him, the rest of his fingers reaching all the way up into the messy shock of Suter’s hair, so that's all that's left for Arthur or anyone else who might be around to see of Suter is the stretched-thin pink of his lips, and those big, big eyes.
Arthur comes like a shot, panting. "Bloody sodding hell."
Suter pulls back, pleased, even as he's dug into the mud at his knees with Arthur's cock hanging in front of his face, still hard, throat bobbing as he swallows down what Arthur's left for him. Like he's got Arthur exactly where he wants him.
Like he's in control.
Arthur's knees are locked, a sudden weariness settling into his bones, muscles tight, the day catching up with him at last. He pulls Suter up by the grip he's still got on his face, kissing him, the taste of himself on Suter's tongue.
"Let me," he mumbles, reaching down toward's Suter's lap, only to find the man's own hands have beaten him to it.
"You're alright," Suter says, and doesn't seem at all embarrassed for it. Arthur feels a wave of lust rush through him again at the shamelessness, at the thought of Suter getting himself off whilst seeing to Arthur's pleasure. Finding his own in it. He feels his entire body throb right alongside the twitch of his cock, each and every inch of him revolting at the thought of playing on, yet still he considers it when faced with the smirk that returns to Suter's lips.
"Actually," Suter adds, "you're quite loud, my Lord."
"Stop that," Arthur barks, surprised to find that his voice has gone quite so rough, dragged up from his throat as it is. It would seem that Suter hadn’t been exaggerating. It's as if Arthur had been the one on his knees, seeing to Suter's pleasure, and isn't that a thought.
Suter's smirk grows into something of a grin, lopsided in a way only perfect things can be. "Because it bothers you?" he asks. "Or because you like it?"
Arthur wishes that he had an answer to that.
𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝙴𝚃𝙾𝙽𝙸𝙰𝙽𝚂 𝟻 - 𝟻 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝚆𝙴𝙽 𝙵.𝙲.
𝙴𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎
“Gentlemen,” Arthur calls. “Welcome.”
He’s excited for a Mill team to have come so far, and is gleeful at the thought of stopping their legendary season in its tracks. One of the men turns to look at him and Arthur very nearly feels his ankle give up out him.
"I'm, uh," his tongue stumbles around his words. "Captain of the Old Etonians," he finishes, rather lamely.
Suter steps right up to him, like they're the only ones in the square, like it hasn’t nearly been five years on now since they last saw one another, and says, "You're Arthur Kinnaird."
It isn't a question. Arthur answers him anyway, humming, unable to meet Suter’s eye as he does, and uses it as an excuse to step closer. "That's right."
"I saw you play at Hampden a few years back against Queen's Park." His smile is giddy, accent not as thick as Arthur remembers it to be. Perhaps Arthur’s mind, in all the years since, made it into something else, and this is how it's always been.
Arthur wonders what else his mind has exaggerated - if perhaps this years-long obsession of his was borne of more than whatever transpired between them that night. Perhaps it was an average encounter, one he’s sought to recreate many a time, to which Arthur’s more romantic spirit ascribed undo significance.
Suter’s laugh is slightly shy as it ghosts past his lips, almost breathless. "You were good."
His cock throbs in his trousers. Arthur shifts where he stands, wanting to move closer, knowing better, though it’s hard to recall just why then. "That's high praise indeed."
"Course, the game's changed since your heyday." And there it is, that venomous spark of Suter’s that has Arthur as annoyed as he is enthralled.
Possible his imagination didn’t cook it all up after all.
"I mean," Suter carries on, "it has in Scotland at least. Must be hard, moving with the times."
Arthur summons the most archaic smile he can manage. "Well, now we've established my best days are in the past, perhaps we should get moving."
Suther's own smile is maddening, the spark in his eye a challenge, as if daring Arthur to take him right there, in front of his teammates. The boys.
In front of the entire college itself, which might be fitting, as Eton taught Arthur not just the game, but what the feelings men like Suter inspired within himself and all.
"I never meant —"
"What's your name?" Arthur asks, cutting him off, knowing that they must stop. It gives him an odd thrill to see that smile drop from Suter's face, the deference that enters his posture.
Does he think that Arthur’s forgotten?
"Fergus Suter."
Fergus. Arthur stands to his full height, memorizing the name, only to realize that he knows it.
Arthur’s always had a mind for footballers, especially those worth a damn.
"The Suter that plays for Hibernian?"
"Partik." It's clear the man is well pleased that Arthur knows of his work on the pitch at least, whatever blow to his pride gone. "Well, I used tom at any rate. Now I play for Darwen."
"It's hardly a, uh," Arthur's mind starts putting things together. He's heard of it, of course, but he never expected a team contending for the cup to risk it. "Hardly a local team for you."
Never expected a man like Suter to play a part in a scheme like this.
One of the other Darwen men steps a bit closer into their orbit, and Arthur looks at him for a brief moment before Suter speaks again. "Jimmy and I wanted a change of scene."
Something dark twists in Arthur's stomach, unbidden. His eyes dart to the man who has his spine done up straight to the side of them, staring Arthur down. "Jimmy?" he asks, displeasure thick in his tone.
"Jimmy Love." The smirk is back, dashed across Suter’s lips as he nods to the man who has been hovering at their side. "He made the trip down too."
"Did he indeed?" Arthur forces a smile on his face even as the anger and curiosity fight within him. He turns to look out across the courtyard, anything to keep from turning his line of questioning more personal matters.
"Uh, everyone," he says, extracting himself, "These boys will show you to your changing rooms."
Professionals, maybe. Two lads who got caught by their team needing to move far enough where the rumours can't follow them, more likely, though Arthur’s likely the only one to suspect as much if it’s true.
Neither will make Marindin jolly pleased, of that Arthur is sure. He certainly knows which of the two he’s hoping holds the truth, and spends the walk to the Old Boy’s rooms making nice with one of the schoolboys sent to great them, mentally drafting up the note he’ll have the lad run to Suter after their match is done.