starpickle @starpickle84 - Tumblr Blog

Oh I just read you do reqs!!! Could you do headcanons of Moss x a rockstar gf? I think it'd be silly/nf

MOSS HEADCANONS

- Whenever Aunt Irma’s paying Jen a visit, Moss puts on your music, assuming it’ll fix all her problems because it always fixes his.

- A few of your posters are displayed on the walls in the IT Department, and day by day they begin to take over as Moss adds more.

- He shows up to all your signings, even though he can get your signature any time.

- Moss has learnt some massaging techniques for when you’re tired after your performances. But ever since Douglas found out, he’s (unwillingly) been giving them to him, too.

- He’s got ‘Y/n Y/l/n’s biggest fan/boyfriend’ written in his bio on Friendface.

- Despite hating crowds, he doesn’t mind standing in one during your concerts: he’s always too focused on you to notice what’s going on around him.

- The only time Moss doesn’t wear a checkered shirt and tie is when he’s wearing one of your band tees.

- Every week, he listens to the charts with you, holding your hand in anticipation. One time you hit number 1, and Moss wouldn’t stop talking about it for weeks.

- Moss brought a radio down to the IT Department to listen to it whilst working. Whenever one of your songs come up, he’ll dance/sing along, which drives Roy and Jen insane because he’s not good at doing either.

#maurice moss x reader #british comedy #british tv #maurice moss #richard ayoade #the it crowd #x reader #headcanon

bloomsday

tom rosenthal as jonny goodman | friday night dinner

“mary” - alex g

starpickle84

My love 🥹🥰

For your Moss x fem!reader requests: in "Jen the Fredo" it's offhandedly mentioned that Moss met a girl on holiday...what do you think is the story behind that? I desperately want to know what you imagine Moss' holiday trips would be like

FOOLS IN BUSHES | Maurice Moss x Reader

Moss meets you in a bush during his holiday at Beige Sands Holiday Park.

(A/n: this one’s a longer one so get comfy)

THAT WAS THE SUMMER of 2010; when everybody called me Moss and it didn't occur to me to mind. Now I think about it, it's probably because my name is Moss, so referring to me as such wouldn't be so out of the ordinary.

Moss’ mum is passed out in the front as his dad steers the family car down the long, rain-coated A-road, listening to the horse racing on the radio. Moss is sat in the back alone, hugging his pillow (he doesn’t trust any pillow that’s not his own—who knows how often they’re cleaned?) to his chest as he watches the rain race down the window.

#maurice moss x reader #british comedy #british tv #maurice moss #richard ayoade #the it crowd #x reader #summer #roy trenneman cameo

TEA AND SEX | Maurice Moss x Reader

You and Moss have a one-night stand, leading to an awkward Monday back in the IT Department.

MOSS SHOVES ANOTHER HANDFUL of popcorn into his mouth, “E3! E3! E3!” he chants, popcorn spilling all over the floor. You’re beside him, elbows perched on the table—not that it makes any difference; Moss is completely invested in his computer, and almost nothing can distract him from it.

“E3! E3! E3!” he continues, as if the chess player on the little screen can hear him. The player has been hesitating for the past 5 minutes, and in those 5 minutes Moss has been chanting, “E3! E3! E3!” over and over and over, and you’ve been joining in;

“E3! E3! E3!”

The player finally moves the bishop—to F4. You simultaneously groan. “What is he doing?!” Moss yells and throws a handful of popcorn at the screen, “You idiot! You mother flipping idiot!” Another couple handfuls of popcorn later… “You absolute plonker! You’re such a plonker!” When he’s done, he quietens: glaring at the screen, taking deep, loud breaths. “I am very angry right now.”

“Maybe you should take a break,” you suggest, stealing a handful of popcorn from his bucket and shoving it into your mouth, chewing on it as you speak, “You’ll get yourself turned into a bishop if you watch any more.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scolds. “I’m not nearly old enough to be a bishop—and have you seen what they have to wear? I’d look like a complete idiot.”

You roll your eyes and reach for another fistful of popcorn, only for your hand to brush against Moss’ as he happened to do the very same. You flinch away. “I—um—have to go to the toilets.” You scurry out, passing Roy on your way out. “The good ones!” your voice adds from down the corridor. The good ones in questions are sleek, clean, and about 20 stories up from the Department.

“Ta!” Moss calls cheerily.

“What was all that about?” Roy asks as he comes in.

“Dunno.” Says Moss. “Have you got it?”

“Of course,” Roy pulls out a hefty box of Earl Grey from beneath his T-shirt, grinning. Neither of them like Earl Grey (they hate it, actually) but the fact that they’re posh teabags Roy’s managed to smuggle from upstairs makes drinking it more exciting than Disney Land.

Roy slams the box down on his desk and takes his seat, eyes flickering momentarily to the space opposite Moss’ desk; your empty one. “Seriously, though, what’s up with her?”

Moss shakes his head exasperatedly, “Beats me; she’s been acting weird lately—ever since we got drunk and accidentally slept together, that is.” He ponders, “But I still can’t figure out why…” He shrugs, “Oh well, I’ll find out sooner or later.”

Roy’s eyebrows practically reach his hairline, “What?”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking!” Moss says. “It’s all going fine till she suddenly feels the need to run away from me like I’m some sort of blood-thirsty vampire—” he cuts himself off “—sorry, Richmond.”

Roy turns around and jumps at the sight of Richmond looming right behind him. “Jesus,” he mutters.

Richmond pulls a face of disapproval at Moss’ comment, “I’m a goth, not a bloody vampire.” He turns and walks back into his dark room, “Bloody cunt,” he says in his quiet, gloomy way before vanishing behind the red door.

Roy turns back to Moss, “You slept with her?”

“Yes,” Moss says.

“Y/n?”

Moss pulls a confused face, “Who else are we talking about?”

Roy sighs, leaning far back in his chair. “I just didn’t think you were her type, that’s all.”

“Don’t be silly,” Moss chides. “I’m a catch—” he cuts himself off to spray his ear with a can of water. “Sorry. Hot ear.”

Roy shakes his head, baffled, as Jen walks in with a pep in her step and a broad smile. “You two will never believe what just happened—”

“Moss slept with Y/n.” Roy says.

Jen stops short in her tracks, “What? I didn’t think he was—”

“Her type?” Roy finishes. “I know. I didn’t either.”

“Look at you,” Jen grins and ruffles Moss’ hair, only to get swatted away (“Get off me,” he protests pathetically). “Having one night stands with your coworkers; I didn’t know you had it in you. I feel like a proud mother.”

Moss fixes his hair and glares at her, “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“What kind of things?”

“Nothing,” Roy interrupts. “There’s nothing we don’t already know about him. He slept with Y/n once; that is the one thing he’s ever done that warrants even the vaguest of interest.”

Moss diverts his glare to him. “You’re just jealous I scored a total babe while you’re stuck at home playing Pac-Man.”

“How did it even happen?” Roy asks.

“I already said, Roy: we got drunk and—”

“How did it happen, Moss?”

Moss sighs, “I don’t know.”

SUNDAY MORNING...

Saturday night had been a blur, but Sunday morning was clear as the day beginning to seep through the curtains. The bed was a twin, and you laid alone in it; the bedsheets were space-blue, mattress was lumpy. There was a vague, lingering smell of TCP in the air, one you were probably too drunk to notice the night before.

When your eyes opened everything was blurry—you knew it wasn’t your room, your bed, your covers, but you were delirious and sleep deprived and couldn’t hold your eyelids open for more than 5 seconds at a time, let alone figure out whose room you were staying in.

A blinding light shone through the bedroom: the door had been opened, presumably by your one-night-stand. The figure stood there, holding something in their hands, a mere silhouette to you. You prayed it wasn’t him; that it was anyone but him…

“Good morning,” Moss said hotly, walking in to reveal two cups of tea and his dinosaur-patterned pajamas. You bit back the urge to scream.

“This isn’t happening.” You buried your face in your hands, and rubbed your eyes—like that would fix anything. “I’m dreaming.”

“Are you?” he looked down at his own body, as if checking to see it was still there. “What am I, then?”

“A figment of my imagination.” You said. “A sleep paralysis demon.”

When you removed your face from your hands, he came over and handed you one of the mugs, “Don’t be silly, dear—”

“Don’t call me dear—”

“—do you think a sleep paralysis demon could make such a good cup of tea?”

You raised your eyebrows, “I don’t know; I haven’t tried your tea.”

“Well,” he sat down next to you on the crammed bed. “Why don’t you, then?”

You weren’t sure how much you liked this; being so close now when you’ve clearly just had a whole night of being close—but as your arm tingled from the touch of his, as his leg pressed up against your duvet-covered one, you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of comfort; couldn’t help but shuffle a little closer.

You blew on the tea to cool it down a little, “You haven’t poisoned it, have you?”

“Pfft, of course not.” He grinned. You took a sip, and he watched with both intent and anticipation, waiting for your reaction: for years he’d been bragging about his amazing tea, begging for you to try it.

And it was safe to say it’s the best tea you’ve ever had.

“It’s good,” you said, putting it simple. “Thank you, Moss.”

He smiled bashfully, “No problem, dear—”

“—don’t call me dear.”

He shook his head amusedly and took a sip of his own tea, humming with satisfaction. “I do make good tea, don’t I?”

Your face eased into a smile, “How did you sleep last night?”

“Oh, incredible,” he said. “I’ve never slept so well in my life.”

“It was good, wasn’t it?” you agreed.

“I was thinking,” he started, turning to you, “maybe we should—” he cut himself off. “Are you cold?”

It was true: you were shivering. The window had been open all of last night, leaving a very cold room to wake up to.

Moss rested his cup on his bedside table, beside his Buzz Lightyear alarm clock, and picked up a blanket, “Here,” he said, wrapping it around your shoulders. He then hesitated awkwardly, like he’d just gotten an obviously-stupid idea and knew he was going to act upon it anyways, even if it was so very clearly stupid.

And he did act upon it: he slipped his arm around you, rubbing his hand up and down your bicep in an attempt to warm you up, turning your tummy into a butterfly house—Moss was never one for physical touch, which made the concept of Moss actually holding you so alien. But it felt so natural, so right; it felt so natural and so right that you rested your head on Moss’ shoulder.

As your eyes finally began to adjust, the room revealed itself to be that of a child’s; there were spaceships everywhere, and everything was either the colour blue or green. His bedsheets had little astronauts on them, making you smile.

Moss’ breaths were minimal, as if he were holding them in. His shoulders were rigid, like he thought even the slightest of movement would scare you away—which was ironic, because usually you would be the one scared of Moss running away from your physical touch.

For a fleeting moment you thought of Moss as something more than just “Moss”—but then you glanced down at the blanket. It was covered in a mix of superheroes, stars and lightening bolts, and—for some reason—that bothered you; then the room started to bother you, and soon enough Moss bothered you. He was like a child, for Christ’s sake—the Buzz Lightyear alarm clock, the superhero Blanket, the duvet covers... You couldn’t spend the rest of your life with a child, if that’s where this was ultimately going, (and with the way he held you, it certainly felt like it) you couldn’t fall for a child—that’s what pedos are for. Seeing Moss as anything more than just “Moss” would be stupid, because at the end of the day, he’s still just “Moss” with a few cups of tea instead of a tie and pajamas instead of a checkered shirt and trousers.

“Moss, I have to go.” You said, taking one last sip of your tea before placing it beside his. You stood up and grabbed your dress from the floor. “Can you turn away?” you asked.

“Okay.” He said, but when you looked back at him he was still staring intently, an unreadable expression in his eyes as they trailed down your figure.

“Moss?”

“Right. Sorry.” He looked away, allowing you to slip on your clothes from last night. When you were fully dressed you picked up your handbag.

“You can look again,” you said, but his eyes remained in the same place. “Moss?”

He looked back at you. “Sorry,” he said again.

“Your mum isn’t up, is she?” you asked. He shook his head. “Okay,” you said, relieved. “Thank you for the tea, Moss.”

He grinned, “Oh, it was no trouble.” He went coy, eyes landing to his pajama top, fiddling with the its hem. “Maybe I could make you tea another time?” he asked, looking back up hopefully.

It was your turn to look down—you looked down at your handbag. “Yeah—um,” you paused. “Mhmm.”

You simmered in the silence for a moment; when you looked back up at him, he was staring at you expectingly—waiting for you to say something: “Bye, Moss.”

And so, you left, prepared to never talk of this again.

PRESENT DAY...

You’re reading the new edition of Cheekbone Magazine when Moss places a cup of tea on your desk. When you look up he’s staring down at you. “I thought you’d like some tea,” he says.

“You didn’t have to.” You take it anyways, because now you know Moss’ tea is to die for.

“Oh, hush,” he says. “It wasn’t any trouble; I normally have fourteen a day.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Fourteen?”

“That’s not weird, is it?” he asks. He sits down on the edge of your desk, rigid like he was waiting for you to tell him off for doing so.

“A little.”

You take a sip and Moss grins proudly, “It’s Earl Grey.”

You almost spit it out—What happened to PG Tips? You just about manage to get it down, “I didn’t know you liked Earl Grey.” You cough.

“Of course not,” Moss says, like the idea is ridiculous. “But Roy managed to smuggle a box down from upstairs—fancy, isn’t it?”

You hum unconvincingly, putting the cup back down on the table with no intention of ever picking it up again. “Yeah. Fancy.”

“Is he bothering you, Y/n?” Roy asks from his desk, chewing on a donut. He clearly doesn’t actually care if Moss is bothering you—in actuality, you find Moss less bothersome than Roy does—he just wants something to do other than repeating “Have you tried turning it off and on again?” over and over on the phone all day.

“No, he made me tea.” You say, eyes meeting Moss’: he gives you a look that says Go on, continue praising me for my immaculate tea-making skills. “He makes really nice tea.” You add.

Roy shrugs, “It’s tea and sex, innit?”

“What?” your face warms. “Is that a euphemism?”

“No. We had sex and after we drank tea,” Moss explains. “Tea and sex.”

“Tea and sex.” Roy echoes. “That’s all you English folk care about, isn’t it? Sex, tea, and leading each other on.”

“Tea and sex and leading each other on, correct.” Moss nods.

You breathe out; long and slow. You suddenly pick up your phone, answering a call, “Hello? Mr. Reynholm? Yes, of course, I’ll be there right away.” You put the phone back down and head for the exit for the second time today. “Well boys, I have to go; Reynholm called.”

“I thought you were having problems with your phone,” says Moss.

“Good thing I work in IT then, isn’t it?” You say and leave.

As you walk to the lift with no destination in mind, all you can think is ‘shit, shit, shit, shit, shit’ because you forgot to fix your phone, and Moss definitely knows.

...

"Night, Roy, see you tomorrow—good luck on your date." Moss says to his passing coworker as he shuts off his computer for the last time tonight, finally turning the chess off. The floor around him is a mess of popcorn and boxes, which he begins to clean up with a manky dustpan and brush from the cleaning cupboard.

Jen’s voice calls from the other room, halting his actions, "Moss, Y/n, can I see you both in my office?" Moss meets your gaze; you look away first, returning to your computer without so much as a word.

"Coming!" Moss says, passing you to Jen’s office. When he enters she’s at her desk, big round things all over her head.

"What's in your hair?" he asks.

"Curlers. Got a date—" She checks the time on her computer— "Probably have to leave around now, actually."

“Ah,” Moss hums. He sits down in a chair opposite her desk, just as you come in.

“Take a seat, Y/n.” She says.

You sit down next to Moss, “So, who’s the lucky guy?” you grin, leaning forward with a sense of intrigue Moss hasn’t seen from you all day.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe—!” she cuts herself off. “No! Don’t change the subject; as your boss, and as relationships manager, you’re here so we can talk about whatever the hell’s going on between the two of you.”

“What do you mean?” Moss asks.

“The tension, Moss!” Jen exclaims. “My God, you’re an idiot.”

“There’s no tension,” you speak up, and Jen gives you a striking glare.

“I’m getting to you.” She hisses and turns back to Moss, “Do you fancy her?”

He furrows his brows, “Fancy her?”

“Do you like her?”

“What kind of like?” he asks.

“Like, like.”

“Like what?”

Jen groans, leaning back in her seat and massaging her temples, “I hate you both, oh my God!” she slams her hands down on the table, “Are you attracted to her?”

Moss nods reasonably, “She’s nice to look at, yes.”

“Do you like being around her?”

“Yes.”

“Spending time with her?”

“Yes.”

“Then you fancy her!” Jen yells, making both of you flinch at the volume. “There, it’s settled. Thank God it’s finally settled.”

“So?”

“So ask her out!” she exclaims, like you’re not even there.

"Can't she choose to go outside herself?" Moss asks. “Isn’t this a free country? And what happened to feminism?”

Jen, bordering on enraged, ignores him: “Y/n,” she now turns to you accusingly. “I know you fancy Moss—”

“I don’t—”

“Zip it!” she yells. “You two are going on a date—” she looks at Moss “—you know what a date is, don't you?"

"As in the fruit?" Moss says. Jen kicks his shin under the table. "Ouch! Okay, yes, I know what a date is!"

“Well,” she declares, “you’re going on one!”

“No!” you say.

"I'll fire you!"

"You can't do that!" Moss says.

"Ask her out!"

"No!"

"As relationships manager,” Jen starts, “I am ordering you two to go on a date."

Moss pauses. "Can you do that?"

“No, of course she can’t.” You say, just as Jen says “Yes.”

"Well, okay then." Moss stands up and looks down at you, "We better get going then, or we’ll be fired." He chuckles.

“She can’t fire us! That’s way beyond her pay grade!” She kicks your shin, too—notably harder than she kicked Moss’.

“Moss, you can go.” She says, “Y/n, stay a moment?” she adds, more like an order than a request.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll see you out there, Y/n.”

You cross your arms and huff, “Bye, Moss.”

He gives you an awkward, uncharacteristic pat on the shoulder, before leaving. When he’s gone, Jen continues: “I can read you like a bloody book—you love him!”

“I bloody don’t!” you deny, “I don’t see where all this is coming from, Jen! You’ve gone mad!”

“You slept with him, Y/n.” Jen says. “There has to be some sort of attraction there to sleep with him!”

“It was a mistake, Jen: it’s Moss.”

Jen takes a long, hard sigh. Her voice quietens, becoming more gentle, almost sincere: “I know I can’t actually fire you, and you don’t actually have to go on a date with him, but please—just—don’t break his heart.” She sighs, “He’s an idiot, yes, but he’s a smart idiot, and a sweet idiot, and I think he genuinely, really likes you.”

Your gaze softens, arms ease. “I wouldn’t ever hurt him, Jen.”

“I know,” she says, “but if you really don’t like him, don’t just say it, okay? Ease into it—I mean, look at him,” she gestures to the small crack in the door where you can see Moss, pacing nervously, muttering something to himself under his breath. “He’s like a little hamster with a weak, pathetic little heart.”

Your gaze lingers on Moss for a second too long. You eventually snap out of it, and when your eyes return to Jen’s she’s giving you a knowing look. “I won’t break his weak, pathetic little heart, Jen. I promise.”

She smiles, “Good. Now go: go get your Moss.”

You roll your eyes and get up. When Jen’s decided she’s done with lecturing you, she grabs a mirror from her desk drawer and begins to touch up her makeup.

“Good luck on your date with Roy.” You say.

She doesn’t look up from her mirror. “Shut up.”

When you come out the office Moss has stopped pacing. He just stares at you like he did Sunday morning; with intent, and something hidden beneath his stare that you can’t quite make out.

“So…” you start awkwardly. “Do you have a somewhere to go in mind?”

He pushes his glasses up proudly. “I know a place.”

AT MESSY JOE’S...

You sit at a table for two in Messy Joe’s, an ice cream sundae in the middle because Moss decided it would be “cool” to have dessert first. You’ve practically drowned yourself in your beer as Moss slurps on his milkshake, which, for better or for worse, is drowned out by the screams of children coming from all around the globe pace as they run and dance and play. This is certainly not your idea of a normal “date”—but this is Moss, so what else should you expect?

“I didn’t think of this place as being… within our age-range.” You comment. Your eyes flicker to the bouquet of flowers Moss had given you right before you’d gotten here, during a quick visit to Tesco. The gesture had been incredibly sweet—and flowers are bloody expensive—too bad the date ended up here: in a restaurant made strictly for children.

"I come here all the time," he says.

"Of course you do." You mutter offhandedly, taking a long sip of your pint.

He furrows his brows, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you're not the most... mature person I know, is all."

His expression turns even more confused, "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Well," you say again, finger circling the rim of your glass. "We're quite different, you know? The two of us."

"Sorry," As you’d been speaking, he’d been busy spraying his ear with water, drowning out your voice. He places the can on the table, "What were you saying?"

"I was saying—" You're cut off when a mariachi band arrives at your table with sombreros and fake mustaches and guitars, singing,

“Everybody’s having having fun fun fun,

‘Cause everything is nice, and everyone is friendly,

Lots of friendly faces having fun fun fun—”

"Can you—" you interrupt, and they all stop simultaneously. "Not? We're, um," you clear your throat, eyes flickering to the still-confused Moss, "having an important conversation."

The group walk away without saying another word, and begin playing at another table.

"What were you saying?" Moss asks again.

You stare at him a while longer, remembering Jen’s words: “He’s like a little hamster with a weak, pathetic little heart”. You begin:

“Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?” you say.

Moss looks even more confused. “It’s been raining all month.”

“Yeah,” you nod regrettably, knowing you’ve already been caught out. “I like the rain.”

“No,” Moss smiles confusedly. “You hate the rain; you were complaining about it all of last week—you stayed inside longer than Richmond.”

You groan, “Fine! I don’t think this is working, okay?”

"What?” he asks, “Why?"

“Because you’re…” you trail off. “I don’t think we’re a good match. I mean, I know what Jen said, but you’re not—well—you’re not incredibly mature, are you?”

He slurps on his milkshake. "How so?"

You sigh, “Don’t do this, Moss, you’re making this really hard.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“What?” you say helplessly. “No, Moss, we’re not even together.”

“But Jen said—”

You scoff, “Well, Jen’s full of crap.”

“Huh,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “So, you… don’t fancy me?”

“No,” you say, staring into his eyes, as if daring him to suggest that you could possibly be lying.

“Well, I don’t fancy you either.” He says.

You’re taken aback by his words, after the image Jen built of him in your head, “Really?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “I always thought you were a little weird, is all.”

You furrow your brows and scoff, “I’m not weird—you’re the weird one: look at you, you’ve got us starting with dessert!”

“Oh yeah?” he says. “At least I remember to actually fix my phone when it’s broken, and I don’t just lie about doing it when I haven’t! You shouldn’t even be in IT if you can’t fix a phone!”

Without thinking, you grab a scoop of cream from your dessert and throw it at him, causing it to splatter on his face. He flinches, freezes, and says, “What was that for?”

Before you can answer, he’s thrown a scoop back at you. Before either of you can say anything else, you’ve coated your hand in ice cream and smeared it across his face—as slow as you possibly can, making his squirm. “Ew, get off me!”

When you remove your hand he glares at you behind his ice cream-coated glasses. He grabs his milkshake and spills it all over your dress.

You gasp, standing up in shock, “Moss!”

He stands up too, “That’s what you get for creaming on me!” he shouts. At this point, the whole restaurant is reduced to silence: the kids have stopped screaming, and you’ve silenced the mariachi band for the second time tonight. Most parents cover their children’s ears, others give you a very firm, very furious glare.

“I’ve been nothing but nice to you;” Moss continues, oblivious to the limelight you’re now in, “I make you tea, give you flowers, I give you nice sex—” a few parents gasp “—and you lather me in ice cream like I’m some sort of banana split!” He goes on, “You think I’m stupid, you think I’m immature… but really you’re just as stupid and immature as I am.”

You cross your arms angrily, “I am not like you.”

He raises his now-white eyebrows, “I think you are, hamster-lady.”

You’re ready to chuck your beer right at him in a fit of rage (Does he have eyes and ears everywhere?) but you sigh and slam it back down. “Fine!” you drop your hands in defeat, “I’m just like you; I’m immature and stupid and—for fuck’s sake—I bloody love you, Moss.”

Your confession lingers in the air, and Moss stops, his usual stoic gaze softening. Before he can reply, a clown comes up to your table.

“Get out, you two,” he says. “You’re causing more trouble than these kids ‘ere,” he gestures around: all the children are completely silent and watching, “Get out.”

Your eyes flicker to Moss as you see him grab your pint in your peripheral. He clears his throat, “Get lost, mother fricker.” And he splashes your beer in the clown’s face.

...

It’s safe to say you’re never going back to Messy Joe’s—they’ll probably be keeping a close eye out for you two from now on. You stand on the side of the road, covered top to bottom in dairy product; your hair’s a complete mess, lipstick smeared, and your clothes are beyond revival. When you look at Moss, he’s just as much a mess as you are, and all you can do is laugh in exhilaration. He does too:

“We sure showed those ploppers!” he exclaims, grabs your hands in his and bounces up and down in excitement. As you bounce along with him, you ponder of a future like this: this time it’s one filled with laughter, joy and ice cream. Maybe that’s the future you want, and a little childishness is how to achieve that.

When you stop bouncing, Moss pulls you down into, what’s supposed to be, a quick, spontaneous kiss:

He seems shy at first, anticipating you to shove him off—hands remaining respectful at your sides, lips unmoving against yours. But you wrap your arms round his neck, pulling him closer, you kiss him properly. It’s slow, almost unsure, and he’s acting like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be, like kissing you is some kind of illegal act, but then he slips his tongue into your mouth, gliding his it against yours. He moves his hand to cup your cheek, then both, and then he gingerly lifts you off the ground, spins you around like you’re from the 40s, smiling against your lips like it’s your wedding day.

When you pull apart the moment isn’t over. You rest your forehead against his, closing your eyes, basking in the warm feeling of Moss.

“I’m sorry for being an arse.” You mutter.

When you reopen your eyes he’s biting his lip, like he’s holding back laughter.

“What?” you ask, smiling.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

You laugh, “What?”

He kisses you again.

“It’s tea and sex, innit?” he says.

————————————

A/n: It’s kinda ironic how when I was writing this my laptop started acting up and I couldn’t actually log back into it because the login screen refused to show up (how does that even happen????) and I don’t know a single thing about comp-uters and I was just thinking the whole time about how I bloody wish Moss was real (still do)

Thank you for being so wonderful and supportive on my last oneshot, and I hope this one didn’t disappoint either!! U guys are honestly the best, most gorgeous people and I really appreciate all the kind comments and reposts and everything :)

Also, if you have any feedback—good or bad—I would love to know how you feel about my writing and what I could do to improve it/make it more entertaining and what you want to see more of. (And sorry if there are any mistakes near the end of this oneshot, it’s 1:20 and I can’t be bothered anymore 😭) Thank you so much you guys, I love you all <3

Tag list 💚: @cheeyan @theworldissounfair

#maurice moss x reader #maurice moss #the it crowd #british tv #british comedy #richard ayoade #jen barber #roy trenneman #x reader #no smut sorry!

LOVE IS ALL AROUND | Maurice Moss x Reader

Moss is scared of public transport so you have to drive him home.

(A/n: From now on I will be writing Moss oneshots until there’s a healthy amount of Moss on this platform)

“HE’S GOING A LITTLE too fast for my liking,” says Moss in the aftermath of the party. Your hair is tousled, mascara smeared, and you can’t even look yourself in the rear-view mirror. Moss looks exactly the same as he did going into the function: stiff, uncomfortable, but put-together—albiet a little drunk. There isn’t a single crease in his checkered shirt—probably because he’s been hiding in Jen’s office the whole evening; far, far away from the dancing and the screaming and the sweaty coworkers; hogging the box of cocktail sausages you bought from Tesco and watching TV on her computer. “I will see you tomorrow,” he told you as soon as you reached Floor 0 after your typical day of work. He’d snatched the sausages from your hands and stormed straight to the office, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it.

You work on Floor 5, but you vaguely know the IT Department. You know Jen as the social butterfly of the group—some days she’ll sneak upstairs to get in on the Floor 5 gossip. You know Moss because you have a faulty computer and IT practically on speed-dial. Oftentimes when you call Roy will answer, but he’ll send Moss up because he hates people.

“He’s only going a little over,” you reply to Moss’ statement, taking another turn into another sleeping neighbourhood. It’s beyond late and Moss refuses to take the tram home after 6; Jen and Roy took it just fine, but Moss would rather stay the night in the basement over “risking his life”. You offered to drive him home yourself, but it’s hard not to regret the offer as Moss complains about speeders the whole drive; it was annoying the first time, and now you’re ready to ram his head into the dashboard, knocking him unconscious, and dress him up in a black bag and leave him on the side of the road for the bin men to retrieve.

“That’s always how it starts, Y/n.” He continues his rant: “First, it’s “a little over” and before you know it you’ve hit someone and you’re running away from the police.” He grasps the sides of your coat and begins to shake you. “I don’t wanna go to prison, Y/n!”

You roll your eyes and shrug him off, “You’re being so bloody dramatic—we’re only gonna crash if you keep shaking me.”

“Or ‘cos of the speeders.” He insists, eyes wide behind his glasses.

You huff, ‘Only a few more minutes,’ you tell yourself, ‘then he’ll go back to being just the IT Guy.’

“Which turning is it, Moss?” you ask. You have a vague understanding of the area, but too vague of an understanding to know how to get to his road. Besides, when you asked him where he lives, he refused to tell you; claiming that there are “ears everywhere”.

“We missed it,” he says. “Ten minutes ago.”

You stop the car and Moss whines about the abrupt action. You glare at him, “What?”

“I didn’t want to be a bother!” he exclaims, sitting up-right like a Victorian-time student—the ones that had doorstops thrown at them. His hands are placed neatly on his lap, his round eyes are darting anywhere but you.

“It’s a one-way street, Moss!” You start up the car again, “We have to go all the way back round now.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry!”

“It’s OK,” you sigh.

You fall into an uncomfortable silence—occasionally broken by a timidly-spoken direction from Moss. Moss keeps irritating you; rolling the window up and down, undecided of whether he’s too hot or too cold; letting out exaggerated sighs as if you’re the one annoying him. You dig your nails into the steering wheel, grind your teeth; anything to keep yourself from acting upon the Binbag Idea.

“I am very uncomfortable right now,” Moss says.

You dig your nails deeper into the wheel, “Why?”

“Because I’m historically bad at talking to women.” He says, almost robotically.

“This is good practice, then.” You say.

He ignores your statement; “Can I turn the music on?”

“Go ahead.”

He turns on the radio and the chorus of Love Is All Around plays: Moss whines, “Oh, not this one again! Fifteen whole weeks it’s been in the charts!—and that was in the nineties! It’s time the music industry got a bloody move on: Four Weddings and a Funeral wasn’t even a good movie!”

You smack his arm, “Bloody hell, Moss,” you hiss, “stop shouting—people are trying to sleep.”

His lips form a thin line, “I’ve had six White Russians and a piña colada—non-virgin. That and I’ve watched six whole episodes of Red Dwarf in the past four hours and my mind is boggling.”

You scoff, “So?”

He puts his hands up in defense, “What I’m saying is I’m a little disoriented, that’s all. Shouting is one of the symptoms of disorientation.”

“Well, be more responsible next time.”

He sighs and turns the radio off again, leaving the two of you, once again, in an uncomfortable silence.

A FEW MINUTES LATER...

“We just took another wrong turning.” Moss states.

You take a deep, shaky breath; "Maybe tell me what the right turning is, then?"

“I did!” he snaps. “You were too busy checking that man out back there.”

You gasp, “He was a fit man!”

“That is not a valid justification.” He crosses his arms over his chest, “Your eyes should be on the road, making sure that we don’t get killed by speeders.” He sits back in his seat, arms still crossed, and lets out a petty hmphf.

You must be delusional from the stuffy car-air and having listened to Moss for so long, because you grin; “Moss, are you jealous?”

He does a double-take, “What? What? No. No. I am not.” He rambles and shuffles uncomfortably in his seat.

“You so are,” you tease.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Y/n.”

“You like me.”

He swiftly turns the radio back on, dialing the volume up to full so the conversation can’t go on any longer.

“Love is all around me,” it plays, “And so the feeling grows”

Moss groans, “Come on!” His yells can barely be heard above the voices of Wet Wet Wet. “Not this ruddy song again!”

...

“This is me,” Moss says and you pull up beside the curb. He lives in a two-story flat. It’s a simple thing; nice red bricks, nicely-kempt grass, a nice burgundy front door.

“Please tell me you’re the bottom one.” You plead: the last thing you want is to be dragging Drunk Moss up a flight of stairs.

“I am,” he says. He doesn’t stop there; “Thank God this is over: this journey has been horrible; I should’ve just taken the tram like Roy suggested, it would’ve been easier.”

You roll your eyes but remain silent—it’s better to just let him go. ‘Goodbye Drunk Moss, welcome back, IT Guy.’

He unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the car. “Well, thank you for the ride, then.” He says before shutting the door. He begins to walk away, but turns and gives you one last awkward smile, a small wave, and turns around again. It’s only a few seconds till he trips on something and falls over.

“Moss?” you call out.

“I’m fine,” he says from the floor.

You exhale and get out, going over to Moss’ side where he lay on the floor like a HB pencil, eyes hazy, spots of orange on his glasses, reflecting from the streetlamps. “I am very drunk,” he observes.

You give him a wry smile, “What would make you say that?”

“Well, probably the fact that I’m on the floor.” He answers, misunderstanding your sarcasm. “Isn’t that a common indicator for being drunk?”

You laugh. “Here, let me help you up…” After a little struggle, you get him back on his feet—he clings to you for stability, his legs having turned to alcohol-infused jelly.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Don’t mention it.”

You stumble to his door, and luckily Moss has enough of a mind to hand you his keys. As you unlock it, he says, “I’m sorry for giving you the wrong directions.”

You look up at him and something weird happens in your stomach—some sort of fluttery feeling you’ve only ever felt watching a Leonardo DiCaprio movie from the 90s. Moss’ face is half-shadowed from the cheap overhead light, making him look oddly romantic; his eyes soften the longer they focus on you, lips parted just slightly—he probably doesn’t even realize it. For a moment, you forget all about Wet Wet Wet, all about the window, all about the White Russians and the episodes of Red Dwarf.

Eventually you snap out of it. “Forget about it, Moss.”

“I’m sorry that Love Is All Around kept playing,” he adds.

“You didn’t make the charts, Moss, it’s not your fault.”

“Sure,” he says, “but I did buy the CD when it came out, which is technically contributing to its place in the charts—I even saw Four Weddings and a Funeral when it came out in the cinema! And I lied to you before, because I actually quite enjoyed it! It’s actually a decent movie! So, really, I’ve been funding Wet Wet Wet’s success from the very beginning!”

You shake your head amusedly and unlock the door, letting go of Moss so you can fit through the frame. When you turn the light on, the whole place shows itself to be ODC-clean, clean counters, clean floor, but you don’t have long to snoop around before Moss practically falls on you again.

“My legs don’t appear to be working,” he says. You lead him to the sofa, sitting him down.

“How’re you feeling?” you ask, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Fine,” he says. “A little warm, but thanks for asking.”

“You don’t have to keep saying thank you,” you say as you walk over to a window and open it, before filling him a glass of water in his kitchenette. “You’re my friend, Moss.” You come back with the filled glass and sit down beside him, handing him the water.

He furrows his brows, confused, “I am?”

You bump your shoulder with his. “Yeah.” His confusion is definitely warranted; you can barely understand the turnaround yourself.

“I’m your friend?” he asks again.

You shrug, “Why not?”

“But I thought you were sexually attracted to me,” he says. “Are friends normally sexually attracted to each other?”

You pause, stare at him to see if he’s just teasing. He doesn’t say anything. “...What?”

“You were flirting with me earlier.” He explains.

Your face warms, “I wasn’t flirting—”

“Then why are you always calling me up to fix your computer?”

“Because it’s always broken?”

“But how does a computer get broken so many times in one week?!” he exclaims. “I come up almost every day! Most of the time I just have to plug it back in!”

“It’s not just me calling you up.” You argue. “Sometimes you come up without me even having to ask!”

He makes some exaggerated gesture, “Because I assume something’s already wrong!”

“Well you don’t have to assume; that’s what phones are for, IT Guy.”

He sighs heavily, leans back into the sofa as if he wishes for it to consume him completely. He has what looks to be an internal monologue before downing his water in one go. “I— I’m attracted to you.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Pardon?”

“I’m attracted to you.”

“Come again?”

He gives you a glare, “Don’t be silly, now.”

Your gaze softens, “You really feel that way about me?”

All he does is eye you anxiously in return: “Do you?”

You hesitate. It’s true—you have called him a lot in the past month; your computer has a knack for getting viruses, and sure, maybe it’s because you keep going to www.computerviruses.com, but the internet is a very powerful thing—and sure, when Roy picks up, he does offer to fix your computer himself, and you always ask for Moss—but could anyone blame you? Roy isn’t exactly the friendliest. And, admittedly, there have been quick, fleeting moments where you’ve seen Moss as something more than just an annoying, geeky man-child… Perhaps a sweet, annoying, geeky man-child, but he is really sweet when you get to know him, so can anyone really blame you for thinking of him in that way?

“I,” you swallow. “Yeah, you’re pretty attractive.”

He scoffs exaggeratedly, "Pfft, right."

"Hey! I mean it." You insist.

"Well I don't see any proof," he crosses his arms, giving you a look he always gives you—like he knows something you don't. This time it’s apparently your own feelings. "And you just contradicted yourself; you said you weren’t attracted to me, several seconds ago."

“I was lying.”

He raises his eyebrows, leans in, almost daringly, till his face is a few inches from yours. “I don’t believe you.”

You don’t think he is aware of what he’s doing; what he’s implying. He’s blinking twice as fast as the normal person, as if he’s anticipating you to call a staring contest any second now. The atmosphere is stuffy but intimate, and you don’t think he realizes that, either, even when you’re sitting so close, legs touching just slightly.

You lean in even closer, “How do I make you believe me?”

His gaze remains on your eyes, whereas yours drifts down to his lips. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Come with me on a date, to a Spoons?”

You bit your lip, holding back a laugh, “That’s your idea of the perfect date, is it? A day-trip to Wetherspoons?”

“They make good masalas,” he reasons, “and they have unlimited hot chocolate. I thought it would make quite the romantic evening.”

You cup his cheek in your hand and he flinches, but he doesn’t pull away. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do. “I’d love to go to a Spoons with you, Moss.”

He smiles coyly, “Really?”

You beam, “Yes, really.”

He hesitates for a moment, waiting for you to do something—anything. “You look like you’re about to kiss me.” He observes.

You let out a surprised laugh, “Would you like me to?”

“...Yes.”

In response you tilt your head; Moss doesn’t. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m about to kiss you, silly.”

His face reddens a little. “Oh. Well, you could’ve just said so.”

You laugh and finally bring his lips to yours. He’s frozen for a moment, but when you wrap your arms around his neck it’s like something within him snaps. He kisses back, slow and tender, lips soft and supple, like this is something he doesn’t want to mess up. He cups your cheeks in his hands as the kiss becomes deeper, and before you know it the kiss has ended.

When you open your eyes his face is even redder than before. “Thank you,” he says.

You laugh, “Stop saying that.”

“Sorry,” You smile and kiss him on his warm cheek. “Can you stay a bit longer?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you smile, “sure.”

“Okay.” He says. “Should I… put the telly on?” You nod and he grabs the remote, albeit awkwardly because you’re still clinging to his neck and he doesn’t want to let you go. The TV opens on a rerun of Top Of The Pops, the music programme. He turned it on at the perfect time, because they were introducing the next song. “You know it, I know it, this lot certainly knows it,” announces the presenter. “For the fifteenth week in a row, Wet Wet Wet are Top of the Pops.” The audience applaud and the camera pans to Wet Wet Wet on stage, singing:

“I love is all around me, And so the feeling grows,”

“Oh, come on!” Moss yells.

————————————

(A/n: Thank you sm for reading!! If u guys have any requests, please message—for IT Crowd, I can do Moss x fem!reader and Richmond x fem!reader oneshots, and I love Noel Fielding more than I love myself so I can do Noel and Vince Noir (Mighty Boosh) x fem! reader oneshots <3)

#the it crowd #maurice moss #x reader #british comedy #british tv #richard ayoade #maurice moss x reader

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