#ted lasso x reader

[i-love-hozier]

Twas the night before kinktober. And tumblr is brewing

[scuderiavale]

‘why do you read “various x reader stories?”’

first, i’m a narcissist and will not read it if it’s not about me

second, I love the feeling of people liking me

third, I was ignored as a child

[bethsvrse]

me, a writer, at 3am: WHAT? I CANT FIND THE SPECIFIC FANFIC THAT I MADE UP IN MY MIND WITH A WHOLE PLOT AND ORIGINAL CHARACTERS??? WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE??? DO THEY EXPECT ME TO WRITE THE STORY I THOUGHT UP OF???

[cherikitty]

ted lasso. afc richmond’s new coach, and your favourite victim to mess with. there’s just something about him. whether it’s the large age gap, that sexy midwestern accent, the silly moustache— it’s safe to admit you’ve got a little crush on him.

today, like every other day, you’re back in his office with a box full of his favourite biscuits, twirling your hair and giggling at every single word he says.

“ohhhh sweet mother of jesus. these gosh-darn cookies… they’re somethin’ else.” ted groans, biting into one, eyes fluttering shut as he leans back in his chair.

“yeah? you like them?”

“darlin’, the day i say no to that question is the day you gotta start lookin’ for the real ted lasso ‘cause that’s an imposter standin’ in front of ya.” you giggle, perching on the edge of his desk. he gives you a warm smile— that classic ted lasso smile that can easily brighten your whole day.

“coach, you got a bit of—“ you murmur, eyes narrowing at the crumbs on his moustache.

“oh—yep—such a messy eater, aren’t i?” he chuckles, letting you brush the crumbs from his face as he tilts his head.

“lemme just—” you bend forward, giving ted a full view of your cleavage, making it practically impossible for him to look away. he swallows hard, feeling his cock twitch in his pants.

when you place one hand high up his thigh to get a better angle, his whole body tenses up, sweat forming on his forehead.

“oi! the fuck is this?!” roy’s gravelly voice ripples through the air like an earthquake, and for a second you swear you could feel the floor beneath you tremble.

“roy!” you squeal excitedly, acting oblivious to the raunchy scene he just walked in on— you, sitting on the edge of ted’s desk, short skirt riding up your bare thighs, tits nearly spilling out of your top in ted’s flustered face.

ted’s eyes turn comically wide, only making him look more guilty than he actually is. roy storms at him and points an accusing finger right in his red-as-a-tomato face.

“she’s half your age, you fuckin’ bellend!”

“oh, boy… let’s not jump to any conclusions, son.” ted raises his hands in surrender as he jumps up from his chair, shaking his head, “she just brought me some cookies! very, very delicious cookies, at that. you should try some if you—”

roy lets out a low grunt, making ted blink rapidly.

“alrighty… a-anyway, we were just chattin’, yeah? platonic—so very platonic—boy, couldn’t be more platonic than this. ain’t that right?”

you nod, unable to contain the cheeky grin spreading across your face as you coyly swing your legs.

“see!” he lets out a nervous laugh, “you know what you need, roy? one of these to cheer ya up.” he grabs a biscuit from the box and hands it to roy with a cheerful nod, who crumples it right in front of ted’s face like it’s nothing.

“or… not. you know what, that’s fine— maybe—maybe you’re just gluten intolerant. more common than you might think!”

roy grabs his collar and yanks him close, face turning a shade of purple that seems humanly impossible.

“if i see you near her one more time, you’re a dead man walking. you hear me, lasso?”

you jump down from the desk, “oh please, roy. don’t be so angry! ted’s a nice guy” you pout, voice breathy and a little too flirty, but roy releases ted nonetheless. he storms out, muttering a ‘fuckin’ hell’ under his breath, and slams the door shut.

“i’m sorry, coach. he’s just such a drama queen, but don’t mind him, ‘kay?” you run a hand over his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing under your palm.

“well, shoot… i reckon that’s my cue to start lockin’ this door during biscuit time, huh?”

[mon-amee]

masterlist | ao3 | fic recs

kiss somebody, drink that honey - Ted Lasso x fem!reader

Word count: 3,9k Tags: smut, NSFW, Minors do not interact 🔞, mentions of drinking, dancing, workplace affairs, power imbalance(ish), fingering, unprotected p in v, using pulling out as protection (DO NOT DO THIS IRL GOD), age gap, softdom!Ted Summary:You plan a double date with your friend, but your date stands you up. However when another guy invites you to a drink and some dancing, there's a pair own eyes sticking to you all night. Author's note: This has been standing in my WIP folder for more than a year, being like 80% finished and I totally forgot about it but found it again yesterday, so I thought I'd finish it, hope some of you will like it. ❤

On a regular Friday evening you’d be sitting at your table together with your friends at your favourite bar – the faint smell of hardwood and old leather would mix with the sweet scent of various liquors and delicious food while you’d be laughing about an awkward situation or a hilarious story. 

However, on this particular Friday evening you were sitting across your friend and his date. It’s not like you were voluntarily third wheeling them, you were waiting for your own date, who happened to stand you up. You just sat there nursing your drink as you saw a glimpse of a hand on a thigh in front of you and you averted your gaze. Talk about awkward. 

The music was loud enough in your ears to muffle the sweet nothings the guy whispered into your friend’s ear as your eyes wandered around the bar. A few people were mingling on the small dance floor, a couple was making out in the corner and a few guys sat at the bar, engaged in a seemingly meaningful discussion.  

Your heart skipped a beat when one of them slightly turned his head and revealed his identity to you - his beautiful face turned your way and his eyes caught yours. A look of surprise spread across his features before he flashed a big moustachioed smile towards you. You nodded at him and turned back to your table immediately, heat rushing through your body. It was Ted, from work.  

You haven’t spoken an awful lot to him, mostly just small talk in the cafeteria or a small wave on the corridors. But that didn’t stop you from having a huge crush on him. 

Your eyes landed on the couple in front of you and you rolled your eyes. You were damned wherever you looked. You took a sip of your drink, the alcohol burned your throat as it traveled and settled in your stomach, but the warmth you felt there wasn’t caused by the drink. You felt it was silly and maybe bit of a schoolgirl crush, but you couldn't help it. He just had something in him that made you want him close to you. Want to look into his eyes. Feel his hands on your waist. Feel his breath grazing your lips. 

A voice snapped you out of your thoughts and you looked up at the man standing next to your table. You didn’t know him, at least you couldn't recall. He was tall and had kind eyes, small dimples framed his smile. 

“Excuse me?” You asked, embarrassed that you didn’t catch what he was saying. His smile widened before he spoke again. 

“Just wanted to see if you’d like to join me for a drink. But I don’t want to steal you from your... friends” he said, and he paused before saying the last word, cocking his brow at your friend and his date being entangled in each other. You sighed and stood up next to him. 

“Sure, a drink couldn't hurt.” You told him your name and shook his hand. 

“I’m Daniel” he replied, and he stretched his hand towards the small table he was sitting at and while looking over, your eyes caught a pair of beautiful brown ones. Your eyes lingered at him for a long second before you averted your gaze, heat creeping up your skin.  

With only one look Ted could make your heart flutter like a hummingbird. You followed your new date – Daniel – towards his table, which meant you had to pass by Ted and Beard. You tried not to look too much their way to not seem so obvious, but when you passed them you heard your name being called. You stopped in your tracks and turned around, and Daniel followed suit. 

“Hello there” Ted nodded your way, and Beard followed.  

“Hey Ted! Beard” you said, standing a few feet away from them. Daniel’s gaze shifted between the three of you. 

“Good to see you outside of work” Ted said with a beaming smile, his eyes wandering towards Daniel for a second. “Having some good ole’ fun!” He was nursing a beer with one of his hands and you couldn’t help but notice how the sleeves of his dark navy sweatshirt are rolled up, hugging his arms perfectly. You felt heat rise in your body as you tried to regulate your breathing. 

“Yeah, well… Gotta blow off some steam from time to time!” Holy shit, why were you so awkward? “I guess I’ll see you at the pitch on Monday?” 

“You bet, missy” he smiled and waved the two of you off. You turned away and slowly let out a shaky breath. You settled next to Daniel at his table and took a sip of your drink. 

“Was he your boss?” 

“No!” You protested before you continued. “Well, I don’t know. Sorta? He’s the coach of the football team that I work for.” 

“Bloody hell, you’re right, that’s where he was familiar from! You work for Richmond?” Daniel’s eyes were glowing with excitement, and you weren’t surprised – most people loved their football around here. 

“Yeah, I am” you chuckled and took another sip of your drink. You were sitting in the old leather booth with your back against a wall and he was sitting across of you, so you had a great viewpoint on the whole bar. That meant that you saw every time Ted’s eyes were wandering towards you through the crowd. You tried to pay no mind to it, but every time his gaze lingered on you, your stomach dropped, and your heart went into overdrive. 

Daniel was a sweet guy and you were having quite a great time – you were talking and laughing about your jobs, football and all kinds of stuff. Even though you weren’t a huge fan of the game initially, working at a football club made you quite fond of football. Especially since Ted was the gaffer. But that was nobody’s business. 

As the evening grew older the music became a bit louder, casual after-work groups were switched out by louder party people who occupied the dance floor. You nodded your head and tapped your fingers to the beat of the music before you noticed an inviting hand in front of you. 

“Would you spare me a dance?” Daniel asked and you raised a brow at him. 

“I’m a shitty dancer” you replied with your brow quirked, but you accepted the invite.  

You awkwardly shuffled to the small dance floor that was across the bar, where a certain football coach was still sitting. You tried to pay no mind to that fact, but the feeling of his eyes on you was hard to shake. Dan was holding your hand ‘til you found a comfortable spot and twirled you around to face him. A giggle bubbled up from your chest as he pulled you closer and you started moving to the rhythm. 

The alcohol worked hard to cut away your inhibition, and that mixed with the loud music in your ear made you bold and carefree. You were moving your body freely to the music, putting your hands above your head, in your hair, and on Dan’s shoulders. As you twirled your eyes caught Ted’s stare as he was gripping his thigh so hard his knuckles turned pale. It only took a second but a sudden feeling of light-headedness took over you and you almost tripped. 

Why was he looking at you all evening? Why did he seem anxious, even agitated? Was it because of you? Was he… jealous? 

The thoughts raced in your head as questions flooded your mind. He surely wasn’t jealous; it’s just your wishful thinking.  

Devilish thoughts ran through your head as you turned your back to your dance partner and smiled at him before you pushed your back flush against his chest and threw your arms up, surrendering your body to the beat and the music.  

You glanced his way, and he was staring, gripping his beer so hard that the vein was visible in his forearm. He raised his brows at you and gave you a knowing look before you slightly turned away. 

He was jealous, alright. 

You felt a bit guilty for using this sweet guy to make your work crush jealous, but oh well. He couldn’t say he wasn’t having a good time based on the way his hands rested on your hips while you danced. Your discovery made you bold, wanted, and sexy – you felt like a million bucks. You felt his eyes on you the whole time you were moving your body. 

After a few songs you settled back at your table and finished your drink before Dan spoke. 

“I had a great time with you” he smiled, his hair a bit disheveled from the dancing. 

“Me too” you replied and took a sip out of your drink. 

“I know this is always like… very awkward, but do you think I can call you sometimes?” he said and let out an awkward chuckle. You smiled at him and nodded before you wrote your number on a napkin for him. “Do you need a ride home?” 

“No, thank you. I live pretty close, and I want to say hi to my coworkers before I leave.” 

“Sure? I’d feel awful if I’d let you go alone.” Such a gentleman. 

“I’m sure, Dan. Have a good night” you said before he stood up, said goodbye and left. You waited a few seconds, finished the rest of your drink and you stood, picking up your purse before you turned and nearly bumped into him.  

The scent of his cologne mixed with alcohol filled your nose before you looked up at him. There was an unreadable look on his face, and he clenched his jaw once – twice – before he spoke. 

“Fun date?” he asked in a low voice; one you’ve never heard before. You looked over his shoulder to see Beard already left. 

“Pretty fun” you replied with a smile and your grip strengthened on your purse. “Did you have a fun evening?” you asked with a devious smile as you remembered the look on his face from before. Your gaze moved to his lips as the corner of his mouth twitched under the moustache. You felt so confident. He clicked his tongue before he spoke. 

“Darlin’” he paused and slowly moved his hand to touch your arm, slow enough to leave you space to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t want to. His touch was cold against your burning skin, and he grazed his thumb back and forth on your forearm. “Why do you want to break my ol’ heart?” You swallowed hard as the question caught you off guard.  

“Do I have such power, coach?” you asked coyly, and he swallowed hard when you called him “coach”. Heat rose in your belly as inappropriate thoughts filled your head with other situations where you could use this information. 

His grip tightened on your arm, but only a little, making sure not to hurt you as he stepped closer, which you didn’t think was possible. You felt his breath on your face as you looked into his eyes – his pupils were blown wide as he looked down at you with half hooded eyes. Your heartbeat kicked into overdrive as your gaze darted between his eyes and lips – his sweet, plush lips you wanted to kiss so badly. Bite them lightly. 

He didn’t say a word, but he was moving his hand upwards your arm – slowly and softly above your shoulder and he rested his big palm against your neck, his fingertips grazed your scalp.  

It wasn’t like him not to speak, but he just couldn’t find the words. You closed your eyes and let out a shaky breath in anticipation, which he took as a clue and closed the gap between you. 

His kiss was sweet and gentle, his soft lips grazed yours in slow movements, exploring them like they were the most precious thing in the universe. His free arm moved to the small of your back as he pulled you closer and you felt the heat pool in your abdomen before you bit down onto his lower lip. He let out a low groan and deepened the kiss, his tongue softly grazed your lips, asking for permission which you were more than happy to grant. 

Your skin was on fire, and you wrapped your arms around his neck as the kiss turned into something else – passionate, hungry, and needy. His tongue danced in a perfect rhythm with yours, swiping against your lower lip before biting down lightly. 

You broke the kiss to get some air, and he rested his forehead on yours as his gorgeous brown eyes bore into your very soul, before you finally spoke. 

“I live five minutes from here.” 

You kicked off your shoes as you knocked the apartment door closed, your mouth never leaving his. He grabbed your hip with one hand and pushed you flush against the door, leaning on his other hand next to your head as he kissed you with the passion of a starved man. 

You gasped under his touch and felt need course through your veins, arousal soaking your underwear with every sloppy kiss. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, your nails slightly digging into his scalp which earned you a moan from him. It all felt so surreal, and yet the only thing you could focus on was him, his skin under your fingertips, his scent in your nose, his moans in your ear, his taste in your mouth. His hand slowly moved from your hip and grabbed your ass, nudging you to lift your leg, which you happily did and wrapped around his waist. As you pulled him closer with your leg you felt his hard length pressing against you and you gasped. 

“Ted,” you whined, throwing your head back against the door. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” He murmured into your neck between soft kisses, his breath fanning your skin as his lips traced the curve of your jaw. You let out a shaky breath. 

“I need you,” you breathed, and his head moved up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze searched your features for a second before he kissed you again – he devoured you and you didn’t protest. 

“You’ll be the end of me,” he groaned as he moved his other hand on your thigh as well and lifted you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist. 

“Bedroom’s on the right,” you whispered between kisses as he navigated through your small apartment. He kicked the door closed before he put you onto the bed and climbed on top of you. 

You put your hands under his sweatshirt and rested your palms on the hot skin of his stomach for a second before you pulled the piece of clothing off. He was breathtaking, and every passing second you needed him more. It wasn’t that you wanted him anymore. You needed him, and you needed him bad.  

Your eyes wandered to his lap, and you saw his erection strain against the fabric of his slacks, and your mouth watered. You couldn’t help it anymore, you reached down and started to palm him through his trousers, making him moan into your skin. 

“Fuck, darlin’,” he breathed and started to roll his hips against your palm. You weren’t sure how long you could go on without feeling him. 

You unbuttoned his trousers with shaky hands and helped him get rid of them together with his underwear before taking your own clothes off, leaving you bare in front of him. Ted clicked his tongue in amusement before he lowered his head and placed a soft kiss just above your nipple, and you felt another wave of arousal wash over your body.  

You slid your hand down his hard member, and he hissed before you wrapped your hand around him and started moving slowly, running your thumb across his sensitive head. He buried his head into your shoulder and groaned loudly as he started to roll his hips against your hand. He was holding his weight with one hand, and he slowly moved the other to cup your breast before he circled his thumb around your nipple. 

“Ted, God,” you moaned and he raised his head and bit your lip before he kissed you. His hand slowly moved away from your breast and trailed down your body, leaving goosebumps in its wake before it settled down between your legs. He slid one long finger through your soaked lips, and he groaned. 

“Fuck, baby girl. All this for me? Such a good girl,” he said before he pushed his finger into you without any resistance. You whined and bucked your hips against his finger, wanting more. He ran his thumb against your sensitive bud once, then twice, testing your reaction. 

His lips moved from your lips to your jawline, to your collarbone, leaving sloppy marks behind them, before he reached your nipple and flattened his tongue against it. 

“Ted!” You whined and arched your back off the bed, trying to get even closer to him, but it wasn’t enough. You wanted him inside you. “Ted, please, God.” He swirled his wet tongue against your hardened nipple before he raised his head and looked at you through his lashes. 

“What do you want, darlin’? Use that pretty mouth of yours.” Your stomach twisted and you felt yourself clench around his fingers as he was moving them inside you in a steady pace.  

“Mmh, you like that, hm?” he asked and placed a soft kiss on your breast again. “You like when I say you’re pretty?” You could only moan as a response and buck your hips against his palm. “How much of a good girl you are? For me?” 

“Ted, I’m-,“ you stuttered and your grip on his arm tightened as a familiar knot started to build in your stomach. His fingers moved masterfully inside you, and he curled them ever so slightly just to reach that perfect spot that made you see stars as his thumb drew tight circles around your clit. Your nerves lit up one by one in your body. 

“My good girl. Is that what you are?” A moan got caught in your throat as your mouth fell agape, rolling your hips harder against his hand, your body wound up like a bow, ready to release at any second. You couldn’t muster up a proper response, only Ted’s name was falling from your lips repeatedly like a prayer. Ted. Ted. Ted. 

“That’s what you are, alright. My best girl. Come for me, darlin’” he whispered into your ears before he planted a sloppy kiss onto your lips and all the sensation was just too much, the bow snapped, and the floodgates opened as you cried out Ted’s name while your orgasm washed over you in crashing waves. 

His fingers fucked you through your orgasm, stalling slowly as you came down from your high. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down into a kiss, biting his bottom lip lightly. 

“I need you,” you whispered against his lips, and he groaned as a response, a wide cocky smile spreading on his face. 

“Insatiable girl,” he replied, gently caressing your clit to tease you. “Use your words, what does my babygirl need?” 

“Fuck, Ted-,” you moaned, squeezing your eyes shut. “I need you inside me, please.” 

He let out a load moan and repositioned himself to fully settle between your thighs, aligning his length with your entrance and slowly pushing in inch by inch. Your eyes watered from the sensation, the stretch was heavenly and you could savour every inch of him as he slowly bottomed out. 

“Shit, darlin’,” he said in a choked voice. “You feel perfect.” 

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him, wiggling your hips to urge him to finally move inside you, and when he did you swore you could see stars. He pulled himself back a bit then pushed in all the way again, setting a steady rhythm. You moved one of your legs to wrap around his waist, anchoring him closer to you, urging him to move deeper and deeper. 

Your high-pitched moans and his noises filled the air of your bedroom, and with each roll of his hips he hit that perfect spot inside you that made you feel like you were in heaven.  

“Harder, please,” you managed to get out between his relentless thrusts, and when his eyes met yours, you saw fire burning behind them. He grabbed your leg and pushed it up against your chest, thrusting in you deeper, harder. 

“Yeah? Dirty girl,” he panted, picking up his pace while he sucked a mark onto your neck. “Parading around in the bar, grinding on strangers like a little whore,” he whispered against your ear, his hot breath tickling your skin as he fucked you senseless. “Just to get my attention-, to make me jealous.” 

“Yes, yes- Ted, my God-,” you moaned, unable to form coherent sentences as his cock hit your sweet spot with every thrust, splitting you in half. You were entangled in each other, your one hand tangling in his hair, the other scratching down his back. 

“Do you sit at your desk every day, dreaming of me fucking you on it?” Sweat was beading on Ted’s forehead, his usually neat hair now a mess as he looked down at you with half-lidded eyes. You felt tension build in your body, the molten pit in your stomach growing with every thrust. Your mind was empty, pleasure took over every inch of your body. 

“Yes, coach,” you whined and Ted could swear he almost fainted when he heard you say that. He rewarded you with a harsh snap of his hips and another kiss. 

“Fuck, darlin’- say that again,” he moaned. 

“Coach Lasso, please-,” you said, already breathless, a whimpering mess under him. He groaned and you felt him twitch inside you, his movements becoming sloppy. He moved his hand to draw tight circles on your clit while fucking you into the mattress, and you arched your back away from the bed, squeezing your eyes shut as you tipped over the edge, your muscles tightening up then loosening all at once as you came with Ted’s name falling from your lips. 

He wanted to live in that moment forever, seeing you as you came, feeling your body react to him so strongly. The snap of his hips started to stutter and suddenly he pulled out of you – the empty feeling jarring all of a sudden -, and came on your stomach. As you both came down from your highs his eyes wandered up and down your body before he leaned down to kiss you. 

“I’m sorry for the mess,” he said, suddenly a bit shy as a faint pink colour danced on his cheeks. 

“No need,” you replied and chuckled. 

“Bathroom?” 

“On the right.” 

“I’ll be right back, don’t move,” he said and quickly hurried to the bathroom and returned with a damp towel to help you clean up, before settling down next to you and pulling a blanket over the both of you. 

“So, this will make work weird, huh?” You asked jokingly, looking up at him. His features were so soft as he looked down at you, like you were the most precious thing he’s ever seen. 

“Or gives us another reason to look forward to it?” He replied and leaned down to kiss you. 

Yeah, that sounded good enough to you. 

[crazyk-imagine]

Crafting and Weather Blurb

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You sit on the bench, minding your own business as you wrap the yarn around your fingers.

“Oi, what’re you workin’ on there, grandma?”

The only person to give you such a rude nickname jogs closer to you, leaning down with his arm resting on his knee.

You roll your eyes. “You’re a little shit, Tartt.”

He chuckles with a wide smirk. “What are you workin’ on?” He shrugs, glancing over your project with genuine interest.

Despite what you may think, he genuinely is interested in the things you make and if he’s able to get a little rise out of you, well, that’s a perk.

You hum, “I’m making leg warmers because it’s so fucking cold here. Ted, lied to me about the weather and now I’m the one dealing with the repercussions.”

“Oh, is that it?” He hums, standing up placing his hands on his head as he stretches. “I wouldn’t know how cold it is.”

You scoff, “yeah cause you run hot.”

He turns to you with his hands still on his head. “You think I’m hot?” he smirks.

You roll your eyes. “I did not say that.”

“Nah, nah,” he teases while jogging down the seats towards the field. “You called me hot.” He spins around, still smirking as he jogs backwards.

“I said run hot! As in you- oh forget it,” you mumble. You huff as your loop falls off your crochet hook. "Little prick, making me lose my place."

[godjustkys]

“𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑳𝑶𝑻.”

SYNOPSIS: sex in the parking lot.

CHARACTER: male reader x ted lasso

NOTE: you guys have no idea how quick i wrote this shit. my dick throbbing just from the idea. i love ted.

kinktober masterlist .

WC: 1,6k

WARNING: car sex,, light overstimulation,, very talkative ted,, creampie,, unprotected sex,, handjob (char receiving),, public sex,, light exhibitionism,,

the car ac clicked faintly, warm air pushing against the windows as the glass fogged over inch by inch. the world outside blurred into vague shapes, nothing but streetlights glowing faint through the haze.

ted shifted in the back seat, his legs brushing yours, his breath coming out quicker than usual. he tried to laugh, but it broke halfway, sounding more like a groan.

“i gotta be honest with ya,” he said, voice hushed but still carrying that trademark lilt, “when i pictured endin’ the night with you, i thought maybe a pint, maybe a cheeky kebab, y’know? not—uh—this.” his words cut off with a shaky gasp when your mouth dragged down his neck.

“you complaining?” you murmured, your hand sliding up under his jumper, fingertips pressing into the warm skin of his stomach.

“oh no, no, sir,” he rushed out, his hand grabbing yours like he needed to keep you there. “complainin’s the last thing on my mind. i’m just—ah, jeez—just tryin’ to wrap my head around how we went from talkin’ about practice drills to me sittin’ here prayin’ nobody walks past this car right now.”

you laughed softly against his throat, lips brushing sensitive skin until he shivered. “focus on me. not the car.”

“focus on you,” he repeated, nodding quickly, though his voice cracked when your thumb slid lower. “easy enough. hell, i been tryin’ not to focus on you for weeks, so i reckon my brain’s real happy to have permission now.”

you caught his mouth with yours before he could keep rambling, and he melted instantly, kissing you back with a hunger that stole his breath. he tasted of mint, his mustache tickling at the edges, his lips warm and clumsy but desperate.

his hand slid up to your chest, fingers curling into your shirt, tugging you closer until his back pressed hard against the door. the car gave a faint groan under the movement, the steering wheel brushing your arm as you leaned further over him.

“lord,” he muttered between kisses, breathless, “i should be tellin’ you we ain’t supposed to be doin’ this, but honest to god, my body’s signin’ a petition that says otherwise.”

your hand pushed lower, and his words cut off in a rough exhale, his head tipping back against the headrest.

“holy—okay, yep, that’s—oh boy.” he bit his lip hard, his breath coming out ragged. “you’re—you’re gonna have me hollerin’ loud enough for rebecca to hear from her office, i swear.”

you smirked against his jaw. “then keep it down.”

he laughed, broken and low, his hands clinging to you. “easier said than done when you’re doin’ that—oh god, okay, yep, nope, i can’t—” his voice cracked into a stifled moan, muffled against your shoulder when he buried his face there.

the car felt too small, too hot, every inch of him pressed tight against you. the windows were fully fogged now, droplets of condensation running down the glass, sealing you in.

“you’re—” his voice faltered, and he tried again, panting. “you’re real bad for my self-control, y’know that? i’ve given pep talks to whole teams about stayin’ disciplined, and here i am losin’ every ounce of willpower ‘cause you—oh hell—‘cause you touch me like that.”

your mouth found his again, swallowing the noises he made, his body shuddering beneath your hands. his legs shifted, bracketing you awkwardly in the cramped space, pulling you closer until you could feel every sharp edge of his body pressed against you.

you pressed of your body to his, your hand working his cock way too good. he groaned quietly, his eyes flitting between you two to look at the action. the heat of your mouth, the rhythm of your hand had him gasping, his voice a low string of curses and half-formed words, rambling through them even as his body tensed and bucked under yours.

“oh my god, oh—jesus, i—yeah, yeah—” his voice cracked, his accent slipping heavier, his sentences falling apart until all that was left were small, helpless sounds. the fogged-up car rocked faintly with the motion, every noise inside amplified in the tight space—the squeak of leather seats, the sharp hitch of his breath, the messy, desperate sounds spilling from his throat no matter how hard he tried to bite them back.

when he finally came, he clutched at you like he might fall apart otherwise, his breath ragged, body trembling, forehead pressed against your collarbone.

for a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the ac and his uneven breathing. the air was thick, heavy, the car warm and damp with heat.

ted let out a shaky laugh, muffled against your shirt. “well,” he rasped, still catching his breath, “that’s one heck of a halftime show. don’t suppose you’re takin’ requests for an encore, are ya?”

he tipped his head back then, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, lips red from kissing. he looked at you with a grin that was both dazed and tender, his chest still rising and falling too fast.

“y’know,” he added, his voice softening, “i think i might be gettin’ spoiled here. and i don’t even care.”

——————————

the leather was creaking under both your weight. ted straddled your lap, knees pressed awkwardly against the backrest, his hands gripping your shoulders like he wasn’t sure if he was steadying himself or just holding on for dear life.

his mustache tickled against your cheek as he tried to kiss you and gasp out words at the same time, his voice spilling in that familiar drawl, quicker and messier now.

“lord have mercy—okay, okay—i swear i don’t usually climb into anybody’s lap like this, not unless we’re on one of those mechanical bulls down in texas—and even then i wasn’t half as nervous as i am right now—oh jesus—” his words cut off in a strangled gasp when your hands gripped his hips, guiding him to take your cock deeper.

you rocked him down into you, slow at first, then harder, and his rambling shattered into a moan so loud he clapped his own hand over his mouth, eyes wide and desperate.

“oh my god,” he whined against his palm, “okay, okay, nope, can’t—don’t know if i can—mfff—”

you pulled his hand away, made him look at you, made him feel everything.

“look at me,” you murmured, and he did, eyes glassy, lips parted, trembling in your hold as you guided him by his hips, making him bounce you.

“i’m—oh god, i’m lookin’, i’m lookin’, don’t worry,” he babbled, voice breaking, “just, uh—yep, yep, definitely seein’ stars here, partner, and i ain’t talkin’ about the kind you pin on a sheriff’s chest—jesus—feels so-mhhhgggh, feels too good, too much—”

his hands slid uselessly against your chest, then your shoulders, clutching and releasing like he couldn’t decide what to do. you moved him with steady strength, your control absolute, and he broke apart under it.

the car rocked gently with the rhythm, windows dripping with condensation now, the small space filled with the sounds he couldn’t keep in—ragged gasps, strangled curses, helpless little moans spilling past every half-finished joke.

“don’t stop, don’t—jesus lord, i mean it, don’t—don’t stop—if you stop i’ll—i’ll just, i dunno, combust or somethin’—turn right into a puff of confetti like one of them birthday cannons—jesus, jesus, jesus—”

you shifted the angle, pressed him down onto you harder, and the noise he made was so raw it made your own restraint snap. his words blurred, tumbling over each other until he was babbling nonsense, too far gone to make sense of anything except the way you kept driving him over and over, holding him exactly where you wanted him.

his forehead dropped to your shoulder, his voice cracking into laughter and sobs all at once, wrecked and overwhelmed. “ohh my god—ah—can’t—can’t take it, but i don’t—don’t want it to stop, please, please, don’t—”

and you didn’t. you kept him moving until he broke apart completely, clinging to you, babbling incoherent words into your neck as the car groaned and the windows blurred everything else away. when he came, he came with utterly no warning, his breath catching on a strangled gasp, uselessly shaking his head against you. the moment you realized what had happened, your cock throbbed inside ted. this guy..

instead of guiding his hips, making him move, you dragged him down until your were balls deep, his ass flush against your pelvis. you rolled your hips in a certain way that made ted’s body twitch in your hold, his hole tightening around you.

it was then that you took over and fucked him nice and deep, muttering praises into ted’s ear to keep him distracted from the overstimulation that came with you continuing after he came. of course, he wouldn’t have complained, never—too much of a people pleaser to do that. but, his hands clenched at anything, any part of your body that he could reach.

because ted was impervious as hell, because he was extremely hot like this, rambling incoherent stuff, his voice slurred, accent more prominent, his words drawn out, breaking mid-way, because he clutched at you like you were the only one anchoring him, it didn’t take a while for you to spill your cum inside him. ted moaned softly, his voice just slightly hoarse as he felt your cock throb and twitch.

when it finally eased, his body went limp against yours, chest heaving, his breath hot and wet against your collar. after a long silence, he let out a shaky laugh. “...well. if i weren’t a god-fearin’ man before, i’d sure as hell be prayin’ now.”

he tipped his head up just enough to grin at you, hair stuck damp to his forehead, lips swollen, eyes still glassy. “you—you got me ridin’ you like a rodeo clown out here. reckon i’m never gonna sit in this seat again without blushin’.”

[thewritermj]

Cont(s)extual Support

Ted Lasso x reader

Summary: Ted Lasso it’s not always great with context, you help him with that. He’s also not very good with his feelings.

🔗 daily activities

Warnings: MDNI - smut. age gap; slight daddy issues; slight angst; oral (f receiving); unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, kids)

A/N: I hate this, this is shit shit shit; I can’t write someone as wholesome as Ted, so he might be off character; also this is way to long, I drag it all too long

You’re told he’ll be easy to spot.

This turns out to be an understatement.

You’re walking down the corridor outside the locker room, mentally reorganizing the briefing Rebecca gave you: press etiquette, tone control, no metaphors involving food or farm animals. But when you see him smiling at a framed motivational poster like it’s just paid him a compliment.

Tracksuit. Moustache. Coffee in hand.

That has to be Ted Lasso.

He looks up when he hears your footsteps, face lighting up instantly, like the hallway has just become a party.

“Well howdy! I’m—”

You stop in front of him and give him a polite, professional smile that doesn’t invite follow-up questions.

“Yes,” you say, anticipating him. “I know. You’re Ted.”

He pauses, then chuckles, unfazed. “Guilty as charged.”

You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, already tired in a very specific way. Not of him. Of the idea of him.

“I’m here to help you,” you continue, efficient. “With press, cultural context, and making sure nothing you say becomes a headline for the wrong reasons.”

He nods along seriously, like you’ve just explained the rules to a game he didn’t realize he was already playing.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he says. “I’ve been told I’m real good at sayin’ things the wrong way with the right intentions.”

You consider that. “That tracks.”

He laughs, soft, genuine, and for half a second you have to remind yourself not to be disarmed by it.

You glance at your watch. “We’re running behind. You have a media appearance in twenty.”

“Time flies when you’re acclimatin’,” he says cheerfully, falling into step beside you without being invited.

You walk. He walks. It’s annoying how naturally he keeps pace.

“So,” he says, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, “on a scale from one to ten, how worried should I be?”

You don’t answer immediately. You watch him out of the corner of your eye: the openness, the complete lack of defensiveness, the way he looks like he expects people to meet him halfway.

“Six,” you say finally.

He brightens. “Oh! That’s better than my ex-wife’s Yelp review.”

You stop walking.

He stops too, immediately, like he’s used to matching other people’s rhythms.

“That was a joke,” he adds gently. “Mostly.”

You hold his gaze for a beat, assessing. Not judging. Just… recalibrating.

“Let’s stick to football and optimism,” you say. “Personal disclosures don’t play well here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says solemnly, then winces. “Sorry. That felt like too much.”

“Correct,” you reply, but there’s no bite in it.

You resume walking. He follows.

As you reach the locker room door, you turn back to him. “I’m not here to change who you are.”

He nods, listening.

“I’m here to make sure who you are doesn’t get misunderstood.”

He smiles at that, not the big one. A smaller, thoughtful version.

“Well,” he says, opening the door for you, “I reckon they picked the right person for the job.”

You step inside, already pulling up your notes, standing just off to the side of the press backdrop, tablet in hand, ready for anything. The AFC Richmond press room is its usual mix of bored scribes and vocal bloggers, and the sponsor logos plastered on the walls somehow make it feel like exactly the place you expected to spend the next few months.

When Ted steps up to the microphone, he smiles; big, barefoot-in-Kansas-again kind of smile, and greets everyone with his signature warmth.

“Afternoon, everybody! How’s your day goin’?” he says cheerfully.

You don’t flinch. But if you had an internal eyebrow, it would be on full raise. Because you know exactly where this goes: somewhere pretty quick and definitely meme-worthy.

A reporter asks about last weekend’s tactics — something about midfield positioning and offside traps: and Ted launches into one of his metaphors. You know the pattern well now: “It’s like biscuits and corners… you want ‘em warm, but not soggy…” and you can already feel the headlines forming.

You step in with less ceremony than you feel, quiet, precise.

“Short answer,” you say just loud enough for Ted to hear, “confident for next week. We’re adjusting, and we’re sticking to the process.”

Ted stops mid-smile.

He turns his head just slightly, and it hits you full force, like he genuinely heard you. It’s the way he tilts his chin, grateful but curious, as if you just saved him from flying prematurely off the rails.

“Right,” Ted says, nodding. “Process. Love it. Thanks for that.”

The journalists blink.

Then the cameras click.

You stay quiet after that, fingers on your tablet, eyes forward, professional, unflappable.

But when the room thins and the last journalist trickles out, you can feel someone watching.

Roy Kent is standing in the doorway; arms crossed, expression unreadable.

He nods once, succinctly.

“That was good,” he says simply.

You don’t blush, of course you don’t, but there’s a small jolt in your chest anyway. Roy’s not one for praise, and you take it seriously.

Then he does something very Roy:

“Your dad coached at Chel–,” he says, and pauses like he’s weighing whether you know he knows. “Chelsea?” he corrects.

Your breath ticks just a fraction. That’s the exact club your father used to manage before he retired; the reason half of London either respects you or rolls their eyes when they hear your name.

You don’t say anything at first.

Roy shrugs, half looking away, half giving a nod of solidarity.

“Figured you for someone with experience,” he grumbles. “Not… this.” His thumb jerks toward the press room. “But you handled that well.”

You stare at him a moment: the guard, the authenticity, the sheer lack of social polish in praise, and realize that this is the first conversation not about Ted, but about you in this environment.

And then, from behind you, Ted strolls up, cheerful & entirely unaware that he’s about to light a fuse.

“Roy! Right on time.” Ted claps Roy on the shoulder. You catch the tail end of that?”

Roy grunts. “Yeah.”

Ted turns to you, still smiling. “You were great in there. Real… uh—” he searches for the word, fingers snapping once. “—efficient.”

You nod. “That was the goal.”

“Mission accomplished,” Ted says easily. “Appreciate you keepin’ me from comparin’ football to baked goods again.”

Roy snorts despite himself.

Ted notices and grins wider. “See? Saved me from myself and entertained Roy. That’s what I call a two-fer.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I don’t know how,” Ted replies cheerfully.

You glance at your tablet, already mentally moving on. “Next media window is Thursday. I’ll send you prep notes tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Ted says. “I’ll read ’em.”

You give him a look that’s not accusatory, just factual.

“I mean it,” he adds quickly. “I’m a big note reader. Big margin guy.”

“Thrilling,” you reply, dry but not unkind.

Roy shifts his weight, clearly done with the conversation. “Training’s startin’.”

“Right,” Ted says. “Duty calls.”

Roy turns to leave, then pauses just long enough to add, without looking back, “You did fine.”

You blink once. “Thanks.”

He nods and walks off.

Ted watches him go, then looks back at you. “High praise. He once told me ‘that didn’t suck’ and I rode that high for a week.”

You almost smile. Almost.

“I’ll get out of your way,” you say, already stepping aside. “You’ve got work to do.”

Ted hesitates like he’s about to say something else, then seems to think better of it.

“Well,” he says, adjusting his jacket, “good teamwork.”

“Yes,” you agree. “It was.”

And that’s it.

You head down the corridor toward your office, already thinking about schedules and headlines and how to phrase don’t say this in a way Ted will actually remember.

Behind you, Ted walks toward the pitch, thinking mostly about drills and formations and whether he’s finally learning what an offside trap actually is.

It’s just another day at AFC Richmond.

Which, for now, is exactly how it should be.

You spend most of the morning trying to keep Ted on a schedule.

This proves harder than it should be, mostly because Ted treats time like a loose suggestion and buildings like friendly mazes.

“Alright,” you say, walking briskly beside him, tablet tucked under your arm. “We need to record a short media bit before training. Two minutes. Very painless.”

“See, that’s what they said about my wisdom teeth,” Ted replies, already veering slightly left. “Turned out to be a whole saga.”

You keep walking, assuming, reasonably, that he’ll follow.

He does. Just not where you expect.

You’re mid-sentence, explaining framing and tone and how British sports media has a very specific allergy to excessive enthusiasm, when the corridor opens up and suddenly you’re not in a hallway anymore.

You’re in the locker room.

You stop.

Not because you’ve never been in one, you’ve been in more locker rooms than most people your age, but because this one is full. Players half-dressed, half-lacing boots, voices bouncing off tiled walls. People you haven’t met. People who weren’t on your calendar.

There’s a beat.

Then a whistle.

Then another.

A couple of appreciative murmurs ripple through the room—not aggressive, not obscene, just the unmistakable sound of a room full of footballers clocking a very attractive woman where they weren’t expecting one.

You straighten automatically. Professional reflex.

Ted stops too, finally noticing where you are.

“Well,” he says mildly, clapping his hands once. “Mornin’, fellas.”

The noise dips, but not entirely.

Ted doesn’t rush you out. He doesn’t joke about it either. He just shifts a step closer to you, not touching, just… present.

“Alright,” he adds, voice calm, friendly, unembarrassed. “Eyes up. We’ve got trainin’ in five, and I promise you the pitch is way more impressive than I am.”

A few chuckles. Someone mutters an apology. The room settles.

Ted glances at you, lowering his voice. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you say. And you are. Just caught off-guard.

“Good,” he replies easily. Then, to the room at large: “This is—” He pauses, looks at you. “Actually, you wanna do the honors?”

You sigh internally. Outwardly, you nod. “I’m here to make sure he doesn’t say something that gets quoted out of context,” you say. “Carry on.”

That earns you a laugh.

You turn back to Ted. “Media. Two minutes. Before training.”

“Right,” he says. “After this very educational detour.”

You pivot toward the exit. Ted follows.

Behind you, you hear Coach Beard’s voice: dry, unmistakable.

“Did you know who her dad is?”

Ted slows half a step. “Can’t say I do.”

“Former Chelsea manager,” Beard says casually. “Retired. Bit of a legend. Bit of a nightmare, depending who you ask.”

Ted hums, absorbing that. He doesn’t look at you yet.

“Huh,” he says. “That explains the walk.”

You glance back despite yourself. “The walk?”

“Confident,” Ted replies, smiling, still easy. “Like you know where you belong.”

You don’t respond to that. You just keep moving, already recalculating the day’s agenda now that it’s run five minutes behind.

Behind you, Beard raises an eyebrow at Ted.

Ted shrugs lightly. “Huh.”

And then he follows you out, back into the corridor, back into the day.

The days start to blur together in a way that feels oddly reassuring.

You arrive earlier than Ted. That becomes a pattern. You like the quiet before the building wakes up: the hum of lights, the smell of coffee, the pitch still untouched. Higgins is usually already there, shuffling papers with the gentle panic of a man who has never once been truly angry in his life.

“Oh! Morning,” Leslie Higgins says, smiling like he’s relieved you exist. “If you’re looking for Rebecca, she’s in early meetings. Very… Rebecca meetings.”

You nod. “I’ll catch her later.”

Rebecca does catch you later, always impeccably timed. Rebecca Welton sweeps into the hallway, eyes sharp, heels decisive.

“He behaving?” she asks, already knowing the answer will be complicated.

“Yes,” you say honestly. “Mostly.”

She smiles. “Good. Let me know if that changes.”

Keeley is everywhere and nowhere all at once. Keeley Jones appears at your desk one afternoon with a coffee you didn’t ask for and exactly the kind of grin that suggests she’s already clocked you.

“So,” she says, perching on the edge of the desk. “You’re the one keeping Ted from saying something unhinged, yeah?”

“Trying to,” you reply.

She beams. “Love that for you. If you ever want to pivot into branding, call me.”

Jamie Tartt takes longer.

At first, Jamie Tartt just looks at you like he’s deciding whether you’re worth impressing. Eventually, he nods once, like you’ve passed some invisible test.

“You know football,” he says, surprised.

“Yes,” you answer flatly.

“Cool,” he replies, and that’s the end of it.

Roy remains… Roy. Roy Kent communicates mostly in grunts and looks, but he starts looping you into conversations without comment. A schedule tweak here. A timing question there. Functional. Efficient.

Nate hovers. Nate Shelley watches everything, offers suggestions just a second too late, nods when spoken to. You treat him the same way you treat everyone else, polite, direct, neutral. He seems to relax around that.

And Ted.

Ted is… Ted.

Ted Lasso starts showing up when you say he should. Not early. Not impressively. Just… on time. He reads your notes, you can tell because he uses your phrasing, carefully, like he’s trying it on.

You walk together sometimes. Not deliberately, just because your paths overlap. You talk about schedules, and press, and how British weather feels personal.

Once, in the middle of the hallway, he stops walking.

“Oh,” he says. “I almost forgot. I didn’t compare training to baked goods today.”

You blink. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “Growth.”

It’s easy. That’s the strange part.

You stop bracing. He stops overperforming. The building starts to feel smaller, friendlier; like a place where things function. Just a routine forming around you.

And if, occasionally, you catch Ted repeating one of your sentences word for word in a press scrum, or Keeley grinning at you like she knows something you don’t, you ignore it.

This is just work. Good work.

The kind that sneaks up on you and makes you forget you were ever annoyed in the first place.

You don’t usually stay for training.

Your job technically ends once the media schedule is locked and Ted’s pre-practice obligations are handled. But today, he lingers after the last interview, chatting with Higgins about biscuits, and by the time you look up, the pitch is already alive with movement.

“Y’all mind stickin’ around a bit?” Ted asks, almost offhand, like it’s no bigger deal than staying for coffee. “Might be good for you to see how the team works!”

“Yeah, sure. Could be fun,” you say. Which is true.

You stand at the edge of the pitch, arms folded loosely, watching drills reset. Jamie’s shouting at someone. Roy’s scowling at everyone. It’s familiar territory, even if the badge on the kit is different.

Ted jogs over, whistle hanging from his neck.

“Hey,” he says, holding it out to you. “You wanna blow my whistle?”

There’s a beat.

He blinks.

You blink.

He freezes completely, realization hitting him a second too late.

“I—” Ted clears his throat, already laughing at himself. “I mean— just the whistle. For the drill. Not—” He gestures vaguely with his hands, making it worse. “You know. That. Jee, guess I just got out of context uh…”

You tilt your head, a giggle escaping your lips. “It’s okay. That’s why I’m here.”

Roy snorts from nearby and Coach Beard coughs awkwardly.

Ted exhales, relieved. “Thank you. For savin’ me from myself.”

You take the whistle, testing it once, sharp, clean, authoritative. The players respond immediately, resetting without complaint.

Ted’s eyebrows lift, impressed. “Well I’ll be darned.”

Practice rolls on.

You stay close to Ted as he calls instructions, occasionally murmuring something logistical: timing, rotation, when to wrap for press access. It’s easy. Functional. Normal.

Too normal, apparently.

Isaac jogs past, grinning. “Didn’t know we hired football royalty.”

You don’t react. You’ve learned not to.

Ted, however, looks up. “Royalty?”

“Her dad,” Jamie says, like it’s obvious. “Chelsea. Big deal. Proper legend.”

A couple of players whistle, the other kind this time, good-natured, impressed.

“Ohhh,” Ted says, nodding slowly. “Yeah, that. I forgot, but it does explain a lot though, right?.”

You glance at him. “It explains nothing.”

Roy cuts in without looking at you. “It explains the fucking confidence.”

The murmurs pick up again. Compliments layered with curiosity, nothing hostile, just the energy of a team that’s noticed someone new.

Ted claps his hands once, sharp but calm. “Alright, fellas. Appreciate the enthusiasm, but let’s dial it back.”

They quiet down.

Ted smiles, easy, self-aware. “Trust me, I get distracted by pretty things too. That’s why we’re focusin’.”

A couple of groans. Someone laughs. The drill resumes.

Ted leans slightly toward you, you hand the whistle back to him. “They’ll forget by tomorrow.”

Ted smiles at that. “Yeah. Football memories are selective like that It’s the goldfish rule.”

You tilt your head, but you don’t ask, stepping back toward the sideline as training winds down, already mentally shifting back to schedules and deadlines.

Ted watches the players reset, then glances your way once more, not lingering, not searching.

Just checking that everything’s where it should be.

And it is.

It’s unusual for you to stay this late.

Not because you hate it here, you don’t, but because your Friday nights generally includes pubs, friends, loud music, and the comforting certainty of a second drink. Tonight just… slipped. A few emails became notes, notes became rewrites, and suddenly the building feels different: quieter, hollowed out, like it’s exhaling.

You’re on your way to the cafeteria because you realize, too late, that you forgot to eat dinner.

The lights are dimmed to night-mode brightness, vending machines humming softly like they’re keeping watch. You round the corner, half-looking at your phone, and nearly run straight into someone.

“Oh—sorry,” you say automatically, stepping back.

Ted freezes like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“No, that’s on me,” he says quickly. “I zigged when I should’ve zagged.”

You look at him properly then.

No tracksuit jacket. Sleeves rolled up. Tie loosened and abandoned somewhere else entirely. He looks… tired. Not dramatically so. Just worn in a way that suggests he’s been sitting at his desk for a long time, staring at something that isn’t a screen.

“Didn’t think anyone else was still here,” you say.

“Likewise,” he replies, holding up a mug you’re fairly certain has seen better days. “Figured I’d lost a game of chicken with my own inbox.”

You gesture toward the coffee machine. “That brave enough to try the cafeteria stuff this late?”

He winces. “Brave might be a strong word.”

You grab a bottle of water from the fridge, leaning against the counter while he fiddles with

the machine like it’s a puzzle box. For a moment, neither of you talks.

It’s not awkward. Just quiet.

“Long day?” you ask, eventually.

Ted hums. “Yeah. You?”

“Normal,” you shrug. “I don’t usually stay late. Just… felt like it.”

He nods, like that makes perfect sense. “I get that.”

The coffee machine finally sputters to life. Ted watches it with more focus than strictly necessary.

“You ever notice,” he says casually, “that when you’re keepin’ busy, it feels like you’re outrunnin’ somethin’? And then the second you stop, it catches up?”

You glance at him. He’s still watching the coffee.

“Yeah,” you say. “That’s usually when I go to a pub.”

He smiles at that. Not big. Just appreciative.

“I keep tellin’ myself I’ll do that,” he says. “Then I… don’t. ‘Cause I’m an old fart.”

You don’t comment on that. You don’t need to.

He takes his mug, blows on it once, then realizes it’s probably too hot anyway. You stand there a moment longer than either of you planned to.

Ted takes a careful sip of his coffee, immediately regretful. “Yep. That’s… lava.”

“You never learn,” you say.

“Nope,” he agrees cheerfully. “But I stay optimistic about it.”

You smile softl and take another sip of your water. The vending machine hum fills the space where conversation could be forced, but isn’t.

Ted leans his hip against the counter, relaxed now, like the building being empty has taken some of the performance pressure off.

“Back home,” he starts, “we had this diner that stayed open all night. Place smelled like barbecue sauce on a Sunday. I used to go there after games sometimes. Sit in a booth, pretend I was thinkin’ about strategy when really I was just starin’ at the menu.”

“What stopped you from going?”

Ted shrugs. “Life, I guess. Marriage. Kid. Turns out routines sneak up on you.”

He says it lightly. No pause. No fishing for sympathy.

You respect that.

“I like routines,” you say. “As long as they don’t trap you.”

Ted smiles, small and thoughtful. “That’s a good rule.”

He takes another sip of coffee, braver this time. “Back home, silence used to scare me a little. Felt like it meant someone was upset. Or disappointed.”

“And now?”

“And now,” he says, lifting his mug in a small, self-aware toast, “I’m learnin’ that sometimes it just means folks are comfortable.”

You nod, silent.

“You know,” he adds, more casually, “I like that you don’t rush to fill the quiet either. Makes it feel… honest.”

You consider that for a moment. “I talk all day,” you say. “Press, meetings, people explaining things they already know. Silence feels like a luxury.”

But you don’t stay silent: you talk.

Football, American, England, Coach Beard, the Championship, Ted’s strategies, how Roy howls like a mad dog and about, well, everything. Ted has this power over people, they open up to him, they like him, it’s almost impossible not to. You’d know, you tried not to like him; he’s the exact opposite of your father; you father would call him a pussy, or…well, a wanker for how soft he handles his team, but it’s quite…genuine how much he cares about those players.

After a while, he glances at the clock on the wall and sighs. “Yeah. Probably shouldn’t make a habit of sleepin’ in my office.”

“That sounds like a routine that traps you,” you point out.

He laughs, genuine and easy. “See? Already learnin’.”

You start toward the exit together. At the doors, he pauses, opens it for you and closes it after him.

“Hey,” he says. “Thanks for hangin’ back tonight. Not for work reasons. Just… in general.”

You consider that. “You’re welcome.”

He nods, satisfied with that answer.

“See you Monday?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say. “Bright and early. I’ll try not to let you get lost.”

He grins. “Appreciate the faith.”

You step out into the cool night air, hands in your pockets, already thinking about a warm bath and your bed.

Behind you, Ted watches you go for a second, then sighs and heads home, alone.

The weeks pass almost without you noticing. What starts as coordination turns into routine, and routine into something easier. You’ve ended up at the Crown & Anchor more than once; one beer turning into two, Ted and Beard debating music you pretend not to judge.

You travel with the team now, sit a few rows back on the bus, learn who needs quiet before matches and who needs noise. Ted still calls you “professional” with a smile, but somewhere along the way, the conversations drift off-script: late-night coffee, dumb jokes, honest silences. Nothing is said.

Nothing needs to be. And still, something subtle shifts, the kind of familiarity that sneaks in before either of you realize it’s no longer just part of the job.

It’s well past when you should both be here, again.

The building has gone quiet in that way that feels almost reverent, lights dimmed, hallways empty, the distant hum of the city leaking in through the windows. Ted’s been buried in match footage for hours now, rewinding the same sequence like if he stares long enough it’ll change.

It doesn’t.

You’re sitting across from him at the small table in his office, legs tucked under you, laptop open but forgotten. You stayed because you wanted to finish a thing. You stayed because he didn’t ask you to leave. You stayed because, at some point, it stopped feeling like work.

Ted rubs his face with both hands and exhales.

“Alright,” he says, forcing a smile. “If I rewind this again, I think the tape’s gonna file a restrainin’ order.”

You glance up. “You’re spiraling.”

He laughs softly. “Yeah. That obvious, huh?”

“You’ve watched the same clip six times.”

“Seven,” he corrects. “But who’s countin’?”

You close your laptop. The click sounds loud in the quiet.

“Come sit over here,” you say, nodding to the couch against the wall.

Ted hesitates, just a fraction, then stands, carrying his mug with him like it’s an anchor. He sits at the opposite end of the couch at first, polite distance, posture careful.

You don’t comment on it. For a few minutes, you just sit. No agenda. No screen. The silence isn’t awkward — it’s the kind you talked about before.

Ted breaks it.

“You ever notice,” he says, voice lower now, less performative, “how loneliness sneaks up on you? Like you think you’re doin’ fine, and then one night it just… sits down next to you.”

You turn slightly toward him. “Yeah. When I was a kid, my father was always away, we lived in this big ass house…I felt like I was alone in the world, and in every room I entered, loneliness was there, waiting for me. Eventually, when he was there, I still felt alone…But hey, at least he gave me a Ferrari when I turned 18, right?”

That earns you a laugh, short, but humoured.

He nods, staring at his coffee. “I keep tellin’ myself I’m keepin’ busy. That it’s healthy. New chapter, all that jazz.”

“And?”

“And I think I might just be avoidin’ the quiet,” he admits. No joke this time.

You shift closer, not dramatically, just enough that your knee brushes his. Neither of you moves away.

“You don’t feel lonely like a sad person,” you say gently. “You feel lonely like someone who doesn’t want to be a burden.”

That makes him look at you. Really look at you. There’s something open in his expression now. Vulnerable. Careful.

“I hate that you see me so clearly,” he says, not accusing. Just honest.

“I don’t think you hate it,” you reply.

The space between you feels… thinner. Charged in a way that has nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with awareness.

Ted swallows. “I shouldn’t—” he starts, then stops himself. Shakes his head. “Sorry. That’s not fair.”

“What is?” you ask quietly.

“Wantin’ things I don’t have any business wantin’,” he says. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, and that somehow makes it worse.

You shift again, closer now, shoulder almost touching his arm.

“Do you always assign morality to feelings?” you ask.

Ted huffs a soft laugh. “Only the inconvenient ones. I’m over ten years older than you, yah know.”

You cock an ironic eyebrow at him.

“I said over” he humours.

That earns a small smile from you.

The couch suddenly feels too small. Ted’s aware of your perfume, subtle, warm; the way your blouse slips just slightly at the shoulder when you lean back, the fact that your leg is pressed against his now, undeniably hot through the fabric.

He doesn’t touch you. That’s the problem. Silence crashes in around that.

Ted turns to you, heart pounding, every instinct screaming caution and every other instinct screaming don’t you dare walk away from this.

You’re close enough now that he can feel the heat of you. Close enough that if he leaned in even a centimetre— He doesn’t.

Instead, he rests his forearms on his knees, grounding himself, voice rough.

“We sure do like working over late, uh? Boss owns us a raise, don’t yah think?”

“Yeah…Like I need yet more money” You said, no emotion in your voice.

You sit there, knees touching, shoulders brushing, the weight of what you’ve just quietly agreed settling between you like a living thing.

When you finally stand to leave, it’s slower. Careful.

“Good night, Ted,” you say, voice a little softer than usual.

“Night,” he replies. “Get home safe.”

You pause at the door, glance back once.

He’s still on the couch, hands clasped, eyes following you with an expression that is no longer neutral, no longer confused.

It’s wanting.

And when the door closes behind you, comes the mutual felling that the ground has shifted.

Ted tells himself he’s just havin’ a good day.

Practice went smooth. Nobody yelled. Nobody threw a cone. Roy only swore three times, which feels like progress. Ted’s feelin’ downright accomplished as he heads toward the locker room, rehearsin’ in his head how he’s gonna compliment the team.

That’s when he hears Jamie.

“Oi,” he says, stretching like he owns the place. “So, uh… your media person. She comin’ to trainin tomorrow too?” the accent sparking up.

Ted pauses.

“Maybe,” he says lightly. “Depends on her schedule.”

Jamie grins. “Yeah? She’s fit, very very hot.”

A couple of chuckles ripple through the room.

Ted laughs along, because that’s what you do. “Well, she is very good at her job,” he says. “Also very good at not bein’ reduced to adjectives, so let’s keep it that way.”

“Relax, coach,” Jamie replies. “Just talkin’.”

Ted nods. Keeps smiling. Feels something twist anyway.

Then Sam pipes up.

“Actually,” he says, earnest as ever, “I think she has very good energy. Very calm. It is… grounding.”

That one lands different.

Ted’s smile falters, not visibly, not to anyone else, but inside, it’s like someone moved the furniture without askin’.

“Well,” Ted says, clappin’ his hands once, a little louder than necessary, “sounds like we’re all big fans of my…erm, of her, today.”

Roy looks up from the white board, eyes narrowing.

“What’s your problem?” he asks.

Ted blinks. “I don’t have a problem.”

Roy stares at him for a second longer. Then scoffs. “Right.”

For the next day, you don’t ask to go watch the practice, neither does he asks you to. Ted coaches. Ted jokes. Ted does his job.

And all the while, there’s this stupid, inconvenient awareness buzzin’ under his skin: the image of you leanin’ against the counter late at night, talkin’ about routines. About space. About pubs.

Get a grip, Theodore, he thinks.

After training, he runs straight into Rebecca.

Literally.

“Oh!” Rebecca says, steadying herself. “Careful.”

“Sorry,” Ted says. “Corners and hallways continue to be my nemeses.”

She smiles, then studies him a second too long.

“You alright?” she asks.

“Fit as a fiddle,” he replies automatically.

“Mmm,” she hums. “That’s not an answer.”

Ted sighs, just a little. “Hypothetically,” he says, lowering his voice, “if a fella found himself… distracted by someone he absolutely should not be distracted by, what would you recommend?”

Rebecca’s eyebrow lifts. “Hypothetically.”

“Purely academic,” Ted confirms.

She considers him carefully. “I’d recommend he ask himself why. And whether he plans to do anything about it.”

Ted nods. “And if the answer to that second part is ‘absolutely not’?”

“Then,” Rebecca says gently, “he should probably stop pretending he doesn’t feel it.”

That hits harder than any pep talk ever could.

Ted watches you cross the corridor a moment later, tablet tucked under your arm, focused, entirely unaware of the storm you’re causing by simply existing.

You smile at him in passing. Professional. Easy.

He smiles back, then, the smiles fades.

The win feels unreal in the best possible way.

Ted’s still riding it when Keeley claps her hands in the locker room like she’s calling a meeting no one can escape. Seventies night. Proper one. A club she knows. Theme mandatory. Complaints denied.

“Coach,” Jamie calls out, toweling his hair, “you get to relive your teenage years.”

Ted grins. “Buddy, if I dressed like I did in my teens, we’d all be in trouble, and not the fun kind.”

Nate snorts. “Math doesn’t check out anyway.”

Sam laughs. “I think Coach would be more… disco-adjacent.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Ted says solemnly. “I’ve always identified as adjacent.”

They all tag along. Bus, laughter, music already thumping in Ted’s head before they even get there. It’s loud and bright and exactly the kind of celebration he tells himself he’s good at: group joy, nothing complicated.

Then you walk in.

Ted doesn’t clock the room anymore. Doesn’t clock the music or the lights or Jamie preening like he’s been waiting his whole life for flared trousers. He clocks you.

Behind him, Coach Beard widen his eyes “Holy Mary Mother of God”

Short white skirt. Purple, sparkly blouse that catches the light every time you move, with a crazy low cut that highlight the swell of your chest. Go-go boots like you stepped out of a poster someone put on his bedroom wall in 1979. You look confident, easy, like this is fun, not a costume, not a performance.

Ted sucks the breath in, trying to stead himself from the imagine carved on his brain.

A few of the guys notice immediately.

There are whistles. Compliments shouted over the music. Isaac does a double take. Jamie smiles that smile, the one that usually works.

You take it all in stride, laughing it off, already waving Keeley over, already part of the night.

Ted tells himself to look away.

He doesn’t.

It’s not hunger, exactly. It’s… attention. The kind that sticks. The kind that makes everything else feel slightly out of focus. He watches you talk, move, dance, watches how you belong here as easily as you belong in the office or on the bus or leaning against a counter at midnight.

Someone bumps his shoulder. Beard, probably.

“Careful there Coach,” Beard says dryly. “You’re staring.”

Ted blinks, finally tearing his eyes away. “I was just… appreciatin’ the seventies.”

Beard’s mouth twitches. “Uh-huh.”

Ted laughs, shakes it off, joins the group on the floor because that’s what a coach does when his team wins. He dances badly. He commits to it. He earns groans and cheers in equal measure.

And still, every time the lights sweep the room, his eyes find you again.

You catch him once. Just a glance. Not a moment. You smile, friendly, easy, and turn back to Keeley like nothing’s changed.

Ted’s chest tightens anyway, and so does his khakis.

Get it together, he tells himself. You’re forty-something. She’s not, she’s half your age. This is a celebration.

He dances harder. Laughs louder. Pretends the music is the reason his pulse won’t quite settle.

But even as the night rolls on, disco ball spinning, team shouting the chorus to a song none of them know the words to; Ted Lasso knows one thing for sure: he wants you. And the math, inconvenient as it is, keeps doing itself.

Then you start dancing.

Not for anyone in particular. That’s the problem.

You move like you’re comfortable in your body, like you don’t need to perform or prove anything. Hips loose, shoulders relaxed, hands occasionally lifting to the rhythm like the music belongs to you as much as anyone else. The skirt flares when you turn, the skin of your ass is just a glimpse, the blouse catches the light every time you shift.

Ted doesn’t mean to watch, like a creep. He does anyway.

Jamie drifts in first, of course. He says something in your ear and you laugh, head tipping back just slightly. Ted feels something sharp spark behind his ribs, unexpected and unwelcome.

You don’t get to feel that, he tells himself.

Then Isaac joins, spinning you out and back in with exaggerated flair. Sam claps along from the side-lines, smiling like he’s genuinely happy for everyone involved. The boys orbit you easily, drawn in by the same gravity Ted is pretending not to feel.

Ted stands near the edge of the floor, beer untouched in his hand. He’s smiling. He always is. Inside, he’s cataloguing everything he shouldn’t be noticing: the way your hand rests briefly on someone’s shoulder before moving away, the way you never stay pressed to anyone for long, the fact that your laughter sounds the same whether it’s directed at Jamie or Keeley or no one at all.

That helps. A little.

Then you glance over and catch him watching. Just for a second. You don’t look surprised. You don’t look smug. You just smile, soft and familiar, and lift your chin in a silent question.

You coming or not?

Ted’s heart stutters. He shakes his head reflexively, mouthing “I’m good”, but you’re already moving toward him, weaving through the crowd with that same easy confidence. When you stop in front of him, the music feels louder suddenly, the space between you thinner.

“You look like you’re overthinking,” you shout over the music.

“I do that,” he admits. “It’s one of my core competencies.”

You laugh, step closer so he can hear you better. He catches the faintest trace of your perfume and has to remind himself to breathe.

“Come on,” you say, already reaching for his hand.

You don’t tug. You don’t insist. You just wait.

Ted hesitates, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants to too much. Because this feels like crossing something invisible and important and once he’s on the other side of it, pretending will be harder. Then the music shifts, slower now, heavier, and he realizes everyone is already watching him fail to decide.

“Well,” he says, surrendering with a crooked smile, “I have been told growth happens outside one’s comfort zone.”

You grin and pull him onto the floor.

Ted dances badly. There’s no fixing that, but you don’t laugh at him. You dance with him, adjusting instinctively, giving him space, letting him find the rhythm at his own pace. At one point, you turn, back to his chest for half a beat, not pressing, just close enough that he feels the heat of you through fabric.

His breath catches. His hands hover uselessly at his sides, like he’s afraid to put them anywhere, but the way you’re swaying your hips makes him close his eyes for a second, feeling the electricity burning through him, his hands move, instinctively hovering over your waist, almost touching.

You glance back over your shoulder, eyes meeting his. “Relax,” you say softly.

The colourful lights shine bright in your face, and makes you look like something that came out from a dream, his dream, it’s almost ethereal, like the whole world exists just for you.

Ted swallows. You laugh and turn back, spinning away before he can say anything.

But now, standing there, moving together in the low light, Ted knows something he can’t unknown: you’re incredibly, undeniably, sexy.

And when the song ends and you step away, smiling like nothing seismic just happened, Ted forces himself to smile back, even if he liked the feeling of your body on his, or the fact everyone was to drunk to notice the tightness in his pants, the math hasn’t changed. But neither has the way you look at him.

It happens fast enough that you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

One second you’re at the edge of the dance floor, laughing with Keeley, catching your breath. The next, there’s a body too close behind you, not brushing past, not accidental. Stationary. Intentional.

You step sideways.

He steps with you.

You turn, polite reflex ready, already rehearsing a dismissive smile, and the smile dies before it reaches your mouth.

He’s taller than you expected. Older. Not drunk enough to be sloppy, which somehow makes it worse. His gaze doesn’t flicker or slide away when you meet it; it stays, heavy, appraising, darting lower.

“Hey,” he says, too familiar. “Been tryin’ to get your attention.”

“I’m not interested,” you reply calmly, already angling to move past him.

He blocks you.

Not aggressively. Casually, like it’s nothing.

“You don’t gotta be rude,” he says, leaning in, lowering his voice. “Just wanna talk.”

“I said no.”

That’s when his hand closes around your arm.

Not hard enough to bruise, yet, not soft enough to ignore.

Firm and possessive, making your stomach drops.

You don’t panic. You don’t scream. You straighten instead, spine locking into place, eyes sharpening as you pull once, testing his grip.

“Let go,” you say, low and controlled.

He smiles: thin, amused, and tightens his fingers just slightly. “Relax. You’re safe.”

The lie in that makes your chest tighten.

Before you can react again, a voice cuts cleanly through the noise.

“What seems to be the problem, buddy?”

Ted’s voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be, it carries.

The man turns, annoyed, still holding you. Ted is already there, standing close enough now that the space feels suddenly very small, his wide shoulders squared, posture relaxed but unyielding. His expression is calm, almost gentle.

“That’s my friend,” Ted continues evenly. “And she’s asked you to let go.”

The man scoffs. “We’re just talkin’.”

Ted nods once, understanding something the man doesn’t realize he’s already lost.

“Conversation ends when one person says no,” Ted says. “That’s how it works.”

There’s no aggression in his tone. No threat.

Ted steps closer, not into the man’s space, but into yours, positioning himself between you without touching you yet.

The man hesitates.

Ted’s eyes don’t leave his. “I’m gonna count to three,” he adds mildly. “And you’re gonna let go of her arm before I have to ask someone with a lot less patience to help you understand.”

That’s when the grip loosens, his hand drops away.

Ted’s arm comes around you instantly, not tight, not claiming — just enough to anchor you against him, his palm warm and steady at your back.

“Good choice,” Ted says pleasantly, already guiding you a step away. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

The man mutters something under his breath but doesn’t follow. Ted doesn’t look back.

He walks you toward the wall, body angled protectively, not rushing, not hovering, just present in a way that makes your breathing finally slow.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “I just—” you start, and then you laugh weakly. “God, that was stupid.”

“Nope,” Ted says immediately. “That was not stupid.”

You sniff, blinking hard. “I just wanted to dance.”

“I know,” he replies, voice low and steady. “You didn’t do a single thing wrong.”

That does it.

Your shoulders slump, the tension rushing out of you all at once, and Ted reacts without thinking: one hand coming up to rest lightly between your shoulder blades, grounding, warm.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “How ’bout we get some air, yeah?”

You nod again, this time leaning just slightly into his touch.

Outside, the night is cool and mercifully quiet. You breathe in deep, head spinning a little now that you’re no longer moving. Ted hails a cab, one arm hovering near you like he’s ready to catch you if needed. When you stumble stepping off the curb, he does catch you, his arm wrapping around your waist to steady you.

“You gotcha,” he says softly.

You laugh, breathless. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.”

“I believe you,” he says. “But I don’t mind bein’ a safety net.”

You don’t really remember why, but you ask him not to let you go home; you just remembered the feeling of an empty house, where loneliness haunts each corner.

The car ride passes by like a flash, when you step out onto the pavement, your heel slips again, and this time you don’t even pretend you’ve got it. Ted’s arm comes around you properly now, solid at your back, guiding you toward the door.

You can feel him, heat, strength, the careful way he keeps you close without pulling you in.

“You alright?” he asks again.

“Yeah,” you say. “You make a good safety net.”

Ted flashes a smile, the big ones.

“Well, thank you ma’am”

Inside his flat, the door clicks shut behind you, cutting off the world entirely. You sway slightly, still holding onto him, forehead briefly brushing his shoulder.

“Wow,” you murmur and turn slowly, taking it in. “So this is where you live.”

Ted watches you look around like he’s seeing the place for the first time too. It’s modest. Lived-in. Books stacked where they shouldn’t be, framed photos that suggest memories he hasn’t quite unpacked yet.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She ain’t fancy, but she’s sturdy. Kinda like me, if I’m bein’ generous.”

You smile, swaying just a little, and he’s there immediately.

“Alright,” he says gently. “Let’s introduce you to Mr. Couch over there. You sit.”

You let him guide you, pliant now, the adrenaline finally ebbing. The cushions dip beneath you, soft and comforting.

“I’ll be right back,” he adds.

Ted returns after a few minutes with a mug of coffee, steam curling up between you, and a small bowl of crackers he sets on the table like it’s a peace offering.

“Hydration,” he says. “And carbs. Doctor Ted’s orders.”

You accept the mug with both hands. “You’re very… competent.”

“Well,” he smiles, sitting beside you but not touching, “I pride myself on bein’ prepared for exactly every emergencies.”

You take a sip, sigh softly. Your feet shift, restless.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Can I?”

You blink. “Can you…?”

He gestures, a little sheepish, toward your boots.

You laugh, tired and warm. “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

You lean back against the couch arm as he shifts closer, careful, deliberate. He lifts your legs gently, resting your calves across his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands are warm as he unzips the go-go boots, sliding them off one at a time.

Long fingers running along your skin, like a ghostly touch, that makes your body shivers and you almost pull away, being only held by his gentle grip on your ankles. He sets your boots on the floor.

“Lord,” he murmurs, thumbs pressing lightly into the arch of your foot. “These are sore.”

You exhale before you mean to.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I wear heels a lot.”

“Well,” he says softly, fingers firm but considerate as he starts to knead the tension away, “you just earned yourself a Ted Lasso’s Coupon for a Free Massage. Congratulations, you can use right away!” he jokes, using a commercial voice that makes you giggle.

His hands are confident, but not rushed. He works his thumbs slowly, circling, pressing just enough to make your toes curl. You sink deeper into the couch, eyes fluttering shut, a satisfied groan leaving your throat.

“You’re… really good at that.”

Ted swallows, gaze fixed on what he’s doing like he doesn’t trust himself to look higher. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been told I’ve got a knack for takin’ care of people.”

His fingers slide up just slightly, tracing the line of your ankle, lingering there; his thumbs dig into your skin in circular motions, easing the soreness away, every movement takes a heavy sigh of relieve from you, or a humming sound that makes Ted’s ears perk up, imagining which other sounds you could make for him.

One foot, then the other, his hands grounding and gentle and entirely too intimate for how quiet the room has become. You simply lie there, legs draped over him, warmth blooming where his hands move higher now, deliberate; you don’t think Ted realize what he’s doing, big hands scanning up your calf, a hot trail left behind, going higher and higher until it reaches your knees.

You let out a low moan, that escaped past your lips before you could register it.

“You’re okay?” he asks, quietly, voice dropping to a tune you’ve never heard before.

Instead of answering, you shift, just enough that your leg presses more fully into his lap. The fabric of your skirt rides up slightly, skin warm beneath his palms. Your foot flexes once, unconsciously, and his grip tightens for a fraction of a second.

His hands slide up another inch, tentative, thumbs brushing the back of your knee and the inside of your tight now, where the skin is softer, more sensitive. The touch is different, less practical, more intentional.

“Still okay?” he murmurs.

You tilt your head, watching him from beneath your lashes.

“It’s okay for you to touch me, Ted, anyway you want.”

That lands.

His jaw tightens, just a bit. His hands move again, firmer now, following the line of your leg upward, careful but undeniably intimate; he grips the flesh of your inner thighs with strength, it’s not about the soreness anymore, it’s about the way your body reacts under his hands.

Your breath catches, you don’t hide it. You crack your thighs open just an inch, barely noticeable, silently allowing him to go all the way.

Ted notices. He always notices.

“Hey,” he says, almost to himself. “We should probably—”

You reach out then, fingers curling around his wrist, the contact is electric.

Ted freezes, pulse hammering beneath your touch. He looks at your hand on his wrist, then up at you, eyes dark with something he’s no longer pretending isn’t there.

“If I keep goin’,” he says quietly, “I don’t know how easy it’ll be to stop.”

Your thumb brushes his skin once. Barely there.

“I know,” you say.

Silence stretches between you, thick and charged. Then, you shift closer on the couch, legs still draped over him, your body angled toward his now, spine erect as much as you can. Close enough that he can feel the heat of you without even touching.

Ted exhales, shaky but controlled, and lets his hand settle exactly where it is, grounding himself in the restraint; fingertips burning where he grips tightens.

“Don’t stop” you ask, your voice so low it’s almost a whisper.

His jaw tightens at that, something dark and hungry flickering across his face before he reins it back just enough to stay present. His hands don’t rush. They explore. Learn. Slide higher until your skirt bunches beneath his fingers, the heat of you unmistakable.

You lean forward without thinking, drawn in by the gravity of him. Your hands find his shoulders again, steadying yourself, pressing closer until there’s barely any space left between you. Ted’s breath hitches when your body settles against his, the warmth, the softness, the undeniable truth of how much he wants you right there.

“Darlin’,” he murmurs, forehead dropping to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. “You’re gonna gimme a heart attack”

You smile faintly, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re doing fine.”

That earns a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh from him. His hands flex at your thighs, holding you there, grounding himself in the feel of you.

Then his other hand slides up your back, slow and deliberate, palm warm through the thin fabric of your shirt. His touch is protective as much as it is wanting, like he’s holding something precious.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dropping to your lips, and you lean in into his waiting mouth.

It’s deep and unhurried, his mouth moving against yours like he’s savouring the moment, like he’s already memorizing it. His moustache brushes your skin, rough and tickling, as his hand cups the back of your neck.

You melt into him, fingers clutching at his shirt, breath mingling with his. Ted hums softly against your mouth, the sound low and uncontrolled, and the way he pulls you closer tells you everything he’s not saying. His tongue invade your mouth, slowly and precise, as if he’s done it before.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he doesn’t pull away. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing hard.

“I want you,” he says quietly. It’s not dramatic or rushed, it’s ust the truth, spoken aloud. “And that scares me a little.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, your thumb traces the line of his jaw, slow and grounding, like you’re anchoring him to the moment.

“You don’t have to be afraid with me,” you say softly.

That does something to him.

Ted opens his eyes and looks at you fully, really; His deep brown eyes warm and conflicted, something tender and dangerous laced through them. A lock of hair has fallen loose across his forehead, and you think he never looked more beautiful.

He exhales, long and shaky. The sound of someone letting go.

“For a minute there,” he murmurs, almost like he’s confessing to the room rather than you, “I forgot how old I’m supposed to be. Forgot all the reasons I keep tellin’ myself to slow down.” His thumb lifts, brushing your cheek with the same reverence you gave him. “Turns out you don’t seem too concerned with arithmetic.”

You smile at that, soft and unbothered, fingers sliding into his hair, combing through it gently. Ted closes his eyes at the touch, leaning into it before he even realizes he’s done it.

He shifts then, not abruptly, not claiming, just enough to guide you back against the couch cushions, his body following yours naturally, settling between your legs like it’s where he’s been pulled all along. He pauses there, hovering for a breath, giving you time to object.

You don’t.

Instead, your knees relax around his hips, welcoming the weight of him; his shoulders eases at that silent answer.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low now. “Okay.”, telling himself more than telling you.

He presses his lips against yours one more time, then his mouth leaves yours and begins a slow, deliberate path along your cheek, kisses pressed there like he’s savouring the space inch by inch. The faint scratch of his moustache makes you laugh softly, a breathy sound that curves straight into his chest.

“That tickles,” you murmur.

He smiles against your skin. “Yeah?” he says quietly, shaking his head and nipping his moustache against your skin.

His lips find the line of your jaw, then dip lower, warm and unhurried, kissing your neck like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you. His breath is hot there, his hand firm at the back of your neck, keeping you where he wants.

He lingers at the hollow beneath your ear, lips barely touching, the pause deliberate, a moment stretched thin with restraint and want. You can feel his breathing change, deeper now, heavier, like his body is catching up to the choice he’s already made.

“Tell me if I’m goin’ too fast,” he murmurs against your skin.

You tilt your head just enough to give him more room. “You’re not. I think…your going too slow” you smirk, tracing your hands along his back, tugging at the hem of his usual blue sweater.

Ted lets out a low breath through his nose, something between a laugh and a surrender, and you feel it in the way his body shifts over yours, heavier now, closer, no longer pretending distance is necessary.

“See? That’s the problem with ‘em young folks”, he straightens just long enough to pull the sweater up and over his head, the movement clumsy with want. “you’re always in a hurry”.

When he tosses it aside, he’s left in nothing but a thin white shirt, stretched tight across his shoulders and chest. When he leans back against your body, you feel it. The weight of his restrained cock, pressing against his pants, undeniable, almost painfully hard.

“Ted…” your hands reach the junction between your bodies, skilled fingers tracing the outline of him, making Ted growl and his body shivers, hot lips pressed against your cheek.

“Fuck you for makin’ me like this” he swears.

That does something to you. Ted never swears, never, but now it gets to you in a different way, it’s a different side of him you only want to unwrap even more.

“You’re not helping me out either” your voice sounds more sultry than you expected, neediness pooling inside your panties and sticking into your skin.

“Ah, don’t you worry ‘bout that, darlin’…I’mma take good care of you.”

The kiss he presses against your lips it’s raw and urgent, his teeth grazing your lower lip hard enough for you to ache and press your hips against his, chasing some relief. His tongue darts off, licking the inside of you mouth before pulling away.

You’re lost in the feeling of his hands all over your body, ever so skilled and warm; his large palms tracing it’s on path getting to know your body like it’s an unexplored island. You only dare to open your eyes again when he lifts the hem of your shirt just enough to expose warm skin beneath, mouth tracing a path along your stomach that makes your breath hitch. His moustache grazes you there too, rough and scratching, and the contrast sends a wave of sensation through you that makes your back arch without thinking.

His hands follows, adjusting himself on his pants, but he doesn’t free himself yet, which for you it’s like a miracle; most of your hook ups would’ve came in their pants with all the foreplay; but not Ted. No. Ted is all about the sensations, the reactions, the reactions he can pull out of you.

Ted lingers there, mouth hovering just above your skin, breath uneven, long fingers playing with the waistband of your skirt. When he looks up at you, his eyes are dark, focused, utterly intent.

“More?” he asks quietly, already knowing the answer.

“Fuck yes”, you breath, hips buckling into him “Please, Ted. More”

He smiles and with one swift movement, riddles up your skirt, pooling it around your waist, revealing the thin fabric of your panties.

“This want you wanted, uh? Guess I kept you pretty worked up, didn’t I?” his index fingers trails a ling against your covered cunt, “Oh boy, look at that...”

He rests his face on your tight, you answer by threading your fingers into his hair again, pulling him back toward you, your hips lifting, trying to meet his hand. Ted chuckles, pressing his thumb against your clit, feeling it pulse between the fabric. He swears under his breath, no longer controlling himself.

“Time to get that pretty pussy what she wants” he says as he pulls your panties to the side, tongue already darting out, licking a long, slow stripe between your wet folds.

Ted eats you out like he’s starving, and he might as well be. His hungry tongue laps at your cunt, his hands grip your thighs to keep you steady against him. His nose brushes just the right spot that makes you arch.

Your breaths turns into moans, loud and clear moans of his name; your eyes shut with strength and a smile paints your face at the feeling. You tried to voice your feelings, but they come out as a rumbling mess as Ted flickers his tongue against your clit. Your hands fly to hit hair, gripping hard to steady yourself.

Ted moans against your cunt, the hum making you squirm.

“You’re so fucking good at this” you manage.

You feel his smile against your skin, but the praise only seem to encourage him. And it’s true, he’s devouring your pussy like he’s done it for years; he seems to know your body better than you, like it was made just for him. And you can’t help but wonder, if it’s a personality trait, or the many years of sexual experiences he has…Considering he’s Ted fucking Lasso, it might as well be both.

You’re already feeling that familiar feeling coiling in, when a finger joins his lips, slowly making its way towards your aching hole.

“Oh…” Ted moves his lips away from your soaked pussy “You’re just beggin’ to be filled ain’t ya?”

“Y– yes, Ted…I’m almost there” you voice sounds like a whine.

He kisses the inside of your tight before inserting his digit all the way in. You let out a breath and you mouth hangs open as Ted twirls his finger, a forward motion that keeps you in the edge and make your vision blurred until all you can see are his brown eyes staring up at you from his place between your legs.

“Do it. Cum for me, darlin’”

It’s the fucking midwestern accent that flips it. You core tightens around his finger, muscles contracting as you cum; the wave of pleasure hitting sharp.

“That’s it…” he smooths, lip brushing past your puffy pussy lips to met your belly button “so beautiful when you cum”

You can’t fight back the smile, shaking hands roaming over his hair; it’s all messy now, from your pulling. You try to fix it but Ted shakes his head, massaging your hip while hovering over your face.

You bite your lip. There’s a subtle wetness of yours in his moustache, you bring your lips to it, gently kissing his upper lip.

“See?” Ted murmurs, voice warm, almost amused. “Sweet as they come.”

You smiled, flustered by the compliment.

The hand that had been steady on your hip slips away as he straightens on the couch, the movement is careful, like he’s putting something back into place.

You frown, the sudden distance is jarring. Still loose, still warm, you shift closer and sit beside him, your shoulder brushing his arm.

“What?” you ask quietly.

Ted turns toward you, expression unreadable for a beat, then opens his arms. “C’mere.”

You hesitate only a second before letting him pull you in. His embrace is firm but gentle, he’s anchoring both of you after the intensity. Your cheek rests against his chest; you can hear his heart, still racing.

You lift your head, eyes drifting downward, noticing what he’s deliberately ignoring. “What about you?” you ask, softer now.

He shrugs, easy but not dismissive. “Don’t you worry about me,” he says lightly. “I’ve had plenty of practice takin’ care of myself.”

The words land heavier than he means them to.

Your chest tightens.

You think of the long nights. The office lights left on. The quiet he joked about but never quite filled. All the ways he’s learned to sit alone with himself and call it fine.

You lift your hand and rest it on his thigh, running it along until it meets his aching cock; your fingers curl slightly, grounding him the way he’s been grounding you all night.

Ted stills.

You look up at him. “You don’t always have to,” you say quietly.

Something in his face softens, the teasing giving way to something real. He covers your hand with his, thumb brushing once, slow and thoughtful.

He leans in and kisses your temple, a hiss escaping his lips as you press more firmly.

“Sit back, cowboy”, you say against his pulsing neck, “I’ve got you tonight”.

He growls and you can’t help but smile wickedly as your hands skilfully undo his belt. Ted lifts his hips high enough for you to slip his cock free; and fuck. It’s hard, pulsating against your palm. It’s big, you can barely wrap your hands around it, it’s red and dripping with pre-cum.

“You’re so beautiful, Ted…”, you say as you gently stroke his length.

Ted curses under his breath and tosses his head back, closing his eyes and focusing on the sensation of your delicate hand against his needy cock.

Having tasted your pussy was heaven, but now, the sensation of you, pretty and younger, stroking his cock feels like a sin, like he doesn’t deserve it. But does it feel ever so good.

“Darlin’?” he calls, his accent coming out a little high pitched; his rigid, body tensed up while his cock throbs in desperation.

“Yes, Ted?”, you ask, lips grazing the skin on his neck, trying to playfully undo the bottoms of his shirt with your tongue.

“If yah keep it on, I won’t hold if off…Ain’t young enough for that…”

You didn’t even realise he was so close to the edge; how tightly he’s holding himself together, how much effort it’s costing him.

You hadn’t realized how much you liked hearing him admit it. You stop your motions. You don't think Ted realizes how sexy that sounds, how it makes your hole clench around nothing.

You let go of his cock while your lips find his cheeks, then his jaw, his nose and finally his lips. Ted kisses back, a large hand cupping your back to move you onto his lap.

You both moan at the subtle contact of his cock against your folds.

“Gonna take care of me, uh?”, he teases, pulling the straps off you shoulder, revealing your breasts, “Jesus. So pretty…”

“Yeah, I’mma take care of you”, you answer, rolling your hips to drag his cock once more against your cunt.

You don’t know if it was you or him, but your finger touch to adjust his cock to your entrance, and you sink into his cock in one swift motion, causing you both to let out a long moan.

His length stretches you open, pussy gripping around him so hard it almost painful.

“You’re so…so soft” he cries, burring his face against your chest.

As you run your hands through his hair, your hips move, both of you breathe heavily. It’s too much, he’s hitting just the spot, your legs feel heavy while you move on top of him.

Ted firm hands grip your waist, forcing you harder against him, his own legs bouncing to meet your rhythm; his lips find your nipples, sucking into the sensitive skin, the rough touch of his moustache making you smile, because nobody eles could ever replicate that feeling.

You spill his name like a prayer, over and over until the string of words comes out as a strangled cry; your orgasm reaching like a bullet train.

Ted closes his eyes, pulling out of you to spill his cum in between your bodies; tights and stomach covered in thin white stripes.

“Fuck, I…”, he tries, but can’t barely hold the sentence together.

“I know” you say back.

He pulls you in for a kiss, slow and gentle; lips coming together and embracing each other’s softness. You humm against his mouth and Ted smiles. Maybe mathematics is not a precise science after all.