#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

[of-apollo]

₊⊹ BRIDGE OVER WATER !

PAIRING: Jamie Tartt x GN!Working Class!Reader.

SUMMARY: When Jamie Tartt becomes a regular customer in the little coffee shop you work in, you’re not as quick to fall in love with him as the rest of the world has been. But, the more he shows up, the more you fall a little bit in love with him. And, unbeknownst to you, Jamie starts to feel exactly the same…

NOTES: Season 1 Jamie, working class reader, class differences hinted at, slightly insecure reader, mild profanity, slow burn, fluffy vibes for the most part!

REQUESTED BY: @calcifermomo

NAVIGATION | TED LASSO MASTERLIST | KO-FI

The first time Jamie Tartt notices you, it is entirely your fault. Not because you do anything impressive, and not because you flirt with him, and not because you even look at him for more than half a second.

The problem is that you don’t seem to care that he’s Jamie Tartt. Most people do. Some try to hide it, some don’t. You recognise him, obviously. It would be difficult not to. His face is plastered across enough adverts and magazine covers that even someone with no interest in football knows who he is.

Still, recognition isn’t the same thing as interest.

You hand him his coffee.

“Cheers.”

“No problem.”

Then you move on to the next customer. Jamie stands there for a second. Waiting. People usually linger. They ask questions. They smile too much. They laugh at things that aren’t funny.

You are already asking the next person whether they want oat milk. It bothers him. Not enough to say anything, but enough to remember you.

The café cart sits in a little corner of Richmond’s training ground offices. Mostly executives, staff members, coaches and visitors drift through. You have worked there for nearly two years and know most people by name. Most people know yours.

Jamie doesn’t.

For weeks he is simply another customer. An irritating one. The sort who orders the same thing every single day and somehow still manages to complain.

“Coffee’s hotter today.”

“It is coffee.”

“I’m just saying.”

You smile brightly. “Thank you for your feedback.”

His eyes narrow. You beam at him. The interaction leaves him strangely annoyed. It leaves you amused.

You tell your colleague Hannah about it later.

“The footballer?”

“The footballer.”

“The fit one?”

You snort. “They’re all fit.”

“No, but he’s proper fit.”

“He acts like somebody who got told he was good looking once and built his entire personality around it.”

Hannah nearly chokes laughing. The conversation should have ended there. Instead, somehow, Jamie starts appearing more often.

One coffee in the morning becomes one coffee in the morning and another in the afternoon. Then sometimes he turns up for bottled water. Or a snack. Or absolutely no reason you can identify.

You start suspecting he simply enjoys being difficult.

“You’re smiling.”

You look up from the till. Jamie is leaning against the counter.

“Yes?”

“You always smiling?”

You glance around, grinning cheekily. “No. Sometimes I commit crimes.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Close. The tiny victory surprises you more than it should. Something shifts after that, though not dramatically. Not enough for anybody else to notice. Just enough that conversations start happening.

Small ones. Meaningless ones.

Jamie complains about the weather. You tell him he lives in England and should adjust his expectations. Jamie complains about training. You tell him nobody is forcing him to kick a ball professionally for enormous amounts of money.

Jamie complains about literally everything else. You tell him that sounds difficult in the same tone people use with toddlers.

The strange thing is that he keeps coming back. You cannot work out why. You are not particularly exciting in your eyes. Your life is ordinary. You go to work, you visit your family, you split rent with two friends, and you spend entirely too much money on takeaway when you’ve had a rough day.

Nothing about you belongs in glossy magazines, and nothing about you belongs near famous footballers.

The difference between your worlds feels obvious, sometimes painfully obvious. Especially when you catch fragments of conversations about brand deals and luxury holidays and cars worth more than your yearly salary.

Things so far removed from your own life that they feel fictional. You never mention it. Never let yourself dwell on it.

Then one Tuesday afternoon Jamie arrives looking genuinely furious. Not his usual dramatic annoyance. Actually angry. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, in the tension in his jaw, in the way he throws a twenty-pound note onto the counter.

“Cappuccino.”

You start making it. Silence stretches between you. Normally he would have complained about something by now. The quiet feels wrong.

Eventually you glance over. “Bad day?”

“No.”

The answer comes too quickly. You hum. “Right.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you’re acting like you know I’m lying.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it.

His expression grows even darker. “What’s funny?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” You finish the coffee, placing it carefully on the counter. “People who aren’t upset don’t stomp around looking like someone has just pissed on their £300 trainers.”

For a second you think he might snap at you. Instead something unexpected happens. His shoulders drop, only slightly, but enough to notice. The anger doesn’t disappear. It just looks heavier suddenly, less dramatic, more real.

Your chest tightens. You don’t know much about Jamie Tartt. Only what everybody knows. The endless confidence. Seeing a crack in all that armour feels strangely intimate.

You don’t push. People always appreciate that.

“So,” you say lightly, “if murder isn’t on the agenda, your coffee’s ready.”

His laugh catches him off guard. You hear it. The surprise crossing his face. The sound does something ridiculous to your stomach.

He takes the cup. For a moment neither of you move. The air feels oddly crowded. Jamie clears his throat first.

“See you tomorrow.”

The words arrive casually. As though they mean nothing. As though he doesn’t come here every day anyway. You smile.

“Probably.”

He leaves. The door swings shut behind him. You stare after him for a second longer than necessary. By the time your shift ends, you’ve almost forgotten about it. Almost.

The problem arrives three days later. You are carrying two crates through the service corridor when one slips. The contents crash across the floor. Several bottles burst open instantly, and cold liquid splashes over your shoes.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Embarrassment hits first, then frustration. You already know cleaning this mess is going to keep you late. The week has been exhausting enough without this.

Your eyes sting unexpectedly. Not from the accident, but from everything else. The bills and the long hours and the endless feeling that no matter how hard you work you’re always one step behind.

You hate crying. Especially at work over something stupid.

A sharp voice interrupts your thoughts. “You alright?”

You look up. Jamie, because of course. Why wouldn’t it be? For one horrifying second you think he has noticed your watery eyes. His expression changes. Concern. Actual concern. The sight startles you.

“Fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I dropped some bottles.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

A shaky laugh escapes. Mortifying. You immediately look away.

The corridor suddenly feels too bright. Too narrow. Too small. Nothing terrible has happened. That almost makes it worse. You know exactly how silly you must seem. Getting emotional over a few broken bottles. Over a bad week. Over nothing.

Then Jamie crouches beside the mess without another word.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Something catches painfully in your throat. People are kind to you all the time. Friends. Family. Colleagues. Still, something about the simple certainty of it lands differently.

Maybe because Jamie Tartt is the last person you expected it from.

For a moment neither of you speak. The silence settles around you.

The realisation arrives all at once. You like him. Not just tolerate him. Not just find him amusing. You genuinely, properly like him.

The thought should have felt exciting. Instead it fills you with dread, because liking Jamie Tartt feels a little bit like standing at the edge of something very high and knowing exactly how much it would hurt if you fell.

You spend the entire weekend trying to convince yourself that nothing has changed. The problem is that something has. The knowledge sits awkwardly beneath your ribs, impossible to ignore now you’ve noticed it.

You like Jamie in a way that extends beyond amusement and friendly conversation. You like him in a way that makes your stomach flutter whenever he walks through the café doors, in a way that makes you hate yourself slightly, not because there is anything wrong with liking somebody.

But, because it feels ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

You know exactly what people like Jamie date. Women whose lives look beautiful and effortless. Women who seem to belong in the same polished world he inhabits. You spend your days steaming milk and apologising for card machines that aren’t working.

The gap feels embarrassing.

Enough that by Monday morning you’ve decided the sensible thing is to ignore the whole situation.

The door opens at half past eight. Your heart immediately does something stupid. Jamie hasn’t even said anything yet. He just walks in wearing a Richmond training jacket and that permanently irritated expression he seems to have been born with.

You hate that you notice how nice he looks.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

He studies you. You focus aggressively on the coffee machine.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You nearly spill milk everywhere. “What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You risk a glance upward. His eyebrows have pulled together. Genuine confusion. The sight makes you want to laugh. Of course Jamie notices immediately. The man is fuelled almost entirely by attention, and any deviation from normal behaviour apparently triggers an investigation.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Hmm.”

“‘Hmm’ what?”

“Hmm, I don’t believe you.”

You hand over his coffee.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

The corners of his mouth twitch. A familiar warmth settles in your chest. Dangerous. You need to stop doing that. Need to stop collecting little moments with him as though they mean something.

The trouble is that Jamie seems determined to make it difficult.

Over the next few weeks he starts lingering. Not in a subtle way, but in a Jamie way. The football equivalent of a toddler dragging a chair into the middle of a room and demanding everybody admire his efforts.

You are wiping tables one afternoon when he appears beside you. “Why’re you doing that?”

You stare. “I’m cleaning.”

“Don’t they have people for that?”

“I am people for that.”

He looks genuinely puzzled. You laugh despite yourself. His expression brightens instantly, like he’d been waiting for it. The realisation catches you off guard. Jamie likes making you laugh. The thought follows you home.

By the time you finally crawl into bed, you are annoyed with yourself. Nothing good can come from this, nothing at all. You know that.

Then one Friday afternoon you walk into the staff area and hear your name. The sound stops you immediately.

“…they’re nice.”

Jamie’s voice.

You freeze. A horrible instinctive reaction.

Not wanting to be noticed. Not wanting to interrupt. Not wanting to hear something that might hurt.

A second voice answers. Sam. You recognise him from around the training ground. “Nice?”

“Yeah.”

A pause. Then Sam laughs. The sound carries through the doorway. “You fancy them.”

Your stomach drops. Silence. You should leave, you know you should. Instead you remain rooted to the spot. Waiting. Every nerve in your body suddenly awake.

“What if I do?”

The words hit like a physical thing. For a second everything goes completely still.

Sam says something else, but you don’t hear it.

The rushing in your ears is too loud. You move before either of them can emerge. Your face feels unbearably hot.

The rest of your shift passes in a blur. You make drinks, serve customers, smile automatically. Nothing feels real.

Jamie fancies you.

The sentence keeps repeating. Absurd and impossible. You spend all evening trying to poke holes in it. The possibilities pile up endlessly.

None of them help.

Monday arrives. Jamie appears at eight thirty-one.

You know because you’ve spent the last minute staring at the door like an idiot. The second he walks in, panic explodes through you. He knows. He doesn’t know. You know.

Which somehow feels worse.

Your smile wobbles. Jamie’s eyes narrow instantly. “There it is again.”

“What?”

“The weird.”

You nearly groan.

“The weird? Please stop calling it that.”

“So you admit it exists.”

You hate that he’s won. A little grin spreads across his face. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

“I work here.”

“You’ve been avoiding me while working here.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. Nothing useful appears. The grin widens. God. You really do like him. A deeply unfortunate discovery.

“Coffee?” You ask desperately.

“Please.”

The conversation ends there. Thankfully.

The rest of the day feels wrong. You catch yourself searching for him, wondering where he is. The uncertainty gnaws at you, and by closing time you’re exhausted.

You lock up, gather your things, and head toward the bus stop. Rain starts halfway there, because why wouldn’t it? Cold droplets splatter across your jacket. You mutter several rude observations about British weather.

A car horn sounds, and you ignore it. It sounds again, and you turn. Jamie is leaning across the passenger seat of an expensive car that probably costs more than every possession you’ve ever owned combined.

Your stomach immediately performs a backflip.

“Get in.”

You blink once. “No.”

“It’s raining.”

“I can see that.”

“So get in.”

You laugh. Actual disbelief. The expression on his face suggests he thinks this is the most straightforward conversation in human history.

“I’m not getting into a stranger’s car.”

“I’m not a stranger.”

“You absolutely are.”

He looks offended. Genuinely offended. The sight nearly makes you smile.

“We’ve known each other for months.”

“I know your first name.”

“You know loads more than that.”

“Not enough to get kidnapped.”

Jamie stares. You stare back. Rain continues pouring down. Finally he groans. “You’re impossible.”

A strange flutter fills your chest. Warm. Familiar. Dangerous. “Thanks.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Still counts.”

For a second he simply looks at you. Something softer settling behind his eyes. Less guarded. The expression catches you completely off guard.

Then he says quietly, “I wasn’t joking, you know.”

Your breath catches. The rain suddenly feels very far away. “What?”

“I like talking to you.”

The simplicity of it nearly undoes you. Jamie glances away first, a tiny crack in his confidence.

You realise with sudden shock that he looks nervous. The discovery changes something. Makes him seem younger somehow, more real and more human. You smile before you can stop yourself.

A proper smile. The kind you cannot fake. His shoulders visibly relax. Like he’d been waiting for your reaction as if it mattered. The thought sends warmth flooding through your chest.

“You like talking to me?”

His face immediately scrunches. “Don’t make it weird.”

A laugh bursts out of you, bright and uncontrollable. The sound seems to pull one from him too. For a moment the world narrows, just you and him. Just rain and laughter and a feeling neither of you quite knows what to do with.

Then reality returns. Jamie clears his throat. “So?”

“So?”

“Can I give you a lift home now?”

You hesitate. Long enough to make him nervous again, and more than enough to make yourself nervous. Then slowly, despite every sensible thought in your head, you walk toward the car.

The smile that appears on Jamie’s face is so unexpectedly pleased that your heart immediately sinks, because this is getting worse. Much, much worse.

And for the first time, you aren’t entirely sure you want to stop it.

The inside of Jamie’s car smells expensive. That is the first thing you notice. The second is that it is strangely tidy. You are not sure what you expected. Maybe footballs rolling around on the floor. Maybe empty bottles. Something. The spotless interior somehow feels more unsettling.

You fasten your seatbelt. Jamie pulls away from the curb. For a few seconds neither of you says anything. Rain taps softly against the windows. The city slides by outside. Your pulse feels unreasonably loud. This is ridiculous.

You have served this man coffee almost every weekday for months. You have argued with him about biscuits. You once spent ten minutes debating whether pigeons are evil.

None of that should make sitting beside him feel this significant.

Yet it does. The silence stretches, like both of you are trying to work out where the edges are.

Eventually Jamie glances across. “You always this quiet?”

A laugh escapes. “You mean compared to your usual experience of me while I’m physically at work?”

“Yeah.”

“Then no.”

Something relaxes in him. You see it in the way the corner of his mouth lifts. You find yourself smiling back before you can stop it.

Everything about this feels dangerous. The journey should be short. Instead traffic grinds everything to a halt. London is apparently deciding to conspire against your ability to behave normally.

You spend nearly forty minutes crawling through streets that should take fifteen, and by the end of it you’ve somehow talked about everything.

Your terrible secondary school, his first football boots, his mum. The cat you desperately want but cannot afford. The fish he accidentally killed when he was ten. That one nearly makes you cry laughing.

“I was a child.”

“You forgot to feed it.”

“I thought my mother was feeding it.”

“You left it for two weeks.”

“I said I was a child.”

Every time you laugh, something bright appears in his expression. Something almost boyish. You are beginning to suspect Jamie likes making you happy as much as he likes seeing you laugh. The thought follows you right up until he pulls outside your flat.

Then reality crashes back in. The building looks exactly as it always does. Slightly worn. Slightly shabby. Home. You suddenly become acutely aware of every crack in the brickwork, every peeling corner of paint, and, in turn, every difference between your life and his.

Embarrassment creeps in unexpectedly. You know it is stupid, and yet it is there all the same.

Jamie’s eyes flick toward the building. Then back to you, no judgement. The relief almost annoys you.

“Thanks for the lift.”

“No worries.”

You reach for the handle, and then pause, something tugging painfully inside your chest. The feeling that if you leave now, whatever happened today might disappear. Become something easy to dismiss. A strange afternoon, nothing more.

Jamie seems to feel it too. Neither of you moves. The rain continues falling outside. Soft and steady.

Finally he speaks. “You wanna get dinner sometime?”

Your breath catches. There it is. The thing that has been slowly approaching for weeks. The thing you have spent entirely too much time pretending not to notice. Fear arrives first, not excitement, not happiness. Fear, because suddenly it is real. All the reasons it will never work rush forward at once.

He is famous. You are not. He earns more in a week than you probably will in years. Your worlds barely touch. People like him do not date people like you. Not seriously. Not for long. Not in real life.

The hesitation lasts only a second. Long enough that Jamie’s expression changes immediately.

The brightness disappearing, his shoulders tightening. Something twists painfully in your chest because you become all too aware that he thinks you’re rejecting him.

The sight hurts far more than it should.

“You don’t have to.” His voice sounds careful now. Too careful. Like somebody trying not to sound disappointed.

Your heart sinks, because for all his confidence and arrogance and impossible ego, there is something unexpectedly vulnerable underneath.

Something you’ve been catching glimpses of for months. You don’t want to hurt him. You definitely don’t want to be the reason that look appears on his face.

“It’s not that.”

He studies you. Waiting. Honesty arrives before you can stop it. “Jamie, I don’t really know why you’re asking me.”

His eyebrows pull together. “What?”

“You could date basically anyone.” The words feel embarrassing the moment they leave your mouth. Too honest and revealing. You stare down at your hands. “I make coffee.”

“So?”

You laugh softly. A sad sort of laugh.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His confusion appears genuine. That somehow makes everything worse. “You know what it means.”

“No, I don’t.”

You finally look at him. The frustration in his expression catches you off guard. Real frustration.

“You think I care where you work?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. Because yes, obviously he cares. Isn’t that how the world works?

Jamie’s stare sharpens, like he can actually see the thoughts moving through your head. The possibility makes you want to crawl under the seat.

“I like you.”

The words land heavily between you. No room to misunderstand. Your pulse stumbles.

Jamie shakes his head slightly. Still looking frustrated. “I like talking to you.”

His voice softens. “I like seeing you.”

Another beat. “I look for you when I come in.”

Your chest hurts. Not painfully, just intensely. The way feelings sometimes do when they grow too large. Nobody has said something like that to you in a very long time. Not with that kind of certainty.

Jamie waits, for once not pushing.

You realise suddenly that he seems far more nervous than you do. The discovery settles something inside you, and makes everything feel less frightening. Less impossible. More real. A tiny smile slips onto your face.

The tension immediately leaves his shoulders. The reaction is so instant it nearly makes you laugh.

“That wasn’t a no.” His eyes narrow.

“It wasn’t.”

“So is it a yes?”

You shake your head. Amusement bubbling despite yourself. “You are unbelievably impatient.”

“Yeah.”

At least he’s honest. The laugh that escapes you feels lighter than anything you’ve felt all week. Maybe all month. Jamie’s smile grows, beautiful enough to make your stomach flip.

“Okay.” The word leaves your mouth quietly.

His entire face brightens. The transformation happens so quickly it steals the breath from your lungs. You suddenly understand why people forgive him so easily. When Jamie is happy, it feels a little bit like standing in sunlight.

The thought terrifies you.

“Okay?”

“Yes, Jamie.”

A grin spreads across his face. Completely unstoppable. “Nice.”

You laugh. “There it is.”

“What?”

“The ego.”

“It’s not ego.”

“It absolutely is.”

“You’re taking me on a date.”

You groan immediately. “There he is.”

His laughter follows you out of the car. Warm enough that you find yourself smiling all the way to your front door.

The date happens four days later. You spend most of those four days convinced you’ve lost your mind.

By Thursday evening you’re certain of it. The restaurant isn’t particularly fancy, and you suspect that is deliberate.

Jamie arrives five minutes early, but you arrive seven minutes early. The sight of him waiting makes something flutter inside your chest.

The date itself is surprisingly easy. Conversation flows naturally. You laugh. He laughs. Nobody seems to care that he’s famous. For a few hours he is simply Jamie. Just a man making you laugh across a table.

Halfway through dessert you catch him looking at you. The softness in his expression nearly undoes you.

“What?”

His smile appears slowly. “I was right.”

A nervous warmth spreads through you. “About what?”

“Asking you out.”

Your eyes roll automatically. Something suspiciously fond settles in his expression. The sight catches you completely off guard. Then he reaches across the table, just enough for his fingers to brush yours.

Your heart feels painfully full, and you are very aware that the future remains uncertain. Maybe there will be problems, maybe there will be mistakes, and maybe the differences between your worlds will matter eventually.

But, tonight, they don’t. Tonight there is only Jamie smiling at you. Only the warmth of his hand against yours. Only the strange wonderful certainty that somewhere along the way the arrogant footballer who annoyed you every morning became somebody important.

And judging by the way Jamie is looking at you now, as though he still cannot quite believe his luck, you suspect he feels exactly the same.

— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

ALL FICS: @ilocuras24 @the-annoying-fan @paankhaleyaaar

ALL TED LASSO: @goldfishenthusiast67 @sheridamn

JAMIE TARTT: @r6ven @mayemperess @lastwandastan @marvelsbipolarnerd

[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???

[lovertate]

the word

need this man real bad y'all...

I HAVE HAD AN AWFUL WEEK, enjoy this <3 this is my first time writing Ted so hopefully I captured him well (i think i did)

summary: Most couples have a safe word to stop, or pause, sex. Not you and Ted. You have a word to start it. Anticipation grows, anxiety forms, and you long for the day the word is said.

Maybe tonight’s the night?

Ted Lasso x Fem!Reader

wc: around 5800

cw: SMUT!! MDNI. brief mention of Michelle and readers past toxic relationship (literally one sentence and no detail), oral (f receiving), fingering, LIGHT dom/sub aspects (if you squint), accidental marking (hickey), protected p in v, ted gets pussy drunk, first time together, a little bit of fluff, some aftercare, the L word said (x2), no use of "y/n"

Dinner and a movie.

That’s how the night is planned. Just dinner, and a movie. So what are you so nervous for? You wring your hands together again, kneading at the squish between your thumb and pointer finger as you scrub them in the bathroom sink. A wide-eyed expression looks back at you in the mirror. Your whole body tingles and your knees almost feel like jelly, struggling to support you.

Why the fuck are you so nervous?

Ted has been over plenty of times. Plenty. Many dinners, and many movies. But tonight… just feels different.

It’s been eight months since Ted and you started dating, and four since you both put an official label on it. But, you haven’t had sex. Not for any bad reason. It was a mutual decision. Ted was still working through his divorce, and you were working through your own stuff after a not-so-healthy relationship with your ex. So, taking things slow was a decision you both decided on. When you first started dating, eight months ago, you both sat down and discussed things, in length. Waiting on sex wasn’t something that was skipped over, and you both decided to wait until you were both ready, until you both gave the word.

Skip to four months ago, when you put an official label on the relationship, you said the word. Ted did not. This was mortifying for you, and you immediately worried about him ending everything. But, he didn’t. He just explained, carefully and thoroughly, that he wasn’t ready for that step yet. That he wasn’t upset, or mad, or regretful, any other adjective you asked. Which put your mind at ease.

However, things have changed. There was a subtle shift in the relationship that did not go unnoticed by you. Lingering touches, heated make-outs with a bit more groping leading to Ted excusing himself to the bathroom for a few minutes. His ability to hold back is faltering. You don’t know if it’s on purpose– if he’s working up the courage to say the word, or if he is fighting with himself because he’s not ready and you’re, accidentally, pressuring him.

You sigh, hard, and shake your arms out to try and rid yourself of your nerves. Maybe, nothing will even happen. Maybe it’s all in your head–

No. There was absolutely no way. Not after last time. Not after he kissed you like that. All fiery, and passionate. Not after he held the back of your neck, tangling his hand through your hair, keeping you close like you could just slip away at any moment. After the way he groaned when you moved your hips in his lap. Not after the way he looked at you at work today, his eyes glued to yours, bottom lip tucked in his teeth, eyes glassy and spaced out like he was lost in his thoughts. Nor after the way he brushed past you in the break room. When his crotch brushed your ass as he, unnecessarily, pushed his hips against you as he reached for a coffee mug in the cabinet above your head.

Especially not after the way he whispered in your ear “see you later tonight, darlin’” in a husky, low, tone when you left work.

You groan, leaning against your bathroom counter, bracing yourself on it with your hands. In anticipation, you took a shower, scrubbed, exfoliated, shaved everything you wanted, styled your hair, slipped into a matching navy lace set (Ted’s favorite color), put on a bit of make-up, your favorite perfume, a long satin skirt and knit sweater, and made sure you had a box of condoms tucked into your nightstand. You’re beginning to overthink. Worry settles with an acidic burn in your throat, that maybe, maybe this isn’t the night. Maybe you read the signs wrong– saw what you wanted, misunderstood–

A knock at your front door breaks you from your thoughts. Your heart rate picks up even more, like it could explode at any moment. Maybe you should change? Put on some sweats, take off your make-up–

Jesus, fuck. Just go out there. You check yourself in your mirror one last time, smoothing your hair, and adjusting your top. You suck in a breath, standing up straight and holding your head high. You hold it for a few seconds, then let it out, relaxing your shoulders with a roll.

You round the corner to your door too quickly, nearly slipping in your socks against the hardwood, but manage to catch yourself on the handle. You pull it open without checking through the peep-hole.

“Happy Date-iversary– woah,” Ted’s smile falls open. “Jeez, darlin’, don’t you look like…” he trails off. You give him a soft smile, then look at the bouquet he’s holding.

“I was gonna say somethin’ coherent, but that train has left the station,” he finishes, eyes trailing back to yours.

“I wear this outfit a lot,” you breathe out a laugh. It’s true, you’ve probably worn this exact outfit and similar ones to work a few times in the past month.

“Oh, I know, but somethin’... somethin’s different,” Ted furrows his eyebrows slightly, like he’s having an entire internal monologue.

“Well, come on in,” you stand to the side of the door. He nods, stepping in without taking his eyes off of you.

Suddenly, he clears his throat and makes his way to the kitchen. You follow behind after closing and locking your front door. As he walks in front of you, you notice he still has his work backpack on his shoulders. He must have stayed later and came over as soon as he got off. Which would also explain why he is still in his Richmond sweatshirt and those goddamned khakis that are a little too tight in his crotch.

“I got these for you,” Ted says, opening your cabinets to locate the vase he also got for you the first time he brought you flowers.

“Thank you, Ted,” you smile. “They’re lovely.”

“The florist was out of your favorite,” he explains, setting them down on the kitchen island as he fills the vase with water from your sink. “So, I just told ‘em to make somethin’ special.”

As you’re looking at them, you spot a folded card poking out of the center. Before you reach for it, curious what it is, Ted grabs the bouquet.

He shoots you a soft smile. “Give me a sec, gotta make ‘em look real nice.”

You laugh a little.

“You get that good wine?” He asks suddenly as he fidgets with the flowers in the vase.

“Oh, yeah, it’s in the fidge– I’ll pour us some?” You ask, already opening the fridge and pulling out the bottle.

“Yes, please,” Ted answers.

You hum in response, opening the cabinet next to the fridge and standing on your toes to grab two wine glasses.

Ted hums an unfamiliar tune behind you, still messing with the flowers. “What do you have planned to make for dinner?”

“I got some fresh pasta from the market, and I’m going to make a bolognese for it,” you answer. Quickly, you uncork the wine, and pour yourself a bit too much, hoping it might ease your nerves and the soft, yearning, ache between your legs. You pour Ted a normal amount.

Ted hums in in a satisfied tone, and his hands softly drum against the counter behind you.

When you turn around, Ted presents the flowers with a small “ta-da!”

You smile sweetly, handing him his glass, which he immediately takes a large sip from. His backpack is now hanging from a barstool tucked on the opposite side of the kitchen island. You study the flowers. Hues of purple, cream, and white frame a small notecard that reads–

“Pineapple?” you say aloud. Wait– what?

You look up at Ted, who holds a small smile on his lips. He nods once.

“Pineapple?” you say again, like the word is foreign to you.

Except it’s not. It’s not foreign at all. You had said it four months ago, and four months before that it was the word you and Ted decided on. The word that would signify the announcement that you were ready for the next step. The word that tells the other that you’re ready to have sex.

Ted’s smile falls slightly, his eyebrows easing just a bit. “Don’t tell me you forgot. Or I’m lookin’ real stupid right now.”

You set your glass down, and nearly leap onto Ted, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck in an embrace that has him almost spilling his wine.

“Woah, there,” Ted laughs into your hair, his arms securing you around your waist after he sets his own glass on the counter. You pull your head off his shoulder and press your lips into his. He returns the kiss, humming into you and flattening his hands against the small of your back to pull you closer.

You break away. “You’re serious. Right?”

“Of course,” Ted gives you a soft look. “I wouldn’t joke about that. ‘Specially since I know you’ve been waitin’ on me.”

You cup his cheek with one hand, and he leans into it, turning his head to give your palm a gentle kiss. A gentle pull is all it takes for him to reconnect his lips to yours. You sigh into it, parting your mouth slightly. He takes the invitation, swiping his tongue across yours, then across your lips. He pushes harder, stepping forwards and guiding you backwards.

Your ass hits the kitchen island behind you, and Ted’s hands brace on it, caging you in. You moan into him, your hands cupping the back of his head and clutching into his hair. He groans, pulling back slightly to catch his breath. You follow, pressing a kiss to his chin, then cheek, then parting your lips and teasingly nibbling at his bottom lip. He pushes his hips into yours, and you can feel his cock, stiffening in his khakis. You suck in a breath, breaking from his lips to look down.

Ted’s hand gently grasps your chin, tilting your head to look back up at him. He releases you, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Ted?” you ask without really thinking what your question is going to be. A burning heat rises across your cheeks and ears. You press your hands against his chest and rub them up to his shoulders, then back down. Under your fingers tips, you can feel his heart thumping– fast and hard.

“Hmm?” he responds.

“Can-” you pause, suddenly realizing what you’re about to say. Maybe it’s best to get it done, get through the possible awkwardness of the first time so you’re not eating your food in anticipation. “Can we, maybe, wait on dinner?”

“What’re you proposing we do instead?” He smirks.

“I think you know,” it’s barely a whisper.

Ted laughs, not his usual full chested laugh, but almost teasingly. He leans back slightly as he does, his hands finding a place on your hips.

“I do, but maybe I wanna hear you say it.”

Woah.

A beat passes. You’ve lost your words. The heat from your face feels like it's spread all over your body, concentrating at the lower part of your stomach, and between your legs.

Ted leans back in, his lips now inches away from your own. You lean in, but he keeps going past you, until his lips and mustache ghost the shell of your ear.

“C’mon, baby,” he drawls in a whisper. “Tell me what you want.”

In this state, you swear his accent is thicker.

“Please, Ted… I want-,” you pant as his lips press against the spot on your neck right below your ear. “Want– want you to fuck me. I need you to, Ted.”

He groans in response. The next kiss is led by him, and even more longing than the last. He moves slower against you, teasing you with his tongue. His hands slide up your body, ghosting over the fabric of your sweater, across the back of your neck, then gently cupping your cheeks. As the pace of the kiss picks up, he tilts his head to the right just a tad to get a better angle. His mustache tickles your nose as he does, but you don’t care. You can’t care, not when a heat is building this fast at your core. Your hands find his hair again, and gently tug at it.

A nearly pathetic moan falls from your mouth, as he pushes you harder into the counter with his hips. You grind against his restrained cock. A low, choked back, moan catches in his chest. You nearly miss it, but you notice. You hum in response, tensingly, and Ted pulls back.

His lips are shiny with saliva, yours and his, and a bit swollen and flushed a dark pink.

“Jeez, darlin’,” he hums and gently swipes his thumbs across your cheeks. “What’s got you so worked up?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you tease.

Ted’s left thumb runs across your lips, once, twice, before you take it into your mouth. You meet his eyes as you wrap your lips around it, a failtly salty taste hitting your tongue as you flatten it against it. His mouth falls open slightly, and you move a hand from his disheveled hair to gently grab his wrist. You pull back and release his thumb with an absolutely lewd sluuurp-pop.

“I think we— we should— do you want to—,” he stammers over his words, letting his hands fall to his sides and taking a gentle step back.

You giggle at his sudden nervousness. God does he love it. It’s different than your usual giggle, maybe, or maybe Ted’s brain is too foggy right now to register it.

“I’ve got a lovely couch over there,” you tilt your head to the right, towards your living room. “Or… we could go to the bed?”

Ted looks at your face for a second longer, like he’s trying to read you. “I think the bed would make things more special, right?”

You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth and nod. He gives you a smile, then steps back further, letting you pull yourself from the kitchen island. Gently you take his hand, leading him to your bedroom.

The lamp from your bedside table casts a warm, inviting light in your room. Your bed is neat, the plush comforter smoothed over, the pillows fluffed. As you step into the room, you spin and pull Ted back into you, reconnecting in another heated kiss as you continue to walk backwards. The back of your knees hit the bed, and you wrap your arms around Ted, bringing him down with you as you fall carefully backwards. He catches himself with his hands positioned on either side of you. You work your knees up, planting your heels on the edge of the bed. The smooth fabric of your skirt bunches up, exposing more of your heated skin, and core, to the cool air.

Ted holds himself with one arm, his other lifting. His rough hand gently caresses your exposed thigh, then grips the back of it as he pushes you further onto the bad. You let out a soft gasp, pulling your lips away to assist in scooting back further. Ted sits up, pulling his knees on the bed and resting between your legs. Both of his hands rest on your knees, gently pushing your legs further apart, but his eyes don’t leave yours.

Ted’s usual soft brown irises are nearly flooded by his dilated pupils.

“I need you to tell me to stop, right now, if you don’t wanna do this,” his tone is serious, which embarrassingly makes you tingle, and makes goosebumps rise on your skin.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, shaking your head side-to-side quickly.

Ted blinks slowly, then leans down again, his hips and thighs pushing your knees out and open even wider as he does. He uses one hand for support, the other slipping under your sweater, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He kisses you again, open mouthed, wanting, yearning. Everytime his lips connect with yours, it feels like the first time again. Like the sparks never stop.

The hand inside your sweater ghosts over the fabric of your bra, catching slightly on your hardened nipple. You whine into his lips as he takes one between his thumb and pointer finger, pinching and rolling it. Your back arches slightly, and Ted takes the opportunity to kiss down your neck. His teeth scrape gently against your pulse, and you suck in a breath. Continuing lower, he leaves kisses against the skin, his mustache tickling against the sensitive skin. He is going agonizingly slow. You’re about to speak, about to beg, when his teeth graze the most sensitive park of your neck– the point right where it meets your shoulder. A half gasp, half moan, breaks through your throat.

Ted smiles against your skin. “Oh, yeah, darlin’?”

You pant slightly as he nips at that point. He takes his time, nipping, sucking, and licking at the skin, all while his hand pinches and massages your breasts. Your back arches off the bed again, a breathy “fuck” leaving your lips.

Heat claws at your skin. Everywhere. You’re starting to feel your arousal soak the lace between your thighs. You don’t know if you’ve ever been this turned on, and Ted has barely done anything. His hand slips from underneath your sweater. At the same time, he pulls his head back. You pout in protest, reaching up to pull him back in, but he stops you.

“Ah,” he leans back further, away from your grasp. “You let me take care of ya, okay?”

This Ted is different from the Ted you’re used to. Sure, he’s just as sweet and charming as ever, but something is different, you just can’t quite tell what yet. Whatever it is, it send a bolt to your core and you nod, wordlessly.

Ted gives you a soft smile, gently caressing your cheek. His hands grip the bottom of your sweater, and you lean up a bit as he tugs it off. His eyes drop to your chest, and you see his chest puff out a breath.

“Fuck,” the word falls in a breathy huff from his lips, almost like he didn’t mean to say it. His hands, both now, cup your breasts above the navy lace, kneading at them. “You’re so beautiful, baby. You wear this for me?”

“Y-yes,” you stutter out, your cheeks flushing even more. “It’s your favorite color.”

“I see that,” Ted says, amused. “If I knew these were what you’ve been hidin’ under your clothes, I might've done this a long time ago.”

He leans down and presses a kiss to your sternum. Then to the exposed parts of each breast.

“I wanna take this off, but I have a feelin’ it’s matchin’ somethin’ else, and I’ve got to see them together, hm?” He hooks a finger under the middle part of your bra. You nod quickly.

Ted sits up again, then uses your knees as support as he pushes himself to stand off the bed. You sit up, already missing the weight of him between your thighs. But, you don’t get much time to think about that before he hooks his hands into the waist of your skirt, pulling it down in one quick, smooth motion. He stands straight, the tent in his khakis very evident, making you nearly drool.

“Look at that,” Ted hums. One hand, spreads your legs back open, then slides down the inside of your thigh. His other hand adjusts himself in his pants, gripping at his cock, truly showing how big he is. And, Jesus Christ, were you not expecting that. A pleasant surprise, really.

“Ted,” it comes out needier than you meant. “I know you probably want to savor the moment a bit, but I really fucking need you right now.”

Ted’s eyes flicker to yours, then back between your legs. The hand on your thigh slips further down, pressing against the sopping fabric covering your pussy. Your mouth falls open and you suck in a breath.

“Oh, sugar, I can see that,” the hand on his crotch clenches again and he groans. “You’re right, though. I think if I do what I really wanted right now, I’d ruin my pants.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Please,” you whisper.

His eyes meet yours again, and the hand on your pussy pushes harder making you gasp out a needy “please, fuck me.”

“Fuck,” he groans. “You don’t needa ask me again.”

He steps back a bit, grabbing the bottom of his Richmond sweatshirt and pulling it over his head. His fingers work quickly to unbutton his under shirt, but not quickly enough for you. You sit up fully and scoot yourself to the edge of the bed, letting your legs dangle off the edge of it.

Ted watches you, and steps forward when you reach for his belt. With one hand, you cup his cock, needing to feel it, and with the other you undo his belt, the button of his pants, and the zipper. Once you’ve done that, his button-up is off and his hands quickly remove his undershirt. You run your hands down his chest and stomach. He pushes his pants down next, taking his boxers with them. He toes off his shoes then kicks them, his pants and boxers, to the side. You continue running your hands down, taking his length into your hand and pumping it slowly.

Ted’s hips jerk slightly at your touch. He takes a step closer, reaching down between your legs and shoving your panties to the side to finally touch at your slick folds. You suck in a breath, pressing your forehead against his stomach and watching as he runs two fingers through your lips, gathering your arousal. You pick your head up, looking up at him with pleading doe-eyes, and he nearly melts. You watch as he raises his slick fingers to his lips, taking them into his mouth and humming as he tastes you.

“Y’know, I’ve always loved havin’ dessert before dinner,” he comments.

You bite at your bottom lip, squeezing his cock harder as you continue to pump him. He groans, his head lulling back for a moment. Then, he nearly falls to his knees in front of you. Without any hesitation, he pushes your legs open, and yanks you towards him until your ass is dangling off the bed. You let out a surprised gasp, one hand propping yourself up behind you, the other lacing though Ted’s hair as he shoves himself between your thighs, draping both of your legs on his shoulders. He pulls your panties completely to the side, then holds onto the front of your thighs.

“Jesus- fuuuuck,” the word is drawn out as Ted begins lapping at your pussy like a starved man. A very experienced, very practiced, starved man. His hands grip at the front of your thighs, close to your hip bones. Your eyes roll back and your head lulls back too. Ted groans against you. Obscene slurping noises fill the room and you begin to pant out moan after moan.

Any worries of awkwardness with this being your first time in bed together are thrown out of the window as Ted sucks at your clit. Your hips roll into him, and he hums against you, sending a shock up your spine. You moan out his name, hand pulling at his hair. He taps your thigh with his hand, and you to look at him. He looks up at you, with an expression in his eyes you can only place as absolutely pussy drunk. You push his head harder into you, rolling your hips in time with each lap of his tongue. He moans, his eyes never leaving yours as he continues to eat you out like his life depends on it.

A tight feeling begins to build in your core, and your eyebrows knit together as more moans, higher in pitch, spill out of your mouth. You grind harder against him. His mustache rubs against your clit, which makes you moan louder. His left hand leaves your thigh, rubbing around to your ass and giving it a gentle squeeze before you feel a finger prod at your entrance.

“Oh my– fuck– Ted,” the ‘e’ in his name is elongated as he slips a finger inside of you, curling at just the right spot, like he’s done this to you before. Your back arches as you feel your climax approaching– hard, and fast. Ted slips in another finger, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking. Tingles run through your body as his tongue swipes circles on the exposed bud. Your hips buck against him, and he uses his free arm to hold you steady.

“Ted,” you pant, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m gonna-”

He breaks away for just a second. “‘S’okay, baby. Come on my face.”

Ted quickly resumes his position on your clit, his fingers curling and rubbing at the perfect angle in your pussy. Your pants become more ragged. The hand in Ted’s hair grips tighter, and he moans again. The coil in your stomach finally snaps. A broken, filthy, high-pitched, drawn out moan forces its way out of your throat. Your hips stutter against his face and you feel yourself gush around his fingers. He keeps his pace up through your climax, only slowing down when your hips stop stuttering. He pulls his fingers out first, then flattens his tongue against you, cleaning up your cum. You suck in a sharp breath, attempting to catch your breath.

Ted scoops you up with his hands under your ass, gently repositioning you further back on the bed. You collapse on your back, letting your legs fall from his shoulders as he carefully stands up.

“Darlin’,” Ted hums, his hand resting on your knee, gently rubbing circles with his thumb. You lift your head up. The first thing your eyes land on is his cock. The tip of it is flushed pink, and dripping with precum.

“You okay to keep goin’?” His voice is sticky-sweet. Almost as sticky as his mustache and lips look.

You nod, then point to your nightstand. Ted gives you a soft smile, then steps over to it. You watch as he pulls out a condom, tearing the packet open with his teeth, and gently rolling it onto his painfully erect cock. He pumps himself as he makes his way back between your legs. You prop your feet up on the bed as he kneels between them. A gentle hand grabs your leg, pulling it up to rest on his hip as he aligns himself with your entrance. His eyes meet yours again, a gentle unspoken question in them.

“Please, Ted” you whisper out.

Ted nods once, then slowly, very slowly, pushes himself into you. He nearly collapses on top of you when he’s fully seated in you, and you let out a breathy moan. He props himself up with both hands, and you place yours around the back of his head again, lacing your fingers together. He looks down between you as he pulls out half way, then pushes himself back into the hilt.

“Fuck,” he hisses, then let’s out a small laugh. “You’re so warm.”

You hum at the words, pulling him to meet you in a kiss as his hips start to set a rhythm. The salty, bitter in a good way, taste of yourself is thick on his tongue. He moans into the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours. You mewl as he pushes his hips all the way forward, the tip of him pushing against your cervix in the most deliciously pleasurable way. He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against yours, panting slightly as he begins to pick up speed. You roll your hips in time with him and he grunts.

Ted dips his head down, licking at the fabric covering your nipples. He takes one between his teeth gently and you gasp, arching your back off the bed, and clenching around his cock. His hips stutter for a moment before picking up speed again. He grunts with each thrust, the noise mixing with your sharp moans.

“Tell me,” he pants. “Tell me how you want it, baby.”

You hum, pulling his lips back to yours in a chaste kiss. “Harder, Ted.”

His eyebrows press together and he listens. Snapping his hips forward with more force than before, keeping the same tempo. Your back arches up, louder moans ripping from your chest as he pushes against your cervix with each thrust. Your hands find his shoulders, nails digging into the skin. You feel fuzzy in the head as another climax starts to build. Ted pushes his lips into yours again, his own higher pitched moan vibrates against your lips. He pulls back again, pushing himself up with straight arms.

Ted’s eyebrows cinch together and he picks up his thrusts a little more. Your core tightens quicker now, and you can just tell Ted is close too. You reach down between your bodies, rubbing quick circles into your clit.

“Fuck,” Ted rasps sharply.

Your hips twitch as you’re drawn closer and closer to the edge. You cup Ted’s cheek with your free hand, and he looks down at you. Your mouth hangs open for a moment as you try to catch your breath.

“I love you,” he whispers.

It’s the first time he's said it. You don’t know if he’s just that pussy drunk, but his sincere tone, and the way he holds your eyes with his, tells you he means it. Truly means it.

“I love you, too, Ted,” you manage between pants and moans. His eyelids flutter and you swear you see his eyes roll back slightly before he squeezes them shut. You can feel yourself teetering over the edge. You move your other hand so they’re both cupping Ted’s cheeks. He opens his eyes to look at yours again.

“Come with me,” you whisper.

As if all he needed was permission, Ted’s hips snap forward two more times before he pushes himself all the way in, moaning loudly as he comes undone. You follow quickly, convulsing around his twitching cock as he spills into the condom. His face contorts with pleasure as you massage every drop out of him. His eyes flutter closed and he falls to his elbows, his nose brushing against yours before connecting with your lips in a passionate, sloppy, post-climax, hazy kiss.

Gently, he rests his body on top of yours, nuzzling his face into your neck and giving you soft kisses where his lips can reach. You giggle as his mustache tickles right under your ear, and you feel his chest vibrate with a small laugh.

You both stay like that for a moment, your heart rates steadily slowing, and your breathing evening out. Ted lets out a content sigh as you trace small circles on his back with your nails.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?” You ask softly.

He pushes himself up, his softened cock slipping out of you as he does. “For waitin’ for me.”

You give him a soft smile and he brushes a hand across your forehead, following it with a gentle, long kiss.

“Thank you,” you say. “For trusting me.”

Ted lets out a small laugh and stands up. He pulls off the condom and ties a quick knot in it before walking to your bathroom. You hear the sink run for about a minute, then he walks back in with a rag, and water dripping from his mustache.

He hums as he gently runs the rag across your pussy. You hiss at the chill of it and he shoots you an apologetic look. He folds the rag, then tosses it into the hamper by your wardrobe.

“Why don’t we order somethin’ for delivery, get some comfy clothes on, and watch that movie we had planned?” Ted suggests as he pulls on his boxers.

“Yes, please,” you say. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stand and cook dinner.”

Ted laughs and holds out his hands, which you gladly take to steady yourself as you stand from the bed. Your legs shake a bit, but Ted quickly grabs your hips to steady you.

“Woah, there,” he breathes out. “Steady now, sugar.”

After you steady your legs, Ted takes a step back. “I’ve got some clothes in my bag I gotta get. Meet me out there when you’re ready and we can order somethin’.”

“Sounds good,” you nod with a smile. Ted leaves, and you quickly shed your bra and underwear, tossing it into the hamper as you pass it. The wardrobe creaks as you open it, and you pull some clean clothes. You pull on a clean, more comfortable, pair of underwear, some athletic shorts, and Ted’s Richmond sweatshirt that you grab from the floor.

You hear the familiar “dum dum” of Netflix from the living room as you go into your bathroom to pee and wipe off your make up– or at least what’s left of it. The cool water from the sink feels refreshing against your face as you rinse the soap off of it. When you look up, a red mark on your neck catches your attention. You lean in closer, fingers inspecting the area as you look at it through the mirror. A flush hits your cheek when you see an outline of teeth marks, and when you realize it will definitely still be there tomorrow.

Your feet pad gently against the floor as you join Ted on the couch. You plop next to him, and he turns his head to greet you. His eyes widen slightly when he sees the red spot on your neck, his fingers gently swiping across it.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “I got a little carried away. I’ll be more careful next time.”

You bite the inside of your cheek a little. “I actually… like it.”

Ted’s eyebrows shoot up and his cheeks turn red at your words, making you giggle. He leans in, pecking you on the lips, cheeks, nose, and forehead a few times as you continue to giggle.

“I really do love you,” he says as he pulls back, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Just want to say it again when we’re not— um, well, y’know.”

“I know,” you smile. “I love you too.”

Soon, you both settle on some food and order it for delivery. From the kitchen, you take a sip of your wine as Ted scrolls through the movie selection on Netflix, trying to find something you both haven't already seen. You lean against the kitchen counter, picking up the card from the bouquet. “Pineapple” is written in a fancy cursive that you definitely know does not belong to Ted.

“Hey, Ted,” you call.

“Hmm?” he responds.

“How the hell did you explain to the florist why you wanted pineapple written on this card?”

if you're here, hope you enjoyed, and LOVE Y'ALL - Tate

[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?”

[redsakura101]

Never Too Late (Part 1)

Jamie Tartt x Reader

Find My Jamie Tartt Masterlist here! Inspired by a random tumblr post; (That I would tag if I could find it!) Unknown Number: “Get your fucking shit together and act like an adult” Response: “Think you have the wrong number but you’re right” Warnings: Strong Language (sorry Phoebe…just put it on Roy’s tab) 

Word Count: ~1.6k

This year was not going well for Jamie…

Well it was – until he decided to fuck it up just to piss off his dad…

Now he was left hung to dry.

Voted off a reality tv show he never gave a fuck about,

Booted off the Manchester team

Abandoned by his one true passion, now left aimless. 

His manager waffling on and on about how he could stop playing football, and just start doing sponsored shit or whatever bullshit he could pull out of his ass…without ever truly living out his full potential on the field.

He just didn’t know where to go. 

Now he sits in a club, late on a Thursday night. 

People all around him in a sea of movement, lights flashing low and moody, casting a glow of anonymity on everyone around him as the music throbs in his ears. 

He has never felt so alone. 

Weirdly his mind can’t stop thinking about his time in Richmond…all the possibilities he could’ve had. 

That brief moment as they bonded as a team in the most unusual of ways as they warded off bad luck.

He had felt seen and accepted for a moment…in a way he’d rarely felt before. 

A sickening weight laid heavy in his gut as his thoughts drifted to all the ways he was a fucking prick even when he didn’t need to be… 

Honestly he didn't know what he was doing. 

A buzz vibrates in his pocket, bringing him out of his numbed state

He pulls his phone out of his pocket to discover a message from an unknown number

???: [ Get your fucking shit together and act like an adult ] 

A shiver ran up his spine as his eyes read the text on his screen

He had no fucking idea if it was the vanilla vodka messing with his vision or if someone deity from above got his phone number

Jamie had never thought himself to be superstitious but this seemed like a fucking sign if he had ever seen one. 

Without realising his fingers twitched and started typing a reply

Jamie: [ Think you have the wrong number but you're right ] 

He downed the last of his drink, before standing to leave the club. 

A rush of the cool evening air hits him as he exits, 

???: [ Shit ]   ???: [ I’m so sorry! That was meant for my friend ] ???: [ … ]  ???: [ but, good luck getting your shit together then? ]  ???: [ :) ] 

Jamie let out a laugh as he read the response. A genuine laugh. Something he hadn’t done in a while, it felt almost foreign. 

Jamie: [ thanks ] Jamie: [ hope your friend gets their shit together too ] 

For once, Jamie felt like things might turn out ok. 

???: [ 👍 ]  

But first he had to get his shit together

Time to visit Richmond.

[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]---[]

It was a just one of those nights 

A Thursday night to be exact.

Your work day had ended hours ago, wrapped up and clocked out by 5 pm 

Now you're seated at home, stretched lazily among couch cushions, just allowing your body to decompress. 

The faint scent of tiger balm emanates from where it was gently rubbed into your skin to ease your muscle’s tensions. Intertwined with the soothing smells of the candles that were burning. 

Lights dimmed as a lamp casts a warmth light. 

A film plays on tv, something comforting, a film you had watched a hundred times and would likely watch a hundred times more.

A picture of comfort and ease. 

…but your attention is elsewhere. 

It had been a long season… 

Richmond were stuck in a rut. Not winning but not losing. 

It simply felt like the Greyhounds were chasing their own tail. 

The consolation prize? 

A tie. 

7 times in a row…

Whilst you weren't part of the immediate team, you felt just as drained. 

You had been a part of the Greyhound family for well over a year now, serving as their physio and field medic. 

Sprains, bruises, scrapes or worse, you were there and ready to work. 

What could’ve easily been just an isolating job, quickly turned into a heavy social investment. 

All because of one person. 

Ted. 

It was honestly a really a bright moment in your job. 

He had made you feel a part of the team, and a very necessary one at that. 

Ensuring the team environment he was cultivating, included being respectful and appreciative of your work both on and off the field. 

It was great to witness his efforts begin to shape the player’s behaviours on and off field – seeping into their performance on the pitch. 

You’d like to believe that you knew the players pretty well by now. 

From their typical needs and likely injuries, to the exercises you should recommend them. Ted’s insistence that the team be more open and friendly to you and the other members in your staff, had simply made your job even easier, and more enjoyable. 

One of the most unlikely friendships you had fostered, was with Mr ‘he’s here! He’s there! He’s every fucking where!’ 

Roy Kent, himself. 

His stubborn character was not an easy feat to overcome. 

Your strange friendship was actually the reason you had had the opportunity for the new job with the Greyhounds. 

All through a connection from a yoga class.

Your neighbour, Sandy, a lovely – if not a little gossipy – woman in her mid 50s. Who you often enjoyed chatting with now and again, would get you in touch with many of her friends to give her a little extra work. 

In Sandy’s words “Y/N simply worked magic. Any aches and she’d help relieve it just like that” 

And just like that, Sandy got you in touch with Roy, Sandy’s classmate from their weekly yoga & rosé session. 

The humour wasn’t lost on you when you had first met, as you were not expecting this gruff and fit man. 

The first few sessions he’d had with you treating his knee, all communication was simply a culmination of grunts and clipped words. 

But with a few choice suggestions and comments, the lack of regard for who he was and you just making jokes despite it sometimes feeling like you were talking to a brick wall. 

You had slowly made your way into being his friend. 

Conversation flowed easily 

To the point where your rantings about your current job and the strains it was having on you – made Roy think. 

The following session he suggested you work for the Richmond Football Club. 

It had certainly caught you off guard, 

He just listed all the reasons it could be better; better hours, better pay, closer to home, limited clients you’d actually get to know…

…A week later, you were settling into your new workspace adjoining the locker room of the Richmond Football club. 

It was great, you loved the new routine. 

Treating the players from any recovering injuries, being present during the games and training as an onsite medic, it was a great change of pace. 

The past year had been interesting to say the least. 

Now what was once your best buddy at work.

Was now no longer at work. 

Roy had left at the end of the last season. 

Leaving you all alone in the club he insisted you work for. 

Not that you didn’t foster or grow friendships with the other players or other staff on site. 

…It simply felt off.

It was strange being at the club and not hearing his gruff responses. 

You did your best to reach out to him, and well at the start it was fine – you would see him often enough to help out with his knee recovery, also hang out with him and Phoebe. 

Keeley also was a big factor in keeping touch. 

But as the months dragged on, your catch ups and talks would lessen more and more. 

To the point it made you so frustrated with the stubborn asshole! 

As if he was trying to cut out the people from his old life. 

It was honestly so childish 

Which is what had brought you to now. 

Angrily typing out a text for him 

Y/N: [ Get your fucking shit together and act like an adult ] 

What you did not anticipate however, is your messed up contacts in your new phone. 

What you thought was Roy’s number was actually someone else. 

Just because of a few misplaced digits. 

???: [ Think you have the wrong number but you’re right ] 

A flush of embarrassment washed over you, shit! 

Your mind raced with possible ways to make this already awkward text chain, less strange, and all you could come up with was shit? 

Y/N: [ Shit ]   Y/N:  [ I’m so sorry! That was meant for my friend ] Y/N:  [ … ] 

Re-reading their reply, the embarrassment subsides, making you pause. Think about what they could’ve meant. 

Maybe this little accident was meant to happen. 

Y/N: [ but, good luck getting your shit together then? ]  Y/N:  [ :) ] 

You honestly hoped that whoever this person was, would be able to take this message into practice. 

???: [ thanks ] ???: [ hope your friend gets their shit together too ] 

Now to get back to finding Roy’s number so that you could tell that asshole to get his shit together and stop ignoring you like a little kid. 

Not realising how your message had spurred into motion a chain of events that couldn’t be stopped. 

That wouldn’t be stopped. 

Not realising how your simple mistake would result in one of the best decisions you had ever made.

Even if it might take a little time to figure that part out. 

One day. 

Eventually.

Soon enough. 

You would learn that your blunt message. 

Words intended to push Roy to be fucking better. To stop being such a fucking recluse. 

That those very words.

Would lead Jamie to you. 

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the first of my first Jamie Tartt fic, there will be more parts to come (probs another 1 or 2; UPDATE theres now a lot more parts). It's sort of been sitting in my drafts for ages, so I thought to put it out, might get me motivated to finish it 🤷‍♀️. Let me know what you think about it, and if you'd like to be tagged. Read Part 2: To Start Again Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 Feel free to check out my overall Masterlist here

[saccrificio]

watching ted lasso for the first time and i want this man so bad like it's not even funny