who even knows

Louis is practically vibrating beside you, his stride quick and proud, like a man walking a prize-winning racehorse into the show ring. “Number one in her class,” he’s saying to no one in particular, though he’s loud enough for half the bullpen to hear. “Harvard. My Harvard. Full ride. Recruited by half the firms in the city, but she chose us. Chose me.”

You resist the urge to shrink under the weight of so many eyes. Associates glance up from their monitors, partners peer over the rims of their reading glasses, and you can feel the quiet ripple of appraisal following you through the room. You know what they’re thinking: fresh out of law school, bright-eyed, top of your class—how long until the grind of this place dulls the shine? You lift your chin and keep your pace steady. Let them watch.

Louis slows as you approach the corner office—the corner office—and your pulse ticks up. Through the glass, you see him: Harvey Specter. The Harvey Specter. Leaning back in his chair like the world spins because he lets it, a pen balanced between his fingers, the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at his mouth. The city skyline sprawls behind him, impossibly bright for this early in the morning.

Louis pushes the door open without knocking, voice pitched in that particular way that’s half-boast, half-plea for validation. “Harvey, meet my new associate. Number one at Harvard Law.”

Harvey’s gaze flicks from Louis to you, and it’s like being under a spotlight—sharp, assessing, the kind of look that takes in everything and gives nothing back. Up close, you catch the faint scent of his cologne: something warm and expensive, threaded with a hint of spice. It settles under your skin in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“You plan on keeping her in the bullpen?” Harvey asks, his tone lazy but edged with amusement. “Seems like a waste.”

Louis bristles. “She’s with me. And she’s going to be the best associate this firm has ever seen.”

Harvey’s smirk widens by a fraction, like he knows something neither of you do yet. His eyes stay on you as he says, “We’ll see about that.”

The words shouldn’t make your stomach flip. They do anyway.

The next several weeks blur into a series of long nights and longer days. You prove quickly that you aren’t just book-smart—you’re fast, adaptable, and unshakable under pressure. You file airtight motions with minutes to spare, dismantle opposing arguments in conference calls, and pull case law from thin air like you’ve been practicing for years. Whispers start to follow you down the hallway—not just about being Louis’ Harvard golden girl, but about the way you leave no loose ends. The way you can smile at someone while tearing their argument to shreds.

You drink your coffee black, keep your bullpen desk unnervingly tidy, and dress like every meeting could make or break your career. When someone tries to pass their grunt work onto you, you hand it back with corrections. Associates either want to be you or avoid you entirely. Partners are starting to remember your name.

One afternoon, the tap of Louis’ shoes announces him before he even rounds the corner to your desk. He’s clutching a thick file to his chest like it’s a newborn. “Clear your schedule,” he says, practically bouncing in place.

You slide your pen into your notepad and arch a brow. “That’s a big ask, considering I actually do work around here.”

“Cute,” he says flatly, though there’s the ghost of a smirk on his face. He sets the file down on your desk with a heavy thud. “I’m bringing you in on a case. High stakes. Big client. One wrong move and we’re toast.”

You flip open the file, scanning the first few pages, your brain already sifting through strategies. “And you’re trusting me with this because…?”

“Because,” Louis says, drawing out the word, “you’re the best associate this firm has seen in years. And because I want Harvey Specter to choke on the fact that my protégé just outshined him.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes. “So no pressure, then.”

Louis grins. “Exactly. Now, read up. We meet the client tomorrow morning.”

Two days later, Harvey’s on his way back from a meeting when he hears raised voices echoing down the hall. Not angry, exactly—sharp. Heated. Curious, he follows the sound until it leads him to one of the glass-walled conference rooms.

Inside, Louis sits stiffly at the table, arms crossed, eyes trained on you. You’re standing, posture straight, expression cool, facing down a red-faced client who’s clearly in the middle of a tirade. Harvey lingers in the doorway, unnoticed.

The client jabs a finger at you. “I don’t care what the law says—this deal is garbage, and I’m not signing it.”

You tilt your head, the faintest smile tugging at your mouth. “With respect, you hired us to get you the best possible outcome. This is it. The other side folds if you take this now, but if you walk out that door, you’ll spend the next six months bleeding money in litigation you won’t win.”

The client starts to interrupt, but you press on, voice razor-sharp. “You’re emotional. I get it. But emotions don’t win cases. Facts do. And the fact is, if you reject this offer, you lose. And when you lose, you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”

A long silence follows. Then, with a muttered curse, the client sits down and signs.

Harvey watches as you slide the paperwork across the table, your smile polite but victorious. Louis beams. Harvey, still in the doorway, can’t help the slow grin spreading across his face.

It’s late by the time the bullpen empties, the steady hum of the office replaced by the low whir of the air system. Your desk lamp casts a warm halo over the neat stacks of files, and you’re buried deep in a deposition transcript when a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Planning on sleeping here, Rookie?”

You look up, startled, to find Harvey leaning against the edge of your desk, hands in his pockets, smirk firmly in place. “Some of us don’t clock out at five,” you say, reaching for a highlighter.

“Some of us know when to call it a night.” He nods toward the file. “That the case from this morning?”

You nod. “I like to be thorough.”

“Thorough’s good,” he says, studying you in that sharp, unreadable way. “But you keep this up, and you’ll burn out before your first year’s up.”

You arch a brow. “Is this a lecture?”

“An invitation,” he corrects smoothly. “There’s a bar two blocks over. Come on.”

You hesitate, and his smile widens. “Mentorship, not a date. Unless you want it to be.”

Rolling your eyes, you close the file and stand. “One drink.”

“Then let’s go,” he says, pushing away from your desk, his smirk softening just enough to make you wonder what exactly you’ve agreed to.

The air outside is crisp, the city alive with the hum of traffic and the distant wail of sirens. Harvey walks beside you, his long stride unhurried, hands still in his pockets like the night belongs to him. The bar is low-lit and sleek, all dark wood and leather, the kind of place that feels private even when it’s busy.

You slide into a booth, and he orders without asking—scotch for him, gin and tonic for you. When the drinks arrive, he lifts his glass toward you. “To surviving Louis Litt.”

You smirk. “I think I’m doing more than surviving.”

“That’s what worries me,” he says, eyes glinting in the dim light. “You’re good—too good for your first few months here. Which means you’ve got a target on your back.”

You take a slow sip, watching him over the rim of your glass. God, he really is exactly as handsome as everyone says he is. The cut of his suit, the way his hair catches the light, the easy confidence in every movement—it’s almost distracting.

“So what, you’re here to protect me?”

He leans back, smiling like he knows exactly what you’re doing. “I’m here because I like to keep an eye on talent. And because you were impressive today.”

“Impressive enough to get a drink with Harvey Specter?”

“Let’s just say,” he drawls, “I don’t make a habit of taking rookies out for drinks. You’re an exception.”

The conversation drifts—cases, courtroom tactics, the unspoken rules of Pearson Hardman. Every so often, his gaze lingers a fraction too long, like he’s measuring you in ways that have nothing to do with work.

When the drinks are gone, he stands and shrugs into his coat, waiting for you to follow. Outside, the night air is cooler, the streets quieter. You walk together toward the firm, and there’s an ease between you now that wasn’t there a few hours ago.

At the front of the building, he pauses. “Get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow, you get to do it all over again.”

You smirk. “Was that encouragement?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he says, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes it feel like a promise.

You watch him walk away into the night, realizing you’re already looking forward to the next time you’re in his orbit.

The weeks that follow pull you into his world almost without you realizing it. A case you’re on overlaps with one of his, and suddenly you’re in his office more than your own desk—sprawled on the leather couch near the window, heels discarded on the floor, legal pads and files spread out beside you. Harvey’s jacket, vest, and tie are draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to his forearms. A pair of low glasses of scotch from his office bar sit on the coffee table, the amber liquid catching the glow from the city lights beyond the glass.

He’s pacing, file in hand, rattling off points with that easy confidence. You volley back without missing a beat, chin propped in your hand, eyes following him. “That’s your strategy?” you tease. “Bold move, Specter. Risky. I give it a week before it blows up in your face.”

He smirks, setting the file down. “Funny, because I was thinking the same thing about your opening statement.”

“Mine is bulletproof.”

“Yours is overconfident.”

“Yours is lazy.”

“Yours is trying too hard.”

“Yours—”

“Careful,” he warns, but there’s amusement in his voice.

You grin. “—is exactly what I’d expect from a man whose solution to everything is intimidation and a tailored suit.”

He settles into the armchair across from you, one arm draped casually over the side. “And yet, somehow, that ‘man’ wins. Every. Single. Time.”

You tap your pen against the edge of your glass. “Maybe you just haven’t had me on the other side of the table yet.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Sounds like it, doesn’t it?”

He studies you for a beat, the smirk fading into something sharper, more curious. The city light cuts across his face, and for just a moment, the banter gives way to silence thick enough to feel. “Careful what you wish for, Rookie,” he says at last, voice low. “You might just get it.”

You smile, leaning back into the couch. He takes a sip of scotch, eyes still on you. Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, he says, “Go home. Get some rest. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes but start gathering your files, slipping your heels back on. “Don’t miss me too much.”

He smirks. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You’re halfway out the door when you toss over your shoulder, “You’d be lost without me.”

“Debatable,” he calls after you, but there’s a warmth under the word that lingers after you’re gone.

When the door clicks shut, Harvey exhales, collapsing into his chair. He stares at the empty couch, then downs the rest of his scotch in one swallow. Leaning back, he scrubs a hand over his face, the word slipping out under his breath, low and rough: “Goddamnit.”

The weeks that follow aren’t explosive—they’re a slow, deliberate creep toward something neither of you says out loud. Harvey keeps the banter quick and the praise understated, but you notice the shift anyway. He starts asking for your input on cases you’re not staffed on. He waves you into his office after meetings that technically ended fifteen minutes ago, just to “pick your brain.” You’re not sure if it’s because you’re good at your job or because he likes watching you tear apart an argument, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left standing.

In return, you’ve gotten bolder. You let your heels slip off the moment you hit the couch in his office. You steal the pens from his desk when yours run out. You lean over his shoulder when he’s scrolling through a contract, close enough that you can smell his cologne under the faint warmth of scotch. And every time, he doesn’t move away.

Donna starts raising her eyebrows at how often she sees you in his glass-walled office. Louis makes a snide comment about “Harvey poaching talent” when he catches you two laughing over something that has nothing to do with law. You shrug it off—out loud, at least. Privately, you can feel the current under every exchange, the way his gaze lingers a beat too long, the way yours drops to his mouth when he smirks.

Nights are the most dangerous. When the bullpen is dark and the hum of the city filters in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you’re still in his office, your jacket draped over the back of a chair, files spread across the table between you. Sometimes you talk strategy. Sometimes the conversation veers into stories about Harvard, his early days at the firm, or your first big case win. The laughter comes easier then—so does the silence.

And when you finally stand to leave, there’s always that pause. His eyes on you as you collect your things. Yours on him as he leans back in his chair, watching.

Neither of you has crossed the line yet. But you’re both standing at the edge, looking down.

It happens on a Thursday. The case had been brutal, the kind that drags the whole week down with it, and Harvey suggests—too casually—to “get a drink before we both lose what’s left of our sanity.” You don’t even pretend to hesitate.

The bar is quieter this time, tucked away from the usual finance crowd. Dark wood, low lighting, jazz bleeding through the speakers. You take the booth across from him, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Half an hour and two rounds in, you’re both leaning in, elbows on the table, trading war stories about the worst clients you’ve ever had.

“You still think you’re the reason I win?” he asks, that smirk cutting through the dim light.

“Absolutely,” you say, swirling your glass. “Without me, you’d be—”

“Careful.” His voice dips, low enough to blur the line between warning and invitation.

You hold his gaze, unflinching. “—bored.”

It should end there. It doesn’t. His hand finds the table between you, fingers brushing yours in a way that can’t be written off as accidental. You don’t move. The noise of the bar fades to the sound of your own pulse.

For a second, you think he’s going to close the distance—his eyes drop, just barely, to your mouth.

And then he leans back, pulling his hand away like nothing happened. “Another round?”

The air between you is different now. Charged. Dangerous. And neither of you mentions it on the walk back to the firm.

The next day, you can’t focus. The numbers on the page blur, the clauses in the contract don’t stick, and your mind keeps replaying the brush of his fingers like it’s on loop. You’re halfway through the same paragraph for the third time when Louis’s hand is slamming down on the wall of your desk.

“My office. Now.”

You blink, realizing half the bullpen is already looking at you. “Uh—sure, Louis.”

Inside, he shuts the door with unnecessary force. “You’re off your game.”

“I’m fine,” you say, stacking your papers just to have something to do with your hands.

“No, you’re not. I’ve been watching you all morning. You’ve missed details you wouldn’t normally miss. And you know what missing details leads to? Mistakes. Which leads to the other side winning. And you know what that leads to?”

“An angry Louis?”

He stares at you like you’ve just confessed to a felony. “This isn’t a joke.”

You soften your tone, even if you can’t help the flicker of a smirk. “I said I’m fine. It won’t happen again.”

He huffs, still unconvinced, but lets you go. Back at your desk, you catch yourself glancing at Harvey’s office, glass walls gleaming under the morning sun. He’s inside, jacket off, leaning over a file—but you’d swear his eyes flick up to meet yours for a split second before he goes back to work.

It’s late when he finds you. The bullpen’s nearly empty—just the soft hum of the copier somewhere down the hall, the city glow bleeding in through the windows. You’re so deep in your file that you don’t notice him until the reflection of his suit fills your peripheral.

“You’ve been distracted,” he says, voice low enough that it feels like it’s meant only for you.

You look up, leaning back in your chair, trying to hide the fact that your pulse just spiked. “You been talking to Louis?”

“Don’t need to.” His eyes flick over your desk like he’s taking in the evidence. “I see it.”

You sit up straighter, defensive without meaning to be. “I’m still delivering results.”

“Not the point.” He studies you for a beat too long, the way he does in court when he’s already won but wants to watch the other side squirm. Then his mouth twitches—not quite a smile. “Come out with me tonight.”

You blink, caught off guard. “The usual bar?”

“Not tonight.” There’s a pause, calculated. “My place.”

For a second, you wonder if you misheard him. His place. The words land heavier than they should, dragging a hundred questions behind them. Is this still work? Is this mentorship? Is this something else entirely? You search his face for a tell, but he’s giving you nothing.

“That’s… different,” you say finally, trying to keep your tone light.

“You afraid I’m going to make you work through dinner?” His smirk is there, but it doesn’t hide the way his gaze lingers.

You take your time closing your file, sliding it into your bag. Your mind’s racing ahead, weighing all the things this could mean. “I’m afraid of what your definition of dinner is.”

His smirk deepens. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

You stand, slipping into your jacket, and even then there’s a moment—a beat—where neither of you moves. Then you step past him, the quiet sound of your heels on the tile filling the space between words.

The ride is short, quiet in a way that doesn’t feel uncomfortable but still sits heavy. You thank Ray when you step out, the city air colder here, cleaner somehow. Harvey leads the way without a word, unlocking the door to a high-rise apartment that looks exactly like you’d imagine it would—sleek lines, warm lighting, the kind of view that makes you pause on the threshold.

It smells faintly like leather and whatever cologne he wears, the one you’ve only ever caught in passing before. Here, it’s stronger. More personal.

He drops his keys in a dish near the door, loosens his tie, and gestures toward the living room. “Make yourself at home.”

You step in, eyes catching on the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling city lights across polished hardwood, the low hum of jazz floating from somewhere unseen. It’s not staged—no carefully curated backdrop like the conference rooms at work. It’s lived-in, but not messy. Comfortable, but still him.

You toe off your heels without thinking, padding further inside. “Nice place.”

He glances over his shoulder with the faintest hint of a smirk. “I’ve been told it’s not bad.”

There’s a moment where you just stand there, him watching you take it all in, the air between you thick with something that has nothing to do with work.

He heads to a bar cart tucked into the corner, pulling out two heavy crystal tumblers and a bottle of Macallan. “Scotch okay?”

You nod, dropping your bag onto the end of the couch. “You keep the good stuff here, huh?”

“I keep the good stuff everywhere.” The faint clink of ice follows his words. He hands you a glass, his fingers brushing yours—brief, but enough to send heat crawling up your spine.

You take a sip, the burn settling in your chest. “So, this is what you do when you’re not closing billion-dollar deals?”

“This is me taking a night off,” he says, settling onto the couch, tie discarded, top buttons undone. The relaxed version of Harvey is disarming, and you can’t decide if that’s better or worse for your nerves.

“Feels like I should be taking notes,” you say.

“Please. You’d have your own style. Different from mine, but just as lethal.” His gaze is steady, the kind that feels like it’s peeling you apart layer by layer.

“Lethal’s a big word,” you murmur.

“It’s the right one.” He takes a slow sip, not breaking eye contact. “You’ve got an instinct most people spend decades faking.”

It’s the kind of praise that should feel purely professional, but the way he says it—low, deliberate—makes your chest feel tight.

You set your glass down, leaning back into the couch, pretending to be more at ease than you are. “Careful, Harvey. Sounds like you’re complimenting me.”

His smirk is slow, almost dangerous. “Maybe I am.”

You swirl the amber in your glass, watching the way the light catches it. “You’re different out of the office.”

“How so?”

“Less… sharp edges. Still sharp, just—” You pause, eyes flicking over him. “—not in a way that’s designed to cut.”

One brow arches. “And here I thought you liked the sharp edges.”

“I do,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

The quiet that follows is heavier than before. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, the space between you suddenly feeling a lot smaller.

“You know,” he says, voice low enough that you feel it more than hear it, “most people in your position would be trying to impress me.”

“Maybe I already have.”

That earns you a smile—slower, warmer than the ones he flashes in court. “Maybe you have,” he repeats, like he’s turning the idea over in his mind.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, and that’s when you realize how close you’ve both leaned in. The air feels charged, like the city outside is holding its breath.

"This is a dumb idea," you almost immediately breathe out, your eyes dropping to his mouth all the same. You can feel his breath against your lips, just teetering on the edge of giving into weeks worth of tension.

"Really stupid," Harvey echoes. "But I want to. Do you want to?"

Your eyes lock with his. A single, slow nod. You really, really want to.

Your nod barely has time to settle between you before his mouth is on yours—slow, deliberate, like he’s tasting the answer. His lips are warm and soft, the faintest graze of stubble scratching your skin when he tilts his head. The scent of his cologne is stronger here, wrapping around you with the low hum of the city beyond the glass. His thumb brushes the curve of your jaw, not pushing, just holding you there, making the kiss feel even more inevitable.

When he pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet. His eyes search yours, unreadable, the kind of silence that hums louder than words.

And then he’s kissing you again—harder this time, with a heat that steals the air from your lungs. The angle shifts, his hand sliding into your hair, his body leaning in like he’s finally stopped caring about lines. The taste of scotch and something entirely him blooms on your tongue. You feel the press of his chest through the crisp fabric of his shirt, the way his fingers flex against the back of your neck like he’s anchoring you to him.

The kiss deepens until you’re both moving without thought, mouths opening, finding a rhythm that’s all heat and want. His hand drags from your neck to your waist, pulling you closer until your knees bump his. You can feel the solid weight of him, the warmth radiating through his shirt, and it sends your mind racing ahead of your body.

Your fingers hover at the edge of his collar, unsure for a beat before you touch him—just grazing the smooth silk of his tie, then curling it loosely in your hand like you’re testing how far you can go. He doesn’t notice the pause; or if he does, he hides it well, leaning in to kiss you again, deeper.

The faint taste of scotch, the scrape of his stubble, the slow drag of his thumb along your hip—it’s all too much and not enough. You shift forward, knees brushing his thigh, and your breath catches before you can stop it.

“Mm,” he hums into your mouth, like he’s pleased with himself.

You try to kiss him back the way he’s kissing you—sure, practiced—but there’s a stutter in your movements, a slight awkwardness in where to put your hands. You end up smoothing them over his chest, feeling the firm planes beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, before hesitating again.

He doesn’t slow. One hand fists gently in the fabric at your lower back, the other sliding up your spine, fingertips pressing lightly through the layers of your blouse. Your jacket slips off your shoulders without you meaning it to, pooling on the couch beside you.

When his fingers brush the first button of your blouse, your stomach flips—not with fear, but with the dizzy awareness that you’ve never let anyone this close before. You’re not sure if you’re doing this right, but Harvey… Harvey kisses you like you are.

His fingers work at the buttons slowly, like he’s giving you a chance to stop him. One by one, they come undone, the fabric parting until it sits on your shoulders. The air hits your skin, cooler than his hands, and then he’s leaning back just enough to look at you.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, eyes sweeping over you in a way that makes your pulse hammer. “You’re beautiful.”

The words land heavier than you expect, heating your face instantly. You look away, not because you don’t want to hear it, but because you don’t know what to do with it.

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “You can tear opposing counsel to shreds without blinking, but tell you you’re beautiful and you go all quiet?”

You huff out a laugh, but it’s softer than usual, your fingers fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt. “It’s… different.”

He tips his head, curiosity cutting through the heat in his gaze. “Different how?”

You hesitate, weighing whether to tell him. The moment stretches, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your side, and suddenly it feels worse to not say it.

“I’ve never…” You swallow, meeting his eyes for half a second before looking away again. “I’ve never done this before.”

For the first time tonight, he goes still. His thumb pauses against your side, and that sharp, assessing gaze fixes on you like you’ve just thrown him a curveball.

“You’re telling me…” his voice dips, incredulous but amused, “…no one’s ever closed this deal before?”

You groan quietly, covering your face with one hand. “God, don’t say it like that.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “What? I’m just clarifying the terms.” His hand finds your wrist, gently pulling it from your face so he can look at you. “You’ve never—”

You shake your head, cheeks hot. “Never. And I wasn’t exactly… planning for it to happen like this, but—” your eyes flick to his, steady now— “I want to.”

For a second, his smirk lingers, like he’s savoring the surprise. Then it eases into something slower, warmer. “You know, most people don’t drop that on me after I’ve got their shirt off.”

“Sorry to ruin your usual flow.”

“Ruin?” He leans back just enough to look you over, head tilted. “Rookie, you just made my night a hell of a lot more interesting.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in again, that smirk back in place, “but I’m also very, very good.”

His voice drops lower on the last word, and he shifts closer, one hand sliding to your shoulder to gently push your blouse the rest of the way open. The fabric parts easily under his fingers, cool air brushing your skin before the warmth of him replaces it.

He lowers himself, slow enough that you feel the anticipation crawl up your spine, his mouth finding the curve of your neck. The first kiss there is soft—barely more than a press of lips—but it sends a shiver through you all the same. He follows it with another, lower this time, the faint scrape of stubble dragging heat in its wake.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing your collarbone before trailing back up, “what you’re in for.”

He brings his lips back up to yours after that, but this time, when he kisses you, there's so much more behind it. You can feel his earnestness, his promise in the way his lips move against yours, the softness of them mirroring the almost uncharacteristic gentleness with which he's treating you. He pulls back slowly, a hint of a smirk on his face as his hand wraps with yours, pulling you to your feet.

"What? You think I'd let you have your first time on a couch? Please. I'm Harvey Fucking Specter. Luxury, baby."

If it were any other moment, you would have rolled your eyes at him and thrown a smack at his arrogance, but in this moment, you were grateful. Despite the cockiness he was presenting, it was obvious it was all just because he was trying to make this the best experience possible for you. Luxury, indeed.

"Holy shit."

You have to take a moment to look around in awe once you get to his bedroom. It’s everything you imagined: floor-to-ceiling windows spilling the city in gold and silver, a bed big enough to swallow you whole, sheets so crisp you could swear they’ve never been slept in. He stops just inside the doorway, turning back to you, and for a second the usual cocky mask slips.

He watches you take it in—the skyline, the impossibly crisp sheets, the sheer Harvey-ness of it all—and for a moment there’s no smirk, no performance. Just his eyes on you, softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice quieter now. Not hesitant, but deliberate, like he wants you to hear the weight of the choice.

You nod, throat suddenly dry. “I’m sure.”

That earns a grin, but it doesn’t carry the same courtroom bite. It’s warmer, more private. “Good,” he murmurs, stepping in to kiss you again. This one is slow, thorough, his hand cupping your jaw while the other tugs at the hem of your blouse. He peels it away inch by inch, lips never leaving yours until the fabric falls.

When you shiver, he pulls back just enough to smirk. “Relax, Rookie. You think I’d leave you feeling anything but perfect? Not a chance.”

The banter helps. It steadies your nerves, makes the way his hands trail over your skin feel less like exposure and more like discovery. By the time he’s stripped you down to nothing but your underwear, you’re flushed but no longer frozen.

He steps back, unbuttoning his shirt easily. The fabric falls off of him, cufflinks clinking softly against the nightstand, and then he’s just Harvey in all his sharp, lean confidence, bathed in city light.

Your breath catches. “Damn.”

He chuckles, low and smug. “Don’t worry, that’s a normal reaction.”

You swat at him weakly, but he catches your wrist, tugging you forward until you’re against his chest. His stubble grazes your temple when he murmurs, “Lie down.”

The sheets are cool under your back, his weight warm as he follows. He takes his time with you, kissing down your throat, hands mapping every inch, until your nerves fray into need. His fingers slip between your thighs, stroking over the thin cotton of your panties.

“Already wet,” he mutters, more to himself than you, but the smugness is there. His eyes flick up to yours. “You trust me?”

You nod.

“Then let me get you ready.”

The panties slide away, his mouth replacing his fingers, coaxing gasps from you until your hips lift helplessly into his hand. One finger, then two, sliding in slow, deliberate, curling just enough to have your nails digging into the sheets. He keeps his eyes on you, studying every twitch and breath.

"Like that?" He asks, fingers still gently working in and out of you as he pulls his mouth away, his lips glistening with the wetness of yours.

"Not bad, yeah," you pant out, poorly feigning nonchalance.

He grins widely. "Not bad, huh? We'll see."

His mouth returns to its place, his lips wrapping over your clit, sucking it gently. His chuckles vibrate against you when your hips arch into his face, your breathing growing hot with the sensations.

His fingers continue to scissor inside of you, stretching you open in preparation for him. With one final kiss to your clit, his lips make their way back up your body, slow and wet, until his face is hovering over yours.

"How do you feel?" He asks. "Feeling good? Think you're ready?"

"Think you're ready?" You counter, your smirk settling over the expression of pleasure he had plastered on your face.

A slow grin makes its way onto his lips. "Yeah. I'm ready."

“Good,” you say, and he kisses you like a seal on the decision—slow first, then deeper until your mouth is warm and slick with him. When he breaks away, he reaches to the nightstand without looking, rips foil with a clean flick. Watching him roll the condom on does something to your pulse—clinical and intimate at once, like the moment before a verdict.

“Legs,” he murmurs, tapping your knee. You open for him. He drags his palms up the backs of your thighs, thumbs pressing into muscle, easing you higher until your heels hook behind his waist. The city lays bands of white-gold across his shoulders; his skin is hot where it touches yours, the callouses on his hands providing a layer to his touch that makes this all that much more... enticing.

“Eyes on me,” he says, not a command so much as a place to put your focus. You give him your eyes.

The blunt heat of him nudges where his fingers were, a careful pressure that makes your breath climb your throat. He doesn’t push, yet. He just rests there, letting your body understand the weight and width of him. His hand slides up your side and settles just under your ribs, steadying your breath with his thumb.

“Breathe in,” he says softly. You do. “Now out.”

On the exhale he eases in a little. The stretch bites—new, bright—and you clutch at his shoulders. He stops immediately, thumb stroking your rib again, mouth close enough that his breath warms your cheek.

“Talk to me.”

“It… burns a little,” you admit, the truth small and honest.

“A bit of a stretch,” he murmurs. “It'll fade. We go at your pace.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You’re doing perfect.”

Another breath. Your grip eases. He sinks another inch, barely, reading your face with the same precision he uses on opposing counsel—every twitch a sentence. You let your knees fall wider over his hips; he groans, quiet and needy, like the sound was dragged out of him. It makes heat pool low in your belly in a way his fingers didn’t.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Keep—” You swallow. “Keep going.”

“You're doing great.” The praise lands low and heavy. He presses forward in small, patient glides, pausing each time your breath hitches until the hot edge blurs into a deep, aching fullness. When he’s all the way in, his forehead drops to yours, both of you breathing hard. You feel every line of him—thick, deep, seated—your body stretched around him and quickly adjusting.

“Jesus,” he says against your mouth, voice frayed. “You’re going to ruin me for everyone.”

You huff a shaky laugh. “You say that to all the rookies?”

He snorts, first. "You know that would be a massive conflict of interest and a terrible scandal," but then he smiles, real and warm. “But you also know there aren’t any others.”

He pulls out an inch and slides back, just testing the line. The first drag is strange—pressure and pull—and then his angle changes a hair and something sparks. Your mouth opens on an unplanned sound; his gaze flashes with satisfaction.

“There,” he says, like he’s marked the clause he needs. He does it again—same angle, same depth—until the strange becomes good and the good becomes heat winding tight in your spine. He keeps his hips slow, deliberate, letting you rise to meet him, letting you learn the map of him inside you. The slick sound where you’re joined is obscene in the quiet; his breath roughens and you feel it against your throat.

“Better?” he asks, and when you nod too fast he laughs softly, breathless. “Yeah. Better.”

Your hands, useless until now, find places to live—one at the back of his neck, fingers in his hair; the other sliding down to the flex of his back where muscle moves under skin with every stroke. You drag your nails lightly; the way he stutters tells you he felt it.

“Touch me,” he says, not needy, just guiding. “Anywhere you want.” It flips something in your chest—the generosity of it—and you let your palm map him: shoulder, bicep, the hard ladder of his ribs, the snap of his hip as he rolls deeper again.

The sting is gone. It’s just full and good. He knows the second that happens; his rhythm shifts, smooths, a little more weight behind each thrust. He braces your knee higher with his forearm and hits that same sweet place with merciless precision. Your head tips back; he kisses your throat, teeth scraping lightly where your pulse kicks against his mouth.

“Look at me,” he reminds, and when your eyes find his, the cockiness is there, yes, but it’s softened by something like pride. “That’s it. Stay with me.”

You’re panting now, the edge building fast and unfamiliar. “Harvey—”

“I’ve got you.” He laces your fingers and pins them above your head, his other hand slotting under your lower back to pull you up onto him, to take him deeper. The friction at your clit is perfect now—each push drags just right. Your thighs tremble around his waist; you feel yourself start to go weightless.

“Close?” he asks, voice gone low and broken in the best way.

You nod, helpless. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Not stopping.” His mouth takes yours again, swallowing the sounds you make as he rides you right to the edge, steady.... steady... steady. “Come for me.”

It hits hot and bright, a coil snapping, pleasure running out to your fingertips. Your body clamps around him hard; he grunts, loses his smooth for a second, driving deep and holding there while you shatter under him. He doesn’t chase ahead of you; he stays, letting you feel every aftershock, kissing you through it like he’s keeping you anchored to the bed, to him, to the room with the city pouring light across the sheets.

When you finally breathe again, he moves—two more thrusts, rougher now, a quiet curse against your mouth—and then he goes, heat stuttering through him, his body tightening above you. He buries a groan in your throat like he doesn’t trust the walls not to listen.

Silence after—your breath and his; the low hum of jazz from the living room; the city’s distant siren song. He’s heavy on you in a way that feels protective more than crushing. He stays there, softening, then pulls out, slowly, carefully, as if your body is something expensive he’s responsible for. He slips away, disposes of the condom, returns with a warm, damp cloth. The heat of it is a luxury you didn’t realize you needed; he’s gentle, efficient, and annoyingly thorough, like he can’t turn off the part of his brain that insists on perfection.

“Feeling okay?” he asks quietly while he wipes you clean—checking in without making a production of it.

“Good,” you say, floating. “Really good.”

“Yeah,” he says, like he knew but wanted to hear it. He tosses the cloth, pulls the covers down with one arm and you with the other, settling you against his chest. His skin smells like soap and scotch and you, the rise and fall of his breathing already dragging you toward sleep.

You trace a slow line over his sternum, nail catching on a scatter of hair. “Luxury, huh?”

His mouth tips against your temple. “Told you I don’t half-ass.” A beat. “Also, for the record? You were impossible to concentrate around for weeks.”

You smile into his skin. “You? Distracted? I should put that on a plaque.”

He huffs a laugh, then goes quiet. His hand coasts up and down your spine in long, even passes, the kind of touch that settles rather than sparks. When you shift—some small after-echo of tenderness—he notices instantly.

“Sore?”

“Not entirely, just... different.” You’re honest now that the edge is gone.

He slides a hand to your thigh and starts a slow, grounding massage, easing the muscle where it trembles. “Tomorrow it’ll feel like a good workout,” he says, voice a lazy drag. “I’ll allow you to blame me in the office. Quietly.”

“Generous,” you murmur, sleep tugging. “Are you always like this?”

“Infuriatingly competent?” he offers.

“Careful,” you counter, softer.

He’s quiet for a long second, then: “With you? Yeah.”

You let that sit between you, warm as the sheets. The skyline throws a silver line across his jaw; his thumb finds the hollow beneath your ear and rests there like a promise.

“Stay,” he says, not quite a question.

You nod against his chest. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Good.” The word is satisfied and strangely gentle. He presses one more kiss into your hair. “Tell me you enjoyed it.”

“Was that not apparent?” You ask, already drifting.

"Of course it was," he replies. "But I want to hear you say it."

You pop an eye open, glancing up to him. "I'm not going to let you walk directly into a 'best closer in New York' joke, Harvey. You did adequate," you grin, closing your eyes and nuzzling back into his chest.

"Adequate?" he scoffs, though there's no malice in his tone. "I'm telling Louis to put you on scut work tomorrow."

"Mmm... you wouldn't. You wouldn't be able to make excuses to pull me into your office."

He sighs, playfully, fingers gently carding through your hair. "Accurate assessment, Counselor."

"Shut up."

There's a silence for a moment, supplemented only by your mingling breaths. Then, he speaks. “Donna’s going to read this all over me.”

You snort, too drowsy to open your eyes. “She’ll probably send flowers.”

-----

you close the book you weren’t really reading, stretching as you get up from the couch. by the time you reach the entryway, he’s already shrugging off his suit jacket, movements slow and tired. he barely even looks up as he drapes it over the back of a chair, fingers reaching for his tie like even loosening it is too much effort.

“harvey,” you say, soft, careful.

he sighs, finally lifting his head. the moment he sees you, something in him shifts—just slightly. like the first hint of relief after a long day. but there’s still tension in the set of his shoulders, in the crease between his brows.

“rough day?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

he huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “you could say that.”

you step closer, gently pushing his hands away from his tie and undoing it yourself. he lets you, his hands dropping to your waist instead, thumbs brushing absentminded circles against your hips.

“wanna talk about it?” you murmur, carefully undoing the knot and slipping the silk from his collar.

he shakes his head. “not right now.”

“okay,” you say, running your fingers over the first few buttons of his dress shirt, undoing them without a second thought. “what do you need, then? shower? drink? food?”

he exhales slowly, eyes closing for a moment as he leans into your touch. “just you.”

your chest tightens. you nod, taking his hand and leading him to the couch. the moment he sits, he sighs, leaning back like even holding himself upright took more effort than he had left.

without a word, you settle beside him, pulling him into you. he doesn’t resist. he never does. he shifts, head resting against your chest, arms slipping around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.

for a while, he just breathes. doesn’t say anything. doesn’t move.

you run your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp lightly, feeling the tension start to ease from his body. he exhales, a slow, deep breath, pressing his forehead against your collarbone.

“you wanna hear something stupid?” he murmurs after a while, voice rough with exhaustion.

“always.”

he lets out another small huff of laughter, this one a little softer, a little lighter. “whole day, all i could think about was getting home to you.”

your heart clenches, warmth blooming in your chest. you press a kiss to his hair, lingering there for a moment.

“that’s not stupid, harvey.”

“feels like it is.”

“feels like love,” you correct gently.

he doesn’t argue. doesn’t tease. just tightens his hold on you, presses his face further into your neck, and sighs, the tension finally melting away.

you press a soft kiss to his temple, feeling the way his body slowly relaxes against yours. his grip on your waist loosens just enough to show he’s not holding himself together anymore—he doesn’t need to. not with you. 

you smile a little, shifting so you can kiss his forehead next, lingering there for a moment. his skin is warm, and he hums softly, barely audible, like he’s savoring the moment. 

“that feels nice,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, softer. 

“yeah?” you ask, brushing your lips over the crease between his brows, trying to smooth out the tension with every little kiss. 

he nods, eyes still closed, the last bit of stress in his features fading as you work your way down. a kiss to each cheek. to the tip of his nose. to the sharp line of his jaw. 

when you kiss the corner of his mouth, you feel the faintest hint of a smile forming against your lips. 

“i could get used to this,” he mutters, voice rough with exhaustion but laced with something else, something lighter. 

“you already do,” you tease, brushing your nose against his before pressing another slow kiss to his lips. 

he sighs into it, his grip on your waist tightening again, but this time, it’s not stress holding him together—it’s you. 

“you take such good care of me,” he murmurs when you pull away just enough to look at him, your fingers still carding through his hair. 

you press your forehead against his, letting your fingers trace lazy patterns over his shoulders. “somebody has to.” 

he chuckles, but it’s soft, sleepy. “lucky me.” 

you smile, kissing him again, slower this time, deeper. he lets you, lets himself melt into you completely, no walls, no defenses, just you and him in the quiet of your home. 

and when you finally pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion but so, so full of love. 

“get some sleep, harvey,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair one last time. 

he exhales, a slow, content breath. “only if you stay right here.” 

“always,” you promise. 

He couldn't find his sweater. He had to head out in less than five minutes and he couldn't find that stupid navy Greyhounds sweater. Ted ran a hand over his face before leaving his closet to search the rest of the bedroom.

He could've sworn he left it on the dresser the night before, placing it neatly folded before crawling into bed beside you. However, when he'd woken to the sound of his alarm, throwing his legs over the side of the bed to get his day started, it was gone. Briefly, he was confused, but then just assumed maybe he'd imagined setting it there before heading to take a shower. But now he was out of the shower and he had checked his drawers, now his closet, and it was nowhere to be seen.

Dammit, he thought as he started to button his undershirt, starting to walk to the kitchen. He wore the damn thing every other day, it's not like it could've gone far.

"Hey, sweetheart, have you seen my-" He cut himself off as he finally looked up from his buttons to see you. Hip resting on the counter, mug of tea in hand. His sweater swallowing your form, not seeming to wear much else.

The navy material hung loosely on you, sleeves covering your hands as the bottom only stopped mid thigh. God, he wanted to lift it, feel the skin that's hiding beneath. He wanted to take the mug from your hands, bend you over the counter and swallow you whole. But if the bedhead and half-asleep look in your eyes gave him any impression, it was that you had thrown on his sweater without even thinking. In a tired daze, all means to an end to be warm. So he wouldn't act on his instincts, but that didn't diminish the now tightness of the front of his khakis. He settled on standing on the other side of the counter to try and cover the growing tent.

Leaving his shirt half buttoned, he placed his hands on the counter to lean on. "Now, darlin', I've been looking for that sweater for an upwards of twenty minutes."

Your eyes went from him down to your body, seeming to widen a bit at the realization. You tugged up at the bottom hem a bit, gaze going back to him with a sheepish smile. "Well shit, I'm sorry, Ted. I just grabbed the first comfy shirt I saw."

He didn't say anything immediately, just watching you with a look that you couldn't quite decipher. He still had that same closed mouth smile he usually had, so that probably meant he wasn't mad, right? But still. Saying nothing? Yeah, that wasn't like Ted.

You set your mug on the counter before rounding it, fiddling with the hem still. "Do you want me to go change or-"

That seemed to snap him out of it. "What? No! God, no."

He stood in front of you in two quick strides, putting both of his hands on your arms, his thumbs moving in small circles on the fabric. "Please, never take this off," he said, his accent deeper, thicker.

Relaxing your shoulders, you placed your hands on his chest, leaning into him. "You don't mind?"

"Well, that depends- you said it's comfortable?"

You nodded, lowering your gaze to his chest, shirt still half unbuttoned, the hair there peaking out. The sight stirred something in you, but you began to start buttoning his shirt for him anyways, not wanting him to be late. "Comfiest thing in the house, smells like you," you said absentmindedly.

His hands moved to cover yours, stopping your actions to place them flat on his chest again, before they instead moved to your waist. His grip was tighter than usual, you noted, at least for 8:00am on a Tuesday. "Well, in that case, no. I don't mind at all, darlin'."

It started to dawn on you what was happening. The intense gaze he had, the way his voice dropped, the way his fingers seemed to clench and unclench on your sides. He was horny, and if the signs were a tell for anything, his composure was holding on by a string.

You leaned back to look up at him. "Ted, you have to get ready for work."

He merely hummed, easily tightening his grip to lift you onto the counter, spreading your legs to step between them. His sweater had ridden up at the action, exposing more skin on your thighs. The skin had barely been exposed before his hands were on them, fingers flexing on the flesh there.

"Searching for this thing was going to make me late anyways. A little later won't hurt anyone," he said in a hushed tone, his hands moving higher up, disappearing under the navy that hung off you.

You shudder at the contact, clearing your throat to hold your own composure. "That's not like you, though. What about Roy and Beard, what if they-"

The feeling of his digits finding purchase at the front of your wet panties has you choke on the rest of your words.

"You really thinkin' those guys are gonna care if they miss an hour or so of me yapping?" The pads of his fingers began to move slow circles over your clit through the fabric, a low groan leaving his throat as he felt your wetness spread. "Roy may even thank you for keeping me."

You wanted to reply, but only managed a soft, strained, "Ted."

Your fingers were now curling into his button down, wrinkling the fabric beyond repair. Good thing you didn't get the chance to finish buttoning it, he'll have to change it anyways. His hand that sat on your hip tightened more to keep you in place as his other began the slow, torturous path underneath the waistband of your panties.

"Now, sweetheart, you know I love when you argue a little, really gets me wound up. But as you've so kindly said, we're a little crunched on time. So," he leans in to place kisses on your throat, the touch of his lips and the prickle of his mustache on your skin overwhelming, "why don't you hush and just let me fuck you on this counter? Been on my mind since the moment I saw you in my clothes."

Damn him. He swore so rarely, and he knew exactly what it did for you when he did. Unable to respond, you nodded your head profusely, letting a gasp fall from your lips as his middle and ring finger finally sank into you. As they began to quicken in pace, your skin felt like it was on fire. You made a move to rid yourself of his sweater, only to have the hand that was on your hip halt the movement.

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?”

Just the low timbre of his voice made your heart pound and flooded your body with want. Training was long over, so you figured you were safe to take some paperwork down to Ted Lasso's office. Your heels clicked on the concrete as you made your way through the maze of rooms. Wage slips for the folks in the ticket office, holiday forms for the staff in the medical and treatment areas, and the weekly update on player relations that Ted had asked you to draft. Who was fighting with who, who had you had to threaten with suspension, and who you'd just had to give an arse kicking to. As you turn to leave Ted’s office, Roy is coming back in from the showers. With just a towel gripped in his hand. You look literally anywhere else. The ceiling tiles become particularly interesting. 

"Oi, what you doing in here?"

"Just dropping some paperwork off, no need to be rude."

"Sorry, just… thought I was alone, that's all." You drag your eyes from the ceiling to his, drawing an invisible line across his nose so you do not look any lower. "See something you like?" He teases, as if he knows it's taking all your will to not look at his chest or the towel. 

"Definitely not. I'm done now, I'll leave you to it." 

You're sure you must hold your breath on the walk from the locker room to your office because as soon as you shut the door, it all comes out in a whoooosh. As good-looking as he is, you can't stand his arrogance, dominance, and anger issues. You knew it was nothing new in football or in work at all, really. You'd seen every layer of the food chain, and it was always the top of the tree who thought they were gods gift. You knew he could be kind and thoughtful. You'd seen it for yourself with the younger, less experienced players and with fans too. It was definitely a certain calibre of person who set him off - the Jamie Tartts and George Cartricks of the world. You're still leaning against your office door when you feel and hear it knock. When it begins to open against your back, you have to jump out of the way so it can swing open. Fully clothed, Roy is on the other side. 

"Do I scare you?" He asked, frowning. 

"Course you don't scare me, I'm not a sodding child." You roll your eyes. "Did you need something?" 

"I might need to put in a complaint." You arch an eyebrow at him, 

"Really? Go on?" He took a step closer to you, so you take a step back. 

"I saw the way you looked at me downstairs -" you scoffed, 

"I did not look at you at all. I actively didn't look at you," you start, angry until you see the smirk. "Oh fuck off, did you come up here just for a laugh? I've got enough to deal with picking up 

after Jamie Tartt since he can't stop making everyone miserable." He holds up his hands in surrender. 

"Alright, alright, just a joke," he laughs a little. "You wanted to look though." 

"You are just like the other idiots. So full of your own self importance, you all think everyone wants you." He narrows his eyes and takes another step towards you.

"At the risk of sounding like any of those pricks, tell me you don't?"

"What makes you think-"

"Humour me." He looks at you like he might devour you at any moment, his eyes dark with just a hint of mirth. He knows what you think about when you see him. You feel your breath quicken, and the urge to press your thighs together is desperate, but you don't want to give him the satisfaction of being right. Before he can catch you in a lie, he forces you to take one final step back against your desk and leans down to capture your mouth in a messy, obscene kiss. 

The shock of it makes you gasp, giving him access to deepen the kiss. Your hands grip at his shoulders to keep him close, trying to get him even closer if it's possible. He leans you back against your desk, the edge of it digging into the back of your thighs while his hands are trying to touch as much of you as possible. By leaning back on the desk, he can kiss along your jawline. It would be impossible now to make out that you don't want him, your greedy hands roam up his arms and into his hair and the sighs and moans he's pulling from you with just a kiss are insane. The length of his body presses against the length of yours and you feel him hard against your hip. Feeling how much he wants you only makes you need him more. Your hand brushes across the front of his jeans, making him jerk to meet it. He breaks the kiss and watches you breathlessly as you move to undo the button in the waistband. You can tell he's about to ask if you're sure, so you place a soft kiss to his lips,

"I want you to fuck me," you tell him quietly. There is still just a hint of hesitation in your voice, but it's more a fear that he'll reject you than anything else. 

"Fucking hell." He sighs into you. He grips your hips and turns you to face the desk, you rest on your forearms. He has your skirt rucked up around your waist in no time at all and nudges your feet a little further apart. You don't have the time or inclination to feel embarrassed or to consider something more meaningful. The singular thought in your mind is having him inside you. You hear the tear of a condom wrapper and feel him at your core. His hand cups you first, wanting to check that you're ready. "You're so fucking wet," he mutters almost proudly. He gives your hip a little squeeze of warning and pushes inside you. 

"God, Roy yesss," you hiss as he fills you completely. Fully seated, he pauses just a minute to reach down and sweep your hair to one side so he can kiss your neck, "please, Roy-" you push back against him, desperate for more. He takes the hint and pounds into you over and over. He’s hitting exactly where you need him with each thrust, and it's enough to have you believing in some sort of deity. You can feel the pressure building and you're so close to the edge it's overwhelming. "I'm so close, please daddy-" the words tumble from you, unfiltered and unexpectedly - that is a brand new one for you, and when you feel his pace slow just slightly, you're terrified that you've repelled him. He moans low in his chest and redoubles his efforts, unyielding, until you come hard, crying out his name. 

"Say it again," he whispers against your ear, his body draped over your back. His hand reaches around to rub circles over your clit and you're so sensitive that the payback is almost immediate and you can feel another orgasm building. 

"Fuck, make me come again daddy," you beg. He does exactly that within seconds of you asking, his own release coming at the same time. He holds your hips while your legs shake, his forehead resting on the center of your back. He slips out of you and disposes of the condom before turning you gently to rest you back against the desk. You keep your head down, chin to chest, mortified at what's just happened until his nose nudges against yours and he kisses you softly. 

"Holy fucking shit, I should threaten to complain again, that was insane," he breathes, still holding your hips and trying to get you to look up at him. 

"I shouldn’t ha-"

"No, don't do that. You're definitely going to say it again," he chuckles against you, "I fucking promise you'll say it again." 

Roy, had been full of surprises himself. You and your dad used to bond over his no nonsense attitude, and his passion that was evident in the way he left his entire life on the pitch every single game, even the occasional meltdown.

Meeting him had been difficult at first, but during your first conversation you quickly established yourself as something more than a baseball fan, or as he put it so nonchalantly “a pretty face.”

You always had a crush on him, sure he was a bit older than you but his personality was addicting, and the subtle nuances of his love for the boys didn’t go unnoticed. You once watched him talk Danny through his emotions after a movie night where the team had gathered together to watch When Harry Met Sally. He helped Jamie grow to his full potential, albeit through gritted teeth, but he did it because as shy as he was to admit it, Richmond had become his home.

“Mmmmm.” Roy Grumbled as he walked into the coaches office. You sitting at your desk on the other side of the room from him, his fist clenched as he threw himself into a chair across from you with a grunt.

“What happened this time?” You half expected some Blaise excuse like his car getting dinged by the kitmans bike.

He looked across the desk at you, giving you a small eye roll. Mumbling back at you, he replied. “Players. Don’t show up properly to train. Don’t focus on the exercise, just a pain in my ass really.”

You hum in agreement, “I know, if only we were still allowed to bend them over a desk maybe you could return the favor.” You taunt, with just a hint of warmth in your cheeks, unable to stop the out of pocket phrase.

“If only.” He joked back to you, his grumpy tone now changed to something more lighthearted with a small grin. “I swear sometimes they try to do this stuff on purpose just to mess with me- And what am I even supposed to do with a player who can’t even get their kit on right. Sam had his shirt on backwards, the hell are we supposed to do with that?” He let out a frustrated groan, running his hand through his hair.

You chuckle, “Do you really think they do it on purpose just to fuck with you? I know I enjoy watching you get all grumbly.” Mumble with just a hint of suggestiveness in your voice, but shifting your attention back to the tape you’re cutting into a highlight reel for tomorrow’s practice.

“They better not be doing it on purpose.” He huffed and crossed his arms. “Or I swear I’ll be out there making them do extra drills after their extra drills. I swear if they wanna mess with me they’re really not gonna like my attitude tomorrow.” He leaned forward, and given the threatening tone his voice still never raised at you. He was always respectful of your space, and never would do anything to intimidate you on purpose.

You smile, clearly enjoying the grumpiness of him today, and tease him just a hair further, “Easy old man, I don’t want you to waste all that energy on the boys.” I say in a coy and insinuating to save some for me with a short pause, before continuing “We have a yoga class we can’t miss.”

His eyes widened for a brief moment, surprised by the comment and the tone you used. He could tell your were teasing, but it didn’t stop the thought from popping into his mind about saving energy for you. “Oh shush.” He replied, his tone trying to act as if he was unaffected, but the way his breath went a little faster said otherwise, “I’m looking forward to it.”

You’ve been flirting with each other for weeks, getting along better than most people typically do with Roy at least right off the bat, and the reality of it is you think when Roy is sexy when he’s angry. “Everyone needs an outlet for stress, I like yoga among other things.”

He let out a breath, his arms still crossed as he looked at you across the room. “I swear we’re supposed to be professional.” He mumbled with a bit of a chuckle and rolling his eyes, as he knew both him and you weren’t exactly doing the best job at being professional.

You smile knowingly, “I have reason to believe we wouldn’t be the first ones to break that rule.” I look at him up and down, not trying to hide my intention anymore, watching the veins in his neck strain, longing to make them pop.

He raised an eyebrow, listening to your suggestion. He couldn’t deny that the idea was tempting, and it would definitely relieve some of the frustration he had. He stared at you for a moment, considering the suggestion, before finally speaking. “Are you propositioning me?” He smirked, crossing his arms again with a raised eyebrow, still playing a bit coy, but the twist of his mouth is stuck in place.

You shrug, simply stating, “You know how much I like you, I think we’d have good chemistry off the pitch.”

He chuckled a bit at your words, the idea of ‘relieving stress’ with you becoming even more tempting. He knew that there was chemistry, everyone could tell in the locker room. The way you always seemed to make him laugh and feel lighter, while also managing to send his heart race with your playful teasing. He was tempted, not for the first time. He smirked again and tilted his head to the side. “You think so?” He taunted, his voice low. Leaning just a bit closer to your desk.

You hum again, standing slowly and circling the desk, perching on the edge and getting a close as you’ve ever been to him apart from a few celebratory hugs during matches. “You know what helps me relax?”

He smirked, the sound you made already sending a chill down his spine. He was already sold on the idea, but seeing you move to the front of the desk and letting out that phrase definitely sealed the deal. He walked closer to you slowly, moving around the desk until he was standing in front of you. “Enlighten me.” He said smoothly.

“A nice warm shower…” you reach out slowly, giving him every opportunity to move before you touch his chest gently with a lifted eyebrow in question.

He let out a breath as you reached out, his heart beginning to pound in his chest at the idea of finally getting to do something with you. He watched you closely, eyes following your hand to his chest. He had no intention of moving, wanting to keep this going.

A small smirk appeared on his face as he watched you. “A nice warm shower,” He said, taking another step forward.

He chuckled softly, leaning forward slightly, so he was standing right in front of you. “You are a tease, you know that?” He said in a low tone, his hands going to the edge of the desk on either side of you, caging you against it. “A right little tease.”

Him being so close to you is intoxicating, you can smell the oil he puts in his beard, he smells like sage and sweat. Your breath picking up as the anticipation of his touch draws closer, you look down into his dark brown eyes.

The sight of you enjoying this was almost enough to make him snap. He leaned in closer, his breath fanning across your face. “You like getting this reaction out of me, don’t you? Teasing me, making me want you?” He murmured, voice low and rough.

“Yes,” you pant, your hands twisting in your lap. “I have a feeling you’re rough in all aspects of your life.”

He chuckled breathlessly, his heart pounding even faster as you confirmed his suspicions. God, the thought of the two of you doing other things together was almost enough to make his brain short circuit. He took a moment to regain his focus, trying to respond in a way that wasn’t just a bunch of stutters and breathless words. “Is that right?” He replied softly. “You’re just dying to know the reaction you’d get from me in other situations, ehh?”

I smirk, leaning forward so our lips brush ever so slightly breathless, “So how about that shower?”

The slight brush of lips alone was enough to send a shiver down his spine. God, he was already a mess, and it was all your fault. He could feel the desire and need running through his veins. He let out a short huff, his hands gripping the edge of the desk tighter. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?” He whispered huskily. “Let’s go.”

Your faces meet, coming together in a clash of teeth and hunger, your lips moving against each others in a frenzy.

Roy groaned into the kiss, his hands quickly moving from the desk to grip your hips as your mouths pressed together. He allowed you to dominate the kiss for a moment, letting you lick into his mouth, his eyes closing as he enjoyed it.

After a moment, he began to grow more aggressive, his tongue meeting yours hungrily and his hands pulling you closer against him. You groan eagerly, feeling the tight grip on his hands all over your body. Partially wondering if you’ll even make it off your desk.

He let out another quiet moan as your hands moved to grip his hair, the feeling sending a spark of pleasure through him. He broke the kiss for a moment, only to begin trailing kisses up and down your jawline.

He nipped and sucked the skin, leaving a trail of love bites along the side of your neck. One of his large, rough hands snuck up under the hem of your shirt, wanting to feel your skin.

His hands are calloused and warm, and part of you should care that he’s leaving a trail of marks in the wake of his mouth but if you weren’t lying the idea of wearing these mark, his marks, in front of so many people makes your pussy throb in need.

Roy’s hands come down to your hips, squeezing and pushing more of his body against yours, you can feel the hard outline of his need in his trousers.

Roy runs a hand over your ribs, and you shudder in response. “How much longer is training?” You say, as you throw your head back and begin kicking off your shoes.

“Half hour, then Beard is holding a checkers competition in the team room.” He lifts your shirt up and over your head, “we’ve got your office to ourselves for at least an hour, we’ll have to be quiet to keep the kit man away,” he kisses you again, reaching behind your back to unhook your bra,”You can be a good girl and keep quiet yeah?”

“Yes coach.” You pull away, to free him from his shirt, and pressing your chests together. “Tell me what you wanna do to me.”

“Fucking minx.” He swears fingers finding your nipple and tugging on it harshly, “Filthy fucking thing calling me coach.” His eyes are dark with desire, breath hot and full of desire. “I’m gonna fuck you on this desk.”

His fingers dip into the waistband of your joggers, grabbing fistfuls of your ass as he envelops you with his mouth again. You moan coach, against the press of his mouth.

As you repeat the title, calling him coach again, he groans against your skin. His hips press forward, practically grinding himself against you for a moment to get some much needed friction, a low hiss slipping from his lips. He pulls back, his breath coming out in short huffs as he looks you in the eye.

“Say it again. Keep calling me coach.” He practically growls out. He pushes your paperwork onto the floor, urging you to lay further back onto the desk and to give him space to remove your clothes.

You comply, leaning back and lifting your hips so that he can pull the soft material from your legs. Looking down between your legs he sees a sizable patch of wet fabric clinging to your skin.

“Fucking filthy girl, you want this cunt filled don’t you?” He lets the pad of his thumb tap your clit through the thin cloth of your panties, and your eyes all but roll back into your head.

You nod vigorously, feeling so hot and dazed, knuckles clinging to the edge of your desk. Catching a glimpse of the sizable bulge in his trousers, you reach down to slip your hand around him.

He continues to press a finger to your clit, and takes a hand and twists into your hair tugging from the root. You hiss in pain, squeezing his shaft in response to the pain, “Please coach.”

His resolve breaks, pushing the top of his trousers down just enough to let himself fall free. In a single breath the head of his cock is working you open and his hips saw back and forth stretching you around his size.

Once he’s bottomed out, he pauses for a moment. Taking in the way your mouth is parted in a pant, and the way the muscles in your legs quiver around his waist.

“You said rough yeah? Tell me if you need me to stop.” He said, sober as a saint for a second making sure to establish himself as in control but giving you what you need to feel comfortable.

You nod, biting your lip as he shifts his heels to angle his hips up, he hits something inside you that makes you squeak.