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If someone had told Trent that he’d one day get to second base with Ted Lasso, he’d ask why the hell he’d be playing baseball with Ted Lasso. Because despite being near complete nonsense, that was still a more fundamentally sensible statement than the other, more normal interpretation of that sentence.
Now, the nonsensical has become sensical—or, really, stubbornly remained nonsensical, and continued to happen anyway.
All this to say, Ted Lasso’s mouth is hot and insistent on his, and Ted Lasso’s hands are petting at his sides, feverishly touching all over Trent’s body—well, keeping somewhat disappointingly above the waist, like a true gentleman that was currently kissing his brains out—and Trent is just hanging on for dear life. To Ted’s waist. God.
One of Ted’s hands slides up his back, fingertips pushing up the nape of his neck and into his hair, not quite gripping but still combing through it, pressing against his scalp, and Trent’s unable to help how he moans into Ted’s mouth.
His own fingertips squeeze at Ted’s waist, clinging, just trying to stay grounded as his head spins. Ted’s warm under his hands, mouth eager on his.
Trent’s back knocks against the wall and Ted presses him further into it, deepening the kiss, fingers tightening just a little in his hair. Trent moans again, hands petting at Ted’s sides as if to check he’s real and solid and still here. Not daring to slip under clothes, but still eager, especially as one of Ted’s hands—the one not occupied with strands of long, greying hair curled between his fingers—squeezes at his waist, too.
Trent truly isn’t sure how long they kiss—open-mouthed, hot, deep, kiss after kiss after kiss, touching and petting and generally acting like horny teenagers afraid to escalate further but happy to linger in the sloppy snogging stage of foreplay—but it feels a bit like forever. He can feel everything. And it’s all Ted. Ted’s hands, warm on his body, in his hair, pulling and petting and squeezing but not rough. Ted’s mouth hot and eager on his, Ted’s mustache brushing against his lips, Ted’s breath warm and shaky and excited, Ted’s nose bumping his. Ted Lasso, kissing him. Ted Lasso, snogging him silly. Ted Lasso, making out with him.
Trent knows his own breathing is probably shaky and pathetic, coming in pants and moans, helpless whines—but he’s not really hearing it. All he’s hearing is Ted’s low, unconscious noises as he presses Trent into the wall, as he kisses the almost-pleading noises out of Trent’s mouth, the breathing, the soft noises of their lips meeting over and over.
When Ted does finally pull back—a small eternity later—his lips are red and his cheeks are flushed and Trent’s sure he looks just as flustered. More embarrassingly, Trent chases after his lips entirely unconsciously, chin tipping up and lips parted and trembling, leaning into him, swaying towards him.
Ted chuckles, leans in and presses a kiss to his lips but pulls back again, thumbing over his cheek. Trent’s panting, wide-eyed, face hot, heart pounding. Heat pooling between his legs, whole body tingling. Butterflies in his stomach, swooping and fluttering. Ted’s hand on his face, in his hair, are keeping him in place. Not firmly, just holding his head, and Trent—just—
Trent’s never felt so flustered or breathless in his entire life. So—damn near shy, still leaning against the wall, his head in Ted’s hands. And Trent—Trent is not a shy man! But right now he feels like it, feels all, all shyly pleased. Ted Lasso’s just kissed the living daylights out of him.
“Hey,” Ted says, almost a whisper. Eyes warm and soft and face so damn affectionate.
“…hey,” Trent echoes, just as hushed. Lips already curled into a helplessly fond smile, like he’s experiencing a miracle.
Ted’s thumb brushes over his cheek again. Trent wants to feel it brush over his bottom lip, coax them open, wants Ted to kiss him again, wants Ted to touch him and grope him and pull him closer. Wants to touch Ted, too, wants to press closer—
“Trent Crimm,” Ted says, still sounding so warm, so slow and sweet like honey, “You are hell of a good kisser.”
Trent’s breath trembles again. “You, too,” he says, which is a bit of a pathetic answer, but it’s baldly sincere, and at the moment, all the words he has.
Ted leans in and kisses him again, just once, soft, and Trent melts into it. And when Ted’s looking him in the eyes again, crinkling at the corners, Trent finally leans in and kisses him first.
Ted smiles into it, kisses back, strokes his cheek. Trent’s hand unconsciously rubs slow little circles just above Ted’s hip.
They kiss again, and again, and—before it can deepen again, they break apart, and Ted says, breathless, “Oh, honey, I wanna keep kissin’ you so bad.”
“But we should probably, uh, get out of this storage closet without being seen?” Trent finishes wryly.
“Yeah,” Ted agrees with a little grin, “Maybe we should, huh?”
Sneaking out of the closet isn’t hard, even though Trent’s trying not to think about the obvious symbolism. Unfortunately, they’re definitely spotted—hair mussed and lips red—by at least one employee, so all of Nelson Road will probably know by the weekend.
Trent can’t bring himself to care.
(Honestly, secretly? He’s a little pleased.)