Take Off Your Shirt (And Pants)
001
Josh watches too much football in his downtime. He spends so much time out on tour and then as soon as he’s back he’s down at the stadium, screaming ‘til his voice is gone and getting way too drunk when they win, when they lose, when they draw and he comes home blabbering about how Koscielny should have started, Almunia needs to be shot, so many things she just really, honestly doesn’t give a shit about.
And the shirts, oh God, the bloody shirts. He just has to wear that the team shirt to every game, buys a couple every season because he's definitely gonna lose or tear or puke on one of them. He has piles of them lying around from years ago that he refuses to throw out because ”Memories, Rox, memories!” even if they haven’t won anything in six years so how many good memories could possibly be attached to them anyway?
And then, sparking in her brain as he goes searching through his suitcases, is an idea.
She walks in with just his shirt on – the special one, 125 years or something, it has the pretty decorations on the crest but she still hates it – and a pair of heels to hold her up. Clears her throat, lets a smirk slide over his face. Watches his mouth drop and giggles at the way he gulps, suddenly nervous.
“No football.” She tells him sternly, and he shakes his head quickly, staring at her with his eyes open wide. She’s got him and she knows it, and she’s smiling to herself because holy shit, she’s got him to herself now, the stadium full of fans can go fuck themselves because he’s hers today.
And the shirts, oh God, the bloody shirts. He just has to wear that the team shirt to every game, buys a couple every season because he's definitely gonna lose or tear or puke on one of them. He has piles of them lying around from years ago that he refuses to throw out because ”Memories, Rox, memories!” even if they haven’t won anything in six years so how many good memories could possibly be attached to them anyway?
And then, sparking in her brain as he goes searching through his suitcases, is an idea.
She walks in with just his shirt on – the special one, 125 years or something, it has the pretty decorations on the crest but she still hates it – and a pair of heels to hold her up. Clears her throat, lets a smirk slide over his face. Watches his mouth drop and giggles at the way he gulps, suddenly nervous.
“No football.” She tells him sternly, and he shakes his head quickly, staring at her with his eyes open wide. She’s got him and she knows it, and she’s smiling to herself because holy shit, she’s got him to herself now, the stadium full of fans can go fuck themselves because he’s hers today.