A/N: also a jumble of ideas but a more organized one. a little mean santos and loser reader here but its part of their charm. grumpy x sunshine. to be continued... maybe?
Even though she'd deny it, Trinity Santos is an objectively confusing woman. One minute, she'll unexpectedly kiss you in a hospital while you're both working, the next she'll forget your existence and rush past you without so much as a glance. No explanation or talking occurs between these two minutes. You're just supposed to understand and accept that she can have her tongue in your mouth and then give you less attention than she would an empty carton of milk.
You'd started as a first-year resident at the same time as Whitaker, although he had spent his final few months of med school at the Pitt, so he was more acquainted with everyone there. It didn't take you long to become good friends with the group, though; you were very nice and lovely according to the others. Easy to get along with, a blinding smile that could instantly pick up someone's mood, good at your job, just a breath of fresh air.
You'd even worn down Robby with your likability. Dana, Princess, Perlah, and McKay adored you, while Mel and Samira had basically become your best friends. Javadi looked up to you, and Whitaker was a friend, albeit a little distanced. Someone you couldn't figure out was Trinity Santos. She was smart, sharp as a whip, ambitious, competitive, and absolutely beautiful. But she didn't like you. An anomaly.
When you met, you'd introduced yourself the same way you had to the others. With a sweet voice and sunny smile. She hadn't been having a great time that day, she'd sighed, as if your very existence was annoying to her, looked at you for a few seconds before stiffly shaking your offered hand and then turned back to her charts.
You were surprised, but figured you shouldn't bother her. Later, Dennis had assured you that she was just having a bad day and that she was usually nicer than that. You're yet to see that. The day after that, Dennis himself was a little awkward with you. They were roommates. It didn't take long for you to understand why the change in his demeanor had occurred. You moved past it.
A few weeks of the cold behavior from Trinity had you feeling a little down. Especially when you noticed she really wasn't like that with everyone else. She was funny, sarcastic, and thoughtful (although that was rare to see). You didn't know what you'd done. The most gorgeous woman you've seen, and she treats you like an invisible crumb.
You were sure she'd like you if she got to know you, so you tried to get close to her. Jumped onto more cases with her, tried to show her you're competent and trustworthy, that you could be funny too, and get along with her. You don't know if it made her like you more, but it did increase her lingering looks. Something Mel noticed and brought up with you. You were pleased.
You could tell she wasn't adjusting to Dr. Langdon's return well. You didn't know him before rehab, but something had clearly happened between the two of them, and there was a weird energy there. Even with Dr. Garcia, Trinity had some sort of tension with her. Every time she would come downstairs, she'd eye you oddly.
You asked Samira about this. She cleared your doubts with a little knowing smirk. Trinity had caught Langdon pilfering drugs, and she had... something going on with Dr. Garcia. The exact nature of their relationship was a mystery, maybe even to themselves. You processed this with a little hum while Samira asked why you were so interested in Santos' relationships. You shushed her and went back to work.
You brought both of those topics up with Trinity a few days later. Just trying to make casual conversation as you intentionally sat down at the computer across from hers to do your charts during a lull in the day, wanting to know more about her.
You were sure you'd made enough progress for her to share some details with you, and not just ice you out completely. Apparently, you'd hit the wrong nerve because she glared at you over the monitor and told you that it was none of your business, extinguishing all traces of hope for a good relationship with her.
This fact really hit you hard in the gut; you didn't know why. You didn't know why it was so important for you to win over Trinity; well, a part of you did know, but that part shut up every time Dr. Garcia visited the downstairs. You weren't your cheerful self for the following few days, but it seemed that Trinity's mood was even worse. You stayed away from her as much as you could, figuring you were the reason for her woes, and kept to yourself so you could start to forget about it.
Then, one day, when you'd just discharged a patient with Trinity, you were alone in the newly freed up room with her. You focused on the computer, opting to finish up quickly and leave, but she seemed to have other ideas. As soon as you logged out and turned around, she had you pressed against the wall, her lips on yours. You were caught off guard and she relented by the time you pushed back against her mouth.
A breathless apology cut off with a feverish press of lips and possibly four seconds of making out, hands everywhere and nowhere, till she pulled back. Her fingers on your neck, yours fisted in her scrubs, looking at each other wide eyed until she stumbled back and flew out of the room. You had to take a few minutes to gather yourself and try to forget the warmth of her skin before you went out.
Whenever you saw her after that, she was always in a hurry to get out of your vicinity, you didn't blame her but wanted to talk to her, especially after you overheard Princess and Perlah talking about how whatever was going on between Santos and Garcia had decidedly ended. Your hopes were dangerously high.
They were dashed when, at the end of the shift, you got her alone and tried to bring it up and she shut you down immediately. Emphasizing that it was a lack of judgement and a careless mistake that never should've happened. You walked away in resignation before she could tell you to forget about it.
You were done trying to be in Trinity Santos' favor. You wouldn't expect anything from her anymore. You'd treat her as she wished, invisible and ignorant, and continue on as you were. No reason to let her soft hands and vanilla scent ruin your day anymore. You were done.
The second time you kissed, it was more of a mutual decision. After a shift full of lingering touches and yearning apologetic looks from her, the wall behind the ambulance bay became the victim of your back thudding against it. This time it was more heated, you were still pissed with her, hands in her hair, and she couldn't help herself despite knowing it was a bad idea, gripping your waist. You both were immensely enjoying it.
You pushed her away first and immediately said no and told her to explain herself. Her eyes downcast, she disgruntledly groaned and argued that she'd like a drink first. She looked up at you hopefully and there was no chance you could say no, especially after she said she would pay. You followed her to the bar, her hand finding its way into yours and staying there, the sweet-talker.
This became the first of many dates as you turned your anomaly into the norm.
a/n: i reallyyyy don't like this, its just a jumble of ideas haphazardly thrown together but its my first writing in a long time and i just need to get it out. no smut yet but i'll probably do something with this later
Jack Abbot, the infamous adrenaline junkie of the ED, with salt-and-pepper hair, could also be called an old man. He's aware of his ailments and proud of them, after all, you don't get to where he is without a couple of grays, but some days he looks in the mirror and sees someone ready to hang it up. It isn't like he can't handle it; he's proven to himself (and a select few others) that he's perfectly capable of continuing to do what he does. He just wonders sometimes. Everyone has doubts, right?
You joined the Pitt comparatively later than your fellow coworkers. A senior resident almost old enough to be an attending, yet your lost years did not hinder your way to the position you hold now. You get along fairly well with the other residents, but there was something about the night shift attending that made you stay a little overtime after every shift, get a little behind on your charts, so you could steal a few glances at him.
Jack couldn't pretend he didn't notice. He knew almost everyone who worked with him well, even the day shifters, but Robby was always so scarce with details about you that he couldn't help but be enamored by the mystery. He knew your name, that you'd joined just a few months ago, and that you somehow always had charts to finish. He never saw you leave or enter; you're just there, and then you aren't.
So he's surprised when one day you ask for help on one of your cases. Inviting him to look over your shoulder at the computer, touching his shoulder with gratitude as if it isn't the first time you've talked; later on, he realises it wasn't that tricky of a solution, but in the moment, he really couldn't focus past the surprise that he could catch the traces of your perfume on you even after a 12-hour shift.
That singular interaction opens a plethora of more like it and a seed of friendship with it that Jack would hope never happened. You are frustratingly amiable, a bombshell, some would say, and as he unravelled you more, the more tangled he got. Even if he saw you for just an hour a day, the other 23 were filled with you.
You never imagined Jack Abbot would be this interested in you. You didn't think too highly of yourself, but he seemed to do that enough for the both of you, ever the gentleman. You told him how your lost years were spent in caves or underwater deep sea diving, paragliding, bungee jumping, sky diving; how you'd spent everything wanting to live life the way it was meant to, and now you're trying to pay it back, help people.
You told him things you've never told anyone, he did the same, and suddenly, somehow, it became 'adrenaline junkie, party of two'.
You liked the way his exterior became soft with certain patients, how he behaved with his teammates, and the way he got silly with coworkers but tough when required. The way it slightly irked him when you called him an old man, and the way he smiled just for you. It hadn't initially been in your plan to do this, but plans change all the time, and you both lived for spontaneity anyway.
Jack was a goner; he knew that the moment he didn't mind it when you called him old. You didn't make him feel old; you were the only person who got him, and made it feel easier to come into work. He could never have predicted that this would happen, that the pretty girl he couldn't shake would infiltrate his life, make it infinitely bigger, and be the one to remove all his doubts.
i don’t think jacob knows how to sling that thing but by god he knows how to finger n get you to squirt with almost a hundred percent success rate. and that gets him by until he can figure out how to move that rig
I feel good in this chilis tonight everybody raise their hands up
You set his senses haywire, every little part of him is completely consumed by you when he’s got you under him, writhing and tugging at him to pull him closer, overwhelming hot as he looms over you. He’s so desperate to make you feel good, just so he can prove that he can, lips slotting with yours with what little experience he has, trying to play keep up with your darting tongue as it sweeps behind his teeth, his hips dragging against yours, that impossible heat seeping through the fabric of your panties like a furnace, “Can make you feel good, promise. Just let me do this for you,” while his fingers are tentatively prodding the inside of your thigh, drawing over the seam of your panties.
Can hardly breathe when he’s got your cunt rutting up into his palm, hips stuttering with each stroke of his fingers, drawing unrestrained sounds from the back of your throat. His hips jump to rut against your thigh, the lack of rhythm of his thrust as he feebly drags his clothed cock against your bare thigh goes unnoticed by the experienced stroke of his fingers bullying up into your pussy, drawing it out of you forcefully while you’re trying to push his hand away, stray moans and pleas leaving your kiss bitten lips until you spray down his flexed forearm, the drops catching on his wrist and bedsheets, a sigh leaves his lips while you’re still convulsing on the bed, grappling onto him like it’ll relinquish the overwhelming feeling of your release.
When he fucks you with his cock it’s pathetic rutting, can’t get close enough, erratic eager thrusts that lack rhythm. He’s got the size but he just can’t get the motions right for you. Pulls out too quick, doesn’t push deep enough, trying to escape that quick arriving orgasm that snakes its way through his spine, the kids so worried about making you feel good he’s just throwing his dick around hoping for the best while trying not to cum. It’s worse with his heightened senses, when it’s his fingers he can focus on you entirely, but when he’s inside of you his brain falls out his ears and he can hardly focus with your walls squeezing around him, vision blurring, all thoughts sinking low to his cock pulsing inside of you. If he can help it he’s fucking his cum back into you with his fingers, the unbearable sight of you disappointed driving his fingers to piston and curl at the exact pace he knows unravles you in minutes. He’s such a sweet kid, so worried about making you cum he’s so relieved when the newly familiar clench of your cunt around his fingers soaks up his entire arm, “I got you, gimme all of it, come on,” makes him feel so proud knowing he’s got this one thing on lock.
you cannot do this to me oh my god oh my GODDDD im actually crying real tears cherry literally what the hell
"flexed forearm"??????? "a sigh leaves his lips while you're still convulsing on the bed" SHUT UPPPPP SHUT UP SHUT UP he loves watching it spray sm sometimes doesn't even care that you're all tapped out he gets fascinated by the clench and release, shakes his arm out and goes right back in he's not even blinking and you basically pass out but that's okay cuz he also loves when you get tired and limp, that boy is into somnophilia mark my words
im saying like, even regardless of the wolfish tendencies he's very into the whole 'marking concept' goes crazy every time y'all are making out and you start to gravitate towards his neck he gets loudddd he's sensitive it's why you love sucking on him n grazing your teeth over his pulse it's what he imagines when he jacks off too,, god forbid you go near his ear he's pulling you off of him and pushing your head down
biting him tho... especially at the very prominent neck tendon that juts out at the back of this neck (during missionary) or hell, on his chest over the pecs (while going down on him) the noise he makes he lovesss feeling your teeth sink into him and pressing on the marks afterwards, makes him feel floaty every time he thinks about it
MINORS DNI 18+ ‧̥̥‧̥̥͙ ✧ ͚⠀園 🪽 .
✉️ | situationship!andy
WORD COUNT. 5.2k
WARNINGS. fem reader ノ established relationships: long-time friends, exes, dating, to situationship ノ explicit sexual content ノ size difference ノ p in v ノ drinking ノ allusions to alcoholism ノ dubcon ノ fighting, arguing: use of the word bitch ノ toxic relationship ノ angry sex ノ unresolved angst ノ hair pulling (m receving) ノ unprotected sex ノ dirty talk and degradation ノ breath play: headlock.
KINKTOBER 2025. ┆꒰ 💬 ꒱ trial situationship with andy goes out with a bang.
📼 一 緒 NAVI | M.LIST | RULES | FAQ
You and ANDY BIERSACK have been stuck in this downward spiral for years. There are good times, and there are miserable times, yet you still come back to each other. Lately, you’ve noticed a shift in the routine. he’s always been a bit of an asshole, some chip on his shoulder getting in his own way, but he seems different—worse. Things get to him quicker, anger is always his first move.
At one point, an embarrassing affair to recall, you actually had to put your hand on his chest to get in between him and some guy he deemed a jerk enough to stand up to. He got all up in this stranger’s space, that famous scowl taking over his features, demanding him to realize the height difference, and how ready he was for a fucking reason. You’ve known Andy to try to prove some shit, but to get you stuck in between some pissing contest is new. Like you’re his parent instead of his girl, you have to push him away from the scene, fighting to break his intense and warning eye contact with some asshole. You don’t even know what started it. It’s all… weird. You don’t like how to makes you feel, you don’t know what’s going on with him. When you try to bring it up, he either dismisses it entirely, or says he was black-out drunk and there was just no way he’d remember. It’s the kind of paradox that puts a pinch in your brows, wringing your fingers when you’re alone as you try to decipher it.
In the bathroom of some Halloween house party, you would usually be checking your appearance in the mirror, but instead you stand at the sink, waiting for answers to beam into your head. You’re not in a party mood anymore, so you think its time to tell Andy you’re gonna go home. As if he felt his ears burning, the lock clicks open and you whirl around to come face-to-chest with your situationship. “Used my nail.” he says with that signature casual prick to his lip, answering your questioning glance as to how he twisted the lock from the other side. You press your lips together, and face the mirror as the door shuts and the lock clicks back into place. A pit in your stomach grows at the idea he might be here expecting something. “Was wondering when you’d be done.” he muses as he slots in behind you, swallowing you in his silhouette. Two arms wrap around you in a hug, and his chin looms over your shoulder to rest on it. The embrace is warm, gentle, almost makes you forget how you feel—almost. You peer at the beer can in his hand resting against your side.
“Andy,” you begin, about to tell him you’re thinking of leaving, that you wanna be alone right now, anything.
His gaze flickers up, and those blue eyes stun you when he meets yours in the reflection. Your heart stops at the sight of how you two look together, holding you so tenderly, guiding you to sway back and forth with him, curled around you like a safety blanket. It baffles you to think you can see him so angry, and yet here he is, that knee-buckling delicacy to his grip, looking at you like that. “You look so hot right now…” his voice is low, a purr next to your ear so you can hear him over the bumping speakers outside. You’re paralyzed as his hand moves across your body, coming to handle your waist. Those plump lips cascade down your cheek, and you shy away instinctually, bringing a smile to his face to mimic your inadvertent one. “You do. You know you do.” he flirts, but it’s not that you’re being bashful right now, you just let him flatter you anyway. His palm scoops up to catch your chest, groping you unabashedly and you don’t resist the urge to smack his wandering hand down.
“Andy.” you say his name again, this time in a mock scold.
“Oh, come on. No one knows we’re in here.” he coaxes, barely above a whisper as he kisses on your neck enticingly. Your jawline and your pulse point become victims of his scraping teeth and the curious flat of his tongue. It’s the kind of touch you’ve learned to crave, it’s the attention you wish you had the strength to turn away, but he’s just so damn good at this.
Open-mouthed, his breath washes over you, and you catch a whiff as to why he’s being so moody. You wince, but his grasp on you keeps you pinned to his chest. “Ugh, you smell like beer.” the tone of your comment can’t decide your stance, half-mock, and half-disgust.
“Yeah, I do.” he responds so casually, as if to say it’s a party—duh. All you smell is yet another excuse to get drunk again. Hands take to your upper arms, the cold can indenting your skin right before he flicks you into a twirl to face him. His hips back you into the sink, you feel his layered belts against your stomach as he palms your chin, angling your head up to steal a kiss from you. He can feel your resistance to pucker, so his fingers and thumb dig into your cheeks to manually form it for you, pillowy and pouting lips sliding against yours using spit as lube. The friction is pleasant, the bullying is not.
You hum in alarm, and when he feels your hands push at his chest he allows you to bump him into a step back. To emphasize how unwanted this is, the back of your wrist flicks up to knock the inside of his, effectively dislodging his grip on your jaw. “Why are you being such a dick right now?” you spit. There’s something to be said about the overstimulation of it all, a party being the last place to feel calm and in control. You were having serious doubts before, now you’re tired of his shit and tired of the party. You shove past him to whip open the bathroom door, tuning out his protests as you cut through the crowds of people congesting the hallway.
You make out a couple of sentences, “Hey. Hey! Wait a second—wait a fucking second.” commanding you like he’s your keeper as he towers over the partygoers, but still finding it difficult to navigate through them. You don’t slow down, you don’t even look back. The stairs are the undoing to your head-start, you go as fast as you can safely, but you can’t jump two at a time like Andy can. Agile, and determined, he turns to the side and raises his arms at the last second to fit between two dancers, sliding through them to break into a jog to catch up with you. His hand rakes through the locks of his black hair, brushing them from his face before he reaches out to hook your upper arm. At your pace, it hurts your shoulder to be yanked back like that, circling right into him accidentally. To prevent you from stumbling back, he loops the other arm around you instinctively, but you’re not in any mood to be touched so familiarly. The beer can in his grasp digs the lip of the aluminum into the small of your back—a symbolic reminder of the problems you face with him right now.
Yet again you shove him, “What’s your problem, Andy?” you raise your voice at him. He releases his clutch on you dramatically, a flourish in the way his arms raise in surrender, as if you’re some volatile viper. The shock in your shoulder and the unsolicited invasion of personal space is cause for your brows to knit into a glare. By now, people have started to notice an argument brewing between the couple, stray uneasy looks are thrown your way and that only exacerbates your existing tension.
“Wanna tell me what I just did?” he demands, hounding you for some explanation when you don’t feel like you owe him one—especially with his level of dangerous defensiveness right now. It’s all in the twist of his face, the frown of anger creating deep lines where his brows and nose meet. You know nothing you say will get your point across, he’ll just come at you with that same aggression that he’s been tackling everything with lately. You don’t have to take that, you can just leave.
You opt to wave it off, gesturing at him vaguely as you turn. “Nothing! I’m going home.” More and more eyes cling onto you as you walk. You pluck your jacket from a chair, pulling it onto you to snugly hug it to your body, warding off the prying audience and preparing for the uninviting cold that’s about to hit you. Throwing open the front door, you’re hit with that icy wall, cooling your heated skin and you hiss. Luckily your car isn’t blocked in, and you fish your keys out from your pocket when you bound down the porch steps. The pit in your stomach twists at the sound of him following you, picking up his pace so he can cut between you and your vehicle. His body slots in, and you scowl up at him at the intrusion.
“Move, Andy.” you instruct.
That scowling crease in between his brows sets in his features, focused and intense, as he physically imposes on you. “What the fuck was that back there?”
Theatrically, you mock him, punctuating his remark with air quotes. “Oh, ‘what was that back there?’ Is that what you’re going with?”
“We were getting along fine until you called me a dick and walked out on me. Forgive me if I’m having a shit time following the logic.” he talks down to you sarcastically, blinking at you, lips parted in disbelief—as if he’s at a loss.
You throw your hands down in a hopeless huff. “You’re so hard to be around, you don’t even realize how fucking suffocating you’ve been, I don’t know what you’re gonna do next, I don’t know how you’re going to treat me—“
“—I’m ‘suffocating?’ I’m fucking ‘suffocating—?’” he repeats your criticism so incredulously, the flat of his fingers curled in, pressing into his own sternum.
“—You’ve been acting fucking crazy, Andy,” you inform him, ignoring how he glances back and forth as if requesting the guidance of the imaginary audience to this breaking news. Your palm raises to circle in his face, gesturing distastefully to his figure. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but when you want a girlfriend, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” you finish curtly. You try to side-step him, but instead of being expectedly passive, he purposely provokes you by mirroring you, rendering you hostage as long as he stands in front of you. It takes you aback. “I’m telling you, move.”
“You don’t get to say shit to me and then run off, that’s not how this fucking works. Acting like a brat and just expecting me to take it. You think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing lately—?”
“—Oh, fuck off—“ You roll your eyes.
“You, fuck off!” he counters, a vaulting pitch to his voice. It sounds boyish. “You’re the most narcissistic person I’ve ever met, you get pissy when the world doesn’t revolve around you.”
“Oh, I forgot, I forgot, it’s always you that gets the short end of the stick—here we go again.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re always the victim!”
“You’re always the martyr!”
“Yeah? Well, at least I’m not the grown man having a fucking pissing contest with anyone that makes eye contact with me—for more than five seconds!” At the ending statement, you crane your neck and stand on the tips of your toes to impose on him this time. You shove past him, colliding shoulders as you round the hood of your car, but he doesn’t give you an inch of space, hounding after you and berating you in your ear.
“You’re not going anywhere—you’re not fucking going anywhere.” You undertake him, seemingly tuning out his harassment as you approach the driver’s side. “Don’t walk away from me. You started this, we’re finishing it even if we wake up the whole fucking neighborhood.”
You’re well aware of how this looks, some loud lover’s quarrel interrupting the Halloween house party and killing everybody’s buzz. Whatever neighbors Andy’s buddy Pat has are long past hate, their hands are probably on the landlines dialing the police. “I don’t care, Andy, do what you fucking want, I don’t care.” There’s a defeated nature to your tone, mentally checking out of the conversation as you open your car door. An arm straightens out from behind you, palming the rim of the door to slam it shut, effectively jerking it out of your grasp. You whip around with venom in your eyes, nostrils flared and temper freshly reignited. “Are you actually trying to be an asshole? What the fuck is wrong with you—?”
“I’m not letting you run away.” he stoops, demanding your eye contact as he cages you in.
Cowering is not an option for you, there’s not a cell in your body ready to submit when all he has on you is size. “Get your fucking hand off my car!” you escalate, yelling, challenging him by inclining into his direction.
“Not until I’m done.” he enunciates the phrase so firmly, like an irrefutable order.
“I’m done!” you gesture wildly, the keychain looped around your finger jangling from the stance. It’s all a hopeless battle when he’s this threatened and this drunk. A part of you wants to prove him wrong, make him shut up, watch him lose but you’re far more conscious of the location. You wouldn’t be surprised if you’re being spied on through windows by now.
There’s a palpable pause. You listen to the sound of the music from inside.
It’s here that you confess, “You know, ever since you started drinking, you’ve been such a fucking asshole.” That feeling creeps up in your throat, the wet kind of desperate reasoning that stings your eyes. Maybe it’s the despairing situation, maybe it’s the cold, but you swallow down the tone that betrays how close you are to begging. “You were this sweet kid when I met you.” You open your mouth to ask where he could’ve gone, to rub salt in the wound, but Andy is too quick to interrupt you. It’s another button to push, the idea that you’ve just implied you’ve noticed the difference; that in the years you’ve known him you can tell when he’s Andy and when he’s not; that in all that time, you wait until now to mention how you hate him for it.
“If you have a problem with the way I am, then what the fuck are we doing?” Offensively, that beer can in his hand raises to point an accusing finger in your face. The corner of your nose pricks up in disgust, taken aback by his behavior, by his words.
“What, like, dating you? Are you saying I should automatically be okay with all the shitty things you do because I’m dating you—?” you parrot facetiously, mocking him, pointing out the flaw in his argument. “It’s not my fault you can’t get through a social interaction without getting black-out drunk, Andy. It’s not just ‘the way you are,’ you need help, you have a problem.” You can see it in his eyes you hit below the belt. You take it a step further. You glance down at the drink, and your hand swings, smacking the can out of its balance hanging between his thumb and index. The aluminum clatters to the ground, spilling the last of its contents, and eventually spinning to a stop on the asphalt. He straightens to his full height, breathing hard as he watches the amber liquid drip out. Now that your car door no longer has his weight on it, you flick it open, and fit into the narrowed space he provides. “And maybe it shouldn’t be my problem anymore.” you spit.
Slotting your key into the ignition, you twist. Your engine’s cold, and it takes a couple tries. Out of the corner of your eye you see Andy come to, and roll his tongue between his lips, hanging his head back, only to duck it forward in a pensive nod and a wry scoff through his nose. At first you squint at him, thinking he’s rounding your hood to go back inside. Instead, he halts in front of you, once again blocking your path. You can hear him through the glass.
“C’mon. What are you doing?” He gestures towards you, making some kind of spectacle of your supposed overreaction. “Get out of the car.” he says dismissively with a raise to his voice in order to speak over the sound of the engine. You roll your jaw.
“Get out of my way, Andy.” you caution.
The corner of his nose twitches in a sniff from the cold, glancing away as his hands come to rest on his hips. “Don’t be like this, come out and talk to me.” His temper is rising, but yours is one to match. Your brittle fingers curl around the freezing steering wheel.
“I’m not being like shit!” you retort. “I’m leaving, I don’t care what you have to say.” you respond loudly yet so flippantly, shrugging with an unimpressed frown.
“Don’t do this.” he says warningly, raising his brows in a way that feigns a parental bluff. You pinch your shoulders when you don’t comply, the chap in your lips stinging when you press them into a thin and unsympathetic line. When his patience has worn thin, he forms a fist, swinging it down in a curt bang to your hood, “Get the fuck outta the car!” His impact shakes the frame of the vehicle in the aftershock. Hunched over, he looks rabid, unkept, furious. That famous scowl is now directed at you in full force, those powerful lines like chasms in his countenance as his nostrils flare and he dares you, as if he’s so self-assured there’s no way he won’t win in this game of will.
It’s the tipping point, you use the steering wheel to incline yourself towards him, engaging and testing him even from your seat, your shout now evolving into a shrill pitch that grates your vocal chords, “Get the fuck off my car, get off my fucking car, Andy—I’m not getting out, fuck you!” yelling over him as he roars whatever he can think to say in the moment, whatever will get you to shut up and listen. His fist remains knuckles flat on your hood, flexed forearm with those pronounced veins reminds you of some territorial animal, obviously using his size and strength as a statement that you honestly couldn’t care less about right now.
“—I’m not letting you go anywhere, get your ass over here—now!”
“—I’m not doing shit, I’m not doing shit! You can’t make me do shit, I’m not fucking afraid of you, you piece of shit—!” you rapidly bite back, a jumble of words meeting between you two as you both throw out whatever thought you can just to talk shit.
“You listen to me—“ No sooner had he said it than the heel of your hand digs hard into the center of your wheel, suspending the honk of your horn, until you want to be annoying enough to spam them. In between the beeps, you can make out the words, “I’m fucking telling you—“ and “I swear to God—“ before he moves. One step to the side and you seize your opportunity. You visibly and angrily yank it in gear, “What are you doing?” peeling out, “What the hell?” Narrowly jerking the steering to miss him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?—Jesus, fuck!” Just barely, Andy manages to slide out of your way, suspending his arms in surrender as he skids back onto his heel after his instinctive leap out of your warpath, the wind of the car blowing through his hair and his shirt.
You crank down your window to yell your final words, sticking out your middle finger in a gloating wag, “Tell it to your shrink!”
Andy, with his heart beating out of his chest and his blood pumping, he spots the beer can. In a last ditch effort to get back at you, he scoops it up to pitch it in the direction of your speeding vehicle. “Fucking—crazy bitch!” Yards away, it clanks pathetically onto the pavement. Alone, he pants, and he steps forward, pressing his lips together when he swings his leg into a kick of a nearby bush. Both hands smooth back his hair as he listens to your engine rev up and your tires squeal in another harsh turn in the distance. “Jesus Christ.” he exhales, and swallows thickly, resting his hands on hips to catch his breath. . .
After you had marooned him, you had fully intended to be out of here by the time he had tracked someone down to give him a ride. Hastily, you’d thrown a bunch of your shit into trash bags that sit pathetically near the door now.
Somehow you hadn’t heard it open. You only saw him standing in front of it. “I have a fucking key, genius.” he’d said.
A blur. Another yelling match, another race to leave, throwing things, and pushing him. It all happened so fast, you wouldn’t be able to organize the events if you’d tried.
“Get the fuck off me—get off me, you make me fucking sick.”
Two hands arrest you with a sore grip on your upper arms, backing you up until you’re against the wall. Pinned harshly, you wince at the landing, kissing him back resentfully as he takes what he wants from your mouth. Those hands hook their thumbs under your jacket, yanking it down until you shake it off into a heap on the floor. He stoops, and like a dance you know all the steps to, you jump, letting him catch your thighs to wrap around his waist.
You squeeze your thighs together, leveraging to mount his mouth, diving your tongue in to mingle with his while he shamelessly cups your backside, clawing into the soft flesh through your little bottoms. It pushes an audible breath from your nose. At his mercy in his grasp, you go where he takes you, a thick arm strapping behind you to arch your back into him, securing you as he walks. The bed is a good a place as any, but you’re not so sure you want him to think he’s nailed you. Your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging it like a leash to break the kiss, a string of spit connecting you two. He flinches, a prick of agitation to his nose as he grunts. “What now?” he asks, and your brows knit together.
“I don’t fucking like what you’re doing, that’s what.” you respond, giving that attitude right back with interest. His tongue rolls over his top teeth under his lip. “Put me down.” Begrudgingly, he drops you. It’s unceremonious, puts an ache in your knee. “Ah! What the—“ A hand promptly palms the back of your neck, catching you by the scruff like a cat as he leads you where he wants you. “What is wrong with you? Let go—” you demand, reaching back to try to dislodge him, but he walks you over to the nearest surface.
“You want this, don’t you?” Andy questions, guiding you to the armrest of the couch. You gasp when he throws you forward, forcing you to catch yourself with your hands flat on the cushion, the rest firmly fixed at the fronts of your thighs. “This is why you’ve been giving me an attitude all night?” it’s a crude thing to say, and you double back to retort but his impatient hand shoves you right back over. Harshly, that same hand slips between your legs, swiping through your slit over your shorts. You tense up, a shiver running down your spine.
This awkward position puts you at a disadvantage, damn near a forty five degree angle, but you can’t overpower him. Gritting your teeth, you glance over your shoulder in his direction. “Do you actually think you’re about to get laid right now?” You can’t see him, but if you could, you would witness his cruel grin mocking you while you’re vulnerable.
“Oh, I know I am. Look at you, pissed off but still bent over.” Cockily, he lines himself up with you, once again you feel his layered studded belts.
“So?” Your weight shifts from hip to hip suggestively and he bites down onto the skin past his lower lip at the sight of your invitation.
“So, what?”
“Are you gonna get this over with?”
You feel a grip enclose on your waistband, yanking you to rear so he can get at your button and zipper, letting the denim pool at your feet. “Don’t say shit if you don’t mean it.”
“You wanna fuck, let’s fuck. I don’t think I’m gonna get anything out of it, though.” You shrug. “You just—“
You don’t get through your sentence as his fingers poke through your fishnets, clawing into them to get a good grip before you feel his breath against your ass. His tongue darts out to taste the salty sweat at the apex of your crack and you jump forward, just before his teeth clamp into the fabric. Curtly, his arms jerk apart, ripping an accessible hole into your once good pair of tights as you’re at the mercy of his strength.
“Andy!” you gasp, surprised and scolding at the same time.
He fishes himself out of his pants, giving himself a few healthy tugs before you feel that familiar tip—could pick it out of a goddamn lineup—thumb at your slit, seeking out the give. “Watch,” he tells you, effectively hushing as your instincts cause your hips to rock back, swallowing up his tip without any natural resistance. “You’re so fucking wet.” he observes, gloating. “You like that shit.”
If only you had something witty to say back instead of a moan melting out of your slack jaw. Your lashes flutter, and you’re momentarily grateful he can’t see you from behind. “Shut up.” is all you manage, and it sounds fucking pathetic.
“Could go all the way in just like this.” he muses, mostly to himself as he enacts what he describes, his hips chasing yours as you squeeze your eyes shut to cope with that sting. “Oh, fuck, baby…” he breathes, throwing his head back as he guides you establish a pace. “If you’d just said you wanted dick before, we could’ve avoided all this.”
“You’re such an asshole, Andy.” you spit but it’s weak. Taking every inch while your body falls limp against the couch, your legs barely prop you up, mostly relying on the stability of the couch and his strong grip on your hip bones. “Just fuck me.”
“You want me to shut up and fuck you? After all this bullshit you just want me to fuck you? Yeah?” His condescension is unappreciated, and you pick yourself up to glare over your shoulder.
“If it’s too much for you to handle, I can go.” you threaten.
“Where you gonna go, bunny? You gonna run away? At least let me top you off before you go.” he taunts you, husky from effort as his spine reclines back, leveraging his hips to pole you on his cock in an angle that makes it hard to stay quiet. This is not a game where you have a talented poker face. His tip brushes that spongy spot inside you, the one that makes your throat constrict, has anything you say come out pitchy and whimpery.
“God!” Your fist forms to bang into the cushion. “Fuck you.” It’s the sounds of sex that fill the room, replacing the yelling match from earlier that no doubt disturbed the neighbors. Now that he’s more than comfortable, grunts push out from low in his throat every time he bottoms out, fucking into you at a harsher pace. You show him you want it by meeting his crests, crashing together as you chase your respective highs. “Make me cum, Andy, make me fucking cum.” you demand. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you heard a growl seep from his nose when he leant forward. That muscled arm hooks around your neck, pulling you to stand. An ache is put in your spine as you arch impossibly deep, your throat wedged between his bicep and the fat of his forearm as you lay against his chest.
“Fucking treat me like shit now you wanna cum on my dick. You’re fucking crazy.” You choke out something, muffled by his hold on your neck. Eyes fluttering closed, lightheadedness sets in as he fucks you, your cream stringing out and making a pretty ring around his pubes. There’s that itch inside you that you’re so close to reaching, the kind that feels so fleeting yet so necessary. All you need is a cock long enough to scratch it. “I’ll touch your little clit in a second, but I’m gonna need you to say it.” That deep gravely voice makes tall orders of you, talking next to your ear, demanding you lay down your pride for a second. You’re so close you actually fucking do it.
His swollen bicep relaxes for a second, and you feel like you can breathe, raking in an inhale just as soon as you lose all your oxygen again when you’re moaning from his dick all up in your guts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” you murmur that string of curses. Your eyes get glossy. “Andy, I’m asking you. Please.”
He lets you stew in it a second, but you can feel his grin against your ear. “That’s my girl.”
@HANASNX 2025 | do not copy, plagiarize, or steal. do not take my formats without receiving explicit permission and writing @ credit where it is visible. do not use my writing to train ai models of any kind.
why was this actually even better on the second read im obsessed w this i get toxic couples and this situationship is mmmfhkmhmyeah im gonna eat this for breakfast tmr
firstly just the whole situation and the way you've described it is actually accurate i can completely picture the scenario and the reason she's upset w his behavior, him showing up w the beer can like he would, making it worse for her.
“Oh, come on. No one knows we’re in here.” he coaxes, barely above a whisper as he kisses on your neck enticingly. Your jawline and your pulse point become victims of his scraping teeth and the curious flat of his tongue. It’s the kind of touch you’ve learned to crave, it’s the attention you wish you had the strength to turn away, but he’s just so damn good at this.
EXACTLYYYY exactly he's so good at this, even drunk, especially drunk and she knowwws she knows him she knows herself she knows that she'll fall back but then the spell breaks and its all hell
"layered belts" yeah that's it actually, you said it
the argument. i can't even pinpoint everything i thought about it because this ask would break the word limit im so fr
“—You’ve been acting fucking crazy, Andy,” you inform him, ignoring how he glances back and forth as if requesting the guidance of the imaginary audience to this breaking news.
oh the motherfucker, this would piss me off so bad i would almost run him over, oh wait...
the car door slamming, the yelling, the mic drop where she knows she's hit him where it hurts; as a psych student, there's so many things wrong with them; as a reader, indy, man you're so good at writing arguments i fw this so hard
You crank down your window to yell your final words, sticking out your middle finger in a gloating wag, “Tell it to your shrink!” "Fucking- crazy bitch!"
hell yeah dude, that's right that's absolutely right. also the way you'd assume that he'll give up and get more drunk after this but no she knows he's gonna show up ohh i can't wait to see what happens next.
He stoops, and like a dance you know all the steps to, you jump, letting him catch your thighs to wrap around his waist.
im telling you once again dude you have such a way w words
"What is wrong with you? Let go-" "You want this, don't you?"
they're soooo stubborn it's actually feeding me and they're both so right too, brats till the end cuz they know the attitude gives them better fucks
"layered studded belts" YES GOD YES
sorry yeah i kind of blacked out at the smut indy IT'S SO GOOD I'M ACTUALLY SCREAMING have you seen that new girl clip where nick and jess see prince and fucking lose it, yeah im nick like exactly him starting to ending including the fainting part.
the attitude, the arrogance, the entitlement they both have and the pride neither is willing to lay down. she's demanding him to fuck her and make her cum and he's gonna do it but he needs his ego stroked first and she's so desperate about how good it feels she just does it.
and the motherfucker's pleased 'that's my girl' ughmmfmmk yeah yeah yeah yeah everybody else go home indy just won kinktober
summary: in which your new volleyball coach has a thing for degrading you.
words: 4.7K
warnings: volleyball coach!wanda, f!reader, degradation, I MEAN DEGRADATION, mommy kink, I SAID MOMMY KINK, slight dubcon/non-con, use of cumstrap, breeding kink, authority kink, yes i was a volleyball girl
this post is for 18+ only. minors: dni.
masterlist.
“I heard she’s a total hardass,” your teammate huffed as she bumped the volleyball to herself, staggering around to keep her balance as she bumped it into the air and down, then back up again.
The coach of your volleyball team had left in quite a hurry, leaving your college team without a proper coach for weeks on end. Finally, the university acquired one of the best coaches in the state, and this was your first scheduled practice with the coach whom you had no idea about except for the floating rumors that players were constantly passing out from her hard practices.
The wooden floor squeaked under your tennis shoes as you walked to the side of the gym, volleyball under your arm, to grab your water bottle and drink from it. Your teammates were casually bumping to each other, some lying around on the floor talking to each other as you waited for the new coach to arrive. It wasn’t customary for a coach to be so late to their first practice—your teammates had already set up the net in preparation. You sighed and sat down on the floor to relace your shoes.
Finally, the gym doors squealed open, and, as you sat on the floor with your shoelaces in hand, you glanced over to see your new coach walking in. She was wearing knee-length black tights and a fitted t-shirt that left no room for the imagination. Her brownish blonde hair was short and pinned halfway up, the curl of bangs resting over her brows that were arched in curiosity as she glanced over the room of girls, already analyzing and sorting out her new team at her hands.
“Good morning,” she called confidently, her dark green eyes flickering between the stunned faces of your teammates. She was a young woman, in her late twenties or early thirties, her body fit under her tight clothing and her face beautiful but stern. She seemed to suck up all the air in the large gym, everyone going suddenly silent.
Your fingers fumbled with your laces when her eyes finally landed on you. She stopped walking halfway down the length of the net to stare at you, her eyes boring into you like two sharp arrows. You felt your face getting hot under her viridescent stare, finding her rather formidable even with her obvious beauty.
“Why are you on the floor?” she asked evenly, her tone a sense of eerie calm.
You glanced down to your shoes then back up at her. “Tying my shoes.”
Her dark lips twitched into a half-smile. “What’s your name?”
Your heart started to unreasonably pound in your chest. “Y/n.”
She nodded instantly, as if she didn’t even listen to what you told her your name was, but it surprised you when she repeated it meticulously, “Y/n, are you a starter?”
There were some whispers from the other girls. Of course you were a starter. You were the team’s best hitter, earning them three-fourths of their offensive points every game. You only dumbly nodded, finding that your voice was incapable of escaping your throat.
The new coach hummed, nodding politely before the smile on her face faded. “If you spend one more second wasting practicing by lying around, you will not be a starter anymore.” Her words only had a millisecond to dumbfound you before she snapped, “Get up!”
Your body obeyed her clipped command instantaneously, jumping up to your feet and standing upright like you were in the military. You were thankful that you had just finished tying your laces. She only stared at you for a moment longer, turning slowly before she looked to the rest of the team who also were now all on their feet. “I’m Wanda Maximoff. You will call me Coach Maximoff.” Her hand grazed the net as she walked along it. “I was a little stunned at your statistics when they asked me to step in as coach. You guys hardly win a game.”
She turned around again, eyes dancing on you from across the room before they slipped away. Why were you sweaty all of a sudden?
“I can change that. If you give me respect, diligence, and consistency, I can help you guys out.” She paused, coming to a stop and placing her hands behind her back. “If you don’t, you will run suicides until the first person passes out.”
Some girls in the back giggled—the rumors were true, apparently.
Coach Maximoff smiled tightly, and then she asked for everyone to say their name and their position on the team, and whether they were a starter or not.
That practice was one of the toughest ones you’d ever had. She introduced advanced drills that none of you had ever done before, and every time someone messed up too badly, everyone had to run in a line around the gym for five minutes. Practices were usually only a couple hours long, but this one lasted until well into the afternoon.
You noticed that every time you glanced at Coach Maximoff, she was already looking at you. You must have pissed her off or something, because she called you up first for all the drills to “show them how it’s done,” only to reprimand and correct every single thing you do.
“Alright,” she began after she blew her whistle, looking at your team of sweating, panting, red-faced players from the other side of the net. She swooped under the net easily, looking at the lot of you. “Since you ladies are playing like junior varsity players, we’re going to do a simple practice that surely you can understand.” She took a ball from the stand beside her and held it up. “Bump, set, spike. I want you to get in a line, and I will serve the ball. The first person will bump it back to me. I will set it. The next person will spike it, and so forth. Got it?” There was only a pause of nodding and humming before she suddenly pointed to you. “Y/n. Up first.”
Why was she calling you first for every single drill? It was starting to aggravate you, especially since you were so tired and worn out from all the running and the tough drills. You bit back a groan and went to the first of the forming line, lowering down into receiving position.
Coach Maximoff smirked a little as she watched you lower down, raising the ball up into the air. You took a deep breath—your previous coach was always a soft server, but you didn’t know how Coach Maximoff was yet. Eyes pinned to you, smirk still set on her features, she tossed the ball up with one hand and quickly slapped her other hand over it, sending the ball spiraling quickly at you with a loud slapping sound that echoed in the gym.
It was so fast that you didn’t even see it before it hit you right in the knee and bounced away. There were some whispers from the girls behind you as your face turned red in embarrassment, and it only worsened when you looked up to the coach to see that she was staring at you with an expression of irritation.
“Why didn’t you get it?” she snapped coldly.
You blinked, rubbing your sweaty palms on your knee pads. “I—I don’t know, it came too fast. I wasn’t ready.”
“Wasn’t ready?” she echoed with a huff, amusement on her face. “Well get ready.” She grabbed another ball and you lowered again, hands spread in front of you, ready to receive. She tossed the ball up and hit it harder again, the sound slapping even louder than the last time. You expected it to be a low serve that you had to dig for like the first time, but this time it hurtled straight to your face. Normally, you would know to receive it with a set instead of a bump, but your hands fumbled and just went straight in front of your face, blocking yourself from the ball that slapped your hands and bounced to the floor limply.
Coach Maximoff rubbed her face over her hands and sighed in aggravation. “That’s it. Run.”
You stood there like an idiot, feeling fiery with shame. “Run?”
“Run!” she yelled, throwing her finger around the gym. “Run until I tell you to stop if you want to keep being a starter!” Her voice was like that of a snarl, low and vicious. Heart already pounding, you set off in a stumbly jog, running a lap along the wall of the gym.
Coach Maximoff continued the drill with the other girls, and you went green with jealousy at how easily they were receiving her serves and spikes, so seamlessly and perfectly. She even praised them, and something in your chest tugged.
You thought maybe after a couple laps, she would drag you back to the front of the line to redo the drill, but she never did. You ran for an uncounted amount of time, to the point where your legs were shaking and you were sweating through your shirt and finding it hard to breathe. Finally, she ended the drill and turned to see you jogging exhaustedly across the gym. “That’s enough!” she called, and you instantly fell to your knees, thankful that you had your kneepads on as they hit the floor hard. You bent over, gasping and wheezing loudly, wiping the abundance of sweat from your forehead.
With a blow of her whistle, she dismissed the practice, and you limped over across the gym to collect your things and get the hell out of there. “Practice tomorrow afternoon!” Coach Maximoff called to the team as other girls were already hurrying out the door, prepared to pass out or puke or both. You fell to the floor with a huff and began tugging off your shoes, feeling blisters forming around your feet.
Maximoff walked over to you as the other girls were leaving, and you looked up, seeing that she was standing close to you, towering over you. “I want you stay tomorrow night after practice. I think what you need is some one-on-one coaching.”
Dread filled you. Not only did you already have plans with friends tomorrow night, but you did not want to be around this villainous coach any more than you had to. She obviously had it out for you, and the embarrassment in front of your teammates was enough—you could only imagine how much she would belittle you alone.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, still out of breath. “I have plans tomorrow night.”
Wanda’s lips pursed, her nostrils flaring as she breathed in slowly. Placing her hands on her knees, she crouched down in front of you incredibly close, her face only inches from yours. You froze, glancing around to see that everyone else had already left.
“It seems to me that you don’t care one bit about this sport or this team,” she said quietly, her voice rasping in a way that made your ears burn. You could see every shade of green in her eyes from this close, the curve and suppleness of her lips. “If you want to keep your position, you will see me tomorrow night after practice. If you don’t, I will have no choice but to reconsider your role on this team.”
Your eyes widened—was she threatening to kick you off the team?
Her hand reached out suddenly, placing itself on the middle of your thigh. You glanced down, seeing her long, nimble fingertips pressing into your skin. “And make sure you stretch before coming tomorrow. I need you to be flexible.”
A smirk curled at her lips, leaving you dumbfounded with an even redder face. She stood up and walked away, leaving you on the floor.
The hours leading up to the next day’s practice were unbearable. You were nervous about being alone with her, worried you would not meet her expectations and get yourself kicked off the team, but you also could not stop thinking about her hand on your thigh and the words she had said to you in such a low, raspy voice with that damning smirk on her lips. It was etched into your mind like a fire.
The practice went the same as the day before. She called you up first for every drill, which you failed miserably at. Why were you messing up so much around her? Of course, you were nervous, everyone was intimated by her, but no one else was messing up as much as you were. Your knees felt wobbly the whole time, your hands sweaty, your mind too distracted by the way she looked at you, and the way she moved, and her words still circling in your mind like a cyclone.
Practice was finally over, but that didn’t help your nerves one bit, because now you were going to be alone with her. While everyone else flooded out of the gym, some crying because Wanda made them run so many laps around the gym, you stayed sitting on the floor off to the side, rubbing your ankles that were blistered and nearly bleeding.
You watched Coach Maximoff go across the gym and pick up stray volleyballs that didn’t get picked up. She was wearing a pair of thick black sweatpants today and a tiny red shirt that showed her midsection every time she lifted her arm to serve the ball. She was so beautiful and confident, albeit mean, that you couldn’t help but wonder what she was like outside of being a coach, if she was actually a kind, gentle person who had hobbies like reading or art. Part of you thought maybe she ate the hearts of the innocent in her free time with how monstrous and unrelentingly cruel she was in the gym.
When she’d replaced all the balls back to the standing bag, she looked over at you expectantly. Her face lowered, eyes shadowing under the overhead gym lights, and she lifted a finger and curled it towards her.
You found yourself standing up to walk towards her, limping a little from the blisters on your ankles. When you came to a stop, her eyes flickered up and down your body, landing around your hips. “Do you usually wear shorts that short to practice?”
Glancing down, you looked at your tiny spandex shorts and shrugged. “Um, yeah, I guess.”
“Those are a little revealing, don’t you think?” she murmured, boldly reaching her hand out and running her fingertips under the hem of the tight shorts, tugging on the fabric and then letting it snap against your thigh, making you jump. She smirked and tilted her head, stepping closer to you. “And this shirt…” Her hand took the hem of your tight long-sleeved shirt and tugged at it. “Take it off.”
Heat swelled in your face as you blinked, making sure you heard her right. “What?”
“You’ll get too sweaty in that. You’re wearing a bra, right?” Her tongue peeked out of her mouth and ran across her lower lip. “It’s just us two in here. You can take it off so you won’t get too hot.”
Feeling somehow breathless, you looked down at your shirt and reluctantly took the hem. You had been just fine wearing it all during practice, and most of the girls wore long-sleeved shirts to help protect their arms from so much bumping. You wanted to say that, but her smirk turned into a stone gaze.
“I’m your Coach, y/n. There needs to be a level of trust between us—and respect. That means—” She leaned closer and whispered, “You do what I say.”
Gulping, you only nodded, taking the hem of your shirt in your hands and slowly peeling it over your head, leaving you only in your sports bra and shorts. She bit her lip and let her eyes run down your figure as she finally stepped away. “Good girl.”
Your face grew immeasurably hot. Wanda walked to the standing bag and took out a volleyball, holding it on her hip and pointing to a few feet in front of her. “Come here. We’re going to do bump, set, spike, until you get it.”
You wanted to tell her that was such a simple drill and that normally you would have no problem doing it but found it hard to keep your composure around her, but you didn’t. Instead, you let your voice die in your throat and walked to the spot on the floor, turning to face her.
“Get in position,” she commanded, so you did, bending your knees and spreading your hands. Without warning, she quickly tossed the ball up and spiked it towards you, sending it slapping across your thighs.
“Ow!” you instinctively exclaimed, clapping your hand over the red spot forming on your thigh, but Wanda was already getting another ball and served it to you twice as quick, and this time you had to jump out of the way before it smacked you in the face. “Jesus!”
Wanda gave a mixture between a sigh and a huff as she rubbed her hand over her forehead. Your face burned in shame as she stared at you, trying to think of what to do with you. Finally, she clicked her tongue and said, “You do not know how to receive a serve at all, do you?”
Feeling frustrated, you threw your hands up in the air. “I’m a hitter, not a libero!”
The coach ran her tongue over her teeth and stared at you for a moment. “Fine, since you somehow made it into college volleyball without knowing how to receive, I guess I’ll be the one to teach you.” She started towards you. “Get down into what you think a receiving position is.”
Huffing, you lowered down in the same way you had. Wanda neared you, eyes flickering over your body as she started walking a slow circle around you. You could feel her standing behind you, your heart starting to race.
Suddenly, her foot came and kicked at your ankle, forcing your legs to open wider. You gasped, nearly tripping, until you found you were lowered down even farther with your legs spread wider. “Keep ‘em open,” she murmured behind you, and you didn’t realize how close she had been standing behind you until you heard her lips right behind your ear.
Trying to remember how to breathe, you felt her hands come to rest at your elbows, adjusting your arms to a different position. “You want to keep them closer together,” she whispered, her breath moving strands of your hair. Her hands, once finished moving your arms, slowly slid up them and to your shoulders, tracing down your back. She pressed in at the middle of your back, causing it to arch into a curve. “Your hips…” she trailed, and you felt her hands leave you. It made you feel cold without her touch.
“W-What about them?” you asked in nearly a whisper, feeling like the large gym was suddenly half the size it usually felt like.
“You need to bring them back more,” she said in a husky tone, and then her hands were on your hips, squeezing the bones there before she jerked them backwards. You gasped when your ass pressed right against her crotch, and from the force of it you could tell she had bucked her hips towards you. You were about to start apologizing, but her hands held your hips still.
Then, when she moved her hips a little to get closer to you, you felt it—something hard and large tucked inside her sweatpants, bulging out right against your ass. Sharply, you stood straight, feeling your back hit her chest as you did. Her hands kept hold of your hips, digging herself into your ass and letting out a throaty moan that brought chills up your spine.
“Coach?” you whispered, panting as you felt yourself throbbing within. You could feel her breath on the back of your neck, her lips grazing your spinal cord as she pushed herself closer to you, grinding her hips into the swells of your behind.
“I don’t think you know how to respect your coach,” she husked into your ear, her lips pressing against the skin there. One of her hands left your hip to swerve around your tummy, diving up towards your chest. “Or how to obey.” Her hand grabbed at your breast from over your bra, bringing a sharp gasp of surprise from your throat.
You knew that it was incredibly wrong, letting her touch on you and press against you like that, but the rasp in her voice and the domineer in her hands was turning you on so much that you felt like you were rapidly growing a fever.
Her hand left your chest and dove straight down into your shorts, reaching past your thin pair of panties to grope at you between your legs. Your lips fell open, head falling back against her shoulder as her svelte fingers started to grab at your clit. She smelled like perfume and the rubber scent of volleyball material, her lips pressing against the corner of your jaw before biting there.
“Coach, please,” you groaned as her fingers started to rub hard at your clit, her cock pressing harder against your ass all the while.
“You can call me Mommy,” she whispered into your ear before biting it, inciting a moan from you. “You’re pathetic. All wet and needy for me.” She pulled her hand out of your shorts to show that her fingers were glistening under the gym lights. Reaching up to grab a fistful of your hair, she yanked your head back so that your lips opened, and she dove her fingers inside your mouth. “Suck,” she demanded in a harsh whisper against your ear, so you did, sucking your own juices off her fingers as your face turned bright red, tasting your own arousal and the hint of salty sweat on her fingers.
When her fingers were all clean, she pulled them out and growled before she used her hand in your hair to push you forward so hard that you crumpled to the ground, your kneepads hitting the hard wood as she followed you down, kneeling between your legs.
“You want to be a starter, huh, little whore?” Wanda asked from behind you as her hands started grabbing at your shorts.
Dizzy from the fall and from the neediness throbbing within you, you let out a small, “Uh huh, Mommy.”
“Fuck,” Wanda hissed when you called her that, yanking down your shorts to expose your bare ass and pussy. “Then you will take all of Mommy’s cock so she will let you be a starter, won’t you?”
“Yes,” you moaned, the wooden floor cold against your face. “Yes, Mommy.”
“What a fucking slut,” Wanda murmured as she yanked her sweatpants down a little so she could take out her strap. You couldn’t see it, but you knew it was big when she started to rub the tip up and down your wet folds. “Listen to that, slut.” You could hear the wet sounds that your folds made when her strap parted them. “I didn’t make you out to be such a dirty whore.”
Keeping one hand in your hair, pushing your face onto the floor, she thrust her cock into you all at once, your walls opening for her as she slid through them.
You cried out at her size, grabbing helplessly at the floor as she pulled out before snapping her hips back into you, shoving herself hard inside you. It was so rough, and you felt so dirty lying on the floor as your coach took your pussy from behind, but you loved it, finding yourself lost in a whirlwind of primal pleasure as her grunts and your moans echoed in the loud gym.
“What would someone say if they walked in right now,” Wanda said between her thrusts, and you heard the sound of skin slapping together, “if they saw you lying on the floor getting fucked by your coach like this?” You could tell that she loved the position of power she had over you, both technically and physically. “Offering up your pussy to me so that you’ll be my favorite.” She tugged at your hair, lifting your upper body off the floor and hissing against your ear. “Do you think they’d call you a slut?”
Shame filled you just like it did when she had first seen you and scolded you for sitting on the floor. You could only give a string of unintelligible noises, so she yanked your hair harder, demanding you to speak. “Yes,” you finally gasped. “Yes, they would, Mommy.”
Wanda laughed at how pathetic you were, pushing your face back into the floor. Moving her hand to your ass, she grabbed at your flesh there, letting out an unashamed moan as she thrust her hips harder into you. You could feel your own juices sliding down your inner thighs, your eyes squeezing shut as her strap went deeper and deeper inside you, causing your legs to tremble.
“Fuck, I knew you’d have good pussy,” Wanda breathed, and her words were spinning a coil of pressure in the pit of your tummy, her own voice starting to falter as her thrusts grew wild and unrhythmic. “I wanted to throw you down and put my cock in you when I first saw you yesterday.”
Her words were making you burn so hot you thought you would melt right through the floor.
“You’ll make such a good fleshlight for Mommy—fuck—letting me bend you over just like this everyday after practice, won’t you?”
“Uh huh,” you squealed, mouth falling open as you felt an orgasm impeding upon you.
“That’s right, you will. If you want to be a starter, you have to be Mommy’s fucktoy first—ah!” She hissed, her hips snapping into you harder and sloppier. “Fuck, you gonna take Mommy’s cum?”
You let out a gasp when she hinted that it was a cumstrap she was wearing, and you knew that you were moments away from cumming helplessly all over her strap. “Yes, yes, Mommy,” you whined, feeling her hand tighten its grip in your hair.
Wanda reached down to grab the base of the strap right as her climax reached her, growling loudly and grabbing hard at any spot on you she could grab, squeezing the base and letting her cum squirt deep inside you, painting your inner walls and filling you up so that you came instantly, moaning and bucking your hips backwards against her.
Wanda sighed, grinding her strap slowly inside you as you rode out your own climax, watching some of her cum drip out of you each time she pulled her strap out a little. Grinning, she pulled out and stood, grabbing your shoulder and turning you over on your back. You looked up at her in a daze, legs still trembling as you panted.
“Open up,” she said with a wide grin as she kneeled over your face, her strap glistening with a mixture of juices that dripped from the end and splattered across your chin. Desperately wanting to obey her, you opened your mouth, and she lowered her hips, shoving her cock deep into your mouth. You choked at first, letting out a quiet gagging sound that she laughed at until you caught control of yourself and started dutifully sucking her clean. She looked down at you with her lip caught between her teeth, humming in appreciation at how cute you looked with her strap in her mouth.
Once it was clean, she pulled out of your mouth with a popping sound and pushed her strap back into her thick black sweatpants that easily concealed it. You were burning up and shaking, inebriated with all the degradation she’d poured upon you, feeling your pussy full of her cum that was slowly dripping out of you.
“Good girl,” she whispered as she stared down at you, reaching out and wiping the liquids away from your chin. “Same time tomorrow? Don’t wear underwear this time.”
Oh. My god. This is exceptional. I've read good smut before but this... this made me feel everything. We desperately need more coach!Wanda fics and me especially being a sports girly, I had to literally take a breather and a cold shower. Man, this (wanda) was a ride. Great work :)
summary: late night cravings bring out some deeper feelings.
author's note: HOLY SHIT, count on me to go MIA for a month after posting. honestly tho i'm so sorry, i've got school and extracurriculars and projects and shit and i haven't really gotten time to write and my schedule is still super hectic, hopefully i'll be able to get other stuff out soon but no promises :/
let me know what you think? constructive criticism is welcome and please be nice :)
see, the middle of the night wasn't meant for this. it's to sleep and dream and pee.
not for baking a cake without having most ingredients of the cake. but you'd gotten a sudden craving and it was a weekend tomorrow, so bad decisions were inevitable.
did you have a million assignments to do? maybe. but peter also had a million assignments to do and he was still here, so technically, he's also making bad decisions. he was aware of that fact.
mind you he did try to convince you to go back to sleep at first but you wore him down. he didn't put up a big fight, he never did, against you.
he's convinced himself that he was only there to watch over you and make sure you didn't slice a finger or spill the flour, not to help you out with your late night shenanigans. but he was cutting up the strawberries so, really, he didn't have a strong resolve.
"you know, i think that when the box says 'pancake mix' you're supposed to make pancakes," he said, turning to you, who was reading the back of said box.
were you trying to bake a cake in the middle of the night with pancake batter cuz you didn't have the stuff for the cake and didn't want to go to the grocery store to get it? kinda. would peter have gone and got the stuff himself if you'd asked? yes.
"i didn't listen to you the last 17 times, i'm not gonna listen to you now, and besides," you said, pouring the mix into a bowl, "a pancake is just a cake but made on a pan instead of an oven. we're just changing the recipe a bit," you shrugged, like it was obvious and he was the stupid one.
"there are so many things wrong with that sentence, i dont even know where to begin,"
"here's a hint, don't."
you were being mean, you knew that. you didn't mean it. peter knew that. and you knew that peter knew that but you would apologize later. he knew that. he sighed dramatically.
"you wound me,"
you rolled your eyes at that. pretending to be annoyed at him was easy. wiping the smile away from your face when you were around him wasn't.
"if i had a dollar for every time you're wounded, i'd be filthy rich."
he glanced up at you. he knew that that wasn't completely a joke, it had a bittersweet tone to it. was that the reason why you were up at this ungodly hour? peter knew that you'd been stressed lately, he didn't know he had a hand in that.
"hey, you wanna tell me what's up?"
you didn't meet his eye, but you did stop fiddling with the bowl. almost immediately, you grabbed the knife out of his hand, mumbling, "you're cutting them all wrong,"
you both knew that wasn't true. one of the perks of having grown up with may was that peter was a fantastic cook. he'd been doing this sort of stuff forever. you needed to get better at excuses.
he gently laid his hand over yours to stop you and said your name softly, pleadingly. a long pause. you complied.
"it's just that," you started with a sigh, and dropped the knife, "you're my best friend peter, and i know that being spiderman means a lot to you," hesitation creeps up as you get to the actual issue. peter senses a 'but' coming. you look at him.
"but you come home every night with bruises everywhere, in pain, and i know you say that they'll go away in the morning and they do but," you're rambling now, he doesn't stop you.
"you have to see it from my perspective, i-" another sigh, you look away, "i get scared, peter."
oh. you were worried for him. he wonders how he didn't realise that before. that time he came home with a stab wound and you looked like you were going to cry he thought you were nauseous at the sight of blood. peter was an idiot.
"i know i shouldn't but i dont like the thought of you getting beat up every night." you were talking with your hands now, "imagine how you would feel if i came home with bruises all over my body and told you not to worry and that i'll be fine in a couple hours." you looked at him again. there was a sort of pain in your eyes. peter wishes it weren't there.
"it doesn't feel good peter. and you assume that i'm supposed to be okay with it?" you took a deep breath and closed your eyes, turning back to the strawberries. your hands were shaking.
peter thought about it. about what you'd said. you were scared for him and he understood that. it couldn't have been easy to be with someone like him. but he couldn't very well abandon spiderman. it was a part of him now. he knew that you knew that, but at the same time, he understood your point.
he thought about how he'd feel if the roles were reversed. if you came home with the type of wounds he did every night, he would be terrified. he couldn't blame you, of course he couldn't.
but he was spiderman, he had a responsibility, an unspoken vow to this city. he had opportunities and powers that no one else did, and he wanted to do good with it.
he hadn't asked for it, but he still had it. if he gave up being spiderman, he didn't think his conscience would let him live with it.
"i'm not asking you not to be spiderman," you spoke, finding your voice, "of course i won't do that. i'm just saying..." you trailed off, unsure of what you wanted and whether you were allowed to have it.
peter took both your hands into his, silently begging you to look at him. you did.
"i know what you're saying, and i understand. i don't blame you, i get where you're coming from and i promise, i'll be fine," he said, softly. he knew you were anxious about his safety.
"i can't give up being spiderman, and i know that's not what you're saying, but you have to understand, i can't not do it, it's a part of me, and i swear i will be more careful," his brown eyes bore into yours, willing you to understand. you blinked and unconsciously looked to the floor.
"but what if, being careful isn't enough one day? what if it isn't just some robbers or burglars but some other things? what if it's one of those aliens or mutants or something and you can't defend yourself? what am i supposed to do then, pete?"
you closed your eyes again, trying to stop the tears. peter's heart was tearing itself knowing that he was the reason for them. how could he tell you that him being the cause for your tears hurt more than any knife in the world?
"hey, look at me," he said, searching for your eyes. you shook your head but looked up at him anyway, the tears in your lashes resolutely not giving in to gravity.
"nothing is going to happen to me. i've handled stuff like that, you know. i know you're worried and upset but i promise, nothing will happen. you need to trust me, okay? we're going to be fine. please, I need you to trust me."
he said your name like it's the last time he'll ever get to, not in a way a friend is supposed to.
you sniffed, "i trust you, i do. it's this city that i don't trust," you steeled yourself, "but if you're sure, and you believe we'll be fine, then i do too."
he cracked a smile then, and pulled you in for a hug. a tight one. neither of you let go for quite a few minutes. you relished in it.
"god, okay i know i'm being silly, i'm sorry," you said after you'd pulled away, rubbing at your eyes.
"you're not being silly, don't be sorry. it's completely okay and valid. don't ridicule your thoughts, you're allowed to feel," peter said, in a scold-ish manner that he'd no doubt learnt from may.
"and please step away from the strawberries, and go back to butchering your so-called 'cake'," he said with a teasing smile, bumping his hips into yours to move you back to the bowl of pancake mix.
you scoffed incredulously, back into your playful demeanor, "excuse you, i would have perfected this pancake-cake if i weren't feeling sleepy right now, so, unfortunately for you, you won't get to taste this deliciousness, whenever i do get to make it,"
"oh, what a tragedy, i won't get to torture my tastebuds with whatever concoction you manage to brew up,"
you shoved at him, not that he moved an inch, and grabbed the plate of cut strawberries.
"just for that, i'm gonna eat these strawberries in bed using your pillow as a table, and you know i can be a very messy eater," you laughed like an evil sorcerer and ran towards the bedroom.
peter, horrified at the thought of sleeping on a sticky pillow, ran after you, forgetting that he had sticky hands himself. (pun intended, i'm sorry i couldn't not do it)
"come back here you!"
the pancake mix in the bowl, the half pack of strawberries waiting to be cut, and the anxiety were all left forgotten back in the kitchen.
summary: late night cravings bring out some deeper feelings.
author's note: HOLY SHIT, count on me to go MIA for a month after posting. honestly tho i'm so sorry, i've got school and extracurriculars and projects and shit and i haven't really gotten time to write and my schedule is still super hectic, hopefully i'll be able to get other stuff out soon but no promises :/
let me know what you think? constructive criticism is welcome and please be nice :)
see, the middle of the night wasn't meant for this. it's to sleep and dream and pee.
not for baking a cake without having most ingredients of the cake. but you'd gotten a sudden craving and it was a weekend tomorrow, so bad decisions were inevitable.
did you have a million assignments to do? maybe. but peter also had a million assignments to do and he was still here, so technically, he's also making bad decisions. he was aware of that fact.
mind you he did try to convince you to go back to sleep at first but you wore him down. he didn't put up a big fight, he never did, against you.
he's convinced himself that he was only there to watch over you and make sure you didn't slice a finger or spill the flour, not to help you out with your late night shenanigans. but he was cutting up the strawberries so, really, he didn't have a strong resolve.
"you know, i think that when the box says 'pancake mix' you're supposed to make pancakes," he said, turning to you, who was reading the back of said box.
were you trying to bake a cake in the middle of the night with pancake batter cuz you didn't have the stuff for the cake and didn't want to go to the grocery store to get it? kinda. would peter have gone and got the stuff himself if you'd asked? yes.
"i didn't listen to you the last 17 times, i'm not gonna listen to you now, and besides," you said, pouring the mix into a bowl, "a pancake is just a cake but made on a pan instead of an oven. we're just changing the recipe a bit," you shrugged, like it was obvious and he was the stupid one.
"there are so many things wrong with that sentence, i dont even know where to begin,"
"here's a hint, don't."
you were being mean, you knew that. you didn't mean it. peter knew that. and you knew that peter knew that but you would apologize later. he knew that. he sighed dramatically.
"you wound me,"
you rolled your eyes at that. pretending to be annoyed at him was easy. wiping the smile away from your face when you were around him wasn't.
"if i had a dollar for every time you're wounded, i'd be filthy rich."
he glanced up at you. he knew that that wasn't completely a joke, it had a bittersweet tone to it. was that the reason why you were up at this ungodly hour? peter knew that you'd been stressed lately, he didn't know he had a hand in that.
"hey, you wanna tell me what's up?"
you didn't meet his eye, but you did stop fiddling with the bowl. almost immediately, you grabbed the knife out of his hand, mumbling, "you're cutting them all wrong,"
you both knew that wasn't true. one of the perks of having grown up with may was that peter was a fantastic cook. he'd been doing this sort of stuff forever. you needed to get better at excuses.
he gently laid his hand over yours to stop you and said your name softly, pleadingly. a long pause. you complied.
"it's just that," you started with a sigh, and dropped the knife, "you're my best friend peter, and i know that being spiderman means a lot to you," hesitation creeps up as you get to the actual issue. peter senses a 'but' coming. you look at him.
"but you come home every night with bruises everywhere, in pain, and i know you say that they'll go away in the morning and they do but," you're rambling now, he doesn't stop you.
"you have to see it from my perspective, i-" another sigh, you look away, "i get scared, peter."
oh. you were worried for him. he wonders how he didn't realise that before. that time he came home with a stab wound and you looked like you were going to cry he thought you were nauseous at the sight of blood. peter was an idiot.
"i know i shouldn't but i dont like the thought of you getting beat up every night." you were talking with your hands now, "imagine how you would feel if i came home with bruises all over my body and told you not to worry and that i'll be fine in a couple hours." you looked at him again. there was a sort of pain in your eyes. peter wishes it weren't there.
"it doesn't feel good peter. and you assume that i'm supposed to be okay with it?" you took a deep breath and closed your eyes, turning back to the strawberries. your hands were shaking.
peter thought about it. about what you'd said. you were scared for him and he understood that. it couldn't have been easy to be with someone like him. but he couldn't very well abandon spiderman. it was a part of him now. he knew that you knew that, but at the same time, he understood your point.
he thought about how he'd feel if the roles were reversed. if you came home with the type of wounds he did every night, he would be terrified. he couldn't blame you, of course he couldn't.
but he was spiderman, he had a responsibility, an unspoken vow to this city. he had opportunities and powers that no one else did, and he wanted to do good with it.
he hadn't asked for it, but he still had it. if he gave up being spiderman, he didn't think his conscience would let him live with it.
"i'm not asking you not to be spiderman," you spoke, finding your voice, "of course i won't do that. i'm just saying..." you trailed off, unsure of what you wanted and whether you were allowed to have it.
peter took both your hands into his, silently begging you to look at him. you did.
"i know what you're saying, and i understand. i don't blame you, i get where you're coming from and i promise, i'll be fine," he said, softly. he knew you were anxious about his safety.
"i can't give up being spiderman, and i know that's not what you're saying, but you have to understand, i can't not do it, it's a part of me, and i swear i will be more careful," his brown eyes bore into yours, willing you to understand. you blinked and unconsciously looked to the floor.
"but what if, being careful isn't enough one day? what if it isn't just some robbers or burglars but some other things? what if it's one of those aliens or mutants or something and you can't defend yourself? what am i supposed to do then, pete?"
you closed your eyes again, trying to stop the tears. peter's heart was tearing itself knowing that he was the reason for them. how could he tell you that him being the cause for your tears hurt more than any knife in the world?
"hey, look at me," he said, searching for your eyes. you shook your head but looked up at him anyway, the tears in your lashes resolutely not giving in to gravity.
"nothing is going to happen to me. i've handled stuff like that, you know. i know you're worried and upset but i promise, nothing will happen. you need to trust me, okay? we're going to be fine. please, I need you to trust me."
he said your name like it's the last time he'll ever get to, not in a way a friend is supposed to.
you sniffed, "i trust you, i do. it's this city that i don't trust," you steeled yourself, "but if you're sure, and you believe we'll be fine, then i do too."
he cracked a smile then, and pulled you in for a hug. a tight one. neither of you let go for quite a few minutes. you relished in it.
"god, okay i know i'm being silly, i'm sorry," you said after you'd pulled away, rubbing at your eyes.
"you're not being silly, don't be sorry. it's completely okay and valid. don't ridicule your thoughts, you're allowed to feel," peter said, in a scold-ish manner that he'd no doubt learnt from may.
"and please step away from the strawberries, and go back to butchering your so-called 'cake'," he said with a teasing smile, bumping his hips into yours to move you back to the bowl of pancake mix.
you scoffed incredulously, back into your playful demeanor, "excuse you, i would have perfected this pancake-cake if i weren't feeling sleepy right now, so, unfortunately for you, you won't get to taste this deliciousness, whenever i do get to make it,"
"oh, what a tragedy, i won't get to torture my tastebuds with whatever concoction you manage to brew up,"
you shoved at him, not that he moved an inch, and grabbed the plate of cut strawberries.
"just for that, i'm gonna eat these strawberries in bed using your pillow as a table, and you know i can be a very messy eater," you laughed like an evil sorcerer and ran towards the bedroom.
peter, horrified at the thought of sleeping on a sticky pillow, ran after you, forgetting that he had sticky hands himself. (pun intended, i'm sorry i couldn't not do it)
"come back here you!"
the pancake mix in the bowl, the half pack of strawberries waiting to be cut, and the anxiety were all left forgotten back in the kitchen.
summary: you're late to your class and someone's left a skateboard on your path. the owner of the skateboard has very brown eyes.
w/c: 0.8k
author's note: um, hi. this is the first thing i've written for peter parker (i know, shocking, i mostly read about him) so i'm not sure whether i've captured his essence, but i tried. also i know it's a bit cringey but i started writing it in the reader's pov and i couldn't change it to peter's in the middle like i wanted to so, i guess, next time. i hope you like this! constructive criticism is encouraged, please be nice :)
you had not imagined your first day of university to go this way. it was a cloudy day, pleasant and not too windy. you were hoping to make it to class a few minutes early and have everything set up before the professor arrived.
but instead, you were late, you were not organized at all, and you were panicking. all because your stupid alarm hadn’t gone off. why? because you’d forgotten to change the timezone in your phone. moving to the new city had not been easy and now you were super late for your class.
cursing yourself for your stupidity, you were hurrying across the campus, you weren’t sure where your class was, but you were hoping that you’re walking in the right direction.
checking your bag, hoping to god that you’d grabbed the right books on your way out, with a cup of coffee in your other hand, you awkwardly jogged across the campus to the building where you hoped would be philosophy by mr. jackson.
you were in the midst of congratulating yourself on successfully having the correct textbooks in your bag when the earth shifted.
okay maybe that was a bit dramatic but that was what had happened to you. the earth hadn’t shifted, but you’d fallen on your butt because someone had left a skateboard lying in the middle of the walking path.
thankfully, your coffee hadn’t spilled but your books sure had. looking up you found a brown-haired boy bashfully kneeling down and start collecting the books, profusely apologizing.
"-really sorry, are you okay? did you break anything? i broke my ankle a couple of years ago but i was just being stupid, oh god did you break your ankle? i hope you didn't, that hurts a lot. i'm so so sorry, are you okay?" he finished, turning his brown eyes on you in concern.
he looked very... soft. he was wearing a brown jacket and a navy blue zip up over a light blue tshirt. his headphones were hanging out of the neck of his tshirt. he looked like he smiled a lot. his brown hair was ruffled, his brows furrowed and you realized he was still waiting for your answer.
"i dont think i've broken my ankle if that's what you're worried about," you sat up. your butt was sore, but other than that you were okay.
"okay, that's good, that's a start, anything else broken?" he bit his lip, and you tried not to stare at it.
"no, doesn't feel like it," you took a breath, and looked away from him, towards the guilty board, "why don't you explain why your skateboard was just lying there?"
he helped you up, your coffee was still intact, you dusted yourself off.
"oh, uh yeah, again, i'm really sorry, i was checking my schedule on whether philosophy was right now or in an hour and i didn't realise it had rolled away from me," he did look very guilty, his frown saying as much.
he returned your books and you stuffed them in your bag which was lying on the ground. he was still looking at you.
"be careful then," say something clever, why wasn't your brain working?
"i'm really sorry," he offered, why was he still looking at you?
he picked his own bag up from the ground and looked away, grabbing his skateboard too.
you blinked.
"i think philosophy is right now,"
he looked at you again.
"which reminds me," you walked past him, fast. almost running, looking straight ahead.
philosophy is right now and you are very late.
"um, hey!" you heard him call out and turned around, still walking. he was facing your direction, looking at you again.
"philosophy by mr. jackson?" he asked, his skateboard in one hand and his brown bag slung across his back. did he really like the color brown?
"yeah," you called back, hoping he didn't have the same class as you.
"his classroom's that way," he pointed his thumb behind him.
goddamnit.
you stopped and started walking in his direction and he joined with you as you went past him. he took the hint that you were late and didn't really feel like making conversation. you tried not to visually show your panic but he seemed like a good observer.
you both reached the classroom (it was the first room in the building how could you have missed it?), and saw that yeah, you guys were very late.
the classroom was full, and a middle aged man was already talking to the students. professor jackson noticed you both before you had a chance to say anything.
"ah late on the first day, not making a good impression mr. and miss...?"
"peter- uh parker, peter parker," the boy next to you said.
you introduced yourself and mr. jackson let you both get to your seats without further embarrassment.
you sat down, pulled your textbook out and tried listening to what the professor was saying.
you looked for him and found peter parker's brown eyes already on you.
