#X fell first y fell harder but make it foul sick and twisted

[a-map-of-gays]

Thinking about how John really fell for Henry Gale, for the mystery and the charisma of a man who came from the sky and might not be who he say he is. But he doesn't know how to feel when he finds out the truth and spends seasons battling with how he feels and all the things Ben has done. Meanwhile Ben is so hopelessly in love with John that he wishes he could keep being the man that John thought he was if only so that he could love him again.

[trashmouth-richie]

𝚕𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚎

older! college coach! steve x fem! reader

summary: your mysterious coach was always hot headed and pushed you harder than the other girls, after losing an important game, you both find ways to release your frustrations.

triggers: 18+ ; steve is thirty and reader is early twenties and plays basketball in college. smut, light use of pet names, no y/n, steve is a dick to reader and has a huge one, biting, hickies, p in v no condom. Very slight mention of blood, indication of simp behavior at the end.

  “Hustle girls!”

  “Box her out!”

  “Are you fucking kidding me 22?” 

  His workout tank was ringed dark around the hem of the neck, glistening drops of sweat travel from the column of his neck down into the gray cotton blend fabric. 

  He was pissed. When wasn’t he?

  A rogue strand of hair escapes from the style he had down to a science, red blotches flashed across his cheeks and neck, veins poked out from his vacation tanned skin. 

  Last night's game ended horribly. And today you were all paying the price for it. 

  -

With only 10 seconds left on the clock in the 4th quarter, the play he had drawn up on the marker board was the exact same one you had been practicing since your first year at college. Only this time you were getting the ball after Mel faked to Blair, with just enough time to shoot that beautiful three point shot you had been perfecting since high school. 

   The squeak from the black expo marker under his thick fingers wrote out his code: Hawkins for the play that was drilled into your brain by coach for the last year. 

  “Run it just how we’ve been practicing, I’m telling you it’ll work.” 

  Mel’s fake out didn’t work and you had gotten the ball late. Each dribble from the floorboards into your sweaty palm felt like a heartbeat. The girl guarding you swatted at the ball, missing just barely as she attempted to make a steal, trying to force you to foul her when she had the ball to waste more time and grant you your fourth foul, ending your playing time. 

  A quick move around her and a cross to your left hand had her stumbling over her ankles like Bambi, and you cut to the three point line, lined up your Nike’s to the hoop like your dad had taught you, and arched the ball into the air. 

  The buzzer was blaring when the orange ball left your finger tips, tongue poking out and your ponytail fluttering behind you. the gymnasium lights were hospital white, piercing your eyes and making you see dots as you landed on your feet, your competitor reaching for the ball at the last second. 

  Anticipation filled your lungs as the ball circled around and around the rim. The girls and coach all rose from the bench and waited with hands on their heads or holding hands watching the ball spin.

  And with a sick twist, it fell out. Landing to the floor with a silent thud as the bleachers erupted into a nascar loud roar. 

  Bulldogs: 60 Pirates: 58 

  He was furious. 

  Clipboards snapped on his khaki thighs as you all sat on the wooden benches of the sweaty walled locker room. He didn’t yell, he didn’t speak to anyone other than glaring into the ceiling. 

  “Pack your shit, bus leaves in five.” 

  No times for showering or debriefing, you and your teammates were hustled to the bus as he snapped his fingers, let’s go let’s go let’s go! 

  Refusing to let the bus driver stop to get water or any sort of snacks on the way home. “They don’t deserve it.” He preened, looking at your sad faces with a disapproval that cut so deep it had some of the girls in tears.

   His mossy green eyes stopped on yours and the disappointment brewed to hatred, his eyes burning emerald, he blew air through his nose and clenched his knuckles, “none of them.” 

  Mel had thrown up twice during Coach’s infamous Hellfire Sprints. Her and her boyfriend Trevor, who was practically your 5th suitemate, had stayed up until dawn doing pulls from a tequila bottle and hitting his dab pen. 

  You hadn’t slept either. 

  Laying on top of your comforter with wet hair and lotion slicked skin, racking your brain with how the shot felt a tiny bit off from your fingers, how coach’s eyes looked like a fucking demon’s when he glared at you on the bus. 

  How the Sunday morning practice, which was usually laid back and games of pig and watching game tape, was going to be hell on earth. 

  “22 if I have to tell you one more time to move your ass I’m cutting you from this team do you hear me?” 

  You rolled your eyes as you pushed yourself faster to touch the black line, beating out the other girls by a full few seconds. 

  After the sixth set of sprints he had you all go to the workout room and max out on squats. Your legs shook and nearly buckled under the heavy weights. And all he did was stand behind you and tell you how pathetic you looked, he shook his head and scoffed. 

  “We’re gonna stay here all day til you rack this up, don’t care if you fall on your ass— you’ll do it.” 

  His breath fanning your ear drove you mad. Spearmint gum and that rich boy cologne he always wore stung your nose as you grunted in defiance. 

  Through bared teeth and burning lungs you extend your legs to stand. 

  You wanted to kick him in the dick, make him shut the fuck up for once, but you bit your tongue. Driving the bar up and slamming it loud against the rack  Looking back at him with a glare in your eyes, you wouldn’t let a single tear wet your eyes, never giving him the satisfaction. 

  He looked you up and down quickly, but his eyes felt like hot pokers dragging against your skin. Before he crossed over to another one of your teammates to add more weight to their bar, he dipped his head, and muttered just above a whisper, “Thatta girl.” 

  -

  You didn’t know much about him but what you did know was that he kept to himself. 

  Coach Harrington was only a few years older than you, he had a small mustache that he more than likely grew to make himself look a little older than he was. 

  From what your suitemates had found out by spending hours scouring online archives from his hometown local newspaper to his social media footprint that didn’t exist— and even going as far to stalking his ex girlfriends Instagram— he had played college ball at Perdue for two years before blowing out his knee and ending a full ride scholarship and any rumored possibility of making it to the NBA. 

  From locker room gossip, you had learned that he drove a black Jeep Wagoneer, and lived in one of the newer apartments downtown. 

  The university had paid double what they had for the last coach's salary to get Harrington through the doors. The athletic director, Mr. Hopper, had picked him to coach because he was one of the best. But all he was to you was a fucking asshole. 

  The other girls had ooed and awed over him, the other teams coaches flirted with him before the games, trying to get his number and find out more about the brooding coiffed hair hottie. And maybe you would feel different about him if he wasn’t such a raging prick. 

  But he wouldn’t budge. 

  He didn’t get personal with anyone on the team, barely even talked to his assistant Dustin. Refusing to call anyone by anything other than their jersey number or their last name. 

  Practice lasted for three hours. And by the end of it his voice was hoarse and gruff. Having screamed practically during the entire time. 

  It wasn’t anything new. He was always high strung and losing his shit when it came to the girls, but mostly you bore the brunt of his anger. 

  He always used you as an example on what not to do. 

  “You’re doing it wrong 22,” he’d bellow, his voice echoing loud across the empty gym, his arms crossed tight across his chest, muscles popping under the strain of his tight gray shirt, “drive to the left then cut right, this isn’t fucking hard… do it again.” 

  You did as you were told, fighting through anger that seeped through your skin and riddled your face with shaking muscles of anger, a twitch to your eye.

  You were pissed and had had enough. Not only were you the youngest captain your school had ever seen, you were averaging triple doubles nearly every game. 

  Showing up to practice early to shoot free throws and leaving late to make sure all the equipment was put away. Spending weekends in the gym running drills or pushing weights instead of at the nearest rager popping pills and snorting coke like everyone else your age. 

  You put in the work and it showed, but he couldn’t see it. 

  It was equally frustrating and heartbreaking.

  When practice was finally through and all of the girls had either thrown up, left mid practice to go to the nurse or screamed that they were quitting, the locker room was an endless groan. Muscles were slicked over with the menthol burn of icy hot, and sore shoulders wrapped with bags of ice. Tape was torn from ankles and jammed fingers wadded up and tossed into a nearby waste bin. Sniffles were heard from some players and you stood in a sports bra and shorts when Coach Harrington entered the locker room. 

  “Don’t get too comfortable, we’ll be back here in 3 hours to run more Hellfire Sprints.”

  The girls groaned and slammed lockers, bitching under the breath. 

  “Hey!” Coach Harrington shouted, a thin vein bulging in his forehead, matching the ones in his arms, as he stood with his hands on his hips, the retro fit of his athletic pants swishing under his thick hands. “You want someone to bitch to? You can thank your captain.” 

  The room falls silent as all eyes land on you. And your breath hitches in your throat, cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

  “Me?” You question, “what the hell did I do?” 

  “The question you should be asking yourself is what you didn’t do. How did you sleep last night knowing you blew that game for your teammates?” 

  A gasp escapes from your lips and you stare at your Air Forces to hide your pained expression. 

  “Now, the rest of you get recharged, be back here at 5 o’clock, I don’t want any excuses.” As the room starts to file out, through the heavy wood door,  Coach Harrington still stands in the middle of the room,  eyes burning holes  into your skull, “22 meet me in my office in 10, we need to discuss your position on this team.” He turned on his heel and headed through the doors, pushing them open with a straight arm and his pants swishing down the hallway, 

  You wait til everyone has gone, Mel giving you a slap on the shoulder, her skin unusually pale on her olive complexion under her charcoal braids, “good luck.” 

  Lifting your chin you nod and wave, throwing an oversized crew neck over your head and pushing your arms through the holes. Gym bag strewn over your shoulder and you pull your socks up a bit before making the long trek down to Coach Harrington’s office. 

  Contemplating what you would do when you walked through his office and he kicked you off the team, your long basketball career over because your coach couldn’t fucking stand you. 

  Never in all your life had you had a coach like him. He pushed you to the limits and started to make you despise the sport altogether. 

  And since you were about to be booted off the team, you didn’t have anything to lose. 

  The gold plate reading: Coach S. Harrington- Women’s Basketball on the large mahogany door nestled between the cream cinder block walls almost made your stomach lurch. He never asked anyone to come to his office, not even when Zoey got pregnant last semester and had to quit. 

  Nerves shook your fist as you knocked on his door, your other hand fumbling your car keys around the silver ring. 

  “Yeah.” He barked curtly, anything but friendly. 

  Turning the enormous brass knob, you keep your eyes to the floor when you step into his office. For being down an abandoned hallway, it was almost cozy. The walls were painted fire engine red to match your school's colors. His college degree was framed and hanging on one wall, along with signed pictures of Michael Jordan that you knew cost more than your car. 

The oak desk was neat with a MacBook and cup of pens and pencils. A markerboard hung the expanse of one wall covered in scribbled plays and code names. 

  It smelled like musky expensive leather and cologne and neatly stacked paper  Pictures from his glory days were on the shelf behind him, and he cleared his throat when you stared at him flying through the air towards a hoop. 

  His hair was messy, tufts of brown sticking up, like his fingers had been raking through it so many times out of frustration that the flexible gel wasn’t holding anymore. 

  He peers at his screen without making eye contact with you, fingers tapping noisily on the keys. 

“Do you hate basketball?” 

  His question has your head spinning.  And when you don’t answer right away he asks again. 

  “N-no,” you stutter, voice shaky and on the verge of screaming at his stupid question. 

  “Sure about that?” He seethes, still not looking up from his laptop as he clicks away furiously on the keyboard, “The way you played last night could have fooled me.” 

  Moon shapes indent your palm as you try to keep it together without ripping his head off like a praying mantis “It was a mistake.” 

  “We don’t make elementary mistakes,” he says slamming his laptop closed and peering over his desk at you through his thick eyebrows, “a fucking third grader could have ran that play better than you did.” 

  Your throat is dry and chalky as you try to stick up for yourself, being accustomed to keeping rage boiled hot in your belly, “I-I’m..” 

His torment continues, pointing around the room at the awards from the last few years, “We’re a nationally ranked team, and your performance last night was embarrassing, and pathetic!”

  A single tear threatens to slip down your cheek, and he notices the watery look in your eye, and licks his lip, but he keeps going. 

  “I expected more out of you, 22– you let your team down last night, and most importantly, me.”

  You burst before the dam does, annoyed and sick of his threats, sick of his constant nitpicking of every move yoj make, “That’s not anything new.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You treat me like I’m a dog! It’s almost like you want me to quit, you don’t bitch at any of the other girls like you do to me, and I’m tired of it!” 

  “Watch your mouth.” He points, eyes squinted and nostrils flared.

  “No! I work my ass off for you, come in early and stay late. My game has improved and I’m top of the charts for scoring and rebounds, yet you fucking hound me and are constantly cutting me down.” 

  He doesn’t say anything so you keep going. 

  “Last night could have ended with us winning and you wouldn’t give a flying fuck, you’d still make us run your dumbass drills, you’d still wake up and find something wrong with what I do— stop taking your failed career out on me!” 

  he slams his fist into his desk and stands up quickly, the picture frames wiggle as his chair hits the shelf. He crosses the small office in one long legged step coming to stand before you as your back hits against the heavy door,  he points a thick finger into your face. 

  You struck the last fragile nerve he had like a guitar player busting a string playing a solo. Any reserve he had left was gone, his eyes clouded over into hue deeper than a dark forest. 

  His hot breath fans your cheek, spearmint intensely strong with each bite of his words.

  “Don’t you ever talk to me about my personal life again, you got that? You,” he surges pointing into your shoulder, “are supposed to be a leader for this team, and right now you’re acting like a spoiled fucking brat not getting her way.” 

  The tear you were holding back spills over over your lashes and, his eyes break from yours to watch its southward path on from your cheek to your chin. A low grown rumbles in his throat.

  “I’m not a brat!” you scream at him, wiping your cheek hastily,  “you’re crazy, and we all hate you!” 

  His eyes stay moody and dark as he peers into your face down the slope of his nose, “really?” he says no louder than a whisper, “you hate me huh?”

  A thick hand wraps around your ponytail, and his body crowds yours into the door, back flat as it would go despite your curves. 

  Your breathing is erratic, bubbled into your throat with anxiety like you might throw up. His face is so close to yours you can see the definition of each of his eyelashes, and tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. 

  He’s staring at you with pure hatred, like he’d kill you if ever given the chance, and you’re almost embarrassed by the way your pussy clenches.

  “Say it again,” he murmurs, mouth barely moving and barely an inch from your own, his eyes only leave yours when your mouth opens to speak. 

  “I fucking hate you, Coach Harring—”

  His mouth slams into yours with such force your teeth clack together and the taste of blood trickles on your tongue. Your back is pushed flush against the door, likely to bruise from the force alone. 

  His full weight is pressed against you, his taut body firm and rocked with muscles. He locks your hips in place with alarge hand, fingers gripping your skin beneath your sweater.

  Firm and taking what he wants without a second thought, his lips are intoxicating. The roughness of his mustache tickles your lip in an itching way, more than likely leaving a burn behind in his feverish take on your mouth. 

  His hair is soft in your grip, and you nearly roll your eyes thinking about his hair care routine, but you find yourself rolling your eyes in a different way when you feel his cock bulging through his pants.

  Thick and heavy against your thigh, if you had to take a guess it was probably as veiny as his forearms were. And you stifle a moan when it kicks up. 

  His teeth bite at your lip and you yelp in pain, a noise that only drives him further into you, his hand tightens around your ponytail and yanks your neck further back so your head hits the door. 

  His shirt is fisted into your hand and you pull him further into you, sliding your tongue against his—sharing the taste of your fresh blood and his spearmint spit. 

  You scratch at his scalp with your dull nails and he fights back a melty groan. 

  “Such a fucking brat.” He breathes, as his fingers work the hem of your crew neck up, his fingers feel like lightening strikes against your body, and you welcome the dulled pain with a moan, “Need’t be put in your place.” 

  You whine when your sweater hits the ground with a soft thud and the cool air of his office ices over your still sweat slicked skin. His lips suck deep bruises into your throat, and his fingers dip into the waistband of your shorts, shoving them down in a hurry. 

  Expert fingers find your clit and he smirks when you whine for more, “thought you hated me?”

  You pout when his fingers come to a halt, eyes flicking open to see his confidence boasting on his stupid perfect face.

  “But this pretty little pussy doesn’t, does she baby?” 

  “Coach,” you moan out for him, his title on your lips in a sloppy whine make him harder than he’s ever been. 

  His thick fingers dip into the silky warm folds of your pink pussy. The combined noises you make, echo loud in his office. “Fuck baby,” he groans, his fingers sucking up into your gummy walls, he pops them out licks the juicy wetness of your arousal from them. “So wet honey, all this for me?” 

  Your fingers pinch at his sweats and pull them down in a swift motion along with his boxer briefs. He’s hung more than you thought. Making any guy you had been with previous look like something in a funny museum.

   His abs are sculpted and dip into a hard cut v, leading to a small patch of trimmed hair, housing the longest, thickest dick you’ve ever come across. 

  And you were right it was veiny. 

  The pretty mushroom pinked head was presenting a pearl of pre cum, so pretty it could make an angel cry. When you try to lower yourself to wrap your lips around him, he stops you. 

  “Not today,” he groans, fisting his hearty length, your eyes going dumb watching him, brain numb and drunk on him already, “not enough time.” 

  He wraps your legs around his waist and hoists you up against the wall, your bare back stings against the rough cement wall, he’s grabby, his lips pressing heat into your neck, his moan tingling your skin. 

  With a quick shift of his hips, your tight pussy sheaths his thick cock. And you scream out. 

  “Shit, fuck honey..” he’s fighting to keep composure as you are practically lifeless against the wall. His thrusts are filled with purpose and want as your ass is slammed harder and harder into the wall, clapping along like a round of applause, ankles crossed around his lower back at your Nike socks and the laces of your air forces bouncing in tandem. 

  He’s sweaty and grunting, with each pull from his cock brings more deep and pretty noises from you and he sucks into your shoulder again, knowing damn well his mark will last for weeks. One you’d have to explain to your friends and your teammates, and your boyfriend. 

  He didn’t know if you had a boyfriend and frankly he didn’t give a fuck, you were his for the time being and he would do as he pleased. 

  He was fucking you stupid and you were letting him, holding his neck in a lazy grip as he hammered into you, and when you tightened around him, he knew you were close, “look at me,” he begs of you, “you’re gonna come for me, yeah?” 

  “Yes,” you choke out, barely registering what he’s saying from the tight coiled pleasure of your orgasm ready to fire away. 

  His cock drags slow as your eyes connect, yours lazily spilling over with fresh tears, “who’s makin’ you feel this good, 22? Huh?” 

  “Y-you Coach!” you whine, nearly ready to crumble under his thick fingers when he rubs your sensitive clit. 

  “What was that baby girl?,” he croaked, holding back his release, “couldn’t hear you.” 

  “Oh fuck oh fuck mmm you, Coach Harrington! Fuck I’m coming!”

  Your orgasm breaks and it’s like a dam has busted, his dick is soaked by your arousal and he’s losing any bit of cockiness he had left when your face smooths and your lips blur a pretty round ‘o’  as you hum and your body tingles. 

  He follows not far behind you, muttering sentences that make no sense, drunk on your pussy as he paints your walls with his release. 

  You’ve never seen him look hotter, his forehead rests on your chest as you both catch your breath. For a split second he shows you a sly smirk, like he actually was enjoying himself.

  “you might just be my fav-”

  before he can finish, before he can pull out and offer you a towel, a loud knock scared everything in him stiff. Besides his cock that went instantly soft..  his blood ran cold.  

  His face stares at the door, and you stare at him, your grip on his shoulders tighten.

  “Steve?”  

*let me know your thoughts on this, should there be a part 2? I love hearing your comments ♥️