summary: your sister's gymnastics coach takes an interest in you.
word count: 1,187
warnings?: named sister (so sorry if her name is your name), lance tucker is an asshole (but we love him for it), age difference but reader is older than 18, (one-sided) dirty talk but nothing actually happens beyond making out
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Your sister was practically born doing somersaults, back handsprings, and aerial cartwheels. She was made for gymnastics. She was born to go into the Olympics. And your dad made damn sure that she would be able to make those dreams a reality. They paid for the best coaches, took her to the best gyms, made sure she was in competition after competition until she got the attention from the right people. When he died, the responsibility of making sure that little Lia made it to the Olympics fell on you. You were hardly older than her, only a few years her senior, but suddenly it felt like the weight of the world had been placed on your shoulders. It was a lot to handle, but you couldn't just let years of hard work and preparation go to waste. So you put your life on hold, putting off college and trying to juggle three jobs to make sure you could pay for the best coaches and the best gyms that your dad had worked so hard to get her into. This was your family's legacy, and you'd make damn well sure that it amounted to something, preferably a shiny gold medal but just qualifying for the Olympics would be satisfactory.
But that didn't mean that you had to enjoy her fucker of a coach. Lance Tucker was, to put it simply, a piece of work. A piece of work with a nice body and cute ass, but a piece of work nonetheless. He made it his mission to make you uncomfortable every time you stepped through that door to pick up your sister. Despite her being the perfect age to start driving, the two of you decided her time would be better spent training than learning how to drive, so you continued to drive her anywhere she needed to go. And Lance? Well, he seemed to revel in the fact that you had to show up to his gym every fucking day of the week.
"Well, well, well," he drawled out as he saw you waiting by the entrance to the gym. "What brings you here, princess?"
"You know why I'm here, Tucker," you dismissed. "It's the same as yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, dating all the way back to the day I first started dropping Lia off here."
He hummed, a smirk curling across his face. "Sorry, princess, but every time I see you, my mind just goes blank."
"That's 'cause you think with your dick, and not your brain."
"Oh, so you've been thinking about my dick? 'Cause I think it's time you get well acquainted with—"
"Oh, fuck off."
"Trust me, princess, I've been trying." He stalked over to you, you backing up until you felt your back hit the wall. He towered over you, propping his arm up beside your head and leaning down over you until you were so close that you could smell his minty gum. "But you just keep runnin' from me. Hurts my feelings, ya know."
"You know I don't give a shit about your feelings, Tucker, specially not when we both know that you'd just ditch me the second you get what you want."
He chuckled lowly. "Oh? You worried that I'd just 'bandon you? 'Cause I promise you, princess, that once I get you, I'mma never let you go."
"I'm sure you say that to every poor sucker you coax into your bed, but I'm not another trophy for you to win," you said, looking away. God, he got on your every last nerve, but even you had trouble controlling yourself when he was that close to you. For as annoying as he was, even you had to admit that he was undeniably attractive.
"Sounds like you're jealous, princess," he said, leaning down to brush his lips against your ear. "But I'mma tell you a secret: you're all I think about whether I'm fuckin' another bitch or gettin' myself off."
You ground your teeth together, trying to ignore the way your thighs clenched together at the idea of him thinking about you while having sex. You turned your head, looking away from him. He didn't get to see the way he had such an effect on you. No, that would only fuel his stupid fucking ego, and he didn't deserve that.
"Well, think of someone else. You're my sister's coach. Nothin' more, nothin' less."
"Mm, but we both know that you want me buried between your pretty little legs, princess. You just gotta let me," he said, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to look back at him again. He brushed his lips against yours, his eyes fluttering shut. "C'mon, princess. I'll treat you right, no matter if you wanna act like a pretty princess or my dirty little whore."
"Tucker, leave me alone."
"Yeah, but I don't think you mean that," he said, his eyes opening. "Not when you're practically putty in my hand. Just give me the word, and I'll give you the world."
"I don't want anything you have to give," you denied, even though your thoughts were quickly becoming clouded with ideas of being Lance Tucker's little bitch. "I just wanna get my sister and leave."
"Mm, you might mean that now, but soon you're gonna see that all you really want is me, princess," he said, cupping your face with his massive hands and bring his lips down on yours. His tongue swiped over your bottom lip, and you found yourself giving into the temptation that was the god of gymnastics. Every protest you had died down as you snaked your arms around his neck, one of your hands gripping the back of his head, pushing him down impossibly closer to you.
But, all too soon, he pulled away, his smirk even bigger than ever. "I knew you wanted this, princess. Glad you finally came to your senses."
"Fuck you," you said, still hating the way he taunted you.
"Don't worry, you will soon," he grinned. He back away, never breaking eye contact with you, as you heard Lia come running out of the locker room, shouting about how she perfected this one really hard move or something—you weren't sure, you could hardly pay attention to what she was saying. All you could think about was Lance fucking Tucker and how you wanted to both throttle him and fuck him within an inch of his life. "You'd better put little Lia to bed early tonight. I'll be pickin' you up at 8 o'clock sharp. Make sure you wear somethin' that shows off your pretty little legs."
And though you wanted to push back, to fight back, to tell him that you'd sooner gouge out your eyes before you went out with him, you'd already had a a stunning red number that left little to the imagination picked out. After all, if Lance was determined to torment you, you'd be sure you got something out of it, too. It was only fair.
And, who knows, maybe you'd even give the god of gymnastics a run for his money.
