Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4262442.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      American_Horror_Story:_Murder_House
  Relationship:
      Violet_Harmon/Tate_Langdon
  Character:
      Violet_Harmon, Tate_Langdon
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-04-06 Words: 5743
****** 100% ******
by captivation
Summary
     Violet Harmon is a new student at Westfield, and quickly becomes the
     star of the track team. But can she keep her hands off her coach,
     Tate Langdon?
Notes
     This might be my most fun piece, with its sequel, 200%. Enjoy!!
     TW: brief self harm
 
One day, purely on a whim, Tate Langdon drove by his old house. He hadn’t lived
there in 10 years, not since he was a student at the school he now taught at.
It looked the same, Murder House: classic LA Victorian, stained glass windows,
original Tiffany fixtures, for sale sign in the yard. But, there was a “sold”
sticker on it. Someone was moving into that hell hole.
High school had been a rough time for Tate, 100% because of that house. The
only thing that kept him away from drugs, murder, suicide, was running track.
So that’s why he had come back to Westfield to coach the track team. His coach
had literally saved his life, and Tate could only dream of doing the same for
another student someday.
During the 6 years Tate had been back in LA, he hadn’t driven by the Murder
House once. But on that day, two days before the first day of school, Tate
caught a glimpse of the new owners.
He didn’t get a good look at the parents; they were passing through the front
door as he pulled up. But a young girl, maybe 18, had emerged from the house.
She perched on the railing of the porch and opened a book, started writing.
Tate’s car stopped completely as he watched her. She was wearing a long skirt
and a t shirt, and her hair was sleek and perfect. Tate knew she was much
younger than him, but was entranced all the same.
She glanced up and saw his stopped car. Tate froze as they made eye contact for
a few seconds, then he looked away and continued down the street, resisting the
urge to stomp down on the gas pedal and speed away from that mortifying
encounter.
…
August 27, 2011
This new house is amazing. I can literally feel it buzzing with history, soul.
I still don’t understand why my parents wanted to move here, but maybe it won’t
be so bad. Maybe the track coach at school won’t be such a dick.
What the fuck? Some guy driving past just stopped and stared at me. He’s
probably a pervert. I bet LA is crawling with perverts.
…
Tate didn’t think about the girl at the Murder House the next two days. He was
busy with school and pointless meetings about pointless things.
But then, after school, there she was, on the bleachers with the rest of the
kids interested in track. He wouldn’t have noticed her—she was just wearing
shorts and a tank top, like everyone else—but she was buried deep in a book,
writing again. Her classmates were chatting all around her, but she didn’t look
up once.
Tate watched her all throughout practice. She was easy to spot; she didn’t have
the typical Westfield tank top. Hers was dark green and loose, showing the
sports bra underneath that Tate felt scummy for noticing, and had a logo for
Hilton Head on the front.
And she was fast.
Last year’s team had been very good, but was always something missing, one
great person who could lead them to victory.
Tate was suddenly sure this girl could do just that.
So when he caught her at the official sign-up sheet a few days later, then saw
her name, Violet, he knew this year was going to be different.
He had no idea.
…
August 29, 2011
The track coach here is ridiculously hot. I can’t even believe he’s old enough
to be a coach. I bet I can make him squirm.
I can’t believe how much the people here talk. Everyone around me is making
noise, talking about nothing. I wonder if they’ve ever been silent for one
single moment of their lives.
…
Tate addressed the kids after practice the next day, the final day before the
actual team was picked, when everyone was dripping sweat and he could tell who
definitely would not be back. He spotted Violet in the first row, off to the
side. Her hair was up in a springy ponytail, but pieces had escaped and were
sticking to her face. On anyone else, it would have been sweaty and disgusting,
but Tate thought she looked gorgeous.
As he gave an obligatory pep talk about equal opportunity, Tate didn’t look
back at Violet, because every thought he had was suddenly wildly inappropriate.
He had never once in his 6 years working at Westfield felt the slightest
attraction to a student. And now Violet had moved into his old house, and wore
strange tank tops, and was faster than everyone else, besides maybe him, and
now he couldn’t think about anything else.
Before he let everyone go, he asked if anyone would be interested in cleaning
up the trails after school the next day. No one moved.
Violet’s hand went up slowly.
“Alright, thank you, Violet.”
She looked back down.
Tate held back a smile and dismissed everyone, but inside he felt like a
nervous middle school kid. In 24 hours he would be alone in the woods with a
girl 10 years younger than him who he was inappropriately attracted to.
…
August 30, 2011
Everyone is so fucking lazy. Who wouldn’t want to spend an afternoon in the
woods? Especially with someone as gorgeous as Coach. No, Tate. He wants us to
call him Tate. That’s so weird. He already seems so young. How am I supposed to
remember he’s my coach if I call him by his first name? It’s like he’s asking
me to fantasize about him.
…
Violet showed up at Tate’s office right after school the next day. It was good
to see her back in real clothes; a dress and converse.
“Hey, Coach,” she said, leaning in the doorway.
“Do not call me coach. Tate, seriously.”
“Okay, Tate, let’s do this.” She seemed so loose in her entire being. Tate knew
how fast she could run, but, standing in his doorway, she was relaxed and
smooth. Utterly fascinating. And he had to admit; he liked seeing her in his
office.
As they walked past the track and the sports fields, into the woods, Tate asked
Violet why she was willing to clean up the paths with him.
“No one else was going to do it. Teenagers are a bunch of fuckers, lazy
fuckers.” Tate scoffed. “And I’m new, and I need to run, so I figure it won’t
hurt to suck up a little.”
“You’re fast, Violet. You don’t need to suck up.” She ducked her head.
“My coach back in Boston picked favorites. It’s a hard habit to break.”
“Favorites are bullshit. If you’re good, you deserve what I give you.” I’ll
give you anything you want.
They were silent for a while as they cut back branches and shrubs with heavy
clippers. Violet worked quickly, and would stuff the occasional interesting
leaf into her pocket.
“So, what was running at your old school like?” Tate asked eventually.
“Bullshit. My coach was a dick, everyone was slower than me, and running in the
cold is the worst.”
“But you stuck with it?”
“Yep.” She forced the clippers through an extra thick branch. “I need to run.”
“You said that before. Why do you need to run?”
“I go crazy without it. The world is a filthy place. I can’t run away
metaphorically, so I run away literally.”
“Metaphorically being…”
“Killing myself,” she said bluntly. Tate’s insides shrunk. Was Violet, this
beautiful creature, sad enough to think about killing herself?
“Violet, please, don’t say that. I’d have to report you.”
“Don’t worry, Coach. I’ll never do it. What if I can’t run in heaven?” He
wanted to ask her whether or not she believed in heaven and hell—and if the
world was a filthy place, what was she looking forward to?—but he figured it
wasn’t the right time. “And my Dad’s the new guidance counselor. I don’t really
want to deal with him any more than I have to.”
“I can imagine.”
“Is you Dad a jerk too?”
“Oh, he was.”
“Does that mean you’re a dick coach?”
“I try not to be. So if it never gets cold here, and I’m not a dick, you just
have to worry about people being slower than you. And I’m sorry, but you’re the
fastest. Besides me.”
“Were you a track star in your day?” There was something about her voice, like
she was flirting.
“Actually, yes. I went to Westfield. We won states.”
“So, now you’re back, reliving the glory days?”
“I just want to help students run.”
Violet looked at him sideways. Coy.
“If you’re the only person faster than me, we should race.”
“That’s incredibly unprofessional, Violet.”
“You’d probably lose anyway.” Tate stopped clipping.
“Oh, no. As soon as we’re done, you’re going down.” He knew it was
inappropriate to be challenging a student to a race, but Violet was so mature
and beautiful, that she seemed like an adult. He wondered what her mind was
like.
Violet scoffed. “It’s so on.”
Tate had to admit he started rushing. Violet wasn’t being as picky either.
At the start of the 800 yard track, Violet stretched for a few seconds, then
stared impatiently at Tate.
“Done stretching, old man?”
Tate joined her at the starting line.
“I’m 28, Violet. I’m not old.”
She peeked over at him, smiling cutely.
“Can you even run in a dress?”
“I wouldn’t wear something if I couldn’t run in it.”
“Alright,” he drawled and counted down from three, and they took off. With each
pounding step, Tate slid further down the slippery slope of fraternizing with a
student. He shouldn’t have been hanging out with her alone, racing her, fucking
flirting with her.
He reached the finish line and put his hands on his knees, breathing heavy, and
looked around for Violet, who was gone. Then, he saw her halfway across the
parking lot, walking towards a man with dark hair. Tate recognized him as one
of the new faculty members. The new guidance counselor. Violet’s father.
They made eye contact. Tate lifted his hand to wave. Violet got into the car
without a single glance back.
…
August 31, 2011
Is it inappropriate to race my track coach? I don’t think so. Tate is just, so,
I don’t know. Spending time with him in the woods was so nice. He’s not like
the other people here. He doesn’t care about tanning and fashion and idiotic
things. He just likes running. And he might be faster than me. I doubt it.
I don’t want him to meet my Dad. He’s been so strange since we moved here. I
hear him walking around at night. I know it’s him. I like Tate. He’s a good
coach, and I don’t want my Dad to ruin my relationship with him.
What fucking relationship?
I don’t know what I’m feeling.
I just really like thinking about Coach. Tate.
…
The first meet was the next Friday. The new team had been reduced to 20, with
Violet and a few others leading. Practices had gone extremely well and Tate was
even surer of the coming success.
He could feel it in his bones.
Violet, of course, won the 800 and 400 yard dashes, and finished the relay
hours before the other schools.
Tate felt like a pervert watching Violet float along in front of everyone else.
She was so gorgeous. And she was so young.
She placed first overall, and accepted her pile of medals with a small smile.
Tate wanted to find her in the crowd and congratulate her, but people kept
coming up to him and giving him high fives or friendly pats on the back. When
he finally found her, she was flanked by her parents and grinning.
Her mother was gorgeous, honey-blond hair and a curvy body exactly unlike
Violet’s. Both her mom and dad’s hands were on her shoulders, and they were
each beaming with pride.
“Dr. and Mrs. Harmon, it’s nice to finally meet both of you.” Tate shook their
hands, and Violet’s mother started raving.
“We’ve heard so much about you! We can’t thank you enough for actually being a
fair coach. Our Violet works hard, and is finally getting what she deserves.”
“I’m happy to be fair to every student.”
Someone called Dr. Harmon’s name, and he left, pulling his wife with him,
leaving Violet with Tate.
“I can’t believe I won,” Violet said. Her usual toughness was gone. She was
just an excited 17 year old girl.
“You deserve it, 100%.”
“I’ve never won anything in my life.”
“I’m so proud of you,” Tate said softly. They stared at each other for a few
moments, silent, and Tate knew this was the real Violet, not the closed-off,
silent girl she usually was at school. Tate wanted to hold onto her and keep
her, in this moment, forever.
Later, Tate watched the Harmon family walk to their car, and vaguely wondered
when the Murder House would start to tear them apart.
…
September 9th, 2011
I think that’s the best feeling in the world; recognition.
It’s the weight of the medals around my neck, and the proud (admiring) look in
Coach’s eyes.
…
Violet became a superstar. At school on Monday, people knew her name, stopped
her in the halls. The track team had always been pretty good, but no one had
won overall in years. Not since Tate, in face.
She appeared in his office after lunch, looking flustered.
“Hey, Violet.”
“Hi, Coach, can I hang out in here? Just for a bit?” He almost told her to call
him Tate again, but the way she said “coach” was ironic, like she thought the
title was hilarious.
“Don’t you have class?” Please stay.
“Yes, but everything is so overwhelming. I need a break from these people. If I
had known everyone was going to be obsessed with me, I wouldn’t have won.”
“Don’t say that. You deserve what you got. People are just excited. It’ll die
down. You can stay. I’ll call your teacher.”
As he dialed the number, Violet flopped into the chair next to his desk and put
her head back. Tate gave some bullshit excuse about training that Violet’s
teacher sucked up eagerly. Violet was the pride of Westfield.
“I hate this attention,” Violet said quietly.
“I hated it too.”
“How did you do it?”
“I ran.”
“No shit. God, I hate high school.”
“I hated it too.” Tate’s palms were sweaty. He sounded like an idiot. How was
Violet so amazing?
“You’re an adult. Does life get easier?” She watched him almost reverently as
he swiveled his chair to face her.
He thought about his teenage years, being forced to live in the Murder House
with his cock sucker mom and her clueless boyfriend, his poor sister, the
tempting whisper of the house. He thought about his life now, coaching at the
same high school he ran at, living in a tiny apartment alone, obsessed with a
17 year old student.
“Not really.” Violet smiled at his honesty. “I mean, I don’t have to live with
my mom anymore. I make money. I live alone. I help kids like you run.”
“How did you decide to be a coach?”
“I thought about the only thing I really enjoyed 100%. That’s all that
matters.”
Violet just kept staring at him.
Her eyes flicked down to something, then back up. Tate shamefully focused on
her lips, how tiny and pink they were, and how they were parted just the
smallest amount. He wondered what they would feel like against his own, and
wondered what kind of sounds they could make.
“What was so awful about your mom?” Violet was still looking right at him, and
that simple question, one he had thought about often, made this moment seem
heartbreakingly intimate.
She treated my siblings and I like shit.” Violet smirked at his language. Tate
blushed. “Sorry. My siblings were disabled, and she convinced them they were
monsters and she made us stay in your house and it tore us apart.”
“Wait, you lived in my house?”
“Yes. When I was your age.”
“What do you mean she made you stay there?” Tate fidgeted.
“This is inappropriate, Violet.”
“Come on, Coach.”
Tate sighed.
“Your house is special, Violet. There are certain things living there that I
wasn’t strong enough to fight.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You haven’t noticed anything?” He wanted to say ghosts, but this entire
conversation was wrong.
“Like what?”
“I really can’t have this conversation with you, Violet.”
She sat on the edge of her seat. “Don’t bullshit me, Tate.”
She called him Tate.
“Ghosts.”
“Ha.”
“You really haven’t seen any of them? The doctor? The scratching from the
basement? The nurses?” He was desperate.
“You literally sound crazy right now.”
Tate looked away.
“Can you just promise me you’ll come talk to me if anything happens?”
“Coach.”
“Please.” She looked scared all of a sudden.
“Okay.”
“Thank you.” Violet changed the subject then, and they talked about nothing in
particular for the rest of Violet’s English class.
…
September 12, 2011
There was something about Coach’s face when he made me promise. I don’t know if
there are ghosts in my house, but it’s nice to have someone care about you.
…
Once it was clear that Violet was going to be the star of the team, she
changed. Tate watched her blossom in practice. She was confident and effortless
and gorgeous. She still didn’t socialize much, but Tate was fascinated.
Sometimes, he would be running something on the opposite end of the track from
Violet, and he would look up, and there she was, just watching him, smiling. A
few times, she kept eye contact for a bit, daring. Other times, she would look
away quickly and go back to whatever she had been doing.
Violet would always stay after practice and help Tate clean up. This was his
favorite Violet, calm and sarcastic, but funny.
They never mentioned what Tate had said about her house.
A few weeks into school, a Tuesday, when Tate was starting to think he had been
going crazy in high school, everything started cracking, right down the middle.
Tate and Violet were walking back to his office after locking the storage room,
when Violet grabbed the keys out of his hand.
“Can I keep these? I can skip class and hide in the storage room.”
“Oh, sure,” Tate said sarcastically, “the school loves when I let students have
keys and enable them to cut class.”
“Fine, come and get them.” She spun away from him, taking the keys with her,
laughing like an angel.
Without thinking, Tate grabbed her waist and pulled her back against him. She
shrieked and he tore the keys out of her hand.
Tate felt her back against his chest, warm and soft, and he froze. Violet moved
away from him. She glanced over, but didn’t make eye contact, and they
continued in silence to his office.
Violet picked up her backpack and turned to go, but then threw her bag down and
pulled a chair next to Tate’s desk and sat. She squished up close to him,
leaning her head on his shoulder.
“You’re my best friend, Coach.”
Tate said nothing, because they couldn’t be best friends.
Violet nudged his shoulder with her nose. Tate’s pulse sped up. She did it
again. He turned his head to look at her. peering up at him shyly, she propped
her chin on his shoulder.
She was too close.
If Tate had been the same boy he was in high school, he would have kissed her.
He decided to leave it up to chance. If she said anything, he would do it. If
she got up and left, he would never think about her in that way ever again.
“You can’t ever leave me alone, Coach,” she whispered.
Tate swiveled towards her and caught her lips with his. Violet immediately
brought her hands up, ghosting her fingers over Tate’s cheeks. They pulled
apart for a second, just enough space between them for Tate to still feel
Violet’s breath on his mouth.
Violet kissed him again and tightened her grip in Tate’s hair, then made a
sound in the back of her throat and pushed him away.
“Shit, Violet,” Tate started to say, but Violet cut him off.
“No! It’s not fair!” She wrenched open the door and ran out. Tate stood up to
follow her, but paused. He had kissed a student, a girl 10 years younger than
him. He’d violated her.
But she had kissed him too.
Violet was fast, but Tate was faster. He caught up to her by her Dad’s office.
She was crying.
“Violet, I’m sorry, what’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “It’s not fair!”
“Violet, you have to stop yelling. Someone will hear you.”
“Shut up! It’s not fair!”
“I don’t understand, what’s not fair?”
Violet just covered her mouth with one hand and whined.
Then Tate looked into her father’s office to see if he had heard them.
He was sitting at his desk, but so was the office secretary. In his lap.
Tate reached out to Violet and tried to pull her away. She couldn’t see this,
especially not now.
“Tate, what the fuck? What are you doing?” She whirled around to try and see
what he was taking her away from.
She froze when she saw it.
Tate stepped back, waiting for her to cry, scream, hit him, collapse. He
watched her hands curl into fists. His mouth had just opened to say her name
when she walked calmly into her Dad’s office. Tate followed quickly and heard
her father cry out. He pushed the woman off his lap and stood, started talking,
making excuses.
Tate listened to him sputter and felt no pity, until he said something about
sleepwalking. Tate looked to Violet, but she was still, emotionless.
Then, she exploded.
“We moved here for you, Dad. Mom and I moved here so you could have this job
and finally live by the ocean.”
Ben tried to say something. Violet snapped at him.
“Don’t fucking talk!” Then, calmer, “we’re happy, Dad. You and Mom are happy.
I’m happy. Things are nice here.” Tate noticed her whole body was shaking.
“You don’t get to ruin this.”
Ben shriveled at the venom in Violet’s voice, sunk into his chair and put his
head in his hands as Violet turned and left. Tate stared at Ben—what the fuck,
go after your daughter—before following Violet back to his office.
She was standing, facing the wall, the sleeves of her sweater pressed to her
cheeks.
“Violet, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t.” Her voice was different.
“Are you okay?”
“Please stop talking.” She heaved in a massive breath. A sob choked out of her
throat.
Tate shut the door quietly and hovered by his desk, completely unsure of what
to do, what to say. Violet didn’t move.
When he couldn’t take it anymore, Tate slowly approached Violet and laid a
tentative hand on her shoulder. She pushed hard on Tate’s chest, shoving him
away.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” she wailed, but fell into him.
Tate held her tightly, stroking her hair, kissing the top of her head, and
waited for her to do something. He thought about how helpless her father had
looked, and the same look on his father’s face when Tate caught him with their
maid.
“Violet?”
“Yeah, Coach?” Muffled by Tate’s shoulder.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I just want to go home.”
“Can I give you a ride?” It wasn’t an offer. He was begging. Violet nodded and
pulled away, wiping her cheeks roughly and avoiding Tate’s eyes.
They drove to the Murder House in silence. Tate wanted to ask if she had seen
anything yet, but figured it wasn’t the best time.
If he was being honest with himself, he knew that the thing he wanted most that
afternoon was for Violet to care for him, so he could make sure she didn’t end
up like him; an angry teenager, living, in an evil house, with no way out.
“Are you going to tell your mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to be okay?” He asked again.
She got out of the car and leaned in the open window. “I’ll see you tomorrow,
Coach.”
“Violet!” She was halfway to her porch when Tate called out to her. “If you
love someone you should never hurt them.”
Violet paused and smiled back at him, a real smile.
…
September 28, 2011
What the fuck is happening. I won’t let this happen.
Lips, on mine, taking over my mind.
…
Tate hardly slept at all that night. He thought about Violet, and Violet’s
father, and Violet’s lips on his own. Thoughts of Violet’s lips quickly
progressed to thoughts of Violet’s body. He wondered what she would look like
under his comforter, her wise face peeking out with a smile.
Tate wondered what she was doing. He hoped she was sleeping peacefully,
innocently.
He hoped desperately that her parents were okay, and that she would hang out
with him like usual the next day, and he could apologize for kissing her and
promise to never do it again.
But she wouldn’t come to his office to eat lunch, to trade half of her sandwich
for half of his. She wouldn’t stop by between English Lit and math, just to say
hi. Tate waited anxiously for her, becoming more and more sure that he had
fucked things up big time.
And when she didn’t show up to practice after school, Tate started worrying. He
asked around, if anyone had seen her. Some freshman girls said they had seen
her in the locker room, but she hadn’t gotten changed and she looked upset.
Giving them some bullshit activity, Tate left the team outside and made his way
towards the locker rooms.
He found her in the back, by the sinks. She was still wearing her normal
clothes, turned away from him, hunched over.
“Violet?”
She let out a sob. “Just go away.”
Tate knew, as her coach, that he should leave and get her father, but he
remembered what she had said yesterday before they kissed.
You can’t ever leave me alone, Coach.
He approached her slowly and moved around to see her face. In her shaking hand,
she held a razor blade, poised over her pale forearm. Violet tried to hide it
in her fist, but Tate pried open her fingers and tossed the blade across the
floor.
“Violet, fuck no! What are you thinking?”
“I saw something, Tate, in my house.” She was crying so hard; Tate had never
imagined someone as strong as Violet could sound this way.
“I told you to come to me. Why didn’t you come to me?”
She clutched at his shoulders. “Everything was so weird after yesterday, and I
don’t know.” Tate held her to his chest, instantly guilty. He had ruined their
trust, ruined Violet’s only protection from the Murder House. Just because of a
stupid fucking infatuation.
Violet told him tearfully of the man she had seen in the basement, and the
girls in the bathroom. She apologized for trying to cut herself.
“You can’t tell my Dad, Coach. I promise to never do it again, or ever.” She
pulled away to look at him. Tate brushed his thumbs under her eyes and smiled.
“I know what it’s like living there. I won’t tell him. But please, please come
to me, or call me, or something.”
“Thank you. I will.” Violet smoothed her hair back. “What about practice? You
should go.”
“I’ll leave the seniors in charge. Wait in my office. I’ll take you home.”
No one questioned Tate when he told them Violet was sick and he was taking her
home. Tate let himself imagine them together, successfully hiding their
relationship from everyone. Then, his heart sunk when Violet sat in his car
silently, wiping away the occasional tear.
She didn’t notice when Tate made a wrong turn, taking them in the direction of
his apartment instead of her house. When he shut off the engine, she looked up.
“Coach, where are we?”
“We need to talk.”
“Is this your apartment?”
“Yes. Can we please talk?” Violet looked over at him, twisted her hands
together, flicked her eyes down.
“Yeah, we can.”
Tate liked how Violet looked on his couch, sitting a bit uncomfortably. He
offered her food, she declined. He eventually just sat next to her, and Violet
reached over and held his hand tightly. Her soft palm made Tate want to feel
more of her, but he steeled himself.
“I’m sorry I kissed you. It was wrong.”
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean. We can’t do this.”
“Why? Fucking rules? I don’t care, Tate.” She moved closer to him. “You’re not
my teacher.”
“It’s the same rules for coaches, Violet.”
“I don’t care! It’s not fair! I like you and I want to be with you.” Tate
groaned and leaned his head back.
Suddenly, Violet straddled his lap and kissed him, holding her hands tightly in
his hair. Tate’s own hands flew shamefully to her ass, pulling her towards him.
With each passing second, Tate cared less and less about how wrong this was.
Violet was a goddess; her tongue in his mouth, her teeth on his lips, her soft
hands sliding down his bare chest to undo his belt, her small, perfect breasts
in his palms. Tate watched in amazement as Violet scrunched her skirt up around
her waist and unbuttoned Tate’s jeans.
“Whoah, Violet, slow down.” But then she had one hand wrapped around his cock,
the other pulling her underwear to the side. She positioned herself over him,
and he could feel the heat emanating from between her legs, warming his
stomach. He said her name, but it came out a moan, with her cunt swallowing
him. She stilled and pressed her forehead to his chest, shaking, and Tate
quickly realized she was crying. Violet looked up at him and clamped her hand
over his mouth.
“Please let me do this.” Tate nodded and closed his eyes.
Violet fucked him, sobbing, her cheek pressed to his. Tate just held her and
tried not to moan so much, but she was so good. He couldn’t understand why she
was crying, but he couldn’t have stopped her either.
She paused for a moment, Tate’s cock deep inside her, whimpering.
“Violet, please,” Tate whispered, and she came hard, digging her nails into
Tate’s shoulders.
A few more long thrusts up and down, and Tate came, hot and sticky, inside
Violet, slicking the smooth skin of her thighs.
Still crying, Violet climbed off him and put her shirt back on. She stood by
the couch, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. Tate couldn’t move.
“Can you take me home, Coach, please?”
Tate jumped, tucking his dick back into his pants, nodding.
She was still silent in the car. Tate wanted to scream. What the fuckhad just
happened? He felt Violet slipping through his fingers, into the grip of the
house. It was stretching its power, growing, taking more from the people who
lived there. And Tate suddenly worried he wouldn’t be able to help.
…
September 29, 2011
I don’t know what I’m doing. I want to be with him, but I feel like I’m losing
it. Why did I do that? Why did I dothat?
…
Violet didn’t speak to him for weeks. She came to practice every day and didn’t
say a word. She barely looked at him.
Tate saw her shrinking into herself, and caught glimpses of her forearms
whenever he could. They remained cut free, until the last practice before
states. They were going to win, Tate could feel it.
He noticed the tan Band-Aid on Violet’s left wrist when he accidentally bumped
into her at the end of practice. She had turned away from quickly, but he saw
it, and wanted to throw up. He heard her sobbing as she fucked him, felt her
skin on his, saw her holding a razor to her wrist.
The entire team was assembled in front of Tate, waiting to hear the typical pep
talk. Violet sat off the side as usual, and looked out over the field into the
trails. They hadn’t made eye contact since.
“You know we haven’t won states in 10 years. I don’t need to tell you we really
have a chance.”
Tate felt incredibly alone.
“I don’t care if we win. Do whatever you want, but always give 100%. Always.”
The team shared confused looks as Tate walked off the field. No one noticed
Violet wiping tears off her cheeks.
…
October 14, 2011
I don’t know why I fucked him. I don’t know what I thought it would accomplish.
I know cutting myself was wrong, or at least, I don’t ever want to see Coach
look like that ever again.
I know what I do want.
…
Tate sat alone in his office. Westfield had just won states. The trophy stood
in the corner of the room, shining.
Tate had watched Violet win, her slender body always ahead of everyone else.
Her body, shirtless, on top of him, and sobbing.
What had he done? How could he have violated her like that? He was disgusting.
He had let an extremely upset student have sex with him. He had sex with a
student. He was scum.
The door to his office slowly opened.
“Coach?”
Tate sat up quickly and his swivel chair flew back from the desk. Violet leaned
stiffly against the doorframe.
“I’m so sorry, Tate,” she told the floor. “I…took advantage of you. I shouldn’t
have done that. You’re my coach, and I’m only 17. I was upset. I’m sorry.”
“Violet, I should have stopped you but you’re so beautiful and I wanted to so
badly. I’ve ruined everything.”
She finally looked up at him. She was crying. As if her body had a mind of its
own, Violet came to him. Tate held her waist as she crawled into his lap, warm
and trembling.
“I’m sorry, and I don’t care about rules. I don’t care about my Dad, and I
don’t care about my house. I want to be with you.”
Tate’s heart stopped.
“Are you sure?”
Violet looked right at him, her lips up against his. “100%.”
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