A/N: Hello everyone! This is my long overdue Gift Fic for VioletTendecies. She wanted a fluffy high school AU where Violet and Tate are both alive, so here it is! I hope you enjoy it, lovely!
I know, i know. My titles make no sense. I just really like The Decemberists, okay?
Happy reading!
xx
Would you fuck a girl on her period?
-V
Sure, why not? Blood doesn't scare me.
Holding the scrap of paper against his closed locker, Tate scribbles down his reply just as the late bell rings, folding and tucking it under the metal door after, careful to leave one corner just visible. Smiling down at the white peek-a-boo, he slings his backpack over one shoulder and hurries off to class.
Tate was new to Westfield High, a transfer student. Over Christmas break, his mother just up and decided they were moving across the country. She'd met someone online, a no-big-deal theatre actor named Larry whose divorce had recently been finalized, and just couldn't bear the distance any longer. (Or the fact that she was shacked up in a double-wide with two mongoloids and Tate when she could be sitting pretty in a 1920's L.A. Victorian.)
She made him leave Georgia and his friends for Los Angeles and loneliness. And he hated her for it. One semester left of high school and he'd be spending it alone.
As the new kid in school, at first he was picked on, bullied. Assholes on the Varsity Football team trashed his locker and flipped his lunch. They gave him black eyes in the bathrooms and split lips in the halls. But then he joined the track team. And put their Quarterback into the hospital for three weeks; Kyle Greenwell has been eating through a straw ever since.
That little stunt must be what caught her attention; V.
A few days later, Tate had opened his locker to find a neatly folded slip of binder paper perched atop his AP Biology book. Dropping his backpack down onto the tile, puzzled, he'd quickly pulled it open to reveal the first of many questions, arched into elegant cursive.
Who's your favorite Romantic?
-V
Tate had gawked at the tiny handwriting for a long minute, trying to place it. It didn't look familiar, like anyone's from his English Comp. class. So where did it come from? And who knew he liked poetry? Standing alone amidst the mindless chatter of teenage waste, he flushes pink behind the privacy of his locker door, anxious and intrigued at the same time, and traces the swooped V with his thumb. Who knew of his affinity for Lord Byron and Keats?
After another second's hesitation, he digs into his pocket for a pencil and jots down his answer, standing dumbly with the re-folded note when he's through. He doesn't know this mystery person's locker number or where they sit at lunch. Where's he going to stuff the note for them to find?
The warning bell for third period rings. Tate huffs out an aggravated sigh, feeling ridiculous, and slams his locker shut, stuffing the little oddity under the door and out of his mind.
When he comes back from lunch however, to put away his Economics book and fish out his Grapes of Wrath, there's another note. Just sitting there. Waiting to be unfolded.
That's the start of everything.
He and V begin trading questions and answers daily.
They start off innocent enough. What's your favorite movie? True Romance. Do you smoke? No. I run track. What kind of music are you into? Nirvana. The Sex Pistols. The Smiths. Shit like that.
But soon, they grow intrusive, vulgar, probing. Do you still have your V-Card? No. Why? Do you? Have you ever cut before? Maybe. Yeah. What kind of porn are you into? Do you like it when chicks are shaved? What's your opinion on the whole dom and sub thing? Think you'd ever kill a guy?
V never sent any answers, only more questions. Even when Tate pressed her about things, like being a virgin and whether she cared that he wasn't, he was only gifted more inquiries.
He tried to catch her in the halls, feeding his locker the little white pieces of paper. He'd peek out of classrooms and race her when the bells rang, but he never caught so much as a glimpse of her. It was like she was a ghost or something. Regardless of whether he cut out of class early or skipped it altogether, when he feverishly spun open the dial on his lock, it would already be waiting for him, mocking him for being foolish enough to think he could best her, that little lined square.
Tate wanted to see her. At least, he'd figured it was a her, by the pretty handwriting and the sometimes intricate folding of the notes.
She was the only light in this filthy place. He didn't have friends, refused them actually. The kids here were vile and materialistic, begging their parents for boob jobs and Bentleys before they were even old enough to vote. He'd been invited out a few times, by his teammates and by some of the girls in his classes. But the guys were assholes and the girls were cookie-cutter trash, orange skin and white hair with pink lips and tight skirts. Instead, he spent his afternoons alone, raiding his mom's pill stash and counting down the days until graduation and thinking of her.
What did she look like? Did she have brown hair or blonde, or maybe she dyed it. Was she cute? Did she have acne? Was she a waif or a whale? What color were her eyes? How big were her tits?
Flopped belly down on his mattress, snorting a thick line of Constance's Valium, Tate would wonder, piecing together his perfect vision. And when his mind was full up of thin wrists and round eyes, it would be empty, for once, of handguns and kerosene. For the distraction of V, he was thankful.
They'd been playing this back and forth for the better part of a month when Tate flung open his locker and opened a note that made his heart skitter-start against the cage of his ribs.
He pulls in a slow breath and pushes blonde bangs out of his eyes to read the note again, just to be sure that he wasn't mistaken, just to be sure he hadn't come down with dyslexia.
Meet me. Tonight. At the library. 7PM.
-V
Tate has to physically stop himself from whooping right there in the middle of the hall. He grips the edges of his locker and breathes in a slow one, two, three, four, willing himself calm. But he can't help the secret smile that stretches across his lips at the long-anticipated invitation, just leans into his open locker and tries to hide it, wondering if she's watching, suddenly shy.
But then he remembers something, and as quick as it's there, his smile drains away, disappointment settling like lead in the bottom of his stomach.
Tonight is Westfield's big track meet. Scouts from a shitload of colleges are coming out, and if he ever wants to get out of this hellhole, Tate really can't ditch it.
He internally rages at the realization for a minute, wadding the note up into his fist and pounding it against the back of his locker, hissing out cursed 'God Fucking Damnit's and denting the metal. He's been waiting for this for weeks, has asked her after every recent response if they could maybe hang out sometime, and now he's got to blow her off for some fucking school sport. What bullshit.
But wait. If the track meet's at 6:00 and he's only running four events, if he can get out of the 4x400 relay, he can maybe scramble over to the library by 7:45, 8:00 at the latest. But, shit, he'll be sweaty as fuck and probably reek.
Not the most ideal first impression, but Tate's too anxious to wait any longer.
Before he can think better of it, he rushes a scrawled 'Ok, but I might be late. I've got track.' and jams the reply under the door, barely making it to Calculus before the last bell rings out.
The track meet goes well. Tate places first in both the 100-meter dash and the 800-meter run – he didn't have to worry about getting his heart rate up for each event; it was already racing. But then, distracted by a strange girl sitting in the stands, her face shaded by a black porkpie hat, he stumbles through the 400-meter hurdle, scarcely managing third place.
By the time his team is setting up for the 4x400 relay, it is already crowding 7:50 and pitch dark outside. The stadium lights have come on and Tate eyes his coach down at the end of the football field talking animatedly to a small crowd of students dressed down in black tank tops and emerald shorts. His mother and her boyfriend, Larry, are perched up high in the stands. She's staring into her lap at her iPhone and he's smiling like a fool and watching, oblivious. Good, now's his chance.
Snagging a fresh towel and ducking below the stacked rows of seats, Tate abandons the meet and heads for the library, trying to ignore the rolling tingles spreading through his middle and up into his throat.
Once the roar of the stadium fades into a faraway murmur, Tate realizes what's happening and has to stop to catch his breath, folding over, hands pressing around the tops of his knees. He's going to meet the faceless girl he's been dreaming of for weeks. He'll finally know whether her hair's brown or blonde and if she's cute and whether or not this is all just some elaborate prank put into motion by Kyle Greenwell's bruised ego and his broken jaw.
Suddenly, he's all-over nervous. Standing alone in the parking lot, his hands are trembling and his sweat turns cold. The wind washes over the nape of his neck and he shivers, forcing out a breath and swabbing at his face with the hand towel. He's sweaty and his skin is flushed pink and when he opens the door to the library, she's just going to laugh and push past him. His tank's damp with sweat and so is his brow and she'll think it's gross. Wearing Nikes and jersey, without the bravado of his flannel and Chucks, all of the confidence from turning girls down the past month disappears.
As Tate winds through empty halls, the sound of his footsteps loud in the pressing silence, he feels about an inch tall.
When he passes by his locker, the white tease of paper is gone.
She got his reply. She's in there. She's waiting.
What feels like hours later, he reaches the end of the last hall and stops before the door that's marked 'Library' in black faded paint.
The metal doorknob is cold when his hand molds around it, his grip slippery with sweat. And blowing out a slow shaking exhale, Tate turns his wrist and eases the heavy door open.
It's dark inside, the lights manually switched off by the janitor hours ago. The only source of light in the room pours in from a yellowed street lamp outside, bathing the library in a soft ominous glow.
Tate steps inside and the door swings shut behind him, latching in place, barring him from a swift retreat.
Hesitant, it takes him a moment to find his voice, dark eyes busy sweeping over the seemingly empty room, and when he speaks, it's like casting out a line into the ink black sea. "Hello?"
At first, there's nothing, just the sounds of his own breathing and the frenzied thump of his heart.
"You've gotta say Marco." It's a girl's voice, and it's coming from somewhere in the aisles of books.
Tate's mouth pulls wide into a grin and he drops the towel, taking quick strides away from the study tables and over to where there are rows and rows of books, at the opposite end of the library.
Marco Polo. Ask and answer. This was a game built for them.
"Marco," he calls, edging past the Biography section, but the answering "Polo" is coming from Non-Fiction.
He ducks back towards the voice, his insecurities melting away at the drawled, easy tone.
"Marco." He catches a peek through the shelf at a pair of mustard colored tights and leather saddle shoes.
"Polo." She's lurking in Literature.
Tate speeds around the corner and catches a thin wrist just as it's about to disappear into Science-Fiction and Fantasy.
"Gotcha," he whispers, triumphant, reeling her back into Literature.
It's her. The girl from the track meet. With the porkpie hat and the too-big cardigan. She's got brown hair and round eyes and there's a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.
She's perfect.
Backed up against Kafka and Kipling, she leers up at Tate from under the rim of her hat and a puff of smoke slips out through the seam of her lips. "You're late."
Tate wants to tell her he knows, that she knows too, that he saw her there at the meet tonight. He wants to ask her her name, why she started stuffing notes into his locker, what she wanted from him. But he doesn't get the chance. She stamps out her cigarette, right there in the carpeted floor of the library, and drags him down, one hand curving around the back of his neck, for a kiss.
Her lips are soft and she tastes like nicotine, and already, he's an addict. Just from the simple brush of her lips. Just from the first feel of her hips in his hands. She's different.
She smoothes one hand up the damp front of his shirt and sighs into his mouth, working his lips apart with her own and feeling out the edges of his teeth with her tongue.
His heart sings that its met it's match and he's helpless to quiet it.
"You taste like salt," she murmurs when she's through with the kiss, her fingers curling around the hairs at his nape, her hips tilting forwards, seeking out his.
"Uh, yeah, sorry." His voice is already ragged and uneven and it's embarrassing, just how much this strange girl's affecting him.
"I don't care," she grins, pulling off her hat, frisbeeing it up onto the high windowsill at the end of the aisle.
Then she's got both hands against Tate's chest and, gently, she's pushing him back. He concedes with a petulant groan, already half-hard under his track shorts, stepping back and combing both hands through his sweat-crisp hair.
V rolls her eyes at his reluctance and sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, grinning up into his half-lidded stare as she quickly rolls down and steps out of her tights and panties. Once they're off and she's flattened out her skirt, she toes them out of the way and straightens back up. "C'mere, help me up."
She's making grabby hands for him to come closer and wrapping both arms around his neck when he does, pushing herself back against the books for leverage.
Tate's only able to do what she says and nothing more, still gaping at the fact that they met not five minutes ago and she's already climbing him like a tree, her legs cinching around his waist, her delicate ankles locking together at the base of his spine.
Her bare cunt leaves a damp patch against the front of his shorts that feels warm enough to burn straight through his boxers.
"Are you… are you sure?" He croaks when his brain starts up again, his mouth gone dry with sudden want, and she laughs. It sounds like bells and her eyebrows arch up with her lips and Tate wants to bottle the sound, wants to take it home and put it on the shelf, wants to keep it as a reminder of what he'd lose if he really did shoot up Westfield like he always had in his dreams.
"I like you, Tate," she puffs out, grinding down against his obvious hard-on, her arms bending at the elbows, curling, bringing their chests together, her back lifting up off the shelf. "You're not like all the other fuckholes here. You're different."
Tate chokes out a breath and bridges the short distance between their lips, licking into her mouth, pulling his hips back and reaching under V's thigh to free himself from the prison of his shorts. The blood in his veins burn white-hot and if he's not inside her soon he thinks he just might waste away.
One arm crooked around the arched curve of her back, he rubs himself teasingly along the slick length of her slit, fisting his eyes shut to keep from driving into her just yet.
"You're not a virgin, are you?" he pants, leaving her mouth to trail kisses down the side of her cheek and underneath the ledge of her jaw.
She laughs again, like bells, and claws her nails into the column of his throat, hips reaching forward, needy.
That's it, all the decency he's got left in him now, and pressing his teeth into the muscle of her shoulder to keep from whining out, Tate cants his hips and pushes inside with one fluid thrust that draws a smothered groan from the pair of them. It feels good, so good, but it feels like coming home after being gone too., like being whole, if there really was such a thing.
The fuck right there, with Shakespeare and Plath and Bronte and Hemingway watching, and sag down onto the floor when they're through, when he's sweating all over again.
When they find they've got bones again, and the capacity to move, the parking lot is empty and he offers to walk her home. She accepts with a jibe about chivalry and doesn't even pull a face when he demands to hold her hand the whole way.
He kisses her on the steps, and again at the door, and only when she's about to disappear inside does he remember to ask.
"Wait, what's your name?"
She reaches up onto her tiptoes and kisses him one last time through the cracked door and smiles, not a grin or a smirk, but a real smile, one that's just for him, and then she laughs like bells.
"Goodnight, Tate."
A/N: Thanks for reading!
As for future fic endeavors, I've got a collab WIP going with whodreamedit, and Gray Glube and I will be writing a few more 'The Devil's' pieces.