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justjessame · 4 years

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Put Me In Coach

Senior year. Three years of high school, eight years of elementary and junior high, just so I could reach this, my final year. The first day of my FINAL year in this school and I end up in the principal’s office. Seriously?

“Miss Kendall.” Principal Jones was looking over my file, I could tell because my name was almost bold and highlighted.

And I was confused. I had an impeccable record. My grades were high, my extracurriculars were all academic, there was absolutely NO way that I should be in this office today of all days.

“Yes, Mr. Jones?” I was fighting to sound calm, but this was the freaking principal and he was looking at me like I was lacking. Shit.

“Miss Kendall, it appears that you’re missing some vital credits.” What? “Just one, actually.”

“Mr. Jones, that’s impossible.” I offered, my schedule this year was packed. And it was perfect. “I-Mrs. Rosin looked over my credits, every single year.” My guidance counselor, Mrs. Rosin had worked hand in hand to make sure all my credits lined up with the college requirements of my target schools.

Mr. Jones, looking far too much like a turtle for his own good, looked over his glasses at me. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Rosin missed a required class. If you expect to graduate this year,” I felt my eyes widen. “Then you’ll have to fit this one in, Miss Kendall.”

I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “Which one?” Please, let it be math, or another history class. Don’t, under any circumstances be-

“Physical education.” Shit, shit, shit. “I’m sorry, Miss Kendall, but you seem to have missed a semester of PE.”

“I thought we were only required to take two semesters?” I got into debate mode. I’d taken Coach Negan’s hellscape of a class for both Freshman and Sophomore years, I could fucking swear it. “I took it Freshman and Sophomore year.”

“Actually, according to your records, you received an incomplete in tenth grade.” What? That rat bastard. “And that means-”

“I have to retake the class.” My voice was practically a growl. I wanted to kill that asshole. “Of course I do.” He was such a fucking irritant. Arrogant asshole. “If I could get Coach Negan,” I spit his name out like it was poison. “To agree to retest me, could I get the credit without taking the class again?” Anything, please God, anything other than seeing his smug, mocking face every fucking day for a semester.

“It’s not likely, Miss Kendall.” Mr. Jones warned, but he gave in. “If you can get him to agree, then yes, you can skip the class itself.” I nodded and started to stand, but he stopped me with another warning. “You know he’s never given the option to another student.”

“Then I’ll just have to be more persuasive than they were.” I answered, walking out of the office.

I took my revised schedule from the secretary and glared down at it. Physical education was right after lunch, because of course it was. I made my way through my classes without noticing. I took my notes, I answered questions, I did every single thing that I normally did. All muscle memory, brain and eye memory. I didn’t have to think about doing it. Or answering correctly. That was simple.

Lunch was a blur. My best friends clucking around me, not quite understanding my distraction.

“It’s not like you’re gonna be waterboarded,” Mary, the voice of reason chimed in. And I glared at her. “It’s badminton and wiffleball.”

“And the coach isn’t exactly hard on the eyes,” Eric added, giving his eyes a suggestive wiggle.

I laughed despite myself. “You could try harder to not be SO flaming.” I was picking at a muffin on my tray. The only prepackaged food that didn’t look disgusting in the cafeteria. “He’s an asshole, you both know that.”

“He’s not that bad,” Mary rolled her eyes. “Or at least he isn’t if you don’t correct his grammar every three seconds and argue about how many laps he’s made you do versus, I don’t know the cheerleaders.”

“ONE time,” I argued. “One freaking time, and he was wrong.” I was glaring again. “Why did I have to do fifteen fucking laps and that bimbo do five when she was in just as much the wrong as me?”

“Didn’t you tell Kelly that it was a good thing that she was so limber, since she’d be making her cash on, and I quote ‘the pole’ after high school?” Eric asked, grinning widely.

I groaned. “Only after she’d made a rather rude comment about my inexperience with the opposite sex.” A polite way of saying she’d compared me to Virgin Mary so many times that I was ready to rip her extensions out at the roots. “Shit. Tell me the truth, how good do you think I am at changing people’s minds?”

“You’re awesome, I’ve watched you debate.” Eric smiled. “But Coach isn’t one of the debate team students and he’s less likely to give you a pass.”

“Unless you’re prepared to use ALL your assets.” I shot Mary a look. Irony, she was named Mary and she’d probably slept with more people than Kelly.

I had to fight the urge to smack my forehead off the table. “Why me?”

“My guess?” I shot Mary another glare. “You pissed him off one too many times, this is your punishment, just you know, late.”

“You could ask him to just give your ass a nice spanking and then call it square.” Eric said as he tossed a chip in his mouth and made an indecent sound, either from the flavor or living vicariously through the image he’d created of Negan spanking me.

“Not happening.” I stood up, closing my eyes against the torture that was coming.

Mary and Eric chuckled at the martyred expression on my face. “Why are you fighting it so hard?” She asked me, a smirk on her face. “It’s not like you’re out of shape or that you can’t do it.”

“Not the fucking point.” I growled, grabbing my bag. “I already did it. I shouldn’t have to do it again. It’s not-”

“Fair.” They both finished for me with matching grins. “Yeah, but you might have to. Fair or not.” Eric stated calmly.

I straightened my back and fixed the skirt of my dress. “Or, he can pretend to be a reasonable human being instead of a rancid asshole and I can get on with my preplanned Senior year.”

“Good luck,” they called as I walked out of the cafeteria, trying desperately to believe that I had a chance at winning the battle ahead.

I found him in his office. He was leaning back in his desk chair, feet up on the surface of his desk, and looking like he was waiting for me. Shit.

“Why, Miss Kendall, whatever brings you to see me?” He was smiling and his dimples were deep with glee. Fuck. “Oh, that’s right, you’re doing a repeat.”

I forced my face into a smile. “Actually, Coach, I wanted to speak with you about that.” His eyes were twinkling and I had to fight glaring. “I think we both know that I completed my second semester, and if I could retake any of the written tests, then I could be out of your hair and on my way.” To a real class. That I really need.

“We both know?” He sat up, placing his feet on the floor, but staying in his chair. “I don’t think I’d agree with that assumption.” Shit. “After all, I’m the one who marked it incomplete.” And then, to prove that Mary and Eric were right, the zinger. “Did I say that properly, Miss Kendall? I know what a stickler you are for proper English.” Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

“Yes, sir.” I answered, and I could have sworn that his eyes darkened. “I can’t dress for class today, I wasn’t told until I got to school that my schedule had changed.”

“That’s fine, Miss Kendall.” He stood and I stepped back, he seemed to fill the small room. “For today, you can take inventory.”

Days and days of torture. “Miss Kendall, keep your knees up.” Or “Miss Kendall, your eye isn’t on the ball.” The reminders to move faster, that I was older than my classmates, to keep up. I wanted to take the plastic bat and smack him right in his short wearing dick.

Lunch became pep talk time for my best friends. “Look you’ve made it a month.” Eric kept the countdown going. “You’ve only got three more months, and most of two of those are holidays.”

“And you’re keeping your cool,” Mary would pitch in. “You’re not calling him out on his weird shit, you’re doing what you’re told. It’s cake.”

And then I’d leave and go change and start another round of torture. Pulling on shorts and my sports bra/tank combo, tie my tennis shoes and ignore the underclassmen. It became a habit. And then to the gym to hear what our fearless coach had in store for that particular day’s hell.

“Miss Kendall,” I was stretching, getting ready for laps, not from punishment but for class. I looked up and waited. “Come here, Miss Kendall.” Don’t roll your eyes, I was telling myself, don’t roll your fucking eyes.

“Yes, Coach?” I asked, oozing perky politeness.

Negan was staring down at me, and his lip quirked. “Miss Kendall, I was thinking that another inventory is due.” Yes, I thought, fucking no sweating for me today. “Let me get the class started and you and I will head over and get started.” Wait, what?

“Didn’t I do it well the last time?” Come on, don’t make me deal with you for the entire class.

“You did fine, but I want to DIG A LITTLE DEEPER into the equipment stocks.” Damn it, did he mean for that to have the innuendo? Or was I just, shit, was I getting horny? Fuck, was Eric rubbing off on me now?

“OK,” please tell me that I didn’t sound as breathless to him as I did to myself. “I’ll just go, get the clipboard.” I wandered to his office.

I was looking for the damn clipboard when I heard him enter the office. Usually the damn thing was right on the corner of his fucking desk, but today of all fucking days, nowhere to be found. I was just about to ask him where it was when I realized that he was leaning against the closed office door. Damn it.

“Miss Kendall.” Had his voice always been this deep? “I thought we should have a private conversation, before we get started on inventory.”

I nodded, and felt like I’d run the fucking laps when I wasn’t looking. Why was I breathing so damn hard?

“You alright?” He’d moved closer and was looking down at me again. He licked his lower lip and my eyes landed on the movement. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“I can’t find the clipboard.” I offered, lamely.

He smiled. Not a smirk, not mocking, just a smile and it changed his entire appearance. “I’ll get it for you in a minute, sweetheart.” His hand moved up and he brushed my bangs away from my eyes where they’d fallen during my search. “Do you hate me, Miss Kendall?”

My eyes narrowed, was this a trick? “No, of course not, Coach.” I swallowed when the pad of his finger brushed my cheek. “I just hate gym.” And the tone you use to get your way. I added.

“I can be a bit harsh,” he sounded so quiet, so different. “I just want everyone to reach their potential.” I nodded and bit my lip. His eyes landed on my teeth worrying it. “You remind me of myself, Miss Kendall.”

Wait, what? “I’m not sure I-”

He moved past me and grabbed the clipboard off the top of his filing cabinet. Way beyond my eye level. “Smart mouth. Hates shortcuts. Willing to take the punishment if it’s worth the cost.” My stomach clenched at the way he said ‘punishment’. “Here,” he handed me the clipboard. “Let’s go get knee deep in balls.” And I found myself laughing despite myself and his grin in answer was something I found myself enjoying.

I stopped hating going to the gym after lunch as much after that day. Not that Negan had stopped being demanding. Oh that wasn’t ever likely to happen. He just started being a little less abrasive. I even convinced him that my first name wasn’t ‘Miss’.

“Amara?” Ah, there it was, my actual name. I jogged over to him from where I’d been hitting the tennis ball against the wall. Rain made the courts unusable. “Can you come after school today? I have a,” he glanced down at me and I felt my stomach flutter. “Job for you.”

“Sure, Coach.” I answered, jogging back to my place in line, knowing from the burning feeling on my back that he’d watched me go. I fixed my ponytail while waiting for another go, and glanced back to see him biting his lip as his eyes stayed on me. Dear Lord.

The end of the day found me walking back to the gym, wearing another dress, very similar to the one I’d worn on the first day of school. The building had emptied fast, it was the middle of the week, no clubs were meeting. It was raining and gross outside, so the sports teams had practice cancelled. The halls were eerily quiet, the flashes of lightning and the crashes of thunder the only noise other than my shoes on the tiles heading to his office.

If I was being honest with myself, and why not? I knew that we’d been tap dancing around something. The flirting that wasn’t overt, but it wasn’t subtle either. The way he’d stopped calling me ‘Miss Kendall’. The way he felt comfortable with casually brushing my bangs out of my face, or tugging on my ponytail when I jogged in front of him. Not in full view of the class, but when we both knew we could take notice of it.

Somehow I knew, as I finally saw his office door in view, that today was it. The climax of those touches, those comments. That when I knocked, and he invited me in, we’d finally figure out what the fuck we wanted.

I knocked and heard his low voice call out for me to come in. “Amara.” He was sitting exactly how he’d been sitting that first day of term. Leaning back in the chair, feet on the desk, and smiling up at me.

“Coach.” I answered, leaning against the other side of the desk. I saw his eyes flicker down my body, at least the part he could see now. The red plaid dress, long tight sleeves, buttoned up and belted, with the flared skirt. “You asked to see me?”

That smile, those dimples, and fuck those eyes all trained on me. “Oh, I definitely wanted to see you, princess.” Shit. Princess? “Come here, sweetheart.” His feet hit the floor and he sat up in the chair and pushed back from the desk.

I walked around his desk and he pushed his chair back and stood up. “What do you need me to do, sir?” I asked, looking up at him. He inhaled sharply at my words and I smiled when I realized my words were double edged.

“I thought we could go over,” he turned toward his desktop and I saw a pile of papers. “These.” he tapped the top. “Test grading, I fucking hate it.”

“Oh.” I turned to the pile, and felt him standing behind me, close enough to feel his heat, but still far enough back that he wasn’t touching me. “So you want me to grade these for you?”

And then he was pressed closer, his body touching my dress, but not my body. “I’ll help, of course, but yeah. If you don’t have plans?”

My eyes closed at the feeling of his warmth so close to me. I cleared my throat and fought against turning around and pulling him to me. He was my teacher for fuck’s sake. “No plans.” Breathless again, fuck. I bit my lip and waited for him to take his seat, for him to push some of the papers to the side for me to handle and let me grab a chair to do it. Instead, his body closed the small gap and I felt him. ALL of him. And boy, was there more of him than I expected. Shit.

He leaned over me and pointed to the top of the pile. “This is just one class,” I felt his breath teasing my hair. “I have a full load this semester, so it may take awhile to get through all of them.” Damn it, another double meaning. His full load...fuck.

My lip was close to bleeding by this point. His heat was one thing, but his fucking body? Yeah, that was going to fucking kill me. “I have the time.” Jesus, I sounded like a bad Marilyn Monroe impersonator. Pretty fucking soon I’d break out into a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday, Coach Negan.’

“Glad to hear it, Amara.” Did he have to say my name like that? Like he could taste it, me? Savor the letters, make a full meal out of one syllable. He still hadn’t pulled away, and before I made the conscious decision to do it, I bent over to study the papers and let my butt roll back into his body. I heard his breath hiss out of his lips and fought a smile.

Looking over my shoulder, I could see his eyes were closed, like he was fighting against something. “Guess we should get started, right Coach?” His eyes opened and found me looking at him, and those dimples came back with a smile.

“Good idea.” And then he was in his chair, and gesturing toward one of the less comfortable ones on the other side of the desk.

We worked through the piles, me wondering the entire time if he had kept the grading of all of them off until today because the piles seemed endless. Not that I was complaining, not really. Negan asked me questions as he worked through his pile, and I answered glaring at some of the papers wondering how bad these kids had to be to fuck up a quiz in gym.

“Which of my dumbass students is taking you to Homecoming, Amara?” He asked, at one point, eyes not leaving the paper in front of him.

“Homecoming?” I looked up at him. The hell did that come from? “Who said I’d be going to Homecoming?”

I saw his eyebrow raise, even with his eyes down on the paper in front of him. “You are a Senior, right?” I chuckled, well spotted.

Rolling my eyes, I turned my attention back to the paper in front of me and red lined another wrong answer. “Yep.” I popped the ‘p’, and groaned. “Don’t see why that means I have to participate in the archaic bullshit that is Homecoming.”

I heard his answering laugh, but kept grading. “No ambitions to be queen?” My eyes rolled again. “Or holding out for prom?”

“Neither.” I looked up to see him studying me. Putting the end of my red pen between my lips, I considered why he would assume I’d want either. Wow, a Senior girl, must want a tiara? I pulled the pen from my lips, pretending I didn’t notice how his had been focused on my absent sucking on a pen for shit’s sake, and smiled. “I guess you haven’t noticed, Coach, but I don’t need a crown to be a fucking queen.”

His smile turned into a full blown laugh. “Guess not.” And then we went back to grading. A few minutes passed and then, “No date?” What? On the test? I didn’t answer, thinking it was something he was asking the test. “Amara?”

“Yeah?” I looked up and met his eyes.

“Don’t have a date?” He asked, again, and I realized it had been directed at me.

I squinted, trying to pick up the conversation where we’d stopped. Homecoming. Ah. I shook my head. “No, no date.” I didn’t feel like pretending I cared about football, or the dance, for that matter. I started to return my attention to the next test, when he stopped me again.

“Must be fucking blind,” it was almost a mutter, but I looked up at him again, and saw him still studying me. “Those assholes must be fucking blind.” I felt the fluttering of butterflies in my stomach grow.

“Not sure about that,” I offered, looking back down. “I didn’t say I didn’t have offers, Coach, I said I didn’t have a date.” I was smirking at the paper in front of me, holding back a giggle. Shit, he’d looked so aghast by the mere thought of no one taking notice of me, I couldn’t help it.

“Who?” He had gone back to his own stack, and sounded almost nonchalant. Almost.

I flicked through the next few questions before asking. “Joe Malberry,” captain of the wrestling team. “Josh Grady,” one of the football players. “Oh, yeah, and Alex Ransom,” pitcher on the baseball team. I kept marking papers, but couldn’t hear his pen touching the papers in front of him. Curious I looked up to see he was watching me again. “What?” I felt self conscious.

“Collecting players from all the sports, princess?” His voice was low and sounded dark.

I shook my head again. “I don’t have a date, like I told you.” Not that I didn’t date, or that I hadn’t dated each of the guys I’d named, but he looked somewhat dangerous and I was smart enough not to poke a caged bear.

“And no boyfriend?” Ah, great, more relationship questions. Another shake of my head. “Why not?”

I kept my eyes on him. “Why get serious with a boy?” I leaned forward slightly, like I was about to share a secret. “Maybe I prefer men.” Winking at him, I went back to my stack of papers.

The silence stretched between us again, until finally, the papers were graded. I was about to grab my bag when he stopped me again. “If you could, Amara, tomorrow afternoon I’d like you to update my grade book.” I smiled at him across his desk.

“Consider it a date, Coach.” Another wink and I walked out.

Eric was staring at me during lunch with a shrewd eye. “Why do you look like you’re REALLY looking forward to gym class today?” Shit, how had he- “You keep looking at your watch like you’re doing a fucking countdown to the end of lunch.”

“Another day, another X off the days I have to be there,” I tried. Taking a long sip from my drink, and hoping beyond hope that Mary wasn’t as astute or that her attention had been on that huge ass football player she’d had her eye on all month.

She snorted and I knew that my luck wasn’t good. “Sure, Amara, sure.” I looked over to see her eyes gleaming. “You haven’t bitched about good old Coach for weeks. Or sweating. Or any of the other irritating shit you usually bitch about.” She was studying me, and when I glanced at Eric I realized he was too. “Are you hot for teacher?” She made a mock gasp of modesty. “Amara Kendall, are you thinking inappropriate things about Coach Negan?”

I could FEEL Eric’s smile before I even glanced to confirm it. “Oh shit, she’s caught it.” I glared. “You caught the horniness.” I rolled my eyes. “Wow, Amara’s human, who fucking knew?”

“Fuck you.” I hissed, trying to feel more anger than I did. Truth was I was practically bursting with it. And I hadn’t been able to tell anyone. “It’s nothing. I’m just staying after to help him-”

“Count his balls?” Eric offered, snickering. “You did say you do inventory for him after all.”

“Inspecting Coach Negan’s balls-” Mary hummed in appreciation. “Feeling pretty damn jealous, Amara.”

The bell rang and I groaned. “You two make it seem so dirty.”

“If it’s good, it’ll be very fucking dirty,” Eric whispered into my ear as his arm came around my shoulder.

“And wet,” Mary offered from my other side, “otherwise it’ll hurt.”

“You both suck,” I muttered as I pulled away and started for the gym.

“You better too!” was their parting shot and I felt the blush burn my cheeks.

Class went normally. Or as normally as class can go when you’re ignoring the teacher. Or trying desperately to ignore the teacher.

“Amara!” I looked up as a ball came straight for my face. “Keep your eye on the ball!” Fuck. I dodged just in time to not sport a black eye. “Head in the game, people, head in the game!” He was smirking at me like he knew what I was trying to NOT think about.

The game, the class, dragged on. Longest fucking gym class of my life. And as I started for the locker room, he called me over. I tightened my ponytail and jogged to where he was leaning against the wall.

“Yeah, Coach?” I asked, telling myself that I was breathless from the exertion from exercise, not from the scent of him. I bit my lip and looking up I saw his eyes were laser focused on my mouth.

“Still on for this evening?” I nodded, and his hand reached out to swipe my bangs out of my face. “Good, my grade book is feeling pretty fucking neglected.” I smiled up at him. “See you after school.”

“Later, Coach.” I turned and walked toward the locker room. Feeling his eyes on me the entire way.

I was at my locker, listening to the rowdiness of the other students slamming doors and screaming out plans for their evenings. Tugging on the silky fabric of the dress that barely peeked out from under my over-sized sweater. Knee high socks and matching boots completed the look, my hair braided over one shoulder. I sighed, and gave myself a pep talk. It was just updating his grade book. I was CLEARLY reading more into everything than he meant me to. There was NO WAY that Negan looked at me as ANYTHING more than his only upper class student with more brains than brawn.

I almost missed Eric and Mary coming by to offer their see ya laters, or their heavy handed innuendos about my after school activities.

“Remember, don’t be a hero,” Mary offered, tugging on my braid. “Not everyone can deepthroat on their first go.” I glared at her, for fuck’s sake, I wasn’t a damn virgin.

“Don’t glare, it’s good advice.” Eric continued. “We know you’ve fucked, sweetie, but Coach isn’t in the peewee leagues, he’s a MAN.” A wink and a laugh and they were off. Fuckers.

And I’d almost had my nerves under control. But they were in full bloom as I made my way down the once again empty hallways. The gym came first, then the office door, and my hand knocked gently.

“Come in.” I took a deep breath and opened the door. At ease in his desk chair, leaned back reading a magazine, with his feet up I let my breath out. See, I told myself, not interested in me at all. “Wow,” his eyes flicked to me standing framed in the doorway, and I watched him drop the magazine and take in the full vision of me. “Feel like I’m under dressed, Amara.”

I smiled. “Dress for the job you want, right Coach?” I offered, walking into the room further and putting my bag down next to the chair I’d sat in to grade papers. “Grade book?”

“What job do you want, Amara?” His eyes were still on the way my sweater was falling slightly off one shoulder, showing the thin strap of the satin and lace dress I wore underneath. I took my seat and crossed my legs, knowing that my skirt rose a bit higher when I did.

“Why don’t you guess?” I sat back, looking more confident and carefree than my stomach would indicate, I hoped.

I watched Negan bite his lip and drink me in. “Never seen anyone in any job dressed like that, sweetheart.”

“Let’s go with a student for now,” I offered, and his eyes met mine. “Isn’t that what I am?” I shrugged my shoulder, and felt the sweater slip a bit more. His eyes locked on the bared skin and I saw him swallow.

“Yeah,” he breathed and then he snapped himself out of whatever image had been playing in his mind. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a generic grade book. Walking around the desk, he leaned against the edge to open the book. “Pretty standard, but,” I leaned forward to follow his finger as he explained how he liked the grades to be entered. My hand reached out to trace a line and he stilled.

“So you want them to run linear, but you also want the grades to be both numerical and alphabetical.” I glanced up at him and saw that my hand, over the book, was right over where his crotch would be if the book wasn’t in the way. Oh. I bit my lip and he groaned.

“Shit.” He sat fully on the desktop and looked up to the ceiling. Gathering strength? Resolve? “Amara,” he looked down at me and then the grade book was tossed on the desk and my hand was on his thigh. Oops. He swallowed hard. “Honey, do you really want your hand there?”

I studied him. He wasn’t pushing my hand away, he wasn’t disgusted or pissed. He was warning me, but not the type of warning I expected. It made my next move easier. “No,” I whispered up at him. “I think I want my hand here.” I moved and cupped him through his gym shorts. “Is this alright, Coach Negan?”

His eyes rolled back as my hand pressed down a bit harder, feeling how hard he was, and was only getting harder. I licked my lips and slid my hand along the shaft I could feel through his layers. His hand covered mine, but instead of drawing mine away, he helped me find the rhythm he wanted. He swallowed a moan and I smiled up at him. “Keep that up, princess, and we’re not gonna get anything done.”

“Still want that grade book updated, sir?” He couldn’t hold back his moan at that. He really enjoyed that ‘sir’ shit. I licked my lips again. “Hand me the book.” I took my hand away and his hands took my elbows and pulled me from my chair.

“That’s not what’s gonna get done, Amara.” And then his lips met mine and it was me trying to hold back my moans. His tongue flicked against my lips and I opened my mouth for him. One of my hands found his neck, the other was fisted his shirt both holding him to me. He pulled away slightly and I groaned. “You want this, right?” Wait, what?

“Read the room, Coach,” I muttered, and pulled his face back to me. “Do I look like I’m fighting it?” His chuckle vibrated my lips as our mouths met again.

He turned our bodies, so I was sitting on his desk and he was standing between my open knees. “Knees up, Miss Kendall.” He ordered against my mouth and I obliged. His hands slid up my boots to my raised knees, helping to put my feet on the desk. He hummed as his hands continued up my bare thighs, under the satin skirt of my dress, until his fingers hooked into the thread that constituted the waistband of my lace panties. He tried to pull them down, but it was basically a thread, and I giggled as they literally snapped in his fingers. Oops. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to-”

I shook my head, and nipped at his bottom lip. “I have more.” And his mouth left mine, kissing along my jaw, nibbling on my earlobe.

“Good,” he breathed against my ear. “I didn’t mean to, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.” And then his teeth grazed the sensitive skin under my ear and my eyes closed. He kissed down my neck and his fingers, which had gone still after destroying my panties, started to explore my waist, the soft skin of my upper thighs, teasing but not touching where I was internally begging him to. “Seems like you want something, Amara,” his mouth was on my shoulder, bared before he’d even touched me. “Say it, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”

“Touch me,” I pleaded, my fingers digging into his shoulders, pushing down, trying without words to show him.

“Where?” His nose was buried between my sweater and satin clothed breasts, breathing in my perfume. “Where, princess, where do you want me to touch you?”

“Everywhere, sir, everywhere.” I breathed, and felt his chuckle vibrate through my sternum. “But first,” my hand left his shoulder and met his under my skirt. “Here,” and pulling his hand to the center of my heat I sighed as the pads of his finger brushed my folds.

“Oh, here?” He asked, pulling back to look into my face, my eyes locked on his. And then, he let his fingers slip through the slick wetness he found with my help. “You’re wet, Amara, so fucking wet.” Between the lips, feeling the dampness grow, he licked his lips. As his thumb brushed my tightly wound bundle of nerves, my hips left the desk. His other hand moved to hold my hips down. “Now, now I didn’t say you could move, sweetheart.” Fuck. He let one long finger slide up and down my slick, and then, watching my face and my expressions, slid slowly inside. My head fell back and I practically growled at the feeling. Fuck, a finger, and I was ready to go insane. I wouldn’t fucking survive his actual dick. “How’s that feel, Amara?”

I tried rocking my hips, I tried rolling closer. His hand holding me still was like a vise. Fuck. “Not enough, that’s how it feels, Coach. Like it’s NOT enough.” I bit down on my lip as he added another finger, still not moving once I was impaled by both. Fucking tease. “Is this a fucking punishment for something?” I begged, trying once again to move my hips, to force him to move.

“Oh, sweetheart, when I punish you, you’ll fucking know it.” Shit, I just got- “You like that don’t you, princess? The idea of me punishing you.” I felt my walls clamp down on his fingers and so did he. “We’ll have to talk about that later,” he leaned forward and licked back into my mouth. “I want to taste you, Amara,” he breathed into my mouth.

And he did. He feasted on me. He used those fingers of his, and that mouth on him, to make me a shaking, moaning mess on his desk. And then, once he felt he’d had his fill of me, he stood up and helped me take off my sweater, sliding his hands over the satin of my dress before tugging it over my head and tossing it on the chair with my sweater. The bra was gone before I could contemplate it, and then, I was pulling his shirt off his body, tugging down his shorts and without any more preamble, he was thrust deep inside of me. My feet still on the desk, my knees high, my legs open, and his hands on my hips controlling the rhythm.

My hands were back on his shoulders, my mouth and tongue tasting the skin of his chest, finding tattoos I wouldn’t have known about in ordinary circumstances, but then his hips moved and I whimpered. “Is that the spot, Amara?” He growled, hitting it again and again, as I arched my hips a bit higher, trying to find friction and purchase. “That’s it, isn’t it, sweetheart?” And then again, and I was pleading by offering him his name over and over. “Come on, princess, come on.”

And it happened. Like a freight train rushing through me, I came, biting his shoulder so I wouldn’t scream and felt his thrusting stutter as my clamping and tightening body forced him over too. We were shaking and breathing hard, but he didn’t pull away. He kept holding me, his fingers sliding over my bare skin as he grew limp inside of me. His lips kissing my forehead when I pulled away from his chest to look up at him. Our bodies were slick with sweat, a sweat that I would gladly wear again and again. Our lips met, and I smiled into his kiss.

When we pulled back, his forehead pressed against mine, I had to laugh when he said, “now about that grade book.”

#negan x ofc #The Walking Dead #coach negan x student #Smut

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jugandbettsdetectiveagency · 6 years

Text

(I’ve been having a really rough couple of days, so I thought in an attempt to shake myself out/do something else/just distract myself, I’d post a snippet of a fic I’ve been working on now and then (subject to any edits of course), so I hope you enjoy! Also sorry about the lack of read more, I’m not able to get onto my laptop at the minute)

CUCKOO

Jughead pulls out some of the books in his locker; he’s slowly been emptying it out for weeks, taking things as and when he’ll no longer need them for class. The sight is somewhat bittersweet, in that his locker is just one more thing that won’t belong to him anymore, a place where he could keep his things solely his, now to be recycled, given to someone else. His stickers and notes would no longer litter the door, the picture of him and Jellybean from the summer his grandparents had let him come and visit already moved to his wallet, his books and folders gone from their permanent place inside. Locker 235 would have no memory of Jughead Jones beyond tape residue, just like most of his peers.

Jughead internally rolls his eyes at himself, not wanting to sink to the level of waxing poetic over an empty locker. The slam of the door coincides with another loud noise echoing down the corridor.

“Betty! Betty, wait!”

He knows the name. He knows the voice calling it. He hasn’t spoken to the owner of either in a long time.

Surreptitiously as possible, Jughead casts his gaze over his shoulder, one hand still raised and resting against the dial on his locker.

The first thing he sees is Betty striding purposefully down the hall, shoulders back and hair flying about her face. The weather’s been at a steady eighty degrees for the past few weeks now, and the smooth curve of her shoulders are exposed in the sleeveless, white top she’s wearing. Begrudgingly, Jughead’s eyes fall to the strip of skin between the hem of her shirt and the band of her jeans that’s showing. Just as quickly he moves them down to the pink Keds on her feet and back up to her face. He can’t put his finger on it, but there’s something that’s almost un-Betty like about her today.

Or maybe there isn’t. As her eyes find his on her way down the hall, he realises that it’s been a while since they’ve looked each other in the eye. What does he know about Betty Cooper anymore?

The corner of her mouth ticks up into something resembling a smile and Jughead’s stomach somersaults. As soon as it’s there, it’s gone, Betty turning away, and he’s left wondering if—knowing that—he imagined it. The lingering feeling in his abdomen says otherwise, but Jughead’s got more sense than to listen to his gut.

Betty scoops her hair into one hand, pulling it into a soft of makeshift ponytail while ducking her head towards the ground, lifting the strands from the back of her neck, relieving the heat, and it strikes him. He doesn’t remember a day when Betty hadn’t worn her hair up to school, in all the years he’s known her. The change makes him feel uneasy, in the same way that his emptying locker had done.

“Betty, would you just listen?” The voice comes again, closer this time. Jughead looks further to his right and sees the owner, barrelling down the hallway, expression pained, thick brows pinched.

Archie could have easily caught up to Betty, Jughead thinks, watching the boy that used to be his friend trail behind her forlornly. She’s not particularly running down the hall, and four years of school sanctioned sports hadn’t exactly left Archie out of shape. No, there’s something else stopping him from reaching out to her.

Jughead may be a social outcast—a self-identified loner—but he’s not completely oblivious. He’s privy to the churning of the rumour mill, as much as the next student.

Golden girl Betty Cooper had walked in on her footballer boyfriend, Archie Andrews, in flagrante with her best friend, Veronica Lodge.

Maybe being popular wasn’t all it cracked up to be. At least at this end of the social spectrum no one cared about the enthralling details of your private life. At Betty and Archie’s heights? They were the proverbial fuel of the high school hierarchy.

But, that wasn’t his problem, Jughead thinks as he lets slip a small sigh, tuning out Archie’s continuing pleas by replacing his headphones and turning in the opposite direction. They’d abandoned him. Whatever trials and tribulations became the prom king and queen were none of his business anymore.

Right?

“Five, four, three, two…” Jughead has taken to actually muttering a countdown out loud like some teen cliche as he watches the second hand drag by in slow motion. It’s his last class of the day (there’s some saving grace in that it’s English—going out on something of a high) and the bell is so close to ringing he can practically feel the vibrations in the air.

The small, red hand finally reaches the twelve, and just like that it’s all over. The shrill ringing of the bell sounds and almost simultaneously a cheer erupts from the majority of seniors surrounding him.

Jughead looks over just in time to see Ethel Muggs rolling her eyes at the farce around them. “You’d think none of them remember these are the best days of our lives,” she mutters sarcastically, and Jughead lifts the corner of his lips in a smirk.

“Thought that was college?” he quips back. Ethel laughs with him as they both gather their things and head for the exit.

“Have a good summer, Jughead. I’ll see you around, maybe?” Ethel asks as they step into the blinding sun (another eighty degreer) and head down the front steps to the parking lot.

“Sure. You too, Ethel.” He’s not sure if they actually will cross paths again, but he supposes he should make some sort of effort to keep in contact with the girl who’s been nothing but a friend to him over the past few years. Bonding by mutual exile might be more appropriate as a label, but the sentiment is still there. Jughead can’t imagine keeping in touch with anyone from Riverdale, though. Too many loose ends to get knotted. His hometown had served its purpose; he’d got his education and his grades, and now it was time for the next step: out.

He isn’t looking up as he approaches his truck, which is why when a familiar pair of pink Keds come into view he’s almost stepping on them before he realises there’s someone leaning against the driver’s side door.

“Whoa, what—” he blurts out, stumbling to a stop.

Betty’s got one ankle crossed over the other where she leans. The jeans have been replaced by a denim skirt today, the length of her legs on display. She’s been taking advantage of the sun, Jughead thinks, as his eyes involuntary trail them. She’s wearing another sleeveless top, this time tucked into her waistband. Her hair’s down again.

Betty smiles, a small thing really, and Jughead frowns.

“Hey, Jug.” It’s been a while since he’s heard his name in her voice—it prods at unwelcome memories, buried somewhere near those memories of his mom’s happy stories. “How are you?”

“How am I?” Jughead repeats, thoroughly confused. He has no idea where this is coming from, or why she’s here, what she wants, but he didn’t expect that to be the first thing she asks. He doesn’t say anything more and her smile falters a little before it’s back.

“Um, this is your truck, right?” Now he’s completely lost.

“I have the keys,” he replies wryly, lifting them up like proof. She giggles again, and he wishes, with a flush, that she’d stop.

“I know this is a bit out of the blue but I need a ride later and I was wondering if you’d mind driving me. Gas money provided, of course,” she says somewhat shyly, gathering her hair into that attempt at a fleeting ponytail again.

“What?” Jughead asks eloquently, his mouth refusing to close fully.

“Please?” Betty asks again, drawing her lower lip between her teeth. Her green eyes are wide and pleading, chipping away at Jughead’s resolve with each passing moment.

“Where do you need to go?” the remains of his rational side thinks to ask, garnering as much information as possible before he agrees to be her chauffeur (because he will agree, he thinks with a pang of self-pity).

Betty chews on her lip some more before answering. “Would it influence your decision at all if I decided to keep the location on a need to know basis? As in, when you need to know, you’ll know,” she says apprehensively.

Jughead wonders if drawing this out any longer will preserve some of his pride, which will definitely disappear when he says yes. He tries to chalk it down to morbid curiosity. “Sure, I guess,” he tries to sound vague, like that’s doing any favours.

Betty’s face lights up with a mixture of relief and gratefulness, and she leans in towards him before she stops herself, instead reaching out and laying a hand on his forearm. “Thank you, Juggie! Pick me up at eight?”

She’s gone before he can answer, and he thinks it wasn’t really a question anyway. The spot where her hand had been against his skin burns the whole ride home.

“I’m not gonna go,” Jughead tells himself more than he tells his friends, rolling a beer mat absently between his hands.

“And abandon Princess Peach in her hour of need? Yeah, right,” Sweet Pea scoffs from his position in front of the Street Fighter machine in the corner of the Whyte Wyrm, not even looking up from the intense game he appears to be caught up in.

“Shut up, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jughead hollers back, chucking the mat at the back of Sweet Pea’s head. His friend lifts one hand briefly to flip him the bird before going back to his game.

Jughead had wanted to transfer to Southside High his sophomore year of high school, but his dad had refused, despite them living in the district. FP had been unmovable in his desire for Jughead to get the best out of school that he could, and no matter his allegiance to the Southside, he knew that didn’t come on this side of the tracks.

It had been hard not to resent his father for metaphorically feeding him to the dogs (Bulldogs, to be precise) in that way, but the further he got from the initial sting of betrayal—and the two month stint living at the Twilight Drive-In—the more thankful for the decision he’d become. It was true that Jughead felt far more affiliation with the kids, like Sweet Pea, like Toni, that grew up on the same side of town as he did. There was a toughened skin, a pessimistic outlook, that developed amongst all of the Southside kids early on that made them feel united—as much as any leather jacket could.

Another thing his father had refused him was an initiation into the Serpents, into gang life—another thing to set him apart from the people that lived around him. FP didn’t want that for Jughead, and while he could understand a father’s desire to protect his son, Jughead couldn’t help but feel shunned, an outsider amongst outsiders. It only made him more determined to pass through Riverdale on his way to more.

Despite this, the kids on the Southside were far more accepting of him than the ones at school ever were, and there was a comfortable cushion to fall back on in his friends here that even a self-professed loner needed sometimes.

“He’s not wrong. You have got something of a hero complex,” Toni smirks from behind the bar, wiping down the sticky surface. Jughead feels his face burn and doesn’t try to disagree. “We all know you’re gonna go.”

“We don’t know that,” Jughead tries to defend lamely.

“Oh, Jones. It’s a sad, but familiar tale. And we all know it includes you going to do whatever bidding the Mother Teresa of the Northside wants you to do,” she lifts a pointed brow at him.

“What does she want you to do?” Sweet Pea chimes back in with a genuine curiosity.

“She didn’t really give me much to go on,” Jughead shrugs, stealing a handful of peanuts from the packet Toni has open on the bar.

“Guess you’ll have to go and find out,” she says coyly.

“I still might not go,” he repeats after a few beats, his words met with a chorus of groans.

At five minutes to eight, Jughead slowly pulls up to the curb on Elm Street. It bothers him how easily he’s remembered Betty’s address, and the one next door to it. A swell of sympathy grows for Betty as he thinks about having to live next door to the boyfriend that hurt her. Still, even though he doesn’t know what Betty’s plans are post-high school, he assumes that it won’t be the arrangement for much longer.

He isn’t quite sure how to announce himself, and decides on waiting in the truck for Betty to come out. As the clock ticks over he expects the shiny, red door to swing open but nothing happens. His fingers twitch towards the door handle as the minutes pass by and nothing moves in the still of the night, but finally something catches his eye.

There’s a shadow passing down the side of the Cooper house, scaling its way down the trellis that crawls its way up to the side window. The shape forms into a person, all long legs and loose, blonde hair, finally landing on the porch with a dull thud.

Betty hurries down the steps and all but flies into the truck, eyes bright and breathing heavily. Absently, Jughead notes she’s wearing a pair of denim shorts.

“You came,” she exclaims, still in something of a hushed whisper, body turned towards him on the bench seat.

“Said I would,” Jughead replies casually with a lift of his eyebrows, like he hadn’t spent all afternoon locked in an internal debate about that very fact. He can practically feel the heat radiating off her bronzed skin. “Front door out of order?” he jokes with a jerk of his thumb in the direction of the house.

Betty shrugs, the dusting of pink across her cheeks matching that creeping in around the early evening sky. “This is something of an unauthorised outing,” she leans in to tell him. She smells like the smokey air of summer barbecues, with an undertone of something sweet, like some kind of flower he doesn’t know the name of. “I trust you’ll keep it confidential,” she grins, teasing.

“Scouts’ honour,” he drawls, holding up three fingers before putting the truck in gear.

He hears a light snort and turns to her questioningly. “You were never a scout,” she scoffs with conviction, rolling down her window to let some of the stifling night air in.

Jughead jolts in surprise and wonders what else she remembers about him. He clears his throat, grasping the steering wheel with both hands. “So, where are we going? I kind of need to know,” he asks, bringing them back to her earlier terms.

“Right,” she chuckles, pointing in front of them, indicating straight on. Jughead pulls away from the curb as she continues to talk. “Do you know where Veronica Lodge lives?”

#bughead #bughead fanfiction #bughead au #riverdale #riverdale fanfiction #just a snippet

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