#tate langdon angst

[v1ctor1asecretangel]

The other women

tate langdon x reader

based on "the other women" by lana del rey

warnings: angst

word count: 1.2k

notes: wrote this in the bathtub while listening to lana....maybe a little 🍃 was involved....

The days felt endless in the Murder House, stretched out in eternal dusk, punctuated only by stolen moments with Tate. For so long, you were his only solace, a quiet comfort in the night, a pair of haunted souls who clung to each other, bound by the same loneliness. You had found something rare and beautiful in him, a kind of love that didn’t need the warmth of daylight, a love that thrived in the darkness. He’d told you as much, promised you that in this house, you would always have each other.

But that was before her.

The Harmon family arrived one chilly October (?) evening, and everything changed. You felt a shift, a cold breeze that settled in your bones. You didn’t need to see Tate’s face to know that his attention was caught by her the moment she moved in. Violet. Even the sound of her name felt like an intrusion, an uninvited guest between you and him.

Days passed, and you could see the way he looked at her. He’d disappear for hours, drifting toward her room, slipping through walls just to catch a glimpse of her sitting on her bed, scribbling in her notebook, headphones on, oblivious to him. He was drawn to her in a way that was effortless and magnetic, the same way he had once been drawn to you. You’d once been that light for him. Now, you were nothing but a flickering candle in the shadow of something so much brighter.

One evening, after another day of him being away, you finally confronted him.

“Tate, where were you?” you asked, your voice barely hiding the hurt that sat, heavy and bitter, at the back of your throat. You were standing in the hallway, your arms folded, your eyes searching his for a glimpse of something familiar. Something that would tell you he was still yours.

He blinked, a small frown creasing his forehead. “Just…around,” he said, brushing past you. But you caught his wrist, desperate to keep him from slipping away.

“Around?” you repeated, bitterness coloring your tone. “Or with her?”

He looked at you, an unreadable look in his eyes, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he sighed, pulling his arm from your grasp. “You wouldn’t understand.”

You felt a pang in your chest, a sharp twist of jealousy and sorrow that you couldn’t shake. “I wouldn’t understand? Tate, I’ve been here with you. I am here with you. What does she have that I don’t?”

His gaze dropped to the floor, and for the first time, you saw it—the guilt, the hesitation. But there was something else, too, something that cut deeper than any knife.

“She’s…alive.” he said, his voice a whisper.

The word hit you like a punch to the gut. Alive. A word that meant everything in the house of the dead. You felt the cold realization settling in—you could never be what she was. She was real, tangible, and you were just a ghost. A reminder of everything he wanted but could never have.

“So that’s it?” you asked, voice breaking. “You’re just going to leave me, Tate?”

He looked at you with something close to pity, but there was no trace of regret. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “I just… I feel something when I’m around her. Something I haven’t felt in a long time.”

Your heart twisted, breaking in his hands as he stood there, speaking the truth that you’d dreaded. You wanted to scream, to cry, to beg him to choose you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say the words. Instead, you nodded, swallowing the bile rising in your throat.

He lingered, as though he wanted to say more, but then he turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the darkened hallway.

The nights became harder after that. He would come to you, always after he’d spent the day with her. You became the place he went to bury his guilt, to drown his uncertainty. He would hold you, his hands roaming, lips desperate against yours, but his touch was colder now, empty of the warmth it once held. You could feel it every time he left—pieces of him slipping away, fragments of the boy you once knew disappearing into the ether.

“Do you love her?” you asked him one night, the words escaping your lips before you could stop them. You were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, his arm draped over you in a way that felt suffocating.

He was silent for a long time, and then he spoke, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know.”

It felt like a slap. You turned, looking at him, searching his face for any sign that he might still feel something for you, that you weren’t just a substitute, a convenience. But all you saw was conflict, a tangled mess of emotions that weren’t meant for you.

“Why do you keep coming back?” you whispered, tears threatening to spill over. “If you don’t know what you feel… why do you keep coming back to me?”

He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing. “Because…you’re familiar. You’re safe.”

Safe. The word made you feel hollow, like an afterthought. You were the comfort he turned to when things got too heavy with her, the steady presence he clung to when he couldn’t face his own feelings. But you were never the one he truly wanted.

“You’re using me,” you choked out, the realization hitting you like a wave. “I’m just… I’m just here because it’s easy.”

His eyes shot open, guilt flashing across his face. “No, that’s not-”

“Don’t lie to me, Tate,” you cut him off, voice trembling. “You love her. I can see it every time you look at her. You don’t look at me like that anymore.”

He tried to reach for you, but you pulled away, heart breaking with each step you took. “I love you,” he said softly, and for a moment, you almost believed him. Almost.

“Then why isn’t it enough?” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. You didn’t wait for his answer. You turned and left the room, your heart shattering with each step you took, knowing that he would go back to her, knowing that he would continue to look at her the way he once looked at you.

In the end, you resigned yourself to your role—the other woman, the forgotten ghost lingering in the halls, waiting for a boy who would never be yours. You kept your room meticulously clean, arranged fresh flowers in every corner, wore the scent he loved, all for the rare moments when he would slip away from her to be with you. But every time he held you, you felt the emptiness, the absence of the boy you had loved. The boy who had once promised you forever.

And as the years wore on, you found yourself alone more often than not, crying into the quiet, knowing that no matter how hard you tried, you would always be the second choice, the one he would leave behind. The one he would never love the way he loved her.

The other woman.

[temporarywelcome]

toxic till the end - Tate Langdon

Words: 2.3k

Summary: your relationship with Tate was toxic till the end (inspired by the song "toxic till the end" by Rose`

CW: toxic!tate (ofc), mental health struggle mentions, reader is burnt out trying to help him (remember ya'll, in the end, put yourself first!), threatened sewerslide, Westfield incident, reader's mom is religious but it's barely mentioned

____

Dating Tate Langdon started off simple. It started off great, actually, amazing. 

Y/N was the first to make a move. He was seated alone in the cafeteria, listening to music with his discman when she slid into the seat in front of him. 

“Tate, right?” she began casually, picking at her nails in an attempt to appear cool and nonchalant. 

He plucked out an earbud, “Huh?”

“Your name is Tate, right?” she repeated.

“Oh,” he took out the other earbud, “Yeah… I’m Tate. And you’re Y/N.”

Y/N nodded, giving him a small smile, “Yeah, I’m Y/N. You’re cute, Tate,” she was a shameless flirt, what could she say? She wanted him, and she was determined to have him. 

His cheeks flushed slightly, corners of his lips curling into a grin, “You’re pretty,”

____

It was a pretty easy start.

Two days after that, the two of them were going out on a date, and soon they were officially a couple. Not only was it an easy start, it was an amazing start. Tate was so attentive to her needs and desires, always getting her these little handmade gifts and spending as much time with her as possible. 

And that soon became a problem. 

As her phone rang, she let out a tired groan, sitting up in bed and rubbing at her burning eyes before blindly swatting at it before she was able to pull it off of the receiver, “Hello?” 

“Did I wake you up?” she recognized that voice anywhere. 

“...Yes, Tate, it’s four in the morning. Some people like to sleep,” Y/N replied. She usually wasn’t so nasty to him, but he’s been calling almost every single night at this point. She just wanted a good fucking sleep. 

He was silent for a moment, “...are you mad at me?”

“Of course I’m fucking mad, it’s four in the fucking morning. Go to sleep,” 

“But… But I need you,” that was always his line. Whenever he knew she was going to hang out with friends he didn’t like (which was all of them), suddenly he was calling her with his big ass Moterola that he desperately needed to upgrade, telling her he was depressed and anxious and needed to be with her. And every time she would fall for it, cancelling her plans and running to him, just to realize he only said that so she would go to him. 

She knew what he was doing, yet she still ran to him every time. Every. Single. Time. 

And like every single time, she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, “Come over. I’ll unlock my window,”

“Thank you, babe!” he hung up right away, and she placed her phone back onto the receiver with a grumble. She wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight. 

As she stood up and unlocked the window, she wondered what it was going to be this time. His mom was being an asshole again. His grades were slipping. His dark thoughts were taking over. 

Y/N cared for his mental health greatly, but sometimes it was too much for her. Sometimes she felt like his mental health struggle was negatively effecting her own. 

There was also the possibility there was nothing wrong at all and he just wanted her attention. He always wanted her attention. It was a bit suffocating at times. 

Within a few minutes, her window was opened and the shadow of Tate’s lanky form appeared before her. She didn’t bother turning on her bedside lamp, she was tired. “Hey, baby,”

“Hi, babe!” he said excitedly, immediately kicking off her shoes. 

She should be pissed off, she really should, but she found herself scooting over so he could slide into the bed next to her. He turned so his back faced her, signalling what he wanted. 

Arms circling his waist, she pulled his back to her chest, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, “So, what’s wrong?”

He hummed in response, grabbing one of her hands and interwining their fingers, “I just wanted to see you,”

“At four in the morning?” 

“Mhm,” he replied, “I missed you,”

“I see you everyday, love,” 

“And? I still missed you,” he said simply.

Y/N didn’t respond, already starting to fall back asleep. Until he tightly squeezed her hand to wake her up. “Hmmmm…?”

“Why were you talking to Todd today?”

“Huh?”

She couldn’t see, but he was pouting, “Todd. I saw you talking to him in the hallway,” 

“Oh,” she yawned, “Yeah. We were talking about a project we have coming up,”

“I don't like that you're talking to him,” he mumbled, releasing her hand so he could turn to face her, “Don't talk to him anymore,”

“Tate, babe, he was just asking some questions,”

“Sure,” he rolled his eyes, “Don't trust that fucker, he just wants to get in your pants. He's using that project as an excuse,”

“And how do you know that?” She mused, beginning to play with his hair.

“I just do. Stop talking to him,” he huffed, nuzzling into her neck, “Please?”

“Okay,” she knew an argument would come if she told him no, so she just left it at that.

She lost so many friends for him. 

Tate smiled, pressing a kiss to her skin, “Thank you, babe,” He looked down at their intertwined fingers, noticing she was still wearing some of her rings, “You slept with your rings on?”

“Mmm,” Y/N mumbled, starting to drift off again, “...was tired,”

And so he plucked the rings off of her fingers, smirking as he slid them onto his own. He always liked to borrow her stuff, she was sure he was the reason so many of her hoodies were missing. So him taking her rings didn’t bother her, despite the fact they were Tiffany rings. Expensive ones she had gotten for her birthday once. He would give them back, he always did. Eventually. 

She never got the rings back.

___

A few days passed, and within those few days, things changed drastically. 

Well, nothing really changed between them. It was how Y/N reacted to said things. 

She was already annoyed with Tate’s behavior. She hasn’t slept properly in days at this point. Whether he just wanted her attention or was genuinely struggling, she was the one who had to be there for him. 

Like right now. 

He was sobbing, curled up in her arms as they laid on her bed together once again. She felt awful for feeling this way. She felt awful for being annoyed. She hated seeing him so upset, and always tried her best to console him, always getting nowhere. It was draining. 

How much was too much? Y/N was constantly depressed because he was constantly depressed. How much more could she take? 

“Y/N…” he mumbled after a while, face still buried in her neck. 

“Yeah, baby?”

“Why won’t you comfort me anymore?” 

She paused, biting her bottom lip. She could feel his eyes on her as he tilted his head up slightly, his lip trembling and his face all red and blotchy. He was right, she had barely spoken since he had gotten there. Just rubbing his back in silence. 

When she didn’t respond, Tate sat up, “Y/N…”

“Hm?” she said dumbly.

“Y-You’re acting different,” he was starting to tear up again, “You’re acting different with me. What am I d-doing wrong?”

“Nothing, baby,” she just didn’t have it in her to defend herself. It was almost five thirty in the morning, she honestly just wanted him to fucking leave. 

His hands went to her shoulders, blunt nails digging into her skin, “What i-is it? What’s wrong with m-me? Just tell me!” 

Fuck. 

Why did she stay silent on her problems this whole time? Why didn’t she just tell him how she felt? Why put them both through this?

“I can’t do this anymore,” There. Done. She said it. 

And regretted it as soon as she saw his face completely crumble. 

“Wh-What?” Tate whispered, pulling away. His eyes looked wild, darting around the room as his chest rose and fell repeatedly. He was seconds away from hysterical. “I’m crying about my f-family problems and my depression an-and you decide you want to leave me?!” 

Well when you say it like that…

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

She groaned, pressing her face into her hands, “Tate-”

“-You’re not even calling me baby anymore!” he gasped. He scrambled off of the bed, looking down at her in both desperation and rage, “I didn’t do anything wrong! I thought you loved me!” 

“I do love you!” she whisper-yelled, not wanting to wake up her parents who would definitely be pissed if they found out Tate was in the room with her. “But am I not allowed to love myself too? This is stressful for me! I can’t do this anymore,” 

“Stressful for you, huh? Imagine how I feel,” he scoffed, “I’m the one going through it,” Crossing his arms over his chest, he began pacing the room, trying to hide the trembling in his hands. 

“But you always dump it on me! Don’t you ever think about how that affects me?” She could already feel another argument coming. They were arguing literally two days ago. 

“I always listen to you when you’re upset about s-something!” as he spoke, he pointed an accusing finger at her. Like she was the problem. “Why is it so hard for you to comfort me? Do you not care about me anymore?”

God she felt like crying now too. 

“I do care about you, Tate, but I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep hurting myself trying to help you,” she sighed, standing up as well. She reached out to him but he shrank away, as if she were poisonous. “I think it’s best we broke up. I’m so sorry,” she couldn’t even say an “it’s not you, it’s me,” because it entirely was because of him. 

He was hysterical now, tugging at his blonde hair in stress, “No! No, you can’t do this to me!” he shouted, definitely going to wake up the whole house at this point, “I can’t live without you!”

“Tate, please, don’t be like this-”

“No!” To her surprise, he swatted at the lamp on her nightstand, causing it to shatter, “If you leave me I’ll fucking kill myself, I swear to God. I’ll kill myself. And it’ll be all your fault!”

…what?

“You can’t be serious,” she gasped, “You’re being serious right now?! Trying to guilt-trip me into staying with you?”

“No! Fuck you!” he snapped, “I’m just telling you the truth! I’ll kill myself, you fucking bitch!” 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Y/N finally shouted. Tate was already marching towards the window as she yelled, finally letting out her own anger. “You’re not even fucking trying to fix anything! Fuck you!” 

There was a loud knock on her door, making her jump. Fuck. Someone was awake. She was fucked. 

“Get the fuck out,” she practically shoved him out of the window. 

“Y/N, what is going on in there?!” her mother called from the other side of the tour.

“Coming, Mom!” she called, watching as Tate climbed down the tree by her window. Once his feet touched the grass, he looked up at her, angrily giving two middle fingers. 

Things always ended like this. And they always started right back up when he knocks on her window the next day like he always fucking did, with a bouquet of flowers or vinyls of the artists she liked. 

She always took him back. 

Shit. 

___

He did not come knocking on her window.

He did not come with flowers or vinyls or chocolates or any sort of peace offerings. 

The relationship was truly over. 

She thought the first few days would be terrible. 

She thought she would spend each day sobbing in her room and forcing herself to go to school. She thought she would be in complete misery thinking about Tate and their ended relationship. 

That was far from the truth.

Even on the first day, she was like a brand new woman. 

There was no one clinging onto her the whole entire day. No one forcing her to not hang out with her own friends. And certainly no little bitch in her ear telling her to wake up in the middle of the fucking night. 

It was fucking amazing. 

And Tate was alive and well (or more, alive and pissed), still going to classes and being his brooding self. 

So she didn’t expect the news. 

Every year, she and her family would take a short road trip during the school year to her grandmother’s house for her birthday. This year was her 71st. 

Tate knew this. Perhaps he planned it all out on purpose. 

Perhaps he knew after Y/N’s grandmother blew out the candles and the happy family ate cake, Y/N would turn on the television in the living room, flicking through channels. 

And stumbling upon the news. 

Westfield Shooting - Shooter Identified!

What? She missed one fucking day of school and this happened?

“Mom! Look at this!” she exclaimed, beckoning her mother to the living room. Since she was seated next to her comatose father, she shook him awake. 

“Oh my,” her mother gasped, hand going to her mouth as she watched he incident, “Thank the Lord you weren’t there-”

Then they saw who the shooter was. 

Last year’s yearbook photo of a charming young man with curly blonde hair and cute dimples. Eyes almost black. Tate Langdon. 

Holy shit.

Yes, perhaps Tate did do this on purpose. Perhaps he did, because when Y/N returned home, she was gifted a note from Tate’s mother, Constance. It came as a shock to her, considering she and Constance didn’t get along, for the simple fact Constance and Tate did not get along. 

Yet Constance Langdon handed over a handwritten note from her son, saying it was for Y/N to read. 

And so she did. And cried.  

“Dear Y/N,

This is all your fault ♡”

____

[americanwh0rerstory]

Hi there beautiful!!

Can you do Evans character's reaction to their s/o wanting divorce/breakup?!

(like they were sitting in their bedroom until she walked in and told them she was tired of their relationship?!)

Love your work,

Real artist

the evan’s: breakup

contains: tate, kyle, james, kai,

Content warning: angst. a lot of it. murder, kai anderson is a warning himself.

A/N: tysm!!! im glad you like my works and i hope you like this one too. requests are open for anyone to send <3

Tate Langdon

“no. don’t do this, please Y/N”

would cry in front of you

if you’re a ghost he’ll follow you around the house begging for you to talk to him

he’s like a lovesick puppy.

you’re all he wants, all he needs

basically the same as the end of murder house + what we see in apocalypse towards violet

fratboy!KYLE SPENCER

“did i do something wrong?” he’d ask, wanting to know if he can change.

he just wants to make you happy

wouldn’t tell his frat brothers at first, not wanting them to hit on you now you was ‘available’

would cry silently in secret when alone

despite how sad he is, he’d wish you the best and want you to be happy.

JAMES PATRICK MARCH

“but why dearest? what have i done to fill you with such dread that you wish to leave me?”

he’d kill you without you knowing it was him, just so you’d have to stay at the cortez forever.

blames your murder on another ghost

would kill anyone who tries to date you

yet again blames it on another ghost

like the countess, you’d have dinner with him once a month

he’d give you lavish gifts he stole borrowed from his latest victims

he’d try and win you back with the gifts and the dinners

remember when queenie left with michael and he had to play solitaire? that’s the face he would make

that’s the face you’d get

KAI ANDERSON

no

you don’t get to leave him

did you seriously think you could break up with kai?

he’d initiate pinky power, find out why you tried to leave him, and use it to his advantage

he’d change for a week or two to lull you into a false sense of security

once you trust him again he’d instantly go back to his old ways

and you, the ever so trusting lamb, would fall for it. you love kai, right?

at least that’s what he’s lead you to think

A/N: i’ve never written this type of thing before so i hope it was good! if anyone wants more like this then feel free to ask

[petermaximoffsgirl]

complicated

summary – tate thinks you’re too good for him. 

content – angst, fluff; death, mental health issues, murder

words – 1.4k

when you opened the door to your bedroom, tate was already sitting on your bed. he grinned when he saw you, and you rolled your eyes as you tried to fight the smile that threatened to shape your lips. “you’re lucky my parents didn’t come in here,” you said, faux-scolding him. “they would’ve thrown you out of the house. or tried to, anyway.” 

tate shrugged. “they can’t see me.” 

you laughed. “so, do they think i’m talking to myself up here?” 

his mouth quirked in amusement. “i don’t actually know, but let’s not find out.” 

you nodded in agreement and sat on the foot of the bed. you were close enough to him that your knee was almost touching his leg, but not quite. this was always the way with tate: almost touching him until he needed the contact too much to stay away from you. sure enough, his dark eyes immediately flickered to the few inches between the denim of his jeans and your own. 

“how was your day?” you asked, trying not to smile as he tore his gaze away from your leg. 

“hm? oh, fine. ‘s better now that you’re here,” he said, flashing you his dimpled smile. “you should ditch tomorrow and stay with me instead. we can do whatever you want. i’ll play cards, watch youtube, even bake something with you.” his cheeks pinked and he fidgeted slightly. “we could just cuddle all day.” 

you hummed. “tempting offer, but you know i have to go to school.” not that you wanted to. 

tate scowled. you knew that he never understood why you kept going to school. “you don’t even like it,” he whined. “you always tell me they’re mean to you and you don’t even like most of your classes.” 

you sighed, hating the weak point you were about to make. “tate, you know that i have to get through high school if i want to go to college. besides, my parents would kill me if i skipped.” 

tate glared at your comforter. “you don’t have to go to college. you could waste your life with me instead,” he mumbled. 

you shook your head. “no time spent with you is a waste. living a life that i don’t want is a waste.” there were things you wanted, sure. you had some aspirations for a career, but part of you was consumed with the gnawing fear that you would feel hollow if you got what you wanted, the same way that you always had. the only time you were satisfied was when you were with tate. there was something about him that was dangerously intoxicating, yet fulfilling in the most heavenly way imaginable. 

he grimaced and casually squirmed toward you, lowering his head into your lap. “sorry,” he said quietly. “i’m being selfish again. i want you all to myself all the time, and i still can’t figure out why you want me.” 

you gently ran your fingers through his curls. “tate, we’ve talked about this,” you said softly. you hated seeing him hate himself. 

like a cat, he leaned into your touch. “i know,” he groaned. “it’s just so complicated. i-i don’t understand why you want to keep living when you hate it so much all the time! i could make you so happy if you were dead, and you wouldn’t have to deal with anything you don’t like!” he sniffed unhappily. “but you like being alive, because there’s something about it that makes it worth it for you! i-i never had that, and i can’t stand that i can’t give you everything you want, because i’m fucking dead!” he wrapped his arms around your middle, pulling you closer so he could bury his face in your stomach. “i don’t want to be dead anymore, b-because i’ll lose you someday to life! and i can’t have you, because i’m so fucking awful!” 

tears filled your eyes as he sobbed against you. you felt so badly for him, you really did. part of you thought it was sick, feeling badly for him after everything he had done, but you couldn’t help but think that he had just needed help. besides, you craved him, broken as he was. 

“tate, you’re not going to lose me,” you said gently. “and you’re not awful. you’ve done awful things, but you did them because you were hurting. it’s not an excuse, but it’s an explanation.” he sobbed again, but a little quieter this time. “besides, aren’t you working on your list?” 

he nodded frantically. “yes, yes,” he chanted, sniffing as he looked up at you with his sad, dark eyes. the list had been your idea. when tate had complained that he felt like talking to dr. harmon was actually making things worse, you had suggested writing down the names of all the people he had hurt and finding them. some, like dr. harmon’s family, were easy to find. others, like the ghosts of the students he had killed, were harder to find and even harder to talk to. still, he said that it was better than doing nothing. violet even played cards with him once a week now. 

he thought that you were trying to make him into a good person. really, you just wanted him to hate himself less. 

you ran your fingers through his soft blond hair. “i don’t think that anybody is a good person. i think we’re all just varying degrees of bad,” you said flatly. “good and bad depend on concepts that we made up, and most people like to lie to themselves about what they’ve done and how it either wasn’t their fault or was justified.” 

he glanced at you, more tears welling in his dark eyes. “i’m like that,” he said, his voice shaking. “i wouldn’t let myself remember what i’d done. i was so happy once i was dead, because it was easy to pretend that living had just been a bad dream.” he smiled at you. “you make me want to be good. if i’m good enough, you won’t leave me.” 

“i’m never going to leave you,” you said quietly. “violet thinks you’re the darkness, as charming and deadly as you can be. i think you don’t know if you’re afraid of or in love with your own darkness, the same darkness that exists in all of us.” you hesitated, then gently nudged his head out of your lap so you could lie down next to him. “look at me: i’ve spent years telling my parents that i’m fine, but you know that’s not true. i’m doing it because i don’t want to hurt them, but also because i’m scared of what will happen. i can’t decide if i love hating myself or want to be able to love myself.” you smiled. “people are complicated. we’re all terrible to someone, the same way that there’s always someone who needs us, even if we don’t always see it.” you gently tapped his lips with your index finger. “i’ll always need you, tate langdon. nothing you’ve done will be able to change that. maybe that makes me horrible, but i’d rather be horrible and have you than try to exist without you.” 

he smiled through his tears. looking at him made your heart clench; he was so beautiful and so sad. “i love you.” he gently kissed your forehead. “i never want to hurt you.” he kissed the tip of your nose. “you make me feel warm inside,” he said quietly, his lips almost touching your own. “nobody else cares for me like you do. you take care of me and make me want to be better.” tears spilled out of his eyes as he looked at you. “thank you f-for l-loving me.” 

he hesitated, then slowly kissed you. you gripped his sweater, trying to pull him closer. he whimpered against your mouth, wrapping his arms around your waist. “don’t you dare thank me for loving you,” you gasped. tate whined quietly and started to kiss your neck. “i only wish that i’d been there for you when you were alive. you shouldn’t have had to endure that alone.” 

he gently nipped at your collarbone. “you’re too good to me.” 

you shook your head. “nothing is too good for you, tate.” 

he buried his face in the side of your neck and sighed happily. you smiled and began to play with his hair. “please don’t stop,” he mumbled. 

you kissed him softly, pulling back to see him smile. “i never will.” 

[aghostofmyformerself]

[whosbloom]

Lil angsty tate blurb-

“No, wait, don’t go.”

His voice pleaded with you, his eyes glossy with tears and his brows furrowed. His bottom lip was quivering, his words breaking as he stared up at you, a silent plea for you to just listen to him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please, I’lll be better.” He sniffled and wiped his nose with his sweater sleeve, his gaze falling off of you for a second as he stared down at the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You didn’t know what to do, your body already halfway out the door to his bedroom, leaning back against the doorframe.

“Tate.. I can’t forgive you.”

He felt the pit in his stomach only worsen, letting out a broken sob as he hid behind his hands, not being able to see you as you finally slipped out of the room, leaving him alone in his own sorrow.

He laid back on his bed, clutching a pillow tightly as he buried his face into the soft fabric, his legs curling up into his stomach, leaving him in a fetal position.

[double-features]

ALIVE - TATE LANGDON x READER

˙◠˙------ tate langdon x gn!reader

SUMMARY : after finding out the captivating boy they fell in love with was dead, no more than a phantom haunting their house, reader wants to join him in the afterlife. they needed to stay with him forever.

WARNINGS : (attempted) suicide, topics of death

GENRE : my crappy attempt at angst!!

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The little bottle of prescription pills should have worked its magic. But..

You were still alive.

Having lived in the so-called 'murder house', you figured your death would be inevitable; bound to happen whether you liked it or not. And frankly, you liked it. Being just another angsty teenager, you thought that maybe things would have gotten better,

And for the most part, they did. And who else was there to thank for that than Tate. The mysterious boy that drew you in like a moth to the flame. Maybe it was his cute dimples, or those intense near-black eyes that sent shivers down your spine every single time you looked at them.. Maybe it was the morbidity that seemed to follow him, how someone so angelic had so much baggage following him.. Whatever the case, you were both intrigued and smitten.

“I would never let anyone or anything hurt you” God, Tate had such a way of making you feel seen. Making you feel like the most special person on the planet, even if you thought of yourself far from such.

You were important to him, that's all that mattered.

'My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains', you were never one for poetry before you met the boy who seemed to pop up out of nowhere; but he sparked an interest in you like no other. Tate made you feel, he was the one who kept you grounded. Poetry ended up being one of the most important things in your life after he mentioned Keats once.

He was like a guardian angel sent from the skies to protect you. Whether or not the big man up in the clouds was real, you were certain that Tate was meant to be your savior. Your wonderwall.

Such an ironic choice of words, really. Oasis' frontman himself gave the explanation on what the hell a wonderwall was; an imaginary friend who could save you from yourself. There were so many layers to that, so many connections to what you were dealing with now..

Alas, you two had been so in love. Sappy, lovesick children who clung to each other like lifelines. Tate needed you, you needed Tate. His idolization of Kurt Cobain meant so many sessions where the both of you just sat together and listened to Nirvana, cuddled up on the bed. You were locked inside his heart-shaped box. All the comfortable sweaters he lent you to keep warm at night..

“I love you. I've never felt this way about anyone..”

You should have known it was all too good to be true. Someone who fits perfectly with you? Yeah right. You still couldn't forget the sinking feeling in your gut when you first read that news article that just so happened to pop up when you were looking for Westfield High's website--

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Westfield Highschool student Tate Langdon, age 17, shot and killed 15 fellow students, injured countless others. There is no motivation known as to why the boy went through with it- some speculate drugs and bullying might have been involved, but others claim he hadn't even dealt with much.

“I didn't really know who he was, I remember that he sat in the library a lot. Just sat there, like, me and a few of my friends would stop in there during our study hall and he'd just be seated, looking at whatever book he picked out for that day,” states one student we interviewed after the massacre.

Whatever led to such a tragic event, late yesterday evening, the FBI shot the class of 94' alumni and brought justice to the innocent students he murdered just earlier in the day. Was this an elaborate suicide act? We may never know the real reason behind the sickening actions of Langdon.

All we can say is, for the families of the lives lost at Westfield, don't give up. None of this is your fault...

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

It was all so sickening.

Tate. The boy you had clicked with, the boy you gravitated towards, quite possibly one of the first major loves of your life. This.. psychopathic monster was not the Tate you had grown so fond of. Sure, Tate was a little weird, there was obviously some sort of chemical imbalance, but he would never do anything so horrible.. Would he?

Every time you click on another article, the more dread filled the pit you feel deep inside you. All the glee that being with Tate had brought you so far since your move all seemed to crumble, along with the trust you had built. Tate was a ghost.

A ghost. Dead. Just a part of your imagination. At first, you believed that maybe you had heard the name somewhere before and created this delusion of a boyfriend. But that didn't explain how the pictures perfectly matched the appearance of the grungey blond.

That was your breaking point. The moment your seemingly recovered misery returned, it hit harder than ever before.

Tate was dead. He killed people. You didn't even notice the sting in your heart at first until you saw the prescription medication in your peripheral.

Maybe it was the need to be with Tate in the afterlife, maybe it was just the old ideations bubbling over, or maybe it was the guilt of 'dating' someone so damaged. Whatever the reason, the impromptu decision led you to where you are now; in the arms of the boy you loved, under the running frigid water of the shower.

You were still alive.

Feeling the wet, cold sleeves of a sweater wrapped around your waist, you leaned back into the person seated behind you. Curse Tate for being so strangely comforting! You weren't supposed to crave his touch anymore, you were supposed to hate his guts.. But you couldn't bring yourself to do that. You could never hate Tate.

Never.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Even hours later, not a single word was shared between the both of you guys. When he finally released you from the cramped tub and let you cope alone in your room, there was a strange pit inside of her, an emptiness that only Tate filled.

On your bed, you blankly stared at the ceiling and debated whether or not you wanted him there by your side in that moment. No matter which way you looked at it; he was the push factor for your failed attempt. Then again, it was worth mentioning that..

Tate saved you.

Contradictory, isn't it? The conflict is also the resolution. The usual pessimistic attitude you held would tell you that the negatives outweighed the overlying positive, but not this time. Your thoughts all led you to one need. Tate.

Weakly, you called out into your room, not nearly loudly enough to be considered a yell. “Tate..”

By your bedside appeared the tall boy, looking just as empty as you felt. He looked like the shell of what you knew him to be, there was no doubt that, just like you, he was affected by what happened. Why wouldn't he be? He loved you.

For what felt like forever, the two of you stared into the others dull gaze, searching for any sign of emotion to appear. It was quickly broken by him, voice shaky as he slowly sat down next to you.

“..Why would you do that..? Why would you hurt yourself like that..?”

For the first time in what seemed like forever, you didn't have some silly comeback. There was nothing funny about this at all. “I..”

“Is something wrong..? Was I not a good enough boyfriend..?”

“I'm still alive..”

The comment seemed to take Tate off guard, evident with the widened eyes and lack of a quick response. “You're-- Yeah. You're still alive..”

Alive. Because of Tate. For now, you decided to keep your awareness of what he did in his lifetime to yourself. Since, despite everything, he was still your savior. Misery loves company.

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≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼ ------ reblogs & likes are always appreciated, keeps me motivated to continue creating :)

A/N : first attempt at angst, totally rushed because it was my goal to just get something out before christmas. posting schedule is NAWT existent, sigh.

[calummss]

Tate Langdon 1920s boyfriend headcanon

masterlist

a/n: he’s a little more submissive? or like the tiniest amount of ooc but like tbh i think it’s really believable. anyway not proof read!! it’s late at night and i have an exam tomorrow

he would be head over heals for you like literally

y’all remember bugs bunny getting heart eyes over lola??? yeah that’s him

buys you different flowers for every day of the week

his hand is always around your waist

always placing a kiss somewhere on your face even when others thinks it’s too much pda—he doesn’t care

he thinks you look amazing every day but on parties it’s like he falls in love over again

he’s such a puppy so so loyal too you

‘tate, you coming on friday to the bar?’

‘i’ll ask my wife and get back to you.’

they all just stare at him but he‘s looking at you in a crowd with a smile

or him dancing with you when most women aren’t bc they’re boyfriends/hisbands think dancing is overrated…

carrying your gloves and hat aswell as bag!!!

i literally fell to my knees

when you get bored you two find a bathroom and he drags his tongue up your chest looking at you with those big hazel doe eyes,, loving that he pleases you

lights your cigarette!!

holds his hand over your head when you get in and out of the car

the classic 1920s couple run through the rain holding your bag and newspaper over your head as you try to escape the sky

my favourite scenario; sitting on his lap. his hand stroking your thighs as you take a drag from your cigarette letting him inhale from yours as he stares at you, your smoke entangling in the thick air of a jazz club

and finally, surprising him with a flapper dance choreography at your go to club. he cannot take his eyes off you and has men telling him how lucky he is

trust me…after that little dance your dress is gonna end up on the floor as soon as you two are alone

he worships you like a god, taking good care of every part of you making you realise how lucky you are to have him

[drowningyoursorrow]

WHITE FERRARI

tate langdon x gn! reader

You reminisce about your lover, the days that you spent together during your years of being high school sweethearts. And on how it ended so quickly and so suddenly. You've grown older and as soon as you did, you left where the both of you resided immediately, the remembrance of him pained you. In hopes for one last connection, you buy his childhood home, which was now abandoned. Slowly you started to feel as if you see him everywhere, maybe it was your imagination.

!!!: kissing? violence (guns, shooting, death, etc.) & minor mentions of drugs W/C: 3.5k

TATE LANGDON was his name, at first in the beginning, before the two of you first met you thought of him as sort of odd. He didn't really fit in, almost as if he didn't want to in a way. He had the looks, god he had the looks, short blonde hair and his dark eyes that made you still. You never really interacted with groups and sort of did your own thing, just minding your own business. Occasionally, you'd encounter Tate, you decided to only interact with him when it's really necessary.

You never really judged him, you just didn't want to partake in any social cliques and didn't have any friends really. Tate seemed to sense this, and it furthered his sudden interest in you, although you two weren't entirely similar. He felt a bond with you, you didn't feel it or didn't acknowledge it at first, and that was fine with him. He would study you from afar and felt as if you didn't belong with anybody here but him, but he was far too scared to interact with you. You felt the same, but you believed that he was constantly judging you whenever his brown orbs locked with yours.

Soon the two of you would look for each other in the rows of people crowding the long hallways. Forming a silent connection with one another, and slowly you would begin to openly communicate with each other. Just small hi's and hello's, yet both of you wanted to say more but never knew how to say it. Tate was smart, but that didn't seem to be his main catching point. No, it was the shy smiles he would give you once you two would sit together in the cafeteria.

It was how he would talk about how high school was just boring as ever and that the only two people that matter. Were you two. You were perfect in his eyes, everything that he's ever dreamed of, you didn't fit in, and you didn't want to. Just like him. It was almost as if you two were meant to be together, but you didn't realize it as quickly as he did.

And he was gladly willing to wait, I mean the two of you weren't even dating yet, so who was he to tell? Your relationship together did grow, eventually spending more time and time together. You always hung out at your place, him never wanting to be at his and finding comfort in your room. He loved everything about it, he loved everything about you, he loved everything you did and said. He was so infatuated with you.

As you were with him, it wasn't because he was different, it was because he simply was himself. He always sought safety with you, and you gladly provided that solitude for him. Tate was truly the most beautiful person that your eyes could ever lay on, his boyish charm drawing you in. He always made sure that you felt comfortable and swore to do everything to protect you from those judging eyes. It didn't matter to either of you on how you appeared to the rest of the world, only mattering to each other.

Eventually, both of you wanted more, but Tate was too in his head about it, so you decided to make the first move. He finally let you come to his house, but only when his mother wasn't home. You remember how he would cry to you about his troubles and worries with her, you despised the woman deeply. You remember him telling you about how his dad left, not really wanting to talk about it. And you never pushed.

You traced the items in his room, observing every corner and every object that you could come into contact with. He only watched you do so, basking in your presence, content with you being in his closure. Eventually, you seated yourself at the end of his bed, him crawling to lay beside you. Resting his head on your lap and placed your hands in his hair. You brushed through his golden locks and felt him ease into you, as he stared at you with those eyes.

You felt your chest tighten and butterflies fill your stomach, the feeling was new, so you turned away from him. Furthermore, you placed your hands on your side and closed your eyes, releasing a profound sigh. You hated that he looked at you--as if he was in love with you because you… you wanted him to. He quickly sat up and stared up at you, worry taking over his features, overthinking the situation. You felt him tense up beside you, knowing it was his insecurities taking over.

Opening your eyes, you looked at him and just gave a smile, it was enough to ease him but not enough to calm him. You thought for a moment, finally deciding to let your feelings take over. Lifting his palm, you placed it over your face and lightly kissed the end of his fingertips. Tate didn't know what to do, he only stared in awe as you let his hand cradle the side of your face. You stared ahead for a moment as Tate observed your features, wanting to know what you were thinking; what you'd do next.

He didn't expect tears to fall from your eyes as you trembled just beneath him, he perked up and held you more steadily. He was more concerned now and yet even though you were crying, he didn't see any hint of sadness on your features. Only disappointment, which he thought was far worse. Instead, he let you sob into his shoulder and grip onto him as if he was going to leave you any second. He could only whisper words of affirmations into your shoulder as tears also escaped him, the image of seeing you cry made him ache.

You both held onto each other, letting everything out that the two of you bottled and hid away from one another. Only then did you look at him in the eyes, wiping away the tears that slid down his face mournfully. And let the words escape you, "I think I love you." He stilled underneath you, a mix of emotions taking over his features, he was scared to do or say anything. In case you tried to change your mind, you took his quietness the wrong way and retreated away from him.

This made Tate scared, so he quickly, without thinking, reached over to you and kissed you. He kissed you as if you two were dying in each other's arms, and this was the last moment the both of you shared together. It was messy and horrible, but the feeling the both of you shared made up for all of it. You two belonged with each other. You both just rested your foreheads together, childish giggles escaping the both of you as you smiled.

It was like the both of you just received candy for the first time, it was like you two achieved the world together. You two only stayed there for a moment before laying back down together in each other's embrace. Oh, how you wish you could stay at this moment forever together, just with each other. Eventually you two had to depart, but instead of being sullen, you both looked forward to what is to come. Tate was over the moon that night, finally achieving the person of his dreams, he replayed the moment you two shared over and over again; before he eventually fell asleep.

The days and months passed by, and it was all wonderful, the time you two would share together. All the new things that you could finally do with one another, the dates were remarkable. You never thought you could love someone like you loved Tate, and he never thought he can love someone like you again. The ache that he always felt was eventually filled with you and you only, he made you feel like you really did matter. You two were just love sick fools, and it was the best thing in the world.

The years moved forward and everything began to change, and so did the both of you, for the better and for the worse. You decided to focus more with your studies, which meant less time for Tate, and he didn't enjoy it. Not one bit, he would try to reason with you, but he just wouldn't listen, he didn't understand. He didn't care about school, he just cared about you, and that was the problem. He brushed off on how difficult it was for you in school, it was easy for him because of his natural intelligence.

Every time he told you that you'd be fine, you felt as if he was condescending you because it was all just so easy for him. He couldn't understand you, and you began to not be able to understand him. Fights began to become frequent, and you couldn't take it anymore, you loved him, you really did, but you needed to focus on yourself. Before you could focus on him, and he didn't get that concept, so asking for a break wasn't easy. It was hard for the both of you, but Tate handled it worse than you did.

You sat him down in his room and stood before him, Tate suspected what this was about, yet he couldn't come to terms with it. So when your tone shifted to more serious, and you avoided eye contact with him, he denied everything you said. He wouldn't listen and began to sob hysterically and breaking everything he could reach, he couldn't accept it, he didn't want to. Tate wasn't listening to you, so you just decided to leave, you couldn't handle this. He fell to his knees and grabbed onto you, breaking down as he clung onto your legs.

He eventually let you go, and you turned away from his cries, this was only for a moment, you'll be back. But did he know that? You haven't heard from him ever since that day, he stopped showing up to the school. And he didn't reply to your calls and messages, maybe you shouldn't have done this. You began to regret your decision.

After a month or so he reappeared again, a black coat adorning his frame as he strutted past you, almost as if you weren't there. His expression was off, and he seemed out of it, usually he was, but not like this. It was unsettling. You brushed it off, just glad that he was finally back. You headed off to the library to study, since it was quieter there and you could relax peacefully.

You were settled into a corner of the room before you heard a loud noise, you looked around and everyone seemed just surprised as you were. Before it was heard again and screaming from the distance, it finally clicked. Those were gunshots. Everyone in the library began to panic, and the teacher tried to barricade the doorways as everyone hid in separate areas. You quickly rushed under two desks and enclosed in between chairs as silence took place. Then there it was, the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the library, you were terrified.

What scared you more was if Tate was hurt, he was always quick, so you hoped for the best. You hoped for his safety. Then you heard crashing and banging, you shook and held in your cries. Then there it was, they got in. You could only hold your breath as you heard the steps circle around the room.

And before you knew it, you heard mumbling, then a frantic voice and then a bang. You couldn't believe this, you didn't want to, you heard more yelling and pleads and just held your head in between your arms. You didn't want to die, not like this, you still wanted to reconcile with Tate. You still wanted to be with him. Through your fingers, you could see the corpses, but you couldn't see the perpetrator.

Fear took through you as you suddenly realized that they were standing before you, peering through the chairs. And you felt your heart stop, there stood the boy you loved for years. His once beautiful and soul driven eyes staring downward at you, lifeless. You stilled, and you felt tears cascade down your face as a pained expression took place. All you could do was shake and mouth a silent, why?

His expression didn't change, and the gun still was held within his grip as he took in your features. You only cowered beneath him and closed your eyes, sorrowfully content with dying by the hands of your beloved. But the more you waited, there was nothing, eventually you opened your eyes and no longer stood Tate. He was gone. You soon heard the wailing of sirens and the cries of students and teachers, you only laid frozen.

Why hadn't he shot you?

...

Years have passed, and the question still played in your mind, the guilt hasn't subsided. Why were you the surviving victim? Eventually you did grow from it and as soon as you turned 18 you left L.A, you stayed in a different city for a while before you returned. You didn't want to keep running away, you needed to confront it, yet it was still difficult. You stood in front of the house before you, it's much older now but still looked the same as before.

It was his house, you thought if you bought the place it would bring comfort to you. But it only felt unsettling when you stepped inside, you heard what happened to him right after the shooting. Being gunned down, before you couldn't even think about, but now it just leaves a bitter taste at the tip of your tongue. Exploring the house and the rooms, you felt as if you were already being watched, ever corner you turned. Ghostly eyes following your figure.

You've heard of deaths correlated with this house yet for some reason you weren't so scared about dying here. You eventually brushed away the thought and settled with staying in a different room, not wanting to sleep in his. That was the only difficult part in being in the house, so to distract yourself you got a job. You were gone most of the time, this time you decided you needed a few drinks with your coworkers. Eventually, you came stumbling home in a drunken state and laid in which room was the closest.

You felt the sheets beneath you as you tried to make sense of where you were, realization hit you as you gathered your senses. It was his room. Everything seemed to be the same beside minor differences, someone else must've lived here before. You could imagine his faint smell and basked in it for just a moment, you peered up as it felt like someone was staring down at you. There he was looking down at you, he held a confused expression, you shrieked and curled away from him.

Holding your head as you tried to recollect yourself, just telling your imagination to go away. It was silent, then he was gone. Were you hallucinating? Unsure of what to make up of what just happened, you just silently cried as you buried yourself into the bed. You missed him terribly, although you shouldn't, you cried yourself to sleep that night.

A ghost watched over you, he could only really stare from afar, afraid to scare you like he did before. Oh, how he wanted to hold you once more, he's spent so long without you, and he finally had you again. He couldn't ruin this, your absence broke him deeply and still hadn't fully moved on from you. He tried to with someone new, violet, but he knew in his core that he wouldn't love anybody like you. It ended as soon as it began, and now he had you again.

You awoke abruptly, the sun radiating through the room's window, were you dreaming last night? Brushing it off, you stumbled out of bed and went back into your room. Ever since then, every night when you would return home, there he stood, looking down at you. You could never make out what type of expression he was making, but it always felt mournful, you were too scared to reach out back to him. But as the months passed by, you stopped trying to hide and push away the remembrance of him.

One particular night when he would appear once more, just to check up on you, too scared to do anything more or less. You reached toward him this time, instead of telling him to go way, and held him gently as you observed his features. He avoided your gaze but let himself melt into your touch, he missed this. Even if this was just your imagination, you loved every second of it, he looked the same as he did before. "I've dreamed of this," was all you said as you held him a little longer, before eventually pulling away.

This felt torturous to the both of you, and you knew you shouldn't do this to yourself, he was only your imagination. So you let go, you pushed him away as you closed your eyes, and he could only stare down at you. He wanted to hold you like he used to, but he knew better, time will tell. Eventually he did show up more around different areas of the house, and you just took it as you slowly becoming crazy. Because he never spoke to you, only stared and let you do what you wanted while he was in your presence.

You didn't mind going insane, only if you could see and feel him a bit more, maybe then it wouldn't be so bad. This time you stared at his dark irises, taking in his form, he hasn't changed, just as you remembered him. "You know, I couldn't bare to say your name after what you did. I was too scared, I felt too guilty to even utter the first letter." Silence overtook you as his expression shifted into remorse, you didn't take notice, instead you continued.

Turning away from him, your throat began to feel dry as you stared forward, not wanting to look at him anymore. You buried your face into the palms of your hands as tears slowly began to take over. "Why'd you do it? Why would you do that? Was it because of me? Did I push you too far? Why would you leave me alive? Why...?" You didn't expect an answer, and you didn't get one, sobs raked through you as you clung onto yourself. What you didn't suspect was him to envelop you into a hug, something familiar.

You let him hold you, a strange feeling taking over you, he was physically there yet he felt so cold. "Why can't you be real?" Was all you muttered before you pushed him away from you and headed out the front door, needing some air. He tried to say something, but his words were caught in his throat as he watched you leave, time will tell entered his mind once more. You came home late that night, only to discover he was where you left him, patiently waiting for your return.

You only gave him a short glance before heading back to your room, letting your thoughts consume you. Staring upward at the ceiling before, you felt a dip in the mattress beside you. He was curled next to you but kept his distance on the bed, not wanting to bother you. He just wanted to be near you. You thought for a moment, slipping your arms around him and pulled him closer to your frame.

Holding him like you used to, a content sigh escaped his lips, relishing in the sentimental feeling. He missed this more than anything, you just holding him and comforting him, it was all he needed. You shakily kissed his forehead and let yourself cherish this moment, you really wished this was real. But you knew he would be gone by morning, and you would go busy yourself once more. "I love you."

The words unconsciously slipped through your lips as sleep took over, and you held him closer. He didn't say anything, he wanted to, but he knew if we were to he would have to answer questions he didn't want to answer. Sure, he was selfish for acting like he couldn't speak to you, but eventually he was going to have to. So, he was going to enjoy this as long as he could, and maybe he will come clean about his whole being dead thing. Just above a whisper, he hid into your arms for more closure, "I love you too."

He hoped you wouldn't have heard his confession, but you had, and a small smile formed on your lips. You would take all the drugs in the world just to keep seeing him and being near him. He was all you ever really did want in this godforsaken world, it was a blessing and a curse. Because in the end all you two ever wanted in the world was each other, one way or another you both were going to achieve it. What you didn't know was that maybe Tate Langdon wasn't just your imagination.

..............................................................................................................................

- I am back from writer's block, hope this was a sufficient apology - Frank Ocean is my soul honestly - Briefly proofread (skimmed) - Maybe a part two if I'm feelin it

Hope you enjoyed and if you have any requests or questions please dm!

[thatswhatthepoetssay]

One Way Ticket

Tate Langdon x Reader | Angst |

Summary: Seven months worth of empty promises. Seven months of waiting for things to change yet somehow they always stay the same. Trying to change the outcome of an already released film, is just as pointless as trying to leave the Murder House.

Word Count: 865

——————————————————————————

Ten months ago, YN moved in into the famous house of horrors in Los Angeles, California.

Nine months ago, a strange yet compelling boy next door introduced himself to her as Tate Langdon, one of her neighbors from down the street.

Eight months ago, the pair shared their very first kiss.

Seven months ago, Tate had asked YN to be his girlfriend, to which she of course agreed.

At first everything was absolutely perfect, Tate would come over every day and since YN has been busy with finishing her last year of high school online, it was the ideal plan. She wouldn’t have to leave her house and could focus on her studies, and Tate could enjoy his “nature walks”, as he called them.

The two teens enjoyed spending time together and could confide in one another about different troubles.

However as summer approached, the honeymoon phase of their relationship seemed to end. They started getting into more and more fights, which would almost always end up in Tate begging for forgiveness.

At first the fights were about small things that piled up, but as time passed their problems only grew.

After finishing school, YN wanted to get out of the house more, maybe even book a trip for the summer. Tate however wanted nothing to do with those plans. He was set on sticking to their regular routine and would always insist on putting off her plans for different times.

One day after suggesting yet another fun summer activity and getting turned down yet again, the poor girl has had enough.

“Alright you know what.” Tate gave her a look but continued looking through her cd collection.

“Why do you always insist on always staying at my house? I there like a warrant for your arrest that I don’t know about?” She scoffed.

Tate simply mumbled something about privacy turned to look out the window. He knew he couldn’t tell her, she would think he was absolutely crazy and would kick him out. He was genuinely surprised that none of the other spirits showed themselves to her yet.

After deciding that silence wasn’t a good enough response, YN let out a sigh and moved towards the door.

“You need to go. Now.” At that Tate turned back to her, his eyes widened at her words. For six months of their relationship they hadn’t fought once. However after summer started they seemed to fight quite often.

“Wha-what? Please YN don’t.” He pleaded.

“No Tate, I’ve had enough. You’re always so secretive, you never wanna do anything outside my house. Speaking of, i’ve never even been to yours!” She exclaimed as her cheeks began to heat up from anger.

“I’ve tried to be understanding, I really did. But I can’t keep doing this anymore. Leave and don’t come back Tate.”

He couldn’t help but just stand there dumbfounded, not knowing what to do. Tate knew he couldn’t just walk out because she would watch him leave. She would see how as soon as his foot steps over the property line he disappears.

“Fine since you wanna be difficult, i’ll leave. But you better be gone by the time I come back.” She stated as her pointed finger poked his chest.

Quickly YN grabbed her purse and phone making her way into the hallway. She carefully went down the stairs and reached for the door handle.

As the front door opened she felt a punch to the gut and let out a yelp as she fell to the floor. At first she thought she was getting robbed, but the attacker seemed to only be interested in her.

She received a few more punches to her abdomen, then a women’s face came into view. She had a blonde updo and strangely familiar facial features.

“Stay still dear, shouldn’t be long now.” The woman whispered as she gently whipped the tears off of YN’s face.

Before YN could comprehend what had happened the woman left. That’s when the girl moved her hands towards her stomach. As her fingers touched the fabric of her shirt, she realized it was soaked with unknown liquid.

At first she thought that maybe she had spilled something. However, as YN raised her hand to inspect the unfamiliar liquid, she quickly realized it was none other than blood.

Panic started to overtake YN as she figured out she was stabbed by the blonde. Her eyes darted across the foyer in an attempt to find her phone and call for help.

As she lay on the floor, unable to get up or even move, a few stray tears escaped her eyes.

She had only recently graduated, her life was only beginning. She should have gotten to live it to the fullest and enjoy all the joys of it. Instead she was robbed of that. YN would never graduate college, travel the world, or marry the love of her life.

While her mind was racing with thousands of thoughts, her eyelids slowly became heavier. Her breath became labored and her whole body continued to shiver.

After a few more minutes of agony, YN became yet another victim of the Murder House.

Another soul added to the collection.

——————————————————————————

Ps: Hi guys! I know i’ve kinda disappeared for a while but im back. I would really like to start writing more so here I am. Requests are open so please feel free to send them! <3

Kisses and hugs, Anna

[fear-is-truth]

HEAD IN THE WALL

── tate langdon x reader | wc: 1.3k

⟣tags: angst ‧ toxic relationship ‧ implied su*icide ‧ death

a/n: english is not my first language, sorry if there’s any mistakes. not proofread as usual

Moving into the Murder House was meant to be a fresh start, a chance to leave behind the chaos and start anew. Your family needed it; you needed it. Little did you know, that change would be for the worse.

It all started with a boy.

You met him on a quiet afternoon, sitting on the edge of the brick garden wall. A solitary figure against the backdrop of the overgrown yard. Tate, he said his name was. Tate Langdon. He had a messy mop of blonde hair that framed a pair in dark brown eyes, eyes that seemed to see right through you.

He casually mentioned his admiration for Kurt Cobain, his hatred for his mother, and a peculiar interest in birds.

“Why birds?” you had asked,

“Because they can fly away when things get too crazy, I guess.”

There was a hint of wistfulness in his tone.

You smiled.

He smiled.

Initially, it was just casual conversations—small moments shared in the vast, empty rooms of the house. You were the new kid at school, isolated and friendless, while your parents were either busy working or fighting. Tate, however, was always there.

Gradually, these moments grew longer, deeper. Tate had a way of making you feel seen, really seen. You found yourself telling him things you hadn’t told anyone else— your fears, your dreams, the things that kept you up at night. And he listened, genuinely listened. In return, Tate shared bits and pieces of his own life, enough to make you feel connected to him, but never the full picture.

To you, he was a tragedy wrapped in a green and black striped sweater. There was a sadness to him, reminiscent of your own. It drew you in, like a moth to a flame.

It wasn’t the result of one grand, defining moment but a gradual accumulation of small, intimate instances— it began with the prolonged brush of his hand against yours, a fleeting touch that lingered just long enough to spark a flutter of warmth in your chest. The way his eyes would soften whenever they met yours, holding a gaze that seemed to communicate more than words ever could.

The first time he kissed you was a delicate, tentative exploration— a soft press of his lips against yours that was filled with a hesitant sweetness, as if he was testing the waters of your affection, worried that you wouldn’t reciprocate. The feelings that had started as a flicker now blazed into a full-fledged inferno.

You loved him, and he loved you. And that was the beginning and end of everything.

His love, you soon learned, was selfish. At first, it felt like devotion, but soon it began to feel like something else. Tate wanted you to himself, isolating from your family, from anything that wasn’t him. Every loving gesture was tainted with a selfish motive, a way to bind you to him and drown out the world beyond the 0.2 acres of property that was your new home.

Whenever you spent time away from him, he would accuse you of being distant and inattentive, twisting your natural need for independence into a personal betrayal. Each interaction with others, each glance or smile, was met with passive-aggressive comments and seething resentment. He subtly undermined your relationships, painting your family and friends as threats to your happiness, while insisting that you only needed each other.

Sometimes, you wonder if you even knew him at all. Cracks began to show, slowly revealing the darker layers you had subconsciously ignored. Each red flag you noticed was rationalised away, buried under affection and denial. But they were there, unmistakable if you had only dared to see them—Tate’s lack of empathy, and the unsettling pleasure he seemed to derive from the suffering of others.

At first, you dismissed it as dark humour, no problem in that. You convinced yourself that his casual cruelty was just a coping mechanism, a fucked up but harmless expression of his pain.

After all, you were a teenager in love, desperate to believe the best in the boy you loved.

The final revelation came in a way you could never have prepared yourself for—through an online search that you had hoped would answer your mounting questions. The truth about Tate Langdon, perpetrator of the 1994 Westfield massacre was laid bare before you, each news article, photograph, and testimony shattering a piece of your reality.

Your mind reeled, struggling to reconcile the boy you loved with the monster the world had condemned. You simply couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it.

When you confronted Tate, you were met with tears and remorse. His normally pale complexion was now a distressed, rosy pink, cheeks streaked with tears that you couldn’t discern as genuine sorrow or a manipulative ploy meant to win your sympathy.

The sight of him, so broken, was both heart-wrenching and infuriating. For a split second, you felt a surge of raw hatred.

How dare you cry?!

You wanted to scream at him, to slap him.

after everything you’ve done, you have no fucking right to these tears.

Anger and fear were overwhelming, yet the impulse to comfort him, to hold him close, remained unbearably strong. It was in that moment of raw realisation when it struck you— despite everything, you were terrified of letting him go. Despite everything, you still loved him.

With trembling fingers, you reached out, brushing away the tears that stained his cheeks, the act of tenderness feeling like a betrayal to yourself.

“I love you,” he sniffled, voice cracking. “Remember our promise? Forever and always.”

“Forever and always.”

If only.

As the days went by, you began to close off from everyone around you. You isolated yourself from your family, retreating further into the crevices of your own mind. They said you were depressed, a ghost of your former self. They took you to a doctor who prescribed medication in an attempt to help. Yet, the more they tried to fix you, the more you spiraled deeper into despair. The pills only numbed you, dulling the edges of your pain but never truly reaching the core of it.

Your thoughts grew darker, increasingly fixated on the sharp gleam of the razor you had stolen from your father, now hidden away in your desk drawer. The thought of using it, the thought of escaping the pain, became a morbid obsession. Each time you looked at it, the temptation grew stronger, a way out of the heart-shaped box Tate had inadvertently locked you in.

You woke up on the cold bathroom floor, with the worst headache ever.

The harsh, blinding circle of light on the ceiling above pierced through the haze, intensifying the throbbing pain behind your eyes. As your vision slowly came into focus, you felt Tate’s arms cradling you.

It was a comforting and familiar sensation; something you had missed the past few weeks when you had shut him out completely.

His face, streaked with tears and flushed with the strain of his own grief, hovered above you.

“You died… loved,” Tate whispered, his voice breaking as he gently wiped the tears that had gone cold on your cheek. You looked up at him, your vision blurred with the residual tears you didn’t remember shedding.

You supposed you did. You had died, not just your soul, which had withered away weeks ago, but your body as well.

Whether out of laziness or love, there was simply no more fight left in you. As you gazed up into his tearful eyes, you understood that he would always find you, always be a part of you.

“For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.” — The Prince of Verona (act 5, scene 3)

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[v1ctor1asecretangel]

Bound By The Dark

Tate Langdon x Reader loosely based on Romeo and Juliet.

song i recommend listening to: living legend by lana del rey

warning: very angst, suicide, using medication to commit, romanticizing of death, tragic ending, themes of isolation, depression, emotional distress, do not read if ANY of these are triggers.

word count: 2.7k

notes: please read this with caution. if you are struggling with suicidal thoughts, please know that you are loved and supported. its never to late for help:)

The house had a history.

You learned that almost immediately after stepping foot inside the large, looming structure. It towered over the street, its cracked façade barely hidden behind sprawling vines and overgrown bushes. The real estate agent had brushed off any concerns you or your parents had, but there was a feeling. A thick, suffocating tension. That settled over the place, clinging to your skin like humidity. It smelled old, like mildew and stale air, and as soon as you crossed the threshold, you knew you didn’t want to be there.

But your family didn’t care about how it felt. They cared that the house was cheap, and that it was far larger than any other home you’d ever lived in. Your father said it was a “fresh start” for all of you. A new life in a new city. It was the kind of lie that parents told when they didn’t want to admit that things had been falling apart for a long time, and now this move was their last-ditch attempt to piece things back together.

But no matter how much you tried to embrace that optimism, you couldn’t shake the chill that seeped into your bones as you walked the long, winding halls of the house. Something was off, like the house was waiting for something, or maybe for someone.

The first few days were relatively uneventful. Boxes were unpacked, rooms were organized, and your parents seemed to settle in without much concern. Your room was large, with a window that looked out onto the overgrown backyard, where a twisted oak tree stood tall and crooked, like it had been there longer than the house itself.

But even in the bright light of the afternoon, the house felt wrong. Its walls creaked and groaned in the night as if it had a voice of its own. Sometimes, when you were alone, you could swear you heard footsteps echoing down the hallways, but when you looked, no one was there. The isolation was suffocating, and though you had tried to distract yourself with new schoolwork and social media, nothing could fill the growing void inside you.

It was late one evening when you first met him.

The rain had been pounding against your window, relentless and unyielding, when you decided to venture down to the basement. Your parents had explicitly warned you to stay away from it, but something about the basement called to you. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was fate.

The stairs groaned under your weight as you descended, the air growing colder with each step. The basement was dimly lit, the shadows casting strange shapes along the walls, and yet it felt strangely familiar. Like you had been there before, though you knew you hadn’t.

And then you saw him.

He was leaning against one of the brick walls, his blond curls falling into his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest. His clothes were simple, almost dated—a worn sweater and jeans that looked like they belonged to a different era. But it was his eyes that held your attention—dark, hollow, and full of something you couldn’t quite place.

“Hey,” he said softly, as if he’d been expecting you. His voice was calm, almost soothing, despite the eerie atmosphere of the basement.

You froze, unsure of what to do. This was your house—wasn’t it? Who was he? How had he gotten in?

“Who are you?” you asked, your voice steady but your heart racing in your chest.

He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Tate.”

“And what are you doing in my house?” you demanded, trying to sound braver than you felt.

Tate shrugged, pushing himself off the wall and stepping closer to you. “I live here.”

His words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. He lived here? That couldn’t be true—you and your family had just moved in. The house had been empty for years. Or at least, that’s what the real estate agent had said.

“No, you don’t,” you said, frowning. “We just moved in. No one’s lived here for years.”

Tate’s smile widened, though there was something almost sad about it. “Not in the way you think.”

There was something about the way he said it—so matter-of-fact, so final—that sent a chill down your spine. You opened your mouth to ask what he meant, but before you could, the lights flickered, plunging the basement into darkness for just a second. When the light returned, Tate was gone, leaving you standing alone in the cold, silent basement.

You tried asking your parents if they knew anything about the previous owners of the house, but they shrugged it off. “No one important,” your father had said, brushing past the question as if it didn’t matter. “Some old family. The house has been empty for a while.”

But you knew that wasn’t true. Tate had been there, and somehow, you felt like he had been there for a long time.

It wasn’t long before you saw him again. It was late at night, after your parents had gone to bed. You were restless, unable to sleep, so you wandered the house, hoping to quiet your thoughts. As you passed by one of the unused rooms on the second floor, you felt a strange pull, as if something—or someone—was calling you.

You pushed the door open, and there he was, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest. He looked up as you entered, his dark eyes meeting yours.

“You came back,” he said softly, as if he had been waiting for you.

“I didn’t come back for you,” you said, though even as the words left your mouth, you knew they weren’t entirely true.

Tate smiled that sad, knowing smile again. “You don’t have to lie. Not to me.”

You hesitated, unsure of how to respond. There was something about him—something that drew you in, even though every instinct in your body told you to stay away. He was dangerous, you could feel it in your bones, but you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted to know him. You needed to understand him.

“Why are you here?” you asked, stepping further into the room.

Tate sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. “Because I can’t leave.”

“What do you mean?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the weight of the answer was too much to bear. “I’m tied to this house. I’ve been here for a long time. Longer than you could imagine.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine. “Are you… are you dead?”

Tate’s eyes opened slowly, and when they met yours, they were filled with a sorrow so deep it took your breath away. “Yes.”

You weren’t sure how to process the fact that Tate was a ghost.

You wanted to deny it, to rationalize it, but the more you spoke with him, the more real it became. Tate had died a long time ago, but his spirit remained in the house, bound by some invisible force that kept him there.

At first, you were scared. You avoided the rooms where you had seen him, trying to convince yourself that it wasn’t real—that he wasn’t real. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were meant to know him. There was something about him, something tragic and beautiful, that pulled you in.

And so, slowly, you began to seek him out.

It became a routine: you’d wander the house late at night, knowing you’d find him waiting for you somewhere. Sometimes in the basement, sometimes in that forgotten room on the second floor. You’d talk for hours, sharing stories of your life, your dreams, your fears. And Tate, in return, told you about his.

He had been lonely for so long, trapped in the house with no one to talk to, no one to understand him. But with you, he felt alive again, even if just for a fleeting moment.

One night, as you sat together in the attic, Tate reached out and brushed his fingers against your cheek. His touch was cold, but it sent a warmth spreading through your chest, igniting something deep inside you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, his voice trembling with something you couldn’t quite place. “This house… it’s not safe.”

“I don’t care,” you said, your heart pounding in your chest. “I want to be with you.”

Tate’s eyes darkened, filled with a mix of desire and fear. “You don’t understand, Y/N. I’m dangerous. I’ve done things… horrible things.”

“I don’t care,” you repeated, your voice firm. “I love you.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and electric. Tate stared at you, his expression filled with shock and disbelief. “You… you love me?”

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “Yes, Tate. I do.”

For a moment, Tate didn’t say anything. Then, slowly, he leaned in and kissed you. His lips were cool against yours, but the kiss was filled with an intensity that took your breath away. It was desperate, almost frantic, as if he was afraid that if he let go, you’d disappear.

But you didn’t pull away. You kissed him back, pouring every ounce of your heart into that single, stolen moment.

When you finally broke apart, Tate rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I love you too,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “But we can’t… we can’t be together. Not like this.”

Despite Tate’s warnings, you couldn’t stay away from him.

Every night, you found yourself returning to him, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. And each night, your connection deepened. You could feel it—the way the house seemed to pulse with a dark energy, as if it knew you were falling in love with a ghost and was waiting for the inevitable fallout.

Your parents noticed the change in you, though they didn’t understand it. You spent less time with them, more time wandering the halls of the house, lost in your thoughts. They tried to talk to you about it, but you brushed them off, too consumed by your love for Tate to care about anything else.

“You’ve been acting strange,” your mother said one morning over breakfast, her brow furrowed with concern. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” you lied, though your heart felt heavy in your chest. How could you tell her the truth? How could you explain that you had fallen in love with someone who was dead?

But deep down, you knew it couldn’t last.

The house was getting to you. You could feel it in the way the walls seemed to close in on you, the way the air felt thicker, heavier. The longer you stayed, the more you realized that Tate had been right—it wasn’t safe. Not for you, not for anyone.

And yet, you couldn’t leave him. You loved him too much.

It was late one night when everything came crashing down.

You had been in the attic with Tate, your head resting on his shoulder as the two of you lay side by side. The house was quiet, the only sound the soft patter of rain against the roof.

“You know this can’t last, right?” Tate said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stiffened, pulling away to look at him. “What do you mean?”

Tate’s eyes were filled with sadness as he reached out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re alive, Y/N. You have a life outside of this house. Outside of me.”

“I don’t want a life without you,” you said, your voice trembling. “I can’t leave you, Tate.”

“But you have to,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You deserve to live. To be happy.”

Tears filled your eyes as you shook your head. “I don’t want to be happy without you.”

Tate closed his eyes, his expression pained. “I love you, Y/N. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. But this… it’s not fair to you.”

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed through the attic, followed by the creak of the door opening. You turned to see your father standing in the doorway, his face pale with shock.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice shaking. “Who are you talking to?”

Your heart dropped into your stomach as you realized that your father couldn’t see Tate. To him, you were sitting alone, talking to thin air.

“Dad, I can explain—” you started, but your father cut you off.

“We’re leaving,” he said, his voice firm. “This house… it’s doing something to you. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“No!” you cried, standing up and taking a step toward him. “I’m not leaving! I can’t!”

But your father didn’t listen. He turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the attic with tears streaming down your face.

Deep down, knew that without Tate, you’d be better off in the gutter. His presence was the only thing tethering you to the mess that had become your life, but it wasn’t enough to pull you out. That night, everything seemed so much clearer.

You made the decision.

Racing from the attic into your bedroom, your heart pounded in your chest. It wasn’t panic, but a strange kind of calm, like you had finally figured out the answer to a question that had haunted you for your time loving Tate. You went straight to the nightstand, hands trembling as you yanked open the top drawer. Buried in the back, behind half-empty tubes of lip balm and loose change, was the small box of paracetamol. You had kept it there in case of a fever, but that wasn’t why you reached for it now.

Sitting on your bed, the stillness of the room pressed in around you. One by one, you popped each pill from its foiled tray, their edges cutting slightly into your fingertips. You placed each one on your tongue, swallowing them dry, your throat burning as the bitter taste clung to the back of your mouth.

Once the last pill was gone, you sank back against the pillows, feeling the cool fabric cradling your head. A faint tune drifted through the air, a song you couldn’t quite place but one that felt familiar, almost comforting. Your vision started to blur, your head spinning gently, and your eyelids grew heavy. For a fleeting moment, you thought you felt Tate’s presence, like a shadow hovering beside you, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t try to stop you.

The world slipped away.

When you opened your eyes, everything had changed. You crawled out of bed, your limbs feeling light and weightless, but when you turned to look, your breath caught in your throat. There you were, your body, lying perfectly still on the bed. Peaceful. Almost as if you had simply fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.

For a moment, you stood frozen, staring at yourself, trying to make sense of what had just happened. There was no pain, no fear. Just a strange sense of detachment, like watching a scene play out in a movie.

Then, from over your shoulder, you heard it. A whisper.

“I told you death was painless.” Tate’s voice, low and familiar, curled around you like smoke. You turned to find him standing there, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite read. “You didn’t need saving, after all.”

You looked back at your body one last time, then turned to face him fully. Maybe he was right—maybe you didn’t need saving. But the decision had already been made, and now there was no going back.

Hand in hand with Tate, you walked into the darkness together, the world you had known fading away behind you.

In the end, your love story was not one of happiness or hope. It was a tragedy, a tale of two souls bound by love.

Tate was your Romeo, and you his Juliet.

[blac-ivy]

One thing golden era Wattpad writers had going for them was that they knew the importance of a buildup. I'm of the opinion that the sexual tension is WAY more satisfying to read than the actual sex and quite frankly there is a serious lack of non smutty writing.

Like I really miss reading fics/ x readers that start from scratch. Meeting the characters, initial reactions getting to know them, the tension the jealousy the TENSION the freaking tension.

Looking and looking away when they get spotted, touches that feel like they linger but perhaps they didn't and they're both so hot for each other that they think it's wishful thinking. And I don't mean just sweet sunshine romances, darker works can have a buildup too but it seems like so much is just about getting to the smut instead of the psychological aspect.

Bring back the build up!!!!!!!

[petermaximoffsgirl]

hold you

summary – tate comforts you after you self-harm. 

content – angst, fluff; mental health issues, self-harm

words – 0.9k

when tate appeared in your room, you were already in bed, trembling and quietly sobbing under the covers. in an instant, he was by your side, frantically scrambling under your sheets and pulling you into his arms. “no, no, no,” he whispered. “please don’t tell me you did it again, please." 

you whimpered pathetically and buried your face in the side of his neck. “i h-h-had to,” you cried. “i fucked up, i bother everyone, i can’t do anything right!” you clawed at his shirt, trying to pull him closer. “n-nobody else even notices,” you moaned. “nobody else cares about me. they all just go about their lives, thinking they’ve done such a great job with me. they all think i’m too annoying to have feelings!” 

tate hugged you tighter, like he was trying to wring your sadness out of you and absorb it himself. “then they don’t deserve you,” he whispered, gently stroking your hair. “if they only pretend to care when it’s convenient for them, they don’t fucking deserve you.” your body shook as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “show me?” he asked gently. 

slowly, you took his hand in your own, slipping them both under your pajamas until his fingertips met the fresh cuts on your skin. he applied light pressure; you moaned in discomfort. “i d-don’t f-feel anything when i do it,” you whimpered. “it s-stings after, though.” 

“of course it does,” tate said, his voice strained. “you’re mutilating yourself. what did you expect?” 

you started sobbing again. “i w-want it to hurt when i do it,” you hiccuped. “it’s what i fucking deserve!” you bit your lip, wincing slightly. “everyone thinks i’m seeking attention when i’m happy, and they can’t stand being around me when i’m upset. i’m supposed to care about what everyone who hates me is going through, but they wouldn’t even take me seriously if i said i’m not okay!” 

he withdrew his hand, pulling you against him and kissing your head. “i hate them,” he mumbled. “whatever you want me to do to hurt them, i’ll do it, i swear. i won’t let them hurt you anymore, because you don’t deserve any pain.” 

you shook your head. “no hurting people,” you said stiffly. 

tate’s face crumpled. “so, they get to hurt you whenever they want to, and you just have to take it?” 

your lip trembled. “i can’t do anything! and…i don’t want them to hurt like i do,” you whimpered. 

he smiled, his eyes filling with tears. “because despite the world treating you like this, you’re kind in ways most people can’t even dream of,” he whispered, gently stroking your face. 

you burst into tears again, sobbing into his sweater. “i can’t believe i fucking care so much! all they do is hurt me, and i c-can’t even really fathom hurting anyone back!” 

“is that why you hurt yourself?” he asked quietly. “you’re the only person you can stand to hate and hurt?” you glanced up at him, tears still running down your face, and nodded slowly. he gently took both of your hands in his own. “next time something happens and you feel upset, can you do something for me? can you come and find me instead of hurting yourself?” 

you considered his suggestion. it was plausible if you were alone in your own house, but not if you were anywhere else or had company. “what if i can’t come find you?” 

tate smiled and slid his snake ring off of his thumb, holding it out to you. “here, take this. you can wear it whenever you’d like, so you’ll always have me with you. it’ll tide you over until you can come find me.” he gently wiped away your tears with his thumb. “and whatever i’ll be doing, i promise that it’s not nearly as important to me as you are. i’ll drop it and help you instead. okay?” 

a nice feeling settled in your chest as you smiled at him. it felt like a massive weight had been lifted from your shoulders as you nodded. “okay, tate.” 

he cupped your face in his hands. “promise?” 

“i promise,” you said, sliding the ring onto your thumb and tracing your fingers over the two snakes. 

tate smiled and kissed you softly. you felt like you were floating away from everything bad as he gently hooked one of your legs over his waist and wrapped an arm around your torso. you were so close to him, and it made you feel safe and loved in a way that nothing else ever could. “now, i’m going to hold you until you fall asleep,” he said, his voice soft, “and i’m still going to be holding you when you wake up. then, i’m going to keep holding you for as long as you would like. how does that sound?” 

you snuggled against him, slowly relaxing. “i love you, tate.” 

he kissed your forehead. “i love you too.” 

[aghostofmyformerself]

real

made by me

[whosbloom]

this is basically a lil poem i just came up with, small warning for mentions of suicide because it’s tate, you know how this thing goes

apologies in advance

Skin to skin, his hand is in mine, but his grasp is cold and inhuman. The rain is hitting the window, the record is spinning in the corner, some old vinyl we found while exploring the house.

Skin to skin, his lips touch mine, but it feels wrong. His dead eyes meet mine, he says he loves me but I can’t believe it, how can someone so troubled love someone when they can’t love themself.

Skin to skin, he holds me against him, scolding whatever I just saw to go away, telling me it’s okay. But it’s not, I know it’s not. It’s wrong, all of this is wrong.

Skin to skin, he cried into my shoulder while holding my limp body, saying how he wish he found me sooner, how he can’t lose me, I can’t die on him.

Skin to skin, his fingers intertwined with mine, watching them take my body out of the house on a stretcher. “Finally,” he says, breaking the silence. “we can be together forever.”

Skin to skin, face to face, eye to eye. At least we’re the same. Stuck together in these walls, cold skin, dead eyes, the inability to love ourselves, but we love each other.

Skin to skin, my arms around him as I lay and think to myself. If only things were different, if only my lover was warm as I once was, if only my lover had life in his eyes when he looked at me, if only I believed when he claimed he loved me.

Skin to skin, his hand grabs mine, reminding me that I can’t have another. I’m stuck with him forever.