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vi0l3tluvsu · 2 months ago

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Dead Girl’s Paradise.

hc!au!Tate Langdon and dead!reader

Tags ; spiteful reader , clueless Tate , bonding, death, biting , violet mention!! , comfort , yelling

Word Count: 2868

A/n ; Tate langdon is a bit ooc and this is an AU fic. I got this idea from a Jack Kays’ album (deadbeat) . it’s very little reread and it’s probably terrible 🫶🫶 enjoy it’s my first work

Tate Langdon moved into your house just over a month ago and since moving in he’s rearranged your furniture, taken down your posters, and blasted terrible music from a strange device. You glare at him sometimes, watching him lazily drag about the house and complain in his sloppy journals about school and his mother. If you could speak, you’d laugh at him. His journals were that of a mad man. The world needs to burn. Everyone must suffer. You scoffed at his insane rambles, at his thoughts of going into his school and .. well he’d never do it. He was a coward. Every time Constance opened her mouth, he fled. Hid in his room and cried, scribbled and ripped pages. Some of what he wrote was almost poetic, if it weren’t him writing it. The world will bend and all that will be left is the ashes of what could have been the best, but failed before making it. You rolled your eyes, kicking the papers about the floor. Sometimes, just to drive him insane, you moved his CDs around his room, Nirvana in his closet. Kurt Cobain singles CD in his boxer drawer. Tate was boring. The most boring teenager you’d ever had the misfortune of watching move in and then, just as expected, move out. Except only his family moved out and, despite every wish you’d had, he’d stayed.

You stayed relatively hidden from him. A shadow in an empty house as he rotted in his bedroom, but his mopping was getting annoying and now he was the shadow that was torturing you. In your own house.

“Hello..?” Tate’s voice called out into the dark of his bedroom. The scuffled sound of his desk chair moving away from his desk had startled the poor boy awake and he sat, eyes wide, staring into the darkness that almost dared to reach out and touch him. A gun cocked somewhere on his bed and your eyes moved from the chair to him. You were standing just about ten feet from him, your blood stained hands pulling the chair closer to you, further from the desk. “I’m - I’m not afraid!” He spit as he said it. As if he needed to convince himself before anyone else, “I’ve .. got a g-gun!” He called out, aiming into the darkness and at you.

The moonlight barely lit his room, like a dull candle in the center of a ballroom, he was shaking and you could hear it. You sneered, stepping towards the shell of moonlight cascading across the floor in front of his bed, your feet were light. The floor board creak just barely audible as you touched the wood, three feet from him. “Who are you?! How’d you get in?!” His voice cracked, you could hear true fear. From the same boy who had said he’d kill all who wronged him. You leaned your head forward, hair just barely falling in front of your face as your eyes met his. His blue eyes struck a cord in you as your nerves spiked. He was really holding a gun at a ghost.

You grunted at him, eyes narrowing. His lip pulled up and he made a face that was somewhere between disgust and fascination. Your eye brows folded in which narrowed your eyes even more. You stepped closer to him, hands reaching out toward the bed. His gun followed you as you pushed your way toward him until the barrel was sticking to your forehead. He seemed frozen in time, his eyes fixed on yours, unmoving. Unblinking. You turned your head slightly to see him past the gun and his eyes moved to follow yours instinctively.

“You’re..” his hands trembled under the weight of the small pistol in his hands, “you’re dead too?” The words struck you funny. Too. How could he be dead? He was more alive looking than any living person who passed through. You huffed, sitting back onto the bed and watching him. He put the gun down, well, dropped the gun down… “How long have you been.. uh.. stalking me?” His words stuttered out of him like he wasn’t sure where to start. You shrugged, eyes dropping to his covered legs. “Okay..” he sighed, “uh.. what’s your name?” His eyebrows knit together and he backed up slightly. You put a hand to your throat and looked around. It’s hard to answer someone with cut vocal cords. You grabbed his arm and he flinched, instinctively pulling back with a yelp as you forced up his sleeve and were faced with scars from wrist to elbow. You skimmed past it and started tracing letters onto him. He leaned his head forward and looked at the rest of your body. The collar of your shirt was drenched and smeared in thick dark red, the gentle lace of it forever ruined, the cream shirt layered on top was also stained but not as badly . It laid just off your shoulder to show off the Lacey under shirt, the sweater bunched up where it met your jeans. He scanned back up until his eyes fell upon your neck. He pulled back, a little red. You pulled back too and you must have looked as confused as he looked concerned. “Uhm. Sorry, I like your.. sweater..” his eyes shifted to your sweater, then your neck, and back to your sweater. “So .. pretty name..” he smiled softly, his sudden okayness with you seemed weird but you chalked it up to him enjoying not being alone anymore. “What’s your- oh.. wait.. - I mean-“ his legs slid out from the covers and he stood. The sun was rising outside the window and as the light started to hit the curtains Tate paced mumbling questions to himself.

“Okay. What’s y-“ he turned towards the bed, and you were gone. Retreated to the safety of your attic to avoid being really seen. You sat, cradling yourself until you started to doze off, small dreams came to you in flashes. Your parents at the funeral, your body still lying in a river not too far away. Your dog, Clover, left to forever search for you.

“Hello?” Tate’s voice rang out from the floor below, he was searching every nook and cranny to find you. Your sudden appearance had given him a chance to socialize and apparently he wasn’t letting that go. “Uh.. HELLO?!” His calls became louder, almost piercing. He called out your name, opened every cabinet, closet, and drawer. His desperation leading him everywhere but to the attic. For now, your haven of silence was gone but you hoped he would give up searching and- “there you are!” You had missed the creak of the attic door opening and now Tate was staring at you, a weak smile on his face as he carefully approached you. “Uh.. I was calling for you. I guess you didn’t hear.” He sounded cold, but kept a smile anyway. You shuffled away from him, trying not to let him get close enough to touch you like you’d touched him. He stepped closer still, backing you against the far wall of the attic, “you know. It’s been months since I had someone to talk to.. it’s nice to have company.” He gestured with his hands as he spoke, picking at the sleeve of his dark sweater, “Why’d you run away?” His eyes were piercing as he asked, his footsteps getting closer until he was almost nose-to-nose with you. “Why’d you leave me alone again?”

You were stunned, fear took over you. You stared up at him. He wasn’t much taller than you, maybe two inches, but it was enough. His eyes trailed to your neck again, the scar that spanned the width of your neck. You bent your head down raising your hand to cover it, his hand reached to grab yours. It was a gentle tight, the kind of pressure that wasn’t uncomfortable. You bent your head more trying to cover up your neck as much as possible. His other hand slowly touched your cheek, his light touch a shock to your nervous system, he pushed your head up until you were looking at each other again. His face was soft, his eyes searching your face up close now. He was taking in all of your features as you struggled against his wrist. He hummed to you, but his sudden sweetness didn’t change the bitter taste that was left in your mouth by the position you found yourself forced into. He’s hand drifted, thumb running along your lip, you parted them letting him fall into a false security before leaning forward and biting down on his thumb.

“Ow?! You bitch!” Tate stumbled back, falling over a box and hitting his head against the low ceiling, “I was trying to be nice!” You fled, tripping down the attic steps and nearly falling down the main ones until you reached the basement. The cold cement felt good against your socked feet and you found a corner curling into a ball and taking deep breathes.

After your first “run-in” with Tate you let the weeks pass hiding in his shadow as he searching relentlessly for you. You assumed his searching was to hurt you, but as you watched him pace and write, as he became more desperate to find you, the realization that he was just as lonely as you were hit like a brick. Eventually, he gave up searching and went back to his room locking the door and playing his awful music again. He gave up finding you and so you gave up watching him, retreating to the attic only to find a neat pile of clean clothes on the floor behind the door. You had spent so much time in your new hiding spot, the basement, and following him around that you hadn’t thought to check on the attic. Now, you had a pit of regret about avoiding him. In the pile was an oversized gray sweater, a pair of jeans, and mismatched socks. They must have been his sister’s clothes at some point. Guilt started to eat you as you slipped into the new clothing, it was weird to not feel the starchy and stiff of blood on your shoulders and around your neck but the change was welcome along with the new smell. You sat in the attic, the idea of going and talking with Tate felt foreign, like a small knife cut into your chest and dug out your insides. Grinding your teeth, you stood in the doorway clicking the knob’s lock as you debated whether to go and see him. The idea left you nerve wracked so you turned and locked the attic opting to stay hidden just a little bit longer before letting him find you again.

It took a few days for you to work up the courage to actually go and knock on his door but the day you did his music had ceased. There was no noise coming from his room and the door was wide open, Tate sat motionless on his bed holding a picture. You stepped forward into his doorframe pushing at the hinges of his door as it creaked open. His head shot up and he took in the image of you in fresh clothes, it was midday and despite not enjoying being seen in sunlight you couldn't be picky anymore. "Oh. it's just you." his tone was cold, any trust that had been built or affection that could have been gone. "I see you.. found my gift." he swallowed the words clutching the photograph tighter, you stepped forward sighing. The closer he stepped the more protective of his photo he became until you were sitting next to him on the bed and the photo was flipped upside down. "I was looking for you, you know." His mouth twisted into a sort of frown as you nodded, of course you had known. He was practically screaming your name all throughout the house. Awkwardly you rubbed your legs and Tate relaxed a bit, the guilt you had felt was still eating you and without being able to say sorry you were left with the feeling. Your eyes drifted down to the photograph. Instinctively, you raised an eyebrow, curiosity was never your strong suit but the silence was enough to kill even the bravest person.

Tate noticed you take an interest and quickly put it in his nightstand, "It.. It's none of your business." he blushed saying it, like it should be your business but he couldn't explain why. You rolled your eyes and stood heading for his door. It was useless to try and be friendly with someone like him. "Wait.. where are you going? Don't disappear again." He stood with you grabbing your hand and tightening as you turned to meet his gaze. There it was again, that gentle pressure that had driven you away the first time. You didn't pull away this time, it was as if some invisible line was wrapping around you. A voice begging you to stay. You turned, hand in his, and stared expectantly into his eyes. "I just.. I don't want to be alone again." He rubbed his thumb over the pad of your hand, the gentle circles felt like fire igniting under your skin but you let him. You huffed, letting him lead you back to the bed. You spent the next few days this way, laying about his bed and letting him ramble to you about what he called, "the latest". You didn't understand any of it. He slowly taught you about the current 2006 "pop culture", how to properly use a computer and what the name was of the strange device that played his horrid music. A Boombox. It became apparent that since your untimely end, a lot had changed. That you had changed. Tate rambled on about My Chemical Romance and how overrated The Fray was, almost all of it was lost to you. Yet, you were still content listening, despite not answering almost any question you were given Tate could answer them for you. "Do you think Nickelback will always be this popular?... Probably not. I mean like two of their songs are good.." You never tired of his talking, theories, and weird movies. Soon you were consumed by Deep Sea, Silent Hill, and Air Buddies. Tate's strange taste grew on you, now you were picking out movies, songs, even TV shows to watch on his old laptop. It wasn't too bad, hanging out with him, and obviously he didn't think you were too bad either. Until you walked into his room early in the spring of 2007, wearing a purple knit sweater. You had found it in a box hidden in the basement, and Tate screamed. "Where did you find that?! Take that off! You've ruined it! It was pure!" he had ran at you, frantic, but had been careful where he touched the sweater so as not to damage it at all. The shock of his yelling had startled you too much and you fled. Fled to the attic, locking the door. Tate followed, close behind but not close enough when you slammed the door in his face. "Wait, I-.. I can explain- Please give me the sweater back. Please. You don't understand it's hers." You didn't answer, just stood breathless behind the door as he walked away. A few minutes past when you saw a photograph slip under the door.

"It was vio- .." he went quiet, unsure of his words, "it was a .. friend of mines.. we met at school and. She was important to me, so please. Give it back." you took off the sweater, careful to fold it neatly before opening the door a crack and giving it to him. His sigh of relief once it was with him again was a calm you'd never seen in him, as if the mere reminder of her was enough to tell him it was okay. "I'm.. Thank you.." he mumbled. You closed the door and picked up the photo, it was creased and smudged in the corner where you could tell he was holding it too tightly, his sweat wearing it down. The girl in the photo looked beautiful. She stood next to Tate, just a few inches shorter, holding a lit cigarette and flipping off the camera, her tongue sticking out. Tate was holding the camera and smiling, a peace sign just barely in view, like he held his hand a certain way so as not to cover her. She was wearing that purple sweater, the same one you had put on. You walked silently to Tate's room, he was curled up on his bed hugging the sweater. You put the photo down on his nightstand and curled up with him, hugging him from behind. "She was everything to me." he buried his face into her sweater as your hand pet his hair, you had never comforted anyone before but this was how your mom comforted you when you cried. He let out a sob, turning to you and wrapping an arm around your waist, "I'm glad you didn't disappear again. You remind me a lot of her."

A/n: eeeee Thank you for reading!! I'm sorry it was so long<3 and I'm sorry if the ending was unsatisfactory.. I ran out of ideas for this one but I wanted to post it because i liked the writing

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