𐙚 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄. eighteen. canadian. fleur delacour. ariana grande perfumes. lip gloss. lana del rey. dolls. dead poets society. nose highlighter. bambi. thumper. mac miller. vanilla scent. padme amidala. tate & violet. tim burton. spencer reid. blush. angel of your dreams.
— ꒰ ˶ i think i made you up inside my head. ˶ ꒱
asks are always open for anything ♡
requests are currently open 𝜗℘
ℳ𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ʚɞ 𝓣𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
࿐ 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 ₊˚ a glimpse of you | tate langdon
Alive!tate x reader, angsty(maybe fluffy, depends on you) where Tate and reader were dating before (and during) the shooting! Maybe how it built up to the shooting or the moment when reader realizes Tate is the one doing it idk whatever you’d like!
hiii, i’m obsessed with this request — here it is !! sorry this took so absurdly long to finish 😭 but i hope you like it !! 🤍🤍
in which — caught in the midst of a school shooting, you’re forced to watch helplessly as your classmates perish, one by one. what happens when you realize your boyfriend, tate, is the one behind the massacre?
major warnings — alive!tate x fem!reader, angst, school shooting (based specifically on ep. 6), guns, death, blood.
word count — 2.6k
ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ ɪꜱ ᴀᴅᴠɪꜱᴇᴅ
THE SIGHT OF A BLOODIED BOY running through the large double doors of the library was enough to catch the attention of each pupil in the room.
The room was flooded by the loud popping sounds flowing through from the hallways, causing each of you to look around at one-another in confusion.
“What the hell, dude?” a jock who you've never spoken to before called out to the injured boy, as the latter fumbled for chairs from nearby tables and a rolling cart stacked with books to block the doors.
"Somebody is shooting up the school. Just-just shooting people," he stuttered.
The librarian, Mr. Carmichael, looked down at the boy's black clothes, his long sleeves becoming soaked in crimson liquid. "Are you hit?" he asked urgently.
The boy looked down at the blood. "Shit! I don't-I don't know, man," he thought for a second. "It's not my blood. I was right next to Mark Binstein and the-the guy shot him in the freaking skull."
“Who's doing this?" asked a gothic girl, who's racoon-patterned hair was held up in a bun, black eyeliner crowning her eyes that widened in alarm.
"I-I don't know," he said.
"We need to get the hell out of here," said the jock, running towards the barricaded doors.
More shots sounded — only closer. He froze.
"Go, go!" the librarian urged.
Everyone fled in the opposite direction of the doors, searching frantically for any spot in the small library that could conceal them.
You looked around anxiously, your heart beating faster than you could will your feet and mind to.
You ran as fast as you could to the back corner of the library; between two bookshelves was a small, concealed corner. You crounched down, pulling your knees up to underneath your chin, trying to make yourself as small as possible.
You could see the other students doing the same — the jock and his cheerleader girlfriend were huddled together underneath a small table, the goth was crouched next to a nearby bookshelf, while everyone else crouched down near the librarian’s small open desk space.
The double doors began to shake, the sound of the handle forcefully rattling sending a shiver down your spine. You heard a muffled cry from nearby, as the books on the cart blocking the door shook violently.
Just as suddenly, the shaking seized.
You all held your breath. The goth girl stood up weakly, gazing at the now motionless door.
Behind where she stood, lay the unobstructed back entrance to the library. The doorknob turned slowly, its metal clicking ringing through the still room.
"Block-block the door" the jock whispered urgently, pointing behind her. She stood unresponsive in fear.
Mr. Carmichael ran up to the door, placing his weight against the front of it, hands gripping the knob firmly in place to prevent it from opening.
You could see a few of the other students slowly crawling away from the door, the room engulfed in silence besides the few shuffling.
Then, three consequtive shots — this time, directly through the door, before shooting through the librarian's chest.
The gothic girl shrieked, running towards where you were crounched hidden, as the man fell to the floor.
Tantalizingly slow, the shooter turned the door open all the way, entering the library.
The weight of his boots dragging over the man’s body permeated your frantic thoughts. His heavy steps travelled in your direction slowly.
You brought a clammy hand up to your mouth, pressing it firmly over your lips to prevent your sobs from calling out to him.
You shut your eyes tightly, tears streaming down rapidly, flowing between each finger horizontally covering your mouth.
Light footsteps traipsed around you. You held your breath, silently praying — bracing yourself for the round of bullets that would penetrate through you, too.
Except, none came.
You blinked open an eye warily, spotting the gothic girl, who was carefully maneouving between bookshelves to stay hidden.
You could see the heavy black boots of the shooter following after her from a distance, as the girl pressed herself flatly against the shelves.
She didn’t even realize she’d spared your life — even if only for a few more minutes.
You didn’t know which was worse — dying right this instance, or sitting in fear as you waited your turn for death to inexorably creep up on you.
The sound of a haunting whistle floated through the still air, the tune making you physically shiver in fright.
Books falling to the floor shook the room, as the girl screamed in fright. A shot tore through the air, the unmistakeable sound of her lifeless body hitting the floor after it.
You sobbed quietly into your hand.
More footsteps — this time, a distance away from where you hid.
"No. No, please, no-,” you recognized the voice of the bloodied boy from mere minutes ago, now pleading for his life. Before he could even finish his plea, a shot sounded.
Then, another.
The footsteps continued, taunting the few of you who remained.
You heard a second pair of footsteps near the first.
"Hey!" the jock called out. "It's enough, get out of he-,” his words were cut off by another shot.
You cried out weakly. You mentally reprimanded the boy, for he could have easily taken on the shooter, but were grateful for him trying, at least.
Just two now, you thought.
"Oh, God!" you heard the jock's girlfriend cry loudly. Her weeping persisted, as the table she was crouched under suddenly rattled and was thrown aside, exposing her.
She released a blood-curdling wail. “Why?" she yelled through her final cry. "Please!"
You knew what was coming before it did.
The sixth shot ran through.
“Oh, my God,” you whimpered. There was nothing you could do — you were next.
The heavy footsteps neared towards the bookshelves once more. With each step, you thought of everything that would be taken from you with a single bullet — you would never get to say goodbye to your parents; your pets would forever wonder why you’d never returned home; you would never get to graduate; you would never have a future.
These were your last few seconds alive.
As you cried out, you tried to memorize the frantic beating of your heart, and your erratic breathing pattern. This was the last time your body would ever serve you, and you couldn’t believe how long you had taken it for granted.
You shut your eyes firmly, death stepping closer to you.
The footsteps stopped right in front of where you were seated, legs pulled tightly against your heavy chest. Blood pounded through your ears.
You carefully cracked one of your eyes open. You couldn’t help it — if you were going to face death, you were going to look it in the eyes as it welcomed you.
The eyes that stared down at you were a familiar dark brown — ones you had grown to love since the moment you’d first caught a glimpse of them.
“T-tate?” you whimpered, as he stared down at you through the barrel of his shotgun.
He pulled the shotgun away from you, angling its barrel towards the floor. His free hand reached for your forearm, causing you to cry out in fright.
He pulled you up roughly. “I’m not going to shoot you.”
You shuddered, looking at him through your blurry gaze. “Why? Why are you doing this?” you finally broke, tears streaming down your face.
You looked around the library, taking in the aftermath. The jock was lying dead on top of the table he’d used as coverage, his girlfriend lying lifeless underneath it, surrounded by a pool of blood and urine.
Blood was pooling from all around, causing your cries to only increase.
If Tate wasn’t going to kill you, you were sure that your erratic breathing would, as you fought to catch your breath, heart pounding heavily in your chest.
He reached for your jaw, angling it in his direction. “Don’t look at them, look at me,” he said, using the pads of his thumbs to wipe away your rapid tears. You looked down to avoid his gaze, your breath hitching as your eyes landed on the large shotgun resting against his boots.
The sirens of police cruisers sounded, inching closer.
“We have to go,” he grabbed your forearm harshly, leading you through the rows of bookshelves.
“No, no,” you whimpered. “Tate, stop. STOP!”
“There’s no time!” he yelled, pulling you after him as you continued to sob. You saw the mangled body of the goth girl, her blond hair streaked with blood.
“I don’t w-want to g-go with you,” you cried, fighting against his hold on you.
“Listen! I spared you because I love you!” he yelled out. His voice suddenly softened, as he turned to face you, catching your horrified stare. “You know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
Your lip quivered, your heart feeling inconceivably betrayed at the irony tainting his words.
“Look around us, Tate!” you yelled. “What do you call this?”
Without warning, he punched the bookshelf behind your head, causing you to flinch. “I’m trying to protect you!”
“The only thing I need protecting from is you!” you shouted, voice raw. Your knees gave out, as you slid down the wall of the bookshelf to the floor, arms gripping protectively around yourself.
The sirens persisted, the pounding in your head intensifying their authoritative alarms.
“Look, please,” Tate suddenly said. Before you could even scoff in disbelief at his plea, he reached towards where you sat numbly hunched over, dragging you up from the floor, and pulling you along by your arm to the back door of the library — his shotgun now held in his dominant hand.
You were too numb to fight against him, the sight around you causing you to gasp out. You could clearly see the distorted bodies and faces of each of the five students, bleeding out on the floor.
“No, Tate,” you cried as he stepped over the limp form of Mr. Carmichael, sprawled across the carpeted floor.
“Close your eyes!” he shouted angrily, hurriedly pulling the door open and dragging you through it.
You looked back at the library through tears, making out the faint movements coming from Mr. Carmichael’s fingers.
“Tate, please, stop!” you yelled as he dragged you through the threshold of his home. You had always found his house rather unnerving, and its infamous status as the neighbourhood’s “Murder House” seemed to mock your current situation.
He shut the front door behind you, the loud bang of the wood hitting the frame causing you to flinch. He dragged the metal chain through its hatch, locking it.
He dragged you by your arm up the creaking wooden staircase, his painful grip on you making your skin redden with each step.
He neared the familiar corner that led to his room, pulling you through. Before he could shut the door, you yelled out, “CONSTANCE-”.
His pale hand clamped down aggressively over your mouth, muffling your shout. “Are you insane?” he shouted.
“Are you insane?” you shouted back. He threw his shotgun onto the floor, making you cry out as you jumped at the loud noise, plugging your ears. He pulled off his long black trench coat, throwing it next to the gun.
He pulled at his blond locks, curls peeking through his slender fingers like threads unravelling.
“Why? Why would you kill all those people?” you sobbed.
“I don’t know!” he suddenly burst into tears, causing you to furrow your brows at him.
He fell back onto his mattress, aggressively hitting the back of his head. You didn’t stop him like you once would have.
You stared at him, watching as he hoisted himself fully onto the mattress, pulling his legs up to his chest to lay in a fetal position.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know,” he sobbed. “I don’t know why.”
You walked carefully over to his bed, debating on whether to comfort him or not. You slowly began to reach your fingers out towards his hair to soothe him, before pulling back.
“Tate, you killed people,” you threaded carefully.
He hiccoughed. “Why-why would I do that?”
You stated at him, tears brimming your eyes once more.
“Why would I do that?” his cries continued.
The blaring sound of sirens speeding closer to the house brought him back to reality.
“You have to go,” he sat up suddenly, as if a light switch had been flicked on in his head.
“Tate, what’s happening?” you asked wide-eyed.
He looked at you warily, his eyes softening as he took in your frightened features. He stood up from the mattress, reaching towards you.
Cupping both of your cheeks between his large hands, he pulled your head towards his, lips meeting in the middle. He deepened the embrace for a moment, his cold lips sending a deadened sensation through you.
He felt like a corpse.
“Tate?” you whispered, voice cracking. He parted his lips to say something, but was cut off by three rings coming from the front doorbell.
"I love you, okay?" he said through glossy eyes. "No matter what happens." He sounded like the Tate you had fallen in love with.
Not the Tate who had murdered your classmates in cold blood.
Heavy footsteps barrelling up the staircase towards his bedroom caused the wooden floor to shake, sirens sounding through your head.
"Please! Let me just talk to him. Please, just let me talk to him!" the pleading voice of Constance rang through the opposite side of the closed door. "TATE!"
You stood frozen. You looked at Tate, who had already sat back down on his mattress, a stoic expression taking over his features.
"No, please, he'll go peacefully! He's just a child! He's just a child!" Constance pleaded, her words causing you to sob uncontrollably now.
The bedroom door was harshly pushed open, a SWAT team aiming tens of guns directly at Tate's chest, their red laser dots peeking over his black shirt.
"No, please!" you found yourself also begging, as one of the officers wrapped his arms firmly around your middle.
"Please, don't!" you yelled, thrashing against the man's hold on you. He began to pull you out of the bedroom, as you dragged your heels on the floor the whole way.
"Tate!" you called out. You looked towards him as he stood up from the mattress, putting his hands up in surrender.
He mimicked a gun motion with his pointer finger and thumb, angling the two digits at the side of his head.
You pulled your arms free of the officer's tight hold, pushing against the doorframe to keep yourself in the room.
You watched as Tate foolishly reached for the gun thrown on the floor next to his bed, a cascade of bullets firing towards him.
"NO!” you cried. His body convulsed from the impact, before he fell backwards onto the mattress. He slid off its gentle surface, his back meeting the hardwood floor.
You sobbed, the officer's grip around your midsection weakening. You pulled free, running towards him, the officer at your heels.
One of the other officers knelt down next to Tate as he bled to death, the previous officer quickly holding you back once more to prevent you from nearing your boyfriend any further.
“Why did you do it?” the officer asked.
Tate stared at him, his mouth shuddering, grasping for words that wouldn't come.
His eyes met yours over the officer's shoulders, the dilated shade of brown suddenly lightening. His head fell gently sideways, his eyes vacant as he stared into deadened eternity.
You could have sworn, for a moment, you had caught one final glimpse of the Tate you had fallen in love with.
notes ⋆. 𐙚 ₊˚ thank you for the request, i hope this was on par with what you were looking for ♡ !! sorry if this sucks, i lowkey forgot how to write 😭🤍
THE FOGGED GLASS OF YOUR BEDROOM WINDOW—the same bedroom that once belonged to him—obstructed Tate’s view of you, the thundering wind and downpour of the late hour shining through.
He reached the sleeve of his green and black striped sweater up to the glass, wiping away at a condensed spot to look through.
Then, he spotted you. You were threading your fingers through your hair as you adjusted the costume you wore—oblivious to the watchful boy outside. Your costume consisted of a matching black corset and skirt. When did Halloween costumes become so.. ordinary? Tate thought with slight disapproval, a frown on his face.
That was until you began to pull the hem of your black skirt to the floor, stepping out of the pool of fabric that landed around your feet. You stepped out of the Converse you wore, leaving them next to the discarded skirt.
Tate watched as you walked around in your small corset and black lace panties, making your way to the door of your bedroom. He couldn’t hear it, but he saw you turn the old metal lock of the door closed. You suddenly turned to face the window, causing Tate to turn abruptly away, his back slamming against the brick wall of the old home next to the glass. He panted, before peeking a narrow eye through the glass.
You hadn’t noticed him, but Tate now noticed that you had discarded your underwear, leaving you in just the tight corset. His eyes travelled from your naked bottom-half up to your supported breasts, the skin peeking through the tight fabric of your costume. He shut his eyes, feeling his dead member beginning to pulse to life through his pants.
You faced toward your bed, which lay directly in front of the window Tate peered through. Watching carefully, praying you wouldn’t notice his presence, he watched as your hand reached for the pillow that rested at the headboard of your bed.
You sat down on the bed, your knees spread apart as you placed your weight on them. You hiked the fluffed pillow between your spread thighs, your bare bottom sitting directly on-top of it.
You faced towards your shut bedroom door, leaving Tate with a direct view of your ass. He watched as you began to move, your hips dragging down on the pillow.
Your movements switched between circular drags of your hips and slight bounces on the fabric—your hands reaching behind you for a better angle of pleasure. Tate couldn’t help but imagine himself in this situation. What it would feel like for him to lay underneath you as you bounced on him, the way your hands would brace themselves on his chest.
He shamelessly reached for the zipper of his jeans, hurriedly pulling the metal zip down as his hand reached inside his boxers. He let out a small whine, the aching sensation that had been longing for attention finally drawing out.
At almost the same time, Tate could hear you let out a faint moan through the glass, as your hips worked faster to chase your high. He watched the bounces of your bottom-half, as his hand moved down his long shaft, liquid pooling.
Your movements became more sporadic, before you came with a loud cry of pleasure, your hips faltering. Tate threw his head back, his own pleasure subduing him.
You sat deflated on the pillow, catching your breath. As you breathed through your parted lips, you turned your head towards the window behind you.
There was no one there—except for a small portion of glass that was rubbed clean of fog.
