Gawd, that phrase makes me cringe so much. *shudder*
It’s most always uttered by the preppy soccer suburban white moms when I tell them they have to pay to go in with their kids. (I work part time at a public pool). Yes, you have to pay to come in. Even if you’re not swimming. Yes I know it sounds ridiculous but it’s policy. No I don’t care if you drove a bazillion miles to get here. Alright fine pitch a hissy for in front of your impressionable brats and see what they learn from it. I’m still gonna charge you. Ok go to my manager, she’ll tell you the same thing.
“Ok, your total for you and the kids is $—.”
“Are you SERIOUS?”
Aw nah Brenda I’m jus fucking with you – of fuvking course I’m serious when I tell you your total please fuck off
Request: “If it’s not too much trouble, could you write a post-death Tate oneshot/headcanon (whichever) about a “preppy” girl that moves into the murder house and Tate doesn’t really like her at first because she reminds him of the popular kids at his school but then one night he hears her blasting nirvana and starts to fall in love? Sorry if this is really long! 😳 thanks!”
Warnings: Plaid (it deserves its own warning, okay? I think I meant checkered though originally), small cliffhanger, poking fun at preppy kids, I went a little off-request
Word Count: 1,018
A/N: I actually really love this request, thank you. I’m a lil’ nirvana stan have no idea why, though. And when I wrote this, I typed a whole, like, 300 words but they’re missing? RIP? It was about 1.2k but I totally forgot what the hell I used to fill it in, so like I said, RIP.
BY THE WAY: I’ll make a more informative post on this later, but one of my kitties is heavily pregnant. If I go missing for a while, it’s because she’s had her babies. Don’t worry. I will probably take a hiatus and/or close requests when they arrive, since kittens are a lot of work, but I can assure you that I’ll be back.
Tate had always liked girls that were more on the “grunge” side of the spectrum. Girls that reminded him of the 90′s, when he was alive. He had never gone for preppy girls (which is what he classified Y/N as), in fact, he often made fun of them. Never out loud though, he was only that much of an ass to his mother. At least she gave him those morals. Though, that might just be his common sense.
“I’ll finish that box later.” You say, scooting the box containing your clothing out of the bedroom doorway. Tate watched from the opposite door, silently laughing at your plaid skirt. Who wore plaid these days? He knew a few girls that wore, like, plaid dresses in his days, but it wasn’t quite in-trend in the 2010′s, in his opinion, at least.
And you seemed a little… Off. Kind of like the vibe he got from Kyle Greenwell. He was a football player who came from a rich family, everything he could’ve asked for served to him on a silver platter. Tate knew he probably wasn’t as bad as he had made it out to be in his head, but Kyle was still bad. You came off as a little… Well, preppy. And as we said earlier, Tate never liked preppy.
Your mom mumbles an agreement, hunched over the stairs. Her attention was focused on some kind of legal papers that you didn’t understand. Taxes, maybe? Or was it something to do with buying the house? Either way, it was holding her attention and looked heavily confusing.
Deciding to avoid whatever those paper were, you walk back to you room. Tate quietly follows you. As you push the bedroom door shut, Tate sneaks through. Perks of being a ghost, right? You start to un-zip your skirt, letting it pool at the floor. He watches you as you undress. He knew it was weird and pervy, but he was Tate Langdon for God’s sake.
Once you’re changed into some comfortable clothes, you hear a knock at your door. Sighing, you open it to reveal the blonde haired boy. He walks in, looking at your bedroom.
“It’s not unpacked yet, sorry.” You stand awkwardly at the door as he picks up several of your possessions, examining them. “Who are you?”
“Tate.” He simply says. “I live next door.”
“Oh! Are you, uh…” You trail off, almost expecting him to read your mind. “That blonde woman’s son?”
“Constance?” He snorts. “Yeah.”
Tate fiddles with the small radio perched on your nightstand, and soon enough, some band starts playing at full volume. He doesn’t bother to turn it down, instead making funny faces as he listened to the lyrics. He obviously didn’t care for modern music.
You rush over to the device, twisting the volume knob down before your parents could hear. “Look. You seem nice, but I think you need to go.” Shrugging, he flips through the preset stations, twisting the knob back up. You shoo him away from the bed, and soon out of the bedroom. “I trust you can find your way back out?” He nods, and when you look away, he’s vanished.
That was the first night Tate visited you. Well, that you were aware of. He had mainly stayed away when you were home, not liking you very much, but when you were gone, he snooped in your belongings. He didn’t find many things that seemed important or deemed you worthy of his liking (unlike his previous flings, of which he found these things quickly. That’s where a lifetime of sneaking around came in handy). That was until he found your stash of mixtapes and whatnot.
He wasn’t able to play them very long before you came home and forced him out again, but from what he heard, nothing changed. He still disliked you, if not a little bit more.
A few days later, you hear a knock on your bedroom door. “Come in.” You groan, expecting a member of your family. “Oh my God, not you again…”
“I came to apologize.” Tate sighs, walking in. “It was rude of me to come in that last time and go through your stuff.”
Damn right it was wrong. Didn’t he know about personal space? Or personal belongings? Surely Constance taught him better than that…
“Just that last time?” You ask. He shrugs, half-nodding. “Fine, come on.” Putting down your book, you watch him like a hawk watches prey. He sits down in the rug in front of your bed, looking around. You somehow know exactly what he’s thinking. “Go for it.”
His face lights up, and he crawls quickly to the radio. For some reason, that was always the reason why he had snuck and your room.
“You can tell a lot about a person by their music.” He says, flipping through the preset stations again. He knew all (well, most) of them, but still liked to see what was on. You nod, picking the book back up. Opening the cover, you notice something. The library slip had several names written in it, the most recent being from November of 1994. Tate Langdon, the neat, yet messy, cursive read.
“Tate Langdon?” You question, staring at him. He shakes his head, seemingly ignoring your wait for an answer. As he presses the CD button, the first track of Nirvana’s Nevermind album blares at what seemed like the loudest setting.
“Huh.” He smirks. “Mixtape or album?”
You turn the volume down once more, frustrated that he always turned it up. Nothing seemed to get into this boy’s head. “Album.” To confirm, he turns it to the next song, In Bloom. Tate flips it once more so it’s on Come As You Are.
“This one was always a favorite.” The boy smiles, leaned over the nightstand. You nod.
Somehow, the two of you ended up spending the night talking about Nirvana, music, the 90′s, and school. You never asked him 1994 was stamped next to his name. In fact, you forgot about it for the most part. You forgot about it until it happened.
We are playing “secret sister” within the labs of our clinic for Lab Week, and look what I got today: It’s a quilted cloth bag, the perfect size to use as a small purse or as a project bag for my yarn adventures.
Stylistically, it’s a bit “country chic”, but the fact that it’s in black makes my little goth heart happy. It’s like… yes, I’ll go along with all you preppy PTO moms, and I don’t want to look super weird and stick out, but don’t expect me to dress like a ray of sunshine either. Plus, I really like the polka dots on it.
“Why does it feel like “toke and poke” is one of those things you hear from someone who’s never actually HAD any kind of drug? Like that stuck-up preppy PTA-mom who tried to talk to my prep school class about Dust usage…like she’d never even seen what recreational drugs looked like and was just reciting facts she’d read.”