a clay jensen x reader, because there is practically no fandom. i know what it's like to dig through pages and pages of websites, trying to find things for an underrated character. so this, friends, is for baby clay.
updates aren't frequent, also...
a/n: why is the 13rw fandom so small... it's literally killing me. this takes place during the riot at liberty in season 4.
summary: you've always needed an excuse to talk to him, the riot came up, and there was your chance.
warnings: mentions of riots, fighting, and violence. cursing
pairing: fem!reader x s4!clay jensen
word count: 1.4k+ words
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you can hear the faint squeaking of the swings as you close the door and lock your car. it's not winter quite yet, but there's a bristle of leaves floating in the air.
it's getting colder and darker; a dried up leaf sways down into your hair, and you pick it out, admiring the curl of the corners and the brown tint of the edges.
there's a chill in the soft breeze, and clouds appear when you breathe out. the trees blaze with autumn; red, gold and auburnleaves littered the ground like a many-hued carpet that crackled and rustled as you hike along. though, it's rather comparable to a graveyard - bugs lying on their backs' motionless.
there's a certain smell in the fall air, you're sure.
melancholy, you think. it smells melancholy. while you tread along the willow-lined path, you couldn't fully enjoy the warm colors that were gifted alongside, but rather saddened by the end of life.
the soft wind in summer, how it wrapped around someone, hugging their body, now a harsh, cold shove - tearing leaves off their branches.
their swirling waltz, a desperate, autumnal finale, mocks the fleeting glory of their once vibrant life. the shimmering gold, a cruel adornment, a gilded cage before their inevitable demise.
the leaves' shimmering gold is a bittersweet farewell, a prelude to their return to the earth from whence they came.
the song of birds in the air - not so much a song as a cry - at the lack of food for the winter.
autumn's beauty is a human illusion, a veil cast upon its raw truth. beneath the veneer of vibrant hues lies a season steeped in melancholy, a mournful dirge for life's retreat.
now knowing this, how could anyone be expected to enjoy a "beauty" of what's only death?
you follow the trail to the childern's playground, and you aren't thinking, not really. more of following a trail you've subconsciously set out for yourself, in hopes of escaping a round of life.
you're only half aware as you're walking there, the sound of the crunch on mulch, or the soft humming. based on the vocal noises, it's safe to assume that it's a man. boy?
you guess you'll find out.
when you near the swingset, you do see that it's a boy, maybe your age. squinting in the darkness, you realize that you know this boy.
