SUMMARY: peter spends the evening with his daughter, snacks and naps included.
warnings: this fic is completely safe and wholesome, just peter being a dad with his toddler daughter !!❤️❤️
—MASTERLIST—
Peter was flat on his back on the living room carpet, staring at the ceiling like he’d just accepted defeat. His three-year-old daughter was standing on his stomach
“Okay,” he said, gripping her small sides before she could wobble too far forward. “First of all, you weigh at least… a thousand pounds.”
She burst into giggles. “No I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do. I’m a scientist. I would know.” He replied, matter-of-factly.
“I’m three.” She said, holding up two fingers instead.
“Exactly. Peak heavy.”
She laughed harder at that, the kind of loud, messy toddler laugh that made his chest shake. He tightened his hold and slowly inched her upward, sliding her up above his chest until she was hovering over his face. Her curls bounced as she squealed, arms flailing.
“Too high?” he asked, squinting up at her.
“Nooo!”
“Alright, alright.”
He lifted her again, a little faster this time. She threw her head back laughing, squeals turning into hiccups mid-laugh. Peter froze for a second, then laughed himself.
“Hic… okay, okay, pause,” he said softly, patting her back. “Deep breaths.”
When he brought her down again, she flopped forward, landing fully against his chest, cheek pressed over his heartbeat. He let out a soft “oof,” but wrapped his arms around her automatically.
She hiccuped again, smaller this time, and tried to lean into him for support. He held her gently against his chest, rocking slightly until the hiccups slowed. “Better?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” she said with a tiny hiccup, snuggling closer.
After a few more rounds of playful lifts and gentle slides, she ended up lying sideways across his chest, tracing random shapes on his T-shirt with her little finger. Her hiccups had stopped, but her breathing was slowing, shoulders drooping.
“Still hungry?” he asked, noticing the way she pressed her hands to her belly.
She nodded slowly. “Snack.”
He lifted her onto his hip and carried her to the kitchen. She picked applesauce, and he helped her scoop it carefully with the spoon, making sure the wobbly bites didn’t end up on the floor. Between bites, she was already blinking longer, chewing slower, and letting her tiny body relax into him.
Once the applesauce was gone, she stared at him with wide eyes. “Daddy… use super speed?” she begged, tiny hands holding his shirt tightly.
Peter chuckled softly. “Uh..—not for snack time,” he said. “We’re eating safely.”
“Pleeeeease!” she whined, jiggling slightly in his arms. “Fast! Zoom!”
He laughed and ruffled her curls. “I told you, kiddo, no super speed while eating. Remember what happened last time?”
She pouted for a second, then accepted a tiny nod. Still, she tried to wiggle closer as if convincing him to change his mind.
By the time she was done with the snacks, she just sat against him, belly full, blinking at nothing in particular. Peter rested a hand over her stomach and gave it a gentle pat. It was firm, warm, and perfectly satisfied. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You’re done.”
She made a soft little sound in agreement, resting her fingers lightly on his collar.
He shifted her so she was stretched along his torso, her head against his chest, one tiny leg hooked over his side. Peter rubbed her back in slow circles, checking her belly again lightly.
Within a minute, she was completely out. Her tiny body relaxed in his arms, sticky little fingers still resting lightly on his shirt. He leaned back against the couch cushion, careful not to move too much.
Though, peter shifted slightly, adjusting so she was more comfortable, her head tucked under his chin. He glanced down at her little face, noticing how her lips were parted in that soft, peaceful way toddlers did when they were fully asleep.
Finally, he closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her tiny body against his chest settle him too. For the first time all afternoon, he let himself relax completely.
thank you!!! even though most of the time I don’t respond to these reblogs I just wanted you to know I really appreciate your feedback on my fics❤️❤️ @zoebensonsitonmyface
SUMMARY: peter spends the evening with his daughter, snacks and naps included.
warnings: this fic is completely safe and wholesome, just peter being a dad with his toddler daughter !!❤️❤️
—MASTERLIST—
Peter was flat on his back on the living room carpet, staring at the ceiling like he’d just accepted defeat. His three-year-old daughter was standing on his stomach
“Okay,” he said, gripping her small sides before she could wobble too far forward. “First of all, you weigh at least… a thousand pounds.”
She burst into giggles. “No I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do. I’m a scientist. I would know.” He replied, matter-of-factly.
“I’m three.” She said, holding up two fingers instead.
“Exactly. Peak heavy.”
She laughed harder at that, the kind of loud, messy toddler laugh that made his chest shake. He tightened his hold and slowly inched her upward, sliding her up above his chest until she was hovering over his face. Her curls bounced as she squealed, arms flailing.
“Too high?” he asked, squinting up at her.
“Nooo!”
“Alright, alright.”
He lifted her again, a little faster this time. She threw her head back laughing, squeals turning into hiccups mid-laugh. Peter froze for a second, then laughed himself.
“Hic… okay, okay, pause,” he said softly, patting her back. “Deep breaths.”
When he brought her down again, she flopped forward, landing fully against his chest, cheek pressed over his heartbeat. He let out a soft “oof,” but wrapped his arms around her automatically.
She hiccuped again, smaller this time, and tried to lean into him for support. He held her gently against his chest, rocking slightly until the hiccups slowed. “Better?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” she said with a tiny hiccup, snuggling closer.
After a few more rounds of playful lifts and gentle slides, she ended up lying sideways across his chest, tracing random shapes on his T-shirt with her little finger. Her hiccups had stopped, but her breathing was slowing, shoulders drooping.
“Still hungry?” he asked, noticing the way she pressed her hands to her belly.
She nodded slowly. “Snack.”
He lifted her onto his hip and carried her to the kitchen. She picked applesauce, and he helped her scoop it carefully with the spoon, making sure the wobbly bites didn’t end up on the floor. Between bites, she was already blinking longer, chewing slower, and letting her tiny body relax into him.
Once the applesauce was gone, she stared at him with wide eyes. “Daddy… use super speed?” she begged, tiny hands holding his shirt tightly.
Peter chuckled softly. “Uh..—not for snack time,” he said. “We’re eating safely.”
“Pleeeeease!” she whined, jiggling slightly in his arms. “Fast! Zoom!”
He laughed and ruffled her curls. “I told you, kiddo, no super speed while eating. Remember what happened last time?”
She pouted for a second, then accepted a tiny nod. Still, she tried to wiggle closer as if convincing him to change his mind.
By the time she was done with the snacks, she just sat against him, belly full, blinking at nothing in particular. Peter rested a hand over her stomach and gave it a gentle pat. It was firm, warm, and perfectly satisfied. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You’re done.”
She made a soft little sound in agreement, resting her fingers lightly on his collar.
He shifted her so she was stretched along his torso, her head against his chest, one tiny leg hooked over his side. Peter rubbed her back in slow circles, checking her belly again lightly.
Within a minute, she was completely out. Her tiny body relaxed in his arms, sticky little fingers still resting lightly on his shirt. He leaned back against the couch cushion, careful not to move too much.
Though, peter shifted slightly, adjusting so she was more comfortable, her head tucked under his chin. He glanced down at her little face, noticing how her lips were parted in that soft, peaceful way toddlers did when they were fully asleep.
Finally, he closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her tiny body against his chest settle him too. For the first time all afternoon, he let himself relax completely.
I love your writing!!!! I noticed how you don’t really have any peter fics up yet so I wanted to be the first person to request one of peter, do you think you’d be able to make a girldad!peter fic? I really wanna see the dynamic between him and his little girl 😭 🙏 tyy
YESS OMG ⭐️ this is actually such a cute and good idea, I’d love to explore their relationship, this is most def getting made
SUMMARY: two broken souls finding something real in the cracks of the house.
warnings: established relationship, self-harm/suicide references, emotional intensity, cursing, (late post 😔 was supposed to be published yesterday) rushed a bit.
—MASTERLIST—
The sunlight slices through the cracked blinds upstairs, dust motes drifting lazily in the streaks, making the room feel like it’s paused mid-afternoon. Tate’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, deck of cards spread out in front of him.
“You really don’t know how to shuffle properly,” he says.
“I do,” you say immediately, reaching for the deck. Your fingers fumble a little, trying to mimic him. “I just… I like them spread out.”
He frowns, watching your hands. “That’s not how you… never mind.” He flips the deck back into a messy stack. “Fine, spread em’ out, but you don’t just slap them down. There’s rhythm. Flow.” He makes it sound almost poetic, but really it’s just him staring at the cards.
You laugh quietly, a little breathless, the sound too bright for the shadowed room. “Flow. Got it.” You shuffle again, slower this time, still clumsy, but you don’t notice. You’re just happy to be near him.
“Stop grinning,” he says, flat, but the flatness carries something softer than the words. He doesn’t look up. “You look like a goddamn idiot when you do that.”
“I look like me,” you say softly, the corners of your smile dipping just a fraction. You catch his glance for a moment, almost too quick. “I like me.” you murmured.
He blinked, humming at that once before shoving the deck at you again. “M’kay, let’s deal. Don’t fuck it up. You’ve got to follow suit if you can, or… or whatever the rules are. I don’t care. Just don’t be stupid.”
You dealt slowly, watching him the whole time. He picked up on it—how your gaze lingered too long, how you leaned forward just slightly, He didn’t comment, just watched, which made her fingers twitch nervously over the cards.
“—Jesus Christ,” he muttered finally, “..how are you this bad?” he laughed then, and it rolled over you like a small wave. You laughed too, quieter, almost shyly.
“You’re—supposed to teach me, remember?” you replied, lifting your chin, though your voice had that odd, edge to it—the kind that made him pause and study your face.
“I am teaching you,” he said, shrugging. “You’re just…a slow learner.” He grinned then, small and fleeting, because he liked you slow. Liked how you hung on every little gesture, every syllable he spills out.
“Slow’s good sometimes,” you say, almost matter-of-factly, eyes locked on his. “Makes you… notice things.”
Tate raises an eyebrow. “Notice things? Like what? That I’m obviously way better than you?”
“No—well, yes, that too,” you say, letting a small grin slip. “But mostly, just… how much you actually care about stupid little details. Like the way you shuffle, the cards you pick up wrong, the way you scowl at me when I mess up. I notice all of it.”
“You mean you pay attention to every little thing I do?”
“Of course I do,” you say, shrugging slightly. “You’re hard not to notice. And honestly, it’s kind of… fun. Seeing you get frustrated over cards makes me laugh.”
“Creepy,” Tate murmured.
“You think that’s creepy?” you tease, nudging his shoulder lightly.
“Yeah, a little,” he admits with a smirk. “But you’re my kind of creepy.” The second it leaves his mouth, the regret is obvious, written all over his face.
You furrow your brows, fighting a smile. “Jeez. That was… soo corny, Tate.” He groans and drops his face into his hands, a nervous laugh slipping out.
“God, I know. I know, that sounded way better in my head.”
can i request a 90s tate langdon x dead!reader (established relationship? kinda?) where he's not dead, it's the 90s and he's yk living in the murder house.
reader killed herself after going mad and now wanders the house aimlessly. she has cut marks on her wrists but tate just assumes she just self-harms, not that she's really dead. she's very sunshiney but in a gloomy, crazy way... pls get what i mean
anyway, she's been very touch-starved and lonely so she's just very very attached to him and he doesn't mind that much because same!!
is this too dark kind of? i didn't see anything on your rules post but if you're uncomfortable please feel free to ignore this!!!!
Omg hiiii!! 😭 I loved your request, and I’m working on it, it’s coming together really nicely. It won’t be posted immediately, but it’ll be up a little later today, and I hope you like how it turns out! ❤️❤️
SUMMARY: you and tate have a knack for pushing each other’s buttons, and what starts as playful teasing quickly turns into something softer.
warnings: established relationship, clingy behavior, physical affection, excessive kissing (a lot 😬) cursing
—MASTERLIST—
Tate held the Rubik’s cube above his face, turning it lazily, the plastic clicking with every shift of a row. One of his legs dangled off the edge of the bed, foot swaying slightly. He kept messing it up on purpose, just to fix it again,
“—Okay, but that’s literally what I’m saying,” he continues, twisting the cube. “people only care when it’s dramatic, nobody cares about the in-between stuff.”
Click. click.
He finally glanced down at you, your on your side, already half draped over him. your head was resting against his shoulder, arm thrown over his stomach. Your fingers were absentmindedly playing with the hem of his shirt.
He squinted slightly, “—Are you even listening?”
You hummed softly, pressing your lips briefly against his jaw, just enough to make him blink. He glanced down at you, confused, and returned to twisting the cube.
“You sure? ‘Cause I feel like you’re… not really listening,” he teased, eyes flicking between you and the colorful puzzle.
You tilted your head and leaned in fully, straddling him. Your lips found his in a slow kiss, and he let out a soft, surprised groan. you grabbed the cube from him and held it out of reach, straightening slightly on his lap.
Tate tried to lift up toward you, chasing your lips, but eventually gave in, settling back against the mattress as you lightly wrestled the cube from his hands. You straightened slightly, balancing on his lap.
“How d’you even work this shitty thing?” you say, shifting on his lap. Tate bit back a noise.
Tate exhales softy through his nose, staring up at the ceiling for a quick moment before back at you. “It’s not ‘shitty’ you just don’t know patterns.”
You twisted a row randomly.
“No, shit, see— now you messed up the corner.” he drawled, lazily reaching his hand up to take it from you before you inched it more away from him and he let it drop.
“I thought you were fuckin’ it up on purpose.”
“Yeah, but strategically.” he replied.
“Big word,” you murmured under your breath, a teasing lilt in your voice.
You deliberately twisted the cube the wrong way again, just to push him. His reaction was immediate. One of his hands slid from your hip, fingers dragging slowly over the curve of your waist until they hooked at the hem of your shirt.
His thumb traced along your side slowly before slipping under the fabric. The material shifted with his movement, warmth brushing your skin. His eyes kept darting up, watching you focus on the cube, thinking he might get away with it.
You caught his wrist before he could go any further, guiding his hand away from underneath your shirt and pressing it flat against his own chest instead.
Tate frowned up at you, “Oh my god, fuck you,” he groaned, snatching the cube from your hands. “You’re literally a horndog,” you shot back, though there was a softness in your tone that ruined any attempt at sounding serious.
“No, I’m not,” he replied, narrowing his eyes at you, lips tugging into a crooked half-smirk. “God, you’re such a hypocrite. You’re the one who’s always on me.”
He let the words linger between you.
“That doesn’t mean I wanna fuck, does it?” you countered quickly but before he could respond, you leaned down closer, effectively trapping him beneath you. Your hands came up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing along his jaw as you pressed a trail of light, playful kisses across his cheek, the corner of his mouth, down to his jawline.
He tried to duck away from your mouth, shoulders shaking as you kept pressing quick kisses along his cheek and jaw. “Mmph—quit it,” he laughed under his breath, the protest completely ruined by the grin pulling at his lips.
You only hummed, dragging it out to annoy him more.
He caught your wrists, fingers wrapping around them and guiding your hands down. Using the small opening, he shifted upward, closing the distance himself. he leaned in and pressed a quick, almost mocking peck to your lips.
You blinked at him. “That it?” you asked, barely hiding the grin tugging at your mouth.
He didn’t answer, just leaned in and did it again. Another quick kiss. Just as short. You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Wow. I’m sooo swept off my feet.”
He gave you a look, then leaned in again. Another peck. And another. Each one lingering a fraction longer than the last, like he was testing how far he could push it without fully committing.
“See?” he murmured between them.
“See what?”
“That you’re full of shit.”
You scoffed softly, but he was already kissing you again this time slower, his hand sliding from your wrist to your waist to steady you. The teasing rhythm of quick pecks gradually lost its sharpness. The pauses between them shortened. His mouth lingered instead of pulling away right away.
“Okay,— alright— you win!” You say aloud. You gasped softly, leaning back slightly, but he followed, pressing closer
“Tate—” you sighed, but he pressed one more, long, final kiss, letting a low, drawn-out noise slip into it. “Mmm…” The pressure of the kiss made you lean back, but his hands on your waist kept you from tipping over.
HII DORIANN !! I’m so glad your actually going with the whole fic making the thing and I’m literally in LOVE with your work 😭😭 for your first actual request I was going to ask if you could maybe make a tate x fem!reader fic? It can be literally about anything you want!!
and please tag me when it’s done ❤️ ❤️LOVE YOU
rhy, I’m not even kidding, you’re the reason I started posting my writing. You were the one who told me to just go for it. So seeing you this excited about it genuinely makes me so happy 😭 I’ll absolutely write the tate fic and I’ll tag you as soon as it’s up ❤️love u 2 !!
The bell above the door didn’t ring so much as choke when you pushed it open. It made this tired little jangle.
The air inside was warmer than outside. Thicker. It smelled faintly like plastic wrap, old carpet, and something aggressively artificial. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flattening everything into the same dull shade.
You stopped two steps in. To your right was a wall.
Not a subtle wall. A wall, filled with literal sex toys. You blinked once. Then twice. Then looked very deliberately at the ceiling instead.
“Okay,” you muttered under your breath.
You weren’t naïve. You just… hadn’t processed what “Adult World” meant in practical terms. You’d seen a flyer about used books in the window last week and thought it was quirky. Indie. Maybe ironic.
You forced yourself to move further inside, eyes fixed ahead like if you didn’t look directly at anything, nothing could look back at you.
The counter was empty.
There was a rolling office chair behind it, slightly turned, like someone had just gotten up mid-thought. A half-empty coffee cup sat near the register. A paperback was facedown beside it, spine cracked.
From the back hallway, you heard faint music, something older, and then a voice. Off-key. Low. Singing along like the person didn’t think anyone could hear them.
You stood there awkwardly for a few seconds. Then you cleared your throat. The singing stopped immediately. And there was a beat of silence.
Then a door creaked open in the back, and someone stepped out. He didn’t look surprised to exist. He just looked vaguely irritated that existence required effort.
His eyes landed on you.
Paused.
You watched the exact second he clocked that you were not a middle-aged man. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly. He straightened a little. Ran a hand through his hair like it wasn’t deliberate.
“Uh,” he said, then recovered. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
Another beat.
He looked at the book in your hand. “You looking for something specific?” he asked, tone sliding back into dry neutrality.
“I saw you had books,” you said carefully.
“We do.” he hummed.
You tilted your head slightly. “I didn’t realize it was… this.”
He followed your vague gesture toward the rest of the store. “The name didn’t give it away?”
“I thought it was ironic.”
He snorted softly before he could stop himself, then tried to disguise it as a cough. “Yeah. People think that.”
He walked behind the counter, movements loose but not careless. There was a slight stiffness to him, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that you were there.
“You have actual literature?” you asked. “Or is it all, you know—”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Define actual.”
“Something not shrink-wrapped.”
His mouth twitched. “Back left corner. Poetry. Fiction. It’s mostly used. People sell it when they need rent money.”
“Charming.”
You walked toward the back, hyperaware of the rest of the store. Your footsteps felt too loud. The hum of the lights felt louder. You crouched near the shelf he mentioned. The selection wasn’t terrible. Random, but not terrible. You pulled one out and skimmed the first page.
From the counter, he called, “That one’s decent.”
You glanced up. “You’ve read it?”
He shrugged. “I read most of them. It gets slow in here.”
There was something in his tone, not bragging, but not casual either. Like he needed you to know he wasn’t just some guy working at a porn store.
You stood and walked back up to the counter, book in hand. “So,” you said, resting your elbows lightly on the counter. “You work here voluntarily?”
He leaned back from the counter a bit, hands still resting on the edge. “Voluntarily feels like a strong word.”
“You could leave.”
“I could also starve,” he replied.
“Fair.”
He picked up the book from your hands to look at it. His fingers brushed yours briefly, He swallowed almost imperceptibly and focused very hard on the back cover.
“You actually going to buy it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Cool.” Alex cursed himself mentally, cool? god, dude.
He rang it up, movements efficient but slightly tense, nervous under your watch, He dropped the book once — barely — and muttered, “Shit,” under his breath before setting it flat and scanning it properly.
You pretended not to notice. “You don’t seem like you belong here,” you said, watching him. His eyes flicked up to yours. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you seem like you’d rather be somewhere else.”
A pause.
“Yeah,” he said finally, giving a small shrug. “Probably.”
“So why stay?”
His jaw tightened faintly. There it was, that defensive edge.
“Money,” he said. “And I don’t have a trust fund.”
“I didn’t assume you did.”
“People assume a lot of things.” You held his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
“I’m not people,” you said lightly.
That caught him off guard. You saw it. The flicker. He looked away first, busying himself with the receipt printer. “Right,” he said, a little too quickly. The machine spit out the receipt with a loud mechanical whirr.
When he handed it to you, your fingers brushed again, this time more deliberately. Testing.
He froze for half a second. Not visibly. Just enough that you felt it. “You from around here?” he asked, tone casual but just slightly tighter than before.
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”
He nodded like that answered something important. “You?” you asked.
“Unfortunately.”
You smiled faintly. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?” He looked up at you slowly. “I’ve been told.” he murmured. “But like, not in a mean way.” you added.
“Good,” he replied. “I’d hate to accidentally have depth.” You laughed — actually laughed — and it seemed to knock something loose in him. His shoulders relaxed a fraction.
There was a brief silence.
“You can come back,” he said, like it was an afterthought. “For more… literature.”
“Oh, now it’s literature.”
“It always was.” He lied, you adjusted the book under your arm “Maybe I will,” you said. He nodded once, trying for indifferent and landing somewhere slightly hopeful.
ask for their number ask for their number
“Alex — I’m uh, alex by the way.” He quickly added, you looked over your shoulder at him, giving him your name before you left.
The door shut. The bell gave that weak, dying jingle and then the store went quiet again. Alex stood there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the glass like it might rewind the last five minutes if he focused hard enough.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.
He replayed it immediately.
You can come back.
For more literature.
God. That was smooth. Truly groundbreaking stuff. He scrubbed a hand down his face and let out a slow exhale. Then, without thinking, he brought his palm down against the counter. A quick, frustrated smack.
“Fuck.” He could’ve asked.
It would’ve been easy. Casual. Hey, if you want, I could text you when new stuff comes in. Boom. Done. Instead he’d stood there like an idiot pretending he didn’t care.
He flexed his hand, jaw tight. Because now he had no idea if you’d actually come back.
hey!! your masterlist and my rules links are broken!! i think it's because you maybe had another username before?? if it's that, when you change the user the links gets broken bc still it's the one with the old username! — if you're already knew and was already working on it, sorry for the yapping opsie!
but btw hello!! new evan peters writer!! 🥰🥰 nice to meet you!!
yess sorry 😿 I know I haven’t posted them publicly yet so that may be the reason why, I’ll post them soon I just wanted to get a few stuff out before then 😅😅
You were hunched over your desk, papers scattered everywhere, your grimoire cracked open and filled with cramped notes in the margins. It was a protection spell.
The candle beside you flickered too hard, wax dripping unevenly down the side. The scratch of your pen felt too loud in the quiet room. Above, the ceiling fan spun lazily, casting slow-moving shadows that dragged across the walls.
Kyle was laid flat on your bed. At first, he had just been watching you like he always did, wide-eyed, curious, trying to understand what you were doing.
Eventually, staring up at the fan like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. His eyes followed the spinning blades, slow and steady. His mouth was slightly parted, brow faintly furrowed in concentration.
He shifted his head on the pillow and turned to look at you instead. His eyes followed the movement of your hand, the way your pen dragged across the page. He let out a small sound.
“Mm.” Soft. Thoughtful.
You didn’t respond. He waited a few seconds, still nothing.
He pushed himself up on his elbows and made another small noise, slightly louder this time. “Uh.” You inhaled, but kept writing. He sat up fully now, feet hanging off the bed, studying you. Another sound slipped out of him. “Mm.”
“Kyle, not right now,” you murmured, not looking away from your page. Silence followed, you could feel him staring.
His brows knitted together slightly, not anger, just confusion. He slid off the bed slowly, bare feet silent against the floor. You didn’t hear him approach until you felt him behind you.
He leaned forward, peering over your shoulder at the page. His breath brushed the side of your neck. His hair tickled your temple. You could smell soap and something faintly metallic that never quite left him.
You lost your place on the page.
“Kyle,” you said carefully.
He hummed in response, still reading.
Your pulse ticked behind your eyes. The candle flame flared and sputtered, reacting to your rising frustration.
“Can you just give me a minute?” you tried again.
He frowned slightly. “With you.”
“I know. I just— I need space.”
He didn’t move.
“..Space?” he repeated, like the concept didn’t quite click.
You closed your eyes for half a second, trying to breathe through it. The scratching of your pen felt unbearable now. The fan sounded louder. His breathing louder still.
He shifted again, and his hand came down on the desk beside yours — not grabbing, just bracing himself.
That was the breaking point.
“Kyle, back up!” you snapped, louder than you intended. “I can’t fucking think when you’re hovering over me!” The words hit harder than you meant them to.
He recoiled instantly.
Actually recoiled, like something had struck him. His shoulders slightly hunched. His eyes went wide and glassy with shock. He took two uneven steps back from the desk.
The room felt colder, he stared at you, stunned. “I—“ he stated, but the sentence fell apart in his throat. His hands flexed at his sides. He looked down at them, then back at you, confusion written over his face.
“You… loud,” he said quietly. Guilt washed over you so fast it made you dizzy.
“Kyle ..”
“I didn’t mean to yell,” you said immediately, pushing back from the desk. “I’m sorry. I’m just ..stressed.”
He blinked at you.
“Sss—trr..essed?,” he repeated.
“Mhm.”
He searched your face carefully, like he was trying to find the truth in it. “Not… me?” he asked.
“No, not you.”
A small pause. Then, softer, “I… wrong?”Your heart twisted. “No— no, You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He swallowed, jaw tightening faintly. You could see him trying to process it, trying to understand why the volume of your voice hurt more than the words.
He stepped back another inch on instinct, like he was giving you the “space” you’d asked for, even if he didn’t fully grasp it.
“Mmh,” he murmured, “Stay… there,” he muttered to himself, pointing at the floor where he stood, as if drawing a boundary line. You almost broke at that, moving toward him slowly this time.
He stiffened for half a second. Not afraid, just unsure, then relaxed when your hand gently took his wrist. “I don’t want you gone, Kyle,” you said softly, letting your other hand drift to his cheek, resting there. “I just needed breathing room.”
He went very still under your touch.
His skin was cool against your palm. His eyes flickered between yours, searching, measuring. He leaned, just barely, into your hand, like he was testing if he was allowed to.
“Room,” he echoed quietly, this entire conversation you were surprised how well his pronunciation had gotten.
“Yeah. When everything feels …too loud, too close… I get overwhelmed. It’s not about you.”
He frowned slightly, thinking. “Too much,” he said after a moment, tapping lightly at his own temple. You nodded. “Exactly. Too much.”
His jaw shifted faintly as he worked it through in his head. You could see the effort, the slow, deliberate processing. He wasn’t fragile. He wasn’t stupid. It just took him time to untangle feelings from reactions.
He watched your face for another second, then glanced down at your mouth. The shift was subtle. “Help?” he asked quietly.
“With?”
He hesitated. His brows pulled together, like he was trying to find the right shape for the words. “Kiss,” he said finally, voice rough but steady. “Help?”
You blinked, caught off guard, not by the request itself, but by how careful he was about it.
“..You think a kiss will help?” you asked gently. He nodded once.
Something in your chest loosened.
You studied him for a moment — the uncertainty in his eyes, the way he was holding himself still, like he’d accept a no without argument.
“It might,” you admitted. His shoulders shifted faintly, hopeful but restrained. “Okay?”
You stepped a little closer, closing the small space between you.
“Okay.”
His hand came up slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. It hovered near your jaw before resting there, thumb cool against your cheek.
He leaned in carefully, slower than most people would. Like he was afraid of startling you again. The kiss was gentle, warm pressure and the faintest tremble in his mouth as he tried to get it right.
You felt him exhale against you, a soft, shaky breath. When he pulled back, he searched your face immediately. “Better?” he asked.
You let out a quiet breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Better.”
hii before you scroll any further, please read this:
minors are allowed on this blog. i don’t gatekeep based on age.
however — minors are NOT allowed to interact with, request, or consume my nsfw content.
this blog will contain some 18+ material and sfw . if you are under 18, you are responsible for avoiding nsfw fics and tags. please, do not request smut. do not interact with explicit posts. your age is your responsibility 😕.
no harassment or character hate.
if you don’t like a character, trope, or dynamic literally just scroll on dude. this is a fictional space and i write what i enjoy.
triggering content
i tag:
– nsfw
– dubcon / noncon themes
– violence
– death
– mental illness
– toxic dynamics
if you ignore tags and get upset, that’s not on me. i will not rewrite my content to make it “softer”after it’s posted just because someone didn’t read warnings 🤷
if i write noncon or dubcon, it will serve the plot. i do not write random, out-of-nowhere assault purely for shock or cheap tension.
dead dove on this blog means exploration, not glorification🤍
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