#dadposting

too many people !! — in a crowded shop or a busy sidewalk, you stop being able to think about anything except all of the bodies moving around you. your lungs won't even seem to expand all the way. matt feels your hand go rigid and can hear your heart kick into overdrive, so he tugs you gently toward a side street or a booth in the back, or leads you toward the doors at the next stop without making a big production of it. talking about idle stuff all the while until he's walked you out from the area and into the fresh air. he lets you bury your face in his neck. "better?" he asks, rubbing slow lines up and down your back, and when you nod against him, he finds it so adorable, he can't resist the urge to pat your head so fondly. his brave girl. ><

2am webmd spiral — you're always convinced the headache is something worse, and doomscrolling on crappy medical sites under the covers isn't making things any better. matt wakes up, groans and rolls over, and plucks the phone out your hand without a word, setting it on the nightstand. but he doesn't tell you you're being ridiculous, instead he pulls you into his arms and tells it how it is to reassure you. maybe: "you're warm, but not feverish. your pulse is okay. your sinuses are just draining a little, that's all." / or: "you took your vitamins today and you ate dinner. your tummy's just a little upset, it's okay. nothing's wrong." his senses are getting ABUSEDDD to build a wall between you and your endless what-ifs, and he's more than happy to do that!!!

"does this feel weird to you?" — besides the headache, there's always your knee, your wrist, your stomach, the left side of your chest, so on... you poke and poke at it, frowning, and when matt notices he sets down whatever work he's doing and tugs your hands down. always so patient, never irritated by the interruption. he might rub his fingers over the spot, playing doctor. using his senses to feel whatever heat or blood flow or muscle tension there is. "it's just a knot, sweetie," he'll say, or, "it's just a little gas bubble, that's all," or sometimes, "you're ovulating. that's normal." he can always tell. >< in the end, you're a little embarrassed but relieved, mumbling thank you dad, sorry into his neck. he only chuckles and tells you never to be sorry for coming to him. that's what he's here for, after all :)

aftercare — being naked and undone with him is heaven until it's not. suddenly you're too aware of your own body and you hate every sticky sensation there is. but matt's all too familiar with this—he's just as sensitive, after all—so he rolls out of bed and comes back with a warm washcloth and a glass of water. "arms up, baby," and he cleans you off, and then wraps you in his shirt, kissing you and reassuring you that you did so good for him.

just like you don’t realize a lot of things you do—like setting your drink down and forgetting where, or opening your mouth to say something only to lose your train of thought halfway through. it’s not that you’re absentminded, not exactly—just that your brain moves in odd little loops, hopping from one thing to the next, following some logic only you seem to understand. sometimes words slip out before you can catch them, unfiltered, instinctive, especially when you're feeling safe. content.

he should probably correct you again, make sure it doesn’t happen again, but he doesn’t. because you look so content snuggled into his side on the couch, basking in sunlight, so soft and warm and his. and because he knows you didn’t mean anything by it, not really. so he lets it slide.

then it happens again.

you’re out in soho together. you’re excited, tugging on his sleeve, shoving something small into his hands, your voice hushed in awe—“dad, feel! it’s so tiny!”

this time, he does hesitate. it's barely there, the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, but you catch it.

“wait—what?” you stop mid-sentence, blinking at him.

“mm,” he hums, amused. “nothing. just—thought you were about to ask me for an allowance.”

you squint at him, suspicious. “what are you—” oh. realization flickers across your face, and for the first time, you actually notice what you said. your eyes widen slightly, heat creeping up your neck. “oh. that. uh. that was—”

“an accident?” he supplies smoothly.

you clear your throat, suddenly very interested in your hands. “…yeah. sorry.”

he could push. could tease. but he doesn’t. he just huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. and that’s the end of it.

except—well. it keeps happening.

not all the time, and never on purpose, but it slips out when you’re distracted—when you’re half-asleep and mumbling at him, when you’re overwhelmed with excitement and the words come out faster than your brain can filter them. dad, can you hold me?

he should stop it—he knows he should, but before he knows it, you're already snoring lightly against him, cheek pressed to his neck.

in the end, he settles on pretending not to notice the heat rising in his face when it slips out in public, or the tightness in his chest when you look so pleased, lost in your own little world. it’s harmless, he tells himself, ignoring the quiet unease that lingers beneath his ribs.

—

until one night, when he has you beneath him, fingers buried deep inside you, your body trembling.

“dad, please—!”

this time, he does stop. cold.

the air shifts between you. your breath catches, and he knows you can tell something’s different this time. that his lack of response means something.

and the worst part? you immediately realize what you’ve done.

your whole body tenses, hands tightening where they’re clutching his arms, your breath suddenly uneven for an entirely different reason. your lips part slightly, like you want to take it back but don’t know how, and then—softer, barely above a whisper—“…‘m so so sorry.”

his jaw tightens. he swallows. exhales sharply through his nose.

“told you not to call me that, didn't i.”

his voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it, something too carefully measured. then his fingers are moving again—faster, rougher—not because he’s punishing you, but because he needs to do something, needs to move past whatever the hell just settled too deep in his chest.

he grunts with exertion as you wail around him, breath punching out of you in something helpless and wrecked. you’re already on edge, already pliant beneath him, and when he presses his thumb against your clit, the way you twitch, the way your thighs try to snap closed around his wrist—

“please, matt,” you whimper now and something about it eases that knot of tension inside him, just a little. your hands find his shoulders, gripping tight, pulling him closer like you don’t know what else to do with yourself. “i—i didn’t mean to—”

“i know—and that's our problem, isn't it?” he murmurs, voice rough, lips brushing against your temple.

because you never mean it. you don’t think when you’re like this, don’t filter. your body moves on instinct, your thoughts pouring out of you unguarded, and—christ, he should stop. he should. should make you say his name, should set that boundary once and for all.

he drives his fingers deeper, stretching you open, dragging a broken moan from your throat. feels the way you shake apart beneath him, the way your breath comes in uneven little stutters, wrecked and desperate, like you’re waiting for something—for him to tell you to stop, for him to pull away, for him to finally draw the line—

but he doesn't.

because the truth is, he likes you like this—soft, open, untouched by the weight he carries. trusting him, even when he comes home with blood on his hands, with bruises he won’t let you see. trusting him, even when he can’t trust himself. not after doing the one thing he swore he'd never let himself do.

so he doesn’t stop. he works you harder, rougher, groaning when your nails dig into his skin, when your hips twitch beneath him, when you whimper something high and pleading into his shoulder, clutching at him, breaking for him.

...sobbing his new name on your tongue.

and later, when you’re all sleepy and limp against him, your breath slowing into something soft and even, it slips out again, quiet, warm, unthinking—

“love you, dad—" you start, but you catch yourself. "—dy.”

his breath catches. just for a second. just barely long enough to notice.

then, slowly, he exhales. presses a hand against your back. lets it slide.

he’s too soft for you. and it’s going to get him in trouble.

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