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Just finished watching Tell Me Your Secrets yesterday and. So. Many. Feels.

But overall it's a fantastic series and I totally recommend it. It's no secret to anyone that I'm a massive simp for Hamish, he was so hot and talented in this series, even though his character was a piece of shit. But we gotta give credit to Lily as well, she's a great actress and her acting as Karen / Emma was on point.

Spoiler alert under the cut...

Now for the yummy stuff. There are many scenes where you can hear the characters' breathing very loud, and it was not only a nice drama effect but also very hot IMO? I go weak for a labored breathing in my ear. Not me rewinding the scenes just to hear the sound of air coming in and out of Hamish's lungs... Ik it's supposed to be creepy since his character is a rapist, but good luck convincing my brain of that lololol

Aaaand the cardiophilia bits: there's a scene in which John puts his head on Emma's chest as if he's listening to her heart and I wish it was me instead of her ugh

Anyway, fanfiction will ensue... (I'm not experienced in writing violent / dark fics but I'll give it a go)

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I’m Just an Insect, You’re the Shine:

word count : 3,030 ✴︎⋆.˚

You don’t remember when the weight of today started settling on your shoulders. Maybe it was that early email, the one that made your stomach twist. Maybe it was the conversation that followed—too many expectations, not enough support. Maybe it was just everything. But now it clings to you, silent and heavy, like smoke in your lungs.

The world outside your window is a smudge of dusk and drizzle, cool grey swallowing up the warmth of the day. You don’t realize you’ve been standing at the door, keys in hand, for almost a minute—just staring at the handle like it might open itself, like it might lead somewhere else entirely.

But the door clicks, swings open.

And he’s there.

“Ah, amore mio,” Terzo says, voice soft and lilting like velvet draped across old wood. His tone is lower than usual, careful. He sees it in your eyes, the day you’re carrying. “Come in.”

You don’t answer. You just step in and close the door behind you like it might keep the whole world out.

Terzo doesn't press you. He never does when you’re like this. He simply offers his hand, palm up and waiting. You take it, wordlessly. His fingers are warm, rings cool against your skin, grounding. He tugs you gently—into the living room, into quiet.

You melt into the couch, or maybe you collapse. Either way, you end up curled slightly toward him, your body aching for something safe. His arm slips behind your shoulders, and he pulls you close, no fanfare, no questions. Just his presence, as dependable as the heartbeat you barely notice until it slows.

“Today was... not kind to you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple.

That’s when your chest tightens. Just enough to sting. Just enough to feel like your breath gets caught in your throat.

“I’m so tired, Terzo,” you whisper. “It’s too much today.”

He exhales softly, resting his cheek against your head. “Then we will do nothing at all, tesoro. Not one single thing. Just breathe with me, sì?”

You nod, eyes closed now, throat thick.

Terzo stays still for a while—long enough for your breathing to find some rhythm again. Outside, the rain picks up just enough to tap on the windows like a lullaby. He hums, low and tuneful, the beginnings of a melody you don’t recognize but that wraps around you all the same.

“Let me take care of you tonight,” he says after a moment. “Just tonight, let me be the soft thing you need.”

It’s a strange thing, having permission to let go. But with him, it's easy. With Terzo, nothing feels like too much. Not even you.

ㅡ

You don’t know how long you sit like that, tucked under his arm, your face hidden against the soft fabric of his shirt. He smells like warmth and incense and something faintly sweet, like the ghosts of roses past. His fingertips move in slow circles on your arm, not expecting anything in return, not asking anything of you—just existing there, warm and human and yours.

He tilts his head to kiss your forehead. It's not rushed. It's the kind of kiss that says I see you. The kind that lingers even after his lips lift.

“Can I get you something, bella mia?” he whispers into your hair. “Tea? A blanket? Me wrapped around you like a scarf?”

You manage the smallest laugh, a little cracked at the edges. “Just… stay. Please.”

“Always.”

He shifts a little, just enough to pull you fully into his lap. You let him. His arms come around your waist, one hand smoothing slowly up your back, the other cupping the back of your head like he’s afraid the day might break you and he wants to hold all your pieces in place.

“There you are,” he murmurs as you bury your face in the curve of his neck. “This is where you live now. In my arms. Rent-free, forever.”

You huff out a breath against his skin, which might be a laugh or a sob—maybe both. He holds you a little tighter in response, his lips pressing to your temple, your cheek, the side of your nose. Featherlight kisses, one after another, like he’s trying to dust the sadness off of you, bit by bit.

Every kiss says: You’re safe.

Every kiss says: You don’t have to be strong right now.

And maybe you don’t. Maybe just for this evening, you can let it all go.

You’re not sure when your tears start. It’s not a dramatic thing, no sobs or shaking, just a quiet wetness that slips down your cheek as your body sinks further into him. You don’t even bother hiding it.

He notices, of course. Terzo always notices. He gently tilts your face toward him, his thumb wiping at the dampness beneath your eye.

“Amore… you don’t have to carry it alone,” he says, voice like a lullaby. “Even if you think it’s silly. Even if it feels too big.”

“I didn’t want to fall apart today,” you murmur, looking away.

He guides your face back to his, tender but insistent. “Then fall apart tonight, with me. I’ll catch you. I want to catch you.”

His lips meet yours—soft and slow. Not urgent. Just sure. He kisses you like it’s a promise, like the world outside doesn’t exist. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours and whispers, “You deserve gentleness, even on your messiest days. Especially then.”

He doesn’t move far. His nose brushes yours, a quiet affection in every tiny touch. Then another kiss, this time to the tip of your nose, then your cheek, your jaw. His arms stay wrapped tightly around you, the weight of him anchoring you to this moment.

The room hums with warmth, the rain outside continuing its gentle percussion.

“You know what I think?” he says, one hand now moving to your hair, carding through it slowly, again and again. “I think the world is too loud, and you’re too lovely for it. So I’m going to keep you here, where the quiet lives.”

He kisses your hair, the crown of your head, slow and reverent.

“Let me draw a bath for you,” he says after a moment. “Hot, full of lavender and rose. Then I’ll wrap you in your fluffiest robe, make you tea, and kiss every last bit of stress off your shoulders. Yes?”

You hesitate. You don’t want to move. You don’t want to leave the safety of his arms.

He smiles softly and presses another kiss to your lips. “I’ll carry you if I must, my sweet. Don’t test me. I’m very dramatic.”

You finally nod, and he rises with you still in his arms—because of course he does. You cling to him without shame, your cheek pressed to his collarbone, and he carries you down the hallway as if you weigh nothing, like he’s done it a hundred times before.

ㅡ

The hallway is dim and quiet, save for the soft sound of rain against the windows and Terzo’s even breathing as he carries you. You feel his heart under your ear, steady and slow. Each step rocks you gently, like being cradled by the world itself.

When he pushes the bathroom door open with his shoulder, warm light spills into the hall. He nudges it shut behind him with a bump of his heel and sets you gently down on the edge of the bathtub, his hands lingering on your hips.

“Just a moment,” he says softly, brushing his knuckles under your chin. “I’ll make it perfect.”

He turns on the tap, adjusting the heat with practiced ease, and pulls down the small drawer where he keeps his indulgences—bottles of oils and salts and dried flower petals like spells waiting to be cast. He picks a vial with rose gold flecks suspended in lavender oil and pours a generous swirl into the water. The scent unfurls like a sigh.

Then come the rose petals, the kind he insists aren’t too much for everyday use. “Every day should be a little holy,” he once told you. “And you, amore mio, are divine.”

You watch him through damp lashes as he prepares the bath—not just like a man drawing water, but like a priest preparing an altar.

When he turns back to you, his gaze softens instantly. He kneels in front of you, both hands coming to rest on your thighs, warm and reassuring.

“May I help you undress?” he asks gently.

You nod.

There’s nothing clinical or rushed about it. His fingers are slow and sure, easing your shirt up over your head, brushing a kiss over your shoulder as it passes. He helps you out of the rest, each motion more reverent than the last, like you’re something sacred. His hands move with care, pausing now and then to press a kiss to your skin—your collarbone, your sternum, your shoulder blades.

When you’re bare, he holds your gaze.

“You are beautiful, even when you feel like unraveling,” he says, fingers trailing along your jaw. “Especially then.”

He helps you into the tub with both hands, steady and sure, and you sink beneath the water like it's a warm embrace. The heat coils around your sore muscles, the scent of lavender and rose curling into your lungs, and for the first time all day, your body begins to loosen.

Terzo stays beside the tub, sitting on a stool he pulls close. He rolls up his sleeves, dips a cloth into the water, and begins to gently wash you. Slow strokes over your shoulders, your arms, your back. His movements are silent devotion.

“This is my favorite version of time,” he says after a while, voice quiet, “when it slows down for us. When nothing exists but this—your skin beneath my hands, your breath in my ears, the way your eyelashes flutter when you relax.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple. Then one to your cheek. Then, without breaking contact, his lips brush the edge of your mouth—soft and lingering. You tilt your face toward him, and the kiss deepens by fractions, still slow, still tender. It’s not about heat. It’s about anchoring you to the moment. About letting you know you are seen, completely.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “Say it with me, tesoro.”

“I’m safe,” you whisper.

Again. A kiss to your forehead.

“I’m safe.”

One to your shoulder.

“I’m safe.”

One to your heart.

ㅡ

He helps you out of the tub when the water begins to cool, wrapping you in a thick robe he warmed beforehand. It smells like him—sandalwood and spice and comfort. He pulls the hood over your damp hair and kisses your nose, smiling.

“There. My little burrito of sadness. Now a burrito of peace.”

You manage a sleepy laugh and lean into him again, and once more, he lifts you—easily, without complaint—and carries you back to the living room.

He sets you down gently onto the couch, then piles every available blanket over you with the kind of determined fussiness only he could make charming.

“Now. Tea?” he asks, already heading for the kitchen.

“Please.”

He returns minutes later with your favorite mug, a soft steam curling from the top. He hands it to you carefully and then joins you on the couch, tucking himself in beside you so close he’s practically wrapped around you. You find yourself cradled again, your legs over his, your head tucked beneath his chin.

He holds you like a treasure. Like something fragile he knows how to protect.

“I wish I could take every hard thing from you,” he whispers. “I’d carry them all on my back if I could.”

“You already do,” you murmur. “You’re… everything I needed today.”

He goes quiet, then tilts your face up to his.

His eyes are soft and dark, holding something unspoken.

“You are everything I need, every day,” he says, before leaning in and kissing you again—deeper this time, but still unhurried. His hands cradle your face like he’s memorizing the shape of it.

This kiss doesn’t end quickly. It ebbs and flows, warm and slow, with his thumbs brushing along your cheekbones, your lips parting gently under his. There’s a hum in your chest, a vibration of relief and presence, of being held and wanted.

You stay like that, kissing and breathing each other in, until your limbs are jelly and your eyes flutter closed between touches.

When you finally rest your head against his shoulder again, your body is lighter than it’s felt in days. Maybe weeks.

He notices the shift, the way your breath slows. His hand moves to your hair again, carding through it like a lullaby.

“You don’t have to be okay right away,” he says, barely above a whisper. “You just have to be here. With me. And I’ll keep the world away.”

“I love you,” you murmur into his chest.

You feel the way his whole body reacts—a stillness, a pause, and then a long, soft exhale.

“I love you too, anima mia,” he says. “So much. So deeply, sometimes I feel it in my bones.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, then your forehead again, then to each knuckle of the hand he’s holding.

“Close your eyes. I’ve got you.”

You do. And for the first time all day, maybe all week, you feel safe enough to let go.

ㅡ

The quiet stretches long and gentle between you.

Outside, the rain has faded into mist. Just the occasional drop falls now, like the sky is finally resting too. Inside, you’re cocooned in warmth: wrapped in layers of blankets, pressed to Terzo’s chest, the flicker of a candle throwing golden light across his cheekbones.

You feel his hand on your back, moving in slow, rhythmic strokes. His breathing is steady beneath your ear—like a lullaby all by itself. Every now and then, he presses a kiss into your hair. They’re not planned. Not performative. Just instinct, like a flower leaning toward the sun.

Your limbs are heavy now, but in the best way. The tension that curled itself into your bones has melted. You shift slightly, and Terzo adjusts immediately, pulling you tighter, tucking your head beneath his chin again like it’s your rightful place.

“Sono qui,” he whispers. “I’m here.”

You smile faintly into his chest, and he feels it.

“Better?” he asks, voice warm and quiet.

You nod. “Still a little... heavy. But softer now.”

“Good. We’re in no rush.” He kisses your temple again, lips brushing softly over your skin. “I want to hold you until you feel light again. Or until you fall asleep right here on me. Whichever comes first.”

Your eyes are already fluttering shut.

“You really don’t mind?” you murmur, sleep slurring your voice just a little.

He huffs a soft laugh, and the sound vibrates gently through his chest.

“Tesoro. I want this. To hold you when you’re tired, to be your soft place when the world isn’t. That is not a burden. That is a blessing.”

Your breathing slows as his hands trace lazy, comforting circles against your back. The hand at your waist tightens slightly, anchoring you, and then his lips are back—your forehead, your cheek, the soft spot just below your ear. So many kisses, each one like a small tether keeping you here, in this safety, in this love.

The rain has stopped completely now, leaving behind the hush of a world washed clean.

Terzo hums a quiet tune, just for you. Something low and wordless. It doesn’t matter what it is—it feels like home. His fingertips continue their slow, steady motion in your hair, soothing the last frayed threads of your day into stillness.

And then—just as your mind begins to drift—he whispers, right beside your ear:

“You’re allowed to rest now, amore. You’ve done more than enough. Let me be the one to stay awake and keep the quiet for you.”

You want to say something back. Want to tell him how deeply this moment means to you, how loved you feel, how the world doesn’t seem quite as sharp with him in it.

But your body’s already answering for you.

Your breathing evens out, deep and slow.

He feels it.

He smiles against your hair.

He pulls the blankets up a little higher and shifts just enough to rest more comfortably, making sure not to disturb your peace. Then, in the silence, he continues holding you like something precious, like something breakable—but only because you deserve to be held so gently.

He doesn't sleep. Not right away.

He just watches over you, fingertips brushing the back of your hand, a soft smile still on his lips. He murmurs things in Italian you won’t hear—sweet nothings, endearments, little praises only meant for you.

Eventually, when the last candle burns low and the quiet is complete, he closes his eyes too.

But even then, his arms never let you go.

꒱ ˖ׄ ★ ୭ Notes:

It's been such a rough and super stressful day, so please enjoy this one. Thinking about Terzo when things get too much is always so comforting ˖ ࣪⊹ I really do view him as a huge lovebug who actually enjoys all this loving stuff. He may be cunty but deep down he's the biggest sweetheart the world has seen ★

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Where the Night Softens

You woke with a jolt, air catching painfully in your throat as your heart pounded like it was trying to escape your chest. The dream had felt too real—fingers you couldn’t see pulling you down, voices echoing with lies, the weight of panic pressing you into the mattress.

And then—

“Tesoro…”

The voice, low and drowsy but instantly alert, cut through the fog like a thread of gold in the dark.

You felt the bed shift as Terzo moved closer, rising onto one elbow. The rustle of his sheets was familiar, grounding.

“Hey, hey... come here.” He slid his arms around you, pulling you into his chest without hesitation, like this was where you’d always belonged. You felt the warmth of his bare skin against yours, his hand smoothing slowly down your back. “Breathe, amore. You are not alone.”

You couldn’t speak. Not yet. Your breath was shallow, panic curling hot in your lungs. But he didn’t rush you. He just held you tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, then your temple, then your cheek—each one slower, more lingering than the last.

“You were dreaming, sì? Something cruel and dark,” he murmured. “But it cannot reach you here. Not with me. I would never allow it.”

His hands found your face, thumbs brushing away the dampness on your cheeks as he tilted your chin up gently. His eyes—dark, lined in smudged kohl—searched yours with infinite care.

“You are safe. I have you. Always.”

He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—soft, slow, reverent. His mouth lingered against yours, not in passion, but in devotion, like he was trying to breathe his calm into your very soul.

When he pulled back just slightly, he smiled gently. “Let me hold you until the world quiets again, sì?”

You nodded, finally able to draw a fuller breath.

Terzo gathered you into his arms completely, shifting you so you were nearly on top of him, your ear pressed to his chest where his heartbeat thumped steady and slow. One hand moved up to cradle the back of your head while the other stroked lazy circles along your spine.

He whispered soft nothings in Italian—“Amore, dolcezza, luce della mia vita…”—words that didn’t need translation. You could feel the meaning in every kiss, every touch.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he said finally, his voice nearly a lullaby. “Just let go. Let me be your peace for tonight.”

And little by little, your breathing evened. The fear dissolved like mist in morning light.

Because wrapped in Terzo’s arms, kissed and whispered back into stillness, you were no longer drifting.

You were home.

ㅡ

Wrapped in Terzo’s arms, you slowly felt the remnants of the nightmare begin to loosen their grip.

He kept whispering to you, his voice a warm hush: “Sei la mia stella. My star. My sweet thing.”

His hand never stopped moving—stroking your back, brushing your hair, cupping your cheek between kisses that asked for nothing and gave everything.

Eventually, your eyes fluttered closed again—not out of exhaustion, but safety. His breath was steady against your forehead, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. He was a living lullaby, and you let yourself sink into him like waves returning to shore.

Just before sleep fully pulled you under, you heard him murmur into your hair, voice thick with devotion:

"You are never a burden. Never too much. I want to be the place you come to when it all gets heavy. Let me carry it with you."

The night passed with no more dreams. Just warmth. Just him.

ㅡ

You woke slowly, not with panic this time, but with the delicious weight of being wrapped in someone who truly loved you.

The morning light was soft, streaming through the curtains in pale gold ribbons. Terzo was still there, still holding you like he hadn’t moved all night. One leg was tangled with yours, his arm still around your waist, his other hand resting under your jaw, thumb absently stroking along your cheekbone even though he was half-asleep.

When you stirred, his eyes blinked open.

“Buongiorno, amore,” he said in a gravelly, morning-warm voice. His lips curved lazily into a smile. “You stayed with me.”

You nodded, a little sheepish.

He leaned in, kissed your nose, then your lips—barely a whisper of a kiss, just a touch of skin and affection. “How are you feeling, tesoro?”

“Better,” you breathed, honestly. “Because of you.”

He smiled wider at that, pleased but not prideful. He nudged his nose against yours affectionately. “Good. Then we stay here. All day, if you want. No one will bother us. The world can wait.”

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

“I’ll make breakfast later,” he added, threading his fingers through yours. “Something sweet. But right now…” His other hand traced slow circles against your bare shoulder. “We just exist. Here. Together.”

And for the first time in a long while, the morning didn’t feel so daunting.

Because Terzo had kissed the fear out of the night—and promised that no matter what darkness returned, he would always be right there beside you to chase it away again.

NOTE : I needed this so much. Terzo being a big fluff and comforting you. Heart eyes for him always ♡

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I think shameful religious men are so attractive to me because is begging on your knees to be seen by god any different than begging to be good?

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“the immaculate heart - sacred” by damien hirst

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put my whole heart into this one 🫀

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𝖆𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖈𝖆𝖑 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖏𝖆𝖗𝖘 ✧˖°🫀⋆｡𖦹

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Still Bleeding, acrylic painting by Jason Limon on Instagram

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How I wish there were other cardiophiles in the Hamish Linklater fandom 😞

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This blog is so dead sometimes I wish someone would send me hateful anons kink shaming me and telling me to kms

Ghost fandom, I'm looking at you

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Just a reminder my blog is trans inclusive. It’s bi inclusive. It is pan inclusive. It is intersex inclusive. It is ace/asexual inclusive. It is aro/aromantic inclusive. It is queer inclusive.

I don’t support terfs or exclusionists.

If you came here looking for an ally in your bigotry you came to the wrong blog. Go away. You are not welcome here.

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cw: noncon, dark cardiophilia under the cut

Consider this: giving John Tyler a taste of his own medicine.

You invite him over for coffee at your house and slip some sleeping pills on his drink. While he's unconscious, you tie him up to the floor with duct tape.

He wakes up to the sight of you towering over him, overpowering him. The interrogation begins, and you inquire him on his plans while punishing him hard if he refuses to speak. You place a firm foot on his sternum, pushing down, applying pressure on his heart to make it struggle under your weight; from time to time, you stop to take a listen to his struggling pump, relishing in the sound of the nervous little pitter patter in his chest.

He's sweating, breathless and in tears, but you won't stop until you've milked him of all information you need.

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Watching "Tell Me Your Secrets" and being in love with a criminal (John). Every time he shows up my mind is like "he's so evil and manipulative and I wanna listen to his heartbeat so badly"

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Electra complex

Pairing: Matthew Kimble x reader

Summary: Matthew is a sweet guy and seems open-minded... But how will he react to your little secret?

Contents: NSFW, mature, age regression, daddy kink, bottle feeding, nipple sucking (M receiving), comfort nursing, simulated breastfeeding, poorly explained Freudian theory, mild cardiophilia

Word count: 2.070

Read on AO3

Part 3 of Simping for one Hamish Linklater character at a time

Nowadays, you embrace it and laugh about it. But for a long time, it was an embarrassing secret. Having a successful career as a financial analyst at a big company, you struck everyone as a powerful girl-boss, a self-made woman. But deep inside, you felt like being a mature and responsible adult was tiring, and sometimes you just needed a break. Namely, a break to be vulnerable and cared for.

Then, there came him. Matthew Kimble, the wonder boy. That smile, that curly hair, that boyish charm. You remember when you first met him at a workshop held by the company you worked for; being a psychologist, he was one of the speakers. You don't even remember the topic of the talk, probably something about personal growth, one of those motivational spiels that companies love. What caught your attention was how handsome and delicate his face was, how charming his huge brown eyes were... Right after the talk ended, you went to congratulate him for the good work, and as the conversation went on, you exchanged phone numbers. And what a sweet surprise it was when one day he asked you out.

The first date is vivid in your mind. The cozy little bar with indie music playing in the background, the gray shirt and leather jacket he wore, the jokes, the timely laughs. When the subject of work came up, he got excited and could talk about his profession for hours.

"You know, the topic of my postgraduate degree was Freud's theory of attachment. You know, the oral, anal and latent phases?" He spoke with a sparkle in his eyes, and you were charmed by how enthusiastic he was about his area of knowledge. "Almost everyone has a vague idea of what these things mean, but few people really understand them. They're not literal things, with the sexual subtext they seem to have..."

Ah, those Freudian theories. You had heard from an ex-boyfriend that you had daddy issues and that only Freud could explain your strange desires - all because you had, well, interests that he didn't understand. That hurt you, because those interests were comforting to you. And it kind of made you develop a bit of a grudge against Freudian theory.

But with Matthew, you felt more at ease and felt that there would probably be no taboos when it came to matters of the heart and the flesh. That was why on one of those dates, after a few martinis and minutes of lively conversation, you felt more comfortable to approach this subject.

"Uh, Matthew... What would Freud say about these people who have daddy kinks?" You asked with a nervous chuckle.

"Well, he would probably say that it has many layers." He smiled, that boyish smile that made you melt. "First, there's the issue of the Oedipus and Electra complexes, which are the child's attachment to one of the parents. And second, fetishes usually have their origins in imprinting during early childhood…”

The way he explained was so passionate and didactic, but you were more interested in looking at the way his beautifully shaped lips moved as he spoke. What you wouldn't do to kiss those lips, feel them on your skin…

Until he dropped the bomb:

"Why do you ask?"

You froze. An uncomfortable silence followed. A slight blush began to appear on your face.

"Eh... Curiosity. I just wanted to know..." You replied, looking away.

"Just curiosity or is there something more behind it?" He teased with a mischievous smile.

More uncomfortable silence. More blushing.

You don't remember exactly how, but you managed to gracefully change the subject. But that was a secret that would have to come to light at some point, after all, how could you have an intimate relationship without him knowing about your age regression? It was a part of you, and something comforting to you.

Time passed by and the intimacy between the two of you grew, until you were a proper couple. One night when you slept together, Matthew waited for you to fall asleep to... Connect the dots.

The childish-looking coloring books on your bookshelf, which you thought he wouldn't notice. Your strange habit of sucking your thumb when you were stressed out. The crayons, the stuffed animals, the Hello Kitty microfiber blanket. And that question, that fateful question about daddy kink that wouldn't leave his mind.

He picked up his phone and did some Google searches. Things like "age regression", "daddy kink" and the like. And then it all made sense.

A few days passed by, both of you acting normal as if nothing happened. Deep inside, Matthew was waiting for you to go into your baby space.

And the time finally came after a long day at work and a terrible case of traffic jam that made you arrive home with your cortisol levels so high, Matthew could practically smell it in your blood. He said hi, you greeted him curtly, marching straight to your room. It's about time, he thought.

“How was your day?” He asked, feigning concern in his voice as he entered your room and saw you sitting in a fetal position, thumb in mouth, clutching your Hello Kitty blanket.

“Eh… Not good.” You replied, embarrassed about being caught red-handed in your baby space. You averted his gaze and started thinking of a million ways to explain those habits to him.

But he already knew what was going on, and almost instinctively, wrapped a warm, loving arm around you, pulling you closer.

"Shhh, papa's here, papa's here," Matthew whispered softly, taking your head in his arms and pulling it close to his chest. His strong arms wrapped around you tightly but gently, and his chest vibrated as he began to hum a lullaby. You froze for a moment.

“P-papa?! I-I mean, Matthew?!” you muttered, eyes wide. “Wa-what… Are you doing?”

“Papa is taking care of you, babygirl.” He replied kindly, stroking your hair. “Shhhh… Just relax.”

Oh. So he knows, you thought.

Slowly, the initial embarrassment was replaced by that delicious comfort you felt when you were in your baby space. Your muscles relaxed and calmed down as you felt the warmth of his body and the comforting caresses he gave you, his stubble gently brushing against your forehead and his fingers running through your hair. And then you leaned languidly into the crook of his arm, letting him rock you like a baby.

“Papa…” You cooed against his chest.

“What is it, sweetheart?” He asked gently.

“I want my baba.”

“Your… Baba?” He asked a little confused, until remembering that it was baby talk for bottle. “Oh, I see. You want a nice warm baba to drink from, right?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Okay, I'll warm it up. But first, let's get those uncomfy big girl clothes out and get on your pajamas, okay? What about taking a nice bubble bath while I prepare your baba?”

You nodded with an audible “Yay!” and he scooped you up in his arms, carrying you to the bathroom while singing some silly song to amuse you. Soon you were stripped out of your clothes, throwing them aside like an eager toddler, which earned you a playful scolding from Matthew, who told you to place them in the laundry basket. As the bathtub was full, you rushed into it, tossing a bath bomb, foaming salts and a bunch of little toys into it.

“Alright, now be a good girl while papa makes your baba, okay? Papa will be back in a few minutes.” He said kindly, leaving you alone in the bathtub.

As you relaxed in the warm, bubbly water, you felt your heart swell with joy upon thinking about how nicely Matthew took your age regression. Since that negative reaction from your ex-boyfriend, you expected everyone to be weirded out by it, but Matthew was just the sweetest Papa you could possibly ask for. Maybe it could be his encyclopedic knowledge of Freudian theory? Who knows.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door:

“Babygirl? Your baba is ready! Papa will wait for you at your room!” It was Matthew’s voice.

“No… I want papa to pick me up.” You replied, feigning the stubbornness of a toddler.

“Come on, you're a big girl already!” He replied playfully, before giving in and entering the bathroom.

You beamed and stood up, allowing him to wrap the towel around you and pat you dry while singing another silly song. Then he dressed you up in your underwear and your pastel pink unicorn onesie, scooping you up and taking you back to the bedroom.

“There you go, princess.” He cooed as he cradled you in his arms and fed you the bottle filled with warm chocolate milk. You drank, eagerly, savoring the nostalgic sweetness of the milk and the comfort of being in Matthew's arms, being parented and nurtured by him like a daughter by her loving father. He gently hummed a lullaby, nuzzling the top of your head.

After finishing and putting the bottle aside, you basked in the embrace of Matthew's arms for a few minutes until you couldn't hold back and started, almost instinctively, to nuzzle your lips and nose against his nipple, like a newborn baby searching for its mother's breast to suckle. Matthew noticed and found it a little strange.

"Is something bothering you, babygirl?" He asked. You noticed the weirded-out tone in his voice, and felt a little embarrassed.

"N-no, papa, it's just..."

"You can tell papa anything, sweetie." He encouraged in a fatherly tone.

"I... I want to suck on your tata, papa."

“My… Tata?”

You pawed at his chest, signaling that you wanted to suck on his nipple.

Oh.

Matthew froze, his eyes wide, and gave a nervous little chuckle. You frowned, frustrated at the seemingly negative reaction.

“But you've just had your baba…” He said between chuckles.

“But I want…” You replied with a pout, your cheek nuzzling at his chest.

Matthew hesitated for a few seconds until deciding to unbutton his shirt, exposing his bare chest and offering you his nipple. Anything to make his babygirl happy, he thinks.

"Alright, princess. Suck all you want on papa's tata."

A little overwhelmed with joy, you kissed his nipple before wrapping your lips around it and sucking lovingly, savoring the softness of his areola against your tongue. You moaned softly with contentment, sucking with gusto like a child hungry for breast milk. He looked at you curiously, noticing how happy you were with this unusual, yet intimate contact. The initial strangeness he felt disappeared, and then he felt pure tenderness, like a natural instinct to parent and nurture you. He stroked your hair and went back to humming the lullaby.

“Does papa's milk taste good, babygirl?” Matthew asked with a tender voice.

“Mm-hm” You replied, sucking avidly while palming under his pec with your hand, feeling his heartbeat.

The room was filled with humming, cooing and sucking noises coming from the loving couple. You never felt safer than when you were in your baby space, and being cradled in Matthew's arms, savoring the silk-soft skin of his areola in your mouth just made you feel mesmerized with pleasure. You could smell the oxytocin in his blood as it flooded both of your brains and made you both feel like you were one.

You pulled away to kiss and worship his plump pec, studying it with your cheek and lips, enjoying the skin to skin contact. You always thought that there was something oddly intriguing about a man's chest, that body part that so often got neglected during sex. Pressing your ear against it, there was a steady thumping against your ear.

“I can hear your thumper, papa.” You muttered softly.

“My thumper?” He asked with a chuckle. Now he found your baby talk just adorable.

“Mm-hm… It goes ‘thump thump’...”

“That's papa's heart, princess. Papa's heart is full of love for you.” He replied romantically, planting a kiss on the top of your head. “Can you hear it beating for you?”

You cooed softly, enjoying the sweet heartbeat against your ear, lulling you until you were yawning with sleepiness. Noticing that, Matthew had to put on his dad persona once again.

“Nuh-uh, young lady! You won't sleep without brushing your teeth!” He scolded playfully. “Come on, let's brush those pearly whites so we can sleep.”

You grunted and pouted, but complied.