Being a man so strong-willed, it's a surprise to see him bedridden for once. Almost always up and attem' when not in his recliner watching the game, with calloused hands and a strong, portly figure carried by a sort of pride only a gruff tank like him would have no trouble portraying casually- as even just standing in line at the grocery would intimidate most folk.

It's refreshing in a way to see him just resting in bed for once, although with a grim expression, fingers twitching and a sort of low grumble rising in his throat every now and then, you can tell the lack of stimulation is getting to him through where you peak your head into his room. With his cantankerous ass usually one beer away from passing out on the couch at all times after coming home, it's safe to assume he'll be needing rest for at least a few days from what you remember of the doctors orders.

You'd never been quite touchy-feely with him, but you feel that now more than ever, might be a good idea to lend a comforting hand at least, let him know he isn't alone. So with hesitance, you wander into the room. The covers are thrown haphazardly unto his hulking body, most of it missing by a wide margin to the point that its only really covering his thick legs and some of his arm- better to be you think of it, given how awfully frequent he goes around wearing bare-nothing, sometimes lounging in only a pair of boxers and a worn tank top.

He seems not to mind you entering at least, and daringly enough you sit down on the edge of his bed. It’s obvious he knows it’s you by the way he tries composing himself, features fixed to be more stoic and unbothered, maybe in an effort to ease whatever worry there is painted on your features.

It’s a bad habit of his to remain so obvious yet closed off like that, emotionally a wall to better server others feelings and his own. Your hand decides to softly pat and smooth over his stomach, the feel of heated skin through the fabric of his damp shirt jolts you in an odd way, yet you keep your hand there- casting a weary glance over at your dad.

Surprisingly enough his expression seems to slacken much like all semblance of his grumpy sort of stoic state- eyes focused on you in a way that leaves you confused, but oddly flustered all the same as if caught doing something you weren’t supposed to.

“S’good, boy…don’t worry bout me.” He rumbles softly, a stark contrast to how silently threatening he can be. Instead, you feel invited further…hand finding itself wandering farther down the valley even breaching skin from how his shirt tugs up, the coarse warmth of his stomach hair surrounding your palm- breath hitching as you realize how close your reach is to the hem of his shorts and the accompanied heat further down.

You’re unsure if he noticed, cared, or better yet wanted more in his feverish state as you pull back, with the way his slow breathing echoes in your ears from an arms length away, like expecting an outburst in a calm before- though it never happens. He’s vulnerable there in front of you, sick and there isn’t a single catch. His eyes do open though to see your hand hovering over his crotch and midriff, a low curious rumble pulled from slack lips, teeth showing in a grin that slowly raises to become cheshire.

Throat dry and a slight sputtering sound leave you as you pull back, hand burnt and face flushed in a vein of the same temperature, pooling lower as you realize how twisted it makes you feel- opening up in some way with your dad and you get turned on of all things...

The remnant tingles of heat remain all around, but there’s no chiding comment. Rather, it’s as if he pretends he saw nothing- head tilting away with a sort of satisfied smile on his gruff face, and an unexpected swell under the covers of the blanket just below the hem of where his happy trail leads.