#soap x reader

[iii.] soap who is oddly quiet while you're on top of him, moaning as you ride him hard. his eyes scan your body up and down, hands exploring places for the first time. only the occasional grunt slips out.

you slow down. "what is it? not up to your expectations?" you ask in between breaths.

soap locks eyes with you. "quite the opposite. you're well beyond my expectations, darling." he pinches your ass as the roll of your hips makes you tighten around him. soap tilts his head back on the sofa, giving in to the sensation. "you make me fucking crazy."

you plant your hands on his shoulder. "kiss me like you mean it, then."

soap grips the back of your neck, bringing your mouth to his. he kisses you hard, tongue pushed between your lips. he thrusts up until he finally cums, letting you fall against his chest. soap wraps his arms around your waist.

"we keeping this up or what?"

you roll your eyes at him with a smile. "i thought 'i want you' and making you cum said it all."

soap pinches your hip. "just making sure."

[bonus.] soap who goes into work with a shit eating grin on his face. when anyone asks, he pulls the ignorance card until he "accidentally" exposes a hickey near his belt.

"finally getting some action, mctavish. welcome to the big boys club," someone teases.

Simon on the other hand takes a lot more time warming up to you and his new environment, but you remain patient with him, giving him the time and space he needs to get accustomed to this new situation, trusting Johnny's uncanny ability to tell you exactly what Simon is currently thinking or needing with only one look at his usually silent companion.

Overall, they're a delight to have around, helping you around the house without you having to ask them and going on runs together with them in your free time that usually end with you questioning all your life choices leading up to the decision to dust off your running shoes while the two hybrids haven't even broken a sweat yet, two pairs of eyes pleading for you not to take them home yet. You always indulge them, of course you do, even though it means your legs kill you with how many miles you ran with them the next day. And the day after that. And also the day after that.

In the evenings, the three of you quickly establish a routine that consists of a big and meat-centric dinner for both of them and a more balanced one for you, doing the dishes together before collapsing on your couch in the living room. You never expect them to stay and watch TV with you, you've told them more than once they're free to go to their room if they'd rather spend some time alone together, but it seems they're more than content to be around you. To no one's surprise, Johnny immediately cuddles up to you the moment you sit down on the couch, laying his head in your lap so you can pet him to your—and more importantly his—heart's content, whining pitifully if you even stop your ministrations for nothing more than a few seconds.

Simon, predictably, takes more time to feel comfortable with being close to you, but eventually he too seeks out your touch willingly, which leads to you being sandwiched between two solid and warm bodies whenever you so much as think about relaxing on your couch for a few minutes after work.

You also learn just days after taking in Johnny and Simon that their bond is much stronger, or more accurately… much more intimate than you first assumed. You never address it, not wanting to pry into their private relationship when you have no right to, and they never mentioned it to you either.

Not that they have to, the muffled but unmistakable noises you hear through the wall separating your bedroom from theirs in the night, low growls and deep moans as well as the tell-tale creaking of their mattress and the rhythmic banging of their headboard against the wall, paired with the angry red marks that run down Johnny's back and the bite marks decorating Simon's thighs, chest and neck you catch glimpses of in the mornings paint a clear picture of their nightly activities.

You try to ignore it, try not to listen to them, you really do, but sometimes they're just so loud that you hear them even over the music on your headphones while hiding your burning face in your pillow, fighting against the shameful urge to just let your hand wander between your thighs and take care of yourself to their sinful noises. You never do though, the unsatisfied heat still simmering low in your stomach when you get up in the mornings, leaving you cranky and much more responsive to even the smallest of touches which coincidentally correlates with the days Johnny's and Simon's understanding of your personal space is especially questionable. They're constantly brushing up against you on mornings like these or trapping you on the couch between them during the evenings, one of them all but crawling between your legs to lie their head on your soft stomach, wrapping strong arms around one of your legs and massaging your thighs with warm and steady fingers, while the other one drapes himself around the rest of your body, pressing his face against your sensitive neck and just breathing you in. And if it's Johnny, you can also be sure that at some point he can't resist the temptation to let one of his sharp canines graze against your soft skin, nibbling gently just to hear you gasp before sweetly soothing the sting with his tongue.

It takes you no time at all to catch up on what exactly they're doing and you're decidedly not pleased with them because of it. After all, you want to rehome them, but with how they're behaving you just know the process of finding a forever home for them will be nothing short of a nightmare. And you tell them as much as you sit them down one evening, scolding them how their behavior is entirely inappropriate and you expect them to behave themselves better starting right now.

Simon listens to you dutifully like the good boy he is, starting to ask for cuddles and pets instead of just trapping you under his solid body and whining at you until you give in and run your fingers through his hair and scratch behind his ears. Johnny, however, seems to take your words as a challenge, bending your rules and testing your patience whenever and however he can, positively driving you up the fucking wall with his behavior.

You're livid when you come home from work one day and you have to kick him out of your room for the third time this week—the only room in your whole house he knows he has absolutely no business being in. Only tonight, he's sprawled out in the middle of your bed like he has every right to, with his shirt pushed up over his toned stomach while one of his hands disappears beneath the waistband of his shorts, wrapped around his noticeable erection, jerking himself off with hurried strokes as precum stains the fabric of his underwear. He doesn't stop when you yell at him to, only quickening his pace as you stomp over to him and grab him by the back of his thick neck, trying to haul him up and off your bed, but he's too strong and heavy for you to get him to move in any direction at all, the wet noise of his fist gliding over his cock obscene and entirely too loud in the small space between the two of you.

"Bad dog, Johnny!" you scold him, your furious eyes boring into his, his pupils blown wide enough to leave only a small ring of his brilliant blue irises around them. But your words only seems to spur the mutt on further, relishing in the feeling of your unrelenting hand clamping down hard on the back of his neck, your skin warm and soft against his burning one, panting and whining as he never stops his hand's movement on his leaking cock until his entire body suddenly pulls taunt and he comes with a low growl of your name, spilling his sticky release all over himself, coating his fingers.

He looks entirely too proud of himself as you make a disgusted face and jerk away from him, and you know he can smell your arousal because of this little show he's put on for you, so you don't dignify him with any more yelling and simply send him to the bathroom to shower, giving you some much-needed time to calm yourself down before facing him again. And most importantly to change into a new, dry pair of underwear.

While you hear the shower running in the bathroom, you silently seethe to yourself as you try to think of a punishment that is not too strict for your liking but will also teach Johnny a lesson he desperately needs without you playing into this little game of his as well.

So for tonight, you simply settle on lying down on the couch together with Simon, guiding him to snuggle up close to you as a rerun of an old sitcom lights up your TV screen, its laugh track ringing out faintly in the background. The shower eventually turns off again and Johnny emerges from the bathroom in nothing but a pair of shorts not soon after, a fat grin plastered on his face as he saunters over to you and Simon. You spare him only a quick and deeply unamused glance before turning your attention back to the TV, telling him to not even think about joining you and Simon on the couch, not after this little stunt he just pulled. Johnny's grin only widens, not believing you're being serious for one second, but the look you give him when he tries to climb onto the couch with you and his companion makes him hesitate at last.

Huffing in indignation, Johnny sinks to the floor and curls up by your feet on the carpet, deep sighs escaping him from time to time while he looks up to you with the best puppy dog eyes he can muster. But you simply ignore his dramatics for the entire evening, never letting your attention stray away from the TV and Simon, gently running your fingers through the hybrid's short hair and cooing softly at him as you scratch behind his ears, turning him to putty in your hands with your gentle ministrations.

But you know Johnny needs a more decisive lesson than this or he's never learning to behave himself.

Some days later, you've come up with exactly that—a suitable punishment for Johnny's past transgressions that at the same time serves as a reward for Simon who has never let his companion's bad behavior rub off on him, always listening to you and behaving himself admirably.

That afternoon, you send Johnny on a little errand all on his own, ignoring his grumbling and whining as he makes his way to the front door of your house, looking back to see if you're paying him any attention at all, only to realize you're focused entirely on his companion, smiling up at Simon adoringly.

When the front door falls shut with much more force than necessary, you take Simon's hand and lead him to your bedroom, the large hybrid following you dutifully, his tail wagging behind him in subdued excitement.

"Let me take care of you today, Simon," you tell him sweetly as you guide him to lie down on your bed, wasting no time to follow after him and straddle his thighs, watching in fond amusement how quickly his pupils dilate and how hard he fights for his restraint not to touch you before you allow him to, his thick fingers twitching restlessly by his sides.

"What about Johnny?" he asks, already breathless, his eyes half-lidded from nothing more than your warm weight on top of him. You coo at him, marveling at how sweet and considerate he is, that even now he's thinking of his companion, one hand coming up to cup his strong jaw.

"Well, Johnny needs to learn a lesson, that only good boys get rewarded," you explain patiently, your thumb caressing his cheek, trailing over the prominent scar there, "And he hasn't been very good lately, has he? But you've been such a good boy, Simon, and you deserve a reward for that, don't you think?"

Simon nods almost mindlessly, too focused on you and your pretty face as you start to close the distance between the two of you. His fair lashes flutter shut when he feels your lips brush softly against his for the very first time, a teasing almost-kiss that has a whine rise up in his chest immediately, but he doesn't dare to just press closer to you or ask for more, simply taking whatever you graciously decide to give him.

His obedience is rewarded when you kiss him in earnest only a few torturous seconds later, tilting his head back as you slide your tongue between his parted lips, Simon all but panting into your mouth, hips bucking up involuntarily, causing his hard length to press against your center oh-so deliciously.

You chuckle breathlessly against his mouth at the feeling, reveling in the broken whine you elicit from him when you press close to him again, deliberately dragging your core over his erection while you marvel at his self-restraint, his scarred hands gripping your sheets in a white-knuckled grasp because you haven't yet told him otherwise.

"Touch me, Simon," you order him as your lips begin to trail down his neck, and he wastes no time following your generous command, desperately pawing at every part of your body he can reach.

When Johnny returns home some twenty minutes later, a bag full of groceries hanging from his arm while he unlocks your front door with the other hand, his mood is at an all-time low, the fluffy dog ears on top of his head pulled back, letting the whole world know exactly how he's feeling about your recent dismissive behavior towards him.

He closes the door with too much force than necessary and toes off his shoes, only to freeze mid-movement when his ears perk up incredulously, picking up a sound from somewhere within the house that makes his blood freeze in his veins—and then boil.

Simon's whines and moans echo off your bedroom walls in unmistakable pleasure and desperation, noises normally only Johnny gets to draw from his companion, noises he made sure you won't be able to ignore once you've taken them in.

When your sweet moans start to mix with Simon's sinful noises, Johnny's self-control snaps almost violently, his ears pinning back against his head while he bares his teeth for no one to see. He drops the groceries right where he stands and stomps over to your room, the sounds only growing louder and louder the closer he gets, the combined scent of Simon's and your arousal heady even in the hallway outside your bedroom, making his mouth water.

Without thinking, Johnny throws open your door, all but barging into your room, and the scene he gets treated to then almost makes him come from sight alone.

Simon is sprawled out on your bed in all his naked glory, his sweaty chest glistening in the low light of your bedroom, pathetically whining and moaning underneath you and looking completely out of it already—just like when Johnny is mercilessly pounding into him in their own room, putting on a show for you night after night. Simon's big hands are holding onto your hips desperately, no doubt leaving your flesh tender and bruised in the morning, while you bounce on his hard cock, your head thrown back with your eyes closed as your own hands travel up your body teasingly to squeeze your tits, rolling your erect nipple between your fingers and moaning shamelessly when a shock of pure pleasure zips down your spine.

Without slowing your pace, without even turning your head or opening your eyes, you suddenly speak up, addressing Johnny who never wants to hear his name leaving your lips ever again not formed around a shaky little moan, even though your words make him feel like crying.

"You stay exactly where you are, Johnny," you tell him sternly, your voice breathless but leaving no room for arguments, "and don't even think about touching yourself."

Johnny only whimpers at your words, as if following your command physically pains him, but miraculously he listens to you without complaint and drops down to his knees where he stands, right on the threshold of your bedroom. His hands grip onto his thighs in order to obey your bidding even when his dick twitches pathetically in his underwear, so hard it hurts, as he can't do anything else but to listen to the wet sounds of skin slapping against skin, of your unrestrained moans and Simon's desperate groans. To watch you and Simon together from the sidelines, watch how your pretty hole stretches around Simon's girth and swallows him over and over again, watch the creamy white ring of your shared arousal gather at his partner's base where his knot is already forming, watch your rhythm begin to falter and Simon's abdomen pull taut.

Simon bucks up into you with one last harsh thrust as he tumbles over the edge with a growl, forcing you to take his knot, the sensation unlike anything you've ever experienced before, and it rips your orgasm out of you almost violently.

You choke on a cry of Simon's name as stars explode behind your eyes and blind you, your ears ringing faintly, and you're only dimly aware of the delicious sting of his knot settling into you fully, your pussy desperately pulsing around it as he spills his release deep inside you, making you take everything he's giving you and not letting you spill even a single drop.

Simon catches you as you all but collapse onto his chest, strong arms coming around you immediately and holding you close as both of you ride out the last waves of your shared orgasm. You feel like you're underwater, everything is hazy and muted and just a little farther away than it normally is, and you bask in the sensation just a little longer, humming contentedly as Simon is the one to run his fingers through your hair for once.

As your awareness sharpens again, you realize Simon's knot is still firmly lodged inside of you, splitting you open and tethering you to him, and you let out a tiny gasp at the feeling before you can stop yourself, at how full you are, the sensation just deliciously toying with the edge of being painful and overwhelming.

And you know you could very well become addicted to it.

The moment is interrupted by a heartbreaking whimper from Johnny somewhere behind you, but you ignore him in favor of pressing gentle kisses along Simon's jaw and neck, quietly checking in with him. It takes only a few more minutes after Simon assured you he's okay, more than okay really, that you feel his knot slowly recede inside of you, allowing you to carefully untangle yourself from the hybrid but leaving you emptier than you've ever felt before.

But you push your discomfort aside and instead turn your attention back to where Johnny still kneels in the threshold of your bedroom, looking—for lack of a better description—like a kicked puppy. A puppy that is horny enough to pass out by the looks of it, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession while his entire face is flushed and his pupils blown wide enough to appear completely black.

Admittedly, you're a little surprised he actually listened to you when you told him to stay, so you gently move off of Simon and to the edge of your bed, your legs feeling embarrassingly unsteady, Johnny's pleading eyes following your every movement. Once you've gotten comfortable there, you beckon the hybrid closer to you and he crawls towards you without hesitation.

You smile down at him as you wordlessly open your legs for him and let him settle between them, one hand trailing down your chest and stomach teasingly before spreading your sticky folds for him, your pussy a mess of your arousal mixing with Simon's thick seed beginning to drip from your pretty hole.

Your other hand reaches for Johnny, who seems nothing short of mesmerized by the sight in front of him, gently settling at the back of his head and urging him closer to your center, the hybrid letting himself be willingly guided by you.

"Show me what a good boy you can be and help me clean up, Johnny, alright?" you all but purr, biting back a laugh when he nods eagerly without his eyes ever leaving this debauched display in front of him, his tail beginning to wag behind him.

You sigh and recline back on one elbow as Johnny's smart tongue first presses against your still sensitive pussy while your other hand threads through his mohawk to keep him close, the hybrid not hesitating to lick a broad stripe from your weeping hole to your clit, greedily lapping up your arousal and Simon's spend.

That night, just before falling asleep between the two hybrids, absolutely spent and satisfied, your body feeling pleasantly exhausted and heavy while the fresh bite marks on your thighs sting deliciously, you must admit to yourself that Johnny and Simon are your first foster fails, because you'll never give them away again for anything in the world. Even though Johnny will without a doubt continue to test your patience now and again, but you're sure that with Simon's help, you'll teach him that only good boys get their treats after all.

Thank you so much for reading <3 Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

Feel free to hop into my inbox if you have a fic request or just want to talk ✨

dividers by @/cafekitsune

As you finally met to stand with him at the alter he was already crying, thick, heavy rolls of tears. Big hands reaching for your despite promising he wouldn't, just the night before.

"Oh bonnie-." He hicced, sniffling as his thumb brushed against the veil that half covered your face.

His vows were short but heart-felt as he whispered how he always wanted to protect you and love you in every way.

And when the Vicar confirmed you could kiss, he sniffled flicking your veil back and kissing you.

--

Later on that evening when it was time to cut the cake, he stood behind you. Four pairs of hands clutching one of Johnnys geeky swords as you cut through tier after tier of fluffy wedding cake.

Johnny fed you with gentlest of hands, calloused from years of using knives and guns. "Hm, 's nice aye?" He whispered, hands rubbing up and down against your back, coated in lace.

You smiled wobbily tears.

When everyone was eating he was smiling, and smirks and winks, kissing the icing off your face. (Because ofcourse it wasn't fondant, nobody likes fondant) "You look pretty like this." He whispered, soft smile reaching from cheek to cheek.

"What, covered in cream?"

He laughed once more, the heel of his tumb no wiping at your slips. "No, obviously not. I mean happy." He smiled bumping his nose with yours.

--

And finally later that evening, when John was just going over the edge of 'tipsy' did the pair of you settle for bed. You were looking in the mirror whilst his hands slowly pulled at the bobby pins that'd been dug in your scalp all evening. "Tired, hic- bonnie?" He teased, already knowing the anwser.

You were more then happy to get in bed, but you'd rather have your makeup off then leave it for tommorows problem - you had a little discipline after all.

"Tonight will be fun..." He whispered. Giggling quietly under his breath, followed by a signature hiccup.

He has to work quickly, or he may not get laid tonight.

Johnny lets go of Robbie’s harness as he fishes for the keys in his pocket while you wait patiently at his side. “Free,” he states off-handedly, the dog’s cue that he no longer needs to be in work mode. As often happens, the Malinois takes this as permission to immediately headbutt you for pets.

The date tonight went well – really well, actually. Dinner and wine at a bistro downtown (he’d called ahead to make sure they wouldn’t hassle him over the dog) and a walk along the river where he’d held your hand. It was your fourth date, and Johnny had specifically cleaned his house as he intended to invite you over. You’d been here before, but never after a date.

The discharge occurred over three months ago and his new life is starting to take shape. He signed over his old Glasgow flat to a friend and rented a house that was closer to both you and mum. The pace of life is slower outside the city, things a bit less convenient, but it’s a tradeoff – he had to get away from the incessant din of metropolitan life. He quickly discovered that the cacophony of cars, construction equipment, passersby shouting, and whirring utilities had become migraine-inducing since the accident.

His service dog is an absolute godsend. Robbie came to him fully trained to both assist with daily tasks and alert him to medical emergencies. Johnny has always loved dogs and bonded with his new companion instantly. Pets used to be out of the question with his deployment schedule – so there was one silver lining, he supposed. The good boy even joined him at the pinning ceremony for his Victoria’s Cross.

He still goes to weekly outpatient appointments at Saint Ambrose and has a physical therapist who does house-calls. The migraines, occasional blurry vision, and risk of seizures and strokes mean he isn’t driving for now, though he’s been told it isn’t entirely off the table. The bus service is good enough around here that it didn’t hinder him too badly.

The most frustrating impediment he has to deal with on a regular basis is the intention tremors. He reaches for a fork and it goes flying out of his hand, or he inadvertently jerks his pen right off the paper when trying to write. Cooking, which requires the ability to chop vegetables without amputating a finger or to season meat without dumping out the entire contents of the spice jar, is generally too aggravating to bother with. Typing on the computer or phone is also a crapshoot, so he relies mostly on speech-to-text apps.

As badly as he wants to find a job and feel useful again, Johnny begrudgingly accepts that he is still a work in progress. His days are spent settling into his new space, doing exercises and workbooks, and creating art in forgiving media like graphite or watercolors. And naturally, he spends as much time by your side as you will tolerate.

Johnny is in love with you. Has been, practically since you met. It is nothing short of a miracle that he hasn’t scared you away either during his occasional outbursts in the hospital or with his eager overtures once he was released. If he had his druthers, you’d already have a ring on your finger – but even someone has brain damaged as him knows he cannot rush things with his lovely, shy lass.

That’s why he’d texted you for a few weeks before meeting for coffee and properly asking you out. It’s why your dates were always low-key and ended with a chaste kiss goodnight (or, on one lucky occasion, a steamy make-out session against your door that would probably flash before his eyes in his final hour). And it is why he’s been absolutely scrupulous about letting you set the pace and take the lead on everything having to do with this relationship.

In many ways, he has come to appreciate how his TBI forced him to take things slowly. What a pity, what a colossal and shameful waste it would have been if he’d met you at a club and wooed you into bed. If he learned how to touch you just right before he learned that you liked poetry. If he’d seen your face warped in ecstasy before he saw that bashful smile. If he’d only experienced the beauty of your body and not the beauty of your soul.

It is… challenging… to restrain himself around you as he does. It helps that he finally has the freedom to touch himself after so many months in that sterile room with only a curtain and a perpetually open door separating him from the bustling hospital floor. He regularly reassures himself that you cannot, in fact, detect the X-rated imaginings that float through his head alongside sweet nothings when he spends time with you. And as long as he keeps his self-care routine discreet, he tries not to be too hard on himself for feeling and acting like a horny teenager. He’s simply making up for all that time he spent in the lowest rung of Maslow’s hierarchy, and it so happens that his particular flavor of self-actualization involves copious masturbation.

But Johnny has always been a greedy bastard when it comes to his pleasure, and his own hand feels less and less satisfying. Thus, he continues to walk the tightrope between giving you space and lapping up every drop of physical affection he can steal. He has also made a very intentional decision not to ask his medical team whether he’s greenlighted for sex yet. If he has a stroke while making love you, at least he’ll die doing what he loved.

Finally inside the apartment, he removes Robbie’s harness and the dog plops into his bed beside the sofa, nibbling on his favorite braided rope. You, ever thoughtful, are already at the sink refilling his water bowl.

Johnny can tell you’re nervous. You won’t make eye contact and you’ve been picking at your cuticles. But you’ve also told him that your nerves are something entirely separate from your desires – you can be scared of something, and still want it to happen.

Lingering in the kitchen, he asks, “D’ye want wine? A beer?” You smile politely and shake your head. “No worries,” he follows up quickly. “Let’s throw on the telly.”

Johnny tosses himself on the couch and relishes giving his legs a break. When he becomes fatigued, it sometimes still feels like a conscious effort to keep his legs in sync with one another while walking. For all the urgency and butterflies he felt walking you down the cobblestone path to his little rental, he now finds he’s in no rush to usher you into bed. The two of you have all night for that. If watching a program or two loosens you up, gives you the mental space to prepare, he’s all for it.

And while it’s true that he would be disappointed if nothing happens tonight, he would understand that, too. You are the very definition of worth the wait.

Johnny flips through the titles on his streaming service of choice, trying to find something brainless like a reality show that you can poke fun at together. It takes him a moment to realize you haven’t sat down yet and are fidgeting to his right.

“Y’alright, over there?” he inquires.

 “I was wondering if this seat was open?” you say. And you point to his lap.

Oh, fuck me. Johnny’s brain does so many things at once he practically gets a headache. He rearranges himself to give you better access and flings the remote to the side so quickly that Robbie’s head snaps up in alarm. “Fer you? Literally always,” he replies, patting his leg eagerly.

His enthusiasm seems to disarm you as you smile and daintily move in front of him. You perch yourself so tentatively on his thigh that he’s afraid a single muscle spasm will send you flying.

You did the hard part by initiating – he can take it from here.

“Can we try somethin’ a little cozier?” he asks gently, and when you nod, he takes your wrist and lifts it around his shoulders. Then, placing his hand on your outer thigh just above the knee, he sweeps your legs fully onto the couch so that you’re properly sitting on his lap now.

“How’s that?” he checks, his nose so close to your temple that he just wants to bury his face in your hair. His sense of smell has dulled considerably since the injury, but he thinks that a whiff of some floral shampoo reaches him.

You slowly bring up your other arm to twine your fingers together on his shoulder, making a loop around his neck. You are shaking, ever so slightly, but he can also feel you shifting to get truly comfortable. “I like this,” you confirm, quietly enough that he almost misses it.

He tenderly pets your flank in an attempt to soothe your still-tensed body. “I like it more,” he quips with an affectionate squeeze to your waist.

After a moment of sitting like that, you lean your head between his neck and shoulder and say, “Everything feels so easy when it’s with you, Johnny. You’re thoughtful and patient and a gentleman.”

He cannot help but scoff a laugh that. “Sweetheart,” he tells you huskily. “I dinnae think you’d call me a gentleman if ye knew some of the thoughts I have. But I’m real glad I make ye feel good.”

The heat radiating from your face warms his neck when you softly reply, “I’d like to make you feel good, too.”

It’s like he’s been electrified. He has to actively stop himself from babbling the first stream-of-consciousness nonsense that comes to his mind, instead digging his fingers into you further to ground himself.

Just like he used to in dire combat scenarios, he takes quick stock of the situation and mentally triages:

Prime objective: get my dick wet WAIT, no, bad Johnny, start over. Prime objective: give my perfect, patient girlfriend the best orgasm of her life. (Very close) Secondary objective: get my dick wet. Related imperatives: avoid any TBI-related fumbles or embarrassments, remain charming at all times, see if we can ferret out any kinks...

“I mean. If you’re ready,” you blurt, and Johnny realizes that he has taken too long processing.

“Fuck, am I ever, bonnie.” He moves his hands to your face and kisses you as deeply as he can without flipping you both off the sofa. Your tongues meet and curl around each other in perfect harmony, enamored swans twining their necks. You don’t seem to mind that his hard-on must be pressing into your leg like a fucking saddle horn, which he takes a positive sign as he drags one hand down to your collar bone.

“I’m ready for anything, love,” he breathes between kisses, “anything y’want. You tell me.”

You chuckle at his excitement. “What if I’m into something weird?”

“I’m into weirder, promise,” he rushes to reply. You laugh even harder at that, and Johnny moves his kissing down to your neck so he can suck a few hickeys. Visual reminders of this milestone, if his addled brain ever dares to forget.

“Why don’t you take me to the bedroom,” you tell him, your voice as sultry as he’s ever heard it, “and we’ll see what happens?”

God have mercy, he will not pass out when he’s this close to heaven. He takes great care sliding you off his lap and standing up slowly as not to trigger his lightheadedness. Grasping your hand, he reaches the bedroom in four strides and immediately tugs his shirt over his head.

Johnny is unbuckling his pants when your hand on his forearm arrests him. “Where’s the fire?” you ask, tilting your head.

“Heh. Sorry. Jes’ excited.” 

It’s only partially true. Johnny used to be built like a Greek god, with a six pack and huge pecs and muscular arms that bulged with veins. His work demanded it. But after wasting away in the Rehab Centre for so many months, and now being only able to handle a greatly reduced routine at the gym, he is looking... dumpy. His muscles have atrophied from lack of use and are covered by a not-so-healthy layer of fat. The tan he used to sport from all his time in the field has faded in favor of his native Scottish pallor. His hirsute chest and arms suddenly seem sloppy instead of manly.

There was a time when he would have relished giving a girl a show. If his military career didn’t work out, he used to tell himself, he had both the charisma and Adonis belt to make a helluva a male stripper. But those days were behind him. Hopefully he can distract her from his dadbod with a cock that can still find a G-spot like a bloodhound.

He takes his time shucking his pants and kicking off his shoes. Boxers stay on for now (he’s dying to feel you reach inside and pull him out) as he closes the distance and presses you against him for another dizzying kiss. His hardness brands your soft hip and to his delight, you shift to give him a little friction.

“This a’right?” he asks, bunching up your shirt at the hem but pausing until you confirm. You nod, looking a little frantic yourself, and it’s on the floor in a split second.

Noticing you’re wearing a front-clasp bra, he decides to try one of his old tricks. He sits back on the bed, tugs you between his legs, and buries his face into your cleavage. The idea is to remove it with his mouth – just bite down on one side, use his tongue to push the clasp towards the center until the tension releases…

But to finally have his face in a pair of gorgeous tits, attached to the most perfect woman he’s ever met, Johnny completely forgets his mission. Instead he puts his hands on either side of your chest to squish your assets together. How is your skin so smooth? The fabric of the bra rolls to the side, exposing a coveted nipple that he immediately latches onto.

“H—oh,” you sigh, leaning into his ministrations.

His lower mandible only spasms once, and he’s quick to pull away to avoid hurting you. The other nipple needs some attention, anyway. He can feel his hands becoming shaky as he attempts to hook his fingers into the loops of your jeans, but you mercifully seem to understand what he’s doing and pause to quickly pull them down.

With an impatience that sets his loins on fire, you reach between your breasts and pop the bra open one-handed. He barely had time to appreciate the perky bounce before you’ve crawled into his lap and shoved them against his mouth again.

Both of you are down to knickers, and Johnny desperately wants to fuck you. Every fiber of his being is ready to lay you down and make love to you like you’re Helen of Troy. The only rather large problem is that his dick is quite suddenly not cooperating.

As he lavished attention on your incredible breasts, his cock went soft. He’s not sure if the TBI or his rampant masturbation schedule is to blame, but his… stamina… is not what it used to be. Getting hard is no problem – staying hard is. Usually he can get himself off fast enough that it doesn’t become an issue. But now? It is the most dramatic, colossal, life-ending, universe-altering issue he can conceive of.

You seem extremely ready to go, but Johnny opts to buy himself some time by reaching beneath your waistband and probing his prize.

He emits a ragged moan upon finding ample wetness between your lips. Sliding his finger further north, he has little trouble locating your engorged pearl and toying with it. You buck into the sensation.

“Where’s the shy lass I met at hospital, hmm?” he teases, breathless, as you bear down on his pointer. He quickly slips in another finger to give you the thickness you crave.

You puff out a laugh onto his shoulder. “You’ve got me too worked up to be anxious right now.”

It may be the single greatest compliment he’s ever received in his life.

Johnny continues to massage the inside of your pussy while stimulating your clit. The way you hump into his hand is dizzying, your body confirming what your lips have just confessed.

“I, um... I’m on the pill,” you pant in his ear. Although usually this would be cause for celebration, Johnny tenses up. You may as well have said, “Hey, dude, I’m ready to fuck now.”

Well, it’s do or die. Johnny’s dick must literally rise to the occasion. As he pistons his fingers into the heaven between your thighs, he tries to call to mind as much filth as possible to get his body to respond: huge oiled-up tits, O-faces of sundry porn stars, the sensation of a sloppy blowjob. At this point, it’s not about romance or finesse – it’s about results.

But when you lower your hand to still his pumping wrist, fingers mere inches from his flaccid manhood, Johnny has no choice but to admit defeat.

With a frustrated curse, he hefts you off his lap and sets you by the pillow. He flops to the other side of the bed, facing away from you, and forces himself not to say anything until he has himself sorted. The thought of even speaking the words aloud – I can’t get hard – nearly induces a full-body cringe.

So is this it, then? He’s allowed to have speech back, and they stuck a crimson scrap of fabric on his chest, but he’ll never again know the warmth of a cunt? Never be able to feel the most intimate embrace of the woman he loves? Will the MacTavish line die with him, if he’s never able to sire a child?

Your timorous voice brings him back to earth. “Johnny?”

He can manage no more than a grunt in response.

“Did I... do something wrong?”

He immediately turns over so he’s on his back beside you. “‘Course not, bonnie. Yer a dream come true. Jes’ my stupid fucken body’s all buggered up.”

You process for a moment before releasing a quiet, “Ah.”

Fuck, is he seriously going to cry? How has this night gone so tragically off the rails when it started out like a fairytale? The muscles in Johnny’s face pull and twist as they try to keep him from shedding tears, shame and rage and sorrow warring inside him as he tries to stay grounded. Since the accident, his emotions have been utterly fucked. He used to have the ability to laugh off almost anything. If this happened pre-TBI, he would’ve hit you with a boyish smile, made some funny remark that had you both laughing, and offered to spend the next several hours eating you out. But now he’s choking on too many feelings, and all he wants to do is to punch a wall or squeeze something made of glass until his hand is covered in blood.

You roll over so that you are leaning against his arm and part of his chest, looking up at him. He cannot meet your gaze. You begin to speak, but he cuts you off.

“I’m sorry, love, I really am. Ye deserve so much more than I can give. Spent all that winnin’ you over, fightin’ for yer heart, but I didnae stop to think how unfair it’d be to chain ye to me.”

“John. Stop.”

You’ve never used his full name like that before. Your tone is uncharacteristically firm.

“You told me to give you space to be upset when something goes wrong, and I’m okay with that. But don’t pretend I’m sad or angry with you just because you feel that way about yourself. You must know this doesn’t bother me a fraction as much as it bothers you.”

You’ve once again cut him to the quick with your insight. As touching as your words are, they only make that ache in his chest clench even harder.

Yet, he does his damnedest to heed you. It isn’t healthy to invent stories in which his own insecurities over his disability are mirrored in everyone he meets. Especially not in you. And continuing to project those inadequacies rather than contending with them head-on will only serve to ostracize the people he cares about.

“Yer right,” he concedes. “I’m just so bloody tired of feeling like half a man.”

Your hand falls on his chin and turns his face towards you. You have never looked more angelic to him, with your messy hair and big, bright eyes and beatific expression.

“Half a man would have given up on me because my anxiety isn’t worth the trouble,” you explain to him calmly. “Half a man would have tried to fuck me after our first date. Johnny, you are all man. And if it takes months until your body is ready to go all the way, or even if you need pills or something, you would never lose me over that. I’ll wait. I’ll be patient with you, just as you’ve been with me.”

Although his first instinct is to assume you’re lying, because how could sex not be important to you, he can see in your self-possessed bearing that you really mean it. You honestly don’t mind waiting, even if Johnny fears he wouldn’t be as strong as you were the shoe on the other foot.

He swallows the welling emotion in his throat and leans forward to kiss you tenderly. You return the gesture, grazing your fingers across his stubble in a way that makes him shiver.

“Thank you, bonnie,” he whispers, finally pulling back. He thinks he might cry again, but for a very different reason. “S’just what I needed to hear.”

You give him a soft smile. Then, resting your head over his heart, you say the words that change everything. That render his death and all the suffering that came after it worth the struggle.

“Of course. I love you, Johnny.”

And that’s the instant John MacTavish is reborn.

~~~