Chapter Text
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.