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Not Johnny.
One hundred and eighty-four days.
One hundred and eighty-four days since Johnny got a bullet in his head. Six months since you saw him flatten against concrete. No lights if not those of the torch tucked in your tac vest.
One hundred and eighty-four days since your own heart stopped beating. More than four thousand hours since the moment you snarled – bellowed. Voice raucous and loud echoing in the tunnel. Raw fire burning your tongue all the way to your fingertips; those that curled around the trigger of your gun.
Makarov on the floor with a hole in his forehead. Mouth-gaped, exhaling his last breaths, mouthing like a fish out of water. Cross-eyed. His lids fluttered, shaking. Pathetic.
Not Johnny.
One hundred and eighty-four days since you pulled the trigger again. And again. And again. And again. To his chest. To his face. To his legs, groin, shoulder.
Since Price hastily got up from where he’d been thrown and grabbed you from behind. Burly arms around your waist lifting you off the ground. Your gun still shooting, bullets now hitting the cinderblock of the walls. The trigger clicked empty, but you still pressed it – autopilot.
The roar that echoed scratched your throat, made you choke. You spluttered and coughed. Tears and spit, foaming at the mouth. A rabid dog.
Not Johnny.
More gunshots echoed, but they didn’t come from your weapon. Price dropped you, your knees knocked against the floor. Helpless, you folded. You draped your body over Johnny’s. Forehead to his chest, arms limp next to his face – fingers grabbing at his cheeks, enough to indent the skin. Blindly skimming through his features, feeling the slick blood carve its path through the tiny folds in your fingerprints.
Senses dull. Not Johnny.
Cotton in your ears. Each explosion from the guns was nothing more than a muffled thud. Bullets flew past you. Bullets hit you. You felt the familiar blinding pain of mangled flesh in your left arm. It caused your body to flop further – a ragdoll. It burned, yet it was nothing compared to the agony currently disemboweling you.
You were gutted. Much like a knife piercing flesh. Cutting its way through layers of skin, muscle, and fat. Intestines pouring out, blood and water and bile mixing on the floor – cocktail of death. Not yours. Johnny's.
Not Johnny.
He heard. His chest rose under the weight of your head, and life was breathed into you again.
───────────
It was absolutely mind-boggling to you how he’d survived. You saw it; you saw Makarov pull the trigger. You saw the bullet pierce his skull. You saw him crumple on the cement in that underground tunnel. You felt the blood on your hands. You felt how slick it made his skin.
But apparently, it wasn't enough to snatch the life out of him.
And as you spent the following days sleeping uncomfortably, curled on one of the chairs in the waiting room of the army hospital, doctors came and went to talk to Price.
Or to Johnny’s ma.
She’d flown all the way from Glasgow to Hereford in the blink of an eye, bringing with her a goddamn squadronof MacTavishes. Four sisters with his blue eyes, and his dark hair. All of varying ages. Even a little one, half of yours. Her long hair was in a plait that swung behind her back. You watched it – transfixed. Too catatonic and dazed to care that you might have looked like a right weirdo – staring at a kid like that.
But she was the one who looked like him the most. Maybe it was in the tilt of her chin. In the shape of her eyes. In the slight fold of the tips of her ears – God, you weren’t looking like one, you were a proper weirdo.
Her braid swung like a pendulum, marking the time you spent apart from him.
A guarded prognosis meant that no one aside from close relatives could enter the room. Family only - and the leader of Johnny’s unit. So, you spent your days of medical leave with your ass on those plastic chairs that were made for short sitting sessions, looking at a platoon of women going in with flowers and chocolates and leaving with tears and bloodied gauzes.
Your arm was wrapped in a bandage of its own, the muscle torn at the bicep. The pain was dull, much like the goddamn sight of you. Or the smell, which you reckoned mustn’t have been the most pleasant whiff to catch with one’s nostrils.
Price took pity on you because he knew. He acted like he didn’t for the sake of his team, but he knew. And he conveyed his awareness with lingering, judgmental glances he gave you and Johnny when the Scot let his hand travel a little too low on your back.
You watched them all from afar, perking your ears to catch any news the doctors told Johnny’s family or your Captain. Clawing at the walls for some information. You’d give your right kidney to know something more aside from the sparse words Price told you out of sympathy.
And then, out of nowhere, after tortuously long days spent with stomach and heart utterly empty, a nurse came to you.
She tapped your shoulder and you flinched. Bloodshot eyes swiveled to land on her face. She looked down at you apprehensively, knowing she’d have to tread lightly. A cornered animal, you were. Pitiful thing.
She called your name, and you blinked.
“The lady there said you’ve been here a while,” she spoke oddly soft and yet respectful. Must’ve spotted the pips on the epaulets of your uniform jacket, the one currently draped over you like a blanket.
Your eyes were unfocused and blinky. Lashes fluttering to swipe away the fatigue – a broom against dust. Looking around made your neck tingle, muscles corded, but you did. Your pupils locked with bright blue ones at the other end of the hallway.
Johnny’s ma waved.
Your brain rewired itself from its slumber and you sat upright. Your shoulders popped as you pulled them back at attention. Legs uncurled from where they were tucked underneath your weight, finally stretching out. Palms to your knees. Your jacket fell to the floor, you didn’t mind it.
“She wants to know if she can talk to you,” the nurse prompted.
You nodded eagerly, probably looking a little too desperate. Your leg bounced in anticipation and anxiety, tiny needles piercing the muscle as it awakened.
Gingerly, his mum walked to you. She sat right in the chair at your side. It took nothing but a look for her to understand: the crust in your lashes from the tears you’ve shed, the bandage around your arm gone from white to yellow with a splotch of brown in the middle. Dried blood and pus. The wound festering beneath it.
She hugged you. She didn’t care if you hadn’t washed in days. If your injury was probably infected, or at least smelled as such. You curled your fingers into fists against her back, and you cried.
She did, too.
𓇬
You understood that Johnny took his fire straight from his ma because she was currently bullying the doctor who had been preventing your entrance into her son’s room.
You stood almost embarrassed next to her, feeling like her child yourself.
She had forced you to wash, after all. Took you to one of the washrooms and helped you out of your clothes. Stroked your skin with a sponge when she noticed the weakness of your movements. Washed away the suds with the showerhead. Dried your hair and braided it.
You’d have felt pathetic if she weren’t there, constantly telling you it was alright. You'd have felt guilty that you became an additional burden to her if she weren't continuously whispering that “whoever loves my Johnny like you do, ‘s mine to care for.”
You took a few steps back the more she argued with the doctor, trying to flee from that predicament. Maybe you’d be lucky enough to peer through the cracked door and spot Johnny’s face now that both surgeon and nurse were busy trying to tame (fruitlessly, they’d learn) Mrs. MacTavish.
However, your back hit something. You lifted your arms, elbows out to create more space around you.
You looked behind and clocked a girl, and her braid. She was slightly shorter than you, about fifteen. The resemblance with her brother was so striking it caused your breath to hitch.
She looked at you with caution. Assessed you like antiques at an auction. Whether you were worthy of her brother’s affection, or not. And you found yourself thinking you’ve never wanted someone’s approval more than you did at that moment.
It was a game of stares that she was clearly winning.
Comical, really. How your skin had bled because of bullets tearing it apart. Knives had ripped crimson gashes on your flesh. Bombs had gone off in your vicinity. You’ve killed. You’ve seen death and brought it, too – a harbinger.
Yet now you stood stock still in front of a teenager. Eyes locked with the depth of the azure sea hers bore. Frozen in place with your elbows still out and your hands hovering between you two.
It was silent for what felt like hours when in truth only mere, tense minutes had passed. The only sound that of Johnny’s ma giving an earful to the doctor and a very tired nurse.
Your lips parted on their own accord then, and your voice came out wet and strained. “You’re so much like him.”
That girl had tried to crack open your skull with the sheer force of her eyes and somehow managed. Then snuck her fingers in the hollow of your stomach and curled them around the handles of your ribs only to rip them open and take a gander at the battered thing that was your heart.
What she said next made your chest clench to the point of pain. Your heart stomped against the hard bone of your rib cage. Her voice was heavily accented yet softer than her brother's. The meaning behind her words was different from the ones you uttered. They went deeper than mere physical appearance.
The thought that she might have seen something in you that even remotely reminded her of him made your heart ache - feeling undeserving of it.
“You are, too.”
───────────
One hundred and eighty-four days since the incident, you could’ve gotten a goddamn medical degree. You took a long compassionate leave to stay by his side, hastily apologizing to doctors and PTs alike for his behavior because during that time, when they’d show up at your doorstep, he’d bark like a dog for them to leave.
For one-hundred and eighty-four days, the moment he fell asleep, you’d bury your head in medical manuals and books. You had his physical therapist explain to you step by step all the exercises he’d have to do for his limbs, so he’d regain strength and mobility.
The massages. The oils. The meds. How to put an IV in. How to change the bandages of his bedsores. You helped him shower. You helped him dress. You did his beard or his hair, and while he pushed for it to be a bland buzzcut or just let it grow, you always let the airstrip at the center stay – gelling it up sometimes, for good fun.
When you’d place a kiss against his buzzed side, next to the healing scar, he’d find himself giving in more and more. His back would soften against your chest, fingers curling at your forearms wrapped around his front.
By the one hundred and eighty-fourth day since the incident, Johnny still barked like a dog at whoever dared to walk in his flat that wasn’t you or a member of his family. But at least now the rest of the lads had their privileges.
At least now he let you sleep on your side of the bed – sometimes daring to curl his arm around your waist so you’d scoot over to his.
At least now he kissed you again and brushed his fingers along your cheek, or through your hair.
His strength came back at a languid pace, but his hands didn’t tremble anymore when he held a fork, so now he could eat by himself. He could lift small weights, but still couldn’t sit up on his own. That was the next achievement you both were aiming at.
His personality now shone through the fractures of the shell he'd locked himself into. The cheeky grin slowly came back like molten gold mending the fissures. That glint in his eyes - a reminder that he was alive.
You already knew it, but he didn’t – and now, he was on his way to finally realize it.
On the morning of that day, Johnny was lying in bed as you’d just finished helping him wear a pair of grey sweatpants. Your back was to him while you folded clean laundry.
He watched like a hawk each movement you made, no matter how mundane and trivial. Shame and resentment still had a tight grip on his heart, withered his soul, but the sight of you – simply there – was enough to make those feelings hush.
“Can’t believe you bloody stayed.”
You stilled in your motions, and only resumed a moment later, setting down the laundry back in the basket. Then, in your sweats and one of his t-shirts, you moved towards the bed. Sat at the edge. Lingered there for a moment as you took him in.
He was thinner. However, against all medical logic, his muscles were still there. Definitely less bulging, definitely much less defined, but there. Apparently, it takes a lot more to wear down John fucking MacTavish. However, you’d have to give credit where credit is due, and your relentless insistence in forcing him to do all the exercises as the PT instructed you, even when Johnny all but cursed at you, might have helped his muscles keep their tone.
You lay down in bed next to him, propped on your elbow with your cheek in your palm. You placed your free hand over his chest, his strong heartbeat at your fingertips.
"'cause you're too hot to drop, eh?" You quipped.
He tried to keep up with your joking mood, his lips curving into that trademark smirk he used to don so effortlessly. Differently from before, when life seemed to flow smoothly, it was short-lived. And while his heart felt like it was being torn apart, he lifted his arm and slung it around your waist, bringing you close.
You snuggled in his side for good measure. One leg of yours was draped over his two, palm still flat on his chest, and now your head lay there as well. While he’d almost returned to his usual self, these moments in which he allowed you to touch him were always sparse and rare. You’d take your fix whenever you could.
His chest still felt tight at the sight of you huddling against him. “Why do ye love me?”
His voice rumbled in his ribcage, echoing in your ear pressed against his pectorals. It perfectly scratched an itch in the back of your brain, almost giving you gooseflesh.
"Because you're pure dead brilliant.” You replied quietly, drawing shapes over the fabric of his tee, "You make me laugh, you make me happy."
Absently, you smiled – memories of your relationship even before it bloomed into love came running in front of your eyes. He could only see the top of your head, but he felt the way your cheek lifted against the cotton, somewhat scrunching the fabric.
"Can't imagine a life without you, honestly.” You lifted your head from his chest and placed a chaste kiss over it. Your shoulders shrugged, the answer being simple. "You're my Johnny."
As much as your words served as a balm to his wounds, he felt as if you were describing someone else. Attributes he was undeserving of – ones that described the man he might have been once but didn’t feel like anymore.
His hand lightly gripped your hip. All he could do was tilt his head down and plant a kiss on your forehead, letting his lips linger a tad longer. Savoring your skin and the salt of it.
“’m the luckiest man alive,” he mumbled. The press of his mouth against your flesh slurred his words, but you caught them anyway.
Luckiest for real, you mused but didn't voice it. He didn't need a daily reminder of the sheer miracle his survival had been.
Instead, you only relished the touch of the chapped skin of his lips. Your eyes fluttered closed to block out anything else that didn’t involve that tiny, warm feeling.
"My lucky charm,” was all you could muster up to say.
He huffed. The air escaping his nose was warm as it hit the crown of your head. You could tell by the way he tensed that he was hesitant, still mindful when it came to having you close. Insecure, ashamed. But you'd linger there unless he pushed you away – hoping, deep down, he never would again.
In very Johnny’s fashion, he masked his insecurity with a lighthearted joke. “C’mon, inflate my ego a bit more.”
And you did, despite knowing it was all a façade to hide the inner turmoil he’d been brewing constantly ever since. Despite knowing he silently craved your words of reassurance, because maybe, if you repeated them enough, he’d eventually believe them, too.
A chuckle bubbled up your throat. Johnny felt its gentle rumble in his bones, and it stole a smile from him.
“You’re absolutely hilarious – you crack me up,” you continued like he asked, “Sharper wit than mine – which I thoroughly appreciate.”
You leaned your head back, reluctantly pulling your forehead away from his lips, only to be awarded with the blue of his eyes.
“You’re kind and compassionate," you sighed, "You care ‘bout others even when you shouldn’t. That’s noble.”
But then your mouth pursed, because its corners struggled to keep a smile, "You're also absurdly hot, love.”
He scoffed, giving you a look – shallow. But he couldn't deny the way the last comment made his chest puff a little.
It was unbearably hard not to burst out laughing. Difficult to keep the warmth inside, in the face of the familiarity of it all. You cleared your throat, mustering up the most serious expression you could pull at that moment.
“You’re the strongest man I know.”
And just like that, his smile was gone. The dancing flame he lit in your heart, smothered by ice. Johnny, who’d always been the gasoline to your fire, now felt like freezing water.
He shook his head, trying to hide the unease. “My strength is long gone, love.”
And even if your blood was struggling to boil against the ice he instilled, you decide you wouldn’t have that. Not in a thousand years.
Your eyes welled up with tears, as much as you tried to fight it. He sounded so tormented - you craved to take it away from him. Your fingers curled at his jaw, gently. Tilting his head, you forced his eyes to lock with yours – making sure to keep him there, focused on you.
"You, my love," you repeated, voice wavering but filled with resolve, "are the strongest man I've ever met."
Yet your words only fueled the self-hatred. He failed to see the determination in your eyes because the wounds in his brain, both emotional and whatnot, only made him perceive pity.
“I hate this,” he growled. While your fire had been smothered, his only grew. His eyes held defiance and fight, unfortunately against all the wrong things. “I hate this so damn much. I – I struggle to live, darling. I can’t even fucking stand. I’m like a useless sack of sh-”
"None of tha'." You interrupted him. This time, you sounded angry.
Hell, you understood. You were a special forces operator, too. You were in his same team. You fucking got it. The pain, the worthlessness after having been fully independent and, at least on his part, generously strong for most of his adult life.
But you weren't having it.
Your fingers held his face in place, curled at his cheeks. Not too tight, always gentle and mindful of his head injury, but firm enough to indent in the plush of his skin.
"You are Sergeant John – fucking Soap - MacTavish." You stated firmly, and while your eyes were glossy, your voice didn't hesitate this time. "You are a sniper and demolitions specialist. The best out there."
Your pupils sailed the storm in his eyes with unparalleled skill. "You've survived a gunshot to the head. You fought to live, and I swear 'ere and now, John, I'll make fucking sure you will."
Johnny found himself fighting a war he couldn’t win. And while he wasn’t used to it, he realized he didn't mind losing. He had been biting each hand that tried to feed him, to nurse him back to health.
Even yours.
He failed to see, however, that you came back each time – mangled fingers, bite marks and all.
He hated being the reason you cried, even if it was for the sheer amount of feelings that had been brewing all at once, threatening to spill over.
Without warning, he put his hands against the mattress and sat up. And because it wasn’t enough for him apparently, he grabbed awestruck-you by the hips, pulling you on top of him – with no little effort – to straddle his lap. That was the achievement of the week, he thought, and with an exhausted sigh, he flopped with his back against the headboard.
He used to be able to absolutely manhandle you and place you wherever he wanted, once. Now, his chest heaved as a result of barely lifting you an inch. The concept was still hard to grasp for him, but he realized how proud he felt when his eyes landed on yours, when your gasp reached his eardrums.
And he understood, then. He might have thought that he was a useless sack of shit, but you weren’t, and steaming Jesus, he’d do it. For you, he’d take the fucking praise of having lifted a spoon without dropping the stupid golf ball you placed on it. He’d take the kisses you’d pepper his face with each time he’d bend his knee to his chest without your hands helping him fold it.
He’d take that look you were donning right there on his lap, your eyes going from heated to watery. Brows pinched. Mouth-gaped.
He’d take it like a fucking champ, and he’d be proud of it.
"Johnny,” you breathed, steadying yourself with your palms on his shoulder.
The bastard smirked; lips parted as he caught his breath.
He brought his hands up to cup your cheek. His thumb rubbed at your jawline and his fingers threaded through your hair. “How are ye so bloody beautiful, eh?”
You almost melted right then and there.
You huffed. Breathless and shaky. You leaned your cheek against his palm – perfect fit. One could hear the clicking sound it would’ve made as it fell into place.
“Gonna have to cross tha' from our achievements list." You slurred, your words as wobbly as your lips.
He hated your bloody achievements list, but he’d take that one, too.
His voice was raspy. Scratched you in all the right places. “We should put a reward for each one you tick off, mh?”
You blushed.
You did, and you weren't even ashamed of it. How many people could say that their significant other made them flush even after years together? You bet very fucking few.
Because Johnny made your heart stutter like the first time although it had been years you two shared the same bed. Johnny made your chest swell, your cheeks pink, and your panties wet even after he'd seen you naked and bent however he pleased – and he could do that with a very visible craniotomy scar on the side of his head.
You gave him a knowing look, though.
"Just a kiss," you replied, sounding a little too patronizing. Almost as if you were scolding him. "The doc said no sex, Johnny."
Indeed, now he almost looked like a child who just had his favorite new toy snatched away. A feigned pout, his bottom lip jutting out slightly. “Not even a tiny bit?”
He looked utterly gorgeous, even when he acted like this – normally, it would’ve driven you up a wall.
The blue of his irises was now a mere halo around widened, dark pupils. He took a greedy handful of the meaty part of your hip. His other hand journeyed from your jawline to your bum, and he wasn’t parsimonious there either, as he curled his fingers around the plush skin.
"What even is a tiny bit of sex, Johnny?” You huffed. Before he could reply, because you saw that cheek in his eyes, “And for the love of Christ – Don't say just the tip.”
He grinned, caught red-handed.
You fixed him with a blank stare.
And then, you spouted all the knowledge you had acquired during these months while he slept away. You went full medical encyclopedia on him. "Sex increases blood pressure, which might cause weakened blood vessels in your brain to burst, potentially leading to a hemorrhagic stroke. You could -”
Johnny barked a laugh. You ended your lecture by pursing your mouth in a tight line; rolled your lips between your teeth to hide how much the sound of his genuine chuckle had affected your heart.
He absolutely demolished you with a sentence only.
“But I sat up today, sweetheart.”
Your shoulders deflated. Utterly powerless.
He pinched the air between thumb and forefinger in the space between your faces, “Just a glimpse, yeah?”
You scoffed and briefly looked down at the spot where he’d placed you in. All by himself, no help from you whatsoever. You were so fucking proud it made you arrhythmic.
You settled on a glimpse.
Gingerly, you grasped the hem of your (his) tee and pulled it off your head. You tossed it in a vague direction behind you, eyes focused on his. Deft fingers went to unhook your own bra, and you let it fall.
Sitting up on your knees, which gave him a very nice close-up of your breasts (the lad went cross-eyed at the sight), you hooked your fingers at the waistband of your sweatpants. With one motion, you took down both pants and underwear, which pooled at your knees.
You leaned back, sitting on your rear, and pulled them both off your ankles. Much like your sorry t-shirt, they landed somewhere on the bedroom floor.
Planting your feet on each side of his thighs, you kept your knees spread and leaned back on your palms, as if to say There, enjoy.
"Better?"
Johnny’s eyes darkened instantly at the sight before him. You looked wet already for reasons unknown to him. Poor man couldn't grasp the idea that no matter how he looked, he'd always make your heart race and your cunt glisten.
Johnny slowly rubbed the back of his fingers against his lips.
“Better,” you heard him rasp.
You nodded imperceptibly, eyes never leaving his. You raised a hand and drew a map of your body with your finger, tracing a path he’d hopefully follow again, one day.
It started from your mouth, fingertip tugging at your lower lip until it bounced back into place. Then down your chin, down the curve of your throat, traveling in the valley of your breasts.
"You behave, Johnny," you breathed, letting your own hand grab a handful of your breast and squeeze. The fat bulged between the grooves of your fingers.
"Follow PT.” You pulled at your nipple, "Take your meds, do as the doctors say."
Your palm snaked down your belly until it reached your core. You spread your lips for him with your fingers, "And I'll be your first meal after recovery."
Johnny’s eyes followed your hand, hypnotized. He swore his mouth watered and he thought this wasn’t much of a reward as it was torture.
His heart throbbed against his ribs, and his eyes clocked yours once more.
“I’ll behave,” he promised, his voice thick with an unspoken need – and he would.
Johnny decided that he’d take this, too. Fucking hell he would.
Your lips quirked to the side, trying to hide the small smile of delight. The only thing you wanted was for him to get better. Small steps: he had already managed to sit up in bed by himself, so maybe the next step would be to stand up on his own, one day.
Then walk. Then run. Then train at the gym, or take you out for dinner. Fuck you senseless into the mattress. Get on his knees to make a meal out of you. Or get on one knee, holding out a ring.
And by God, if what he needed was a reward – he'd get it. Honestly, if it would help him improve, you'd give it to him every bloody day. You’d bend, break, turn, and fucking dance if he asked. As long as he stayed here, alive.
You were unabashedly wet, so there was barely any friction as you plunged middle and forefinger inside your core. You hissed at the sensation – pleasure and pain. You let out a shuddering breath, eyes closing just briefly.
You should've been embarrassed about the sound your own cunt made when you slid them out, but the way Johnny's eyes widened made you anything but. His hand dropped from his mouth onto his thigh, limp.
Utterly disarmed himself.
Sticky and wet with arousal, you placed your fingers on his lips, gently pushing them inside to rest on his tongue.
"Good man, Johnny," you breathed, your own heart thrumming, "So fucking proud of you.”
Johnny’s chest warmed and his eyes flickered between your own, his tongue automatically coming forward to taste you on your fingers. His cheek hollowed as he sucked, which did absolutely nothing to the already dripping state of you.
You scissored your fingers against his tongue, “Take it.”
His eyes fluttered closed. Sweet and salty, ambrosia on his tastebuds. The tang of you, forever impressed in his mind – a man parched of what he used to drink almost daily and had been denied for months. He thought it had been criminal of you to take it away from him for so long.
And while this totally wasn’t the most appropriate moment to think about it, he realized that you never denied him anything that wasn’t for his own good.
He did it to himself.
Which made him angry. Which prompted his hand to flit up and wrap around your wrist to keep your fingers there, snug in the cavity of his mouth – wishing he could never part from them.
The humming sound of pleasure vibrated through your hand, and you shivered in response. He grunted in a low, husky murmur – words barely muffled by your fingers, “I want my reward, pet.”
Your own eyes were hooded and heavy. He looked perfect, despite that thick scar on the side of his head. Actually, the fact that he was still here, in this plane of existence, with his brain injury - somehow alive, by sheer miracle - made him even more perfect.
You took your fingers out of his mouth. Johnny begrudgingly released them with a pop. He looked flushed and ravenous. It would’ve scared you, the voracity in his eyes, if you weren’t already accustomed to it – known it like your own, same hunger that’d been festering in your lower stomach for months.
You helped him lay back down again, making sure his head would fall softly against the pillow, back flat on the mattress. You stretched out like a cat, settling yourself on your knees between his legs.
Resting your palms against his thighs, feeling the taut muscle underneath, your fingers gently scraped over the fabric of his sweatpants. The obvious tent he sported imperceptibly twitched in reflex.
You grazed the bulge with your nails. Johnny shuddered.
Only then, you curled your fingers at the waistband of his sweats and slowly pulled down, exposing him. His cock bounced back against his abdomen once it unhooked from the elastic of his boxers.
It was your mouth’s turn to water. You’d seen him naked several times in the past one hundred and eighty-four days, but the purposes were very much different. Of course, it wasn’t only him that had to refrain from intimacy. While you could, well, DIY your way to bliss, it clearly wasn’t enough, because your body was reacting dramatically at the mere sight.
Your hand almost darted at the base. Johnny’s hips gave a tiny jerk, and you could hear the lack of sounds coming from him. He was holding his breath, almost in anticipation of what he knew would happen.
Thankfully he’d always been vocal, and when you gave the first stroke, Johnny absolutely melted. Quite literally, you saw him deflate against the pillows as if he were made of wax and your hand was fire. His lips parted in a whine you hadn’t heard in ages. Or maybe never. At all.
You decided you wanted to hear that again. Fucking pronto.
You started slowly, stroking up and down the way you knew he liked. Dragging the skin over the tip, using the honestly baffling amount of precum as lube.
You couldn’t take your eyes off of him. Johnny always looked gorgeous, and during sex, he looked like a god.Made to worship and praise. Now, his eyes were half closed. The narrow space visible was white – he had rolled back his eyes. Lips parted by heavy pants. Brows tight, as if he was concentrating.
Because he was.
“Slow down,” he drawled, seemingly unable to have his mouth follow along with his thoughts. “Fuck, plea-“, he whined, again. That sound you were looking for. Goddamn music that could feel like silk to the touch.
Your thighs squeezed together for some needed friction, and you did as he asked. He exhaled shakily, fully closing his eyes to get a grip. Johnny’s jaw clenched. He gritted his teeth, releasing a sharp breath from his nose.
Slowly, you bent at the waist, shifting a little on your knees. Your face was right next to his length as you held it up by the base, stroking languidly.
Johnny felt your breath hit his shaft and his eyes snapped open. You saw how his chest stuttered, eyelid twitching at the sight. How the indent of your spine drew a curve that tipped at your ass, tilted up. The lashes framing your doe eyes fluttering right next to his cock. Your lips pink, as if they might have caught teeth. The sheen of his precum around your fingers.
Johnny could’ve come right then and there.
To prevent it, he slid his eyes shut again. It was useless, because he felt that plush mouth he loved oh, so dearly, leave a trail of slow kisses from his base up to his angry-red tip. Johnny hissed a string of curses, wringing his eyes closed until his lids wrinkled.
You lingered a little more on his tip with your lips barely grazing it, tasting the salt of him and reveling in the desperation he was showing. Not a bad thing – this wasn’t that kind of torment you hated to see. Indeed, you liked it.
Very much so.
“Johnny,” you whispered, “Look at me, baby.”
Johnny could only oblige; however, he did beg whatever deity up there to give him enough resolve not to cum on your hand. His eyes drifted open and the sight of you, once again, threatened to have him end the moment way too soon.
He gulped. A fruitless endeavor, because his mouth was dry and his throat stuck. He parted his lips to mumble something. Something incoherent and jumbled because his brain was haywire.
Whatever he had to say, however, came out as a choked sound. Your lips parted further and wrapped around his head. Your heavy-lidded gaze locked with his much too wide eyes, and Johnny crumbled once and for all.
“Christ,” was the first sensed word he growled. His head fell back against the pillow, but that made you still.
He moaned again. Not that sound you liked, but more like a lament – why did you stop. Your mouth left his shaft with a sonorous pop. His head lifted and he glowered – how dare you.
“Eyes on me, Johnny.”
His breath hitched, and he thought you couldn’t have looked more beautiful. His eyes softened at the order, and he gave a simple nod, trying not to look as desperate as he felt and failing spectacularly.
You grinned, and he corrected himself: you could look more beautiful.
Whatever devoted thought was about to cross his mind was stopped in its tracks when you ran your tongue along the underside of his cock. Tortuously slow.
You used your hand at the base to slap the head against the flat of your tongue while your other palm rested on his thigh, feeling how he tensed beneath you. Only then, your lips returned around his cock. The muscles in his neck bulged and the tendons tightened, resisting the urge to just flop back once again.
His hips gave yet another tiny jerk, and he bit his bottom lip. "Careful, pet," he warned you, his voice strained against the rock lodged in the back of his throat.
He reached down and grasped at your hair but did not pull, simply just holding on to give you a sense of where his hands were. He wished he could sit up and ram his cock down the back of your throat. He knew you’d take it – fuck, he knew.
But he’d used enough strength to gain the current reward, which was also the other reason why his muscles felt too syrupy to hold him up.
The tight grip on your hair almost made your eyes roll back at the promise of what it could’ve meant. The memories of how good he’d guide your head down his length made your cunt flutter around nothing.
You dived down until his tip reached the back of your throat. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as you struggled to breathe from your nose.
“God, sweetheart,” he moaned. Didn’t growl, or groan. John fucking MacTavish moaned, and you were unsure whether you liked this more than the gruff sounds you were used to.
You rose up again and then rammed down. Up, and down. Again, and again. And Johnny thought he could’ve cried. His chest heaved and his lungs burned – struggling to keep up with his rapid intake of air. His thighs tensed.
“Just like tha’.” He stuttered, voice cracking at the edges, “Yes, love. Yes.”
It took a lot of him not to collapse right back against the pillow and just enjoy the feeling and the obscene sounds you were making. And while his eyes stayed focused on you because you had commanded so, he also didn’t want to deprive them of the sight that you were.
You knew his tells: breathy voice, taut quadriceps, those tiny jerks of his hips to meet your mouth. Your hand curled at the base to help you out in your endeavor, stroking lightly and twisting as your mouth still worked. Your eyes locked on him, lidded and watery. Tears down your flushed cheeks.
A fucking sight alright, Johnny thought.
With the last spurs of strength left in his body, he selfishly pushed your head down, burying your nose in his curls. He groaned a desperate “Oh, fuck”, lifted his hips to meet you halfway. With a shudder, you felt him empty himself down your throat.
The grip he had on your hair tightened to the point of delicious pain, stinging your scalp. Johnny's legs went stiff under your touch. His cock twitched, buried deep down your throat, as spit and cum bubbled at the corners of your stuffed mouth.
You didn’t fight how your eyes rolled back this time. Struggling to breathe through your nose as you obediently swallowed.
Johnny allowed himself to collapse back against the pillow. Unfocused and dazed. The way his orgasm hit, like a needle puncturing his brain, made him think that maybe you were right and he’d gone and done it – the hemorrhagic stroke, or whatever it was you said.
When you finally pulled back, Johnny looked down at you with hooded eyes. His chest was still rising and falling at an alarming pace. And just when he thought it was over, that the bliss had regrettably ended, you locked eyes with him. His mouth went dry again.
He slowly let the grip on your hair go to allow you some freedom to move. He reached out to touch the side of your face. His thumb skimmed your lower lip, smearing the spit and what was left of him on your cheek.
“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly – more than just a compliment.
You blushed. As if your cheeks could get any redder.
After tucking him back into his pants and sweats, Johnny beckoned your face closer to his. You followed his guidance, only to have him curl his fingers at the nape of your neck to tilt your head, and let his lips meet yours.
He didn’t kiss your hungrily. He savored you, allowing your lips to slot, and your tongues to mold. He tasted himself on you, and you tasted yourself on him.
Johnny tucked you under his arm, guiding you to rest your head on his chest like before.
You looked up at him, a cheeky smile on your lips. Tapped your fingers over his heaving chest.
“Slow breaths,” you instructed, “Keep the blood pressure low, baby.”
He huffed, “Fuck off, darling.”
You laughed and nuzzled against him. Johnny could only chuckle with you – could only think you were a vision. And when your face lifted to prop your chin on his chest so your eyes could meet, when your smile beamed in his direction, he was sure you were one.
"Now will you," you tapped his nose with your finger, "Cooperate a little more?”
Johnny snorted.
His lips curled into a tiny smirk. His cheeks were flushed as well, a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. His eyes were droopy and a little dreamy when he took you in. You looked so beautiful his heart could’ve stopped, and if that were to be the last thing he saw, he would've died a happy man.
You were proud of him, and for the first time, he was proud of himself, too.
He fell silent and only basked in your glow, reveling in the sunlight you brought. The arm that held you by your waist traveled upwards, and he curled it around your head. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, tangling with some of your hair as well.
And Johnny thought he’d take it. He’d take it any day.
“Get that achievements list,” he whispered, “Wanna cross that shite myself.”