No thoughts just post-TBI!soap who's hair is a grown out mess when you met him, right?
It's difficult to take care of his hair when his body doesn't want to listen to him most days. Limbs jerking at odd angles, cramping up, or running on a delay.
"I could cut it for you," you offer one night, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. It's one of those days where soap wants to be anyone but the person he is. "I used to cut my friends hair all the time. Mohawk is easy."
"Y-you know it'll t-take forever, dove." Soap warns, refusing to get his hopes up "i can't s-sit still. Not like I used t-to."
"More time with eye candy? Oh nooooo...what will I do?" You roll your eyes, teasing.
Which is how soap ends up in the bathroom, shirt off because he knows he'll be hopping in the shower afterwards anyways. It feels weird having anyone so close, your hand in his hair "okay, johnny. I'm starting now, be good for me."
Turns out, soap has been missing this. Letting go while a lover cards through his hair. You easily adjust to the sudden jerks and twitches of his body, pulling the clippers away and resuming seamlessly with a "mh, so reactive, johnny."
It's been months since soap has felt in any way sexy. It's impossible for him to find pleasure in the body that hardly feels like his own.
But as you slowly shape out that familiar mohawk, it's like something snaps back into place. Your hands gently tugging soaps head into place has him blushing, half-hard from the absent touches alone.
"Oh? Really, johnny?" Then your hand really cards through his fresh mohawk, grips his roots tight and pulls him back to look at your pleased expression "enjoying it? Hm?"
The other hand slips down to palm at his jeans, and for the first time in months soap is arching his back with a moan. He clumsily humps your palms, eager.
"Go clean up and then we can play, okay?" You coo, offering his bulge one last stroke.
Soap sets a record for his fastest shower post-injury that night.
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