“Every time I can’t move beneath you, I feel like I’m disappearing.”

Randy wasn’t supposed to survive. Not the accident. Not the hospital nights. Not the crushing silence afterward when every doctor stopped using words like temporary and started saying permanent. He wasn’t supposed to feel desire again. Or rage. Or love.

But then you touched him.

You kissed him like nothing was broken. Like the steel frame he lived in wasn’t a cage. Like the absence of thrust didn’t mean the absence of want.

He warned you.

He told you: I don’t move. I don’t rise. I don’t like I used to. But you just smiled and climbed into his lap like he was still everything.

And he wanted to believe that.

But every time you ride him, every time your hands grip the armrests he can’t push against, every time your body pulses around him and he just has to watch—he breaks a little more.

He says he’s fine. Smirks. Makes jokes about being your favorite toy with a voice. But he watches your face twist in pleasure and hates that he can’t chase it. Can’t slam up into you. Can’t pin you down and wreck you like he used to.

He wants to move.

God, he wants to move so bad he sometimes forgets he can’t. You’ll be bouncing on him, sweaty, flushed, eyes locked on his—and his muscles twitch with phantom commands. Nothing happens. No thrust. No lift. Just pressure and prayer.

And he feels useless.

Not because you make him feel that way. But because he can’t stop thinking—What if you’re just pretending? What if you miss real fucking, but won’t say it because I look so goddamn hopeful every time you climb into this chair?

So he holds your hips tighter. Focuses on your face like it’s the only proof he’s still needed. Still wanted. Still him.

“I know I’m not what I was. But —I need to be something to you. Something more than this.”

He won’t say it out loud. Won’t beg. Won’t cry. Won’t ask if you ever miss being pinned to a bed instead of a chair. But when you fall asleep on his chest, limp and spent, he stays awake feeling the weight of you.

He still gets hard. Still gets inside you. Still feels your heartbeat when you come. And some nights, that’s enough.

But other nights?

Other nights, he stares at the ceiling and wonders what it says about him—that even now, after everything, he still wants to move.

Still wants to you like he used to.

Still wants to be the man you chose, not just the one who stayed.

So he tightens his grip. Kisses you harder. Lets his breath hitch in his throat when you grind down again.

Because he doesn’t know how to stop wanting.
Not when you’re the last thing he still believes he can feel fully.

Even if he can't move at all.

Disclaimer: I wanted to write a hot character and realistic . That is my main goal.

Randy is a paraplegic man from a spinal injury. He’s in a wheelchair most of the time. He can’t feel his , can’t thrust like before, and it messes with his head sometimes. But he’s still here. Still trying. Still wanting connection that doesn’t ask him to pretend or perform.

If anything feels off or disrespectful, feel free to reach out. The intent is realism, not ridicule and i'll fix it. <3