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youreyeson1y · 7 months ago

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˗ˏˋ fuzzy ‎ socks and ‎ ‎ ‎ warm ‎ ‎covers ‎ ‎✶ˎˊ˗

pairing: bang chan x gn! reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ cw: tooth rotting domestic fluff, est. relationship + try not to cringe because love is ew :(‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ note: is this all because of the selcas chan shared? yes, yes it is. (also wanted to post something before I go on hiatus cause of exams lol) ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ word count: ‎ ‎0.96k ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ enjoy ! ‎ ‎ bang chan masterlist.

snuggled under three layers of blankets on the couch, you felt perfectly content.

your hands absentmindedly fiddled with the empty cup in your lap, the faint warmth from your drink still clinging to it. a quiet smile played on your lips face as you watched chan throw his hands up dramatically, fully immersed in the story.

“and the host was so shocked when hyunjin started doing that move in the middle of the stage, because who knew there’s another song called sticky?”

“wait,” you cackled, already excited for the clips to emerge. “so you’re telling me that he danced to kiss of life’s sticky in the reality show? damn, can’t believe i missed that.”

chan laughs, the sound filling the room with warmth. a movie was playing on the tv, but you found your boyfriend’s endless stories more entertaining.

sitting on the plush carpet in front of you, chan was wearing a black tank top and grey sweatpants, while you had more layers on than you could count. the room became quiet for a moment, but the hairs on your arms stood up as you saw a mischievous smirk appear on chan’s face.

“no, nope,” you warned him as he stood up, a playful sparkle in his eyes, and you instinctively pull the blankets tighter around yourself. “don’t you dare, christopher bahng.”

“don’t be so mean, ” he pouts, his knees on either side of yours. “do you want your boyfriend to freeze to death out here?”

“well, there’s always the option for sweaters and jackets… or even a tshirt;” you mumble, your face growing red as your boyfriend’s nose touches yours, a soft smile playing on his lips.

he gently takes the cup from your hands and places it on the centre table without breaking eye contact, putting you in a trance. as you let your guard down and lean in for a gentle kiss, you jump in your seat with a yelp as his freezing fingers touches your waist under the covers.

the cold sensation sends chills down your spine as you shiver, goosebumps covering your body.

“christopher,” you whine, finally giving a reaction as he melts into your body. “i hate you.” you shiver as he wraps his arms around you, engulfing you in a chilly but warm embrace as he settles under the covers.

despite yourself, you lean into his embrace instinctively.

“i love you too,” he giggles, dimples on full display, as he hugs you tighter. “and why would i need a sweater when i have you to warm me up just as fine?”

you blush, whatever resolve you had melting away.

“whatever,” chan chuckled as he saw you half heartedly roll your eyes. “i’m wearing the socks you gave me, so i guess you might as well warm up your toes too.” you looked at anything but him in an attempt to appear nonchalant.

his laugh made you feel warmer than the blankets ever could.

chan shifted, tucking himself into your side as you both shifted into a more comfortable position. his legs intertwined with yours, rubbing over your fuzzy socks. his arms wrapped around your waist, adding a comforting weight.

the room grew silent, the only sound being your steady breathing and the soft voice coming from the television.

“oy,” you nudge him after making sure he wasn't asleep. “what happens next?”

“huh? next to what?”

“i dunno. i just want to hear you yap.”

the way chan’s face immediately became red was almost comical. he tried hiding his face in the crook of your neck, making him seem more adorable.

“stop…” he whined, his demeanor changing from his usual cool charm to a fumbling mess.

“what? i just love listening to my boyfriend yap, is that a crime?”

“i mean,” his voice came out small. “i’ve been boring you with my stories all evening today. aren't you sick of hearing my voice already?”

he tried to laugh it off, but let out a shriek as you playfully swatted his arm.

“hey!” you pinched his arm for extra emphasis. “don't ever say that okay? listening to you talk is literally the favourite part of my day.”

“you're just saying that,” chan huffed, hugging you tighter in an attempt to hide his flushed face.

“no, bubba, it's true. i love hearing your voice and i love how you literally light up when you talk about something you find funny or are looking forward to.

plus, it's funny seeing you get worked up over the silliest things sometimes; like that one time jeongin told you your beanie didn't go with your outfit.”

if it was possible to fall even more in love with your boyfriend, it was in this moment, watching him completely melt at your words.

“you remember that?” he whispered. it was so endearing seeing him turn into an adorable mess in front of you.

“of course, i remember that! i remember everything you tell me. and that's cause i’m genuinely invested in all your stories.” you grin.

“you're like my personal podcast. and the best part is i get to keep you all to myself.”

chan adorably wriggled his whole body with shyness, unable to handle the attention. you laughed, reaching out to hold his hands which were covering his face.

“have i told you how much i love you today?” he finally said as he peeked from between his fingers.

“well, not enough.” you tease, and he leans in for a kiss.

he didn't need to tell you how much he loved you, because you felt it in the way the biting cold outside faded into insignificance. it wasn’t the fuzzy socks or the layers of blankets keeping you warm, but rather the undeniable warmth of his love wrapping around you.

“i love you.”

“i love you, too.”

a/n: sappy ending yes but it's currently 1:25AM and it's the best i can do rn rahh (also was this fic just me promoting the propaganda that chan is the biggest yapper ever (chan's room, bubble, yt live hello???) maybe. but was this 100% because i am a professional listener and could listen to him yap all day every day? yes.

please reblog and leave comments, they truly mean the world !

bang chan masterlist.

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theorist-fox · 2 months ago

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Rationally

John 'Soap' MacTavish x Reader

Cross posted on AO3

Word count: 5.4k

Summary: you're rational but love isn't—and thank god for that.

CW: canon typical violence, blood, injuries (broken nose), suggestive smut, fluff, friends to lovers

Masterlist 🦊

There’s a reason why you never spar with Johnny.

It’s definitely not because he’s bad at it. Because he isn’t. Actually, he’s the perfect balance of measured and unhinged: he puts you on the spot and creates an environment akin to the field, but he’s always so careful with it.

With you.

But no, you can’t train with Johnny. You’re not insane.

How would you even fit a punch here and there if he's staring at you with those smart baby blues riddled with mischief and wonder.

How could you stop yourself from staring at his shirtless top, at the trickles of sweat running down the divot of his chest.

At his arms.

At his sweaty, swollen, freckled arms. Thick, so thick. Able to take away your life if carefully wrapped around your neck, or to bring you to the edge of heaven if slipped between your thighs.

How you’ve managed to keep yourself decent around him for all these years is something truly remarkable. Perhaps you have a superpower of sorts, some rock-hard self-control.

All the times he’s spent the night at your place, too drunk to even speak—drawl heavier yet sweet, and his dramatically whispered “Thank ye, hen, can’t drive when I’m this pished. Saved ma life, y'have.”

All the times you found him lingering by the stove of your kitchen, with your breakfast in the pan, and his rumble of a voice—“Ach, wanted ta wake you up with it, bonnie. Humour me an' go back to bed.”

All the times you caught him looking at you with a similar longing but never dared to touch the subject—because maybe you’ve imagined it, because work, of course, because friendship, because excuses and your cowardice.

Coward, that’s what you are. A weak, spineless coward.

And Johnny’s training on his own today, in a corner of the gym, as you spar with… someone. Some grunt, you think. You met her barely past the threshold, and she offered to spar with you when you jumped on the mat. A few punches here and there; you landed some and dodged most. It’s fine, she’s easy to predict. Younger. Brash. Perhaps wanted to show off by training with someone higher in the ranks.

You understand. You’ve done that too.

And you keep sparring, movements fluid but somewhat distracted. She hits, you dodge. You hit, she takes. Or… whatever. You don’t know, you’re not sure—the world’s in slow motion, the chatter fluffed.

Because your eyes are on him.

Calloused hands in fingerless gloves strapped at his wrists.

His fists hit the punching bag swinging in front of him.

Thud.

The vibrations of the impact cause his biceps to ripple. Your eyes follow each wave. Its firmness, sturdy and tight, all the way to his neck.

Corded. Bitable.

Thud, thud.

Sweat explodes from his skin like dewdrops. He glistens like he’s drenched in fucking oil, with his loose shorts that hang low on his hips. Happy trail in full show, and you’re starting to wonder how it would feel to have your nose buried in there.

Your throat filled.

Right hook. Uppercut. Left. Left again.

Fuck.

Something cracks in your skull.

And then it's like the world is not in slow motion anymore, like it picks up the pace again. And the pain that shoots up in your face is the catalyst for it—what pressed the speed-up button of reality.

Your scream echoes like a roar, as the attention of the whole gym falls onto you.

"Fuck!"

Sitting on the gurney in the infirmary gives you a very much needed reality check.

You keep your hands cupping your nose as it swells and bleeds, head tilted forward. Your tongue peeks out every now and then to soothe a split on your lip.

A curtain is pulled. The rings that keep it up clink against each other. It’s your cue.

But instead of a nurse, it’s Johnny who walks in.

He didn’t bother to wear the t-shirt, of course. That’s John MacTavish for you.

You can’t help but sneak a look at the ruffled hairs growing fiercely on his chest. How they create a trail down his stomach, before expanding just above the hem of his shorts—leading to what you can only guess is fucking heaven.

"Och, that's a braw shiner ye got there," he says, giving you quite an entertained look.

Yeah, you got caught.

Warmth spreads from your neck to your cheeks, and thankfully he can't see the nervous smile under your palms shielding your nose. “Had worse.”

A scoff from him, but not a spiteful one. Softer than that.

He shoos your hands away without touching you to take a peek at your nose. Vigilant eyes inspect the mottled bruise slowly forming along the bridge and right under your eye.

“My nurse today, Johnny?” You quip if only to dissipate the heat building up under your skin.

“Aye, bonnie.” He smirks. “Nurse MacTavish at yer beck an’ call.”

You manage, somehow, to bat your lashes even though one of your eyes is starting to look like a ripe plum. “Mmmh, m’so lucky, then.”

“Luckiest.” He replies in kind, “’Cause I know just the way to treat ye.”

You purse your lips, trying not to mind the way it pulls at the taut skin on your left cheekbone. “What is it, then? Can I still keep my nose? Or am I doomed to wander 'round like a bloody Lego puppet?"

Gently, like he’s measuring even the pressure he puts on the pads of his fingers, he flicks your forehead.

He gives you an unamused look, one that melts away as soon as he spots the way your lips twitch. “Lemme do my thing, aye?”

His accent is thicker today, like honey falling in ropes from a spoon. It’s sweet to your ears, and the gruffness of it barely manages to hide his concern. Johnny and his heart, so big it spills out everywhere, even in the rough vibrations of his Scottish lilt.

It makes you soften, like a hardened sponge under the jet of water.

You bring your hand to your forehead in a mock salute. “Sir yes, Sir.”

He shakes his head��fondly, before testing here and there along the bridge of your nose, quietly apologizing each time you flinch, until his fingers find a specific spot on each side.

He settles there, secure.

“Remember tha’ I love ye, yeah?”

Your brows shoot to your forehead. “You wha—”

Johnny snaps his fingers to the side.

Your nose sets back into place with a nauseating crack.

“M’sorry,” he murmurs, sounding genuinely apologetic, but you barely hear him over the ringing in your ears. “M’sorry, don’t hate me now, love.”

You feel queasy, and the world around you spins—so much so that your hands automatically search for him to tether you steady. Fingers curl in an iron grip around his wrists, nails dig in between his tendons.

“Alright?” He asks. Stupidly.

“Ngh,” is all you manage to utter. Pathetically.

The unexpected blessing is that you’re able to swallow an even more miserable retch.

You suck.

“Cuttin’ off my blood flow there, bonnie,” he says with a breathy laugh, nodding idly at the deadly hold you have on his wrists.

That was cute, you think. That was the cutest chuckle you’ve ever heard. Your eyes would morph into tiny hearts if your head wasn’t pounding in agonizing pain.

This is awful. You’re sitting there with your pupils rolled back and a cocktail of tears, snot and blood running down your face. Your tongue overflows with the coppery taste rushing from your nose into your mouth and the bitterness lingers long enough to worsen your nausea.

You shouldn’t allow yourself to look this miserably ugly in front of Johnny. You should suck it up and at least reduce the quantity of bodily fluids streaming down your cheeks to look a pinch more palatable, a tad more fuckable.

Maybe that punch should’ve knocked you out for good and saved you the embarrassment.

However, his words reach your ears through the vicious pounding of your heart, and you feel bad enough to release him from his shackles—because he can’t see you as bloody, ugly and violent too.

Johnny’s tender, though. Gingerly, he moves his fingers from your nose. One hand reaches the shelf bolted in the wall overhead and tests blindly, looking for a gauze he must’ve spotted beforehand.

He finds it. Cups your cheek while carefully cleaning up below your nose, before gently pressing it to your nostrils. He tuts when you go reach it with your hand to hold it up, offering to keep it there for you.

“Sorry for cutting off your blood flow,” you say with a voice so disgustingly nasal it doesn’t even sound like you.

Johnny’s lips curl in a smile. “Returnin’ the favor.”

You snort and flinch. Curse yourself—“Fuck me.”

“Aye,” he mumbles impudently. “Soon ‘nough, hopefully.”

There’s no time for you to register that, a joke that has spark to it. The fuse of a dynamite flickering to life, promising an explosion that won’t come just yet. A promise, a quip—perhaps just to keep you distracted, perhaps just to divert your focus from the pulsing pain in your face to more lighthearted subjects.

But when you see his smile, you can’t help but mimic him, infectious as it is. Or, well, you try—it’s a little hard. What is turning into a black eye manages a twitch, while your safe one turns into a pretty crescent.

And maybe, due to the chaos of events that have submerged you in blood and tears, you almost forgot what Johnny told you when his hands set your nose back into place.

Almost being the keyword.

Because when it comes back to you, you gasp. Gasp and choke, because there’s still a bit of blood left on your tongue, dribbling down your throat.

Your coughing startles Johnny, of course. He asks things you can’t quite hear over the ringing in your ears, but you manage to pull away from his fussy hands just enough to focus on his face.

You could look lower and meet the expanse of his chest still shining in sweat. You reckon blood rushing to your pussy instead of your nose would be a convenient way to slow down the hemorrhage—it’d be much easier to take care of an orgasm than to deal with blood loss.

But no, you meet Johnny’s eyes instead.

Blue and pinched, like he’s much too worried about your well-being to pay attention to the intensity with which you’re looking at him.

He's so beautiful. Not handsome—he's beautiful.

There’s so much of him for you to look at. Not a single line that contours his shape is worth missing out—from the tips of his ears to the muscles in his calves. He looks like he was carved in marble, once upon a time; even his imperfections—the scar on his chin, the slight tilt of his jaw—seem carefully chiselled, details added to glue the pieces together into one gorgeous, perfect man.

But it’s his eyes that hold your attention, always have. Thick, dark brows frame bright blues. Wrinkles branch out the corners when he smiles, or when he worries. They’re deep now, aptly carved similarly to the single line above his nose. Concern, not happiness.

You’re not sure you like them just as equally when they’re not blossoming from joy.

“Easy,” he whispers, hand drawing circles on your back to soothe your cough.

The bloody gauze has dropped on your thighs and onto the floor. A wet patch left on the dark grey of your sweats.

When you lift your head, your eyes touch.

Johnny looks so soft, like he’s not really there at all, like it’s a figment of your imagination and maybe you’re delirious because the pain is that strong.

Perhaps it’s the mist in your eyes playing tricks, or the tears prickling at the corners, but he’s never looked this gorgeous, his blues never this deep.

“You said you loved me.” You say, and it’s a bit hard to talk because your nose is stuffy and your heart’s in your throat.

Johnny cocks his head. If he's taken by surprise at your statement, you don't know. He doesn't show it—odd, you think, because he's constantly wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Not now, you guess. Fuck him, because today is the day you actually need him to show everything pretty fucking blatantly.

“I did.”

That’s it, he doesn’t add much to it.

And so, you reason with him. “Because I was hurt and you felt bad that you had to hurt me more.”

Logical. Makes sense.

His mouth opens for a reply. Nothing leaves him. It falls closed again. You’re so attentive to each movement you think you can hear the swallow of his throat, the smack of his lips.

At his silence, you go on.

“You needed the shock value,” you explain nasally, “So I would focus on that instead of the pain. A distraction.”

Rational. Good.

However, he’s never been quicker to reply. “No.”

You blink.

There is no reason in his answer. You live by that—swear by that. Things happen logically. Things happen because other things have happened before. Domino tiles fall because they’ve been hit by the previous, until the last one finally falls flat, and life ends.

Cause and consequence.

There have always been signs, true. You were never blind to Johnny’s lingering hands, to his softening eyes, but you’re also a chronic pessimist and an awful overthinker—so what if he acts like that just because he’s kind, and you’re reading too much into it.

And yeah, maybe you’re a coward. Maybe you’re a spineless, weak coward, and recognizing the signs would mean facing the music. The consequences that would bring, how many tiles would fall chaotically: your jobs, the friendly relationship you would lose, the horrifying prospect of heartbreak—you’ve never been quite ready for that.

Still, this feels like a tile falling stupidly by itself, miles ahead, due to a gust of wind that had no business blowing in this direction, today—because how can a punch and a broken nose lead to this.

Obviously, the conversation can’t end there. You want to ask why, what, and how, but the air around you has suddenly tensed, and you’re afraid you have to measure your words and have your doubts solved with one question only.

And when you think you have it ready, you can’t even utter it.

Johnny’s thumb comes to rest on your lower lip, next to the split bisecting it. His fingers are curled in a loose fist right under your chin.

He presses down, exposing your teeth. You watch his eyes fall, abandoning yours to favour the sight that it’s your mouth.

There’s blood there, you’re sure of it. You can feel how slick your skin is under his pad—he doesn’t seem fazed by it in the slightest.

“I—I meant it,” he whispers, and his voice sounds like it’s cracking. “Hard no’ to, eh.”

You feel quite faint. You might peg it to the uppercut that just rocked your skull, but you’re not that naïve.

In fact, it might just be because Johnny’s thumb gently presses against your teeth.

Your jaw pliantly unlocks, welcoming his finger inside.

“’Course I meant it,” he says hoarsely, “Look at you.”

You taste iron, mostly—the pungent flavour of blood. And then, underneath all of it, once he’s settled his thumb in the cradle of your tongue, you feel the salt of his skin, too. You want more of it, and so your lips wrap around his knuckle.

“Steamin’ fucking Jesus,” he breathes, utterly disarmed.

You’re keeping your eyes on his face, and your good one widens when he lifts his own.

Johnny slowly licks his lips and then presses his mouth closed. His cheek sinks in like he's biting into it, and God, how you wish he had no restraints whatsoever right now.

Your heart jumps in your throat when Johnny uses his thumb to smear your spit over your lips.

His eyes aren’t on yours anymore. He’s mostly intent on watching his handiwork: the pink lines left by his thumb on your mouth, the clipped breaths brushing like breeze over his hand.

Instinctively, you part your legs, and the gesture must’ve made him feel welcome because he walks that step forward. He’s a broad man, which is why he barely fits in the space you created for him. The drape of loose boxing shorts covers his muscles but fails to mask the tent growing in between.

No amount of pain could stop your mouth from watering at the sight.

He presses forward until your noses touch. His eyes flit back to yours.

You’re not really aware whether you’re breathing or not.

“’Course I—" he cuts himself off. Swallows.

And somehow, he doesn’t sound as worked up as you think he should be.

Lust is there, clearly, if not in his eyes, then in his cock faintly brushing your lower stomach. But there’s something else too, some barely veiled sorrow he’s trying so hard to mask but failing oh, so miserably.

“’Course I love ye,” he sighs, tilting your head back so your lips can level with his. “Don’t even know how ta stop talkin’ about it—L.T. bloody hates me.”

He’s struggling to control the way he breathes; you can tell. Struggling to control where to put his free hand, curling into a fist at his side.

You’re not faring much better.

“Makin’ a fool o’ myself, bloody hell—” he croaks, shaking his head.

There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead and a certain pinkness to his cheeks that makes him all the more endearing.

Johnny cracks through your dreamlike state when his eyes clock yours. Pleading, like he wants—needs—you to understand.

“—but I love ye. Fuck, I do.”

Rationally, now would be a good time to pull away.

There are so many don’ts and a very much single do.

You’ve just stopped bleeding. First don’t.

There’s still blood smeared on your face, from your nose downwards. Some of it is fresh, some of it is mixed with your spit, and some more is dried up on your chin and on your cupid’s bow, flaking off. Second, third, fourth don’t.

The fifth don’t would be that half of your face is tumid and dark. It hurts to blink your left eye, there’s a split on your lip that burns like a bitch, and a whole migraine is rearing its ugly head in response to the concussion.

That’s already a sixth and a seventh and an eighth don’t.

There’s a single do, however, that somehow has the weight of thousands.

Johnny loves you.

And it’s enough.

You lean up, using your palms pressed on the cushioned gurney as leverage, and your lips brush with his.

One of his eyes twitches, and Johnny dives in.

It’s a soft kiss.

It doesn't match the hurried way with which he met you halfway as though he's had to rein it in for your sake.

Your lips slot together, and you wish you could have a better feel of how his own taste, to see if it matches what you’ve spent countless nights dreaming about—alas your tongue still lingers with the taste of blood.

Johnny doesn’t seem to care, though, no. Because his hand leaves your chin and threads with your hair at your nape.

His head lolls to the side with a sigh. It doesn’t feel like a controlled movement, it’s more like the muscles of his neck have given out and turned slack. You kind of understand, because you’ve gone much softer too—especially when his free hand rises to cup the side of your neck.

The position allows for the kiss to deepen.

His tongue dances with yours; the coppery layer veiling every other flavour becomes dull. Diluted. And suddenly you’re overflown with Johnny’s taste. His scent, too—earthy, salty with sweat. Intense, grounding. It’s enough to make you dizzy, even more than that punch did.

And it doesn’t meet your expectations, no.

It exceeds them.

You feel yourself sigh, fluttering your eyes closed as the shock abates and leaves the front seat to relief, to absolute fucking wonder.

He checks in often, kiss after kiss.

Can ye breathe, love?, whispered just a breath from your lips.

Am I hurtin’ ye?, as he tucks your hair behind your ear.

Your hands land on his chest.

Somehow, the trepid drum of his heartbeat feels contrastingly calming, and you feel less alone in this fear like it's a jump into the unknown that you didn't take on your own.

Johnny kisses you carefully, but the more he goes on, the more his hunger grows.

He shows it in the softer groans that leave him when you press closer, and his cock nudges your belly. Or when his fingers brush your ribs, when they trace right under your breast. The touch is barely there, and his fingers still tremble, but it makes you shiver nonetheless.

It’s electric. It tips at your sex and your hips instinctively grind against the gurney.

Johnny takes the hint, tracing the line of your bra until your back arches against him. Your shirt sticks to his chest, heartbeats in sync—erratic, afraid, sweet.

He leaves the back of your head, perhaps finally trusting you won’t move away, and uses those fingers to trace your jaw, then the slope of your neck, your collarbone.

"We should stop," you whisper but don't follow your own advice, keeping your lips on his instead.

“Aye we should,” he agrees, but only verbally, because he doesn’t part from you either.

Every single touch makes you soften that bit more, and you find yourself absolutely powerless against him. You lock your arms around his waist and simply graze with your nails at the indent of his spine, feeling the goosebumps that rise along his skin.

You allow yourself to be taken care of.

Johnny does that.

His hand finally reaches your breast, where he kneads the fat gently until you’re panting in the kiss. Until your head spins when his thumb draws circles around your nipple, perked and prominent under your shirt.

He tentatively reaches downwards. Hooks his finger at the hem of your shirt. Lifts it up agonizingly slow, and you feel the cold air kiss every inch of skin as it's slowly uncovered. Gooseflesh laps your stomach, tips at your skull. Johnny’s fingers languidly rake up and down your abdomen, turning the heel of his hand when it reaches just under the line of your bra, only to travel downwards to the hem of your sweats. Your belly clenches in rippling waves, delighted in the slow tortures he delivers.

He reaches for your bra, hooks his knuckles at the cups, and drags it down. Your breasts subtly bounce as they fall out of it, bra wedged just underneath. Johnny takes a second there, watching like a hawk at the indents left by seams of your garment, at the darker skin of your nipples.

He locks your eyes. Heavy lids fall on them, mouth parted to say something he can’t bring himself to speak. Instead, he cradles your jaw and brushes his thumb on your cheek, gentle as can be. A peck to your lips, then another, only left after checking in with you through his eyes.

His palm cups your breast—it's warm again. You sigh against his mouth, and Johnny curses under his breath when you do.

“Can I?” He whispers, but he’s already trailing down with his lips.

He’s already nipping at your jawline, sucking at the tender flesh of your neck. He’s already turning you breathless, pinching your nipple between thumb and forefinger. Already kissing at your breastbone, and it’s only there that you manage to breathe a “Yes,” to his request.

He's hunched over quite a bit, so you favour him by arching your back and presenting your chest to his mercy. Slow, open-mouthed kisses drink up the taste that permeates your skin until he reaches your nipple. He sucks and nibbles as it pebbles on his tongue, turgid and sensitive. Liquid pools at your lower belly, invading the crevices inside—hot like molten gold, dense like the sweetest of syrups.

You moan a staggered breath, fingers digging into the plasticky leather of the gurney—the same one you're subtly grinding against. Johnny's mouth is full of you, but still he manages a groan that makes your cunt flutter around nothing.

He unlatches from your skin, glossy lips panting warm breath against your breasts.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ," he murmurs as his thumb flicks your nipple and smears it with his spit. “Fuckin’ killing me ‘ere, hen.”

He drops to his knees. Rapid. The knock against the floor is faint but still loud enough for you to worry and look down to check on him.

You find a mesmerized man with pupils swallowing his eyes. You find a hungry hound with blood around his lips, caked into the stubble at his chin. You feel two hands, calloused and rough, wrap around your waist, thumbs dimpling where your stomach gets softer.

Johnny kisses your belly, smooths his palms at your sides. Your hand moves instinctively, threading into his mohawk, still damp with sweat—messy strands slipping through the gaps between your fingers as you brush them back.

You’re panting, so caught up with the way he tries to get a taste of you that you forget about the pain irradiating from your nose, about the mist clouding your vision from one eye—the throb of your bruise, the effort it takes for you to do something as natural as breathing. They vanish when his tongue draws a fat line from your belly button to the hollow of your ribs, when he cocks his head sideways, gently sinking his teeth into your stomach.

To see Johnny’s nose buried in your middle, to see his hands cinch at your waist, his head comfortably snug between your thighs—to see him on his knees just so he can taste you, just so he can have you, ravenous like he’s been waiting far too long just to have this—

—it’s enough.

Perhaps sometimes a gust of wind is needed—the tiles can break that cause-effect relationship and fall without being knocked over by anything else if not a fresh breeze. Wind, creating a new path, placing new tiles. Bringing something new, something loved, right where you need it—right where it belongs.

There’s no logic in that, you’re aware. But alas, there’s no logic in love either.

And you’re okay with that.

Your lips move on their own, your voice barely a whisper he must’ve strained to catch.

“I love you.”

You can feel his hands still, twitching at your sides. His brows furrow right before you like he's concentrating, absorbing, realizing. His eyes flit to yours, holding you loosely by the waist, but still alert—in case you want to make a run for it.

As if.

“Yeah?” He croaks, perching his chin on your belly.

You swallow something thick. “Yeah.”

Your t-shirt, scrunched and resting atop your breasts, is finally succumbing to gravity. Johnny pinches the hem between his fingers and brings it back down to cover your torso again, tracing back the same path he followed before.

He pulls back. Stands up. A hand runs down his mouth, slowly, smearing the blood that has transferred from your skin to his.

It's absurd to you how he doesn't seem to mind.

He searches for doubt in your eyes, you think, maybe something that tells him you’re not being truthful—you have no idea how to convey that you’ve never been this genuine in your life.

The mood is suddenly somber like you haven't just uttered words that would light up the world for most. You allow him to think, to go through the mental gymnastics of it—give him space if that's what he needs, even though he'd been the first one to say it, the first one to put you in this spot.

You fix your bra, rip a piece of the exam paper now all scrunched and torn in different places on the gurney. Gingerly, you bring it to your nose to check for blood. You try it all—anything that might yank your head out of your ass, anything to stop the spiral.

Perhaps you're still in time to save that single tile from hitting the next. Perhaps you're still in time to fix it, press the rewind button, find a way to stop the wind.

Rationally, it’s impossible—but reason doesn’t have a fucking place here anymore.

And there, right there, when the silence has turned heavy and scary, when your heart is drumming a dark tune—Johnny brightens it.

He chuckles. It’s breathy, tinged with disbelief, like you can’t be for real.

Like you, with your black eye and your cracked nose that definitely needs an ice pack and a doctor, with your blood smeared on your mouth and a split on your lip, can love him.

You want to tell him that it's the easiest, most natural thing you've ever done, but he cuts you off as soon as you start and kisses you again.

It’s… excited.

It’s a kiss that thrums with happiness. It’s a peck, after peck, after peck, with his hands slotted on the slopes of your neck. Johnny barely manages to purse his lips to kiss you, too busy smiling.

And that’s another natural thing, to smile with him.

He pulls back, only enough to speak.

"Yer laughin'," he says, laughing himself, soft as can be.

He gives you another nip. You chuckle.

Something in your stomach turns and knots when one of his hands drops on your thigh. The weight of it, the warmth that so easily seeps through your sweats—it’s enough to turn you into a puddle of yourself.

God, you’re a goner.

“I am,” you murmur. “This is very funny.”

And you kiss him back.

Johnny cocks his head with a smile. “Is it.”

That pulsating ache on the left side of your face dulls, as much as the one in your nose.

Or maybe you simply forgot to pay attention to it, because your focus is solely on the beautiful man in front of you and his bloody lips now trailing down your cheek to your jaw.

Your fingers dance on his chest upwards. He catches one of your hands, gently curling his fist around it.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” You whisper with a smile, like you two are there sharing secrets. “You got my bloody bl—my fuckin’ blood on your face.”

His brows flutter to his forehead, smirking as he catches you awkwardly stumbling on your curses.

The warning glint in your eyes is meaningless, dimmed by the fire glowing inside of you, shining even through the darker swelling of your face—alas, peeking through it with a smile.

“Yer bloody blood.” He parrots.

"Oh, fuck off!" You chuckle, pushing at his shoulder.

“On ma face, aye,” he chortles, leaving a fat kiss on your good cheek instead.

“Johnny!”

He explodes in a laugh, so loud you think everyone outside of the infirmary must have heard it. You don’t manage to shush him, don’t manage to chide him, to tell him that you don’t fancy getting caught in this predicament by a superior.

You don’t manage because you’re laughing, too.

He comes back to your lips. Kisses you until you’re sighing in his mouth. The sound must do something to him because his fingers dig into the fat of your thigh. You wish he weren’t standing in the middle so you could clench them together and find some semblance of relief.

Thankfully, having him in between your legs still feels unbelievably nice.

“Can I get more o’ it, ye think?” He quips.

It steals a smile from you. “Of what?”

He nips at your lower lip. “Yer bloody blood.”

You pinch his side in retaliation, but otherwise reciprocate the kiss.

“That’s disgusting, MacTavish,” you say, even though you couldn’t care less about being decent.

“Just say yes.”

You do.

And you do so many times after that day, that it’s hard to pinpoint which one is your favourite.

If the yes you said after you got your nose broken, or the one you said years later when he got on one knee.