#deed i do

[plus-low-overthrow]

PHOTO 45: Don Gardner & Dee Dee Ford - Deed I Do (KC Records)

B side, prod. Doc Bagby.

Potential Film Soundtrack.

[lazycloudsandcoquettishstars]

[something-tofightfor]

One year ago, @its-my-little-dumpster-fire posted the wedding of my dreams, and allowed me to fictitously marry John Whittaker via her story, ‘Deed I Do.

And then she outdid herself with the follow up, My Private Affair wherein John Whittaker goes on his honeymoon.

Point being:

This exists, and today is my day. Cheers, bitches.

[rogerdelgado]

[its-my-little-dumpster-fire]

My Private Affair ( t h r e e )

John Whittaker x Reader, 8.2k (yowza)

A/N: ZEST. IT’S A REAL HONEYMOON YALL.

Summary: A certain honeymoon in fair Verona continues, but patience is wearing thin and anxieties wane at the hands of your love. John is a tease. Random characters toss in their two cents. Oh, and your marriage is consummated. Enjoy.

Walking through Verona felt like walking through a painting. Ribbons of golden light spilled off the terracotta rooftops, making the cobbled streets that lined painted walls ripple like the Fiume Adiga. The markets bustled as citizens and voyagers settled onto street corners and into cafe seats for a midday treat. Their smiles and laughter were a testament to their surroundings. It seemed everyone was perfectly content to be on the streets, soaking up the afternoon sunshine and the animated conversation. Not a soul would dream of being discontent in such a brilliant setting. None, but you.

“It’s been hours since you smiled at me,” John pointed out with a knowing smirk, lifting a petite crystal of Campari and Prosecco in a mocking toast to your mood.

“It’s been hours since you touched me,” you sneered back, lifting your own glass and going straight for the bubbles without returning his gesture.

Your husband laughed at your discomfort as he pulled his chair around the small iron table, crowding your own. “If I didn’t know any better,” he said in a low voice, his chin obnoxiously propped up against your shoulder while you made every effort to stare straight ahead and ignore his display. “I’d say you were simply desperate for me,” his lips brushed the shell of your ear and despite the warmth of the sun, a chill ran down your spine. “Yet you refuse to look at me.” John ran one hand up your spine at a glacial pace, pulling every possible sensation on his way up and over your shoulder. To expose your skin to him, John pushed back the thin fabric of your dress before pressing his lips to your sun kissed shoulder. “Why is that, darling?”

Composing yourself, barely, you turned to face your husband, fixing the most annoyed expression you could muster, knowing it would fall short given his closeness. “That was a dirty trick you pulled,” you informed him and the man had the nerve to laugh, recalling his actions on your balcony with a fondness that you didn’t share. His fingers lapped at your skin, drawing forth heat and desire you’d never experienced, while his lips attempted to extract every moan from your throat. You’d have been embarrassed if not for the thin blanket draped over your husband’s shoulders that you clung to until your knuckles were sore. John would never outright embarrass you, you were certain of it, but you also knew that’d he no sooner share any views that were meant to be his and his alone.

It’s for this reason, you were frustrated with him. He’d managed to find every delightful little spot in Verona for the two of you to visit and they were all hopelessly public. As long as you two were playing the sight seeing newlyweds, the sight of John’s face twisted up in ecstasy like it had been last night evaded your reality, living and breathing and moaning loudly in your memory while you distractedly perused gardens and ancient streets. John knew what he was doing and you were sure of it. You’d denied him for weeks leading up to the wedding and this was his only opportunity for revenge, confident that once you got a taste, neither of you would be in a state to deny the other. Hopefully ever.

When you turned to look back at John, he was engrossed in a conversation with another couple, a little older who were smiling wildly whenever he squeezed your arm and pulled you tighter against his side.

“Darling,” he prompted gently and you quickly extended a hand to the woman, who swatted it away and snatched your left to start inspecting your ring.

“Oh look at that!” American. Ah. “Warren wouldja look at that!”

“I see it, Dot. Great lookin’ ring there, sport,” her husband returned, talking about your jewelry, but clapping your husband on the back as he did.

“We came here for our honeymoon too!” Dot informed you. “Oh, Warren, how long has it been?”

“Too long,” Warren winked, again at John.

The couple sat across from you two without being invited and John kissed the side of your face at the widening of your eyes. Though polite society would expect you to separate from John and sit up straight, Dot and Warren had already exposed themselves as a couple to whom politeness was not a concern. They shared stories from their first trip to Verona, Dot forgetting half way through and also sharing stories of their trip to Venice...Beach. John chuckled along and kept you close to him.

Their intrusion was a fine enough distraction from John’s teasing, though he was doing his very best to keep you on edge even in the presence of company. His arm was slung around the back of your chair, but his long, nimble fingers were stroking the back of your shoulder and the sensitive flesh where it met your arm. Your skin was tender and pink from walking in the sun without sleeves, but it was John’s touch that warmed your insides. Every pass of his hand and curl of his fingers served to remind you of the morning’s activities. He had the back of his knuckles grazing under the fabric of your dress and when he leaned over to kiss your opposite shoulder, you were done.

Only in your distracted state would you allow Dot and Warren to thrust themselves into your honeymoon plans and before you knew it, John was agreeing to meet them for dinner that night, while you, dazed and ready to move on, simply nodded without an ounce of understanding until it was too late. The time and place was set and Dot was leaning over the table to embrace you like an old friend. Warren shook your husband’s hand, which you detested as it pulled John from his seat, where his leg was touching yours and his arm was around you. Why are we still here?

“John…” you whined the second they were out of earshot.

“I know, darling, you’re exhausted with me,” not yet, but God willing… “one more stop,” he smiled, a genuine smile, not the playful smirks you’d fallen in love with. He was excited about something and you were helpless to deny him. “One more place to see,” he promised, pulling your almost dead weight up by your hands and stopping to kiss your knuckles when you complied. “Then we’ll return to our suite and rest before dinner tonight.”

“And then what?” You asked, begrudgingly following John with your arm linked in his. If the teasing didn’t end soon, you’d be stomping in the street like a petulant child being denied dessert. Though in a way…

“Then I’m all yours,” John promised again, smirk returning. He stopped in the street to kiss you soundly. His hand was splayed across your back and your entire body bowed into him, receiving his lips and his arms and his hips with eagerness.

When you parted, both of you were breathless and the lazy street slowly reappeared as your sense returned to you. Your lips were tingling as they often were after John’s kisses and with a heavy sigh, you hugged his arm and started walking again. “Lead the way,” you said with forced elation and John chuckled, kissing the top of your head in appreciation as he set off to your next destination.

Once again you found yourself surrounded by people, yet it was only John of whom you were aware. There were very few onlookers speaking the King’s and the way Italian syllables fell from mustachioed lips was lulling you into a false sense of privacy. It was like the rest of the world was ignoring you, so you returned the favor. Instead, your husband had all of your attention, though at the moment you were facing away from him.

“But soft,” he started close to your ear. Your back was pressed right against his chest, while his arms crossed over your chest to keep you in place. You’d pulled your hands up to meet his and on either side of your breasts, johns fingers were loosely clinging to yours. “What light through yonder window breaks,” the wispy hairs that framed your face fluttered under his breath, “it is the east and you,” he changed the wording as his lips pressed against the side of your face, “my bride,” he murmured without removing his mouth from your skin, “are the sun.” Not even olde Bill Shakespeare could know what an affect his words would maintain nearly three centuries later, but it was undeniable as your husband’s arms, wrapped around your chest while both of you glanced upward to the ivy covered balcony, tightened letting you feel his affections for you beat between your shoulder blades.

“Reciting poetry now, John?” you teased, noticing the large slab on which those words were display, yet they were more enchanting falling from his lips than any others.

“You are poetry,” he assured you, shamelessly grazing your chest as one arm reached up to turn your chin up toward him. Before losing yourself in the kiss that followed, your final thought was this: you were not envious of Giulietta’s love story, as the one playing out before was twice as sweet and you could practically taste the years to come on your husband’s tongue. He pulled away at just the right moment, as your lips dancing along the line of inappropriate and simply passionate. If you couldn’t indulge in Italy on your honeymoon, where then could you ever?

You caught the way John’s eyes flickered over the scene and it appeared that soon, he’d grow bored of the sights as well. “Should we make our way back?” You asked sweetly, tracing the length of his forearm with your fingers as you leaned back against his chest.

John nodded against the side of your head. “Yes, we should rest before meeting Dot and Warren for dinner.”

“Wouldn’t want to disappoint Dot and Warren,” you rolled your eyes and pulled away from your husband’s chest.

John was quick to take your arm and pull you to him again. Under the force of your spin back into his arms, the light dress you wore floated around your calves and lapped at the khaki if John’s trousers like linen waves. Your annoyance melted into giggling as your husband’s lips fell upon yours again with a promise. “I’m afraid if we return to the room now, I’ll never let you re-emerge.”

“Well,” you smiled, pecking his soft lips before leaning away again, eagerness evident in your eyes. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

…

The walk through fair Verona was tortuous. John’s hand clasped in yours was not nearly enough contact, but he more than made up for it upon arrival. Twirling you through the foyer and hoisting you up the stairs with the obvious grin of a groom in love and unashamed of his desires. If you saw a couple acting like that, a young man propping his bride upon along the banister to lean over her blushing form in a manner that threatened the decency of the room, you’d scoff and avert your eyes until the childish displays of affection were properly quarantined. Things with John were different. Despite the dark eyes that burned into yours, there was an untouchable light around him whenever he smiled. Because of that light, the dissatisfaction and admonishing looks of your fellow patrons simply faded to blackness. They were out of sight and out of mind as you and John raced up the creaky steps to your own room.

He caught you, because you’d let him of course, just outside the wooden door that separated you from the culmination of your joint desires. John's body practically fell against yours, lips back on yours where you thought perhaps they were always meant to be. Pressed up against the door, your hands pushing up the back of John’s shirt until it was freed from his trousers, you were both content to stay there forever and eager for someone to summon the self control necessary to finally push through the door. John’s hands were everywhere, running down your chest before finding their way to your back and down lower. You gasped against his lips at the roughness with which he groped you and you were certain if anyone were to exit their rooms, they’d stumble upon a most scandalous scene.

“John,” you sighed when his mouth travelled down your chin to your throat and his stubbly cheeks rubbed against the sensitive skin he wet with his tongue. It seemed like everytime your husband’s hand attempted to leave your backside in favor of finding the brass knob that kept you from privacy, it brushed against some new part of you that he’d not yet explored. With another rough squeeze of your flesh through the thin fabric of your dress, your fears were realized at the sound of a throat clearing somewhere to your right.

“Mi scusi, signore-“ a young woman interrupted and you immediately glared at her from behind John. His forehead fell against the door in defeat, but you could feel his heavy breaths against the side of your face while he waited for her to speak. “È il telefono, hai una chiamata.”

“The telephone?” He asked, despite clearly needing no clarification.

“Who on earth,” you started, but your question was quickly answered.

“Veronica,” the woman responded with your mother in law’s name, which sounded irritatingly beautiful in her heavy accent.

“No,” you whispered harshly, the second John’s hands fell from your back. “Ignore it.”

John chuckled and dropped a kiss at the corner of your mouth, without a care in the world how unfair that was for your waiting lips. “She’ll only call again when it’s even more inconvenient,” he sounded so sure. Nearly every interaction you’d had with Veronica Whittaker in the two decades of knowing her supported his statement. She was a proud woman, there was no denying it, but her attachment to her son was always… a weakness wouldn’t be the right word as you were sure she had none. Her dogs were the only creatures worthy of Veronica’s affection and she made that abundantly clear, yet John was meant to be the family’s savior and she’d put all her hopes in his hands. Since the day James should have been home from war and simply didn’t appear until months later, your husband had unwittingly carried the weight of his family’s legacy and his mother spent years priming him to be the head that the Whittaker household needed. Veronica was very likely just checking up on her investment, ensuring that it wouldn’t scamper away without warning… again.

Watching your husband’s form start to dwindle as he made his way to the old stairwell, something dawned on you. “John Whittaker,” you addressed him formally, both hands on your hips. He turned to look at you from over his shoulder, grinning at the sight of you still enraged with him. “You’re the least patient man I’ve ever known.”

“Yes,” he agreed quickly, needing no further qualifiers. John turned to face you fully, but kept his distance as he leaned casually against the wall.

With a stomping foot, something you regretted the second your heel echoed against the wooden floor, you spoke again. “Why aren’t you… doing something about this?” There was no anger left, only exasperation as you gestured down to your dress, which was regrettably still on, with one hand and back to your room door, which was regrettably still closed.

“Perhaps, darling,” John smiled, making a show of the way he licked his lips and eyed the length of your regrettably still clothed body. “I’ve simply found something worth waiting for.”

There was heat in his voice. When coupled with his natural coolness, you would have sworn you saw steam swirl around his shoes as he moved closer to deliver the final blow to your patience. “Once I have locked you away,” he whispered, ducking his head so that his breath drifted over the shell of your ear and only you could hear his words, “I won’t be letting anyone,” he turned his face and graced your cheek with his lips, letting his kiss punctuate his promise, “or anything,” he whispered with another kiss, “interrupt us.”

It was your lips he captured next, tucking two fingers under your chin to pull you closer, which you followed willingly, but it was the breath that was stolen from you. Your husband was of a devastating breed of men that could speak his mind, share his lust and impulse without shame or fear of being misunderstood. Though he rarely minced words before making an honest woman of you, John had a way of getting under your skin and burrowing into you with only quieted speech. It both thrilled and terrified you equally to think of how much more he’d possess you when the words ran out and it was the communion of flesh that bound you.

John unlaced his long fingers from your hair and squeezed your hip as he pulled away from the embrace at the high pitched voice of someone bouncing up the wooden steps to remind him of the impatient Englishwoman waiting on the other end of a twisted copper wire. “Patience, my darling,” he grinned, licking his lips while his dark eyes wandered over yours, pink and tingling from the eagerness between you. “I’ll be back to ravish my bride,” he promised with a quick swat against your backside, making you flinch into his arms again and disguise your scoff of embarrassment against the crisp fabric of his shirt. “All of her.” And just like that, he was gone. Escorted to the rustic lobby to appease his mother and frustrate you, a move you optimistically hoped wouldn’t be a lingering debate in your marriage.

With John out of sight and his hands busied by something other than squeezing and exploring you one inch at a time, excitement was replaced by anxiety once again. Your senses were no longer flooded with the sight and smell and feel of your husband, so your wits returned and the reality was setting in. The night you’d been warned of was not a night at all, but this afternoon.

“Ohhh,” the knowing voice of an old woman pulled you from your thoughts as she put down a pail of soapy water to giggle as if she were still a little girl. “Una donna pura, una nuova sposa,” she spoke quickly and incomprehensibly, at least to you, but her smile was so clearly meant for you.

You were moments away from asking her to repeat herself, knowing it wouldn’t matter, as your Italian was not likely to improve in just a few seconds, when the young woman, with the wide smile and the dark hair, who’d originally interrupted you and John on your way to bed, came to your aid. “My grandmother says you look like a virgin,” she laughed lightly and the old woman nodded cheekily, whispering “virgine” as she took your hands in hers. You wanted to pull them away, not wanting her to feel the cold and clammy palms in her grasp, but it was too late. “And she’s right, isn’t she?”

You couldn’t stop yourself from biting your lip and it was all the confirmation the old woman needed. She babbled without pause, leaning in conspiratorially and urging you to smile with her, using only her eyes to do so. You glanced over to the younger woman throughout the melodic speech, hoping for your translator to rescue you again.

Finally, she interjected. “Too many brides, just wait until it’s over,” she stepped closer, smiling without threatening and you were captivated, wanting to know where she was going. “It’s your night as much as his,” she reminded you, something your mother should have told you, but certainly said no such thing. “And it is much more fun to play along,” she winked. You smiled with her and were suddenly grateful for Veronica’s interruption. For the sake of this conversation, free to flow without any man to distract from it, and also because the woman speaking was easily the most beautiful you’d seen up close, but luckily John was indisposed and a floor below her feet.

“What do I...do?” You finally asked, unsure how else to ask such a ridiculous question. It seemed everyone was telling you that when the time came, you’d know what to do. This idea was less than comforting, even after your first bit of ‘learning’ from John. All you wanted was to show your husband you loved him, in every way.

After the women had stifled their laughter, the younger of the two wrapped an arm around you and squeezed with a sudden familiarity. “Ask him,” she smiled and raised her eyebrows in a good natured grin. At your sputtering, she stopped you and grinned again. “Trust me, he will love telling you and you,” she laughed, “will love hearing it.”

You barely had time to register the instruction, when the old woman tugged on your dress sleeve. She’d gone completely unnoticed while you spoke to her granddaughter, but as she dragged you through the door to your bedroom and into the small connected bathroom, you saw that she’d been drawing a fresh bath. She pointed to the water and all but began unbuttoning your dress for you as she pointed excitedly to the steaming bath, still spouting wisdom in the mother tongue that was so beautiful, but unfortunately lost on you.

“Fare il bagno in questo,” she instructed, thrusting a jar of white liquid into your hands before you could protest.

Tentatively, you removed the cloth covering the lid and lifted it to your face, taking a whiff. The scent was surprising and more delightful than you expected. Thick and sweet, like honey and cream. Perhaps it was, as you had no way of knowing. The woman pulled the mixture from your hands and emptied the contents into the bath without warning and moments later, you were alone again, the giggling of women both young and old disappearing down the hall. You glanced at the door, half expecting John to be waiting for you, then glanced down at the waiting water again, letting the steam warm your face and chest before unbuttoning and shrugging out of the light dress around your shoulders. There were worse things to do while waiting for your husband’s return.

—-

“What...is...this?”

You could hear John’s grinning through the rising in his voice. He entered somewhere behind you and you keep your eyes closed, allowing the warmth to continue soaking your skin. A pair of soft lips landed just below your eye, grazing your cheek with a easy breath. When you opened your eyes, your husband’s face was there to greet you, smiling down from his perch behind you. He looked every bit as handsome upside down with the dark hair that was usually slicked back falling haphazardly into his eyes, making him look even younger and more joyful than when you parted in the hall. John’s grip on the curved edges of the tub tightened as his gaze drifted from your relaxed expression down your damp chest to where your body disappeared beneath the water, hidden from his hungry eyes by the milky potion that had been added while he was distracted.

The look in his eyes told you that you finally had the upper hand and you didn’t intend to waste it. Tenderly, you ran your fingers over the water, watching the milky bath ripple under your touch. John pulled a stool from next to the sink, positioning it next to the claw foot tub so that he faced you. One hand fell into the warm water along with yours, disturbing the water, but not enough to satisfy his curiosity. Taking John’s hand in yours, you locked eyes with your husband and tried your best to mimic the teasing tone he’d perfected.

“You left me waiting, John,” the words fell off your tongue just as you stuck it out to lick your lips. Unable to stop himself, John mirrored the action with his tongue before he brought his free hand up to swipe his thumb across the plump bottom lip that drove you mad. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, you interrupted him. “How is your mother?” You asked, drawing your hand from John’s to cup some of the water and lave it gently across your chest and shoulders, watching as your husband’s expression turned from cheeky interest to a smoldering desire in a manner of seconds. “What did she want, John?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, darling,” he answered quickly as he leaned forward on his perch. “I’m much more interested in what my bride wants.”

“Are you?” You laughed, laying both arms casually over the porcelain rim, lifting your body slightly to adjust your seat. In an instant, John’s eyes dropped to your chest, where you could feel yourself exposed above the water line. It was only a second, but as you settled back against the tub, you extended a hand to your husband, which he took and swiftly kissed, nodding his confirmation. “And what does my husband want?”

John responded hastily, and with the mischievous grin you’d fallen in love with blooming over his features. Without warning, your husband lunged forward, placing both hands on the edge of the tub and vaulting into the water, fully clothed. He worked his way down to his knees, long legs extending up out of the water as his feet dangled over the spigot, and fit his sopping wet body between your legs. You’d barely had time to react when the laughter overtook you, John’s own loud chuckling covering the sound of water sloshing up over the rim and pooling on the floor. The jovial sounds didn’t linger beyond an echo as his lips found yours and your smiles were pressed so tightly against each other’s you weren’t sure you’d ever wipe it away.

John’s arms wound around your middle, holding your naked body against him and his sodden clothes, while you brought your knees up to rest behind his shoulders. His lips left yours to venture south, but the moment a protest had worked its way up your vocal chords, it simply dissolved into a wordless sigh. Your husband left hungry kisses over every exposed inch of your neck, chest, and shoulders. His lips grazed easily over your wet skin, his tongue adding to the warmth and moisture that had gathered. “You are divine…” he murmured against your collarbone, the fullness of his bottom lip catching on the protrusion and inspiring him to suckle the spot a little longer than necessary. “Absolutely delicious…” he sighed, bringing those sinful lips to rest against your throat, where surely he felt the rapid pulse beneath your skin. With your hands in his now damp hair, you pulled his head up to see his dark eyes nearly black with pupils blown, even in his biology, your husband refused to miss a moment loving you and the sight was enough to melt away your worry. Whatever happened next, you knew that he wanted you and that you wanted him in return. “God, I’ll never stop touching you,” he stated, leaning in to plant a firm kiss upon your neglected lips.

“Then don’t,” the request fell upon his parted lips with your quickening breath and John pulled back to smile down at you. Not smirk as you’d come to expect. Smile. The kind of smile that started in his eyes, the skin at the corners crinkling as his cheeks filled and his mouth spread wide, trying to catch up with the rest of his face. In the dying light of the day, your husband’s eyes looked so warm and inviting, more so than than the bath, more so than your bed, though you wouldn’t mind getting lost in all three. “Don’t stop, John.”

“I want you...desperately,” he breathed, his chest rising and falling excitedly against your own. “Will you have me?” he asked in earnest, not bothering to hide his desire, but pausing it for the sake of permission. If you were thinking clearly, you’d fall even more for the man in the moment, but as it was, you only had one thought on your mind.

“Yes, John, yes,” you laughed, thinking it such a ridiculous question after the day you’d had. “Take me to bed...please.”

Your husband laughed and ducked his head, kissing your chest again as he toed his shoes off and let them fall on the bathroom floor with two wet smacks. “Are you sure don’t want to stay right here?” he asked teasingly, though he was already rising from the water, fat drops falling from the shirt that clung to his chest and shoulders the way you imagined your hands would be soon enough.

You shook your head and gestured to the corner, where your robe hung from a gilded hook on the wall. “If you think I intend to cover you from my view any longer, darling, you are sorely mistaken,” he informed you with the grin returning. You tried to protest, but John was stripping his own wet clothes from his body and dropping them to the ground before the words came out. When he was down to nothing, but a pair of white cotton shorts that barely concealed him between his apparent excitement and the clinging wet fabric, he shook out his hair and brushed it back with one hand as he reached down for you. Being committed to John Whittaker meant learning to live without shame, so with a shy and resigned smile, you stood from the cloudy water, exposing yourself completely to the only man you’d ever wanted to see you so bare, the only man who’d ever get to.

The smile that erupted over his features was the only reaction you could imagine that would ease you. The genuine joy you saw as he helped you out of the tub was reflected in the way he swept you up in his arms before your feet became too accustomed to being on the tiled floor. With one arm slung under your knees and the other gripping you under your shoulder blades, John carried you to bed like he had on your actual wedding night, refusing to let your feet cross any threshold without him holding you up and his lips on yours.

With no regard for the bedding, John laid your wet body against the bed, gently covering you with his own. His lips returned to your skin, making a new path down your neck and chest, but without the water to obscure his view or steal his breath, John’s kisses were uninterrupted. The eagerness of his mouth made you gasp as dropped lower and lower until his face was hovering between your legs.

“Do you trust me?” He asked, licking his lips and rubbing his nose in a small circle around your naval before lifting his eyes to show you their sincerity. Though with your heaving chest and desire muddling your brain, you had no use for sincerity.

“Less and less everyday,” your voice was practically a growl as you gripped his hair and tried to pull him back to where you could kiss him soundly and show him what you really wanted.

John laughed and dodged your fingers, using both of his hands to open your legs to him. “You’ll have to, darling,” he assured you just before ducking his head again, to do what you weren’t sure, but it seem-

“JOHN!” You sighed, though it was loud enough that you immediately clapped a palm over your mouth to keep such a vulgar sound from escaping you again. Your legs twitched and your stomach flipped as your husband did unspeakable things at the juncture of your thighs. Kissing you as passionately as he always was, but the change in location had your head swimming, back arching up from the damp sheets, and simultaneously wanting to pull away and bring him closer, as if there was any closer he could be.

Only he was equipped to decide when you’d had enough, lifting his head with a smirk that infuriated you and you wanted nothing more than to kiss it clean off his face. How dare your husband know your body than you after only a few days.

“John…” you whispered again, your breathing finally coming under control as you watched him strip the final stitches from his lithe body. He was far more beautiful than any young man had a right to be, but it was your embrace he fell into, which made him all the more stunning and desirable at that moment. “Tell me what you want, John,” you said with as much resolve as you could muster, recalling the advice you’d been given earlier.

“I want my wife,” he said with a good natured smirk, as if it were the only appropriate answer in the world. You appreciated him for it, but persisted through his kisses until you could pull back and ask again, allowing your voice to drop to a more serious and hopefully seductive tone.

John drew up to his knees, letting his hands drift down your front, squeezing the flesh he often seemed so fascinated with, before they turned to grip your sides. The delicate skimming of his fingers changed at your hips, where he clung tightly to you. Any tighter and you thought he’d lift your bottom half clear off the bed. His eyes searched your face for something, perhaps sincerity, before they fell along every curve of your body. It should have been disturbing, having a man gaze upon you so obviously, but everything John did made you love him more. He looked at you like you were precious to him, he’d told you as much just that morning, but also like he couldn’t wait to tear you apart, he’d showed you as much just that morning. Now, he seemed caught in the middle. Fascination and desire mingling into something you couldn’t place. You were counting on him to take the reins, to tell you what was coming next, but despite knowing that he was...at the very least learned in the bedroom, you couldn’t help but think he didn’t know what was coming next himself.

After a few long seconds of gazing, something in John’s demeanor changed. His eyes were alight and his hands squeezed you in a subtle warning.

“Lie back,” he commanded gently and you obeyed with a smile, dropping into the pillows without a care in the world beyond pleasing John with you quick response. He returned your smile and leaned forward to push the hair from your face, kissing your nose as his fingers tucked the stray hairs behind your ear, playing with the lobe between his forefinger and thumb. “Relax,” he said in the same tone, though it was more confident now. “Kiss me,” was the next instruction and you received his lips happily.

Each soft peck lingering a little longer than the one before it until your mouths were locked together, John’s tongue teasing your own only to pull back and nip at your bottom lip. You gasped at the feeling of him, hard and poised for entrance. Of course you knew it was down there, but the soldier was prepared to storm your front lines and for the first time in your life, you felt ready to share that intimate moment of joining. Only John Whittaker, only your husband, only the boy you loved for far too long without reprieve. Finally, satisfaction and completion had come.

John’s next demand was soft, but still so serious. “Now,” he said licking his lips as he held himself steady, looking down at you from his perch upon his elbows on either side of your head. One hand was carding through your hair mindlessly while the other was gripping the sheet below you. “Put your arms around me,” he waited for your hands to gather at the back of his neck, exhaling quickly at the feeling of your fingers immediately going into his hair. “Now, you will tell me if there is pain,” he urged, staring at you while you swallowed and nodded.

Whatever you were expecting, it wasn’t this. You felt him, slide through you before catching and pushing forward. The movement was slight and the second John was inside you, his forehead fell against yours, both of your groans meeting in the small space between your faces. John composed himself quickly to look for any sign of displeasure, but you refused to let him see any. He looked concerned, too concerned, and in a moment inspired by your husband himself, you decided to relieve him of the burden you’d placed on his shoulders.

With your breathing in check and your husband refusing to move until he had something from you, some confirmation of the rightness you felt, you brought one hand up the back of his head pushing the hair that had fallen in his face away. “You know, John,” you started, fighting the smirk that threatened to give you away. “I’ve read that some husbands will do just this, just the tip at first, to prepare their wives slowly.”

His brows furrowed immediately and you almost burst into giggles at the tilt of his head.

“Some say it’s best, just a little at a time, so as to avoid any pain,” you continued.

“Of course, I’d never want you to experience pain,” he agreed too quickly. You felt his arms quivering next to you and you knew if you didn’t relieve him, he might burst. But he could take a little more.

“Some couples do a little each night, before the husband is fully sheathed,” you explained.

“Okay…” John sounded wary and you knew what you were doing was cruel.

“It can take a week,” you said.

“A week??” He repeated, trying to keep his volume in check.

“Or more,” you shrugged with an innocent smile.

John’s face had lost all composure, there was panic and resignation and shock and a slew of combative emotions playing across his features as he fumbled for his next words carefully. He looked longingly between your bodies, where he’d just barely been joined with his wife and you watched his shoulders heave in a sigh. When he brought his gaze back up to meet yours, you greeted him with the kind of devilish smirk he often shot you. You were weak for it and for the man attached, so you felt no remorse as his face began to fall into one of understand.

His lips turned up eventually as he lunges forward to kiss you, hard and heavy, before murmuring against your lips. “You minx,” he teased, pulling his hips back slightly so you were empty again.

“Oh, John, don’t tease me,” you pleaded, regretting the fun you had at his expense.

“Like you tease me?” He challenged, pushing forward again so that an inch more was enveloped within you. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The rocking was soft, but purposeful. You received more of your husband with each pass until finally, his hips met yours and you gasped at the feeling. Pain wasn’t the right word, but after the morning’s activities, you knew that the burning that started low in your belly would only grow with his movement, until your insides burst. John half panted, half laughed as he settled between your legs, bringing one hand to your face again and brushing his thumb over your eyebrow, following the trail to the corner of your eye, where a small tear had gathered, waiting to be swept away by his tender touch. “It only gets better from here, darling,” he said, leaning in to kiss you and pulling back with pure joy scrunching his features, making him even more handsome to you.

You reached up to kiss the side of his nose, where the skin crinkled under his concealed laughter. “Prove it, John,” you urged him, though he needed no encouragement.

He took one of your legs in his wide palm and hoisted it up, until the bend of your knee caught on his hip, opening you up further. John rewarded your responsiveness with a deep thrust that made you call out for him. “Wrap your other leg around me,” he commanded again, taking his position of leadership seriously. “Hold on to me,” he said and you complied, tightening your legs around his waist as he continued to move within you, giving you instruction and drawing sounds from your throat you weren’t aware you could make. You could feel your face twisting with the cool deep within you, trying to keep from alerting the entire hotel to your activities. “Say it,” John grunted and you opened your eyes, noticing for the first time the droplets of sweat that gathered upon the bridge of his nose. “Whatever it is, say it,” he said through teeth grit in exertion.

Your head was dangerously close to whacking the headboard with each of swing of John’s hips, but you held tight to him, just as he requested. The raking of your blunt nails over the warm skin of his back only encouraged his efforts, both of you trying to hold on to something, desperate to feel as much as the other as time and physics would allow.

“I want to hear you,” John stated again, his hips stuttering and his pace faltering, but his flesh still hot inside you, pushing you toward the coming eruption. “Please, my love,” he struggled to get words out before his voice dissolved into low groans and heavy breaths that would have made you blush, had you not been making your own.

“Yes, John,” you moaned in his ear and immediately your husband’s hips snapped against yours, short and sharp thrusts that brought more tears to your eyes as he hit something inside you that made you want to scream. “John! God, more, John!”

You had no idea what you were saying or what you wanted -no, needed- more of, but your husband knew. John fisted the pillow next to your head and lifted his torso off your chest. You had no time to protest before you felt one of his hands move down your body. The pads of his fingers dug into your skin until finally stopping where you were joined. With expert timing, John found the same button he’d used to shatter you on the balcony and everything in you squeezed around him. Your legs, your arms, your lips as you lifted off your shoulders to put your mouth on whatever skin you could find. His forearm would have to do for now and you sucked against his flesh until a scream surprised you and you tossed your head back in ecstasy.

John said something before his own incoherent pleasure overtook him and the full length of him pulsed within and around you. His flesh was hot against yours as he lowered himself to your chest, breathing heavily against your neck as his final short shoves died off inside you.

Then the room was still. The damp top sheet was in a tangled heap around John’s feet. Soft, linen casualties of a battle long fought and finally won. A battle of wills and desires that culminated into the panting mess of the Whittakers, lying with one another, trading lazy kisses that were hardly kisses at all. John’s lips brushed over whatever skin he could reach and yours did the same, until you found your nose buried in his thick hair and you rested there.

John lifted his head to give you a proper kiss, though even that was slow and full of longing that you assumed would be satiated after your bodies met. But it was a different sort of longing and you couldn’t deny the feeling yourself as you returned each languid movement of his lips with your own. Your husband propped himself up on his elbows once more, looking down on you with all the fondness he could muster. Without prompting and without reason, you started to laugh. Weeks of nervous energy spilled out of you uncontrollably and you laughed. Covering your face with your clammy hands, you laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Soon your feel John’s stomach vibrating against your own, his genuine laugh joining yours. The silence of the room moments before was all forgotten as John rolled both of you onto your sides and pulling you into his chest.

“Darling,” John finally said, thought the lilt in his tone was not yet lost. You leaned away to look up at him, the skin of his eyes crinkled in delight. “You have me,” he stated simply. “All of me and all of my love,” he emphasized with a kiss to your swollen lips.

“God, I better,” you sighed, accepting his kisses before tucking your head into his neck again.

“You do,” he chuckled the promise, with his arms wound tightly around you and his heart pounding wildly against your cheek.

You’d nearly fallen asleep, when the feeling of warm skin being pulled from your grasp woke you. When your eyes finally opened, the bed next to you was vacant, it’s emptiness only illuminated by the dying sunlight streaming in through the glass balcony doors. You called out for your husband and after a few moments, he dutifully appeared. Propped up against the headboard, reaching down for a pillow to cover your naked body, you watched as John Whittaker emerged from the attached bathroom in the most unusual attire. His nicest clothes hung loosely around him, trousers unbuttoned and shirt falling open over his chest. John’s hair, previously loose and falling in his face from exertion and your fingers digging through the locks, was slicked back and set in place again.

“Boy, you’re looking sharp,” you mused, chewing on your bottom lip as John sorted through his trunk in search of a tie. “Where do you think you’re going?”

John came to you, placing one knee on the bed next to you and leaning in for another kiss, that made you wonder if you’d ever tire of his lips on yours. Probably not. “Dinner,” he said simply, “as much as I love you...al dente,” he wiggled his brows, pulling the pillow from your lap and ignoring your squeal to kiss you again, “I don’t intend to share this beauty with Dot and Warren.” Another quick kiss and he was away, sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from you as he started buttoning his dress shirt.

“Dot and Warren?” You asked to the room. “Oh god, that horrible couple from lunch?” John laughed and nodded, smirking over his shoulder at you. “Absolutely not, John.”

“We said that we’d go, it would be rude to leave them waiting.”

You frowned in the direction of his back before standing and tossing a discarded sweater of John’s over your shoulders. Padding around the bed in your bare feet, you stopped between John’s knees and looked down at him with your hands brushing up and down the open edges of his shirt.

“It’s our honeymoon, John Whittaker,” you said slowly.

“I’m aware, darling,” he smirked, “I’m paying for it.”

You slapped his shoulder and sunk to straddle his legs, only making his smirk grow. Shamelessly, you threw one arm around his neck, cradling his head in the crook of your elbow while the other tugged on his shirt and pulled him into a long kiss. By the time he pulled away, his lips were pink and his cheeks were flushed, eyes gathering heat again.

“I propose a trade,” you smiled.

“Oh?” He returned the expression and licked his lips. “What would you like, darling?”

“To stay in bed,” you said simply. “With my husband.”

“I see,” John faked a frown as if he was pondering the offer. “And what will I receive in return?”

You leaned hard against him, until his back fell against the mattress and you were atop him. “Whatever you want, John,” you sighed against his neck, pushing the offensive shirt out of your way as your lips worked their way down.

“Tempting,” he groaned and you could feel a now familiar bulge against your inner thigh.

“But if you don’t want me anymore,” you sighed in resignation, lifting yourself up from his chest, as if you meant to leave him in bed alone.

John was quicker, snatching your waist and spinning to throw you under him once more. “A trade’s a trade, my darling, no escaping it,” he growled, pushing your sweater up enough for his lips to find the soft skin beneath your breasts. Your hands found his hair again and you sighed, melting further into bed. There’d be plenty of opportunities to see your husband in a suit. You could stand missing dinner one night in favor of this. Though as John’s kisses ventured up to your lips again, you could imagine a lifetime of choosing this with him over the company of anyone else in the world and you found yourself hoping for many more nights of being unspeakably impolite, so that you could be selfish with your husband’s affections.

The way he was kissing you, sinking into you easier than before, you thought John would agree with the trade as well.

[something-tofightfor]

Recognize.

We all know I’d hitch my horse to Logan or Ryan or Billy first, but John is just Too Much for me, and I can’t help myself when it comes to him or the way that @its-my-little-dumpster-fire writes him. 

[my-little-dumpster-fire]

‘Deed I Do

P A R T 2/3

You woke the next morning with a dull ache, just behind your eyes. However as consciousness returned to you and you wiggled, sinking deeper into the embrace of an antique sofa that was never meant to hold bodies for longer than a cup of tea, you became vaguely aware that the thin blanket over your shoulders was not what had kept you warm through the night and most of the morning, based on the pillars of light streaming in from between window panes. The foreign but not entirely unwelcome comfort of long arms and large hands holding you close was much more to blame. Without moving an inch, fearing wakefulness would rid you of this dream, you opened one carefully to survey the scene.

Your body was nearly flat against John’s chest, though at some point in the night you’d clearly slid more to his side. His hands had you locked in place however, keeping your bodies close and yours from tumbling to the floor in an embarrassing heap. You could feel the entirety of John’s palm flattened against your back. Curiously placed under your sweater, but chaste enough as the pads of his fingers dug into your side through the thin fabric of your blouse. The length of your skirt had been brushed up by the fingers gripping the back of your knee. You were suddenly keenly aware that your stockings from last night only reached your knee and John had managed to avoid the soft fabric in favor of the expanse of exposed skin just above. He held you with surprising strength even in his sleep and you rolled your eyes at the way your leg had been hitched up over his waist, uncertain if that was your doing or his. Were you that desperate for a man’s touch? Even in sleep your body clung to John’s without shame or fear of discovery.

Taking a deep breath and making no effort to jostle your partner awake, you lifted your head slightly from its resting place against John’s shoulder for the sole purpose of being able to find use in both of your tired eyes. You took a moment to glance around the room as best you could, though the only thing visible was the wall of books that sat just south of your legs tangled with John’s much longer ones that extended out past the arm of the sofa and seemed to be floating in the air from your angle. A slight turn to the left revealed the record player, needle eventually giving up hope had retreated to its resting place as the black disc stopped spinning. A little more and an empty bottle was accompanied by two still full glasses on a Victorian table. Just a bit more and-

“What a sordid display,” Marion’s breathy voice entered the room from where she was standing in the false doorway. You jumped immediately startled, but John’s hands only tightened against you when you attempted to pull away. Though presumably still asleep, John’s expression was the picture of peace as opposed to your furrowed brows as you slowly descended into a panic under Marion’s disturbing stare. You took John’s chin between your thumb and forefinger and shook his face gently. The first of your actions meant to rouse him, did next to nothing in your aid. In fact, it appeared to have the opposite effect, when you looked up and found his lips pursed and ready, waiting for a kiss you weren’t offering. When your lips kept their distance and your hand kept shaking, John let out a disturbed huff as his face scrunched in apparent disapproval, but still he made no attempts to remove his hands from you. You turned back to look at Marion and realized that you had no idea how long she’d be standing and leering at the two of you from the corner of the room, a book in one hand, the shelf covering the door propped open by the other.

“Tell me, Marion,” John sighed, finally removing one hand, though not the one you wished he’d slip out from under your skirt, to squeeze the bridge of his nose and make his annoyance crystal clear to his sister. “Is this more exciting than one of your novels?” Without the support of his hand against your back, you tightened your grip around his waist and pulled yourself nearly on top of him. The desire to stay off the floor outweighed the desire for a long forgotten decorum.

She gasped, making her disgust at the implication as clear as John’s irritation. “You cannot compare this this this- whatever this is to classic literature!”

“It’s pornography, you blister,” he said plainly, which made Marion blush bright red and dart from the room without further argument. “Doesn’t matter who wrote it,” John muttered, keeping his eyes closed and returning his hand to your back. At that point, your face was so buried into his neck, hiding from the embarrassing display just over your shoulder, that you could feel every word he spoke as it travelled up his vocal chords and tickled your nose. The hand under your skirt slid up a bit higher to squeeze your thigh, presumably as a show of reassurance, but your body tensed and jolted into John even more. He chuckled at your reaction and tightened his hold to keep you pressed against him.

“John,” you sighed, suddenly more tired from Marion’s intrusion than a whole night of drinking.

He hummed, though it sounded more like a moan in your ear. You started to lift yourself off the couch, though in the tangled mess you’d found yourself, it was proving to be a difficult feat. As you moved awkwardly over him, pulling the blanket which you now realized was actually John’s dinner coat draped over your shoulders, John hissed and grabbed your shoulders, holding you still. “Don’t,” he said quietly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t...move,” he sighed, holding you over him. Your hands were clutching the arm of the couch above his head and your body hovered over his own. A simply swing of your leg would have you dismounting him as easily as you would a horse. Ignoring his warning, you swung one leg over him and just barely grazed-

“Oh!” You squeaked, feeling something hard beneath you. A cursory glance downward revealed that indeed, there was a not at all subtle tenting clearly visible through his baggy trousers, where his manly whang was clearly awake despite the general sleepiness of the rest of him. “Well, good morning, General,” you said, tilting your head. You lifted one your arms off the couch arm and brought two fingers to your brow, balancing yourself carefully while saluting the man -and his weapon- below you.

“General?” He groaned and you laughed.

“Well, he looks ready for battle, doesn’t he?” You explain through a guilty smile and soon John’s tired face was splitting into his own. Not the well thought out smirk of the night before. It was too early for wiles. This was John. Just John. And he was happy in your presence. “I don’t know about you, Sir,” you teased, taking care to slither off John’s body, with his help and his hand on your hip as you stood next to couch addressing him. “But I am famished and I know that Veronica won’t save me any breakfast,” you turned, causing John’s fingers to slip over the fabric of your skirt as you headed toward the door. “She won’t save any for you either, John,” you reminded him from the entryway.

“No, but I can count on you to take care of me,” he said coolly, making no moves to extricate himself from the cushions where he lay. You eyed him curiously, tapping your foot with impatience as you hung out in door frame waiting for him to join you.

“I’ll be a minute, darling,” he said, lips quirked up as he nodded down to his own risen tater. You’d already forgotten and instantly your face burned in embarrassment again. You nodded and wished him luck, such a weird thing to say and John laughed loudly at the remark. Soon you were rushing down the hall to catch up to the Whittaker women, who were hopefully still in the dining room.

All thoughts of the night before were blurry and disjointed. By the time John had emerged from his father’s study, looking significantly more cheerful and awake than when you left him, you’d spoken to Farber about the return drive home and Mrs. Whittaker had expressed the closest thing to excitement she could muster. You’d be back in just a few days, staying with the family before and during the wedding festivities, helping to reign in your dear friend, Hilda. Not your idea, but your mother had insisted, perhaps trying to inspire you to marry again amid the chaos of another woman’s preparations. It wouldn’t happen. There weren’t enough peonies or Japanese lanterns or gloved guest silently judging from their seats in the world to make you want to go through that whole ordeal again.

Only a day had passed since that awkward morning, when you were called inside by the promise of a phone call that was explicitly and exclusively for you. Still breathless from your morning ride, you tucked the ivory phone handle between your shoulder and ear, while you stopped to unbutton and strip yourself of the black leather confines around your calves.

“Come back,” John’s pleading voice responded immediately to your perfunctory hello and you chuckled against the handset. “Why are you laughing? Run along and have a bag packed.”

“I’ve only been gone a day,” you sighed, finally ridding yourself of your boots and collapsing into a chair, with your feet tucked up under you in a way that would make your mother’s hair curl in anger. “And,” you added, sensing he was about to present you with a compelling argument. “I’ll be back in a few days for Hilda’s wedding. Why should I ache to return to quickly?”

“I’m bored,” he whined and you laughed at the pitiful sounds he made.

“John Whittaker doesn’t get bored,” you pointed out correctly. Between his seemingly boundless energy and what his mother always called a hopeless overactive imagination, John had never wanted for entertainment, finding hours of joy roaming the Whittaker family grounds, playing games on rainy days with only the loosest interpretation of the rules in place or his own entirely made up set, or finding mischief at the expense of his family. Now that John had grown into his limbs, barely, he found his entertainment alongside most young men of his age. The usual. You had no doubt that even at home, John managed to balance his duties to the family land with his own need for stimulation. He seemed just as comfortable astride some new equipment as he did in the buttery seats of a Riley Nine. Like that Gatsby cat from the American stories without the murder or the mood swings.

John’s voice had lowered as he was trying to conceal the conversation from someone you couldn’t see, while comfortably perched in your family’s sitting room. “I manage when the entire house is buzzing around Hilda like the delicate flower she is and there’s not a soul in sight that has the time or the coordination to play with me.” You giggled into the phone as he groaned. You reminded him that he loved his little sister and he agreed wholeheartedly, but cited many of his own failings that had barred him from being any assistance during the wedding preparations and exiled him. He was allowed in his bedroom and out in the barn and you laughed impolitely loud as he recalled the misery of his twenty four hours in your absence. “That settles it, I’m coming to get you.”

“Wha-“

“Have a bag packed,” he said with finality. You scoffed as the line cut out and dropped the phone into its cradle unceremoniously. Looking around the sitting room, you realized that John never took no for an answer. His car would speed through the dirt and trees, effortlessly skidding to a cloudy stop in no time. He’d be strolling through the front doors of your family home as if it were his own and if you weren’t ready by the time he did, you imagined him blowing through your bedroom door like a hurricane. He’d scoop you up like a child or hoist you over his shoulder, likely dumping the contents of your trunk in the process. Despite the giggles that would ensue, it would be incredibly inconvenient, so you abandoned your comfortable place and sprinted up the stairs, eager for your return trip to the Whittaker home.

So the week before Hilda’s wedding, that was your role. You’d anticipated assisting the family in more delicate tasks, but it became glaringly obvious that you’d been delegated the most delicate task of all: keeping John Whittaker occupied and out of the way. John was an extremely competent man who simply lacked the gingerly voice that everyone had taken to speaking with around a suddenly very easily spooked Hilda. He’d sent the baby of the family spiraling twice in the day you’d been back home and if Veronica Whittaker were equipped for expressions of relief, you were certain you’d have been the lucky recipient of them. The second you arrived with John, the staff could breathe easier, his mother too, as Marion bemoaned her own rotten luck and Hilda’s anxiety ran the house. You, on the other hand, hadn’t stopped smiling in days. Were your mother around, she’d remind you to gob creams on your face at night in fear of the wrinkles for which the Whittaker boy was solely responsible.

One such morning, while candles of every color were being delivered to the house, John decided that freedom was suddenly a necessity and the two of you set out on horseback for a thorough tour of the Whittaker grounds all the way down to the creek that served as a natural boundary for the Hurst land. John’s guilt weighed heavily on him and you could see it in his eyes. Though you’d only just been made aware of them, the rumors circling John’s abruptly ended engagement to Sarah Hurst were anything, but kind. Whispers suggested that Lord Hurst’s offer to buy the back acreage of the Whittaker land to help the family had been retracted and with John and Sarah’s silence on regarding their relationship, no one was certain whether the land deal inspired to split or vice versa. In the safety of your presence, John admitted to spoiling the deal. If only he’d been someone else entirely, perhaps he’d be useful to his family, perhaps he’d be what Sarah needed, and Lord Hurst wouldn’t have denied his mother in her time of need. It didn’t rightly matter how emphatically you told him it wasn’t true, John clung to the failed exchange tighter than his failed engagement. You loved and hated moments like this. You hated the Whittaker trait of self loathing and hoped it might have skipped your dear friend, but his white knuckled grip on thin leather reins next to you told you otherwise. At the same time, you loved seeing John like this. He was so much more than the grown child who called you up for a weeklong playdate. He was so much more than the elder brother and first born son who lived to love and terrorize his mother and sisters in equal measure. John Whittaker was a man who was trying to rebuild something that his father had abandoned long before the great Christmas party exodus. He saw his family’s land and the history that filled it and he wanted desperately not to be the weak link in a long chain of kin who’d owned and worked the land for centuries. With a tender hand, you guided your horse to stand a little closer to John’s so that you could brush back some of the dark hair that had fallen over his eyes on the ride. He smiled, thankfully, and leaned into the touch. You allowed yourself a moment to give into the whim and play with his hair, raking through it with your fingers and recklessly hoping the lies of inadequacy that plagued him may be pulled from his mind with each gently pass. John hummed and grabbed your wrist, kissing the fingers that had run through his hair as he thanked you. For listening. For being a friend. For reminding him there were better days ahead than those behind him.

With a lighter smile than he’d ridden out with, you and John raced home. If he’d been just a little more sad, you might have let him win. All the same, there was ample teasing and bumping of hips and elbows as you hung the expensive tack on its rightful peg, followed by jokes and furtive glances being tossed over the curved and sweaty backs of your steeds while the two of you took your time to brush the horses down. Two massive bodies stood on eight legs between you, yet you felt closer to John in that moment than you had in years. The childish sort of affection you’d shared had somehow managed to grow up with you and you were thankful for a friend who could make you make while talking about your former husband and who you could make smile instead of drowning in regret.

“Always room for improvement, darling,” he teased and shot a wink across the stalls at you.

“I taught you to ride, John, don’t forget that.”

“Yes,” John conceded. He draped his long arms over the horse’s back, rubbing the mares ribs with one of his large hands as his chin was propped up in the other. “But there are other beasts that are good for riding,” he grinned and licked his lips as he watched your expression melt out of confusion and into a scandalized scowl.

“John!” You shrieked, tossing your brush directly at his head. He ducked just in time, side sliding away from his horse. In an attempt to escape what would soon become a wrestling match if you were not careful, you tried to scoot away from your own horse, but found yourself wrapped up in John’s long armed embrace all the same. Giggling and writhing against him, you did your very best to pull out of his grip, but John was stronger than he looked and his slightly stubbled chin was digging into the side of your face as he made snapping noises with his teeth and growled into your ear, with no regard for how those sounds would haunt you later.

At that moment, the doors to the stable flew open and a hoard of people that you hadn’t been expecting burst through in a small dusty cyclone. At the head of the pack, Veronica Whittaker and your mother were wielding newspapers and advancing on your tangled bodies looking as those they intended to strike you like misbehaving dogs.

“So it is true!” Hilda squealed!

“I told you as much!” Marion insisted.

“Stupid boy, stupid, stupid,” Mrs. Whittaker moaned loudly.

“Of all the simple minded plans in all the world,” your mother shrieked.

Everything seemed to happen at once. You tried to pull away from John, but he kept one arm firmly around you, physically shielding himself from the onslaught of women and mildly amusement staff that followed closely behind them.

“We don’t have the time for this!” Mrs. Whittaker swung her crumpled newspaper at John’s head and the blow landed, causing him to duck and curl closer into you, while the hand that wasn’t digging into your hip grabbed carelessly at the paper that was swatting him. “I’ve called every vendor, June first is an impossible date!”

June the first….

“Why wouldn’t you wait?!” Hilda’s voice cut through the bickering crowd. “It’s my week, I’m getting married, why wouldn’t you wait until after!”

“Clearly your reception is their grand debut,” Marion wheezed, pursing her lips in a knowing and judgmental sneer. “Must you always be such a spectacle, brother?”

“The only spectacle is you lot!” John hollered, physically pulling your mother’s hands from where they were digging painfully into your arm. Once you were free, he pulled you closer and took a large step back from the tiny mob. You looked up at him pleadingly, but his own expression was lost. And then he was wincing again as his mother’s newspaper collided with his forehead again.

“You’ll have to host,” Mrs. Whittaker turned to address your mother, unsatisfied with the reaction she was getting from her son. “We can’t host two in a month.”

“Of course not, it would be an egregious display if you tried,” your mother agreed quickly. “Our home is open, but your greenhouses will be so much faster than a shop-“

“Right, right, yes, done,” Mrs. Whittaker waved her hand dismissively and your sighed heavily in relief.

“What are you-?” You tried to jump in, but your voice was overpowered by the two matriarchs going back and forth, making plans for an event that suddenly made you nervous. Finally, John managed to snatch a paper from his mother who paid him no mind, but continued to argue with your mother over all your questions, Hilda’s whining, and Marion’s quiet cackling.

Your eyes widened to an impossible size at the sight in front of you. When John shook out the paper to see what had everyone in a tizzy, you both froze at a printed copy of a hand written wedding announcement that was meant to never be seen or thought of again after that night in the Whittaker’s study. Thinking through the night and the next morning, you suddenly couldn’t convince yourself that either you or John had disposed of the announcement properly. Clearly you hadn’t as it glared up at you in smudged black and white. Plain as day, your plans made in jest and drunkenness were splayed out for the whole town to see.

“Mother,” you tried to interject as she verbally ran through a list of people she’d need to call right away to make sure they would be in attendance, while simultaneously taking note of how many people would fit in your gardens at the same time.

“We meant for it to be a small affair,” you heard John pipe up from above you and his mother turned to him appreciatively as you gaped up at him.

“John!” You gasped loudly in disbelief and he took your hand in his, dragging you over to a only slightly quieter corner. “They’re making plans for us! Our wedding! You can’t be encouraging them like that!” You told him in a harsh whisper. “Now we have to make this right!” You stated and turned away from him.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he repeated quickly, taking your hand in his again and pulling you back to the corner. “You can’t tell them,” he said quickly.

“What?” You said louder than intended, earning some curious looks from the crew of planners that were still engrossed in the logistical nightmare of your wedding to John Whittaker. “John, no! Of course we tell them! It was a joke!” You reminded him, pulling away again, only to be yanked back. “Stop making this difficult!”

“I will make this exceedingly difficult,” John said quickly. “More difficult than it should be.”

“You make everything more difficult than it should be!” You shot back and instantly John’s grip on your wrist loosened. His face fell, but not into guilt or grief like most would. His fell into a flat affect, more reminiscent of his mother in that moment than you’d ever seen him. It made no earthly sense. That announcement was a joke, never meant for anyone’s eyes. John knew that and it hadn’t even crossed your mind to ask if he was responsible. You knew he wouldn’t be, but somehow still your words were wounding him. With a sympathy solely reserved for John, you paused and considered for a moment. Did you really have to alert the mothers to the mistake? A cursory glance over your shoulder confirmed what you already knew. They were still locked in a heated discussion of logistics that had now ventured beyond the actual nuptials and into the ways the match would be beneficial to each family. Neither woman looked happy, no, their concern wasn’t happiness with each other or with their children. They were on a mission, holding up the families they’d provided for the men they’d once loved just as it was expected for them. For a moment, a fleeting but significant moment, you felt sorry for the women who had griped your whole life. Weren’t they simply preparing for this moment? When their work would finally be done and they could rest easily, knowing they’d fulfilled their vows to carry on someone else’s family legacy and prepare their children to receive it. You sighed and turned to face John, who was barely regarding you, his own eyes fixed on the women behind you. You wondered if he was thinking the very same. “Why shouldn’t we tell them the truth?” You asked, pulling John’s focus back to you. “We could right them today, they’d moan and complain and be embarrassed, but this need not continue.” Thankful for your friend, you thought it only fitting that you offer him an escape from a life he hadn’t asked for. He wouldn’t get such an offer from his mother, but you...you could grant him that. You could free him from the mistake.

His face softened and he stepped closer, taking one of your hands in his, brushing the knuckles with his thumb. “Because I can’t…” he said quietly, suddenly aware that no one should overhear his confession to you. “My first wife ran away with my father,” he chuckled humorlessly. “My second engagement ran back to her father,” finally John lifted his eyes from your joint hands, urging you to look at him. “If it’s discovered that my third is a farce, my family....” his eyes fell over your shoulder to the loud women that were now making their way out of the stables, chasing an inconsolable Hilda and shouting encouragements that this recent development wouldn’t detract from her special day. “I love them,” he said slowly and you nodded. You’d always known that. John was above all else, a family man. Who affectionately referred to his siblings as blisters, but would go to war for either of them without blinking should the need arise. “They’ll never be able to look at me.” The way he said your name, so soft and desperate, was unlike any previous utterance. “They’ll never forgive me and you know it. I can’t do that to them.”

You didn’t have words for John. Every concern he voiced was spot on. Another failed relationship for John would reflect so poorly on the Whittaker name. You weren’t entirely immune from recourse either. One divorce at your age was already bad enough, enough to worry your mother that you’d never find another sap to con into loving you. The news of your fake engagement to John Whittaker would prove that indeed, there was something wrong with you and there would be no hope for a future so long as you bore your name. The women never came out clean in situations like this. You’d learned that already with Henry.

Without a word, you stretched up on to your toes to kiss his cheek. John smiled, not a true John Whittaker smile with his perfect teeth on display and his eyes crinkling with joy, but it was still a smile. Small. Resigned. Only as ready as you for whatever came next. He tugged you in and wrapped his arms around you, tighter than you expected, and you responded immediately, holding him and molding your body against his as if space between you would cause your heart to fall out onto the dusty barn floor. It might, you thought, trying and failing to picture a life with your friend John as more than that.

—-

Hilda Whittaker’s wedding to the russet haired Cavendish boy was a county wide affair. It seemed every family whose name you’d heard in the last two decades would be in attendance. While there were many with daughters Hilda had danced or dined with in her youth, you suspected a great many of the guests in attendance were there for the spectacle. Whether this Whittaker managed to make it stick, was of no importance and it was sure to be a show either way.

You found yourself in John’s arms again, officially a couple as far as anyone in attendance was concerned, dancing in the low light as couples with more established histories chattered mindlessly along the edges of the room. Your head was tucked against his shoulder, while his face rested against yours and the two of you swayed gently to the melodic brass and string band. One of your hands was wrapped under his shoulder, keeping him close enough to lean on, while his was wrapped around your waist, resting against your lower back and holding you up during the slow dance. Where your hands were clasped together, John’s thumb was passing over your skin affectionately, reminding you that he was there. As if you could forget. The last few days had been a whirlwind. Preparing for Hilda’s wedding, while suddenly the expectations for you and John had changed. Being alone together was no longer, as two young people rushing to get married, it was assumed that any moments of privacy would be spent taking advantage of each other. The careless touches you’d come to expect from John stopped, for fear that they’d be viewed as inappropriate. This dance, this slow and close dance, that was barely more than a shuffle from foot to foot, was your public declaration of intent. Unlike the dances you’d shared before, suddenly people were watching every move and hedging their bets on how long ‘this one’ would stick around. Maybe it was the closeness or maybe it was your pride, but you wanted nothing more than to pull John’s face to yours and kiss him until your audience found something new to belittle with their gossip. You didn’t indulge and despite the sweetness with which John regarded you during your sudden engagement, he hadn’t made any moves to kiss you anywhere he hadn’t before. Like now, when his head lifted from yours, you correctly anticipated the soft pressing of his lips against your temple. It wasn’t the norm, but this kiss lingered on your skin. John didn’t pull his lips away, but rather murmured against the wispy hairs that framed your face.

“That’ll be us soon,” he whispered and you opened your eyes. Turning your head under his chin, slowly and allowing his lips to replace themselves against your forehead, you spotted Hilda and her new husband, locked in a similar embrace just a few feet away. Hilda’s expression was that of an angel’s. Ethereal happiness shining through a face tired from the day of excitement.

No, they’re in love.

Without a response from you, John pulled back to look down at your face, searching it for the words you weren’t saying.

Just then, the heavy doors burst open and a man swaggered to the middle of the dance floor.

“I think I’m due a dance with my daughter, no?”

None other than James Whittaker, missing in action for the second time in his life, had appeared in the last place he’d been seen just a year prior. The discomfort trickled through the crowd as gasps dissolved into satisfied muttering. Not at all what was expected, but exactly the brand of Whittaker entertainment for which many had been waiting all evening.

When Hilda shrunk away, clinging to her beloved as the shock and disappointment and a flurry of other emotions crossed through her mind and across her face, John immediately took a step toward the elder Whittaker. His chest was puffed out and his shoulders were squared as if preparing for a fight and he looked more like a man of the house in that moment than you’d ever witnessed. It was painfully obvious which Whittaker belonged and which was an unwelcome guest.

“John,” James regarded his son with open arms. “My boy.” His hands came down on John’s shoulders, with the intent to pull his son out of his way, but John was an impervious barrier between his father and his little sister. The hardened look on his face had qualities of his father, but there was something undeniably John in his features. James wasn’t one for dramatic displays, especially in regards to his family, but the subtle twitch in John’s upper lip told you that at least one Whittaker was looking for a fight. “Step aside, there’s no reason to embarrass yourself,” James’ eyes fell on you then. “Not in front of your fiancé, though she’ll be your wife next week. Congratulations, by the way,” he added quickly as if it was expected.

John stepped back with a furrowed brow and glared suspiciously at his father, who leaned in to whisper.

“Did you much like my engagement present?” He asked, with a subtle chuckle. John’s head tilted helplessly to one side. “Imagine my surprise,” James explained. “Returning home to my study and finding such wonderful news hidden away from the world,” he continued, watching as John’s face fell into realization. “So close to the date,” he tsked. “And still not in the papers. I thought it my fatherly duty to right such a careless oversight.”

Without thinking, one of John’s fists landed directly on the side of his father’s face, wiping the smugness from his bearded smile.

Hilda shrieked and Veronica elbowed her way to the front of the crowd, berating a staff for not alerting her the second the despicable man in front of her returned to the family premises.

James rubbed his jaw briefly, laughing as he felt a small trickling of blood slip down his lip. “Unwise,” was all he said as he let his own fist fly, knocking John right out with a disgusting crack of knuckles against teeth.

John came to just a few minutes later, lying against the floor with his head in your lap. The family had scattered, coddling their delicate sensibilities, likely gossiping about the events of the evening as if they hadn’t just happened, or otherwise staying as far from both James and John as possible. You were glad for the privacy when his dark eyes started to flutter open. He was seemingly unaware of the split in his lip and the swelling beneath it as he attempted a lazy smile. His upper lip twitched up as he winced and one hand flew up to assess the damage. When he found your wrist instead, fingers dancing through his soft strands, his mission changed. His fingers clasped around your arm, torn between wanting to hold your hand and hold it in place so that your subtle ministrations may continue.

“Have I managed to spoil this yet, darling?” John asked, his s’s only a little blurry under his puffy lower lip.

“You aren’t quite the cad you think you are, John,” you pulled your hand from his hair as you assured him. As delicately as you could, you dragged your index finger over his lip, collecting a drop of blood in the process. His eyes were glassy in appreciation and fatigue, prompting you to smirk knowingly. “However, you’re very close, but only because you overestimate all of your failings.”

His laugh was weak, but genuine as he tightened his grip on your wrist, holding your thumb to his lips. John winced as he puckered his lips and you felt both sympathy and curiosity simultaneously.

“I’ve never known you to throw a punch, John,” you pointed out warily.

“Nor the better, I suppose,” he scoffed, stroking his jaw. The joints clicked audibly as he tested the hinge, looking more like a cod fish than your fiancé in that moment. His self deprecation and ability to joke despite his wound should not have surprised you, but you had to turn away to conceal a giggle.

After composing yourself and noting the grin John wore as you turned to look down at him again, you tried again. “Why your father? Why now?”

“It has been my first and only opportunity to do so,” John answered only your second question, but he answered it quickly. “No one has seen him in months.”

“Why at all, John?” Certainly Jim’s presence was difficult to reconcile in the younger Whittaker’s mind, but reliving the events made you question John’s affections in ways he’d asked you not to.

“He stole my wife,” he closed his eyes, speaking as though in pain. He very likely was, having never taken a fist to the nose you could only imagine.

You felt your spine straighten in reflex. Suddenly you were overcome with a need to maintain proper posture, not the nurturing curve of your huddled frame.

My wife.

John noticed, as he often did, and glared upward. If you were looking at him at all, you would have noticed. “And he started this whole mess. He posted that silly announcement in the papers.”

Mess.

Silly.

“I heard him,” you admitted, flatly.

John frowned at your change in demeanor, much preferring the gentle fingers running through his hair than the woman who suddenly appeared as though a smile would pain her. He opened his lips to speak, but you were faster.

“My mother is leaving soon. I think I should go with her,” you stated plainly, lifting his head from your lap so you could stand causing it slip to the floor with an unintended klunk.

“Wait,” John pleaded, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. “What’s happened? I thought-“ he licked his lips and stood to face you. “I thought we were… are you alright?”

You swallowed and forced a smile, reaching out to touch his hand before he had the chance to do the same.

“I’m just fine, John.” He leaned in, moving as if he intended to kiss you, but you spun from him before he had the chance, leaving him in the empty ballroom. As soon as you were out of sight, you toed the shoes from you feet and sprinted up the steps silently. You packed your things quickly and met your mother out front, glancing back at the Whittaker house and noticing the silhouette of a lanky gentleman, looking out a high window back at you.

Silly mess indeed.

@something-tofightfor @the-blind-assassin-12 @strugglingsemicolon @breanime @disengagefrmreality @suchatinyinfinity @littlemermaidprobz

[my-little-dumpster-fire]

‘Deed I Do

M A S T E R L I S T

Introduction

WC: 1k

Part One

WC: 5k

Part Two

WC: 6k