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Its an odd thing, to think someone so precious had once been a stranger.
Strange, to remember that there had never been a conscious choice. Somethings are simply meant to be, written into the folds of the universe. The way mountains stand tall, they way the wind flows and the ocean tides current. Some things were always meant to happen, and simply continue in second nature.
The same way he now crumbles at the sight of your curving lips. The same way your heart pulses when his skin touches yours, the same way his heart skips a beat when you’re near. Every part of you was simply meant to find him; couldn’t be stopped, couldn’t be halted.
And now you do, what lovers do.
John hadn’t wished for a life like this, he hadn’t prayed, never asked. He’d simply presumed something good hadn’t been written into the stars for him. Simply accepted that life often has a way of shaping out to be more tragic than beautiful. Hands that hold knives and guns do not hold softer, warmer ones in return. But some things are simply meant to happen, determined from the beginning, written into the cosmos.
Maybe some wounds never heal, but something better, often grows in place.
Forever and always, he’ll take you by the hand
—to do what lovers do.
There’s a pleasant ache between your legs.
A longing so deep you feel the pulse of him even still, from the night prior.
Whispers, melting,
—voices. Your voices, sighing, sighing, and sighing.
You adore the way he makes you his. As if with each movement, he declares of smaller piece of you written along him forever. As if each twitch of his lips against yours thanks the sky for giving him you.
It fades into the early morning air, your thoughts focused and remembering the way he loved you just a mere few hours ago. It fades into the dark coffee cup you absentmindedly stir, clamouring and clinking with each subtle twist of your wrist.
It fades into the morning gray, remembering warm voices, your lips shaping his name and his crafted on yours. You’d known the term ‘making love’ before John. You’d thrown it around, knew the meaning and what it enticed.
But it was John who gave the term meaning. It was with John; the first time you’d ever truly made love with someone. Ever understood how close you truly have to be to share a kiss, how much your skin has to touch to allow someone’s manhood to curl between your thighs. How vulnerable you have to be to allow tears to slip from how much, how well, and how deep he loves you.
Only him. Only ever him.
Only him, you want to leave that delicious ache between your legs.
Jonathan Wick is a dream, one you have the pleasure to call yours, and yours alone forever.
((Stirring, stirring, and stirring))
It’s earnest, when a pair of strong arms lazily curl around you like irons, encapsulated and curving a smile when you feel his warm chest pressed to the arc of your back. A kiss presses to the crown of your head, and you instinctually lean back into his touch.
You hadn’t noticed the chill lingering in the open kitchen air, a dire contrast sharp when the warmth of his embrace ignites a compliment of goosebumps on your skin. A warm giggle rolls up your throat, and softer hands gently trickle down to hold his arms that hold you in return. “May I help you, Mr. Wick?” you reply slyly with a deliberate hum.
He doesn’t respond right away, only his slow and steady lips on your neck do. Large arms only clutch you a little tighter, and you feel a simmering happiness in your veins when his chest vibrates against your back, a gentle hum flowing when he presses a soft kiss just to the silky curve behind your ear. “Come back to bed?”
Your heartbeat still spikes when he asks to have you near.
John’s stubble pleasantly tickles against your skin, but you’ve grown accustomed to it nonetheless. Before you, the steam of your morning dark roast hazes as it melts into the air above, and your soft whisper hazes too, quiet and subtle in the morning serene. “Good morning to you too.”
John holds you tight still, nonchalant with his endeavour, a roadmap of love painting to your neck.
He savours each movement. Each inch, his lips appreciative.
The sounds of his lips gently moving, so soft, so delicate, they offer the smallest echoes, quiet notes of wet lips loving along your skin. They send butterflies amid your body, the feeling of his hands dipping into the hem of your shirt only intensifying your closeness.
His voice is quiet, tender when he whispers a soft ‘I love you’ into your skin. Murmurs, voice impossibly soft. So quiet, you can hear the notes of sleepiness in his tone. You’d have never heard it if he hadn’t been etched to your body.
Heartache. It’s a beautiful thing to miss someone when they haven’t even left yet.
John Wick makes your heart ache, even after the years of being only his, the wonderful memories. A tale of the perfect husband and a wife who adores him. A man who loves, and is loved by his wife.
The beautiful hum of a grey fall morning whispers outside, a quiet pelt of gentle rain drumming terrain.
John savours these moments. He hums delicately, deep baritone yet light all at once, and the way his fingers ever so slightly trail your bare skin underneath the light cotton of your shirt sends a jolt of bliss erupting in your veins. His fingers gently trail lower, barely dipping into the waistband of your pajama bottoms as his lips continue their venture on your neck. He keeps them there— intimate, close; his thumbs softly offering smooth circles to the bare skin of your mid.
It wasn’t sexual, wasn’t a plea for you to turn and offer yourself to him in return.
John often simply does these little things—it’s the intimacy he craves; the closeness he exudes that makes your heart skip a beat, or two. Simple gestures he conducts solely to remind you that you are the very breath in his lungs. His adoration, his love. Your hand gently raises and you reach behind to thread your fingers in his midnight strands, and the taste in your mouth sweetens with your silky smile.
John’s breath is hot against your nape when he leaves a small kiss there, and you softly lace your fingers in a grateful massage to his scalp. Softly kneading, pads of your fingers smoothing, threading gently in your husband’s thick locks. John buries his nose in the dip of your neck, simply breathing in the familiar scent. His favourite scent, one that declares itself home deep within his bones.
Its electrifying, living in this little world with him. Your own personal paradise; you note the way he sways you so slightly, so gently and so faintly, just enough to brew that familiar light fluttery feeling gently exhilarating through your head. You feel his stubble through the light cotton of your shirt just to the top of your shoulder blade, and his muscles tense and relax when you offer small, gentle strokes to the lax skin of his bare arms.
A moment to yourselves.
Quiet.
A long pause.
Only yours.
Then, a ring. A vibration and a tune. You hesitate, and John laces his hands with yours that rest to your mid while your eyes slip closed and you whisper. “My mom is calling.”
You adore her. But this little stolen moment to yourselves is precious. This little symphony, the way his hold feels unfairly safe around you, warm and inviting.
“Pick it up, sweetheart.” It’s a low and deep return, soft and light all at once. It washes over you like the rays of the sun, his voice. It ignites a flutter in your heart when he calls you that name.
Steadily, you answer the call with your spare, one hand still laced with John’s as his thumb brushes soft circles to the top of your palm. His lips seek still, comfortable and inquisitive as he practically drinks you in, savouring that soft spot between the curve of your neck that he’d so familiarly memorized. “Hi mum,” you answer, corners of your lips curling in a delightful smile when you hear her voice on the other end.
Cheery and brimmed with love. “Hi hun, how are you?”
John’s spare hand still rests to your bare hip inside your shirt, and you relish in the simmering soak of warmth that filters into your skin.
You think these hands have quite literally touched every single inch of your bare skin.
Every part of you remembers him.
Your voice is light, and you lean into the heat of John’s mouth. “I’m good, mum. How are you feeling?”
You delight in her happiness, shimmer in her tone. “I’m wonderful!” The phone rests to the marble countertop, highlighted on speaker tone. “Is Jonathan home?”
Those words ignite a low laugh, and goosebumps explode across your skin as you deliberately lean back into his hold. John wastes little time, resting his cheek to the side of your head as he answers. “Hi mum.” His voice is rich, soothing as it wraps around you like a blanket of calm. “We miss you, you’ve gotta come visit soon!”
The perfect husband. He’s a dream come true, this mountain you call yours.
There’s a ring in her tone, charmed and chortling faintly. “I miss you too, darling. What are you two doing? I heard the weather in New York is grey today.”
A pause.
Then, a light swallow with the realization sinking in.
You feel the weight of John’s manhood on your back, just above the rear of your love handles.
And it’s sending a buzz electrifying inside your veins. John still rests his chin against the juncture between your neck and shoulder as he presses your body into his chest, and his breath is still hot and lingering when he speaks. “Well, we just woke up. I’m home for the weekend so—”
Sharp and swift when you cut him off. Like a string being cut. “Actually mom, I’ll call you back in thirty okay?” was your hasty return, John’s brows arch in thread with a curious slant of his head, and he turns his gaze to your head in attempt to wonder. “I love you, I’ll speak to you in a bit.”
End call.
You turn in John’s embrace, only to be met with those dark eyes and the comfortable look of his morning hair ruffled. Sleep notes in his eyelids ever so slightly, and the curiosity pleats in his forehead as his arms tighten around your waist once again. John’s grip fastens on you once amore, sinking into the skin firmly yet never painfully. “Why’d you hang up so soon?”
Your arms gather around his neck, pulling your love closer as you lean back, and his palms easily collect your weight when he shifts you to rest on the countertop behind. He stands between your legs as he holds you still, and your arms stay in sanctuary around his shoulders when you pull him closer; the gesture reassuring.
For the first time this morning you finally see him.
Mocha locks thick and messily strewn across his forehead. A nimble pepper of freckles rests across just where his nose arcs, and the gentle pink to his warm cheeks is one that makes you shiver. Smitten, you cup John’s perfectly groomed cheek in your palm when you lean down, offering a soft kiss to the arch of his jaw. “I didn’t wanna share.” A grin, and the way his palms tighten on your skin makes you melt. “Guess I was enjoying the undivided attention.”
Laughter rolls up in his chest, rich and carefree with that morning rasp. You feel a light tingle at your skin through the intensity of his regard, and the way his expression is serene and untroubled as he holds you, smile softening.
You adore that smile of his— a sight that you declare your own. Your heart gives a little jolt when he smiles like this. When those beautiful laugh lines that kiss the corner of his eyes crinkle. There was such a simple comfort to be held by him like this, and to hold him in return. A comfort so warm that it felt capable of wiping every bad thing from the world for a least a little while.
You and him.
Only ever you and him.
John grins dreamily, and you giggle when he draws you closer, nuzzling his head into the valley of your chest. He leaves a soft kiss there, relishing in the warmth that exudes your skin.
You make him feel safe, too.
You make him feel like there is no bad in the world.
Fingers delicate and slow, you gently knead through his hair, offering small and soft strokes across his scalp while he hugs you, face buried in your chest. The moment is tender, and you press the side of your cheek to his head as your eyes slip shut, smiling eagerly when a pleasant sound bubbles at the back of his throat. Kissing lightly to his hair, John delights in the gentle rise and fall of your chest, and the way you too hold him with such careful affection, fingers lazily tracing the bold muscles to his back. He only sinks into you further, and you feel it in his bones. His unwillingness to be parted from you.
“You are so needy.” was your cheeky whisper into his midnight tresses.
You love how sweet John is in the mornings. Sleepily wanting you, just wishing to be near.
He doesn’t answer; only his rich chuckle and easy breaths do.
You lean into him instead, your nose fluttering in his hair as you breathe in his familiarly woody scent and he almost shivers. This time, when you speak, your voice holds a ring of surprise. “Oh!”
He has to fight back a smile that curls so hard, it causes his lips to ache. “Baby,” followed by a comforting squeeze. “It’s your birthday next week.” was your account. You urge his cocoa gaze to yours, arms still bundled to his neck. “I’ve been shuffling through a few ideas in my head of what to do.” His messy mane flutters against his forehead when he gazes up at you, expression now still and empty of that previous glee. There is a brief second of hesitation flickering to his darker features before you press a soft to kiss to his forehead, restoring that gentle peace that settled on him before. “I was thinking of inviting our friends over in the evening for drinks and dinner?” was your proposal, thumb soft and careful as you brush his temple, tucking a stray hair behind the shell of his ear.
“I just want to spend it with you, sweetheart.”
The sharp angles of his profile make you yearn for him. The joints in your neck creak when you tilt your gaze, and your lips drip honey when they reach for him in return, cupping his face with gentle thumbs brushing the apples of his cheeks while you stare into his eyes. “It would be fun! Our friends love you so much.”
His expression tightens easily, and an easy shrug moulds in his shoulders. Fingers ghost over your skin, and he leans into your palm when your eyes look at him in hopeful grin.
John sucks in a gently harsh breath, a slight shake of his head. There’s a dim in the glimmer of his rich features, and he clutches your wrist as the words part his lips.
He’d never want to break your heart. “Whatever you please, baby.” he admits after a pause. “But I’d be more than happy to just be with you.”
A twitch of his lips and a smile to accompany.
You think your breath hitches.
You lean into him for a second, eternally grateful that the universe somehow let you find him.
Its tough to imagine a life without him now. He is in every part of you, every breath, every beat somehow shapes his name. Your hand braces the side of his face and you gently lean your forehead to his, voice whispering with a smile. It’s the flutter of your eyes that shut on instinct, and the pulse in your bones that welcomes him closer. Quiet, whispering into your lover’s skin.
“You really only see me, don’t you?”
Quiet, truthful. “Always.” Was his smiling return.
It was in the tenderness of the moment that you admire the gentle darkness under his eyes; John’s eyes host dim, barely visible bags above the sensitive skin of his cheek. There are few, barely noticeable greys in his shadowed beard. So minimal, you’re sure not a soul rather than you knows they exist.
Only you have the right to be this close. This near, this intimate. A warm sound brews at the back of his throat, not quite a hum, not quite a groan. He craves to urge you near again, to bury himself between the haven of your chest and just allow himself to breathe.
He does that best when he’s near you.
“You’re getting old, Wick.”
He’s so close, his next words fan against the slope of your face. “I have you to take care of me.” A ripple in his tone, a smoothness that you swear would bring even the sun to its knees. “Mrs. Wick.”
A name that still erupts a spike in your heartbeat to its use.
You can’t wait to grow old with him. To raise your kids with him, to build a family with him, a white picket fence and a love story for the a g e s.
Your lips are light, soft when you kiss his forehead again.
“I haven’t showered yet.” you admit softly, your voice a shadow, as if an unholy confession that cuts the space between your proximity. Fingers nimble, you smooth a ripple in the cotton white that daubs to his lean chest. A gentle brush to the apple of his cheek, and you crumble underneath his expert touch when it brushes thoughtfully against your skin, only embracing you closer. “Join me?”
A lightness blooms in your chest when his thin taut lips meet yours in a delicate envelope, and he leans into you diligently, practically swallowing the smiles that seep from your lips. He murmurs something sweet against your lips, something beautiful, something true and you’d swore the way he breaths you in makes you never want to let go. He selfishly savours you, as if desperately trying to hold you in his lungs until the end of time. Tangling in his hair, your hands search, relentless and soft in their endeavour as you too melt into him, giggling when John’s iron hold scoops you up, easily carrying your weight with your legs snaked around his waist.
“Easy, old man.” you tease, a lax ruffle to his chocolate mane, giggling. “Don’t go breaking your hip.”
“Jokes on you, peach.” John teases in a matter of fact tone, smiling still with another stolen kiss to your lips. “You fell in love with an old man.” he tells knowingly.
Yes. you think greedily and allow your tired morning eyes to slip shut. I did.
;I’m so happy I did;
and you think its true. maybe some wounds never do heal. but maybe, something better,
will always grow in their place.
((He is your heart, and you are his. No one can take this little piece of paradise from you. no one.))
John’s arms hold you close and secure, and you pepper a few more gentle kisses selfishly to his pink cheeks. You savour in the way he whispers sweet nothings into your skin, allowing them to fade and warm into the frigid grey morning air.
—and it’ll fade into the grey morning, too;
your long forgotten coffee.