bleu

gym buddies w johnny... okay it got a little away from me.

cw. he's a degenerate here. sub/dom dynamics (?)

Johnny asked you if you went to the gym your third week on base. It was the first time he spoke to you.

"Sometimes."

He grinned. It scared you a little. "may ah join?"

You didn't know him, you didn't love the gym the way you're positive he did, and something about his smile was off. But none of this registered- instead you shrugged and said,

"Sure."

It's been 3 months now, and he's really not subtle about it. Never has been- although you think that's just how Johnny is.

But in any case...Johnny is interested.

He watches you closely in the gym- you've caught him doing so with this deepness to his face- a focus. If his eyes weren't enough as it is, he doesn't hesitate to place a gentle hand on any muscle you're working if he's nearby- which has gradually become more frequent.

And you let him. You don't know the why- frankly there might not be one. But its felt harmless so far- if not a little flattering.

Then he bought you the matching set.

afternoon heat in nowhere midwestern soil rows. spring is approaching, and the newest seeds need to be in place before it’s blooms hits the horizon. you and your husband always ensure the best of harvests.

ice water haven under the porch roof. it sweats on your palm, like it needed anymore. your knees ache, and the view is almost enough to keep you from thinking about the soreness in your back.

his colossal shoulders. pinned to them, like wings, are the muscles that pull and push and the soil beneath him. a great machine that doesn’t show its age; void of rust, or stutters. hands holding the earth like he came from it. sweat finds his runes, slow and melting. you find yourself counting how many drops slip to the dirt.

the farm is pretty too.

he comes to a kneel on his heels, and swipes his forehead. “too hot for leather gloves” he says- so dirt drags below his hairline, and your temper flares momentarily. he must’ve sensed it, because he looks in your direction.

he pauses, before shaking his head and laughing.

“sorry darl,” he calls. you suppress your smile at the plot that’s started to form. instead, your raise a brow, and use your finger to call him over.

he does as told, and in the time it takes for him to reach the porch steps, you’ve stood and grabbed a rag.

“sit.”

mmmm wifesharing!johnny who shoves his fat cock down your cunt after just calling simon to stop by. you push back, knowing you’ll be too spent for simon if johnny fucks you like he’s used to.

but he’ll only smile, and then say,

“ay, jus’ keepen et warm f’him, hen.”

simon is the kinda man who dives straight into you’re cunt before anything else. eats like a man starved, as you beg him to feed his cock into your mouth. pushing your hands against the rough sheets, dragging your sore hips away from his ceaseless hunger. only for his hands to tug you farther on his tongue than before.

it’s even more cruel that from there he slips his cock into your drooling cunt. fucks you deep and slow while you claw and bite and moan because he’s forcing you to be the focus.

and just before all of this insanity swallows your mind, he pulls out, flips you over, and shoves his wet cock down your throat. fucks it ruthlessly, til the tears start mixing with the sweat on your brow. only then does he come on your gums.

you never even get a chance to share the spotlight. sore body, sorer ego, as he cleans your drooling cunt with a cloth, kissing your knee and promising next time he’ll let you suck him off properly.

simon has a staring problem.

or, maybe problem is aggressive. but when you’d wash the dishes, read on the couch, sleep in his arms, his eyes are there. a habit he never explained, but you grew accustomed to. complacent- receiving as his eyes trail wherever you went, and his body would soon follow. his gaze the precursor to action. the “I” before “I love you”.

or something like that.

you ask him, one day. “why are you staring?”

simon only blinks. “can’t help it, sweet’eart,” kisses the top of your head, and goes back to his coffee, “guess I just can’t get enough of you.”

you keep chewing the inside of your lip.

habit built from well ironed anxiety and stillness. can’t help it- teeth fixate on the soft, pliable flesh behind your lips like a dog would a bone. salivating, unconsciously, until the instinct is soothed by a swollen fold between your teeth.

it drives price up the wall.

tonight you’re watching a movie, curled in his lap like you always are. he catches your jaw working on that same spot it always does. and he decides then that he can’t fucking take it anymore.

so, naturally, he shoves two fingers into your mouth.

“stop that darl,” he coos, “chew this, instead”

you pause, making hesitant, shy eye contact. but he only shifts you closer to his chest so he can shove them deeper until your teeth knock his knuckles.

you do as told. tongue laving over the briny sweat the swelter between fingers. swallowing the distant taste of your slick from earlier today. teething gently on the new softness he’s offered you.

by the end of the movie, the tightness in price’s pants has become unbearable, so he flips you on your back to relieve it.

keeps his fingers where they should be, though.

Gaz meditates, but you wouldn’t be able to tell with how quiet his breath comes out. Johnny, unironically, counts sheep- a trick his brother taught him for stormier nights. Price doesn’t sleep. 

Simon, though, counts scars. 

In his head, like he often is, before bed. Reserved for when the heater is too loud or the cement is too cold. When his sparse apartment feels empty, and the bed isn’t nearly uncomfortable enough to convince him he’s earned the right to rest. 

Snaggle teeth on the back of his calf, a lightning bolt down his arm, tree grain over his chest. Each a distant reminder of a folly, a man, a death. He never touches them, afraid the tissue will catch on the end of his finger and spread to whatever he touches next. Midas, if gold was pain. 

When he met you, he had fifty seven. 

You adopted his habit, once you began burrowing yourself into his itchy covers. Sat in his lap, running your fingers over the puckered skin. He’s surprised that when they dance from arm to shoulder, the scars don’t follow. Then again, your hands are nothing like his, are they? Soft. Clean. Warm.

“You miscounted.”

“What?” His broken nose scrunches.

“You said fifty seven. But here,” your hand comes to hold the back of his neck, just before blonde meets winter pale, “You have one more.”

You pull away to kiss his forehead. “It's beautiful. They all are.” 

That memory finds him bitter now. Almost a decade old, before the marriage, the son, the divorce. The weekend visitation, for the weekends he’s home. Before his son grew behind his back. Before you started looking at someone else the way he had once looked at you.

Before the empty bed got too cold, too loud, too uncomfortable for his back and his head. 

Just before it all, you asked him if he’s collecting scars. He said he’d stop at one hundred. You called him a liar. Said he’d never stop. And you’re right. That's why you left. 

Today, he is fifty eight years old. He sleeps alone. 

He can’t bring himself to count them anymore. 

your hands are soft.

palms made of candle wax, burning over his abdomen as you sew the skin back together.

barely awake, and yet simon has been here enough times that his body answers “where am i” before his mind can. a well trained dog and the bed they lie in. the master they return too.

“you’re awake. don’t move.”

you don’t look at him. he can tell your angry- you have that crease between your brows that crinkles the beginning of your nose. he scoffs.

“wasn’t plannin on it, swe’teart.”

you send him a sideways glance. “never know with you.”

“been here enough times to know-“

“and that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

simon and words. cw. abusive father mention.

simon was born quietly. never a crier- but not much of a smiler, either. it unsettled his father.

"speak up, boy," he'd say, "be a man."

speaking never made the punches land softer, though.

so simon didn't have much use for “talk” in his youth- a trend that continued as he aged. military valued silence, "stealth". learned languages he'd rarely speak. combat boots on snow were louder than his own mouth.

this is a longwinded way of saying simon isn't good with his words.

doesn't know what to say when you stand in autumn’s morning and the yard light plays with your hair. or when you slip your hand into his under the dinner table. when you smile and he stares.

when you hold him in bed like he's drifting somewhere else but sleep. when he knows, wants to tell you, that wouldn't ever dare to.

he grows sick of these moments passing by silently. so he begins to spell it out.

with soap studs on your back as he bathes you. tapping the table while you both read. his breath as your sleeping hand rests on his chest. maybe it’s in his heartbeat, too.

tonight, he spelled it out with his tongue as he ate you out. you came before he could finish.

tomorrow, he proposes. he’ll use his words, this time though.

“i love you.”

the “missing” eats you every midnight.

it’s always the small things, like the feeling of his hand resting on your stomach as he slept. laughing at his own awful jokes- that had you laughing, too. boot tracks on the porch- something you’d get mad about, make him clean.

wished you let it go, last time. coming home from his funeral was that much harder without the reminders that yes, Johnny McTavish hadn’t always been a dead man.

so like any grieving wife, you fill these spaces in the ways you’re familiar with. cooking, cleaning, working, but never talking.

and sometimes, it’s with men from the bar who look suspiciously, despicably, like him. the worlds favorite reminder to you, that Johnny still barely exists, in loud laughter and good sex.

recently, it’s been your husbands best friend, Simon. who takes his tea plain, who doesn’t talk about it, either.

the closest thing you’ll get to Johnny aside from his grave.

you begin to meet earlier, and for longer. you wrote your first letter to Simon on the 9th month anniversary of Johnny’s death. the response came a week later.

and simon knows what he is to you. knows, because he’s doing the exact same thing. keeping an ugly love for a dead thing alive in the soft thing that married him. that loved him, too.

knows that when you fuck in the morning, it’s like fucking a ghost.

simon watches the tea cups he got as your wedding gift shake on the counter. wonders if they were always going to become his again, anyway.

if he picked them out knowing that. hoping he’d end up drinking from them. with Johnny- with you.

the unspoken truth. the elephant in the room, that has the name of the sergant the both of you loved, lost, and can’t quiet let go.

for all of theses reasons, when you accidentally call Johnny’s name as you come, Simon lets you.

because where else is he going to hear it?

it wasn’t really about wanting kids, for price.

yes- he had a delirious eagerness for them. an impatience he conceals with a cigar. a want that makes his hands shake and skin itch until he’s picking at the beard that makes him look too old for a baby to be calling him “papa”.

there was want, but there was, above most things, a mission.

to be a steadfast father. woven leather of a baseball glove. gentle hands that don’t stretch hairbands too far. bench warmer for little league games, or the first to stand at a dance recital.

everything he never had he wanted to give to someone. something. can’t help the giver in him, the urge to serve something beyond himself.

but that’s not what love is, is it?

and he tries. he’s there. there for the games, the recitals, the graduations. the therapy. the quiet moments on the couch that suffocate him, because what do you say to the child you’ve been present with but never honest?

spent so much time giving he forgot to take.

and deep down he knows. knows why he’s not close, why they’re hesitant to come up for holidays. why you left all those years ago.

because he doesn’t let anyone know him. he plays roles instead. of the father, the husband, the soldier, the captain. personas that he takes on that mimic purpose. that heal something that started when his dad came home drunk the first time.

doesn’t even realize his kids know nothing about him until it’s too late to introduce himself. but he can’t help it.

what is he if not something to anyone but himself?

he smokes more. you said he shouldn’t now that he’s older. he said something like “it’s not you’re problem to worry about me, anymore.” and regretted it when you hung up.

he’s spending Christmas alone, this year.

“what…what do i call you now?”

the cloth he retrieved from your bathroom cools the redness between your legs. john stops his gentle ministrations to look up at you.

blue eyes that bite. bit your mother at the alter a year ago, and has been biting you, secretly, for much longer. a desire you find revolting, but one you indulge every other night with amateur fingers and his name behind your teeth.

and you can’t say he doesn’t give you material. shirtless while serving the breakfast he made for you, notes in your lunch calling you a good girl, his tense and cold demeanor towards every man- “boy” you’ve brought home.

but you’ve corrected it. parental protection misconstrued as jealousy. he is your mothers husband. your step father.

but he caught you tonight. in the doorway, startled, as he heard you calling for him.

if he only knew how desperate you were.

and now he has your slick on his fingers, cleaning the mess the both of you have made with your bathroom towel. a mess that ruins you, but has him rather pleased.

you don’t know how that’s supposed to make you feel. you don’t know much of anything, right now, but you do want to know-

“what do you call me?” john snorts through his nose, and presses the towel back on your clit. you suck in a breath.

“keep calling me what you’ve always called me, princess.”

your face flushes, and you know he can see it, even in the dark.

“yes…daddy.”

“si its gone.”

“mama-“

you’re a heartbreaking vision. silk nightgown hangs delicately over your pregnant belly. hair mussed and face bloated from hours of poor sleep. eyes glossy, sleepy, and sad- as they lock on the razor in his hand.

its been a heavenly 3 weeks. home, to help you through one of the worser swells of the pregnancy.

but he goes back tomorrow. and his hair has grown rapidly. and just like him, it has to go.

you, clearly, aren’t taking it well.

queue a sniffle. “why?”

he’s on you immediately, gently swiping the fat tears with his thumbs and cupping your face. “baby you know how it is.”

“its dumb.” you say.

“I know” he replies.

you finally look him in the eyes, but only for a second before looking back at his hair. your face contorts into a sob, and simon sighs, pulling you into a gently hug.

he feels the baby kick, and it almost make this whole ordeal worse on his heart.

“once I’m back home it’ll be grown out.”

“the baby will be here.” its muffled by his chest, but he hears it, and suppresses a grin.

“mm. our little girl, huh? gets to see me with a full head of hair.”

“lucky.” that brings a laugh out of him.

he pulls away, only to gently take your hands and place it on his head. you run your fingers through the short hairs, and Simon sees the smallest of smiles begin to spread your lips.

“there she is. knew you’d still like it.”

you purse your lips to hide your smile, like it wasn’t already too late. “I like it longer.”

“I know.” he kisses your forehead. “soon.”

Simon is back home two months later, although the next time he sees you is in a hospital bed.

you smile big and tired when you see him in the doorway, and say, quietly, gently, as to not wake the sleeping baby,

“you let it grow out.”

pushing yourself away from simon because its

“too much- si, pleasuh..”

and he’s balls deep in your cunt, gripping your hips until he leaves marks the look suspiciously like his fingerprints. pulling you back in against the current of your body and ignoring its need for respite.

“stay wit me baby,” he coos, feigning gentle as he rolls his hips forward, earning another cry from behind your teeth, “doin so good, can’t stop now.”

and that’s only partially true. he could probably pull away.

but it’s all mechanical.

he’s bred to kill, forced to swallow his own blood and taste oil. to bend his metal for the whims of other rusting tinmen. to know nothing but death by animosity and apathy.

but here, with you, he feels purposeful. separate from his obligations and in a place he’s allowed to want.

the metal melts and the oil dries when he’s back with you, kissing something so fragile and mortal until his armor is a memory and he too, is human.

he can’t help it. can’t help you. can’t help the wanting he’s never known and will never let go.

you sob when you cum, and he finishes promptly after. and when you begin to pull away, he slides you back to him, kissing your forehead as you beat his chest,

“just one more baby, can’t help it,” he’s smiling and you hear it, “like you were built for me.”

there’s just something about Johnny “ma didnae raise ah quitter” MacTavish that I find so compelling.

his stubborn attempts are ceaseless. pure determination confused as a blind hope.

ten seconds left on the bomb clock and he diffuses it in nine. covert cover got blown but he and simon manage to snipe five of seven operatives.

wins poker with a shit hand because he smiles when he’s losing and winning- so no one knows the difference until they fold with a king and he wins with a two and a seven.

waking up after being shot clean in the head.

it’s a disease he blames on the wide empty farmland of Scotland that fought tooth and nail for him to stay. on his mother that told him to fight back.

on the recent scar and the headaches he fights in the office.

so when he finds you, the new hire for the office who’s desperate to impress and doesn’t know she already has- assigned to help him through the tremors and brain fog- he’s ready to bite this new challenge with the canines sharpened by public doubt and circumstance.

and he can’t help the impulse. the need to prove that he can get anything that he sets his mind to. that if he thinks about you enough, the curve of your ass and the lilt of your voice, that eventually your ring finger will weigh down the rest of your hand. how good MacTavish would sound behind your name.

coming from your lips.

winning you over is slow. finds you frustrating because you’re just as stubborn but so polite about it. kind to a fault.

but like anything, he knows, watching you sort papers pretending like you don’t feel his eyes on you,

it’s only a matter of time.

he’s the class above you. a rugby player, international student, class and staff favorite.

and he’s fucking everywhere. your morning history class, the field you walk by to lunch, in his short shorts and sweat-through jersey. a wild smile that belongs anywhere but in front of you.

this party you were dragged to.

and as you watch him for your designated spot between waves of chaos and liquor, you could not bring yourself to characterize Johnny MacTavish as anything but an obnoxious, childish, flirt.

unfortunately, he’s also a great drunk kisser.

“yer eager.” he says, using your back to close the bathroom door.

“shut up.” you respond, biting his bottom lip. he listens.

you’re actively regretting. seeing yourself, a morning glory, sober in his bed. smelling like his cologne and the drinks you forget having. seeing how calm he looks sleeping. finding it endearing.

wanting to leave, but not yet, five more minutes.

instead you are drunk and kissing Johnny like you really wanted to. and maybe you did.

that kills you a little, but it only makes him more alive- it’s seems.

at least, with the way he starts shoving his hand down your pants.

history professor John Price. college, because the people who take his class are actually there to listen. has abnormal amounts of knowledge regarding the construction and uses of certain firearms- which students whisper about and the school board choses to ignore. World War fanatic.

he’s your favorite teacher.

he gardens wallflowers like yourself with a steady, calloused hand and a voice that could soothe a spooked deer.

can’t help the way your mind wanders. a man who aged like the wine you saw in his drawer. watching as his broad shoulders adjust in his dress shirts, khakis that attempt to hide thick legs.

and when you answer questions correctly, and he looks at you with pride. one that you should characterize as paternal. parental. polite.

nothing, though, is polite about the way he holds you on his lap as he pops the wine cork, pouring a glass with the hand that isn’t buried in your cunt.

you squirm on his lap, only for him to “tsk” gently and grind his cock against the stamp of your ass. a reminder to be patient.

you got a A on your final. said you needed a reward for being such a good listener. such a good girl.