fvck it, we ball

he opened the duffel bag and stuffed it all inside over spare uniforms without an issue, since he only packed a meager few. zipping it all back up, he pulled on his boots, tugged a hood over his head, and made sure to leave a key beneath the doormat. simon had never given you a copy, hadn't had one made, so he left his own, making sure to fire off a quick text message he knew you’d wake up to.

› simon (creep): got deployed, don't know how long, key under the rug luv'.

you had known he was in the military since your very first meeting, back when he mentioned it was the sole reason his flat was such a disaster. he hadn’t told you what exactly he did for a living, but it hadn’t mattered much, as long as his payments cleared. now, however, things had changed.

pacing through the empty, spotless flat that no longer required your daily attention felt entirely wrong, there was no loud snoring vibrating from the gloomy bedroom, the one where he kept the drapes bolted tight because he couldn't stand the daylight, and the tv wasn't blasting some trashy reality show loud enough for you to yell a commentary at the screen from the bathroom.

forgetting for a moment that there was no one left to cook for, you cracked the fridge door to start prep only to find it completely bare. there wasn't a single container left inside, the massive mountain of food, enough to satisfy a small family or keep his heavy muscle mass fueled for a week, had simply evaporated.

reaching for your phone where it lay on the kitchen countertop, you pulled up your chat with simon. your brief, polite understood in response to his sudden deployment was already flagged with two blue checkmarks, and you began typing out a new sentence, never anticipating the near instant vibration of an answer hitting your screen.

› my witch: did you eat all the food?

› simon (creep): packed it with me, shared some with boys, they told me i'm lucky to have you.

› my witch: okay. thanks.

johnny and kyle were not only surprised to see so much homemade food, but practically wept with joy as they shoveled it down, polishing off the entire haul in one single sitting and licking their forks clean. they repeatedly told simon he was a lucky bastard, more so kyle, who kept rubbing it in that he’d been the genius to suggest hiring a housekeeper in the first place.

once the plastic tubes were spotless, bearing no trace that food had ever been inside, with even the creamy sauce completely licked from their edges, simon snapped a picture to send you. the photo showed the boys slumped back with their palms flat over their full bellies, the stacked, empty containers balanced right on simon's thick, muscular thighs.

› my witch: wow.

when your blunt, unbothered answer lit his screen, a slow, genuine smirk pulled at his lips at your response under skull balaclava. he scratched idly at the back of his fabric covered nape, looking entirely too soft for a man in full tactical gear, a slip that had johnny opening his mouth to throw a mocking jab. though the taunt earned him a wordless warning that glinted bottomless in simon’s coal irises, looking easily noticeable when accented by blonde, wispy lashes.

the flat required a sweep once or twice a week, there simply wasn't enough furniture in the place to hold dust, but you still found excuses to turn the key in his lock far more than necessary. you had grown used to driving there every day, only to be greeted by an empty silence instead of the broad, toothy grin that usually tugged at his scarred face whenever he looked you up and down, calloused hands reaching out to eagerly grope your delectable curves.

meanwhile, simon was being run ragged at the base, his eyes growing bloodshot from a lack of proper sleep, mind too wired to let him rest when he finally hit the mattress. even locking himself in a stall and jacking off until his fist was tired and his cock went dead limp, picturing your drooling pussy stretched thin around his throbbing cock and ass bouncing from his hips, didn't take the edge off, not at all.

his bunched muscles and scarred limbs put up an aching protest with every step, driving his temper through the roof, though none of it was enough to compromise his work, he was still sharp and moving, the rot trapped strictly behind the skull. john had informed him that this operation would take months, and upon hearing the news, simon had chewed his bottom lip raw at the words.

uneven edge of his teeth tearing skin until the metallic taste of copper flooded his mouth, thick eyebrows drawn into a tight knot. he knew it would take time, deployments were always a matter of months, only the digits on the calendar changing, but still, it ate at him that you were left entirely alone back there.

he hadn’t possessed the heart, rotten one or not, to tell you how long his deployments actually lasted, having settled for a simple lie that he could be gone for a week. messaging you whenever managing to find a free moment, given a two hour window to crash on a sleeping bag in some ratty, dark outpost room.

hadn't expecting a notification back, considering the clock had long since cleared midnight, but you did, having been huddled under your own sheets, restlessly scrolling through your phone, his screen litting up instantly.

› simon (creep): deployment will take about three months, still paying you though.

› my witch: okay, it's no issue.

a small square displaying a ridiculous sum of money flashed in your thread, sent by him to cover the months ahead. in truth, a girl could have taken the cash and vanished, ghosted him entirely, but simon didn't seem to give a damn about any possible risk.

the notification made you remember how he had laughed, the loudest you’d ever heard it and more genuinely than ever before, at the stubborn way you had furrowed your brows, scowling at the price tag of the ribeyes he’d requested for a dinner. it hadn't even come out of your own wallet, he’d handed you the cash himself, but you’d still managed to treat his budget like a personal crisis, fretting over.

such deposit was easily double your standard rate, you knew the exact math of it because your ongoing financial struggles forced you to count every single penny. overdue rent notices stacked away in a neat, suffocating pile, waiting for the moments you would inevitably sit and look them over and over, until a sickening nervousness churned restlessly in your gut.

this single transfer could cover your every need, perhaps even allow you to buy something new for the apartment, a proper couch, or a bigger, softer bed. but the longer you stared at the glowing font, the more the inheritance felt like a beautifully designed cage.

› my witch: the amount is bigger than it should be.

› simon (creep): know it, doesn't matter, if i give then it should be like that.

your thumb hovered frozen over the button to send the excess money right back to him, dragging a palm across your face, desperate to soothe the hot, stinging burn behind the lids. a tight, cramping lump gathered in your throat, ribs feeling crushed, making it agonizingly hard to even choke down a breath, chest tightening as you wavered at the very edge of tears.

and simon, sitting miles away, noticed your lingering silence, remembering all too well how fiercely you had bristled the first time he tried to pay double when you only started working for him. panicking in his own way, he scrambled for something to say, to break the tension and steady you, settling on playing the hard ass, trying to force some reassurance, but slipping embarrassingly in the process.

› simon (creep): won't accept any attempts at sending those back. you need to restore your magic with something, ain't ya?

the teasing came easy to him, tied to that witch nickname he’d branded you with, and the light banter actually made the pressure under your ribs dissolve, as though someone had finally uncuffed your lungs, letting a faint, genuine smile edge onto your mouth.

a tingling warmth began spooling deep in your belly, thighs shifting restlessly against the sheets, and it felt so incredibly foreign that a mere dialogue, this small shard of care you allowed him to show and subsequently received, could cause your skin to pebble with goosebumps. you simply weren't accustomed to such dedicated attention.

simon texted nothing in response, staring blankly at the screen, agonizing over whether he had made you uncomfortable or had crossed the strict boundary you had drawn on your very first day, a line you hadn't established for nothing. he didn't want to seem weird, let alone predatory, there was, after all, a undeniable gulf between you, one that would make any civil folk look askance, a problematic reality by most standards, both in age and status.

he was a hardened military lieutenant with a fat bank account and a scribbled mess where a normal romantic history should be, you were a struggling, cornered college girl he had every resource to exploit. you were smart, dangerously so, but the real joke was that you didn't even have to try, for all his size and power, you had the man completely, utterly wrapped around your finger.

he rubbed two roughened fingers over his bristly jaw when another quiet ping rattled the silence, no words, but a picture that made him choke on a heavy groan. eyes widening, umber irises glinting as they absorbed the cool toned light the screen cast, slowly turning into tiny voids, pupils blowing wide.

in the photo, your shirt was rucked up, the fabric stretched thin but remaining soft and comfortable to sleep in, caught firmly between your teeth. it left your pretty tits bounced right into the frame, nipples rigid and peaked close to the lens. with belly bare, your panties dragged low on your hips, the tiny ribbon bow stitched at the center perfectly visible.

simon’s cock thickened instantly at the sight of your tits, giving a kick so violent he had to clench his jaw tight, molars cracking together as his cock twitched hard against his burly thigh. but it was the view of your hand reaching down, two fingers parted across the clothed, plump folds of your sweet pussy, that sent all the blood rushing to the swollen crown, oozing sticky pre come and leaving his subsequent text littered with typos.

› simon (creep): chris, tbag' a gift for me, lovei?

› my witch: mm, thought you'll like it.

he took a deep drag of the air, getting so drunk on the image that his head spun, reaching a massive hand down to palm his heavy bulge, hissing low through clenched teeth. canines grinding together as his vision grew bleary all too quickly, utterly lost in a sudden surge of arousal that made it near impossible to string a single word together.

swiping a messy, trembling thumb over his phone screen while his other hand gripped his clothed cock tight, he found the call button, listening to the muffled, long tones ring into the dark. perhaps he had hurried, or maybe you thought that was the only remedy he deserved, but you picked up just as a ragged moan escaped his throat.

the surprised, breathless hiccup you let out in response had sent his fingers into a panic as he yanked down the brass teeth of his cargo zipper. growling like a caged animal, his focus drilling to catch the faint rustling coming from your end, though the rapid, thundering leap of pulse in his ears almost turned him deaf.

leaving his corded muscles heavy and numb as he breathed a raw, desperate prayer into the receiver “tauch yaurself, luv” he almost pleaded, voice strewn raucous and molassed with desire.

it was impossible not to obey a voice that sounded so close to being needy, you had never heard a man sound this way for you, a man who usually carried himself like a dog, all bared teeth, crushing hands, and territorial purrs whether you were wearing clothes or completely bare, sounded so brokenly desperate for you. you could have just stood there and done nothing, and that would have been enough for simon to haul you into his arms, chapped lips pressing to your throat and kneading your ass, completely unbothered by distracting you from your chores.

with all your worries banished and your head dizzy from his tender command, you obeyed, fingers pressed firmly against your clothed cunt, tips tracing gentle swipes along the sensitive, soppy seam. pelvis rolling in a slow, instinctive arc, rocking against your own warm palm as a high pitched, desperate whine welled up in your throat.

“saund so pretty when ya pussy teased. . rub that' littl' clit' f'me” simon let out a low grunt, hand already wrapped tightly around his hefty girth as his hips bucked upward in a frantic rhythm. even the hard ground beneath him, with his thin sleeping bag doing absolutely nothing to soften the stone digging into his tailbone, could not halt the relentless pace of his palm dragging up and down.

every single callus and scar etched into his skin only served to heighten the raw sensation even more, foreskin pulling back with pearlescent drops scattering around. you hummed something, a tangled thread of garbled words that bled together until they formed his name, sounding so deviously broken over the line that simon had to tighten his grip. ivory fist squeezing hard where the blood pulsed violently from the base of his cock all the way to its gorged, aching tip.

obscenely wet sounds that followed his every wanking motion flooded the speaker, causing your shoulders to curl inward as your toes flexed in a helpless reaction. the heel of your palm pressed firmly against your fattened clit, which twitched restlessly until it was trapped beneath the intense pressure, forcing a strangled, breathless noise from your throat.

as your fingers circled your entrance, the cotton fabric of your underwear gone translucent and clung to lacquered skin, drenched from the slick. loosened hole clenching around nothing but empty air, before gushing a fresh spill of warmth that caused your woozy movements to quicken in a rush.

simon hears it all, and it brings him too quickly to his peak, driven over the edge by nothing but the dazed, shy whimpers you let slip into the call, your ragged gasps, and the soft, slick noises filtering through the speaker the moment you slid your dainty fingers beneath the cloth. cotton gusset bunched and crumpled under your hand, creating an awkward discomfort that chafed against swollen, too tender skin, but your frantic pace never wavered.

breaking climax hit you both at once, a sharp, choked back scream ripping through. he even had to slam his teeth down into his own wrist, clamping his jaw shut to kill the raw, needy grunt that threatened to echo your dazed whimpers.

waiting for the trembling to leave his chest before he could drag up a voice that sounded like gravel “christ', yau did so good, sweitheart'.. the absolut' best' for me’’ simon soothed over, but you could only let out a small sniffle. face nuzzled deep into the pillow by now, mouth slightly drooly and parted, while one hand still cupped over your mound, feeling the throbbing aftershocks.

you didn't even bother with the sticky wetness or the way your thighs shook in the aftermath, instead reaching up with your other arm, two fingers finding one hardened nipple, pinching it firmly through your shirt and letting out a loud, deliberately dirty moan.

it caught his attention anew, as he sat there in the gloom of his outpost, cum splattered across his flexing belly, tight shirt riding up just enough to expose the haired, firm pudge of his stomach, cargo pants a complete mess. but who was he to turn away what you gave to him so eagerly? he drank it all in hungrily, hoarding the memory before your pride kicked back in and you turned into his sharp tongued, sassy witch.

time bled on, weeks passed in a blur, you kept up with your work, answering whenever he texted to ask how you were doing, sending him routine pictures of his clean flat, initially saying no whenever he demanded face pictures, but inevitably sending them anyway.

your eyebrows creased in a stubborn scowl in every single shot, a view that kept him grinning like a complete idiot in the middle of a briefing. sometimes, you would even send a nude or two, bent over on a rug with your butt perched up, panties pulling taut over puffy folds, or captured right as you exited the shower, twirling in front of the mirror before snapping a photo where the towel covered you strictly from the front.

breasts and pelvis shielded from the greedy eye, but your damp shoulders and glistening hips were exposed, skin looking so delicate and edible, so terrifyingly biteable that his throat bobbed hard, forcing him to swallow the sudden flood of saliva that filled his mouth.

you had stopped counting the days, or noticing them at all, growing thoroughly exhausted as your college workload turned more demanding than ever before. It had leaving you feeling caged, clawing at the walls of your own mind with no outlet for the panic, causing you to close off entirely.

› simon: how are you, witchy?

› simon: you're busy?

› simon: it's been days, luv, is everything okay?

no words, no answers, simon was on edge, less than a week away from clearing the base and flying back to his flat, back to you, when you suddenly disappeared, and simon was a remarkably paranoid man when it came to losing tabs on the few things he kept close.

you had no proper sleep and insufficient nourishment, the skin beneath your eyes bruising, while a simple assignment had you clawing at your temples because you simply could not fail. the lock clicked at midnight, the exact hour he’d vanished weeks ago, heavy duffel bag shuffling against his side, the only sounds around being the nocturnal hum of crickets and distant music booming from a few floors below.

his massive shoulders were locked tight under the weight of a bone deep fatigue, front door giving way, but the interior was a black vault, no lights, no noise, a dead unmoving space. yet, he immediately noticed the shoes by the entrance, not his combat boots, but your sneakers, the same worn pair he’d watched you slip into for months.

not bothering at ripping his mud caked boots off, he let the duffel drop to the floorboards, bending his knees low to let the nylon land without a sharp crack. simon circled the open kitchen and living room until his eyes caught your silhouette balled up miserably on the couch, face buried as you grunted into the cushions.

you woke slowly, dazed and heavy limbed, the sudden fog clearing just enough for you to realize your afternoon nap had swallowed ten full hours of the day. your head twisted aside, body bolting up so violently that simon lunged forward, his instinct tearing. he hadn’t taken that cursed balaclava off yet, and it terrified you.

had you cornered against the armrest, wide eyed, blinking frantically at his shadow and then at his massive, exposed hand, your vision blurry, unable to see him properly through the dark, but his voice broke the paralysis.

“easy, luv. . it’s me, it’s simon, yau’re alright'” the low, gravelly rasp hit your ears and had you easing immediately, staring at his outstretched palm, open and waiting, and didn't run when his heavy stride closed the distance, hovering over your small frame. his other hand reached up, thick fingers hooking into the tattered hem at his throat to yank the fabric up and over his jaw, showing bit by bit his patchily stubbled, scarred jawline and crooked nose.

he’d barely dragged the mask over his outgrown, flattened hair before your hands flew out, sharp fingernails clawing into the fleece of his hoodie to haul his weight down to your level. he caught his balance with a surprised grunt, chunky arms hovering in mid air as the skull balaclava spilled onto the rug by his boots, your face already buried into his hot skin with a frantic, desperate haste.

simon didn't waste another second in wrapping his toned forearms around your waist, heavy body flopping onto the couch, pulling you securely over his wide lap. he didn't speak, simply burying his mouth and nose against your temple, dragging in a sharp, lung filling breath of you.

you stayed pinned to his chest, clawing at his torso, and then, in a rough, cracked whisper that you’d spent months trying to choke back, you let the truth slip “missed you” stammered around a confession that was supposed to remain blocked behind your pride, but it tore out anyway, a whine for help.

fingers tightening around you, blunt nails biting firmly into your waist, but you didn't mind the roughness, instead, your muscles went entirely slack, turning limp under his palms. as if you’d been suspended by taut ropes for weeks and he’d finally stepped in to cut the ties and catch your fall. his lips pressed into the soft skin of your ear, breath hot while murmuring “i’ve got' yau, witch, i’m her'”

he didn't tease you about how needy his sharp tongued, sassy girl had gotten in his absence, indeed, he’d been ready to grunt a wicked jest, a shift that usually would have had you pinching his chest and hissing at him, but had refrainied instead.

hearing you already snoring gently against his throat, feeling your wet, clumped lashes swoop over his skin as your eyes closed for real, slackened face tucked safely under his chin. he knew there were tears on your cheeks, but he’d let you sleep, having all the time in the world to clean up tomorrow.