The glittering veins of London traffic criss-cross into one another like a living map beneath the gaping floor-to-ceiling windows of Simon's lofty apartment. The apartment hangs thick with acrid cigarette smoke, slow streams of it swept up in the night's breeze, while a tinny melody chirps from Simon’s old, busted-up phone—nearly drowned out by your desperate mewls as his massive, scarred hands control your hips, anchoring you for the heavy, deep thrusts from behind. “Simon—” Your lips fall open and the arch in your back gives suddenly as he drives a gasp from your chest, the sheets bunching sharply in your fists. “Mmhm—please, please, Iʼm close..!”
The sudden silence in the room doesn't register until you feel him reach around for something behind you and you glance back at Simon curiously while propping yourself up on your elbows. “Oh- what're you—?” Horror descends upon your features, like watching a slow-burning car crash as he tucks the silvery smartphone between his shoulder and ear.
He lifts a brow pointedly, half-listening to the voice on the line and half-waiting for you to argue, a touch of satisfaction in his stony expression at the fear that sparks in your eyes when you lock gazes—something that tells him you won't dare to question him.
“Oi, it's me. Yeah.”
You feel him shove back inside and his big hand is in your face before the whine building in your throat can fully form. Your disgruntled noises erupt behind his palm, bouncing around the room before he manages to lodge something in your mouth—the cigarette that he was holding between his index and middle fingers nudged between your lips, his hand still covering the lower half of your face.
Tears sting your eyes as the smoke goes up wrong, too fast, his fingers only pressing harder into your face. The conversation on the phone sounds like it's happening underwater, you think, as you try to pry his wrist away with a cry.
“Iʼm listenin', mate. Hands are busy.”
You're not a smoker, so you're not quite sure why he passed you the cigarette. Then again, 'passing' is a nice way of putting the way he shoved it between your lips. Does he know it's getting harder to breathe?
You're forced to stifle your coughs for the time being, which only seems to work against you. The cigarette is still between your lips, and every cough pushes smoke deeper into your throat, your body tightening around him. It's lewder than it has any right to be. You try to turn your head, but his hand follows—no escape.
On the phone, Simon’s voice is steady, like his cock isn't buried inside you and you aren't choking up beneath him,
“Nothing.
No, Iʼm not alone. Doesn't matter.”
The phone hits the mattress next to your head with a thump, and suddenly, a staticky, Scottish-accented voice fills the room through speakerphone. Simon’s grip forces your head back at an awkward angle, your body arched to meet his thrusts, and before you can process it, his spare hand darts forward to pinch your nose shut. Your eyes blow wide, and in the same choking breath, you've realized that this was deliberate all along. He wants you like this.
Sputtering feebly, the instinctive response is to breathe through your mouth—but you aren't sure you want to. The stupidly unfair part is that inhaling—and by proxy, taking a drag—is effortless, while the hand clamped over your mouth makes breathing out a struggle.
“I've got eyes on it, don't worry—” A groan catches in the back of Simon's throat—a rare falter in his deep voice, narrowed eyes fixed on the glowing screen—as your spasming walls clench around his cock. Your eyes are red and glossy, searching for him, but his attention lies elsewhere. “—You focus on your part.”
Your vision tunnels as he fucks you back on his cock, a strange feeling rolling in your belly. You're puffing somewhat haphazardly on the cancer-stick, like an awkward teen fighting against the cigarette without taking a pull—which, in a sense, you're doing just that. The thought of sitting still and acting rationally escapes you in that moment.
The gray sheets rustle as he leans over you, pressing you into the mattress, and you're half-sure Soap can hear the frantic shuffle of fabric combined with your flesh smacking together. You've long since been on the brink, and stars dance behind your eyelids with the combined sensation. Simon can feel it too, how hot you are under him. Reduced purely to the feeling of him inside you. Heartbeat roaring in your ears.
Simon looks down at you, and something flickers in his expression. Not concern. Curiosity—desire—a beat of contemplation passing over his features as he wonders how long you'll let this go on.
“Hold on,” Simon says to the mic.
Simon pulls the cigarette from your lips—it's almost out. Stubs it out in the ashtray next to the mattress on the floor. “Breathe,” he says against your cheek, speaking to you for the first time—low, devoid of affection.
You gasp, a raw, coughing inhale. Air finally hits your lungs. It hurts, yet your senses rushing back to you is heady enough to make you moan. You're crying now, you realize, tears tracking down your hot cheeks.
Having you under him like this, like a fish out of water, at his whim, satisfies some morbid part of him. A child wearing heels too big, a lock without a key, and so on. You're pretty and misshapen—breakable, usable, fuckable. He can feed you his brand of poison and you don't say no, whether that's your choice or because Simon is strong enough to keep your mouth shut. Johnny always did say Simon needed to find himself an easy lay to take the edge off.
He watches you for a long moment, the way you look at him like a bird with a wounded wing, then taps the screen and lifts the phone back to his ear.
“Alright, still here. What'd I miss?”
𖧁୧ hi there ! gentle reminder that likes & reblogs are some of the best ways to support authors here, they make a huge difference! ♡
a/n — somehow found the perfect picture for this fic by pure chance AFTER i started writing the draft and iʼm still so amazed.
the way people criticise aang, a genocide survivor, for wanting to protect and preserve his now extinct culture is actually so gross. heaven forbid a child who has the responsibility of being the last of his kind doesnt want to lose the last remnants he has to his dead culture and people.
Katara with her little yellow details (belt and hair clip) to honor Aang and always have him with her. The hairclip also kinda looks like the wings of his glider. I’m obsessed. My babies.
"that time of the month" "monthly visitor" "feminine hygiene products" GRRAH!!! SHUT UP SHUT UP!!! PERIOD!! MENSTRUATION!!!! TAMPONS!!! PADS!! MENOPAUSE!!!!!!!!!!!
jacobvanloon
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