mini life update thats related to this drabble- i work in a migraine/neurological pain clinic now
you are the only woman on the (very very VERY hot) provider team at the clinic you work at, and it's so obvious that you're doted on. from the MAs, nurses, scribes, even the other doctors and PAs in the clinic are jealous of how close you guys are.
and "close" is an understatement
there's Kyle Garrick (DNP) who likes to bother you at the MA station as you're talking with your scribe. teases you by flirting with you and noticing all the little details about you-
"hey doc, lovely nails. do some injections on me so i can get a closer look, yeah?"
(he already knows what they look like since you were face down into his bed, arm bent behind your back as he relentlessly ruined your cunt)
Johnny "Soap" Mactavish (PA-C) is consistently late to his clinic appointments because he's always hanging around you during your sedated patient days. whats worse is that he takes your seat (there are available wheelie chairs in the area).
"Soap, can I have my seat back now?" you sigh, rubbing your temples to calm your growing frustration. "don't you have an 11:45 patient, like, now?"
Soap chuckles, "go' a seat righ' there', no? get nice and comfy~" he finishes with a wink.
(Soap had you on the floor, face shoved into his sweat-soaked hair, nose touching the base of his cock as you took every. inch. of him (bonus for sucking him off post workout))
Simon Riley (PA) doesn't talk much unless seeing his patients, which makes him hard to scribe or even assist him. one thing he's really good is eye contact.
"what?" you ask him suspiciously. you both are in the provider room catching up on notes, yet the only thing happening is him targeting you like a hawk
"Simon, you know how i feel about this, just write me a sticky on what you need"
"Don' need a sticky f'r wha' 'm thinkin' 'bout, doc"
(he's referencing the night he wrapped his thick hands around your neck, a vice grip making sure your eyes were only on him as he watched your face wrinkle in pleasure from brutally fucking up that wet cunt you hide in scrubs)
then there's Dr. John Price (MD), who is shameless in his affections for you. pushing your hair back as you talk to him about a belligerent patient, kissing your hand when you pass him something he asks for, or blowing you a little kiss from across the clinic when you two pass
"John, please consider the environment we're in," you say with a twinge of anger. "I can't do anything with you trying to give me a massage."
"Do you suggest anywhere else for me to rub then?" he flirts, buttery voice floating in and tickling your ear.
(oh, if the nurses knew how well his tongue and fingers massaged your aching, puffy pussy and clit. how he came up for air drenched and sex-drunk off your taste).
Warnings: Fem!Listener, wet noises, male whimpering, male moans, dirty talking, calling themselves daddy, use of whore, slut, etc. USE EARPHONES FFS.
Simon 'Ghost' Riley:
— You are giving Simon the silence treatment in one if his bad days, now it's time to pay for it. - by u/ProfessorCal
— (Desperated) Ghost needs your touch. - by u/Badjhur
— Camping with the 141 and sneaking into Ghost's tent. - by u/AugustlnTheWinter
John 'Soap' MacTavish:
— Soap hate being called daddy... OR DOES HE?? - by u/AugustinTheWinter
— Taming brat!Soap in an interrogation - u/aasimaraudio
— You convince Soap to go to your parents house for Christmas, now he's feeling naughty. - u/owenscumnival
König:
(if you came into my house thinking this will be UwU shy boi 👉👈 König content ding dong you are WRONG)
— A last moment with König before he travel back to work (slightly feral König) - by u/Feem_Al_Frennly
— König is a (big) teaser :) - by u/wagnerfirst
— Sub!König call you ma'am. multiple times. that's all you need to know. - by u/Texan_Guy
John Price:
— John comforts you after a nightmare. - by u/bestkeptsecret
— Camping with the 141 and sharing a tent with the Captain (ft. Soap's snoring) - by u/Badjhur
— Fucking John in the middle of a party, just where you want him. - by u/Badjhur
Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick:
— Gaz would do anything to help you, including sharing some body heat after a mission in the middle of winter. - by u/GreyFuton
— Even after a rough day, Gaz take care of you. - by u/ProfessorCal_
— Watching a sex scene with Gaz. - by u/AugustInTheWinter
Phillip Graves:
— Graves congrats you on your first mission with the Shadow Company. - by u/ProfessorCal_
— You wake up only to find Phillip between your thighs. - by u/alot-of-axolotl
— Phillip wakes up feeling horny. - by u/notwhorosethinks
I would like to thank all the support and excitement I got for this and I hope you horny asses enjoy it! I promise I tried my best to find the most perfect audios for each of our boys :)
Also would like the clarify that the only reason Alejandro and Rudy aren't on the list is because I got absolutely STUCK and impatient to finding audios for Alejandro, although I did find some for Rudy but figured it would be wrong to put Rudy but not Alejandro. You can't just separate the Vaqueros, right??? (and I was thinking about a part 2 of this since I found SO MANY MORE audios of the others 👀).
Lemme know your opinions and feel free send a ask as well!
**I do not own any audio, all the credit go to the creators and you can find all of them on Reddit and go on r/gonewildaudios for more.**
thinking about The Pitt and an idea that Robby sleeps with f!new resident!reader a couple of days before she starts in the ER and f!reader realizes that the man she slept with is her new attending doc.
thinking about how Robby has flashbacks over his new resident and how many times she cums on his cock, how many times she's begged for him to relieve the "pain" and "pressure" in her pussy as he makes her squirt a bit.
thinking about how Robby is staring you down, smiling to himself about how he has a new favorite resident (right after Langdon) as she tries to cut the abscess from an elderly patient's leg.
was discussing micheal robinvatich with @/tempfrangit and i've come to the conclusion he's a 'just the tip' truther.
so needy,” he coos condescendingly, brushing your face with the back of one hand while it’s twin holds your hips high, preventing you from slamming down to the hilt. “thought med school taught you everything, baby,” your brows knit, frustrated as he becomes more patronizing.
“please robby,” you whine, high in your throat, hardly understandable. robby just tuts, slapping your ass and making you jolt, “big girl words, baby. future doctors use their big girl words when talking to their attending, yeah?"
do they also beg their attendings to fuck them too?
you groan, growing restless as you attempt to move down “please, let me have it robby. promise i can take it! need it! please please pleasepleasepleaseplease-“ your pleading is knocked out of your lungs when he lets you drop, the immediate stretch making you scream his name. he’s on you immediately, hips slamming into the fat of your ass as he fucks you earnestly. your begging turns to babbles, something akin to “thank you” leaving your mouth over and over again.
soap x f!reader
tags: mentions of religion and purity culture (purity rings), lighthearted, soap being an ass
an: been thinking of johnny tormenting his poor religious neighbor and this came to be. moreso for fun (a rarity). enjoy!
imagine moving across the world for your faith. maybe that wasn't the entire reason but the little town you picked were filled with people like you.
devout, condescending, catholics.
it was different, but familiar, home away from home. at the very least, you wouldn't feel out of place.
or so you thought.
the apartment was.. quaint, to say the least.
nothing outlandish considering the budget you were working with, but it seemed it was made with the intention of hosting one person and one person only.
though, who were you to complain about one of god's gifts? (or rather, your pastor's connections if you'd like to get specific)
moving to a different country is no easy or cheap feat, packing up your life to start anew in a place where no one knows you.
in truth, you were aching to get away. there was nothing wrong with the town you originated from, all the citizens sweet and southern, but static. unchanging in a world that was known for nothing but change.
it was like a broken record, interacting with the same people day in and day out. a change of scenery was in order the moment you realized you could predict miss julianne's answer to "what did you do this weekend"?
prophetic gifts or not, staying there offered nothing but stale comfort. and you needed, deserved something fresh.
which lead you here; standing in the middle of an unfurnished, off-white, cramped flat. aka, your new home.
well, you need to make it feel like home first.
knock knock.
before you can even start sifting through boxes, a firm knock on the door interrupts you. strange, you're positive the moving company got everything (if they didn't, it's no big deal. you had to downsize a considerable amount for the move), so it could just be someone knocking on the wrong door.
you chalk it up to just that, moving back to the task at hand. grabbing your key, lining it up with the edge of the tape before digging it in and-
knock knock knock.
okay, maybe they have the right door.
the knocks continue, becoming quicker in succession as you make your way to the door. your fingers pinch the lock, taking a deep breath before twisting it and then the doorknob.
"'bout time ye opened up th' door, makin' me wait till fuckin' christ- …mas.."
a man, with the most obscene haircut you've ever saw, stands in front of you. for a moment, it seemed every bone in his body had nothing but hate. that is, till he laid his eyes on you, disappearing and leaving confusion in it's absence.
"..ye're not mitch," he says, looking you up and down, deciding if you're real or not.
in response, you shake your head, offering up a soft smile, "no, i'm not. i'm actually the new tenant, and you?"
he stares at you for a minute longer, darting between your face and the space behind you. it's almost uncomfortable how long it takes for him to process this information but the moment he does, his lips curl upwards, body leaning against the frame.
"new tenant?" he repeats, watching you nod your head in confirmation, "well, didnae ken mitch left his place ta such a bonnie thing," he sucks his teeth in after, eyes roving over your form in a different way. secular, sensual, words that begin with 's'.
strange and discomforting flattery aside, you've only just met the man. may as well give him the benefit of the doubt.
you hope he doesn't notice the slight strain in your smile, "yes i actually just moved in this morning." you give him your name, which he immediately tries on his lips. "bi' foreign," he says, and you can only nod in agreement.
"and you are-" he hardly gives you a chance to ask, reaching out and taking your hand in his. he shakes it enthusiastically, the force of his movement making you follow along. whatever benefit you gave him is long forgotten now, as well is the appropriate amount of time for strangers to make physical contact.
"johnny, but a'body calls me th' most braw jim ye'll ever meet," while not the most clear, his cocky attitude communicates enough. to think one of the first people you meet in this apparently "holy" town seems anything but.
the smile on your face becomes harder to maintain, especially when he has not let go of your hand. desperate to get away, you begin to slip your hand out of his, the other pushing on your door, "well, it was nice meeting you, johnny, but i'm a bit busy so if you'll excuse me," you manage to retract your hand completely from his grasp, only needing to close the door and you'll be rid of him.
unfortunately, it isn't that easy.
it happens in a blur, johnny grabbing your hand again, not to shake, but to examine. his sudden movement takes you by surprise, and you can no longer maintain pleasantries with this brute, "johnny!"
"this a purity ring?" he asks abruptly, turning your hand over in his, steel blue eyes honed in on the metallic band on your left finger.
his question stuns you. this.. caveman, who has done nothing but eye you, squeeze your hand, and just make you uncomfortable is now brushing his thumb over the engravement of Matthew 5:8 on your purity ring, which you didn't even expect him to know what it is!
then again, he has done nothing but subvert your expectations since meeting him five minutes ago.
rather than a simple slip, you go ahead and yank your hand away, cradling it in it's partner, "yes.. why?" it's like soothing a burn, the memory of his skin still hot on yours.
his eyes are still glued to your ring, slowly ascending to meet your gaze. in a way, it's intense, holding all of your attention. then, he eases it by breaking into a simple smile, "well, didnae take ye for a religious hen, bonnie. i myself am a believer," his hand moves to his shirt, fishing out a necklace from beneath the collar. no way, he can't, it-
sure enough, dangling from his gold chain is a dainty cross.
"..oh," it should reassure you, but does anything but.
johnny only nods, tucking it back under his shirt, "aye, nae as devout but i still partake every now an' then," he says, rambling a bit as you attempt to make sense of who the man before you really is.
"..got a purity ring myself," you tune back in when he says it, noting the way his smile has shifted back into a grin. you're tempted to say something in response, but nothing comes to mind, still reeling from the prior discovery.
"y'ken," his voice drops to a whisper, "i hav' it on me" it's like he's sharing a secret, the way he inches closer as he speaks.
your mouth remains shut but your eyes ask where is it? which makes him crack into a full grin.
he gets closer, a hairs breadth keeping you apart. johnny's hand reaches back out for your ringed one, stroking your finger as he tells you:
"well, had ta get it resized to fit 'round my cock."
it's the last straw, pulling yourself back and slamming the door shut on him. as you lean against the door, you can feel your heart pounding in your ears. oh gosh, this man, he's.. he's..
deer hybrid!reader who deliberately gets caught in hunter!simon's traps just so you can feel his big hands on you as he unties you for the nth time. hearing him grumble silly doe while he carries you to a safe spot in the grass has your little tail swishing excitedly, and when he hisses at you for nuzzling into his neck and licking at his skin, you only let out a soft bleat.
the bloodstained rifle that resides on his back does nothing to discourage you from getting into trouble. he's never aimed it in your direction, but you can't help but daydream about feeling the metal on your forehead when he huffs something along the lines of, "s'like you want me to kill ya."
it's really not your fault; he's just so big all over, so strong and capable. you can't help but imagine those hands on your body. you want him stroking your ears, your tail, you want his thick fingers slipping between your thighs... you've seen him in his element, and a sick little part of you wishes he were hunting you instead.
would he be gentle like he always is, or would he let his frustration take over and finally get back at you for being such a little tease? would he push you up against a tree and murmur sweet things in your ear? that voice always makes your skin tingle. no matter what you conjure up in your mind, you always find yourself down by the pond; you can only wash away the need that seems to permanently cling to you so many times. you really should stop getting yourself worked up like this.
it's when you actually fall victim to a trap one evening that he finally cracks. being held in his arms while he trudges through the woods down to his truck helps calm you a little bit, but the pain is unbearable. it doesn't help that he's scolding you again, muttering something about just taking you home with him and keeping you there so you're not causing any more trouble.
cw: discussions of death, soap is dead, alcohol/drinking mentions, brief instances of homophobia (not from simon nor reader)
prev | next
synopsis: after going no contact for nearly two decades, simon riley gets the closure he's always needed with his sergeant. except its through his daughter.
simon can count the funerals he’s been to on one hand.
the first was his gran's, a distant woman whose more memory than material. despite that, he can still make out the many lines on her face, the portrait that they used, and the way his mother squeezed his hand, the other half resting on her protruding belly.
second funeral, which he's unsure if he should count it, comes a year after his gran's. the year 4 class pet, findleton fishgerald, was found belly up upon walking into mrs.barett's room. playtime was instead used as a period for mourning, him and his fellow classmates listening to their teacher give a speech about the poor goldfish.
(now that he thinks about it, fish looked more like a corpse each passing day. it was only matter of time before the little guy kicked the bucket. well, swam out of it)
the third funeral was for multiple people, but they were mourned and packed into an urn on the same day so it counts as one. the contents of said urn include his mother, brother, sister-in-law, and his nephew.
it sticks with simon. his nephew in particular. he died when he was four, his first (and last) encounter with death beating simon's.
the few days after were a blur, but he can still taste the aftermath of his carnage, as well as the whiskey he drank following it.
now, he's attending his fourth funeral. johnny's.
well, 'attend' is an overstatement. stalking is a better describes simon. sitting in the shitty rental he got, parked in the second lot over of the cemetery, away from everyone who claims to love johnny.
bet they didn't love him like he did.
if he wanted too, he could walk over to the gas port, remove the cigarette from his chapped lips and toss it in there. last thing he sees would be this rusty pick-up, his soul barreling towards damnation.
he won't, knowing the muppets that come across his remains will leave him here, too close and yet too far from his johnny.
to others, it may be difficult seeing the gathering, but a trained eye like simon sees everything. he can make out gaz and price from the crowd, as well as johnny's mum.
age has not done her any favors, looking as bitchy as the day he met her. still, she was an important person to johnny.
if only she accepted he was too.
briefly, he thinks about getting out of his car, walking towards what would be a scandalous, bittersweet reunion. sure, price and gaz'll be there to defend him if things get ugly, but blood is thicker than water. even if the string binding johnny and him was red.
(is it severed because he's dead? or does it go deeper? six feet under and unfrayed)
he decides to let them mourn without his interference. the last thing he needs is that hag telling him this is all his fault, with his agendas and whatever the fuck they rant about at churches now.
without sparing a glance, he starts the rental. a small part of him is thankful for parking so far away, the obnoxious rumble of the engine would reveal his location if he were a few feet closer.
he backs out of the spot before heading south, vowing to come back later. only johnny and him.
and the groundskeeper, if his unlucky streak continues.
——————————————————————————
it continues.
shouldn't have. he came back in the middle of the night, the witching hour. while he isn't into the paranormal, a foolish part of him thought johnny's spirit might say some parting words. unless he already left the plane. bastard.
if anything, he was prepared for an intimate moment with the scot, say what he's wanted to say, or at least attempt to. the only feeling he can properly communicate is anger, this aching sadness an unwelcomed yet familiar weight on simon.
that's what he was ready for.
he wasn't ready to find a woman dressed in pajamas and an arm sling kneeling in front of johnny's gravestone.
while he can still see quite far, the night obscures more than it used too, only clocking her when he's a few feet away.
strange, he doesn't recognize her from the funeral crowd. then again, he didn't care for anyone else besides the corpse.
he thinks about retreating, would probably be best to visit when the sun's up, rather than lurk like some ghoul.
simon's begun to turn on his heel when a scream pierces through the air.
he turns back around to find the girl, hunched over the tombstone, clutching it with her free arm. her screams are alarming, like a siren going off in the middle of the night. it might just be a loon, having escaped the bin and is hugging stranger's tombstones because they aren't sane (neither is simon, but he has a semblance of common decency).
it's another sign he needs to go, do a 180 and come back in the morn. though, he pauses upon hearing the girl let out a strangled cry that vaguely resembles "dad.."
no, that can't be right. he knows the crash didn't just involve johnny, his whole family too (unfortunately not his mom).
he knows for certain johnny's wife didn't make it, but the daughter.. the daughter..
he turns back around, zeroing in on her like she's a target. it's hard to see her features, and from what he can see she looks nothing like johnny.
but she is injured. and a girl. and she keeps crying for her mom and dad rather loudly and-
fuck.
there's no denying that before him is johnny's kid. johnny’s daughter.
a mess of a woman, snot and tears running down her face, her skin stretching after she lets out another sob, curved lines surrounding her anguish.
he has to retreat now. simon has, and wants, no business with any of the other mactavish's. if she's anything like the rest of them, he's sure the girl hates him, will damn him to an eternity in hell if he so much as approaches her.
so for the third time that night, simon begins to turn, set on leaving this cemetery and never coming back. what's another twenty years without johnny? he's lived his life in constant pain, won't stop now.
he's taken about three more steps when something rustles underneath him. simon looks down, his foot landing on a pile of leaves. it isn't loud, but it's loud enough to get johnny's daughter (whose cries have quieted down by a few decibels) attention.
"..hello?" it comes out just as tear-filled as her other proclamations have. his back remains turned. if he can't see her, she's not there. this is all some fucked night terror, and he's going to wake up in his johnny's arms in 3, 2, 1-
"i said hello," her voice is a bit more firm, as if she's fully materialized into a person rather than some grief-stricken thing. reluctantly, simon turns , the girl now standing before him. the soft light of the moon illuminates her tear-stained face, the knees of her pants dirtied from kneeling over her parents' grave.
to think, his johnny would have a kid without saying anything. it might be low, but given how simon reacted to their split, he can't blame the man.
the silence continues to stretch on between them. poor kid, probably waiting on simon to break it. he's surprised her first instinct isn't to run or scream for help, but people in mourning tend to forget themselves in their grief.
simon knows firsthand.
a frown stretches across her face when she realizes simon isn't going to say anything. she sighs, wiping her damp face with the back of her hand.
"look, i'm not on anything, and- and i was here earlier for a funeral i just..," she takes in a shuddering breath, her whole body becoming loose as she exhales, "i need more time with my folks," a pause, "alone."
it's a sentiment simon knows all too well, having lost many people. even the damned fish, he wished he was able to spend more time with it.
and simon's ready to oblige, bid her 'goodbye' wordlessly, make her think he was just some hallucination her sorrow conjured up. be nothing more than strangers in an awkward situation.
although, this isn't just a stranger. this is johnny. well, his daughter. and even if she's annoyed at him, its not for the reasons he thought it be.
in another universe, he's already left. hell, he hasn't even shown up in the first place. but in this one, he doesn't do any of that.
it was all you could think about. on the drive there, when you pulled into the driveway of their nice secluded home, even sitting on the couch next to the mastiff who exhales more spit than air.
earlier, you pulled on your nicest casual dress, a long green number that was shapeless modest. you wanted to appear like someone who had their shit together, not an on-the-way-drop-out who got pregnant after some nameless fling.
the dog slobbering all over the fabric dampens your image.
“aye! git off th' couch ya wet beast!” the scot, johnny, snaps at the dog, his finger pointing towards the hallway. an echoing bark escapes the mastiff's mouth, but johnny doesn't loosen up, a low growl leaving his lips. the display of dominance takes you by surprise, but the dog seems used to it, slinking off the couch and retreating elsewhere.
as he does, johnny turns to face you with an apologetics smile on his face, “sorry, we dinnae git many guests, ‘specially fresh ones,” his word choice makes you squirm, the imagery of a red marbled slab flashing through your head.
“no worries,” you reassure, discomfort pushed to the deepest depths, “not the first time i was stained with dog spit,” regret fills you immediately as the words leave your mouth. to think, this man welcomed you into his home and the first thing you did was make a smart comment. what a charming guest you are.
much to your relief, johnny doesn’t seem offended at all. in fact, he finds your comment amusing, the corners of his lips curling upward until the sound of the kettle screaming makes his face scrunch.
“so, th’ drive wasnae too bad?” he asks, the little gap between the kitchen in the living room obscuring him. you can tell he's moving, lifting something by the way his muscles flex under the soft lights of the kitchen.
not here to oogle, you remind yourself, fingers interlocking over your lap, "yeah, it was fine. but i have to ask," you can see his head lift, eyes still on the kettle but some of his attention on you, "why meet here? why not in the city?"
johnny hums, as if he was expecting this question. briefly, you wonder if he has a monologue, offering his explanation through the phrasings of a sonnet.
"nae to keen 'bout loud 'n' crowded places," he states simply, lifting something and beginning his trek back to the living area. okay, so that isn't a totally alarming response.. but still rings a few bells.
"oh.. care to elaborate?" it's not that you want to press him, there's just.. a need too. there's not enough benefit to suade your doubt. he stands before you now, hinged at the hips to set down the a tray. three little mugs filled with what you assume is tea. steam snakes its way up from the cups, only to fade a few centimeters out.
"well.." his voice drops with his weight, settling into one of the comfy chairs before you. it succumbs to his mass quickly, once again showing off his impressive size, "best if ah show ye," and before you can ask show me what? he turns his head to the side, running his fingers through an overgrown buzz. it takes a minute of searching, his fingers and lengthy mohawk in the way, but your eyes widen upon finding it.
a pink, jagged line that starts somewhere on his hairline and ends before it can reach the back of his head.
in all honesty, you're surprised you didn't notice it the first time, a testament to his good looks and a showcase of how much of an ignorant ass you can be.
"sorry i didn't mean to-" he cuts you off with the shake of his head, an understanding smile on his face. "it's a'richt, lass. in fine fettle, y'ken? jus' cannae handle the city like ah used tae," his smile turns sympathetic, but you both know that you aren't the one who needs to be pitied.
there's an itch to right this wrong. even if it doesn't affect johnny, you're own assumptions and actions will be ingrained into your head till you forget about them, then remember it in the midst of doing some mundane task. your mouth begins to part when the door suddenly opens, the mastiff suddenly appearing from the hallway, spit and its paws hitting the floor.
the beast runs past you, happily (and loudly) barking at whoever entered. you expect to see johnny wear an expression of irritation considering how he reprimanded the dog last time, but it's the opposite. there's a fondness in his eyes as he looks behind you, warmth radiating from him.
"ther' ye are, si," he says once the dog has quieted down, but his heavy pants offer some unpleasant background, "thought ah wis gonna do this by maeself."
slowly, you turn your head, finding who you presume is 'si'. if anything, he looks less like a person and more like a.. presence. despite him standing right there, you feel him better then you see him. all you can really make out are his eyes, brown like the various oak logs that barricade their home.
he doesn't say anything, looking at you and johnny through narrow slits.
eventually his gaze ends on you, almost analyzing you all the while he pets the dog's head (who presses himself cheerfully against si. huge dog needs a huge owner you suppose).
"whose 'is?" it seems his analysis didn't provide anything useful, johnny being the one to fill in the blanks with a sigh, "the surrogate, simon." you swear you can hear him tack on an exasperated 'forgetful bastard', but it could be anything.
si, well, simon, stares at you for what seems like an eternity before speaking again, "i see," it's like locking eyes with medusa, his gaze turning you nearly statue-esque in your seat.
"well," simon finally lifts his gaze on you and a weight lifts off your shoulders till it's dropped again when he says, "best start then."
price talking you through it and it being shotgunning with him.
and how you’re sitting prettily on his lap, watching as he leans close, eyes fluttering when he taps your chin, and murmurs, “open up.”
you loll your tongue out just slightly, feeling intoxicated already as you watch john take a drag of his cigar, before he pulls it away and beckons you with a curl of his finger. you fall closer to him, humming, and giggling when he breathes the smoke into your mouth.
“inhale it slowly; envision yourself swallowing– there we go, darling,” john murmurs, his dark eyes even headier at how good you’re being for him.
“more?” he asks when you’re done.
you nod, a pretence of innocence in your silence, and john rumbles in his delight. it makes your core throb, and you don’t know how you look right now but however it is, it makes john croon, his rough palm cupping your jaw, with his thumb falling just underneath your bottom lip.
you give it a little lick, and john’s nose flares, desire burning bright under his skin.
Vampire poly 141 x reader where they don’t tell you they are vampires and you have no reason to suspect they are. Why would you? They are supernatural creatures, you’ve seen all four of them eat garlic bread, their reflections show in mirrors and refelctive surfaces.
But.
Sometimes they say and do such strange things- John talks about historical events almost as if they happened just a few days ago, and he was there. Simon’s storage room has antiques so old you have no idea how they have even survived, and he grumbles whenever you tell him he should sell them to see how much they’ll make. Kyle could navigate through the dark like it was second nature- like it wasn’t affecting him at all, and you’d always just wonder how. Johnny’s hands were always so cold to the touch, no matter tje weather or what he was wearing or where he was.
Still, all of those simply didn’t stick out that much to you. So you never suspected.
But still…
Lately, you’ve been waking up so very sore in the neck, weak and lethargic. Sore in the spot they all seemed to love kissing and nuzzling so much. You are so grateful for their help and care- they ply you with sweets fruits and oily fishes, leafy greens and nuts to help your body, and they hold you in their arms and let you rest as much as you need.
Though it still persists, and it gets especially worse when your period drops by. They are even more attentive, offering massages and forehead kisses and cuddles.
But now you wake up sore in the neck and thighs… as if they’ve been kept in one position for too long. At least you are miraculously very clean when you check, and you have four men spoiling you rotten.
gaz reassuring a still-in-training server as they his order wrong with a nice smile and gentle tone. suddenly, there’s a random instagram account requesting to follow him, a familiar face flashing him on his morning runs, and when he comes back from his latest mission, his front door shows signs of forced (and failed) entry.
by now, someone would file a report.
gaz just leaves the door unlocked the next time he goes out.
not sure how i feel about microphilia but also... fairy!reader caught in a spider web, legs sprawled wide, while soap presses a blunt finger to her cunt
a/n: sorry for the delay! i was enjoying my break and spent a lot of time (and money) with my friends and family
One week later
Simon Riley never imagined that, in his years of existing on this forsaken rock, his pipedream of becoming a professional voice actor would actually manifest into existence.
Simon Riley, who came from a home that was far worse than “broken,” never thought he’d be somewhat put back together living in the bustling city of New York City.
It still shocks Simon that he’s so successful at this point in time. If his current self met that little boy from that shabby house back in Manchester, he’d probably give the little thing a heart attack from how unrecognizable he had become.
He can’t say he did it himself though, because he didn’t. If it weren’t for Price picking him up that day he was passed out in a booth at that pub those years ago, his “now” would have remained “what-if’s” and “maybe’s.”
He can still remember it like he was picked up yesterday...
Simon downs another pint, stumbling in his own seat as the table jumps with the weight of his hand.
“‘Notha,” he slurs, his vision filled with black and white from the alcohol poisoning his system.
“Not long befo’ tha’ kills ya, boy,”a voice not known to him speaks. He swings his head up, his eyes locking in on the unknown target before he waves him off.
“Mind yer business.”
“I would, lad, but it won’t be without you,” he responds, accompanied by a hearty, humorless chuckle.
Through Simon’s eyes, he can see this blob of a figure pull a stick out and something to light it. Next thing he knows, his nose is hit with the scent of a campfire, pine, and refined lumber.
“Who’re you supposed to be,” Simon charges, sobriety slowly sinking in.
“You’re wrangler, if you’ll take it.”
Simon snaps out of his daydream when Price’s choppy cough from his laptop enters his ears.
“Ghost, ‘re ye wit os?” A foreign accent is heard from his speakers. No one's face is seen, but Simon know’s who’s speaking when he sees the bar of soap icon light up on his screen.
“Oi, you know what they say about ghosts, Johnny,” another voice comes through the computer, “‘Less you know what’s comin’ when you mess wi’ ‘em.” This voice is accompanied by a British baseball cap icon.
Price’s choppy cough comes through once again, establishing authority and power.
“Johnny, Gaz, ‘nough of that lads,” Price mediates, fixing his clothes in front of the cams.
Johnny and Gaz quiet down, while Ghost just chuckles in victory (though, he’d never openly admit his win to them).
Another voice breaks through the speakers of Simon’s laptop- an older woman, with a refined yet curt speech.
“Roughhouse after the brief boys,” she scolds. “I have yet to get to everyone’s personal collaborations.”
“Aye, mum,” Johnny mumbles.
“Got it, Kate,” Gaz responds quickly.
Simon doesn’t realize that the meeting goes by a little too quickly, his mind unusually scatterbrained and all over the place. He doesn’t even realize that he’s alone in the call room with just Price, and he only understands that fact when he gets a message from Johnny privately.
Soap: Oi, Ghost, how copy there?
Ghost: All good here, over.
Soap: Hate to break it to ya, but yer in there with Price.
Soap: Alone.
Simon looks up from his phone to realize he’s right, and he’s about to make a run for it until Price calls out to him.
Simon groans, and Price lets another puff of cigar smoke leave him.
“You broken?” he asks simply.
“All good here, boss,” he assures, hiding his true feelings behind the “no camera” mode of the call room.
Price doesn’t need to see Simon’s cerulean eyes to guess he’s lying, but instead of pressing him, he lets it go.
“Wha’eva it is, don’t let it compromise you,” he takes another hit of the cigar, the long draw of silence an indicator that his boss knows more than Simon could possibly tell.
“Copy. Out here,” Simon ends the call briskly, exiting out of all his tabs before shutting his laptop with a crisp clack noise. The excess noise of his colleagues/friends and boss are gone, and now his brain can hardwire back to the other daydream he’s been having.
Simon leans back into his reclining chair, the plush leather wrapping around him as he’s thinking of last week’s surprise.
Simon couldn’t really sleep that night.
He can usually head to bed after dropping a long audio, the latest primal play and chase audio he released for his highest Patreon tier, but for some reason he remains awake.
Instead of his body winding down, it was getting all riled up thanks to the thin walls of his flat, and his (not-so-quiet) neighbor.
Simon sits up against the backboard, the evening lights of New York City dimmed behind his curtains. He didn’t need the excess light the city brought him, but there was no other way to properly put his bed in his bedroom without ruining the natural flow of energy that was ever-present.
Instead of drowning out the noises of his incredibly cute neighbor, he decided to return the favor- a quick ramble fap. And why not? Perhaps after a quick tug of his stick, he’d hit the hay fast.
Simon slings his arm over to his night stand, grabbing his phone and headphones to set up his makeshift workspace. Once he’s settled in, he begins to talk openly into the night, putting up the mask of “Ghost.”
“G’day doves, o’ should I say night?” he teases, his palm combing over the hard-on in his sweats.
At this point, he’s rambling into the emptiness of his room, disconnected thoughts about “How I miss my dove” and “You naughty little fletchling, listenin’ to me, jack off while I’m missin’ you.” Still, despite how unrelated his dirty talk may be, it all remains cohesive enough to end up with him degrading his listeners.
Oh, and a pocket-pussy in hand.
"You wanted this, didn'tcha? Takin' all 'f me like a dumb slag, but'cha wanted this didn'tcha?" he growls, low and steady as he can feel his core tightening.
“You like this, don't ya?" he enunciated, cock pumping deep into his little toy, his ears still pointed to where you were.
It didn’t occur to him that you’d stop taking care of yourself down there, so onward he marched as he was getting closer and closer to his climax.
He’d let himself go completely, a low rumble in his throat as he filled the silicone toy to the brim of himself. Only then did he realize that he couldn’t hear the noises of his bunny, and that she’d scampered off somewhere (probably to sleep).
Since that day, he hasn’t heard his neighbor make those lovely sounds. Is it weird that he kept up with when she took care of herself? Maybe, but it’s mostly the apartment building’s fault for making such faulty, thin walls. Besides, Simon thought he wasn’t being loud, he just thought he was loud enough to tease her. But since then, the mild interactions he did have with her became different.
See, when he moved in, she would do all sorts to get him to talk: food, desserts, little trinkets, things a neighbor is supposed to do when a new bird joins the flock. Simon did appreciate it, really, he did, but he could never figure out how to reciprocate the kindness he was shown.
In short, a social liability despite his (very sociable) job.
He’s still surprised you’ve managed to stay so… patient with him, so kind, despite his nature to other people, albeit he saw your patience growing thinner and thinner (how can you remain so content like that? He’d often ask himself).
No matter what type of image you paint of yourself, the baseline truth remained- you were his fan, and a big one at that. How he would address this, he’s not sure, but he’d find a way to weasel it out of you.
“Fuck me,” he muttered, taking a deep breath before getting up from his chair. If he was going to continue dreaming about this, he’d at least get something done today. Taking his phone, he opened it to see what’s on his schedule for this month and if he had time to cross it off.
Most of the projects were video game related: voice acting for a main character on some days, meeting with game execs, discussing and actually acting out some mo-cap CGI sequences, he’s also got a separate project in regards to an audiobook recording and everything related to that.
“Fuck. Me,” he seethes, and one can imagine the smoke coming out of his ears.
With a schedule as disfigured as this, he decides to put work off for another day. Instead, Simon will take his time making some pre-workout, packing little protein bars, and filling his water bottle. He’ll shove all of that in his gym bag, then move on to discard his home clothes for something more gym-appropriate, opting to wear sweats and a new compression shirt he bought from an athletic store. And of course, one cannot forget about his hoodie and mask- essential to today’s OOTD.
He plugs his ears up and begins to play some music, shoving his feet in his sneakers and tying the laces before heading out the door. It’s all fine and dandy, the pristine white walls and sterile interior of the room hallways offering little to none to look at, until he looks down slightly, eyes following the movements of a certain woman tying her hair up.
His eyes widen slightly, eyebrows moving his mask ever so slightly as he locks eyes with his number one fan- you, his little secretary neighbor. You’re equally shocked, if not more so than he is. You gulps, and she’s frantic as she tries to greet him (except it sounds like a warbled animal cry).
“Relax,” he practically sighs, voice low. “No one bu’ me he’e.”
“That’s honestly the worst part,” you mumble, but Simon is a nosy fucker. He walks a little closer, leaning down to try and get you to say whatever you’re hiding from him.
“One mo’ time, mic didn’t catch it,” he teased, offering his ear as he watched you flush and grow embarrassed.
You huff, turning your back and heading to the elevator with brisk steps. Simon sighs, following just a little ways behind before stopping in front of the elevator.
“Well?” you probe, nodding your head for him to stand next to you. “Are you coming down or what?”
Simon just walks in, standing a little farther back to give you space from him. He knows you’re not particularly nice to him these days, but you don’t outright hate him (he’s delusional). Once the doors close, your release wouldn’t be until after he gets off on whatever floor he needs to.
“So, where ya headed this time, neighbor?” you ask curtly, finger hovering over the many floor options.
“Gym.” A one-word reply, and one that makes you want to rip your hair out.
“W-what a coincidence,” you stutter, pressing the main floor button.
The gears shift, and the elevator hiccups before starting its descent to the main lobby. It might be quiet in the lift, but both you and Simon experience a degree of noisiness in your minds. While Simon finds it amusing you’re stuck with him until you both get to the gym, you can’t bear the suffocating air he brings.
Carefully, you take a peek behind your shoulder and watch the brooding man scroll mindlessly on his phone. The only thing that you can ever describe him as is big: big shoulders, big in height, big in the energy he brings, and…
He’s definitely big down there.
You snap your head forward, hands cupping your cheeks to hide the flushed look you have on your face, but your mind isn’t following what your body is doing, and the memories of last week flash through your brain like an old black-and-white film.
As you stood there, heat rising all over your body, Simon was equally checking you out. His pretty neighbor, his little bunny, all nervous from being in the same room as him (elevator, but it’s an enclosed space, so it counts). He finds it cute, a fan of his realizing who he is, yet is respectful enough to not cross any boundaries.
Perhaps a closeted slut? Simon thinks to himself, an angel and devil on each of his shoulders to try and guide him to make the right choices.
He’s brought back into reality when he hears you squeak (ah, I mean speak).
“W-which gym do you visit?” you ask without looking, hoping that he didn’t hear your nerves shaking your sentence up.
“Th’ one ‘cross the way,” he answers again, his eyes crinkling slightly as he watches your shoulders scrunch up in a mix of discomfort and delight.
You simply hum, and suddenly the door opens up for the both of you to reveal a semi-busy lobby and busy bodies with hardhats and neon vests. You’re both a little lost, but the familiar face of your doorman saves the day.
“Tony!” you greet, elated to see him. He reciprocates your enthusiasm, though his crooked smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“How ya doin’ taday, Pumps?” he tips his hat, though his greeting to Simon is more strained.
“Wha’s ol ‘is?” Simon asks for you, accent heavy and imposing.
“Construction down here. Someone was supposed to slap a notice on the walls, but they didn’t get to it. Currently figurin’ out which bozo didn’t do they job.”
You hum, Simon remaining silent behind you. You can feel the tension between them, and you cough awkwardly to get their attention.
“W-well! Mr. Riley and I are headed to the gym, so we won’t be here to witness all of it,” you say as you walk past him. Tony only nods, tipping his hat towards the both of you before heading out the door.
The revolving doors slap you both onto the street, and immediately you’re getting swept away by the crowd of people. You should be used to this by now, but you’re victim to these moments every so often.
Instead of having to fight against the current of people, a hand reaches out for your wrist. It’s rough, oddly calloused, but comforting, like those odd sherpa-wool throw blankets.
“Don’ get swept away now, bun,” he calls out, pulling you into his chest to keep you away from the current of people. His left arm is around your shoulder, and you’re holding onto his right arm just in case.
Despite the rush, time stops in your mind: your secret obsession, holding you carefully as you two walk to the gym, protecting you. Your “shield” is meaty, with loads of muscle hidden under the fabric of his sweatshirt. His chest is equally well-built, too, thick and heavy.
If past-you saw this predicament now, she’d be walking the line between passing out and orgasming on the spot.
Making your way past the crowd, time seems to be flowing again as you both made it to the gym, the sign being an indicator that your delusions are just that, delusions.
“‘ere’s our stop,” he announces, a twinge of playfulness in his voice. You look up at him, eyes trying to tell him not to let go.
He simply chuckles, letting you go and ruffling the top of your head.
“Not gon’ work on me, bun.”
You let go, thanking him quickly before rushing into the women’s locker room, and you’re smart to not look behind you.
“Enjoy your work out, bunny,” he calls out, a smirk tugging the fabric of his mask before he heads into the men’s side.
Back in his flat, Simon tapped away on his laptop to answer some emails from his collabs and such. No matter how hard he tried to remain focused, his mind found itself back to a couple hours ago.
Simon mostly saw the gym uneventful, but that didn't mean it couldn't be- and the spotlight was on you.
From across the way, Simon always found your figure in his sight. From watching you lift during inclined press, squats, RDLs, to you taking a drink of water, retying your hair, or simply watching your chest rise and fall from a hard set, Simon was enamored.
Of course, you felt the lingering eyes of someone staring your way, but Simon always looked away just in time before you could spot him. Even in the corner of his eye, he'd find himself staking you out, like a wolf set on his prey for the night.
Except he's taking his time with this prey.
As he's wrapping up another email, setting a date for a voice acting shoot for a shooting game Price set him and his colleagues up for, he can hear the faint sound of a door slamming, and the muffled sounds of heels plopping to the ground with clicks and clacks. He smiles to himself, knowing that his number one fan is back, but she doesn't sound too thrilled.
Simon's hearing a lot of swearing, but the crux of the problem remains relatively unknown to him. He can hear talk about "loss of papers" and "how a deal can't go wrong when the instructions were practically written," yeah, you didn't sound too happy.
Simon's not too fond of taking care of people the usual way, but he still has things to offer- himself (if you catch his drift).
And for you, Simon wasn't off the mark when he figured you were pissed, you were fuming. A deal gone horribly wrong with your boss, and he blamed it all on you. Talks about you "not understanding what's at stake," "leaving the most important factors out of the negotiations," etc. You were trying to defend yourself, explaining to him that his inadequacies in creating deals was not your fault (you had, in fact, wrote his script for him).
Which was how you ended up on suspension without pay for particularly vague reasons. You're ninety-nine percent sure it's illegal, but you were escorted out without another word, you didn't even get to say goodbye to George.
This was also how you ended up angrily stabbing ground beef in a sizzling pan for dinner, pretending that the meat was your boss. And to bear witness to your reasonable crash out, your best friend was on the other side of the line.
"And seriously, how is that my fault? Everything was written accordingly, even writing the conversational cues that his client would use!" you screech, shaking the pan to make sure your ground beef was cooked all the way through to be added to the rest of your dish.
"Can't you file a complaint with HR? You have all the receipts, I'm sure that you'd have a case!" she pushed, trying to get you to see the optimism in this bleak time.
"I've already tried to walk in a couple times, but security has blocked me from getting close to the elevators..." you sigh, scraping the meat into a separate bowl. Another heavy breath leaves you as you grab pre-packaged sauce and a box of uncooked pasta.
"But enough about that," your friend shifts the conversation, voice going up a pitch as her question leaves a... feeling in your mouth. "How's that hot neighbor of yours? Has he figured you out yet?"
You gasp, groaning as you're even more pissed at the thought of your neighbor. Your annoyingly attractive neighbor that creates your favorite hobby.
Your neighbor that you donate hundreds of dollars to every couple months or so.
"Don't get me started, you bitch," you hiss, and you can hear her laugh so hard that the call lags for a bit.
"Not only has he remained incessantly loud- for reasons I now understand- but he's spoken to me for the first time since he moved in!" you cry out, which only increases your friends amusement.
"But it's more than that," she eggs you on. "Do you think he likes you? Like, actually likes you?"
You're lost in her words, the last syllables ringing in your ear like an incantation for hypnotize you. The thought of this guy, your neighbor who's your niche celebrity crush, liking you? He's never really spoken to you at all, and suddenly he likes you? Insane, like coming out of a novel.
Then again, you were no stranger to the odd and straight wack your life can experience.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that and finish my meal preps," you tease, and you can hear your bestie's cry to not hang up.
"Buh-bye now," you drawl out, pressing the red icon on your phone and focusing on your food.
Still, the thought of him liking you lingers. He's never made an effort to get to know you, nor see you. On the rare occasion that he did see you, he always stared, eyes sticking on you for a little too long before he left. You're so sure that he was a massive cunt, the way he still hasn't returned your tupperwares.
But after today, maybe you judged him a little too harshly. Besides, you were always busy, leaving before the sun rose and returning as the sun set (and that's only if your boss wasn't in a bad mood).
Mindlessly, you were moving all the food and mixing it together, a simple spaghetti you made for tonight. Besides, tears and sadness make any comfort food taste better.
You were taken off autopilot when the sauce burns you as you were pouring it in your bowl, and you draw your hand back like an injured animal as you cradle it close to your chest.
"Damn, made too much," you whisper to yourself as you assess your food debacle.
You're fighting with the voices inside your head to give the beast food. You wanted to test to see if this was just a fluke, and maybe to see the status of your other tupperwares, but mostly to stake out if what happened today was genuine.
After reeling with yourself, you cave and begin to pack some food for Simon. Slowly, you're walking to your cabinet to grab an extra container, and you go through the motions of a good neighbor and pack him a hefty size of food. You press the pasta in the container nice and tight, and you take the leftover sauce of the pasta and watch it slowly pour over the food.
You're moving slowly, trying to figure out how to hand him his food without being weird, forthcoming, or awkward. After all, this is the first time you're going to his door after almost a year of being neighbors.
"Hi! I made you some food, want some?" you exclaim to yourself in the mirror by your door. Realization hits you at how stupid you sounded. It sounds like you deliberately made some for him- which wasn't the case.
"I have some leftovers, here's some for you," you try again, except you slap yourself on the forehead for how condescending that sounded.
You can feel yourself regretting this, but you're already by the door with your clogs on, and you have your key in your pocket
Now or never, girlfriend, the voice in your head probing you to finish what you've started.
You sigh again, a heavy breath sagging your shoulders down as you trudge out the door with the food in your hands and the pit of nervousness in your tummy growing heavier.
As you walk to his door, your footsteps echo and bounce back to you from the walls, almost telling you that you're going to regret this. Still, you ignored that gnawing feeling, and continued to head into the wolf's den.
"You can do this," you mumble to yourself, trying to build confidence for your less-than-one-second interaction with your neighbor (your hot neighbor who happens to be the man you donate a good portion of your paycheck to).
You knock on his door, the silence being your last moments to turn around, but that timer ran out quickly, and in front of you is Simon. You look up at him, eyes wide and a little frightened by his imposing figure.
Despite his face being hidden, you can see that he's pleasantly surprised you're here, especially after today. He's leaning on the door frame with his shoulder, head tilted to check you out as to what brings you here.
"Anyfin' I can do f' you, bunny?" Simon asks, eyes aglow with a teasing nature.
All your practice, albeit only being five seconds, left your brain, and you're left staring at this man speechless.
"I, uh-" you're at a loss for words as Simon's eye contact is weighing you down (or arousing you, but you can address the wet spot in your trousers later).
You show the food to him, the cramped pasta and sauce slowly peeking out, and he chuckles a bit. He cocks his brow, or at least the fabric of his mask does, and he takes it with a singular hand.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the container, and you swore that you were set ablaze by a single touch.
"Thanks f' tha food, bun," he says, voice low and smooth.
It takes all of your willpower to not melt into a puddle right there.
"N-no, problem..." you whisper, voice hushed and shy from a split-second interaction.
You don't let him say another word as you retreat to your room, messily unlocking the door, kicking your shoes off, and burying yourself in your nest of a bed. You're warm all over, especially down there, and you wriggle in your sheets to try and shake it off.
And as you're squealing in bed, a flurry of emotions taking over you, Simon eats the warm past on his bed, head leaned against the wall to listen to his frazzled bunny.
