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white noise - audio 2

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.

“Don’ think you’re done ‘ere yet,” Price gently reprimands, a dry laugh leaving 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.

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