OR: Simon finds a baby in the trash can. A baby. In the fuckin' trash. Fast forward, Simon has adopted baby. Baby's name is Nugget.
TAGS: Simon Riley gets a kid and all the tooth-rotting fluff that comes with it! Domestic fluff, hurt/comfort (?), possible light angst, dinosaurs and chickens + tf141
CHAPTERS: //
! COMING SOON !
The bin bag split open like a gutted fish.
Simon hissed a breath between his teeth, gloved fingers already tacky with something that might have been gravy three days ago. Alleys on Glitch Street weren't exactly a five-star establishment. Rats the size of small dogs owned the territory after midnight, and the streetlight above illuminated the shop where Raj sold him cigs without ever making eye contact.
Tonight, he'd taken the long way home. Past a pub, a dozen drug dealers, and finally into this piss-stained Manchester's forgotten underbelly.
Nestled between a greasy pizza box and a crumpled newspaper was—
What the everlasting fuck?
Air locked in his chest like a vault door slamming shut, because his brain had recognized the shape before his eyes could make sense of it.
A baby.
A fucking baby.
The word crawled out of his throat, flesh torn open at the memory of another child covered in blood. Heart ripped out for a fraction of second. He stared at eyes that didn't flutter when the wind kicked through the alley and rattled the iron overhead.
He reached in. The baby's skin was cold. So cold that Simon felt it through the nitrile gloves, a clammy chill that shot up his wrist and wrapped around his ribs and squeezed. The infant didn't do anything except lie there, palm-up and defenseless, wearing a onesie patterned with cartoon rockets and stars.
The alley blurred at the edges. Suddenly, he was back in a house fire and the sound of a woman's voice he'd buried so deep he'd forgotten its pitch. Screaming for him to save them.
Joseph used to be so chatty.
Cruel and tender in equal measure. His nephew. Bright-eyed Joseph with the gap-toothed grin and the habit of asking why. Why, why, Uncle Simon... until Simon ran out of answers. Joseph demanded to know where the moon went during the day, why centipedes had so many legs, if he could become a Red Power Ranger in the future... Joseph who'd been so alive before—
Before.
Simon's jaw tightened until his molars ached. He lifted the infant from the trash. Weighted less than nothing, bundle of bones and skin and that horrible, wrong stillness.
OR: Simon finds a baby in the trash can. A baby. In the fuckin' trash. Fast forward, Simon has adopted baby. Baby's name is Nugget.
TAGS: Simon Riley gets a kid and all the tooth-rotting fluff that comes with it! Domestic fluff, hurt/comfort (?), possible light angst, dinosaurs and chickens + tf141
CHAPTERS: //
! COMING SOON !
The bin bag split open like a gutted fish.
Simon hissed a breath between his teeth, gloved fingers already tacky with something that might have been gravy three days ago. Alleys on Glitch Street weren't exactly a five-star establishment. Rats the size of small dogs owned the territory after midnight, and the streetlight above illuminated the shop where Raj sold him cigs without ever making eye contact.
Tonight, he'd taken the long way home. Past a pub, a dozen drug dealers, and finally into this piss-stained Manchester's forgotten underbelly.
Nestled between a greasy pizza box and a crumpled newspaper was—
What the everlasting fuck?
Air locked in his chest like a vault door slamming shut, because his brain had recognized the shape before his eyes could make sense of it.
A baby.
A fucking baby.
The word crawled out of his throat, flesh torn open at the memory of another child covered in blood. Heart ripped out for a fraction of second. He stared at eyes that didn't flutter when the wind kicked through the alley and rattled the iron overhead.
He reached in. The baby's skin was cold. So cold that Simon felt it through the nitrile gloves, a clammy chill that shot up his wrist and wrapped around his ribs and squeezed. The infant didn't do anything except lie there, palm-up and defenseless, wearing a onesie patterned with cartoon rockets and stars.
The alley blurred at the edges. Suddenly, he was back in a house fire and the sound of a woman's voice he'd buried so deep he'd forgotten its pitch. Screaming for him to save them.
Joseph used to be so chatty.
Cruel and tender in equal measure. His nephew. Bright-eyed Joseph with the gap-toothed grin and the habit of asking why. Why, why, Uncle Simon... until Simon ran out of answers. Joseph demanded to know where the moon went during the day, why centipedes had so many legs, if he could become a Red Power Ranger in the future... Joseph who'd been so alive before—
Before.
Simon's jaw tightened until his molars ached. He lifted the infant from the trash. Weighted less than nothing, bundle of bones and skin and that horrible, wrong stillness.
OR: Simon finds a baby in the trash can. A baby. In the fuckin' trash. Fast forward, Simon has adopted baby. Baby's name is Nugget.
TAGS: Simon Riley gets a kid and all the tooth-rotting fluff that comes with it! Domestic fluff, hurt/comfort (?), possible light angst, dinosaurs and chickens + tf141
CHAPTERS: //
! COMING SOON !
The bin bag split open like a gutted fish.
Simon hissed a breath between his teeth, gloved fingers already tacky with something that might have been gravy three days ago. Alleys on Glitch Street weren't exactly a five-star establishment. Rats the size of small dogs owned the territory after midnight, and the streetlight above illuminated the shop where Raj sold him cigs without ever making eye contact.
Tonight, he'd taken the long way home. Past a pub, a dozen drug dealers, and finally into this piss-stained Manchester's forgotten underbelly.
Nestled between a greasy pizza box and a crumpled newspaper was—
What the everlasting fuck?
Air locked in his chest like a vault door slamming shut, because his brain had recognized the shape before his eyes could make sense of it.
A baby.
A fucking baby.
The word crawled out of his throat, flesh torn open at the memory of another child covered in blood. Heart ripped out for a fraction of second. He stared at eyes that didn't flutter when the wind kicked through the alley and rattled the iron overhead.
He reached in. The baby's skin was cold. So cold that Simon felt it through the nitrile gloves, a clammy chill that shot up his wrist and wrapped around his ribs and squeezed. The infant didn't do anything except lie there, palm-up and defenseless, wearing a onesie patterned with cartoon rockets and stars.
The alley blurred at the edges. Suddenly, he was back in a house fire and the sound of a woman's voice he'd buried so deep he'd forgotten its pitch. Screaming for him to save them.
Joseph used to be so chatty.
Cruel and tender in equal measure. His nephew. Bright-eyed Joseph with the gap-toothed grin and the habit of asking why. Why, why, Uncle Simon... until Simon ran out of answers. Joseph demanded to know where the moon went during the day, why centipedes had so many legs, if he could become a Red Power Ranger in the future... Joseph who'd been so alive before—
Before.
Simon's jaw tightened until his molars ached. He lifted the infant from the trash. Weighted less than nothing, bundle of bones and skin and that horrible, wrong stillness.
You moved out. Again. New city. New flat. Little to no savings in your bank account, but oh well, money doesn't buy happiness. It's what they say, whatever. It could be a lot worse—you could be stranded on the streets and not have a warm place to come back to at the end of the day. Then why couldn't you feel that warmth now of all times? Two hours calling your mum and congratulating your best friend on her engagement on Christmas day, a last-minute rush to the nearest shop for the bloody chamomile that cured your sad, little heart.
You spent the holidays alone like a dog. A stray would at least find some poor sod to beg for food, though. You're just alone, regretting all your life choices on the bed.
A knock pulled you out of your moping. Had you jumping out of your skin. Through the peephole, you saw a very round and very distorted Simon standing there. What the—
"Seen you buy three boxes of ice cream. Thought you'd try to freeze your brain out on New Year's."
He was always looking after you, even if you didn't realize it.
"Aren't you supposed to be back in Manchester?"
"Got no one worth celebrating with," He grumbled. "Gonna let me crash here tonight? We can watch that shitty dating show you like until midnight."
Oh. He was offering to spend New Year's Eve with you, right?
That was nice. Really nice. So nice that you could almost feel tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.
Kyle might be everyone’s golden boy, but he's just a asshat to you.
The silence of the gallery after the New Year's rush was a rare luxury you conceded to yourself after the whole Christmas fiasco with your parents and that little monster who called himself a sergeant. You were savoring it, rearranging a small collection of minimalist winter landscapes, when the heavy front door groaned open.
A cold draft snaked in. Your heart stuttered, then dropped like a stone into your stomach.
Kyle.
...
Fuck.
He stood just inside, letting the door swing shut behind him, sweeping the high, white walls like a hawk ready to pounce. His eyes found you, frozen deer in headlights, and that familiar, infuriating smirk tugged at his mouth.
“Fancy,” he began walking toward you.
“What are you doing here?” You hissed with barely contained disdain. God, how you wished to just shove his head where the sun didn't shine. There was another patron, an elderly man studying a sculpture in the far corner, you couldn't get ahead of yourself.
“Came to see the art,” he chuckled, all innocence. He stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. He smelled like leather and expensive cologne you couldn’t afford. “Heard it was brilliant.”
“You’ve seen it. Now leave.”
“Oh, I haven’t seen nearly enough.” His gaze drifted past you, and you followed it to see your boss, Eleanor, emerging from her office. Kyle’s expression transformed seamlessly into one of respectful charm. The gremlin. He gave her a nod.
Before you could stop him, he was striding over to her. You watched, helpless, as he shook her hand. Smile warm and genuine, my ass. You saw him pull out his wallet—a sleek, black credit card. Eleanor’s eyes crinkled with delight. You heard the murmur of his voice, “…support local talent… always believed in charitable work… a significant donation to your upcoming exhibition fund…”
That bastard. You felt the heat of a furious blush climb your neck. He was buying the right to torment you on your own turf.
He returned to you with a wolfish grin, the card tucked away. Eleanor gave you a thrilled, slightly dazed wave before disappearing back into her office, no doubt to immediately process the transaction.
“Now,” Kyle said, his voice dropping back into that intimate, taunting register. “Where were we? Ah, yes. The tour. I insist.”
“I’m working.”
“And I’m a very generous patron. I’m sure Eleanor would want her star curator to show me personally around.” The word ‘personally’ was sandpaper on your already fried nerves.
He stepped closer, one hand coming to rest on the wall beside your head, all too happy to cage you in. “Come on, love. Show me which ones are the troll paintings. I’m dying to know.”
Gritting your teeth, you ducked under his arm, putting a decent amount of space between you. Or you could just slam him on the floor. And then get a drink at the shady pub downtown. “This way.”
“What’s this one meant to be?” the man asked, stopping in front of a large, abstract piece in swirling blues and greys. “Looks like someone dropped a bomb in a paint factory. Cost more than my first car, I’ll bet.”
“It’s an exploration of the artist's melancholic turbulence,” you recited.
“Right. Melancholic turbulence.” He nodded sagely, then leaned in, his breath ghosting your ear. “Looks like a sad washing machine. I swear I once saw you do the laundry this way.”
You clenched your fists at your sides, your nails biting into your palms. You couldn’t yell. You couldn’t shove him either. Eleanor was just in the other room.
At a delicate glass sculpture, he pretended to stumble, came up to ‘steady’ himself on your back. It was there for three seconds too long, you counted. You jerked away, shooting him a look of pure venom. He had a shit-eating grin that promised he was just getting started.
He asked inane, deliberately obtuse questions; compared a vibrant contemporary piece to the graffiti behind his barracks. He stood for far too long in front of a beautiful charcoal nude, his silence more unnerving than his jibes. “The model have your temper, too?”
That was it. You spun on him, keeping your voice a furious, hushed whisper. “Are you quite finished? Have you had your fun? You’ve made your donation, you’ve insulted half the collection, you’ve… you’ve loomed for twenty minutes. What more do you want?”
He looked down at you, the artificial lights catching the gold in his brown eyes. The amusement was still there, but it had banked.
“Just catching up on lost time,” he said softly, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes. “Told you. You’re my favorite hobby.”
He reached out then, and you flinched, but he only adjusted the lanyard of your gallery pass that had twisted, his fingers brushing the column of your throat. Electric, if there ever was an adjective.
“There,” he said, like he had in the kitchen on Christmas day just two weeks prior. He gave the lanyard a little pat. “Be seeing you, curator.”
And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving you standing alone in the middle of your gallery.
You googled how to have a mental breakdown in your workplace without being fired five minutes later.
Part 3 of Simon being an asshole to Johnny's neighbor
Johnny and Simon are both shameless and you bear the brunt of it.
The universe had a truly wicked sense of humor.
It had been a long day. All you wanted was to retrieve your forgotten grocery bag from your car and jump into the bunch of pillows waiting on the bed. But fate had other plans, and they involved your two neighbors in Johnny’s driveway.
You stopped dead in your tracks; the bag left in your hand.
There, leaning against Johnny's beat-up sedan, was Simon. And Johnny was pressed against him, one hand tangled in the short hair at the back of Simon’s head, the other braced on the car door. An exchange of tongues, all breathy and possessive noises that you really, really shouldn't have been able to hear from this distance. Simon’s large hands were settled low on Johnny’s hips. Borderline scandalous.
Your brain was short-circuited. Against the car, they… In plain sight like that? It should have been for your eyes onl—Get a grip! You slapped your own face at those thoughts, scolding the little devil standing on your shoulder for causing them. You knew they were a thing, of course. The whole street knew. But this was different!
You must have made a sound—a tiny, choked gasp, because Simon’s head tilted the barest fraction. One dark eye cracked open, meeting your stunned gaze over Johnny’s shoulder. He didn’t stop. If anything, his fingers on Johnny grew bolder, and you saw the corner of his mouth turn into a smirk.
That jolted you back to life. You spun on your heel, face burning, and practically sprinted for your front door, fumbling with the keys like a criminal in a getaway.
And so began the worst week of your life.
They were everywhere, and they were so much more handsy than ever before.
If you went to check your mail, they were by the fence, Simon pressing Johnny back against the wood to murmur something in his ear that made the sergeant laugh, loud and warm. If you dared to look out your kitchen window, they’d be on the sergeant’s patio, Simon’s arm slung heavily around Johnny’s shoulders, his thumb stroking idle circles on the fabric of his t-shirt. One time, you saw Simon hook a finger in Johnny’s belt loop and tug, pulling him against his side as they walked toward the house. That had been the hottest thing you'd ever seen.
They had never hidden their relationship, but come on.
You were a bundle of nerves, jumping at every shadow, your face in a permanent mortified state. You were simultaneously fascinated and horrified. You appreciated the sight—good grief, who wouldn’t?—but the unadulterated fluster it caused was unbearable.
Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, pulling you from your frantic thoughts. You knew who it was before you looked.
Do NOT answer:
Saw ya starin', pup. Front row tickets are expensive, y'know?
16:00
Wouldn’t want me to retrieve the payment personally?
Or I can send Johnny if you prefer.
16:02
Fuck! Of course he’d seen you. He always saw you. You didn’t reply, just stared at the message, your heart doing a frantic tap-dance against your ribs.
The texts, as always, were the easy part. The real torture was in person. A few days later, you were taking out the trash when they both emerged from their house. Simon’s gaze immediately landed on you, burnt a hole through your head.
“Ye alright, darlin’? Still good on brunch Sunday?” Johnny called, his smile sunny and genuine, completely at odds with the predatory gleam in his lieutenant’s eyes.
You managed a jerky nod; your vow of silence felt more like a prison than a principle now.
Simon didn’t say a word to you. Instead, he turned to Johnny, crowding him with a casual dominance that made your mouth go dry. He didn’t kiss him, just leaned in, his masked mouth close to Johnny’s ear, and said something too low for you to hear. But you saw the way Johnny’s eyes fluttered closed for a second, a pleased smile spreading across his face.
“Aye, Lt.,” Johnny murmured back, his voice thick with affection. “Whatever ye say.”
You scurried back inside, pressed your back against the cool wood of your front door, trying to catch your breath. You had a sinking suspicion that they were trying to get you to stay. But would you fall for it? That had yet to be seen.
I think it sucks that you have to go to so many different kinds of doctor to take care of yourself. It's the 21st century. I should be able to go to a single office where they scan me with a big xerox machine and tell me what I'm allergic to and why my tummy hurts and if I have any cancer or cavities or if my glasses prescription has changed. And then I should get a sticker.
Johnny tries to bag the biologist who lives next door and the local otters.
Johnny and Kyle moved in together after retirement.
It was just the two of them, a few elderly neighbors, and the families that flocked to the lake during the summer. Price had insisted on the bloody lake; 'want to fish with my boys sometime', though it usually ended with him knocking their heads out because of their bickering.
"See cap, I got the biggest fish here."
"If ye put it like tha', Simon should count as the biggest—"
"MacTavish, I swear..."
Bonding activities and all that.
Ghost rarely visited. A deadly asset like him was a loss the military couldn't yet afford. A few more years, they’d promised each other. It had always been the four of them; how could they leave one behind? John had threatened to pull a bullet in someone else's head if they didn't discharge his lieutenant with honors.
But life in that green paradise was more eventful than they'd anticipated. Kyle became a part-time nature guide, drawing tourists from all over with his easy charm. Johnny, unable to sit still, became the local handyman. Ms. Henley called him weekly because her German shepherd held a grudge against her garden gate. When he needed more adventure, he joined the local volunteer fire service.
It was on one such call that he met you.
Mr. Landon had phoned in a panic, reporting someone "drowning" on the northern shore. Johnny arrived, heart thumping, but to rescue... who, exactly? There you were, waist-deep in the water, being gently tugged by a raft of playful river otters. Your laughter echoed over the lake. Unburdened joy—Ach, his heart couldnae take it.
It turned out the small community had a new addition: a wildlife biologist who’d rented the cottage right next to his and Kyle’s. And you were a real sweetheart, weren’t you? Always helping neighbors carry groceries and fiercely protecting the local wildlife from the occasional careless hunter.
The downside? You were bafflingly immune to MacTavish’s advances.
Kyle loved taking the piss out of his friend. “Face it, mate. Our brilliant researcher just isn’t interested.”
But Johnny was hell-bent. He’d show up with a bag of treats and a winning grin plastered on his face. “Brought somethin’ fer yer friends, luv!”
Your reaction was never what he hoped for. Your face would barely shift other than a polite smile. One day, you finally took the bag from his hands. Peeking inside, your eyes widened in alarm. You shook your head vigorously, pointing first at the treats, then at the otters, and making a soft, distressed sound before shoving the bag back into his chest.
The food was highly poisonous to otters, he later learned from a frantic google search.
He was fucking it up, but he could still salvage the unbloomed relationship. At least, that's what he told himself while nursing his wounded pride. How was he supposed to convince this wee bird that he was a good man?
Week after week, he tried. A wave from his garden was met with a hesitant one back. A offered cup of tea was declined with a shake of your head. When he tried to appease your otter friends again, they hissed at him. He was making zero progress.
The breakthrough came at the weekly community lunch. He was fetching another scone when he overheard the cluster of old ladies, with you sitting patiently in the middle, smiling as they fussed over you.
“Such a dear,” clucked Mrs. Davies. “So kind to help, even though you don't understand a word we’re saying.”
“Not a word of English, poor lamb. Just that lovely smile,” another agreed, patting your hand.
Johnny froze, the scone crumbling in his grip. Not a word of English.
The lack of reaction to his flirting. The pained look when he spoke—you were so glaringly confused. It all clicked into place. He was just… noise to you.
A damn nuisance, wasnae he? A lesser man would've been discouraged. He had just got the perfect excuse to be with you; his darling just needed a lil' practice, yes?
The very next morning, the barrage of one-sided conversations ceased. You noticed the change immediately. The stream of nonsensical chatter from the big, blue-eyed Scot no longer filled your days. Instead, he came at the edge of your property as you were doodling on your porch.
He held up a brand-new journal and a set of high-quality waterproof pencils. When you stared, he pointed at your worn-out notebook, then at the new one, a questioning look on his face. Oh.
Johnny slowly fixed the sore part of your heart that was far from home and whatever you knew before coming here. Brought you flowers, fixed your leaking sink, did anything and everything to make you laugh.
Once, you accidentally locked yourself out of your house. The rain was soaking through your jacket, and frustration was turning to despair. You had no one to call. Didn’t know how to. Tears were right there, eager to flow. Then, a large, warm hand covered yours. Johnny.
“Come inside, hen. Cannae have ye freezin' yer bum out here. Gonna open yer door when it stops pouring down, eh?”
You spent the night at his place, ate dinner and slept with the blanket Kyle had offered.
A few centimeters from the couch, Johnny was sitting on his knees, tapping impatiently your shoulder. “Wakey wakey, luv. Sun's up.” In his hands was a map of the lake. He waved at a red X, then to the drawing he’d made—a deformed stick figure of himself and a slightly better one of you, both holding binoculars. He pointed at you, at the map, then at himself with gleaming eyes.
“Think Ah saw some more otters down there, swee'heart. Wanna go check?”
You nodded, a shy stammer died in your throat. The drawing was adorable. And he was, too.
Hi, hi!! I don’t know if you take requests but I just read your Johnny Neighbour fic and I was wondering if you’d do something similar to that like Reader doesn’t talk much but Johnny tries to pursue them and mostly just annoy said reader until he finds out they aren’t fluent in English >x<
Or something like that?? Idk sorry if this doesn’t make sense 🙏🙏
Anon, anon, are you living in my brain? I'm planning something like this for the next piece, but I have a ton of stuff to do for uni▪︎~▪︎
A broken moka pot, three elite soldiers in the dog house, one thing leads to another. Good thing Simon isn't here.
The three of them were huddled on the far corner of the couch. The farthest from the glaring beast currently occupying their house. You’d herded them there with a single, venomous look.
“Ach, fer fuck’s sake, it was a pot! A wee, metal pot!” Johnny finally broke the silence, throwing his hands in the air. “It’s seen worse than a bit o’ dishwasher soap!”
You slowly turned your head. “Three generations, MacTavish. Three. That moka has more honor in its little spout than you have in your entire kilt-wearing repertoire. Next time you decide to take your call sign too seriously, you will be the one hanging out with the Jet-Dry!”
“Look, we’re sorry about the… criminal offenses.” The other sergeant gestured vaguely towards the trash can where his decimated cologne collection lay entombed. “But was the ‘Trench’ really necessary for the bin?”
You shifted, a dull throb in your abdomen making you wince. “Kyle, love of my life, I swear to God I almost got an allergic reaction from the amount of alcohol in those bottles. And don’t get me started on the captain’s cigars. Smoking inside the house in the big 2025, ladies and gentlemen!”
Price grumbled, arms crossed over his broad chest. He was still digesting the loss of his Cubans. “A man can't even grieve these days.”
You offered him a creepy smile. “Would you like me to fetch the pain simulator, captain?”
He visibly paled, a muscle in his jaw twitching. The memory of him curled on the floor, swearing he could feel his ovaries exploding, was still fresh for everyone.
A collective sigh passed through the group. Ghost’s name was a silent prayer on all their lips. Lucky bastard, deployed and safe from the monthly tyranny.
“Right,” Soap whispered, slumping back into the cushions. “We’ll just sit here then, hen.”
“Wise choice, Johnny. You're so smart.” You beamed, pulling a heated pad over your belly.
None of them dared to talk. They knew better. Nature had created a monster, and for one week a month, it was their cross to bear.
Lt. <3: Objective secured. All good at home?
Johnny: Fucken' alien possessed our birdie, Si. Plz save us 🙏
A persistent, insufferable one, at that. You were convinced, down to your very soul, that the man got a kick out of winding you up. 100% sure of it. The Scotsman, bless his heart, had been far too enthusiastic that his stoic lieutenant had taken any kind of interest in you. So, of course, he’d handed over your number like it was a shared coupon.
And the skull-masked bastard had been pestering you ever since. Who would have thought the brooding giant would turn out to be such a menace?
Unknown:
...
2:17
Go to sleep, birdie.
3:40
Then, a poorly-lit photo of a particularly hideous insect with the caption:
Reminds me of you. Screechy when I stepped on it.
18:29
You’d nearly thrown your phone across the room.
But his harassment went beyond the digital. He had a knack for materializing in the space between one breath and the next. You were in the beverage aisle, contemplating whether you wanted to buy one carton of chocolate milk or a dozen.
"Chocolate milk, kid?" A gravelly voice commented. "What are you, five?"
You choked on nothing, spinning around, heart hammering against your ribs. The aisle was empty. You were completely alone. A ghost, in every sense of the word.
Another day, you were wrestling with a stubborn, flat tire on your bicycle, grease smudged on your cheek. From over the fence, Simon’s voice called out, but the words were all wrong. "Your tire looking mighty flat down there, not gonna do anythin' 'bout it?"
Your head snapped up. He was nowhere to be seen. You glared at the empty space, your hands curling into fists. Had the man moved in just to torment you?
You finally broke and brought it up to Johnny, your voice—the one you’d decided was for him and him alone—was a frustrated whisper as you helped him weed his little patio garden. "Your… Simon… he… he messages me. All the time. About nothing. Or to… to mock me."
Johnny didn't look surprised at all. "Aye, he's a right nuisance, isnae he?" He tossed a handful of dandelions into a bucket. "Consider it enrichment, luv. He doesnae get out much. Cannae have him forgettin’ how tae talk tae pretty birds he likes."
You huffed, unsatisfied. Liking. Is that what it was?
So you bore it. You bore the texts and the disembodied taunts and the way his presence seemed to suck all the air out of a room. You bore it for Johnny, just 'cause you were weak for the sergeant. But you drew a line in the sand. Only Johnny would hear your voice. It was a privilege, a gift few received. Simon Riley and his looming shadow could go to hell.
(You didn't say that out loud.)
Wrong tactic. The poking and prodding intensified. He sent you a photo of an unopened tea bag on Johnny's counter and an ugly doodle of your face next to it.
Yours. Missed you at breakfast.
Your heart almost skipped a beat. No. Nope. You were not falling for that brute. It didn't matter they came in a package, you only favored the Scottish half!
Stood up for yourself, good puppy, Ghost's dark eyes tracked your every flustered move from behind his mask. But I can't let y'off the hook if you ignore me, can I?
How else was he supposed to get you to break the lease on your apartment and finally, finally, come live with him and Johnny?
