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sinew | kyle garrick x reader
august update: i'm currently doing a 1k followers drabble challenge. all completed drabbles can be found here.
ao3 | gabadrabbles | headcanons
browse:
🗂️ by character
» kyle garrick
» john price
» simon riley
» john mactavish
🗂️ by mood
🗂️ by length
🗂️ by non-white readers
🗂️ by non-cis fem and/or straight readers
🗂️ by misc fics
» you don't know me | ??? | ao3
🗂️ by multi-character series
» another round with the boys
» summoned
and congrats on 1000! you deserve the world and i love your writing so much. i just want to print your fics out and chew on the paper
thank you, chew away! you rolled simon riley + nature (watery) + childhood friends + a character is tempted.
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night swim
tags: gender-neutral reader.
"Come in, loser." You splash at Simon's boots planted on the patio.
"No."
"You're gonna make me swim alone?" Simon could laugh at that; you've never cared about doing anything by yourself, least of all swim in your family's pool at night. You suck your teeth, interrupting his thoughts. "Tch. Not the Riley I knew."
The Riley you knew — roughed up and fucked up, cowing like a beaten dog anytime anyone in your family even looked at him sideways. Never you. Your sarcastic layer to everything, your plain eyes always seeing right through him, finding the soft bits he was trying desperately to harden and cover up. Maybe, he thinks, you got him right in time before it was successful. Stuck your hand in the wet cement and left its imprint before it had time to dry; grandfathered in, you. It had taken you ages to convince him to swim about in your family's pool back then, and even then, he'd worn his t-shirt. Didn't want you seeing the ugliest parts of him.
"Riley I knew would cannonball in beside me and try to flip me over in this raft. Where's your sense of adventure gone?" You continue, singsongy.
He widens his stance and drops down his elbows to his knees, taking an inhale off his ciggie, watching you swan around the pool, your raft hitting edges and bouncing you gently back toward him.
"Think I left it behind at my last mission."
"Probably. Did you get to swim there?"
There had been an underwater portion.
He smokes instead of answering you, and you smirk. He's a shit liar with you, even under the darkened night lit only by the patio fairy lights strung up by your dad. You see it all. Always have.
"Any cute birds while you were stationed there?"
"Nah." He'd been in and out, no time to meet locals. Not that he would've kept an eye open for birds anyway. No point. "Break up with your pussy boyfriend yet?"
You shoot him a dirty look, which makes him snort a laugh. "He's not a pussy. He's just a bit posh."
"Right. And you needed me to fix your telly because he's, wot, 'a bit posh'?" He stubs out his ciggie under his boot, sweeping away the ashes to disperse them so your dad won't have to clean it up tomorrow. Taps the end of the ciggie to make sure it's out and sticks it in a pocket of his trousers.
"Shut up, Simon. You're the one too good to get in the damn pool."
He was just planning on popping by for a short visit — you'd texted to say you were round your folks' for the weekend, if he's nearby, he should come say hi — and then leaving again, not getting roped into multiple cuppas by your mum, and now a night swim.
But he hates to see you gloat. Win. In short order, he's dropped trou and unlaced his boots, pulling his t-shirt over his head.
Cannonballing in, loud and abrupt, sending your raft hurtling across the pool from the impact.
Then he's coming for you, and you laugh when you see him dive under. He surfaces where there's a gap in the floatie, right under you — better than surfacing out of water to a potential sniper blasting his fucking skull wide open — and you yell at him but it's no use. You try to bat at him through the floatie material. Both his hands grip on either side of the raft as he begins to tip you one way then the other.
"Fuck off," you shout right as he tips one side severely, sending you plunging into the warm evening water.
You try to swim away, but he's faster, and his hand latches around your ankle, feeling how smooth and slippery you feel underwater, yanking you toward him. Grabbing at your waist and feeling that low pinch of heat inside him.
When you both surface, you swim to the edge. "Big fucker."
He laughs and treads water; efficient, no energy wasted. Wipes excess water off his face.
"I broke up with him," you throw out out plainly, quiet almost, and it takes him by surprise. You'd been dating that tosser for better part of two years now.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He swims a little closer. Wishes his fingers were around you or a ciggie.
"I was thinking about it. And it turns out, I'm fucked. I have a type." You deliver this matter-of-factly, bored, your regular attitude back on display.
"Wot's that then? Moppy haircuts with jobs that don't matter?"
"Shut up."
"Go on then."
"Big fuckers with stupid faces and stupider personalities. Ones that leave for ages and don't text when they return. Ones that can fix a telly, apparently."
The hot bolt of surprise hits his belly, then lower, and he stares at you. Gauging whether this is another dumb joke. But your face is open and truthful, even with your light airy words.
"Ones that bring round takeaway to my folks when I'm not here, apparently," you continue saying, staring back at him. Floating closer all the while. "Ones that swim when I tell them to."
He scoffs, the laugh betraying everything electric in his body, and he is close to you now, your bodies floating in the dark pool, limbs nearly brushing up against one another. "Yeah? Meet loads of these big fuckers, do ya?"
Your fingers, pushed deep and finding the sweetness, the ache, buried by years of rubble. Your eyes, seeing it this whole time.
This is such a cool and fun idea! Congrats on 1k!! ❤️ 2, 6, 4, 61 😘
thank you! you rolled kyle garrick + nature (woodsy) + opposites attract + a character gets set up on a date.
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forces of nature
tags: gender-neutral reader.
"Goddammit," you mutter to yourself as you lock your car and head over to the man waiting at the trailhead. "Jesus, fuck."
He's cute. More than cute, really. Incredibly hot and a head full of beautiful teeth. A catalog model of a man, and you feel like your stomach was going to curdle up and slide out your ass for how mismatched you immediately feel next to him.
Your stupid dentist setting you up on this stupid date, sight unseen. "He's a sweetie. Somehow not dating anyone. I think he's a consultant?" You'd rolled your eyes but texted the guy, Kyle, anyway. What was one more mediocre date?
He watches you approach and you can't even look him in the face, but before your eyes drop, you see his eyes widen in what looks like pleasant surprise, a warm smile on his face. Showing off your dentist's pride and joy.
"Hiya," he leans down and offers his hand to shake, which almost makes you laugh. His palm is huge and warm, cups you gently with a nice pressure. "You look cute."
"Oh," and you're stupidly breathless before anything's even begun because he's given you a basic-ass compliment. Completely undone by a stupid-hot man.
"Shall we?" He gestures for you to lead the way, though you know fuck-all about hiking, it can't be too difficult.
—
Were it not for Kyle, you'd have gotten yourself lost. Were it not for Kyle, you would've likely starved or dehydrated yourself into a little desiccated corpse along the edge of the trail.
And two and a half hours in — when you thought this was a one-hour-total loop — you're panting furiously and your nerves and politeness have dehydrated along with your throat. "Who the fuck takes someone on a hike for a first date?"
Kyle laughs easily, because everything he does is easy. Doesn't even look like he's goddamn sweating, and it makes you bitchier when you see it. "Not the outdoorsy type?"
"God, no. I like to go out for drinks. Maybe walk around the city before getting a ride back. Order in delivery and watch bad 80s movies. The most outdoorsy I get is an outdoor patio. With a drink."
"Fair play. Play any sports?"
You're silent long enough for him to glance at you so he can see your withering stare. "Listen, Kyle. If you wanna talk about horror movies or where to find good bún bò huế, then sure. But I just don't think we're compatible. Right? Is that a shitty thing to say?"
He stops mid-stride, bringing you up short. You plant your hands on your hips.
"You're so cute. Why would us being compatible about those things matter?"
"Are you for real?"
He holds out his hand, a finger lifting with each point as he begins. "You've told me that you don't want kids. You like to travel. Close with family, but not obsessively close. Hate the cold, prefer a beach to a mountain. Like to have alone time during the week. Have I gotten anything wrong?"
"No." Your eyebrows are knitted down tight.
"Right. So where it matters…?" And he lifts his eyebrows and gestures for you to finish his dumb question.
"We might match. But I don't ever want to hike again."
He laughs and steps closer to you, setting your nerves back to a low simmer. He gently places his hands around your jaw and tilts your face up. "Where it matters, we match." And the kiss is sweet, granola-earthy, and has your molars grinding when he slips back from you. "We're nearly at the car park, anyway. Get movin'. We'll get you that drink."
light bit of gabagool lore for ya, but just like i can pick up on canadian accents in tv + film very easily, i can also quickly tell if a song is christian within a few seconds lol.
and i think a distant neighbour is blasting christian music, because (1) i don't recognize a single fucking song they've played, and (2) popular worship music apparently still bears the same telltale patterns from the early 2000s, in which the back half of the songs are endlessly repetitive of some emotional turn of phrase/chorus to manufacture very specific and necessary feelings out of the congregation lol (aka make you cry, repent, lift your arms, etc.)
which is not something i consciously noticed or remembered about that genre of music until hearing it now, lol.
You wave your hand at the customer service voice that the hotel night desk agent is giving you. "Fine, yeah, whatever." Kyle can see the exhaustion lining under your eyes. It's been one thing after another today — your plane stalling (twice), your one carry-on bag getting tangled in the scanning machine, and your work laptop password giving you issues. Arriving to the hotel and finding out that the very separate rooms that should've been booked by admin back at the office somehow got fumbled and consolidated into one room with one bed. You sigh heavily. "Do you have a cot at least, so he can…?" You gesture vaguely in Kyle's direction.
The clerk's face is hesitant, which means the answer is likely no. They make a quick phone call and deliver the bad news, and Kyle watches you just laugh, near hysteria now that it's past midnight.
You don't have to say anything scathing to the clerk; they know you're fuming. "Can we have some extra linens sent to the room then?" And you're off with the keycard, leaving Kyle in your wake to follow you into the elevator.
"Fucking brilliant," you mutter over and over under your breath as you pace to the room. The relief of finally making it into the (albeit) shared hotel room does seem to lift your spirits slightly, especially when housekeeping delivers loads of linens shortly thereafter.
"Right," you start. "Mind rolling them up? We can wedge them in between."
Sighing a bit to himself, Kyle obeys, maneuvering the biggest linens into a long tubular roll to be squished between the two of you. As he works it into a shape you'll be fine with, you disappear into the washroom for awhile, emerging in clean pajamas and long wet hair. "All yours."
You're not the shy type, not skirting around in shadows to keep yourself hid from him. You're just coworkers on a business trip stuck in a bad situation, but nothing you can help at this late hour; you put your side of the bed to rights how you like it, plugging things in, sending off texts, and are laid out with the telly on when Kyle emerges, freshly showered.
"You wear a sweatshirt to bed?" You ask suspiciously.
He laughs lightly. "Only packed polos and dress shirts. Not exactly proper sleepwear."
You scoff a laugh. "Want anything on?"
"Nah, you're good." He stretches out his legs, groaning pleasantly from the stretch, mindful to keep his feet well on the side of the big tube.
You do the same, which surprises him. There's just a bit of your face and hair that he can see over the top of your tube, but when he turns his face, you detect it and face him. "Took an edible before my shower. Needed to calm the fuck down."
He gives you an easy laugh then folds his arms behind his head, eyes staring at the telly but not really seeing. Smelling the shampoo you used; must've brought your own travel-size. Picturing your body again under your two-piece pajama set. Kyle's proper thankful for the tube; blocks you from figuring out why he suddenly starts shifting a little more.
He must doze off, or maybe both of you do. The telly's off now, the room pitch black like a good hotel room is, and he can hear your hitched breathing closer. It takes him awhile to rouse himself out of his sleep, and stretches out again, this time hitting your shoulder. The tube gone; pushed halfway down the bed. You inhale sharply and in that way you can tell, he knows you're awake.
"Is it a cliche if we kissed?" You ask quietly.
He feels gummy in the head when you lean over and plant your warm, sleepy mouth over his. It's a slow, unhurried kiss, full of breaths and realization, deepening as the heat steeps into it. He slopes his hands down over your pajamas, up underneath to your bare skin, and he mutters "Fuck" into your neck, and he can feel you shudder under his grasp. He dips his fingers low between you and nudges your legs apart; you part like water, letting him in, letting his fingers play over the cotton until you're roiling like the sea in the bed. He can feel your frothy wet even though the pants and he groans deeply, roughly, and sets his fingers rubbing at your clit. "C'mon. You wanna come?"
You nod feverishly, and he knocks your face up with his to catch your mouth in another hot kiss as your orgasm plows through you, stealing all focus and finesse from your end of the kiss, loud breaths and pants that has his cock rock-hard. He rubs at you over and over until you pull his hand away, done for now.
A shared laugh at the absurdity. Where you are, where you've come from.
"Cliche for a reason, s'pose," Kyle throws out and you laugh, boneless and finally content.
thank you! you rolled john mactavish + author's choice of location + sibling's best friend + a knock at the door.
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occupied
tags: 18+, explicit sexual content, oral (f receiving) and surprise squirting, secret hookup.
"Don't stop, don't stop—"
His hands, hairy and prominently veined enough to please a nurse, clamp onto your thighs, his fingertips digging deep and bruising into your fat. You can see it in his eyes, vivid blue, the frantic eagerness, under you.
"Don't stop," you intone lower, panting harsh. You lean down a little and grab ahold of his stupid haircut — you can't believe he's had it for over ten years now — gripping as tight as you can until his eyes squeeze shut in blissed-out discomfort. The man's run drills that would make you curl up and die; he can handle his mohawk getting used as a handle for riding his face.
His tongue works at you steadily, but he's so eager, you can feel his hips start to jump up behind you, humping the air in your bedroom. You stare down and see when he's about to separate from your clit to say something, classic like, so you yank his hair harder.
"Keep going. I'm close." You knock your legs in tight against his body, squeezing everything to tense up, so close, so fucking—
"Johnny? Ye in there? Whit ye doin'? Havin' a wank durin' Granda's party? Git on wit' it, ye fuckin' spoon."
You ease off, letting him breathe. "Get fucked, Sarah! Ah'm on the fuckin' phone!" He yells, and you feel as if you're back in college listening to these two fight like banshees.
You hear one of your very best friends mutter and wander away from the knobby, painted-over door, and try not to acknowledge that you're in Johnny's childhood bedroom, tucked upstairs in the smallest room, his tongue on your cunt while everyone celebrates his granddad outside on the lawn.
Johnny listens for very specific sounds he would've been attuned to since wanking age, and then promptly fastens himself back under you. "Can ye cum fo' me, hen?"
"I dunno," you say, rolling your hips back and forth teasingly. "Should try harder."
A weasely groan barrels out of him and his hips under and behind you thrust up helplessly. "Fuck me, would ye please just marry me already. Ye're so bloody fit an' ah cannae—"
Hands in hair again, refocusing his energy. Mouth to cunt. Lashing and laving until your orgasm is pulled up and over you, and you're hissing "oh fuck" as you squirt all over his beard and neck, down to the collar of his nice dress shirt.
You're both stunned and your thighs are quaking on either side of his head before you try to roll away from him.
"Marry me," he pleads wetly.
You wriggle out of his clamp, or rather he lets you, and you start digging in his somewhat-musty dresser drawer for a spare shirt. "I'll think about it. Now go wash your fucking face so you don't smell like cunt when you go downstairs."
thank you! you rolled john mactavish + author's choice of location + fake relationship + a character needs to lie.
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patron
tags: johnny uses fem terms to describe reader, but no gender is given. reader is being followed by a stranger.
"Doin' alright here, lass?"
"No, actually," you hiss at the Scottish bartender frantically, setting down your bag on the bartop and pulling yourself up onto the stool. "A fuckin' creep's been following me and I think he's followed me in here." You whip your head around to see if the man's emerging from around the host's stand off in the main area of the pub. "Can you please help me?"
Better than hiding in the washroom.
The man's eyes, dark blue and energetic, suddenly seem to flatten and dull instantly. "Aye. Stay put." A tension that hadn't been there seconds ago grips him, and it's as if his shoulders and chest grow brawnier, the muscles under his tight t-shirt flexing. He runs a big hand through his shaggy dark hair, and over his beard. "Ye're okay?"
"Fine," you whisper, although no, not really. Your adrenaline is through the roof and sweat's pooled in every crease and crevice on your body. Home seems so fucking far away.
"Yer usual okay?" He asks, his volume cranked so much louder, and you stiffen when you see his eyes sweep up, dead-steady, to somewhere behind you.
"Uhh."
"Lookin' so pretty today, hen." You watch as his face flickers from solemn into an expression that's overly familiar, his cool eyes heating up as they wash over you. He notices your expression — confused, startled — and keeps it on, letting you process. He grabs you a bottle of water from somewhere below, and passes it you, making sure his hand slides warmly over yours. "How was work then?"
"Good. Good."
You just stare into his eyes, mesmerized by this calm performance, trying to match your breathing to his pace. He fills a glass of some beer and hands it to you, and there's a tiny infinitesimal head shake when your fingers start to reach for your bag.
"Did my mam ring ye yet?" He leans over the bartop, thankfully looking clean and not sticky, his arm muscles flexing thick, his hands coming up and covering yours. "She said she'd be callin' tae git yer measurements for the dress. Ye're gonna look so bonnie."
The concentration of his affection has you smiling despite the situation, shy and uncomfortable.
He squeezes his hand over your folded pair.
"Whit can ah git ye, pal?" His voice is serious again, cooled significantly. You feel a presence move deeper into the room, a shuffling of feet of someone not quite knowing what to do next.
"Ah, nothing…for now. I'll just—"
And you can feel the man come up to the stool to the left of you.
Your 'boyfriend' raises to his full height and glares to your left, slightly behind you. "Ye mind, pal? Havin' a moment wit my sweet girl."
You hear the man hem and haw. He really doesn't want to leave you alone, or be separated from you.
To you, the bartender shoots you a private, boyfriendly smile. "Come round, hen." He grabs your water bottle, beer, and bag, and ushers you around the length of the bartop until you're floating through a swinging door into the employee backroom. "Stay put in here til ye need tae go, an' ah'll bring ye where ye need tae be." He whirls around briefly until he finds a shabby piece of paper. "Menu. Pick whit ye want tae eat in the meantime. Ah'll git rid o' yer nuisance an' be back."
You sit at the plastic folding table, looking around the crowded room, picking at your nails. All of a sudden, minutes later, his head pops through the door and his eyes are lively again. "Name's Johnny, by the way."
me thinking the odds of soap, the character i write the least and struggle writing the most, being picked on the roll-table were somehow mathematically lower than 25%.
kyle garrick
» après-midi tropicale | nature (water) + love at first sight + characters go on a trip together
» cliche | work + only one bed + a bed/room has to be shared
» forces of nature GN | nature (woodsy) + opposites attract + a character is set up on a date
john mactavish
» easy work GN | work + power imbalance + something goes wrong at work
» patron | author's choice of location + fake relationship + a character has to lie
» occupied | author's choice of location + sibling's best friend + a knock at the door
simon riley
» night swim GN | nature (water) + childhood friends + a character is tempted
thank you! you rolled john mactavish + work + power imbalance + something goes wrong at work. (johnny would call this combo of rolls divine providence lmfao)
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easy work
tags: 18+. explicit sexual content. gender-neutral reader. submissive soap
"would you just fucking listen."
you've told him so. many. goddamn. times. explained it. showed him a video. sent emails and messages about it and handmade (by you) faqs.
and he still didn't fucking listen. why would he though? he's got you, his lovely sweet assistant, to yank him back from the edge of his errors. it drives you insane; he can be ruthless and meticulous about his own work, but the stuff you work on? the things that make your life easier? he couldn't be bothered. and the mistakes are careless, that's the worst part of it. there's always something that needs to be sent back, another digital signature that needs to be re-applied because he fucked up something on the previous version.
but thinking all that, whilst glaring at the back of his stupid head, is very different from saying it out loud.
which you've done, quite loudly, quite clearly. to his face.
"whit did ye say?" he tilts his head and his eyebrows don't move for a beat, but something shark-like moves behind those electric eyes.
your hands come up in horror to clap over your mouth. "oh my god, i'm so sorry, john. please, i'm so sor—"
"repeat it."
you shake your head, feeling the anxiety drip through. you are going to lose your fucking job all because you couldn't keep your temper on a least. assistant work is explaining simple processes to people who make double or triple your salary and you just have to smile through it. it pays (paid?) the bills.
"john, i am so embarrassed, i don't know wha—"
he positions himself so that he's between you and the desk. "repeat it, ah said. come on, hen."
your eyebrows cock down in confusion. "what?"
then you see it: the wedge of fabric, tented, in his dress trousers. his hands aren't completely folded over it, but there's plausible deniability with how his arms are positioned. the scene rearranges itself in your head — he doesn't look angry at all. the intensity in his voice is not upper management belligerence, but…smoky heat.
"if…if i can just show you how…"
"no," he shakes his head, and runs his tongue along his teeth impatiently. "repeat what ye said."
in any other office right now, it would be like a dog being forced to look at its mess on the floor. but here, in the suddenly-cramped four walls of john mactavish's office, you don't feel like you're being made to confront an error.
you're fulfilling a wish.
"i said," you start shakily, seeking his eyes, to see he means it. "i said to fucking listen."
his big palm descends a little, rubs at his lap. "yeah? ah'm not a good listener?"
your breathing is fast and pitchy in your chest. "sometimes, no."
"an' ye get frustrated wit' me?" his palm knots into a fist and he rolls it over his hard-on. your eyes fall to it and he lets out a soft moan when he sees it.
"sometimes," you breathe out. you inhale, rallying yourself together. it can't be a trap. "sometimes, you fucking piss me off."
a stringy moan comes out of his broad chest, and you're left just staring at this man. the office clown at times, serious about his work, a "chatty cathy" that distracts most people from finishing their work, and now…hard as a fucking rock at being spoken down to by you.
"can ah…?" and his fist opens gingerly over his lap. can he keep going.
you really want to see his cock. the ache is low inside you, bubbling and thorough. judging by the glassy look in his eyes, there'll be repeat offenses of this.
"no. you need to finish what you started." you point at his opened laptop.
"fuck—" he moans, removing his hands without hesitation, the agony all over his pretty face.
"and fix your fucking mistakes."
you leave his office, a cheshire cat grin curling up over your face as you hear him nearly sob.
congratulations on your very much deserved 1k followers !!! if i can participate in your event, the dice i rolled were 2, 7, 8, 37 ! congratulations once again and thank you so much for sharing your talent and writings with us <3
thank you! you rolled kyle garrick + nature (water) + love at first sight + characters take a trip together.
-
après-midi tropicale
tags: fem reader, fat reader
"Bloody hell, Mum, she's perfect."
"You haven't even spoken to her, you numpty."
"Weren't necessary. 'sides, I know you'll be eagerly tellin' all the aunties about the day your darling boy rang you and told you he met his future wife."
Kyle's mum ends the call, leaving him in silence. All the more time to think and prepare, then fantasize about the type of bikini you'll be wearing today, how your dimpled flesh is gonna look squeezed out around the tight fabric. Fuck, he wants to bite down into you, wrestle you into submission, push you under the waterfall you're all gonna trek to see today. Maybe he'll get his hands around your thighs, offer to play chicken with some of the other lads and girls, hoist you up so your fat thighs can envelope his head. He'll be too tempted to bite down then.
Easy, mate, easy. Nice and steady.
Hours later, the waterfall is as lovely as the guide promised. Kyle watches your mouth fall open in amazement, snap a few photos with a cute look of concentration, and then try to get a few selfies.
"Need a hand?"
You're a bit shy with him, not quite what his energy is when it comes to you. After all, he's one of the only ones you haven't met before this trip, and you've caught his eyes twinkling at you a few times already. You've probably chalked it up to Kyle being a sociable, affable lad. That's true. But you're the only one that makes him feel like there's a gnawing, starving pit in his stomach that only a cute, big, soft girl will fill.
You're uncomfortable with him offering to lift you up when he suggests playing chicken, but birds like you really underestimate him. He shows you. Shows you what his torso and legs and arms can lift up, keep up in the air, for as long as he needs to. You're breathless and awkward and unsure, and he makes sure to squeeze your legs tight, give you a little slap on the side of the hip when you knock two opponents over. Your uncertainty breaks through to soft laughter and when he hoists you down, he makes sure there's a moment where he dives under the cool, rushing water with you and lets his hands slide over you. Sees your eyes pop open as you surface from the water like a sexy mermaid.
He laughs to himself later, lacing up his hiking trainers after drying off, readjusting his half-hard cock in his shorts. To think, he nearly said no to this trip.
schoolyard | simon riley x reader au | 1k words | ao3
part 5 of the YARD series.
backyard | graveyard | shipyard | junkyard
tags: cis-fem reader. fluff, no sexual content. school janitor x teacher reader.
he spies you outside your classroom at the far end of the grade three to five hall, hair scooped up off your neck where long tendrils have escaped, your arms held high up in the air, a bright orange whistle held up to your lips. your eyes wide and challenging in a silent 3-2-1 countdown as you stare down at the jumpy kids in front of you, before their chaos slowly, unwillingly reduces to a simmer.
you make a whirling motion, and suddenly, all the kids start marching — quickly, wanting to outpace their friends despite needing to stay together — in his direction. he's got his mini pylons set out so they avoid where he's up on a ladder, perched to inspect a pipe making the wrong sounds. last thing he needs is a pile of kids slamming into the ladder and sending him to a fucking physio again this year.
"say hi to mr. simon," you say brightly and pointedly to the mass of them, and a chorus of disjointed voices all yell — mostly kids goofing off — "hi, mr. simon!"
you shoot him a quick smile as you pass by the ladder, and some of the grade four girls who've turned to say something to you catch it. simon's hearing a bit shit but kids are terrible at keeping quiet, so he overhears a couple of the girls start whispering about how you "were staring at mr. simon!"
if you hear them, you ignore it.
—
the girls have spread the word throughout your class, and being a small school, every time you cross paths with him, a student seems to be nearby with eyes peeled and a knowing smile, eager to run back and report it to the class.
he's overheard a couple of the kids talking very seriously one day about whether you had a boyfriend or not. but she doesn't wear a ring! when they noticed him approaching with his key ring jangling, they scattered off, giggling and shrieking.
kids respect him — hard not to with his build and voice — but you, they love. a natural warmth and goodness shines out of you, even on your hardest day. he's watched you crouch down in your cute little outfits and comfort crying kids, watched you separate a fight in the schoolyard and break it up before the principal came over, watched you make the kids laugh and cringe when you kept asking them about tiktok slang.
—
an assembly that he's been asked to attend, strangely.
he lopes in and stands off against the gymnasium wall and finds himself next to you, feeling like the troll who wandered out of the mountain to stand beside the fair maiden.
the gym is chaotically noisy, but even so, his eyes fall upon your clutch of kids, who are all moon-faced looking up at the two of you.
they present him an award, and when he comes back to lean against the wall — wanting to disappear out into the halls instead — you tip your shoulder over to his. "lemme see."
he shows you the dinty little trophy. says his name and everything.
"congratulations," you smile warmly at him, knocking him a bit.
he doesn't look at the kids.
—
school year's ending, and like usual, the year-end school fair is the big to-do. he's been run ragged the past two weeks, helping to prepare for it and make last-minute fixes.
he decides to pop by for a walkthrough, given it's days before summer break and all that.
he finds you taking food orders, and you laugh when you take his order. "i'm off any second. wait for me out back?"
he sits on a low wooden bench in the gymnasium until he sees you clear out, leaning on his knees and watching the squirreliest kids run around after drinking loads of pop, their parents looking knackered already, then makes his way out the exit door into the fresh summer air.
you pass the bbq where a couple volunteers are grilling up burgers and hot dogs.
"hey, wanna sit over there?" you point to a bench in the schoolyard. kids are running around, trying to find friends and chasing down dollars from their parents, and simon walks you over to sit.
"tired yet?" he asks with a low laugh, biting into his cheeseburger.
you hum, and wave at a couple kids. "gettin' there. last push and then it's over. feels like it was just september."
you chat a bit, continuously keeping a hand open to wave or point at other teachers or assistants or students. everyone happy to see you.
he holds out the carton of fries, and you take one, then say, "oh, hi!" as a gaggle of her grade four girls rock up to the bench, looking like a proper street gang for their unified approach. bit like they want to give simon a piece of their minds.
"'ello," he says to them simply.
"we have a question for you," the ringleader says directly to you. "do you have a boyfriend?" the other girls scream-laugh and hide behind her.
you laugh openly, your mouth posed in surprise. "oh, that's your question for me?"
the girls can't even answer, their giggles overtake them.
"i do have an answer for you, but i'm gonna have to ask my friend, mr. simon, here for a bit of help in answering that."
the girls whip their faces up and stare, confused.
when you stand up from the bench, there's no immediate change, but then you position your arm so it bands slightly under your softly swelling tummy. you turn back and hold out your other hand for simon, that warm joyful smile on your face, and when he stands, you slide your hand into his waiting one.
"you've already met him."
the screams that follow properly deafen simon further, but your laugh is sweet and infectious, and it feels good to finally hold your hand, walking through the school and letting everyone know that he's yours.
