#butcher ghost

[gomzdrawfr]

My take on Butcher Ghost

[link]

[secretmattshroom]

no because wait, I need more butcher Simon being a doggy

but this time, make it cannibalism too

Simon working at the butcher shop that Reader owns, killing the pretty customers that come in (the ones that spill their life stories so easily, are so lonely, so far from home)

Simon making wonderful meals for his owner, and is rewarded with their bones, sometimes with meat still on them, for him to chew on until he loses interest

-🦴

There's a large dog bed in the waiting area But the customers never see a dog.

It's Simon's. Of course it is.

He sits in it, chewing on bones and watching you clean up his mess.

The first time he had wandered into your shop you told him about how badly you wanted a dog. He came back with a collar around his neck the same night.

You have to punish him sometimes, though. You keep loyal customers alive. The ones who live around town, frequent the shop. Si gets confused though, might struggle to tell the product from the customer.

You put him over your lap and spank him silly, making his wear a muzzle the next day. It's humiliating, the customers who know what he does, who is he, watching him he reduced to a pup. He has to chew on plain old cow bones that night :(

[saintquincy]

Wolf | Part Eleven: Do you not have manners?

Previous | Series | AO3 | Next

You get an invitation you don't know how to refuse. complete tags + cws an: i'm sorry but i am going to have to change the tags after this chapter...but let's be real, if you read my other fics you know i am a one trick pony, and the one trick is 141 x reader

You were used to seeing John at the far end of the bar, occasionally accompanied by the butcher, but never before had you seen the butcher alone. Today was the first time you saw the hulking shadow of a man hunched over the rear booth, sipping whiskey alone. You would have continued to ignore him the way he had ignored you any time you had seen him around the village and tried to say hi, but you caught him staring, gaze heavy, those honey brown eyes snaring you.

When he nods his head towards the empty space in the booth you look to your right and left, certain there was no way he was inviting you to sit with him. You still hadn't even officially met, most of your interactions were him grunting at you when you came in to pick up scraps and sometimes splurging on fresh cuts of meat for yourself. You would whisper his name to yourself, Simon, like it was a secret. Like he was some kind of fae being, his name giving you some kind of power over him.

However, it very much seems to be the other way around because all it took was a roll of his eyes and a crooked finger pointing in your direction for you to be slipping off the barstool you had claimed for yourself, grabbing your pint with one hand, jacket in the other, and walking towards the back of the bar. Not a single word of instruction but you had understood the request implicitly.

It should be unsettling, it is unsettling.

You slide into the booth. The leather seats are smooth from use, the table top chipped in places, names carefully etched into the wood over the years, a few names sketched in with black marker. Most seem old, like the tabletop itself is a time capsule from an era long gone. An era before John had claimed this spot for his own.

"Hi," you hate the way your voice cracks as you say the word, but the man across from you has an air of intimidation that almost outweighs your curiosity.

The butcher, Simon, doesn't respond right away. He lifts his glass of whiskey with one scarred hand, crooked fingers holding it with far more delicacy than you would have expected from the man who butchered animals for a living. You try not to stare at his face, at the way the scar that bisects his lips twists as he takes a sip, certainly not at the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, his neck thick and muscular.

It wasn't a trait you had considered attractive before, but then again, you had never met a man like the butcher while you lived in the city. Simon is a rare treat, the kind that grows on your overtime like black licorice. The first taste is bitter, a shock to the system when you expect something sweet, but over time, nibble after nibble, you start to appreciate the licorice. It's still bitter, but there's something sweet there as well.

You weren't sure that there was anything sweet about the man that sat across from you, but he was also the first person to have invited you to join them at the pub, so there was that in his favor.

"You going to say something? Or are we just going to sit here in silence?" you finally snark, tired of squirming under the butcher's intense gaze.

He lets out a huff before rubbing a hand over his mouth.

"Thought ye might like some company."

It's a reasonable response, but the man makes no efforts to actually keep you company. He sits there, gaze occasionally finding yours before slipping back out across the bar.

"You waiting for someone?" you say, not one to just sit there in silence.

"Why'd ask?"

You roll your eyes, "you're watching the door."

"'s not that. Keepin' an eye out is all."

You shift in your seat, taking a look over the pub. It was a dreary day out, every new patron comes in wrapped up, shivering beneath overcoats, scarves and hats. You have even unearthed a heavy wool jacket from the attic to help keep away the chill. It was red with a hood, and you had felt very silly patting Soap goodbye that afternoon, the words its better to eat you with my dear playing over and over in your mind.

“So, how is the butcher business?”

He looks back towards you, face impassive. “Ye wanna know about dead animals?”

You scrunch up your face, “no way. I’m just trying to have a conversation. It’s what people do when they sit with each other. Don’t you and John talk when you sit back here?”

“First name basis are ye?”

“Well, he’s been to my cottage. Should I be calling him Mr. Price?"

“You spoken for?”

You can't atop the laugh that bubbles up, your hand coming up on instinct to cover your mouth when you cannot stop yourself. The sudden change in topic is jarring, the new direction unexpected.

“What’s this, the 1800s? Who says that?” you ask once you manage to stop laughing.

He merely shrugs.

“No, I'm not taken, if you must know. But don’t get any funny ideas, I’ve got an attack dog who will hurt you.”

When you had lived alone in the city you never had strangers over, the one time your landlord had sent a handyman to the flat you had left the door propped open the whole time. Yet, you had left two strangers into the cottage since being out here. Maybe there was something about the Highlands that made you forget every sense of self preservation you had. After the delivery man though, you were certain Soap would take care of anyone who tried anything untoward.

“Bloody ‘ell, I ain’t gonna try anything’ funny. If ye ain’t got a man, ‘ow about we got out?”

“Like a date?”

“That what the kids are callin’ it these days?”

You roll your eyes, this man. And yet, what do you have to lose, no one else has even chatted you up since getting here and it had been a while since you had seen any action. What was the harm in going on a date with the local butcher?

“Ha, ha, very funny. Also, very presumptuous of you to ask me out on a date when we don’t even know each other's names.”

Not exactly true because you did know his name, and it was highly unlikely that John hadn’t told him yours.

He leans forward, arm easily reaching across the table, offering you his hand. You take it, his fingers warm and rough as they encompass yours. You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you, testing the way it feels on his tongue before giving you his own.

"Simon," you say back, "nice to officially meet you."

“Is asking me out why you called me over?”

You still haven’t wrapped your head around this turn of events. The man who mostly grunted at you since your first visit, who was kind enough to give you scraps but his kindness hadn’t led to any idle chatter, no small talk about the weather, not even a welcome back, did you enjoy the steak?

“It’s a full moon tomorrow.”

“A full moon?”

“Know ye 'ave a habit of wonderin’ places ye shouldn’t be.”

“What’s the supposed to mean.”

He just shrugs in the infuriating way that makes you wonder what a date with him will even look like.

“Okay, weirdo, I’m getting another drink.”

You move to leave the booth, but Simon beats you to it.

“Oi, Mal! Another round f’r me and the bird.”

“Do you not have manners?” You hiss at him, frowning as Mal pours you a new beer.

“‘Ere ya go ya dumb fuck. Cannae be arsed tae get up,” Mal grumbles, the two drinks sat at the end of the bar.

You move to get up but Mal stops you.

“Nae, lass, if ‘e’s goan tae bother ya ‘e can get’em.”

Simon let out a quiet heh, heh before dragging himself out of the booth. From this angle he was massive, bigger than John, and bigger than he had appeared from behind the counter of the butcher shop.

“You’re a menace aren’t you?” you ask, taking a sip of your beer.

“Been called worst.”

The admittance doesn’t shock you. You wonder what his friendship with John is like. You’ve seen the two chatting back here, sometimes Simon even laughs, although few and far between, it does usually seem to be at his own joke, John shaking his head in response.

“So, the full moon, what am I looking out for? Scary beasties in the woods? Witches dancing naked around a clearing? Ghosts passing through the veil?”

"Folks 'round 'ere are proper serious about their superstitions. Beasties could be the least of yer problems."

You can't help but think about the wolf. Was it around the full moon when you first found him? Had you really already been here over a month? It felt both like no time had passed and at the same time like you had always been here. The faces at the pub were familiar to you, the routine of walking through the grocers, even the routine of picking up meat from the butcher. You had plans, plans for the cottage, plans for the spring, plans to call Kyle and ask him to come look at the roof. You were even working up the courage to ask him and John over for dinner as repayment.

"I'll take it under advisement."

It's not like you have plans for a jaunt through the woods, especially after how eventful your first was and if nothing els, it is frigid out. It wouldn't actually be much of an inconvenience to you to curl up next to the fire for the next couple of days.

"Could take ya out tomorrow night if yer free."

"That soon?"

There's no reason to say no, it's not like you have a thriving social life here. You love the pub and Mal, but a change of scenery would be nice.

"Aye, give me yer number I'll text ye the plan."

"Sure, but just so you know, if you turn out to be an axe murder or something and kill me on the full moon that means I am, for sure, coming back as a ghost to haunt you."

"Haunted by a pretty bird wouldn't be so bad."

You roll your eyes, passing your phone across the table, a new contact already opened with Simon's name. You pretend the compliment annoys you because you aren't ready to accept the way heat creeps up the back of your neck or settles low in your core, opting to cross your legs and ignore the feeling.

"Keep it up and you'll have to find someone else to murder on the full moon."

Previous | Series | AO3 | Next

[bussyyeukie]

Fresh Meat p.2

(butcher!simon x student!reader)

part one. part two.

Your shoes crunched under the loose branches and earth as you walked. It was a very familiar path you'd take nearly every day on your morning walks. The ground was hugged with fog and your hands were firmly in your pockets, the old lady you rented from had called you the other day. It wasn’t the first time you’d spoken to her but it was not something that happened often. She’d go quiet every now and then and you’d hear the shuffling of walkers and beeping of machines in the background. She’d repeat a question and then interrupt you mid answer.

Not that you minded, it was obvious she wasn’t all there and honestly you don’t think she could really hear that you were answering. After about 10 minutes of an old lady rambling and odd updates on her health, she’d asked you a favor. Suddenly much more coherent, she’d asked if you could keep her collection going. Bones, stones, dead things, bugs–that sort of collection. Said she’d hate to see the house lose its touch. Although you’d argue that most wouldn’t step foot inside that house if they knew what was in there.

It piqued your interest, you’d picked up a few things here and there on your morning walks but nothing big, and nothing remotely as interesting as what she’d already had in her home. But you agreed, it would give you something to do while you were job hunting and working on your classes work-load. Minorly (very) jealous when you’d been emailed a picture of your old dissection team working on a new body the lab got–everyone smiling and you had to close your computer for the rest of the day when you realized what a shut-in you'd become.

You’d hadn’t even been to your favorite butcher in two weeks, granted you’d not been cooking meals, mostly living off muffins and coffee and whatever you happened to leave on your bedside table. 

Warm breath huffing into the cold air, your heart hammering a little harder.

You've gone to the butcher once a week for about two months now. Not sure if you’d consider Simon a friend but he was close enough to one that you missed him. Of course the fact that he was a near perfect specimen to you didn’t help much, or that he listened to your ramblings, or that he gave you good cuts nearly free, or that he was hot. Really hot. 

Shaking your head of the thought you groaned, shouldn’t get those types of fantasies in your head, it never worked out well. Once you convinced yourself this boy in your class had a crush on you–turned out he was just spooked and thought you were freaky. He had obviously said no when you’d asked him out. Easy to tell you didn’t date much, and that experience didn’t help your confidence on the subject.

Glancing to your feet you paused your steps, holding a steady pace till now, following the trail that led through the woods behind your home. You spotted a nice femur of something. Almost polished clean, minus the dirt.

You pulled out a ziplock you had in your pocket and picked it up, the weight of it heavy in your palm. Glancing over it with a smile.

“I’m sure that old bat will figure out something with this,” you giggled to yourself. Then licked your lips as you looked around, only a few feet off the trail, very unworried about getting lost or anything like that. Plus you’d walked this path for months, surely you’d know where you were going at least a little bit. Stepping further off the trail you brushed your hand along the thick, mossy trees surrounding you. It was scary quiet except for you. 

For your light puffs of air, nose cold, for your shoes (socks now damp) crunching along the mud and the sticks forming the ground under your feet. The shifting of your clothing, fabric rustling against fabric.

Your eyes raked the ground, a few small bones lay before you but you were looking for something bigger, no use holding pocket space for a bunch of random mouse tibias and ribs.

Breath hitching slightly as you heard a loud snap around you. 

You perked up, head on a swivel, spinning slightly to look at your surroundings. Empty. Nothing but trees, not even a bird.

Licking your lips nervously you looked back to the ground–the trail was still within your vision–and you ventured further into the woods. Grinning when you come across a pelvis, not large enough to concern, and obviously not human the closer you got to it, long and narrow. It was dirty with the ground and the elements, but mostly clean from any gore that would’ve been leftover from a meal.

If you had to guess you’d say it's a deer pelvis, but you didn’t hunt, and you didn’t study animals. So it was really up in the air, but deer seemed like the best guess. 

You looked around to see if any other remnants of a meal laid around, possibly a spine or a few ribs. Tucking some hair out of your face with your free hand, turning your head to peek over your shoulder. The lingering feeling of eyes boring into you was something you couldn’t shake.

It felt, familiar almost, like something you’d experienced before, a weird sense of familiar dread leaking into your gut, dripping down the back of your throat as you expected hands to appear and the heavy feeling of them grabbing onto you.

A shudder ran through you at the thought, smacking your forehead with the butt of your palm to get it out of your head. 

“What the fuck brain,” you grumbled, voice incredibly clear in the air even when whispering, “Why would you think of that?”

Placing the pelvis gingerly in the bag you continued looking, thoughts drifting to Simon…

He would know what animal this came from, he’d probably be able to tell you anything about an animal you'd want to know, you thought about his butchering. The motion of his arm, the wide swing and the harsh collision. The way his muscles tensed and worked perfectly, generating so much power and the way his whole unit seemed to move with a sense of power. Everything he did commanded a sense of respect at the sheer size of him, like hunters not even bothering with a bear too big cause they know they won’t be able to kill it.

Simon was your bear, and you were the foolish deer who kept trying to drink from the stream it was hunting in.

Everytime you entered the shop it was like a heavy blanket fell on you, Simon’s eyes glued, you swore he didn’t blink until you left. Even if conversation was short and typically one sided he was enraptured by everything you said. You’d never seen anyone so engrossed in you.

In the back of your mind it concerned you. You’d never seen him angry but you were sure it was terrifying. The times you’d seen him actually irritated and not just annoyed were scary enough, loud voice snapping orders and meaty fists clenched and threatening. There was a shift in him, like a dog with it’s hackles up, or when a hound would let out a bark that was deeper than normal and put you on edge.

He’d pitched a fit last time you skipped a week, you couldn’t imagine the whining you’d hear this time.

Like a big baby, complaining and asking if someone kept you from coming in, or if something was wrong. Once he offered the meat free as if pricing was the issue, and said you could “Just bloody take the thing, free, if you’re gonna be petty about it…”

You’d rolled your eyes, pinky promising you wouldn't miss the next week, Simon’s cheeks turning peachy when your skin touched. You didn’t know he held his pinky for the rest of the day acting like it was your hand. 

You giggled at the memory, everyone in town thought he was this big stoic butcher but he was just like those big dogs you had as a kid who would whine about everything and just had to fall asleep cuddled up in a blanket with you. No real threat to anyone…well you thought so…

You paused, looking at the animal tracks in front of you, were they animal at all?

Brows pinching as you leaned down to look closer, they didn’t really look like animal tracks, but they definitely weren’t human. Now you didn’t know animals, but you knew enough to distinguish certain tracks–you’d gotten a guide to help you out in the woods. These tracks looked like nothing that was in that book. The fingers were almost too long, with weird claw marks, and the butt of the paw–you think it was a paw anyway–was animalish enough.

A weird stone sat in your stomach, your skin prickling with chills. You didn’t like this at all. Looking around cautiously, you stepped back, finding your way back to the beaten path. 

Jogging a little when you heard some movement in the still woods around you.

A shaky breath leaving you when your feet finally crunched against the path again. It was a safety line in your eyes. Shaking your head slightly and running a cold hand through your hair, beginning on the trek back home.

When you’d made it home, the house was warm and smelled of coffee, a very peaceful scene. Dropping your bag on the kitchen table as you shed some layers, a thin bit of sweat on your skin from the walk. Even with the chilled air surrounding you. The bones rattled against each other as you draped your jackets on the back of the kitchen chair. You started the water in the sink, turning it hot as it went. Letting it run as you rolled the sleeves of your sweater up and headed over to the table, passing by the window of the kitchen that opened to the backyard. Glancing at the thing looking over the fence as you passed the window. Just barely reaching over the fencing.

Hand outstretched to the bag on the table, you froze. Eyes staring at nothing as they widened. Backtracking, movements almost rusty, to the window, peeking out of it hesitantly. You swore you could hear your joints creaking as you moved.

Obviously you were just seeing things, a shadow that spooked you. 

But there was a pit in your stomach that made you second guess, for the life of you, you couldn’t identify what you’d peeked at as you passed. Looking through the window again, you saw nothing. A breath leaving you as you looked at the bare fence lining the yard, and the creatureless backyard. Rubbing your face, pushing hair back away from your forehead you walked back to the table.

“Jesus, I’m getting cabin fever or something,” you muttered to yourself looking at the screaming taxidermy coyote that was on a mount in the living room, which was only about ten feet from you, “What do you think? Is the Creature of the Woods gonna get me?”

You chuckled then let your face fall, snatching up the bag and grumbling.

“Great, now I'm talking to stuffed dead things…”

With a big huff, and your hands on your hips you turned on your heels and opened the cupboard by your feet, pushing around bottles and other cleaning supplies.

“Hm…” frowning a bit you tucked some hair behind your ears, and squinted, shifting on your knees, looking deeper into the cabinet, “Oh you gotta be kidding…”

Plopping back onto your heels and closing the cabinet. 

All out of hydrogen peroxide. You furrowed your brows as you stood, your knees were killing you honestly, creaking more each day. In this weird, freaky house you were being out of hydrogen peroxide. When you’d first moved in it was nearly stock piled.

Snatching up your coat and sloppily throwing it on as you shoved your phone and other such items into the pockets. Bumping the door open and closing it–it was a little tricky, cause you had to lift the handle a bit to get it to latch fully, jiggling the key into the lock.

A weird feeling took you over. The kind that made the hair on the back on your neck stand up and your stomach churn. You almost didn’t want to look behind you.

Turning the key forcefully, you turned around.

Nothing, there was nothing there, obviously there was nothing. What a silly thought to think something was behind you. The walkway up to the house is barren all for some leaves and the slightly overgrown grass.

Rubbing your face and sniffing and putting your keys back in your pocket.

You’d spent the last night watching ghost movies, and had spent the night looking up how spirits pass from one life to the next, and those who get stuck. Which was probably the reason you felt so watched. Not to mention you tended to look for things in places they weren’t.

Conjure up wild theories to things that have a simple explanation.

Many nights kept awake by stray noises, and unsettling dreams.

Even as a child, you were like this, so fascinated by things your mother had said were creepy and scary. Ghouls and creatures. Immersing yourself in the more grotesque side of things, the gory and the broken. Easily pushing yourself into the rabid, sick and the salivating jaws of the unknown.

Even surrounded by people who were interested in anatomy. You seemed to like it in a different way, often being the butt-end of a Frankenstien joke. Although if your masterpiece had been successful, if you’d reanimated a being, you wouldn’t abandon it. “Oh it’s too scary! I don’t like it anymore!” You rolled your eyes at the thought. That was your only critique of those jokes. Not that anyone really cared to listen.

You were sure if you’d been a boy, you’d be institutionalized at some point by your fascinations–you’d never hurt anything, killed animals and all that–but you were often written off as being a “different little girl” who had a vivid imagination.

Your hands snug in your pockets as you walked down the street, heading into town.

As you thought of the ghost stories you’d read up on last night, you wondered about the Creature the locals warned you about, you’d never really taken it seriously, since it was all a bunch of BigFoot type talk. Only a bit more frightening, talks of attacks in the 40’s and stuff like that. Not to mention BigFoot had been debunked in your eyes. Weird accounts of hunting incidents and missing animals.

You believed in that type of stuff, but not blindly. You were an academic afterall, you enjoyed the study and the proving of theories and such–and thinking of school made you think of your school, and your little dissection lab. You did miss it. It was where you’d spent most of your time, going in at early mornings and late nights when other teams requested your help.

Maybe you’d get into taxidermy or something.

“Maggie would like the new additions to her house i’d bet…” you muttered to yourself, giggling a bit. 

It wasn’t a long walk into town, but enough that you’d worked a bit of a sweat around your hairline and on your palms. Watching the townsfolk wander around the streets. Mothers coralling their children, couples hand in hand–swinging their arms, old folk with canes poking at things in their way. 

You turned a corner, heart skipping a beat as you recognized the road, the street the butcher shop was on. The thought of the shop always made your heart beat faster, the thought of seeing Simon excited you to an almost concerning level. Working yourself into a near frenzy typically with how giddy and anxious you’d become.

You didn’t see him on the street, your muscles tight with nerves. You hadn’t been this nervous around someone in a while–you just really wanted that lumbering butcher to like you.

He was the only thing close to a friend you had in this town.

As you get closer to the shop, you subconsciously slow your pace, still no sign on him. As you got closer your foot hit a raise in the ground. Jolting you forward, a gasp leaving you as you steady yourself, snapping your gaze down to your feet. Hair in your face as you finally balance. 

“Christ, fallin' for me already, luv?”

Your breath was sucked into your lungs with a choking sound as you snapped your head up, cheeks burning red and eyes wide as you were met face to face (chest really) with the man in front of you.

Hastily pushing your hair out of your face and grinning with probably too many teeth and chuckled, “O-oh! Simon! Funny, uh, seeing you here!”

He stared at you with a blank stare, softly bringing the half smoldered cigarette up to his lips, his shirt splattered with blood near his shoulders and collar, almost outlining the apron he wore in the shop. His other hand is in the pocket of his jeans. Which had definitely seen better days.

You swallowed nervously, eyes glancing at the cording muscles in his forearm as he dropped it back to his side. His eyes lifeless as ever and his lips pressed against the cig, smoke fluming out his nose.

“I mean,” you chuckled, “You work here, so, it’s not that weird. Or funny…”

He stared at you intensely for a few more seconds, before pulling the cigarette from his mouth with a sharp suck and crackle.

“That ah do,” he didn’t bother looking away to blow the smoke out, licking his teeth, “Where’ve ya bin.”

With your hands clasped behind you, you shrugged, “Eh ya know, got kinda busy recently, my Professor sent like 20 assignments he forgot to grade for the class I TA for, and so I needed to crank those out–oh and then he sent me the wrong key for it, so that was a hassle.”

Simon didn’t react. If you’d been paying more attention you’d realize the way his shoulders tensed and his feet shifted.

“He keepin’ ya busy huh?”

You nodded, “Yeah, it's really lame.”

Simon nodded, placing the cigarette between his lips, which you couldn’t help but feel your eyes linger on. 

“Come in this week,” he grunted out, his voice gravely as he spoke, “Missed ya’ around the shop.”

“Aw really?” you chuckled, perking up, “That’s sweet.”

He shrugged again, “As irritatin' as yer, yer make good convo. Can talk an' 'ear off, woman.”

You deflated a bit, huffing, crossing your arms over your chest, “Well jeez…not like anyone else is gonna.”

He huffed a breath of laughter out his nose, “Tha’s true. Not many are this friendly to their butcha.”

You grinned softly, rolling your eyes, “Forgive me?”

Simon stood silent. Watching you. Sniffing roughly as he tilted his head. 

“Gonna 'ave to put more work inter it than that for me forgiveness, girly,” he dropped the cigarette onto the ground, snuffing it with the toe of his boot.

He turned and walked into his shop, “Aw what? Come on Simon–”

You followed him inside, almost blindly–you would’ve followed him wherever he went, it was empty in the shop. Cold as ever inside, fittingly, as cold as a big freezer. The bell dinging was a sound you didn’t know you found as soothing as you did till you heard it again. The wet smell of raw meat filling your nose, that and the mix of the smoke that lingered around Simon.

He walked behind the counter, reaching down under it, the sound of a latch clicking made you pause. Leaning over the counter the best you could, seeing as it was rather tall, the floor behind it higher than the floor you stood on. You looked back up to Simon, who was staring at you, as he usually was. His gaze locked and unblinking as he grabbed whatever he was looking for. 

He was tall already but behind that counter he looked unreal. Like some mythical giant in a fairytale.

You broke eye contact first, flushed as you looked down to the package he dropped in front of you, neatly wrapped with a pretty bow on top, tied in twine.

Of course it didn’t slip past you the way Simon was more careful with the bow tying on your meat. Like he was trying to impress you with it. But you were more impressed with the meats, the cuts and how he handled it all so professionally. Like it was something he was born to do. To butcher things…

A smile spread across your lips.

“Yours,” he said, almost jerking the word out, “Special for yer, was gonna 'ave a nice cut for last week, but yer never showed.”

Guilt gnawed at the inside of your cheek.

“Sorry Si, really,” you pouted, blinking dramatically as you placed your hands together under your chin, “It looks beautiful.”

He rolled his eyes, looking off to the side, then back to you, “Don’t matter.”

You grabbed the package and placed it in the side pocket of your coat, zipping it back up. The feeling of Simon’s eyes on you as you unzipped made your skin crawl. With unease or excitement you weren’t sure–probably both. 

“I won’t miss next week,” you cleared your throat, watching as he leaned against the counter, biceps pulling at the sleeves of his shirt, “I’ll come in twice.”

Simon seemed pleased with that, humming.

“You been in the woods recently?”

You blinked up at him again, “Yeah! Actually I was there this morning on a walk!”

“I can tell.”

You snorted, “Yeah sure. What–do I have leaves in my hair?”

“I can smell it.”

Now this made you pause, confused. Nose scrunching a bit.

“What?”

You smelled your coat, it didn’t smell any different than it usually did to you. Possibly a little more damp.

“Yer smell like them woods…”

There was a beat of silence between you two, a weird feeling again scraping its nail at the back of your neck.

“Oh, is it bad?”

“No.”

You had no clue what Simon was talking about, maybe he had a really good nose and could smell the trees on you or something. Or he’d been here so long he could smell native plants, surely you’d walked through some on your trek. Or maybe you just really smelled like mud and dew…

“You shouldn’t go out there alone, dangerous for someone like you.”

Shrugging, you waved him off, “I’m plenty safe, I stay on the paved trail, and I carry a pocket knife.”

Simon didn’t say anything, tapping his finger like he was thinking. 

“Call me next time you want to go out there, I’ll take you.”

Your heart jumped. Call him? Like, so he could come out? To walk with you? Anytime you wanted?

“R-really?”

Your tongue felt stuck as you spoke. 

“I wouldn’t offer if I weren’t serious,” Simon scoffed, he held out his hand, “Give it ta me.”

Snapping into action, you dove into your pocket, pulling out your phone, handing it to him, shakier than he was as he held his steady hand out. You’d never really thought about him having a phone before, it seemed so out of place.

“Thank you, that’s…sweet,” you’d never felt more awkward. Watching him type on your phone, it looked so small in his hands. Your stomach flipping as you thought about it, watched his fingers and the twitching of his forearm as he moved.

He set it down on the counter.

“Buncha shit in them woods, animals an' idiots alike.”

You nodded, looking at the screen, it just read his name–no last name, or emojis or anything, just ‘Simon’.

“I'll definitely let you know next time I’m heading out there,” you smiled, “No one will mess with me if I have a damn bear lingering around.”

Simon’s lips twitched into a soft smile.

You glanced at the time, sucking in air between your teeth.

“Shit, I gotta go, those papers need to be turned in like an hour,” you put your phone back in your pocket and took a step back–hesitating, “I…thank you, really…”

“Don’t mention it,” Simon shifted, going from leaning on his elbows to his palms. Shoulders were broad and thick as he settled.

“I’ll text you soon, save my number!”

You forced your feet up as you exited the shop, each step felt like you were walking on glue. You didn’t want to leave, as strange as the conversation was there was something about Simon that was addicting to you. You wished every talk was hours longer, every brush of your hands was stronger. You could always feel the staring, it was hard not to notice since he was always staring.

Even as you closed the door behind you, you could feel his stare burn into your back, then your face as you threw him a wave.

He sent a stiff one back, and disappeared into the back of his shop.

[bussyyeukie]

butcher!simon drabble

his thoughts on your first meeting...

The heavy thumping of meat hitting the cutting board and the swing that followed was routine. Something Simon had grown extremely used to, like white noise. The dull humming of the AC and the lights and the boring people who came in and out all day. Even the ones who chatted his ear off didn’t make him want to engage. It didn’t interest him, it was the same as the endless thumping and slamming and sheering sounds of the meat. Only not as good.

It was something he was out of control of.

But the moment the bell rang and the door opened and you walked in Simon felt the droning buzz in his ear quiet for a moment. The smell of ash and raw meat replaced briefly by something else, something he couldn’t quiet name but it was something he needed more of.

Eyes transfixed on you. Catching every small twitch of your finger, and everytime your eyes darted around the shop he saw it. Like he was tracking you.

Everyone could tell, they all watched as the Butcher froze up and squeezed what he was holding too tight.

The first time you’d ever come in Simon thought his heart stopped beating. It was concerning the way it thumped in his chest. His face set harder into the stone mask he had, as he snapped his gaze down to the meat he was cutting. Swallowing thick as he catches a whiff of your scent every other breath, breathing so deep he got lightheaded.

He wasn’t even sure he’d charged the people in front of you the right price, solely focused on getting them out.

A sick giddy feeling slipping into his gut as he watched you walk closer. 

A grin twitching at the corners of his cracking lips. Eyes nearly dead as they didn’t move, didn’t blink. He couldn’t miss a second of you.

He had to catch everything you did. Every glance, every smile, every blink. Simon had to see it all.

God your voice, it was as perfect as he’d imagined anything to be, something that finally cut the droning in his head to silence. Breath growing heavy and labored the longer you stood in front of him, palms clammy and brows pinched together.

When he’d leaned over the case, he didn’t miss the way your eyes widened slightly or the way you nervously licked your lips. His eyes dragged over you as you asked questions. Not exactly listening to what you’d asked him. Utterly enraptured by you.

After you’d left he’d gone to the back and held the hand that touched yours against his face, nearly suffocating himself with his own palm in an attempt to get your scent closer to him.

A light igniting itself in his life, a fire on his front lawn he couldn't ignore. Something he’d either have to put out or let consume him, and consume him it did, waiting hand and foot for you every week. For the moment you stepped into his shop for 20 minutes of conversation, or when you’d occasionally run into him out back or out front (which was much more often then out back, so he’d started taking his lunch on the sidewalk) and chat with him there. 

He couldn’t help it, you were something he had his sights on, and he was waiting for the day you got close enough that your leg got caught in the bear trap he had laid out for you.