Going Through It

some people really don’t realize how privileged they are that they get fanfics for free. imagine having access to something for free because someone is kind enough to share it with you… and then being rude, entitled and an ungrateful pos to that person who was kind enough to share their creation with you for free

“almost 1 year is a lil too much for me” fuck off. fanfic writers don’t owe you anything. one of my favorite fics was updated after 13 years, and what I did is that I thanked the author for choosing to continue the work, I didn’t act like a spoiled toddler by asking why they didn’t update sooner. and even if a writer chooses to abandon their fic permanently with no explanation, that is their choice, their hobby, their decision. they don’t owe your entitled ass anything.

Continuation to this little thing with Butcher!Simon and Single mom!Reader

Thinking about Butcher Simon slowly encroaching in your life, chipping away at the wall piece by piece, till he can fit his big hat through the whole and take a good look around.

Simon likes how careful you are, how you don't let go of your boy no matter what, how even around someone as, now, familiar as Simon you are mindful to keep an eye on your lad. Can't be too careful in a big city when you've got no one to look out for you, no one to soften the blow if it comes to knock the wind out of you.

You mention in passing that the father is not in the picture, only he gets a feeling that the dad was left in the other frame that you squeezed yourself out of the first chance you got, running. Took your boy with you, took his things and his stuffed toy and his favourite book.

Took only a backpack of your own things. Simon saw them, when he got into your apartment while you two were out. A couple sweaters, jeans, one good pair of boots and a coat.

He toys with the idea of rummaging through your underwear drawer, but it wouldn't be fair. You don't have much right now, you are in no position to splurge for more than necessary for your kid. Not even for yourself.

You are a good mom, he thinks, stomach tightening hot and slow, when he lies on your bed for a couple minutes, nose in your pillow. Swallowing your scent, sleep-soft and a little salty with the hint of your sweat.

You must taste delicious, Simon noses at your pillow, hand snaking down to unbuckle his belt. He's been popping up here and there all over the narrow road of your life to offer some extra meat, a helping hand or a kind word. He knows the importance of making himself a safe unchanging fixture in your life.

You don't need no surprises, you need someone dependable. Someone you can rely on and someone who's not going to strain you any further.

Someone you can trust, Simon thinks, scarred palm wrapping around his cock when he presses his face into your pillow. It's hard to breath like that, air hot and cotton stuffing his mouth when he pants into it, stroking himself, calloused finger rubbing the underside of his head, till his hips twitch.

Till he's even hungrier, rocking his hips in the hand, cool air of your bedroom nipping at the hot sensitive skin of his. Your pillow smells like you and Ghost burrows his face in it, so he doesn't breath much, so his head goes light and empty - your careful glances up at his face imprinted on the inside of his eyelids.

You are so good, he murmurs, slurred and wet, drool filling his mouth, gums itching for him to sink his teeth in. Such a good mum, gonna be good to him too, yeah? Gonna let him take care of you in turn, won't you?

Orgasm shudders through him, spills into the tight fist of his hand so it doesn't marr your duvet covers. He didn't bring you anything proper this time, can't go getting too greedy now.

Simon heaves into your pillow, wet spot of his drool forming and fucking hell, he'll need to do something about it before leaving.

You don't have to know that he was there, not yet. Not until he got an actual invitation in your home, marking another goalpost reached.

He tilts his head at you next time you walk into his shop, bundled up in your coat, eyes shiny with glee at the first snow and something in his chest warms up, like a faulty heater that finally got a proper kick to start working.

Maybe it was worth getting sent to early retirement and work right back where he started 15 years ago.

You smile at Simon for the first time since he met you, shoulders no longer as tight and the corners of his lips twitch. Pretty.

Wonder if you are gonna smile at him too when he's got his mouth on your-

"What can I get you today, luv?" He cuts his train of thought before it can reach the station, because the counter is high enough but there is no need to pop a boner out in the open. Can't afford to spook you before the teeth of the steel trap called 'Ghost' close above your head.

"The usual, please." You respond, no longer that scared exhausted thing from the first day in his shop, nowadays you have more and more smalltalk with your favourite butcher. "The weather's chilly today, but God, the snow's absolutely lovely."

He's got to be your favourite, Simon thinks, weighing the meat and like always throws in a little something in addition, no way you are going to any shop other than his. Not like any other dimwit can feed you as good as he does.

"That it is." He just hums in response and glances at your son staring him up. "You take care of yer mum, lad?" Simon asks, eyes flickering to the way your smile widen's when your 3-year old nods immediately.

"He does." You respond instead of your son and the affection in your voice is so thick that Ghost in him tugs the air in, aching to stretch out in your direction and curl around like a big beast that he was. "Don't know what I'd do without him."

Your boy always sticks close to you, watching strangers with curious eyes, his hair disheveled when in the warmth of the shop you take his knitted hat off, tucking it under your arm so he doesn't sweat too much while you two wait.

"Think the feeling's mutual." Simon says, without planning too, but you giggle, short happy sound and something in his brain sparks to life. So that's how you sound when you laugh.

"I sure hope so." You grin at him, eyes crinkling and Simon doesn't know what to do with the traitorous heat in his face when he passes you the meat, grazing your fingers as you take the bag.

How stupid is that?

Simon would like to hear you laugh at things he says for the rest of his empty life.

He watches you leave, eyes following you and your boy walking down the street - his hand in yours as he starts chatting your ear off about something immediately. A chatterbox when he's around his mum, huh?

You are warm in the best way possible, when you look at him and hold the elevator when you spot him in the entrance to your apartment building, eyes crinkling again. Like he's a friend.

Ghost in him itches to crack your locks and sink into the space behind your bedroom door so he can watch you sleep, so he can stay there in close proximity to the light that you emanate, to the family that you have with that little boy, to the prospect of belonging someplace warm and soft.

Could maybe give you another baby, he thinks idly in the evenings, staring at the orange light of his oven. There is beef inside, slowly baking until he knows its gonna be soft and tender enough for you to swallow without chewing. Something else to sustain you, to fill out the hollowed out edges and bring some shine to your eyes.

Being mum is hard, Simon reasons, palms clasped together in his lap. His kitchen is small and dark, only light of his oven softening the shadows around him. And you ain't taking any of his money, even if he offered, he knows that you won't. But you'll take food.

Can't say no to a good bite and if there's something that Simon knows it's meat.

He didn't cook much since he joined military, but nowadays he's got a lot more free time and space in his head that needs to get stuffed with something other than an occasional urge to sharped the knives again and get out in the dark to split someone's skin under his knuckles.

More of a habit, really, his bones aren't used to not getting strained and cracked every once in a while. It's been a minute since he's got an adrenaline crash and he'd like to say that he hates it.

He did.

And then you walked in, nervous and tired, your boy on your hip - head tucked against your shoulder.

Being retired wasn't that bad after it, eh, mate? Ghost hums in the still quiet of his flat, deft fingers wrapping the cooked meal in tinfoil and packing it up for tomorrow.

Maybe he could talk you into eating with him if you go all shy on him all of a sudden, his mind continues the chain of thought, weaving a picture for him to press his face into. The almost of it stratching over his skin like saran wrap, tight around the misaligned bridge of his nose, pressing insistently over his cheekbones.

You probably ain't letting him handfeed you, but a bloke can dream, right?

For now he could settle for just watching you eat something he made. Cutting into bite-sized pieces for your boy if he'll be with you tomorrow.

Good thing Simon so used to being painfully patient, swallowing down every urge and every want, choking down the impulse to rush in and make a mess of a perfectly good timeline of this relationship.

Hell, was he even ten years younger, he would have probably already squeezed himself in your doors, inviting himself over to your dinner.

Would have taken all of the space and then some, would have molded his whole body against every corner of your life, smothering even the flicker of resistance.

Ghost would have moved in with you while you were sleeping, knowing that you aren't going to outright tell him to leave.

Ghost would have bitten off the entire hand if you gave him a single finger and then he would go for the throat, sinking his teeth in to rip at the carotid.

But Simon isn't Ghost anymore.

And Simon doesn't want to smother your flame. He'd like to warm himself up on it and for that you need to let him closer. For that, he'd need to be patient for you.

He sucks his teeth, inspecting the packed dish. Makes sure nothing's going to leak.

Gotta make a good first impression with this small offering, right? So when he comes back with more you wouldn't have the itch to pretend you've got to run.

He sighs heavily, eyeing the clock the next day, restless urge within him growing when you don't come at your usual 4 o'clock. Should've been here by now, he knows how long it takes you to get from your job to daycare to him and then home.

Simon walked the route a couple times, following you and your son, just to time it for himself. A little self assurance, can't be too prepared in matters of war and love.

When the bell above his entrance door sways, alerting him, Ghost in him is scratching slow and annoyed to go see what's wrong and what caused the deviation in usual routine when usually there isn't any.

"The usual, luv?" He calls out, walking out of the backroom, wipes his hands off on the towel before he turns to you (knows better than to come in with his hands bloody and shoulders tense). "You'r a bit later today." Simon points out, glancing at the spot you usually occupy by his cash register.

You aren't smiling at him, is the first thing that pops into his head before he assesses the situation and wordlessly opens the latch to herd you behind the counter.

Sits you down on a stool, murmuring 'come on, luv' so you'd let him help you out of the coat. Maybe the roast will come in handy after all.

Just not the way he hoped for.

You are quiet and glassy-eyed, your eyelids swollen and hands trembling when you let Simon tuck you behind the counter and silently accept the fork that he passes you.

"This is delicious, Simon." You say after another few minutes of chewing, fat tears welling in your eyes when you look at him and it's not his roast, Ghost thinks. He ain't that good at cooking to make you actually shed a tear because of it.

"Somethin' happened?" He just asks, looking you in the eyes and you look back down at the plastic tupperware he brought out for you. The meat is in fact good.

Really really good.

Your first meal of the day, you remember distantly and sniffle, taking another bite.

It isn't right to burden Simon with your problems, not when he has already been good to you since you walked into his shop. But you just...you just want to tell someone before you might have to run again.

You don't look at him when you do, words spilling about the man you have left behind, about the way money was never enough, about the yelling and the smashed dishes.

About him throwing the dish at you.

You've dodged it, you joke, fingers tight around the fork and Simon sits there, quiet, his eyes a physical weight on your nose.

But your boy was crying and then you noticed that he's got glass in his hair, you share after a moment, throat tight. You had to spend an evening just picking out all the shards to make sure he's not going to cut himself on it.

"Had to go after that." You murmur, swallowing another wave of tear and Simon nods. "We left before he came back and I just...small country, I suppose. He wants to meet up and says that its his son too, that I can't keep him from his child and-" You suck the breath in, lightheaded and ice cold with terror, voice cracking in half.

Simon makes a quiet affirming sound, his wide palm landing on your back and you blink through the tears, trying not to sob again when he slowly pulls you a little closer, giving you a hug.

It will be embarassing later how you just sob into his sweater, chest gurgling with tears and panic, arms wrapped around the big butcher who has been so nice to you and it's not fair, it's so unfair that you have to leave everything again.

"D'you want to see the bloke again?" Simon asks, tone calm as he hunches his shoulders to let you cry into him as much as you need to. "And do you want your boy to see 'im again, luv?" He adds, palm stroking your shivering back.

When you shake your head, hiccuping, Ghost nods and presses a small kiss to your hair, not tightening his hold on you because this is not what you need right now.

What you need is for the problem to go away.

"Where'd you leave the lad, luv?" Ghost murmurs, voice coarse and low when you finally look up at him and explain that you left your son with a friend from work because she lives nearby. That you didn't want to take any chances if you run into your ex outside.

If he maybe waits for you back at your flat.

"I feel so fuckin' daft." You mumble, suddenly angry at yourself and Ghost huffs out air, kisses your cheek then, eyes calm and dark.

"You'r not daft, luv. Go to your friend, okay? I finish in 'bout an hour. I'll walk you two home. Check for any...surprises." He doesn't offer, but state, wrapping up the rest of the roast for you.

Ghost kisses your other cheek as goodbye, knowing that you are too out of it to process everything right now. And that's okay.

You've got Simon, don't you?

And Simon's got a couple mates that still go all dark behind the eyes at the offer of doing some work in their spare time. Something a bit off the books for their lieutenant.

The phone gets picked up on the second ring, cheery voice on the other end familiar like his own right hand.

"Didn't pack yer bags yet, did you, Johnny?" Ghost in him humms, phone pressed between the shoulder and his ear. "Got a bit of a rush job for you 'nd Garrick."

Soap on the other end laughs like the mean bastard he is, promising to wake up Kyle and be there in ten, all too happy that their trip to Manchester isn't going to be boring after all.

"We goin' for a ride, l.t.?" Johnny asks like he knows the answer and Simon thinks for a moment.

"No rides." Ghost says, dragging his apron off. "Got an hour to get it done. I've got dinner plans."

Simon doesn't know much about how good families work, doesn't always know what's the right thing to say, but Ghost in knows what to do when there is someone breathing his sweetheart's air and dimming her shine.

"Tell Garrick he's on clean up tonight." He says and sergeant grumbles in the back of the phone call, audibly sleepy.

notes: headcanony little drabble, afab/fem reader, implied age gap, pregnancy, slight nsfw.

modern!maekar just wants to come home to you, his pretty wife, at a reasonable hour every night. fuck a business dinner. why would he want to spoil a perfectly good steak frites with dull small talk and discussions about stocks and shareholders? and gods forbid his father asks him to represent the company at some stuffy conference, or a company retreat, or a fancy gala. he's not baelor; he doesn't have any patience for pointless socialization with people he couldn't give less of a fuck about. after a long day full of meetings and conference calls, he wants to take off his cufflinks. put his phone on do not disturb. and (most nights) fuck you like a man starved. his ideal night would end by 9pm with you naked and sated next to him.

so you're a bit suspicious now that you're pregnant and you're doing your makeup for the third dinner party in one week. there was a charity gala last weekend. a fundraising luncheon the week before. you've given maekar's credit card a hell of a workout, shopping for dresses that can accommodate your growing baby bump and your packed schedule.

it's not that you dislike this sudden change in character. the food's usually quite good at these things anyways. you enjoy getting dressed up, flaunting the jewels maekar buys you, chatting about your plans for the nursery, and feeling maekar's hands wander from your waist down to your ass as the event goes on. you've always loved how he introduces you, that low rumble of my wife like it's a boast and a threat. and gods know you love how most of these little soirees end with him rucking up your dress and giving you a mind-numbing orgasm as soon as you get home.

you just want him to admit it. he likes showing you off. you can tell from the possessive hand that never seems to leave your belly, wedding ring glinting on his finger, just in case it wasn't already obvious that the swell underneath is his work. you can tell when you're gossiping in the car home and he's disparaging some elderly shareholder you'd both had the displeasure of conversing with. three wives and no children, you know, he'd scoffed, that man couldn't get a rabbit pregnant. you can tell from the way he makes love to you afterward, all needy and riled up. it's some primal instinct deep down. showing off his good work.

"i think you just like parading me around," you tease him while you fix his tie before leaving. "i'm like a walking shrine to your virility. ought to wear a shirt with your sperm count on it, it'd be easier."

"don't know where you get your ideas from, woman," he grumbles. "that's disgusting."

over the weeks, he cycles through begging, anger, and desperate promises before eventually abandoning language altogether, resorting to standing outside and watching through whatever crack affords him a glimpse inside.

the doors stay locked and the windows remain latched. you put up thick curtains and draw them before dusk each evening so he cannot peer inside. no one may leave the house after sunset.

but how the children miss their father.

one night, despite every precaution and warning you've drilled into their heads, your youngest stirs having heard the sound of their father's voice whispering in the dark. they slip from their bed and sneak out of their room and down the stairs, following the voice until it becomes clear. at the front door, they kneel before the brass cover of the mail slot.

"don't you miss me, kiddo? won't you ask daddy to come in? we'll play and play, then i'll read you a story and tuck you in. won't that be nice? ...mommy said not to? oh, well, hasn't mommy seemed sad lately? you know i always make her laugh..."

you wake to find him standing at the foot of your bed, your youngest cradled against his shoulder, sleeping soundly. he raises a finger to his lips, shushing you before you make a sound.

Summary: Simon finds your G-spot.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex

Note: I’m on Instagram now (kinda), come say hi :-)

Word count: 2.1k

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.

He barely makes it out of the airport, walking with the lads in their matching kilts, putting on a show for the cameras that have come to see the Scots arrive, before he sees a pretty girl walking down the street, thinks ‘oh, she’s the one’ and just never lets her go 😔.

He doesn’t even book a hotel room, decides he’s gonna move into hers after the first second. She agrees to drinks and he follows her home after and barges in. Makes himself cozy in her bed. Their bed now. She thinks he’s just forward and Scottish people are weird. He doesn’t understand American customs…..he’ll will sneak out after they fuck. He stays all night and swipes her key in the morning, attaches it to his key ring.

Vs

I managed to finish this just in time! Almost missed MerMay..

Thank you to the lovely person on Patreon that requested a Mer version of the boys <3 I only did Ghost for now but I had SO much fun <3