Butcher!Simon stands imposingly at the whirring band saw, cutting up some poor animal he had the pleasure of slaughtering earlier, making sure to keep a good portion of fat on the chucks of meat, and keeping an eye out to make a few leaner slabs too.
His everyday was monotonous. Wake up, drink a cuppa, open up the shop, sell meat, close up the shop, have a shower sometimes, a quick wank, and before letting his head hit the pillow again at night, ready to do it all again the next day.
But he never complained, no, in fact, he liked the repetition. Found comfort in the practiced moves. Even enjoyed living the same day over and over again, as if it wouldn't drive a normal person crazy.
That was, until you decided to walk into his shop. He swore that he could see the faint halo of pure light around your head. Was it already time for him to meet the big man? Surely he'd be meeting someone with two horns and a tail, no?
You, who walked in with a smile, peering into his glass, somewhat dirty, display case as if searching for a sweet treat. Something sugary to rot your delicate little teeth on. He felt his heart squeeze as you look up at him, pointing to some no-good cut of meat with little fat, that he reserved for bastards that had enough stupidity to tick him off after a long shift.
That wouldn't do.
Simon tutted and sighed 'dunno know yer meats from the shit cuts?'
Simon sliced you up a prime rack of lamb ribs, making sure to wrap it well in the tinted butcher paper, all whilst discreetly eyeing you up, his eyes travelling over the smooth expanse of the little visible skin you had on show. Handed you the package and had you pay a fraction of the true price of the meat.
Sent you on your way with a rosemary and garlic rub, as well as a meat thermometer, telling you exactly how to cook up the ribs, wanting, no, needing you to enjoy the ribs you had bought from him. From his shop.
He watched as you turned to him as you left, smiling brightly as you bid him farewell, promising to stop by soon and tell him how the lamb ribs turned out!
Until next time, little lamb, he thought to himself, cleaning off his meat cleaver.
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- Butcher!Simon who was having the slowest day until you walked in. The jingle of the door bell brought his eyes to your pretty frame stepping in his shop
- Butcher!Simon who watched you a little too intently as you looked at each cut of meat in his display case.
- Butcher!Simon who raised his eyebrows in amusement when you pointed and asked so sweetly for âthat oneâ.
- Butcher!Simon who had to hold in a genuine laugh when he asked you âTri tip or flankâ to which you responded with âyesâ and the cutest look on your face
- Butcher!Simon who had to grab onto his apron to ground himself when he said âI gave you two options sweetâartâ and you blushed so embarrassed looking at him with the sweetest innocent eyes.
- Butcher!Simon who asked âyou ever been in a butcher shop beforeâ and when you shook your head no he did let out a laugh. âTalk to me sweetâart. Whatâre you making and then I can get ya what ya need.â
- Butcher!Simon who listened so intently when you described the meal you wanted to make, hoping to impress your boss and his wife.
- Butcher!Simon who went into the back to get you his best cut and wrote down instructions on how to cook it.
- Butcher!Simon whoâs heart swelled up when you walked in the next day so excited to tell him that it went well and to thank him for
- Butcher!Simon who wasnât going to let you walk out the door again without getting your number (and giving you his favorite cut of meat and promising to cook it for you)
like the one where you're cowering in the corner of your living room with a kitchen knife pointed at the locked front door.
or the one where you're in the shower, half covered by the steam, as you turn in terror to look at the window he just rattled.
or his favorite, the one where you're wide awake in bed, startled by the sound of somethibg hitting the window, his fisted cock just visible in the corner of the picture and his come dripping down the glass.
he tapes that last one to a bottle of sleeping pills he stuffs in your mailbox, since you seem a little jumpy.
butcher!simon that acts like a sweetheart in front of you in the shop, always offering you the best meat he has for a good price and tells you how to cook it just to make you stay a little bit longer
butcher!simon who could cry from happiness when you brought him the meal you cooked from meat he sold you. The man was so proud that he literally thinks you're his.
butcher!simon that finally asks you on a date, "Do ye wanna have a dinner after closin' ma shop?", looking like a wet little pup. After your cheerful smile and nod you left the shop. "Fucking hell" he ran his hand through his hair.
butcher!simon standing outside his shop with a bouquet of flowers, all fresh and well-dressed, waiting for you, his date, already imagining pumping you full of his seed, giving you his chubby baby
butcher!simon that cooked you the best dinner you have ever had, telling you his favourite dad jokes, that were previously tested on Johnny, rubbing your knee with his thumb already.
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Butcher!Simon Riley eating you out on your period. compares your blood slick cunt to a steak, he likes his meals rich in iron. he gruffly chuckles against you as your nose scrunches before lapping at your cunt again. his eyes flutter shut as he savors you, rough hands gripping your hips
butcher!simon riley x bartender f!reader, a lil dark/dubcon smut
the one where simon never joins up, staying a butcherâs apprentice as he watches the people from his school grow up and leave. classmates gone, his father fucked off to somewhere, his mother and brother needing taking care of. work, eat, sleep, and of course, fuck.
everyone needs some stress relief. heâs running the shop now, the blood of animals practically burnt into his skin. got his own apprentice, a scrawny kid who can barely lift a knife, reminding him too much of tommy. that thought is how he ends up in a new pub on a different side of town and finds, of all things, you.
the bartender in a shitty hole in the wall. cursing at motorbikers and throwing out men who get too touchy, snaking their hands up your arm when you give them drinks. thereâs a similar glint in your eye, callous and hardened but determined, having to make something of yourself to protect the ones you love. he sits at the corner table and he waits. like all kindred spirits, you find each other eventually.
he gets you off on your ten minute smoke break.
your chest smothered against the alley wall, jeans and panties ripped down in one go as his thick fingers find their way around. âya let every man thaâ walks into yer bar do this?â simon grunts into your ear, his hand forceful on your jaw. you smirk, as much as you can with two fingers plunging in and out of your seeping hole. âonly the ones that look sad enough. i like pity fucks.â for that comment, he stops his movement, thumb finding that tight little wrong hole.
âsay no.â he presses in, barely, and youâre already scrambling out of his grip, wondering what the hell you got yourself into when you mentioned you were going for a smoke. âfuck you.â he grins, canines glinting under streetlights. âthaâs whaâ iâm tryinâ to do, sweetâart.â you arch your spine, trying to tempt him back to paying attention to your clit. âiâve been working too hard all night to not come from this, simon. get back to work.â you spit out his name like thereâs dirt in your mouth. he pulls out his fingers, ignoring your whine, and flips you around, bare ass against the wall.
âsuck.â you do, obediently, bobbing your head up and down like you would his cock. your mouth opens with a pop as he peels his fingers out and right back into your pretty cunt. this time, his thumb finds your clit, small circles that are your undoing. your forehead falls to his shoulder, uncharacteristically intimate between two strangers, and you both watch his fingers move as you get closer and closer to the edge. he pinches your clit roughly and thatâs the end of it, pleasure bursting through your veins as you come, mouth open against his clothed collarbone. âfuck.â
he yanks the waistband of your pants up and you nearly combust at the rough drag of your underwear against your sensitive cunt. he chuckles low when you jump, earning a glare as you step out of his grip. âi donât have time to return the favor,â you warn, already two minutes over your allotted break. he shrugs like he has no problem with it. âgot nowhere else to be, bird.â
he sits on that corner bench until the bar closes at 2am. he sits some more when you do a quick mop, not offering to help or lift a finger. by the time youâre done counting the till, itâs nearly 3 in the morning. your feet ache, thereâs sweat everywhere, and the vodka cran someone spilled down your spine is still sticky. you donât have the heart to tell him this when he offers to drive you home, content to murmur quiet street directions from the passenger seat.
simon shadows you as you unlock your apartment door, only kicking off his boots when you glare at him. heâs there when you take off your makeup in the bathroom and doesnât move when you pointedly say youâre taking a shower. âleave the curtain open.â he replies. you huff as you wait for the water to warm up. âand whoâs cleaning the water thatâll spill out?â he shrugs, and in anticipation of the steam, pulls off the black sweatshirt heâs wearing. his torso is a culmination of pale skin and healed scars and cigarette burns, tucked under a worn wife beater. too tired to argue, you strip and wash mechanically, leaving the curtain open. simon just watches, and although you can see the tent in his pants, doesnât even touch his cock.
that changes when you get in bed. he strips down to his boxers and doesnât let you explore, turning off the lamp before you can catalogue more. moonlight still glints through the blinds you need to fix, giving you a front show to how he gets to his knees in bed. youâre suddenly alert, afraid of the creature you dragged home.
simon doesnât want to fuck you like this, so he tugs at the ratty shirt youâre wearing until he can see the pretty tits he saw in the shower. it quick, pulling down his boxers and tugging his cock dry until he spurts white stripes on your nipples, like a claiming. he strips off his wife beater and half-heartedly wipes you down before tugging the shirt back down. simon ignores your mouth, hanging half open, in favor of maneuvering you on top of his chest, your face in his neck.
âsimon, i-â
âsleep, bird. gotta be up early ânough to fuck ya anâ get to work.â
you close your mouth and he feels you grind your jaw against his shoulder. simon squeezes your ass, almost hard enough to hurt, before leaving his hand there. a warning.
Youâre sat in your local Costa, sadly picking at an overpriced, sad sandwich and lukewarm coffee. Chains are never your first option if you can help it, but this small town doesnât have a local cafe open past 10am.
Another sigh, you could do it so much better, you think, grimacing at a bite of soggy bread. As a baker, you know good bread and this, this is not good bread.
How difficult can it be, really, you sip from your cup; musing.
You could do it, you think, you already have a steady business as an online bakery and a presence at the closest local markets, known for your delicate bakes with pretty decorations.
The savoury side of things thoughâŠyou know whatâd youâd do, sandwiches with homemade focaccia, doorstep thick toast, savoury pastries.
Itâd have to be right though. The voice pops up unbidden and you bite your lip, your need for perfection is both a blessing and a curse.
You abandon the remnants of your sandwich and head home thoughts churning.
In your kitchen, you create a focaccia, flaky salt, the good olive oil, rosemary and cherry tomatoes.
Once itâs cooked you realise you donât have the right meats and you drag yourself to the store, you stand in front of the deli meats aisle for longer than you want to admit, until your fingers start to get a little numb and you take home a selection and painstakingly try a little of everything with the bread and nothings right, nothing works.
You hiss in frustration before cutting a large chunk and wrapping it in wax paper and grabbing your keys.
You know you must look like a crazy person, stomping into the butchers and dropping the bread on the counter in front of the mountain of a man who works there, bottom half of his face covered by a black mask.
âI need helpâ you say shortly âIâve tried the supermarket meats and itâs not right.â
He stares at you, shocked, confused, you canât tell.
âLook youâre an expert right?â A slow nod. âGood. Iâm fed up of having no good cafes so Iâm gonna do it myself but Iâm a novice at savoury, so taste that.â
You wave a hand irritably at the wax-paper wrapped focaccia âand please tell me what meat is supposed to go in it.â
Thereâs a beat, two, before callused hands are unwrapping the bread and tearing a chunk off, corner of the mask lifting to accommodate before being lowered.
A moan. âI knowâ you say, slightly smug âso Iâm not putting it with mediocre fillingsâ
The man hums, swallowing, before turning to a leg of something along the back counter and cutting a thin slice, dropping it onto a paper plate before handing it to you.
âTry thatâ he rasps, you take the plate and try the meat, itâs salty, slightly smoky and so much better than whatever you brought from the supermarket and combinations throw themselves into your head.
Youâre unaware of the butcher staring at you.
âHow much will I need to make at leastâŠ.four sandwiches?â You half ask, half demand.
âBout 15 slicesâ he replies after a moments thought.
âGreat, that then pleaseâ you say sweetly, âand you can keep the rest of the bread.â you add on when youâve paid and have the wrapped meat in your hand before almost running out of the shop to get home.
Simon stares for a long time, before devouring the rest of the bread.
