#im working on a na ctual part 2 also dw

[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.