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If Would Sure Do Me Good (to do you good)
Genre: Angst, Slow Burn, Smalltown American Aesthetics
Pairing: Simon âGhostâ Riley x Reader
A retired Simon moves to town. There are vibes.
Light warning for not very subtle sugar daddy implications that will ramp up later on.
AO3 Link
Modern civilization would be all but dead and gone, turned to dust, before this guy stopped talking. He's a regular at this dingy little convenience store, in at exactly 5:15pm Monday through Friday because it's, âjust down the road from my job, and on my way home!â he reminds you, over and over as if you could possibly forget after being told for the second time that week. He insists you call him Pat but you never do, he's mostly just this fucking guy in your head. And boy, does this fucking guy love to yap your ears off.Â
You blink rapidly, not that he notices, focusing in on his hands. They're dirty, always are, with some weird mystery grime that makes you vaguely queasy when he hands you his warm dollar bills. You think he might be a mechanic, he must have told you at some point, but information like that doesn't really stick during the evening rushes because hello dude there's like ten people behind you-Â
Deep breaths. You are taking deep breaths, nodding, and smiling. The guy pauses for a breath, and you pounce. âSo your totalâs gonna be $13.47, the usual,â with a tight smile, your jaw a little clenched. Across the counter, he hums and digs his wallet out of his pocket. He's still describing something, gesticulating with his free hand before he pulls out a few bills. Through a couple of well-placed hums and nods you manage to focus on counting the proper change from the drawer. He pockets it without recounting his bills, too busy looking right at you as he tells you to, âHave a good night. Stay warm, honey.âÂ
Ugh.Â
At least the next few transactions go quick, other people also getting off work but not as willing to talk your ear off. The weather was too cold for anyone else to feel like idly chatting. Your shift was just beginning, and already you felt worn out. Working evenings into the early hours of the morning wasn't ideal, but a job is a job. You value paying your rent more than seeing the sun or having time to hang out with your friends and family, at the moment. At least your cat was always happy to see you at one in the morning.Â
When the first rush eventually slows down, you're able to take what feels like your first real breath since clocking in. You let your mind wander as you wipe the counters down, fill out the daily logs, and stare at the grimy spot on the ceiling that seems to grow inch by inch each time it rains or snows. It's all become a familiar routine, as horrifically boring as it is. You'd listen to a podcast or something in one ear bud if you could, but your phone barely got service inside the old building. A perk of the cheapest phone plan you could find.
The night goes without too much fuss, and when you've tidied the shelves and double-checked that your boss hasn't left any cryptic notes for you to interpret, you find yourself leaning against the counter. There's early 2000âs rock playing softly over the old speakers, and you desperately wish that your boss would give you permission to change it to anything other than 98.8 FM The Rock.Â
Against your will you hum along to a Nickelback song as you watch the clock tick its way closer and closer to 9:30pm. Lunch. Also known as the only time you were allowed to lock the store. Your boss doesn't really vibe with the idea of paying two people at a time, so obviously you still had to help customers on your fifteen-minute breaks.
Halfway through the song you step out from behind the counter to go lock the front door. It's dark outside, and the street lamps cast everything in a warm, rusty yellow. The unshoveled and slushy snow looks like crushed gold, mixed with the oil and dirt from the parking lot. Inside, the lights inside Moâs Mart buzz overhead. Their sickly green cast makes you feel a little ill if you think about it too hard. Looking outside just reminds you of it. You try to not feel disappointed as you trudge back to the counter to sit down for the first time in four and a half hours.Â
The stool beneath you is only a little rickety, and you sigh as you lower yourself into it. For lunch you pull a bag of potato chips out of your bag. You'd bought them from the store yesterday and saved half for tonight. At a certain point the frozen burritos and hot pockets stopped being appetizing. This isn't much better, though. The chips are already going a little stale, gumming up in your molars as you chew.Â
You're in the middle of digging at the crevices in your teeth with your tongue, zoned completely out as you stare at yesterday's crossword section from a newspaper your boss had left out. To be without. Six letters across and it ends in T. You're tapping your pen against the paper in thought, trying to ignore the urge to check the clock to see how much time you've got left on your break. You know you've got to have at least-Â
The locked front door clunking in the frame snatches your attention. You sigh. There are three loud knocks on the glass. You set your pen down. Without a doubt in your mind you know you taped the handwritten, âOn break! Back at 10!â sign up at eye level. When you look up and make eye contact with the man out front, this only seems to incense him. You recognize him, a regular who's never really happy about anything. Why he keeps shopping at Moâs you'll never understand. He shouts something that's muffled through the door, like you're the asshole right now. A quick glance tells you that you've got eight minutes until the inevitably awkward confrontation where you have to let him in. You would rather sink into the tiled floor and never come out. It almost makes the rest of the break not even worth taking.
Almost.Â
Trying to quell the unease his presence brings, you stay behind the counter. It's your break, and it's your right to take it without having to worry about some guy who wants his convenience store snacks in the middle of the night.
When you approach the door you try to avoid his eyes, you can practically feel him staring daggers already. As soon as the lock turns in your fingers he's pushing the door open, brushing past you as he haphazardly stomps the snow and salt off of his boots. You mentally add sweeping and mopping back onto your short mental to-do list.Â
You count your breath on the inhale, and again on the exhale, as you walk back to the counter. The small monitor on the cluttered counter shows the storeâs security cameras on three separate little boxes. Youâre vaguely aware of the man hovering by the liquor section, but you canât bring yourself to head out into the center of the store to bother him in the hopes of deterring theft, your boss be damned. His abrupt entry brought in enough cold air to make you shiver and jam your hands into your pockets. Standing behind the counter gives you an odd sense of security as the guy wanders from aisle to aisle. You know exactly where the store's panic button is under the counter should anything go away. Some cynical part of you wonders if it even works, knowing how cheap Mo is.Â
The door chiming as someone else enters the store jolts you out of thought. You turn your head to greet the customer and you're met with probably the scariest individual you've ever seen. He's huge, wearing a heavy black work coat that doesn't hide the bulk of his body. The fact that he's wearing a skull print balaclava is what makes it worse. This guy could be totally normal and just wearing it because it's snowing out. He could also be about to ruin your night.Â
He's looking right at you as he beelines to the counter.Â
Anxiety bleeds into your hands, makes them feel like you've just stuck them in freezing water. Slowly, you take them out of your pockets and press them flat on the counter. You watch your own fingers spread out. From some job training or another, you recall that it's worse to look into the eyes of someone trying to rob you. âHey there,â you try and fail to sound like you're not nervous. âWhat can I get you?â He's quiet for a long time. Too long. Risking a glance up at him, you find he's not even looking at you. The guy is carefully scanning the rows of cigarettes behind you.
You breathe a small sigh of relief. He doesn't say anything and you don't feel like pushing your luck tonight. You scoot over to the side and quietly thumb over your abandoned crossword. With a quick glance up you can see the man running a gloved hand over his jaw. There's a faint sound of his stubble rubbing against the balaclava. His eyes are dark, half lidded. Without moving his head, his gaze flicks to meet yours, and you look away without even thinking. Bright blue. Jesus Christ this is awkward. You tap your pen against the newsprint, wishing whatever was happening right now would just end. This guy isn't a regular, and he's certainly no one you've ever seen around town. Fingers crossed he's just passing through, never to be seen again.Â
âHey dickhead, anytime now!â Your head jerks up. The masked man slowly looks over his shoulder. The guy who came in earlier is cradling a bottle of cheap rum and a liter of coke, clearly pissed about the long wait. Your stomach feels like it's about to fall out of your ass. A stranger you've never seen and a pissy regular, what could possibly go wrong? Chewing at your lip, you take a step back from the counter.Â
âHey Marvin, I can get you over here. Relax,â you say over the stranger's shoulder, just barely managing to remember his name. You've carded him everyone else in this town enough to remember a few faces. The giant man in front of you steps over wordlessly as if Marvin hadn't just insulted him. Wanting to get him out as quickly as possible to avoid anymore confrontation, you check Marvin out. He's still grumbling to himself, working the toothpick in his cheek with his teeth. âHave a good night. Drive safe,â you tell him as you hand him his brown paper-bagged liquor. Marvin scoffs at you and yanks his items from your hands. You try not to react as he lets the door slam on his way out.Â
The fluorescent lights buzz above you. Coldplay is on the radio, crackling softly. The man approaches your register, already reaching into his coat for his wallet. âI'll have your cheapest menthols,â he rumbles in an accent you've definitely never heard in town. What the hell was this guy doing in Moâs this late at night? The vibes were sketching you the fuck out. You school your face into as neutral of an expression as you can manage and turn to reach for a pack of Marlboro Black Menthol 100âs from the shelf of tobacco products behind you. The man is looking down at your crossword, still unfinished, when you turn back to him. You were half tempted to ask where he was from. You donât.Â
When you ask him for ID he hands you a card from his wallet. Upon inspection, you find that itâs a British Military ID and heavily censored. It only tells you his first and last name initials. S. R. The photo is censored as well. As far as you can tell, it looks real to you. If itâs not, then heâs gone through an awful lot of effort for the worst cigarettes Moâs has to offer. You werenât in the business of prying. Most everyone else who lives in town you stopped carding years ago. Over time you just know through the grapevine who has what birthdays and when. Hard not too. Regardless, you nod uneasily at the man and carefully slide his ID back to his side of the counter.
You tell the man his total and he slides you a crisp twenty, avoids touching you directly. With a quick hand, you count his change back to him. It's all very normal until he neatly drops the cash into the dusty tip jar by the register. What the fuck? The cigarettes were barely five dollars, and you're pretty sure in your entire tenure at Mo's you've never been tipped anything other than the loose coins people don't want to keep. You're in the middle of trying to figure out how to thank him when he nods to you once, and turns to leave.Â
Stunned, you have no idea how to react. Genuinely what the fuck was any of that? You eye the tip jar suspiciously as if the man had filled it with Monopoly money instead of enough cash to buy yourself a couple of hot meals. You entertain the idea of going to the local burger place you used to love as a kid. Hot, fresh fries and a large coke would probably fix you at least a little bit, you think. When you return to the comfort of your crossword you see in very neat, small handwriting, that the last word has been penned in.Â
Bereft.Â
The rest of the night goes without much else of note happening. You sweep the floors and mop the salt and grey sludge from the entrance. The coolers are stocked and the cash drawer is counted when your replacement arrives at two in the morning. Mo liked to keep the place open 24 hours since it was close enough to a busy highway that folks came through at all hours of the day. Your coworker, Olivier, arrives a little early so you can check them out at the register. Each morning they like to buy an energy drink in a tall pink can and whatever gummies they wanted to snack on that day. You enjoyed the little moments you got to have together. Olivier was one of the few people in this town who you could relate to. Their hair seemed to change color and style by the week, and they always had the best fashion sense. It seemed they were an expert at thrifting in a way you could only dream of. Layering different fabrics and patterns, they seemed to somehow never repeat an exact outfit.
âHow was everything? Good night?â they ask, already rooting through their bag of gummies for the blue ones. You shrug, making a high-pitched noise somewhere in your throat. Olivier, bless them, immediately understands. âDid that weird masked guy come in again? He pulled in with a giant moving truck the other night.â
This immediately perks you up. âNo shit?â That guy was moving here? âWhat's wrong with him?â you half-joke as you punch out on the register. Olivier chuckles with you, and the shared judgment over a new face in town reminds you how glad you are to have them. These small moments in the quiet hours of the morning made the town feel like it wasn't so small and empty.Â
As you pull your heavy coat on you look out the windows into the parking lot. The lot had been heavily salted, but it was dusting snow. You could see the suspended motes in the yellow street lights outside. Part of you was a little jealous of Olivier. This time of the morning always seemed so peaceful and quiet. You knew youâd never want to work their hours though. Waking up at midnight to get ready for work? No thanks. You wish Olivier a good shift as you pull your gloves on, before pushing out into the parking lot. The air shocks a chill into your chest as you breathe it in. Your breath puffs in a heavy cloud as you exhale. Already you could feel your fingers burning as the cold licked itâs way through your heavy layers. Awkwardly, to avoid slipping, you shuffle your way across the lot to your truck. Itâs a little blue beat-up thing. How youâve managed to keep it running all these years, you have no idea. Apparently, luck and hoping for the best are good enough for the ancient beater. It takes a couple tries to get the engine to turn over, and you sigh in relief when it finally roars to life. After idling in the cabin for a few minutes, you shift into drive and begin the slow crawl home. The roads arenât plowed, but itâs not slick enough to worry you. The sound of snow crunching beneath the tires, barely audible over the low hum of the radio, accompanies you home.Â
When you pull into the driveway you can feel your shift finally weighing down on you. You turn the key and slouch down in the seat, eyes shut. Your feet are cold. Your shoulders sag under your heavy coat, but you're somehow not warm enough. The cold always finds a way in. After a few moments, you manage to drag yourself out of the truck and you make the short walk to your front door. The only benefit of small-town living was the fact that you could afford the rent on this little house. Never mind the fact that you were pretty sure your landlord lived about an hour and forty-five minutes up the highway and owned most of the houses in your street.Â
Your nightly routine goes without much fuss. Tabitha, your cat, is pleased that you've come home on time to refill her dish with wet food. You undress, shower, and bundle back up in your warmest sleeping clothes. The house is cold, no matter how well you insulate the windows and the cracks in the baseboards. In the dark, you sit in bed with microwaved pasta in its plastic packaging with the instructions on the side. It's not good but it warms your belly and fills you up. As you eat you scroll on your phone, lazily browsing your social media and clicking through posts. Your mind wanders to the man you saw today. He was odd, and him moving here was even stranger. In all your life you can't really remember anyone moving into the town. Mostly your friends from high school have slowly trickled out, save for Olivier. You weren't sure why you'd never left for the bigger city, you'd just never felt the pull to get out and see more.Â
When you sleep that night it's restless as ever. You wake up often, teeth chattering. Your cat is nestled somewhere beneath the blankets with you, and you're careful not to roll onto her. You vow to do a once over, just to see if you can stuff any more of your hand-me-down towels into the draftier baseboards. It feels like it's been winter forever now, but with Christmas barely around the corner, you knew it had just begun.Â
â
You start seeing that guy around town. You pass by him in the grocery store. He's got a cart full of stuff, and you figure he's just stocking his kitchen. You grab your scant groceries, milk, and some canned goods that will last. While you're in the checkout line he pushes his cart behind you, leaving a respectful amount of space. You're not really the type to engage in the painfully long-winded Midwestern custom of talking about everything you possibly can, so you don't acknowledge him. You set your items down on the belt when it's your turn, and you offer a polite smile to the cashier.Â
âHey, find everything okay?â he asks, nice as you please.Â
âI did, thanks Carter.â He was a few grades above you back in school. He also stuck around after his class had graduated. You vaguely wonder each time about his dreams of joining the military, and whatever happened to them. Maybe it was just life that happened. You know he's got a little boy to take care of with his high school sweetheart and another on the way. Maybe that was all it came down to, at the end of the day.Â
Carter tells you your total and you mentally curse. You'd counted your cash twice before you'd come in the store, and you were certain you'd been doing the right math as you grabbed your items. Carter gently angles the register's screen to you so you can see the line items. God damn. You'd just plain miscalculated, probably too tired to keep it all straight in your head. You look down at the things you'd grabbed, trying to calculate what you could do without. You force a laugh. Humiliation roils in a dark pit in your chest. You find yourself speaking without thinking, âOh whoops! Sorry, go ahead and take off the soup cans.â Carter, bless his heart, doesn't make a fuss. He punches the register keys quickly and counts the cash you hand him. You very much do not want to look at the stranger behind you. You pray to whatever god might be listening that maybe he wasn't being as nosey as everyone else was in this town, and that he didn't just hear that you can't really afford an armful of groceries.Â
Carter hands you your single plastic bag, tells you to âHave a good one, hon,â You speed walk back to your truck, your breath puffing in clouds around you.Â
â
The next time you see him you're driving to work. The radio is playing softly and your truck's heaters are blowing semi-cold air onto you. You're stopped at a light when you see the guy, dressed in a light coat and the same balaclava. He's jogging, somehow managing to work a sweat on the cold. You have no idea what kind of psychopath goes on a run in the dead of winter. When the light turns green you have to drag your eyes off of him before you accelerate through the light.Â
It was rare that anyone in your town went on a jog. Unheard of in the winter. You were certain the old ladies would be gossiping up a storm at church. You figured it was no different than you and Olivier at Moâs. You smile at the thought of sharing your sighting of the masked stranger with Olivier tonight. The little chats in the quiet morning hours were a light in the dark of winter.Â
It was easy to get lost in the cold. It seemed all your waking hours were spent in the dark, during these months. You'd wake up later in the afternoon, always too tired to rise any earlier. It wasn't great for your mental health, but neither would being homeless. You'd take your victories where you could get them. Without much family nearby to rely on, you had to get by on your own.
The joy of adulthood.
â
You see him again that same night. He comes in around midnight. He's the first customer in around an hour. There had been a small rush of truckers passing through, trying to make it off the major highways before some snowfall was forecast to hit the area. You note that he's better dressed for the weather than he was earlier while he was jogging. He's in the same black work coat and leather gloves as before. You find it hard to meet his eye when he approaches the counter.Â
Something about seeing him in town made the transaction feel off in a way that you've never experienced before. Getting Janet her pack of Marlboro Reds and ringing her son Nick up for his energy drinks was never sullied by the fact that you saw them at the Sonic Drive-In in their old beater from time to time. Seeing him now with the sense that he was apparently sticking around in town made you feel strange. You didn't know anything about him besides his initials and the skull print on his balaclava. Knowing he was likely some retired military operative from a foreign country was nerve-wracking and exciting and weird as hell for your little town. You had no idea how to interact with him.Â
When you're getting the register open to count his change, you can't help but blurt out, âAre you liking it here?â Immediately you wish you could stuff the words back in your mouth when you see his eyes flick to meet yours. How on Earth could anyone be enjoying one of the worst winters your town has seen in years?Â
To your surprise he humors you. âIt's nice. Quiet,â he says after a beat. You blink at him, quickly looking back down to the cash you're supposed to be counting back to him.Â
âGood. That's good. Folks can be weird about new people, but I'm glad you're settling in.â Oh God, you're rambling. Make it stop.Â
To this, he hums. It's a low sound, almost silent, deep in his chest. You suppose that's the only response you're getting as he accepts the cash. You slide his pack of menthols across the counter. Your eyes widen as he doesnât even recount the bills youâve handed him, just folds them once and drops them into the tip jar. Sputtering already, cheeks red with embarrassment, you search for words but find none. This had to be about the grocery store. You were completely fine. Really, you were. You get paid this week and you would definitely go back to the store and probably pick up some extra groceries. None of this is coming out of your mouth though, as the man has basically vanished already. You can hear his truck starting up outside, the crunch of the snow and gravel as it pulls out of the lot.Â
Guilt rolls through you, thick and familiar. You had no idea what to make of this guy. First, he blows into your dead-end town and starts leaving you ridiculous tips on the cheapest cigarettes possible? What the fuck? It makes you feel ashamed and unnerved. No one had ever given you more than the change they simply didnât want to carry around, and youâd never expected anything more than that.Â
When you talk it over with Olivier that night in the early hours, they eye you mischievously, clearly very interested in the manâs motives to give you excessively large tips. âCâmon, let the guy toss you a little cash here and there, itâs a free country. He can do what he wants, even if it's to give all his money away,â they tease over the lip of an energy drink. You hang your head, groaning in response.Â
âI dunno⊠I donât know what to make of it, is all,â you admit. That little pit of nervousness in your gut had been sitting heavily all night. Olivier gives you a pitying look.Â
âDonât worry too much about it, I think you should just let it ride. And tell me all of the details.â You canât help but choke a small laugh at their insistence on being in the know. Almost nothing new ever came to town, of course it was the juiciest thing ever to Olivier. You give them a weary smile and wish them a good shift before heading out.
â
The next few weeks are more of the same. You see the man around town, like any other local. At the grocery store, heâs always got a cart full of food, and youâre sure to hurry off out of his way with your armfuls of items. Once or twice youâve seen him meandering around the local shops, and you sort of dread the idea of running into him at the little cafe you sometimes indulge in when youâve got a little extra cash on hand. Something in you wanted to be protective of your favorite spots in town, but you knew it was irrational. Soon enough he would be just as familiar to the folks around here as you were.Â
Without fail, he continued to come into Moâs with large bills. Heâd ask you for his cigarettes, tip you far too much, and leave before you could really say anything about it. He never spoke to you more than you spoke to him and he was never anything other than perfectly polite. You hadnât begun to have a single idea as to why he insisted on tipping so much.Â
Eventually, you had come to terms with his insistence on leaving all of his excess cash with you. You started squirreling some of it away, using it specifically on groceries and smaller bills. It was nice to have a little extra padding in your wallet, especially during these cold months. You definitely werenât touching the thermostat though, thatâs for sure. Old habits, and all that. It was easiest to be thankful, to not look this gift horse in the mouth, and to do your best to just keep pushing through the winter.Â
â
A winter storm was forecast for your town. The weatherman youâd grown up watching warned this would be one of the worst in years, and to stock up on the essentials. You knew you had about a monthâs worth of cat food and a few cans of something or other in the back of your cupboards and called it good before heading to work that day. Calling out wasnât really a thing Mo liked you to do. It didnât help that youâd woken early today, sweating through your layers of blankets and somehow still chilled to the bone.Â
Getting ready for your shift had taken about twice the time. Youâd taken a cold shower, teeth chattering and your stomach turning the entire time. You did not look in the mirror while brushing your teeth and getting dressed. It had to be bad, the way folks looked at you when you arrived. You were bundled up in a hoodie and an oversized flannel. There was something about being ill that just made the cold weather feel so much worse. The black K-95 mask youâre wearing isnât doing much to hide the puffiness or dark circles under your eyes. The near-constant sniffling and perspiration arenât doing you any favors.Â
Between the little rushes of your shift, you unabashedly sit on the floor behind the counter, not caring if Mo saw you on the cameras and wanted to give you a pissy little talk about it later. You hadnât had any medicine to take at home and all the store carried were caffeine pills and Tylenol for eight dollars per two-pack. You do your best to stay hydrated, refilling a small styrofoam cup from the soda machines often. The water tastes vaguely like Hi-C Punch, and you try to not think about it. When youâre able to focus on your own hands, you see them shaking as they bring the cup to your lips.Â
You think itâs around one in the morning when you hear the door chime. Close to the start of Oliverâs shift, the end of yours. No one has been in the store since around eight, you think. Time has stopped feeling real at this point. Breathing heavily, you muster the strength to stand. You lean heavily over the counter, trying to wet your mouth against the sudden nausea crawling up your throat. Under your layers, youâre sweating and chilled and just so uncomfortable. Whoeverâs just entered the store stomps the snow off of their boots, and you can hear their steps squeak on the linoleum straight to your counter. A quick glance up and youâre making eye contact with the masked man who has become strangely familiar to you.Â
You can only manage a nod to acknowledge him, before turning around to grab his cigarettes. Heâd been in the night before, so you werenât expecting him tonight. Normally his packs last him a few days. Why would he come out so late, especially during this bad weather? You canât really bring yourself to think too critically right now, instead choosing to focus on not passing out before you can clock out and go home. When you turn around, pack of menthols in hand, you find that the man is eyeing you more intently than normal. You think? The mask made it hard to tell. Your hands are shaking, you realize it just as the cigarettes slip from your fingers.Â
âFuck, âm sorry-â You bend to pick them up and are met with a rush of blood in your ears. When you rise you lean against the counter for a moment, eyes closed. It would later come back to you as an embarrassing moment, but currently, youâre focusing very hard on staying upright.Â
âYou're sick,â the man says, so plainly it's kind of funny. You huff a small laugh, nodding.Â
âWhyâre you here? Stormâs gonna get bad tonight.â Itâs a poor attempt at deflecting the obvious statement. Something bristled in you at him, it was enough that heâd seen you at the grocery store. Being seen by him like this now, especially after all the cash tips heâs been leaving you, makes you feel cagey and defensive.
âI could ask you the same.â He slides you a twenty as he says this. You meet his eyes, briefly. Itâs easier to look at him with half of your face covered, you realize. Maybe thatâs why heâs never been seen around town without his balaclava. He meets your gaze evenly, seemingly unaware of the shame that pulses under your skin. You sniffle loudly, not looking down at the bill on the counter. Youâve got about a dozen questions for him, but your jaw is clenched so tightly youâre not sure where to even begin. Just when youâve worked up the nerve to fire a question at the man, the door chimes.Â
Both of you turn to see Olivier entering the shop. They wave one mittened hand at you. âOh hey! Youâre here too, Simon. Nice to see you again.â Simon? Somehow Olivier had failed to mention his name after all this time. Admittedly, youâd never even thought to ask. Heâd never introduced himself formally, and you werenât one to pry, especially into the lives of odd men who only buy their cigarettes after sundown. Simon raises a hand to greet Olivier, the most human thing youâve seen him do so far.Â
âHey Liv,â you croak, clearing your throat a little. At the sound of your wrecked voice, Olivier grimaces at you. Already, theyâre reading into their tote back and donning a mask.Â
âStay over there, and disinfect the counter when you leave!â They harp, only half joking. You nod wearily and quickly check Simonâs cigarettes out on the register. It feels strange to even think of him using his first name. Simon takes his leave, and as soon as you've got your coat on youâre following right behind him, waving a quick goodbye to Olivier as you go. Theyâre immunocompromised, and the last thing you want is to make their life harder by getting them sick.
The snow falls heavily, immediately sticking to your eyelashes and blinding you. You drag your gloved hands over your eyes, trying to clear them. Blinking rapidly, you see that the parking lot is a smooth expanse of honeyed yellow. The street lamp makes the area look warmer than it is. You can already feel the cold sinking into your fingertips. The trees on the edges of the lot are bowed heavily under the snowâs weight. When you step into the lot, the snow is powdery soft, but icey beneath. Not good. It would be a very slow drive home once you got your truck moving. The snow is only about halfway up the tires, but youâd still need to shovel it out to give it a fighting chance of leaving the lot if you could get it started in this cold.Â
When you get it started.Â
Historically, your beloved fossil of a truck has not done well in the cold. Youâd been meaning to replace the battery and get the transmission checked out this Summer. You had forgotten.Â
The sound of snow crunching behind you tells you that Simon has not left the lot, and is apparently watching you have your silent meltdown now. Great. âYou want some help getting that snow shoveled?â Itâs strange hearing him outside of the contained environment that is Moâs. The wind changes his voice. Itâs odd to be shoulder to shoulder with him, and not talk about cigarettes. Dejected, you know when to choose your battles. You nod your head and lead him to the driver's side door of the truck.Â
âI might need a jump, it really doesnât do well in this weather,â you admit wearily. Simon nods like he knows that already. Maybe he did, itâs not exactly the nicest-looking vehicle anyoneâs ever seen. You crank the door open and hop in the seat. When turning the engine over multiple times does nothing but pitifully crank the engine, you lean your forehead against the steering wheel in defeat. Before you can say anything you can't fight the urge to suddenly cough. You turn away from Simon, who's kind of hovering near the open door of your truck, to bury your mouth in your elbow to cough. You've honestly had enough of being gross and embarrassed in front of this guy for one night. When your coughing fit is done you lean back, exhausted, against the seat. Your throat is raw, and your entire body feels weak. The thought of shoveling out your truck and waiting on the battery to charge fills you with dread. âFuck this, man.âÂ
Snow has started sticking to Simon's coat, dusting white onto the black fabric. He's standing a small distance away with his hands in his pockets, giving you a decent amount of space. âYou want a ride home? Can come deal with it in the morning with you, if you like.â You turn your head to regard him, thankful again for your mask to hide behind. There's plenty of security footage of him coming into the store over and over again. You supposed if he wanted to kill you there would be at least a half-decent physical description. Plus Olivier probably knew more about him, given that they're a chatterbox no matter the time of day.Â
Your eyes flick out to the lot. The snow shows no sign of stopping. Fuck it.Â
âMy house isn't far from here.â
#oh hey im back#sorry for the hiatus lol#ghost x reader#cod mw ghost#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x you#simon ghost riley#my writing#subtle sugar daddy stuff#idk i love angst so much??#i just want reader to be well taken care of <3
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Whatâs my Roman Empire? The JJK men, next question.
#whytheykinda-#Alexa play hey daddy by Usher#daddys home#simping#jjk manga#jjk#jujustu kaisen#gojo satoru#nanami kento#toji fushiguro#choso kamo#geto suguru#sukuna#jjk x reader
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Jordan would call you: baby, babe, princess, mama
Things to call Jordan that make them melt: Jordie, tough girl/guy, lover boy/lover girl, tiger
#bee talks#listen to me fucking come back LISTEN im speaking truths#i need to include these new nicknames in my next fic or ill die#you seeing jordan upset: you okay tough girl#jordan feeling seen abt to cry: yup! im cool! everything is cool forever and ever#lover boy would make him MELT fucking listen to me#jordan li x reader#jordan is very much giving 'hey mama' its the way he steps into maries space yeah#daddy too but thats the forbidden knowledge
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Double post after not touching tumblr for a fortnight. Badaboom.
Terrick my beloved.... I originally was coloring this normally but then I was like TV GIRL!!! I suppose if you'd like the other ver it'll be on my twitter. :-)
#dndads#dndads fanart#dndads art#dungeons and daddies#probablynotvee#dndaddies#dungeons and daddies fanart#dndads s2#terry junior#terry jr stampler#terry jr#dndads terry jr#nick close#dndads nick#nicholas foster#nick close foster#nicky swift#terrick#terry x nick#dndads terrick#im like actually insane about them hey
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Pedro Pascal exists:
Me:
#pedro pascal#narcos#heroâs#oscar issac#hey sexy lady#lol#meme#my man#memes#daddy issues#chris jamal evans#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal smut
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for the doodles requests, how abooout scary???
her prom look!!!! aka how Scary wished she looked like 24/7
#dndads#dungeons and daddies#scary marlowe#art requests#my daughter#âhey now you're a strong girl/ fight the whole world/ go SLAYâ i agree terry jr#ibis paint x
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Your honour, they might be gay.. or just latino
#hey I don't make the rules#Mami's great and all but I swear she's the overprotective step mother#wwe#damian priest#dominik mysterio#damian priest x dominik mysterio#damianik#the judgement day#dominik has daddy issues lol
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nsfw/
i have nothing against smut writers i love you guys đ and maybe itâs bc im gay but HELP âmike would make you wear a cute little skirt and f****** you in public-â that man is RIDDLED with anxiety ok i get it itâs ur thing but PLS⊠âheâd spoil u with diamonds and pearlsđ„°â poor guy canât afford oreoâs. ur getting a can of pringles and a teddy bear from the dollar store at BEST
#this is coming from someone thatâs written unrealistic and slightly ooc smut btw#i just think itâs funny#but u guys have ur thing and i love u for it!#i donât like opening tumblr at work and seeing daddy mike x sub reader tho but hey i should just mute the tag#mike schmidt#ns/fw#tw sex mention#five nights at freddy's#five nights at freddieâs movie#fnaf#fnaf movie
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the relationship between jude and madoc is so layered and complex. she hates him for murdering her parents but is conflicted by these feelings because he he raised jude and her siblings with "love" and never used his power against them.
jude hates who her father is but in the same breath, they are the same. jude is exactly the image that madoc created. "i am what you made me." she hates that he is the only other being that can truly understands her actions, her thirst and hunger for power.
#the cruel prince#tcp#the wicked king#the queen of nothing#tqon#jude duarte#hey jude :)#jude x cardan#madoc#father/daughter#daddy issues#bookblr#books#holly black
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landlord-boomer-bucky when he says iâm not following and viner-millennial gale eyeing him up and down thinking well wouldnât you like to know weather boy
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sorry but no one can convince me that t is giving buck head. he'd be like. đđ«€ evan, your dick is too big, can't i just give you a handy instead? and buck being the little people pleaser that he is would just be like. đđ yeah...yeah okay that's fine...
#strong believer of the buck is not sexually satisfied with t#like once the novelty of being with a guy for the first time wore off#hes just not getting much of their relationship anymore#obviously he like being with a guy and discovering all the new acts and feelings and positions they can do#like okay t said hes just trying to keep up with buck in that deleted scene right#but idk man i fully believe thats buck figuring out he loves giving bjs and being like can i suck you dick hey hey can i suck your dick rn#or getting fucked (im a taylor pegged him truther but shhh) and hes just eager to do these things a lot because hes never done them before#i really dont think that that means t is matching his energy (because when has he ever)#like okay sorry im subjecting yall to this#but i imagine buck basically writhing on the bed like a cat in heat and t is just like uhhhh đ§ââïž i can fuck you ig#(shhhh ik t is a gay man but yall be so serious the daddy kink is like the freakiest thing he could ever do and that aint even freaky)#these tags are all over the place#basically#t would try to give buck head like once and be like sorry evan i cant but hey ill do x instead#eddie on the other hand would try to give buck head and buck would be like hey...hey dont hurt yourself most people end up not being able to#and eddie would proceed to happily choke himself on bucks dick#anti tommy kinard#yeahh
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Nick: I wish I lived somewhere else, I wish I lived in a land so green of crystal blue. I wish I knew things were okay and I could find someone true :(
Jareth in Nickâs window:
#jareth x reader#Jareth#jareth the goblin king#labyrinth 1986#oc x canon#oc: Nick Cardinal#hey girl are you the underground because um daddy daddy please get me out of here-#no that joke doesnât land#Iâll workshop it
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Dear reader,
I have been thinking about Gojo Satoru and how â Hey Daddy â is literally and figuratively his song. Every time I hear the bells and the back up singers.. I just remember Satoru. Not a day goes by that I donât listen to that song. I think about it night and day and at this point I canât shut up about how it makes me feel things!
I feel like one of Pavlovâs dogs when I hear the fucking bells. I react immediately and think of him.
To be completely honest, I didnât even like Satoru at first. Then I read all those fanfics about him and I heard the song. Itâs like I was trained that every time I hear that horrifying music, I think of Gojo Satoru. Hell, I even think of this shit during exams?! What the fuck do I do??
- xoxo Mo đ
@toxicramune â comment đȘ© to be on my taglist !
#jjk#jjk gojo#gojo satoru#satoru gojo#gojo x reader#hey daddy#satoru#gojo#satoru x reader#gojo satoru x reader#satoru gojo x reader#jjk gojo satoru#jjk satoru gojo#tojifile
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DADDYđâ„ïžâ„ïž
#goth girl#daddy#i love fangs#baby girl#babygirlification#girlblogger#kirk hammett#kirk hammett smut#kirk hammett x reader#hey sexy lady
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For all my fellow wrestling fans.
Enjoy.
#wrestling#tag teams#hawk & animal - the road warriors / the legion of doom#NWO#the outsiders - âbig daddy coolâ kevin nash & âthe bad guyâ scott hall#harlem heat - booker t & stevie ray#the new age outlaws - âthe badassâ billy gunn & âthe road doggâ jesse james#edge (adam copeland) & christian (jay reso)#the dudley boys - bubba ray & d - von#the hardy boys - matt hardy & jeff hardy#m & m - joey mercury & johnny nitro (with melina)#america's greatest tag team - charlie haas & shelton benjamin#degeneration x#wolfpack#the steiner brothers - âthe dog faced gremlinâ scott steiner & âbig poppa pumpâ scott stener#oh what a rush#hey yo#can you dig it sucka?#oh you didn't know?#get the table#the acolytes / the acolyte protection agency (APA) - justin âhawkâ bradshaw & âfarooqâ ron simmons#damn!#wolfpack in the house#WCW (world championship wrestling) - where the big boys play#WWF ( world wrestling federation) - the attitude era
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i think i might just fucking die if i dont post this right now Ok guess what? guess? guess...u wanna guess the colour of my underwear. ok cowboys here wtf ugh anyway dont tell me its bad ill come and get you
#i HATE how this starts like its making me actually angry.#wah wah wah SHUT UP oh my god literally nothing happens im gonna beat my past self#ok i think this Kind of sucks but i literally got FIVE thousand words i cannot be caught writing anymore than that bitch no way#itll just end up sucking if i try to force more im actually gonna burn in hell for being alive#HEY QT YEAH THERES SOMETHING I WANT TO SAY#OH MYG ODI LOVE THISSONG#bleeggggghhhhhhhhhhh posting BOOOOOO i need a fic blog im gonna beat somebody up#bye bye everypony...#blah blah!#deus cowboys#they hate me because my daddy is rich and im like god damn leave me alone they want me 6 feet deep in a ditch dont hate me cos my daddy is#gatty#BLLEEEEGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH#new word for it PLease#what if i vomit#i hate posting it for real stresses the piss out of me EVERY TIME like please girl whos even gonna see this !!!!!!! LEAVE ME ALONE FEAR !!!#mmm the weather is giving storm đđđ#that is a joke please take it as such#george is ognna be taking something else soon#no he fucking isnt#wait#matty x george#i actually need to die#my fic
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