priceoftheduchess

[priceoftheduchess]

oh, father! where art thou?

part three.

highschool au, long lost lovers, enemies to lovers if you squint, grumpy and sunshine-esque dynamics, simon riley & fem!reader.

cw) angst, use of 2nd person, allusions/vague depictions to intimacy eventually, drinking eventually, breakdowns, motherhood, simon riley is father, un-canon lore, not proofread!

@girl-lostconnection @alkalineapparition and to anyone else enjoying this series, i love you.

previous part

Simon’s home — the home he used to share with his family — is now barebones. Tommy’s toys were sold off to the single mother across the street, and Simon scrubbed that bourbon stain from the couch as hard as he could managed. He wiped his mother’s lipstick off the wine glasses in the sink and shattered them in the backyard. Memories are heavier than grief, he thinks.

Simon is horrified with himself. Inviting you into his home? Where there has only ever been pain and suffering? Where he has only been hit and never kissed? Where he has yearned to die and kill before he has even lived and loved? What was he thinking? He’s sure you can feel it, even just parking in the drive. Your car shuts off and he watches you walk from your car. Why are you gorgeous?

You knock softly on the door — standing under the porch light, which he mistakes for a halo — holding a floral, porcelain Tupperware. It’s intricate and beautiful, just as you are. And Jesus Christ, Simon thinks you’re a vision. You’re wearing a soft pink blouse and some shorts that hit mid-thigh. Your hair is wavy and a bit untamed but his mouth has dried up regardless. He answers the door like a damn fool.

“House,” he says affirmatively.

“Yes.” You agree tentatively; you’re not sure why he’s referencing this. He gives you a terse nod and steps aside, beckoning you in. You walk in, and this house is quiet. Grief has settled in the bones of this home, here. There is a silent wail with every step you take and there are too many drafty corners for any of it to be normal. There are ghosts here. It is the heaviest thing you’ve ever felt, and you wonder how Simon lives here. Why he lives here alone.

But Simon is here, so somehow it is all okay. He generously takes the porcelain, filled with some sticky toffee pudding that your grandmother made “for your new sweet boyfriend.”

So close, Grandma. Maybe not too wrong.

He carefully unlatched the plastic top from the frilly dish and sets it aside. “T’smells good. But you ‘idn’t ‘ave to bring any’ing.” He’s almost scolding you. Does your kindness ever fucking end?

“My gram made it. Somebody else had to experience her sticky pudding,” you smile softly, and he feels his heart melting down the insides of his lungs.

“Too kind, luv,” he says softly and leads you into the dining room. The table is set. Simple green plates along with some old cutlery. A singular, nearly empty, candle burning in the centre of the table. And the food.

Two plates. Both loaded with a nice, fat cut of steak and some assorted sides.

“Don’t know wot you ‘ike, luv. Just put out some mashed and some greens alongside. Sound good?” You nod and he is relieved beyond belief. His shoulders lighten and he sits at the table. It’s a lonely table. Two chairs. Not sign of a family anywhere. No sign that anyone else has ever lived here. Matter-of-fact, if Simon wasn’t sitting in front of you, you’d be easily convinced no one ever inhabited this home at all. Is home even the right word?

You sit across from him, and you both begin to eat in a comfortable silence. The soft clinking of silverware to plate is enough for you both, it seems.

After dinner, you’re helping him rinse the dishes because why wouldn’t you? He sets a dish in your side of the sink, and your hand brushes his. It’s so electric you’re shocked you didn’t die, with your hands in the water and all. He seems to notice it the same time you do, because he glances at you before his wet hands are out of the water and on your arms, his touch like a brand.

And with his hands on your arms, teeth are clashing against teeth and his nose is bumping yours. Lips are mauled at, and his hands have traveled down to your waist, leaving wet handprints on your blouse. He breaks from the kiss, eyes blown and face flushed. He has never looked so sweet.

Now, instead of harsh edges and crooked lines, he is just like everyone else. Just affected by intimacy as you are. He searches your face frantically, his eyes darting around. He wants to say sorry. To tell you that you can go and take your grandma’s pudding back with you.

But he doesn’t get the chance, before your lips are back on his. Desperate, needy and starved. Your hands leave imprints in the collar of the shirt he was wearing, and his hands are scorching when he gently feels up your spine, taking the utmost care in such.

Two Months Later.

Simon has long grown sick of the new school year. Year 12 is perhaps the most dull year he’s ever had. Academically, at least. You’re there. And you’re his girlfriend. His girlfriend. His girlfriend!

Simon thinks everyday he’s died and gone to Heaven, by some miracle. You still haven’t questioned the emptiness of his home, or the holes in the walls where you’re sure old photos were hung — and for that he is grateful.

You meet him in the parking lot, keys in hand and goofy grin as you see your boyfriend leaning against your car. He’s gained more weight, thank God. Some muscle, probably just from physical labor at work, thank God. He’s as tall as he always was and he’s so extremely yours.

“Hi,” you smile up at him.

“Mm,” he hums softly, nodding at you. You’re the single most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And you’re his! Why can he not get over that fact?

“Mm?” You repeat back, laughing softly.

“Mm.”

“Mm.”

You pull into his drive, parking in front of the house you’ve grown to love. You’re here most days, as your parents are really only in your life through your bank statements. And even then, barely that.

There are pieces of you everywhere. Sticky lipgloss on the rims of all his glasses that he refuses to wash. Plushies of that fucking white cat in his bed, and pops of pink in his underwear drawer. It’s all things to show him you’re tangible. And you don’t plan on leaving. You don’t plan on dying. And for that, he is grateful.

“Goin’a take a shower, luv.” He nods once you both make it inside his room, and you nod, slipping into the bed you’ve made an imprint of yourself in. The bed that smells like you.

Needing to finish some work from class, you begrudgingly peel yourself from his bed, and search his desk for a pencil. He’s still got your pencil from Year 11, you know it. While doing so, you stumble onto some forms.

Her Majesty’s Armed Forces Soldier Application? Oh, hell no. You feel like crying. Screaming. Vomiting. Leaving. Burning these papers in an obscenely large dumpster fire. No. You know what this means. What happens from here.

When Simon comes back from the shower, you’re huddled in the corner, a familiar piece of paper in your hand. Why are you crying? Oh, hell no.

“Luv?”

“No.” You respond immediately. And he knows he is fucked.

“Please ‘et me explain.”

“No! Simon, no!” You stand up and wave the paper in his face, appropriately pissed. “You are not leavin’ me! You’re not puttin’ your-fuckin’-self on the front lines! No! Are you stupid? Must be! Thinkin’ I’d ever let you go off ‘n’ risk your life!”

Simon is still. Inordinately still. Barely breathing. You take this as an invite to continue.

“And why not tell me ‘bout this?! We do not keep things from each oth’a! You’re mad, Simon! You’ve gone mad!” He nods, his only defense right now is agreement. You take a deep, calming breath and throw the paper on the desk. You’re working through a million thoughts in your mind, and he has not even said a word.

“How serious are you ‘bout this?”

“Wot?”

“Simon, how serious are you ‘bout this? I mean, did’ja get this flyer from a random booth in the shops or … are you actually leaving me?” You sound so dejected, and he feels horrible. He tugs you against him, hoping to soften the blow.

“This is the only chance ‘ve got’a any kind’a career, luv.” He tells you honestly, and you’re sobbing. Because of course you are. You’re so attached and God, so is he.

“Fuck.” You lean away from him just enough to look into his eyes as he stares down at you and you’re shattered. Broken.

“I’m sorry, luv.” And the rest of your night is blur. A teary, heartbreaking blur.

You seem to zone out for months, maybe. Detaching yourself from the inevitable, perhaps. You’re zoned out until Simon is packing a large duffel bag of everything he’s ever owned, and some things you begged that he take with him. And you’re zoned out as you drive him to the bus stop.

And you’re only truly listening when under the bus terminal and sitting next to Simon, fingers intertwined and tears streaming down your face. Relentless.

He’s stopped trying to comfort you. Not because he’s stopped caring but because he knows better now. You’ll cry well until after he’s left and maybe even until he returns. He’s given you everything. The keys to his ratty car, the keys to his home. Everything.

He’s wearing your scarf again, and he’s got you glued to his side. He’s rethinking all of it. Until he’s not allowed that luxury anymore. The bus is here.

And why is Simon already crossing that threshold? The point of no return? He gave you a kiss, you know. But nothing else is registering.

Simon watches as you collapse onto the pavement as the bus begins to pull away. Your knees scraping and painting the sidewalk red. But that is the lesser pain of the two.

Your heart is in two pieces, and Simon took one of those with him when he left.

[priceoftheduchess]

working on part three of the highschool au!! going to try and make it super long for all of you!! be on the lookout 😚😚

[priceoftheduchess]

oh, father! where art thou?

part two.

highschool au, long lost lovers, enemies to lovers if you squint, grumpy and sunshine-esque dynamics, simon riley & fem!reader.

cw) angst, use of 2nd person, allusions/vague depictions to intimacy eventually, drinking eventually, breakdowns, motherhood, simon riley is father, un-canon lore! all of it eventually

tw) super short and i’m so sorry

also, scarf scene inspired by @girl-lostconnection ! please read her “Unsweetened Lemonade” AU! <3

previous part

Winter in Manchester was never easy. It marked the beginning of a new term, new classes, new people in these new classes. Not to mention the Manchurian weather. Fog, humidity, and wind.

All of Simon’s adversaries. His clothes were too thin, too ratty for all of this nonsense. You noticed this, more closely — perhaps, for the first time when you caught him smoking outside of the orchestra building again. He’s lucky Dr. Harris was too senile to really care about busting him for smoking.

You sat and watched him. Effortlessly blowing the smoke from his chapped lips, like he’s already setting a somber tone for his day. Fucking weirdo, also, what’re you doing just standing here and watching him?

Since when did you become so interested in him?

You approach him again — before you can think better of it — and thrust your scarf into his chest, same as you did with the granola bar just a few weeks earlier. He’s puzzled, but almost unsurprised. He flicks some ash in your direction and snickers to himself as you flinch away from it.

“Wot’s ‘is?” He asks. You’re dumbfounded by how dense he must be.

“S’a scarf.” You respond, and you’ve must’ve made a face because he rolls his eyes at you.

“Yeah, gathered ‘at much. Wot’s it for?”

“It’s 5° celsius outside, and you’re asking why I’m giving you a scarf?” She asks, her eyebrows aching from her confusion.

“No need for lip, princess,” he chuffs back at you. Princess? Wot? “Was jus’ askin’ why you’ve decided to gimme your scarf.”

“‘Cause I ‘a clearly see you’re cold.” She says, reaching the point of exasperation.

He scoffs, as if that’s the most ridiculous idea he’s ever come across. “Come off it,” he chuffs and passes the scarf back to you unceremoniously.

“Mate, ‘at’s so hard to understand?! Givin’ you a scarf, ‘ot a billion quid!” And he snickers, having found you riled up again. He seems to let go of his grief a bit easier now. Especially in your presence.

He towers over you, as lanky and awkward as he is. Seeing you with your hands on your hips is quite funny, and he can’t even remember your name. Just knows you’re sweet and well-respected. All the things he will never be.

“Don’t need it.” He says, and you give up on conversation. Shoving it against his chest again, you storm off to first lesson. It’s some arithmetic class you wished you could’ve opted out of, but alas.

And who walks in? The boy with the scarf! Oh my, God. Oh, my God! You physically coil back into your seat when you see him search the room for his desk, before slipping into the one beside you. Your scarf is poking from his jacket. Your scarf. He’s wearing it! Well, hiding it. But a win is a win.

You peak onto his desk, learning his name wordlessly.

Simon Riley.

Short and sweet.

“Got a pencil, luv?” He nearly knocks you out of your seat with how abruptly he’s spoken. Shit, when did the teacher start talking?

“You’ve come to school without a pencil?” You asked, reaching into your bag for one nonetheless. You hand him a sparkly pink mechanical pencil, and he looks at you like you’ve got two heads. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” you teased him, all too proud of yourself.

Oh, doesn’t he know it, sweetheart.

“Some station’ry you’ve got,” he chuffs, but your chest almost physically puffs when he starts writing in his scratchy handwriting with the frilly pencil nonetheless.

You grumble under your breath, mocking his voice and sticking out your tongue. Appropriate rebellion, you think. He smiles for a split second, his home life forgotten. How do you have this effect on him? With the scarf and the stupid ass, girly ass pencil? Has he actually gone mad? Would be the most likely explanation.

You catch glimpses of him during the lesson, and the scent of him. It’s strong, musky, and mature. A grown man’s cologne. You wonder where it’s from. Smells expensive. But with every glimpse you catch, you can’t help but notice his lips. They’re chapped beyond oblivion and you’re wondering how he’s not chewing them till he draws blood.

You forget paying attention to the lecture entirely, and start rummaging through your purse. You find it! Aha! Your blueberry flavored “healing” lip balm.

“Here,” you all but slam it on his desk. He snorts at you and doesn’t give the tube a second glance. You don’t give him a chance to before you’re forcibly applying the lip balm for him, a rough grip on his chin and another tightly holding the lip balm. “Better?” You ask, and he’s again looking at you like you have two heads, but at least his lips are shiny.

And the second term of Year 11 continues like that. You offering him small things to help him cope with the Manchurian winter and him begrudgingly accepting.

The last day of the second term roles around, the winter snow and harsh winds bygones. And you still haven’t seen your scarf. Hm.

Simon sits down in his desk, the desk you two have shared, the desk you two have bonded over and fought over just as much. He is a bit dejected today, but he’s been looking a bit better. His arms are fuller and his face is a normal color this time of year. He begins speaking without even glancing your way.

“Been workin’ ad’a butcher shop.” He says, as if this has been the secret to the universe all along.

“Is’at the answer to the ‘omework from ‘ast night?” You tease, just getting under his skin. He’s ready to give up on this whole being honest and being vulnerable thing.

Ready to give up on telling you that you were the highlight of his year, as much as you two fought. That he prays he’ll classes again with you come Year 12, and that you helped him get over all the grief he’d been harboring. That as much as he didn’t understand you in your entirety, he adored you. That as much as it was a hurdle to allow himself to get to know you, he’s enjoyed it all. And he’s glad he jumped that hurdle and not that ledge. Because where would you be without him? He allows himself the one cocky thought.

“‘N’ I thought I’d told her she waddn’t in’ited but she’s comin’ anyhow and I’ve ‘iven up try’n to convince ‘er not to.” Oh? You were speaking? You were actively telling him something?

“Sounds like a piece’a work.” He chuffs and you nod in inordinate agreement, believing that he was listening.

“Anyway, wot’s ‘is ‘bout you workin’ in’a butcher shop?” She looped the conversation back to him. Fuck. What did he have planned to say? Why’d he throw away those damn flashcards he’d made?

“Been makin’ some money, yeah?” He starts slowly.

“Lucky prick,” she chuckles softly.

“Nah, ‘ot the point, luv.”

“Oh?”

“Got you sum’n.” He says, and she’s shocked. Did she really mean this much to him? She’s caught up in her emotions, before she feels it in her hand.

A fucking granola bar.

Simon is chuckling heartily, and she’s thrown the damn thing back in his face.

“Not funny, Si.” And he stops laughing.

Did you just give him a nickname? Oh, honey. If only you knew what you had now.

This poor sod, on a leash that you didn’t even attach him to. And he’s shortened it, too, for your courtesy. Don’t worry about him running, off, luv.

“My boss ‘ave me some cuts.” His voice slices confusion in half. “You got any plans ‘or dinner ‘onight?”

What?!

“I. . . dinner?”

“Yeah, you never ‘eard of it?” He teases. Because he’s so positively hilarious.

“‘Re you askin’ me’a come over for dinner?” She says, a bit louder this time.

“Not if you’re gettin’ your knickers in’a twist ‘bout it.” He looks at you like you have two heads. Jesus, is there something you didn’t see in the mirror this morning?

“No! I. . . I’ll check with my parents but that’s probably fine. Eh, wot time?”

“Seven?”

“Seven.”

“Seven.”

next part

[priceoftheduchess]

masterlist

🧃 — angst

🍵 — fluff

✂️ — smut / smut adjacent

╭────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╮

♯┆simon “ghost” riley .ᐟ

> oh, father! where art thou?

♯┆johnny “soap” mactavish .ᐟ

> error 404

♯┆johnathan “bravo-6” price .ᐟ

> error 404

♯┆kyle “gaz” garrick .ᐟ

> error 404

╰────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╯

[priceoftheduchess]

oh, father! where art thou?

part one.

highschool au, long lost lovers, enemies to lovers if you squint, grumpy and sunshine-esque dynamics, simon riley & fem!reader.

cw) angst, use of 2nd person, allusions/vague depictions to intimacy eventually, drinking eventually, breakdowns, motherhood, simon riley is father, un-canon lore! all of it eventually

also! credits to the artists of the drawings and rendering used in the banner. they were reposted when i found them without credit, but i want to acknowledge them nonetheless. :(

also! to the one who started this all. @girl-lostconnection , everything i do , i do for you! entire thing inspired by this lovely person! :)

Simon Riley and committal didn’t exist in the same sentence. Not when he was a young lad — too underfed and too damn lanky with too many rough edges. Simon had never craved a permanent presence. As sad (and maybe a bit horrible) as it sounds, Simon wanted no one.

Even as his mother’s last wish was to meet her first daughter-in-law, and to meet her only son’s children.

I’m sorry, Tommy. She’d love you if she could bring herself to remember.

Even as he heard his mother’s last wish, he knew it was just another thing he couldn’t follow through with. Another thing he’d have chipping into his shoulder. I mean, Jesus, who’d want to marry and reproduce with the fucking freak that he is? Jesus.

So, at the ripe age of eighteen, after he’d buried his brother, and lost his father to the bottom of the bottle — like they’d never even fucking existed — he buried his mother.

Eleanor Riley. Gone too soon. Loving wife and mother.

Simon stared blankly as her body was lowered; the fact that he was the only one in attendance besides that fucking priest who will not stop talking burns like pure acid down Simon’s throat. Did she love no one? Was she loved by none, except this poor malnourished teenager, too stoic for his circumstances? Fuck.

Simon miraculously makes his way out of the cemetery, bile rising in his throat. His father was not home when he got there. Unsurprising.

Simon was unsure how to feel. But it seemed most logical to just . . . keep going?

And that, he did. He awoke to a silent home the next morning, all items untouched. His mother’s lipstick still on her wine glass in the sink. His father’s half empty bottle of scotch tipped over onto fabric, staining the couch. His brother’s room, unshaken by the sands of time. Toys strewn on the floor, action figures on the window sill, and comic books haphazardly strewn on the desk.

Let bygones be bygones, Simon.

Simon waited for the bus like normal. Well, like he usually would at this time of day. He didn’t even remember getting dressed.

When he got on the bus, he got nauseous again. Why was everyone looking like they knew? Like they were there, to see her blood dripping from the porcelain? Like they saw how Simon’s ribs were way too obvious to be normal? Like they knew where his father was? Fuck. There is suffering too terrible to name.

But he gets off the bus, and he’s aimlessly roaming the halls — trying to conjure where his first lesson was. Or, any lesson really.

And there you are, walking to orchestra. Dorky, round glasses perched on your nose and your violin clasped tightly in his hand. Buried in your own thoughts, just as Simon was, you two collide.

Your glasses fall onto the ground, clattering around somewhere and you clutch your violin case to yourself in the midst of the fall. Simon is almost unmoved by the collision, save for the backpack strap gone awry.

Apologize, Simon, you need to focus where you’re going. This wasn’t her fault, you were walking too fast and you need to apologize, hand her her glasses, Simon, do something. He thinks frantically.

“Seems like your glasses don’t work too well,” Simon snarks. No, not that something. He scolds himself for not apologizing or even handing you your glasses, and he doesn’t eat lunch that day to punish himself. Weeping over his own fucking lap in the bathroom. Grief is a fickle mistress.

But you are there. He saw your eyes when you stared up at him. Big, glossy and so beautifully colored. He couldn’t even describe it. And your cheeks. So pink, so full of embarrassment. And your legs as you leaned against the wall, trying to compose yourself. You are the sweetest girl in Year 11, and Simon has made a damn fool of himself.

Somehow, perhaps divine intervention, you find yourself at his lunch table a week later. And emphasis on his, because who would ever share a space with this man? You observe him, unabashedly, and ignore your friends as they give you strange looks because again, why are you sitting with him?

His eyes are sunken in, and he’s deathly pale. His arms are stick thin, and it’s a soul-crushing sight within itself. You roll him an apple. Why does he look so angry? You slide a granola bar across the table. His expression softens, but he is still apprehensive.

“Eat,” you order him. And disregarding what you’ve just said, he is sure you’ve spoken gospel with how soft your voice is. He shakes his head, however. Simon doesn’t take orders. He rolls the apple back to you, noticing your lack of any other food.

“Says you.” He says. But his voice is too gruff, and too weak for itself. He’s made a fool of himself again. You roll your eyes and roll the apple back.

“I’m fine. Eat.” You order again, but the bell for third lesson has rung and he’s gone. Leaving the fucking apple and the granola bar.

How will you ever get through to him?

You seem to answer your own question when you get to school thirty minutes earlier than usual, and you catch Simon smoking outside of the orchestra building. What the Hell?

You walk up to him, way too riled up for this early in the morning, and shove the granola bar against his chest.

“Look, I excused you runnin’ in’a me ‘cause maybe you were just zoned out. ‘N’ I excused your l’ttle snarky fucking comment ‘cause I felt bad for you, but don’t reject my food, mate. Bit disrespectful, innit?” You’re nearly as fucking British and Manchurian as he is.

Simon is almost bewildered. He takes the granola bar and shoves it into his pocket after a few beats of silence. “Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he chuffs, stomping his cigarette beneath his ratty shoe. “I’ll go ‘n’ eat the blasted thing, yeah?” He says before walking off.

Unbelievable.

next part

[priceoftheduchess]

nonchalant & mysterious

cod side blog

mdni, per usual! <3

writer!

di’anna (she/her)

masterlist <3

tags! :

#blueberryfic (part of a fic!)

#blueberrybabbles (yapping)

#blueberrydistracted (anything but writing!)

#blueberryanswers (responding to asks! <3)

taglist! :

none yet ;P