#blueberryfic

[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

[importantandunavoidable]

inflation

im going to give this a 1/10 because imo some light expansion stuff has sexy potential (preg, weight gain, cumflation) but the classic blueberryfication or furries-getting-filled-up-like-balloons types of inflation are not the vibe at all

[flora-bigs]

how is she gonna get out of this one!

shes having trouble keeping her balance as her thighs inflate, becoming thick, blimped pillars of fat and juice

ive always imagined the blueberryfication as filling your body with juice in all the tissues - your stomach fills to the point of painful bloating, while your arms and legs lose definition as they swell into tubes........

[holdharmonysacred]

I keep seeing people circle around that post about how Violet should’ve won the chocolate factory in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and I think people are missing some things here:

First, Willy Wonka is an eccentric Mad Scientist character and an artist. He’s the guy who does Art For Art’s Sake, he’s not looking for someone hyper competitive to run a business. This is something emphasized more in other adaptations such as the musical - Willy Wonka wants someone who is creative and can work on creating and refining candy because they love candy, not because they want to Win. Charlie is that artistic, creative kind of kid Wonka is looking for, and it helps that Charlie is proven time and again in every adaptation to have some level of integrity as well (such as returning the gobstopper in the 70s film rather than keeping it or giving it to Slugworth).

The second point people hold against Charlie - that he failed the test - also only applies to the 70s film. In the book and other adaptations, either he was never tested and thus never broke the rules, or the test he was given (such as being left alone with Wonka’s personal idea book in the musical and being told not to touch it) was something he was SUPPOSED to fail to win (adding his own ideas to the book proved he was creative and a fellow artist and thus, someone Wonka could truly trust). In adaptations like the musical he was even meant to win from the start, with Wonka befriending Charlie while disguised as a hobo and deciding to help him and his family basically get out of poverty.

Third, while Violet could’ve been a successful business owner, her thing is winning AT ALL COSTS. She’d probably end up as yet another shitty capitalist, with even her parents trying to capitalize on her blueberryfication. In the 70s film she probably would’ve given the gobstopper to Slugworth, and in the book she’s the asshole who sticks her gum on desks and doorknobs and ENJOYS it when people have to deal with that shit. It’s not that she’s ambitious that dooms her, it’s that she’s ambitious with no regard for the artform she’s dealing with or the consequences of her actions - were she in charge she’d just do to the candy business what all the shitty video game studios do to games right now. Taking the gum also showed a blatant disregard for factory safety and common sense, and someone who can’t even follow rules like “don’t grab and eat experimental gum, especially when you’ve ALREADY seen a kid go down because he disregarded factory rules” should NOT be in charge of a factory.

Now, a TAG-TEAM of Charlie and Violet could work, as Charlie brings artistic vision and honesty and integrity to balance out Violet’s ruthless capitalism, and Violet brings business savvy to help Charlie run the factory at all. That’s the only way Violet could be in charge and not fuck up though.

[hotwings0203]

How about an agreement: we won't get mad at you writing reader x shigaraki feat dabi and hawks, if you put blueberryfication in it.

FUCK brb lemme add some Willy wonka plot in there🤩🤩

[voluptuous-rwby-girls]

Blueberry Kalis reaction to see even after being completely juiced that's she still heavier than she was before her blueberryfication

Kali gasps as her bra and panties no longer fit her body. "W-Why can't I fit in these anymore?' She asked as her juice had doubled her bust and tripled her rear.

[scene118]

u want what i have. u want pockets upon pockets of blueberries. u wanna b a blueberry boy *kisses u and u turn into that bitch from willy wonka post blueberryfication*

bruh im so hunfry 

[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]

nonchalant & mysterious

cod side blog

mdni, per usual! <3

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tags! :

#blueberryfic (part of a fic!)

#blueberrybabbles (yapping)

#blueberrydistracted (anything but writing!)

#blueberryanswers (responding to asks! <3)

taglist! :

none yet ;P