#blueberryfic

[priceoftheduchess]

bite at the hand that feeds

john price x southern dentist!reader

cw) intimate, fluff, john price being a charming bastard, op is not a dentist! :P, this is not proofread!!, smut adjacent!

inspired by @rosegolden13’s dentist!reader fic!

Walking into your waiting room after doing a children’s cleaning to find a large, rugged man sitting in a chair reading a magazine was not really on today’s bingo card. Reading your chart, you see his name — or what must be his name — among others.

“John Price?”

He stands. Bingo! He stands, and Jesus Christ, why is he so large?

He’s dwarfing you as he follows you to the little room you work in, and you’re not even really sure he can fit in it. He’s casual but sophisticated all the same. A navy button down, unbuttoned at the top to accommodate him and the sleeves rolled up. Some jeans and a simple pair of worn work boots. His hair is all around peppered with grey hairs and he honestly looks delicious.

You smile at him as you slip into some new gloves and grab yourself a fresh surgical mask.

“Go ahead and sit down, and get comfortable for me,” You instruct him. You have the sweetest little Southern belle accent and he’s positively all over it.

“Yes ma’am,” his voice is gruff and British? Why is he here?

“You ain’t from here, is you?” You ask him softly, and he shakes his head with a lazy smile.

“No, ma’am. Herefordshire, originally. Meeting with some associates down here in Texas, and realized this mornin’ I’d chipped a tooth somewhere down the line.” He explains, and now you actually see it. One of his teeth behind his canines, chipped at the point.

“Poor baby,” you joke softly at him. “Open up and let me check that out for you. I’ll also offer you a free cleaning, if that’s something you’re interested in.” He nods, giving you another smile that melts your heart.

He opens his mouth after you clip a piece of thin fabric over his shirt. You gently poke around his mouth with your fingers and inspect the chipped tooth.

“I’m goin’ to wiggle it, sugar. I need you to tell me if it hurts or not.” You explain and he nods. You gently move the tooth back and forth and he shakes his head.

“Good, that means there’s very minor damage.” You smile softly and sterilize some tools to begin filling in the tooth. “You ain’t got no clue on how you done this?” You ask, even though you’re actively in his mouth, and he shrugs.

You finish the tooth quite quickly. “All good. You want me to clean your teeth while you’re here? Free of charge.” He smiles and nods.

“Yes ma’am.” You smile and continue working, gently drilling away at some plaque and checking the general health of the rest of his teeth.

“I’m goin’ to floss your teeth now. This can get kinda invasive, especially with the back teeth, so fair warning.”

He chuckles gruffly. “Ain’t nothin’ invasive when you’re as gorgeous as you are.” He remarks, almost nonchalantly, and you feel your face heat up, thankful for your mask.

“You hush. I done told you I ain’t goin’ to charge you for the cleanin’,” you shake your head, preparing a strand of floss. “No need to butter me up, sweet pea.” And he chuckles again, a hearty, gruff sound that warms your entire body.

You finish the cleaning, catching yourself smiling at his earlier comment and when you’re done, he sits up slowly and rolls his shoulders back while you remove the bib.

“Thanks, dove.” He says and he runs his tongue over his teeth, way too sensual for your professionalism. You trash your gloves and your used mask.

“Feel good?” You ask and he nods with a wink.

“Yes ma’am. Now, why don’t I get you some dinner while I’m still in town?”

Anti-fraternization rules and alarms go off everywhere. Don’t sleep with your patient! echoes softly in your mind. But his smile is just so charming and he’s adjusting his clothes that have shifted and oh, God, that color looks great on him.

“Why not?” You shrug, trying not to smile like an idiot. He ends up making you both dinner at his temporary, quaint little apartment that he’s renting — because you refuse to call it his flat — and it’s just as delicious as he is. You chide him softly for drinking wine when you cleaned his teeth just yesterday and he smiles at you, figuring he’ll have to visit America more often. Free healthcare be damned.

You help him wash dishes, and he’s flashing you that stupid grin that he’s got and somehow, when you’re on your back, bare as the day you were born, listening to John as he praises you gruffly six ways to Sunday… you’re not sure that you care about anti-fraternization.

He finishes with his head in the crook of your neck, and collapses beside you. “Too beyond my age to be doing all that, dove,” he chuckles gruffly and cleans you softly with a wet rag before turning off the lights and rolling into bed.

“Bless your heart,” you scratch lightly at his arm, flashing him a lazy grin.

“See you in the morning?” He asks as he rolls over.

“Absolutely, sugar.” And you fall asleep to his soft snoring.

[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.

[priceoftheduchess]

oh, father! where art thou?

part four.

highschool au, long lost lovers, enemies to lovers if you squint, grumpy and sunshine-esque dynamics (eventually), 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, MILITARY INACCURACIES SORRY SUE ME also not proofread!!! :U

a/n: guys!!! i have 100 likes on this account already 🥹 i want to kiss you all! also peep the hamilton reference ;P (sorry listening to “the world was wide enough” rn LOLL)

a/n 2: THIS IS SO FECKIN SHORT IM SORRY luvvies i try my best omggg !! also i might try to start writing some more intimate scenes ! if that’s something you’d all want! i’ve never written anything super explicit so ! tips are appreciated (no pun intended)

to my favourites! @girl-lostconnection @alkalineapparition and everyone else!

a/n 3: (i can’t shut the fuck up) if you want to be on my tag list comment on this post / my masterlist / send me a message! okay sorry bye enjoy

previous part

— dianna

It has been nearly three months since you’ve seen Simon. Boot camp has been nothing short of Hell, he’s told you in his letters. But he also tells you he’s happy. That the busyness makes him forget about his family. Or the lack thereof. That the working out makes him feel human again, and he loves the physical labor. Loves feeling needed.

And you write back that you love him. And that you can’t wait to see him again.

But the tap out is today. You’re bouncing on your feet getting ready, dressed in the sweetest sundress you own, taming your waves and beating your face. You’re a vision by the time you’re done and you nearly fall down the stairs from excitement. Imagine that.

“Sorry babe! Can’t come get you! In the hospital! Catch a ride! :,)” Ludicrous.

You make it to your car by some miracle and you’re at awe at the English scenery, and how it swishes by in an instant. Old buildings lining the busy streets, and historical landmarks on each corner. Such a vibrant city, Manchester. You can’t wait for Simon to be reminded of all of it.

You drive an hour or so out of the city, to a base secluded in on open field. You’ve never been to this part of England, despite living your life here. You park your car among others. Among mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. You realize now, that even if Simon makes this a permanent thing, you will not be an island unto yourself.

This thought comforts you as you walk, guided by signs and fancy military higher-ups. You see a field of men, dressed nearly the same despite some missing hats and some donning a jacket. A man finishes making a speech that has no significance to you, and you search the sea of men for Simon.

Searching excitedly for him, you bump into a man who dwarfs you. He is considerably large, his shirt fighting for its life. You scramble to apologize, looking up at him to realize he’s wearing. . . a plain black balaclava? The bridge of his nose is visible between his eyes, but everything else is simply a shadow.

But you’ve seen these eyes before. These eyes have undressed you, and these eyes have watched you walk from your final lesson to the parking lot. These eyes watched you graduate secondary school.

Is this Simon?

Who is this? It can’t be him.

The man takes off the balaclava before your mental battle is over and shoves it into his back pocket, wrapping a strong arm around your shoulders before kissing you sloppily — not giving you a moment to register the face under the fabric.

You pull away, your hand flying to pull your neckline above your cleavage again and you apologize.

“You have got the wrong girl, I can assure you! My boyfriend is around here somewhere. Maybe you know him? Simon?” And the man chuckles gruffly, forcing you to look at him.

“I know him well, dove,” he whispers softly, kissing your forehead. Millions of questions rush through your mind.

When did Simon get so strong?

What’s with the balaclava?

There is no time for you to ask for any answers before a man walks over, an ignorant saunter in his hips and a grin larger than life itself plastered on his face.

“This your bird, Ghost?” The man chuckles softly, patting your boyfriend’s back. He is so chipper and Scottish enough to almost make his words incoherent.

Ghost? What the hell happened while he was away from you?

“She’s my girlfriend, Johnny. Not just a bird,”

“Aye, my fault. Nice to meet you.” The man — Johnny — winks at you and shows himself off somewhere else.

“I’ll explain everythin’ later,” Simon says, as if he can read your thoughts. He follows you to the car, and the ride is silent.

So is dinner.

So is aftercare.

There are never answers. The balaclava sits on his desk, teasing you. Daring you to press the issue. But you never can. You wake up next to Simon for the duration of him being home, but you’re unsure who it is you’re truly waking up besides. Who has killed Simon and left this man in his space? In your bed? In your shower? Who has killed Simon and left this man to fuck you?

You feel horrible, you do. But, it’s. . . he’s quieter. Curter with you. This is when you decide to press the issue.

You decide while he’s nose-deep in your tits is best. Licking and biting like a man starved, getting his friction from the sheet.

“What’s with the mask?”

He audibly groans, negatively, and sits up. “Good timin’,” he snarks and goes to change into some new sweatpants. “Nothin’ ‘bout it, luv. Just don’t want all those people seein’ my face. I ‘on’t know. Didn’t figure it’d be an issue.” He explains, almost bored. “Don’t know these people. Don’t tell ‘em my name.”

“An’ you never thought to mention this’a me?” You’re not sure why you’re so irritated about this. Maybe because Simon has changed so much, so quickly. The muscle you don’t mind. But it’s everything else. The anonymity. The curtness. You know what happens from here, and it causes your eyes to sting. You know that one day, Simon will go from curt to silent. He will lose everything that brought you to him, and he will be a shell of himself. War is not kind. It is not gentle. It tears and destroys all in its path. War is not about what is right, it is who is left when all is said and done. And you’ve started crying.

“You’re different, Simon. You are short with me now. These is a different air about you. You don’t even wear the same cologne! You haven’t even unpacked your duffel, ‘ike you’re ready’a go back already! You’re still hiding things from me! Why are ya doin’ that?!” You’re ready to keep screaming but he cuts you off by shoving your face in his pecs. It’s not so bad here.

“Stop.” He orders. Already barking like orders like he’s some kind of Lieutenant. Oh, God, Lieutenant Riley? Could you imagine? You hope he lives to make it that far. “I understand why y’re upset, luv. Y’re scared of change, and of my change, but we weren’t goin’a be those same, timid fuckin’ secondary kids forev’a, yeah? Hell, y’ve changed ‘fore I did. Y’re gorgeous, and y’re a spitfire, luv. Got a sharp tongue now. I’m sorry if’ya think I’ve been short wit’ ya. And I’m not hidin’ nothin’ from you. I jus’ like my privacy, yeah? Don’t know those men, yeah? N’ I’m sorry that me losin’ the cologne is botherin’ ya, but it was from my Dad, luvvie. Couldn’t keep holdin’ on’na it.” He explains, and you feel a bit silly now. “We were bound’a change, luv.” He shrugs, kissing your head. “How can I make it easier for ya?” He asks, and your heart melts. You know now that you only have one condition.

“If you can just stay alive, that would be enough.” You plead, big ol’ doe eyes and batting eyelashes helping your case tenfold.

“I’ll fight for you, my luv. No one else can protect you like I can,” he says and you snort. So cocky, so quickly. You give him that luxury.

“Any other conditions, luv?” He asks, chuckling gruffly at your snort.

“I bought some new rubbers in preparation for today. Yes, there are many’a ways you can make this easier,” you wink. You’re stumbling into bed so quickly that you forget the rubber that started this to begin with.

Oh, what’s one round without it?

[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]

light as a feather; stiff as a board

part two

jaguar!simon x crow!oc

cw) goofy teenage simon, brief mention of wanking, author is bad at slow burn……. not proofread

Wren had gotten used to the expansive campus. There always seemed to be a building for everything. Broken tooth? Don’t worry, there’s a dental wing in the med-bay. Broken heart? On-sight psychiatrist down the hall from the water fountains. This place was ready for anything — but it was a government building, so who was surprised?

It was a campus in the middle of London, though, so it seemed as dreary as the damn rest of London. Foggy mornings and humid afternoons. Wren was glad she’d always dressed light, the mix of humidity and sunshine sticking to her skin like honey.

And that guy from the rec-room? She saw him everywhere. With friends he seemed to open a bit more, studying with them in the library and teasing them with paper balls — and daring them to try weird food combos in the mess hall, but even with all the schedule overlaps he had with Wren, he just wouldn’t… talk to her. It was just terse nods and sidelong glances.

But what Wren had no clue about was that Simon was trying his hardest to avoid her. Sitting on opposites sides of the mess hall, trying to switch his plans around, etcetera. But he saw her, no, he smelt her everywhere. All traces of her fucking lingered.

And Simon tried to act uninterested. From that first moment they met on the couch. Tried to act like he was sleeping and not casting glances her way, observing supple skin and dotted freckles. But he smelt her even then, too.

Vanilla and lavender some days, and flowers other days. No matter what perfume, body wash, shampoo — Hell, even toothpaste — she used, he would always smell her. And he tried his damndest to not linger around where he knew she’d been. He felt strange, like he was breaching some kind of trust — trust that had not even been set yet.

But that all came to a halt the second month into their training.

Wren had been doing great, adapting quickly and discovering new abilities she didn’t even know she had.

Her eyes began adjusting to nighttime better, and her senses heightened. Her wings were larger, she supposed, stronger somehow. All shit that she never knew before. And Simon saw it.

He noticed her, breaking from her shell and growing. She wasn’t that timid teenager who sat on the opposite side of the couch from him anymore, she was growing and learning. And he envied those who got to be by her side everyday. Those who played card games with her and got to feel her feathers when they wrapped an arm around her for a photo.

So, he approached her. In the worst way possible, perhaps. Despite Simon’s natural (quite literally killer) instincts on the field and onslaught of abilities… he was socially daft.

Wren was in the rec room that evening, dressed in comfy clothes and cozied up with some romance book that probably was not regulation. Her wings lazily spread out comfortably behind her. Simon loomed over her, just blinking down at her at first.

She was relaxed, he knew that. That was good. People were beat perceptive when relaxed. She looked up at him through dorky lenses — still furious that she needed glasses for reading. Heightened senses and yet, she couldn’t read text? Wow.

“Can I help you?” She asked, and Simon would’ve taken this as an insult if it were anyone else. Would’ve made it seem like he was being talked down to, but this was Wren. Wren was always kind and charming. She set her book aside, giving Simon her undivided attention. He felt nervous now.

“I want to eat you.” He said, leaving out some crucial details. Wren’s face contorted, furrowed brows and her lips turned inwards. She didn’t look mad. Just confused. Wait, what did he say?

“Straightforward. I like it.” Wren laughed softly, surprising herself just a bit. What the Hell happened to her? Two months ago she could barely approach anyone without her wings flapping wildly with anxiety. Now, she’s just been threatened (maybe?) and she’s pretty unfazed.

“No. Eat out.” He corrected, making everything worse. Wren made a strangled sort of noise — laughing? — oh! She thought he was funny. Wait, no, was she laughing at him?

“What are you asking me for?” Wren said after a moment of amused confusion. Simon stared down at her.

“Dinner.”

“Yes, what kind?”

“We can get takeaway.”

“So you don’t want to eat me out?” She clarified.

“No.” Simon said slowly, unsure. After a moment of deliberation, he decided it was a firm no. As far as his sexual expertise went, well… there was none. He was too bulky, too grabby, too toothy to have ever been intimate before. He was sure Wren could tell.

Actually, he was sure now that Wren knew everything about him. That’s why she was smiling at him like that. She felt bad, he was sure. She knew about his dad, his mom, and his brother. She knew. He couldn’t hide. She saw it all, using soft talons to peel away layers of skin and read trauma straight from bone. Oh, shit, is he still standing here?

“Do you want to sit with me?” She offered, lifting her blanket like an olive branch. Simon stilled. After a moment of hesitation, he nodded and sat. He caught her wing under his hip as he sat and she yelped. Simon nearly dropped to his to beg for forgiveness before —

“Sorry, I should’ve moved my wing.” She rolled her eyes at herself. Simon shook his head and helped her adjust her wing to a comfortable position. He slung his arm over the back of the couch, leaning over to take a peek at her book. She slapped it shut, shaking her head. “No! You can’t read this.”

Simon raised a curious eyebrow, more comfortable as minutes passed. “‘N why not?”

“It’s a little… risqué. This part, anyway.” She explained, and Simon snorted. He took the book anyway, and Wren watched raptly as he read the lines.

“Jesus, what is this?” That guy touched her what? He stuck his fingers where?! Is he even allowed to be reading this? He felt like his mom would pop over his shoulder any moment and scold him. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. So he scoffed softly and shook his head, a lazily grin helping his eyes squint — because maybe she couldn’t see the pain behind them if he was squinting.

“I told you!” She said, snatching the book back. Simon laughed lowly, a rumbling noise reminiscent of a jaguar’s growl.

“Nasty, nasty girl,” Simon said absentmindedly, looking at his phone — not noticing the side eye from the Wren at his words. He was too busy focusing on the ‘no new notifications’ screen to keep himself from sniffing her fucking neck. Her scent straight from the source. She smelt like the little bird she was. She smelt like prey. No. Simon wouldn’t let himself go there.

The two sat in the quiet room for the rest of the evening, basking in each other’s presence and just chatting randomly. Wren grew a liking to this boy, learning his name as Simon.

But of course Simon knew her. He knew her name, her smell, her smile. And all of it from a distance, like a fucking weirdo. From catching glances of her — feeling like he’s intruding on her own little private world. It was about 2200 before either of them moved from their little bubble.

“Will you be in the mess hall for breakfast tomorrow?” Wren asked Simon as she gathered her things, her fluffy blanket slung in the crook of her arm and her book snugged under her armpit. Simon nodded, standing and looming over her again.

He thanked any listening God for his height because the way Wren’s face looked as she looked up at him, eyes peaking through her eyelashes. Fuck. She had an iron grip on him and she wasn’t even reaching out yet. Yet. Yet is a good thought.

“I eat.” He nodded, like a soldier following an order. Wren giggled softly and nodded back.

“Good to know. See you tomorrow, Simon.”

Simon went home and shamefully wanked that night.

[priceoftheduchess]

Light as a Feather;

Stiff as a Board.

jaguar hybrid!simon x crow!hybrid

wc: 1.3k

warnings: swearing, no smut yet!, teenage simon is a meanie, parental abandonment, internalized prejudice

a/n: never written hybrid stuff before! but special thanks to @quarterlifekitty (i was that anon asking for help hehe heyyy….) and @crazyweirdnoodles for all of their advice and help! :P idk what this is but enjoy. prob gonna be a slow burn

Wren’s father had always been honest with her. There was a possibility that she was going to grow up, spread her wings and fly — only for them to be clipped by the people around her. She was born wailing, begging for relief instantaneously. Her father thought that maybe she was safe. Maybe she’d be spared of the consequences of his lineage. Maybe she could grow up to lead a normal life and leave her father and his birthright baggage behind.

But a shiny, black feather sprouted from the skin of her back when she was fourteen, and he knew he was fucked. Blood dripped softly from the new growth, and Wren was panicked. No amount of honesty could’ve prepared her for this. Her mother left, unable to handle the cruel reality of her half-blood daughter.

“No daughter of mine will spread wings and fly!” She’d cried out, packing her bag. Wren was disgruntled, confused and desperately clawing at the wall her mother had built so suddenly. Clawing with talons. Nails that were just too tough, too sharp, to be humane. No soft touches, or cooing voices anymore. It was like Wren had been dropped from the clouds onto cold, dingy concrete.

Wren’s father wrapped her in his arms, trying to tune out the rough sobs that lurched from Wren’s chest. He’d clipped his own wings years ago, scarring himself beyond repair just to fit into the box that had been built. The box that didn’t fit ‘people’ like him and Wren.

And even two years later, a few weeks before Wren’s seventeenth birthday, her father could see the effect all of it continued to have on her. Her wings were fully grown now. No more blood, or tearing of skin. It was a cruel cycle. Everyday seemed to be a battle for her. Watching her father struggle with his own grief sent her spiraling. To clip or not to clip? She stood at the bathroom counter with exhaustion in her eyes, and enough unbridled emotion to snap her fragile wings with her bare hands. But she wouldn’t. She never could.

And so her seventeenth birthday arrived, and her father rapped his knuckles softly against her bedroom door. He stood on the other side, bouncing on his feet anxiously. He rolled his shoulders, wincing softly as he felt his scars rub against the blades there. Never an easy feeling to get used to.

Wren opened the door, rubbing sleep from her eyes and flapping her wings idly to straighten her feathers. She was a kinder, gentler vision of her mother. Big, round eyes that were a soft green color. Pale skin with freckles littering her face and arms. The other thing she got from her father was her crow-blood and her dark brown hair.

“Hm?” She asked, her voice raspy. Her father looked down at her once more, taking in the sight that he knew he might never see again.

“Happy birthday, Wren.” He smiled softly. He blinked a bit, his gaze distant and unsure. “I need to speak with you. Please get dressed and meet me at the table.” He nodded before turning away awkwardly and disappearing down the hall.

A nauseous feeling churned in her stomach as she slipped into a white, backless sundress and smoothed out her hair. Taking a large breath, she padded down the hall and found her father at the table — his finger anxiously tracing the rim of his mug.

“Dad?” She looked at him, her face twisted with worry.

“Wren.” He nodded, taking a moment before meeting her gaze. “I made coffee. You’ll probably want some.” He said cryptically, wincing as the back of the chair dug into the rough mounds in his back, left by at-home stitching of his wing scars.

“Okay, what the hell is going on? You’re never this… mysterious.” She snapped at him, her wings flapping a bit wildly as she got more upset.

“Control those damn things, Wren!” Her father snapped as things were flying off the dining table in front of her. “I don’t know why you act so uncivilized sometimes.” He scoffed. Wren knew he had some… internalized hatred for him and Wren’s kind, but he’d never taken it out like this. She stared at him blankly, her wings withdrawn at her back. He sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Sit down.” He ordered quietly.

She obliged, and he continued. “I signed you up for a program.”

“I know I’m not going to like this.” Wren said softly as her father slipped her a brochure.

Enlist Today! Hybrid-Friendly Military Training Program.

She scanned the rest of the brochure, her face growing angry.

“Oh, hell no! What is this? You fucking signed me up for some kind of draft?” Wren asked, absolutely astonished.

“Wren Elise, enough.” Her father gritted out. “Go make something of yourself. This town is no good for you, you know that! I clipped my wings because of this town, because of these prejudiced purebloods! Get the hell out of here before it’s too late. Go somewhere were we are tolerated. Somewhere were someone gives us the light of day.” She knew he had a point. She’d seen others like her — half-breeds, whether it be cat, dog, wolf, lion, whatever animal cursed their bloodline — living on the streets, losing jobs because of their lack of control over their lineage.

“Go somewhere where you don’t have to keep your wings tucked, goddamnit.” He finished his spiel. “Go pack your bags. The program starts next week.” He said, his tone leaving no room for argument. This was final. Wren was going to be at a strange camp with other hybrids. Other kinds like her. She walked back at her room, her footsteps soft.

***

Her father had dropped her off with a feigned neutrality, hugging her a bit too tight and giving her a ‘good-luck’ kiss to the temple before leaving. Unceremonious, like most things in her life.

Her room was barren. Barely a mattress, and an even sadder bedframe holding it up. She’d bet herself that it would fall apart within the week. She unpacked her clothes, hanging them up with some military-issued plastic hangers. No surprise that they were as flimsy as the rest of the place looked.

She began to explore. It was a large plot of land littered with warehouses, used for miscellaneous things. One was for training, a large warehouse bare except for some targets and dummies. One used as a medical wing. One used as a cafeteria or mess hall. One used for recreational activities. And one for barracks, with some offices at the back of this one.

She was walking around, her outfit simply another backless dress and some white slip on shoes. She’d also butchered one of her father’s old denim jackets before she left, allowing her space in the back to slip her wings in. She’d shrugged it on over the dress.

She returned to the recreational building, finding it mostly empty save for a few others. She rocked back and forth on her feet before walking to the couch, and plopping down. She looked to the other end, seeing a young blond man sitting with his bag between his legs, presumably sleeping. He was built, broad shoulders and legs. Large hands and soft, round spots covering his skin.

“Hi,” she said, lacking any ability to read the room.

He looked up, tired. His eyes were pure umber, and his gaze was skeptical. He grunted at her, his face expectant.

“I’m Wren,” she smiled softly, waving at him.

“Don’t care.” He shrugged, laying his head back and dozing off again.

At least he was honest..?

Wren nodded, leaning back and staring into the ceiling. Oh, boy, was she excited.

next part

[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.

next part

[priceoftheduchess]

100£ tip

johnny mactavish (+ tf141?) x waitress!reader

tw) descriptions of intimacy, johnny mactavish is also a charming bastard, use of 2nd person, reader is described as female w/ a feminine figure-ish! reader is also southern again i’m sorry im obsessed w her

a/n after writing: idk wtf this is tbh, also not proofread tw

Juggling hosting and waiting on tables, you’re a bit frazzled when a group of four large men come in.

One of them is the tallest, with a blond buzzcut and a black surgical mask covering the lower half of his face. You can’t see much, but his deep-amber eyes are absolutely gorgeous. The next tallest, you can he’s a bit older: peppering of grey in his hair and beard, smile lines gracing his face and he’s positively covered in hair. The next two are about the same height — one of them with a dark complexion and the smoothest skin you think you’ve ever seen, and a nicely groomed mustache. The other, a wavy mohawk and a dashing smile that has you drooling from both sets of lips.

“Jesus fuck,” you mumble, straight to their faces, trying to scan the quaint restaurant for a table that would accommodate them all. They all bust into a hearty chuckle and smile at you, your face heating with the passion of a thousand suns.

“God, I’m so sorry.” You face palm at yourself, and lead them to their table. In your section. You are so cutely unaware at how Johnny’s ogling your sauntering hips, and how everyone else is watching him do so.

They shuffle into the booth you’ve directed them too, smiling as they browse the menu.

You introduce yourself sweetly, your Southern twang ringing out in Johnny’s ears. He decides now that he must have you before the end of tonight.

“Dinnae got drinks here, d’ye?” The one with the mohawk asked. He’s … Scottish? What is he doing in America? What is he doing in Georgia?

“No, sir. We don’t serve alcohol. There’s a lot of rules and regulations around getting permits for that and our owner just ain’t interested.” You explain. “I’m sorry. We got coke products, sugar. And lemonade. And the best sweet tea in the Bible belt. I can make you an Arnie Palmer,” You offer, trying to soften the blow.

“What’s’at?” The one with the mustache asks you.

“What’s what, honey?”

“That drink you said.”

“An Arnie? Oh, it’s a non-alcoholic drink. Made of sweet tea and lemonade.” You nod. “Perfect mix of sweet and sour.”

“I think we’ll all just take one of those.” The oldest one says, shrugging as he looks around the table. Everyone nods in agreement, making it super easy for you.

“Alrighty. Also, excuse me, but where is y’all from?” You ask, slipping your order book into your apron.

“Inverness, I’m Johnny,” answers the Scottish one. You make a note to Google this place later.

“Herefordshire, I’m John,” answers the oldest. Google this one, too.

“London, I’m Kyle,” answers the one with the good mustache. Oh! You know this one.

“Manchester, Simon,” answers the blond one. Oh! Bingo!

You nod in response. “Well, whatch’y’all doin’ here?” You ask, laughing softly. Your hips are eye-level with Johnny now that he’s slouching, and he’s praying to any God who’ll listen that you don’t notice the metaphorical drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.

“Mactavish,” Simon snaps, raising a cheeky brow. Johnny straightens his face and gives you a grin when you shift your attention to him.

“Came out here to meet with some friends, is all. Friend of a friend told us to come and try out this place.” John explains with a shrug. You nod and saunter off to grab their drinks. You’re smiling like an idiot walking back to the drink station. Your coworker pulls you out of your trance by whisper-yelling your name.

“What?” You respond, just as urgently.

“The blond guy… you need to get me his number. His address, something!”

“Aubrey!” You laugh, as if you weren’t thinking of doing the same thing with the Scottish one. “Just talk to him when he leaves, you weirdo!” She laughs and groans at how you’re no help before walking away to look busy.

You finish making the drinks, shaking your head at your coworker. You walk over to their table, smiling.

“Four Arnies and some straws,” they all nod at you. “Can I get you boys started with some food?” They all nodded and passed you their menus.

“I t’ink we all agreed on just the brisket sandwich. ‘Pparently it’s the best cuts ‘ere, we ‘eard.” You nodded.

“Y’all are so simple! I appreciate that. I’ll get that put in. Y’all just call me over if y’all need refills or somethin’ ‘fore then.” You say and they nod.

Their food is out quickly, and you bring the plates over. “Brisket sandwiches for the whole table!” You smile wide, passing out plates. You make a small little “oh, no,” as you almost drop Johnny’s plate and he’s positively in love with you. More than before.

You tell them to enjoy and Kyle, Simon and John oblige — while Johnny watches you effortlessly work your tables. His food is lukewarm by the time he gets to it, and it’s his own damn fault.

You bring them their cheque and insist that it’s absolutely no rush before sauntering to the table next to theirs. The man at the table, sitting with his two kids and his wife, gives you a bit of lip.

“Asked you for ranch ‘bout fifteen minutes ago. Some service, sweet-cheeks. Probably why you can’t get a real job, huh?” He snarks and you nod softly, promising that you’ll get on it. And you do, with tears in your eyes. But while you’re gone, Johnny demonstrates freedom of speech.

“Bit of a prick, aren’t you? No way to talk to a lady.” He scolds the guy, his voice plenty loud.

“Mind your business, douche. Ain’t even your country. Why not go back onto where you came from?” The guy responds, obviously feeling proud of himself.

“Real mature, wanker. Apologise to the lady when she comes back over, aye? Dinnae make me deal wit’ye. Dinnae wanna hav’a beat ye ass infront of yer kids.” Johnny winks at the man. The man stands up and John matches his pace, holding up a placating hand.

“Lay a hand on my soldier and I’ll be dealin’ with you next. Johnny’s right. Apologise to the lady, pay your bill and take your food to-go.” John explains, his voice deceptively calm.

You walk back over, eyes a bit puffy with the man’s ranch, inordinately confused.

��Sir? Your ranch?” You say softly, and he scoffs at you.

“Bit late, bitch.” He spits out before walking to the counter to cash out with Aubrey.

“I’m sorry,” you say to the woman and the kids at the table before setting the ranch down.

“I’m going to go take my break. But do y’all need anythin’ ‘fore I do?” You say, sniffling softly.

“Nae,” Johnny gently grabs your hand from your hip and kisses your palm. “Take your time. We’re in no rush.” This seems to be the general consensus at the table, so you nod and take fifteen outside.

Once you come back, any trace of that man and his family are completely wiped from the restaurant and Aubrey beckons you over.

“They’re still here, girl! That Scottish guy was the one who said somethin’. Maybe ask him to stick around until we close,” she winks, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively and making you giggle. You nod, considering her suggestion and walking back over to their table.

“Refills? Dessert?” You ask and they shake their head.

“When’d’ye close, dove?” Johnny pipes up. Has Aubrey already given him the same idea?!

“Kitchen’s already close because it’s 8:30, but I can do refills and anything from the freezer until nine. Me and Aubrey are the only two working this late.” You smile softly and he nods.

“Mind if we stick around? Walk you two ladies to the parking lot?” Johnny smiles, and you’re dangerously close to collapsing into his arms.

“I’m sure Aubrey’d be fine with that,” she nodded, obviously eavesdropping, and you shrug. They smile softly at you.

At five after nine, you and Aubrey are cleaning tables, mopping and sweeping. You finish cleaning bathrooms and she finishes up cleaning behind the bar. It’s 9:54 when you’re both done and gathering up your purses. John and Kyle are gone, but Simon and Johnny are waiting patiently for you both.

“John and Kyle got called away by their birds, but we’re here.” Johnny explained, and Simon nodded to corroborate that statement.

“Oh! Okay!” You and Aubrey smiled at each other.

“What does John’s girlfriend do?” You asked Johnny, Simon and Aubrey already engaged in whatever conversation.

“Oh, she used to be a den’ist out in Texas, ‘n’ now she does travelin’ den’ist’ry.” He explains, you nod and smile.

“She sounds sweet,”

“Not as sweet as ye, dove,” he flashes you that charming grin.

“Simon’s my ride,” Johnny explains once all four of you reach Simon’s truck. It’s a rental, but it’s clean as fuck nonetheless.

“Well, what if I went home with Simon and Johnny went home with you?” Aubrey suggested, clinging to Simon’s arm. You agree with a shrug. Johnny is all too quick to agree to these terms as well.

You make it back to your apartment and you’re changing out of your work attire when you find Johnny posted up in your bed, all too comfortable for a stranger. You giggle softly, already knowing what’s happening tonight as you tuck yourself at his side.

He wraps you in his arm and passes you a 100$ bill.

“Whoa, what the Hell is this for, sweet pea?”

“Jus’ your tip for tonight, ya ken? For dealin’ wit’at prick.” You nod, as he vehement about not taking it back, and set it on your nightstand.

“Now, how about another 100$ tip?” He winks, and you melt entirely too quickly in his arms — despite the corniness of his joke. You nod and his mouth is on yours, tongues dancing and teeth softly clashing.

He slips his hand to the hem of your night shirt, separating your lips only to pull your shirt off. He’s immediately enraptured by your bare chest, despite the unsexy bra you’re wearing. He looks up at you for permission to take this off, too, and you nod.

He flicks the clasp open before you can even say a word and tossing it elsewhere. His shirt finds solace on the carpet, following your sweatpants and his jeans.

He’s kissing all over you, sucking marks onto your soft skin and gently slipping a hand down to your wet heat. He gently opens you up with his fingers and takes him time with the prep. You’re so blissed out already that you don’t realize when he’s buried himself to the hilt.

“Dinnae have to rush, hen.” He grunts, squishing gently at your hips. You nod for himself to continue and eventually he’s got a moderate pace, drawing everything out with deep, intimate thrusts.

He’s talking you through everything when you tip the brink, gently praising you in your ear and cleaning you up afterwards with soft kisses to your abdomen.

“Goodnight, hen.” He whispers softly, and you’re so tired after a long shift and a long session that you’re half asleep when he kisses your forehead.

You hope Aubrey’s having a good time, and that she got two 100$ tips as well.

[priceoftheduchess]

GUYS…

what does it mean when two of my FAVORITE WRITERS LIKE MY POST?! guys… is this fame???

anyways… send me drabble ideas. i want to post something but my ideas might be too crazy for you guy’s tastes, lmk what you guys are into. i’m itchin to write smth…. muahaha

[priceoftheduchess]

“Stupid Little Lamb.”

price x gaz x enemy medic!oc

wc: ~2k

warnings: medical inaccuracies, military inaccuracies, i ship price and gaz wayyy too hard, mentions of blood, a bit of angst, idk! lmk if i should make this into a fic <3

a/n: hey! guess who is a sad loser and is still working on part five of where art thou!! this guy! :( my deepest apologies to @girl-lostconnection and @alkalineapparition and everyone who was possibly waiting for part five !! anyways! i love you all so much, and here’s this <3 make sure to check out my master-list for absolutely everything i’ve written! and my reqs are always open!

— dianna

John feels worthless in this chair. His head tipped forward, blood trickling from his lip as he grumbles and tries to free himself of his restraints. He has been stripped of his fucking gear and he’s so vulnerable. He coughs up blood again, a rough yell erupting from his chest as his ribs shift uncomfortably under his skin. He slams his boot against the concrete floor, his eyes burning as he looks up into the fluorescent lights. He’s been captured.

All he can remember is the ambush. What was meant to be a quiet, in-and-out recon turned into a bloodbath. Soap and Ghost separated from the group, and Kyle. Where the fuck is Kyle? Gunshots, expletives ripping from John’s lips, a large fall. A landmine. Enemy combatants. The events of the past few hours — or what John’s mind will allow him to conjure — blur into nothing and his eyes sting at the thought. He’s assured that Soap and Ghost are fine if they stayed together, but who is taking care of Kyle? Booming voices and foreign languages are heard from outside the room he’s tied up in, and his chest heaves. He grunts again at the stabbing pain in his abdomen. He yells an expletive again, trying to sift through his thoughts.

John has no time to dwell on much — including the whereabouts of his Kyle. No. Just Kyle. Just Kyle, — before she’s walked in. Dark brown hair tied wildly into a ponytail, soft green eyes hidden between dorky glasses and soft edges hugged into a pair of pink scrubs. John is sure he’s hallucinating. Who the hell is this?

“Hi, John,” she smiles softly, pushing her glasses up her nose with a manicured finger. She’s got a Londoner accent. Clearly not from wherever the hell John is being held right now. She’s also way too nonchalant about all of this. “I’ll be taking care of you for right now, and—”

“Oh, hell no, you aren’t,” John laughs incredulously, his tone so bitter she could taste it on her own tongue. “What the hell are you doing here anyway?” He interrogates her, even though he is in no physical state to be getting so angry. “And how the hell do you know my name?”

“John.” She holds up a hand, now adorning black latex gloves and a black surgical mask resting on her chin. “I will admit, I work for the people who have captured you, yes, but they sent me in here because your arm is actively gushing blood. My boss wants you alive.” She admits, almost shamefully — knowing how shallow the reason sounds. “You can just call me Elise, okay?” She tries to offer him a smile.

“No!” He laughs again, a sickening guffaw that fills the room. “Those stupid Russians think I’m so stupid, don’t they? Send some pretty little bird in here in some tight fucking scrubs and I’ll tip all my secrets out?” He chuffs, shaking his head. Elise holds up a placating hand, shaking her head right back.

“I don’t want anything from you, John. I don’t need your information, your plans, the locations of anything. I don’t care.” She answers him sincerely, shaking her head. “All you are to me right now is my patient. Which means I owe you treatment.”

John eyes her, his heart beating out of his chest and his every exhale so harsh they’re audible. He knows he needs to keep fighting, to tell her ‘no,’ and give her a loud ‘piss off,’ and he knows he should die bleeding out in this chair like a man, but for the first time in his life, he’s tired of fighting. At least this once, he deserves that luxury. And he needs to make it out. Because Kyle is still out there. His Kyle will still be out there when he gets out of here. When.

“Fine. But you play any fucking tricks and I’ll have your head.” He spits at her, tipping his head back as he groans.

She nods, turning away to conceal a snort at John’s empty threat. She knows that he is in no position yet to ‘have her head.’

“Thank you,” she smiles softly, grabbing a pair of black clothing scissors and holding them up — making them obvious. “I’m going to need to cut your shirt off to get some of your torso wounds. I’m not going to try anything funny.” She assures him, before slowly making her way to him. Like he’s a fucking rabid dog. Ready to bite and tear at flesh.

“Is that really necessary?” John snarks.

“I can’t treat wounds I can’t see.” She justifies, her eyebrows furrowed as she blinks at him slowly. John grumbles something she can’t exactly make out and she begins to cut at his shirt until she’s able to peel the bloodied scraps of fabric from his skin. His torso is a mess. Cuts and scrapes of all shapes and sizes. A bullet grazed his bicep, he has a gash at his collarbone. Jesus fuck, how has he made it this long?

“I don’t appreciate the ogling.” John says dryly, one unimpressed eyebrow raised. Cheeky prick.

“I don’t appreciate you not allowing me to examine your wounds.” She says dryly, walking back to her bag and pulling some cotton pads and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “Now, hydrogen peroxide is not the best option when it comes to cleaning wounds, but it’s really all I have right now. And I can’t just not disinfect these wounds. If you need a rag to bite down on, I can get you that.”

“Eliza,” John starts.

“Elise.” She corrects him quietly.

“I have handled a lot more than a little bit of a sting from some fuckin’ peroxide.” John continues, not bothering to correct himself.

“Okay!” Elise ignores him and moves first to the gash on his collarbone. She slides her mask over her mouth and nose and gently sprays some of the peroxide over the shallow gash. She makes a ‘told you’ type face as John hisses. She dabs the wound clean softly and waves her hand to dull the sting with cold air. She grabs a large bandage from her bag and places it steadily over the wound, holding it in place for a moment.

“One done, six million to go,” Elise comments, mostly to herself.

“What’s the point in patchin’ me up when your fuckin’ boss is gonna come in here and rough me up all over again?” John scoffs at her, his eyes dragging up and down her body.

“He’s not my boss, firstly. I’m under a governmental contract as a field nurse. My contracts don’t usually last long, either.”

“Didn’t answer my question.” John raised an eyebrow at her snippy response.

“You didn’t give me time.” She defends, her eyes widening for a fraction of a second.

John just smirks at her, laughing softly. She scoffs, rolling her shoulders to reset herself and continuing to work on John. She just kept feeling his heavy gaze. Untrusting, definitely, but there was something else Elise decided not to investigate. After she’d disinfected and wrapped the bullet graze on his arm, she went to go rummage for some gauze to soak up the blood in his mouth when someone slammed the door open.

Elise yelled, all of her nerves twisting grossly as the door made an obscene noise. “Excuse me! I’m still with my patient.” The man spoke rapid Russian to her, seemingly mocking her. Elise stood, appalled, before John spoke up.

“I know enough Russian to know that he’s not a fan of taking orders.” He said dryly.

Elise bristled at John’s unhelpful comment. “Okay.” She began, trying to keep any semblance of composure. “I understand you have a job to do, but so do I. So please leave while I finish with my patient.”

“Glupaya malenkaya ovinchik,” The man tuts softly, dipping down to get in Elise’s face. “You do not order me. Little nurse.” He snickered softly.

“And you don’t order me! I don’t work for you. And I’ve asked you not once, not twice, but now thrice to leave and you’re still standing here! Explain that!” She pushes the man out of her face.

The man huffs indignantly and gives Elise a sharp glare before turning and leaving. She shuts the door, albeit a bit harshly, and returns to her bag.

“You got a backbone, I’ll give you that.” John says sincerely, his head tipped back slightly.

“Mm,” Elise hums softly, pulling his jaw open after putting on a fresh set of gloves and sticking the gauze around his gums and his tongue. “What even happened to you?” She asked, examining the many injuries still left on his torso. I swear to God they’re multiplying, she thinks.

“We were doin’ recon on this base and we got caught because of me. Turned into a bit of a bloodbath.” He explains. Elise hums softly and decides not to press the issue any further.

“Do you not have anyone looking for you?” Elise asks the next time she turns her back.

“Hopefully.” John nods with a heavy, painful sigh and Elise decides it’s best to stop talking for a while. They fall into a comfortable silence for the duration of their time together. John is so fascinated by her. What is this lamb doing in the lion’s den? And why is she so kind to him? He is the enemy. He doesn’t belong here. Yes, he needs to be kept alive but this utmost care seems a bit unnecessary. John’s luxury of quiet contemplation is ripped from him as he hears gunshots. Nearing gunshots.

Elise is quick, packing up her things, turning off the lights and turning the table on its side. She unties John and drags him to lay behind the table with her. She’s all too quick about all of this. Almost as if she’s done this before. As if she’s been ambushed like this. John feels his eyes sting at the thought.

Their proximity is strange, but John shields her with his battered body anyways. She looks up at him — her glossy doe eyes displaying nothing but confusion right now. John motions for her to stay quiet. The gunshots and the screaming die down into silence. John’s hand finds solace in Elise’s waist. They breathe the same hot air for a while until the door to the room slings open. John hears voices he’s heard before.

Soap. Ghost. Kyle. They found him? He takes the risk of finding out and dips his head above the table. He is relieved to see them standing in the doorway.

Ghost steps over and helps John stand up. Soap is focused on Elise, raising an eyebrow at his Captain.

“Dinnae think there’s any time for ‘at, Captain.” John rolls his eyes at the cheeky comment. But he walks past these two, to Kyle.

Elise dips her head above the shielding of the table, now, too, just to see John hugging the man. She knows this hug is way too urgent, too familiar, too tight, too long to be something between Captain and Sergeant. She stands and dusts off her scrubs.

“Soap,” Soap sticks his hand out to her.

“No, but I have hand sanitizer.” She responds. Soap laughs softly and gives up on introducing himself.

“Aye, who are ye, bonnie?” He asks.

“She’s the medic who saved my life.” John intercepts the conversation, his arm still slung lazily around Kyle’s waist. Kyle looks a bit weak, but he’s here. And alive. And that’s all that John needs.

Ghost, Soap and Kyle give her an appreciative nod.

“Might have to take her for dinner, just as a thanks, hm?” Kyle jokes to John weakly. John chuckles softly, looking at Kyle and nodding.

“I suppose. Don’t know if there’s anyone left alive here. She might just be getting transferred soon anyways,” John winks, as if he’s already got ideas in the making.

Elise chuckles softly, her face a dusty pink as she shrugs.

“I don’t think I’d mind some new scenery. Or a free meal.” Elise jokes, and John laughs softly in agreement.

“I think we have ourselves a new medic, boys.”

[priceoftheduchess]

hi babies! it’s duchess! 🩷

i just saw that my recent drabble has nearly 1k notes! i want to say a big, huge, enormous thank you to all the people who are interacting. i see you all and it warms my heart everyday to think that my writing makes people happy.

my asks are always open if you all need to vent, or have fic ideas. and i have anon on. i love you all so much and i can’t wait to keep growing this account! also thank you all for 87 followers! it’s crazy to me! i love this community 🩷

- duchess <3

[priceoftheduchess]

chat… 1000 likes?!? should i do a milestone post of some sort?! send me ideas!!

i love you all so much and i will always be here to listen!! <3