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feralforfrank · 22 days ago

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Like Real People Do previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: death, grief

“My sister and her family are-”

“Daisy.” You whirl.

“Doctor Price, oh my god. Do you know where Tess is? I got a call, they said there had been an accident but-”

“Daisy.” He’s holding out his hand. It’s weird. Why is he doing that? Thunder booms over the hospital, so loud it must shake the walls, and some people in the waiting room gasp. “I need you to come with me.”

“Oh.” It’s such a simple word. Oh. Oh, you know what’s happening. Oh, you’re about to hear the worst news of your life. Oh, everything is about to change.

Oh, you’re not a sister anymore. Or an aunt, or a sister-in-law. You’re nothing.

It’s funny but you immediately think of your clothes. Horrible clothes to be wearing when you’re told a loved one is dead, leggings and a sweatshirt and god awful clogs, but you didn’t have much to fly home in. The weather here is vastly different from Ibiza’s. These aren’t even your shoes, Ava chucked them at you as you ran out the door eighteen hours ago.

Your sister is like a cat though. She nearly died giving birth to Riley, who did die, more than once. They’re like cats. Cats have a lot of lives, so maybe it’s just bad. Bad you can handle, bad you can do. Maybe it’s just bad.

“Let’s go upstairs.” He’s still holding his hand out and you take it, following behind him like a child.

He presses the button for floor five.

When the doors open, and you see Olivia standing at the nurses station next to a doctor you barely recognize, you stop.

It’s not just bad. Liv has always had such a useless poker face, and you can see it plain as day on her.

They’re dead.

“Are you good?”

“Yes.” You mutter through a clenched jaw, “I’m perfect. I am great.” You’re fine, you’re fine, this is fine-

Olivia raises her eyebrows. “Okay because you look like shit.”

“Thanks Liv.” You snatch a fry from her plate. They’re a little soggy and under-salted, but better than the pb&j you brought. Grape jelly. You have no idea why Riley likes it so much.

“Still not sleeping?” You shrug. It’s a paltry attempt to play it off, one you know they see through but you can’t talk about it.

Just like you can’t sleep.

It’s been weeks since the horsefly incident, and while Riley has pretty much forgotten all about it sans the hot pink cast on her arm, it’s endlessly lurking in the back of your mind. At night, it plays out again and again on a loop, a real life nightmare you can’t escape from. Molly’s rear. Riley’s scream. The sound of her fall, the thunk of her head against the ground, the blood from the scrapes on her cheek.

It overlaps with other memories, everything crashing together until you’re lying awake and staring at the ceiling for hours before your alarm goes off.

“What’re are we talkin’ about?” Olivia squeaks as Doctor Garrick sits down and slings his arm around her shoulders.

“N-nothing just ah- um… Daisy is-”

“Fine.” You hiss and try to kick her under the table. Doctor Garrick gives you an appraising look before smiling at Olivia.

“How are you, Livs?” She looks like she’s going to die, and Ava looks like that one gif of the grinch smiling.

“I’m… good yeah, good.” Your alarm buzzes, signaling the end of your hour, and you sigh.

“Alright. I’m out.”

“Maybe you should try to some melatonin.” Ava offers as you stand, and you shake your head.

“Anything you’re going to suggest, I’ve tried.” You snatch another fry from Olivia’s plate and then give them all a shrug. “Okay, see you. And uh, bye? Doctor Garrick.” It’s weird. You’ve barely interacted with him, but he’s over here with his arm around one of your closest friends… and she’s incredibly flustered.

So weird.

“I hate you.” You glare at the body beneath the sheet. “I fucking hate you.”

Tess of course, says nothing. She can’t because she’s gone. She left without you. She did the thing she’s been begging you to stop doing for the past three years. She left you here.

Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you? You’re mad at her. More than mad, you’re livid.

Another wave of pain, of anger, of despair crashes and tries to drag you under.

It didn’t feel like this when your parents died. It hurt, it was awful, it was hell but you had Tess. When your mom went, and your dad followed, the two of you had each other.

Now Tess went, and you have to stay here.

You scream. It starts with anger and then becomes despair, ripping from a place you didn’t know existed, turning into a wail as you drop like a stone, crumpling to the cold linoleum. You’re vaguely aware the door flies open but you can’t see anything through your tears, can’t think or focus through the keening that is trying to tear your ribcage apart, and the room spins so viciously you have to close your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you sob to her, to the stranger bearing witness, to toddler down the hall who’s waiting for you to walk in there and tell her her parents are dead, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” Whoever it is, they’re on their knees in front of you, pulling you into their arms to hold you against their chest. “Shhh.” It’s a man you distantly realize, a man who’s cradling the back of your head against him and rocking you, rubbing your back as your fingers curl into his shirt with a death grip.

The door opens again. It’s a woman’s voice, and she’s sad.

“She’s awake.” Panic rocks you to your core.

“No,” you cry, “no, no I- can’t yet, I can’t… I c-can’t. Please.” You’re not ready. You can’t do it. You can’t go in there and tell Riley what’s happened. Instinctively, you fight. You try to crawl out of your skin, the pressure in your diaphragm is threatening to explode and rip you apart. He doesn't let go.

“Okay.” His answer rumbles in his chest against your ear and it’s strangely comforting. “We’ll wait, it’s okay.” It’s a temporary distraction, a small drop of water on the roaring fire of your panic, your pain, and you start to hyperventilate. His hold tightens. “Breathe Daisy, you have to breathe.” You try, you do, but the world is tilting, your oxygen is thinning, and the pulsing in your skull hurts so bad you think you might throw up. You want to breathe, you do, but the burning in lungs is impossible to escape.

It’s not so bad actually. The pain is distracting. It’s kind of nice, in a way.

“Daisy!” The voice is louder, more insistent, and you open your eyes to find a piercing, brilliant blue pair staring straight back at you.

Pretty, you think-

and then the world goes black.

“Daisy.”

“S’rry, jus’ gimme one minute.”

“Daisy.”

“Mmph.” There’s a soft chuckle, and then something ghosts over your cheek. You try to open your eyes but they’re so heavy, it’s too hard, and Riley’s rubbing your shoulder.

“I know baby, but you need to get up.” You bat her away, push her hand but it stays firm, fingers stretching across your shoulder blade.

Big. Too big. Riley’s hand isn’t-

Your eyes shoot open... and lock onto Doctor Riley’s.

Free fall. That's how it feels. Like you're plummeting to your death and he has the parachute.

“It’s almost seven.” You can barely hear him over the frantic pace of your pulse, heartbeat roaring in your ears.

“Census was low so Key said I should, I mean, she said I could-”

“I know.” His eyes crinkle at the corners with a small, patient smile. The little wrinkles fold perfectly together and then smooth away just as easily, “it’s okay.” He’s amused, and your head is spinning. He’s too much, it’s all… too much. You’re still trying to burn off the memory of him holding you in the ED, the way he let you dig your nails into his skin and never let you go.

He broke you. For a minute, for a day, he destroyed you.

It was terrifying.

But you would be lying to yourself if you said there weren’t other things there too.

The parachute. The catch.

“I’m sorry,” you croak as you sit up.

“It’s okay, you didn’t do anything wrong. I told Key to send you for an RR break.” Restorative rest. You’ve never taken an RR break in your life, even when you were in the ED. Now you feel like you’ve been missing out.

“Oh. Thanks.” You rub your eyes. If it’s almost seven you need to get going to relieve Callie on time, which means you need to get around this immovable force of a man who’s crouched next to the bed with his hands folded into one another, studying you.

“How do you feel?” Do you look that bad?

“Tired.” You admit without filter, surprised at yourself. “I’m really… I’m really tired.” He sighs, and it's weighted, heavy, trapping you on the little twin bed, scratchy sheets pooling at your waist below your askew scrub top. It sets you on edge.

“You’re doing a lot Daisy, it’s okay to be tired,” it’s so gentle the way he says it, so understanding, but his next words are like a slap. “And it’s okay if you need help.” You stiffen. An alarm shrieks in the back of your mind.

“I don’t need help, and I don’t need to be coddled.” You snap, throwing his own words back in his face. It should strike true and elicit anger, or impatience. It should. Instead, he shakes his head, musses one of those giant paws through his hair.

“I don’t think you need to be coddled Daisy, but I do think you need to be held.” Your heart stops.

Fuck this, and fuck this man, and fuck whatever he’s done to you, or is trying to do to you, after everything, after putting you through the paces and yelling at you and turning you inside out.

He’s done this on purpose, you know it now, you saw it in his face when you fell apart, like you were a wild filly he’s finally saddled.

It's all by design.

He stole the parachute. He pushed you out of the plane.

And now you have no choice but to fall.

Hot, angry tears burn at the back of your eyes, and you swing your legs over the bed, wobbling to your feet. You need to get away from him, hysteria is rising in the back of your throat, and sweat is beading across your lower back. You’ve never thought about how strong he really is, how his size dominates your space, how thick his wrists and arms are. Every single thing about him is overwhelming, and there isn’t enough glue and tape in the world to patch up your walls. Not when it’s him knocking them down.

You're crying. Openly. Again.

This man has ruined you.

“Who takes care of you?” He asks quietly, but the question reverberates off the walls like a gunshot, and you flinch like it’s torn through your flesh. “You take care of Riley, of everything, but no one is taking care of you.”

“I can take care of myself.” You wipe your wet cheeks furiously.

“Look at me.” You try so hard to ignore him, to resist it, but you can’t. You’re drawn in. "Don't fight me Daisy, you won't win."

“Stop,” you bleat, trying to step back but he strikes, holds you in place. You twist but he doesn’t let go and you swallow the urge to scream, to let it all out, to throw it at him until he can’t take it anymore.

“I want to take care of you, and you’re gonna let me.” You choke on a laugh. It’s delirious, disbelieving.

“No.”

“Yes, you are. You know why? Because you don’t have a choice. Because in two months, Riley won’t have heath insurance an' there’s no way for you to fix that, but I can, Daisy. I can fix it.” His gaze is full of promises, of warnings, all so intense it makes your blood burn in your veins. This fucking man.

“How?” He drags your face to his, forces you to look at him as he wipes your cheek. You’re not in control here, you realize.

Maybe you never were.

And because fate loves to prove a point, his next words hit you like a truck.

“By marrying you.”

#simon riley

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feralforfrank · 1 month ago

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pairing: clark kent x reader cw: smut, implied afab reader, detailed cock description, size kink (girth, curve, heavy leaking), overstimulation (both reader + clark), possessiveness, breeding implications (clark cumming inside reader), messy cum play / excessive cum, mild cock worship, oral fixation (mentions), soft dom clark tendencies (whining, needy, desperate), praise kink (clark praising reader, reader overwhelmed by him), slight somnophilic undertones if interpreted (from exhaustion overstimulation context), implied emotional dependency (clark clinging, not wanting to stop)

you're thinking about clark’s dick again.

because how could you not? it’s almost a problem — the kind of thing that stays in the back of your mind during the day, lurking like a half-forgotten dream, like the heat off sun-baked asphalt or the feel of his calloused palm on your throat.

its slightly paler than the rest of him, with the faintest gradient of color that darkens where it matters most. the kind of cock you can tell stays heavy even soft, obscenely thick — thick enough that when you first dropped to your knees and wrapped your fingers around it, you couldn’t get your hand to fully meet around the base. one of those things you both half-laughed at the first time, though clark’s laugh was tight and frayed at the edges, like it physically hurt him to joke about something that made his stomach twist up so tight.

and it’s heavy, too — warm and weighty against your palm, a pretty flush already gathering at the tip before you even do anything, fat droplets of pre-beading and threatening to spill over at the barest touch. he leaks like it’s a biological malfunction, an embarrassing, syrupy need that never seems to stop, stringing from his tip to your wrist while he hisses through his teeth, murmuring soft, ruined apologies against the shell of your ear like he can’t help it.

there’s a curve to it, one you don’t always catch with your eyes — it isn’t obvious, isn’t obscene. but you feel it. god, you feel it. when he’s got you split open underneath him, when you’re writhing against the mattress and clenching around him so hard it makes him stutter his hips, you feel that gentle bend pressing into the most sensitive part of you, scraping maddeningly slow along your walls until yourwhole body’s tensing like a live wire. mind-numbing is a generous word for it. it’s more like being torn in half and reassembled around him.

and the thing about clark is, he overstimulates himself as bad as he does you. you’ll be beneath him, pinned under the impossible press of his weight, those big hands splayed possessively on your hips or tangled tight in your hair, and he’s whining through every thrust. panting ragged against your skin, muttering broken things like 'so good, so tight, can’t—fuck, can’t stop', because even when his cock’s visibly twitching, so sensitive it’s driving him stupid, he won’t pull out. won’t slow down. he wants to fill you, wants to stuff you so full of his thick, heavy release that it’s leaking out around him while he keeps going. and it’s so much. an actual, shameful amount.

by the time he cums, it’s never one neat pulse — it’s messy, viscous, endless. you swear you can feel it flooding you deeper, warmer than it should be, spilling out before he’s even finished. and clark’s never quiet about it, either. no, he’s desperate. one hand cradling the back of your head while he whimpers against your throat, hips jerking in tiny, needy thrusts as if he can’t bear the emptiness the second you’re not milking every drop from him.

and omfg, his happy trail. keeps it trimmed, neat, because even though he could let it go wild, he’s always a little shy about looking too unkempt, the boy from smallville still somewhere under the god-tier frame. but it’s there, that soft dusting of dark hair starting just under his navel, trailing down to where it thickens at the base of his cock, and you swear every time you catch sight of it, you get a little lightheaded. and yet here he is, flushed and wrecked, reduced to a whining mess in your hands, drenching your insides and clinging to you like you’re the only tether he’s got left on this earth.

and every time, you promise yourself it’ll just be a memory. that you won’t think about it next time you’re out together, next time he wraps an arm around your waist too casually or calls you ‘darlin’ in that low, honeyed voice. and yet here you are, thinking about clark’s dick. again.

#clark kent

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