Literally. It was in your nickname on campus: Charmlight. You could bend light, make it shimmer, refract, sparkle, and if you really wanted to, use it to distract, dazzle, or disorient someone. Basically, weaponised glitter.
You used to joke that you weren’t dangerous, just aesthetic.
But that was before everything went to hell.
Before the woods. Before Elmira. Before Sam Riordan became a name everyone whispered about for reasons that made your stomach twist.
Now, a year later, the world looked different. Godolkin University had rebuilt. Students strutted around like the massacre never happened. And Sam, Sam, was one of them again.
No longer the haunted boy you’d once found hiding in the labs, trembling and wild-eyed. Now he was a name on posters, a Supe who’d fought beside Homelander, whose nervous grin was plastered on Vought’s PR feeds. Everyone wanted to talk to him. Everyone but you.
You’d tried. You’d waved. You’d smiled. He never waved back.
So you stopped trying.
You didn’t get sent to Elmira, but you may as well have. You stopped showing up to labs, skipped training sessions, stopped answering messages.
Being near Sam hurt too much, the boy who’d once held your hand in the dark now standing beside Homelander, the monster who made your stomach twist with fear.
So when this new semester started, you promised yourself: no more Sam Riordan.
And for a while, you kept that promise.
You hung out with Marie and Jordan and Emma again when they came back from Elmira, it felt safe, familiar, even if everything still buzzed with unspoken tension. And then there was Greg.
Greg with the shy smile and the plant powers and the voice that always went soft when he said your name. Greg who showed up to lab with coffee for both of you. Greg who made you laugh when everything else felt heavy.
He made you laugh. He called you “princess” because of your bratty attitude when something doesn't go your way. He bought you cherry sodas from the vending machine after training. It was easy with him. Safe.
Until Sam came back.
Now he was everywhere. In the quad, at team meetings, on the stupid supe social feed. Godolkin’s golden boy, the reformed rebel. Everyone loved him he was popular.
Vought-polished, interview-ready, walking God U’s campus with Cate and the Homelander crowd like he’d been rewritten. Students stared when he passed; professors pretended not to.
Except he wasn’t looking at the cameras.
He was looking at you.
You could feel it, the burn of his stare from across the training hall, the way his jaw clenched when Greg’s hand brushed yours, the way he suddenly started hanging around the group again, pretending it was coincidence.
You tried to ignore it. Tried to smile when Greg leaned close, explaining how his kinetic field worked, tried not to flinch when you caught a flash of blonde hair and blue eyes in the mirror.
But Sam noticed everything.
The way you laughed too hard at Greg’s jokes. The way Greg touched your elbow when you passed through a crowd. It made something in Sam tighten.
Something ugly, new, and raw.
Every time Sam saw you two together, his jaw would tick. He’d tear open cans of energy drink like they’d offended him, shove his hands in his pockets, pretend he didn’t care.
You told yourself you understood.
He’d been through hell.
But understanding didn’t make the quiet sting any less.
When the group finally ended up in Stan Edgar’s bunker, half refuge, half prison, you hadn’t expected to talk to him at all.
The bunker smelled like metal and dust and too many people in one small space. Dust hung in the air like static. Dust hung in the air like static.
You sat cross-legged on an old couch, tapping your nails against your phone screen, trying not to think about the way Sam paced nearby in a white tank top, muscles catching the dim light.
Emma was talking to Jordan. Marie and her sister were arguing quietly. It should have felt crowded, but all you could feel was him.
The tall, restless boy on the other side of the room.
Sam looked different now, steadier, but still dangerous in a way that made your chest feel too tight. He ran a hand through his hair, then looked straight at you.
He didn’t say your name at first; he just looked at you.
That look you used to know, the one that saw straight through your glittery armour, except now it was sharper. You could feel it like static crawling up the back of your neck.
You focused on your phone screen, scrolling absolutely nothing, pretending not to notice. It didn’t help.
“Something funny?” Sam’s voice broke the low murmur in the room.
You startled. “Huh? Oh—no, I’m just—” You dropped your phone. It hit the floor, clattering against the concrete. Perfect.
When you bent to grab it, he was already there, crouched, picking it up in one easy movement. Up close, he was all warm skin and restless energy; that faint scent of metal and soap. He handed it back, eyes unreadable.
“You drop things a lot when I’m around,” he said. Not mean, not teasing. Just a statement.
You tried to laugh. “Gravity hates me.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Greg doesn’t seem to mind it.”
You froze, clutching your phone. “Greg?”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning back against the wall, crossing his arms. The motion made the fabric of his tank stretch, his forearms tight, veins standing out. “He’s always around you lately.”
You forced a bright, brittle laugh. “We’re friends. Remember those?”
“I remember,” he said, and the way he looked at you made your pulse jump. “Just didn’t think you needed new ones.”
“Sam.” You sighed, voice soft, trying to sound calm. “You can’t be mad at me for moving on.”
“I’m not mad.” His jaw flexed. “Just weird watching someone else get what I—” He stopped himself, breathing hard through his nose.
You blinked, heart hammering. “What you what?”
He looked away, toward the far wall where Emma and Jordan were laughing about something, then back at you. “Forget it.”
You took a step closer before you could think better of it. “No. Finish that sentence.”
His eyes found yours again, darker now, something raw flickering behind them. “What I miss.”
The room was still buzzing with low conversation, but it felt like the two of you were sealed off, a tiny pocket of air humming with things neither of you wanted to name.
For a second, all the restless anger in his posture eased. His shoulders dropped. He looked almost shy again, the Sam you remembered from before everything went sideways.
Emma’s high-pitched giggle cut through the tension. "Okay, Jordan, enough!" she laughed, shoving Jordan lightly toward the heavy bunker door. "We need more snacks. Like, yesterday."
Jordan grinned, already heading out. "Marie? You coming? Vending machine run." Marie glanced back at you and Sam, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded silently, following them out.
The reinforced steel door groaned shut behind them with a final, echoing clunk.
Silence slammed down. Thick. Suffocating.
Dust motes danced in the single overhead light’s harsh glare, suddenly the loudest thing in the room. You were alone. With Sam. The air crackled, heavy with everything unsaid.
Your phone felt slippery in your clammy hand. You stared at the scuffed concrete floor, tracing a hairline crack near your boot. Anything to avoid looking at him.
Anything to avoid acknowledging the raw vulnerability in his whispered confession: What I miss.
Your cheeks burned. Why did Marie have to leave? Why did Jordan pick now for snacks? The silence stretched, tight as a wire about to snap. You could hear the faint hum of the bunker’s ventilation system. Hear Sam’s slow, deliberate exhale.
"So," Sam finally rasped, the word rough, scraping the quiet. He hadn’t moved from leaning against the wall. His gaze was fixed on you, intense and unnervingly direct. "Greg."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement loaded with something dark and possessive. You flinched, instinctively stepping back, bumping against the worn armrest of the couch.
"Sam," you breathed, your voice barely audible above the hum of the ventilation. "He's just Greg. He's nice."
"Nice." Sam pushed himself off the wall, unfolding his lean frame with predatory grace. He took one step, then another, closing the distance until you could see the faint pulse in his temple, the way his blue eyes seemed to pierce through your feeble defences. "He buys you sodas. Calls you princess." He spat the last word, his lip curling. "He touches you. Like he owns you."
"He doesn't!" The protest sounded weak, even to you. You clutched your phone tighter, the plastic casing digging into your palm. "He's just… friendly."
"Is that what you call it?" Sam stopped inches away, the heat radiating off him palpable. His gaze dropped, lingering pointedly on your thighs where Greg's hand had brushed earlier.
A slow, unsettling smirk spread across his face, devoid of warmth. "Friendly." He let the word hang, heavy with implication. "You used to be friendly with me."
You swallowed hard. "Things change." You tried to inject steel into your voice, but it trembled.
"Do they?" His smirk widened, sharpening into something dangerous. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur that sent shivers down your spine despite the stifling heat. "Because I haven't changed. Not about you."
His breath ghosted warm against your ear. "I thought about you. Every damn day. Even when you stopped looking at me. Even when you pretended I didn't exist." He paused, letting the confession sink in, his eyes locked onto yours with unnerving intensity. "Especially then."
The manipulation was subtle, insidious.
Wrapping his longing in a barbed wire of accusation, making you feel guilty for moving on. He didn't say he missed you, he said he thought about you, twisting his own absence into your perceived betrayal.
Your breath caught, trapped somewhere between disbelief and a terrifying pull. His proximity was overwhelming, the scent of soap and clean sweat mingling with the metallic tang of the bunker.
His gaze slid deliberately down your body again, lingering longer this time on the curve of your hip, the line of your thigh pressed against the couch arm.
"Missed this," he murmured, the rough scrape of his voice unnervingly intimate against the bunker's stale air. His lips brushed the frantic pulse point beneath your jaw, a feather-light touch that ignited sparks beneath your skin. "Missed you."
It wasn't gentle; it was possessive, an assertion. "Ever since the woods." His breath was hot on your neck. "Ever since I saw you in that lab coat, hiding me."
Another kiss, lower this time, near the sensitive curve where neck met shoulder. His hand settled firmly on your waist, fingers pressing possessively into the fabric. "Always wanted to do this. Taste you here." His tongue traced a slow, deliberate path upwards.
You gasped, a sharp intake of air that sounded deafening in the silence. Your hands instinctively flew to his shoulders, not pushing away, but gripping the taut muscle beneath his thin tank top. "Sam…"
It was a protest choked by sensation.
He pulled back just enough to lock his stormy eyes with yours.
The raw need in them was terrifying, mixed with a dark certainty. "You miss it too," he stated, his thumb brushing the frantic flutter in your throat. "Missed me. Missed how I knew you. Really knew you."
His other hand slid lower, tracing the outside seam of your leggings, his palm heavy and warm against your thigh. The pressure was deliberate, suggestive. "Not like Greg." He spat the name, a venomous dismissal.
"Pretty boy with his plants and his sodas." His fingers tightened, pressing your thigh firmly against the couch armrest, a subtle shift that mimicked the friction of riding. "He'll never let you feel this."
His voice dropped to a rough whisper, lips brushing your ear again. "Never let you lose control. He'll keep you safe. Bored." His gaze was intense, manipulative, searching your face for confirmation. "Safe feels like hell now, doesn't it?"
You couldn't speak. His words were hooks, sinking deep into insecurities you hadn't voiced.
The comparison was cruel, designed to isolate. His proximity, the heat of him, the possessive weight of his hand anchoring your thigh, it short-circuited thought.
Your power flickered instinctively, tiny sparks of light dancing erratically around your clenched fists, betraying the chaos inside. He saw it, a predatory gleam flashing in his eyes. He leaned in again, capturing your lips this time.
It wasn't tender; it was claiming.
A desperate, bruising kiss fuelled by a year of silence and simmering jealousy, designed to obliterate Greg, obliterate safety, obliterate everything but the raw, dangerous connection crackling between you in the suffocating silence of Stan Edgar's forgotten bunker.
He broke the kiss abruptly, leaving you gasping, your lips tingling.
Before you could react, he moved with startling speed. His hands slid firmly beneath your thighs. A sharp lift, a controlled pivot, and he sank onto the worn couch cushions, pulling you down with him.
You landed straddling his lap, knees bracketing his hips, the sudden intimacy stealing your breath. His hands locked onto your waist, fingers digging possessively through the fabric of your shirt. His gaze, dark and intense, held yours captive.
"See?" he breathed, voice rough with triumph and something darker. "This." He shifted deliberately beneath you, the hard ridge of his arousal pressing unmistakably against the thin barrier of your leggings.
The friction was immediate, electric. "This is what you miss." His hands slid lower, gripping the curve of your hips, urging you forward with insistent pressure.
Manipulation wrapped in velvet touch. He pressed kisses against your jawline, your cheekbone, feather-light yet demanding, while his hands guided your hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm against him.
"Tell me he makes you feel like this," he murmured against your skin, punctuating the words with a sharp upward thrust of his own hips that forced a choked gasp from your throat.
His fingers tightened, digging into the flesh above your leggings' waistband. "Tell me he knows how wet you get just thinking about me."
The words were a weapon, twisting your body's undeniable response into proof of his ownership, erasing Greg with every calculated press and grind. His gaze burned into yours, daring you to deny it, searching for the flicker of surrender he knew was there.
He didn't ask if you wanted this; he forced the confession through your body's traitorous movement, his hand firmly guiding your waist, grinding you down onto him with relentless, possessive pressure. He knew you wanted this.
"Say it," he breathed, his lips brushing yours again, a promise and a threat tangled together. "Say you missed this."
You couldn't.
Words were ash in your mouth.
Only sounds escaped, low, involuntary whines that rose from your chest, turning into breathy mewls as the friction intensified. Your hands, trapped against his shoulders, clenched and unclenched, nails scraping the worn cotton of his tank.
Every nerve felt raw, exposed.
The bunker’s stale air thickened with the scent of exertion, soap, and the sharp tang of your own arousal blooming beneath the fabric separating you. He shifted subtly beneath you, angling himself to hit the perfect spot with each grinding circle he forced your hips to make.
With the pressure against your clit through the leggings was relentless, maddening. Your head fell back, eyes squeezing shut against the overhead light’s harsh glare, a desperate whimper escaping as sensation threatened to overwhelm you.
Your thighs trembled against his hips, muscles straining with the effort of maintaining the rhythm he dictated.
"Look at me." His command was low, guttural. You forced your eyes open, meeting the storm in his gaze, jealousy, possession, and a terrifying vulnerability he’d never shown anyone else. He saw the tears welling, the frantic pulse in your throat, the way your lips trembled.
A dark satisfaction flickered across his face, he thrust up sharply again, wrenching another sharp cry from you. "Only me." His hand slid from your waist, fingers tracing a deliberate path down your spine, pressing firmly against the small of your back to arch you harder against him.
As the increased pressure became electric, stealing your breath, your hips stuttered, losing the controlled rhythm, grinding down desperately now, seeking relief from the unbearable tension coiling tighter and tighter.
The rough fabric of his jeans, the hard ridge beneath, the damp heat building between your legs, it fused into a single, overwhelming sensation. Your whines climbed higher, sharper, dissolving into mewling gasps as you chased the peak he was ruthlessly orchestrating.
Your power flared uncontrollably, tiny, frantic sparks of light bursting around your clenched fists like dying stars, illuminating the dust motes dancing violently in the charged air. Your forehead pressed against his shoulder, muffling the helpless sounds escaping your throat as your body moved frantically against his, driven by instinct and his relentless manipulation.
The climax slammed into you with brutal suddenness.
Not a wave, but a detonation. Your entire body locked, back arching violently against his restraining hand as a ragged, high-pitched cry tore from your throat.
Sensation flooded you, white-hot and obliterating, radiating outwards from the core where you pressed desperately against him. Your thighs clamped around his hips, trembling uncontrollably as the aftershocks ripped through you.
The sparks flared brighter, momentarily bathing the grim bunker walls in chaotic, shimmering light before flickering out. You slumped forward, forehead pressed hard against his collarbone, breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by your uneven breathing and the frantic thud of your own heart against your ribs. You felt utterly spent, exposed, hollowed out.
His arms encircled you, holding you tightly against his chest as your tremors subsided. He didn't speak. He just held you, his own breathing rough against your hair. The silence stretched, filled only by the fading hum of the ventilation and the phantom echo of your own shattered cries.
Outside, the heavy bunker door remained stubbornly shut.
Sam shifted beneath you, his arms tightening possessively. His voice, when it finally came, was a low rasp against your temple, devoid of its earlier sharpness, replaced by a chilling certainty.
"That wasn't just friction" He smoothed a hand down your spine, the gesture almost soothing, yet laced with triumph. "That was us. That spark, that… chaos." His fingers traced the damp fabric clinging to your lower back.
His other hand slid up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were intense, dark pools reflecting the harsh overhead light.
"He doesn't know you. Who screamed at Homelander's hologram on the news." His thumb brushed your bottom lip, still swollen from his kiss. "He'll never push you. Never touch the darkness because he's too afraid of it. Too afraid of you." He leaned closer, his breath warm on your cheek.
His gaze held yours, stripping away any pretense. "I'm not afraid. I want it. All of it. The light, the dark, the goddamn glitter explosion. Because I am it too." His voice dropped to a near whisper, intimate and manipulative.
You trembled against him, the aftershocks of your climax mingling with the cold dread his words instilled. He was twisting your vulnerability, your undeniable response to him, into proof of something deeper, darker.
Proof Greg was inadequate. "Sam…" you breathed, voice shaky. "It wasn't…"
"Wasn't what?" he interrupted smoothly, his hand tightening on your jaw. "Wasn't real?" He gave a low, humorless chuckle. "Your body doesn't lie. Not like your words do." He shifted subtly beneath you, the hard ridge of his arousal still pressing insistently against your core through the damp leggings.
A reminder.
You flinched at the truth in it. the terrifying allure of the chaos he embodied.
Safety had started to feel suffocating. Greg’s kindness felt… distant. Sam’s intensity was a drug you’d forgotten the potency of. "Sam," you whispered, voice thick with exhaustion and confusion. "It’s complicated."
"Is it?" He tilted his head, a predator assessing wounded prey. "Seems simple to me." He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
It was unexpectedly tender, jarring after the bruising intensity moments before. "You’re mine," he murmured against your skin, the possessiveness velvet-coated now.
"Always were. You just forgot." His hands slid down your back, settling possessively on your hips. "Greg’s a nice distraction. Like a pretty plant." His voice dropped, intimate and dangerous.
He pulled back to look at you, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips, the first glimpse of the boy you remembered. "Tell him you need space. Tell him it’s not working. Be kind." His thumb traced your jawline. "Do it today. Before he gets hurt."
The manipulation was breathtakingly cruel. He framed it as concern for Greg, twisting his own jealousy into a shield. He used the intimacy he'd forced, the vulnerability he'd exposed, as leverage.
He offered tenderness after the storm, making his claim feel like salvation instead of captivity. Your legs were still trembling around his hips, the phantom echoes of your climax mingling with the chilling certainty in his eyes.
He wasn't asking.
He was rebuilding your world, placing himself firmly at its centre, using the aftershocks of pleasure as his foundation stones. The bunker door remained shut, sealing you inside his carefully constructed reality.
the universe is loud when you’re gone (and you might be the one that truly gets me) 𝜗𝜚 sam riordan.
after cate’s injury leaves him hallucinating across campus, sam spirals and ends up wrecking your dorm. you find him and use your empathic regulation powers to help steady him.
cws ᝰ .ᐟ meant to take place s2e3 ,, reader has empathic regulation powers ,, gender neutral (you/your) ,, sam experiencing a schizophrenic episode (hallucinations, paranoia, emotional distress) ,, first meeting
If anyone tried to stop him, he was going to break their face. Not because he wanted to. Not because he liked it (except maybe he did sometimes, but he hated that, hated knowing it). But because Cate was lying in a room full of machines and none of them could fix the part of her that mattered. The part that made the world quiet.
And he couldn’t sit still when the world was this loud.
They said stable. They said resting. They said a lot of things and none of them included the word awake.
He paced the hallway, his fingers flexed at his sides, nails a fraction away from digging into palms, from breaking skin. He couldn’t tell if he wanted the pain or just wanted something real to prove he wasn’t dreaming on top of a nightmare.
Cate always knew how to pull him back. Press a hand to his cheek. Whisper calm into the bones of his skull. Lie, maybe, but soft lies, ones that made breathing stop hurting. He hated her for that. He needed her for that. He didn’t know the difference anymore.
He inhaled. Too sharp. It scraped. The air here tasted like antiseptic and electricity and someone else’s panic. Not his. No, his burned from the inside out, slow and hot and stupid, like he swallowed gasoline.
They took her.
The thought lashed through him, sudden and senseless, because no one took her, she was right there behind the glass and tubes, but it still felt like someone took her. Like someone cut out the one steady thread he’d been clinging to and expected him not to unravel.
His head hummed. No — rattled. Shook. Too many wires in there and every one of them sparking. He didn’t just want her awake. He didn’t want her safe. He wanted her functional.
He wanted the quiet back.
Not the absence of sound so much as the absence of the chaos inside his skull, the chatter that dressed every moment in its own bad commentary, the tiny nags that turned ordinary things into accusations. He wanted the hush Cate could make, the skill she had for folding the noise down and away. He wanted her to press her palm to his forehead and tell the television in his head to change the channel.
Instead he was in the quad, sun doing that mean thing where it looks kind and feels sharp, sitting on a blanket that would probably get grass stains and thinking, absurdly, that eating a sandwich outside made you a normal person. A person who could be trusted in public. A person who could not be suspected of being dangerous.
It wasn’t until the sandwich started talking that he admitted, reluctantly, that maybe he did actually need Cate.
He blinked at it once. Twice. Bread. Tuna. Lettuce. Mayo he didn’t even like, because he’d grabbed whatever was closest from the communal fridge like someone who didn’t have several layers of psychological hazard tape wrapped around his brain. Totally normal sandwich.
When it spat out its contents at him, that was the moment the little dam inside him snapped and he thought, oh. Right. We’re doing this again.
He stood up fast enough to send his bottle of water rolling across the grass. Someone glanced over. He ignored them. He ignored the sandwich too, which had started singing, some deranged version of a lullaby that felt like it was dragging nails down the back of his skull.
He paced. Sharp little back-and-forth lines cutting through the green lawn, headphone cord tangling in his pocket, breath pushing out in short bursts like he’d forgotten how to breathe. A group of students laughed near the fountain, and the sound started to seem more and more distant.
He whispered under his breath, too fast, too low, too desperate to pass for casual. “No, I’m not talking to you. I don’t need — I don’t— she’s fine, I’m fine—”
Someone walking past gave him a wide berth, like he was a live wire. Fair.
He kept moving. Couldn’t stop. Still talking to no one. Or everyone. Or — whatever was crowding in behind his eyes. A squirrel paused on a bench and stared at him with unsettling intelligence, like it knew every one of his sins and found them pedestrian. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye socket until stars flared.
He did not want to need her.
He especially did not want to need her because she was in a bed somewhere being called stable which was code for not dead yet but don’t ask too many questions. And relying on someone was weakness. Reliance meant fragility. Meant vulnerability. Meant—
A lamppost flickered and became cartoonishly alive, “You break things, you know!”
“I know.”
That was new. He wasn’t usually agreeing with the hallucinations. Was that a sign of progress? Decline? Did it matter?
He walked. Or he thought he did. His legs were moving at least, long, restless strides cutting through the quad and into the shade of the academic buildings, where the air felt colder.
Concrete underfoot.
Birds.
Voices.
Laughter that sounded like scraping metal.
He rubbed at the back of his neck, nails digging crescent moons into skin. Couldn’t feel it. Could feel everything else. The quad was behind him now, sunlight sliding off his shoulders as though the day rejected him the same way people did. “Normal” stayed in the grass with the sandwich. Normal never followed him home. A breeze passed and each blade of grass shivered like it was whispering behind his back.
Freak freak freak—
“Say it again,” he muttered under his breath. “Say it again and see what happens.” A student crossing the courtyard looked at him and quickly looked away. He didn’t blame them. He wouldn’t look at himself either.
The voices started, considerate at first like they didn’t want to scare him. Then louder. Closer. Familiar.
“You never could hack it out here, Sam.”
Luke.
Except not Luke. Luke didn’t sound like disappointment curdling milk. Luke didn’t hiss.
Sam’s hands curled into fists. “Shut up.”
He passed the glass doors of the science building and caught his own reflection which began to speak to him. “You don’t fool anybody.” He flinched, stumbled back as though pushed. Hallway lights buzzed overhead, too white, too hot, like interrogation lamps.
And there, at the far end of the hall, a puppet leaned against a locker. “Where’s Cate, Sammy? Thought she could fix you?”
His breath hitched. His throat tightened so fast it hurt. “Don’t call me that.”
More puppets blinked into existence, peeking out of open classroom doors, hanging upside-down from the ceiling tiles, perched on drinking fountains with button eyes too shiny. One sat crumpled by the fire extinguisher, head tilted, tongue sewn down, as if even the hallucinations were tired of hearing him talk.
“She saved you,” one giggled in a child’s voice. “And look what you let happen to her.”
“She—” his voice cracked, thin as the fluorescent hum, “she saved herself.”
A lie.
Or maybe the truth.
They tangled in his head until he couldn’t tell one from the other anymore.
He didn’t realize he’d started walking faster until he was practically jogging, sneakers slapping the tile too loud, breath too loud, heartbeat too loud. He reached the stairwell door and slammed into it with both hands like he was trying to stop the building from falling on him. “She’s not like you. She’s not—you don’t get to talk about her. You don’t get to—”
“You’re poison,” a voice breathed against his ear, warm, intimate, almost loving. Cate’s voice. Perfectly mimicked by whatever part of him wanted him dead the most. “You kill everything good.”
His knees nearly buckled. He pressed his forehead to the metal door, palms flat, trying to feel the cold. Trying to stay here. Trying to stay anywhere but inside his head.
“I’m trying,” he choked out, voice splintering. “I am trying. I am—”
A puppet slid into the stairwell window, pressing felt hands to the glass to mockingly touch Sam’s as it whispered,
“Try harder.”
Something inside him twisted, sharp and hot and rising like bile. He shoved the door open and stumbled into the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time, like if he moved fast enough he could outrun his own skull. Luke’s voice followed him down the concrete steps, soft, wistful, cruel,
“You were better locked up.”
And Sam laughed, a short, manic sound that scraped the back of his throat, because maybe he was right.
It didn’t build slowly. It just hit, like stepping through a doorway he didn’t notice he’d opened. One second: campus. The next: a world with seams showing. He was moving too fast, the swing of his arms sharp enough that a passing freshman flinched out of his way. He didn’t notice. Didn’t feel the shove of wind or the sun anymore.
Calm down. (But how do you calm down when your brain has teeth?)
Someone laughed. A real laugh?
“They’re watching you.” A puppet in a letterman jacket whispered from atop a trash can. “They know you break.”
He jerked his head like shaking water out of his ears. “Don’t— don’t start that.”
Another voice, high, sweet, dripped down from a tree branch. A cheerleader puppet dangled upside-down, pom-poms stained a sticky dark red. “Cate would have stopped it~”
His stomach flipped violently. Instinct, panic, grief. He picked up speed, half-run, half-limp, like he could outrun neurons firing in the wrong order. Every sound stabbed. Talking. Metal chair scraping pavement. A phone ringing. A crow cawing.
Cawing turned into a puppet voice mid-sound: “Saaaaaam~”
He slapped the side of his head, just enough to try to reset the audio. Didn’t help.
He did it again, harder. “Stop it. Stop it. Shut up.”
A student nearby startled; he heard it, vaguely, like through a tunnel. Someone said “Jesus, is he okay?”
Then suddenly everything was cheap set foam. Props. Puppets. Campus tables turned to cardboard. The sky a painted backdrop. A faculty member puppet waddled by, blood trickling cartoon-bright from button eyes. “Institutional support!” it chirped. “Report your feelings to student wellness!”
His fingers dug into his scalp, tugging at his hair, nails scraping until his skin stung. Trying to pull the noise out. Trying to hurt just enough to feel present. “STOP TALKING!”
“You’ll hurt someone,” one puppet hissed.
“You already did!!” another sang.
“They should have left you underground.”
He slammed his head against the brick once, twice. Enough to remind himself there was a skull. A border. A body. It didn’t work. “I want to be good.”
Cartoon confetti rained from nowhere, mean confetti, like it bit on contact. Puppets clapped. One exploded into plush organs and giggled while it did.
“Then why aren’t you?”
His vision swam. His knees dipped. He gasped, hand on wall, nails scraping mortar. Students — real ones? — skirted away, confused, scared. He couldn’t tell which faces had seams.
If she didn’t wake up … if she never touched him again and made the noise drop out … He didn’t know what he’d do. He didn’t know who he’d be.
He only knew he’d burn the world down before he let it swallow him whole.
A puppet hanging from a bulletin board turned its yarn head. “Hero check! Failed. Try crying harder!” confetti gun blast to the face. He didn’t run so much as collapse forward in motion, legs carrying him out of instinct more than choice. Through the lobby. Up a flight of stairs. The hall stretched, too long, then too short, jerking like a bad camera cut.
His hand hit the door. It wasn’t his. Didn’t matter. Vought would fix it. Vought always fixed it.
(Would they?)
They’d paint him smiling, golden boy glow, tragic past, healing journey. He didn’t care right now. He shoved the door open so hard it banged the wall and cracked plaster.
Inside: quiet. A bed, two desks, posters, the boring, beautiful mundanity of people who didn’t have puppets peeling out of the drywall. He slammed it shut, like the hallway voices might have hands. The room should have been safe. But sound crawled anyway, whispers behind vents, laughter under the mattress, the hum of a desk lamp like a mosquito burrowing into his thoughts.
Something tore, inside or outside, didn’t matter. He began tearing through the room like it had insulted him personally. Drawer ripped out, thud, pens skittering like beetles. Chair kicked, wood splinter biting calf. He grabbed the mattress and flipped it, a grunt punched out of him. Sheets snarled around his legs. Breath harsh, cracked knuckle bleeding down his wrist again.
He smashed a mug, ceramic crunch skittering like bones across a tile grave. Shadows twisted into puppet silhouettes. They tittered, delighted. “Stop watching me!” he roared, throat raw, spittle shining on his lip. “I’m not— I’m not—”
Good? Safe? Real?
He punched the desk until something in his hand popped. Not enough, desperate for sensation that proved a boundary existed somewhere. He turned to the wall. Pressed his forehead to it, panting, shaking, small sounds breaking loose in his throat like sobs choked before they could form. “Please,” he whispered to nothing and everyone. “Shut up. Just… stop.”
Then the doorknob rattled. Click. Door swung open.
You stood there, framed in fluorescent light and disaster. Eyes flicking from him, wild-eyed, fists red, breathing like a kicked dog, to the ruin around him.
Silence.
“Either this is avant-garde performance art,” you said, very flat, “or you really hated my roommate’s new desk.”
His vision jerked, focus snapping between you and the wall breathing behind you and the confetti melting into the rug. Sam bared his teeth without meaning to, something animal and cracked. “Don’t come in here.”
He didn’t even know what he was warning you about. Himself. The world. The puppet perched on your shoulder whispering look at him break.
Your brow knit, like you were trying to see the invisible thing he was reacting to, and then — flat, unimpressed: “…okay, yeah. This is definitely not R.A.-approved behavior.” You took in the overturned mattress. The broken mug. The bruising rage still vibrating off him. Then you nodded very sagely. “You… spontaneously lost a fight with interior décor?”
Somehow your tone threw him harder than any hallucination.
“I said stay back!”
His voice cracked on it, like even he heard the fear in it. You raised your hands in exaggerated surrender. “I mean yeah, I was planning to walk straight into the bleeding guy mid-breakdown, thanks for stopping me. Truly. Close call.”
Sam’s brain tried to process that. It tripped over itself.
Were you being sarcastic?
His brain spun the question in circles. Sarcasm. Mocking. Or normal people joking. Or knives hidden under tone. He couldn’t tell — he never could — so the thought looped and frayed and—
Words useless. Always useless. Cate did the talking for him, really. Or she did the silencing. Same thing, right?
Your expression shifted mid-thought, recognition lighting across your features like a bulb warming. You squinted, then pointed at him with incredulous disbelief. “Aren’t you Sam Riordan?”
You watched all of that happen, the spark, the spiral, the crash, in two heartbeats. And something in you softened, posture lowering a fraction. Not afraid, but careful. Handling volatile chemicals. Or, you know… a six-foot superhuman hallucinating reality like a scratched DVD.
“Right,” you said quietly. Your voice changed. Smooth, level, the kind of tone nurses used, or people kneeling beside a cornered animal trying not to startle it.
And Sam realized, in a distant, delayed way, he was the animal in this analogy.
He paced anyway. Sharp turns. Fingers flexing like claws he didn’t choose. Jaw tight, breath ragged, heart punching ribs. He growled at something over your shoulder. “Stop talking— I said STOP—”
You didn’t flinch. That made it worse. Everyone flinched. Everyone ran. Everyone knew.
But you just breathed. Centered in the debris like you’d been born in crisis and never forgot how to walk around it. Sam kept muttering, fragments, apologies, threats, prayers. Didn’t know which was which. His head wouldn’t hold still.
Then something shifted. He didn’t see it. Didn’t hear it. It was… pressure. Like the room inhaled and held the breath. Not a hand. Not a force. A weather change. His heartbeat stuttered, confused. The puppets flickered. Sound dropped, muffled, like someone wrapped reality in a blanket.
No. No, no, no—
Calm crawled into his bones.
Warm. Heavy. Quiet.
Too quiet.
He jerked, muscles sparking, fight-or-flight with nowhere to sprint. Adrenaline demanded chaos. Panic demanded noise. Fear demanded he RUN or BREAK something or DO ANYTHING to keep the world from swallowing him.
But the world… softened.
His breath slowed without permission. Chest loosening, shoulders unhooking from his ears. “What—” His voice cracked. Embarrassing. Young.“What did— I don’t—” He blinked like a drunk surfacing from a nightmare underwater. The puppets? Gone. Or fuzzy. Like they knew they weren’t welcome.
He could hear himself breathe.
Just himself.
When was the last time the inside of his head wasn’t a war zone? Relief hit him so fast it hurt.
Which meant he hated it.
Instinct curled in his gut, the only shield he’d ever trusted. Don’t trust this. Don’t get used to this. Don’t let it in. His knees sagged a fraction, a glitch in posture, like his body forgot how to hold itself upright without panic as scaffolding. He stared at you. Wild. Suspicious.
Terrified.
Relieved so brutally it felt like breaking.
“What… did you do,” he accused. Awe edged with fear, like touching fire and not getting burned.
You shrugged lightly, hands still relaxed at your sides. “Call it… emotional first aid.”
His eyes narrowed, trying to parse the joke. Trying to decide if you were real. If this was a trick. If the silence would suddenly scream again.
You didn’t push closer. Didn’t crowd him. Just stood there, steady in the quiet you’d poured into the room. “Feels weird, right?” you murmured. “The not-wanting-to-implode thing?”
Sam swallowed. He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t have language for peace anymore.
You moved. Not frantically, deliberately, like if you did anything too quick he’d bolt or go feral or crack the wall in half. Which, honestly, he looked capable of. You stooped, picked up a hoodie you’d left on the floor, flung it vaguely toward a chair. “So,” you said lightly, like you weren’t shaking inside from being in a room with what was essentially a nervous nuclear warhead, “I’m just gonna… pretend I had ‘cleaning’ on my to-do list today.”
Sam blinked, slow, heavy-lidded. He hadn’t sat yet. He hovered near the door like a cat that wasn’t sure if it wanted to be inside or burning the house down. You thumbed at the messy desk, sweeping stray pens into a cup. “Feel free to sit. Or stand ominously.”
He didn’t laugh. But something in his shoulders loosened, like he recognized the joke but didn’t know where to put it inside himself.
You pointed at a truly heinous ceramic frog your roommate had made in Intro to Ceramics, mottled green, bulging eyes, teeth for some reason. A demon amphibian. “Also? Kinda rude you didn’t break that earlier. If you’re gonna go full mental spiral, at least take out the frog of nightmares. I have suffered.”
He finally moved, and sat on the edge of your bed. Stiff posture, hands braced on his knees like he was afraid he’d float off or fall apart. His breathing evened out a fraction. He was watching you. And not in the glossy-poster “Golden Boy” way you’d seen on sponsored feeds, not marketing gaze. Hunting gaze. Or maybe listening gaze. Like he was trying to memorize every second without understanding why.
You tossed another shirt into a pile. “We don’t have to talk about… whatever that was. We can pretend you just really, really hate my furniture.”
He looked… heavy. Melting. Like someone had poured warm molasses into his bones. “What’re you doing to me,” he murmured. Not accusing this time. More… dazed. Wondering. His voice distant, like someone waking from anesthesia.
You froze mid-fold of a sock. Then shrugged. “It’s just my powers making you feel more calm than you really are.”
He squinted, trying to focus on a thought that slid out from under him every time he reached for it. “Feels… nice,” he mumbled. “Like… warm. In my head.”
You lifted your brows. “Pretty sure that’s called relaxing. You should try it recreationally.”
He leaned back against your headboard. His brain looked like it had put itself in low-power mode. And he just stared at you, like he’d never encountered safety before and wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch it.
And Sam drifted.
If drifting could be desperate.
His eyelids sank halfway, lashes low like gravity finally noticed him. A slow breath. Then another. Muscles unwound by degrees, suspicious at first, then surrendering like someone loosening fist after fist they forgot they’d been clenching. He felt—
God, he didn’t even have a word that wasn’t catecatecate ghosting through his skull like a phantom limb.
But this wasn’t her. This wasn’t empty.
This was … presence. Weight without pain. Awareness without punishment. Not a switch flipped. Not a mind wiped clean. Just… room. Space inside his own skull he hadn’t seen in years. He could breathe in it. The world didn’t shatter. The floor didn’t tilt. Nothing in his blood screamed. It should’ve alarmed him. It didn’t.
It thrilled him. (It terrified him.)
He watched you move around the room, casually, like gravity lived in your pockets and followed your steps. Folding clothes, muttering at a stack of papers, brushing crumbs off your desk. Mundane choreography. No pity. No demand. No “Sam, focus.” No “Sam, breathe.” Just existing. Letting him exist too.
He sank further into the pillow, breath dipping into some low, sweet frequency he didn’t know he could hold. He felt syrupy, not slow from fear or restraint or sedation, but soft in a way that felt earned. Deserved?
(No. Don’t think that. Don’t get greedy.)
(But god it felt good.)
His fingers curled loosely on the blanket. He could feel his pulse in his wrists. Steady. Steady.
Oh.
Oh, he liked this.
His jaw loosened. The constant internal alarm, the one shrieking you are a problem / you are dangerous / you are failing every second you breathe, slipped to a low murmur. Then a whisper. Then nothing at all.
Silence.
True silence.
He nearly choked on it.
He’d forgotten peace could be audible.
He stared at you, pupils darkened, a little wild with the revelation. There was hunger behind it, not violent; starved. Like a stray realizing the hand offering food wasn’t pulling away.
His throat opened to speak and closed on the words. Words weren’t built for this. His world had language for violence, doubt, control, obedience. Not this warm, stupid softness spreading under his ribs like sunlight. He would’ve agreed to anything if it meant not losing this.
He’d chased numbness for so long — this was worse. Better. Dangerous. Alive.
If you stood up and walked away, he thought dimly, he’d follow.
. ✦⫘⫘⫘ˎˊ˗ ꒰ fluff, wherein your casual sleepovers with lucas take a turn when he asks you leading questions about potentially having a boyfriend.
. ✦⫘⫘⫘ˎˊ˗ ꒰ content: reader is tatum's younger brother
born 11 months after your older sister and a few years before your toddler siblings, you fully expected to fade into the middle child void. but your mother, sidney, seemed to allot special attention to her one and only son. she limited the people, places, and even movies you saw at an early age. the books that webpages you snuck a look at in the library told her forbidden story, so you tried to understand the way she is.
but it still drove you crazy sometimes. and if it wasn't for lucas, you might've ended up failing the socialization process altogether.
"i don't understand why we have to sleep out here." you grumbled, shifting uncomfortably against the foreign feel of the grass lawn beneath. only the thin floor of the camping tent separating you from earth and worms. "you have a bedroom. i have a bedroom. people invented bedrooms and walls for a reason."
lucas snickered at your words, poking the makeshift campfire with a stick. the kitchen lighter laid on the rock after he accepted the fact that he didn't know the first thing about kindling. "we're always in my bedroom, pretty boy. we need a change of scenery." he returned to your side.
you swallowed the lump brought by his words. lately, lucas has been calling you nicknames and sitting closer than he should be. you knew you shouldn't think about your childhood friend like that, but you were only human. and lucas was far from the lanky kid that made friends with you. "should we—uh—go back in?"
"yeah, your mom is probably watching us from a window." lucas laughed deeply, sending waves of vibrations to your chest. you looked at your parent's bedroom window, considering his joke, before closing the tent behind you.
it was a bit cramped with all the bag of chips and pillows you and lucas threw in earlier. your sleeping bags, although separate, were close together. the moonlight only slightly split through the open roof, while the fire continued to crackle outside. "can i ask you something?" lucas tilted his head to the side, his soft chestnut curls falling.
"it's probably two a.m, lucas." you groaned, already tucking your legs into your quilted sleeping bag with star patterns. but as you looked into the intensity of his blue eyes with flickers of blaze highlighting his glistening irises, you end up nodding.
"whats your ideal type?" lucas asked without preamble.
you choke over nothing for a second. "uh," you quickly scrambled through your head for something. but you came up with nothing when you noticed his bicep peek under his shirt. "s—someone who works out, i guess? why did you suddenly ask that?"
"nothing," lucas held himself up by his arm, lying down to your level. a playful smirk on his face. "i began working out with ben, you know. weights. pulleys. all that stuff."
"well that's not very movie nerd of you," you chuckled. "channeling your inner bateman? trying to impress someone? is it chloe?"
lucas rolled his eyes. "how many times do i have to tell you? chloe and i are just friends. i'm enamored by someone closer than you think." he scooted even closer, his knee brushing against your thighs.
your eyes drift down to the source of sparks going up your spine. it's probably unintentional, but your mind couldn't help but go there. "keep this up and i'm gonna start thinking you're into my sister." you laugh softly, trying to hide the tremor in your voice.
"come on, answer me seriously." lucas says. "what are you looking for in a guy? i know you want muscles and dick but what about their personality?"
you look up the slanted walls of the tent, as if the answers were written there. the vague image of a man forms in your head as you began. "i want someone who knows what they want. with undying curiosity about the world, like mine. i want someone who feels the world as... bad as i do. i want someone who could love harder than i ever could." shifting to the side, you see lucas' gaze has turned darker yet dreamier. "w—what about you?" you threw the question back before lucas could ask more.
"i want someone who looks at me like i'm the only man in the world." lucas said immediately without even thinking about it. "i want someone who looks at this place like its the greatest thing. i want someone i could pull close and just protect. someone who has me forever on my knees with their mere smile."
his hand reaches out to touch your face, making you lightheaded and lean into his touch before snapping back into reality. you tried to pull away, but lucas still kept holding your face. "don't walk away now."
"but— but my mom!" you hissed sharply, your chest already tightening at the prospect of having to tell her. she could barely handle you being friends with random people at school. what about a boyfriend?
"she doesn't need to know." lucas pulls you into his chest. you stop fighting him, melting into the furnace warmth of his defining body. his hands rubbed gentle circles on the small of your back. "i've liked you for so long now. i'm not gonna give up now. i'll tell her myself, if you want to tell her."
you shook your head. the overwhelming emotions led to a flood of tears. all the pain, the understanding, the freedom that isn't yours, and the little pieces of air you found in lucas' arms. "i'm sorry for crying. i—i'm not saying no."
"i know," lucas chuckles. "if you didn't like me back, you would be running away from the creepy kid."
after settling down, you finally found yourself drifting into the sleeps. the birds began chriping, but all you could melt into was lucas' arms wrapped around your waist. for once, the nights felt like the start of something good.
The hallway swayed a little as YN fumbled for her keys, head swirling from one too many shots she took on her girls night with Marie, Cate and Emma. The lock clicked, and she pushed the door open, warmth spilling from the dorm room.
Sam was on the couch, headphones around his neck, scrolling on his phone. “Hey,” she called, dropping her bag and shrugging off her coat.
He looked up and grinned. “Finally.”
She swung onto his lap, straddling him comfortably. “Missed you,” she murmured, leaning in close.
Sam smiled, caught between amusement and something warmer. “I think i missed you more.”
“Not possible” she whispered, tilting her head to brush her lips just near his ear, “Been thinking about you all night.”
He laughed quietly, a low, warm sound, his hands instinctively resting on her hips. “Really now? Thinking of what exactly?”
“This,” she said, grabbing his hand and placing it between her legs. Shifting forward to capture his plump lips in a heated kiss. Her tongue finding purchase in his warm mouth as their lips glided against each other.
YN’s soft moan getting muffled against Sam’s lips as his hand pushed her panties aside, gliding one finger through her glistening folds. Burying her hands into his soft curls as she deepened this kiss to muffle her noises. His finger moving up to rub soft circles on her sensitive pearl.
YN pulling away for oxygen as she breathed out, “Please,” looking up at him with a desperate look as his fingers slowed down.
“Please what, baby?” Sam teased, his eyes sparkling.
“I need you to fuck me, like right now,” she whined into his ear, her arms wrapping around his broad form burying her face into his warm neck.
“Clean my fingers for me first,” he responded, showing his fingers glistening from her slick.
YN putting on a show as she grabbed his hand, wrapping her tongue around the digits, taking it deep down her throat, letting out a small noise. Grinding down her hips into his obvious hard length, making him groan at the lewd sight.
“Fucking crazy little bitch,” he muttered, jolting up and throwing her over his shoulder as he carried her to his room. The brunette letting out giggles as she finally got her way.
The door clicked shut behind Sam as he threw the shorter girl on the bed. “Clothes off now,” he demanded, taking off his shirt and shrugging off his sweats.
YN’s eyes trained on his muscles and abs as she unzipped her boots. “Need your help to take off the dress,” she stumbled towards him, turning around and letting him unzip the tight fabric off her.
Turning around now only in her bra and panties, pushing him on the bed to sit down, her eyes burned holes into him as he slid his boxers off. “You look so good right now, I wanna taste you,” she giggled. Unclasping her bra, letting her tits bounce free before sliding off her panties, crawling towards Sam to sit in between his legs.
Wrapping a manicured hand around his throbbing length, leaning forward to place kisses on his neck, darting her tongue out as she sucked on his neck leaving small hickies. Sam’s eyes screwed shut in pleasure as she continued her kisses down his abs to his dick.
“Don’t be a tease, babe,” he spoke, his baby blues coercing her to continue what she started.
“But it’s fun,” she frowned before placing a long lick from the base of his cock to his tip, sucking on the tip as one hand jerked him off, the other fondling his balls. “Shit, so good just like that, baby,” he groaned, grabbing her hair into a ponytail, moving it out of her face.
YN forced more of his dick down her throat, letting out a gag as it hit the back of her throat, making her eyes roll. Sam’s groans encouraged her to go even faster. It was addicting the burn in her throat, his strong hands gripping her hair, the smell of his cologne.
YN let out a startled whine as Sam yanked her off his dick, gripping at the base. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum already. Wanna cum in your pussy?” he spoke, grabbing his girlfriend, pulling her up for a slow kiss, moving her to straddle him instead. “Let me repay the favour, hm?” he spoke between kisses on her cheeks. Her eyes widened before grabbing his jaw in her hand.
“No. I need you inside me right now,” she begged, eyebrows furrowing. YN looked like an art piece to Sam, her lips red and covered in spit as her eyes threatened to water. God, drinking was a magical thing his girlfriend always reduced to a needy state as soon as a single drop of liquor touched her lips.
Both of their eyes locked as she reached a hand down to line up his tip with her soaking wet cunt. Sinking down, feeling every inch of his huge dick stretching her tight hole, the burn stronger than usual due to her not allowing Sam to stretch her with his fingers first. “So fucking big,” she whined, head thrown back in ecstasy as she bounced on his dick, grinding her hips against him as hard as she could.
“Just like that, fuck yourself on my dick, pretty girl,” Sam praised her, one hand coming up to palm the soft flesh of her tit, leaning forward to catch a nipple between his lips. YN let out a chorus of moans and whimpers. The burn in her thighs growing unbearable as she tried her best to keep a fast pace. “Baby, I’m tired, take over please,” she spoke pitifully. His eyes glimmering with mischief as he responded, “Beg me then, angel,” brushing a strand of hair out of her face.
“Please fuck me, please, wanna cum so bad. Please, baby,” she begged, grabbing his face in her hands, placing persuasive kisses on his skin.
“Fine, only cause you asked so nicely,” he remarked, pulling out as she whimpered at the emptiness, before flipping her over on her back, switching to missionary. As he pushed himself inside of her again, YN’s back arched at the sudden intrusion, her fingers clutching the silk sheets under her. Sam’s hips thrust against her at a relentless pace, slamming his cock in her pussy, hitting the perfect spot again and again, making the girl see stars. His fingers rubbed calculated circles on her clit, multiplying the pleasure by 100.
“Slow down, fuckk,” she begged, already on the brink of orgasm.
Sam let out a mocking laugh. “Been begging for my dick all night and now my little whore can’t even take it.” The degrading words made YN moan even louder, her nails digging into his back, making Sam’s grin widen. “You like when I talk down to you, hm? Gonna tie you up and keep you here forever, my personal little fucktoy. Bet you’d like that.” YN, unable to respond, just let out a hmm in response, vision blurring as tears pooled at her lash line from how good she felt. Sam’s cruel words did nothing to help how turned on she already felt.
“Aww, poor lil baby crying over my dick,” he mocked, kissing away the stray tears.
“So mean,” YN whined, tits bouncing with every harsh thrust.
“Yeah, but you like it,” Sam shot back, leaning down to suck on one of her nipples, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. YN’s hand gripped his hair, pushing his face further into her boobs, suffocating him with the plump flesh as he continued his deep thrusts into her sore pussy.
“CUMMING! GONNA CUM!” she yelled, hands slipping off him as her back arched, creaming all over his cock. Sam’s fingers didn’t slow on her clit, his cock thrusting even harder into her. His eyes trained on her face, watching it contort into pleasure as she rode out her orgasm.
“Sam, please slow down, it’s too much,” she whimpered, overstimulated after her orgasm.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he spoke as he kissed her cheek, flipping her over, pushing her face into the mattress. YN arched her back, knowing the drill as Sam slipped back inside her, both letting out a moan. He felt impossibly deeper in this position. His dick drove into her with slow, deep thrusts, slapping her ass, watching the flesh ripple as she let out guttural moans.
“God, I love you, such a slut for me,” he groaned, spanking her soft flesh again, leaving angry red marks.
“Mm, only for you,” YN squeaked, her cum coating his dick, leaving a rim of white around the base. The sounds that filled the room were filthy, desperate moans combined with the wet smacks of his dick against her pussy.
Sam’s hand wrapped around her neck, pressing her flush against his body. Her head flung back onto his shoulder. “Fucking love your huge cock,” she whined, tongue lolling out as drool slipped past the corners of her lips. Sam’s hand tightened around her neck, the lack of airflow making her mind go numb with pleasure.
“Gonna fill up this pretty lil pussy, cum with me, baby,” he groaned as he released her back onto her front, grunting while shooting hot ropes of cum into her pussy, making her whine and triggering her own orgasm. Her walls contracted harshly around his sensitive dick, making him hiss. “Milking me dry, fuckk,” his head tossed back at the mind-blowing pleasure.
Sam pulled out and rolled over to lay next to his girlfriend. YN, still face down, was already half-asleep.
“You okay, baby? I didn’t go too hard, did I?” he gently asked, rubbing a hand over her back soothingly.
“Mm, no, it was good, really good,” she responded.
“Turn around, let me see your pretty face,” he spoke.
“Mm, tired, can’t move,” she retorted, face muffled in the pillows.
Sam chuckled as he manhandled her to lay on top of his chest, rubbing a hand through her hair as a catlike smile rested on her face with eyes closed. “You did so good for me,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head.
“You think you can wal—” he started before YN cut him off.
“No shower, I’m tired. Let me sleep, I have a very comfortable pillow right now,” she remarked, snuggling her head into his neck, inhaling his addictive scent. He shook his head as he carried her to the bathroom as she protested.
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