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.
. ✦⫘⫘⫘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.
after a long day of classes and keeping vought off your back, you come back to your dorm exhausted, too quiet for sam’s comfort, and he takes your silence harder than you mean him to.
cws ᝰ .ᐟ season one sam ,, established relationship ,, clingy sam ,, gender neutral reader (you/your) ,, mild hurt/comfort
You weren’t sure what part of the day finally broke you.
Maybe it was the TA’s “just checking in :)” smile that felt like an X‑ray. Maybe it was the way your professor said “some of us seem distracted lately” and looked too long in your direction. Maybe it was the four assignments blinking red on your portal like dying sirens.
Or the fact that you’d reached the point of asking yourself seriously, “If I disappeared for 48 hours, would anyone care enough to notice before Vought did?”
Whatever it was, by the time you slid your key into your dorm lock, you felt like your bones were made of chalk and someone had already erased half of you.
The hallway light flickered once and settled into a steady glow, like it had noticed your exhaustion and tried, halfheartedly, to be kind. You dropped your bag onto the floor and it hit with a hollow thud.
The day had been long and brittle, each hour stacked like bricks you weren’t strong enough to carry. Lectures that should have been straightforward had turned into marathons of focus and pretense. Your fingers ached from gripping pens too tightly. Your ears rang from the constant buzz of conversation, from the chairs scraping the floors, all the little noises that somehow formed a wall of pressure around your head.
Of course, since your mind had been occupied, frayed from deadlines and professors who spoke in riddles and students who acted like breathing loudly was a competitive sport, so occupied, in fact, that it slipped your mind entirely that you had a 5’11 supe boyfriend waiting for you in your dorm. The kind of thought that should never slip, but apparently exhaustion outranked survival instinct tonight.
Because the second your bag hit the floor, a dull, defeated thud, there was movement. A blur of socked feet and stolen cotton, white wool skidding on the hardwood as he slid into the common room like gravity was more of a suggestion for him than a rule.
Sam. In your hoodie. Hood up. And those stupid socks. Your socks. The ones with tiny embroidered stars on the sides.
He skidded to a stop right in front of you, like he’d practiced the entrance (he had. He absolutely had), chest rising with the adrenaline of hearing you come home. There was something endearingly feral about him, like he wasn’t sure whether to pounce, smile, or apologize for existing. Puppy energy, but if someone had raised the puppy in a government lab and fed it trauma for breakfast.
“Hi,” he blurted, voice soft like he was testing how loud he was allowed to be. Like volume itself was a privilege.
He stood too straight, too still, waiting for a cue. For your expression. For permission to be here, even though technically this was his safest place, and you were the one who had dragged him into the world and promised you’d help him hold it together.
You blinked at him slowly, the mental equivalent of buffering, body sinking back into the door. Bone-tired. Melted-candle tired. And here he was, shining, vibrating with eagerness because you had returned.
You managed a small breath that maybe resembled a greeting if someone squinted.
He took it as one. Of course he did. His shoulders loosened. His mouth tugged upward awkwardly. Only slightly, but for him, it was practically a grin.
Sam had spent his entire life learning that appearances meant survival, not yours, but his, and he was still relearning that here, in your tiny dorm room that smelled like homework and cheap laundry detergent, he didn’t need to perform.
But he still checked your face like he was afraid he’d misread the air. Like you might vanish if he assumed too much comfort. “You’re home,” he said, like narrating it would make it truer, safer.
And despite the ache in your skull, you nodded, because you were. Somehow. You made it. And he was here, bright-eyed and strangely gentle, waiting for you like you were the thing holding the universe together. “Yeah,” you breathed. “I’m home.”
His shoulders dropped another notch, relief loosening him, like those words anchored him to the ground, this ground, your ground, not the one Vought built for him. And then he rocked forward just a little on his heels and asked, hopeful:
“Hungry? I … found cereal.”
The box was on the counter behind him. Upside down. Half spilled. Of course.
It would’ve been so easy to be annoyed, you were exhausted, soul wrung out and hung to dry, but instead you stared at him, at the pathetic pile of Lucky Charms carnage and Sam standing there in your socks. And it almost hurt how earnest he looked, like he’d battled the cereal and the cereal had won, and he wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t going to come back for round two.
He really had been alone here all day.
Pacing. Investigating. Touching everything like the world needed cataloging from scratch. You’d probably find your hairbrush in the freezer or your textbooks rearranged. The thought tugged something warm and tired in your chest. Cute. Tragic. Puppy lost in a human world, tail still tucked sometimes.
You exhaled, resigned, a soft sigh that felt like it carried all the quizzes, fake smiles, and caffeine crashes of the day. Then you dropped to a crouch in the kitchen and started sweeping cereal into your palm, because adulthood was apparently…this.
Crumbs and survival.
Behind you, sock-sliding continued in soft scrapes. Of course he followed. He always followed, orbit forged by fear and want and habit, like if he left your side someone might lock him in a room again and forget the door existed.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, like the concept of cleaning might be classified information.
“Preventing ants.” you muttered.
“…you have ants?”
“No.”
“…did I bring ants?”
You glanced back at him, brows knit, hoodie sleeves swallowed to his fists, and there it was again: this blend of heartbreak and amusement so strong it bent your ribs.
“No, Sam,” you said softly. “You didn’t summon an army of ants with cereal.”
He nodded slowly like this was a genuine relief. Then, he let the thought cook in his head before deciding to take a crack at humor, mostly the desire to see you smile. “…I could, though. If I had to.”
You stared at him. He stared back. Neither of you blinked.
“Great,” you murmured, sweeping marshmallow dust into a napkin. “I’ll put ‘controls insects’ on your resume.”
His mouth twitched, that almost-smile he tried to hide because he still didn’t totally understand what expressions were allowed. But then he was just…there again. Hovering. Close enough you felt body heat press the air. Watching you clean his mess, before crouching down to meet your level.
“You’re tired.” he said simply. Not a question. A truth he could hear in your pulse, probably. Small frown forming like tiredness was something he could fight for you if he just found the right punch.
“I’m fine.” you lied.
He looked at you, unsure of what to do.
You finished sweeping the countertop, dumped crumbs, put the box upright, away, and when you stood, he rose too, perfectly synced, like he had been waiting for the cue. Always waiting for cues.
He hovered closer, voice unsure but trying: “I, um. Looked at your books today.”
“That’s fine.”
“And…your drawers.”
“Less fine.”
“And I found a— toy?— I don’t think it’s for training motor skills, but—”
“Sam.”
He blinked. Innocent. Terrifying. Endlessly literal.
“…I didn’t break it.”
“Thank you.”
Silence settled for a second, the soft kind, the kind that acknowledged how tired you were, how hard this was for both of you, how he was trying in his own way and you were trying too.
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have the energy to. You just pushed gently off the counter and moved toward the bathroom, legs heavy, brain humming with static instead of thoughts. Sam fell into step behind you immediately, too close and not close enough. His socks slid on the floor again when he tried to match your tired pace, and he caught himself on the doorframe like the world tilted unexpectedly beneath him.
You didn’t look at him, not because you didn’t want to, but because if you met his eyes right now, you might unravel, and you didn’t have the strength to hold anything right now, even yourself.
You flicked on the bathroom light. It felt too bright, like it cut the day open again when you were trying to stitch it closed. Sam hovered in the doorway, like a shadow trying to pretend it didn’t belong to you. He shifted his weight. Hands tucked into your hoodie sleeves, fingers curled in the fabric like he was holding on to something small and precious.
“Do I… stay out here?”
You didn’t answer immediately. You let the cool bathroom counter hold your palms for a breath. You weren’t angry. Not even close. You were simply just tired, and you wanted a nap.
“Yeah,” you answered. “Just—give me a minute.”
Sam nodded immediately. Like obedience meant safety. Like waiting outside the bathroom door was some kind of test he had to pass.
You turned the faucet on and splashed cold water across your face like you were trying to rinse the whole day off your skin. Your reflection stared back at you, eyes tired, posture slumped, that ache of being overstimulated and tired and emotionally out of bandwidth. And there he was. Sam in the doorway, leaning just enough into the frame that it didn’t count as entering, like a wild animal observing the border of a new territory.
He was quiet at first. Trying to be good. Trying to be small. Trying not to take up space in a world that had only ever crushed him when he did.
“I saw a squirrel today,” he tried, like this was the kind of thing humans reported as breaking news. “On the window ledge.”
You scrubbed at your face, tired. “Mhm.”
“I also watched a video you left open on your laptop about these two guys playing some weird . . . game.”
You pressed your towel against your eyes harder than necessary. “Mm-hmm.”
“I tried hot sauce. Your red one. The one with the skeleton on it. It —- ”
“Sam.”
It came out sharper than you meant.
His mouth snapped shut immediately. Shoulders drew in, hands slid back inside your sleeves like retreating animals. You exhaled. Long. Exhausted. Not him-angry, world-angry, life-angry, everything-heavy angry.
“I just… need quiet,” you said, softer now, because you saw the way his eyes flickered like you’d taken light away from him. “Just for a little.”
“Oh.”
Tiny.
Like you’d deflated him with a pin.
He stepped back one small, uncertain pace, still wanting nothing more than to sit where you could see him because visibility equaled safety. Then, out of instinct more than consciousness, he leaned his head slightly to peek in again,
And you shut the door.
Not a slam. Just a tired, heavy click. The kind that said: not now. The kind that wasn’t personal, but could still bruise someone who didn’t know the world well enough to sort harmless from hurt.
On the other side, his footsteps didn’t walk away. Just a little shift as he sat down right there on the floor, back to the wood, because leaving you felt wrong and waiting felt right. For a second it was silent. Then softly, almost shy, almost hopeful:
“. . how long is a little again?”
The steam had faded from your skin by the time you opened the bathroom door, hair damp, face soft from warmth and exhaustion. But Sam wasn’t there.
No big hoodie puddle on the floor. No anxious knees pulled to his chest. No vibrating presence waiting for you like a kid left alone in a grocery store aisle too long.
Just .. empty hallway.
The quiet that washed over you was thick, luxurious for one second, like your brain could finally unclench without his eyes on you, without the constant emotional monitoring you’d been doing all week. And then guilt crawled up your spine immediately after.
You stepped out scanning the space, dorm lights low, shadows pooled in corners. Sam was on the couch. Not lounging, not curled, not sprawled like he usually got when he tried to mimic what he thought “normal relaxing” looked like. He was sitting perfectly upright, stiff as stone, hoodie sleeves bunched in his fists. Eyes staring forward at nothing.
The air had changed, the nervous buzzing replaced by something brittle and tense. A crack of panic running under it like an electrical hum. You could almost hear the thoughts:
Did I do something wrong?
Did they get tired of me?
Am I too loud? Too much? Too broken?
Is the world supposed to feel this confusing? Is it okay that I still don’t get it? Are you going to leave because of that?
He didn’t look up when you crossed the room. Didn’t lean into you. Didn’t talk. You sank onto the couch beside him, muscles finally melting into the cushion. For a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe. Sam sat rigid, staring at the far wall, jaw tensed, throat tight, shoulders locked.
He wasn’t ignoring you. He was bracing.
One wrong word and you could feel how it would go, an emotional detonation, that wild edge in him rattling the bars of a cage that didn’t exist anymore.
You didn’t speak yet. You just sat there, exhausted, guilty, a little grateful for the quiet, and hating yourself for that tiny sliver of relief.
Minutes (or maybe seconds — time got slippery when your brain felt scraped out) ticked by. Sam didn’t move. He didn’t blink much either. Dissociation looked strange on someone who could snap steel with his fingers; it hollowed him out, made him small in a way power never protected against.
His eyes were unfocused, not dreamy, not spaced in a soft way, but gone, staring past the wall like he was slipping somewhere your hands couldn’t reach. He sat very still, like if he breathed too loud he’d be punished. Like he was waiting for… something. Permission, reprimand, abandonment. Hard to tell. Somehow that was worse than noise.
Your throat felt tight. Guilt always found the softest spot. “…Sam?” you tried, voice low, careful.
No reaction.
You shifted slightly toward him, knee brushing the cushion near his leg. His gaze didn’t flicker. Not once. He looked like a kid who’d wandered too far and suddenly remembered monsters existed. You cleared your throat. Tried to sound normal, casual, something that didn’t echo with I’m sorry I needed a minute to breathe away from you.
“Did you, uh…” You rubbed at your temple. God, your brain felt like wet laundry. “Did you like the hot sauce?”
A beat.
Two.
Very slowly, his eyes moved, just enough to prove he hadn’t turned to stone. He didn’t look at you. Just toward. “…It burned.” A tiny second passed before he added: “I thought it was supposed to be good.”
“It can burn and still be good,” you hummed.
His jaw flexed, confused and frustrated by the concept. “Feels like a stupid rule.” The words hung there, and then he shut down again, in an I am silently offended and stewing about it way.
Sam Riordan, world’s strongest pout.
He didn’t say anything, which somehow made his mood louder. It was the kind of silence that make you feel like someone was crossing their arms on the inside. A mutiny of one. He looked away from you, jaw working, expression pinched in that weird childlike-but-not way he got when emotions tripped him up.
He wasn’t angry at you.
He was angry at hot sauce, at rules, at space, at distance, at confusing social expectations, at having to learn new things every second of every day and still getting blindsided by stuff like spicy can be enjoyable, what the hell.
So he sat there, stiff, a supe built like a weapon wearing your hoodie and sulking like someone stole his crayons. Finally, you nudged him gently with your knee. “Are you pouting?” you asked softly.
“No.”
Immediate. Defensive. A single syllable dipped in wounded pride.
You raised a brow. “You kind of are.”
He glared, but only from the side, like full eye contact would be admitting defeat. Then he huffed, a tiny exhale through his nose that wanted to be dramatic but mostly sounded like a tired bunny being inconvenienced. His voice came out muttered, grudging: “…It is a stupid rule.”
You sighed, warmth sneaking into your exhaustion despite everything. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Some rules are.”
His pout remained on principle, but it softened, deflating like a balloon slowly leaking air. “You like rules like that?”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Stuff that… hurts. But you do it anyway. On purpose.”
You weren’t sure if he meant spice or school or life. Probably all of the above.
“I think sometimes you put up with uncomfortable things because they lead to good things.”
He frowned deeper. “Feels like a scam.”
You snorted weakly. “It kind of is.”
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even soften. His brow pulled in again, that small, fracturing crease you’d learned meant I don’t understand and I don’t know if it’s my fault.
He stared forward, not at you, at nothing. Like if he looked at you directly, he’d see confirmation of the fear gnawing under his ribs. He doesn’t know what to do with tired. He doesn’t know where to put himself when you’re quiet.
The emotional math on his face was painfully visible: tired + quiet + less attention = danger? rejection? punishment? abandonment?
He swallowed, throat tight, like he could choke on uncertainty. God, he really didn’t know where he belonged yet.
“Did I… do something bad?”
Barely a whisper. More breath than voice. It punched right through your chest. That stupid, soft, fragile place in him, the one that came out when he wasn’t being sarcastic or weird or trying too hard, the part that still thought any silence meant abandonment.
You slid a hand across the couch cushion toward him. “No,” you assured. “I’m just tired. School was… a lot today.”
He stared at your hand like it might bite him, or vanish if he touched it wrong. Then, hesitant, he scooted closer, like he didn’t trust the floor not to drop him if he moved too fast, and rested his knee against yours. He was still tense. Still wound up in that knot he lived inside. You could practically feel thoughts crowding behind his eyes, clawing for order.
So you did what worked for both of you: you exhaled, leaned back into the cushions, and tugged gently at his sleeve. A tired, silent come here, nothing fancy.
He folded in toward you like gravity figured you belonged together and was correcting a mistake. His head lowered until it hovered near your stomach, waiting for permission without asking. You nudged him the rest of the way. He eased down, cheek pressing to your thigh, curls brushing your top.
He didn’t just lie there, he gave in, in that way he only ever did with you. His forehead tucked a little deeper, nose brushing the seam of your clothes like he was burying himself in proof you were real. His arms slid around your waist from the side, not tight enough to trap you, but tight enough that it felt like if he let go, something terrible might unspool inside him.
You felt it, that desperate, quiet thank God that lived under his skin whenever he touched you. He pressed closer, torso angled toward you like his whole body was trying to crawl into the soft space you held for him. And there was this… weight to him, not physical, but emotional. Like he’d been holding every thought and feeling in a fist all day, knuckles white, and now he let it all collapse into you. Every worry, every question, every bit of restlessness poured out in the way his fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt. You breathed again, slower, deeper, because suddenly you could.
Because despite the exhaustion, the world got quieter with him right there, clinging like your presence was oxygen and he’d been holding his breath since noon. His breath warmed your stomach through your clothes. He shifted once, tiny and hesitant, just to get closer, cheek pressing firmer into your thigh, nose nudging you like he needed the reassurance of contact, more contact, just you. You shifted down the couch, guiding him with a gentle tug. He followed, obedient in that soft, unthinking way affection makes animals and boys alike. He climbed up, curling along your side like he’d done it a thousand times even though this life was new to him.
Pulling a throw blanket over you both, the fleece was the kind that somehow trapped the world outside. His weight settled against you, and for a moment, neither of you were the overwhelmed student or the confused superhuman. You were just two exhausted people who needed quiet, and found it in each other.
His hand, without thinking, slipped under your top just enough to rest against your waist, like he was afraid you might dissolve if he didn’t feel skin. “Warm,” he mumbled into your collarbone, voice already thick with sleep.
“Human body,” you muttered back. “Basic science.”
He hummed, unconvinced, curling closer like he didn’t trust biology but did trust you.
“…I’m still thinking about the hot sauce.”
Your eyes cracked open. “…Sam.”
“I think it burned a hole in my soul.”
“That’s called ‘spicy.’”
“No.”
You snorted, too tired to laugh properly, and drifted with him, tangled, warm, safe, and mildly concerned your boyfriend might start a war with Sriracha someday.
content warning: this is sam riordan fluff. regardless, i ask that my works remain 18+ regardless of present explicit content. mdni. i am not your mommy. you are responsible for your media consumption.
a/n: i NEED this man rn why is him so pretty
sam riordan and his supe!reader gf? kind of? whos power is sonokinesis & they find solace in the fact that they are the calm of each others storms.
sound is muted for you most of the time, the demonic thoughts of your own brain mixed with a thick layer of the shit vought has done to you or put you through becoming too much to bare just a few minutes after you open your eyeballs in the morning.
great at lip reading. scribbling your conversations with your friends. jordan has actually learned to sign with you. but the only person you've grown comfortable enough to talk around? sam.
at first your silence was taken as awkward instead of comfortable, sam was doing anything to fill the conversation in himself—thought you didn't like him.
but, how could you not? a pretty man who understood or could at least visualize what the inside of your brain was actually like.
he would always apologize for talking your ear off or trail off if he felt like he was getting too chatty.
"stop apologizing, sound is just a lot for me, y'know?" you'd sink down next to him and look at him.
just a nod from him is all you get.
and then you get lost in each others presence, becoming closer. sitting together in your off campus apartment all day every day, watching old cartoons together, joint being passed back and forth.
he leans his head over on your shoulder, his sweet eyes half lidded from the comfortability alone.
a tap on the shoulder & a gesture to restore volume before he speaks, "can you make mine go away? cate just makes me forget."
a small nod, "i'll try."
your hand is on his jaw and your eyes are laser focused trying to figure out how to get his head to quiet down.
sam is leaned into your touch so deeply you don't even have to dig too deep to find an answer. you hear a sigh of relief and his head stays leaned right up into the palm of your hand.
once he settles back into his seat, head planted firmly on your shoulder, you type on your phone, 't-a-k-e-space-a-space-n-a-p?' sam reads as your thumbs peck at the screen
he's in your bed faster than you can even stand up. you stand up and crawl in under the covers, letting sam make himself comfortable.
which for him is an arm over your hips and his head on your chest, hearing still on enough to hear your heartbeat.
he's lulled to sleep almost immediately after you start stroking his hair. you fall asleep soon after.
you wake up to a dark apartment, tv still on. you readjust your own hearing and let sam sleep.
poor baby just needed somewhere to rest that silly little head of his.
