#Leon and Toast | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

l0s3rd0wnt0wn · 3 months ago

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THE MIND OF A WEIRD BLACK GIRL

CHAPTER 1: "I'M JUST A GIRL!!!"

Platonic yandere!batfamily x Neglected weird black!reader

SYNOPSIS: You're not childish, are you?

CHAPTER 2

3:00 am. I should be dead asleep right now, completely unconscious, but tonight I couldn't help myself. I mean, who passes up an update on their favorite Tumblr fanfic? This fic has got me stuck at my desk for days on end. I keep telling myself that this is the last one and that I'm done, but then out of the blue, an ask pops up from the floodgates, and I'm back on my grind; no Kevin Gates. The blue rays of my computer screen glow against my dark skin. I can feel my eyes getting red and heavy. Another swig of Monster will keep me alive. One sip, and I feel my body tingle. That definitely wasn't good. I can hear my mom's words ringing in my head: "I saw a story on Facebook about a girl who drank so many energy drinks her heart stopped." She really needs to get off Facebook, and I really need to invest in some water. *Ping* OOOH, Leon Kennedy smut? Don't mind if I do! I laugh evilly to myself, clicking the fic with the pretty pink dividers.

*BEEP BEEP* "AHHH!!" I fall out of my gaming chair, my face hitting the cold floor. I rub my eyes that were under my glasses. I turn my head to see the screen of my alarm clock. FUCK! I'm late! I grab my school uniform and race to the bathroom. That's weird. I'm the first one here. It doesn't matter; take what you can and do what you need. I take a quick shower, put on deodorant and perfume, and stare at all my imperfections. My eye bags are getting bigger; that’s what happens when I watch 24 episodes of One Piece nonstop. Taking off my bonnet, I pray my hair cooperates with me now. I flat iron it until my arms go numb. I smell something burning. You know what? Just thug it out. Great, I look respectable. Grabbing my jacket, I run down the stairs. We really need an escalator.

Running into the dining room, I see everyone at the dinner table, no one in a hurry or rush. "Young master, would you like to join us?" The British accent of the old butler made me calm down, only for a millisecond. "Sorry, Al, but I'm late!" I grab a waffle off the table. "What in hell's name are you talking about?" the little devil speaks up. "Damian," his name makes my skin crawl. Ever since he got here, he's been on my back like white on rice. "None of your business, pipesqueak!" I glare at him. Still, my father's icy blue eyes shine on me like an interrogation light. I straighten myself. "Sorry to burst your bubble, [Name], but it's Saturday." I try to hold in an involuntary groan. Every time Tim speaks, it’s like he’s trying to correct me on something. I get it, you're smart; get a life. "I knew that," I huff, the fastest lie in history. "Then why were you running like a chicken that lost its head, and why are you all dressed for school?" Jason says sarcastically, sipping his coffee. His mug has a middle finger on the bottom; it seemed like it was pointing at me. Asshole.

"Well, I was just... whatever." Grabbing a piece of French toast, I go to sit down, but Steph's hand reaches out to cover the seat. "Sorry, [Name], this is Cass's spot." Oh, what is this, middle school? I walk to the other side of the dining table, but both Tim and Damian cover the seat. "This is for Dick." Oh, this is middle school. My blood is beginning to boil. "Great, I guess all the seats are taken. Thanks, team." I snatch a plate of pancakes off the table, walking up to my room. "Thank Allah! I can't stand it when she sits with us. She won't stop rambling about Power Rangers. She's so childish." I hear laughs coming from downstairs. Well, isn’t that just great? So much for a family breakfast. I eat in my bed. I’d rather doom scroll through Tumblr than talk to those losers—those really cool, strong, popular losers. I stare up at the Batman merch in my room. They’re all in order from Batman all the way down to Duke, the last member of the family. I used to find it weird having merch, shirts, and posters of them. I mean, they’re my "family." It’s just odd, you know? But I idolize them; even Damian—fighting crime, saving lives—all that crap. They're cool, but who knew cool people could be so cruel and mean? But let's be real; the family tree should've ended at Duke. I have no powers, no cool ninja training. I'm not smart or athletic. I sweat at the idea of running a mile. I get good grades, but I’m not Tim Drake-smart. I’m not even a Cass-level fighter. Hell, I don’t fight, period. The bottom line is, I’m "normal," as normal as a high school girl who likes video games, comics, anime, and cartoons can be. Other kids wouldn’t call you "normal," but in my family, I’m a saint compared to them.

But that's enough of that. I'm going downstairs to put my food away. Everyone’s gone, just Alfred in the kitchen cleaning up. "Hey, Al, where's everyone?" I say, putting my dish in the sink, then picking up a sponge, ready to help the old man out. "Oh, family outing." Family outing? "To where?" "To see a play, I believe, or a show. Maybe I saw tickets?" A show? "Don't you think it's too early for that stuff?" I reply, my hands getting wet with soap foam. "It's a long play; they had to get there early." Oh really, huh? "Was there a ticket for me?" "I'm afraid not." Oh, just great. Dad can buy tickets for his clan of kids, but not for his singular daughter? Fucking fantastic. My hands stop scrubbing the plate. "Oh cool." I didn't want to sound disappointed, but let's be real—I was. They always do things without me, and whenever I'm invited to things, it's out of pity—like a little kid your mom forces you to play with because she met the other mom, and now you guys have to be friends and hang out by pure association, even if you don't want to. I can see it whenever they're around—going to the theater with Steph, Cass, and Babs to watch some superhero movie, I shout out facts like crazy: "You know Spider-Man isn't allowed to drink any alcohol!" during the Into the Spider-Verse movie premiere. I could feel them rolling their eyes at me. Fake fans. Next time, they didn't invite me at all. Maybe I talk too much, or I’m too childish. I tried to invite Tim to play a fighting game with me. "The MHA fighting game? What are you, twelve? You're so childish, [Name]." He's acting like MHA is a bad anime. I went to their library with Jason once and picked up Percy Jackson. "Look, Jay, they have the whole series!" I looked down and saw him holding The Giver. Oh well, these are completely different books. "Can you try not to read something so childish? Grow up, [Name]." Oh yeah, only middle schoolers read Percy Jackson—it's not like he's a staple of my childhood or that I grew up with Vivra character designs of him, not at all. But it seems like a recurring theme: "You're childish, so, [Name]." "Grow up, [Name]." Maybe that's why I wasn’t invited. I'm immature and childish. Hell, even Damian’s more mature than me, and he's like 14. But I'm not childish; I'm just passionate and energetic, and I like things. I like a lot of things. Is it wrong to enjoy stuff to the fullest? I could never be nonchalant. If I can't show how I feel, then who am I?

"Young master?" "Sorry, Al, just deep in thought." I sighed. He patted my back gently. "You could spend time with me." "You don't mind?" "Not at all." At least there's someone who loves my passion. "You don't mind?" He shakes his head gently, so I spend Saturday with Alfred. It was mostly cleaning and listening to R&B. I never knew he liked Janet Jackson, but who doesn't like Janet Jackson? She's Janet Jackson! We were lip-syncing to Ginuwine: "So Anxious!" The house was clean; time to watch trashy TV—Dance Moms. It's our main show. "No! Why are they dancing like that? Horrible choreography!" I laugh. "You couldn't do better!"

"I have to run some errands; would you like to come?"

"Nah, I'll chill here, thanks, Al."

He pulled me into a strong hug despite his frame and then pulled me off the couch. "Get me something pretty, please!" I screamed out.

"Yes, young master!"

I giggled. If it doesn't burn my stomach in seconds, I don't want it. Flipping through the TV channels like crazy until I hit the news, I saw them all together without me in fancy clothes and coats, smiling at the camera. This was more than a play or a show; this was some kind of event, and they didn't think to bring me or tell me. They didn't think of doing anything to inform me, and the way they were smiling and talking, it was like they planned this all week, all month even. And no one even told me—they didn't invite me; they left me here.

"Dick, where's your little sister tonight?" said a reporter.

"Which one?!" Duke chimed in with a big smile.

"No, I mean [Name]," the reporter said, putting the microphone in his face.

"You know how she is. [Name] is just too childish sometimes."

Dick ran a hand through his hair, laughing. His blue eyes gleamed at the camera. Childish?

"Yeah, she can't go to events like this; she'd lose it," Steph barked out, making Tim chuckle.

"Yes, she's a handful; she wouldn't know how to act around these cameras."

Really, Dad, really? They're all laughing and making fun of me. The same words come up: "Childish," "Grow up," "Handful." I'm not that bad, am I? The final nail in the coffin: "She's so immature." From Damian? Immature? I'm not immature; I like comic books and collect figures and plushies and trading cards. I make cosplays and write fanfiction. That doesn't make me childish; I'm just passionate, that's all. I have passion. I care for the things I like, so what if they were made for little kids and boys to play on the playground? It doesn't mean I can't like it, doesn't mean I can't enjoy it, doesn't mean I can't handle a few cameras or a few mics.

Hot tears run down my face. "I-I I'm not childish! I can handle it! I can be a Wayne! I can grow up! I can!" Who am I trying to convince—me or the damn TV screen? I feel my body shaking. I rip the plug of the TV out of the wall, throwing it to the ground. I run upstairs to my room, seeing the Batman and Robin merch staring at me. "Childish? I'll show you childish!" I wipe the figures off my shelf; they hit the floor, smashing apart. The heads fell off and the wings of Red Robin's suit broke. I smashed the Lego Batmobile piece, scattering it everywhere. I ripped the posters off my wall. "Who's the handful now, huh, Bruce?" I stomped on the poster and snatched a Batman plushie off my nightstand. I took a mechanical pencil and stabbed it; the stuffing pooled out like blood. "I'm not a handful!" I threw it against the wall near Damian's action figures and Dick's.

"I'm not a handful!" I yelled as loud as I possibly could, my voice breaking. I flopped down onto the floor, my legs shaking. I could hardly breathe, staring at the mess all around me. I sniffled and wiped my face gently. I picked up the Batman plushie and pulled it close to my chest. "Sorry, Daddy."

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lalo0 · 23 days ago

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UNDER THE SPOTLIGHT CH. 1 ┃ Damsel in distress

Sana x male reader (smut)

word count: 12k

The thing about these events is that no one actually wants to be here.

Not me, not them, not even the poor souls pretending to be fans screaming from behind the barriers. It’s just part of the deal: put on a suit, smile, act like you’re honored to attend another rigged award show where the winners are decided weeks before anyone even pretends to vote.

I flash a practiced grin at the cameras. Just enough teeth to seem charming, not enough to seem desperate. They eat it up. They always do.

Inside, it’s colder than necessary, not for comfort, but to make sure no one starts sweating through their designer suits before the main event. I recognize the usual layout: round tables close together, champagne that’s all label and no taste, plastic smiles stretched across faces polished within an inch of human.

I find my table. Karina’s already there, glued to her phone like she’s solving world hunger. My manager, Karina Yoo. Full-time job: Making sure I don’t publicly crash and burn.

“You’re late,” she says, not even looking up.

“I’m fashionable,” I correct, sliding into the seat beside her. “Try to keep up.”

She hums under her breath, something between disapproval and exhaustion, and taps at her screen a few more times before glancing at me. “You’re third. Stick to the script and smile.”

“I always smile.” I flash my teeth at her. “You think I’m out here winging it?”

Karina just gives me that look. The one that says she doesn’t get paid enough to argue. I lean back in my chair, scanning the room. Same faces, slightly different brands of fake.

And then there’s Sana.

Of course.

If South Korea had a national treasure, it would look awfully much like her. She’s draped in a dress that cost more than some idols’ entire discography budgets, shimmering under the lights with an ease that looks accidental and isn’t. Perfect smile, perfect hair, legs crossed in a way that suggests she doesn’t have to try, she just exists. She’s laughing at something, head tilted, hand brushing through her hair like it’s all just a natural accident. I know better.

And because the universe is nothing if not predictable, a few tables down sits Kang Jihoon.

Perfect skin, perfect smile, perfect product of fifteen million dollars in marketing campaigns and enough plastic surgery to qualify as a construction site. The kind of rival whose existence is an insult. Our eyes meet. He nods, that tight little smile that says, Congratulations on your award. Hope you trip and break your teeth on the way to the stage.

I smile back, all teeth.

Karina nudges me under the table. “Don’t start anything.”

“I never start anything,” I say, sipping from a champagne flute that tastes like someone bottled hand soap and chilled it.

Jihoon’s laughing too hard at something one of the producers said. Probably another joke at my expense. He’s not subtle.

The lights dim and the host starts his opening bit. I tune it out. Same script as last year, just different names plugged in. When they call my name, it’s with all the fanfare you’d expect for someone already halfway to an EGOT.

“Leon — Male Solo Artist of the Year.”

I stand, smoothing the front of my jacket with a deliberate, oh, this old thing? kind of air, and make my way up to the stage. Flashbulbs pop like fireworks, but I pretend not to notice. The trophy’s lighter than it looks. Cheap, like the ceremony. I step up to the mic and smile, not too big, not too smug, just the right angle to keep the fan edits flattering.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll keep this brief. Thank you to my fans, my team, and to everyone who made this possible.”

I bow. They applaud. Pavlov would be proud.

On the way back to my seat, I catch Sana looking. She raises her glass in a slow, deliberate toast. The corner of her mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. I raise mine back, then hold her gaze for a few more seconds.

—

By the time I make it into the afterparty, an overpriced lounge in Gangnam with too much glass and too little oxygen, half the eyes are already on me. A few heads tilt together, a few girls whisper behind raised hands. All that wasted effort, as if I can’t already feel it in the way the air sharpens around me.

Sana's also here. Of course she is.

I spot her immediately, curled into a corner booth like she’s the headliner that doesn’t to be introduced. There’s a drink in her hand, something clear, expensive-looking. She’s laughing at something one of her friends said, one of those bright, polished laughs that sounds so effortless you almost forget how practiced it probably is.

Sana’s good at playing innocent. Better at making sure you know she isn’t.

She’s exactly the kind of person you learn to spot early in this business. The kind who doesn't just walk into a room, but recalibrates it around herself. A professional manipulator, disguised as a professional sweetheart.

I don’t blame her, I respect it.

Still, I don’t head toward her right away. That’d be too obvious. Too eager.

Instead, I weave my way past a few clusters of people, industry kids mostly, managers, producers, B-list actors desperate to be mistaken for A-list. The kind who try too hard to look like they belong here. I smile at a few of them, nod once or twice, let them think I’m being polite. The truth is, I don’t remember half their names. the other half aren’t worth remembering.

It doesn’t take long for Karina to catch up to me. She’s dressed for business even when she’s pretending not to be, black blazer, sharp lines, sensible heels. She looks more like she’s here to close a deal than babysit a soloist with too much media training and not enough patience.

“You’re late,” she says under her breath, flashing a smile that’s for everyone else’s benefit.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, offering mine right back. “I wasn’t sure if I should come.”

Karina sighs, just audible enough for me to hear it.

“This isn’t optional,” she reminds me. “Show face, shake hands, act grateful. You know the drill.”

“Relax. I’ve been doing this for longer than I can remember.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She’s right, technically. I’ve been in this business long enough to know exactly what tonight is: a networking event dressed up as a party. A chance for people with too much money and too little shame to decide who gets to be famous next. It’s not about talent, it’s never about talent. It’s about leverage, perception, the right smiles, at the right moments, aimed at the right people.

Speaking of which, Sana’s eyes catch mine from across the room. It’s not obvious, just a flicker, a slight tilt of her head, but it’s enough. I don't smile right away. I make her wait for it, let her wonder if I’ll bother. Then, slow, deliberate, I offer the faintest nod, barely a movement. But she sees it. And more importantly, she understands it.

I let Karina wander off to do whatever it is managers do at these things, probably networking, maybe praying. It doesn’t matter, she’s not the one I’m here for.

I grab a drink from a passing waiter without asking what it is. It could be champagne or window cleaner for all I care. It’s not about the drink. It’s about having something in my hand, looking just casual enough to pretend I’m not watching her.

But of course I am.

Sana doesn’t make me wait long. She slides off the leather booth with a grace so natural it has to be practiced, leaving behind two of her group members who immediately start whispering the second her heels click away.

I don’t move. I don’t smile. I just let her come to me.

Up close, she smells expensive. Something sweet and sharp, something no stylist could’ve picked. It’s the kind of thing that clings to your clothes if you let her too close, the kind you’d notice hours after she’s already gone.

"Leon," she says, all polite sweetness, tilting her head like she’s genuinely surprised to see me. As if this wasn’t planned. "Didn’t think I’d run into you here."

"Sana," I reply, letting her name sit on my tongue a second too long. "Small world."

She laughs, soft and airy, a sound designed to make people lean in closer. I don’t. I stand my ground, sipping whatever poison’s in my glass.

"You look good," she says, and it feels like a test.

"You look expensive," I answer, because she does. Every inch of her, hair, skin, makeup, is curated to perfection, not a single thing out of place. It's the kind of polish you can’t fake. It costs money, time and blood.

Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. "Same old Leon," she says. "Still charming as ever."

"Still lying through your teeth," I shoot back, and this time she does smile. A real one, sharp at the edges, not the kind she gives the cameras.

"You’re not gonna be nice to me? I thought you had an image to maintain."

"I’m off the clock," I say. "Besides, you don’t want nice. You want me."

She laughs again, softer this time. She’s enjoying this. Of course she is. Girls like Sana don’t chase boys, they chase puzzles, and I’m not about to make it easy for her.

She shifts her weight, leaning in just a fraction. "So what’s it gonna be tonight?" she asks. "Leon the idol or Leon the asshole?"

I shrug, taking another sip. The drink’s starting to taste less like paint thinner now. “Whatever gets you wetter.”

Her eyes flick in surprise, blink-and-miss-it sharp. Like she’s checking how deep the water is before she dives. She taps her glass against mine. Little clink. Too sweet to trust. “Surprise me.”

I let a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. “Careful,” I tell her. “I might.”

Sana takes another slow sip from her drink, eyes never leaving mine. “You know, I forgot how much I hated you.”

I grin into my glass. “Come on, we both know you’re obsessed with me.”

“Obsessed is a strong word,” she says, but there’s that curl of her mouth again, like she’s chewing on something she’s not ready to spit out yet.

“You’re the one who came over,” I remind her.

“Pity,” she says, tossing it out like it was obvious. “You looked lonely.”

“You’re confusing lonely with selective.”

She hums under her breath, amused, like she’s seen this movie before. “Selective, huh. Funny way to describe standing alone with your drink going flat.”

“Funny way to describe stalking me.”

“You wish,” she shoots back, but her hand grazes mine when she reaches for her glass, and she doesn’t move it right away. The corner of her lip glistens when she speaks again, too casual to be innocent. “Anyway. I figured someone should save you from dying of boredom.”

I laugh, not bothering to hide how dry it sounds. “If I was dying of boredom, talking to you would only speed things up.”

Sana leans in a touch, just enough to really make sure I smell her perfume. “That’s rich coming from you, Leon. Aren’t you supposed to be the life of the party?”

“Off duty.” I swirl the drink in my hand, let the ice clink against the glass. “Besides, you don’t want the real me. You want the version you can brag about to your friends.”

She looks at me then, really looks, head tilted like she’s deciding whether to really say it. “Maybe I want both.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

The way her mouth curls tells me she doesn’t care. Or worse, she does. “Try me,” she says.

I toss the rest of my drink back, the burn sharp down my throat, and I feel it catch, slow and deliberate, when she leans closer and drops her voice to a murmur. “Come on. Be interesting.”

I don’t answer right away. I let it hang there, just a second longer than is polite, and smile like I’m thinking about it, like it’s some big favor. “Maybe later,” I say, setting the empty glass down on the bar. “When you’re drunk enough to forget.”

Her fingers trail the rim of her glass, slow, absentminded. “And what if I don’t want to forget?”

I shrug. “Not my problem.”

Sana laughs under her breath, low and dry, then tosses her drink back too, straight-faced, like it’s water. Her hand brushes mine again, deliberate this time, knuckles grazing. And maybe it’s the burn of the liquor or the glint in her eye, but for a second, it feels easy to forget the part where I’m supposed to be working.

I check my phone instead. Flash a smile she doesn’t buy.

“Midnight already?” I say, slipping it back into my pocket. “Guess I’m getting old.”

Sana just watches me, eyes a little too knowing. “Leaving already?”

“Big day tomorrow,” I lie.

“Shame.” She taps her glass against mine, gentle little clink, like she’s toasting something only she knows about. “I was starting to have fun.”

“Yeah,” I say, pushing off the bar. “You should get out of here too. Never know what kind of creeps hang around these places after dark.”

—

Her laugh follows me as I walk off.

The sidewalk’s quieter than it should be. I don’t rush. The trick is never looking like you have somewhere to be. I hear the door swing behind me. Heels again, faster this time.

“You forgot your manners,” she calls out.

I don’t turn. Just slow down a little. “I said goodbye.”

“You said ‘you should get out of here too,’” she says, catching up. “That’s not the same thing.”

I glance over. She’s got her arms folded, jacket barely draped over her shoulders, heels digging into the concrete like she’s got something to prove. I sigh and keep walking, but she matches my pace like it’s a challenge. We’re two blocks out when the tension hits me. Background noise shifts, too quiet on one side, too fast on the other. I look ahead. There’s a guy leaning against a wall, hood up, trying too hard to look casual.

Sana notices.

“Leon?” Sana’s voice rises.

I don’t answer, just stare at the guy. He tilts his head. No mask, no warning, just lunges a punch that grazes my jaw. Instinct sharpens everything. I shift under his arm, grab his wrist, then slam him into the wall. Hard enough to echo, but not enough to stop him. He surges forward, elbow into my ribs. Winded. Pain flowers across my side.

He then pounces forward and tries to grab Sana “Move!” I bark to her, stepping between her and him. He’s circling me now. All of a sudden, three more guys show up, their hands grabbing at my arms. I snap a swift elbow back, crack against one’s jaw. He stumbles. Two of them close in, fists clenched, going for my throat. I swallow past the soreness in my chest. Drop low, grab one by the shirt, whip him into the other two. A crash of limbs and grunts, bodies sliding on asphalt. I’m not winning this with finesse. Not tonight. I land a knee, hear a crack, and then I’m up, fists short and sharp.

But there’s another. He strikes from behind. My vision blurs, and for a second the world goes gray.

“Leon!” Sana screams. I hear her, but can’t answer. I duck another punch, blood spitting where I snap back with an uppercut. I taste metal—blood—fuck I hate that taste.

I catch a glint—a knife now. He’s reaching. I lurch, scoop my jacket off my shoulders and wrap it around my arm. He swings. The cold blade bites the leather, nothing more. I sidestep, stomp my boot into his foot and grind it there. He hisses and drops the blade, but not fast enough. I grab him, twist hard, and drop him against the pavement.

And then—silence, broken only by distant screams.

Sana is behind me, frozen. I spin around, chest heaving and hands bloody. She stares—eyes blown wide, the color drained out of her face. “Oh… my god.” She sways forward, collapses against my ribs. Knuckles white on my arm. I hold her, feel her tremor through my side.

A siren wails, closer now. The city knows, they saw. I wipe my hands on the pavement without thinking. “You okay?" I ask, voice rough. Too rough.

Sana’s grip tightens like she’s grabbing onto a lifeline. My jaw throbs, ribs ache. I’m shaking—partly from the adrenaline, partly from how her body sags against mine. I press a hand to her back, steady. Witnesses come closer, murmurs rising.

And the next moment, I realize, every eye in the street is watching us.

Phones up. Lights flashing. Murmurs thick in the air. Half of them didn’t see the fight, just caught the aftermath—blood, scared girl, bodies on the concrete like someone forgot how gravity works. And me, standing over it, like we were filming a movie.

Sana hasn’t moved, still curled in on herself like her skin’s not fitting right, arms locked around herself. Her heels are uneven on the sidewalk, and it’s not because they’re cheap, but because one of them seems be cracked. Security splits the crowd. One of them goes straight for one the guys on the ground, checks if he’s breathing. He is. Unfortunately. Another glances at me, hesitation loaded in his posture. His eyes do the math—celebrities, blood, cameras, and he decides not to ask questions.

“Is she hurt?” someone barks behind me. Not police.

I don’t answer.

She still hasn’t looked at me. Not really. But she’s closer now. Just slightly. Her shoulder brushes mine when another guy tries to come up and someone yells at him to back off. Flashing lights again, blue and red this time, police. They show up just in time to make it look like they were involved. Reporters circle like flies. A few of them already have the headline drafted. Top Artist Defends Fellow Star from Late-Night Assault. Or maybe something dumber. Hero or Hype? Leon’s Street Fight Goes Viral.

I hear my name in a dozen voices, some shocked, some excited. No one’s checking if I’m okay though. No one cares, and I don’t blame them, not when Sana’s here, shaking so subtly it barely shows unless you’re looking.

I am looking.

One officer steps in, clipboard out, tone all business. “What happened here?”

I tilt my head toward the guys on the ground. “They did.”

He gives me a look that tells me it’s not enough, that he wants more. But I’m already giving the cameras a different angle, just enough profile to look sharp, not smug. Another officer crouches beside Sana, softer voice. She doesn’t answer him either. I shift closer, just enough that the gesture reads on camera. Protection, familiarity, maybe something more. She finally moves closer, her shoulder brushes mine again, this time staying there. And that’s all they need. Flash, flash. I hear someone mutter my name like it’s holy, and for a second, everybody was focused on me.

—

The cameras follow us all the way to a barricade the police made in order to secure the scene. Some idiot shoves a mic past the line and it almost clips Sana in the face. I block it with my hand and shoot them a look. They already got what they came for. Girl clinging to my side, blood on my shirt, four bodies on the ground. It’ll go viral before I even make it home.

A cop waves us through like he knows who we are, maybe he does, maybe he just saw enough to not want to slow us down. I nod once and keep Sana close. She’s quiet now, not still terrified quiet, more like all the words got sucked out of her lungs and haven’t come back yet. Her heel catches on a curb and I catch her before she falls. She doesn’t even look up, just mutters something that might be thanks. They pull us aside behind one of the cars and another cop shows up with a pad, asking questions. I give the short version, four guys, I didn’t like the way one of them looked at us, they swung first. He scribbles without looking up, nodding like it checks out. The bodies get loaded into an ambulance.

Sana hasn’t moved from my side, she hasn’t let go either. Her hand’s curled around my jacket like it’s the only thing she can use to balance herself in a world that just shifted under her heels. The officer glances at her. “Miss, did you see what happened?”

She doesn’t answer. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out, just this low sound like she forgot how to breathe right. He tries again, gentler, still nothing. I watch her face, it’s not blank, it’s too much, everything still happening inside. You can see it behind her eyes, the split-second replay on loop.

“We’ll talk later,” I say. The cop shrugs, maybe he knows better than to push.

Reporters are getting closer and someone’s yelling my name again. A girl tries to push through the line, phone in hand, red light blinking. I turn slightly and block Sana from the angle. She doesn’t notice, or maybe she does and doesn’t care, hard to tell. A few more suits show up, one of them’s definitely management. Not mine. He spots us and jogs over like he’s actually worried. His face does that thing where he tries to look concerned and not furious. Fails.

“Sana. Are you okay?”

She blinks. Doesn’t answer. He tries again, crouches a little to meet her eye. “Can you walk? We have a car waiting.”

Still nothing.

He glances at me. Then at her hand still on my jacket. His jaw tightens. “Leon, thank you for stepping in. We’ll handle it from here.”

Sana flinches. Just barely, but it’s there, and it’s enough. I don’t move.

“She’ll tell me when she wants me to go,” I say. My tone doesn’t change, it doesn’t have to.

The guy hesitates, then backs off. Probably running through all the possible headlines in his head.

Another officer approaches. He looks at me, then at Sana, then at the blood drying on my knuckles. “We’ll need you both to come down to the station tomorrow. Just statements. Routine.”

I nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

He gives a tight smile and leaves, but we’re still not alone. Phones up, flashes still going off behind the line, one guy’s livestreaming. I can hear him narrating. “...she’s not saying anything, but she looks freaked. That’s Sana, right? Holy shit...”

—

I guide her away from the light, the noise. She follows, doesn’t speak, doesn’t stumble either, just walks like the world’s too bright and her body doesn’t know where to hide.

When we hit the corner, out of view, she stops, finally her hand loosens from my jacket. She leans against the wall like her legs gave out, but she’s pretending it’s a choice. I stay close, don’t say anything.

She doesn’t look at me, but she finally speaks up. “Can you...” Her throat works around the words. “Can you stay? Just for a bit?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

She exhales like she’s been holding it in the whole time. Doesn’t say thanks, but she doesn’t need to. I slide down the wall next to her, feeling the cold concrete under me. Sirens still in the distance, phones still out somewhere nearby. Sana stays silent again for a while. She’s staring ahead, breathing a little too shallow, like she’s trying not to fall apart on camera even though there’s none left. I let the silence hang, she’ll talk when she’s ready.

Her voice cracks first. “That was… insane.”

“Yeah.” I wipe my lip again, still bleeding, or maybe I just keep reopening it. “Not quite the night I had in mind.”

She finally looks over, eyes a little less wide now, less glassy. “You’re bleeding.”

“No shit.”

She almost smiles, but it dies before it fully gets there. “You could’ve gotten killed.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

That earns me a small chuckle, but air catches in her throat like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to find anything funny yet. Then she looks down at her hands like they’re not attached to her, nails dug into her palms so tight I’m surprised she’s not bleeding too.

“I really thought I was gonna—” She cuts herself off. Swallows. “You know.”

I don’t reply to that one. No need. She knows. I know.

The sirens have mostly stopped, just distant flashes now, the crowd moved on to whatever version of the story their friends will find the most interesting. Someone’s already writing their thread, I can feel it.

She wipes under her eyes, quick, like she doesn’t want me to see it, still shaking, just less. Her voice drops again. “You were... really fast back there.”

I shrug. “Adrenaline’s a hell of a drug.”

She stares at me for a second, then she leans her head back against the wall, finally letting herself breathe. “I mean it. You saved my life.”

I glance over. “Don’t make it weird.”

That gets a real laugh out of her. She closes her eyes for a second, just sitting there, like her body’s finally caught up to the fact that she’s safe.

When she opens them again, her voice is lighter, not fully back to normal, but getting there. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?”

“Old news.”

She turns her head, rests it against the wall so she’s looking at me sideways. “Still, thanks. Most people would’ve run.”

“Yeah.” I glance at her. “But then I wouldn’t get all the attention.”

She huffs out something and snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”

I flash a smile. “I try.”

The cold air bites a little more now that the adrenaline’s burning out, my ribs are gonna be a problem in the morning. She watches me shift against the wall, her eyes narrow for a second like she’s inspecting something.

“You're in more pain than you're showing.”

“No cameras here,” I say. “I can afford to wince.”

Her expression softens. “Still, you should rest.”

I stay quiet for a while. “What,” I mutter. “You gonna take me home and patch me up? Make me soup or something?”

She doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

I stare at her. Waiting for a punchline, a smirk, anything that would tell me she’s joking. There’s nothing.

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

I stare at her. “You just got jumped by four guys and your first instinct is to invite me over?”

“You’re the one who saved me.”

I exhale through my nose, leaning back against the wall. “You always make decisions this fast or is this just a post-trauma thing?”

She sits up and shifts her weight onto her good heel, the other one’s still cracked from earlier, tilted at a weird angle like it's given up completely. “I don’t really want to be alone right now. That a crime?”

I glance down at her hands, she’s clutching the hem of her jacket, there are little tremors in her fingers she probably thinks I don’t notice. I sigh, finally standing, my ribs immediately reminding me why sitting had been the better option. “Alright. Lead the way.”

—

The streets are quieter now, not empty but less people. Most of the crowd’s dissipated, police are still wrapping up, reporters shoving mics in the faces of whoever looks available. My name’s still getting thrown around in hushed conversations like I just cured cancer or shot someone live on air. Phones keep popping up every few feet we walk, people think they’re being subtle. They’re not.

Her apartment’s not far. A tall building that screams money yet tries to pretend it doesn’t. The kind of place where the lobby smells like fresh flowers even though nobody ever sees them change. The doorman barely raises an eyebrow when he spots us, just nods, like seeing a half-beat-up guy with a girl clinging to him is the most normal thing he’ll witness all week.

Elevator’s empty, thankfully. The second the doors close, she exhales, like she can finally breathe again. I lean against the mirrored wall, watching the numbers climb, and we finally get off the elevator and into her apartment.

“You sure about this?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

She glances over at me, hair falling across her face as she tilts her head. “You’re bleeding on my floor, feels a little late to kick you out now.”

I huff a quiet laugh, more air than sound. “Fair point.”

Her apartment’s exactly what you’d expect from someone like her, minimalist, expensive, but somehow not lived in. Everything’s perfect, neutral colors, oversized windows, some abstract painting on the wall that probably cost more than my last three endorsement checks combined. It’s the kind of place that looks ready for a photoshoot, but not for people.

“Sit,” she says, pointing toward the couch like she’s scolding a dog. “You’re ruining my carpet.”

I drop down onto the edge of the massive sectional, ribs protesting the movement. She disappears into one of the rooms and returns a minute later with a sleek little white box that she tosses onto the coffee table.

A first aid kit.

“Don’t expect a miracle,” she mutters, popping it open and pulling out some antiseptic wipes. “I’m not a nurse.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She drops to her knees in front of me, carefully inspecting my face like she’s about to grade an art project. “Jesus, Leon.”

“I know. Gorgeous, aren’t I?”

She doesn’t take the bait, just starts cleaning the cut on my lip. The antiseptic burns worse than the punch. I grit my teeth.

“Don’t be a baby,” she says softly, dabbing around the edges. She’s close enough now that I catch the scent of her perfume again. Her fingers are steadier than I expected, but I can feel how tight her shoulders are, still tense from earlier, still running on whatever leftover adrenaline she’s got.

“You’re quiet,” I say after a bit.

She presses her lips together, focused on my knuckles now. “Trying to concentrate.”

“Didn’t realize dabbing a wipe took this much concentration.”

Her eyes flick up. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not really.”

She huffs something close to a laugh. “Unbelievable.”

She keeps working in silence for a bit. The scrape across my cheekbone, the split at my eyebrow, the raw skin on my knuckles, every time her fingers brush my skin, she slows down like she’s checking if she’s hurting me.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she says finally, barely above a whisper.

“What, punched them? I thought it was pretty effective.”

“You know what I mean.”

I glance at her, but she’s still focused on my hands, not meeting my eyes. “Would you rather I let them hurt you?”

“That’s not—” she cuts herself off, exhaling hard. “I just… you didn’t have to get hurt for me.”

I let that hang for a beat. “Didn’t exactly think about it.”

She finally looks up, eyes softer now. “Yeah…”

I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

Her hands are still resting lightly on mine, bandage half-finished, but she doesn’t move. Just stays there, kneeling on the floor, like she doesn’t want to break whatever weird moment this is.

I clear my throat. “You done playing doctor yet?”

She smiles. “Almost.”

She pulls the last bandage tight, smooths it down with her thumb. Her hand lingers on mine a second too long. She notices. So do I. Neither of us moves.

“You’re kind of an idiot, you know that?” she says softly.

“Old news.”

She exhales again, finally standing. “Come on. You’re staying here tonight.”

I arch a brow. “What, you need a security blanket?”

“No.” She crosses her arms, but her voice stays light. “I need you where I can keep an eye on you. In case your macho hero thing makes you pass out.”

I smirk. “You just don’t want me walking out and making another scene.”

“That too.”

She walks off toward the hallway, tossing the first aid kit onto the kitchen counter on her way. “Wait here, I’ll get you something to wear.”

I lean back into the couch, watching her disappear down the hallway, and let out a slow breath. My ribs still hurt, my lip still stings, but for the first time tonight, everything feels a little less loud.

She comes back with a shirt and sweatpants that don’t look like they’ve ever been worn. Tags still dangling. Probably bought for a boyfriend that never existed or some stylist’s emergency backup. She tosses them next to me.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, second door.”

I push off the couch, slower than I want to be, my ribs reminding me I’m not as indestructible as I thought. The hallway’s quiet, same soft lighting, same expensive everything. Even the towels folded on the rack look like no one’s ever touched them. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognize it for a second. Split lip, cuts along my cheekbone, blood dried into the edge of my hairline. I turn my head, jaw tight, flex my shoulder. Bruises already starting to bloom across my ribs. Nice.

I strip out of my ruined clothes and clean up as best I can. Cold water helps a little, mostly just makes me more aware of how bad everything aches once the adrenaline’s fully gone. I swap into the fresh clothes she gave me — they hang a little loose, but they’re soft, comfortable. Smell like fabric softener and hotel rooms.

When I step back out, she’s already fixed the living room. Coffee table cleared, lights dimmed low, two glasses of water sitting out like she’s trying to pretend we’re normal people winding down after a normal night.

She glances over from the couch and nods once. “Better?”

“It almost doesn’t feel like I got jumped in an alley.”

I sit back down, careful this time. The couch is stupidly soft. The second I lean back into it, my body wants to sink and stay. Sana’s sitting cross-legged across from me now. Barefoot, jacket folded next to her. Her hair’s a little messy, like she finally stopped caring about fixing it. She then watches me for a second, like she’s studying my face all over again.

“You heal fast,” she says.

I shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

She smiles, faint but genuine. “You do this often?”

“Getting beat? Not really.”

She picks up one of the glasses, takes a sip, then stares at it like she forgot it was even there. The silence stretches again, but it’s not heavy this time. It’s tired. Shared.

“You want something stronger?” she asks after a while. “I’ve got wine. Or whiskey.”

“Water’s fine.”

“Lame.”

“Responsibly lame.”

She snorts under her breath. “Suit yourself.”

The quiet comes back, but we both kind of sink into it now. Less tension, more like neither of us really knows what to do next. The adrenaline’s fully burned out, all that’s left is sore muscles and weird feeling humming under the surface. She shifts again, pulling her knees up, arms wrapping around them loosely. The oversized sweater she threw on while I was gone swallows half of her. She looks smaller like that. Not fragile, just… smaller.

Her voice breaks the quiet again. “You ever think about it?”

“About what?”

“Why you do this. All of it.”

I glance at her. She’s not looking at me, just staring across the room like she’s asking the air.

“Be more specific.”

“The career. The cameras. The image. The fact that people are already turning tonight into a headline while we’re sitting here pretending we’re okay.”

I lean my head back against the couch. “Sometimes.”

“And?”

“I have my reasons.”

That gets a little smile out of her, almost bitter. “Same.”

We sit with that for a while. Both of us quietly admitting we’re a little fucked up without having to actually say the words. After a minute, she stretches her legs out across the couch, one foot bumping into my thigh lightly. She doesn’t pull it back. Just leaves it there like it’s normal.

“You’re weirdly good at this,” she says.

“At what?”

“Not making it weird.”

I laugh under my breath. “That’s because it’s already weird.”

“Touché.”

She finally shifts enough to meet my eyes again. There’s still something behind them, something a little cracked from earlier, but it’s fading. She’s finding her footing again.

Another beat passes. “Thanks, by the way.”

I glance at her. “You already said that.”

“I know.” She pauses. “I just mean it.”

I don’t answer. Don’t need to. She already knows.

Her foot taps against my leg once before she shifts back into her little cocoon of oversized sweater and expensive throw pillows. “You tired?” she asks.

“Not really.”

She looks away. “Me neither.”

We both stare ahead for a while longer, the weight of the night settling in around us. Not heavy. Just there. Her eyes drift over me again, slower this time. No more shaky breathing, just that steady hum underneath. Like her nerves have been replaced with something else now.

“You’re staring,” I say.

She shrugs, small. “So?”

I watch her for a second. She’s still tucked into that oversized sweater, hair messy, cheeks a little pink from the heat inside or from everything building up between us, probably both. Her legs shift a little more, stretching out, toes brushing against me again, not subtle this time.

“You flirting with anyone who saves your life?” I ask.

She gives me a small grin. “No. You’re special.”

“Lucky me.”

Her eyes drop down to my mouth for half a second. She catches herself, but not really, just letting it sit there like she wants me to notice.

“You could kiss me, you know,” she says, voice lighter now. Casual. Like it’s something obvious.

I don’t say anything. Just let my hand drift up, settling on her knee. Skin warm under my palm. She doesn’t move. Lets me touch her like she’s been waiting for it.

“You sure?” I say, voice low.

Her eyes stay locked on mine. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

I don’t.

I lean in slow, watching her breathe. She meets me halfway. Soft at first. Warmer than I expected. She tastes like wine and mint and something even sweeter. Her hands slide up to my shoulders, pulling me in like she’s afraid I’ll stop.

I kiss her again, deeper this time. She opens her mouth under mine swiftly, like she’s been waiting all night. My hand moves higher up her thigh, fingertips tracing bare skin under the edge of the sweater. She shifts, hips angling toward me like she’s trying to get closer without making it obvious. I pull back for half a second, catch my breath. She’s already watching me again, breathing a little harder now.

“You good?” I murmur.

She nods quickly. “Yeah.”

I go back in. This time she’s hungrier. Her hands slide up into my hair, nails scratching lightly against my scalp, pulling me in deeper. Her breath hitches when my hand slips under the hem fully now, palm resting on her hip.

She moves into me without thinking, pressing her body up against mine. Her knee brushes higher against my leg, grinding against me once. Just enough to let me know she’s there. She breathes against my mouth, voice softer now. “You feel good.”

“So do you,” I mutter back, fingers moving up her side, finding bare skin under the sweater. No bra. Of fucking course. My thumb brushes under the curve of her breast, testing the softness, and her breath catches again. Her head drops back a little as I slide my palm up, cupping her breast fully now. Warm, soft, perfect in my hand. Her nipple’s already hard under my thumb, and she shivers when I roll it gently.

“Fuck—” she whispers, breath shaky.

I press my lips to her neck, kissing along her skin, feeling her pulse under my mouth. She tilts her head. Gives me more room. My hand slides down again, lower this time. I feel her body tense, not nervous, just expecting. Fingers slip under the band of her shorts now. Skin hot, smooth. I move slower here, letting her feel every inch of my hand moving lower until my fingers find the heat between her legs.

She’s already wet. Really fucking wet.

My breath catches against her throat. “Jesus, Sana.”

Her voice breaks. “Been like that.”

I press against her slowly, fingers moving in small, steady circles over her clit through the soaked fabric of her panties. Her hips twitch at the first touch. Her hands clench in my shirt, pulling tighter.

“Fuck,” she gasps, rocking her hips up into my hand, chasing the pressure.

I don’t rush. Just keep it steady, slow circles while she breathes harder against me. Her face presses into my neck, little whimpers slipping out with every shift of my fingers.

“You’re not even trying to pretend you don’t want this,” I whisper against her ear.

“Why would I?” she breathes, voice breaking. “Just don’t fucking stop.”

Her hips grind harder against my hand now, chasing the friction. I slide my fingers inside the soaked fabric finally, skin on skin, feeling how warm and wet she is. She gasps loud against my neck, her body twitching under my touch.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” I groan into her hair.

She nods fast, too breathless to speak. My fingers rub slow, spreading her open, feeling every slick inch of her. She’s grinding up against my hand now, little desperate sounds slipping from her mouth with every slow circle I draw.

Her voice breaks against my neck. “I’ve been thinking about this all night.”

“Yeah?” My voice is rough now. “You wanted me to touch you like this?”

She nods again, gasping. “Yes. Please—”

I press my thumb harder against her clit, my fingers dipping inside, curling gently. She lets out a sharp gasp, her hips bucking up to meet me. “God, Leon—” she chokes out.

I kiss her again, swallowing her moan while my hand keeps moving. Her whole body’s shaking now, her thighs trembling around my wrist.

Her breath catches. “Fuck— don’t stop, don’t stop—”

“Not stoping,” I whisper against her lips, fingers still working her, feeling her tighten around me as her body starts to get hotter and wetter. Her legs are shaking like crazy now, thighs twitching every time my fingers hit the spot. She’s got one hand in my hair, the other gripping the couch cushion like she’s holding on for dear life. Breath’s all chopped up, mouth open, but the words barely come out right.

“Fuck—Leon—”

She’s close. Stupidly close. You can feel it in how tight she’s clenching around my fingers, how her hips keep jerking up, trying to grind harder against my hand like she’s chasing it.

I pull my hand back. Just enough.

Her head snaps up, eyes wild. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

I blink, like I don’t know what she’s talking about. “Don’t what?”

Her chest heaves. “You know.”

I smirk a little. “Relax.”

She glares at me, but it’s useless — she’s a wreck. Hair all messed up, sweater falling off one shoulder, legs spread wide open, all dripping and shaky and desperate. She looks so goddamn hot like this. I shift down without saying anything, both hands sliding under her thighs, dragging her hips closer to the edge of the couch. She makes this tiny breathy noise when I lower my head between her legs, like she’s already breaking before I even touch her.

“Leon—” soft, high, breathy.

“Shh.”

I start slow. Kiss her inner thigh first. Then again, closer. She lets out this shaky exhale, hips twitching. By the time my mouth hits her, she lets out a small gasp, like her whole body short-circuits for a second. I lick up slow, teasing, barely pressing at first. She squirms, fingers tightening in my hair. The second time, I press harder, tongue flicking over her clit, and her whole body jolts.

“Fuck—oh my god—” it comes out all broken, high-pitched.

I pin her hips down, keep her still, my tongue working slow circles now, steady, just enough pressure to have her breathing all messed up again. She’s shaking under me, little gasps turning into full-on moans.

“Leon, don’t stop,” she whispers, voice cracking.

I keep at it, pushing my tongue flat against her, sucking lightly, then switching it up, licking faster, deeper. She’s fucking dripping now. I slide two fingers back inside her while my mouth stays locked on her clit. She lets out a loud cry, hips jerking hard.

Her thighs try to close around my head but I shove them back open. “Keep them open,” I mutter into her, voice low and vibrating right against where she’s falling apart.

She moans again, louder this time. “Fuck, I—Leon—”

Her whole body tightens up. I feel it hit before she even makes a sound — muscles locking, her breath catching in her throat like she forgot how to breathe. Then it breaks loose. She lets out this raw, fucked up cry, back arching off the couch as she comes hard, legs shaking, fingers pulling at my hair like she’s trying to ground herself.

I don’t stop. I keep my mouth on her, working her through it while she gasps and whimpers, hips twitching with every aftershock. She’s trembling all over, voice breaking into little shaky noises she probably doesn’t even realize she’s making. When I finally pull back, my chin’s wet, and she’s completely wrecked. Sweater bunched up, hair sticking to her face, chest still rising and falling like she ran a marathon.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and look up at her. “You alive?”

She lets out this breathless, fucked little laugh. “Barely.”

Her voice is somehow soft and rough at the same time, but she’s smiling now. I move back up, hovering over her. My hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing across her lip.

“You still want more?” My voice comes out lower than I mean it to.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just stares up at me, breathing all shaky, pupils blown wide. Then she nods. Her fingers hook into my shirt, tugging me closer until our faces are inches apart. Her voice is soft, but there’s that little spark behind it again. “Let me take care of you.”

I blink, watching her. “You sure?”

She bites her lip, eyes never leaving mine. “Yeah.”

Her hand moves down, tracing over my chest, stomach, slower than she needs to. She’s buying time, steadying herself. When she reaches the waistband of my sweatpants, her fingers slip under. Light, barely there. I suck in a breath, feeling my cock already straining against the fabric.

“Sit back,” she murmurs.

I shift off her, leaning into the couch, legs spread a little wider. She sits up slowly, still kind of unsteady from earlier, but focused now. Focused on me. Her fingers tug the sweatpants down, slow and careful. She exhales when she frees me, lip caught between her teeth. The second she sees how hard I am for her, her face flushes a little darker.

“Fuck…” she whispers. “You’ve been like this this whole time?”

I grin, voice rough. “Hard not to be.”

She lets out this breathy little laugh, slowly kneeling between my legs, hair falling into her face a bit, hands bracing herself on my thighs. She leans in, mouth hovering just above me, breath ghosting across my skin. Her hand wraps around the base, squeezing gently, thumb rubbing along the vein.

Her eyes flick up to mine — teasing. “Still feeling okay?”

I huff. “Sana.”

She smirks, satisfied, then lowers her head, tongue flicking out for the first slow lick, base to tip. My whole body tenses instantly. The sound that comes out of me is closer to a growl.

“Jesus—”

She hums against me, like she’s proud of herself, before wrapping her lips around the head, tongue circling, wet and warm and perfect. She keeps her eyes locked on me as she does it. That part’s deliberate. She knows exactly how much it drives me insane when she looks up like that. Her mouth slides lower, slow at first, taking more of me in with each movement. I feel her tongue working underneath, swirling around the shaft as she moves. The wet sounds echo a little too loud in the quiet apartment, her soft breathing mixing with the slick slide of her mouth. I exhale hard, one hand sliding into her hair automatically. She doesn’t fight it, just lets me guide her, pace picking up as she gets more comfortable.

Her other hand joins in, stroking the part she can’t fit, perfectly syncing with the rhythm of her mouth. Every few strokes, she pulls back just far enough to swirl her tongue around the head again, licking up the precum before sliding back down.

I groan, hips twitching. “Fuck, Sana…”

She smiles around me, like she enjoys hearing that, then pushes down deeper, throat tightening slightly as she takes me further in. My fingers tighten in her hair, not pulling, just holding. Her breathing grows heavier, little hums vibrating through me as she works. She starts bobbing her head faster now, messier, spit gathering at the corners of her mouth, stringing thin lines whenever she pulls back. Her hand never stops moving on me, stroking in time with each motion.

“Shit—” My voice breaks a little. “You’re gonna make me—”

She pulls back suddenly, letting me slip out with a wet pop, a thin line of saliva still connecting us. Her chest is rising fast, lips swollen, chin slick.

Her voice comes out breathless, teasing. “Not yet.”

I let out a sharp laugh, biting back a groan. “You’re fucking evil.”

“Mm.” She grins, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Just a little bit.”

She leans back in again, this time slower, licking along my length like she’s savoring it, like she’s not in a rush. Her eyes half-lidded now, looking up at me like she knows she owns me in this moment. My whole body’s wired tight, stomach clenching every time she goes back down, taking me in deeper. Her tongue works in slow circles again, lips sealing tight, cheeks hollowing just enough. I let my head fall back for a second, breathing hard, fingers still buried in her hair, guiding her as she keeps the rhythm steady. She moans softly around me, sending vibrations straight up my spine. I can feel myself getting closer again, and I know she feels it too — the way my hips jerk slightly, how my breath keeps stuttering.

She pulls off again, this time panting a little herself, eyes glazed but locked on mine.

“You close?” she asks, voice low, rough.

I nod, throat too dry to say much.

She smiles. “Good. Because I’m not stopping this time.”

And then she’s back down on me, faster now, more desperate, both hands gripping my thighs to keep steady as she bobs her head, sucking hard, messy and wet and fucking perfect. My hand tightens, and I feel it building sharp and fast this time. My whole body locking up as the pressure snaps.

“Fuck, Sana—” I groan, spilling deep into her mouth as she takes it all, swallowing without hesitation, hands gripping tighter like she’s holding me in place until I finish. She doesn’t pull back until I’m completely spent, breathing hard, chest rising fast. She finally releases me with another soft pop, wiping her mouth again, eyes a little dazed, lips shiny and swollen.

She sits back on her heels, staring up at me with that smug little smile, voice still breathy. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

I let out a shaky laugh, chest still heaving. “Yeah. You fucking did.”

She crawls up, still shaky, but cocky enough to pretend she’s not. Hands slide up my chest, nails grazing just a little. That look’s back in her eye, like she’s proud of herself and she wants me to know it. “You good?” she whispers.

I laugh under my breath, voice still fucked. “Yeah. You?”

She shrugs as if her legs aren’t trembling. “Obviously.”

Then she swings a leg over, straddling me, settling right on top of my lap like she’s been waiting all night for this. Probably has. The sweater rides up high on her thighs, and the panties? Already soaking wet. She’s not even trying to hide it. She knows I’m looking and she wants me to.

“You sure you’re up for more?” she says, but she’s already grinding.

“Yeah. Don’t play dumb.”

She grins, biting her lip, rolling her hips once, dragging herself right over me. I grab her waist, squeezing tight to make her stop. Not because I don’t like how it feels — because if she keeps doing that I won’t last.

“You keep grinding like that, you’re not gonna get round two.”

“That a threat?” She says it soft, but her voice is all breath, like she’s barely keeping it together.

I pull her down, lips crashing again, messy, tongues fighting for space. It’s hot, wet, desperate. Her hips roll once more and I groan into her mouth. I can feel her grinning against my lips, smug little shit. I pull back just enough to breathe. “Lose the panties.”

She’s already halfway there before I finish the sentence. Hips up, fingers hooked in, dragging them down her thighs and slinging them. They hit the floor behind her, then she drops back onto me, no barriers now. The heat of her pussy is right against me, shivering a little, and it’s not because she’s cold. “Fuck,” she whispers.

“Yeah.” My hand slides between us, guiding myself against her, the tip sliding along her folds, slick and warm and ready. She twitches under me, already desperate for it.

“You ready?” I murmur.

Her voice breaks. “I’ve been ready.”

I push in slow, feeling every inch disappear into her. She gasps, hands gripping my shoulders, nails digging in. She sinks all the way down, seating herself fully on my lap, breath catching. “Jesus,” she whispers.

My hands slide up under the sweater, gripping her back. “Look at you.” She rolls her hips, just slightly and I’m already breathing heavy. “You feel fucking perfect.”

Her pace starts slow, hips grinding in tight circles, drawing herself up a little and dropping back down. Every time she sinks back down it knocks the breath out of me. She’s biting her lip, trying to play it cool, but her thighs are already shaking. “Fuck—you’re deep,” she gasps.

I huff, voice rough. “You wanted it.”

She leans in closer, forehead pressed to mine. “Shut up.”

Her hips pick up, faster now, slamming down harder, slapping sounds filling the room. Skin on skin, wet and filthy. She’s moaning under her breath with every drop, breaths becoming quicker, losing her rhythm a little. Her voice starts breaking. “Leon—oh my god—fuck—I’m close—”

I slam my hips up into her, one good thrust, and her whole body jolts, almost folds right into me.

She gasps. “Shit—Leon, I—”

I catch her hips and freeze her in place. She whines. An actual, desperate, fucking whine.

“Not yet,” I growl.

She’s breathing so fast now, her hands push at my chest, but not to get away — she just wants to move, but I don’t let her. Her voice is wrecked. “Leon—please—just—”

I shift under her, breathing heavy into her ear. “Turn around. On your stomach.”

For a second she doesn’t move. Just stares at me like she can’t believe I’m making her wait. Then she exhales hard, eyes glazed over, and does it. Climbs off with shaky legs, drops onto the couch face down, ass up. She spreads her legs like she knows exactly what I’ll do next. I stay sitting for a second, just staring at her. Sweater bunched up, hair a mess, her ass high, pussy dripping for me. I drag my hand down her back, over her ass, thumb brushing the slickness between her thighs.

“Look at you,” I murmur.

Her breath shudders. “Just fuck me already.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. I shift up behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other pressing between her shoulder blades, easing her down into the cushions. Ass high, legs spread, face buried. The view's fucking unreal. She looks back at me, breathless but still wearing that little smirk like she’s running this. "Don’t take too long or I might get bored."

Mouthy even now.

I grin, voice low. "Yeah?"

I drag the tip through her folds, slow, lazy, letting it glide through the slick mess she’s made. She tries to push back, hips wiggling, but I hold her firm, making her wait, making her feel it. The second I press in, she lets out this sharp little breath, head dropping, hair falling across her face as I start filling her slow, inch by inch. Her pussy is tight, hot, squeezing like her body’s starving for it.

"You’re fucking soaked," I breathe as I bottom out, buried to the hilt. She gasps, knuckles whitening on the cushions, voice shaky but still trying to stay sharp. “You should take some credit for that.”

I pull back and slam into her hard, the slap of skin loud in the room. She jerks forward with a choked moan, biting her lip like that’ll help. My hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to arch her for me, breath stuttering out with every brutal thrust. "Where’s that smart mouth now, huh?" I growl, driving into her rough, setting a rhythm that makes her body jolt under me.

Her breath catches, but the mouth keeps running. "Still here," she pants. "You’re just making it… harder to use."

Her voice cracks on the last word when I hit that perfect spot that makes her legs twitch. My grip on her hips tightens, fingers digging in, holding her steady as I keep slamming into her, wet sounds filling the air with every thrust. She’s trying to hold it in, but I feel her clenching tighter, her body shaking, already starting to fall apart.

"Leon—fuck—" she gasps, her voice breaking when I drive in deep again. "I—I’m—"

I can feel it, the way she’s locking up around me, the desperate little cries slipping out of her with every thrust. I keep hammering into her, forcing her to take it, her orgasm ripping through her sharp and messy, thighs trembling, breath hitching, whole body seizing up under me as she cums hard. Her moans turn sloppy, breathless, breaking apart with every slam of my hips. I don’t stop. I ride her through it, fucking her straight through the shaking, through the aftershocks, keeping my pace brutal as her body twitches around me.

"That’s it," I growl, voice rough. "Take it all."

She’s wrecked now, voice reduced to breathy little whimpers, hands clutching at the cushions like she’s trying to ground herself. Her whole body’s shaking under me, legs barely holding her up. The pressure’s boiling in me too, fuck she’s tight. I yank her hair again, making her arch harder. She’s flushed, chest heaving, hair a mess sticking to her sweaty face, I’m right fucking there, but I’m not done yet, not like this.

I pull out, fast. She lets out a desperate, broken whine, clenching around nothing, body twitching as I leave her empty.

“W-Why’d you stop—” she manages, voice wrecked.

I flip her onto her back before she can finish, pinning her under me. She looks so fucking hot—flushed, breathing hard, hair all over the place—but still has that spark in her eyes. That fire’s still there, even like this. I grab her jaw, thumb pressing her lower lip down as I hover over her. "You still want more?"

She grins through the haze, biting lightly at my thumb. "If you’re not too busy being dramatic, yeah."

I drag my cock across her lips, still slick from her pussy, then I tap it against her mouth. “Open.”

Her lips part right away, tongue out, waiting, filthy and eager like she’s been craving this part. She wraps her lips around the tip instantly, sucking hard like she’s starving for it, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing around me. Spit’s already pooling at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin. She moans around me, sending vibrations straight up my spine as I sink deeper into her throat.

She takes me like she wants it messy, sloppy sounds echoing in the room as she works her mouth around me. My fist clenches in her hair, guiding her, setting the rhythm as I start thrusting into her mouth, fucking into her throat slow at first, then faster, making her eyes flutter. Gagging, drooling, but not stopping. Her breath stutters through her nose, but she takes every inch like it’s her last meal. Her hands come up, clutching at my thighs for balance as I fuck her mouth deeper, rougher. Her spit’s everywhere now, glistening on her chin, down her throat, strings of it connecting us when I pull back slightly.

She gasps for breath, voice ragged but still cocky. “You’re making a mess.”

I shove back in, cutting her off, voice sharp. "That’s the point."

Her throat works to take me, gagging again as I push past her limits, fucking into her like her mouth owes me something. She moans again, those desperate little sounds spilling out between gags, eyes glassy but locked on mine like she’s daring me to push harder. When I finally pull out, she gasps for air, spit glistening everywhere, chest heaving like she’s barely holding it together. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand but keeps the smirk. “Get back inside me,” she breathes, voice wrecked but sharp. “Finish what you started.”

I don’t make her ask twice. I flip her back over, dragging her hips up again, and slam into her in one brutal thrust that knocks the air from both of us. Her cry rips out raw, and I don’t hold back. My hips slam into her, driving deep and rough right from the start, setting a punishing rhythm that leaves both of us breathless.

Her voice is breaking, nothing but broken moans now, breathy and high, hips jerking against me, thighs trembling. “Leon—fuck—yes—don’t stop—”

I’m right there, breath catching, every thrust getting sloppier, heavier, my groans rough in my throat as I chase that edge. Her body tightens up under me again, spasming, clenching like she’s ready to lose it all over again.

"Gonna fill you up, baby," I growl through gritted teeth, slamming deep. "Fuck—"

Her head throws back, voice wrecked. "Do it—please—just fucking do it—"

That’s it. My whole body locks up, slamming deep one last time as I cum hard, cock pulsing inside her, spilling deep. My groan breaks out rough, shaking through me as I hold her hips tight, grinding into her as I ride out every last spasm. She shakes beneath me, twitching, breathless, completely fucking ruined. I collapse over her, both of us panting, skin sticky with sweat, her body still twitching around me as I stay buried inside.

—

The room's quiet except for our breathing, both of us wrecked, tangled together in the mess we made. We stay like that for a while, her head resting against my stomach, one arm lazily draped across my thigh, breathing starting to slow but still not all the way down. My chest’s rising too fast, legs feel shot, one hand drifting through her hair, not even thinking about it, just moving.

Her lips are parted a little, swollen, wet where she’s still catching her breath. Her cheeks flushed all the way up, that pretty post-fuck glow fits her so well. There’s that small grin playing at the corner of her mouth, like she’s pleased with herself. She should be. She drained me, fully and completely, and she knows it. She shifts a bit, curling in closer, her cheek pressing against my thigh now. “You alive?” she mumbles, voice rough, half muffled into my skin.

I exhale something close to a laugh, fingers still combing slow through her hair. “Barely.”

“Good.” Her voice stays soft, but I can hear the smug underneath it. “You deserved it.”

I let the silence answer that one, not even pretending to argue. My brain’s still fuzzy, everything warm and heavy, like my body’s floating but too heavy to move. She finally lifts her head, blinking up at me, hair sticking in random directions, eyes glassy but sharp under the mess. “You look like hell.”

I glance down at her, mouth twitching. “You don’t look so put together yourself.”

She grins wider. “Please. I’m glowing.”

Her hand slides up slowly, resting flat against my stomach, fingers drawing lazy circles over my skin like she’s not even aware she’s doing it. I feel my abs twitch under her touch but don’t stop her. She keeps tracing slow patterns, like she’s grounding herself with every little circle.

“You good?” she asks, her voice dipping just slightly, not all teasing this time.

I tilt my head back, eyes half-lidding. “Yeah. You?”

She doesn’t answer right away, but the way she shifts even closer kind of says it for her. Her body molding into mine like we fit like this, warm skin pressed everywhere, breathing synced up again. For a while, neither of us says anything. Just the quiet hum of the room, the faint noise of the city outside, distant cars, maybe a siren somewhere blocks down. But here it’s calm, cozy even. She fits perfectly tucked under my arm like this.

“You know tomorrow’s gonna be a circus, right?” she says after a bit, voice muffled into my chest.

I sigh, hand drifting over her back, slow. “It already is.”

“They probably posted a hundred clips of tonight already.”

“Thousands.”

She groans softly. “I’m gonna have to listen to my manager’s meltdown for a full week.”

I smirk, thumb brushing her spine. “Tell him to get in line.”

Her body shakes a little as she laughs into my skin. “They’re gonna turn me into some fragile girl.”

I snort. “Right. The poor Sana, completely helpless.”

She pinches my side lightly. “Shut up.”

“Just saying.”

Her voice drops softer again. “I hate that shit. Like I’m some victim that needs to be saved.”

“Then stop clinging to me like one.”

She smacks me gently without even pulling her head up. “Asshole.”

I grin. “Love you too.”

Her breathing slows again. She’s fighting sleep now, but her body’s too comfortable to move. Her leg’s still draped over mine, fingers still tracing absent little shapes across my stomach.

Another beat of silence.

“You’re staying,” she says, quiet now.

I run my hand through her hair again, fingers sliding through the mess, catching the strands gently. “You already said that.”

“Just making sure.”

Her eyes are closed now. I feel her lips brush lightly against my skin once before she fully settles, curling into me like we’ve done this a hundred times before. The weight of the night sinks in fully. The blood, the fight, the adrenaline crash. The weird, unexpected calm afterward. All of it sitting somewhere in the air between us. But even then, it felt weirdly peaceful. And for the first time all night, it’s actually quiet.

—

She’s out cold.

Didn’t even flinch when I shifted off the bed. Just breathing softly, mouth a little open, hair half stuck to her cheek like she’d melted into the pillow the second her body let go. I stand there for a bit, watching her chest rise and fall. She looks small like this, safe. Like none of what happened tonight even affected her. Like there wasn’t four guys in a fucking alley two hours ago trying to tear her apart.

I grab my phone off the nightstand, screen lighting up in the dark. Two texts waiting. One from Karina—work shit, nothing that can’t wait. The other’s from him.

‘Did you really have to go that far?’

I sit down on the edge of the bed again, thumb hovering for a second. The apartment’s dead silent except for the hum of city traffic leaking in through the glass. Sirens in the distance, maybe leftovers from earlier, probably reporters still sniffing around. This one’s gonna be everywhere tomorrow, I can already hear the headlines spinning.

The phone buzzes again.

‘Four of my guys got picked up.’

I let the air leave slow through my teeth. My ribs pinch when I lean forward, the adrenaline from the sex gone now. Elbows on my knees, fingers dragging down my face like that’ll scrub any of this off. I stare at the screen for a while. Not angry, not anything really, just tired.

I finally type:

‘You knew what the job was.’

I barely finish sending the message before the dots start dancing again.

‘They weren’t supposed to end up in cuffs. It was just a scare, you didn’t have to lay into them like that.’

My eyes flick toward Sana again. She hasn’t moved, still curled up under that stupidly expensive throw blanket. Knuckles twitch a little in her sleep like she’s dreaming something light, like tonight wasn’t real. I stare at her for a long second, then type:

‘They weren’t supposed to touch her.’

He takes longer this time. The dots blink, disappear. Then:

‘This one’s gonna cost you.’

I lean back against the headboard, let my head tip back and close my eyes. Everything fucking hurts. My thumb floats for a second longer before I finally send:

‘I know.’

#twice #twice smut #girl group smut #kpop smut #male reader #sana smut

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