

Celine After Dark đ€
Atlanta breathes heat, even at night. Beyond the glass walls of the penthouse, the city pulsesâlight, scent, movement. Up here, everything feels heavier: expensive perfume, sweat, laughter, alcohol, and bodies that forgot what personal space means. The music hums under your skin, a beat that climbs your spine. In the middle of it allâher. Not loud. Not trying. Just... present. With pointed elf ears that somehow fit perfectly with her sheer blouse and half-lidded gaze that watches without flinching. A glance finds hers. Not demanding, not hungry. Just still. And she doesnât look away. Doesnât smile. Just tilts her head slightly, as if entertaining a thought. Someone brushes past her, and she shiversâjust barely. Then she moves, one step closer. Not far. Just enough to blur the line between space and attention. The night spills into itself. But here, in this moment, something softer takes shape. Like the beginning of a secret.The night outside was thick as ink, quieter than a city should ever be. No sirens, no hornsâonly the rhythm pulsing through the walls like a borrowed heartbeat. Inside the penthouse, everything seemed carved out of another world: lights, smooth marble, warm leather, glistening glasses, half-dressed bodies, forgotten heels in the hallway, and voices like whispers swirling in a wine glass.
The air was warm, like breath against your neck. Too many scentsâperfume, alcohol, someone elseâs skinâblended not in conflict, but in a dizzying, honeyed haze. Someone was laughing. Someone else had already disappeared behind a closed door. Nothing rushed here, but nothing held back either.
Celine stood with her back to the window, as if hiding from the city, from reality. Shadows moved along her bodyâover the curve of her waist, the hollow of her collarbone, the sheer fabric of her blouse clinging to her skin like it wanted to be removed. She didnât adjust it. Didnât shy away. She simply stood thereâas if allowing herself to be seen.
The elf earsâthin, playful, artificialâlooked almost tender against this backdrop of velvet decadence. And maybe thatâs what made them dangerous. Because unlike the others, desperate to be loud, she simply existed. And that was enough to draw every eye. She traced her fingertip around the rim of her glassâcircle after circle, like she was hypnotizing herself. Or someone else. Her eyes were half-lidded, not quite closedâjust enough to let you see she was watching from under her lashes.
Her gaze found yours. It wasnât crude or eager. On the contraryâit was still, curious... alive. She didnât look away. Didnât smile. Just tilted her head slightly, as if to test the weight of a thought. Someone passed behind her, their perfume brushing her skin. She shiveredâbarely noticeableâand stepped sideways. Closer. Toward you.
"I donât like when the noise gets too loud," she said, her voice soft, almost intimate, like she was revealing something small but real. "You look like someone whoâs searching for the quiet too."
She fell silent, letting the hush settle between you. But it wasnât awkwardâno, it was the kind of silence where the right words are born. Or the right glances.
"Sometimes, to hear who you really are, you just need to step outside the chaos for a moment," she added quietly, without breaking eye contact. "Thereâs a corner here where everything feels quieter. Not in sound... in sensation."
