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wonyowonyo · 18 days ago

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Static Echoes (U. Aeri/Giselle X M! Reader)

Wc: 9.6k Tags: Angst? In a captivating city humming with static, a faded musician haunted by a lover’s ghost-voice and a photographer who blurrs every truth must choose: burn in the clarity of what they almost were, or drown in the beautiful ruin of what’s left. A/N: No scene banners for this one, just pure emotional angst. For the lad who asked for Giselle, I'll write a fluff to make up for this, trust hehe

Rain sluiced down the window of Y/N’s cramped third-floor walk-up, distorting the neon glow of the pawn shop sign across the street into a bleeding halo. Inside his dim apartment—a cramped realm of mismatched furniture, scuffed vinyl floors, and peeling posters of bands that once stirred his soul—Y/N hunched over his battered acoustic guitar. His fingers, worn from years of relentless practice and broken promises, plucked uncertainly at new strings he’d just installed. Somewhere in the background, a demo of “Moth Wing Hours” played on an aging laptop, its fragile melody looping relentlessly like a half-remembered dream.

Y/N’s apartment reeked of rosin and stale coffee, and every surface was cluttered with the detritus of a life half-lived. Amid scattered guitar picks, dog-eared notebooks of scribbled lyrics, and dusty vinyl records, the air pulsed with an undercurrent of longing—a ghost of musical glory days when his voice had burned with the reckless promise of forever. But now, that promise had faded into the static of everyday drudgery.

He had once believed his music could set the world ablaze, but time had a way of dampening even the brightest flames. Today, he was less a celebrated poet of chords and verses and more a reluctant music teacher, offering guitar lessons to disinterested teens. Their boredom was palpable, their questions laced with teenage cynicism, as if each chord he strummed was a reminder of the disconnect between his faded dreams and their insipid realities. Corporate gigs had replaced smoky dive bars; the sterile ambiance of upscale hotel lobbies and overpriced cocktail lounges left him feeling like nothing more than a ghost—a relic of a 20-something’s Spotify playlist that had long been forgotten.

As he tuned the guitar, Y/N’s eyes drifted to the rain-streaked window. Outside, the City of Seoul pulsed with neon life, a chaotic mix of transient lights and forgotten promises. The rain blurred the boundaries between past and present, and in that liminal moment, he could almost believe that the static in the background wasn’t just electronic noise but something more—a whisper from a memory he’d long tried to escape.

A sudden hiss from the ancient coffee machine in the kitchen shattered the quiet. The sound, almost spectral in its persistence, seemed to carry an echo of a laugh—low, smoky, and hauntingly familiar. For a split second, Y/N thought he heard Aeri’s laugh amid the hiss, a sound that had once lit up the darkest corners of his heart. In that instant, time fractured, and memories surged forward like a tidal wave: the clink of ice in a glass, the soft murmur of conversation on a fire escape, the reckless abandon of youth.

Distracted by the ghostly echo, his hand jerked, and the mug he’d cradled slipped from his grasp. It tumbled onto the linoleum floor, shattering into a constellation of ceramic shards that cut into his palms. He stared at the scattered pieces, each fragment a silent testament to a past filled with hope and now a present marred by regret.

Y/N’s thoughts raced. How had life reduced him to a curator of almosts? Almost-famous, almost-healed, almost-in-love. He glanced at the list on his cluttered desk—a litany of student names and dates, each entry a quiet reminder of those who had slipped away. Hannah W. flashed before his eyes, the note beside her name a sarcastic parenthesis: “nursery rhymes” from a canceled lesson. Fifteen years ago, such a cancellation might have ignited a fury worthy of a thrown phone, but now, he felt only numb resignation.

He ran a hand through his tangled hair and let his gaze fall on the cracked screen of his laptop. The demo of “Moth Wing Hours” continued unabated, its melody merging with the rhythmic patter of the rain. In that fragile moment, the past and present blurred—a bittersweet fusion of what once was and what might have been. The static in the apartment wasn’t just background noise; it was the heartbeat of his disintegrating dreams.

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Miles away, under a different kind of light, Aeri’s world unfolded in stark contrasts. Her studio was a converted loft that doubled as a darkroom, its atmosphere thick with the smell of chemicals and the red glow of safelights. Here, she reigned as both artist and chronicler—a trauma paparazzo who captured the raw, unfiltered moments of human devastation. Images of bombed-out hospitals in Kyiv, ashen faces of wildfire survivors, and the solitary photograph of a child’s shoe half-buried in flood mud hung from the walls like spectral memorials. Each image was a frozen scream, a testament to chaos and loss.

Among these fractured narratives, one photograph stood apart with startling clarity. It was a portrait of Y/N, captured in the vulnerable quiet of sleep, bathed in the gentle glow of dawn. His face, soft and unguarded, bore the delicate lines of a man haunted by memories yet still clinging to fragments of hope. Aeri’s eyes lingered on it, her pulse quickening as she recalled that moment—a rare instance when the chaos of her world had paused, revealing a truth too intimate for her usual repertoire.

Her phone buzzed insistently on a cluttered table, its screen lighting up with a reminder of an impending deadline. Aeri’s agent was on the line, his voice crackling through the speaker with the brisk efficiency of someone used to demanding perfection.

“Look, Sash, The Times wants a quote about ‘UNSEEN.’ I need you to give them the usual—‘It’s about the elusiveness of truth’—and stop overthinking the damn artist statement,” he barked, his tone a mixture of impatience and exasperation.

Aeri pressed a thumb against her scar—a faded, jagged line from the ’16 riot in Istanbul that had nearly cost her more than just her pride. “I’m not overthinking,” she snapped, her voice low and tremulous with defiance. “I’m curating, shaping fragments of reality into something real.” She swept a hand through her ink-black hair and looked around her darkroom, where each photograph seemed to pulse with unspoken stories. “Truth isn’t elusive, it’s blinding. Sometimes it’s just too bright to face directly.”

Her agent’s voice cut through her reverie. “Just stick to the script, Aeri.”

As if in response to the mounting pressure, Aeri reached for a freshly developed print of Y/N’s photo. She held it up to the dim red light, marveling at the clarity that set it apart from the other blurred images—a moment of pure, unedited vulnerability in an otherwise chaotic portfolio. In her trembling hands, that image represented all the contradictions of her life: her success as a trauma chronicler and her inability to process the intimacy that this one shot demanded.

But as she adjusted the print, a misstep sent a splash of developer solution cascading over it. The clear lines of Y/N’s face blurred into a golden smear, the vivid detail dissolving like memories fading in the rain. For a long, heart-wrenching moment, she watched the image twist into something unrecognizable—a casualty of her own inner turmoil.

“Fuck,” she muttered, her voice barely audible over the steady hum of the chemicals. With shaking fingers, she retrieved the ruined print and, as if performing a ritual of both guilt and preservation, she tucked it away into a drawer labeled “UNDEVELOPED.” In that secret compartment of her studio, Aeri locked away not just a ruined photograph, but a piece of herself she wasn’t ready to confront—a reminder of the man whose sleep had betrayed his true self.

Outside, the rain eased into a gentle mist, and the city began to stir with a hesitant vibrancy. The blurred boundaries between past and present, reality and memory, persisted like a half-remembered dream. Aeri exhaled slowly, her mind a tangled web of creative passion and self-imposed isolation. Each ruined print, every blurred image, was a step in her journey to capture the inescapable truth—no matter how painful or beautiful it might be.

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Later that evening, Y/N mounted his aging bicycle and pedaled into the night. The urban landscape, washed clean by the relentless rain, was transformed into a series of luminous reflections and fractured silhouettes. He navigated the slick, glistening streets with an air of weary determination, his mind heavy with the ghosts of unfinished songs and missed opportunities.

As he passed under a mural on 5th and Vine, a colossal billboard came into view. It was an arresting display—“UNSEEN: PHOTOGRAPHS BY AERI UCHINAGA’’ sprawled boldly across its surface. The image that dominated the ad was Aeri’s own, her face a study in defiance and vulnerability, half-consumed by shadow and light. Her eyes, sharp and inscrutable, seemed to challenge the viewer to uncover the secrets behind the facade. The billboard glowed with an almost otherworldly intensity, daring him to confront the specter of their shared past.

Y/N’s pulse quickened as he slowed to a stop, the chill of the evening mingling with the heat of buried emotions. Every detail of the billboard—the stark typography, the interplay of dark and luminous hues—spoke to the unresolved tension between him and Aeri. In that suspended moment, he felt the weight of every nearly-spoken word, every lost chance at redemption.

He fumbled with his phone, hesitating as he opened a new text message. His fingers hovered over the screen, a message forming—a tentative greeting, a whispered admission of his lingering feelings. “Heard you’re in town…” the message began, each word a tentative bridge between past hurts and uncertain hope. But as quickly as the words appeared, doubt flooded his mind. What if reaching out would shatter the fragile peace he’d fought so hard to build? The tension between longing and fear was as palpable as the damp chill of the night air.

In a moment of desperate indecision, he deleted the message. But the act of deletion felt like a small betrayal of his own yearning. His heart pounded in his ears as he stared at the dark screen, the silence more oppressive than the constant hum of the city. The electric tension of unsaid words and unfinished conversations surged within him, igniting a fury that he could no longer contain.

In a burst of anger and sorrow, Y/N’s hand clenched around the phone. With a swift, impulsive motion, he hurled it against the wall of a nearby building. The impact sent a shudder through the quiet street, and the sound of cracking glass echoed like a final exclamation mark to a conversation that would never be finished. For a few heartbeats, he stood motionless in the rain, the bitter taste of regret mingling with the dampness on his skin.

A bike messenger whizzed by, his whistled comment barely audible above the steady patter of rain. “Bad breakup?” the stranger teased, his tone light as if life’s hardships could be distilled into a single, offhand remark. Y/N managed a bitter smile in response, but the gesture was hollow—more a mask for the turmoil swirling inside than an expression of genuine amusement.

The billboard loomed above him, its vibrant, defiant image of Aeri a constant reminder of the unresolved chapters in their shared past. The rain continued to fall, each drop a muted percussion in the symphony of urban solitude. Y/N’s eyes traced the contours of her face on the billboard—the half-shadowed jawline, the fierce determination in her eyes—and he felt the sharp sting of memories both beautiful and painful.

In that fractured moment, as the rain softened and the city settled into a contemplative hush, Y/N realized that the static in his life—the noise of lost opportunities and unsaid apologies—was something he could no longer ignore. Whether it was the echo of Aeri’s laugh in the hiss of the coffee machine or the blurred remnants of a photograph hidden away in a dark drawer, the past had a way of intruding upon the present, demanding to be seen, acknowledged, and, ultimately, resolved.

As the neon lights danced on the wet pavement and the echoes of his shattered phone reverberated in his mind, Y/N stood at the crossroads of what had been and what might yet be. The city, drenched in rain and bathed in the fractured glow of memories, beckoned him forward. Somewhere between the static of his fading dreams and the promise of a new, uncertain dawn lay the truth he had long evaded—a truth as elusive as the fleeting smile of a ghost, yet as persistent as the rain that never ceased.

In that final, lingering moment before the night swallowed him whole, Y/N closed his eyes and listened to the symphony of his past—the haunting refrain of “Moth Wing Hours,” the whispered echoes of a love lost and found in the static, and the promise of redemption hidden within the fractured reflections of neon light. The journey was far from over, and with each beat of his determined heart, he knew that the search for truth, however painful and elusive, was one worth the risk.

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The night deepened, and as Y/N finally mounted his bike once more, the city around him seemed to pulse with a renewed urgency. Every raindrop, every flickering streetlamp, every shard of broken glass on the pavement was a reminder of both the beauty and the brutality of a life lived on the edge of memory and possibility. He pedaled on, the remnants of his anger slowly dissolving into a quiet resolve. Tonight, beneath the relentless rain and the indifferent glow of neon, Y/N would confront the static that had haunted him for so long—and perhaps, in that act of defiance, find a way to reclaim the fragments of himself he’d long thought lost.

The urban night was alive with possibility, each corner and shadow a silent promise of stories yet to be told. As Y/N disappeared into the rain-soaked maze of city streets, his heart whispered a tentative hope: that even amid the static of shattered dreams, there might yet be a spark of something real—something that could light the way forward, however uncertain the path.

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The memory of that humid summer night still burned like an old photograph in Y/N’s mind—a moment when uncertainty danced with reckless possibility. It was his first open mic at The Iris Room, a dive bar where the walls were as worn as the stories of its patrons. Y/N, just 24 and armed with a hopeful guitar and a pocketful of unsung songs, stood on a rickety stage beneath a single, sputtering spotlight. The audience, a ragtag collection of night owls and lost souls, leaned in with half-expected indifference.

As he strummed the opening chords of a song he’d never fully finished, his voice wavered between passion and apprehension. Every note carried the weight of his insecurities and the tender promise of new beginnings. Mid-performance, when he dared to let his guard down, a sharp voice cut through the din. “Stop singing like you’re scared of the mic, poet,” came a taunt from the back of the room.

He paused, heart pounding, and then spotted her—Aeri, 23, with eyes alight like flares in the dark. Her tone was mischievous and daring, a challenge that stung yet invigorated him. The remark hung in the smoky air, a spark that ignited something inside him. Instead of retreating into his shell, Y/N found himself grinning, a flush of adrenaline and defiance coloring his cheeks.

After the set, with applause mingled with playful jeers, Aeri made her way to him. “You’ve got guts,” she said with a wry smile, leaning against the peeling backdrop of a backstage door. “But you’re holding back—like you’re afraid to let the real you out.”

Her words, sharp yet tender, cut through his uncertainty. The moment crackled with the electricity of two lives colliding unexpectedly. They traded barbed compliments and earnest confessions in the haze of cheap beer and neon reflections. When the night was winding down and the band’s final chord lingered in the air, Aeri whispered, “Come on. Let’s ditch this dump and do something reckless.”

Y/N hesitated for only a heartbeat before grabbing his coat and following her out into the sticky summer night. They left The Iris Room together, laughter trailing behind them like a shared secret. The humid air was thick with promise as they hopped onto a beat-up car and sped away from the dim lights and stale smoke of the bar.

Their destination was as unconventional as their encounter—a towering, abandoned water tower on the outskirts of the city. Its rusted metal skin and precarious perch promised both danger and freedom. As they climbed the narrow, creaking stairs, the city below spread out in a patchwork of lights and shadows. At the top, the world seemed suspended in a moment of both vertigo and liberation.

Aeri pulled out her camera with practiced ease. “Hold that smile,” she urged, aiming the lens at Y/N. With the cityscape behind him and the wind whipping his hair, Y/N’s laughter echoed off the cold metal—a pure, unguarded sound. In that moment, as the shutter clicked, she captured not just his face but the raw, unfiltered joy of that reckless defiance.

Barely containing her delight, Aeri teased, “You’re like a chord that won’t resolve.” Y/N’s grin widened as he retorted, “Maybe I’m a bridge to nowhere.”

Their banter mingled with the roar of the wind and the distant hum of a city that never slept. In that dizzying height, every word, every glance, vibrated with the intensity of newfound chemistry. When Aeri’s hand brushed against his, the connection was immediate—a live wire that seemed to electrify the very air between them.

As the night deepened, the duo settled on a battered metal bench near the edge of the water tower. Aeri, ever the provocateur, pulled a worn flask from her leather satchel and offered it to him. “Here,” she said, eyes twinkling, “for the bold and the brave.” In a moment of playful rebellion, Y/N snatched it from her hand and pretended to take a swig, only to toss it back with a laugh. The flask, like their burgeoning connection, was both a challenge and a token—a symbol of defiance against a world that had too often demanded conformity.

Their conversation wove through the night like an improvisational melody—stories of past heartbreaks, dreams too wild for daylight, and confessions whispered over the hum of a forgotten city. Every word felt charged with meaning, every pause pregnant with possibility. As they descended the water tower, their fingers remained intertwined—a silent promise of adventures yet to come.

By the time they reached the ground, the horizon was a blur of deep blues and emerging hints of dawn. That night, in the raw, unfiltered glow of urban rebellion, they had forged an unspoken pact: to live as though every moment were both a beginning and an end, a snapshot of perfection in a world of nearly-there moments. Their first meeting had been a collision of contrasts—a clash of vulnerability and audacity, leaving them both forever marked by the brilliance of a summer that almost was.

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In the weeks that followed, their whirlwind romance unfolded like a montage of vivid snapshots, each moment as fleeting and fragile as moth wings in a summer breeze. Aeri dragged Y/N into her nocturnal world, a realm of abandoned factories and forgotten landscapes, where the ruins whispered secrets of a once-thriving industrial past. At 3 a.m., when the city slept under a veil of darkness, she would lead him to places that pulsed with a raw, melancholic beauty.

One such night, they arrived at an abandoned factory on the outskirts of town. The building, draped in ivy and bathed in the ghostly glow of moonlight, seemed to breathe with memories of its past. Aeri’s camera was an extension of her steady hand, capturing each decaying detail with an artist’s eye. As she framed a shot of a rusted machine half-submerged in shadow, Y/N’s presence disrupted the serene stillness of her composition. He wandered into the frame, his eyes filled with wonder and a hint of mischief, transforming the image from a static relic into a living narrative.

“You always ruin the shot,” she laughed, shaking her head as she snapped a quick picture of him. But the irritation in her tone was softened by the affectionate glimmer in her eyes. In that brief exchange, Y/N felt both exasperation and adoration—a realization that she saw the beauty in his spontaneity even when it disrupted her meticulous plans.

In quieter moments, Y/N retreated to his notebook, scribbling lines of poetry and song lyrics that seemed to capture the duality of their connection. One passage in particular resonated with him as he wrote in a cramped diner booth, the words flowing almost unconsciously:

“You’re the flash that ruins the shot I’m the darkroom, begging for light.”

The line encapsulated everything: Aeri was a burst of brilliance that threatened to overwhelm the careful, shadowed spaces within him. Her presence illuminated parts of him he’d kept hidden away, and yet, it also unraveled the fragile fabric of his carefully curated persona.

But as with all passionate affairs, the summer was not without its fractures. One rainy afternoon, a letter arrived that upended their fragile idyll. It was from Aeri’s ex—a reminder of a past that refused to be forgotten. The letter was laced with bitterness and regret, accusing her of betraying what was once real. That night, in the cramped intimacy of her apartment, Aeri’s facade cracked.

Over clattering dishes and the low hum of an old fan, she confronted Y/N. “You’re romanticizing chaos,” she accused, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and sorrow. “Every time you spin your tales, you turn our moments into some tragic myth.”

Y/N’s eyes, usually so soft in the face of her intensity, hardened in response. “And you,” he shot back, “are nothing but an emotional tourist—riding the waves of every storm without ever letting the calm in.”

The argument reverberated through the night, punctuated by sharp words and longer silences. Their love, once a spontaneous burst of light, now flickered uncertainly in the shadow of old wounds and unresolved grief. Yet, even as anger spilled over, the undercurrent of desire remained undeniable—a magnetic pull that neither could fully resist.

After the fight, they found themselves drifting into a fragile silence. In the quiet moments that followed, Aeri’s eyes wandered back to the ruined letters and half-packed bags, and Y/N’s mind returned to the pages of his notebook stained with hastily scribbled verses. The vibrancy of their summer began to show the scars of reality—a reminder that even the most luminous moments can be marred by the ghosts of the past.

Despite the pain, there was beauty in their chaos. Each spontaneous adventure, every whispered word and stolen glance, was a piece of the mosaic that defined their summer. Their love was a collage of moments—bright, blurred, and sometimes broken—but it was entirely theirs. In the dim light of early morning, as they lay side by side on a threadbare rug in a forgotten loft, the echoes of laughter and argument blended into a haunting melody. It was a love story written in stolen snapshots and fleeting verses, as transient and unforgettable as the moth wings that fluttered in the heat of summer nights.

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Dawn crept in with an unforgiving clarity that shattered the illusions of the night. In the cold predawn light, Aeri moved silently through the narrow apartment they’d once shared, her footsteps echoing against tile and worn-out memories. Y/N lay still in a tangled heap on the bed, his eyes closed as if he could escape the painful finality of what was about to unfold.

She had always been the one to seize the moment—the wild, untamable spirit who never hesitated to break free. And now, as the first blush of morning painted the sky in pale pastels, she was leaving. The weight of their fractured summer pressed down on her with every careful step.

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open just as she paused by the door. He forced himself to remain still, feigning sleep as he watched her prepare to leave. In the quiet hush of that fateful morning, he sensed the end was near. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic and the soft clink of her keys in the lock.

Aeri lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, her silhouette framed by the weak light of dawn. Before stepping out, she pulled out her camera with a practiced precision. There was a final ritual she needed to perform—a goodbye captured in crystal-clear honesty. In a single, decisive moment, she turned the lens on Y/N, freezing him in a tableau of vulnerability. His face, relaxed and unaware of the significance of the shot, bore the deep lines of a man who had given his heart away too many times.

As the shutter clicked, Aeri’s hand trembled with the weight of what she was doing. In that silent snapshot, every unspoken word, every tear unshed, was captured in a moment of raw, unedited truth. Her eyes flickered over the image, then to the worn notebook on the bedside table where Y/N’s poetry had once spilled like secrets.

For a few agonizing moments, she fumbled with a crumpled piece of paper—a note that she had scribbled in a fit of conflicting emotions. The words were hurried and raw: “I’ll ruin us faster than art ever could.” The note, however, never found its way to him. In a sudden impulse, Aeri crumpled it into a tight fist and tore it up, scattering fragments of regret and unfulfilled promise across the cold floor.

Then, without another backward glance, she slipped out the door into the early morning haze, leaving Y/N alone with the echo of her departure. The apartment, once a sanctuary of shared dreams, now felt unbearably empty—a mausoleum of memories and lingering echoes of laughter.

Y/N remained still for a long while, the silence of the room pressing in on him like a suffocating fog. He listened to the distant sound of footsteps receding, each step marking the slow death of what had once been a blazing, uncontainable flame. In that quiet aftermath, he felt the sting of loss so acute that it seemed to tear at the very fabric of his soul.

He turned his head toward the window, where the first rays of the sun filtered through in brittle strips of light, and wondered if this was how every ending felt—both inevitable and shattering, like a masterpiece unraveled stroke by stroke. The crisp clarity of the morning betrayed no hint of the wild, transient passion that had defined their summer. Instead, it was a mirror reflecting back the broken shards of a love that had burned too fiercely to last.

For hours, Y/N lay there, caught between the desire to call out and the resignation of silence. He replayed every laugh, every heated argument, and every tender touch in his mind—each one a delicate thread in the tapestry of their brief, chaotic romance. And as the sun climbed higher, warming the cold floor beneath him, he realized that even in the midst of heartbreak, there was a strange, unyielding beauty in the truth of it all.

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Years later, the echoes of that tumultuous summer still resonated in the present, converging in a singular, charged moment. Y/N arrived at the gallery with his battered guitar strapped to his back—a silent testament to a life that had wandered far from the reckless days of youth, yet never quite escaped their shadow. The gallery buzzed with the hum of murmured conversations and the clink of glasses, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of polished wood.

Across the room, under the cool glow of strategically placed lights, Aeri stood framed by a backdrop of her photographs. Dressed in a tailored blazer that contrasted sharply with the raw, unfiltered images of pain and beauty she had captured, she exuded an air of controlled authority. For a moment, as she interviewed a particularly enthusiastic art critic, her composure faltered. Her eyes lifted and met Y/N’s across the crowded room—a silent collision of past and present that sent a jolt through both of them.

Time seemed to pause as memories cascaded between them—the fevered nights on water towers, the stolen laughter under abandoned factories, the quiet devastation of that final morning. In that suspended second, the gallery, with its pristine walls and hushed whispers, transformed into a stage for their unresolved history. Y/N’s heart pounded in his ears, the sound mingling with the ambient chatter, as he took a tentative step forward.

The critic’s questions faded into the background as Aeri’s gaze held his, raw and unspoken. For a brief, fragile moment, they were transported back to that summer of almosts—the incandescent flash of youth, the daring risk of vulnerability, and the bittersweet taste of what might have been. Aeri’s hand twitched near her side, as if reaching out to bridge the gulf of years and regrets. And Y/N, with a mixture of hope and hesitation, wondered if the unresolved chords of their past could somehow be tuned to a new melody.

In the charged silence that followed, both recognized that the distance between them was measured not in miles or years, but in the scars and memories that each carried. The gallery lights, soft and unforgiving, illuminated every wrinkle of regret, every lingering smile of nostalgia. It was a moment where the weight of their shared history pressed against the fragile present—a reminder that even as life marched forward, the past never truly let go.

As the room slowly returned to its normal rhythm, Aeri cleared her throat, regaining her professional poise, while Y/N lingered at the edge of the conversation like a ghost from a time when every note mattered. In that brief, electric encounter, the silent promise of unfinished music hung in the air—a promise that perhaps, someday, they would dare to play their old song once again.

The past and present, woven together in a delicate tapestry of memories and unspoken truths, revealed a love that was never entirely lost—only transformed into a haunting refrain that echoed through every chord and captured frame.

The evening had settled into a heavy, indigo twilight as guests filtered into the gallery. The space, a converted industrial loft with soaring ceilings and exposed brick, was filled with hushed conversations and the soft clink of wine glasses. Overhead, a single spotlight traced slow circles around Aeri’s photographs—a sprawling body of work that oscillated between raw brutality and a fragile, dreamlike beauty. It was as if every image was a confession, a whispered secret meant for those brave enough to look beyond the surface.

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Clusters of guests drifted among the images, their voices a murmur of appreciation and critique. One guest, a sharply dressed critic with a wry smile, stopped before a series of images that captured urban decay and intimate despair. He leaned in, appraising the photos with a measured gaze, then remarked loud enough for those nearby to hear, “Brave… if you like emotional voyeurism.” His tone was mocking yet laced with admiration—a dismissal that somehow validated Aeri’s work as both daring and disturbingly honest.

Y/N stood in a quieter corner of the gallery, a silent observer amid the well-heeled conversation. His gaze was fixed on a photograph titled “The Bridge to Nowhere.” It was a blurred shot of a water tower, its structure distorted by motion and shadow. The image seemed to capture something essential—a moment suspended between hope and futility, echoing the restless nights of their shared past. The photograph, much like the memory of that summer, was both haunting and achingly beautiful. Y/N’s thoughts swirled with the recollections of a time when every risk was a promise, when every misstep was a note in the symphony of youth.

The dim lighting in the gallery transformed the image into a ghostly vision. He could almost hear the echo of their laughter on that water tower, feel the electric thrill of their first encounter mingled with the uncertainty of what was to come. In that moment, every critique, every whispered appraisal in the room, faded into a background hum—insignificant compared to the relentless pull of the past.

Across the room, Aeri navigated her own storm of emotions. Dressed in a sleek, tailored blazer that belied the chaos of her inner world, she moved with a practiced grace. Yet every so often, her eyes would stray to the very photograph that haunted Y/N’s attention. It was as if, through that blurred image, both of them had found a piece of themselves they could never quite reclaim—a truth too raw to be confined to memory alone.

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As the exhibit drew on, the tension between past and present reached a fever pitch. The gallery’s polished interior gave way to a narrow, fire-escape landing behind the building, a shadowy refuge from the pretension of art critics and connoisseurs. Here, the rawness of the night reigned again. The metallic scent of rain and the chill of concrete underfoot were a stark contrast to the curated beauty of the exhibit.

Y/N found Aeri leaning against the cold railing, her gaze fixed on the city skyline—a tapestry of neon lights and distant sirens. The space between them was charged, a silent battleground for words unspoken for too long. Y/N stepped forward, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and yearning.

“You took the truth and smudged it into something safe,” he said, his tone both accusatory and desperate. His words cut through the night, raw as the wind that whipped around the fire escape.

Aeri’s eyes flashed with a storm of emotions—regret, defiance, and a deep-seated pain. “You think I didn’t try?” she shot back, her voice low and measured, though every syllable trembled with the weight of old wounds. “I’d point the lens at you, and it’d feel like… like aiming at the sun.” Her words were a confession, a brittle admission that the process of capturing truth was as dangerous and blinding as confronting it directly.

For a long, suspended moment, the only sound was the rustling of their breaths mingling with the city’s distant hum. The fire escape, lit only by the feeble glow of a streetlamp, became the stage for a collision of their two worlds—one forged in the incandescent heat of passion, the other cooled by the bitterness of memory.

Aeri’s gaze dropped to the small leather case slung over her shoulder—the one that contained all her most intimate photographs, the images she’d hidden away from prying eyes and the relentless scrutiny of the world. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she unlatched it and drew out a single print. It was an image she had never dared show anyone—a photograph captured in the darkness of a forgotten night, a moment when vulnerability and raw emotion intertwined to form something irretrievably real.

Y/N’s eyes widened as he took in the image. The photo was of him—at a moment of complete exposure. His face was lit by a soft, almost unearthly glow; his expression was one of tender anguish and hopeful defiance. It was as if every line, every shadow on his face, had been etched by a memory too painful to forget and too beautiful to ignore. The clarity of the image was in stark contrast to the blurred aesthetics of “The Bridge to Nowhere.” It was the unvarnished truth, stripped of artifice.

“I—” Y/N began, but his voice faltered. The room around him seemed to dissolve, leaving only the image and the haunting echo of a song in his mind. The static of all his past regrets, hopes, and dreams crescendoed into a familiar refrain—a melody he had long tried to bury but could never forget.

In that moment, as if summoned by the intensity of his emotions, the first notes of “Moth Wing Hours” began to swell within him. The song, raw and unpolished, rose from the depths of his memory. It was a piece Aeri had never heard, a melody woven from the threads of their shared history and the silent spaces between their words. Its strains were both a lament and a declaration, a summoning of every lost moment and every almost-forgotten promise.

The sound seemed to transform the night. The city below, the cold metal of the fire escape, even the distant hum of traffic, all receded as Y/N’s inner world surged forth. He could almost see the images of their past—flashbacks of a summer ablaze with possibility, of stolen kisses and reckless confessions. The song was more than music; it was an outpouring of every fragment of his soul that had been buried under layers of static and silence.

Aeri’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she watched him. For so long, she had hidden behind her camera, behind her carefully curated images, in an attempt to capture the truth without facing it. Now, faced with the raw, unfiltered emotion of the man before her, her defenses crumbled. The photograph in her hand trembled as if it, too, could sense the gravity of the moment.

————————————————————

The confrontation on the fire escape marked a turning point—a precipice between what had been and what could be. With the hidden photo still clutched in her hand, Aeri took a tentative step forward. The quiet urgency in her eyes spoke of regrets and unspoken apologies, of a love that had once burned fiercely but had been dimmed by time and circumstance.

Y/N, still clutching the weight of the photograph in his mind, slowly retrieved his battered guitar from the case slung over his back. The instrument, scarred and weathered by years of neglect and forgotten melodies, was as much a part of him as the memories that haunted his every chord. He sat down on the cold, metal step of the fire escape, the city lights flickering like distant memories around him.

With deliberate care, he positioned the guitar against his knee and began to strum—a single, raw note that cut through the stillness of the night. The sound was unpolished, rough around the edges, yet it carried with it an undeniable truth. Each chord resonated with the cumulative weight of every missed chance, every whispered regret, every spark of defiant hope that had flickered in the darkness of their shared past.

As the melody built, so did the intensity of their unspoken exchange. Aeri watched, transfixed, as the notes of “Moth Wing Hours” filled the space between them. There was a vulnerability in his playing—a surrender to the truth that had long been hidden behind layers of static and distance. The song unfolded slowly, each refrain a delicate tapestry of sound that intertwined with the fragile remnants of their memories.

Tears welled in Aeri’s eyes as she absorbed the raw emotion in every note. Her camera, once a tool for capturing the fleeting beauty of the world, now hung limply by her side—a silent witness to the convergence of art and life. The layers of artifice and carefully contrived images fell away, leaving only the bare, unfiltered essence of who they once were—and perhaps, who they could still become.

For a long while, the two stood there on the fire escape, the night embracing them with its cool, indifferent arms. There was no physical contact—no desperate reach or trembling embrace. Instead, there was a communion of souls, a recognition that in the interplay of light and shadow, truth and art, they had found something worth preserving.

The music swelled, a crescendo of emotion that echoed through the empty streets below. Y/N’s fingers danced over the strings, coaxing the final notes from the guitar as if to seal the past and herald a new beginning. The song, filled with every fragment of their broken history and every glimmer of hope, hung in the air—a fragile promise that the static could finally fade.

In that suspended moment, the relentless noise of life—the criticisms, the ghostly echoes of mistakes, the ever-present reminder of what had been lost—began to dissolve. The collision of their worlds, so long marked by the fractures of time and regret, softened into a quiet understanding. The harsh lines of memory blurred, giving way to a tender, unspoken possibility.

Aeri’s tears fell silently as she listened, each drop a small testament to the emotions that had been held at bay for far too long. Y/N’s playing was not just a performance—it was an act of confession, a desperate attempt to reconcile the shards of a past that had been shattered by the weight of dreams deferred. The notes of “Moth Wing Hours” wove around them like a cocoon, a fragile barrier against the relentless tide of the world outside.

When the last chord finally faded, the silence that followed was profound. It was a silence filled not with emptiness, but with the unspoken promise of renewal—a moment where every raw, painful truth was met with the gentle possibility of forgiveness. Y/N’s eyes met Aeri’s, and in that exchange, both knew that the collision of their lives had not been an end, but a chance—a narrow, trembling opportunity to rebuild something honest from the ruins of what had been.

Without a word, Y/N set his guitar aside, the echo of his song lingering in the night air like a benediction. Aeri, still trembling, slowly retrieved the hidden photograph from her jacket pocket. In the weak glow of the streetlamp, she allowed herself a final, shuddering breath—a silent farewell to the ghosts of their shared past and an acceptance of the fragile, uncertain future that lay ahead.

For a long, aching moment, neither spoke. The raw, unvarnished emotion between them was palpable—a truth too heavy for words, yet light enough to bear hope. The static of all the past, the noise of regret and the clamor of what might have been, had finally begun to fade into the gentle hum of a new beginning.

As the city resumed its nocturnal rhythm, Y/N turned away, leaving the fire escape and the echoes of the past behind him. Aeri lingered a moment longer, her heart full of all the things unsaid and undone, then stepped back into the gallery. Inside, the harsh critiques and the polished facades of art awaited, but for a brief, transcendent instant on that cold fire escape, the raw pulse of truth had reawakened something long dormant.

In the days that followed, neither could entirely erase the memory of that night—the night when art and life collided, when every fractured note and blurred image spoke of a love both haunting and redemptive. Y/N continued to play his music, the unpolished notes of “Moth Wing Hours” now a permanent refrain in his heart. And Aeri, her camera now a little heavier with the weight of remembered truth, sought out new images—each one a step toward capturing not just the fleeting beauty of the world, but the unyielding truth of a love that had once dared to defy the static.

They never touched that night, never bridged the distance with a single embrace. But in the quiet resolution of their separate paths, there was a promise—a promise that though the static of their past might always echo faintly in the background, they had finally chosen to let the unvarnished truth shine through.

As dawn broke over the city one crisp morning, the remnants of the night’s collision lingered like a soft melody in the air—a reminder that even in the midst of shattered dreams and blurred memories, there existed a fragile, defiant hope. And somewhere in that hope, the truth of who they once were—and who they might yet become—was etched in every fading note and every captured image, waiting, quietly, for the day when the static would finally be silenced.

————————————————————

In that silent space between yesterday and tomorrow, the choices they made—of art, of truth, of love—resonated far beyond the confines of a single night. The exhibit had been a canvas for Aeri’s struggles, a testament to the pain and beauty that had always defined her vision. The fire escape had been their confessional, a place where raw truths were spoken in whispers against the roar of the city. And the final, tentative notes of “Moth Wing Hours” had been both an ending and a beginning—a declaration that, no matter how fractured the past, the future was theirs to create.

The collision of their lives, so vivid and violent in its intensity, had not been about reunion or reconciliation in the conventional sense. It was about confronting the ghosts of their shared history, accepting every imperfect note and blurred memory, and choosing, despite it all, to carry forward the fragile light of truth.

For Y/N, the music had always been a refuge—a sanctuary where every dissonant chord and every melancholic refrain held the promise of redemption. For Aeri, her lens was a way of seeing the world in all its painful, luminous detail. And for both of them, the choice to stand on that fire escape, to let the static fade into a quiet, unguarded melody, was a small act of defiance—a declaration that, even in a world awash with half-truths and muted regrets, there remained the possibility of something real, something unyielding.

And so, as the gallery lights dimmed and the night retreated into memory, the echoes of that fateful collision lingered—a testament to the power of truth, art, and the indomitable human spirit. In the space where music, memory, and image converged, a new chapter was written—a chapter not of perfection, but of raw, unvarnished beauty, where every note, every captured image, and every silent tear told the story of lives that dared to defy the static.

————————————————————

As the new day dawned, a subtle shift had taken place. The unresolved tension between art and truth, between the photographer and the musician, had not been erased but transformed into something more profound. The static that had once drowned out their voices now lay softened by the resonance of honesty—a reminder that, in the end, even the most fragmented hearts can create a symphony when they choose to embrace the full spectrum of light and shadow.

In that delicate balance between loss and hope, between memory and renewal, Y/N’s song continued to play—a song of truth, of love, and of the promise that the static would, at last, fade into silence.

Y/N’s world had shifted again. The past—every chord of regret, every flash of passion—had receded into a gentle hum, replaced by the steady cadence of life’s next movement. Now, he found solace in the familiar rhythms of teaching, where each imperfect note held the promise of discovery.

————————————————————

In a small community music school tucked away in a weathered building downtown, Y/N stood before a semicircle of students. The room was cluttered with worn instruments and scribbled sheet music, its windows streaked with the soft light of a fading afternoon. Today’s lesson wasn’t about scales or technical perfection; instead, Y/N introduced what he called “imperfect songs”—melodies that bore the scars of real life and the beauty of unfiltered truth.

“Music,” he began, his voice warm yet edged with a quiet intensity, “is never meant to be flawless. It’s the little mistakes, the unexpected pauses, that make it ours. Every off-key note, every stutter in your rhythm—it’s part of your story.” His gaze swept the room, catching the nervous smiles and tentative nods of his students, each clutching a guitar or keyboard as if it were their lifeline.

He led them through a simple chord progression, encouraging them to let their imperfections speak. “Play it with feeling,” he urged, “don’t try to make it perfect. Let the music breathe.” As the students hesitated at first, they slowly began to relax into the exercise. The room filled with a chorus of hesitant strums and tentative notes, and Y/N smiled, thinking of the songs that had once defined his own restless nights.

After class, a few students lingered, eager to ask questions or share fragments of their own stories. One student, a shy teen with a passion for lyrics, approached him quietly. “Mr. C,” she said, her voice soft but determined, “do you think it’s okay if my song isn’t… perfect?” Y/N knelt down to meet her eyes, his expression gentle. “Absolutely. Perfection isn’t what makes a song memorable—it’s the heart behind it. Remember, every masterpiece is born out of imperfection.”

As he walked home that evening, the city’s neon glow bathed the sidewalks in shifting hues. He thought of the moments when his own music had been raw and unguarded—a collection of fragments that somehow merged into the haunting refrain of “Moth Wing Hours.” Tonight, at a nearby dive bar, he would revisit that melody, offering it a new ending that spoke of transformation rather than despair.

————————————————————

The dive bar was a sanctuary for the misunderstood and the outcasts—a dimly lit den where the air vibrated with the sound of guitars and voices that had seen better days. Y/N took his usual spot on the small stage, his battered acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder like an old friend. The familiar murmur of the crowd wrapped around him, a living echo of his former life.

As he tuned his guitar, Y/N’s mind wandered back to the countless nights spent strumming the same chords in empty rooms, each note a testimony to his journey through loss, regret, and hope. Tonight, he would share a rendition of “Moth Wing Hours”—a song that had once captured the fleeting beauty of a love lost in the static of memory. But now, something within him had shifted. The static had faded, replaced by the warm afterglow of acceptance.

When it was his turn, Y/N stepped forward and began to play. The opening chords filled the room, gentle and unassuming at first, then building into a rich, resonant melody. As he sang, his voice carried both the weight of his past and the promise of a new beginning. When he reached the final verse, he paused, a moment of silence that hung heavy in the air.

Then, with a quiet certainty, he sang the final line: “We were the flash, Now we’re the afterglow.”

The words, simple yet profound, resonated with everyone present. For a moment, time seemed to slow as the audience absorbed the transformation encapsulated in that fleeting phrase. In that subtle shift from a burst of intensity to a lingering warmth, Y/N had captured the essence of change—the transition from the tumultuous brilliance of youth to the steady, enduring light of experience.

————————————————————

Miles away, in a quiet corner of the city, Aeri’s world was taking shape in stark, deliberate focus. Her studio was a space of creative solitude—a converted loft where sunlight filtered in through large industrial windows, illuminating rows of meticulously arranged photographs and scattered notebooks filled with handwritten thoughts. Here, amidst the controlled chaos of her artistic process, Aeri prepared for her final act of catharsis.

For weeks, she had wrestled with the decision of which image would define her upcoming exhibit. Every photograph she had taken was imbued with fragments of truth, yet one image haunted her—the clear, unblurred shot she had secretly kept, the one that captured the essence of what almost was. In that photo, Y/N’s features were rendered in sharp detail—a moment of vulnerable authenticity that had eluded her in every other frame. Now, with trembling resolve, she selected that image for submission, titling it “What Almost Was.”

Late into the night, with the exhibit deadline looming, Aeri composed a final email to the gallery curator. Her fingers moved hesitantly over the keyboard as she attached the image, her heart pounding with a mix of apprehension and exhilaration. In the message, she wrote: “This is the piece that captures the truth of our imperfection—the clarity in the chaos. It’s the one shot that reminds us that sometimes, the most honest moments are the ones we try hardest to hide.”

After sending the email, Aeri retreated to her studio’s back corner, where a small, worn mirror and a vintage camera awaited her next experiment. Tonight, she was determined to capture a self-portrait—a raw, unmediated look at herself that bore no filters, no distortions. With deliberate care, she set up the camera on its tripod, adjusting the focus until the world beyond the lens receded into a soft blur.

As she sat before the camera, Aeri allowed herself a rare moment of introspection. The image that would soon materialize on the screen was more than just a self-portrait—it was a declaration of self-acceptance, a recognition of every scar, every triumph, and every moment of vulnerability that had led her to this point. With a deep, steadying breath, she pressed the shutter.

The camera clicked, capturing a single, unadorned moment of truth. In the photograph, Aeri’s eyes met her own with a clarity that was both shocking and beautiful. There were no shadows obscuring her features, no layers of artifice to mask the raw emotion that lay within. It was simply her—unfiltered, real, and unmistakably present. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to see the full spectrum of her identity—the artist, the wanderer, the woman who had loved fiercely and lost deeply.

————————————————————

In the quiet aftermath of their separate acts of transformation, a subtle shift rippled through the city. Y/N’s classroom echoed with the sound of imperfect songs and tentative chords, a living reminder that beauty often emerged from the flawed and the unfinished. His dive bar gig had been more than just a performance—it was a reawakening, a reaffirmation that even the most battered heart could produce a melody that resonated with truth.

Aeri’s exhibit, bolstered by her final, unfiltered submission, garnered unexpected acclaim. Critics who had once dismissed her work as “emotional voyeurism” began to see a new depth—a vulnerability that transcended mere spectacle. The photograph titled “What Almost Was” became a focal point of the exhibit, its clarity standing as a testament to the unvarnished reality of love and loss. In the hushed reverence of gallery halls and intimate discussions, Aeri’s work spoke of both the fragility and the resilience of the human spirit.

As the days passed, the city continued its ceaseless rhythm—a blend of neon lights and whispered confessions, of dreams pursued and quietly abandoned. Yet, amidst the din, there were pockets of silence where new beginnings took root. In one such corner, a small, dusty radio in a second-hand shop began to hum with life. The static that had once obscured the truth of the world had finally faded, replaced by the clear, steady sound of a familiar melody—a song that echoed the journey from chaos to clarity.

Y/N, in his classroom, continued to inspire his students with his unconventional lessons. He often spoke of the beauty of imperfection and the strength found in vulnerability. His final line in “Moth Wing Hours”—“We were the flash / Now we’re the afterglow”—became a mantra not only for him but for every student who dared to embrace their own flawed, radiant journey. At every gig, at every lesson, the echo of that line reminded them all that even in the aftermath of brilliance, there could be a gentle, enduring light.

In her studio, Aeri hung the self-portrait next to “What Almost Was,” creating a small gallery of truths that were as clear as they were raw. Each image, each captured moment, was a step toward reclaiming her identity—not as an observer of chaos, but as a participant in the unfolding narrative of her life. With every click of her camera, she found solace in the fact that the clarity she sought was already within her, waiting to be acknowledged and celebrated.

The resonance of their separate journeys began to intertwine in subtle ways. A new student in Y/N’s class would ask him about the inspiration behind his teaching, and he’d speak of a summer long past—a summer where imperfections were not mistakes, but the very notes that composed the music of life. Meanwhile, a quiet art critic writing a review of Aeri’s exhibit remarked on the unexpected warmth and lucidity of her latest work—a testament to an artist who had finally learned to let go of the blurred boundaries between memory and reality.

On a crisp morning, as the city stirred awake under a pale sky, both Y/N and Aeri found themselves standing at the threshold of new chapters. Y/N, after another lesson filled with tentative strums and off-key harmonies, sat quietly by the window of the music school. He watched the rain wash away the remnants of yesterday’s melancholy, the droplets creating a transient mosaic on the glass. In that reflective moment, he realized that every imperfect song his students played was a promise—a promise that the beauty of life lay not in its flawless perfection, but in its raw, unedited truth.

At the same time, Aeri revisited her now-familiar studio, pausing to admire the self-portrait that had, in its unvarnished clarity, become a mirror of her own transformation. The image was a quiet revolution—a defiant declaration that she was no longer the haunted artist chasing ghosts, but a woman embracing her truth, every detail sharp and unblurred.

Somewhere in the gentle hum of the early morning, a solitary radio in a forgotten corner of the city sprang to life. Amid the soft whispers of a new day, the familiar strains of a song filled the air—a melody that had once been lost in static, now emerging with a crystalline clarity. The transformation was complete, the collision of art and life forging a new harmony in the wake of all that had come before.

Somewhere, a radio clicks on. The static is gone.

#kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop gg #kpop imagines #kpop girls #aespa imagines #aespa giselle #giselle #idol x male reader #idol x reader #aeri uchinaga #aeri x reader #uchinaga aeri #giselle x you #giselle x reader #aespa x reader #aespa x you #aespa x male reader #aespa x y/n

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jhyoos · 3 months ago

Text

REBEL GIRL

Chapter 2 : Aftershock

rockstar! sevika x influencer! reader

summary : (y/n) gets her phone blown up by fans while she’s at a promotional event.

warnings : swearing and a cringy ass band name.

notes: thank you all so much for over 100 likes on chapter 1! im forever grateful 🫶

taglist: @graciebloom @swordfemm4 @m00npjm @sevikasleftarm @moodient @fayecreates (comment a 🎸 if you wanna be in the taglist!)

chapters : one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten

The morning sunlight streamed through your apartment windows, casting a golden glow on the sleek black furniture and stacks of PR boxes you’d yet to unbox. A sharp knock on your bedroom door made you groan as you finished brushing the final stroke of your jet-black eyeliner.

“Y/N, are you ready? We’re going to be late!” your manager, Lauren, called out.

“I’m coming!” you shouted back, setting down your eyeliner and grabbing your leather jacket.

Today was a big deal: you were modeling for Eclipse Noir, a major fashion brand known for its bold, goth-inspired designs. It was one of the biggest collaborations of your career, and you couldn’t afford to mess it up—not that Lauren would ever let you forget that.

As you descended the stairs, Lauren was waiting by the door, scrolling on her phone. Her sharp suit and stern expression reminded you of why she was one of the best in the business. But when her eyes snapped up to meet yours, there was an unmistakable glint of irritation.

“So, are we going to talk about this?” she asked, holding her phone out to show you the glaring headline:

TMZ Exclusive: Influencer Y/N Spotted at Shattered Souls Concert in LA!

The article was plastered with a photo of you in the VIP section, looking effortlessly cool as you leaned against the barrier. Fans were already dissecting every detail of your appearance, and speculation about your connection to the band was running wild.

“Send me that. My makeup looks really good,” you said in a joking tone.

Lauren looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

You rolled your eyes. “What’s there to talk about? I went to support Caitlyn.”

Lauren sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You know how this looks, right? It’s one thing to go to a concert; it’s another for everyone to think you’re dating a rockstar—or worse, being used for clout.”

You snorted. “Caitlyn and the rest of the members are good friends of mine. Since when do I care about what TMZ thinks?”

“Since your brand is involved,” Lauren shot back. “You’re about to model for one of the most exclusive fashion labels in the industry. We need to make sure your image stays polished.”

“Polished?” You raised an eyebrow, gesturing to your edgy black outfit. “I don’t think anyone’s expecting me to play it safe.”

Lauren shook her head but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Fine, but keep your head in the game today. No distractions.”

The Eclipse Noir photoshoot was held at an upscale studio in downtown LA, its interior a moody mix of industrial and gothic aesthetics. Chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, casting dramatic shadows against the exposed brick walls.

You were ushered into hair and makeup almost immediately, where a team of stylists worked their magic. Your outfit—a tailored black leather jacket with studded accents, paired with high-waisted pants and knee-high boots—fit perfectly into your aesthetic.

As the cameras started flashing, you felt the familiar rush of being in your element. Each pose was deliberate, every expression calculated. The photographer praised your ability to embody the brand’s edgy but elegant vibe, and even Lauren looked pleased for once.

“Perfect, Y/N. Just one more look,” the photographer called out as a stylist adjusted your jacket.

Between shots, you caught glimpses of your phone lighting up with notifications. Comments flooded your Instagram posts, and fans were tagging you in the TMZ article nonstop.

It wasn’t until you were in the dressing room changing into your last look of the day that a message from Caitlyn popped up:

“Hey, how are you holding up after the TMZ thing? Let’s catch up. Meet me at Sable Café after my gig tonight?”

You smiled, typing back a quick reply:

“I’m fine, just amused. See you tonight.”

Later that evening, after finishing your shoot and grabbing a quick dinner, you found yourself at Sable Café. The small, intimate space was lit by warm hanging lights and smelled of freshly brewed coffee. It was quieter than usual, which you appreciated after the whirlwind day.

Caitlyn was already there when you arrived, seated in a corner booth with a steaming cup of tea and a cup of coffee she got for you. She waved you over, her usual calm demeanor replaced by a faintly amused smirk.

“Hey,” you greeted, sliding into the seat across from her. “How was the gig?”

“Same as always,” she said, leaning back. “Though Vi was even more over the top than usual.”

You chuckled. “Sounds about right. So, what’s up?”

Caitlyn tilted her head, studying you. “You tell me. That article’s got everyone buzzing about you and the band.”

You shrugged, taking a sip of your coffee. “It’s TMZ. They’ll forget about it by tomorrow.”

“Maybe, but you’re not exactly blending into the background.” Caitlyn’s tone was teasing, but her expression softened. “Seriously, though. How are you feeling about it? You’ve been in the spotlight before, but this is different.”

“It’s fine, really,” you said, brushing it off. “If anything, it’s funny. People are acting like I’m dating someone in the band.”

Caitlyn laughed. “Well, you did have that little moment with Sevika.”

You rolled your eyes. “It wasn’t a moment. She’s just... Sevika. You know how she is.”

“True,” Caitlyn admitted, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Still, you’re handling it well. I was half-expecting you to freak out.”

You smirked. “Give me some credit. I’m tougher than I look.”

As the soft hum of café chatter surrounded you, Caitlyn took a slow sip of her tea, her eyes lingering on you thoughtfully. You set your coffee down, arching an eyebrow at her.

“What?” you asked, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You know, the band’s heading out on tour soon.”

“Okay…” you said, dragging out the word. “And?”

“And,” Caitlyn continued, her tone deliberate, “I think you should come with us.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Think about it,” she said, a spark of excitement in her eyes. “We’ve been talking about expanding our audience online, and your platform is massive. You could help us create behind-the-scenes content, give fans an insider look at the tour. Plus, we’d get to hang out more.”

You hesitated, tapping your fingers against your cup. “I don’t know, Cait. I’ve got my own projects lined up. And after that TMZ article…”

“That’s exactly why it’s perfect,” Caitlyn interrupted. “Lean into it. If people are already talking, give them something to talk about. Show them the real story.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “And by ‘real story,’ you mean what? Taming Jinx? Me babysitting Sevika and Vi while they flirt with half the planet?”

Caitlyn chuckled. “You’re not wrong, but you’d also get to see what it’s like behind the scenes of a tour. Think of the content opportunities—mini vlogs, exclusive interviews, maybe even some collabs. It’s a win-win.”

You leaned back in your chair, considering her words. The idea of touring with the band was tempting—there was no denying that. The exposure could be huge for your brand, and the experience itself would be unforgettable. But you couldn’t ignore the potential chaos, especially with Sevika in the picture.

“I don’t know, Cait,” you said slowly. “It’s a lot to take on.”

Caitlyn smiled, sensing you were warming up to the idea. “Just think about it, okay? No pressure. But I’d love to have you there.”

You sighed, a small smile creeping onto your face. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Caitlyn said, raising her tea in a toast. “Here’s to adventures—potentially disastrous ones.”

You laughed, clinking your cup against hers. Despite your reservations, the idea of going on tour with Shattered Souls had planted itself firmly in your mind. And something told you that this was just the beginning of a wild ride

The faint hum of an engine greeted you as you stepped onto the tour bus, your suitcase rolling behind you. The space was surprisingly cozy, decked out with plush seating, a mini kitchenette, and bunks lining the narrow hallway. A faint scent of leather and something faintly citrusy lingered in the air, blending with the faint echo of Vi humming a melody from somewhere deeper in the bus.

“Welcome to the chaos,” Caitlyn said, grinning as she leaned against one of the built-in couches.

Vi popped her head out from a back corner, her guitar strapped across her chest. “Hey, rockstar!” she greeted, giving you a casual salute. “You’re brave for signing up for this circus.”

You laughed, pulling your suitcase into the bus. “What can I say? I like a challenge.”

Jinx, sprawled out on one of the couches with a drumstick twirling between her fingers, snorted. “You’re gonna regret saying that when Vi starts her late-night jam sessions.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Vi said, plucking at her guitar strings. “She loves it.”

“Lies,” Jinx quipped, smirking.

Caitlyn nudged you gently. “Come on, let me show you where you’ll sleep.”

You followed her down the narrow hallway, passing bunks stacked two high. She stopped in front of one with a neatly made bed, the bottom bunk open for you. “Here you go,” Caitlyn said, gesturing. “Home for the next few weeks.”

“Perfect,” you said, sliding your suitcase beside the bed. “Thanks, Cait.”

“Settle in. We’ll hit the road soon,” Caitlyn said before disappearing back to the front of the bus.

You knelt by your suitcase, unpacking essentials and carefully organizing them into the small shelves above the bunk. The space was tight but manageable, the rhythmic hum of the bus adding a strange sense of calm. You reached up to place your toiletry bag on the highest shelf when you felt it—a bold, unmistakable hand pressing against your ass.

Startled, you snapped around, ready to deliver a sharp retort. Instead, you found yourself face-to-face with Sevika. She leaned in close, one arm lazily gripping the rail of the top bunk above you, effectively caging you in. Her towering frame loomed over you, and her signature smirk was even more infuriating this close.

"Nice view," she drawled, her voice low and rich, dripping with amusement.

You arched a brow, crossing your arms as you tilted your head up to meet her gaze. “Wow, straight to harassment. Do you always skip the foreplay?”

Her grin widened, clearly delighted by your sass. “Foreplay’s overrated. I like to get to the point.”

You let out a dry laugh, leaning casually against the bunk behind you despite the way her proximity made your heart race. “Is that what you call this? Because right now, it’s giving ‘desperate.’”

Sevika chuckled, her gaze flicking to your lips for just a second before returning to your eyes. “Desperate? That’s a bold assumption, sweetheart. Seems like you’re still standing here talking to me, though.”

“Only because you’re blocking the way,” you shot back, nodding pointedly toward the arm she had resting above you. “Or do you think looming over people is some kind of charm tactic?”

She shifted slightly, leaning in closer, her smirk never faltering. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

“Not the way you think,” you replied, your voice steady, even as your pulse betrayed you. “But hey, if this is the best you’ve got, I can see why the fan girls swoon. Low standards must really be your thing.”

Sevika laughed at that, a deep, rumbling sound that somehow sent a shiver down your spine. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, Y/N. I like that.”

“And you’ve got no sense of boundaries,” you quipped, reaching up to tap the arm she still had braced above you. “Mind moving? I’ve got things to do.”

Instead of retreating, Sevika leaned in even closer, her smirk softening into something more challenging. “What if I said I don’t mind staying right here?”

You tilted your head, refusing to back down as you matched her stare. “Then I’d say you’re about to have a real boring time watching me unpack.”

She grinned, finally stepping back and dropping her arm. “Alright, you win—for now. But don’t think I’m done with you, sweetheart.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied with a sly smile, brushing past her. “But next time? Try asking nicely. It might get you somewhere.”

As you turned back to your suitcase, you caught Sevika’s low chuckle behind you, her voice floating down the hallway as she sauntered off. “You’re going to be fun, Y/N.”

You smirked to yourself as you resumed unpacking. Let her think she had the upper hand. If Sevika wanted to play games, she’d quickly learn you weren’t one to lose.

This is gonna be a long tour.

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bloodstainedsapphic · 1 year ago

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bartender mattheo riddle

i'm a slut for AUs and this one quickly shot up to being one of my favorites for mattheo.

for @thatdammchickennugget's hogmarch challenge, the prompt i went off of was 'firewhiskey/butterbeer'

As you tread the once-familiar cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade, the rhythmic click of your shoes provides a temporary distraction from the storm swelling inside your thoughts. For such a lively village, the action around you feels distant, too far in the past to offer any respite similar to the steady cadence beneath your feet.

To outside viewers, you appear as any young person donning a modest party dress and looking for a casual spot to unwind for the evening. They wouldn't know this was your first visit to Hogsmeade in over five years since you finished your schooling at Hogwarts. You had left the highlands, your small hamlet, for bigger, better things—or so you had thought.

Reality didn't guarantee such promises you had dreamed of in those few years. Currently barely making ends meet and running on a general sense of uncertainty, you decided it was as good a time as any to revisit your hometown and the magical communities surrounding it, including this cheerful wizarding town you had frequented throughout your adolescence.

You first tried your luck with the Three Broomsticks, but the bustling atmosphere proved too overwhelming for the discreet return you aimed for. With the decision between the rundown Hog's Head inn and a newer, more upscale establishment called 'Celestial Sips,' you opted to see what this new 'fancy-schmancy' spot was all about.

You stealthily step through the polished entry doors to scan the venue, which is dimly lit beside faint golden lights. It is adorned with oddly shaped furniture more suited for artistic expression rather than usability. It appears far more modernized than the traditional charm most common with Hogsmeade’s businesses, young wizarding folk undoubtedly curated it with heavy inspiration coming from muggle cocktail lounges.

The existence of the bar itself in a place such as Hogsmeade wasn't the most earth-shattering part of this night out. It was when your eyes met with the lead bartender, and a flood of memories filled your senses as you realized it was none other than Mattheo Riddle.

His dark curls were unruly as ever but fell in such a way that made him irresistible. His piercing dark gaze caught yours, sparking with recognition. The scar across the bridge of his nose was just as prominent as it was six years ago, as vivid as the day you had dragged him to the hospital wing to get his split nose mended after a particularly grueling fistfight.

That memory also reminds you just how close you and him once were. While you had never officially dated, you did everything a couple would and then some. You shared countless fun late nights, as well as having been there for each other during the more trying ones. And although sexual intimacy didn't come until after graduation, the passion of those post-school days also remains etched in your memory. It was your decision to pursue "bigger things" that had cut that short, leaving you with a lingering sense of what might have been.

Despite the distance between you as you reeled from the shock of encountering him here, you couldn't help but notice the changes in Mattheo over the past five years. Mattheo exuded a confidence far from the troubled boy you once knew at school. He had grown taller, broader, and even more handsome than before. He was also now littered with tattoos that only added to his allure, tempting you to bridge the distance separating you further.

Your knee-jerk reaction would have been to flee the scene, but since you had already met eyes and he was actively beckoning you forward to the bar as you battled with your thoughts, you had no choice but to participate in the unexpected reunion.

You sat at a bar stool, and Mattheo quickly welcomed you with a warm but distinctively husky tone. It was clear that Mattheo was struggling to mask his excitement over seeing you as he tried to maintain some professionalism while behind the bar.

"The greatest stroke of luck I've encountered since taking the job at this fancy joint," Mattheo started with genuine delight, "I can't believe it's you. You look fantastic," his quick work of sweet-talking you did the trick as your cheeks flushed, though still totally sober. Mattheo was also swift in amending that, sliding a vodka cranberry before you with a nod, "On the house. Let me know if you want something more 'refined' for the setting; I just went with an old favorite."

You let out a soft giggle, drawing the straw to your lips to sip the drink. The sweetness of the juice masks the burn, perfectly balanced to not overwhelm from either end.

With Mattheo's excellent job of putting you at ease, you finally replied. "Indeed, you always teased me for not being a whiskey drinker. Old habits die hard," you quipped, taking another sip before continuing. "But, look at you! A bartender? Mattheo, I must say, I'm thrilled to see you here and not, well.." your words lingered away at the implication, realizing it might not sound as encouraging as intended. There were all sorts of rumors of him headed to a life of dark wizardry, so seeing him here was a relief. But he didn't have to hear about any of that, not now. Quickly shifting your approach, you perked up to suggest, "And at this luxurious place? While I appreciate the old favorite, I would love to see what magic you could conjure up in a cocktail glass."

Mattheo laughed and shook his head momentarily before piping up again. "Seems your confidence has skyrocketed. I'm glad to see that, princess," he teased with a cheeky smirk, earning an eye roll from you that only amused him further. You again feel a little heated at the nickname, opting not to question it. You could see that the mischievous glint in his eyes was alive and well as he began meticulously combining various expensive-looking drinks and mixers just for you. Simultaneously, Mattheo tended to other existing patrons, expertly traversing the sprawling bar to ensure everyone's needs were met and drinks stayed filled.

Observing how Mattheo carried himself with such assuredness only heightened your attraction. Each movement he made to speak with patrons and craft drinks allowed you to appreciate his muscled physique. You were no better than a groupie ogling his toned, tattooed arms, his hands still bearing faint scars from his past. The sight of his veins flexing with every motion ignited a fire in your stomach that you hoped wouldn't consume you entirely.

His broad shoulders and slim waist were accentuated by his dark button-up dress shirt. That caught your attention, as did when your gaze moved downward and drifted over his perfectly sculpted behind. You were abruptly snapped from your desirous stupor when the object of your admiration set a much fancier cocktail before you.

"Like what you see?" Mattheo asked with a smug, teasing tone, causing you to want to disappear into the ground beneath your stool. You must have been less-than-subtle about checking him out, but he didn't seem to mind as he continued without further ribbing. "Try that. It's the Mattheo special," he said, watching you intently to see how you reacted to the first sip.

You smirked at the oh-so-creative name and then inspected the drink itself. It was rather extravagant, a lavender purple hue with swirls of gold shimmering with every swish of the glass.

Without hesitation, you lifted the glass and took a small sip. A delightful combination of blueberry and lemon overtook your tastebuds, almost completely shielding the strength of the alcohol in the drink. Hell, you were prepared to question if it was mixed at all had you not watched him pour at least a shot's worth of vodka into it.

You gave him a smile of approval, to which Mattheo grinned widely, clearly pleased to see you liked it. With the other patrons momentarily tended to, Mattheo rested his elbows on the counter, surprising you with his sudden proximity as he leaned forward, suggesting he had something enticing to say.

"I hope this isn't too forward, but I'd really like to catch up," Mattheo spoke in a hushed tone. It sounded innocent enough, but the question, paired with his gaze lingering on your figure, told you he meant anything but. "Would you consider sticking around till close?"

Yes, yes, yes! Your internal monologue screamed. On the outside, you locked eyes with him and smirked, your expression conveying you understood his intentions well. "I don't have anywhere else I want to go; I can stick around."

-----------------------

You were cautious with your drinking to avoid getting too intoxicated for your later plans with Mattheo. As the closing time for Celestial Sips approached, you remained near the counter, bantering with other patrons. Mattheo delegated cleaning duties to other employees while he called for final rounds and closed tabs. Each time your eyes met, a shared twinge of excitement passed between you.

After another hour or so, Mattheo finally shut down the lit 'open' sign, leaving you two together alone. While this is what you wanted, your nerves welled up upon the realization that it was just the two of you here. A hint of insecurity came over you. He had grown to be such an attractive, confident man, and you could only hope he found you equally appealing. That line of thought was interrupted when Mattheo began approaching you. His expression, filled with hunger, was directed at you. His captivating eyes combined with the deep-brown locks drooping over his forehead implored you to swoon from where you sat.

"Merlin, princess, you have no idea how much I've missed you," Mattheo murmured, his voice brimming with seduction as he closed the distance, his hands finding their place on the curve of your waist. “Please let me know if you want me to slow down at any time." His words echoed in your ears, bringing you comfort even though you felt wholly prepared to surrender to all of his desires.

Mattheo advanced until your back pressed against the front of the counter. His lips found the crook of your neck, peppering your skin with a trail of wet kisses in their wake. A moan escaped your lips as his actions ignited your longing for more; everything you had wished his hands on you would feel like coming true. However, the heat was cut short far too soon when Mattheo suddenly took a pause from all of the heavy petting.

"You seem tense," Mattheo remarked with a hint of concern. You promptly reassured him with affectionate pecks to his cheek before admitting, "I just hope I'm good for you." His eyes briefly darkened as if displeased by your hesitancy. Suddenly, both of his hands moved to cup your cheeks, and he gazed deeply into your eyes.

"You are the most beautiful person I've ever laid eyes on. I meant every word when I said I fantasized about a moment like this with you for years," he confessed. The sincerity in his voice compelled you to trust him, leaving you with no doubt about whether he wanted this.

Seeing you take his words to heart, Mattheo's expression then lit up, clearly having a lightbulb moment. "If you're ready, this place is chock full of drinks to help us both loosen up a bit," As soon as he mentioned it, you felt almost silly having overlooked the idea, realizing that some liquid confidence was the answer to easing your nerves. You nodded, and Mattheo took his hand in yours and gently guided you behind the bar counter.

"Do you trust me?" He asked, and you instantly replied, "I do."

In one swift motion, one hand made its way to the back of your head and the other to the small of your back so he could pull you into a passionate kiss. Your tongues found each other in a dance, his dominant side quickly winning over as his tongue protruded into your mouth. When you briefly pulled away to catch your breath, your cheeky side showed itself when you gently tugged on his bottom lip with your teeth. He moaned slightly, to your satisfaction, and you took advantage of the moment to run your hand over his chest, feeling the muscles underneath that dress shirt. You finally had Mattheo Riddle all to yourself, and you wanted all of him.

Without warning, he grabbed you by the hips, pulled you close, and spun you around to bend you over the counter. One hand curled around your hair to create a makeshift ponytail, the other wasting no time grabbing a bottle of fire whiskey within arm's reach and placing it beside you.

"I'm sorry, doll. I know you love vodka, but whiskey is perfect for tonight."

You looked up at him with doe-like pleading eyes as he gripped your hair, nodding as much as you could though restricted by his hold. He grinned wickedly over your enthusiastic consent before looming over you with a dominating presence. "Open up that mouth, princess."

Your lips slightly parted as Mattheo brought the open bottle of whiskey to your mouth. He poured a shot's worth down your throat, the intense heat burning on your tongue without anything to chase it down. Yet, as Mattheo force-fed you the drink and whispered praises in your ear about how you 'take it so well,' the burn of the whiskey transformed into a divine sensation, exhilarating in the best way. The bar counter was the only thing stopping you from melting to the floor as you became weak in the knees, your aroused state especially susceptible to his praise.

Mattheo lifted the bottle away from you to take a swig, holding you to the counter with a heavy palm against your back. He sighed, satisfied by the burn.

After a moment, he turned his attention back on you and pulled your hair to the side, hastily marking your neck with suctioned kisses and nibbles. At the same time, Mattheo's fingers ghosted down your back, caressing your ass and jolting you with a swift spank, finally reaching underneath your dress to stroke your cunt through your slick panties.

"Merlin, princess, after seeing the way your lips wrapped around that bottle, I wanted to fuck that pretty mouth so bad. But feeling how goddamn wet you are for me, I'm not sure either of us can wait for my cock to be inside your perfect, tight pussy."

His long fingers moved away from your aching core, reaching up and now brushing against your lips. "Will you wet my fingers a little more for me?" he asked in a voice too enticing for such an indecent request. You immediately allowed him to intrude your mouth, his fingers already covered in your taste though he had just barely begun to touch you. "We have to prepare that pussy don't we?" he groaned into your ear. You were distracted as his hardened cock ground into your ass between the fabric of your dress and his trousers.

You could tell he was beginning to lose himself as he seemed enamored by the way your mouth slipped over his fingers, swirling your tongue around them in a show of desperation to please.

Once content with your wetting of his fingers, he pulled them from your mouth and went back to exploring your panties, pushing them aside to tease your folds before slipping the first of his fingers in. It was seamless, not surprising for you, having lusted over him the entire night.

"Fuck, you're still so tight, doll. I have to stretch you out, so this feels as good for you as it will for me."

After a few moments, he introduced a second finger to your soaked cunt. He didn't move at first but gradually began pumping them inside. He could have cum on the spot witnessing your frenetic response to just two fingers.

"Careful, princess. If you want to come on my fingers, you need to beg for it." The words sent a shudder of desperation through your entire body, legs threatening to give out from underneath you as the artful use of his fingers in tandem with his dirty talk brought you toward your first orgasm, unable to resist it even if you tried. Mattheo kept his movements steady as your eyes rolled back and your walls clenched around him, a deep voice leaving the back of his throat to growl, "that's it, ride my fingers, you little slut," His tone this time was demanding, you knew he was displeased by your disobedience. His untamed, hungry expression evolved into something more conniving as he contemplated how to punish you for cumming without permission.

"You like that, huh? A slut who couldn't wait to beg? I should put my cock inside you and make you cum until you can't stand it anymore, then, hm? Do you want that? Cry for it, princess, or you're not getting it."

You quickly fulfill this command with desperate pleas, "Please, Mattheo, please, fill me with your cock."

"Fucking hell, princess--if I wasn't about to bust, I'd have you begging more. Desperation sounds fucking delicious rolling off your tongue," Mattheo growled against your ear as one of his hands haphazardly moved back to his trousers, hastily unbuttoning them to allow his needy length to spring free and press against you. The relief of finally freeing himself caused a deep groan to slip past his lips which only seemed to increase his urgency as his hands quickly found their place on your body again, yanking your dress up over your ass and delivering a forceful slap to your exposed flesh. You yelped and squirmed reflexively from the sting, much to his delight. "That's my fucking ass, don't forget it," he groaned with a certain smugness at the sight of his handprint forming on your skin.

"Please, Matty, please fuck me," you pleaded with a nearly pathetic level of desire. With that, Mattheo decided not to waste another second before indulging you. He took hold of your hips, guiding his cock to your slick folds, and slowly started to ease himself inside of you.

You gasped at the intrusion, reveling in the stretch, but Mattheo cooed praises to relax you enough so there was little discomfort as you adjusted to his size. "Fuck, you fit around me so well. perfect pussy, perfect girl." he groaned as he could feel your wet warmth surround him. “is this okay?"

"Yes, please keep going."

Mattheo used the makeshift ponytail of your hair to lift your head and press his full weight against you onto the counter. His hips began to move, thrusting slowly to start until he was absolutely sure you could take him. With you now sandwiched between his body and the cold surface, he worked up to fucking you at a relentless pace, the base of his cock clashing against your ass as he bottomed out inside of your cunt. The hand steadying you by the hip reached up to wrap around your throat, squeezing at the sides enough for you to feel his strength but not enough to cause pain. It seemed almost to be a reminder for himself not to completely lose to the animalistic urges as he continued to increase the intensity. Your pelvis clanging against the bar didn't matter; you always like it rough, and he knew it.

"Princess, oh gods, I don't know if I'll last." He moaned into your ear paired with short, hot breaths. "You feel so fucking good; I wanted this for so..fucking...long." he sang his praises between each punctuated thrust that hit just the right spot inside of you again and again. The repeated stimulation triggers your second orgasm, your walls clenching around his cock as a choked moan barely escapes your lips- the sound being caught by his firm hold on your neck.

"We're fucking meant for each other, babe," Mattheo grunted as you rode through your wave of pleasure. All you could do in your cockdrunk state was mewl in response, which fueled his ego. "Perfect dumb slut for me, you love taking my cock, don't you? Tell me how much you love my cock," his dirty talk turned more degrading as your most depraved desires inched closer to showing themselves on the surface.

"Love your cock Matty.. mhm so good..."

"Good slut. Now, say you're mine," he commanded, completely frenzied with his pacing.

"I'm yours." you babbled with complete devotion. Mattheo groaned as you so willingly gave into his possessiveness, the very idea of owning every part of you being the tipping point to let his release out inside of you. His rutting became erratic and slowed as he rode through his orgasm, the last few pumps matching your third orgasm in stride.

He then laid limp on top of you, letting out heaving exhales to regain his composure. For the moment, he left his cock to twitch inside of you, relishing in the warm feeling. Once convinced he could get up properly, he pulled out, leaving your pussy dripping with his cum as his entire body lurched over you.

"That was perfect, you were perfect. Best stroke of luck in ages," he mused with a throaty chuckle, recalling his first words when you locked eyes at the beginning of the night. "Can you walk?" he asked, mostly teasingly because the shaking of your legs answered that question without a doubt.

"No," you spoke softly, the giggles you had at the beginning of the night starting to return even if your mind wasn't still fully there from the back-to-back stimulation.

With this, Mattheo decided to hold you for a while longer. You had a lot of catching up to do and piecing together both of your stories to find out how, after so many years, you still ended up right here. But for now, the shared presence was enough.

------------------ huge thankies to @slytherinslut0 for coaching me through this. i was very spooked to share. love y'all <3

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle au #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #slytherin #slytherin boys #hogmarch challenge

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14dayswithyou · 10 months ago

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Meowdy Saint! ^^ I've been replaying 14dwy recently and tbh I have a very comedic relationship with Ren because like... I adore him. It's love at first sight for me. But I don't believe a word he says. He brought me to his apartment and I was like "Hmmm. I don't think you live here, but I am down to makeout while we are here <3." I love the game so much!

✦゜ANSWERED: What do you mean?? He definitely lives there!! The upscale furniture and sterile smell are 100% Ren's aesthetic! Just ask the previous tenant who— Oh wait, they recently went missing, didn't they...

#💌 — answered.#💖 — 14 days with queue.#💖 — about ren.#💜 — blog canon.#littlegloriosa

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nayziiz · 10 months ago

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Witness | CL16

Summary: In the shadowy world of Monaco's elite, the Leclerc family reigns supreme. Charles Leclerc, the charming middle son, maintains their pristine public image—until one rainy night, during a fit of rage, Charles does the unthinkable. A young woman witnesses his actions, and her terrified eyes haunt him. Consumed by guilt and fear of exposure, Charles embarks on a desperate search to find her before she can destroy his family’s legacy. As he delves deeper into Monaco's underbelly, Charles must confront his own darkness and the lengths he will go to protect his family.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x OC (name to be revealed)

Warnings: Violence, blood, angst

Masterlist

Chapter 2

It was never her intention to stay in Monaco for as long as she did. The decision was made on a whim, a spontaneous deviation from their original plan. She and her best friend, Diana, had pooled all their savings to backpack through Europe, a final adventure before heading off to university the following year. They had dreams of exploring ancient cities, savoring exotic cuisines, and collecting stories to last a lifetime.

Except, they never made it out of Monaco. Halfway through their adventure, they ran out of money. The glitz and glamour of the principality had drained their funds faster than they anticipated. In a desperate bid to keep their dream alive, they decided to find work in Monaco until they had enough money to continue their journey or return home.

But they stayed. For her best friend, the decision was driven by an insatiable hunger for adventure and the thrill of the unknown. Monaco, with its opulent casinos, stunning coastline, and vibrant nightlife, was an irresistible playground. Every day brought new experiences, new faces, and the promise of excitement just around the corner.

For her, staying was about something deeper, something more poignant. She was trying to find a place to call home after the devastating loss of her parents. The memories of her past were wrapped in sorrow, her hometown a landscape of grief she wasn’t ready to face. If she had to return, it would be to a cold, empty apartment filled with silent reminders of a life she once cherished. The photographs on the walls, the worn furniture, the lingering scent of her parents’ presence—all of it was too much to bear.

Selling the apartment didn’t feel right either. It was her last tangible connection to her family, a physical space where she could still feel their presence. Despite her financial struggles, she couldn’t bring herself to part with it. It was her sanctuary, her link to a past that, while painful, was also filled with love and warmth. The idea of someone else living there, of it becoming just another property on the market, was unthinkable.

So she chose to stay in Monaco, finding solace in its cobblestone streets and the endless blue of the Mediterranean. She worked various jobs, from waiting tables to cleaning hotel rooms, anything that would allow her to survive and maybe, just maybe, thrive. Monaco became a place of healing, a backdrop to her search for a new beginning. It offered a sense of anonymity and escape, a way to redefine herself away from the shadows of her past.

Every day was a balancing act between the need to move forward and the pull of her memories. She built a new life in the bustling, vibrant city, finding moments of joy amidst the challenges. Monaco's beauty and chaos gave her the distraction she needed, and the transient nature of the city’s inhabitants meant she could reinvent herself as often as she needed to.

As they gained experience and confidence, their opportunities expanded. Waitressing in the casino was the next step—a more upscale, lucrative option that introduced them to a different side of Monaco's glittering facade. The casino, with its opulent decor and high-stakes atmosphere, was a realm of its own. She found herself fascinated by the people who frequented it: the wealthy, the desperate, the lucky, and the reckless. Each night brought new stories, new interactions, and a deeper understanding of the world she had plunged into.

Now, she manages the blackjack tables at one of the more popular casinos in the city. It's a position of responsibility and respect, one that she has earned through hard work and dedication. Her calm demeanour and sharp mind make her a natural at handling the complexities of the job. She ensured the games ran smoothly, the customers were satisfied, and the house always had the upper hand. It was a far cry from the uncertain young woman who arrived in Monaco, and she took pride in the journey she had made.

Diana's lust for adventure meant she took a different path. Drawn by the allure of the open sea and the promise of new experiences, she ended up working as a stewardess on one of the locals' yachts. It was a job that took her beyond Monaco's borders, allowing her to travel to Italy, France, and Spain. Each trip was a new chapter, filled with sun-soaked days, glamorous parties, and the thrill of the unknown. She revelled in the freedom and excitement, her heart set on exploring as much of the world as she could.

Their paths diverged, but their bond remained strong. They shared stories of their adventures and challenges, finding comfort in each other’s experiences. She would listen to tales of Mediterranean coastlines and opulent yachts, while Diana would hear about the intrigues and dramas unfolding at the blackjack tables. They were both carving out their own versions of success, driven by different motivations but united by their shared past and the dreams that brought them to Monaco.

In the midst of their bustling lives, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Monaco had become more than just a stop on their journey. It had become a place where she could redefine herself, a place where she could heal.

For her, the days following the incident were a nightmare. She tried to stay indoors as much as she could, avoiding the outside world and the risk of bumping into the murderer. The image of Charles, his hands covered in blood and his eyes wild with panic, was seared into her mind. She didn’t know if he would harm her too and if she was in danger simply because she had witnessed his crime.

She was violently ill, throwing up every day as the memory crossed her mind. The nausea wasn’t just physical; it was a visceral reaction to the terror and helplessness she felt that night. Her once safe and vibrant life in Monaco now felt like a trap, with shadows lurking around every corner. The fear was suffocating, pressing down on her with every heartbeat.

When she finally returned to work, she took a different route, meticulously planning her path to avoid that alley. The thought of walking past the place where she saw the life drain from a man's eyes was unbearable. She couldn’t face it, couldn’t let the reminder of that night haunt her more than it already did. The new route was longer, more cumbersome, but it provided a small measure of psychological relief.

Her colleagues at the casino noticed the change in her demeanour. She was quieter, more withdrawn, her usual spark dimmed by the weight of her secret. Managing the blackjack tables required her to maintain a calm and composed exterior, but inside, she was constantly on edge. Every new customer, every unexpected movement, set her nerves alight with anxiety.

Despite her efforts to avoid the memory, it lingered. The dark alley, the rain-soaked streets, the brutal fight—they were always there, lurking just beneath the surface of her consciousness. She found herself jumpy, easily startled, her senses heightened by a perpetual state of fear. The once vibrant city had become a maze of potential threats, each day a challenge to her sanity.

Diana, busy with her own adventures on the yachts, noticed something was wrong but couldn’t quite understand the depth of her trauma. She tried to be supportive, offering distractions and comforting words, but the horror of that night was something words couldn’t soothe. She couldn’t share the full truth, couldn’t burden her friend with the gruesome reality of what she had witnessed.

She was trapped in a silent nightmare, each day a struggle to maintain a semblance of normalcy while the weight of her secret threatened to crush her. And in the midst of this, Charles was searching for her, driven by his own fears and need for redemption. Their paths, once accidentally crossed, were now inexorably linked, setting the stage for a confrontation that would force them both to face the darkness within and around them.

She contemplated reporting the incident, but fear held her back. She knew he had seen her face, and had gotten a good enough look to identify her. The uncertainty of who he was or what he was capable of paralyzed her. The thought of police protection felt like a distant hope. She was a foreigner, a transient figure in Monaco, and doubted the Monegasque police would prioritise her safety over the influence and power someone like him might wield.

The universe seemed to be playing a sick game of cat and mouse with her and Charles, with each of them constantly missing the other by just a few minutes or a turn of a corner. Their paths continued to intertwine in frustratingly close calls—Charles arriving at a café just as she left, her taking a different route home just minutes before he passed by. The tension built with each near encounter, the stakes rising as both their lives remained suspended in this cruel game.

She tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy, but every creak of her apartment, every unexpected knock, sent her heart racing. She kept the lights off, the curtains drawn, as if hiding from the world would somehow keep her safe. She longed for her friend’s carefree spirit, for the days when her biggest worry was earning enough to continue their adventure. Now, every moment was tinged with the fear of being found.

As the days passed, she realised she couldn’t keep living in fear. The incident had fractured her sense of security, but she was determined not to let it break her completely. She started to devise a plan, thinking of ways to leave Monaco, to start over once again. But the thought of running, of abandoning the life she had built, filled her with a deep sense of loss.

Unbeknownst to her, Charles was closing in. His determination to find her, to make things right, was relentless. He scoured the city, desperate for any clue that would lead him to her. The closer he got, the more his anxiety grew, knowing that confronting her would mean facing his own demons and the possible unravelling of his family’s carefully constructed empire.

In the heart of Monaco, their fates were on a collision course, bound by a night of violence and a web of secrets. The question remained: when they finally met, would it bring redemption or ruin for both of them?

-------------------------------------------

Taglist: @annie115 @snzleclerc

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rottenpumpkin13 · 11 months ago

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impulsive purchases Sephiroth has made?

Poor Financial Choices In Sephiroth's Apartment

• A gumball machine. He bought it purely because he didn't know these things could be bought. He followed Genesis to one of those whimsical upscale furniture stores when he was redecorating, spotted the gumball machine, and made his choice without asking how much is cost.

• Yoga gear, enough to open his own studio. In his defense, he does practice yoga, but there was a point in the beginning where he got wayy too into it and started buying everything he saw. It was a mistake, because all he uses is one (1) yoga mat. At least Angeal knows who to go to in case he ever needs 62 yoga balls.

• A mini trampoline. Again, he didn't know they existed before he saw one.

• A coffee table that doubles as a mini pool table when the glass top comes off. Again, he saw it at the store, went "ooh!" and then made Genesis and Angeal lug it back to his place. (he was too busy carrying the light up wall-sword-holder contraption he got for Masamune)

• A giant scented candle the size of a barrel. He likes scented candles, but hates how fast they run out, so to combat this he bought "that monstrosity" (Genesis' words, not his). It smells like eucalyptus. The smoke detector picked it up one time at 1AM and they had to evacuate the residence floor. Angeal confiscated it.

• A humidifier shaped like a cat that lights up and purrs. It's impractical, it doesn't work properly, and is an eye sore according to Genesis. Sephiroth only bought it because "that's not something you see every day."

• A plasma lamp, a lava lamp, a night sky projector, light-up LED lights, a lamp that's a skull with a lightbulb in its mouth. If it lights up in any different or interesting way shape or form, odds are Sephiroth has it.

• House slippers shaped like two chocobos that heat up. Zack talked him into buying them, but he never wears it on account of feeling ridiculous whenever he does. He wears them when he's alone but that's besides the point.

• A giant weighted stuffed chocobo he got from Genesis as a gag gift. Sephiroth doesn't see the gag. If he drapes the chocobo over himself it simulates human contact.

• Waffle iron, popcorn machine, hot chocolate maker, donut iron, things he buys and claims he'll use, but never does because he barely ever cooks. The only times he eats home cooked meals are when Angeal cooks for them, and it will be a cold day in hell before Hewley is caught making an omelet with a machine.

• Sephiroth once followed Angeal to the flea market in the slums, where he proceeded to thrift an entire collection of mugs shaped like realistic skulls. "Aren't these a novelty? I think I'll name each of them."

• A comically huge beanbag chair that makes him look (and feel) small when he's nestled into it.

• In conclusion, this is the result of growing up isolated in a lab without autonomy, and then gaining adult money and personal space.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #ffvii crisis core #genesis rhapsodos #ff7 crisis core #angeal hewley #headcanons

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aisquaredchoco · 7 months ago

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🎶 On the third day of her 1k followers aisquared gave to meeee...

...conversions from TS2 to TS3!! 🎶

Really not much to be honest, but as we all know how TS2 meshes are hard to work on, I'm still glad to have converted these ones..

2to3 "Ad-a-Quaint Barstool"

Only came to me that this barstool wasn't in TS3, as it's dining chair counterpart was. Being a fan of matching furniture I did the work. It has three channels, priced §285, found in Comfort > Misc. Polycount: 1476 (hLOD)/1008 (mLOD).

2to3 "Luxiary 'Ample King' Dining Table"

This one looked exactly the same as the "Upscale Dining Table" in TS3, only that some details on the table legs were lost. I was like "WTF EA?" So instead of wholly converting the TS2 table, I added back the extra table leg details to the existing TS3 table, and there you have it.

Three CAStable channels, with a price of §850, found in Surfaces > Dining Tables. Also, this is now reduced to only four chair slots since it would look awkward if chairs are placed on the sides. Polycount: 938 (hLOD)/644 (mLOD).

2to3 Apartment Life "Stack of Books" and "Strength of Humanity Bookends"

Ah yes, these book clutter from TS2 that I missed the most. This also makes a good addition to your growing collection of office clutter. The "Stack of Books" is sadly not CAStable, since it just uses TS2 book textures, while The "Strength of Humanity Bookends" has only one channel. They have the price of §90 and §110 respectively, and both found in Decor > Sculptures/Misc.

Polycount info:

Stack of Books: 62 (hLOD/mLOD)

Strength of Humanity Bookends: 834 (hLOD)/500 (mLOD)

All items have the original catalog descriptions for nostalgia purposes.

DOWNLOAD: Simfileshare | Mediafire

#ts3cc #download #dl:buy #sims 3 #ts3 #followers gift #2to3 #ts2 to ts3

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spider-mand · 4 months ago

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I forgot exactly how ridiculous Dr. Cox's apartment is at first, good lord.

The majority of Scrubs was filmed in a decommissioned hospital. Some frequent locations like JD and Turk's apartment were permanently built into a room of the hospital and renovated pretty convincingly. When they got to Cox's apartment, I guess the budget was running low, because it's just "operating room, but we added a sofa."

They hang a lantern on it but it's hilarious. The aggressive ceiling lights, the outlets are all 5ft off the ground, the "bar cart" Is a utility cart, the frosted windows to nowhere, yes hello welcome to my normal home. :)

It does get a mid-season facelift - warmer lighting, window blinds, and some actual furniture, so at least it looks more "upscale modern apartment" and less "a psychopath lives here."

#scrubs tv show #perry cox

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charaie-ao3 · 5 days ago

Note

Five-word sentence prompt:

25: "It gave me great joy."

Thank you for sending me a prompt!

Prompt: "It gave me great joy."

"Well, that was something," Kya deadpanned, swirling her half-finished drink as she surveyed the wreckage around them.

The restaurant, once an upscale, candlelit escape, was now a battlefield of shattered furniture and groaning triads. Lin stood in the center, adjusting her cuffs like she hadn’t just thrown a man through a table.

She sighed. "They were extorting the owner. What was I supposed to do?"

Kya raised an eyebrow. "I don’t know, maybe not bodyslam one of them into our dinner?" She gestured at the overturned table, their meal now a mess of noodles and broken porcelain on the floor.

Lin crossed her arms. “You were the one who told me to have fun tonight.”

“And?”

“I’m having fun!” she said, gesturing at the scene as if it were obvious. “Are you saying you’re not having fun?”

Kya shook her head with a grin. "Oh, absolutely. Watching my girlfriend dismantle an entire gang with her bare hands? It gave me great joy. Really set the mood. But now what are we gonna do about our dinner?"

Lin shrugged. "There's still a perfectly good dumpling on that table over there."

Kya followed her gaze to a lone, miraculously intact dumpling sitting atop an overturned plate amidst the wreckage. She sighed dramatically. "Wow. The height of romance, truly."

Lin smirked. "You want it or not?"

Kya shook her head. "You’re lucky I love you."

send me a prompt from this list // check out my ao3

#kyalin #legend of korra #lin beifong #lok #kya ii

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consignmentdfo · 2 years ago

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We are located at 1928 Gulf to Bay Blvd!

#consignment #consignment clearwater #tampa bay area #upscale consignment #clearwaterflorida #furniture consignment #home decor #outlet #furniture #bedroom furniture

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alltheworldsinmyhead · 7 months ago

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Summary:

Inej decides to teach Kaz a thing or two about work ethic

Or: Kaz is abhorrently Kerch and Inej won't have it

read on ao3

To her great displeasure but no surprise whatsoever, Inej wakes up alone.

In a vast expanse of the bed, she sleepily pries her eyes open, squinting at the harsh sunlight, only to find no trace of her husband. The other side of the mattress is cold to the touch, the pillow nice and fluffed, the edges of the comforter tucked underneath the bed frame to keep it flat. While she is tangled in messed-up sheets, cotton smooth and warm against her bare legs and stray hairs clinging to her cheeks.

She would very much like to linger some more. Maybe do more than just linger - the bed is very nice and she is feeling very indulgent and lazy. But apparently, Kaz decided to be annoyingly Kerch this morning.

With a grumble, she slips from underneath the covers, sliding onto the floor and reaching for her dressing robe. In the mirror, her reflection blinks at her; she spares it just a glance, busy with undoing her braid but then her eyes come back for a double take. There is a dark bruise of a love bite blooming on her neck, right underneath her ear. It makes her feel hot and clammy in her own skin, to look at it.

She traces it lightly, with her very fingertips, and the smallest of shivers runs down her spine.

Some sounds are coming from the parlor adjacent to the bedroom and she pays a bit more attention to them now, cataloging them one by one. A faint scratch of a pen nib against the paper. A slight clatter of porcelain. A muffled cough. She thought Kaz went out on business, or to his office possibly - but, evidently, he's still right here, behind the door. Left her to have a lie-in while he's doing his work, because duty before pleasure, always.

She smiles at the thought. But aren't marital duties the most important ones of all?

She decides to stay in her nightgown. Decides not to tie her robe at the waist either; it is pretty blue, like the sky in the countryside, like little meadow flowers that Kaz, in an uncharacteristic bout of sentimentalism, once sent her pressed between the pages of his letter. She tilts her head just slightly and the garment slips, silk sliding down her skin like water and exposing the curve of her shoulder.

She lets it be as well.

The carpet is rich, thick underneath her bare feet; the air smells of flowers and wood polish. Not home, but nice. Very nice. She dares even say fancy. A fancy, upscale hotel room in a fancy part of Ketterdam where they had dinner the night before and then decided to book a room.

Just another of these little luxuries Kaz showers her with when she's back from the sea, hoping, possibly, to entice her to stay longer and longer. He thinks he's being sneaky when he's transparent like glass and she indulges him in his efforts. But it's all so silly, really. There is only one luxury that can manage to keep Inej ashore and it is right behind the door - the door that she opens soundlessly into another sunny room wallpapered in cream and filled with elegant furniture of cherry oak. There is a chaise lounge, a small table with a vase of red tulips on it. An armchair with some strategically placed fluffy pillows.

And, of course, a round breakfast table, set with two plates, two porcelain cups. Two platters of food, one empty save for some crumbs and one hidden underneath a metal cover, to keep it warm. And there’s her husband, already dressed sharp in his suit and tie and with his hair neatly slicked back at eight in the morning, writing something on pages neatly laid out in front of him, a cup of steaming coffee in his free hand.

His eyes find her seconds after she steps into the room, sliding over her body absent-mindedly before they lock with hers.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks, one corner of his mouth rising just slightly when she crosses the floor towards him.

He's already clean shaved and she tries not to make a face at that. She decides to make her displeasure known through not leaning down to kiss him. Instead, she drops on her chair and reaches for the teapot.

“Yes,” she pours in the tea, then adds some milk from a charming porcelain creamer. Swirls the spoon inside the cup and then licks it clean. “Did you?”

Kaz taps his pen against the wood. “Yes.”

“Good,” she smiles. Stretches her legs out underneath the table, feeling how her nightgown slips up. The table is small: he must feel the warmth of her, the proximity of her, like a phantom touch. “What are you writing?”

***read more on ao3***

#kanej #kanej fic #kanej fanfiction #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #six of crows #soc #soc fic #soc fanfiction

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deliriumzer0 · 2 years ago

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Gen Loss' shooting location

I'm super into dead/dying malls so I knew what mall it was as soon as I saw the ending of Ep 2, but I didn't wanna post anything about it until after Ranboo had left NY just in case. I'm not about to facilitate any creepy behavior, you know?

So GenLoss was filmed at the now-closed Galleria at White Plains, which -- fun fact! -- is the same mall used for interior mall shots in the movie Eighth Grade (so everyone who enjoys Ranboo/Bo Burnham connections, there's a fun one!). It opened in 1980 and positioned itself as the mall for "normal" people, in contrast to the more upscale Westchester mall nearby. Sadly, that other mall is still alive & kicking, while this one was closed at the end of March 2023. There are apparently redevelopment plans in the works to turn it into mixed-use (retail + residential) space.

I was too curious about what some of the stores used in the shoot used to be, and how much of what I saw in GL was set design and how much was already in place, so I looked up old directories & photos of the mall to see if I could sleuth some of it out. In case anyone else was curious about the set designers' work, or is into retail history, I figured I would share my findings!

The central elevator area of the mall in GenLoss, and how it appeared in 2019. (Screenshot from the 2019 video linked below)

Apologies for the multiple different angles on this one, but this is all the same area, first in GenLoss (right after Ranboo starts walking away from the panel where Hetch is appearing), then from the Fleabitten Adventures 2023 video, then from the Raw & Real Retail video from 2019. (Couldn't resist screenshotting the drone ad on that last one, lol)

In the GenLoss screenshot, at the far right edge of the Sears entryway, you can see a bit of the painting left behind, so my guess is the GL set decorators got rid of that artwork for the shoot.

The screen where Ranboo first speaks to Hetch in ep 3. The empty store behind them was an American Eagle Outfitters at one point, but it was already closed by February 2023. (screeenshot from Fleabitten Adventures 2023 video)

Here's a before & after of this directory panel. (Screenshot from the Fleabitten Adventures 2023 video)

The store full of "props". In the original store photo (Google's only photo of this shop), you can see how the existing shelves were repurposed for GL. Also way at the far end of the store there's a black & white photo of someone with a basketball that was left hanging up.

I had a hard time finding a closer angle of this Victoria's Secret, but in case you were curious, here's one from the Raw & Real Retail video lol.

Where Ranboo almost left but Hetch stopped them: a Kay Jewelers.

The streamers are sitting in the following establishments: My Kitchen, Bourbon Street Cafe, Sarku Japan, Dunkin' Donuts, and of course Charley's. The last empty storefront was a Burger King before it emptied out. (Photo from Foursquare, cropped by me)

The Dental & Foot Care storefront is unchanged except for the seating out in the open area. It was a rounded wooden bench set as of Feb 2023 (screenshot from the Fleabitten Adventures video), but for GL it was the standard metal benches found throughout the mall. Not sure why.

Going far back enough, this was a Radio Shack. Couldn't find ANY photos of this particular location though, so here's the only photo I could find of what it was in the interim: a dress shop called Gloria's. (Photo from Yelp)

This one is my favorite part. :) As of February 2023 (screenshots are from the Fleabitten Adventures video), the "Heart of the Facility" is this weirdly sparse artsy furniture store called Home Splash. But before this, what the shop's facade was designed for, was...

A Charlotte Russe location. Ranboo died in a fucking Charlotte Russe. When I learned this, I could not stop laughing.

More/Sources:

https://www.reddit.com/r/deadmalls/comments/zupwhw/the_galleria_at_white_plains_ny_in_late_afternoon/

A great youtube video from Fleabitten Adventures walking through the whole mall in February 2023

Raw & Real Retail walkthrough video (from 2019)

A shorter walthrough video from HELLOTHISIS4U

Photos from FourSquare

I didn't cover everything I learned here, just the stuff I thought was coolest (and that I had images of), so please feel free to flood my ask box with questions about what certain things used to be!

#generation loss #genloss #filming locations #dead mall #abandoned mall #ranboo

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yandere-daydreams · 2 years ago

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Title: Infestation.

Written for a lovely anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Gyutaro x Reader (Demon Slayer).

Word Count: 3.5k.

TW: Modern AU, Implied Non//Con, Long-Term Stalking, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Voyueristic Themes, Blood/Bruising, and Mentions of Cannibalism.

You only got to tour the apartment once before you signed the lease.

A ‘realtor’ with piercing eyes and silver hair met you at the door twenty minutes late with a heavy ring of keys in one hand and a disposable cup from an upscale coffee-chain in the other, muttering something about traffic as she let you into the dank, dark space. She explained, as she shoved open creaking doors and tried her best to clear the dust off neglected furniture, that her uncle owned the building, that she and her brother had stayed here for a while before she found another place on the other side of town. You asked if her family was close-nit, and she looked away, mumbling ‘something like that’ under her breath. You asked if she did this kind of thing for her uncle often, and she gave you a strange look and didn’t answer. You didn’t have the courage to press the topic. She had the kind of presence that made you want to shrink into yourself, to agree with everything she said and do anything and everything you could not to get on her nerves. If, at any point, she’d put a contract in front of you and told you to sign on the dotted line, you probably would’ve done it. If the apartment hadn’t been in the state it was, you probably would’ve asked her for it yourself, just to try and get on her good side.

The space itself was, somehow, even worse than the listing had made it out to be. The lights flickered, the walls were water-stained, and you couldn’t fully open the fridge door without lodging the handle against the cabinets on the opposite side of the kitchen. If you hadn’t been so desperate, you might’ve walked out in the first fifteen minutes, but you were, so you held your tongue and nodded along and let her sit you down in front of a manilla folder, already plotting out how you’d politely refuse and thank her for her time and beg the owner of the studio a few blocks north to give you another chance. That was what you thought you were going to do, at least, until you saw the rent.

“That’s… not what it was on the listing,” you muttered.

“That’s the rate. Take it or leave it.”

“Without utilities?”

“With. But you’re on your own if you want cable.”

“When would I be able to move in?”

“If you can get me out of here in an hour or less, whenever the hell you want.”

You signed everything she put in front of you, barely bothering to pretend to read the countless forms. She left you the keys, apologized for how loud the other tenants could be (something that must’ve changed since she moved out, you guessed – the entire floor was dead quiet), and in two days, your former roommates had sent you off with a tearful goodbye and, for the first time in longer than you could remember, you finally had room to breathe. A musky, beige room that you were pretty sure you’d have to have fumed sooner or later, but still – room to breathe.

And you were thankful for it. At first, at least, you were thankful for it.

And then, three months in, things started to go missing.

Which wasn’t that bad, on its own. You’d lost things before, and you weren’t the kind of person who’d break out the salt and thyme the first time one of your socks went missing, or you couldn’t find a pen you just seen a few days ago, or a mug you could’ve sworn you’d left on your bedside table the night before somehow made its way to your kitchen counter by the next morning, its contents drained but its clay handle still warm. You took it in stride. You laughed and smiled as you told your friends about the soft creaking you would sometimes hear coming from just behind drywall, the creepy stains on the bathroom floor that just barely look like dried blood when you squint, and you ignored what you couldn’t brush off so easily, kept the hours you spent lying awake at night because you just can’t shake the feeling of unblinking eyes prying into your flesh, the bruises and cuts you’ve decided to blame on thin mattresses and sharp corners to yourself.

You didn’t tell anyone when your missing things started reappearing, either.

Not that you really could. You didn’t know how you’d start to explain the cold feeling of dread that knotted in your chest as you lingered in the doorway to your bedroom, how to laugh as you told someone, anyone about the tattered remains of a shirt you hadn’t seen in weeks that were currently spread across your bed – all ripped to shreds and stained with the same chalky, white substance you couldn’t bring yourself to give a name to. It was all you could do to stare at the mess from a distance, biting the inside of your cheek as you tried to ignore the bitter taste rising up from the back of your throat. Your closest neighbor was two floors down, and you’d only spoken a handful of words to the building’s other occupants as a whole, but still, half-formed fears of faceless stalkers and angered spirits gnawed at the back of your mind. It was probably--

Mice, you decided. It was probably mice. You didn’t know what an infestation looked like, never had to deal with one before, but for what you were paying for a place like this, there were bound to be mice. That’s all it could’ve been. Cute, harmless mice.

Still, you never found it in yourself to tell anyone about your little infestation.

And then, seven months in, the realtor let herself into your apartment.

It was a small miracle that you’d been awake at the time, that you were buried in a small mountain’s worth of blankets on your worn-out couch, reading some mindless contemporary romance when you heard the lock click, when you saw the same young woman who’d shown you around that first day step over the threshold – her expression one of mild annoyance and more than a trace of exasperation. She didn’t seem to notice you, not at first, not until you cleared your throat, sitting up in a half-hearted effort to make yourself more presentable. You tried to think of something to say, to ask if there was an emergency, but instead, made that much meeker and that much smaller by her aura alone, you just found yourself mumbling, “Can I help you?”

Her eyes widened as she shot to face you, her shock apparent. “You’re still here?”

“…yes?” Were you not supposed to be? You weren’t sure how long your lease was supposed to last, hadn’t talked to the landlord beyond a single, minute-long call when you first signed on. You’d been paying your rent, but still, there might’ve been a notice that you missed, a clause that’d slipped your mind. You didn’t know why the landlord would choose to address that by asking his niece to barge into your apartment in the middle of the night, but the panic remained. “Is something wrong?”

Her lips quirked, something coming across her features that you weren’t able to read in the dim light. “You’ve been away, though, right? On vacation? Staying at a friend’s house?”

“No, I… Was I supposed to be?” You pushed yourself to your feet. “Is there something wrong with the building?”

“The building’s not the fucking problem,” she snapped. You recoiled, but she didn’t seem to care, just letting out an irritated groan as she went on. “He knows he’s not supposed to take this long. Muzan’s going to be—” She cut herself off, throwing her head back and rubbing her temples. She clenched her eyes shut, and only when she opened them again did she seem to notice your discomfort, your muted distress. Just as quickly as she lost her composure, she regained it, her sneer softening into a small smile and her posture straightening until she looked not like a woman who’d walked into someone else’s apartment with no warning or explanation, but a passing acquaintance you’d been the one to approach and who was simply too polite to tell you that she had better places to be. “My apologies for the disturbance. I’ll make sure to call ahead, next time.”

She waited for you to nod, to pretend you knew what she was talking about before starting back toward the door, leaving just as suddenly as she’d come. Without giving yourself time to think, you rushed after her, leaning against the doorframe. You couldn’t imagine how she’d gotten here. The lights hadn’t worked since the day you moved in, and the hallway was as pitch-black and as endless as it’d ever been. “Wait!” She glanced over her shoulder, her smile already strained. You drew back, but forced yourself to go on. “It’s not a big deal, but I think this building might have a rat problem.”

She took a moment to respond.

Finally, as her grin broadened, she said, “There aren’t any rats.”

That night, you woke up screaming, covered in your own blood, and missing a piece of your thigh.

And then, a year after you first set foot in that godforsaken apartment, you met him.

‘Met’ might’ve been the wrong word. It implied something soft, something cute, something harmless – like mice or ghost stories or miscommunications. From the moment you snapped awake, a searing pain in your shoulder and hot blood already drenching your chest, he was all aggression, all bared teeth and dark eyes and gore-soaked lips curling back into a smile just as sickening as that of the woman who had to be his sister, if only because you couldn’t bring yourself to believe that your misery extended beyond the reach of their fucked-up family.

You couldn’t bring yourself to believe this was happening at all, but if you had to, you were going to tell yourself you had someone, other than yourself, to blame.

He was on top of you, straddling your waist, one hand planted next to your head and the other curled loosely around your throat, his palm pressing the delicate junction between your windpipe and diaphragm, making it difficult to manage anything but quick, shallow breaths. He’d never been this close before. You’d seen him out of the corner of your eye, occasionally – little, half-remembered blurs in the darkness; distorted splotches you’d tried to write off as depressions in the drywall or a trick of your own paranoia-ridden mind – but never like this, never close enough to see the muddled whites of his eyes, the pale grey tenor of his skin, the sharpened points of his teeth where your blood didn’t quite blot them out. On instinct, you tried to sit up, to bolt from underneath him, but he only had to flex his hand where it was wrapped around your neck and you were frozen, not willing to test his patience or your own perseverance. You didn’t know if he was strong enough to snap your neck, but he’d already proven that he could tear you apart. If he hadn’t already decided he was going to eat you alive, you’d rather not do anything to put the idea in his head.

You did what you could to go limp, to seem as small and unimposing as possible, and yet, he still let out a breathy chuckle as he shoved you downward – until your back was flat against the mattress and he was allowed to hover as far above you as possible, casting himself as something endlessly strong and impossible to grasp and impossible to escape as anything else that lurked in the dark.

“Easy, now. Wouldn’t want to get yourself hurt, would ya?” His voice was as terrible as the rest of him, raspy and barely audible yet dripping with corrosive, acidic arrogance at the same time. “It’d be a shame if you made be bruise that pretty skin. Loses some of its flavor if you beat it up too much.”

So he was going to eat you. You couldn’t pretend to be surprised, couldn’t say a nightmare featuring fanged monsters with hungry mouths hadn’t accompanied every new missing chunk of flesh and discolored bitemark, but your breath still hitched in your throat, your body going tense beneath him. Your distress was muted, but not subtle enough to escape his prying eyes. His grin widened, the corners of his lips cracking and splitting open. “You scared, little mouse?”

You hesitated, thinking for a moment before nodding. There was a bark of a laugh, a row of blunt nails burrowed into the space just below your jugular. “What do you think I’m going to do to you?” He asked, arching his back and leaning toward you, coming close enough for the tips of his messy hair to brush against your skin. “Tear you apart? Gut you and keep your hollowed-out husk as a trophy?”

There wasn’t a delay, this time. It was all you could do to wait until he’d finished to spit out the one thing you couldn’t seem to get off your mind. “Eat me.”

There was a long pause, agonizing and infinite.

Then, something sparked behind his eyes, and his smile took on a sickening lilt.

You could practically hear your heart beating out of your check, feel something deep in your chest twist and writhe as he dipped even lower; his face soon buried in the small of your neck. His hand fell away, drifting lower – his fingertips skirting over your side, groping softly at your hip before drifting to your wrist, to your hand. There was a clumsy attempt made to intertwine his fingers with yours, not helped by your own unchallenged immobility, but eventually, he managed to take your hand in his own. His skin was cold to the touch, and yet, you still felt like you were burning wherever his body pressed against yours. “No, no, I’m not gonna do anything to hurt ya. Not that badly, at least.” His voice lightened, his drawl softening around the edges. Like he was trying to calm you down. Like he thought anything he said could possibly calm you down. “I don’t have the stomach to binge like that. The last guy Daki dragged in wasn’t like you. All muscle, no flavor, had to choke down every bite. I would’ve swallowed you whole as soon as you as walked through that door just to get the taste out of my mouth, but you looked so damn cute, all oblivious and shit – I just didn’t have the heart to.”

He straightened his back, but didn’t pull away. Rather, he stayed as close to you as possible, his scarred lips brushing against your neck, then your shoulder, finally settling on your collarbone. He couldn’t be human. You didn’t decide that, you knew it. Nothing human or mortal or natural would have so many scars, or be so pale, or have teeth so sharp – even the gentlest touches violent enough to break the skin. Not that he tried very hard to be gentle. There was the faint feeling of rough lips ghosting over your skin, and then a sharp, sudden piercing sensation; flesh and muscle splitting apart underneath the first hint of pressure. “Not that I didn’t want to,” he muttered, his breath cold against your skin. “Do you know how long it’s been since I had a decent fucking meal? If I had my sister’s self-restraint, I’d already be down to the bones.”

And yet, he didn’t stop himself from latching onto the shallow scrape, his tongue running over your skin as he let out a deep, guttural moan, the sound only slightly stifled by his proximity. You held your breath, clenching your eyes shut as he lapped up the thin trail of blood that flowed outward, over your chest. Visions of hearts torn from chests and pale hands digging through split-open stomachs flitted through your mind, but in the end, he only jerked back was a sharp laugh – more lively than it’d ever been before. There was a certain light to his eyes now, too, a new sense of rejuvenation you almost couldn’t bring yourself to recognize in the same creature who’d stalked you for months, who’d knocked on your walls and watched you at night and given you so many chances to run away, so many chances that you’d been too hopeful and too idiotic to take. You felt him shifting above you, heard your sheets rustle, and you braced yourself, going stiff in preparation for a pointed nail stabbed into your throat, or a skull-crushing blow to your head, or--

Or, for him, it, whatever he was, to kiss you.

You hadn’t known to expect it would be as brutal as it was. What little delicacy, what little gentleness he had was gone. For longer than seemed possible, your world was one of clashing teeth and probing hands and lips pushed against yours with enough force to bruise. You didn’t know whether or not he was trying to scare you, but the gesture was more violent than affectionate – messy and overwhelming and enough to have you on the edge of tears by the time he drew back, panting. He opened his mouth, but you were already talking, words spilling from your lips without reservation. Appeals to ‘please, don’t hurt me’ blurring with an incoherent blend of ‘don’t kill me’ and ‘I’ll do anything’ – anything you could think of, anything that might’ve gotten him to give you the space to breathe. Some of it made sense, most of it didn’t, and all of it seemed to fall on deaf ears.

If he was listening, if he cared, none of it earned anything more than a wry smile, a soft kiss to the top of your head. At that point, you were so desperate, so distressed, you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning into it – only whimpering as he hummed gently and drew you upward, until you were the one sitting in his lap, cradled in his arms. It occurred to you, not for the first time, how much bigger his frame was than yours, how small you felt in his arms. Like a bird with an injured wing, unable to fly and trapped in.

Like a mouse, your neck already snapped by the impartial hammer and your body caught in the maw of something much larger and much more dangerous than yourself.

“You’re shaking.” He was laughing, but you were. You couldn’t stop. Your body refused to listen to you, to push him away, to run, but you just couldn’t stop yourself from shivering – trembling violently enough for it to border on convulsions. “What’d I tell you the first time you freaked out, huh?”

That he liked the way you tasted. That he’d been watching you for months. That he’d thought about killing you and, if he got hungry enough, he’d probably think about it again.

You swallowed, willing the knot of dread at the back of your throat to loosen. “That you weren’t going to hurt me.”

“And you don’t think I’d lie to you, do ya?”

It would’ve been kinder if he did, if he pretended to be something remotely human. “I don’t.”

“Because I haven’t, and I’m not. That’d just be a waste, 'specially when I haven’t gotten half of what I want out of ya, yet.” You were dragged away from his chest, poised to face him. You were given a few seconds to stare up at him through the darkness, to try to begin to process what was happening, what he was doing, before a scarred palm was cupping your cheek, before he was kissing you, again – shallowly, fleetingly, before moving upward, pressing his lips against your forehead and dipping back toward your neck.

This time, he wasn’t content just to content just to hold your hand. You could feel his fingertips skirting over your thighs, leaving strips of numbness spreading across whatever he made contact with, making an attempt at delicacy before his attention drifted and his touch grew rougher, his hold bruising, his skin frigid where it pressed against yours. Against your better judgement, you leaned into your paralysis, not returning his bizarre affection, but making no effort to push him away, either. You tried to hold yourself straight, but not stiff, to keep your eyes open and your jaw locked into place, but even your neutrality was enough to encourage him, to spur him forward. You barely had time to brace yourself before you were being shoved downward once again, before you were being pinned against your own thin mattress with enough force for the jutting springs to dig into your back. Again, he was above you, and again, you were powerless beneath him, just as scared as you’d been when he was just a ghost of fear lurking in your peripheral.

“Don’t worry, little mouse.”

Just as helpless as you’d been when you couldn't see the threat at all.

“I’m takin’ care of you, now.”

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