𝖉𝖆𝖒𝖔𝖈𝖑𝖊𝖘 !

"I've been thinking about your voice," he said softly, letting the observation drift across the space between them. "Earlier, during your set. There's something about it. Something that pulls people in without them realizing it." Stellan panicked within, while Kazirath's amusement flickered, warm and patient.

The last thing she would have expected to come from his pocket was a pill. Naive, absolutely, but the odds of someone offering her drugs so blatantly- as if it were an aspirin to treat a headache- seemed so... fucking funny? It very might be the human body's tendencies to laugh when nervous, an instinctual response to show ones teeth and be loud in the face of a threat. Whatever the reason, she laughed, a hand crashing over his like a child caught with someone she shouldn't have.

"Oh my god, Stellan." From the corner of her eye she surveys the very uninterested driver,,, and if he's only a good actor pretending to be cautious over the road instead of their conversation? He could- He could what? Tell everyone he drove Delilah Crow and Stellan Graves to a rave and they were popping pills? Would that be the end of the world? Maybe. And if it was? If she failed? If she suddenly wasn't perfect and the mold broke and her secret was out? She doesn't quite recall the effort it took to consciously will her fingers to curl around the pill, heart stammering as if she had ran a marathon.

"Never? Not once?" She was still holding the pill, fingers curled around it like it might bite. For the first time since this whole arrangement started, he realized he had absolutely no idea who was sitting next to him. He'd assumed, because of course he had. She was an actress, a Hollywood lifer, someone who'd been in the industry since she could walk. He'd assumed she'd done it all: the parties, the drugs, the late nights, the whole fucking circus. That was the world they lived in. That was what people like them did. But she was looking at that little white pill like it was a live grenade.

"I mean... I figured you'd..." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up, suddenly off-balance in a way he hadn't expected. He shook his head. "Doesn't matter what I figured." He offered her his flask, half-filled with whiskey. "See how you feel in an hour. And for what it's worth... I didn't know. About any of it. The nerves, the... not knowing what to expect." He met her eyes in the dim light, and for once, there was no smirk, no tease, no performance, just him. "Makes me wonder what else I've been wrong about."

He watched her for a long moment, the weight of his own words settling between them. The city lights slid past the windows in neon smears, painting her face in brief flashes of color. He reached into his pocket and pulled out another pill, holding it up between his fingers, letting her see. "I'm not gonna ask you to do something I'm not willing to do. But if you do, you're gonna be fine. Better than fine. Molly's... it's good. Makes everything soft. The noise, the lights, the people... it all stops being so much." Stellan brought the pill to his mouth and swallowed it dry. The burn was nothing. He'd done this a hundred times.

"You freak out, I'm right here. You wanna leave, we leave. Simple as that."

the realization settles in their chest the moment he says it: you're still here. it hits harder than anything else he's said tonight because it's true, and she can't twist it into something softer. they could've told him to leave the moment he walked through the door. she could've walked out herself and put the whole damn city between them by now. but she didn't. and standing there now, listening to him say it out loud, they feel the awful, familiar heat of shame creep up the back of their neck. she hates that he can see it. hates that their body betrays them this way around him, that the gravity of him still pulls at them even when every rational piece of them knows better.

"don't," she says quietly when he talks about bravery, but the word doesn't carry much weight. not because they don't mean it, but because there's too much history tangled up in the space between them for anything to come out clean. she swallows hard, forcing herself to keep looking at him even though that used to be the quickest way to lose every argument she'd ever tried to have with him. "you're not wrong," they admit after a moment, their voice rougher now. "i should've slammed the door. i should've told you to get the hell out the second i saw you." a beat. "but knowing what you're supposed to do and actually doing it aren't always the same thing."

when his fingers find the hem of her shirt, her entire body tightens. it's such a small touch. barely anything at all. fabric shifting between his fingers, the faint pull of cotton. but the reaction it sends through them is immediate and humiliating. her breath catches, her shoulders tense, and every nerve in her body lights up in that awful, familiar way that has nothing to do with safety and everything to do with habit. they hate that he can do that to them without even touching their skin. hates that her body remembers the shape of his hands before her mind can stop it. they don't step closer, but they don't step back either.

"this isn't proof of anything," she murmurs, though the words feel thinner than she wants them to. "it's just… muscle memory." their eyes flicker down briefly to where his hand holds the fabric, then back up to his face. there's frustration there now — at him, at herself, at the whole impossible situation of standing here feeling two completely opposite truths at the same time. "you keep acting like the only reason i'd ever stay in a room with you is because i want to be worshipped again. that's not it." their jaw tightens. "sometimes people stay because walking away from someone they loved this much feels like ripping their own skin off."

his challenge lands exactly where he wants it to. say it. and for a second, frankie thinks she might. they open their mouth, breath catching halfway through the motion. the words are there, and she knows what they're supposed to be. i don't want this. i'm not coming back. leave. all the clean, final sentences a stronger version of them would probably deliver without hesitation. but standing there, with his hand still at the edge of her shirt and his eyes locked onto hers, the certainty fractures.

not because they think he's good for them. she doesn't. they know exactly what loving stellan does to them. she knows the cycle, the intensity, how everything with him burns too hot and leaves nothing behind but ash and apologies. they know he won't change. she knows she deserves better than this constant war between love and survival. and yet the feeling is still there, stubborn and infuriating and impossible to extinguish.

"stellan…" their voice falters slightly, and they hate that too. she takes a slow breath, forcing the words out before she can lose them entirely. "we're not good for each other."

it's not the sentence he asked for. it's not the clean rejection he demanded. but it's the truest thing she has.

their eyes search his face for a moment, softer now, tired more than anything else. "you and me… we turn everything into a battlefield. every good thing gets twisted until it hurts. you don't know how to love me without trying to own me, and i don't know how to love you without losing parts of myself." her throat tightens slightly. "that's the truth. that's always been the truth." they glance down briefly at the space between them, at the hand still lightly holding their shirt. "and the worst part," she adds quietly, almost to herself, "is that knowing all of that still doesn't make it easy to stop wanting you."

Fingers pressed into the curve of their waist, feeling the warmth of them through the fabric. After weeks of no calls, no texts, no accidental sighting, she was standing in front of him, letting him touch her, letting him stand this close. Stellan's thumb traced the edge of her hip bone, slow and deliberate, feeling the shape through the cotton. He could feel his own heartbeat like a drum, could feel the way his body leaned toward hers without permission, the familiar ache spreading through his chest.

"You're not wrong." His voice came out low, rough, scraped raw from somewhere deep. "We're not good for each other. I'm not good for you." A beat. He could hear his own breathing, too fast, too shallow. "But you're still here. Still letting me touch you. Still looking at me like you're waiting for me to do something about it." His thumb pressed into their hip. He could feel the warmth of their skin beneath the fabric, could imagine what it would feel like without the barrier. His mouth went dry.

"We both know how this is gonna go." The words came out quiet, certain. He leaned closer, close enough that his breath ghosted over her lips. Close enough to see the slight tremor in her jaw, the way her chest rose and fell too fast, the way she wasn't pulling away. His free hand came up, fingers curling around the side of her neck. "And you're not gonna fight this. You're not gonna pretend. You're not gonna tell yourself you don't want this. We both know how tonight ends." He pulled her closer, eliminating what little space remained between them. The heat of her pressed against him made his breath catch. "You're staying right here. With me. That's just how it is."

A wolf slowly stalked the tresses of its mind,,, a nervous pacing avoiding confrontation unlike the usual predatory circling. Large, dark paws pressed into forming ground, an island taking form within the inky, watery depths of nothingness. Decay spread out amongst the foliage of this mindscape, the wolf carefully treading across sand as cold and lifeless as the thing which thought it into existence so that wolf and master might meet. A chilling presence raises the wolf's hackles. He does not mean to frighten so easily, but the tucked tail offers the other enough proof that something is amiss,,, and this poor dog fears retribution.

Athanas's appearance solidifies like falling sediment stacking and pressing into the mold of a human. Hollowed eyes remain as deep pits of shadows, engulfed by the dead, a resting place for those traveling into their next beyond. Hollow, empty, void. Their voice is not much warmer, though they offer the tilt of a head to inspire curiosity instead of condemnation. "What has happened, Rigel?"

The wolf's head remains drooped between shoulders, eyes cast upon the sand. He does not need to open his mouth to convey the message and prefers to remain hidden by their canid facade, "There is a name that's come across my timeline that needs mending. Their life is draining faster than intended- I don't know what is happening. It's unlike anything I've come across. Some parasite feeding, maybe-"

"Yes." An empty glower stares ahead, unblinking, unmoving, but seeing. "Parasites are not uncommon." The silent sigh goes unnoticed by Rigel who only then looks up as Athanas is casting its gaze downwards. "Take me to the affected. I will bring order."

For the past few days Rigel has dutifully followed the man in an attempt to diagnose and treat the issue without having to get Athanas involved. If he was being honest, death fucking creeped him out! Small doses was acceptable, but the closer he padded towards the tour bus holding the man, Rigel was beginning to think he'd bitten off more than he could chew tonight. It wasn't hard to go about unseen. If any of the Harbingers so pleased, they could disguise themselves by beast or man, and in certain cases aided by Athanas- could even go unseen by mortals without their names upon their marks.

Wolf morphed into man, offering Athanas a soft pleading glance which went ignored. Athanas glided across the pavement of the parking lot, white slowly filling in the dark pits of their sockets until eyes formed and their face took the shape of something more appealing to a mortal's gaze. Rigel obediently followed, dissolving and reappearing within the bus.

Again, their head turned, and this time there was a genuine intrigue filling the cracks of a otherwise emotionless expression. There was a man, though something else festered within. What a fucking mess.

"Evening-" Open ended, head drooping to the other side, "Am I speaking to man or parasite this moment?"

A slow smile spread across Stellan's face. Inside, Stellan thrashed. His consciousness battered against the walls. He could feel the demon, Kazirath, speaking with his mouth, wearing his face. The horror of it never lessened. Each time, there was less of him to feel it. Kazirath noticed. Of course they noticed. The boy's panic was a faint vibration, like a fly buzzing. Irritating, pathetic, entertaining. Still fighting. Always fighting. Kazirath had settled deeper into his flesh. Three years now. Three years since the cult had pressed their palms to this boy's chest and whispered the words that opened a door. Three years of wearing him, testing him, stretching him.

"A parasite," Kazirath's attention settled on Athanas like a weight. "Something so small, so desperate, clinging to a host because it can't survive on its own. Can you imagine?" They leaned back against the wall of the bunk, arms crossing over their chest with a casualness that felt ancient. Felt like a throne, like something that had been sitting in judgment since before humans learned to make fire. "I'm no parasite, Death. Parasites beg. Parasites hide. Parasites scuttle in the dark, hoping not to be noticed. Parasites take without permission. I was invited. I never hid." His gaze drifted briefly to the side, to Rigel who trembled. The wolf. He'd sensed them days ago, a presence circling the edges of his awareness, too cautious to approach, too curious to leave. He assumed it was merely observing. Documenting. Perhaps reporting to something higher. He hadn't assumed they would bring company.

"You," Kazirath said slowly, black eyes fixed on Rigel with something between recognition and amusement. "I felt you days ago. Skulking. Watching. Too scared to come closer, too interested to leave. I thought you were curious. A scavenger, maybe, waiting for scraps. I didn't know you had an owner." His voice was almost gentle, kind. Yet it was completely mocking. "Look at you. Shaking. Tail tucked like you've already decided you're prey. But you've been feeling me for days, haven't you, little mutt? It felt like something wrong at the edges of your awareness. Something that made your hackles rise and your paws itch to run. But you stayed. Because you were told to. And now you're here, watching your owner have a conversation you don't understand." They leaned forward slightly, Stellan's body pressing closer to the edge of the bunk. He could feel Rigel's fear like a physical thing, warm and pulsing, almost delicious. It made something in him stretch and settle, like a cat finding a sunbeam.

"That's devotion. That's loyalty. Shame he doesn't seem to notice how much this costs you." His eyes return to Athanas, glittering with amusement. Their deadpan expression should have been unnerving, should have made him pause. Instead, it made him hungry. "You brought him knowing what he'd feel. Knowing he'd have to stand in my presence and feel it. And you still made him come. Is that what you do? Use the ones who follow you? Let them suffer so you don't have to feel alone?"

He leaned back again, arms crossing, settling into Stellan's body with the ease of long practice. His fingers drummed once against his bicep. "What do you want, exactly? To observe? To interfere? To try..." Kazirath smiled, sharp and inviting. "To take him from me?" The words hung in the air like a dare.

His hands slid up her sides, slow and deliberate, feeling every inch of skin she'd given him. She was warm. Soft. Real. His thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts and a rough sound escaped his throat, hungry, impatient, barely restrained. His hips shifted beneath them, letting them feel exactly what they were doing to him. He was so close to finally taking what he'd been burning for since she sat him down.

Then the door slammed open. The spell shattered. His hands froze. His whole body went rigid. Three men filled the doorway, Johan flanked by two others he recognized from the estate. Heavy suits, hard eyes. The kind of men who didn't knock because doors were just suggestions.

"Din far vill se dig. Nu." Your father wants to see you. Now. The words landed like ice water. Of course. Isaak's jaw tightened, hands still on her. He hadn't moved, hadn't pulled away, but the heat in the room had shifted into something colder. "Jag är upptagen." I'm busy. The words came out flat, though he knew they wouldn't work. They never did. "Det var inte en fråga." That wasn't a question. No, it never was.

His eyes dragged over her one last time. Bare skin, flushed cheeks, the way their body was pressed against him. She didn't even have a name. Didn't know anything about her except how she felt on his lap and the sound she'd been pulling from him. The timing was shit. Everything about this was shit. He lifted them off his lap, setting them aside. He stood, grabbed his jacket, and paused at the door. He glanced back at her with a slow, cocky smile.

"Du får betalt för hela natten." You'll get paid for the whole night. He tilted his head, studying them. "I still don't know your name. Jag är inte klar med dig." I'm not done with you. Then he followed the men out.

"Du är djävulsk," You're diabolical. A rough laugh escaped under his breath. "And you're good. Really fucking good." A ghost of a smile played at his lips, hungry and self-aware. His thumb traced the edge of her hip, following the line where fabric met skin. "Making me wait. Keeping control. Following every rule." He leaned in, close enough that his lips almost brushed hers. Close enough that she could feel his breath, could see the want written openly on his face. He didn't kiss her, he knew better. Just hovered there, letting the tension build.

Their weight. The curve of their hips under his hands. The way their breath ghosted over his mouth, close enough to kiss but they weren't kissing him. They were waiting. Watching. Testing his patience. He could smell her perfume, it was intoxicating. His mouth watered with the need to taste her, to press his lips to her throat, her collarbone, the place where her pulse beat under her skin. His fingers tightened on her waist. He forced them to relax.

But waiting was torture. Every second they sat there, every breath they ghosted over his mouth, every tiny movement of their hips, it was wearing him down, burning through his restraint.

"You're playing with fire." His voice was low, rough, meant only for her. "But you already know that. Sitting here like this, testing me, watching me come apart under your hands." He shook his head slowly. "I'm not good at waiting. I've never been good at waiting. And you..." His eyes dragged over their face, their throat, the skin revealed by their loosened dress. His hips shifted just slightly beneath her, not enough to be crude, just enough to make his point. "You want to see how much I can take? Is that the game?"