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@almostbetter
a highly selective & mutually exclusive portrayal of stellan graves, a fandomless oc & the frontman of heavy metal rock band "4CHE." nsfw content & heavy triggers will be present. minors dni. ♡ main blog here !
rules ▸ verses ▸ open starters ▸ wishlist ▸ visage ▸ musings
she notices it right away — the damp in his hair, the way his jacket clings, the small shiver he tries to play off — and it tugs at something soft in her before she can stop it. still, they step closer, brushing their fingers lightly over his arm like they're checking the cold without making it a thing. "yeah," she murmurs, quieter now, a faint breath of a laugh leaving her. "c'mere, you're freezing." their hand lingers a second before easing back, even if they don't really want to, their gaze lifting to his face as they take him in properly for the first time in weeks. her mouth presses into a small line, something conflicted flickering there before she exhales. "i missed you," they admit, soft and a little reluctant. then her brows knit, voice catching a slight edge as she adds, "i'm still mad at you, though."
"I know." His voice was quiet, a little rough. He didn't look away from them. "I'd be worried if you weren't still mad at me." A small, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth. "You can be mad. I don't mind. Just... glad you let me in." Stellan glanced down at where her hand had been, then back at her face. "I missed you too. That's why I was out there. Didn't know where else to go." He reached out slowly, as if he was asking for permission, and let his fingers brush against hers. Just barely. "Can I stay? Not just until the rain stops. Just... tonight." A pause. "I won't ask for anything else. Maybe just... food? On me. I'll even sleep on the floor."
frankie's eyes soften at those words. "then stay," they murmur, their hand finding his sleeve and tugging gently. "i'd like having you here… just for a while." she glances toward the window, then back at him, a small, almost shy smile tugging at her mouth. "you don't have to go anywhere tonight."
"Yeah?" He felt something in his chest loosen at her words. Stellan was a little wet from the rain, hair darker where it was damp, jacket spotted with it. He hadn't exactly rushed to find shelter. He shrugged off his jacket, the damp material sticking to his arms before he pulled it free. A shiver ran through him, quick and involuntary, and he let out a small breath, almost surprised."Didn't notice how cold it was. Guess I was distracted." He let out a quiet laugh, rubbing his arms. "Thanks."
to: @furtheredens
"I want you here. If you could just... stay for a while. Or, I guess... if I could? It's pouring out there."
10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU 1999 — dir. Gil Junger
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.
"I never done Molly." It doesn't dawn on her until after she's spoken that someone who has 'never done molly' wouldn't know what molly looked like in the dark backseat of a car. She hadn't, for the record, but she had done her research before choosing which drug would be best to handle her anxiety in a very rational and very controlled dosage. Half a pill, maybe forty-five minutes ago, and Molly- that was not controlled nor rational. And yet the offer is tempting. "The whole thing? How much is it?"
Stellan watched her hand cover his, felt the warmth of her fingers against his skin, and something in his chest shifted. The laugh caught him off guard. It was genuine, surprised. Not the practiced, polished thing she used for cameras. Her words took a second to process. Then another. He stared at her, searching her face in the dim light, looking for the joke, the punchline, the moment she'd laugh and say gotcha. It didn't come.
"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."
frankie hates how still she is.
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."
He felt every word land somewhere in his chest. Sharp, precise, undeniable. For a moment, something flickered across his face. Something that might have been recognition, guilt, maybe even the ghost of the man she'd once believed he could become. Then it was gone, swallowed by something hungrier. He stepped closer, not by choice, but by instinct. The space between them collapsed until there was nothing left but heat and breath and the faint scent of their perfume, the same one they'd always worn that still lived somewhere in the back of his memory like a splinter he could never quite remove. His hand found her hip like it belonged there.
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."
Athy but make it even more emo and unsettling,,, for hot demon Stellan -> @tragiclike
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?"
The air inside the bus shifted before Athanas even finished speaking. It was the kind of weight that settled into bones, that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise for reasons you couldn't name. Stellan's body went rigid on the bunk. For a long moment, nothing moved. Then his head turned, slow and deliberate. The kind of movement that belonged to something that had never needed to rush. His eyes opened. They were wrong. His pupils had swallowed everything until there was nothing left but black. The black of something that had been waiting, patient and hungry, for the right 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.
there isn’t one alternate reality in which i don’t fall in love with you
his voice breaks on the words and she feels it everywhere. they feel it in how his hands press into their hips, in the rough sound that slips from his throat when they move against him. i want to feel you. the asking matters. how he swallows and tries again matters. when he pulls her closer, just slightly, heat meeting heat, she doesn't resist, but she doesn't exactly collapse into him either. they study his face when he says får jag? and for a second the room feels very small "yes," she says quietly. they rise just enough to give themself space, fingers sliding down to the pooled fabric at their hips. without breaking eye contact, she stands from his lap. the dress slips the rest of the way down their body and pools at their feet. she steps out of it, leaving herself in nothing but lace — thin, dark, hugging just right. no performance now. no teasing choreography. just skin and breath and the faint tremor in their own pulse they refuse to hide. she steps back into him, settling into his lap again, knees bracketing his thighs. this time there's nothing between them but lace and heat. they take his hands gently and guide them upward from their hips until his palms rest against their bare sides. "du får känna mig," she murmurs softly. you can feel me. their fingers loosen, letting him decide how much pressure to use. her forehead brushes his. "no dress," they add in english, their voice low. "no games."
For a moment, the world narrowed to them. The weight of them settling back into his lap. The heat of their skin under his palms. The way they looked at him like he was the only person in the room, in the city, in existence. His hands trembled against her sides. He couldn't remember the last time someone had made him feel like he was the one being given something, not the one taking.
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.
"djävulsk?" she breathes, a slow smile curving at her mouth. "that's generous." he keeps his hands where she placed them, and that — more than the words — is what settles deep in their chest. he could move them. she's bare. he's strong. and he wants. but he doesn't. his fingers press into their hips instead, grounding himself there, and they feel the effort in it. the restraint hums between them, thick and electric. when he leans close without kissing her, hovering in that fragile inch of space, her pulse answers him — not frantic, but awake. but what if I don't want to win? that makes them pause. his hand slides slightly up her back, warm against exposed skin, but still asking. always asking. they study his face from that breathless distance — the hunger, yes, but also the awareness. the choice. "you're not trying to win," she says quietly. "you're trying to stay." their fingers slide from his wrists to his shoulders, then slowly down his arms, mapping the tension there. "and you are." she shifts her weight in his lap, keeping the rhythm controlled. "so ask, baby," they murmur, lips brushing just barely against the corner of his mouth. "fråga mig." ask me. her forehead rests lightly against his for a beat. "tell me what you want. in english. in swedish. jag lyssnar." i'm listening.
His breath stuttered. His fingers pressed harder into her hips. Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth, just barely, and his whole body tensed. Fuck, she was gonna kill him. Every nerve ending was on fire. He could feel their pulse in their thighs, could see the way the low light caught the skin they'd revealed. Isaak's hands stayed where she'd placed them. But she shifted in his lap, that slow, controlled rhythm, and a rough sound escaped his throat. Something between a groan and a curse.
"Jag vill..." His voice was wrecked. He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "I want to touch you. Jag vill känna dig." I want to feel you. His eyes dragged over them, bare skin, the curve of them, the way they were watching him. "I want my hands on you. Not through the dress. Not playing games. I want to feel you move. I want to hear what you sound like when you're not holding back." He pulled her closer, just slightly, just enough to feel the heat of her through whatever was left between them. "Får jag?" Can I?
"i know," she says softly when he calls it fire, and she means it. they can feel the restraint in him — how his hands tighten at their waist and then deliberately ease, how his body shifts beneath them without crossing the line they've drawn. that choice does more to her than if he'd dragged her down into a kiss. slowly, their hands slide to the neckline of their dress, and they hold his gaze as they push the loosened fabric down. inch by inch. over her collarbones. over the curve of their chest. until it gathers at her hips, leaving her bare in the low light between them. they don't rush or hide; they just let him look. "it's not a game," she murmurs, close enough that her lips almost meet his but don't. we don't kiss clients, they reminded themself then. her fingers circle his wrists gently, guiding his hands back down to her hips when instinct tries to lift them higher. they press them there, keeping him grounded. "you said you're greedy," she continues, her voice low and even. "so prove you can wait." their hips move slowly once, tension thick between them. her mouth brushes near his ear as she finishes, softer now, in his language: "visa mig att du kan vilja ha allt… utan att ta det jag inte har gett dig än."
He watched her push the fabric down, inch by deliberate inch, and something in his chest cracked open. The low light caught the skin she revealed: collarbones, chest, the curve of her. He forgot to breathe for a second, maybe longer. Their hands guided his back to her hips, pressing him there like a leash, like a reminder. He let them. He'd let them do anything right now. The words landed somewhere deep, translated slowly in his head while his pulse hammered. Isaak's jaw tightened, body coiling with the effort of staying still. His hands stayed exactly where she'd placed them, fingers pressing into the curve of her hips like that was the only thing keeping him tethered.
"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.
"But what if I don't want to win?" His voice dropped lower, rougher. His hand slid up their back, just slightly, palm warm against their skin through the loosened dress. "I know what this is. What I'm allowed to ask for and what I'm not. So I'm asking, not taking."
LOVE, ROSIE (2014) Dir. Christian Ditter
he says he wants all of it, and frankie believes him. not because of the words — men say that all the time — but because of how his hand lingers and his body angles toward hers as if closing distance is instinct. greedy. they study that in him for a second, weighing it. greed can turn sharp. careless. but right now it feels focused, contained, and waiting for direction. that, she can work with. "you'll give me whatever i want?" they ask softly, searching his face once more — not for dominance, but for confirmation. when she finds it, she makes her choice. their palm presses lightly to the center of his chest and they guide him backward until the backs of his knees meet the chair. she doesn't shove, but steers. once he's seated, they step back just enough to reach behind their own neck. the zipper of her dress slides down in a slow, whispering line, exposing the smooth plane of her back inch by inch. they don't break eye contact while they do it. "i want to dance," she says, her voice lower now. the dress loosens at their shoulders but doesn't fall. not yet. she closes the distance again and climbs into his lap with unhurried confidence, knees settling on either side of him and the fabric pooling slightly at her hips. their hands rest briefly on his shoulders to steady themself, then slide up to the back of his neck. close enough that her breath brushes his mouth, but not kissing. not yet. "let's start here," they murmur. "you can be greedy here." her hips shift once, slow and controlled, testing the space between them. "but you don't get all of me at once, baby."
He let her guide him back, let her take control even though every instinct screamed at him to reach for her, to pull her closer, to take. The chain was cold against his back, a small anchor to reality. He clung to it, the chill, the hard wood, because if he focused on them, on the warmth of them settling into his lap, he may have lost what little control he had left.
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?"
his hand on her knee doesn't startle her and that's the first thing frankie notices. not the weight of it, or the heat through the thin fabric of their black dress, but the absence of that old instinct to recoil. he gives her an out in swedish, polite enough to mask the hunger in his eyes, and she almost smiles at that. men who are careless don't ask; men who like control do. they let his hand stay for a breath, watching him watch them. "rough? sexy?" she repeats, clearly amused, her gaze dipping briefly to where his fingers rest before lifting again. i think you like being wanted. of course they do — that's the air in this room. but wanting to be wanted isn’t the same as belonging to it. she shifts closer, not because he pulled her in, but because she chose to, and places her hand over his. warm. deliberate. their thumb drags once over his knuckles before they gently lift his hand from their knee, not rejecting, but redirecting, letting their fingers lace through his for just a second so he feels the difference between taking and being invited. "du är artig," she murmurs softly. you're polite. their eyes hold his as they release his hand only to keep their palm resting over it on the table, anchoring him there. "you don't have to guess what i like," she adds, keeping her voice low and even. "you can ask." the silence stretches and it's thick, charged, before the redhead tilts their head and lets a faint smile return. "do you want a dance?" her fingers squeeze lightly as she rises, slow and fluid, giving him a view he doesn't have to beg for. they don't step away yet; they wait just close enough for him to feel the invitation. "i don't mind being wanted," she says quietly, her gaze steady on his. "i just prefer when it's intentional."
He watched her move, watched her take his hand and redirect it like she was steering a conversation, not a man. The touch of their thumb over his knuckles sent something through him. Need. The kind that made his hands itch. Polite. He almost laughed. No one had ever called him that, he liked that they did. Liked that they saw something in him others missed. She released his hand but didn't pull away, left her palm over his on the table. Anchoring, choosing. He felt the weight of it, the deliberate choice, the invitation. It made him want them more.
"Artig," he repeated, the word rough. "No one say that to me." He stood slowly, rising to meet her. The height difference meant nothing. She met his gaze like she wasn't afraid of him. He liked it too much. He stepped closer, into her space. "I like it. From you." His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingered, then back to her eyes.
"You want a dance?" Isaak's voice was low, rough. "Or you want something else?" He reached out, just barely, fingers brushing the bare skin of their shoulder. "Because I'll give you either. Both. Whatever you want." He let his hand rest there, warm against their skin. "I'm greedy. I don't hide it. I see something I want, I want all of it." His thumb traced a slow line along her collarbone. "And I want you. So tell me what you want. I'm not good at guessing, but I'm very good at giving."
she doesn't break stride when he says it, just stops close enough that he has to tip his chin slightly to keep her in view. hazel eyes sweep over him once — polished edges, the kind of restraint that costs money — before settling back on his face. a slow smile curves at their mouth. "most people don't," she says easily. then, softer, the vowels rounded properly even if there's a faint american lilt beneath them, "jag är inte svensk." i’m not swedish. the flicker in his expression is subtle but satisfying. "foster parents," they add in english with a small shrug. "a few years. long enough to pick it up. long enough to miss it." she lowers herself into the chair across from him without asking, crossing one leg over the other, the movement unhurried. "you look exactly swedish, though," they continue, head tilting as they study him. "brooding. expensive. a little bit lonely." it’s not mocking, but observational. a beat, then she slips back into his language, careful but confident. "vill du prata svenska, eller ska jag rädda dig från min hemska accent?" do you want to speak swedish, or should i spare you my terrible accent? they lean in just enough to close the space between them, perfume warm in the low light. "either way," she murmurs, holding his gaze, "i'm yours for the night."
He watched her sit without invitation, watched the way she crossed her legs like she owned the space, watched that slow smile curve her mouth. His blood warmed. Simple as that. Foster parents. Interesting. Complicated. His favorite combination. He was surprised to see them attempt Swedish, despite the little accent. Most of them didn't try, just showed up and waited to be told what to do. They leaned in. Perfume. Warm, good. He grinned, sharp and hungry.
"You know what I like about you already?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You don't ask permission. You just... take. I like that." He reached for his glass, drained it, set it down hard. His eyes never left hers. "My English is... not always perfect. I think faster than I speak. So if I say something weird, just... go with it." A lazy shrug. "Swedish, English, whatever. I just want to hear you talk. You got a good voice. Rough Sexy." He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the heat off him. "Makes me wonder what other sounds you make."
His hand landed on their knee. Light. Testing. "Säg till om du vill att jag slutar." Tell me if you want me to stop. He squeezed gently. "But I'm guessing you won't. I think you like being wanted. And I want you. Simple as that."
closed starter for @almostbetter !
sound comes back first — thick and distant, like it’s traveling through water. bass, but wrong. dull. muffled. not the sharp, chest-rattling kind she’d been inside moments ago. when their eyes finally pry open, everything is washed in white: canvas stretched taut, metal ribs, fluorescent spill. not sky. not stage lights. a tent. her body feels borrowed. heavy in a way that doesn’t belong to sleep. there’s a bright, pulsing ache behind their eyes, and when they swallow, nausea rolls through them slow and ugly. memory doesn’t arrive in a straight line. it fractures. the drop from the stage. the crush of hands. heat. motion. a body overhead. a sudden, brutal weight where there shouldn’t have been weight at all. impact. nothing. her fingers twitch against the thin cot beneath her, grounding herself in fabric, in the sharp medicinal bite cutting through sweat and trampled grass. festival. the same one. of course it would be this one. of all the possible places in the world for them to eat shit publicly and dramatically, it had to be the place where everything once started. she turns her head carefully, light splitting into soft halos — and the air shifts. not physically. internally. it’s the kind of recognition that doesn’t need to be named. a pressure change in their chest. a quiet, awful certainty. her eyes land there before she consciously looks. stellan. close. too close. close enough that they can register the tension in his posture, the familiar shape of him, the way his presence still seems to bend space in ways they never gave permission for. they met here. same festival. same dust in the air. she’d been feral and electric and fearless back then. he’d watched them like they were a storm he didn’t know if he wanted to step into or run from. now she’s horizontal on a medic cot, head splitting, mouth dry, eyeliner probably smeared to hell, and he’s the first thing her vision clears around. of course. their chest does something traitorous — a tight, involuntary hitch that makes them want to crawl out of their own skin. she hadn’t prepared for this version of seeing him. not across a barricade. not on a different stage. not in passing, buffered by noise and distance and professionalism. like this. quiet. close. when they can’t leave. outside the tent, a crowd roars for someone else’s chorus. another band, another moment, another timeline that doesn’t include her lying here reckoning with the person she worked so hard to untangle herself from. inside, everything feels suspended. too still. too intimate. they become painfully aware of how exposed this is — no mic in their hand, no crowd between them, no armor. just her body, stunned and half-functional, and a history that never really learned how to stay buried. anger flickers, thin and useless. at the crowdsurfer. at the timing. at the universe’s obsessive commitment to symmetry. knocked unconscious at the same place they fell in love. waking up to the same face. their fingers curl into the sheet. she hates that her body still recognizes him faster than her brain can build defenses. hates that, beneath the headache and embarrassment and dread, there’s a quiet, humiliating undercurrent of relief. their throat works. “what are you doing here?”
He heard the words land, felt them hit somewhere deep in his chest. Not angry, not grateful, just tired. The same exhaustion he used to feel all the time, back when thoughts of them were constant, inescapable. Now it was more like an old ache. Something that flared up occasionally instead of a wound that never closed.
He was still standing a few feet from the cot. Hadn't dared move any closer. His knuckles were split, he could feel the sting. The blood drying in the creases. But he hadn't looked at them yet. Couldn't look away from her. She's here, and you're here. The thought landed differently than it would have three years ago. Less devastating, more... strange. Like running into someone from a past life.
"They pulled you backstage, but the medics were swamped." His voice came out rougher than he intended. From shouting over the monitor when he'd seen the hands grab her. From the sheer adrenaline of moving before he could think. "Another girl passed out in the crowd, heat exhaustion. They took her first. Didn't feel right leaving you alone." He ran a hand through his hair, realized it was shaking slightly. Stopped. Shoved both hands in his pockets. Get it together.
"You've been out for maybe fifteen minutes." Reciting facts. Safe ground. "Medic said you'd come around soon. Said to watch for concussion signs." A pause. "You know where you are?" He already knew she did. Could see it in their eyes. The recognition, the weight of it. Same festival, same grounds, the place where they'd met years ago now. Another lifetime.
"You should drink something. When you're ready." He pulled a bottle of water from his pocket, had grabbed it on the way in, instinct he couldn't kill. Stellan set it on the edge of her cot, close enough to reach but far enough to give space. "Some guy tried to grab you off stage. Security's got him. He'll be banned from ever coming within a mile of a festival again, probably." A ghost of something, not quite a smile, flickered. "Didn't get close. I made sure of that."
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Delilah, maybe, wondering where he'd disappeared to. He ignored it. He looked at them for a moment longer than necessary. The dried eyeliner, the too-pale cheeks, the way their fingers curled into the sheet like they were grounding themself. She was still beautiful. He'd known she would be, had prepared himself for it, even. Didn't make it easier.
"I'll go, if you want. Just wanted to make sure you were okay first. Then I'll get out of your way."
