[attr="class","spiral"]An entanglement of limbs becomes another centerpiece for further conversation. Now, nothing can stop his breath from running ragged, running his fingers against the outline of her design. He feels her in both femininity and empowerment, pressing a smile when he strikes muscle that puts his own to shame.

Her tale is as interesting as it is bizarre. She captivates him if only for a night.

His own depravity lacks the same poignant narrative that hers does. He’s spotless, head to toe, clean as the halls of his Gym, void of anything that tells a personality beyond the words that leave his mouth. His body is a mold, manufactured, artificially tailored to meet the expectations of what the world perceives as standard. He’s attractive, physically, because he follows the rules laid out before them.

He’s carved out by a cookie-cutter.

Only his history gives a glimpse of something more underneath the surface.

Bruises and welts from his tenure in Hoenn, namely The Three Day War, are expected from any veteran. They are badges, not of honor, but participation prizes used to celebrate surviving another ordeal. Those are the boring ones.

Along his waist is a coast of pink, raised skin, indentured as a reminder of what makes the man he is today. They cut his body in half, starting from his navel and working their way like the Lilycove seaboard, align across the constellation of his ribs until they end somewhere on his backside. Far from uniform, it gives the reminiscent distinction of a can lid pried open, glued back together due to someone’s thoughtlessness.

The lumps are smooth in lieu of where hungry teeth once punctured. A decade passes but the signs never fade away. They’re a part of him now, mentally and physically.

He is unabashed in his pursuit. The marks of his past is neither something he wears with pride nor hesitance. His focus is solely on her. His drunken stupor may cause them to fumble onto a misplaced mattress but his soul still burns bright.

He’s working here.



Sunlight has a bad habit of slipping through cracks unseen. The way they fold against the blinds allow them to melt against his eyelids, forcing him conscious to the point that going back to sleep proves impossible. Fuck.

He still feels the alcohol—blames it on the lack of food. Ultimately, they didn’t drink too heavily. Maybe a bit much in short bursts but the time between leaving the bar and returning to her place should have staved off the worst of it.

“Mmm.”

A soft groan murmurs in his throat as he rolls over, chest pressed against her backside. He gravitates toward the only source of warmth, covers and blanket long tossed to the side from the erratic movements of their slumber. And when he feels skin, someone else’s skin, he leans in to worship it with his lips, pressing appreciative kisses against the great expansive of her shoulders until he weasels his way to the crook of her nape.

Her guard dog goes unnoticed. Its presence altogether is a mere blimp on the radar of his muddled memory. His mind pieces together a game of cards and numbers, coiling into one long episode as he slips in a peck underneath the angle of her jaw.

He lingers too long, delicate so as to not awake her, devious enough to leave a mark for her to show and tell.

[attr="class","spiral"]The way life erupts from her body leaves Fernando puzzled to the point he wonders if adding a small prod really would let it escape.

When she recoils he releases himself from contact, unable to pull through her distinct need to keep to herself. Even Silph knows when to pull out full stop, staring at her for a moment, considering his options. There’s only two, really:

Choice one is to dip. Find a way to remain as subtle or awkward as possible. Feint that their night is just one lost to the consequence of their debauchery before hauling ass before she can come to. It’s the safest option and one he’d encourage to anyone of sound mind. But Fernando Silph is built different.

Safety, for all its importance, always takes a backseat to venture gained.

“Hey,” he coos, disappointment apparent in his voice as it dies between them.

They’re at an impasse. Fernando knows too much, that much is certain. He reads it not from the walls or the trouble she surrounds herself in, but from her actions and lack thereof. No explanation, no reasonable excuse, no way to hide what he’s already seen.

He knows this, along with the stark reminder that somewhere in the house lies a firearm rife for usage. Bundle that up with the cascading pictures of her nudity, dragon, symbols, ink and all, and it doesn’t take much for Fernando to presume just how precarious of a situation he’s put himself to.

“That bad, huh?”

The reference might not be obvious but Fernando holds the conversation like it is. It’s undoubtedly subjected at his own performance, a nod to something more light-hearted for them to agree upon, a copout for something she cannot otherwise explain.

“Damn,” he pauses, letting his fingers do the talking as they trace up her throat, to cup her chin. “Would it make you feel better if I said it’s been a while?”

"Or if I blamed the tequila?"

[attr="class","spiral"]Hm.

What an enigma. Fernando can’t read her for the life of him. Her previous actions put him on edge: the abrupt awakening, the way she reclines into herself despite him. Everything that comes after is just a bold face lie used to hide the secrets of her instinct. Being the first to awake catches her when she’s the weakest. He’s caught her sloppy.

And yet, an act can only go so far. Expressions are easy to mask with practice—he should know—but being able to change the way blood flows, to force your skin to redden on demand is a skill unheard of. He can only read it as honesty and that perplexes him.

Likewise, Fernando does not show his investigation on his features. His mind speaks ill of her but his appearance cherishes the pink with a smile of his own. “That makes two of us.”

Fernando holds eye contact until he feels his gaze projecting endearment. What he sees is not her face but the spectre of someone before her—true love. It’s the only way his performance can be believable, momentarily lost in reminiscence as his smile purses at the thought.

“It’s nice.”

His whisper is soft, tame. It doesn’t match the sharp image he holds both on television or at the bar. A man chiseled to be perfect, cunning, cold even, should not melt this easily.

“I miss it,” the affection he means as his thumb traces circles against her cheek.

I miss you.

He loses himself for just a minute before he realizes her face for who she really is: not Elysia, not Amavi; her name is Lulu.

It kills his smile and he shuffles closer to her, forehead against her own, dressing her up as his imagination fills in the path his eyes take across her collarbone. “You don’t mind?” She accepts him for now so he’ll make due of the situation.

[attr="class","spiral"]Well, that’s easier than expected. She does all the work. The cut ties, the abrasive finish that comes with the awkward shuffle of hurrying the other person out. It all comes down from her own prerogative and that allows him space. It makes this clean.

Fernando’s face is still smitten by the time she leaves him. Leaving him unattended only shifts his gaze onto the beast that takes her place. Curiosity inspects its fur while the Pokemon stares back. The sound of her going about her day leaves him naked, prone on his back, rolling over to stare at the ceiling.

Just a few more minutes.

“I wouldn’t know.”

He stomachs a laugh before finally bringing himself to his feet. Unlike her, he has to resort to last night’s clump of discarded clothes. They’re scattered around the bed, an awful admonishment of just how unkempt they had become. “Who knows about work more than someone who runs Hoenn?”

For someone who’s presentation is always pristine, Fernando dresses himself quite sloppily. Given the fine wrinkles embedded onto his shirt, he deems it pointless to try and keep up appearances. As long as they’re on, it’ll do until he can attend to himself properly.

“These are nice,” his voice dims once again. “These small pockets of time where we get to live out our desires that we neglect.”

His sleeve is untucked and only the top and bottom button clasp together. The rest are forgotten, neglected in the same manner that Lulu tries to seal away the psychological need for love and affection.

“You should try embracing it sometime. Keeps you going far longer than without.”

He tilts his head both ways. The way his neck cracks with an audible pop set the mood for the start of his day.

Looks like he’ll make it out in one piece.

[attr="class","spiral"]“Ah.” Fernando can remember the way in. Kind of. His eyes trace along the steps, observant but never lingering. She has enough strange things strewn around that he doesn’t need to pull attention to it. “That’s on you. I don’t change.”

His dismissal sounds like that’s the end of that. That he doesn’t care—he doesn’t. But they both know that’s a lie. He’s known her and it’ll creep across his actions and comment, subtle, subconsciously, bred through a familiarity that cannot be severed.

Being able to give them shit after conquering them is always a treat.

He makes for the door, not bothering to glance back. “I’ll leave it to you then. Let myself out?”

[attr="class","spiral"]He hadn’t expected her to mean it literally.

Lulu is inadvertently given a days’ amnesty. While Fernando had expected to drink more than usual, the details of what last night entailed was near the bottom of his expectations. The fact he had slept over means his entire schedules is fucked. The walk of shame is one spent rearranging his meetings or cancelling them outright. At this point though, he hardly cares.

But Fernando does not forget. He can hardly get her off his mind. Not because of their intimacy or anything remotely physical, but due to the company and equipment she keeps. What he does remember from her apartment are fragments that have no reason being there. The papers, the equipment, the pistol in the drawer. While not outright wrong or illegal in any court of law, their presence alone breed suspicion.

Too tied up to investigate himself, eventually he get around to hiring a private detective to scope the place out under the guise of a neighbor’s friend. By then, it’s already too late. Not a single clue remains. But that in itself is a clue.

No one disappears. Not that cleanly and not without something to hide.