[attr="class","spiral"]"See?"

Fernando doesn't raise his voice. There's no need to engage when her mood fluctuates with her emotions. He comes in with a calm resolve steeled by the foresight of knowing it would come to this. The way she unravels before him fits his presumptions to a tee. It all aligns—just with some pieces unexpected. Like with everything else in life.

"This is what I mean—whatever this is, whatever you think this is—you don't even know it yourself."

His exhale rises with the heat between his nostrils. An accusation comes out that follows her train of thought.

"Better yet what? Fuck you? Give you that emotional validation that you can cling on to as you avoid addressing the turmoil you're too scared of confronting? An ounce of physical relief that lets you forget it in the moment?"

If it wasn't for Fernando's own well kept privacy, one could almost paint him in hypocrisy. His own words line up with his lifestyle, not that he's using it as a basis for his assessment—this is as oblivious as Stormy's initial purpose for trapping him here. No, he remains ignorant to the wiles of his avoidance, able to identify it in others but not himself.

"What that does is leave you dependent. Damaged. And I know you're looking for something—anything that'll stave it off but I can't have that."






I can't have you damaged. I need you operational. I need you ready.

Because it's not about what you want. Not about what you need. Not about you at all. You're nothing more than property. Nothing more than a piece in this great game of chess that encompasses the region and it's people.

The moment you accepted Moltres into your heart you became indispensable. So I need you poised, ready to take your place on the board, to step forward at a moment notice.

"I need you intact."

[attr="class","spiral"]See? Why does that word make her skin boil? Why does the way he looks at her make her angry and breathless at the same time? When had she stopped hating him and started seeking out his fucked up sense of self-importance?

"No."

He doesn't stop and she's drunk and a part of her wants him to get upset, to tell her what's on his mind. She learns who he is when he criticizes her. This time though, it isn't quite the same as belittling. He's genuinely trying.

"You act like I'm in the wrong, like that isn't exactly what you do."

And to be fair, she doesn't know if he does, she just wants. to say something mean, something that might hurt. Something that might make her feel better about him being absolutely fucking right about her all the time.

She had never seen him get close to anyone, ever. She had no idea what she was talking about - but it made her chest burn, and that felt good.

"You know what I need? I need people to stop telling me what it is that I'm feeling, what it is that they think that I need."

Stormy glares at him, puffed up with alcohol, false confidence, and passion disguised as rage.

"I need you, and I'm tired of pretending that I don't."

She takes that first step then because she knows he won't, that he can't because he doesn't want to do something he shouldn't. But this was her choice, and she wasn't interested in letting him go.

Whether he lets her is another story, but she pulls him toward her to kiss him anyway.

[attr="class","spiral"]“You are wrong!”

His exclamation is sharp and poignant, as if to cut her off right then and there. Fernando knows enough about himself, about her, to claim it with absolute confidence. Whether or not it’s true doesn’t matter. It’s his headcanon and until proven otherwise he’ll act upon his assumptions as fact.

The fact she crumbles so easily only reinforces his point.

“You don’t need anyone.”

That’s not true. It’s not true for most people. But the fact that she’s honed in on him means that he needs to defuse and derail her as soon as possible. Pushing her away in the name of her own namesake should be enough.

But it isn’t.

He can taste the mild intoxication on her lips. It lacks the pungent taste of beer or something harder. She’s a wine drinker—figures. And just as sweet as her choice in unwinding after a rough night, Fernando pushes her away. Sweets disgust him.

“You’re a piece of shit.”

The resentment is thicker than blood.

But he finds himself stuck in the honey trap, too far gone to resist. It’s a bad idea but biology has always been his weakness. The physical needs of the body always overpowers the warning of his intuition.

For the second time, he indulges.

[attr="class","spiral"]But it is true, and Stormy has been coming to terms with that for a very long time. She had been fighting for herself for so long that at one point she might have believed his words, believed the bite behind his bark, believed that she didn't need anyone. For a while, she had thought that as well.

She had needed someone to push her.

She had needed someone to challenge her.

What she'd been finding, who had been finding her, were people who wanted to make it easy.

It wasn't simplicity that she needed. It was passion, frustration, dedication. It was him.

His scowl against her honeyed lips is a challenge. He pushes her away, snarls at her with blood in his teeth and disgust in his eyes. And yet it hardly deters her, because he doesn't hold on to that rejection.

Instead, he pulls her back in and she lets him because this was what she'd wanted, what she'd craved.

Stormy doesn't even bother to argue his incredibly rude comment, instead focusing more on the way his mouth moves against hers and the heat behind her own lips.

It was the pieces of shit who got things done.

[attr="class","spiral"]Regret strums from the bottom of his heart. He only indulges because the body is weak and the will can be whimsical at times. Not often, mind you, but enough so that sometimes the glimmer of someone else’s hopes and dreams slip in between the cracks.

On principal, this should be no different than cait alfric. To allow such a travesty to blossom puts an inarguable variable in their relationship that can be ruined later. Such a connection cannot be allowed to falter. Not when Moltres remains under her commands. But in this same relationship, her interest and allegiance hinges on that same infatuation.

The need she thinks she has.

So he explores it in full by granting her one wish. In it, he finds his own satisfaction, too stubborn to give up or give in. As sure as the heat pulses from every touch so do the escalations. Until, finally, Stormy conquers the last conquest she’s set out for since Moltres’ ruination.

Seeds planted well below the heart often blossom into troubles that extend well beyond.

Whatever Stormy thinks she needs is given to her in spades. It’s almost punishing in the way he spites her, pushing her to the extent and limits of what she can do. Forcing a smoker to burn through a whole carton to wean them off is palpable in comparison, bringing them to a morning filled with a musky scent of extended aches and soreness.

In a twist of fate, Fernando sleeps soundly, only awaken by the conscious feeling of bare skin against his.

He tastes the iron of self-reproach immediately.

[attr="class","spiral"]This is what she wanted.

The dull ache of spent muscles and the dark cloud of a night spent drinking, however, is not. She stirs but only because the light filtering in through the blind spikes her behind closed eyelids, Fernando lying in such a way that his frame doesn't block the sun.

Figures.

She exhales, shifting to avoid the beam and hesitating as her skin brushes his. Her immediate response is to pull away, expecting the disappointed glare, the flat line of his lips bearing a laserbeam straight through to her insides, boiling them.

Stormy breaks eye-contact by massaging the bridge of her nose, praying for a moment of clarity despite the trauma she can feel weighing her down.

[attr="class","spiral"]His consciousness floats to the surface but his will remains bound at the bottom of last night’s regret. In the moment, he had allowed her once grievance against him but now he has no qualms with telling her nothing short of fuck off.

His eyes never open. Unwilling to face the momentary shock of an unfamiliar settings, but his face contorts none the less. It settles into an annoyed grimace as he tries to will himself back to sleep.

[attr="class","spiral"]Rather than face her fears and be the adult, Stormy chooses to flee the scene and deal with the consequences later. Frankly, she hadn't expected him to have even stayed. It was jarring to see that he had slept, or that any of last night had even happened at all.

So she slips from the bed and dresses quickly.

"..."

Her brows come together, conflicted emotions coming to the surface as she hovers by the door to watch him. Ultimately, she ends up leaving him there to leave the house altogether. There is a key and a note left behind telling him to lock up, but nothing else.