[ and she's always in a state of disbelief, because it's always bullshit. he might be functionally capable of laying on that couch, but it sure as hell wasn't as comfortable as the bed. laying with your feet hanging off and your head tipped upwards at a strange angle was not comfortable.
daisy can't quite shake the urge to scream. she could go for a run, but turning and walking back out the door so soon after arriving seems a little too rude. so she just stands in the kitchen, feeling her whole body vibrate with all that pent-up energy, staring at him as if waiting for anything at all to happen. ]
Why are you staring at me? [ it's easy to feel the tension flitting between them, back and forth like a volleyball that neither of them wants to keep for too long. she's standing there staring and he's laying there, refusing to move. ]
I am always fine. [ he's glad they agree. he stares at her a moment longer, wondering if she wanted to say something or do something but eventually moves his gaze back to the ridiculous documentary that's been on for what seems like hours. ]
[ a huff under her breath as she turns to the kitchen counter, various takeout boxes splayed out in front of her. clearly, he's not hungry. she's not even really hungry anymore, either. maybe she should just put it all in the fridge for tomorrow. ]
On the fucking couch, I swear. Like you're crowdsurfing or something.
[ he'd been willing to leave it alone, let it lie, agree to disagree on this whole sofa thing but then she starts muttering and while only hears the first part, he knows she's still going on with her mumble.
he stares after her, brow furrowed and mutters something sharp in russian because it's just a sofa. he just laying on the sofa, waiting for her to come back and what is so bad about that? ]
I'm going to sleep.
[ he could argue further but maybe that was what she wanted. so, he does the opposite and stands up, straightening his shirt and eyeing her for a long second before turning to head to the bedroom.
[ oh. well. whatever's in the food containers gets no more than a second of thought as soon as illya turns tail for the bedroom; daisy almost immediately yanks the fridge door open, sweeping everything inside and closing the door again with a satisfying thump.
to his back, she mutters a bitter curse. ] Coward. [ and then flings herself on the couch now vacated, willing herself not to be emotional. she's just... annoyed, that's all. flight or fight urge repressed into nothing — totally logical to feel frustrated about it. ]
[ oh well. he'd been planning on going to bed but that one words stops him in his tracks. his spine straightens and he stiffens, standing there like a wall's just been rolled in front of him.
eventually, he turns back around and comes into view, staring down at her. ]
[ snippy, rude; as if daring him to say something of it. even from her seated position on the couch, there's an undeniable tension. a readiness to throw down, even verbally.
they could make it physical, if they wanted to. ]
Go to bed. You can't even stand to talk to me anyway.
What is your problem? All of this over a sofa? Over the fact that I was on the sofa, waiting for you?
[ is she really getting this angry and this defensiver over his choice of furniture? it is ridiculous and absolutely insane. he has no idea what has happened tonight. ]
You are being ridiculous. [ you were, daisy. his opinion is always right. ] If this is how you want it, fine. I'll go to bed.
[ he'd stomp to bed the bedroom is what he'd do. ]
Stop, [ practically screamed out as soon as the words stop spilling from his mouth, before he can completely manage to turn away. she feels a little ... overworked, yelling like that, but it seems to stop him. does the trick, anyway. ] You don't get to act like this is all my fault!
[ she's not the one who keeps shutting down, ending conversations by refusing to reply or walking away or just outright ignoring her when she speaks. she tries. ]
You don't get to just walk away like a fucking coward every time we disagree about something! You can't do that! [ it's not fair. it leaves her alone to process all her emotions, shaking and upset and in desperate need of an outlet that doesn't exist; half the time, she winds up having one too many drinks or going on too long of a run too late at night or just feeling miserable for the whole day if she can't manage to get a spar in between briefings and agent duty.
the last time they'd argued via text, she'd spent the entire day snapping at everyone in her wake until she'd had a chance to punch the metaphorical daylights out of a reinforced punching bag. ]
I am not a coward. [ it takes quite the row to get him to raise his voice but this time, it happens. it's not much louder than he usually is but he doesn't think he needs to be. he gets the point across just fine. but that doesn't stop him from stepping closer to her, using his height to loom a bit though his hands stay at his sides. ]
So, I am supposed to just stand there and let you tell me the things I do are stupid? No. Do not call me a coward again.
[ he does not know how but the warning comes out anyway while he breathes loudly, glaring down at her like he's the one who wants to scream. ] Don't. I'm asking you politely. I won't do that again.
[ she ought to be afraid. maybe she is. or maybe she wants to fight — craves that outlet for this godawful nervous energy that refuses to quit, the kind that makes her voice and her hands shaky and unsteady, the kind that makes her jaw tight as she glares right back at him. ]
I wouldn't have to, if you didn't — [ each word bitten off, crystal clear and intentional ] — do stupid, arrogant, cowardly shit, Illya.
[ an uncomfortable pause drags on for a half minute, and daisy gets up, squaring her shoulders even as she stands a foot and change shorter. she's angry enough to make up the difference. ]
[ no, he wasn't going to hit her. that thought doesn't even come close to crossing his mind. he's breathing hard, chest heaving and adrenaline pumping. he wants to lunge forward and crowd her, he wants to grab her and throw her back down on the sofa where he can climb over her but he does none of that.
instead he curses, spitting russian words as he closes the gap between them with two steps. he stops then, making sure this was what he wanted to do. the decision is an easy one. yes, this is what he wants to do. ]
Fuck you.
[ it is the rare american curse word, something that he perhaps uses once a year. this situation feels like an opportune time but he doesn't stand around to revel in it. no, he grabs for her shoulders and shoves hers backwards, backing her into a wall and letting his body follow hers, bending down to cover her lips with his in a rough, almost bruising kiss. ]
[ the russian doesn't phase her. it's a regular occurrence, whether in anger or frustration or just plain boredom, and daisy so rarely thinks about whether or not she understands the words. she can read the context just fine — and right now, she's not surprised that he's angry.
she is surprised, though, when he curses in words she understands. that is rare; her face snaps up to stare at him, eyes going wide; her mouth opens to question him, but it's cut off by his own slamming into hers, demanding and greedy and filled with that same heated energy that's been burning a hole in her chest all evening.
fuck you, he says, and daisy can't really disagree.
not when the sudden slam of her back hitting the living room wall earns a groan that rolls into a low whine of appreciation, her own hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. it's not a fight, but they'll make it one — or daisy will, in any case, her teeth catching along his bottom lip the second they part for air, tugging hard enough to elicit a hiss of pain in the process. ]
[ she bites his bottom lip hard enough that pain lances through him but instead of wincing, he moans because the pain sets off a spark of pleasure that blooms in his blood.
not to be outdone, illya reaches for her shirt and tugs it off her, licking at his abused lip once before tossing her shirt away and moving immediately back in closer. his mouth finds the slope of her neck and, at first, he just mouths at it, tasting her and touching until he slides down to where neck meets shoulder.
there, that's where he bites down, a quicksilver catch of teeth that hook into her skin and tug, absolutely trying to leave a mark. he reaches up, grabbing at the clasps of the stupid bra and fumbles them loose so he can take that off too.
a coward. a fucking coward. he can barely see straight. ]
[ his teeth dig into the crook of her neck, sending a sharp wave of pain through her shaking limbs, and daisy outright moans into his ear, her head tipping to the side to grant him more access to the same stretch. not that he needs it. he's plenty capable, obviously, of taking advantage. but she wants it, so she gives him space.
but she's also shirtless and trembling, so it only seems fair to return the favor. it takes more effort (because she can't actually reach) to yank his shirt up and over his head; once it's freed, it joins daisy's clothing in a pile somewhere on the ground around them. where, she doesn't know. it doesn't seem to matter.
she just doesn't want to stop right now. that's the thing that matters.
so settling her hands on the waistband of his pants is the best option, fingertips fumbling with the buckle of his belt, yanking it forward even as the latch sticks. stupid old-fashioned belt. can't he just wear leggings like she does, easy to remove and no fussy mechanics? ]
[ sorry daisy, leggings weren't really his thing so you were going to have to deal with belts and buttons and zippers until you got tired of him and tossed him out. and he, of course, makes no move to help her since she's taken off his pants plenty of times before and has it under control, sticky latch or no.
besides, he's too busy licking up the side of her neck and then nipping at her earlobe, only pulling back to hook his thumbs in the waist of his pants and giving them a tug down. obviously, she was going to be a little easier to get out of her clothes and if he's a little smug about that, oh well. she can just enjoy his smirk for a second before he shoves her pants at least down her hips and leans forward to lick at the curve of one breast.
so, at least the smirk isn't one display for too long before he's back paying attention to her. ]
[ she'd roll her eyes at the smirk if she could see it, but considering his face is quite snugly nestled against her skin, she can only feel the warmth of his mouth as it skims along the column of her throat. the cool air against her legs is new, too, and earns a small shiver as she steps out of them completely, the fabric kicked off towards the other end of the room.
not that she's really concerned with being cold. not when her hands are feverish against his waist, belt flung open and zipper dropped, the stiff material of his pants finally dropping towards the ground with a satisfying thump. that's better.
though ... if he's going to be satisfied with just getting her naked and mouthing at her skin, he'll need to step up his game a little. ]
[ that's not all he intends to do, do not worry. but might as well get the clothing out of the way before they move onto anything else. besides, while she'd been busy trying to get his pants off, he'd been trying to think of where he wanted to do this.
the terrible part of his mind wants to move them to the sofa since that seemed to start this whole thing and would it not be some sort of full circle resolution? or was this a resolution at all? nothing had been settled except they both seemed to agree that this was a good outlet for the anger.
all right yes, this is going to happen unless she stops him. he pulls her away from the wall, moving to kiss her again, biting at her lips and licking into her mouth as he walks backwards, crossing the floor to the sofa until he can twirl them around and give her a firm shove down. ]
Lay down.
[ would she listen or would be stubborn and resist? considering the anger, he has his guess but hopefully she decides to listen for once since he has plans. ]
[ her mouth opens to retort, to insist that the couch is not the place she really wants to let him fuck her senseless — but then he pushes her down, growling a demand, and daisy can only swallow hard, mouth suddenly dry with want.
suddenly, laying down doesn't seem like the worst idea in the world. ]
Okay, [ the word comes out soft, compliant; there's still red-hot anger tinging the edges, but it's tempered by a desire she doesn't often give into — to acquiesce to illya's more commanding nature, to let him be in control. ] I'm laying down.
[ he holds back the smart comment about someone being able to listen because it is probably not the best place for that barb. they are already in the midst of some ridiculous argument and illya would rather not turn it into something outright nasty.
he watches her situate herself and then follows, putting one knee on the sofa, wedged between her leg and the back and braces the other one on the floor. look, he will admit that this is not a very large piece of furniture but it will work for what he wants to do and that is to make her scream in a way that isn't directly at him. ]
Move.
[ your legs that is. he reaches down, nudging one of her knees apart to give himself space and maybe now she will know what he wants to do? again, perhaps the spot isn't ideal but he's committed to the cause and she is going to come apart on this sofa if it takes him all night. ]
[ does she know? to an extent. there's no debate about the want rolling off of him, the tight set of his jaw, the hunger as he leans over her. but what exactly he has in mind still leaves her waiting for an answer. but with him staring her down, she has a feeling she might find out pretty quickly.
especially when he pushes her knees open, shifting her hips back and her legs apart. that's a pretty powerful clue. ]
Okay, [ repeated, swallowing thickly, ] I moved.
[ well, technically he moved her, but still. she even did it when she was asked, okay. she's being a very good listener. she ought to get a prize for this. ]
[ well, he's glad to see that some of of her anger seems to have ebbed away in the face of what he's trying to do. and if he's successful (which there is no reason to think he would not be), she wouldn't be bad afterward either.
he says nothing, reaching to tug the last of her clothing off (and the underwear go into the scattered piles of clothes) before he puts a hand on her knee and bends, letting his mouth drag over the inside of her knee and down her leg, never staying in one place too long since he doesn't want her expecting anything. no, he keeps moving until, lo and behold, his head's actually between her legs just like she'd wanted so long ago.
it had been a bit of a meandering journey to get there and he was still thrumming with irritation but he tries to pour it into what he's doing by licking her, long and slow, to start with, holding her knees with his hands to keep her still. ]
[ the anger ebbs and flows, but the adrenaline still flows through her body, needy and demanding for some kind of outlet even if she no longer wants it to be a fight. touch, as it turns out, is an acceptable alternative — as his head dips down to brush his mouth against her inner thigh, daisy's hands slip into the hair at his crown, fingertips carding through the short crop. not quite tugging, not yet, but... the pressure is there. the promise of urgency.
it's torture, really. to have to be so still, to not be able to squeeze around his shoulders or nudge him in one direction or another, his hands gripping tight around her knees as she writhes in place, wriggling back and forth; she wants to be able to move, to exert that energy in order to push him towards something faster, more aggressive... but she can't. she has to wait.
she hates it, but she has to, because the alternative is clearly him doing nothing at all, and she really doesn't want to do that. him storming off into the bedroom right now is a very low priority — unless it includes him bridal carrying her in there. that'd be acceptable, because the bed really is a better place for this.
[ this sofa is fine. would you stop thinking about the sofa, daisy? how could you even think about it when his mouth was on you and getting ever closer to a spot that would hopefully make you forget your own name and everything about this sofa.
until the next time the sofa came up in an argument which it was sure to do unless action was taken. but that was for later. for now, he was just going to lean up to swipe his tongue against her belly briefly -- just once -- before bowing back down, head between her legs (just like she'd been hoping for earlier) and licking her long and slow, eyes flicking up to gauge her reaction.
he wonders how long he could keep up that pace before she got tired of it and used that grip on his hair to do something about it. hm. time for an experiment because while illya wasn't patient in a lot of things, he could be patient here so while she'd feel his tongue again, it was that same slow drag of slickness before a pause. ]
[ long and slow is not the speed daisy usually requests. it's typically not even a speed she tolerates, for that matter, but tonight she doesn't exactly have much choice. not when his hands are curled firm around her knees, holding her in place, preventing her from pulling away or moving forward... or from doing much of anything at all.
but then he pauses, a smirk ever-present against her skin, and daisy groans, her head tipping forward to level him with an irritable glare. how dare he! ]
What are you doing, [ a growl rolling around the edges of syllables, all that pent-up energy threatening to come out as a fight all over again. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ and she's always in a state of disbelief, because it's always bullshit. he might be functionally capable of laying on that couch, but it sure as hell wasn't as comfortable as the bed. laying with your feet hanging off and your head tipped upwards at a strange angle was not comfortable.
daisy can't quite shake the urge to scream. she could go for a run, but turning and walking back out the door so soon after arriving seems a little too rude. so she just stands in the kitchen, feeling her whole body vibrate with all that pent-up energy, staring at him as if waiting for anything at all to happen. ]
no subject
I am always fine. [ he's glad they agree. he stares at her a moment longer, wondering if she wanted to say something or do something but eventually moves his gaze back to the ridiculous documentary that's been on for what seems like hours. ]
no subject
[ a huff under her breath as she turns to the kitchen counter, various takeout boxes splayed out in front of her. clearly, he's not hungry. she's not even really hungry anymore, either. maybe she should just put it all in the fridge for tomorrow. ]
On the fucking couch, I swear. Like you're crowdsurfing or something.
[ she's mostly mumbling to herself. ]
no subject
he stares after her, brow furrowed and mutters something sharp in russian because it's just a sofa. he just laying on the sofa, waiting for her to come back and what is so bad about that? ]
I'm going to sleep.
[ he could argue further but maybe that was what she wanted. so, he does the opposite and stands up, straightening his shirt and eyeing her for a long second before turning to head to the bedroom.
and the bed. finally. ]
no subject
to his back, she mutters a bitter curse. ] Coward. [ and then flings herself on the couch now vacated, willing herself not to be emotional. she's just... annoyed, that's all. flight or fight urge repressed into nothing — totally logical to feel frustrated about it. ]
no subject
eventually, he turns back around and comes into view, staring down at her. ]
What.
no subject
[ snippy, rude; as if daring him to say something of it. even from her seated position on the couch, there's an undeniable tension. a readiness to throw down, even verbally.
they could make it physical, if they wanted to. ]
Go to bed. You can't even stand to talk to me anyway.
no subject
[ is she really getting this angry and this defensiver over his choice of furniture? it is ridiculous and absolutely insane. he has no idea what has happened tonight. ]
You are being ridiculous. [ you were, daisy. his opinion is always right. ] If this is how you want it, fine. I'll go to bed.
[ he'd stomp to bed the bedroom is what he'd do. ]
no subject
[ she's not the one who keeps shutting down, ending conversations by refusing to reply or walking away or just outright ignoring her when she speaks. she tries. ]
You don't get to just walk away like a fucking coward every time we disagree about something! You can't do that! [ it's not fair. it leaves her alone to process all her emotions, shaking and upset and in desperate need of an outlet that doesn't exist; half the time, she winds up having one too many drinks or going on too long of a run too late at night or just feeling miserable for the whole day if she can't manage to get a spar in between briefings and agent duty.
the last time they'd argued via text, she'd spent the entire day snapping at everyone in her wake until she'd had a chance to punch the metaphorical daylights out of a reinforced punching bag. ]
no subject
So, I am supposed to just stand there and let you tell me the things I do are stupid? No. Do not call me a coward again.
[ he does not know how but the warning comes out anyway while he breathes loudly, glaring down at her like he's the one who wants to scream. ] Don't. I'm asking you politely. I won't do that again.
no subject
I wouldn't have to, if you didn't — [ each word bitten off, crystal clear and intentional ] — do stupid, arrogant, cowardly shit, Illya.
[ an uncomfortable pause drags on for a half minute, and daisy gets up, squaring her shoulders even as she stands a foot and change shorter. she's angry enough to make up the difference. ]
What are you going to do, then? Hit me?
no subject
instead he curses, spitting russian words as he closes the gap between them with two steps. he stops then, making sure this was what he wanted to do. the decision is an easy one. yes, this is what he wants to do. ]
Fuck you.
[ it is the rare american curse word, something that he perhaps uses once a year. this situation feels like an opportune time but he doesn't stand around to revel in it. no, he grabs for her shoulders and shoves hers backwards, backing her into a wall and letting his body follow hers, bending down to cover her lips with his in a rough, almost bruising kiss. ]
no subject
she is surprised, though, when he curses in words she understands. that is rare; her face snaps up to stare at him, eyes going wide; her mouth opens to question him, but it's cut off by his own slamming into hers, demanding and greedy and filled with that same heated energy that's been burning a hole in her chest all evening.
fuck you, he says, and daisy can't really disagree.
not when the sudden slam of her back hitting the living room wall earns a groan that rolls into a low whine of appreciation, her own hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. it's not a fight, but they'll make it one — or daisy will, in any case, her teeth catching along his bottom lip the second they part for air, tugging hard enough to elicit a hiss of pain in the process. ]
no subject
not to be outdone, illya reaches for her shirt and tugs it off her, licking at his abused lip once before tossing her shirt away and moving immediately back in closer. his mouth finds the slope of her neck and, at first, he just mouths at it, tasting her and touching until he slides down to where neck meets shoulder.
there, that's where he bites down, a quicksilver catch of teeth that hook into her skin and tug, absolutely trying to leave a mark. he reaches up, grabbing at the clasps of the stupid bra and fumbles them loose so he can take that off too.
a coward. a fucking coward. he can barely see straight. ]
no subject
but she's also shirtless and trembling, so it only seems fair to return the favor. it takes more effort (because she can't actually reach) to yank his shirt up and over his head; once it's freed, it joins daisy's clothing in a pile somewhere on the ground around them. where, she doesn't know. it doesn't seem to matter.
she just doesn't want to stop right now. that's the thing that matters.
so settling her hands on the waistband of his pants is the best option, fingertips fumbling with the buckle of his belt, yanking it forward even as the latch sticks. stupid old-fashioned belt. can't he just wear leggings like she does, easy to remove and no fussy mechanics? ]
no subject
besides, he's too busy licking up the side of her neck and then nipping at her earlobe, only pulling back to hook his thumbs in the waist of his pants and giving them a tug down. obviously, she was going to be a little easier to get out of her clothes and if he's a little smug about that, oh well. she can just enjoy his smirk for a second before he shoves her pants at least down her hips and leans forward to lick at the curve of one breast.
so, at least the smirk isn't one display for too long before he's back paying attention to her. ]
no subject
not that she's really concerned with being cold. not when her hands are feverish against his waist, belt flung open and zipper dropped, the stiff material of his pants finally dropping towards the ground with a satisfying thump. that's better.
though ... if he's going to be satisfied with just getting her naked and mouthing at her skin, he'll need to step up his game a little. ]
no subject
the terrible part of his mind wants to move them to the sofa since that seemed to start this whole thing and would it not be some sort of full circle resolution? or was this a resolution at all? nothing had been settled except they both seemed to agree that this was a good outlet for the anger.
all right yes, this is going to happen unless she stops him. he pulls her away from the wall, moving to kiss her again, biting at her lips and licking into her mouth as he walks backwards, crossing the floor to the sofa until he can twirl them around and give her a firm shove down. ]
Lay down.
[ would she listen or would be stubborn and resist? considering the anger, he has his guess but hopefully she decides to listen for once since he has plans. ]
no subject
suddenly, laying down doesn't seem like the worst idea in the world. ]
Okay, [ the word comes out soft, compliant; there's still red-hot anger tinging the edges, but it's tempered by a desire she doesn't often give into — to acquiesce to illya's more commanding nature, to let him be in control. ] I'm laying down.
[ now what exactly do you have in mind? ]
no subject
he watches her situate herself and then follows, putting one knee on the sofa, wedged between her leg and the back and braces the other one on the floor. look, he will admit that this is not a very large piece of furniture but it will work for what he wants to do and that is to make her scream in a way that isn't directly at him. ]
Move.
[ your legs that is. he reaches down, nudging one of her knees apart to give himself space and maybe now she will know what he wants to do? again, perhaps the spot isn't ideal but he's committed to the cause and she is going to come apart on this sofa if it takes him all night. ]
no subject
especially when he pushes her knees open, shifting her hips back and her legs apart. that's a pretty powerful clue. ]
Okay, [ repeated, swallowing thickly, ] I moved.
[ well, technically he moved her, but still. she even did it when she was asked, okay. she's being a very good listener. she ought to get a prize for this. ]
no subject
he says nothing, reaching to tug the last of her clothing off (and the underwear go into the scattered piles of clothes) before he puts a hand on her knee and bends, letting his mouth drag over the inside of her knee and down her leg, never staying in one place too long since he doesn't want her expecting anything. no, he keeps moving until, lo and behold, his head's actually between her legs just like she'd wanted so long ago.
it had been a bit of a meandering journey to get there and he was still thrumming with irritation but he tries to pour it into what he's doing by licking her, long and slow, to start with, holding her knees with his hands to keep her still. ]
no subject
it's torture, really. to have to be so still, to not be able to squeeze around his shoulders or nudge him in one direction or another, his hands gripping tight around her knees as she writhes in place, wriggling back and forth; she wants to be able to move, to exert that energy in order to push him towards something faster, more aggressive... but she can't. she has to wait.
she hates it, but she has to, because the alternative is clearly him doing nothing at all, and she really doesn't want to do that. him storming off into the bedroom right now is a very low priority — unless it includes him bridal carrying her in there. that'd be acceptable, because the bed really is a better place for this.
because this couch? is still too small. ]
no subject
until the next time the sofa came up in an argument which it was sure to do unless action was taken. but that was for later. for now, he was just going to lean up to swipe his tongue against her belly briefly -- just once -- before bowing back down, head between her legs (just like she'd been hoping for earlier) and licking her long and slow, eyes flicking up to gauge her reaction.
he wonders how long he could keep up that pace before she got tired of it and used that grip on his hair to do something about it. hm. time for an experiment because while illya wasn't patient in a lot of things, he could be patient here so while she'd feel his tongue again, it was that same slow drag of slickness before a pause. ]
no subject
but then he pauses, a smirk ever-present against her skin, and daisy groans, her head tipping forward to level him with an irritable glare. how dare he! ]
What are you doing, [ a growl rolling around the edges of syllables, all that pent-up energy threatening to come out as a fight all over again. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)