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I don't want to.

[ it's that simple. maybe it's the tension, maybe it's the heat, maybe it's delirium from god knows how many puffs of hair spray and cologne she inhaled while walking through this place, but she doesn't. it's a challenge, and for whatever reason, she can't bring herself to back down from it. ]

If you want to, you can. [ but she doesn't think he wants to either. ] You can do whatever you want.

[ a strange sort of privilege to give a man you don't really like, a man who's made it perfectly clear he doesn't like you, but. well. when in columbia, right? ]

I told you I don't run.

[ so, he wasn't going to be walking away. if that meant staying out on this fucking dance floor the rest of the night, so be it. he's not going to flinch first. ]

But you're right in that I can do whatever I want. That's how I work. [ and most of the time he did exactly that. ]

You're still a nice girl. [ he wasn't going to let go of that. ] It's really adorable. Very cute.

You say that. [ but he'd left without arguing, hadn't he? ] But you seemed pretty happy to do what I asked before.

[ the hand that's flush against his chest relaxes, lifting up to sweep fingertips along the cropped beard that defines his jawline. he doesn't stop her, and so after a pass or two, her nails begin to rake through, enjoying the texture of it underneath her skin. ]

You think you can corrupt me, don't you? That I'm just a nice girl playing at being bad?

[ dios, what the hell was he doing? or the better question was what was he letting her do in the middle of this party? maybe carmen wasn't seeing but other people were and this would surely get back to her in one way or another.

and yet, he doesn't stop her. in fact, he has to try very hard not to completely fall apart because that feels really. he makes a quiet sound, low and brief, but it's one he's unable to suppress this time. ]

It's not my job to corrupt you but I do think you're a nice girl playing at being bad.

[ glad they were in agreement. ]

You want people to think you're someone you're not. But, I see through that.

[ he's not wrong. he's not right, either — he doesn't know her real name, doesn't know what she does for a living beyond this place, the kinds of people she fights and beats and puts away. but he knows she's hiding something, that she's putting up a facade for the cartel, playing at being a criminal in order to get something she wants. he's not wrong there.

her nails continue their pathways, encouraged by the soft sound he makes, dragging slow patterns that begin to mirror the gentle roll of fingertips against the back of his neck. both hands, both soft; just gently touching as she watches him. ]

You think you have me all figured out. [ a soft huff of air through her nose, amused; her voice dips, quiet, as if confessing something not meant for everyone to hear. ] What would make a good girl go bad, Marcos?

[ the hand that's curved over his neck flattens, palm flush, and for a brief, fleeting moment, gentle vibrations roll down the column of his spine. barely more pressure than a massage chair on a low setting, but undeniable all the same. ]

Is it power? Ability? The knowledge that one squeeze of my palm could tear this place apart? [ the vibrations stop; daisy withdraws her hand and lets it smooth reassuringly over the nape of his neck, fingertips teasing at the hairline. ] Or do you think my restraint makes me a good girl?

[ she has a feeling it's the latter. ]

What does yours make you?

[ he's letting her get under his skin. he's letting a few nice touches get to him and he knows it. he knows that it's going to give her leverage against him and that's one thing he's refused to give anyone for a very long time.

the fingers on his face, the vibrations against his back, it's all serving to try and erode the very careful and very strong walls that he puts up to keep everyone out. he swallows, blinking a few times to refocus on her. he can't let himself be caught up in a simple touch. is it nice? yes. could he let himself sink into it? yes.

but he's not going to let that happen. ]

You asking me what my power makes me?

[ too could play the 'let's show off' game. the hand he has around her waist starts to slowly heat up, nothing close to burning but definitely warmer than any other place on her body. the light starts to glow, bathing parts of her in a gentle yellow light. ]

That depends on who you ask.

[ ask his father, it means he's a monster. ask his mother, it means he's like her. ask carmen, it's means he's an asset. ask him, he doesn't know that answer. ]

[ it's a dangerous game. going undercover to a gang like this — ruthless, powerful, more money and guns than sense — is risky business, and if daisy doesn't play her cards right, she could get hurt. she could upset the wrong person, say the wrong thing, and wind up another undiscovered body somewhere in the desert.

but she could use this too. if she can wriggle her way into favor with someone beyond carmen, whose attentions were notoriously fleeting and never guaranteed to last, she could protect herself. she could find a niche for herself and grow from there, establish her value to the cartel. seducing marcos diaz, right hand man and former flame of the cartel's leading lady, probably isn't how headquarters wants this mission to go down — but they sent her, not ward, not fitz, not may. they sent her, and she's going to do it her way.

so she smiles into the touch, hums a soft melody of approval at the warmth that spills out over her skin, and lets her head tip to the side in careful consideration. ]

I'm asking you. [ those rumbles start again, more targeted this time, teasing at the muscles of his calves. if she wanted to, she could lift them up, vibrate enough firm air between their feet and the ground that they'd effectively be flying. but that's a little much for the inside of a club. not that the light he's bathing her in is particularly subtle, either. ] What does it make you, Marcos?

[ if the light show or the whispers and stares it brings bothers her, she doesn't show it. ]

I think you want me to think you're a monster. But I see through that.

[ isn't it fun to hear your own words parroted back at you? ]

Do you?

[ marcos is perfectly fine with people thinking him a monster, an abomination, a terrorist who doesn't care about anyone but himself. he cultivates those various reputations and makes sure to even build them up to make himself even more terrifying in the eyes of others. he doesn't want friends, he has no family, and he doesn't want any ties to anyone. there's nothing to be gained there. ]

What do you see?

[ if she's going to pretend that she knows who he or what he is, he wants to hear it. he wants to hear what this person who's been around for five minutes thinks she can see by having two conversations with him.

the hand at her back heats up a little more, still well under any limit that's going to hurt her but it's getting hotter in the same way whatever she's doing to him is making his legs shake. he ]

What do you think you see? [ that was the better question. she thinks she knows. he doesn't think she has a freaking clue. ]

I've met men like you before. Dangerous men, dark and broody, full of rage and smug superiority. Men who think they can run the world by destroying it.

[ it's not a judgment call or a criticism, though the words certainly carry with them a particular heaviness. she's careful to keep her tone soft, calm; the vibrations pulsing from her palm roll upwards, centering themselves against his neck and shoulders, the way a masseuse might target the tension that carried from holding posture too tight. ]

You let your abilities become the only thing people know about you, and they see you as a monster because they don't know what else to say.

[ but the warmth that spills from his skin can heal as well as it can hurt, if the way she's arched into the touch is any indication. ]

I see a man who's got a little more going for him than just some sunlight, but he doesn't want anybody to know that.

I don't want to run the world.

[ he murmurs the words and they're honest. he's not often honest these days, not even with himself, but that's a truthful statement. he doesn't want to rule the world. he doesn't want to have people bow at his feet and do his bidding. he just wants to survive.

and he'll do absolutely anything to make sure that happens. if that means working for the cartel, he'll do it. if it means killing men who stand in his way, he'll do it. ]

People see what I want them to see. No more, no less.

[ even carmen hadn't gotten that deep. she'd tried and she'd gotten further than most but once he stopped talking, he'd stopped being useful in that way. she'd gotten bored. it hadn't been that big a loss.

the knots in his neck start to loosen under whatever she's doing and he exhales, a ragged sound of surprise. he's been carrying that tension around for months and some girl comes along and just undoes it? it shouldn't be happening. ]

You don't know what you're talking about. [ besides the whole running the world thing, she's remarkably accurate and he hates that. ] They say I'm a monster because I am. You saw it earlier.

[ he'd have blinded that man if she hadn't been pushy. ]

Sorry to break it to you.

Are you?

[ she has to wonder. from what she knows of cartels and other organizations like it, you stay for two reasons. you're either family, or afraid of being nothing. organized crime offers people purpose when the world outside brings only fear or pain or both. when she considers his history with carmen — never explicitly confirmed, but hinted at, never outright denied either — it stands to reason that he wasn't born into this place. he came here, needing something that it gave him.

was it shelter? was it a job? was it a sense of belonging? she doesn't know, yet, but daisy knows it must be something. whatever he's getting here goes deep, a need he can't imagine filling anywhere else. ]

You can tell yourself you're a monster, Marcos, but I don't buy it. Nobody's just one thing.

[ she's a good girl, yes. he's been right about that. her moral compass points true and strong, as evidenced by her thankfully private reaction to his torture session earlier today. but that doesn't mean she can't be selfish or cruel or reckless.

as if to prove her point, her hands lift, adjust; they find purchase curving over his shoulders, her fingertips digging into the tense muscles just above his shoulder blades. the vibrations lessen to a soft pulse, the muscles themselves rocking back and forth against the bone.

she knows it feels good, but the pleasured exhale he releases just makes her smile, smug and satisfied. ]

I can be good, if you want, but I don't need you to corrupt me. Somebody already beat you to it.

I'm not looking to corrupt you. I'm not looking to do anything to you.

[ was that a lie? possibly but again, he lies for a living so there's nothing on his face, in his body language that gives that away. maybe she'll be able to pick up on what the truth is because of what he's done previously but will he tell her if she's right?

no. ]

You can tell yourself that you think you know me but you don't.

[ and she never would if he had a choice. still, she keeps working at those muscles at his shoulders, the spots where he carries all the tension and stress that accumulates on a day to day basis. the cartel has masseuses, of course, but he never partakes. he tells himself he doesn't need them but the extensives knots in his muscles tell him otherwise. ]

It's guesswork. That's all it is. You don't need to buy it for it to be true.

Monsters don't carry the weight of the world on their shoulders.

[ and to that end, daisy lets her hands lift, the pulsing energy slipping away with them; they drop to her side only to gently smooth over the front of his shirt, fingertips toying with the lapel of his jacket, the buttons, the exterior pocket. ]

They don't need a massage or a good fuck to get all the tension out, either. [ he said it first. don't give her that look. ] They don't carry any tension at all.

[ she's met monsters. real monsters, men who take sick pleasure in torture and terror. she's met monsters, and they don't carry anything on their shoulders, because they want to do the terrible things they do. they don't do them to pay the bills or to survive in a gang. they do them for the joy of it.

and while marcos is competent, he didn't strike her as a sociopath. ]

But what do I know?

[ it was hard to argue with that. hard enough that he doesn't even try. maybe there were different kinds of monsters and she just hadn't met his kind yet. maybe she was trying to convince him that he was better than he was for some stupid reason. or maybe she just wants to prove him wrong and thus prove herself right.

but, he can't really argue with the fact that he did carry tension. he carries it everyday, heavy and painful, and he keeps carrying it because it's something he has to do.

he says nothing, only watches her steadily, eyes dark and unblinking for a few moments. he's going to have to ask carmen where she found this one and what made her decide to take her on because she's not typically the type of person you'd find here. ]

I know how to deal with my tension.

[ it was...the latter choice of the options she'd given but even that had been few and far between lately. ]

It doesn't affect me.

Oh? [ her head tips up, leveling him with a cool quirk of her brow, mouth taut in a flat line. does she believe that? no. ] Wow.

[ the tension she just spent a good few minutes physically — both hands-on and -off — massaging out of his shoulders? that tension? of course it didn't have an effect on him. no way that his body wasn't just holding on to all that tightly repressed self-image all the time.

yeah, she's never met anyone who's ever done a thing like that.

daisy blinks at him, slow like a cat sizing up its prey, before shrugging her shoulders, hands smoothing more firmly to press down the mussed lapel of his coat, to sweep off the nonexistent dirt off his front panel. ]

I think that's utter bullshit, but whatever helps you sleep at night. [ a beat, ] I was going to offer an actual massage, but hey, if you're good, you're good.

You were going to offer me a massage?

[ he can't help it, his first thought is: yes, please. not only because it would feel good but because it meant that he wouldn't be alone for a little. for all of his bluster and confidence, he really does hate being alone and stuck in his own head. he deals with it and even seeks it out but that doesn't mean he likes it. ]

I don't know if I believe you. [ marcos reaches up and wraps his hand around her wrists, fingers circling around until he could feel her pulse thump against the tips. ]

I think you might just be saying that to make me jealous. I don't know if I believed you had it planned at all. [ he gives her wrist a squeeze. ] But if I'm wrong, offer it to me anyway.

[ see what he said. ]

You clearly need one. [ whether just physically or for other reasons, daisy doesn't elaborate. her gaze simply drops to peer down at his hands curled around her wrists, a wry smile curving up the corners of her mouth. ] And since I'm such a good girl, I thought it might be nice.

[ is it a little selfish too? an attempt to get close to him, one-on-one, to wriggle her way under his skin and endear her to him in a way that's a little more personal? of course. but there's something else too, something daisy's trying very hard not to acknowledge. the warmth of his skin against her own, the way something in her stomach twists when he stares into her eyes, the way her heartbeat seemed to tick up when he pulled her to him, fast and demanding, almost possessive. ]

What do you say, Marcos? [ his name, said so low it's practically a murmur, but it's his name. ] Would you like me to make you feel good?

[ yes. absolutely yes. he wants it, he wants it badly. even if it just a massage, he's felt what she can do with her hands and if she can actually loosen some of those knots, he might be a lot less cranky.

but he knows that if he walks out of here with her, carmen's going to see and she'll have questions. that or she won't let him alone with her incessant chatter about how adorable it is and how she's glad he moved on.

or maybe she'll be snide and still somewhat possessive. it was hard to tell what her mood would be. ]

Come on.

[ fuck it, he'll let it happen. people can talk, carmen can talk but he wants what he wants. so, with a hand still on her wrist, he turns to drag her off the dance floor and out towards the door.

goodbye party. ]

[ the party isn't a loss. she watches with an almost detached sense of humor as partygoers chatter in their wake, some going so far as to not-so-surreptitiously snap a photo. what will they say? who will they say it to? some part of her realizes that the audience in question could be carmen. she knows, too, that carmen is here tonight, ensconced in her own booth likely watching the show. but carmen hasn't sent someone to stop them yet — so daisy, for this immediate moment, decides she doesn't care.

she lets him pull her off the floor, out of the club, through the lot; though the cartel's more junior members service a makeshift valet, she watches marcos pull his own keys from the rack, and lets him tug her along, back to that familiar black suv — only this time, her back winds up against the door instead of in the seat, his body just inches from her own.

she almost kisses him, but he shepherds her in before she has the opportunity, puts her in the passenger seat and darts back out before she can so much as grab a lapel. instead, he drives, fast behind the wheel like a bat out of hell, gravel clouds kicking up in their wake as they leave the club behind. ]

[ marcos doesn't live far away from the actual compound so the drive is quick. it had taken him a few years to save up enough money to get out from underneath carmen's thumb and find himself a place far enough away that he felt like he had privacy but close enough that he could get back there in a hurry if needed.

the little house is dark when he gets there, obviously. he doesn't leave lights on to scare away any potential burglars because if someone wants to break into his house, it's their funeral. he climbs out of the car, shooting her a look as he does before winding his way to the front door, opening it, and leaving it open since he hadn't waited for her.

the interior of the home is sparse for the most part. the necessary furniture, a few plants, and books stacked here and there. he refuses to settle down because if he needs to move, he doesn't want to get sentimental and sappy.

no roots.

he flips on the lights and then glances back to see if she's managed to find her way in without getting lost. ]

[ she doesn't need an escort to figure out the path between driveway and the front door, thank you very much, even if it is a little extra to walk up to a house that's completely pitch-black inside. she gets the vibe just fine — i'm tough, the house is tough, we're not afraid of you — but it's still … just a little much.

which is kind of a strange contrast to the sheer nothingness of the inside, walls still beige as the day he moved in and no more than a few surprisingly thriving plants on the inside. she guesses that makes sense, though. whatever sunlight they're not getting, he could supplement.

she opts to ditch the heels as soon as humanely possible, leaving them in a corner by the kitchen. it drops her down a few inches — when she does finally come to greet him, the crown of her head barely reaches up to his shoulder. which is really just an excuse, at the end of the day, for her face to tip up to his, a curious quirk to her brow. ]

I'm not going to be able to do this standing up, you know.

[ because he dragged her out of that party like a man starved for a massage, remember? or did he forget? ]

[ he hears her come in behind him, hears the door click shut which means he doesn't have to bitch at her about letting any of the cool air out. he tends to run naturally warmer so he keeps the temperature lower than most. hopefully she doesn't get cold easily.

the living area dominates the front of the house with a kitchen off to the side and a corridor presumably leading to other rooms on the opposite side. there's a television, dusty, and a laptop, closed, on the coffee table in front of the sofa. ]

I am not a moron. [ he nods at the sofa, draped with a handmade quilt that was definitely not his work. it's not black leather but a faded brown that looks more secondhand than brand new.

it's comfortable and he doesn't care. he doesn't join her immediately, though. no, he slides off his jacket and drapes it along a chair, rolling his sleeves up to the elbow and rubbing his forearms before coming around and dropping down on the sofa. ]

Sit down, then. Or am I still going to be too tall if I sit here as well? [ does he need to sit on the floor and lean back? ]

Edited 2019-02-25 19:42 (UTC)

[ she isn't disappointed by the sofa. if anything, it puts her at ease. the quilt looks well-worn, warm; the sofa easy to sink into. it doesn't quite have the same splashy qualities that the guerra compound plasters across all surfaces.

daisy watches with quiet curiosity as he sheds his jacket. ] Yes, you are. [ too tall. not a moron. actually, he may very well be a moron, she's not disputing or confirming that, but it's specifically the tall thing that's being confirmed right now.

but she won't be able to do this if he's still towering above her, so daisy opts to pull the coffee table forward, making room for him in the space in front of the couch to sit. ] Down, please. [ at least she says please, right? ]

[ he arches an eyebrow, just barely stopping himself from her comment making him sound like a pet. but, she said please and he does want to see if maybe she has some use beyond just making things shake with her hands so he lowers himself down to the floor and rests his back against the couch.

he reaches for the remote and flicks it on, letting it stay on the cooking channel he'd been watching last night. he keeps the volume down but doesn't want to just be sitting in silence with her. ]

Are you gonna back out on me now?

[ he shooks her ea look over his shoulder, one that says 'well?' since she'd talked a big game, he's going to make her walk that big game at least for a little while. at least until his good sense comes back and he realizes what he's doing. ]

No, [ she chides, settling behind him, her legs bracketing his shoulders on either side. he's warm to the touch on her bare legs, even through the thin fabric of his shirt. it makes sense to her, then, why he keeps the air so cool. even as the breeze of the air conditioner draws goosebumps over bare skin, the warmth that bleeds through from him keeps her comfortable. better than needing a blanket, in any case. ] Just relax.

[ she's not just all talk, thank you very much. she's gentle at first, though, fingertips carding through the hair at the nape of his neck up to the crown of his head, nails trailing along his scalp. it's just enough to familiarize him with the sense of her touch, just a tease of better things to come; once his shoulders sag down, daisy lets her hands slip down to grip over them, thumbs pressing a little more firmly into the tense knots laying parallel between his neck and shoulders.

those take a little more effort, and so after a moment, daisy breathes out a concerted exhale; in its wake, rumblings begin to flow from her palms, focusing on trembling the muscles in his shoulders and upper back. it's not quite firm enough to shake the bone, nothing so strong that might hurt, but it should help to loosen some of the worse knots held there. ]

How does that feel?

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