[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
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.
[ 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.
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.
[ 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? ]
[ 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. ]
You say that like relaxing is easy. [ it wasn't. he always feels like he has to be on his guard, like if he takes his eyes off something, danger will slip in and find him and he is not going to let that happen to this cartel. not after everything they've given him. not after they'd saved his life.
he owes them everything.
but, he tips his head forward, fingers grabbing at the carpet underneath his hands so he doesn't make some ridiculous sound of pleasure. she starts to work on the worst of his tension and he winces slightly because he'd known he was tight but not that tight. god, he's going to need to take up tai chi or something.
she digs her nails in and he sucks in a breath, one that he holds when the rumblings start. it's like a deep tissue massage except better. his muscles start to ache as they loosen, a lazy, languid feeling starting to flow through his limbs. ]
Mm, [ is that right? just not bad? well, then. she'll just have to do a better job, won't she? ] Sorry about that.
[ her hands shift, thumbs dragging a sharp line down the column of his neck on each side, following the path of his shoulders back and forth with the flat pressure of her fingers. with her thumb bracing against his neck, she can rock her fingers a little more firmly against his shoulder blades, pulling a tight roll of pressure against the muscles that have seized underneath her touch.
the vibrations increase too, leaving his shoulders in favor of a slow wave that flushes down his spine, pulling with it all the tension until it floods out underneath. she lets the motion repeat, over and over, as her hands continue to knead at his shoulders.
when she asks again, some minutes later, she leans down, mouth brushing against the shell of his ear. ]
[ oh god, this isn't good. scratch that, this is very good but it's not good because he's letting it affect him far too strongly. he's letting her affect him in ways that he shouldn't be. god, he barely knows who she is and she's in his house and has her hands on him and he doesn't even care. his one track mind had heard massage and the possibility of not being in pain had been too much to ignore. ]
Yes.
[ this isn't good. he knows it and he can't stop it. he's metaphorically melting which means any leverage he'd had is going, going, gone.
he bows his head forward, blowing out a long breath and rolling his shoulders to see just thorough she'd been. the answer was very thorough. goddamn. ]
Better. [ he murmurs the words, barely able to be heard before nodding just slightly. he's fucked up. this isn't good but he can't stop himself from wanting to feel good for once in his life. ]
[ as he leans forward to roll his shoulders, daisy lets her hands (and the vibrations) lift, resting in her lap while he investigates her progress. she had suspected he was feeling better — she could sense it in the soothed tension of his muscles, in the way his body had stopped seizing up and finally relaxed under her ministrations — but the way he whispers it only confirms her suspicions.
she'd done damn good, and now he was struggling to have something to complain about. exactly what she'd hoped.
which means it's a good time to slide down to the floor, her shoulder bumping up against his own as she settles next to him, legs stretching out as a pretense for the move. she's been on her feet all day, after all, and keeping them stiff wasn't going to help relax them. a little rolling vibration against the muscle, one hand going forward as she stretches her back — sure, the hemline of her dress hikes up in the process, but he's not looking. (or is he?) ]
I told you I could make you feel good, [ murmured as she sits back up from her stretch, mussed hair swept out of her face by a quick sweep of her hand. ]
[ he's trying not to look. he's really trying. it's hard when he can feel her lower herself down next to him, the weight of her shoulder pressing into his. he knows that if he turns his head, he'll be bale to see more skin than he'd seen five seconds ago and it would be good.
but, he also knows he shouldn't do that. he shouldn't let this (whatever it was) go any further especially since he doubts he's going to see her again after this. carmen surely has other plans for her if the way they chat is any indication.
he centers himself, taking a few breaths and finally does turn towards her, keeping his eyes on her face (...barely). ]
It's a handy talent to have. Mis felicitaciones al mutan. I feel better.
[ that, at least, is true. she wouldn't begrudge him an opportunity to let go of some of that tension. who knows how long he'd carried it around, the weight of his work and the cartel's ever-present danger pushing down on him? daisy might not have much, but her hands have always been a gift in that regard, given freely when she could.
but even now, even as relaxed as his body seems to be, she can't help but notice the tension that still lingers. the deep breaths he takes, the way his gaze seems hyperfocused on not drifting away from hers — it doesn't take a telepath to wonder what he might be trying not to look at. so she smiles, just a faint quirk of the corner of her mouth, and lets her head tip back, as if to catch a moment of rest against the couch cushions. ]
What about your talents, then? [ the heat that pulses from his hands, she remembers that. if she closes her eyes, she can still remember how it had felt on the dance floor, the light washing over her legs. ] Fair is fair.
[ he knows what she's asking and he can assume why she's asking. it's chilly in his house by design but he never really feels it because of who he is and what he can do. she's in a thin dress and though he's not looking, he knows that her legs are bare and probably goosebumped.
but he's not looking. instead, he sits up a little straighter, trying to roll the languidness out of his arms so he's not completely useless for the rest of the night. ]
A little. [ and then, more matter-of-factly: ] This place is basically an igloo.
[ it's not so cold that her teeth are chattering or anything so dramatic, but the temperature does have a bite to it. when she was touching him, his warmth rolled off his skin, warming her legs and hands and eventually the rest of her the longer she worked at releasing the tension from his muscles. but now, as daisy leans her back against the couch front, that warmth is gone — and she's left with the chilled air sweeping over her skin.
in theory, she could grab the blanket that hangs off the back of the couch. she could move to sit on the couch itself and curl into a ball. she could even ask him to drive her back to the compound — or to the gravel lot where she'd met him earlier that afternoon, where her car still sits parked near the corner wall of the warehouse. but she doesn't do any of those things. the blanket looks to be the only sentimental item in the house, moving to get on the couch seems like unnecessary effort, and as far as leaving goes … well, if anyone asks, she'll just say she hadn't thought of it. ]
[ marcos rolls his eyes but there's less heat and annoyance to it than there would have been earlier. instead of immediately turning his hands onto her, he gets to his feet and disappears into the back bedroom. he's only gone a moment before he returns and hands her a fuzzy cardigan, black, that she can wrap around herself. ]
I like it cold.
[ monsters apparently share their clothes too. shut up. he lowers himself back down beside her, twisting his body just enough that when his hands start to glow, he can easily direct the warm light up and down her body until she'll feel the chill seep out of her bones.
when he passes it near her eyes, he's reminded of what he'd done earlier (and what he could do now, if he was a different person) with the same hands he was trying to just warm her up with. ]
[ the cardigan is a surprise. not the color — black on black's practically a law around the cartel, as far as she can tell — but the gesture itself. he'd gotten up without even arguing about it, and brought her back something of his own. he could have thrown a towel at her, a sheet even; he goes to his room instead (she assumes) and brings her a cardigan. one that's soft to the touch, clearly well-worn.
and though daisy's dress offers long sleeves of its own, she doesn't hesitate to pull it on. it leaves her looking a little comical, oversized black cardigan with the shortest of skirts peeking out from underneath, but it's warm. she can't complain about that — even if it does feel particularly domestic.
she hasn't worn a man's sweater since... well. she can't remember when.
it doesn't matter. she's not going to think about it. she's going to sit here and watch as his hands bathe her in light the color of daffodils and homemade butter, soft and warm and comforting — even as it passes over her face, leaving her cheeks mottled pink from the heat, it doesn't burn. it's almost relaxing, like laying in the sun on a winter afternoon.
he mentions liking the cold, and she replies nearly automatically. ]
Well, that makes sense. You're hot.
[ she means temperature-wise, but … well, she doesn't bother to correct the implication her straightforward words imply. the satisfied smile that's crept onto her features probably doesn't do much for clarification either. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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? ]
no subject
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? ]
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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? ]
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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. ]
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[ 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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he owes them everything.
but, he tips his head forward, fingers grabbing at the carpet underneath his hands so he doesn't make some ridiculous sound of pleasure. she starts to work on the worst of his tension and he winces slightly because he'd known he was tight but not that tight. god, he's going to need to take up tai chi or something.
she digs her nails in and he sucks in a breath, one that he holds when the rumblings start. it's like a deep tissue massage except better. his muscles start to ache as they loosen, a lazy, languid feeling starting to flow through his limbs. ]
Not bad.
[ actually great. ]
I'm almost impressed.
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[ her hands shift, thumbs dragging a sharp line down the column of his neck on each side, following the path of his shoulders back and forth with the flat pressure of her fingers. with her thumb bracing against his neck, she can rock her fingers a little more firmly against his shoulder blades, pulling a tight roll of pressure against the muscles that have seized underneath her touch.
the vibrations increase too, leaving his shoulders in favor of a slow wave that flushes down his spine, pulling with it all the tension until it floods out underneath. she lets the motion repeat, over and over, as her hands continue to knead at his shoulders.
when she asks again, some minutes later, she leans down, mouth brushing against the shell of his ear. ]
Better?
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Yes.
[ this isn't good. he knows it and he can't stop it. he's metaphorically melting which means any leverage he'd had is going, going, gone.
he bows his head forward, blowing out a long breath and rolling his shoulders to see just thorough she'd been. the answer was very thorough. goddamn. ]
Better. [ he murmurs the words, barely able to be heard before nodding just slightly. he's fucked up. this isn't good but he can't stop himself from wanting to feel good for once in his life. ]
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she'd done damn good, and now he was struggling to have something to complain about. exactly what she'd hoped.
which means it's a good time to slide down to the floor, her shoulder bumping up against his own as she settles next to him, legs stretching out as a pretense for the move. she's been on her feet all day, after all, and keeping them stiff wasn't going to help relax them. a little rolling vibration against the muscle, one hand going forward as she stretches her back — sure, the hemline of her dress hikes up in the process, but he's not looking. (or is he?) ]
I told you I could make you feel good, [ murmured as she sits back up from her stretch, mussed hair swept out of her face by a quick sweep of her hand. ]
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[ he's trying not to look. he's really trying. it's hard when he can feel her lower herself down next to him, the weight of her shoulder pressing into his. he knows that if he turns his head, he'll be bale to see more skin than he'd seen five seconds ago and it would be good.
but, he also knows he shouldn't do that. he shouldn't let this (whatever it was) go any further especially since he doubts he's going to see her again after this. carmen surely has other plans for her if the way they chat is any indication.
he centers himself, taking a few breaths and finally does turn towards her, keeping his eyes on her face (...barely). ]
It's a handy talent to have. Mis felicitaciones al mutan. I feel better.
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[ that, at least, is true. she wouldn't begrudge him an opportunity to let go of some of that tension. who knows how long he'd carried it around, the weight of his work and the cartel's ever-present danger pushing down on him? daisy might not have much, but her hands have always been a gift in that regard, given freely when she could.
but even now, even as relaxed as his body seems to be, she can't help but notice the tension that still lingers. the deep breaths he takes, the way his gaze seems hyperfocused on not drifting away from hers — it doesn't take a telepath to wonder what he might be trying not to look at. so she smiles, just a faint quirk of the corner of her mouth, and lets her head tip back, as if to catch a moment of rest against the couch cushions. ]
What about your talents, then? [ the heat that pulses from his hands, she remembers that. if she closes her eyes, she can still remember how it had felt on the dance floor, the light washing over her legs. ] Fair is fair.
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[ he knows what she's asking and he can assume why she's asking. it's chilly in his house by design but he never really feels it because of who he is and what he can do. she's in a thin dress and though he's not looking, he knows that her legs are bare and probably goosebumped.
but he's not looking. instead, he sits up a little straighter, trying to roll the languidness out of his arms so he's not completely useless for the rest of the night. ]
Are you cold?
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[ it's not so cold that her teeth are chattering or anything so dramatic, but the temperature does have a bite to it. when she was touching him, his warmth rolled off his skin, warming her legs and hands and eventually the rest of her the longer she worked at releasing the tension from his muscles. but now, as daisy leans her back against the couch front, that warmth is gone — and she's left with the chilled air sweeping over her skin.
in theory, she could grab the blanket that hangs off the back of the couch. she could move to sit on the couch itself and curl into a ball. she could even ask him to drive her back to the compound — or to the gravel lot where she'd met him earlier that afternoon, where her car still sits parked near the corner wall of the warehouse. but she doesn't do any of those things. the blanket looks to be the only sentimental item in the house, moving to get on the couch seems like unnecessary effort, and as far as leaving goes … well, if anyone asks, she'll just say she hadn't thought of it. ]
I'm beginning to rethink the dress a little.
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I like it cold.
[ monsters apparently share their clothes too. shut up. he lowers himself back down beside her, twisting his body just enough that when his hands start to glow, he can easily direct the warm light up and down her body until she'll feel the chill seep out of her bones.
when he passes it near her eyes, he's reminded of what he'd done earlier (and what he could do now, if he was a different person) with the same hands he was trying to just warm her up with. ]
It's too hot everywhere else.
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and though daisy's dress offers long sleeves of its own, she doesn't hesitate to pull it on. it leaves her looking a little comical, oversized black cardigan with the shortest of skirts peeking out from underneath, but it's warm. she can't complain about that — even if it does feel particularly domestic.
she hasn't worn a man's sweater since... well. she can't remember when.
it doesn't matter. she's not going to think about it. she's going to sit here and watch as his hands bathe her in light the color of daffodils and homemade butter, soft and warm and comforting — even as it passes over her face, leaving her cheeks mottled pink from the heat, it doesn't burn. it's almost relaxing, like laying in the sun on a winter afternoon.
he mentions liking the cold, and she replies nearly automatically. ]
Well, that makes sense. You're hot.
[ she means temperature-wise, but … well, she doesn't bother to correct the implication her straightforward words imply. the satisfied smile that's crept onto her features probably doesn't do much for clarification either. ]
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