With apologies, because "Any sufficiently intense curry is indistinguishable from smut" is one heck of a line.
The apartment smells like cooking, and that means home and care and love. And that's complicated, because home and care and love are inextricably cross-linked to duty and misery, and Carey has always pressed her feet to that tightrope's razorblade edge and walked, unhesitating, in the direction where she has the duty to provide everyone else the love.
"What can I help with," she'd asked, and Marisa had smiled and said, "Nothing, thanks, just sit and relax," the first time; then a firm, "No," to, "Can I help," the second.
And then when Marisa had turned around and found her quietly doing prep, she took Carey's shoulder and steered her into their living space, sat her in a chair, and cuffed her wrists to it.
"This is not a punishment," she said firmly into Carey's hair, kindly frustrated.
"It feels like one," Carey said pathetically. Sounding pathetic doesn't work at all on Marisa, and she's not doing it to be manipulative, she just feels — pathetic. Small and guilty and useless.
"Because—?"
"Because other people have trained me into maladaptive emotional habits," Carey says dutifully, and Marisa sighs and kisses her temple.
"Do you want the TV? Some music?" she says, and Carey shakes her head. She wants to be in the kitchen, but she's already had it revoked.
Marisa puts some soft music on. "Not a punishment," she repeats, and goes back to cooking, putting her head through the doorway between tasks to smile at her and ask if she needs anything.
Carey does her best not to need anything. She does her best to go to the no thoughts, head empty place, but it's hard to find, today.
Finally, Marisa brings through a single heaped and steaming plate, puts it on the table, helps Carey shuffle her chair up, and sits cozily next to her, angled together. She picks up the one fork, skewers a prawn, and makes sure it's coated in sauce.
"You saw me making this," she says, not quite warningly, brow raised. It's not that Carey doesn't like spicy, or can't tolerate spicy; but they have different tastes for how hot they'll make something, by default, for themselves. Marisa often tones it down for her; Carey often punches her cooking up a little, for Marisa. Carey doesn't think this is toned down at all; she opens her mouth for the carefully presented morsel.
It isn't. It's good, but it's — a lot. She chases it around her mouth, making little noises, chews and swallows, breathes like it'll air-condition her tongue.
"Okay?" Marisa says, watching her carefully, and it's like being punched in the chest with warmth; it's not the spice that makes wetness bead at the corners of Carey's eyes. She nods.
"It's not a punishment," she says, and Marisa beams at her and takes her own forkful; then immediately starts to stand.
"Went harder on that than I meant to," she says, frowning. "It's a bit much for you—"
"For every day, yeah," Carey says, hooking her foot round Marisa's ankle and pleading with her eyes. "I can — it's okay. You like it like that."
Marisa eyes her. "Not a punishment," she says, hovering.
"I know," Carey says, and Marisa sits, slowly.
"Okay," she says.
She alternate forkfuls, feeding them both, and it leaves Carey squirming, battered with unavoidable care, and squeaking a little around particularly hot mouthfuls, rattling her cuffs. Marisa watches her like a hawk, visibly balancing between concern and a hot, greedy enjoyment.
"Remind me," she says, putting down her glass of water after holding it gently to Carey's lips for her to gulp at, "who said that any sufficiently hot curry is indistinguishable from smut?"
"In my defense," Carey says breathlessly, fists clenched and straining against the restraints, not to escape but because doing it pins her hard in place in a very perceptible way, a good way; "your friends had plied me with drinks —"
"Oh, they're my friends when you let things slip that I use against you?" Marisa grins, slyly amused; Carey had been buzzed after games night, wired, feeling good and open and wanting to tell the feeling to Marisa.
"Yeah." Carey grins back bashfully.
"Well, how about it? Feeling the heat?"
"I don't know if it's a fair test," Carey says, as primly as possible. "After all, it's you—"
"What, you want me to to a fair test by cuffing you to your chair and bringing in someone else to hand-feed you?" Marisa says, which is so entirely unfair—
"N–o," Carey whines brokenly, blushing everywhere, all the places, she's sure.
"Oh, you liked me saying it, though, didn't you?" Marisa says, faux scandalised. "Carey! That's slutty," and Carey closes her eyes, burning in a whole handful of currently-inextricable ways, and whimpers.