Disclaimer: I don't own the Thor or The Avengers, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.
Admittance
A/N: This is most certainly set post-Avengers and, later on, I may expand upon this with other vignettes and include ties to The Dark World once it's released. This is based upon a roleplay on twitter between a friend and myself.
The recommended song for this is "Cold" by Aqualung.
She's scared. Terrified, even with the way he holds her, leaves lingering breaths upon her cheeks, telling her that it's all right. Her fingers curl into his arm, his hair, eyes squeezed shut as she aches. He doesn't know. She's too afraid to tell him. This is new to her, frightening, whereas he has had years of practice, experience, in making women feel.
Beneath her, the sheet is warm as though it's feeding off her anxieties. But he can't feel it from above, panting, brushing against her lips, trying to hold himself in check. A part of it, she knows, is because he's cold, has let himself become such, locked himself in the fridge and refused to come out for even the light of the sun. He hates it, the warmth, the idea of comfort, but, somehow, he's allowed himself to be drawn to her.
Darcy winces, tightens her hold, whining quietly at the back of her throat. She isn't ready for this, to feel him touch and kiss her the way they both want, have that beautiful friction between them, tightening, pushing rationality to the edge. He's a god, she reminds herself. Practiced, calculating, violent, and severely lacking in various areas of judgment. He could break her, make her hurt and scream and never think twice on it once he gets started because, as he's even said, he's a selfish bastard. Always has been.
A whimper as he kisses her again, shakes and slides forward. She can't tell from which of them it comes, the sound, only knowing that he's steadily opening her up, shooting her nerves through with wrenching pain and fear.
By God, she knows he's trying. She can feel those shaking breaths on her lips, the tension beneath her fingers. But she says nothing, doesn't want to anger him, to remind him that he can't fully trust himself. Or that, as it pains her, she doesn't know if she can trust him.
Reflexively, she shudders, somehow locks her ankles behind him and arches into the sensation, biting back the need to scream as her teeth meet his shoulder. His hands hurt against her hips, pulling, panting as he tries to set a pace that will satisfy them both. Darcy whimpers and he hesitates a moment, pushes her away, murmuring that he can't, he just can't do it. But she knows how deep it runs in him, the chaos, the lust for power. He says he can't, but the both of them know that he's only lying to himself. He can, and he would.
"It's all right," Darcy lies, leans over and nudges his cheek with her nose. "You don't have to..." Reassurance. How would she make it believable, lie to the liar? She swallows. "You won't hurt me. You won't–"
The sound that escapes him is forced, almost a laugh though his eyes betray him.
"But I..." His chilled fingers curl hard around the hand she's laid on his shoulder, and still he won't look at her. "I want to."
Chaos, she thinks with a sharp breath, and, in that moment, Darcy doesn't know what to say.