Author's Note: This is a fill for a tumblr prompt from a glossolalia meme, Apodyosis: undressing someone with your eyes. It's the first bit of Clint/Darcy I've written in a while and I liked it...so here you go.
He's itching to strip her bare.
Darcy is busy, working hard and wearing another pantsuit, so damned practical. It's been cold in D.C. and he's been on mission.
She doesn't dress for him, Clint's well aware, but she's just enough of a tease that when he's home she sticks to tights and skirts and those leather boots that lace right up to her knees. He can tell by the tension of the knit across her knee whether or not she's wearing thigh highs or tights. He likes the days she wears thigh highs the best, really. Best damn days.
This suit she'd even bought for him, it's got a subtle purple pinstripe in the brown. It's tailored by someone who appreciates the curves of her body almost as much as he does, thank you god, and the fabric skims over her hips and drapes perfectly around her thighs and the jacket…the jacket is making his mouth water the way it just hints at all the lush grace underneath.
Her glasses have slid down her nose and if Darce looked up from the tablet she's frowning at, pause for a moment from the call she's dominating at a mile a minute, she'd see him. But she's working and there'll be hell to pay, damn straight, if he interrupts her when she's got her job to do.
He can be good.
Well. Good is relative, right?
So Clint tucks himself into a dark corner of the office cafeteria to wait, makes a note to complain about the blown bulb and the inherent safety hazard, and imagines the way the jacket would be warm underneath, all her warmth caught in the wool if he slipped his hands in to slide it off her shoulders. The way the silk shell she's wearing would cling to the lacy curve of her bra.
If it's the one he's thinking of, the blouse dips low at the back of her neck and he could press kisses to her neck and follow the ridge of her spine, smelling wool and her fragrance, all spice and coffee and something green, on the fine silky skin, the light dusting of hair rising to meet his lips.
Darcy is never passive, not his girl. So her hands would already be on her fly, but this once he'll bat them away to hitch his fingers in the waistband and slide the fabric over her hips, that round backside that like as not is gonna be pressed right up against his cock, so that he has to back away to let it slither down her legs and pool on the floor around her purple shoes.
She uncrosses her legs and he catches the flash of silver on the capped heels. Someone's been shopping with 'Tasha again.
Tights or not? The wind had been sharp and she'd walked from the apartment, he'd lay odds, so yeah. He could roll those down and … something makes him glance up at her face again.
Well…look at that. She caught him. Atta girl.
The arc of dark eyebrows clearly asking, "Oh, god, really Clint?" without giving him away by looking.
He can't help but smirk and shrug.
Dark lips grin and form the words, "Five minutes. Outside," before she doubles down on the conversation, triumph in the way she leans back in the chair. Her jacket falls open to give him one last teasing glance as he slips out the door.