Authors Note: *bangs head* Hmm. Well, okay. If fic is a song, this would be the bridge where it gets loud and fast. Canon-level violence.
He didn't come right back.
They got to Greenland, had to hop to Alaska and finished up in the ass-end of Antarctica. Clint's got ice in places he didn't know he had, half of his face has been scoured red from blowing snow and to be fucking honest, he's not a big fan of the cold these days, anyway. He's just thinking how warm Darcy had been, snuggled against him. Wonders if she'd spent the night in his bed, slipped between his sheets, if they'll smell of her shampoo, spicy and woody, when Stark breaks in over the comm.
"Hey, Green Arrow, JARVIS says he tried to call your jailbait..."
"Watch it Stark." He sits up and his ribs creak where he landed badly in Alaska, fraying his temper further.
"Jesus, I'm just..."
"No, I mean it. Watch your fucking mouth about Darcy."
Thor comes in over the comm. "Friend Stark, have you implied some slight to Lady Darcy?" And it's nice really, how Thor can sound so completely your ass is mine threatening while still being really fucking polite.
"No..."
Rogers is glaring at the comm unit like Stark can see him. He's got his disapproving Captain voice on when he says, "Yeah, you did, Tony. Darcy's a college graduate. She's a grown woman. It's not right..."
But Stark breaks in now, not about to take a lecture. "I did not. If everyone will shut up, I'm the one who hired her..."
It's Banner, slumped in his chair and only half awake, who says, "Technically, Pepper..." But Stark has no problem talking over him.
"And I sent her to Algeria to observe highly sensitive tech being installed, without calling in half of SHIELD to babysit, Agent Barton...and yeah, Romanov, he did, (and here Clint gets a nasty smack across the back of his head, even though he's pretty sure Tasha never moved) so I am well aware of Ms. Lewis' qualifications, thank you. Now, if I can continue? JARVIS just tried to give the highly educated and competent adult person with whom Agent Barton has been keeping company a heads up about our landing time and he can't get through."
And in the wake of discovering that he and Darcy hadn't been nearly as subtle as he thought they'd been, Clint can't figure why that's weird, so he asks, "What does...?"
JARVIS' crisp voice comes over the comm and if an AI can sound concerned, it does. "Ms. Lewis requested your location earlier, Agent Barton. I extrapolated that she would want notification of your arrival. I have attempted to contact her twice in the last ten minutes since your coordinates were cleared for disclosure. The signal was obviously diverted and upon that discovery, I have tracked the location of Ms. Lewis' cell phone, but all private communication in and out of the Capitol area seems to have been negated for the last fifteen minutes. The official sources are suspect as well, as they appear to be fabricated in a very sophisticated manner. It seems likely that there has been an incident. "
There's actually a thunderclap behind Thor when he says, "Lady Jane was also in your nation's Capitol today."
Clint's already plugging in a new route. "We'll be there in 23 minutes."
-000-
The Hydra goons had swept in behind some sort of doombot-y transformer tank thing. There hasn't been much damage to the building yet, but Darcy's not going to lay odds on whether or not the little pack of tourists consisting of a few Girl Scouts, a high-school freshman debate team, and the little old lady brigade she's unexpectedly shepherding is up to taking the stairs at a dead run under fire.
They've already started rounding up groups and she really doesn't like the sound of how everything seems to get really loud then way too quiet every time it happens. Right now she's got her group tucked into one of the teeny offices hidden in between the larger ones, behind a door that looks more like a wall panel. When it became clear the thugs weren't taking hostages, Agent Smith had asked her if she was armed, called bullshit when Darcy reminded her she was a lobbyist in training not an agent and handed her a Sig, an extra clip and told her to keep their heads down before disappearing around the corner to find the shielded comm system they'd been looking for when they ran across the tour group whose guide had bailed.
It's on record that Darcy can shoot. Two different boyfriends had taken it in to their meatheads that teaching Debbie's daughter how to defend herself was a good in. Plus, shooting cans down at the Wash was pretty standard date night material, back when she was in high school. And she's up to standards as a civilian part time-employee of SHIELD, because you're shit for brains if you don't take all the training you can get when you work for an agency where the unofficial motto is, stick around long enough, someone's gonna try and kill you. Well, not so much a motto as an undisclosed job description, but, fuck fuck fuck, she's never shot at anything that shoots back. And she can feel panic sneaking in and panic is bad and so what do you use against panic when black humor and snark aren't gonna carry you? Her instructor, Agent Gilloury, had said think of the last time you were safe and sit there. And three days ago, she'd been in Clint's bed, wrapped in pale blue cotton sheets wearing a t-shirt she stole from his drawer, with her face pressed against his pillow breathing in that crisp scent of his shaving cream and the clean male scent that's just him. And she holds herself there.
It's a really narrow doorway, between two square plaster columns, so no more than two are coming in at a time. They've got the particleboard desk turned over at an angle and all the file cabinets because someone was good enough to ignore OSHA code and not strap them to the wall and she's braced and ready...but holy hell and all the little minions... there's definitely marching outside the door, but no one's stopped yet to investigate the little cracks in the paneling. And Darcy wonders for just a minute about Jane. They were supposed to meet for lunch in an hour. Jane was going to help her decide on an apartment. If Thor has any fucking clue something hinky's going down anywhere near his Lady Jane, he's on his way and Darcy would give her ipod, her phone and all the kick ass new shoes in her closet for just a hint that a thunderstorm was building.
One of the little old ladies, in a really nice peach suit and perfect coral lipstick scootches up behind her and whispers. "You're gonna be fine, honey. Just pretend they're really big rats. That's what they told us back when I joined the WACS."
Darcy gives her a crooked little smile, "Thanks, Mrs..."
"Judy Hendricks, sugar. I'd offer to shoot for you, but my hands shake something awful these days. But you're fine. Any young lady who can pull off that gorgeous red you've got on your mouth has all sorts of moxie." And they share the smile of women who know things are always better if you've got the right lipstick.
What can I do to make this...oh, hell yeah, because when Smith asked her if she was packing she wasn't thinking of her handy little friend, custom made by Stark to be snuck in places she wasn't supposed to be armed. "Mrs. Hendricks, if you look in the bottom of my bag, there's a smokin' hot taser and a couple of cans of pepper spray, disguised as hairspray, if you wanna..." Judy gives her a neat salute and shifts through the backpack. It's still quiet outside so Darcy takes a chance and looks over the group, all of them ducked down behind the cabinets and doing their best to be small. "You're all doing great...just hang tight. The good guys are on their way, I'm sure of it." And it's true, Darcy's proud of her little band. The old ladies are keeping the kids quiet and for a bunch of tech-deprived brats the kids are doing their very best not to act like this isn't pants ruiningly terrifying. Judy hands the pepper spray to one of her friends and the oldest debate boy, but she keeps the taser herself.
There's marching again. This time it stops right outside the door.
-000-
Five minutes out and Iron Man and Thor are already in bound, scouting. Clint's got everything in his head switched off except what he needs to keep the plane going and the scenarios playing out so he's got working plans once he hits the ground. Cap is going over schematics with Tasha, tossing out bits of data that he knows Hawkeye can use. Balconies, open areas, secondary hallways, air ducts and dropped ceilings. He processes it all, streams it down the narrow channel of calm he's developed over decades.
"Ms. Lewis' cellular phone has not changed locations, Agent Barton. Agent Smith's locator beacon is still moving in a circular trajectory indicating a stairwell in a location that suggests she is proceeding to the communications room. At her current speed she will reach her suspected goal at approximately the time the Quinjet will land."
"Thanks, JARVIS. Just keep us posted." He, Cap and Nat are headed straight for Darcy, with the hopes that she'll have some idea of what's going on, but from reports it looks like Hydra was aimed at the oversight funding hearing that Jane was attending. Thor is less than happy. Clouds are gathering.
Clint switches flight control to Tasha and takes up the weapons hotseat as the little flying drones that are blocking comms turn hot and start firing.
Despite all the training, the self control, one little part of his brain is whispering. "Hang on, Darcy." Two minutes out.
-000-
In five minutes, there are two goons down, Darcy's down half a clip and her glasses flew off and shattered when the goons tried to lob in a concussion grenade and one of the Girl Scouts smacked it back with a clipboard. Darcy's recommending her for a tennis badge, even if the board did slip and catch Darcy across the face.
But the problem is now they've attracted attention and Darcy can hear boots on the marble floor. Lots of boots.
She's hit and she's missed, it's taking more than two hits each to knock through their gaudy Hydra green body armor, but the cat-eyed specs she borrowed from Judy's canasta partner aren't quite her script and the bifocal is giving her a headache, so she pushes them up on top of her head. Things are blurry. There's plaster dust and other crap floating in the air and her desk is missing chunks from the laser blasts the Hydra assholes are shooting, thank fucking Christ from the Imperial Stormtrooper school of firearm training. Some of her kids are crying behind her, trying not to, but still, and one's coughing like she might have an asthma attack any second.
Two more green blurs pop up and she breathes, squeezes, squeezes, squeezes, squeezes, hits them both. Aim for center mass, she hears her instructor, hears the guy her mom dated for two months in 1999 tell her that there's no fucking sense in pointing a goddamn gun at a person unless you mean to fucking kill them so aim for the chest. Then, something small and red and blue zings across the door, one black and red blur flies past and smashes into other somethings with a fleshy thud and she swears there's a sound like the low whine of a bowstring being pulled taut, thwip thwip thwip like arrows in the air but Jesus, Darcy, stop day-dreaming, she knows it's wishful thinking, that they were still in Antarctica three hours ago. The door slams shut. And it sounds a little like the world is ending outside.
A few minutes later, it's all quiet.
The door snaps back open. The bodies of the last goons get yanked backwards through the opening.
And the next person shaped blur she sees is black with a wedge of purple down the center. She re-aims anyway because that's the training, you don't stand down until..."Lewis! Darcy Lewis. Stand down code..." and he rattles off the numbers but she'd know Clint's voice in the dark and holy god she hopes she gets to hear it like that soon. And she safes the gun, sets it in an open drawer and does her best to keep breathing.
"Hawkeye!" She knows she's supposed to treat him like a superhero identity not a person. So she absolutely does not leap over the desk.
But he does.
He's close enough she can see he's all business, still. Windburned face all run silent, run deep. He looks over the little group of tourists, hale and whole, if scared shitless. And then he wraps himself around her and he smells like cordite and sweat and blood and it's pretty much Christmas and Mardi Gras and puppies and she wants to jump him so bad that she doesn't mind the audience.
"Jesus fuck, Darcy. You cowgirled up, sweetheart. You've been keeping 'em busy." His voice is rough and intimate and he brushes the bruising scrape on her cheek with one hesitant finger. "Hey, I told you I'd come to D.C., right?" She's alright, she's fine, she's good, on a loop in that new part of his brain that won't let him stop thinking about her. She's also apparently a hell of a shot, who the fuck knew that?
"Well, you took your sweet time, hotshot." She's going to start shaking and she wants to crawl into his skin.
"I'm clearly not needed, Annie Oakley. I could go, I guess." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, all nonchalant and she digs her fingers into the straps of his bow harness to pin him, even as she mouths off.
"Yeah, I'll just clean things up on my own. There's a vintage dustbuster around here, somewhere."
He feels the tremble, the adrenaline shutting down and gives her a cuddle and then taps the specs that have now slid back down to settle on her nose, trying to distract her a while longer. "Good look on you, darlin'. I especially like the rhinestones." She fumbles them off and his face swims into focus, again. He's smiling at her, even with his brow all wrinkled and concerned but he lets her go reluctantly.
There's still...oh wait...hello copters, Clint can hear them now, since it's all gone quiet outside. Yeah, the cavalry's rolling in.
Tasha sticks her head into the room and gives him a thumbs up. "We're clear. Smith got to the comm device. Marines had already breached perimeter from the west, and are filing in to maintain security, Guards and the Red Cross are ramping up to take care of civilians. Iron Man and Thor have the conference secured, Foster's apparently smacked three Hydra agents over the head with various scientific instruments. Thor's very proud." She glances over the carnage around Darcy's doorway and gives her the very impressed lip curve. "I think you have more potential, though. We're expected for debrief in ten." She slips back out.
"Widow might be a little in love with you. I'm jealous." Then he frowns, he'd seen that one little cap sleeve of her dark red cotton blouse was torn when he looked her over at first but now he can see it's crispy and singed. And when he looks closer, suddenly Darcy realizes her shoulder fucking hurts where one of the goons got in a glancing zap in with his lazertag gear. He's whispering, "Christ, baby, sit down." He pulls her down and makes her sit on the floor and it's fine because her knees are going, anyway and she doesn't want to cling. He leans in to look carefully, his fingers gentler than anything she can remember as he pulls aside the fluttery fabric and checks out the wound, noting it's cauterized at least.
"It's not bad, Darcy. It's just going to hurt a little." An inch or so further over and she wouldn't have an arm and he's so fucking not above taking revenge on prisoners, but he's not saying anything right now, just keeps his voice low and his hands soft.
She nods at him, with her eyes closed, keeps her mouth shut 'cause she can feel the nervous babble starting, building on the back of her tongue. This quiet Darcy worries him, though. Clint squeezes her hands and stands up, goes to the doorway and looks for medics.
Darcy pulls her bag to her with her foot and settles in to wait until there are personnel with her tour group. Judy sidles up to tell Clint, "She did so well, your young lady." She drops her voice to whisper to him, "But she's going to remember in a little while that she wasn't shooting rats, so you hang on tight, alright?"
Clint nods. "Yes, ma'am." He looks back at Darcy, because 'rats?' but then he realizes she can't see him. He'll have to ask later.
Darcy gets a hug as she hands back the taser and then a whisper of "Smart girl. Older men are always more settled and he's a looker."
"Tell me about it, Judy." Darcy opens her eyes and drops the taser back into the bottom of her bag. She pulls out her lipstick and notices Judy's done the same thing. And Darcy can't help her giggle.
She's still giggling a little until the medic is cleaning her shoulder and face with Darcy isn't sure what but it hurts like a bitchslap.
Clint kind of has a funny expression when Coulson shows and hovers and glares while Phil does her debrief.
Clint's glaring because he's seen that fucking gleam in Coulson's eyes before, when his handler is recruiting. He hadn't realized that Darcy was being observed that way. But he listens to Darcy report and he hears it, hears the little pieces of data she pulls, hears the instinctual way she framed her shot. Hears the observation and the cool that lasted beneath the initial panic. Fuck. This is the Darcy Jane Foster saw potential in. This is the Darcy Pepper and Coulson bartered over. The one Stark sent off to Africa. This side of her, the professional starting to form. It's new to him, a facet he hadn't seen. He gets it, why Coulson wants her.
Darcy finishes by clunking her head back against the ambulance and glaring at the agent through narrow eyes. "I wouldn't even be here if you hadn't stolen my iPod, Coulson. Why does Carla think I'm training to be an agent?"
He gives her that little shrug that means fate has intervened what the hell d'ya want me to do about it. "We don't offer the training you've taken advantage of to purely civilian employees, Ms. Lewis." Then he turns to Barton and she's gonna be on meds do not take advantage is written all over his eyebrow lift and in the way he says. "Stand down tonight. Written report on my desk in 24, Hawkeye. Actual writing, not three diagrams and some vectors."
"Yeah, boss. Sir, yes sir."
Darcy looks up at him and she's got a little crease between her eyes and her face is bruised and filthy, except where the medic disinfected her scrape, her blouse is missing a sleeve and her shoulder is wrapped in bandages and she, in all honesty, looks older than her twenty five years. He sighs. "C'mon, let's get you home. You ought to eat and crash." He goes to help her down from the ambulance and she gets a weird look on her face like she's going to carp at the chivalry.
"You're hurt." And the little crease is a now a frown and Clint realizes she was close enough to have seen him wince when he turned.
"Ribs. No big."
But she's got her hands on his torso and now, under the vest, she can feel the places Tasha had taped him up before they left Antarctica. "Broken?"
"Strained. Day in the life, Darcy. It's okay." She waves him off and jumps off the tailgate, but before he can get grumpy about it and he is, she can see the incipient scowl before he blands out, she slides her arm under his, gently. He relaxes again and guides her along.
It's her turn to scowl, though. "Have you been jumping off of perfectly good buildings again?"
"It was exploding. And I'm pretty sure it was a glacier."
"Jesus, Hawkeye. You know how much cash we have to throw around to fluff the save the whales dicks every time you trash a natural wonder of the world?" He waves down one of the SHIELD drivers, holds the door open and Darcy climbs into the ubiquitous black SUV. He winces again, when he levers himself up and she hears him hiss. "Strained only, right?"
"Maybe one's cracked." It's worth the admission to get a fond exasperated look from her, and her hand slips into his. Damn, he misses the days of bench seats, when he could have snuck an arm around her. "Where are we headed?"
"SHIELD personnel quarters." The driver takes off, but Clint looks at her, vaguely horrified.
"Darce, those're bugged sky high. They're pretty much prison cells with bathrooms. I thought you found a place?" The driver, clearly a new kid, looks up at them in the mirror shocked. Clint gives him a stare and the driver gets his eyes back on the road. Darcy has a feeling the kid will no longer be staying in quarters.
"That's why Jane was staying the weekend, she was going to help me decide." But Jane was now halfway to New York, to be adored and feted and coddled by Thor according to the text Darcy had.
Clint wants to drag her back to New York, too. He wants eyes on her, for the inevitable bad night. He wants to keep himself wrapped around her until she loses that crease between her eyes and the shock he can still see deep in their dark blue, because it'll help him to blur the image of her, gun in hand, face white and tight when he opened the office door. But he asks first, "What do you want to do, Darcy?"
And he's looking at her, there's a buzz of tension in him and there was something else going on in his blue, blue gaze. She squeezes his hand and with a sly glance out of the corner of her eyes, quirks up the corner of her lips. "I need to go by and get my stuff. Spare glasses, toothbrush. I heard you promise food, hotshot. And then, as I recall, you left me hanging when you took off on adventures. I don't have to be back in D.C. until Monday." She can almost see that tension bleed off of Clint as he lifts her hand and presses a kiss to the pulse point on her wrist.
They get to Andrews in time to hop the last shuttle taking SHIELD personnel back to New York, and she collapses in a drained puddle of sleep against his shoulder, so it's not long, really, before they're back at the Tower. Jane comes up for air long enough to chivy the story out of Darcy and tells her side of events complete with re-enactments at Thor's fond request, so Clint ducks out to shower and change and make his report while she's safely occupied.
Darcy notices he's gone and she feels skittish, suddenly about him and what Coulson implied with his fucking obscure aside. About that hovering intensity that had been in Clint's eyes all afternoon that swung away from just copping a feel and more towards being ass over tits in feelings. So she borrows Jane's bathroom and does her level best to make a dent in the endless hot water supply and does her second level best not to think. Jane comes and drags her out about an hour later when she's wrung out and limp from the heated steam.
Clint expected her to come find him once Jane had gotten her story out and it irks some part of him when he has to go looking, instead. He's headed for her usual room when JARVIS informs him that dinner has arrived at the penthouse and that Agent Romanov isn't saving his any longer than it takes for the elevator to make the top floor.
She's up in Stark's penthouse at the impromptu team building we're all alive let's order in Chinese and drink massive amounts of beer. Curled up on the sofa in her oldest, softest purple and gray flannel shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms printed with stripes that are actually lines of binary, she's listening to Thor make Jane giggle by recounting her glorious battle in verse and Steve, Natasha and Bruce discuss whether or not you should drink Chinese beer with egg rolls and Tony's telling Darcy her pants don't make any sense and asking why anyone would do that and then asking Pepper if he can buy a clothing company and make pants that actually say something in binary. Disgruntled Clint comes and sits on the back of the sofa behind her and eats his noodles.
She finally tilts her head back to look at him. And he feels the frustration fade at the slight confusion and weariness in her eyes. "You alright, Darcy?"
And it occurs to her that he asks that a lot. That he honestly gives a fuck. And that she likes it, wants him to. So, she gives him a crooked smile. "Tired. Kinda feel like a truck hit me and then drove off with my life."
"That would be a normal day with the Avengers, yes." Tasha leans over Steve's shoulder, cool eyes on the two of them as if waiting for them to make a move. Clint slides off the back of the couch and rolls his eyes at her and reaches his hand out to Darcy.
"C'mon." He tugs the hand she stretches out and pulls her up from the couch. He isn't wincing and she assumes he's either covering or he found some decent painkillers.
He slips his arm around her waist and she finds herself leaning into him as he guides her to the elevator. "Where're we going?"
"Up to you." She punches the button for his floor and he kisses the top of her damp hair. Leaning back against the wall of the car, he pulls her back against him and wraps the other arm around her, too.
Darcy tries not to press herself into him, meds or not, his ribs will still twinge with pressure, but he tightens and she sets her hands on his wrists and rubs, gives into the comfort he's offering.
The last of the ice he's been carrying since Antarctica melts with the heat and softness of her mouth when she turns around in his arms and stretches up to kiss him, to twine her tongue with his, to lure him back to the place they'd been a few nights ago. But it's not quite the same, somehow.
Now there's the new part of his brain that's more than fascinated, more than attracted.
Darcy hums into his mouth as his hands slip back under her shirt, skimming her skin, setting sparks off. And she remembers how it was him she used to keep her cool and how it worked and how when she heard his voice in that little office she was safe. And she rucks up his soft, dark grey shirt and slides her hands carefully over the tape around his ribs and then down, into the waistband of his pants, tracing the lines of his spine, down to the curve of that tight ass. Back over his sharp hipbones and grips his dick, rigid already, through his pants.
"Slow down, Darce."
"Don't wanna." He shivers a little at the husky tone in her low voice and draws her closer. Yeah, he gets that.
The doors slide open and he walks her backwards across the landing through the conveniently open door of his apartment and into the softly lit living room. (Thank you, JARVIS.) He's got her shirt unbuttoned and she shrugs and it lands in a pile of flannel and her bra is unhooked and he's finally, finally got his hands on those gorgeous, firm full tits. He very carefully works the one strap over her injured shoulder and she impatiently drags it off the rest of the way and then she's tugging at his shirt. "C'mon, Barton, fair's fair."
"You've had your eyeful already, sweetheart. Lemme look at you for a minute." And he does, he pushes her back an arm length and she's got all his attention, which is saying something. He reaches out one callused finger and traces the pale curve of her breast, following the track of a blue vein, watching intently as the dark pink aureole tightens and the nipple pebbles and then does the same to the other side. He's weighing one in his hand when he looks up, whispers, "You're a goddamn dream, Darcy. Every inch of you." And she's fascinated by the half-smile she catches just as he ducks his head and sucks the peak into his mouth.
Standing there in the middle of his apartment, while he licks one nipple then the other, kneading her, sucking, biting, tugging until she's no shit shaking and her knees are about to go, again. Guys like tits, of this she's well aware, has been since she was about twelve, thank you. Clint actually knows what to do with them, hallelujah amen.
Clint really wants to do something cavemannish and toss her over his shoulder and plop her on to his bed. Wants to hoist her up and pin her against a wall. But he's under no illusions that his banged-up ribs are going to allow it, tonight and he wants to be careful of her shoulder. Other times. There are going to be other times. Lots of 'em, if he's got any say in the matter.
He straightens or tries to, has to wait till she unclutches her fingers from around his head. He gives her another half smile and tugs her hand towards the bedroom. "Thought you were tired? You gonna let me give you a good night kiss?"
She's chuckling when he tows her towards his bed, old fashioned metal frame, set up off the floor over shelves. He likes it because just slides out and he's on his feet, a faster safer movement than having to stand up, the shelves let him keep his gear to hand without actually keeping knives in bed with him, thank you, Tasha and also keep any one from hiding underneath. She pauses a minute to step out of her flipflops. "I don't know, you think you earned a kiss? Been kind of a lameass date so far."
"I'll make it up to you, baby." His voice is getting low and rumbly and it's adding to the slow burn she's got going in the pit of her belly.
"Yeah, I think you will." And something sort of wistful in that makes him pull her back into his arms and nudge her mouth open, and gently, softly explore. She's still sweet and tart under the salty sauce from her dinner.
She sets one hand on his jaw and her thumb rubs back and forth, stroking the smooth skin he shaved earlier.
And then she steps back from him and soft, wistful Darcy is gone again and she's got a wicked twist to her mouth as she sets her thumbs in her waistband, swivels her sweet ass in a move he really wants to see again and drops her pajamas to the floor. He watches her turn and walk to the head of his bed, and it's a fucking glory, her ass, all curved and lush and a nice balance to her tits. She shifts the pillows and plumps them up and slides onto the bed. She looks like she's going to prop herself up on her elbows, but winces a little at the pull in her shoulder and instead just curls her feet up and leans against the pillows. Cocking her eyebrow at him, she turns her fingers in a little hurry up circle. "Well?"
Clint takes a minute as all of the blood that normally feeds his brain has fled elsewhere and just looks at the little package she's laid out on his bed. Trimmed not shaved files itself away. "Holy God, Darcy."
It is low and it is raw and it kinda makes Darcy wanna spread her knees and beg. But, dignity. So. "You tucking me in or what?"
Clint was clearly a quick change artist in the circus. His clothes are just gone and if he's in any pain he doesn't care as he slips onto the bed beside her. She'd wanted a minute to appreciate his whole picture but can't bring herself to mind when his hands are smoothing down her body, tracing the curves like he's memorizing them, fingers rough on her skin but gentle in motion.
He's got it planned out, the less stress to both of their injuries comes from her on top, but first he wants, needs to taste, to follow that sweettart flavor. He slides off, kneels down on the floor beside the bed and pulls her to the edge, the height of the mattress putting her at an optimum angle, so he's not bending. He traces her waist down to her hips and trails hot, open mouthed kisses down her stomach. His long fingers are making circles on her thighs, easing them open for him to wedge his shoulders between. He draws one hand up and cups her and looks up into midnight eyes as he slides a finger up her slit, wet, holy fuck, so soaking wet. Finds her hard little clit and circles, circles, crosses, swirls, watching her eyes looking for what makes her...there...her eyes flutter shut as her hips twitch towards him. He presses her to lie back. "Sit up, lie down...damn, Clint, make up your mi...ah..."
His hand drops away while she's snarking but then he's nosing apart her folds and his tongue replaces his fingers. Yay, oh god. His tongue, nimble and clever, licking in swirling movements and then, little nips and then he slides one square tipped finger into her pussy and his groan mingles with her little squeak. He slides it out and adds another and twists and crooks and hits...fuck.
He smiles at the little mewl, but christ he wants to hear her scream. He aims again at that sweet spot and at the same time he sucks on her clit. Once, twice and she's arching up off the bed and...
"Oh...oh, oh fuck, god…Clint." Darcy gets to see stars and Clint feels the tremors rack through her body as she clenches around his fingers, still slowly working inside her. Not quite a scream, but he'll take his name on those lips, hell yeah. He lays one last kiss to her clit and crawls into bed, letting the pillows brace him and she curls up next to him soft and warm, breathing fast and hard.
He's licking his fucking lips with a cocky smirk, god's gift to woman-kind. Jesus, maybe he is. Her hand slides down his chest, trailing the faint line of hair to his dick and wraps her fingers around it, smiling when his grin slips and he breathes in sharp.
And kind of wishes he hadn't, fuck ow...but Darcy's slipping down, dropping her glasses on the night stand and shifting between his thighs. Fingers taking his measure, brushing the rim of his head and she keeps her eyes locked on his when she, smirking the whole damn time licks once, twice across his slit, tasting and then opens her soft red lips and sucks him right in.
His vision is filled with her dark head working between his thighs, her long silky hair brushing, catching against his coarser hair, her mouth, hot and wet, sucking, swirling tongue. One hand is exploring, cradling his balls, slipping back to finger his hole and he wants to come right fucking now. But the lingering didn'tdiewannafuck buzz is still edged in on him; he wants her, wants to bury his dick in her soaking heat, more. "Darce.., baby...c'mere." He taps her cheek, rubs the back of her head trying to get her attention and she looks up, pulls off him with a pop eyes nearly black, her mouth, redder and shiny now and to be honest, Clint's kind of proud he doesn't just go off right then. Because Jesus fuck, ilook/i at her.
She lets him tug her up, and holds her hand out. He fumbles on the night stand for the box and she can't take her eyes off of his, gone dark with want as he yanks out a strip of condoms, tearing one off and dropping it in her hand. She's straddling his thighs now and hesitates, 'cause you know she's not little. "Am I gonna break your ribs, if they're more than strained?"
He's half sitting up against the pillows and he pulls her in for a kiss, wants to suck on that lower lip before... "It'll work. I'm good, c'mon." He's not whining, goddammit. And he might take a broken rib for this.
She tears open the package with her teeth and fits it over, sliding it smooth and down. And he has to swallow hard to not arch up into her hands. He's a one trick pony tonight, but god he wants to see the show.
Carefully, watching his face for any sign he's hurting she rises up over him, feels him clutch at her hips and she reaches down to position him and holy god, she's wet...she's dripping. She can't help the whimper as she slides around him, feels her pussy stretch to take him and god has it really been that long or is he just..."holy fuck, Clint."
"Right there with you, sweetheart." Christ, she's tight as sin. He bites the side of his mouth, ducks his chin, tries to keep breathing because as much as he wants to thrust, it's a bad idea. She's gotta do the work tonight and jesus, she's willing...
Darcy rocks her hips, then rolls them and gets rewarded with a groan. Oh hell, yeah happy times. She gets a rhythm and he's just at the right angle, slightly sitting up and taking short shallow pumps. He's got his teeth on her nipple now rolling it, tugging with the pace she's set. She braces herself on the tubular metal crossbeam that makes up his headboard. It's cold and smooth and hard in her hands and he's hot and smooth and so goddamn hard inside her and she moans at the contrast, ignores the twinge in her shoulder, twisting as she comes down this time.
Clint's almost positive he's got the best view in the whole fucking world. Darcy, riding him, head back, those tits right at mouth level and bouncing with every movement she makes and she can imove/i. He's not got a whole lot left though, so he shifts his hand off her hip and presses his thumb against her clit, once twice. She grinds her pelvis down hard and he can't help it, has to thrust and thrust and jesus yeah it hurts, fine but he is willing to hurt 'cause, holy...
And she's completely unable to not clench hard around him, and the orgasm rips through her and she's just coming and so hot and...not actually sure she's breathing anymore.
He holds her in place as she keens, as the ripples roll through her, milking his dick in screaming constricting heat and a couple of seconds later he's gone, too. Lost in the ripping, pulling spiral through his veins.
And they sit, breathing hard in the dim room. Letting their hearts slow. Coming back to themselves. He pats her thigh and she pulls up and over, dropping to her side on the woven bedspread. He braces himself before sliding to his feet and goes to take care of the condom.
Clint thinks to bring her a glass of water, but she's sprawled and asleep when he comes back. Her mouth is open a little and her good arm is flung over her head. He's gotta smirk a little at the abandoned exhaustion, though he knows it isn't all his doing. Sitting back on the bed, he watches her a minute. Sleep is kind of an iffy come and go thing for him, usually. But he can't bring himself to leave her here and camp on the couch, so he drags the blanket up from the foot of the bed and snugs in against her, carefully, warm and soft and smelling of sex and him and her and hopes to fucking god they get through the night without dreaming.