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Darcy Lewis hits the PDX music scene like a preacher’s daughter hits a party school in freshman year - naive, headfirst, and half-naked.
Seven years later, and Darcy doesn’t really do the groupie thing anymore, even if she’s still got the reputation floating around out there. She’s not ashamed of it or anything - in fact, she's a little proud of it. Darcy knows exactly who she is and what she likes, and she knows how to get it. These days, though, she's got a list of people she could call to scratch any particular itches that come up under her skin.
She works under the table on Wednesday and Thursday nights at the kink club Ragnarok, in addition to her official job at Odinson International, courtesy of Jane’s not-a-sugar-daddy boyfriend, Thor.
In a weird, roundabout way, it's actually through Thor that Darcy hears about Ragnarok. It’s through Thor that she meets Valkyrie, and through Valkyrie that she meets Loki. Loki’s the one who offers her the not-technically-a-job as the tough but enticing door manager on the public nights on Wednesdays and the private nights on Thursdays. All that really means is that Darcy gets to dress up and feel sexy, convince people to hand over their covers, and check IDs to make sure everyone is of legal age.
So really, Loki’s the one she has to thank when she meets Clint Barton.
Which is unfortunate, and probably going to be a pain in the ass later. Perhaps literally, if Darcy plays her cards right.
Darcy’s used to getting hit on when she’s behind the desk in the foyer of Ragnarok. It’s pretty much in her unofficial job description - the whole place is about sex, after all, there’s a fucking bowl of condoms and lube right next to the lollipop tree that she stocks full of Dum-Dums and Tootsie Pops. She’d be lying if she said she never plays, especially once the crowd dwindles down as the night to people that Darcy knows and trusts.
That said, Darcy doesn’t do the groupie thing anymore, but her thing for musicians certainly hasn’t died out. Clint Barton, drummer for Strategic Intervention, knows his way around a kink club and has the kind of smile that makes promises. Maybe a one-night resurrection of all her old chart-toppers wouldn’t be a bad thing. The free ticket is a nice touch, too.
When Darcy finally gets to the show, she’s running a little late and is definitely a little nervous.
It’s pretty clear they’ve got a following - the venue is a bar, but they check tickets at the door and there’s a guy actually working security, standing by the stage with his arms crossed and a hat on that says “Falcon.” The back of his shirt says “Security” in big white letters, and he looks exactly like the kind of guy you don’t want to tussle with just to get a hand on the singer’s leg.
Apparently the purple Sharpie star Clint had scribbled on the ticket he’d handed her means something. The mild professor-looking guy who takes it at the door waves Falcon over, who cuts his way through the crowd, looks at the ticket, and then gives her a scrutinising look.
“Max? From the Ragnarok Club?” he asks.
Darcy nods. “I go by Max there, yeah. I’m Darcy in real life, though.”
Falcon hands the ticket back, and his previously stern face breaks into a friendly smile. “Hi, Darcy, I’m Sam. Most people call me Falcon. You’ve got a seat saved at the band table up by the stage if you want to follow me.”
Darcy hasn’t said ‘I’m with the band’ in a while, not since she had that ill-advised fling with Brock a couple years ago, but it still gives her a little thrill when she cuts through the crowd with Falcon and settles at the table behind the chain that marks it off from the crowd. She’s alone for a hot second, has a perfect view of a stressed-out guy with a tablet in one hand fiddling with an amp. From the looks of it, and the glance Darcy had given the website, the whole band is full of stupidly attractive people.
A beer clinks down on the table next to her elbow, and then Clint’s dropping himself in the chair beside her. He’s obviously dressed to perform - eyeliner and tight black shirt with “SI” and a target in shades of purple. He’s cocky in that way that rides the line between confidence and arrogance, all casual like he can afford to strut around because he knows he can prove it.
“You made it,” he says, leans in to talk over the crowd. It’s not too loud yet, but it will be once the show starts and the lights kick up. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come, and I would be so embarrassed I could never go to the Ragnarok again.”
“They’ve got my Green Line stop closed, so I ran late the whole evening.” Darcy glances at the beer that’s held loosely in his grip, thinks about ordering one for herself.
“I’m just glad you actually showed up. Sam didn't think you were real.” Clint follows her gaze, tilts the bottle in her direction. “Order what you want, Max, just tell ‘em it’s on my tab.”
Ah, yeah. That awkward conversation time. Darcy clears her throat. “So Max isn’t actually my real name,” she says. “I don’t use my real name at the Ragnarok - the less people that find me on Facebook without asking, the better.” Some guys take it personally, which is a good way to figure out whether they’re the kind of guy Darcy actually wants to spend time with or put her trust in.
Clint raises an eyebrow, but his expression is interested, not offended. “Well, I’d sure like to know your real name, if you’d like to tell me. But I completely understand if you’d like to keep being Max until you’re sure I’m not going to stalk you on the internet. Or off the internet. No stalking here, I pinky promise.”
“Darcy,” she says - there’s a little flutter of something that comes with Clint giving her an out about it, something that solidifies the idea that it was a good idea to come. Clint sets off no warning bells at all, just a whole lot of green flags going up. “My name is Darcy.” She wouldn't be here if she hadn't asked about him, after all. Even Loki had mentioned that Clint was a good choice for security on their private members-only nights, should they ever need someone.
(And that's a thought. Clint watching while strangers pay to take Darcy apart, but only in certain ways, only how they're allowed, keeping her safe and making sure she gets hers at the end of the night, in every way.)
When she blinks out of that little fantasy, she finds herself leaning forward a little. Toward him. Magnetic attraction. Clint leans in closer, too, grinning. The eyeliner does wonders for his eyes, and Darcy is really stupidly attracted to him. This is either going to be a huge mistake or the best decision she’s ever made, she can tell that right now.
“Fits you better, I think. Darcy." Clint's got too low of a tone for the setting, all intimate like he’s rolling over to say it to her in bed instead of just leaning their heads together at the bar. She could stand to hear him say it a few more times. God, she hopes this night is going where she thinks it’s going. “You didn’t play at the club.”
“You didn’t either,” she points out. “I don’t like to play with people I don't know, or that don't come highly recommended.”
Clint’s grin shifts, just a little - his eyes narrow, and one hand comes up to drag fingers down her bare arm, gentle, barely there and gone again. “I take it I got good reviews?” He raises a questioning eyebrow.
“You're known as safe to play with," Darcy replies. "The fact that you're good to play with too is definitely nice to hear, but I'll judge that for myself." As his fingers leave her arm, she reaches out, snags his beer by the neck of the bottle, and helps herself to a drink. "If and when we get there, of course. We're still at the 'weird mating dances narrated by David Attenborough' part of this courtship ritual."
Clint laughs at her ridiculous joke, bless him. His hand curls around the bottle when she gives it back, but his eyes stay on Darcy’s. “You’re gonna be a handful, aren’t you?” It could be an offensive question, but the way Clint says it makes him sound almost excited, like he’s looking forward to whatever challenges Darcy can throw at him. "If and when we get there."
There's a pleasant warmth at the base of Darcy's spine courtesy of this cute banter thing they're doing. She hasn’t done this in awhile, can’t remember the last time she hooked up with someone or let flirting ride that line between “hot and sexy” and “we’re going to get arrested if we keep this up in public.” There’s a thrill under her skin that she missed more than she had thought, true sexual chemistry and compatibility that she hasn’t had with anyone in a long time. Something about Clint draws her in, and it’s not just the musician thing or the kink thing - though those are both certainly bonuses.
Go big or go the fuck home, that’s how Darcy operates. So she curves her mouth into a playful smile and settles with her arms under her chest to let her cleavage do some of the talking for her. “I’m much more than just a handful, sweetheart,” she says, and gives her ample ‘assets’ a single, significant look. She's viciously satisfied when Clint's gaze drops exactly where she wants it to.
“I had good intentions,” he says, conversationally. It takes Clint a second to drag his eyes back up, and she considers it a victory when he has to loosen his grip on his beer. “I was gonna be a gentleman, buy you a drink, offer to take you out to one of the all-night diners after the show with the band, and try to get your number for a second date.”
“That’s incredibly sweet of you, and I appreciate the sentiment.” Darcy can’t help the way her smile softens from come-hither to genuinely pleased. "But... I use the stoplight system, and also the safeword 'Hershey.'"
"I'll keep that in mind." Clint drags his eyes over her again, then jerks his head toward the stage. "I hear you like musicians. Got a preference?"
The room is starting to fill up as the night goes on, closer and closer to sound check. “I like to keep my options open,” Darcy says. She's not at all bothered by her reputation preceding her. She's a young, sexually liberated woman of the modern age. And he probably got a link to her FetLife profile if he did any homework.
Clint studies her for minute, eyes glittering. Then he leans back, arms crossing over his chest. “You usually fuck guitarists, right? Lead, probably.” He’s teasing, eyes dancing in the neon of the beer sign on the wall next to their little high-top. Clint’s got that wicked smile that spells doom for her, she knows it now. Sexy doom. “Girls always go for the guitarists. It’s the fingers.” He raises a hand with a little wiggle of his own to demonstrate.
Darcy grins right back. Two can play at this game, and she is no virginal damsel with ideas of gentle missionary with the lights off. “I don’t discriminate,” she says, “but guitarists are easy. They don't want to put the work into a girl like me, Clint, not when there are twenty more much easier groupies to fill in the spot where I've left.”
“Oh, they're easy, alright. But you've only had wannabes, baby. These guys are the real thing.” Clint flicks his eyes away from her to where one of the guitarists is talking to the other and the sound guy. “Tony’s a prime example. Genius. Steve is more of a reserved kind of guy in public. Bucky, the sound guy with his hair up? He plays too, just not on stage anymore. He's better in private anyway.”
Steve’s the first to notice them looking - messy blond hair and sharp blue eyes catch on Darcy’s. He says something to Tony without ever glancing away, and then she’s suddenly got the attention of all three of them. Steve’s gaze is heat, Tony’s an arrogant appreciation, and Bucky’s is a very deliberate once-over.
Oh. Clint's not talking about music. Or he is, but... Oh shit, Darcy is so fucking onboard.
“'Easy' is just the beginning."
Clint’s gotten up while she’s been distracted, moved to stand next to her stool. At this height she’s up about level with his chest, and when he leans in - slow enough she can speak up if she wants - she revels in the way that she feels trapped between one of his hands on the table and the other arm on the wall.
“Guitarists. They’re creative, quick on the uptake,” he goes on. “Try everything once and twice more if they like it. You know the type. Quickie to take the edge off, risky little hook-up in the backseat because they just can't resist, pull out a few tricks for the third round once you finally make it to a mattress. Get a second guitarist in, you’re in for a few rounds of kinky orgasms you can brag about. A third guitarist? Then it’s a fucking religious experience.”
Darcy swallows, reaches for her soda and takes a drink because her mouth is so, so dry. Clint watches her, blue eyes taking her in like he can see everything she’s thinking in the flush of her cheeks and the slight tremble of her hands. He seems like he’s waiting. For encouragement? Or maybe for her to tell him to fuck right off with those insinuations?
Darcy can do encouragement. She glances away from Clint to the soda and then to where the singer is sitting cross-legged on a table, scrolling through her phone. “What about singers?” Darcy asks, suddenly enraptured by the play of the lights on red hair and sharp features.
His fingers trace down the arm she has laying on the table, following it to the hand she has curled around her soda. Clint’s thumb traces across the pulse of her wrist. Then, he settles on rubbing gentle circles there. “Natasha likes to be the center of attention,” he says, low murmur, and Darcy draws her eyes up from his fingers to the redhead across the bar - who is looking back with a raised eyebrow and vague interest. It's just a little bit of contact, a tiny amount of Clint's skin against hers, but it's lighting her up like the show lights. “But it's all in how she gets the attention. Usually they’re the frontman of the band, you know, but not Nat. She likes your world to revolve around her, yeah, but she wants it on her terms. So she’ll tell you exactly what to do, how to do it. Reward you for getting it right and correct you when you get it wrong. Hedonists, perfectionists. Hard work, but worth it.”
Fuck, Darcy can feel the heat in her cheeks. There’s no way that the singer - Nat - can hear from across the bar, over by the stage as she is, but she certainly seems to know exactly what Clint is saying. She gives Darcy a slow smile, one that wouldn’t be amiss on a shark.
Darcy tears her eyes away, meets Clint’s dead on. She shifts in her seat, turns away from the table to rest against it. She gets her elbows on the edge of it, knows exactly what it does for the low-cut shirt she’s wearing. A little thrill of victory goes through her when Clint’s eyes flick down to notice and linger.
“And drummers?” she asks, tries to keep her voice steady.
Clint’s eyes meet hers again, crooked little grin giving her the idea that he is more than happy to answer her question physically, but that he’s refraining since they’re in public. He very gently, carefully pushes the hair from her cheek to tuck it behind her ear, clever fingers drifting down her jaw to settle on the side of her neck.
“Okay?” he asks, soft and slightly removed from the heady dirty talk he's right in the middle of wooing her with. She nods, leans into the touch. Green. Green, green, green. “Everyone knows about rhythm and drummers, of course.” His voice goes low, purely for her. “Gotta keep the tempo, stay the course. But the thing about drumming is that it’s physical. You’re moving, working out for that whole set. So the real secret perk to fucking a drummer is the stamina.”
He leans in, and she shifts, parts her legs so that he can step between them. And yeah, Clint may not be built the way that Bucky the sound-guy-and-guitarist was, but his t-shirt is hiding an impressive set of shoulders and very attractive biceps that would be even more attractive holding her legs open for him. She's cornered, caught, is between the table and Clint's solid, willing body. She has to rein it in a little, if she's being honest, and somehow he notices, clocks that she's overwhelming herself. There's a moment where he grips her just a little tighter, but then his fingers are sliding from her neck back into her hair to tug. Gentle, teasing. Just once.
Clint brushes her hair back and makes himself at home in crook of her neck. Little kisses, then his breath is hot on her ear, cheek pressed to hers. “You’re the kind of girl that comes more the once, aren’t you, Darce?”
"What can I say?" She gives a little shrug, going for cocky. It's ruined when she has to swallow, dry-mouthed, before she can even try to say, “I play guitar.”
She can feel Clint’s grin spreading against the curve of her cheek. “You sayin’ you’re easy, sweetheart?” he purrs.
“I’m saying I'm creative enough I can keep up with your stamina.”
Clint’s hand, the one that had been resting on the wall, finally drops in the form of sliding from Darcy’s shoulder blade down to her waist, slow, like he’s mapping the curve of her body. “Yeah? You think you can, huh,” he goes on, low and rough. “Darcy, baby, I play drums for three and half, maybe four hours. Maybe a couple ten or fifteen minute breaks in there. I’m not the ‘quickie to take the edge off and again in the backseat’ guy. I’m the guy who takes your personal best record as a challenge, the guy who isn’t done until you’re delirious with it, until the only words you can say are ‘Clint,’ ‘god,’ and ‘please.’”
“You’re so fucking cocky,” Darcy breathes. One of her hands has curled in his t-shirt, and she’s only now noticing.
“Ain’t bragging if you can back it up, sweetheart,” Clint follows the words with a little nip to the soft place right under her ear, worrying the spot against her jaw briefly before pulling away. "Let me take you home after the show, Darce."
Oh yes. Oh god, oh yeah. "I mean, as long as I like the music."
She means it as a joke, but she feels like more of a suckered-punchline when he winks and says, "I'm very good at what I do."
"Clint," a voice says. "Sound check."
Darcy flushes as Clint pulls back from her neck. It's Bucky, and he's looking at her with some seductively unholy mix of dangerous and interested. Darcy is now a diehard fan of this band, and she's gonna quit her job to follow them around on tour. Especially with what Clint's promising.
"Kiss for luck?" Clint murmurs. "Just to take the edge off."
Darcy grins. "You need luck? I thought you were good at this." It's a little bit of a gamble, teasing him, but it's a damn good way to get a taste of his style. Whether he can actually handle Darcy's bratty ways.
"You're right." Clint's hand is still on her neck. His grip shifts to something harder, a delicious mark of dominance made all the more obvious by Clint's tongue parting her lips to take a kiss. When he pulls away a moment later, leaving Darcy breathless, he tracks a thumb across her lip. Fixing her lipstick, she realizes. "I just wanted one."
Darcy misses his hands on her the second that he steps back. Her brain has stuttered, body lit up in a way it hasn't been in a hot minute.
"Enjoy the show, babe." The smile on Clint's face is part excitement and part hunger. "Bucky, keep an eye on her for me, will you?"
Bucky. She'd forgotten he was there. She turns and finds his gaze on her, heated and accompanied by a little smirk. "I'll keep her in line."
It sounds like a promise. Darcy has died and gone to heaven.
The music is, actually, pretty good. Bucky shows her a few things, like how to make the lights do the thing and fiddle with the volume. He explains what the buttons do and where the cords all go, starts breaking it down for her like she's a new hire or something. Darcy routinely gets distracted by Clint, who is absolutely good at what he does on stage. Bodies fill the dance floor and eventually, Clint strips his shirt off to reveal miles of sweaty muscles, glistening in the stage lights. Darcy doesn't have a chance of paying attention to learning anything after that.
By the time the show winds down, Darcy's on fire, shifting in her seat and watching Clint like a hawk. She starts daydreaming, entertaining thoughts of letting Clint fuck her in the bar bathroom, but before she can stand, the band is coming out. Clint flops into the seat next to her, grin stretched and lazy.
"So," Clint says. "How'd you like it?" He's got a knowing look in his eye.
Darcy's wet, is how it was. "I wanted to crawl on the stage and beg you to let me suck your cock."
The drummer hisses, hand flying down like he's about to come in his pants. Darcy giggles, a little feminine thing, at least until it devolves into a very classy snort. She claps a hand over her mouth like she can stop it, cheeks flushing. Clint's groan morphs into a chuckle, open-mouthed grin wild and bright in the low lights of the bar.
"You're so fucking adorable," Clint says. "You're gonna ruin me, you know that?"
"Weren't you just talking a big game about your superpower drummer stamina?" Darcy teases. Clint's fingers find the bare skin of her arm and walk their way up. "I think I'm the one expecting ruination. Destruction. Ravishing. Chop, chop."
"You're right." Clint shifts. His hand is warm where it drags down her cheek. Darcy leans into the touch, delights in the way that his fingers tangle into her hair as his whole palm encompasses the back of her neck. He kisses her, quick and teasing. Then the bastard is pulling away, standing up and stretching. Darcy nearly falls forward, right up until Clint's up close and in her space, the bulge in his pants at damn near the perfect height. A deep-seated part of Darcy wants to nuzzle in, not caring that Bucky's right there or that half of the crowd is still hanging around. Unfortunately, they live in a society. Ugh.
Though she gets the distinct feeling Bucky wouldn't mind the show.
Darcy starts to stand, but Clint's hands on her shoulders keep her there. Just enough pressure that it feels possessive, but not oppressive. "Here's my offer, sweetheart. You can sit there, dripping onto the chair, while I help the band pack up our gear. Or..." Clint's eyes shine as he tucks her hair out of her face. And, he's not wrong, Darcy's soaked. "You can ask Bucky very nicely if he'll cover my shit so your impatient ass can get to that crawling and begging."
Oh, fuck. Darcy's so turned on she might die about it. She's pretty sure she gapes like a fish for a full couple of seconds, right up until Clint's brow furrows and he asks, "Color?"
She rushes out "green, green, fucking green," on an exhale, making Clint chuckle and twist his fingers into her hair.
He gives her a little shake. "What's it gonna be, Darce? Gonna be my good girl, or my greedy little brat? You want me to get Bucky over here so you can beg him to let you choke on my cock?"
"Yes," she manages. "Yeah. Please."
Clint glances to the side and calls Bucky. This must have been talked about before, Darcy thinks, for these kinds of games to be so easy and devastatingly smooth. Or maybe this is even just something they do, something they've done before. Sure enough, Bucky's close by, like he was waiting to be cued. He wastes no time in crowding up at Darcy's back. She feels caged, a little overwhelmed, and god, that's why she does this. She craves being pushed and shoved into things, just as much as she craves the praise.
"Darcy's got a question for you." Clint sounds nonchalant, like this is an every day conversation. "Come on, baby, you know what to do."
Bucky's eyes are a storm looking down at her, an unimpressed eyebrow raised. If it weren't for the very insistent and very impressive tent in his pants, Darcy would worry that he was annoyed or upset. "Well? Ask me."
"Please," Darcy starts. She licks at her lips, feels a warm haze sink into her skin. "Will you finish up for Clint so I can please go and suck his dick like I'm being paid for it?" She throws in a little eyelash flutter for flavor.
"Well, if you're that desperate..." Bucky cracks a smile. "Yeah, honey. Who can say no to a pretty face like that? Just remember, you owe me later." Darcy's okay with that. So fucking okay with that. Now she wants to beg for Bucky's cock too.
"Good girl." Clint tugs her to her feet. "Come on, let's get this show on the road."
He's all sparkling eyes and soft touches when he leads Darcy out into the night by the hand. The cool air is a little more bracing than Darcy's prepared for, after the sweltering heat from the audience, a crowd of too-many bodies packed into a small space. She shivers when the breeze blows, more of a reaction to the ticklish feeling than the temperature.
"Oh, shit, you cold?" Clint tucks her into his side. "It's a pretty short walk, but I can run back and grab a jacket from the bar."
"Just startled me. I'm okay." It's cute. Darcy feels fond. She had a good feeling about this guy from the start. "You'll keep me warm, right?"
Clint smirks. "All night long, gorgeous. Tomorrow morning, too, if you'll let me."
"You and your amazing stamina again. So," Darcy looks around the parking lot. She's expecting a bus or a van or something appropriately struggling-musician-esque. "Where are we going? I'm a little past the age where I fuck in alleyways."
"Yeah, no. That's a good way to get mugged with your dick out." He waves his hand in the general direction of the sidewalk ahead of them. "Hotel up the block a ways. I think it's a Hampton. I figured the walk would be nicer than getting packed into Steve's sensible SUV with the band after we've all sweated through our clothes and stank up the trailer. Not really enough room." Clint glances at her, grinning like he can't quite wipe it off his face. "You would've had to sit in my lap the whole ride back."
Darcy can picture it, can practically feel it. The press of Clint's muscles against her back, his sweat soaking through her shirt and his arms strong around her waist. He'd be hard, no doubt, and unashamed of it. Maybe he'd even grind up against her, move her hips so that she could practically ride him through their clothes. Steve driving, sliding his big hand onto her thigh and threatening to take them off the road. Fucking... Bucky smirking at her in the mirror, Tony watching, and Natasha...
"Oh, you liked that thought, huh?"
Darcy flushes, feeling a little like she's been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Yeah. Yeah, I did. You could have told me I was auditioning for an ensemble."
"Auditioning? You are hired, baby." Clint waggles his eyebrows as he looks her up and down. His face morphs into something more serious, a hint of sheepish. "You don't, uh. It's not always a group thing, we're just pretty close as friends and a band and well..."
Oh, absolutely not, Darcy's in heaven, and how dare he think otherwise. "I almost begged Bucky to let me suck his cock, too."
A laugh breaks out of Clint, and Darcy feels her chest go warm with it. She likes surprising him, getting that little zip of satisfaction that comes from keeping him on his toes. Then he's turning, bodying her up against the brick wall she'd barely been aware of, some kind of building that means absolutely nothing to her if it's not Clint's hotel.
"You should have." Clint slips his hands under the hem of her layered tank tops, stroking the bare skin just above her jeans. "He would have let you," he murmured. "Right there in the bar, in front of god and everyone. He'd have held your hair back and let you take him apart for the whole room to watch."
"I thought guitarists were better in private." Darcy spreads her legs to make room for the thigh slotting between hers.
"He's fucking mean in private," Clint says, hot breath against her ear in stark contrast to the brisk night. "And he doesn't just play guitar."
Oh god, he played more instruments. Darcy had never wanted to be a bass or piano or fucking steel guitar (if he played that) more in her life. "Don't threaten me with a good time."
As Darcy breathes the words out, Clint presses his thigh up. It's not exactly where she wants the seam of her jeans, but it's close enough to be a delicious tease. She chases it, hips stuttering, when Clint's hands clamp down on her hips to hold her where she's pinned against the wall. All Darcy can do is take it, at the pace he wants. She feels something in the back of her mind settle and go hazy, like falling into a soft bed after a long, hard day.
"Color," Clint says. His voice is a little sharper than it was when he was sweet-talking Darcy's way into his bandmate's bed. It's a tone that demands her focus, brings her back just a little. It's a good thing, too. They're out here on a city street and Darcy wants to ride his thigh like she can afford the ticket for a public indecency charge.
Darcy swallows. "Green. You don't have to seduce me, Romeo, I'm a sure thing."
Clint's hand curls around her throat. No pressure, just holding. "Word to the wise, sweetheart. Don't call me another man's name while I've got you at my mercy," he says. This time when he leans in, Clint presses the heel of his hand to where the seam of Darcy's jeans is just barely digging into her clit. She's pinned by his hands, held to the wall by her throat and her cunt, hidden from view by Clint's body. 'At his mercy,' just like Darcy likes it.
"Even a fictional one?" she manages, complete with a shit-eating grin. "Jealousy looks good on you."
There it is. That tasty little flash in Clint's eye, followed by the squeeze of his fingers. All of them. Darcy gasps, her head swimming with the slight restriction of her breathing, coupled with the insistent good-good-too-good from the agonizingly gentle movement against her clit.
Clint presses a chaste kiss to her cheek. "You can call me Clint," he says, and gives her another on her nose. "Or 'sir,' if you wanna be real good for me. Maybe even 'Daddy,' but that's more Tony's thing."
The foreplay's been going on for hours at this point. Darcy is only human. Her hips jerk against Clint's hand, the seam of her jeans just enough to send a little jolt through her cunt. She's pretty sure Clint's grinning, a little smug, but it's hard to focus. He presses a third kiss to her lips frustratingly gentle, and takes his hand away from her rolling hips.
"Clint," Darcy whines. "Don't stop."
"Color?" he asks.
"Green." His thigh is literally the only thing keeping Darcy standing right now. "Fuck. God, so green. Please tell me we're going to be there soon, you insufferable tease."
There's a little chuckle from Clint before he says, "We're already here, honey." And yes, they are, at some side access door.
"Good," Darcy says. She feels wild, like she used to when she was younger and making eyes at pretty boys across dark bars. "I want your cock in my throat now."
Clint shakes his head. "That's not how you ask me. Fucking handful, just like I thought." His fingers curl around the back of Darcy's neck, soft but firm, keeping her steady as he pulls his thigh away. He doesn't let go when he steps back, making Darcy step with him. He keys the door open and tugs her inside, tucking her right back under his arm like she hadn't just come so hard her knees were now made of jelly.
His arm keeps Darcy upright. They don't go far at all, just down the hall a few doors before he's keying that one open too, pushing her inside eagerly.
"You need to learn some manners, Darce." Clint crowds her up against the hotel door. He's got a thing for pushing her up against shit, Darcy's figured out, and she's into it. She likes that she feels small in front of him, like he could overpower her if he wanted to. Sometimes she likes to be taken down hard, cursing and crying and fighting the whole way. "Ask me nice and polite, like a good girl."
Darcy bats her eyelashes for good measure. "Please?"
His hand comes up, cupping her jaw once before Clint taps her cheek. "It's like you want me to make you be good for me."
And.
Yes.
Yes, she does.
"Fuck," she says. It may be one of the only words Darcy knows right now. Considering she was an English major, that's saying a lot. "Please." There's none of the earlier defiance, just want, pure and simple.
"You need me to show you how to be good, baby?" Clint's just milking it now, eyes glittering. "Knees."
Darcy drops, quick but graceful enough she doesn't hurt herself. She fumbles with the button on Clint's too-tight pants for a few seconds when Clint threads his fingers through her hair and pulls. Firm hold, dragging her back. This time the pat on her cheek is open-palm, but still too gentle to be called a slap.
"So fucking eager," Clint says. He keeps his hand on her face, warm and calloused, thumb swiping sweetly across her cheek. The little gesture, gentle on her skin, is in a contrast to the way his voice goes taunting. "Already forgot what you promised me, Darce. You already this needy? Cock-drunk and desperate, can't get that big brain to work?"
What she'd promised him? Oh. Oh.
Darcy braces herself on her hands. "Please," she says again, and looks up at him through her lashes. "Please let me suck your cock, Clint." She leans into his hand, just as
"You can do better."
He's right. She can. "Choke me with it. Show me how to take it just the way you like. Please, sir?"
Clint doesn't drag her across the floor. He just keeps his hold on her hair as he begins stepping back, moving toward the bed. Darcy crawls to follow him. "Look at you," he says when he gets her where he wants her. Clint sounds reverent. "You're fucking gorgeous, you know that? You should be on an album cover with an explicit warning over your tits."
Speaking of. Darcy yanks the neckline of her tank tops down, fumbling with the cups of her bra. She has to lift her breasts out, looks Clint in the eye while she does it one-by-one, letting him see the heavy weight of them. The fabric all tucks beneath them. Darcy decides to give a fuck about stretched necklines later, probably when she also starts giving a fuck about embarrassing herself with her own eagerness.
"Beautiful." Clint drops down next to her, squatting, and his wicked fingers find her nipple. "Good girl. You got your tits out to drool all over, and I didn't even have to ask." He grabs the fabric, right under her tits, pulling a little. "How much do you like this top?"
She wants his cock in her mouth yesterday. The day before that, too. "Hate it."
Clint's grin goes a little goofy as he says, "Good," but there's nothing silly about the way that he rips the fabric right in half. There's no real purpose for it, but Darcy can get behind Clint showing off a little. It's nice to know he's just as invested as she is.
"Christ," Darcy says, a pulse of arousal going through her. She may only fuck drummers for the rest of her life if this is what she's been missing out on.
A pinch to her nipple, sharp and sudden, and a vicious twist that has her gasping. Her cry is cut off, though, when Clint wraps his other hand around her throat again, just enough to give her a little warning squeeze. "It's Clint," he says, "or it's 'sir.' You keep fucking it up and I'm gonna think you're doing it on purpose."
"Sir," Darcy says, a wicked little grin. She loves this; the spark of pain, the flush of her arousal, a hundred thousand sensations that overwhelm her until all she has to do is what Clint tells her to do. He's being gentle, she can tell, testing the waters to find the perfect balance of pleasure and pain for her. He's good at this. He stands straight, leaving her there on her knees, topless and heavy-lidded.
She wants to find some kind of dirty talk, but Clint's left her breathless in his wake. Instead, Darcy opens her mouth and lets her tongue loll out as she looks up at him. She knows what she looks like with her arms framing and pushing out her chest, her mouth begging to be filled. Darcy's never done actual porn, but there are a few memorable snapshots of her out there on the internet.
It works. "Fuck. Don't move, stay just like that." Clint makes quick work of his belt and fly. His cock isn't massive, but it's impressive, curving slightly near the cut head. Darcy doesn't even mean to lick her lips when his hand curls around the thick base, but from the half-laugh, half-moan Clint must have noticed. "Good girl. Hand." She promptly holds out both of her hands, but he only takes the left one by the wrist, dragging it to his hip. "If you need to stop, tap me. Not once, not twice, until I notice and pull away, got it? Pinch me if I don't get a hint." Darcy nods, and Clint lifts an eyebrow. "Words, Darcy. This is important."
God, she hopes she's actually going to get to suck his cock someday soon. "Tap if I'm about to literally die on your dick, got it," she says, impatiently. "I can take it."
"Yeah, you can." Clint brushes a few strands of hair from her face before he gathers it all in his hands to pull back. He wraps the dark waves around his hand and presses it to the back of her head. He shuffles forward, cock gripped in his other hand. Darcy's lips fall open of their own volition, saliva gathering in her mouth. Her tongue darts out again. "Give it a little kiss."
Darcy looks up at him through her lashes, eyes wide, and presses a gentle kiss to the head of Clint's swollen cock. Nothing about this can be called demure, but Darcy shoots for something like it when she pulls back.
Dark eyes watch her, catching the little dart of her tongue chasing the taste of him. "Oh, she can be good when she wants to be. Open," Clint says, fisting himself. He guides the head of his cock into Darcy's waiting mouth, catching on her lip and smearing precum across her cheek. He's slow when he slides inside, pushing his way into the wet heat.
Darcy loves this. She craves this sometimes, the silky skin and the firm press of a hard cock against her palate. She can do this. Loves to do this. She's good at this. She can pull out tricks and give head with the best of them, but this is how she likes it. On her knees, taking what she's given. All Darcy has to do is cover her teeth and take a breath when she can.
"Should have guessed you'd be good at this." Clint pushes some stray hair out of her face. "Nice and easy, don't have to think or guess what I want, just have to sit there all pretty and take my cock like the perfect little whore you are."
Fuck. She chokes when he starts to push his way down her throat. Clint pauses, but Darcy digs her fingers into his calves so as not to give even the idea she might tap out. Darcy wants to be a blissful, fucked-out mess by the time dawn comes, and the first step is letting Clint use her throat. When she very obviously doesn't signal to stop, Clint presses forward and holds her there, listens to her choke and try to breathe. Her brain starts to go a little hazy with it, and she would cheer about it if she could breathe.
"This what you would have let me do on stage, Darce?" Clint drags her head back, lets go of his own dick to swipe his thumb at a stray tear making its way down the side of Darcy's eye into her hairline. "Fuck, you with that amazing rack swinging, everyone watching while you cried and gagged yourself on my cock. Could keep it warm for me during the show, huh, put you on your knees right there in front of my kit."
It's fantasy, pure nonsense, but it's really fucking working for Darcy. Her core pulses and her eyelashes flutter as she gasps with the sudden rush of heat. Clint doesn't even give her a moment, pushing his way into her throat again, past her gag reflex. All she can hear is the obscene, wet sounds of her struggling to breathe around him. He drags his left hand through her hair, pressing Darcy down until her nose is pressed to the few wiry hairs there. She gags and drools around the base of him, body jerking and throat working.
Through all of it, she doesn't loosen her hold on Clint's legs. She doesn't tap, doesn't even flutter a finger. For a crazy moment, Darcy thinks she wouldn't mind to pass out like this. If Clint would just so kindly pinch her nose closed so that she can chase the high that comes with not being able to breathe for just a moment away from too long, Darcy could come practically untouched. It's the endorphins talking, but it's also really fucking hot.
Her vision goes a little bright and fish-bowls when Clint pulls her off again. Darcy pants, chest heaving as she sucks in air.
"No," Clint says when she tries to pull against him to catch the tip of him with her lip. "Take your other hand and rub your pretty pussy for me."
Darcy fumbles with the button of her jeans, working with one hand, but manages to get them open. She presses at her clit through her panties, pressure and texture combining to give her just a taste of orgasmic bliss. Her hips rock, grinding that sweet spot against the heel of her hand while Clint watches. She's close, already, wet from having endured the foreplay that was the entire concert.
The curse that Clint mutters is filthy. "There you go, get yourself close. Open," he says again, but Darcy's beat him to it, willing and so ready for him to work his cock back into her throat. "Fuck, baby, you're perfect, just like that." The praise glows warm through Darcy. As much as she loves being the best brat she can be, she also lives for these moments where she's good, just by virtue of doing what she's told. "Don't come, sweetheart."
Darcy makes a discontent noise around him. Her fingers are working too fast; it's too fucking good for her to stop, in that overwhelming way that makes the nerve endings spark all over her body.
"Don't whine, brat," Clint says. His words are strained, and he's barely holding himself together. "Just stay right there and be a good little toy for me. Better than any doll or fucking fleshlight, Darce, so fucking good for me. Fuck, I can't - come here."
Eager to please, Darcy goes willingly, taking him to the hilt. Clint holds her there with both hands on the back of her head, trapping her with long legs and wide, calloused palms. Darcy's vision swims a little, blurred by tears and the way she suddenly can't seem to coordinate how to breathe through her nose. She hears Clint tell her to 'choke on it, honey, just like you wanted' before her eyes roll back as her orgasm threatens to break over her.
And then he grits out, "Give it to me, baby, right in your panties like the perfect slut you are."
The words alone are enough to have Darcy start to buck her hips, chasing the overwhelming sensation. The sudden rush of air when Clint yanks her head back, tears her away from his cock in a wet mess of saliva and precum. She clutches at him, quaking through her orgasm against his leg.
He doesn't give her a chance to recover. Clint picks her up like she's nothing, pivoting and dropping her onto the bed, which is, thankfully, sans dirty hotel duvet. Darcy manages to open her eyes just in time to see Clint kicking his pants away, his shirt halfway over his head. She giggles, come-drunk, when he stumbles, and sways up just to grab at his shirt and attempt to help him out of it.
"You laughing at me?" Clint's hair is messy when he pops free of the offending t-shirt. There's a grin wide on his face as he wobbles, trying to get his shoes and socks and pants off at the same time. "This is clearly a top-of-the-line strip show. People would pay so much money for this."
"I have pocket lint," Darcy says while he struggles to get naked. She should probably join that club. "Will you take sexual favors?"
"I'm sure as hell not gonna throw away a couple sexual favors from a bombshell like you." He tosses his clothes away into a messy pile and turns, eyes drinking in the sight of her on the bed, loose-limbed and half-naked. Clint gives a crooked grin as he drops to the bed and prowls over her, fingers finding the waistband of Darcy's jeans. "Goddamn, did you paint these on?"
It's sexy right up until Clint accidentally drags her down the bed trying to pull her pants off, and then it's sexy and funny. They devolve into giggles as Clint finally gives up and taps her in, giving her a gentle pat on the ass when she stands on shaky legs.
Her zipper's already down, a peek of the purple cotton of her panties through them. Clint gives a short, playfully appreciative whistle. The look on his face makes Darcy think of smutty romance novels and midnight wet dreams, so she gets with the picture and pulls her panties down with her jeans.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," Clint says. He drinks her in, gaze as heavy as a physical caress. She obliges when he twirls his finger in the air at her, slowly turning to let him see her bare hips and ass. Darcy's never been shy about getting naked, thanks to her penchant for tequila, but she flushes anyway, cheeks burning red. "Talk about a strip show. I think I owe you sexual favors now." He beckons with those long fingers that were twirling drumsticks with ease. They feel amazing tracing the skin of her thighs and hips with a kind of reverence that presses quite a few of Darcy's buttons. "Color?"
"Green." A vibrant emerald. Green is now Darcy's favorite color.
"So here's what I'm thinking." Clint's thumbs make light little brushes on her skin. He catches her eyes, smiling up at her from his seat on the bed. It's a pretty admirable thing considering her frankly fantastic tits are right in front of his face. "We see how many orgasms you can manage between now and when the band gets back in an hour."
"I'm in."
Clint breaks out into a laugh. "No, wait, I'm not done. Patience, baby." It's not Darcy's strong suit, but she can pretend. "So, step one, you coming all over my face and my fingers." Darcy is so in. "Step two, I sit you on my cock and I show you what I meant about drummers and stamina earlier."
"I'm not seeing any problems here," Darcy breaks in. Maybe she can't pretend after all.
She expects Clint to give her a little slap, a pinch, some kind of correction, but all she gets is a raised eyebrow and a shit-eating grin. "Step three depends on you, Darce. I'm gonna need you to be a hundred percent honest with me about this, but I'm thinking I send Bucky an invitation." Darcy's mouth goes dry. "I'm thinking a picture of my cock in your greedy little hole, or maybe a video of you begging him to come help me wreck you." One of his hands moves up to her mouth, thumb tracing over her lips.
And god. God. Darcy's never been more into it in her life. She wants nothing more than to be fucking obliterated by the two of them. "Why wait? Send it now." She sees the arousal spark in Clint's eyes, or whatever they say in the smutty books she reads. She can't wait anymore, has to be close to him, so she shoves her way through his grip and gets her knees on the bed, hovering right over Clint's lap. "Put your money where your -"
Clint cuts her off by dragging her face down to his.