Though he accepts it as a part of his duty, the days Clint spends debriefing at the end of a tour are always some of the longest of an assignment. Knowing he's back in the States, but that he's going to be stuck on base until his superiors are satisfied drives him crazy every time it happens.
It takes nearly two weeks to get through the debriefing this time and it makes him suspicious about the meeting that appeared on his schedule this morning with only the name "Coulson" in the organizer, attendee, and subject fields. He has a feeling his life is about to get a lot more complicated and after the clusterfuck of his last assignment, it's just enough to have him driving as far away from all the military bars that surround Mayport as he can.
When he gets to Atlantic Beach, he pulls into the first bar he sees that doesn't look like it'll make him go deaf from shitty dance music and heads in to get as hammered as he can manage. As soon as he's inside, Clint knows he's probably just a little too old for the scene, but he doesn't care.
It only takes him a few more seconds to realize that it must be spring break and that gives him pause, but not enough to go find someplace else. He can get drunk and maybe laid just as easily here as another bar. And at least this place isn't crawling with the military groupies that seem to populate most of the bars around base.
A couple of beers later, he's starting to revise that opinion. The bar is busy enough that he's been stuck holding up a wall for the past twenty minutes and, despite the lack of shitty music, he's got a headache slowly building behind his eyes. He's sure the co-eds wearing tops that are really just a piece of fabric held on with strings are perfectly nice girls, but they're all very loud and giggly and he really just wants a little quiet conversation. Well, a little quiet conversation followed by a whole lot of no-strings sex.
Clint sees his chance and snags a bar stool when the previous occupants (yes, plural) stagger off across the dance floor. He hunkers down into the traditional bar stool slouch while he waits for the overworked bartender to make her way over to him.
He's down to the last inch of his beer when the space between his shoulder blades starts to itch. Someone is staring at him. He shifts a little and casually surveys as much of the bar as he can without turning all the way around. He almost jerks when he realizes that it's someone on the next stool over who's staring at him. It's pretty rare for someone so obviously pissed to get that close without him noticing. Clint glances over in that direction.
The girl sitting next to him is gorgeous even if she's scowling a little. She's wearing more than any three other girls combined and she's got a drink that is not any neon color, so Clint gives her a little smile despite being sure he's got at least eight or nine years on her.
She looks unimpressed and reaches out to push him back a couple of inches so she can go back to--oh--glaring at someone on the dance floor behind him.
Clint risks a look behind him and sees a guy who's probably about six four and built like a brick shithouse. He's talking to a girl in a string-top and not paying the slightest bit of attention to the girl on the bar stool next to Clint.
Clint sighs and slumps a little more. He's pretty tall (what? 5'10" is tall... ish) and about as built as eight years in the service could make him, but the simple fact is that he's built wiry, not bulky. Bar stool girl obviously likes them linebacker-sized.
He debates ordering another beer versus ordering a whole bunch of shots versus just going back to base and getting some sleep before his demonstration on the shooting range tomorrow.
Sleep is just about winning when bar stool girl drops two tequila shots in front of him and says, "Drink up. I'm at least two drinks ahead and you look like you can hold your liquor."
Clint jerks back, surprised again that a civilian girl managed to get so far into his personal space. "Excuse me?"
She gestures impatiently at the drinks. "You seem like you would hesitate to take advantage of a drunken me. I'm trying to fix that."
"Are you kidding?"
She gives him a flat, unimpressed look. "Do I look like I'm kidding? Listen, the math is simple: a few drinks plus you plus me equals sex. If you're not into it, let me know now and I'll stop wasting my time."
Clint isn't used to girls being so blunt about it. Normally a bar hook-up is flirting, a little kissing and "do you want to go back to my place for some coffee?" But hey, she's cute, she's a little weird but not in a bad way, and she wants to have sex with him. Clint is not an idiot.
Clint gives her one of his best charming grins and tips both of the shots back, one after the other.
She doesn't smile back, but her shoulders drop and when she orders more shots from the bartender her voice has lost some of its sharpness. Two more tequila shots appear in front of him and he takes those just as quickly as the first, grimacing a little at the smokey burn at the back of his throat. The girl seems to be unaffected but for the quick sheen of tears in her eyes that she shakes off as soon as they appear.
Clint turns on his bar stool to get a better look at her and she mirrors him, looking him up and down with enough slow appreciation to have heat building in his stomach.
"So, I'm Clint." He really would need to be completely shitfaced hammered not to want to know the name of the girl he's going to have sex with.
Her nose wrinkles a little and she pauses, but finally says, "Darcy. Can we skip the boring meet-and-greet portions of the night? 'Cause I really don't care what you do for a living or what your favorite TV show is."
He shoots people in the head for a living. And he spent the last two years in a hellhole on the other side of the planet, so he didn't get much in the way of current television. "You know what, I am totally fine with skipping those questions. Hell, let's make up some fun lies instead. I'm a circus performer. Big top circus, not any of that fancy French crap."
Her eyebrows rise. "Okay, I'll bite. What's your act?"
"The Amazing Clint, world's greatest archer. And I'm thinking you're... hmm. An equestrian or a tightrope walker?"
She's starting to look a little amused, anyway. "Fuck that. I want to throw knives."
Clint laughs and slides his hand under Darcy's hair, pulling her close enough to kiss. She smells like shampoo and some sort of light perfume that's a relief from the heavy scent of Axe and desperation in the rest of the bar. She wraps her hand around his wrist and pushes her tongue into his mouth. She tastes like tequila and something sharp from what she was drinking before. He leans into her and she lets him for a second before curling her leg around his hip and sliding forward until she is straddling him on the stool.
She's small and curvy, with softly curving hips that fit his hands perfectly. Clint tugs her closer and slides one hand up her back to bury it in the dark fall of her hair. She's grinding against him, not even trying to be subtle about it, and Clint gets hard so fast that it's almost painful.
She growls and bites his lip, a little love-nip. Clint threads his fingers into the hair at the back of her head and tugs, and her head drops back with a quiet moan.
He's mouthing a damp path up her neck when a sharp voice interrupts him. "Hey! Knock it off."
Clint reluctantly pulls his lips away from her skin and blinks at the bartender. "What?"
"Take that shit out of here."
"Are you kidding me?" Clint looks around the bar at all the couples flirting and kissing and humping on the dance floor.
Clint drops his forehead onto Darcy's shoulder, getting momentarily distracted by the soft swell of her breasts above the top of her shirt. He presses a quick kiss there before murmuring, "Hang on," and sliding off the stool. Darcy squeaks in surprise and gets her legs around his waist before she falls.
She pushes her fingers through the short strands of his hair and bites his ear. "The ladies is a single stall that locks."
He anchors his hands under her ass and stumbles towards the back of the bar. He's way too old to be having sex in public, but he's had about four drinks too many to even think about driving and he knows it's the same for her. A cab would take too long and if she's okay with the ladies room, he's not going to complain.
Through some miracle, the ladies' room is unoccupied when they get there. Clint fumbles the deadbolt closed behind them with one hand then pushes Darcy up against the nearest wall. She pulls his hips tighter to her with her legs, rubbing the inseam of her jeans up against his erection. He slides a hand down, flicking the button of her jeans open and unzipping them to reveal the edge of silky underwear.
She laughs quietly and wiggles, urging his fingers downward. Clint smiles into her eyes--a vivid dark blue, he notices now that they have better lighting--and slips his fingers under the edge of her underwear.
The crotch of her panties is soaked. He slides his fingers through slick heat, stroking around her clit and then into her cunt, plunging two fingers in hard and fast. Her eyes roll back in her head and she spasms around his fingers, moaning.
It's nearly impossible to keep her up against the wall and get her pants off at the same time, so Clint pulls his hand out of her pants, ignoring her indignant complaint, and swings her around to sit on top of the storage cabinet on the opposite wall. The cabinet is just the right height and Darcy's sharp grin lets him know it was a good choice. She shoves her hand under his shirt and peels it and his jacket off at the same time, dumping the whole mess on the floor. She makes a little noise in the back of her throat and runs her hands over his shoulders and arms.
He shivers at the soft touch of her hands and returns the favor, pushing her t-shirt up under her arms and leaning in to nose at the lacy edge of her bra.
Darcy is, to put it bluntly, stacked. Clint nibbles along the creamy, soft skin spilling over the edge of her cups while his fingers investigate the clasp of her bra. He figures it out and unhooks it with a murmur of satisfaction.
She pulls off her tee-shirt and lets the straps of her bra slide off down her arms. Clint takes a second to enjoy the view, then dives in to mouth at one of her nipples while his fingers play with the other one.
Her head drops back and she slides her hands over his back, arching up into the touch of his hands and mouth. He tenses up a little when her hands pause over the knot of scar tissue low on his back, but she moves on without asking him about it. She takes a moment to grope his ass before following the waistband of his jeans around to the front and working his fly open.
Darcy slides her hand in and grabs his dick in a firm grasp, no messing around with teasing first. Her eyebrows raise and a smug smile curves her lips. "Well, I can see you're not having any problem with whiskey dick."
"Hell no." Clint nibbles his way up her neck and whispers in her ear, "I plan to fuck you so hard you can't even walk tomorrow."
"Big talk, but can you back it up?" She says, giving his dick a long pull with a little twist at the end. Clint groans and thrusts forward into the air. God, he wants to fuck her.
"You tell me in about twenty minutes." Clint shoves his hands back into her pants, lifting her off the container and stripping them off her hips. He hesitates before setting her back down on the top of it bare assed, but she gives a quick wiggle and is sitting back down before he can even finish debating the issue.
She gets his jeans down around his knees and pushes him back a half a step to get a good look at him. "Oh, yeah. If this floor weren't disgusting, I would totally blow you right now."
Clint thinks about her mouth wrapped around his dick and has to resist the urge to offer her his abandoned shirts to kneel on. They are already going to be in the bathroom too long for any sort of plausible deniability and he wants inside her like crazy.
He must look especially conflicted because she laughs and produces a condom as if by magic. "Too bad. I give awesome BJs."
She gives him a couple of firm strokes and then rolls the condom on. Flashing him a grin, she says, "Time to put your money where your mouth is, cowboy."
Annoyed and turned on is a hell of a combo. Clint thrusts into her harder than he intended to start. She digs her heels into the backs of his thighs and groans, "Oh, hell yeah."
She's loud enough that Clint is afraid that asshole bartender is going to be pounding down the door in a few seconds. He grabs a handful of her hair and yanks her head back so he can cover her mouth with his. She bites his lip hard enough to really hurt and he can't help the hard push back into her. It's obvious she doesn't mind by the way her mouth falls slack and she lets his tongue slide in without any sort of resistance.
Clint drags her hips a little forward to change the angle. This time when he thrusts into her she actually yells, muffled by his mouth. Objective: G spot acquired, Clint thinks, then sets himself to pounding against that spot. Darcy's leg kicks out, knocks a paper towel dispenser off the wall and then she's coming, tight rhythmic squeezes around his cock.
He pushes as deep as he can into her and holds himself there while she shakes against him, panting against his mouth. When she's done but for a random twitch ever couple seconds, he pulls back just far enough to smirk at her and rolls his neck to work some of the tension out of his shoulders. "You ready for round two, princess?"
Darcy just blinks at him for a moment before shaking the dazed pleasure off her face and clamping down on him. "Bring it."
She's not making it easy for him to maintain his control, but Clint has pretty much literally made a career out of self-control. He starts with slow, deep strokes, pausing for as long as he can manage inside of her before pulling out again. Pretty soon she's making those delicious little noises again, moaning into his ear and tugging at his hips.
"Something you wanted, sweetheart?" he says, keeping his voice casual with an effort.
"Goddammit," she growls. She kicks at the back of his leg like she's trying to get a horse to go faster.
Clint feels an unexpected bubble of affection for this girl spring to life in his chest and has to fight down the urge to laugh. He must not be as successful as he thought, because she growls again and sets her teeth in the skin of his neck.
Of course she's a biter.
She's as ridiculous as she is gorgeous and after the fucking nightmare he'd been living in the Gulf, she's the best reminder he could have found that life isn't completely shitty.
He shakes himself free of her teeth and kisses her again, gently pushing her hair out of her face before hooking his arms under her knees and pulling her ass off the edge of the cabinet.
"Oh yeah, here we go," she says, grinning this beautiful manic smile up at him.
Clint fucks her hard and deep, letting go some of his self-control. She might have bruises on her thighs from it tomorrow but right now she is going fucking crazy under him. She's moaning and growling in this incredibly sexy, rough voice, "oh yeah, fuck me hard, god, Clint, fuck."
There's not quite enough room for her to lie back, so Darcy props herself on her hands and arches her back. Clint actually feels himself get stupider at the sight. "Holy fuck."
"What?" Darcy lifts her head just enough to catch his eyes and he's surprised when the question isn't joined by a saucy grin. It's as if she has no idea what a fucking temptation she is.
Clint just shakes his head and leans forward to catch the peak of her breast in his mouth. The pressure of his pelvis against hers is enough to have her yelling his name, shouting through another orgasm.
She throws one of her arms around his shoulders to hold him close and he licks a path up her chest to her mouth.
He kisses her deep and sloppy, swallowing the little whimpers she's started making every time he bottoms out inside her. He's close enough to coming that he's somehow lost the ability to kiss and breathe at the same time so he has to tear his mouth from hers to find the breath to speak.
He turns his face just enough to be able to whisper in her ear. "Darcy, baby, can you go once more?"
She shudders as his lips brush the shell of her ear and for a second he thinks her helpless nod is her only answer, but then she swallows heavily and hitches her hips even closer to him. "Do it hard. I want to feel you inside me for days."
Clint makes a strangled noise behind his clenched teeth and adjusts his grip on her, trying to get even deeper inside her while ignoring the constant stream of profane brilliance three-plus orgasms seems to have unleashed in Darcy.
She's got both legs clamped around his waist and he's panting like a bellows, face buried in the crook of her neck. He's holding onto control by his fingernails, determined to bring her off one more time.
The tone of her incoherent "Ah-- ah--" goes higher and then suddenly he can feel her tighten down around him as she throws her head back and yells. And Clint's coming so hard he almost goes blind with it, burying himself deep within her with a few final spasmodic thrusts.
He's shaking from exertion, sweat sticky and barely able to stay on his feet, but he can't stop himself from pressing his mouth to her shoulders and chest. When he feels like he can move without falling over, he cups the back of her neck and kisses her softly. She kisses back just as carefully, her hands lazily petting his back and the rumpled mess of his hair.
He doesn't want to move, to pull away from her in any way, but common sense is rapidly reasserting itself and he has to take care of the condom before he's too soft.
He lets go of her mouth with a final, chaste kiss and a sigh of regret that she echoes. He grabs the edge of the condom and pulls out of her carefully. He tosses it in the trash before finding her flip-flops tangled up in her jeans and sliding them onto her feet so she doesn't have to step on the slightly sticky floor. He helps her hop off the cabinet and makes sure she's steady on her feet, then moves over to the sink to clean up a little and pull his jeans up.
Which is when the intermittent knocking that he'd been vaguely aware of (with the small portion of his brain not dedicated to the best sex he's had in years) is replaced by a loud banging accompanied by demands to open the door before the manager calls the police.
"Fuck," Clint growls. The last thing he needs is to have to explain to his superiors how he got arrested for public indecency in a bar restroom.
"Oops," Darcy says, her eyes wide with suppressed hilarity, and she finishes scrambling into her clothes.
Clint makes sure they're both decent and gives Darcy a swift, deep kiss before opening the door to the clearly irate bar staffers.
Between convincing the manager that he doesn't need to call the cops and convincing the bouncer that no, he really doesn't want to take Clint on, it's a good ten minutes before Clint realizes that Darcy is gone.