Jane has the tiniest hands. Her fingers aren’t stubby or anything - in relation to the size of her palm, they look long and tapered. So proportionally, they’re perfect, but they’re still tiny, overall.
Admittedly, pretty much everything about Jane is tiny, but it’s her hands that Darcy keeps finding herself fixated on.
She’s watching Jane’s hands right now, watching the way they slide up and down Darcy’s thighs, squeezing her raised knees, fingernails raking lightly over the skin in this maddening way that Jane probably doesn’t even realise she’s doing.
“You sure you want this?” Jane asks. Again. Because apparently she’s in fuss mode, in have-we-checked-all-the-variables mode.
Darcy slaps her hands over her eyes and makes a noise that’s something between a wail and an Amazonian war cry. “Yes, I want this! Yes, I have thought about it long and hard before asking you to give me this. And when I say long and hard, I mean whilst fingering myself long and hard until I can barely walk, okay!?”
“Okay, point made,” Jane replies, and Darcy can hear the Darcy-is-being-Darcy smile in her voice.
If Darcy takes her hands away from her eyes, she’s going to see that smile, get lost in that smile.
She keeps her eyes closed.
“I mean, seriously, do you have any idea how many times I’ve brought myself off, thinking about this? Because it’s a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Like, almost-missed-an-essay-deadline-last-week kind of a lot. Like, the reason I was late yesterday was because I was -”
“Darcy,” Jane interrupts, and those fingers are wrapping around Darcy’s wrists, tugging her hands away from her face. Darcy looks up and, yep, there’s that smile. “I get it. Honest. I won’t ask again.”
“Good, because I may have to murder you,” Darcy tells her solemnly.
“Duly noted,” Jane deadpans. “But you have to promise you’ll tell me to stop if you need to.”
Darcy makes a scoffing noise and rolls her eyes. “I’m not gonna need you to stop, trust me.”
“Darcy,” Jane scolds firmly, drawing the last syllable of her name out.
“Yes! Yes, okay, I’ll be good, the safe-word is ‘chocolate-dipped pickles’ if that’s what it takes to make you stop nagging and do me already!”
And oh crap, that’s Jane’s eyes clouding over with thought. “Maybe we should have a safe-word…” she muses quietly.
“I just gave you the safe-word, I swear you’re doing this on purpose! Please, I’ll beg if that’s what you want from me, please, I’ll promise to eat you out every day for a month, I’ll pretend to laugh when you make corny astrophysics jokes, I’ll do anything!”
Jane’s laughing now, and if there’s anything about Jane that Darcy fixates on more than her hands, it’s her laugh. It’s this sweet, almost shy little giggle, her whole face lighting up with it, eyes ducking down coyly before glancing up through her eyelashes.
It’s weirdly seductive, in that Jane Foster way which means she’s not actually trying to be seductive, she just is.
Darcy remembers interviewing for the assistant position - she said something that made Jane laugh, not that she can remember what it was through the haze of wanting the woman in front of her so badly she burned, and she knew from the moment that giggle rang through the air that she was doomed.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Jane grins, and then her eyes are narrowing, her smile turning sharper. “Now spread for me.”
Ooooh, fuck yes.
Darcy does as she’s told, even though her thighs are spread, at least enough for Jane to be settled comfortably between them. She throws one arm up over her head, gripping the plastic ledge of the caravan’s window. The other tangles in the rucked-up sheets.
She closes her eyes, breathes for a moment and licks her lips, before glancing back at Jane.
She has to fight the urge to burst out laughing.
Jane’s looking down at her pussy the way she usually studies scientific journals. Like it’s both fascinating and complicated, like she’s analysing it in great detail.
“Jane,” she whines, because if she starts laughing now she’s not going to stop and they’re never going to do this.
“Sorry, sorry,” Jane mutters. “I’m just - I’ve done the research, I just need a moment -”
“No! No moments, more fisting!” Darcy demands, wriggling her hips to emphasise her point.
That gets her another of Jane’s giggles and then, mmm, fingers stroking high up the insides of her thighs.
She watches Jane take a deep breath, and if she didn’t know Jane as well as she did, she’d think she was nervous. But that’s not what this is - that’s Jane’s discovery face, her I’m-about-to-try-something-new face. Well, that and a little of her so-turned-on-she’s-aching face.
Darcy takes a deep breath of her own and braces her feet against the bed.
Jane presses her fingers together, thumb pressed up tight under her middle finger. All held straight, and her hand seems so small as it moves down between Darcy’s legs.
The tips of three fingers slide into her and Darcy sighs, arching a little. She’s taken that before, taken that less than ten minutes ago. They keep moving into her, slow but steady pace, and then there’s the feeling of Jane’s little finger sliding in beside them. Then Jane’s thumb and Darcy’s breath hitches a little, feeling spread and open.
Four fingers and a thumb, and Jane’s hand keeps going. Pushing in and in and then her knuckles are pressing against Darcy’s folds. She can feel Jane’s eyes on her, but Darcy keeps her gaze on the ceiling, concentrating on breathing, on not just losing it. The drag of all that skin over sensitised flesh is making her crazy, and then the knuckles are pushing in as well.
“Holy shit,” Darcy hisses, and she sounds awed, even to her own ears.
God, the stretch of it, the curve of Jane’s thumb and the wider expanse of her palm, moving steadily inside her, and Jane’s hands look small but right now they don’t feel it.
“Oh God oh God oh God.” Not even breathing between words, and if Jane stops now Darcy is going to cry, actually break down and cry, but Jane doesn’t. Keeps pressing in, and Darcy feels full, trying to clench up around Jane’s hand and only succeeding in making herself whimper when it makes the movement more intense.
And then, fuck, Jane’s whole hand is inside of her, right up to the wrist, and Darcy’s panting, chest rising and falling so fast she looks like she just ran a marathon.
She glances at Jane, sees the perspiration on her brow, the teeth marks in her bottom lip. Her pupils are so dilated that there’s barely any colour to her eyes.
She’s looking at Darcy like she’s the most incredible thing she’s ever seen.
“Do you need a second or should I -”
“Fuck me!” Darcy practically bellows.
And then she’s whining as she feels the hand inside of her move, bump of knuckles and fingers against her inner flesh as Jane gently clenches her hand into a fist. Pulling it back so it almost feels like it might slip free, except it can’t, that can’t be possible, feels like Darcy will be like this forever, Jane’s fist inside of her making her lose her damn mind.
And then Jane’s thrusting in, not hard or fast but so fucking deep, and Darcy’s babbling, high-pitched little noises and words that might be curses or just Jane’s name over and over. Every movement creating this kind of friction inside of her that makes her want to scream, only when she opens her mouth all that comes out is nonsense and dry sobs.
It feels so good, so much better than good, so beyond good that the word loses all meaning. Tightening up around Jane’s wrist, so deep, shit, so deep, and her spine is arching, her eyes rolling up in her head, orgasm hitting her so hard that everything whites out around her, the sound of Jane whispering her name reverentially whirling through her mind.
She’s not actually sure if she loses consciousness, but when she opens her eyes again, it’s to the sight of Jane hovering over her, flushed and with bitten, swollen lips.
God, her fist is still inside of Darcy.
She tries to speak, but she’s pretty sure the sound she makes doesn’t pass for English.
“I’m going to pull out now,” Jane says, and her voice is thin and tight in that way that means she wants Darcy’s mouth on her right now.
Darcy makes a pathetic, needy sound.
Jane smiles down at her, and it’s so damn sexy. “You can’t actually spend the rest of your life with my fist inside you,” she insists gently.
This time, Darcy’s incoherent noise is argumentative.
“Okay, let’s put it this way,” Jane tries again, and her eyes are so dark, so intense. “I’m going to pull out now. And then everything I just did to you? I’m gonna need you to do that to me.”
There’s a pause where Darcy’s addled mind processes that.
The sound she manages in return is enthusiastic and hungry.