"This is never going to work," Bruce says. He's splayed out pantsless on Darcy's bed, arms spread wide as if not touching her will keep anything bad from happening.
"Don't be ridiculous. This is one of my plans. My plans are brilliant." She shifts where she's straddling his hips, her ass almost but not quite rubbing against his cock, and Bruce groans in frustration. Darcy just grins down at him and strips her shirt off over her head. "You can stay in control by always being angry, right?"
Bruce swallows roughly and fists his hands in the sheet. "More or less."
"Okay," Darcy says as she unhooks her bra and tosses it away. "So we'll just have angry sex and everything will be fine."
"This doesn't seem like a very sound plan," Bruce says. Darcy sticks her tongue out at him.
"No comments from the peanut gallery," she says and starts to slowly flick open the buttons of his shirt, pausing at each one to plant wet, sucking kisses down his chest. "I'm doing something here."
"You're doing me," Bruce points out. "I think I'm allowed to talk when you're doing me."
"He's a comedian, ladies and gentleman," Darcy says to the room. Bruce hopes she's saying it to the room. Stark Tower doesn't have drop ceilings, but Clint has a way of sneaking into places that is sometimes disturbing. She falls forward so that she's braced with her hands on either side of his head and leans in to brush a soft, clinging kiss over his mouth. "You missed your calling, babe. A few more open mic nights and a few less hours in the lab might have made all the difference."
"But then I probably never would have met you." The temptation is too great and he finally lets a hand settle at her waist. She's so soft and warm; Bruce smooths his hand up her ribcage to cup one of her breasts and watches the way she bites her lip and shivers when he thumbs her nipple with fascination.
"Such a charmer," Darcy breathes. Her voice is lower than it was before, a near rasp that makes heat pool in his groin, and that's all it takes for him to go from half hard to all the way there. "Your mother's a bitch."
"You've never even met my mother. She's dead."
"See how insensitive I am?" Darcy flutters her eyelashes at him and unzips her skirt. "Doesn't that make you angry?"
Bruce helps Darcy wriggle out of her skirt. Well, he gets his hands under her skirt, anyway. He'd meant to help, but then his hands were on the soft, full curve of her ass, and, well, that sort of thing can be really distraction. Darcy really does all the work, but Bruce does a few experiments and finds out that she squeaks when he squeezes her right cheek and gasps when he pinches the left. Further testing will definitely be necessary, but he's pretty pleased with his preliminary findings. "You're not insensitive. You're very sensitive."
He pinches again to prove his point. Darcy's eyes go dark and she rocks back to grind down on his cock. It's good, so fucking good, and he can feel the wet heat of her through the thin fabric of her panties. She arches her back, a hand braced on his leg behind her, the line of her body one long, gorgeous curve that Bruce wants to calculate the math for.
"Oh," she exhales. "Oh, Tony."
"This isn't exactly how I pictured our first time going," Bruce says. He props himself up on an elbow so that he can reach out and tangle his hand in Darcy's hair. Her breath stutters when he accidentally gives it a little tug, which is too interesting for words.
"I slept with your brother," she tries. Her hips are rolling now, slowly finding a hard rhythm that makes beads of sweat pop up on Bruce's body and makes her legs tremble. She leans forward again, and that change of angle somehow makes things even better. If frottage with her is this good, Bruce thinks actual penetration might just kill him.
Her arms loop around his neck, and Bruce twists her hair around his fist so that he can angle her head down; each roll of her hips brings their lips together in a teasing imitation of a kiss. "I don't have a brother," he says against her mouth.
"Then who the fuck did I sleep with," Darcy asks without missing a beat.
"Hell if I know." He kisses her for real then. It's all hot, slick suction, her lip gloss an almost childish burst of artificial strawberry on his tongue. Darcy makes a high, garbled noise in the back of her throat, and Bruce licks deeper to try and chase it to its source.
"I burned your research notes," Darcy gasps out when he breaks the kiss to bite a shivery line down her throat to her clavicle.
"Oh, that definitely does it." Bruce rolls Darcy onto her back and pins her wrists to the mattress. "You know what that means, right?"
"What," Darcy asks, her tone all breathless challenge. She hooks a leg up over his hips and nips at his chin. "What does that mean, Grumpy?"
Bruce kisses her again. It's gentle this time, lips soft and barely parted, and he eases back every time she tries to surge up into it or make it go faster, harder. He's good at this, likes to kiss like it's chemistry, trying different combinations to see what kind of reactions he can get, and the kiss is no less intense for its sweetness. Bruce kisses Darcy until she's shaking underneath him, her breath reduced to half hiccuping little sobs, and then he kisses her some more. When he finally pulls back, her lips are bruised and swollen and her eyes are glazed. Bruce twines their fingers together and presses his lips to her shoulder, the hinge of her jaw, her earlobe.
"It means no angry sex," he says, though he can't be certain Darcy actually hears him. She looks so blissed out that Bruce thinks the entire team could probably smash through the door and she wouldn't even notice. "Burning notes is a step too far. Just for that, I'm going to have to make love to you all night."
"Oh," Darcy says, blinking languidly up at him. She smiles at him, and it's a slow, lazy seduction that he can't help but trace with the pad of his thumb. "Okay."