“What about that whole human furniture thing?” Clint asks Darcy, in an attempt to distract her from the business at hand. Or the hand in the business as it is actually.
Darcy’s eyes open, straining at the attempt to keep herself under control, not drop into the headwinds that would rush her towards orgasm. There’s no place for that right now and she knows it. Her job is not to give in and Clint’s to to make her want to.
He calls it orgasm denial. Darcy calls it the very best of tortures.
“Is that the thing with the, oh,” she stops for a second and swallows hard, “being naked and pretending to be a footstool?”
“Sometimes like that.” Clint smiles, he has a whole checklist he’s going to keep bringing up at the weirdest times.
“Then, ew no, you can keep your gross smelly feet off of me.” Darcy says with a quick exhale, the edge of her orgasm backing away because that particular scenario is a turn off. She props herself up on her elbows, to watch the scene at the edge of the bed. Her feet don’t touch the ground and periodically, she’s kicked at Clint. Clint sits on a bench at the foot of his bed, two fingers like a piston, methodically and patiently disassembling her.
Darcy’s been kept on edge for what seems like hours, but it certainly has been three almost orgasms, three times she’s looked out into what supposed to be a great and perfect moment, fireworks, a culmination of their love and respect for each other and went ‘nah’ and climbed back down. She better love this man.
His thumb flicks over the surface of her clit, “Alright, so I’ll cross that one out. Big X, no stinky feet.” Clint says with just a little humor in his voice. “Besides, half the fun of doing something like that is large groups of people ignoring you.”
She can’t help a groan, the sheer thought of people ignoring her is rage inducing and not conducive to happy fun playtime at all. After Clint had confessed that he was into a few things beyond Darcy’s typical scale of sex, her nerves had gotten the best of her. It felt like she was going to fly blind every time they got intimate with each other not really knowing what he wanted.
The first time she flinched at his advances, he drew back with real fear in his eyes. “You okay?” he had asked, “Are we okay. If we aren’t, I need to know. I’m bad at figuring out when okay is actually okay and when it is a smoothing over a wrong thing.” He rambled.
“I just…I don’t,” Darcy struggled to say, “It’s all good what you like, but I —“ she looked around desperately for some way to ground herself, “I don’t know what you want, what I’m expected to do. What’s good, what’s not.”
Clint had laid back and covered his face with one of his pillows, “Go ahead, suffocate me right now, because I’ve been stupid.” His hands gripped it tight, “No, I’ll do it myself, you probably aren’t into that.”
Darcy removed the pillow from his head, throwing it down beside the bed, “Be serious.”
“Baby, I’ve been doing this wrong, so I promise tonight, nothing remotely coming close to weird kinky sex.” and reached out for her again and pulled her on top of him.
Afterwards, curled up in his arms he told her, “I’m not into pain, yours or mine. I’m not into making you feel like a piece of shit. Let’s start there, okay?”
Everything got better from there and Clint, who never met a hard conversation he couldn’t talk his way out of, decided to come at the subject with a new angle. The internal checklist. Darcy now has a safe word, clearly defined limits and all sorts of websites she can pull up to figure out what the hell Clint is trying to mumble his way through asking.
It’s hilarious, really. During sex, Darcy can let go and want nothing more than to let him have control of her body and her safety and wellbeing. He’s confident and assuring. But when it’s just them talking about it, Clint is a mess.
His fingers stop, and he licks his lips before pressing them together and then saying, “You’ve done good here sweetheart, keeping yourself right there. You’ll be ready like a rocket when I get inside you. You feel so good when you come around my dick.” His hand leaves her body, leaving such an empty feeling that Darcy lifts her hips, trying to chase the sensation.
Clint chuckles, a low and warm gravel-streaked rumble that comes from the back of his throat, “My little sl….sweetheart.” he says quickly.
That had been one of the early rules. Not a slut, not a whore. No one’s bitch or cunt or hole. She’s not interested in her personhood being degraded like that, taken away from her. But what Clint was about to say was an endearment, something he admired.
“Say that again?” Darcy sits up and throws her arms around Clint to pull him down to the bed. She wants to feels his weight, his hard cock against her bare skin, every inch of him against her trembling body.
“My little sweetheart?” Clint deflects nervously.
“No, what you were going to say.”
He smiles, raises his eyebrows then grinds his hips against her, his mouth to her ear, “My little slut, mine only, you open up so beautifully for me.”
The word changes meaning. A challenge, an entreatment, an endearment. A little treat, possessive and sharp and Darcy’s breath quickens as her mind races to put this new way of thinking into perspective. Darcy’s fingers grip on his biceps leaving pale imprints, flushing skin between them. “Keep going,” she says, and Clint’s lips move into big, dirty smile before taking up her earlobe, dragging the skin between his teeth.
“You don’t like the idea of no one touching you, keeping you filled and sated. Can’t stand it, can you? You’ll beg for it before too much longer.” His hands race down her sides before they cup her breasts. Clint lowers his head to take a nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the tip, releasing it with an audible smack. “Maybe you’d rather have all of the attention on you instead?”
Well. Darcy can feel herself flush, heat pooling in her cheeks and chest. Well. Not a reaction she’d thought she’d have. She can’t even think of what he might be working his filth-slinging mouth towards.
“Yeah, you’d like that. But I’m not willing to share, not like that, sweetheart. But….” he pauses for a moment, looking around, “You are so beautiful, so gorgeous, how could I not want to share the way you look right now. You want eyes on you, I’ll let the whole city watch if you wanted that. Everyone deserves to look at such beauty.”
She arches towards his cooler skin and bashfully hides her head, burrows against his neck to hide what has to be apparent on her face. But she can’t hide her breathing, quick and shallow, and she can’t stop the gasp and whimper she lets out. “Clint….” she groans, without a care to how to complete her thought.
It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all, because what Clint loves is the roughness, the manhandling, and most of all, his ability to lift Darcy straight off the bed. He settles her in his arms, carrying her over to the bank of windows on the other side of the bedroom loft. Using his strength to please is a guiding force with him, pinning her down or holding her up, roughhousing and keeping her still as she squirms. She’s woken up with inadvertent but well-loved bruises more than a few times, and then pressed her fingers into them to remember who and how and when they were formed.
But this is different, Darcy isn’t sure what this will be. You can see out of the window, but security conscious and paranoid Clint Barton has glass that you can’t see into, not clearly by any rate. He lets her down gently, and she quickly regains her footing before she’s held upright and tight to him. His arm presses against her, above her chest and nearly at her throat. Clint’s body is rough around the edges, raised scars and taut muscles, all made from wear and tear and a life well-owned.
“Look out there, sweetheart, look at all the people on the street.” Just enough pressure that Darcy’s breath is labored, constricted, and purposeful. Not enough to be painful or make her panic. “Do you see them?”
“Yes,” she says with a terrible rawness that thrills her, “I see them.”
“There’s so many of them down there. They can’t see you,” Clint tosses aside the truth and clucks his tongue, “What a shame though, because if they could, they’d get quite a show.”
Darcy can see her reflection in the window, Clint’s dark look as his free hand works its way up over her stomach and between her breasts. She surrenders her weight to him, lets him support her body, “Fuck, Clint, I…” and swears harder as he gropes a breast hard, “Dammit, Clint! What are you—“
“I could show you off, let anyone, everyone, see just how good you look when you are kept on edge. You’d beg for my cock, right where anyone could see you.”
“I could beg right now, Clint, please—“ Darcy groans and mutters, but that only causes Clint to laugh. He releases her, only for a half-second before he directs her against the window, splaying her arms against the glass.
“I’m kind of selfish, if you hadn’t noticed—“
“Oh really, selfish? Here I thought you were just an asshole who insists on stringing me along for the better portion of the day!” Darcy mockingly complains, close enough to the glass that it fogs underneath her lips.
“I’m selfish,” Clint says, holding her hips steady and still, slipping his fingers through her lips, spreading them, stroking the inner folds with a restrained delicacy, “I’ve been keeping you all to myself.”
Darcy sees the moment he lines up, and closes her eyes against the delicious right feeling of Clint’s cock slowly filling her up and his contented sigh. The sweet stroke of his hand on her hips, however subtle, is overwhelming with the callouses on his fingers and palm. But he stays there, up to the hilt in her cunt, without moving. It is as infuriating as edging, but worse.
“God, Clint, please. Please move, fuck me, please.” Darcy gasps, and nearly breaks down in fucking tears when she feels the hard and slick slide within her, still far too achingly slow. She’s been kept on the precipice for far too long, it isn’t going to take much to push her over.
“Look down. Everyone passing by this building has no idea what you are doing right now, but you’d blow their mind, baby girl. If only they knew.”
“If only you knew to get on with it, Clint!” must have been the magic words because Clint slams into her, pushing her forward with the force. Her forehead touches the glass, and she can hardly catch her breath, Clint fucking her hard and fast.
And dirty, his hand slipping down to her clit, everything wet and thrumming. She’s down to just nonsense now. But she can’t stop looking out the window now, her eyes wide. There’s so many eyes that could be on her, if only they knew to look. It doesn’t matter that the windows are tinted, she starts willing the adjacent buildings curtains to open, for the tint to wear off. Just flake off, and let anyone who has the audacity to look up in New York City, see the truth about Darcy Lewis.
Dimly aware that Clint is still talking, raunch and filth from the tip of his tongue, and it doesn’t matter. She’s so lost in the possibilities, it makes her clit thrum and the blood rush away from her head. She can’t catch her breath and can barely hold up her head.
“Baby, bring it home, I’m almost cooked here,” Clint says and wraps his hand in her hair, pulling the way she likes it, enough to arch her back and focus her attention, “Give in, let them see everything you’ve got.”
Shit, Darcy’s eyes open wide, gasping, feeling the rumble of orgasm burning low in her belly, ready to boil over and drag her down in pleasure. The more Clint talks, the brighter it burns. The more Clint tells her it’s time for her show, the more she’s ready for it too.
Clint groans loudly and before his cock has finished twitching inside her cunt, he’s pulled her close again, pulling her down to the floor and into his lap. He’s still in her, slowly flagging but unwilling to sever the connection between them.
“Come for me, my sweet little slut.” his fingers slide and curl aside her clit, the nub too sensitive for direct contact. He knows that, he knows without her having to tell him with anything more than how her body moves and reacts.
It rips through and robs her of her coherent mind.
“Worth the wait?” Clint says a few minutes later, after he’s disengaged and soft, and Darcy’s curled up against his chest. They are still on the floor, because moving away from it seems entirely too difficult at this time.
“Mmmrph,” Darcy says, her voice muffled by his impossible body, “Still an asshole. But you’ll do.”
“Did that work for you,” He’s serious and concerned, for all it’s crouched in his his normal levity, “The window and the pretend voyeurism? Real voyeurism a thing you might like?”
“By the end, yeah, that really worked. But for real? I don’t know. That’s a big leap.” Darcy admits. The thought had been good, but sometimes you have fantasies that while you love them, remain fantasies.
“I know a few places if you want to ease in. Watch instead being watched.” He shrugs beneath her, “Your choice if you want to take a leap.” He kisses the top of her forehead, easing her uncertainty, “I’m getting fucking old, let’s move back to the bed before all of our muscles lock up.”