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Birds of Desire

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Somewhere in a not so very near alternate dimension…


Darcy rolls over and groans as the movement makes her stomach slosh and threaten rebellion. Her head pounds and she drags her pillow over it to keep the light out. From somewhere beyond her cotton prison someone laughs and the bed moves as said person gets up. The sound of a lighter being struck, a deep inhalation, and exhalation is muffled but the smell of cloying smoke reaches her nose. A finger pokes her shoulder, the bed dips again, and there’s damp lips pressing against her bare shoulder where the sheet has slid down. The corner of the pillow is pried from her fingers and she scowls from behind last night’s mascara.

“I had the weirdest fucking dream, ever,” she croaks.

“The ménage à trios one again?”

Darcy laughs despite the ache in her head and shoves her companion back. She sits up holding the sheet to her chest and thanks him when he hands her a glass of water and a couple ibuprofen. Swallowing them down she winces as her insides protest. Damn Barton and his Jägermeister. She knew drinking those shots followed by Nat’s vodka would fuck her up. But does she ever listen? No, the answer is never.

“So, tell me what you dreamed.”

She sits the glass aside and smirks. “Actually it was a damn three-way… with Barnes and Rogers. I popped out a kid or two.”

Darcy yelps as she’s pounced with a playful growl. Her jaw is nipped at and she watches him lean back, take another drag from his cigarette, blow a perfect ring of smoke to the ceiling, and stretch to set it in the ashtray on the nightstand. The lean lines of his frame are decorated with swirling ink in patterns that defy logic, his jaw is scruffy, hair messy from her fingers, and he’s naked as the day he was born. Darcy grins up at him when he settles back over her with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“You think if I slept with my boss he’d let me off for the day?” she asks.

“He might, but his wife probably wouldn’t like that.”

“But would he?”

“Oh, no doubt and he would give it serious consideration… maybe you should ask him.”

Darcy loops her arms around his neck and leans up, her lips brushing his earlobe as she speaks. “Mr. Stark, care to play hooky with your secretary?” His laugh is warm and melts her insides. Darcy raises her left hand in the air and snaps her fingers, says: “Rock me, J, and make it dirty.” the light glints off of the blood-red garnet ring that rests on her third finger. It matches the ink etched into the skin of her arm down to the tiny skulls that flank the stone.

As A Perfect Circle’s ‘Counting Bodies like Sheep to the Rhythm of The War Drums’ filters through the smoke of Tony’s cigarette, Darcy’s laughter turns into cries of pleasure. Two hours later they break for lunch and she’s happy to report she doesn’t think she’ll be getting fired. By the time The Pretty Reckless’ ‘Going to Hell’ pours through the speakers (the last song on her ‘Dirty Mix Volume 6), they’ve moved to the shower and Darcy sincerely hopes that that other dream her was having as much fun as she was!