clint/darcy, violence
“Son of a bitch, Barton, that hurt!” Darcy backed away, rubbing her upper arm, where she hadn’t dodged Clint’s kick fast enough. “It’s going to bruise, too.”
Clint threw his arms in the air. “Come on, Darcy, you have to at least try. Some asshole trying to snatch you off the street isn’t going to give you a minute to think about how to block or punch; it has to be instinctive.”
She huffed in frustration. “Fine. But when this is over, I want a reward.”
He frowned. “Reward?”
She let a smirk spread across her face. “Mmm, yeah. A massage for my aching muscles, a hot bath with a glass of wine, and a night in bed with my hot boyfriend.”
Clint feigned surprise. “You have a hot boyfriend and you didn’t tell me? Are you seeing him Wednesdays and alternate weekends? When do I get to meet him?”
Darcy rolled her eyes. “Come, on, buster, hit me with your best shot, and then we’ll see about this ‘hot boyfriend’ business.”