Summary: Steve. Darcy. St. Patrick's Day. Asgardian mead. That is all.

A/n: I want to say the prompt for this one entailed Steve and Darcy celebrating St. Patrick's Day with Asgardian mead. And that's pretty much all this slightly naughty little ficlet is. Figured today is an appropriate day to share it with the world. Title comes from The Divine Comedy's 'A Drinking Song', which is also appropriate for shenanigans.

Beyond the Boundaries of Sense

It's no surprise that Thor enjoys St. Patrick's Day. A holiday that began with a legend of a man leading snakes out of a country that ended up becoming an excuse to eat, drink, and be merry for many folk appeals to him, and reminds him more than a bit of home. Including the potential for fights and brawls, which Clint is more than happy to remind them of.

Darcy thinks she should be surprised that Clint's been in bar fights on St. Patrick's Day. Should be, but she isn't, not one bit.

So when Thor suggests having a celebration in honor of the day, he's got a group of eager people backing up his idea. Tony is more than happy to offer up his penthouse for the party, especially since Thor will be bringing his Asgardian homebrew mead with him, which always promises a good time.

Darcy shuts the door to Steve's room behind her with a quiet snick. The party's not quite over yet, though more than a few people have passed out thanks to an overabundance of Asgardian mead and underestimating just what a kick it has. The potency of the alcohol had even gotten to Steve, who had taken himself off to go get some rest in one of the guest rooms Tony had set aside for the visitors.

Darcy, however, has got Ideas with a capital letter. This may be the fault of the mead, she admits to herself. The glass is warm against her palm from where she holds the neck of the bottle, and she can't shake the fizzy feeling from her blood, like if she makes any sudden moves she's going to fly away.

Asgardian mead is very, very good.

She giggles quietly, leaning back against the door. The small noise is enough to rouse Steve out of his stupor, and he rolls over on the bed to face her. He looks a bit bleary - actually, he looks a bit drunk, which is a sight Darcy is truly unused to. She's seen him waking up first thing in the morning which certainly qualifies as bleary. But now his hair is sticking up in every direction, and his shirt is rucked up just a bit, revealing a sliver of stomach. "Darcy?" he asks, still sounding a bit out of it.

Oh, yeah, this is definitely a good plan.

It doesn't take much for her to push herself off the door and weave her way over to the bed, raising the bottle up in triumph. "Look what I got!" she says.

Steve frowns, though it really does look more puzzled than anything else. "Isn't Thor going to miss that?" he asks as Darcy climbs onto the bed, straddling his still jean-covered legs.

"Nope," she says as she pushes him gently back onto the mattress. Well, she hopes he won't miss it. Hell, he'll probably be too hung over in the morning to notice anyway. She hopes.

Darcy pulls the cork out of the bottle, and tips a small stream of the mead into her mouth. It's heavy and rich on her tongue, tasting like honey and grain and a little something extra which she figures is uniquely Asgardian. A little bit of the mead overflows from her mouth, dripping down her chin and onto her neck. When she looks back at Steve she finds him looking at her with interest and intent, eyes following the drip of mead as it begins to make its way into her cleavage. She smiles at him again, and pushes his shirt even further up his chest. The mead is drizzled over his abs, spreading out into the hills and valleys created by muscle definition.

And then Darcy bends down and begins to lick.

She can hear Steve's sharp gasp from somewhere above, feel the muscles jump beneath her tongue, tensing up a bit as she chases down all of the mead. He tastes divine, like skin, salt, and honey, and she hums briefly against his stomach. One of his hands land on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"That is a very good way to enjoy mead," Darcy says, glancing up at Steve, who's looking like he's having a hard time catching his breath. Then the look in his eyes changes, becomes more intent and determined. Before she can figure out what's happened Darcy finds herself flipped onto her back, with Steve looming over her and the bottle clasped firmly in his hand.

"My turn," he says, a rather dirty smirk spreading across his face. He tips the bottle, and she feels the mead pooling in the hollow between her clavicles. Then Steve bends down to drink it in, and Darcy can't think about anything else aside from the way his hand strokes up her stomach and the way his lips feel warm on her skin.