He hated milk runs, no matter how important the data might be. As long as you're there, Tony said, just stop by the terrace and see why the monitoring device wasn't working. Plug it back in or jiggle some wires. Right. Clint knew these new machines were integral to scrambling A.I.M.'s tracking abilities, but, still, just because he was the only one available didn't mean he could do any more than give the damn thing a swift kick.
The penthouse was posh; Stark Industries owned places around town, and Clint suspected Tony used them as love nests for his various conquests. This one was especially pricey: updated kitchen, large terrace, taller than the buildings around it for privacy, and a view of the Statue of Liberty. It reeked of corporate condo: white carpet, tastefully minimal furniture, data ports in every room. And then there was the table set with white linen, a chilled bottle of wine, and Bruce Banner standing outside, wearing brown linen pants and a purple shirt.
"Well, doc, you could have called," Clint drawled from the doorway.
"Between our work schedules, we almost have to make an appointment, but where's the fun in that?" He held out a glass to Clint who crossed the space to take it.
"Why the monitor subterfuge?" He took a sip of the white wine; it was dry and oaky, his favorite.
"Because if I asked you to meet me on a rooftop wearing your uniform, you'd know what I had planned," he smiled. "I thought you'd enjoy being surprised."
It hit him then, hard enough to make him suck in a breath as his cock jumped to attention. "I like surprises, and I like the new shirt even more," he said, reaching out a hand to brush the cotton with his fingers.
"I got you one too, and some black leather pants. Tony helped pick them out," Bruce grinned as Clint groaned.
"Oh, good lord, I'll never hear the end of it. You know how he is." Clint shook his head, already imagining the snarky comments.
"But he has good taste in clothes," he said. "And speaking of clothes," he pulled at Clint's belt, bringing him closer, "we both have entirely too much on for what I have planned."
"The shirt stays," Clint argued.
"Then you wear what I tell you," Bruce agreed. "Much as I love way those pants hug your ass, I think we can lose them. In fact, why don't you just take them off now?" He stepped back and picked up his glass, waiting.
"Oh, feeling bossy today, are you?" Handing his drink off to Bruce, Clint unzipped his vest and let it slide down his arms.
"My fantasy. My rules." Bruce lifted his glass in a toast. Clint continued to take off his uniform; he pulled the shirt over his head as Bruce watched. It took time to remove his boots and weapons, but then Bruce's eyes got darker as Clint's fingers worked the buckles of his thigh holster. When he finally stepped out of his pants, his cock jutting forward, Bruce looked him up and down, as if examining a math equation before he drained his drink and sat down the empty glass.
"Not quite ready yet." Bruce picked up Clint's vest from where he'd left it on a chair and tossed it to him. "I think you'll need this." He slipped his arms back in and, when Bruce nodded, zipped it up. "And this is just for me." Bruce picked up his holster and bent down on one knee, threaded first one, then the second leather strap around Clint's thigh, buckling each, letting his fingers drag across the sensitive inner skin as Clint sighed. "It will look really good from the back," Bruce said as he rose back up and pulled Clint into a take-no-prisoners kiss, hand threaded through Clint's hair at the base of his skull, holding his head still as Bruce's tongue plundered deep into Clint's mouth. The kiss was demanding and dominating, and Clint moaned as Bruce's other hand kneaded his ass, pulling their hips together, rubbing Clint's naked cock against Bruce's fabric covered one.
"God, Bruce," Clint managed to get out before Bruce's hand circled his erection, and he couldn't think much less form a sentence as he felt those amazing fingers drawing patterns on the shaft and circling the head. Need blossomed fast and hard, and Clint's hips moved, rubbing against Bruce's palm.
"No, sorry, I'm in charge in this afternoon diversion," Bruce said as he stepped back to the table for the tube waiting there. "And I'm afraid you're going to have to wait." He pulled a small leather strap from his pocket. "See, I can go shopping without Tony." He slicked the gel over Clint's shaft and then wrapped the strap around the base of Clint's cock, snapping it tight and snug.
"Don't let anyone tell you differently," Clint said, voice husky with desire. "You do kink with the best of them, doc. Who would have guessed?"
"Well, since you mentioned it …" Bruce led him over to a stone bench, compete with an outdoor pillow, right by the roof's edge. "We're pretty high up." He positioned himself behind him, Clint's knees brushing the edge of the bench. "Kneel on it," Bruce whispered in his ear, and Clint suddenly understood what his lover wanted. Throwing a sexy grin over his shoulder, Clint put his knees on the pillow and rested his elbows on the terrace ledge, face looking down to the street far below. "Hope no one has binoculars, or if they do, they send us a copy of the video."
"Security screen," Bruce managed to choke out as he splayed his hands on Clint's exposed ass. "Good god, Clint," he breathed. "Slow is out of the question."
"I'm glad you see things my way for … " Clint's words turned to a groan as the first slickened finger shoved past his tight muscle quickly, and he grabbed on to the concrete edge so he could push back onto Bruce's hand. His cock ached where the strap kept him in check, and it was like a river trapped behind a dam, growing with each probing advance that stretched him a little more. Then Bruce added a second finger, scissoring them, and Clint thought he was going to come apart, rocking back and forth as he invented new sounds deep in his throat, each movement an exquisite torment.
"Open your eyes," Bruce demanded and Clint obeyed, holding on tight as Bruce spread him even further with a third finger, almost painful, but so damn good he could do nothing but wiggle and writhe under the onslaught. The ground was so far away, and he felt the familiar adrenaline spike, the pull of gravity and rush of freefall he remembered so well.
"Take me over the edge, Bruce" Clint asked; there was a moment of emptiness and then Bruce's cock was there, in one solid thrust that forced a cry out of Clint's mouth and made him jerk forward. But Bruce's hands on Clint's hips anchored him, and he was ready for the next thrust, digging his knees into the pillow and pushing backwards with equal force, bodies colliding. Rewarded with Bruce's curse, Clint fucked himself back onto Bruce, meeting him each time until he wasn't sure if he was going to fly off the roof or fly apart from the inside out, split into pieces by the pressure building inside of him. The concrete scraped skin from his elbows, and he knew he would be sore in the morning, but when Bruce groaned and came, pumping inside of him, Clint didn't give a damn about anything but hearing the sounds of pleasure Bruce made. Only when Bruce pulled out of him did Clint realize his arms were shaking from the tension of his muscles, and Bruce had to help him stand back up, his aching penis still engorged and purple.
"You okay?" Bruce asked, turning Clint to face him and stroking his face.
"God yes." Clint groaned as the tail of Bruce's shirt brushed across the head of his cock.
"Do you trust me?" Bruce's face was suddenly serious, and even in the haze of need, Clint realized the question was about more than just the sex.
"Completely," he answered without hesitation, hands grabbing the open lapels of the purple shirt.
"Then make sure you hold on." Bruce's voice was almost a growl, and his eyes turned green as he backed Clint up and urged him down on the bench, bending him backwards until he was balanced on his lower back on the wall, head hanging over the side of the building. "Wrap your legs around me," Bruce ordered.
"Seriously, you can't be ready …" Bruce slammed into Clint, invasion eased a little because both of them were wet from before, but Bruce's size and speed still filled him to bursting. Clint cursed and moaned his pleasure as he was pushed forward, ass bumping the concrete edge. He grabbed onto Bruce's shoulders, twining his fingers behind Bruce's neck for leverage.
"Amazing recuperative powers," Bruce told him. "And the other guy likes it when you hold on." Clint couldn't answer because Bruce's hand slipped the leather strap off of his cock and started to stroke him, spreading the liquid leaking from his head along the shaft. His release crashed over him in seconds; the pull of Bruce's fingers on his cock as he continued to fuck him almost over the edge again and again was so powerful Clint couldn't tell if he was holding on or falling to the street below. He came, long and hard, growls of his own matching the guttural sounds Bruce was making. When he could think again, Clint whispered encouragement in Bruce's ear, dirty suggestions of what he was going to do when it was his turn to pick the fantasy, until Bruce's second climax rocked them both with its violence; then he could only hold on and ride it out, arms tight around Bruce's chest, fingers anchored in the purple fabric.
His ass was cold, and he realized his was sitting on the edge, supported by Bruce's hands braced on the ledge on either side of them; Bruce was kneeling on the bench breathing heavily. Pulling them back in, he cradled Clint to his body as tremors ran through them both.
"Cupid okay?" Bruce whispered into Clint's ear.
Clint's eyes shot to Bruce's, but there was nothing but concern and a mischievous sparkle. "More than okay, Big Guy."
"Your elbows are scraped up again." He turned one of Clint's arms to look; speckles of blood dotted the purple shirt from where Clint had clung to him. "There's probably something in that massive bathroom we can use to patch you up. I'm sorry about that."
"Don't. Just don't. There are no fucking apologies after mind-blowing sex. Let's make that rule number one." Clint gave a little groan as he stood up. "I may not sit for a day or two, but, damn, okay? You've thrown down the gauntlet now. I've got to come up with something pretty spectacular to top this." Looking at Bruce, he almost laughed; Bruce's shirt was only partially unbuttoned, and his pants were still hooked around his right ankle, underwear and all. "We're both mess."
"No need to rush," Bruce said as he kicked the pants and underwear off. "You're logged in as on assignment until tomorrow morning, and I'm supposedly in the lab working on a special project. Steve took care of it."
"A whole evening and night? I do believe I owe Cap a big kiss from both of us. Hmmmm, Steve does have a mighty fine …"
"Don't even go there," Bruce warned. "The other guy gets a tad bit jealous."
"Just kidding, doc," Clint touched him lightly on the cheek. "You're more than enough." After a quick kiss, he headed inside. "Now, what shall we do with ourselves for 18 hours?"
"There's a great Vietnamese place down the street Tony raves about," Bruce followed him in, scooping up the bottle of wine and handing the glasses to Clint who juggled them along with his clothes. "You should see the shower feature this place has …."
Clint pushed back the 1000-count Egyptian cotton sheets on the California king bed, the warmth of Bruce's body curled up against his back enough for the balmy evening, even with the terrace doors open, breeze wafting across the room. Empty wine bottles and take-out cartons sat on the small table, but the wet towels were hanging neatly by the rainmaker shower and the gigantic whirlpool bath, both of which had gone a long way to easing their aches. Bruce was very creative in thinking up ways to bend Clint into positions not-quite humanly possible. He smiled sleepily at the memory of Bruce insisting they watch one more episode of The Walking Dead on Netflix until they'd seen the whole first season, especially since he'd been so resistant to Clint's pleas to watch the zombie show. The sounds of New York City drifted up in even in these wee hours of the a.m. as Bruce shifted his arm, resting his elbow on Clint's side and tucking his fingers between Clint's side and the mattress. Pushing worry aside for the moment, Clint was content and sated and tired enough to sleep the rest of the night without dreaming. There'd be time tomorrow to wonder just how he was going to screw this up. Because, make no mistake, Clint truly knew that he was just fucked up enough to blow a good thing like this.