To be perfectly honest, Clint expected living in, well, what can probably be considered a brothel would be more like the movies, but instead it's just a big house. The clients don't actually visit, so there isn't anything fancy or particularly inviting about it, no damask wallpaper or red lights; Natasha's tastes run towards the minimalist side of things, spare but not uncomfortable. Half the people who work for Natasha don't even live there, just come and go when Natasha says, so usually the house just feels empty.
It's not so bad today, though; he and Pepper and Janelle are sitting around in the den, doing nothing of interest. Pepper is reading the kind of book she likes to read, something dense and meaningful, while Janelle paints her toenails and Clint flips through Condé Nast.
The Widow walks in, and a palpable stillness settles over the room, despite the fact that it was silent already. "Pepper," she says, and Clint looks back down at his magazine. "Clint," she adds, and he looks up again, confused. "You're up. We roll at seven forty-five." She looks at Janelle. "I said no polish in here. You're making it up to me if you get it on my carpet." With that she leaves, and Clint, well, Clint tries not to look as shocked as he is. Apparently it doesn't work, because Pepper nods towards the door; he stands up and follows her into the hallway.
"You okay?" she asks.
That is a very large question, and Clint thinks part of the answer might be no. "I, uh." Bluffing his way through these things is the whole nature of undercover work, but he decides that in this case, telling the truth is probably worth it. "I've never done this before."
Pepper gives him a fond, somewhat pitying look, like she's not particularly surprised; sometimes his cover as a hayseed streetwalker does him a world of good. "Nine times out of ten, they just want to see us together, maybe fuck one of us afterwards," she tells him. "The rest of the time-" She smiles wryly. "I get a workout."
"Oh," he says, trying to sound more confident than he actually is. "We can do that."
"No sweat," she says, kissing him. "See you soon."
Clint watches her go, wondering what he's gotten himself into. Clint knows how it is with her sometimes; people hire her just to get the chance to fuck Tony Stark's whore. Pepper takes it in stride and doesn't talk about it, Natasha tacitly weeds out the ones who do it, but it makes Clint want to lash out, beat the shit out of anyone who feels that way. Gonna be unfortunate if it happens this time, because Clint's not sure how far he can go before he takes a swing and blows the date, maybe blows the whole op.
He shakes his head, going off to get himself ready, get his head in the game.
It's a hotel this time; Clint never knows how to feel about the hotel jobs. He doesn't see how it's appealing at all to fuck in a hotel unless you're a huge exhibitionist, because the walls are never thick enough. Then again, he and Pepper are the kind of people who fuck the kind of people who rent out the penthouse- or once on a very strange evening, are comped the penthouse. Not only are the acoustics better, the people are rich enough that they don't give two fucks about anything.
Sure enough, the elevator whisks them away to the top floor; he puts his hand on the small of Pepper's back, more to comfort himself than her, and she puts a hand around his shoulders, hugging him to her briefly.
When they reach their destination, Pepper rings the bell on the nearest suite, and a man answers the door. Clint takes stock of him quickly; he's older and a little paunchy, graying hair, but he's not the worst-looking guy in the world. Could be better, could be worse.
"Pepper, baby," the man says, taking her hands and kissing her cheek.
"Maxwell," she replies, smiling warmly at him. "Always good to see you. This is my friend Clint."
"Pleasure to meet you," Clint says, in his best polite yet seductive voice. He really doesn't know whether to shake the guy's hand or something; that part's always a little awkward.
"Likewise," Maxwell says, sizing Clint up; he seems to like what he sees. "Come on in. Care for a drink? I know it's a vodka martini for you, sweetheart, but what'll it be for you?"
They all politely pretend to drink for a while, Clint taking in the surroundings, the strategic possibilities. Maxwell and Pepper chat about things Clint didn't even know Pepper knew about, gold prices and oil futures; Clint just sits there and tries to look hot, attempting not to focus on the fact that he is really not very good at this, past getting fucked.
It is lucky that he is damn good at getting fucked.
Pepper, of course, knows precisely the moment to change it up, to lean over and whisper something in Maxwell's ear, something that makes him hum in appreciation, moving the strap of her dress over so he can kiss her shoulder, her neck. Clint's not quite in the right position to get his hands on him, so he settles for sliding his hand up Pepper's thigh while he gives Maxwell bedroom eyes, trying to make it look like he's down for anything.
Maxwell pulls away, looking at Pepper and smiling, and Pepper takes him by the tie, standing up and tugging gently; he grins as she pulls him away towards the bedroom, Clint following close behind.
Maxwell crawls onto the huge, impractical bed and sits up against the headboard, looking incredibly eager but saying nothing. Pepper pulls Clint close, standing by the bed and making no movement to follow. "Act like I'm talking dirty," she says quickly, whispering in his ear, and Clint grins for show. "He likes it slow. Use your hands a lot. Not on the mouth." She kisses the soft skin below his ear as she reaches for the buttons on his shirt, unbuttoning them slowly one by one. Clint lets his hands roam, tracing the lines of her back as she pushes his shirt off, kissing his shoulder, just enough teeth to make it interesting but soft enough that there's no chance it'll show.
She turns in his arms, and Clint plucks the bow of her halter dress, letting the material fall as he cups her breasts, kissing the back of her neck. Pepper turns back towards him, pressing against him full length, letting her head drop back as he kisses his way downwards, sucking her nipples gently.
After plenty of that, Pepper pushes him away, grinning at him as she unzips his pants and pushes them down. She wiggles the rest of the way out of her dress, bending down briefly to snag one of the condoms from his pocket before she guides him back onto the bed, positioning him so Maxwell can see everything perfectly. She climbs on top of him, smiling down at him fondly, rocking her hips against him, and Clint bites his lip at the feeling of it, the wet warmth of her on his cock.
She reaches down, getting his cock into the right place and taking it inside of her, sinking slowly onto him. He lets out a groan; it's been a while since anybody wanted him to top, long enough that he's not really used to how good it feels. Pepper knows, though, knows his schedule and just seems to know these things intuitively sometimes, and she gives him a minute to adjust. She moves slowly on him, drawing out every stroke, taking Clint's breath away.
"Fuck, that's hot," Maxwell says, and Clint's almost startled; he'd kind of forgotten that anyone else was there at all, lost in the feel of Pepper's body. He tries to bring it back, remember that this whole thing is an act on top of an act, but it's hard to do. Luckily, Pepper is as on point as she always is, everything on lock; she won't let him fuck this up, no matter what happens.
She moves faster, her hands on Clint's chest for support, and Clint puts his hands on her hip, the other one sneaking in to draw circles on her clit. "Mmm, Maxwell," she moans. "Feels so good."
"Tell me about it, baby," he says, almost a groan.
"So big and hard inside me," she says, tilting her head back and gasping. Sometimes Clint can't believe people get off on this porno dialogue shit, but here they are; at least Pepper is very good at it. "Stretching me out, making me feel so hot."
"Let me see you come, sweetheart," Maxwell says, low and urgent. "Make him come for me."
"Yeah," Pepper says, and Clint gets ready, lets himself start to lose it. "Yeah, please, give it to me, so close." He doesn't know whether she's going to have to fake it this time; it's so much easier if she doesn't, because God knows he can't, not under the circumstances. But no, she's not going to hit it; now she's moaning like she's going to die, like it's the best orgasm of her life, but she's definitely not coming. That's Clint's cue to say fuck it and drive up into her, fucking in short strokes until he reaches it, groaning exaggeratedly. Pepper slows down, making satisfied, worn-out noises, finally bending forward and resting on Clint, kissing the side of his face.
"Pepper," Maxwell groans, not wanting to be forgotten, and Pepper grins at him, untangling herself from Clint so she can crawl over, taking his cock into her mouth and sucking. He pets her hair as she works, not forcing her, moaning as she takes him down. Clint's not sure where he fits into this now, but once he's dealt with the condom, it just seems natural to put his hands on her, sweep them up her back, over her hips. Maxwell seems to appreciate it, looking at the both of them like they're a pair of gorgeous things, like he's one lucky son of a bitch.
He's really only lucky in that he makes enough money to hire a pair of expensive escorts to fuck him, but this is no time to spoil the illusion.
He finally comes, pushing up into her mouth, panting like he's just run a hundred miles. He lets her go, and Pepper smiles at him, climbing up his body and kissing his cheek. She holds out a hand for Clint, and he settles himself in on the other side, pillowing his head on Maxwell's outstretched arm. It's kind of nice, warm; unless something goes horribly wrong in the next fifteen minutes, this has been the best kind of gig.
Pepper's the one who breaks it up, sitting up and kissing Maxwell on the forehead before she slips off the bed, retrieving her clothes; Clint follows her lead. Maxwell doesn't look surprised or particularly heartbroken, just sated and friendly. "I left you a little something extra on the table," he says, looking at both of them and smiling, and Clint does his standard mental projection of how much it might be- maybe more than usual, since he knows Pepper.
"You can see yourselves out, can't you?" Maxwell says, and for some reason that's the part that makes Clint feel like a whore, that he doesn't get the consideration of being walked to the door. "I'll see you soon."
Pepper smiles at him. "As soon as you want." As soon as Clint's dressed, she takes him by the hand and walks out; Clint scoops up the money on the table without counting it and sticks it in his pocket.
"Not too scary," Pepper says, as they stand in the elevator.
"Could have been worse," Clint says, texting Natasha. He still feels keyed up; he knows he will until they actually make it back to the house.
"Yeah," Pepper says, not elaborating, and Clint realizes he kind of put his foot in his mouth. They step out of the elevator into the lobby; Pepper, as usual, walks through like she owns the place, and Clint tags along, trying to look at least vaguely suave. The car is waiting for them, thank God, and the driver opens the doors, Clint on one side and Pepper on the other.
Natasha is sitting in the middle; as the car pulls away from the curb, she looks at Clint, who digs the money out of his pocket and passes it over. She counts it quickly, peeling off a few bills for herself before she separates it into two stacks and redistributes it. "Any problems?" she asks, her hand on the inside of Pepper's thigh.
"Not a hitch," Clint says, watching with interest as she slides it higher.
"The usual," Pepper says, spreading her legs as Natasha's hand makes it all the way up. Clint suddenly really fucking hates that dress, because it's covering whatever's happening.
"You always hated being watched," Natasha says, sounding as fond as she ever gets. She looks over at Clint, who's frowning. "You don't count. Stay quiet and keep it that way."
Pepper is already making desperate little noises, about a thousand times more sexy than that theatrical moaning and groaning; she has her head resting on the seat, her chest heaving as Natasha moves her hand. Natasha reaches over, palming her breast with the other, toying with her nipple, and Pepper gasps loudly, her back arching.
She collapses back against the seat, letting Natasha kiss her as she comes down. Pepper smooths her dress down, sighing. Natasha looks over at Clint, almost like she's challenging him to say something; he must seem more hopeful than he thought, because she raises an eyebrow at him. "You got yours already. If you want more, get it at home."
Clint shakes his head, amused. "I'm good."
"Good," Natasha says, putting her hand on his knee as Pepper rests her head on her shoulder. "Take a nap. Last minute booking."
Clint shakes his head, sinking down into his seat. This assignment is going to kill him, one way or another, but with any luck, it won't be today.