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Emergency Pants

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"Everything okay in there?" Cap yells from the next room, as soon as the explosion is over.

"Awesome!" Tony yells back. "Peachy keen! I killed a robot!" He hadn't even had the suit, and he still managed to win the fight when nobody else could, using only the power of science. He's basically a god now.

Steve apparently doesn't see this fact as worthy of celebration. Steve is a sad person. Tony feels sad for him. "How's Banner?" he says, stepping into the doorway to take a look.

"Nude as usual," Tony says. "Did Barton bring the emergency pants?" It had been unanimously elected his job, since the guy already carried around a bag on his back; Tony had whipped him up a new mecha-quiver with a carrying compartment--just as butch as the last one, I promise. Total arrowpunk. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? You'll be the envy of Camp Anawanna. Clint had punched his shoulder with one of those ridiculously overpowered arms, but he'd liked the quiver, Tony could tell. And somebody had to carry the emergency pants.

Steve turns back toward the other room. "Hawkeye! Pants!" A second later they come sailing through the air, clearly aimed at Tony's face. He catches them with one smooth motion, doesn't even have to duck. Like a god.

"I think we've got things covered in here." He flaps the pants in a shooing gesture. "You kids can take cleanup this time. I'll dress the naked guy."

Steve nods--that quick military motion that always makes Tony want to grind his teeth, or nod right back, or pat Steve gently on his little blond head, depending on the context--and leaves. Tony balls up the pants (they're actually more like emergency bike shorts, but the last thing a guy needs who ends every fight naked is less dignity) and tosses them up and down as he goes to check up on Bruce. He's sprawled in a hole in the floor, chunks of concrete piled around him. It had really been one hell of a robot.

He's okay, of course--he's always okay when he turns back, no matter what kind of a beating the Hulk takes. Tony crouches down by the side of the crater. Bruce's eyes are still closed, which is also fine; sometimes it takes a minute or two. "Fight's over!" he calls, and tosses the shorts at him. "Time to cover your shame!"

Then he sits down on the floor, because his legs are suddenly on their way out. His back's not feeling spectacular either, nothing big, he'll put some ice on it. He hadn't tried to engage the thing, of course, not with the bracelet armor malfunctioning, but there might have been a glancing blow or two on the way to the control room off the main factory floor. Tony's almost forgotten what it's like to be unarmored, just a bag of squishy guts waiting to be stepped on. And a brain, of course, an awesome brain that just saved the day. A godlike brain.

It usually doesn't take him this long to come down from the adrenaline rush. There's no high like mortal terror; this he's known.

Bruce still isn't moving, except the slow rise and fall of his chest under the bike shorts. Tony reaches out one foot and pokes him in the shoulder.

Bruce's hand wraps around his ankle fast as a reflex. Tony doesn't jump, but it's a close thing. It's a tight grip, and Bruce has big hands. That foot's not going anywhere.

"That wasn't a kick," Tony says. "I realize in your addled state you might have perceived a friendly nudge from a respected teammate as an attack, but since you're fully conscious now and completely de-Hulkified, you can release me on my own recognizance. Bruce? Bruce. Bruce." He hasn't opened his eyes yet. Tony's ankle really kind of hurts.

"Fair warning," he says, and here comes more adrenaline, he's never getting to sleep tonight, good thing Pepper's out of town and out of annoyance range. "If you go ragemonster again I wouldn't bet on those pants surviving the carnage. And you can't have mine. And you have to ride home on the subway, that's a new team rule." Okay, seriously, ow. Time to call back the reinforcements.

"Cap!" he yells, or starts to. Actually he only gets as far as opening his mouth and taking a breath before Bruce yanks him down into the hole. Tony falls hard on top of him, all his breath escaping in one chest-flattening whoof.

Bruce's eyes are open now. Tony can tell, because he's lying on top of Bruce and their faces are about six inches apart. His eyes aren't green, that's good. That is definitely a good sign. And he's let go of Tony's ankle, which is an even better sign. The bruising grip on Tony's arms: kind of a mixed message.

"Bruce," Tony announces, "I'm going to come right out and say this: I am super confused right now. And slightly turned on, although I'm sure that's just the adrenaline and the forced proximity to your attractive naked body. But mostly confused. Is this a Hulk thing? Can you go, like, half-Hulk now?"

"You," Bruce says. His hands tighten even more on Tony's biceps; there are definitely going to be finger prints in the morning. Not that Tony's ever had any orgasms along those lines before, no sir. Not since at least four days ago when Bruce, big and green at the time, had yanked him out of the way of a falling girder with all the gentle delicacy that the Hulk was famous for.

Tony maybe likes being pushed around sometimes. It's a perfectly valid erotic identity.

Bruce says again, "you," and then, "you weren't wearing your armor."

The bracelets jangle when he shakes his wrists, as much as he can while being held like this, anyway. "Modern technology, so unreliable, am I right? It all went downhill after vacuum tubes. Rogers will back me up on this."

"You weren't wearing your armor," Bruce repeats--he sounds more like himself now, but his grip isn't letting up. And his eyes may not be green, but they're bright and hard in a way Tony hasn't seen before. And he's still naked, that's a factor. That seems relevant.

'Slightly' turned on is so two minutes ago.

"Were you worried?" Tony says. "That's sweet. That is always so adorable when the big guy worries about me. And completely heartwarming, like those internet photos of like, a pit bull cuddling a kitten. Or a gorilla and a kitten. I rarely consider myself the kitten in any given metaphor, but it seems appropriate--"

Bruce growls--a human growl, not the deep floor-shaking rumble he makes in Hulk form. So it's not terrifying-hot, just…hot. Shutting-up-Tony-Stark-mid-sentence hot. Hard shiver down the spine hot, the kind that makes his whole body jerk like someone's pulled a string. Sudden undeniable erection hot, also. That might be a problem. He stays shut up and tries to hold still, waiting for a reaction.

"Worried," Bruce says, "worried, you stupid--stupid--you got hit, and I--" He's breathing faster. "Jesus christ you son of a bitch," all falling out of his mouth in a slurred rush, and Tony's impressed, honestly, because he's never heard Bruce swear outside of a stubbed-toe context, which everyone knows doesn't count.

He opens his mouth, maybe to say something along those lines, maybe something else, but either way he doesn't get a chance because Bruce is moving one big hand from Tony's bruised arm to his hair--not yet bruised, outlook not good (or rather, fantastic)--and pulling him down and kissing him, about as hard as anyone ever has.

For about fifteen seconds, Tony kisses back like a gentleman. This means plenty of tongue, and sucking on, then biting Bruce's lower lip until he starts growling again, and then more tongue until everything is just as wet and dirty as possible, but no grinding or actual dick-grabbing. Even though it's right there, fully hard and hot through the fabric where it's pressing against Tony's pants.

Fifteen seconds are up. Tony pulls back, with one last sharp nip that makes Bruce's hand tighten in his hair. "I'm going to need to grab your dick now," he informs Bruce. "Medical necessity, ask any doctor. I have a heart condition, you know."

It seems to break through the weird haze a little. Enough, anyway, for Bruce to flop his head back and start laughing. It's a good sound, only a little disturbingly hysterical.

"Can we not--" He catches his breath. "Can we not do this in a hole in a concrete floor? It's actually less comfortable than it looks."

"Your idea, big guy," Tony points out, but he shimmies up and out (ignoring the blaring announcement that shimmying is not what his back wants to be doing right now) and offers Bruce a hand up. And--yeah, wow, just…totally naked there. Tony's seen it, they've all seen it, modesty is the first casualty of Hulkitude and Bruce doesn't even seem to care anymore. But in those instances Bruce usually isn't staring at Tony like he wants to pin him right back down to the floor, and he usually isn't really extremely erect. It's the kind of erection the phrase "raging boner" was invented for, and not just because it's a great pun.

And hey, who'd have guessed--he's a grower.

Now that they're standing, though--no longer up in each other's personal space in the hole of no consequences--Bruce is getting scared again. Tony can see it in the way his shoulders start to hunch back over, the tiny half-step backwards he takes as his arms start to come up to wrap around him. The adrenaline's fading, letting all that bullshit back into his head, every excuse Tony's never given him a chance to make out loud. Because he can always see it in Bruce's eyes, whenever Tony starts thinking about making a move, in the way his back tenses, fists clench. Just because Tony hasn't said anything doesn't mean Bruce doesn't know. Their stupid pointless détente, and the hell with that. Bruce started it, this time. Any witness would agree.

"Just so you know," Tony says, dropping to his knees--well, to a crouch, then gently to his knees, because it's a fucking concrete floor and he's not eighteen anymore--"just so you know, you're putting this up my ass as soon as we get back to a real bed. I mean, I'll help, but I expect an honest effort."


He wraps a hand around Bruce's cock and jacks him a couple times, hard and fast. The reaction is what he wants: Bruce's protests dying on his lips, a rough groan taking their place, sounding like it's been ripped out of him. Are the others still fifty feet away? Does he care? "Not even a little," he says out loud, and braces his other hand on Bruce's hip.

"What?" Bruce manages, and Tony makes a dismissive gesture upwards--he babbles, certain bed partners have been known to find it endearing. And anyway, it's not going to be a problem for about the next one to five minutes, depending how hard Bruce is still riding that adrenaline rush. Tony's pretty sure it's been years for Bruce--actual years, multiple cycles of three hundred and sixty five days--so he's betting on the short end of that range. Not like it's going to be a disappointment, though. Tony's not feeling the slow tease vibe right now, not when every second with this gorgeous thing in his face makes his own dick throb harder. And it hadn't really needed the help to begin with.

He takes Bruce into his mouth and the sound Bruce makes--jesus. If anyone's still around they've lost all hope of hiding, and that's the least important fact in the entire world because Bruce is goddamn moaning his name in that low rough voice that sounds even better live than on the recordings.

(Not recordings of Bruce jerking off or anything. That would be wrong. Just recordings of him talking whenever he gets annoyed and frustrated, which Tony saves and plays while he jerks off, an entirely blameless pastime.)

"Tony," Bruce says, "Tony, god, god, god--" That big hand finds its way to his hair again, fuck yes. Tony hums his approval, gets a long wordless groan in return that seems to coil at the base of his spine, white hot. God, he wants it--he's never been a fan of gentle tender missionary with rose petals on the bed and soft jazz on the stereo. He likes his sex hard. But what he wants right now--maybe it's the adrenaline, maybe it's that it's Bruce, with his big hands and rage issues and that one Hulk fantasy Tony doesn't admit to himself that he had because, it was weird, okay--

He makes the sloppiest noise he can when he pulls off. Bruce's fingers tighten in his hair, and Tony has to close his eyes for a second against the full-body slap of shuddery want. Then he opens them again, and looks up, meeting Bruce's glazed eyes.

(Not green, which Tony knew, could've told him from the start. He'd studied Bruce's file, studied every recorded trigger, and the pattern had been so obvious he'd known Bruce had to have seen it too. Pain, terror, protective rage. Not feeling a little good for once in his life.)

"So the thing is," Tony says, and pauses to wipe his mouth. "The thing is--are you listening?"

"Am I--" Bruce stares down at him. "Is this even remotely on-topic, because if it's not, I'm leaving."

That's fair; Tony's been known to talk shop in bed. It's not his fault if some of his best ideas come to him when he's about thirty percent of the way to orgasm. Though the one time he'd lifted his head from between Pepper's thighs at a crucial moment to have JARVIS take a note, she'd boxed his ears. That had been a lesson learned.

"I promise that what I have to say relates directly to the subject at hand," Tony says. "May I continue?"

"Oh, for god's sake," Bruce says, which is easily translatable to 'yes.'

"The thing is--" Tony pauses for as long as he thinks he can get away with, to create a sense of gravitas. "I like it rough. Pretty much always, and especially right now. The hand in the hair is a great start, I just want to lay down some guidelines to make sure everyone's needs are met." Bruce is staring at him, eyes wild. Tony continues. "Hair-pulling is a definite yes. It's not a blowjob unless it leaves you a few follicles closer to baldness, that's my motto. Also, when you start to get into it, you can fuck my mouth. Should," he adds. "That's totally a should. I'm kind of a power bottom, blowjob-wise. This working for you?"

More staring, more crazy eyes. Finally, "Yes," Bruce manages. And then, sounding a little less shell-shocked, "don't be fucking with me about this, okay?"

"I never fuck about sex," Tony promises, and Bruce actually cracks a grin.

"Okay," he says, and closes his eyes for a second, opens them again. "Okay. So get your mouth open, Mister Power Bottom."

"Are we calling me that now? Is this going to be a team thing? Opening, opening," and he does, and Bruce pushes in--fucking him, yeah. One deep thrust, then another, sliding over his tongue so he can't even suck it, really, just--take it.

Hand in his hair, clenched around his skull--christ he's got such big hands--and that's it, Tony's lost control. He scrabbles his hands at Bruce's thighs, not pushing, just feeling how solid they are, how hard he'd have to push. The leverage isn't on his side, in this position. Not with Bruce holding on to his head, hair pulled so tight between his fingers that Tony's scalp is aching.

"Can I--you said--" Hell, he sounds almost careful still. Tony flaps one hand in the air in the hopefully universal gesture of permission fucking granted, and it must translate all right because there's Bruce's other hand, Tony's whole skull cupped tight now, absolutely no way out when Bruce pulls him down on his cock, down down all the way until his nose hits pubic bone and his throat is convulsing. And then Bruce starts to thrust again, shallow sharp little stabs that barely leave Tony's throat before shoving back in deep.

It's exactly right, and he starts shaking, can't help it. Can't breathe, not for long stretches between the quick snatches he can get through his nose. And his pulse is pounding so loud in his head he almost doesn't hear when Bruce starts to talk--"so hot," Bruce is saying, "god, Tony, god, you're so fucking perfect, the way you take it, just let me--just like you wanted, god--"

Dirty talk from Bruce Banner. Tony would applaud him if he could control his own nervous system right now. Maybe he'll clap later.

It's been about ninety seconds, his brain informs him. And to hell with five minutes, Tony wants to do this for hours. Possibly days. His jaw's starting to ache but not too bad, he's gone way longer before this. Not sure how long he can keep up the choking, but he kind of wants to find out. Although, yeah, it probably wouldn't help Bruce's big green self-loathing issues if Tony actually passed out on his cock, no matter how much that thought makes his own dick twitch.

"God, god, god," Bruce is still muttering, apparently having given up on anything more syllabic than that. Usually Tony can tell, with guys, when they're getting close but honestly? He couldn't count to three right now. Keeping track of Bruce's rhythm is a little beyond his current capabilities. Maybe it'll be a surprise. It's fun when it's a surprise.

So he gives up on thinking, which given that he's Tony fucking Stark isn't as easy as it sounds. Getting his face fucked brutally enough to make him see grey and lose all feeling in his extremities might actually be the only possible way, so lucky for him it's all worked out so nicely.

It's just floating for a while, then. Floating and choking and aching, shudder after shudder tearing through his body so hard he might be coming, can't even tell. It's only Bruce's voice that brings him back down--and of course Bruce warns him, Bruce is an absolute goddamn gentleman and Tony adores him, which is why he ignores him very pointedly until he stops saying he's going to come and actually does it, comes in Tony's mouth and down his throat. It seems to take forever, the heat and the gagging and Bruce's pubis grinding painfully against his nose as he jerks.

And then it's done. Tony's so wiped and sore he can't quite remember how to move; Bruce has to guide his head back, and he leaves a hand on Tony's face while Tony coughs for a minute. Not holding on, this hand, just touching him. Tony can smell the guilt already, the inevitable after-product of the other, much preferable jizz smell. A quick glance up to check, and yeah, Bruce has the face of a man who just stepped on a kitten. More precisely, a man who just stepped on a kitten and totally got off on it.

Tony wipes his sleeve across his mouth, collecting a truly disgusting quantity of drool and the above-mentioned semen. Then he lies down, slowly, because again: concrete floor, delicate head parts. And also, holy shit, his back is killing him. But he kind of needs to be horizontal for a minute. Bruce is welcome to join him.

"You're welcome to join me," he says, and waves a hand up in invitation. His voice is hoarse, probably will be for an hour or two, judging from the way his throat feels. An awesome hour or two. Maybe that'll freak Bruce out too. Maybe he doesn't want to see any sign of what he did, any telltale mark on Tony's body that means Bruce Banner had some fucking amazing sex and didn't care about being careful for a few goddamn minutes. Maybe Tony should roll up his sleeves and show off those gorgeous finger-shaped bruises, make him feel a little worse.

This isn't good. He doesn't do post-sex melancholy. Anything less than full-on nuclear post-coital glow is for quitters. "Seriously," he says, "get down here, I'm pretty sure I didn't--" He feels his crotch: nervous system definitely back online. "Yes, you do in fact owe me one. Don't be a cad, Bruce."

The sound Bruce makes is raw, a guttural little whine, and then, "Tony--" But he come down, kneeling by Tony's side.

"Okay, baby steps, that's good. Come on, don't freak out on me here." He lifts his hips up helpfully.

Bruce--smiles, okay, that's good, even if it's kind of a twitchy smile. "Jesus christ," he says, "you're such an asshole," and goes for the zipper.

"You've got a dirty mouth today," Tony says. "I approve. Oh, I was going to give you a slow clap. But maybe not right n--nnnn, fuck, come on, yeah--"

Bruce's hand is hot and dry on his dick. Tony's been on the edge long enough now that his shorts are damp with precome, but it's not exactly lube, and as fast as Bruce is jerking him it still hurts a little. Just enough, the perfect friction coefficient, just-- "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he groans, shoving his hips up for more.

"God," Bruce says, and his voice is almost choked, "is there anything you don't like?"

"I absolutely have a list," Tony says, breathless. "I will absolutely show it to you. It's short. No, don't fucking let go I will kill you--"

He breaks off and lets out a noise that can only, to hell with his dignity, be described as a 'yelp.' And then another, when Bruce fucking pinches him again, maybe not so hard but it's his goddamned dick so yeah, it fucking hurts and yeah his hips are off the floor begging for it. Another, jesus, yeah-- He wants to say it out loud, offer positive reinforcement for this astoundingly good behavior, but his voice doesn't seem to be working for anything besides that long low open-mouthed moan he's hearing. It sounds like it's coming from a long way away.

And then the moan stops, because--oh, hey, Bruce's mouth is on his. Hand wrapped around Tony's dick again, sliding fast and tight over the sore spots, while he tongue-fucks Tony's mouth. It's like a waterslide to orgasm, complete with the big splash at the end.

It doesn't take him quite as long to get himself back from a mind-blowing orgasm as it took from that spectacular round of face-fucking/breathplay, but there's a minute where all he can do is lie there and pant like a racehorse--and hey, mental note, he needs to get back to Pepper with a yes on the greyhound rescue sponsorship. It's not every day that free and adorable puppy-related PR drops into Stark Industries' lap. Maybe he should buy Pepper a rescue greyhound. Is that a terrible idea?

He opens his mouth to consult Bruce, because Pepper likes Bruce. But Bruce is already talking, his voice low and quiet and almost muffled against Tony's shoulder.

"--amazing," he's saying, "you're so, I can't--you--"

He stops and lifts his head, apparently sensing Tony's return to lucidity. Tony pats him on the shoulder.

"It's okay to have feelings," Tony says. "Feelings are manly. Free to Be You and Me would never lie to us."

Bruce's face twists up for a second and holy shit, if he starts crying--there's only so far Tony's willing to live his life by seventies hippie children's musicals, and sex partners getting the post-coital weepies is about ten miles over the line. Plus he's pretty sure Free to Be doesn't say thing one about aftercare.

But there's no crying, thank god. Just Bruce taking a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a second and then looking at Tony with that tiny curve of smile he gets in the lab sometimes. "You're crazy," he says. Like this is news.

"Crazy for your dick," Tony says. "And I have all kinds of crazy plans for it. Come home with me."

You're coming home with me, is what he'd meant to say. It got mixed up on the way out, somehow. Maybe he just wants to hear Bruce say yes.

"Come home with me," he repeats, and wraps an arm around Bruce, pulling him close enough that Tony can roll over on top of him. "I can show you the world," Tony tells him. "Shining, shimmering, splendid. It'll be great."

The furrow between Bruce's brow gets deeper. "No Disney in bed," he says. Which means yes. The grin spreading on Tony's face hurts his cracked lips, but who cares.

"Not even Beauty and the Beast? It won an Academy Award."

"Not for being sexy it didn't." He points a warning finger at Tony. "Please don't argue with that."

"I respect your limits," Tony says. "Come on, let's go ice my back and fuck. I think your sexy bike shorts are still intact over there."

In fact they are, tossed to one side of the Hulk-crater. Bruce has to crouch and scramble around a little to grab them. The view is superb.

They head out through the cavernous smashed-up warehouse. Everyone else is long gone, hopefully before they heard the wild animalistic jealousy-inducing sex begin. Otherwise there'll be a deeply awkward moment next team meeting. Though come on, who is he kidding, Tony lives for awkward moments, and this would pretty much be the king, at least in recent memory.

They're just stepping out into the street--hobbling out, in Tony's case, arm slung around Bruce's shoulder, because his back is reaching the point where ice sounds more exciting than sitting on Bruce's dick--when Bruce freezes.

"Hey," he says, his face falling. "Tony, I can't--what about Pepper?"

Tony shrugs. "Pepper's out of town this week, no biggie. And we've got separate bedrooms in the penthouse anyway. Apparently I talk in my sleep? And Pepper snores like an adorable little demon, you literally would not believe the decibel level coming out of her body. It's a scientific miracle. Also, did I mention, out of town?"

Bruce glares at him, guilt coming down like a curtain over his face. Tony hates the guilt curtain, and that's twice today already. "And that makes it okay to cheat on her?"

Oh. It's that conversation. "Pepper's out of town because she's in Japan," Tony says. "She's in Japan because she's visiting one of the SI execs there and her husband, who are two of her favorite fuckbuddies. Excuse me, her favorite sex friends. Pepper finds 'fuckbuddy' vulgar."

Bruce is clearly poleaxed, but he takes it well, all things considered. It's not an explanation Tony has to make too much, since most of the people he picks up don't give a shit. Pepper's apparently had to give a couple people the rundown who turned out to be more interested in the thrill of cuckolding Tony Stark (or in one case the thrill of stealing Tony Stark's girlfriend for the gays) than in the awesome sexy magic of a one night stand with Pepper Potts. "Like a threesome where I wasn't really there," she'd described it to him once. "It's not hot. I try to weed them out."

Truly, sexism is the enemy of sexiness. Maybe SI could sponsor a PSA spot with that tagline.

"So you have…" Bruce seems to be flipping through words in his head. "An open relationship?"

"Bingo," Tony says. "Gold star for Bruce Banner." It's a little more intricate than that, but this doesn't seem like the right moment to start introducing Bruce to the deliciously complex system of his and Pepper's weird poly thing. Complex systems always calm Tony down, of course. They're his drug of choice. But he's trying to be more of a team player, these days.

Bruce scrubs his free, non-Tony-supporting hand through his hair, and smiles helplessly. "Okay. Fine. Take me home with you, okay. While you can still stand up."

"That's a concern," Tony agrees. "The other guys stole our ride home, must have been in a hurry." There's a brief flash of worry at that, imagining injuries--but if anyone had been hurt really bad, Steve would've told him before they left. Steve definitely wouldn't have bothered to fetch him the emergency pants if somebody had been dying.

"So yeah, that's a problem," Tony continues. "How do you feel about the subway?"

"You're an idiot," Bruce says--fondly, Tony can always tell when people are insulting him fondly--and steals Tony's cellphone out of his back pocket. Which, hey, it's not even cracked. He'll throw in a little anecdote at the next pitch meeting for the finished model--this prototype got thrown into the wall by a giant robot and Tony Stark's ass, and it still works like new. Sign the contract, you won't regret it, drinks all around.

Bruce hangs up and slips the phone back where he got it. "Okay, a car should be here in five minutes. The subway, seriously?"

"New York has the greatest public transit system in the world," Tony informs him. "You're a New Yorker now, show some pride."

"Pretty sure it doesn't," Bruce says. And then, more quietly, "pretty sure I'm not."

"All Avengers are honorary New Yorkers," Tony says. "Even Thor. The mayor did a thing. Also, you live here now. You're coming home with me, right? No backsies?"

"I think you have a head injury," Bruce says, and shifts his arm on Tony's back to take a little more weight.

Which is totally a yes.