“Ow, fuck,” Clint hisses, and then, “No no no don’t stop.”
Natasha's concession is to slow down. “‘Ow’ is not a good sex sound, Clint.”
“You already knew I had a broken leg,” Clint points out pragmatically. Natasha rolls her eyes and picks up pace again, rolling her hips and making him groan. He twists her nipple in retaliation, causing her to hiss.
“Also,” he pants, poking her in the ribs, “you’re bleeding on me now.”
She is too, the whole of her left side dark and shiny with blood.
“Not much,” she replies, circling her hips once more, making him see stars. “It’s just a flesh wound.”
Clint laughs, pressing his thumb against her clit and making her moan. The bed creaks. Clint would worry, apart from his lap is full of naked Russian spy and he left his ability to care in his other pants, which are probably also on the floor of this shithole safe house.
“Don’t quote Monty Python at me.”
Natasha snorts inelegantly and bends down to kiss him, fisting her hand in his hair to create a counterpoint pain to his broken leg before changing the tempo and beginning to ride him in earnest. He braces his unbroken leg against the mattress so he can thrust upwards. It hurts like hell but Clint literally does not care right now because Natasha is biting his lips and moaning into his mouth and there is literally nothing hotter
His hands are becoming slick with her blood as he grips her hips again. Natasha growls at the loss of pressure on her clit and begins rubbing herself, little breathy moans falling from her lips. It’s so fucking hot and Clint is so hard he’s sure he could cut glass, or some equally ridiculous clichéd metaphor.
Then Natasha's heel catches him on the shin and his whole world crumples in pain. And, because Clint is messed up, probably beyond salvation, he comes immediately, orgasm rushing through him as wires get crossed and his brain mistakes lancing pain for the height of bliss.
He feels Natasha tumble after him, her hands coming up to cradle his neck, trailing the scent of her cunt. Clint groans again and opens his eyes.
There’s blood on his stomach now as well as coating Natasha’s left leg in tacky dark reds while bloody handprints trail along her body, showing all the places Clint touched her tonight. There are bruises on her upper arms and she’s going to have a stunning black eye tomorrow.
Clint knows he looks no better.
“Gonna hafta burn the sheets,” he says.
“Probably going to have to burn our clothes,” Natasha counters.
“Strap my leg up first?” Clint asks. “Then wound dressing, then pyromania.”
“Shower,” Natasha says firmly. “I’ll help. Then leg, then wound dressing.”
Clint gives her an obvious once over before grinning, dangerous and wolfish.
“Not quite my favourite.”