A/N: Merpppppppppppppppppp. I don't really have an excuse for this other than I wrote this all at 4 am after working all day. Do you ever write something and then read it over when it's finished and think, "What the fuck did I just do?"? It's almost laughable. I hope some of you sympathize. Really though, I won't blame you if you feel like ripping your face off halfway through this, or if you're lucky enough, when you make it to the end. :-) But, thanks so much for reading! (The "thanks" is actually meant with true feelings of gratitude, btw)

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Marvel.

Natasha's ear perked up at the sound of Clint yelping, followed by what sounded like bones cracking.

She supposed she should be more concerned, considering the fact that Clint was her partner and her best friend, but she figured since they were currently in the Avengers Tower, how much trouble could Clint really be in?

Entering the Avengers' shared kitchen, Natasha noticed two things; first, that Thor was standing in the middle of the kitchen, squeezing and swinging what looked like a ragdoll; and second, that said ragdoll was actually Clint, who was still yelping like an injured puppy, feet dangling above the floor. Natasha resisted the urge to laugh until she cried, opting for a more calm approach.

"Hey, Thor," Natasha said after clearing her throat. "What are you up to?"

Thor whirled around at the sound of her voice, his cheeks flushed and a huge smile plastered across his face.

"Lady Natasha!" He boomed, dropping Clint to pick up a box off of the counter. "Clinton has just presented me with a most kind gift!"

Thor raised the box so that Natasha could read the label—ah, poptarts.

"Really, Big Guy, don't mention it," Clint said, coughing a little. He really hadn't been expecting such a reaction from the demi-god when he returned with the box of poptarts, but he was sure if Natasha hadn't intervened when she did, Clint would most certainly have died in Thor's well-meaning death grip; although, well, Clint was known to be a bit melodramatic.

"Well, thank you kindly, Eye of the Hawk. I must tell my Lady Jane of this fantastic turn of events, through my new cellulite device!" Thor exclaimed, turning and walking out of the room.

"It's 'cellular', buddy!" Clint yelled at Thor's retreating back.

Clint turned back to Natasha at the sound of her laughing, a light, musical sound that made his heart beat quicker and made his stomach clench.

"What are you laughing at, Tasha?" Clint demanded, managing to pout and look thoroughly affronted at the same time.

"Nothing," Natasha said, schooling her features back into a neutral expression, though her eyes were filled with mirth and her lips quirked up every so often.

"C'mon, Hot Sauce," she said as she grabbed his hand and tugged him in the direction of the elevators. "I promise it'll be worth your time."

Clint's heart fluttered at the sudden huskiness in Natasha's voice, laced with suggestion, and a shiver of anticipation ran up his spine.

Natasha pulled on Clint's wrist, leading them off of the elevator and onto her floor.

As they padded across the soft carpet towards her bedroom, Natasha walked backwards, unbuttoning Clint's shirt and letting it flutter to the ground, and then turned them around before the backs of her knees hit the bed.

Clint tumbled backwards, landing on a sore spot on his back—although, really his whole back was screaming in protest—and he groaned in pain as Natasha slipped off his socks and shoes and began to undo his pants.

"Baby," she muttered, although when their eyes met, hers were filled only with fondness.

"I've decided I only like it when you call me that during sex, Tash," Clint replied with a pout. "You're not the one who was nearly crushed by a huge, fucking Asgardian demi-god!"

Natasha smacked his chest lightly in response, laughing when Clint groaned again, but leaning forward to plant a kiss on the sore spot.

Straightening up, Natasha ran her hands over Clint's arms, ribs, and legs, quickly assessing whether or not he had any broken bones or other serious injuries. Satisfied when she found none, she slipped Clint out of his boxers, divested herself of her own clothing, and rolled him over onto his stomach.

Clint dragged himself into the middle of the king-sized bed, taking a deep breath with his nose buried in Natasha's comforter, as Natasha crawled over his own body. He was surrounded by her scent, a mix of cinnamon and something else, something sweet, something uniquely Natasha. It smelled like home.

Natasha lowered herself gently onto Clint's lower back, resting her hand onto his shoulders and beginning to knead the flesh beneath her fingertips.

Clint groaned in response, partly to the mixture of pain and pleasure as Natasha dug her fingers into his muscles, rubbing out the knots and the soreness, and partly to the warmth he felt from Natasha's cunt as she ground herself against his back. Clint could feel himself starting to get hard.

"Mmmmm, Tasha," Clint hummed, his senses going into overdrive as she leaned forward to plant kisses along the paths her hands were making as she moved them steadily down his back, making circular patterns with her thumbs.

Clint's eyes rolled back as he felt Natasha's breasts brush lightly against his back, and he grew achingly hard when she sighed against his skin, warmth rushing through him as she trailed lower.

Natasha lifted up onto all fours, backing further down Clint's body, and she let her hands continue to move down with her, kneading and pressing in all the right places. She could feel him beginning and tense up and knew he was getting hard, so she smacked him on the ass, telling him to relax.

"Let Tasha take care of you," she purred, before leaning down and licking the underside of Clint's balls and breathing hot air onto them as she kneaded the backs of his upper thighs.

"Fuck!" Clint shouted into the comforter, hands gripping the material roughly.

Feeling much more relaxed—well, in some areas more than others—and much less sore, Clint rolled over with Natasha still on top of him.

His cock bobbed slightly between them, and Clint felt, if it was even possible, even more of his blood rush from his head to his groin, at the sight of Natasha's face flush as she licked her lips, desire glazing her eyes.

"You're sure you're fine? No injuries?" Natasha asked worriedly with a small frown marring her features, although Clint—who would never tell her—thought worried looked cute on her.

Natasha hesitated for a moment, waiting for him to reply before taking him in her soft, warm hands and stroking up and down his length, running her thumb gently over his sensitive tip each time her hand came back up.

Clint groaned, trying to concentrate on her question, "No, nnngh, no injuries. Jesus, Tash, fuck! No, I'm fine, just my arms are a bit sore, but, mmm—like that, shit, yeah—I'm fine, Tasha."

Natasha grinned, satisfied by Clint's answer and shifted higher up on his body, sinking down onto his cock without warning.

Clint bucked up into her as her walls clenched around him and it was all he could do not to come.

"You're so fuckin' tight, Tasha," Clint said through clenched teeth, the feeling of her cunt pulsing around his dick, squeezing and milking, forcing him to list the different ways that Fury had ever threatened to kill him in order to get himself to calm the fuck down.

Natasha loved to make Clint lose control, be the one to make him come undone, and so she clenched her muscles and tightened around him even more, chuckling as Clint breathed out hard through his nose.

She grabbed his hands in hers and brought them to her breasts, knowing he loved the feel of her tits bouncing as she rode him, and began moving up and down his cock, grinding her clit into his pelvis every time their bodies met.

Natasha on top was one of Clint's favorite positions because he loved to watch her as she rode him. He loved the way her red curls bounced around her neck and shoulders and breasts. He loved the way her cheeks were always tinted the faintest rosy color. He loved the way her lips were swollen from biting her own lips so often, and how her beautiful, green eyes always gazed at him in a half-lidded haze. He loved how she purred, and sighed, and whined, and he loved that he could tell she was almost there when she began to chant his name in the most breathy, motherfucking-sexy, moans.

He also loved her, but that would be saved for another time.

Clint bent his knees, pressing his heels into the bed so that Natasha's back was supported by his thighs. The shift in position allowed him to go deeper and harder and he was hitting Natasha in that perfect spot.

Natasha's walls pulsed around his cock as she was pushed over the edge, her hands tightening around his on her breasts and her head thrown back as she keened, moaning his name over, and over, and over again.

Clint. Clint. Clint. Clint. Fuck yes, Clint.

As Clint felt himself reach his climax, just on the edge of the precipice, his eyes screwing shut as he felt Natasha spasm around him, Natasha let go of his hands and leaned forward to grasp his upper arms.

There was a flash of pain and then Clint's world went black.

"Clint. Clint, you asshole."

Clint's eyes squinted at the sudden brightness when he opened his eyes, head moving slowly from side to side until his eyes finally adjusted and settled on Natasha, her expression a mixture of concern and exasperation.

"Well, that was the worst orgasm I've ever had," he said, attempting to make a joke. "Or, maybe the best. I don't think I've ever blacked out before. Why is it so bright, by the way?"

Natasha's eyes narrowed imperceptibly, before her lips lifted into a smirk.

"You blacked out, but you didn't orgasm, bird brain," she replied, laughing. "Also, you're a liar; your arm was fractured and I broke it while I was orgasming. You're in Bruce's lab."

Clint groaned in frustration and squeezed his eyes shut, before looking to either side of the stretcher he was lying on, seeing no one, and grabbing Natasha by the waist and grinning.

"Then why don't we continue where we left off," he suggested with a ridiculous wiggle of his eyebrows.

Natasha laughed and slipped out of his grasp, pointedly nodding her chin above his head. Clint arched his back and neck so that he could see behind him, upside down. Standing just a few feet away were a blushing Steve, an abashed looking Bruce, and a leering Tony.

"Shit," Clint sighed, his body slumping back onto the stretcher.

"This is great!" Tony exclaimed, his leer turning into a smirk. "Imagine if the media found out about this; the title would read: Black Widow renders Hawkeye unconscious during copulation."

Clint grabbed the nearest item, which happened to be a roll of medical tape, and threw it behind him, hitting Tony right in the middle of his forehead.

Natasha's smile for Clint was turned on Tony, but for him, it showed a lot of teeth and held a lot of malice, so Tony decided it would be in his best interest if he kept silent for the time being.

Resting a gentle hand on Clint's arm, Natasha leaned forward to whisper in his ear, before she straightened and turned to leave, her hips swaying provocatively as she sauntered out of the room.

Clint refused to tell the other Avengers what it was, exactly, that Natasha told him; however, he all but ran back to his room when Bruce was done fixing his arm, almost bowling Pepper over in his haste.

You made it to the end! Congratulations! Please don't sue me if this caused your brain to melt due to sheer inanity.