Clint slams her against the wall, mouth crashing against hers in his haste to kiss her. Mind clouded by lust, Natasha groans and winds her fingers into the front of his shirt, dragging him closer and communicating a clear message that she's not about to let him back away.

The air carries the slightly stale hint that announces its heavy filtration and the sharp bite of antiseptic tingles in her nose when she inhales. She barely notices the perfectly monitored temperature, all awareness chased away by the heat that is steadily building inside her.

"Probably shouldn't do this while they're monitoring us so closely …" she whispers against his throat, fingers maintaining the death grip on the t-shirt that covers his chest. Her knuckles are white. Her heart is pounding just from the nearness of him.

"No," he agrees, hands cradling her face and placing featherlight kisses against her skin. Calloused fingertips drift lightly across her skin. His eyes are closed as if he is mapping her features by touch. The warmth of him seeps into her and brings something bone deep that could be described as comfort.

They have to be careful of the sensors attached to their bodies as they remove one another's clothing. His shirt is the first to go so that her fingertips can move lightly over the muscular planes of his chest but he takes his time removing hers, palms sliding up her sides and fingers fanning out across as much surface area as they can.

"The medics are going to throw a fit," he murmurs, lips ghosting over the skin behind her right ear. "They're doing to flip their shit about contamination and lecture us about getting too close to each other."

Involuntarily, Natasha shivers against him. He's right and she knows it but it doesn't divert her from her current course. There is so much indecision in life, so many things outside of her control that it feels good to be decisive. Even a small rebellion against doctor's orders is a choice made for herself. She needs that right now.

They've both been exposed to the virus and they have been isolated together in a top secret SHIELD medical facility since the mission that had put them in its path. It's been five days since they liberated the hostage who turned out to be infected and while neither of them have shown any sign of infection up to now, it's still too early to be sure.

She backs toward the edge of the desk behind her and perches on its edge, drawing him with her, wrapping herself around him loosely by allowing her legs to wrap around his. "If one of us has it then the other is already exposed," she reasons. "We've been sharing the same recycled air in here for almost a week, we're just sharing it a little more closely right now."

He gently pulls her shirt over her head, dropping it to the floor and Natasha feels her nipples hardening at the rush of cool air. He draws his hands up her torso, tracing meaningless patterns, fingers grazing over the patches that remain attached from the last round of tests. The doctors stopped removing them after three days because the constant round of removal and reattachment had been harder on their skin than leaving him there. Had they been more compliant patients she's sure that they would have left the wires attached and monitored all of their vitals around the clock but nobody has ever accused them of submitting quietly to medical attention.

She tilts her face up to his, smiles at him and is rewarded with a kiss - slow and steady at first but gradually deepening into something that makes her lose herself completely. She holds onto his arms, fingers gripping his biceps for no other reason than that she can. She loves the strength of Clint's arms, the firmness of the muscles beneath supple, golden skin, the way they bunch up when he uses his bow.

She lifts her hips to help him pull down her scrub pants and curses inwardly when he leaves her underwear in place. Clearly, he's in no rush now. Now that he knows she isn't about to deny him, Clint will take all the time he wants with her. He will make her come undone any way he pleases and she is without any inclination to stop him. He slides the fabric down her legs and sinks to his knees so that he can ease them down her calves before dropping the garment to the floor.

The warm contact of his palms sliding up her bare legs makes her head fall back on her neck but to her surprise he doesn't pause on his path up her body, brushing over the simple black cotton of her underwear and leaning in to let his lips brush the skin of her stomach. She braces herself by reaching one arm behind her, fingers splayed across the polished surface. Her other hand reaches for him, fingers sliding into the hair at the back of his head. Clint's audible exhale indicates that he likes the slight bite of her fingertips against his scalp.

He claims her mouth again when his face comes level with hers, one strong arm wrapping around her and the other braced against the edge of the desk. His kiss is different now, sure and strong, delivered with the sniper like precision that she expects from him. She smiles into him, body warming for him, fingers holding him close.

Deft fingers find their way into her underwear and she can't hold back the gasp that bubbles up and out of her as he strokes her. He lets out a soft groan of his own in answer and applies a little more pressure where she appreciates it most. In spite of his strength, he keeps his touch light enough to tease, holding back enough to make her whimper at the possibilities that await.

"Y'know we aren't supposed to do anything to elevate our heart rates …" he murmurs and applies a little more pressure, circling her in just the right way. "They were quite clear about that."

Natasha bites her lip just enough to keep the sound she wants to make inside. "Who says you're elevating my heart rate?"

The truth is in the tone of her voice and she knows he can hear it.

His chuckle is sinful and he lowers his head just enough to lick a stripe up her throat. Natasha's pulse jumps in response. "Your pulse is telling me everything I need to know Nat," he whispers. "I feel the way it picks up when I touch you …"

"That's very presumptuous of you," she replies, enjoying his ministrations.

Clint nibbles on the outer shell of her ear. "You're right," he agrees, "I'll need more evidence to prove my hypothesis."

Shifting her hips in time with his hand, Natasha hums in agreement, lets the hand at the back of his head guide him downwards until he moves below her collarbone and drifts lazily toward her breast. She tilts her head back and arches into him. "Naturally, we wouldn't want any ambiguity in the data set."

Head back, eyes closed, she drifts on the pleasure that he calls from her, his mouth and fingers doing something hypnotic that steals her reason. Nobody else has ever turned her on the way that he does. His lips walk wild on her skin, charting paths across her rib cage and across the curve of her waist as he moves lower. Fingers grasp the fabric of her underwear and slide it down her thighs, Natasha lifting her hips again to help him. Again, he follows the fabric downwards but this time he wraps an arm around her thigh and yanks her in closer to his face, pressing his mouth to where she knows he'll put it to good use.

He teases, light feathery touches of lips and the occasional flick of tongue. Hands grip her thighs tightly, holding her in place while he plays. Two fingers stroke down her slick folds, providing a delicious counterpoint to his mouth and he murmurs something she doesn't quite catch but judges by the tone to be complimentary.

She is barely able to think as he parts her legs further and sucks on her clit, his fingers easing inside her and working her open. She leans back on her elbows, head back, eyes closed and teeth worrying at her bottom lip. A gasp escapes her despite her efforts to stay quiet. He's good at his, always has been, goes after her pleasure with a single minded intensity that can make her come apart in minutes.

"Clint …" she gasps again and if there's an edge of desperation on her voice, a plea for something that she can't quite ask for. Hot breath skates across the skin of her inner thigh as he turns his face and kisses it. Her nails dig into his scalp, keeping him close and he licks and sucks and works her with his fingers as she falls into a rhythm with him. If he notices her desperation, he doesn't comment on it, simply does what he can to fulfil it.

Lifting her head, she looks down the length of her body to where his head is buried between her thighs and as if he feels her gaze on him, he chooses that exact moment to look up at her. His eyes are so hungry, darkened by his carnal knowledge of her. She splinters, the first wave breaking within her as the pleasure steals her breath. She pulls him up by his hair, rising to a more upright position to meet him, not caring about anything more than the desperate urge to have him inside her and he crawls his way up her body until their mouths crash into one another in a messy collision of lips and teeth.

She pulls her legs up high on either side of his hips, hooks her toes into his scrub bottoms and pushes them down his legs. Her hands roam over the muscles of his back and down to his ass as she pulls him in against her with a well placed leg at the back of his.

"Here?" he asks, hand coming up to wind into her hair.

She sucks lightly on a patch of skin at the junction of his neck and shoulder. "Here," she replies and lifts her chin to look up at him.

He's looking at her with an expression close to adoration but the heat in his eyes is magnetic. She wants to drown in him.

She loses the ability to think when he pulls her hips back to the edge of the desk and lifts one of her legs at the knee to bring it up and over his shoulder. "This okay?"

Natasha nods and lies back so that her spine is flush with the wood beneath her. He moves in close and they share a breath as he finds the right angle to ease himself inside her body.

Her bones feel like they're melting as strong hands ghost over the bare skin of her hip and stomach, sliding upward to knead her breasts gently. A sound claws its way up from the base of her throat, needy and desperate and entirely without form. Clint stills, the slight sheen of sweat on his brow as he halts the advance of his entry telling her plenty. His breath escapes in a slightly ragged exhale, eyes squeezing closed for a moment as if he is somewhere else entirely.

She makes a sound that might be his name, followed by an entreaty in Russian that she hasn't spoken in years and probably never meant on any occasion she had occasion to use it. She means it this time though, feels it this time. His thumbs brush her nipples and she arches involuntarily in an attempt to maintain the contact. Again, his name falls from her mouth, throaty, breathless, a plea for something more.

"I know," he whispers, clearly as deeply affected as she is. His eyes, stormy and tinged with green, meet hers and she is blown away by what she sees in them. Oh the need in his eyes.

Gazes locked, he shifts his hips back and then pushes back into her body. A simple, precise thrust that trips all kinds of switches inside of her and forces yet another desperate sound from her lips. He repeats the motion, another firm thrust and then he sets his pace, hard and deep, and Natasha has to grip his arm to stop herself from being pushed up the desk from the force of it all.

He turns his face slightly, rubbing against her calf and then angles his head to nibble the side of her ankle where it rests on his shoulder. Hungry for more contact, Natasha wraps her foot around the back of his head and urges him down towards her. He follows her silent instruction and bends over her, testing the limits of her many hours of yoga training in the way her hip bends to accommodate him. There's a slight discomfort and she leans up, propping herself on her elbows to meet him part way.

"Too much?" he asks, hips still pistoning against hers, creating a hard and hot friction that is going to drive her right over the edge of something wonderful if he keeps it up.

She shakes her head, "just let me …"

She alters the angle of her leg to alleviate some of the tension and then grabs him by the back of the neck to pull him into a fierce kiss that sends sparks shooting through her nervous system.

Clint, encouraged by the little whines that fall from her lips, smiles against her mouth and straightens up jerking her hips up off the desk and increasing his pace. He supports her weight with strong hands at her lower back. His thrusts are hard, punishingly so but she loves it. The concussive force of his movement driving her ever closer to implosion.

Still propped up on her elbows for leverage, she stares down the length of her body, gaze sweeping over the movement of her muscles until it focuses on where they are joined. His hips move against hers and she cries out at the sight that greets her, the glossy length of him pounding in and out of her, the shimmer of perspiration on the flexing muscles of his torso, the intensity of the expression on his face. A slight change in angle steals her breath away.

She shakes, limbs trembling as she teeters right on the brink of climax, hips moving feverishly in time with his. A firestorm tears through her and her blood sings in her veins, the song rising to a cacophony that becomes her only focus as the pleasure swells. Everything inside of her tightens, muscles pushed to a razor's edge of ecstasy and then the tension snaps, chemical chaos steals away breath, reason and all higher brain function. She whimpers, high pitched, and then clenches around him with a cry of his name, body arching upwards as her muscles spasm in his grip.

Clint agrees wordless, hair falling over his forehead, hips stuttering as he chases his orgasm, muscles straining as he tries to hold himself back for a few more precious seconds. His final thrust goes deeper than all the others, the angle creating perfect friction and they both milk the crashing wave of euphoria that breaks over them. Instinctively, their bodies curl toward one another and they end up so close that she doesn't know where her orgasm ends and his begins as they ride it out.

His hands slide up her back to support her, holding her close to him as he plants fevered kisses across the curve of her shoulder and up toward her throat as he comes inside her. In the comedown, he lets her leg fall into a more natural position and she slumps, boneless and satiated in his arms, breath gradually easing as her heart rate slows toward normal.

Clint lowers his head to rest against her chest and she strokes his hair back into place, enjoying the extra length that has grown in and the way that he closes his eyes in response to her touch.

He brings his face level with hers and kisses her, a bruising press of his lips to hers. "Might be the first for us," he grins, forming his words against her still flushed skin, "quarantine."

She chuckles. It is in fact a first. Hostage situations. Near death situations. Mid mission. Mid training session. All of these they can lay claim to, now they have expanded the list further. She turns her head and lets out a chuckle into the skin of his bicep as her eyes seek the clock on the far side of the room.

"Better clean up and get dressed," she groans, "next round of routine checks is in just over ten minutes."

They share one last kiss, chaste in comparison to those so recently shared and then Clint steps away to pull up his pants. Natasha slithers off the table and gathers up her clothing from the floor before scampering to the bathroom to clean up and dress. The eyes that look back at her in the mirror above the sink are fever bright and her skin is flushed. She splashes cool water on her face and takes a moment to catch her breath before stepping back out into the room.

He's taken care of the necessary straightening up and is reclined on his bunk, one leg bent at the knee and lying back against the pillows. His position is almost enough to make her temperature spike again. He casts her a knowing look.

"Don't!" she warns, mock serious. "Don't look at me like that when I need to get my temperature back down before they arrive."

He grins but turns his attention to a firearms manual lying on the bed beside him. As if Clint needs to read up on firearms! "I wouldn't worry," he quips. "If your temperature is a little raised they'll just leave us locked up in here all alone together for a while longer. Besides, I'm more than happy to take your tem…"

She cuts him off by flinging an apple at him, effectively shutting off his awful jokes. He catches it one handed, smirks and takes a bite while she flings herself down on her bunk and tries to hide her smile. There are worse things in life than to be quarantined with her partner. Perhaps a slightly elevated temperature wouldn't be so bad after all.