He lets himself indulge for a long time in the smooth motion, the rocking thrust of his cock into a body which clasps hot and slick around it; in the vulnerable nape of Barton's neck, his lips brushing, his teeth catching there, biting down gently; in Barton himself, bent to the mattress, yielding for him with quiet trust, his head tilted to better expose his throat to Thor's mouth. His hands wander and caress as they will, across Clint's waist and ribs, across his shoulders, his back, fingers brushing across beads of sweat, heated skin. Passion, desire are easy things, attained without effort by the slide and pres of his cock and the gentle motion between their bodies; this is not the time to thrust swiftly or hard, this is not the time for animal urges, animal lust. Satisfaction is to be attained at the end of patience.

He reaches his peak almost quietly, only one long, low groan as he sheathes himself fully within again and stills, spurting, spilling his pleasure. A long, long moment, release shivering through him, his face pressed to Clint's shoulderblade, and then Thor sighs and kisses him again and withdraws, turning over onto his back on the mattress, stretching full-length, unabashed in his tawny nakedness; there is a smile lingering faintly at his lips, and his eyes are closed.