He is sated, at least for the moment: Thor did not look beyond anything but the release of tension and pent-up lust, the sharing of pleasure, but it doesn't mean he is unwilling for anything more than that. When Clint rolls to him and pillows his head on his shoulder, Thor's arm goes around him to pull him roughly closer; body to body, he enjoys the sensation of shared heat, of sweat cooling on his skin and on Clint's, of the man's apparent desire for intimacy. His hand explores his back, the length of his spine, the soft ridging of scars found here and there, decorations in assorted places, their patterns unpredictable. Here what feels like a blade scar; here perhaps a burn wound. Thor's own skin does not scar, though he has taken more than his fair share of injury: it is flawless, golden, but he has the brutality of his frame to speak to a lifetime of war. They are kin in this, he and Barton.

Thor's fingers grip in his hair, pull him up into a kiss, thorough and a little rough, his tongue entering into the man's mouth; he tastes still of whiskey and desire. "You are satisfied?" he murmurs after, his fingers plaiting against his cheek. It does not need to end here. He could be ready again in very little time at all.