Clint's right hand is twitchy all the way through debriefing. The fighting had been pathetically straightforward and easy, way, way easier than intelligence had led them to understand it would be. He barely got two shots off from his perch high above the action before Tony had stolen all of Thor's thunder and just smashed the baddie of the week's armor to reveal the alien equivalent of two kids inside a trench coat.
"Aww, Who's a little fear demon? Come on. Who's a little fear demon?" Tony coos at the fuzzy, scowling creeps. He's got one in each metal hand, shaking them by the scruffs of their necks. Clint snorts.
"Don't taunt the fear demon," he orders through the com. He can practically hear Tasha rolling her eyes at them; Steve and Thor are consulting about whether or not the things are, in fact fear demons and shockingly missing the reference.
Tony gives the militant Ewoks another shake. "Why, can he hurt me?"
Clint ponders his descent route from the rooftop. Slow and steady would win the race but flying would be more fun. Decision made. "No, it's just tacky."
"They're not demons," Thor interjects. Much like Tasha's eyerolling, Clint's pretty sure he can hear Thor's brain working. "They're a race from a world close to Asgard. They are called Fuhrrbahls."
Tony's high-pitched cackle crackles through his headset as he flings himself off the side of the building and fires off the grappling arrow at the last second.
"You're twitchy," Tasha informs him in the hallway after being released from debriefing.
"You're a girl," Clint replies. "Since we're stating the obvious." His fingers drum against his thigh, making the lower buckle clink quietly.
"Do something about it." She punches him in the arm. She doesn't do it gently, either, but he stops twitching his fingers. "Something that isn't showing up in my room at two in the morning because you're too wired to sleep."
"New pilot on the helicarrier. I'm taking her for a test run." Her inflection is as blank as ever.
"Don't break this one or I'll tell Fury who keeps putting his female pilots in traction," Clint says. His fingers start up their rhythm again. Tasha smiles for just a second and Clint remembers, viscerally, the one time they fucked.
"I don't do anything to them that they don't ask nicely for."
"Play nice, Agent Romanov," Tony drawls. He shoulders past them, taking up more of the narrow hallway than someone that short actually should (Clint relishes the half-inch he has on Tony, the precious half-inch that keeps him from being the shortest dude in the room). "Barton, drinks? Strippers? Guy strippers?"
"Don't just go to the range," Tasha orders him, ignoring Tony with the patience of some obscure Russian hermit saint.
"Nah, I'm good, dude. I'm just gonna go hit the range." Clint winces when she hits him again; Tony shrugs and flits off in a cloud of ego and tinted glasses to do science or strippers.
"If you show up at my door, I will kill you," Tasha promises, staring at him unblinking for an uncomfortably long time. Clint stares back. He's used to her by now. She breaks the staring contest of doom by turning and hitting him in the face with her hair as she takes off down the hallway in search of another conquest.
The range isn't as deserted as he'd like when he gets there. There's one technician reloading the target bin, so it's not exactly grossly overpopulated, but the wide-eyed kid flees faster than a pedestrian in a Godzilla movie when Clint starts burying arrow after arrow into targets.
He empties the quiver.
He retrieves the arrows.
He refills the quiver.
He empties the quiver.
Pull, aim, release.
His hand is still twitchy when he sets down the bow for the third time. His foot's joined the party, tapping rapidly against the concrete floor while he works the arrows loose from where he's embedded them.
Two more rounds and then done, he decides, reserving the right to keep going if he's not satisfied with the results.
He empties the quiver.
He refills the quiver.
He's halfway through his sixth round when the door to the range hisses open, behind him and to the left; he's got an arrow notched and drawn and aiming for the interloper's shoulder before he registers Thor-not threat-stand down. The arrow slides back into the quiver and he rolls his shoulders, taps his fingers against the curve of the bow.
"You are disappointed by the battle today, I think," Thor says. He's apparently as disinterested in social niceties as Clint is now and Fury is normally. "With the Fuhrrbahls."
"That cannot possibly be what they're really called."
"Why would I lie about such a thing as the name of a race?" Thor's golden face is confused and he crosses his arms over his chest like a sulky kid. Mjölnir dangles from one giant wrist; it goes everywhere with him. Clint and Tony have been known to refer to it as his detachable penis; no one else seems to get the reference.
"Because- y'know what, don't worry about it." Clint taps the end of his bow against his shin. "So what about today?"
"The fighting was not what we were told to expect. My blood is still hot and these debriefings-" his voice drips with condescension, Clint's pretty sure the only person who hates debriefings more than Thor is Tony- "have done nothing to cool my fire."
"And?" Clint wants Thor to go away and let him keep shooting, but Thor's fingers are as twitchy on Mjölnir's handle as his are on the string of his bow so he's hesitant to piss him off. He's not Steve or Tony or Bruce, to take a hit from the hammer and walk away without his internal organs having an extreme makeover. He likes his liver functioning and where it is, thank you very much.
"In the past, when a battle was disappointing like this, I have found that more combat can rid one of the disappointment." Thor grins, the kind of charmingly blood-thirsty expression that he has in the middle of battle when he brains something with his fist. Clint's foot stops tapping.
"I can go let the Ewoks out of their cage," he offers.
"Those would prove no challenge. They are the problem in the first place, are they not?" Thor's smile widens and he fondles his hammer. "I suggest a proper fight, between men!"
Clint snorts. "You want me to get Bruce down from his lab for you or something?" He's no challenge for Thor and his boomstick, except maybe from a distance, and Fury tends to frown on shooting team members full of holes.
"Am I being too subtle?" Thor asks, without any apparent sense of irony. "Come, spar with me! It will do us both some good."
"Hand to hand, no weapons," Clint says, eyeballing Mjölnir as obviously as he can. "And if you kill me you give my stuff to Tasha."
"You are too modest, Clint Barton. I have seen you in battle, and sparring with Agent Romanov. You are a fearsome warrior for a human of your size!" Thor shrugs. "I shall leave Mjölnir aside if you set down your arrows."
Clint's ego stings briefly. Human of your size his ass. "Deal. Dojo's that way." He collapses the bow in one flick of the wrist and packs it in its case, tucked away safely for the next time aliens invade or someone calls him short. He is perfectly normal, it's not his fault that half his team are demi-gods or super soldier freaks of science or giant green rage monsters.
There are a half dozen S.H.I.E.L.D. agents loitering around the mat while two more wrestled lazily in front of them; Thor makes one threatening movement forward and growls out at the indistinguishable background agents and they all scurry away. One of them forgets his duffle bag. Clint kicks it out of the way and bounces on the balls of his feet.
“So how do you wanna do this, big boy?” he asks. Thor drops Mjölnir to the floor with a thud that vibrates through the floor, up Clint’s legs into his chest.
“No weapons, and try not to kill each other?” Thor suggests. He strips off his vambraces and tosses them aside. Clint slides off his wrist guard and kneels to take off his boots and socks. Thor follows suit. He elects to leave on the chest guard parts of his combat uniform, because he’s antsy, not suicidal. Barefoot and fidgety, he steps onto the mat and watches Thor strip off the rest of his armor.
Someone, towards whom Clint cannot decide if he should be grateful or resentful, has seen fit to give Thor an undershirt. The indecision comes from Clint’s resentment that Thor’s truly godlike body is hidden and his gratitude that at least he’s only going to be mildly distracted by said godlikeness. Thor has the kind of body that gay porn stars covet and cultivate, only better, because all that expanse of golden manliness is actually good for something in a fight.
It occurs to him that part of his antsy-ness post-fight might be related to a recent dry spell and too much solo action. He needs to stop watching porn and evaluating the dudes’ potential usefulness in combat situations and actually get laid.
“Are the terms acceptable to you, Barton?” Thor asks, rolling his shoulders and shaking Clint out of his vaguely horny fog.
“Yeah. No weapons, avoid death.” He bounces around, stretches, and gestures Thor onto the mat like he’s Morpheus to Thor’s Neo.
They circle each other warily for an impossibly long few seconds.
Clint’s hands are finally still at his sides.
His pulse is picking up and fidgeting under his skin.
His teeth are bared in what’s probably a shit-eating grin.
Thor’s muscles are visibly twitching under his skin.
His smile promises glorious violence.
Thor loses patience first.
He charges forward like a flawlessly handsome rhinoceros. Clint drops out of the way of his hammer-sized fist at the last humanly possible second and swipes out at Thor’s left knee.
Thor is basically twice his size. He’s also slow as shit and clearly used to fighting an opponent head on, with his hammer, and lightning, and flying. Clint has no intention of fighting him head on, letting him get anywhere near Mjolnir, turning into a lightning rod, or flying. He rolls out from the range of Thor’s bare stomping foot and back to standing.
Thor thumbs his nose and grins. Clint smirks back.
For a human your size, fuck off.
Thor makes the first move again. He learns quickly, when combat is involved at least, and doesn’t leave his knees wide open this time, but Clint dodges the bludgeoning fist swinging his way.
He gets Thor’s nose, instead, with the heel of his hand.
Thor gets his sternum with his elbow when he darts back and the floor gets his back when he hits the ground from the force of Thor’s elbow.
Clint somersaults back onto his feet and strikes forward. Feint left, right, blow to Thor’s knees. He dodges Thor’s fists and bounces to the side, out of reach again, until Thor charges him.
Blows exchanged, back and forth. Thor’s nose is leaking blood, red as any human’s. Clint’s ribs twinge. He’s glad for the extra layer of padding the vest gives him until it inhibits his mobility just enough that Thor’s fist glances off his torso and spins him around.
He’s definitely grinning like an idiot, now. Thor’s laughter is as infectious as crabs and he laughs despite the ache in his chest.
The sparring goes on. Blood is singing in his veins and trickling appealingly into Thor’s scruff.
The fight spills off the mat. Clint uses the wall as a springboard to get high enough to kick Thor across the face, bare foot connecting with the impossibly hard bone of his jaw. Thor’s fingers close around his leg on the follow through; Clint’s back makes friends with the floor again.
Thor joins him on the floor a few seconds later when Clint kicks his feet out from under him.
Grappling with someone Thor’s size usually doesn’t end well for someone Clint’s. He’s rolling over to get up as fast as he can and out of range again when Thor lurches over and drops his fucking considerable weight on Clint’s legs to pin him in place.
“Shit, you’re fucking heavy,” he swears, and pulls briefly to test Thor’s hold. Tenuous, below the knee, just weight without any real grip. He shoves back onto his knees in a move he’ll never, ever use on Natasha for as long as he values keeping his ass in working order; he slams his hips into Thor’s face and takes advantage of his momentary confusion to pull free. Freedom is as brief as Thor’s confusion, though, and he hits the mat face-first when Thor grabs the back of his vest and drags him backwards. One arm gets caught under his chest, pinned under the combination of his own weight and Thor’s. The other is held tight against the mat with his wrist caught up in Thor’s punishing grip.
“Concede this round, Clint Barton,” Thor grunts in his ear, and Clint would have to be a better liar than Loki to deny that his dick isn’t suddenly reminding him that it’s been several months since anyone but him attended to its needs. It’s been even longer since someone held him down and fucked him right. He pushes up against the dead weight of Thor’s body that’s pressing him into the floor from neck to knee and doesn’t budge him an inch. His skin stings under Thor’s fingers when he twists his hand experimentally. Yeah. He’s kind of turned on.
Kind of turned on the way Tony is kind of a jackass when he wants attention and Bruce is kind of a sarcastic dick when he forgets to be brooding over his inner jolly green giant.
On the other hand, he’s kind of insulted that Thor’s not even breathing heavily.
“Yeah, okay,” he mutters. “You win this one.”
He pushes himself to his feet once Thor’s off of him. Thor is still barely out of his space, just far enough that should temptation strike he could reach out and touch the cotton of his shirt. The temptation does strike; he resists.
Instead of groping Thor he strips off his vest. His standard-issue tank underneath is damp with sweat from being sandwiched between skin and Kevlar. It cools rapidly in the climate-controlled air of the dojo and sticks to his chest; it’s just going to be another handhold for Thor if he gets grabby again and so it joins the vest on the floor.
“Not bad,” Thor says, and holy shit but if the guy isn’t leering like Tony in a Radio Shack. Clint isn’t going to deny that he’s leering back. Thor’s grin widens when he strips off his own shirt and tosses it onto the pile of Clint’s uniform. “For a human.”
“Watch it, big guy, or I’m gonna think you’re flirting with me,” Clint drawls. He rises up onto his toes for a second, drops back down with an emphatic thud. “Let’s do this.”
Thor spreads his arms and smirks in the universal gesture of come at me, bro. He clearly thinks Clint isn’t going to make the first move.
Clint kicks him in the face.
He’s more careful to stay out of Thor’s reach this time, but now he’s the one on the offensive. He harries, feints, takes cheap shots. Thor blocks some and strikes back when he can, but Clint’s got him on the run for the time being.
At least he’s on the run until one fist strikes Clint across the face, glancing off his cheek and spinning him off balance for a split second.
“Now that is flirting.” Clint steps out of reach and prods the ache in his face experimentally. That’ll be sore for days. Good.
“You would make a good Asgardian, if this is your idea of flirting,” Thor says, rubbing his jaw where Clint’s foot struck him. He’s still grinning. “If you were not so short, of course.”
Clint is going to sign back up with Loki if Thor doesn’t stop calling him short.
Clint drops left.
Thor is off-balance when Clint flings himself onto his back. Legs around waist, arm around throat, other arm bracing. Thor gurgles like a choked bear in his grip. The skin of his back is slick under Clint’s chest. He can feel the thud of Thor’s pulse in his arm. Thor’s fingers dig at his forearm. His dick is rubbing against his pants, against the small of Thor’s fucking amazing back. He laughs, grinning into the back of Thor’s head.
“Not so short now, am I?” he says, spitting out hair. The back of Thor’s skull connects with his face.
He swears incoherently and holds on for dear life when Thor staggers backwards. Fingers make it into the hair’s breadth of space between arm and throat and he’s falling sideways, slipping around with his legs still around Thor’s hips.
Hitting the mat back first is getting old.
Hitting the mat back first with Thor between his legs and an arm across his throat, on the other hand, is worth repeating.
Clint bares his teeth. He can feel blood flowing from his nose, taste it on his own mouth. The mat is sticky against his skin. His hands are over his head, crossed at the wrists, pinned like a butterfly under impossibly strong fingers.
“Flirting,” he snaps, shoving up with his hips.
“Yes,” Thor says, and shoves down with his.
He’s really not as easy as Natasha says he is, but Clint has a few very large buttons that are very easily pressed. Thor is currently pressing all of them at the same time.
The arm across his throat is, disappointingly, withdrawn.
He hisses when Thor wipes blood off his mouth, from the deep ache of the bruise and sharper sting of split skin. The roll of his hips against Thor’s is base, lewd, and instinctive when fingers run through his hair and drag his head back.
He’s spread open, pulled tauter than his bowstring, exposed.
He’s also hard as fuck in no time flat.
Thor is apparently not one for small talk or foreplay, because he’s grinding his mouth against Clint’s in a gloriously vulgar counterpoint to what’s happening below the waist. His heels dig into the floor for leverage, pushing into Thor’s weight. Clint is intensely aware of the way his shoulders are straining.
Of how blood is still leaking out of his nose into the golden beard that scrapes against his skin.
Of how Thor’s cock is as hard as his, rutting into the curve of his hips.
Clint is out of breath by the time Thor stops the assault on his mouth, leaving him panting and bruised. Teeth close on the skin of his jaw in time with a sharp tug on his hair. He groans, the sound rolling up from his chest and out his bloodied mouth into the air.
“You truly enjoy the pain,” Thor growls against his bruised cheek. He sounds surprised.
“What gave you that idea?” Clint wheezes, pressing his extended shoulders into the floor and arching against Thor’s weight.
Thor pulls his hand away from Clint’s scalp to press one calloused finger to the split in Clint’s lip, apparently to test his theory. Clint doesn’t prove him wrong, groaning again the pressure and sucking the finger into his mouth. He tastes his own blood. Sweat. Dirt. He tastes petrichor.
The god of thunder is not exactly unaffected, Clint is gratified to see. His grip tightens around Clint’s wrists, making the bones ache. He’ll have bruises for days. Blue eyes are almost black. Blood is smeared in his beard, over his mouth. His finger pushes deeper into Clint’s mouth and is joined by another, then another.
Clint watches Thor watching him. The corners of his mouth are stretching. It’s like a preview of what it’ll feel like to get his mouth around Thor’s dick, if that ever happens. God, he hopes it does. When Thor finally drags his fingers out of his mouth, down over his lips, his chin, to wrap around his throat, Clint pushes up against the pressure.
“So are you gonna fuck me, or just pull my hair and wind me up?” He pushes up further, making Thor push him back down so his air is just ever so slightly cut off.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Clint Barton?” Thor squeezes his throat.
“Yes.” Clint hitches his legs up higher around Thor’s hips. “Well then get the fuck on with it.”
Thor lets go of his wrists, dragging rough fingers down his arms. The fingers around his throat are gone, too. His mouth is assaulted again, invaded and subdued. His hands remain over his head. Clint winces, whines into the kiss when a hand presses into the bruises on his ribs Thor inflicted earlier. Thor pushes harder. Clint bites his lip in retaliation.
“I am not the one who likes pain here,” Thor growls at him when he shakes himself free from Clint’s teeth, but he’s laughing. “Why have you not moved your hands?”
“Didn’t feel like it.” Clint kisses him. Thor prods the bruises again, making him groan. “Like getting held down.” He shrugs as best he can with his hands still up.
Thor shrugs back at him and reaches for his hands again, holding him in place. Clint knows, knows intimately, from having Loki in his head and being inside Loki’s head, that sex in Asgard isn’t nearly as tangled up in neuroses and judgment as it is on Earth. Clint getting off on being held down and hurt ranks pretty far below, say, fucking his brother on the scale of things that might make Thor think twice.
“This will make removing our trousers very difficult,” Thor says, squeezing his wrists.
“You’re a smart boy, figure it out.” Clint prods the clotted split in his lip with his tongue while Thor struggles with multitasking. Kissing him again would probably add way too much time to the whole process of getting naked, he decides. The god of thunder can only handle so many tasks at once, and holding Clint down, struggling with zippers and buckles, and working out whether or not he’s just been insulted are probably maxing out his abilities.
The biggest roadblock to Thor’s removing their pants is the inability on both of their parts to stop humping like teenagers, but eventually his uniform pants are open to reveal the one article of non-standard-issue clothing he wears. He’s not letting the scientists put anything next to his dick, he doesn’t care how smart they are. Their stuff sometimes blows up when it’s not supposed to and that is enough of a reason to wear his own goddamn underwear.
“Are you wearing Captain America undergarments?” Thor asks, as incredulous as when they explained decaf coffee to him.
“It’s a long story.” It’s really not. Tony forgot them one night. Clint hasn’t gotten around to giving them back. They were the first thing to hand in the morning. The more important issue is that his dick is straining at the front of them and he’d really like to get on with the fucking today, rather than discuss the disastrous failure to fuck several months ago that ended with Clint in possession of Tony’s underwear and Tony in possession of several new bruises that he didn’t enjoy nearly as much as they had both thought he would.
All thoughts of Tony go blasting out of his skull when Thor grinds the heel of his hand over his cock. He’d be embarrassed at the pleading, slutty noise he makes except it feels fucking awesome. He’s pretty sure he’d be satisfied with just rubbing off against Thor’s hand and stomach at this point.
Except then Thor’s hand is off his dick, which sucks, until he drags his head off the mat and sees that Thor is pushing his pants down. He makes involuntary grabby hands. His inner size queen is swooning like Coulson over Steve. He swallows thickly, licks his lips. The blood on his mouth is drying.
“Fuck,” he says eloquently.
“That is the plan,” Thor says as he bares it all and unknowingly answers two questions asked by so many of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents on the helicarrier.
1: Does Thor wear any underwear under those marvelously tight pants? No. No he does not.
2: Is Thor’s cough hammer cough as impressive as Thor’s hammer? Yes. Yes it fucking well is.
There is now one problem facing them, and that is that while he is into pain, and dicks, he is not into lasting damage. Fucking Thor will require slightly more preparation and intervention than he had planned for when he left his quarters in the morning.
Basically, he is not hopping on cock without substantial amounts of lube.
Thor distracts him from contemplating how to obtain the necessary supplies by lining up their hips again and starting up the teenager-humping, while at the same time smashing their mouths together in the kind of hungry, biting kiss that’d get Clint from zero to six Gs in 10 seconds. His free hand curves over Clint’s bruised ribs and squeezes; Clint makes a noise like he’s already got three fingers up his ass.
“You are eager, Clint Barton.” Thor doesn’t sound particularly unenthusiastic about the whole situation, breathing hot and heavy against Clint’s neck. And, shit, but there is no way he’s going to be able to disguise any of this, between his split lip and bruised face and is Thor giving him a hickey.
“Yeah, well, fuck,” Clint mutters. There’s the duffle bag. The agent left. S.H.I.E.L.D agents are supposed to be prepared for everything and they’re all perverts anyway, there’ll be something that will work. “I have to get. Ffffuck. Lemme up, two seconds. Need lube. Then we do this.”
He doesn’t want to pull his hands out of Thor’s loosened grip but he does; he doesn’t want to crawl out from under Thor’s weight but he does. Thank whoever the god of slutty bisexual archers is (he thinks it might be Cupid), they’re not far from the duffle bag. He has the bag open and is rapidly pawing through the contents when his pants are pulled down further.
“Holy shit.” Clint gets sidetracked from trying to steal slick by Thor’s tongue dragging over his asshole and fingers wrapping around his thigh. He resists the urge to start jerking off. He’s on a mission. Thor sinks very sharp teeth into the flesh of Clint’s ass and he has to take a few slow, calm, Banner-in-yoga breaths to keep from making very bad sodomy related decisions. He goes back to rifling through the bag; Thor’s teeth find another target.
That’s how Steve Rogers, Captain fucking America, finds them.
Clint looks up from his attempted petty theft and Thor stops biting his ass when two very loud thuds echo through the room. Two punching bags are bleeding sand all over the floor and Steve is scrubbing at his eyes like a manatee in an oil spill: mindlessly, desperately, and likely to cause blindness.
“THIS IS A PUBLIC PLACE!”
“WHOOPS?” Steve is the absolute incarnation of shocked prudery and virtue. Never mind that Tony has been making hilariously unsubtle passes at him for ages, or that Steve’s been responding in awkward, but equally unsubtle ways. No, apparently two dudes about to go at it is still outside his comfort zone.
“Has our nudity disturbed you, Steve Rogers?” Thor asks. He doesn’t seem particularly put off by the whole interruption, if the hand squeezing Clint’s ass none too gently is anything to go by.
“JUST GET A ROOM.” Steve wheezes. “GET A PRIVATE ROOM. BED. ROOM. JUST GO.”
The door slides demurely shut behind him (the helicarrier has apparently been engineered to prevent hissy fits and door-slamming) and Clint loses it, laughing like a crazy person into the bag of the unknown agent. Thor’s laugh rumbles up Clint’s spine. When Clint turns to look at him, finally with his giggles under control, he loses it again because Thor looks like he’s been practicing cannibalism or awkwardly-timed cunnilingus with the amount of blood staining his beard. No wonder Steve had a mild freak out.
“Have you found what you need yet?” Thor asks, when they’ve both finally stopped laughing.
Clint has not found what he needs. Half the bag’s contents are on the floor around his knees and there is no sign of anything remotely slippery. He is going to find this bastard agent and do something horrible to him. He’ll get ideas from Tasha. Teach this bastard to be prepared next time Clint needs something from him.
“What does this mean, then?”
“It means we’re going back to my room. Put your shirt on.” Clint shoves the bag away and swats at Thor’s hand on his thigh so he can find his own stuff. Getting across the ship so they can fuck is going to be hard enough with a raging hard on, without adding the challenge of everyone they pass getting distracted by Thor’s abs. “And wipe… wipe your face, maybe?”
Thor obliges him with no complaint, scrubbing vigorously at his face with the back of one hand and hitching up his pants with the other. Clint in the meantime manfully rezips his own pants without too much wanking, and goes in search of the pieces of his uniform. Shirt, vest, wrist and finger guards, socks take too much time, boots, untied, bow.
“Come, Clint Barton. Let us make haste, and then fuck!” Thor punctuates his statement by grabbing Clint’s wrist and twisting his arm up behind his back; Clint punctuates this by going a bit fizzy at the knees. He finds himself marched out of the sparring room, his bow case bouncing against one thigh and Thor’s fingers around his wrist.
The halls are, thankfully, mercifully, praise Cupid, mostly clear. A few straggling agents and techs pass them, looking confused and momentarily distressed by their appearances, but no one is stupid enough to say anything. The only real incident occurs when Thor loses patience with the distance between their start point and their destination and shoves him into an alcove. Clint ends up with pipes vibrating against his back and his legs hitched around Thor’s hips again, feet dangling somewhere in the vicinity of Thor’s knees as he’s properly kissed and groped. He clutches at broad shoulders, moans when fingers aim for his ass. Mjolnir thuds against the wall somewhere beneath him in a metallic counterpoint to his own, more organic noises.
“Almost there, c’mon,” Clint hisses, regretting his own sensible behavior when Thor ruts against him and he gets shoved hard into the wall again. It’s rare, so rare, that he finds someone who is both into holding him down and actually physically able to do it properly. If this thing, this Thor-fucking thing, happens more than just this time, he is going to take so much advantage of Thor’s strength.
“THAT IS NOT… NO. AUGH.” Steve’s scandalized maiden-aunt wails interrupt Clint’s attempts to rub himself off on Thor’s abs. “PUBLIC. HALLWAY.”
“Does the mating of men disturb you?” Thor sets Clint down; Clint sulks and gropes him.
Thor grunts and grins, shoves him back against the wall.
Clint bares his teeth.
“No, no. I. Just.” He blushes until he’s as red as Tony’s suit. “Some things are private.”
“Kissing isn’t private, dude,” Clint mutters.
“Perhaps we have upset the Captain of America enough this day,” Thor interjects, looping an arm around Clint’s neck and pulling him none-too-gently out of the alcove. “Go find someone to be private with, Steve Rogers, it will do you great good!"
Clint ignores Steve’s indignant sputtering, more interested in the way Thor is ever-so-slightly choking him. It’s probably accidental; his dick does not care.
The intervening minutes between leaving Steve gaping in the hallway and frantically punching in the code for his door are a blur of gropes and kisses tinged around with white from the slight lack of oxygen to his brain. It takes three attempts to get the numbers punched in in the correct order because Thor has taken to sucking on his neck and palming his dick through his pants simultaneously; his brain cannot focus on not coming and 10-digit-sequence at the same time.
The door has barely clicked shut behind them when Mjolnir and his bow case hit the floor in unison. There’s no fooling around now. Shirts vanish into opposite corners of the room; Clint’s boots thud off the wall one after the other when Thor picks him up. He quite literally bounces off the bed where Thor tosses him. He’s got his pants half down when his wrists get pinned against his own stomach.
Clint knows he’s got the kind of grin on his face that Natasha refers to as psychotically horny, but Thor’s teeth are bared in a not-dissimilar expression.
“Top drawer,” Clint says, pushing his hips up towards Thor.
“Don’t move.” Thor moves his hands, putting them over his head again so he’s spread out like he was in the gym. Clint squirms, flexes, and gets smacked in the face for it. He sinks his teeth into his own lip to hold back the lewd noise he makes at that; Thor reaches over him and goes digging through the drawer to find the necessary supplies. “Is this what you were looking for?”
Clint raises his head to check. Thor’s giant hand is dwarfing his bottle of lube. Success. He nods, not quite trusting himself to say anything that isn’t straight out of porn or an invitation to a prolapsed rectum.
The lube drops onto his stomach and makes him flinch; Thor’s now-free hands go to work on getting his pants all the way off and finally, fucking finally, Clint is buck-ass-naked, in bed, spread out like the slut he unabashedly is, with the fucking God of Thunder and apparently also of Really Impressive Cocks. Thor loses his trousers and yes. Fuck. Thor is his every wet dream come to life, except for the ones involving women, and even some of those could probably use a dose of Thor.
He shoves his hips up. Thor shoves them back down. Fingers push against his mouth and he sucks down the taste of sweat and rain. Thor drags spit-covered fingers out of his mouth, over the coagulated split in his lip and down his throat, his chest. He squirms when Thor pinches his nipple, blunt nails twisting at sensitive flesh. A sharp whine leaks out of his chest at the first proper pull on his dick since this all started.
And then fingers are working him open without any delicacy, just ruthless efficiency. Clint is glad of the steady hand holding his hips down, the implication, the threat of violence if he moves his hands from where Thor placed them, as two thick fingers shove in and out of his asshole. Clint’s breath comes in fits and starts. His hands clench in the sheets over his head. He bites his lip. Thor’s fingers disappear from his ass and he mangles a stream of profanity.
“Fucking fuck shit come on please,” he manages, straining against his own tenuous grip on the sheets and Thor’s steady hand on his waist.
“Patience, Clint Barton,” Thor says, grinning at him. “I want to hurt you, not injure you.”
And if that’s not the kind of statement that goes straight to Clint’s balls, he doesn’t know what the fuck is.
Clint doesn’t watch as Thor fiddles with the lube, only waits for the inevitable reintroduction of fingers into his asshole. He doesn’t have to wait long. Three fingers now, and he chokes on his attempts to breathe and groan at the same time. His thighs twitch with anticipation, with the strain of being held wide open. The fingers that spanned over his waist and the sharp bone of his hip slide down to circle around his thigh, digging into the flesh so deep that Thor has to be able to feel his pulse.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Thor asks. His fingers go still inside Clint’s hole; Clint swears and tries to shove his hips further onto said fingers. Yes, he’s fucking well enjoying himself. “You must tell me when you are ready.”
“I’m fucking ready,” he whines. He doesn’t care if he sounds like shitty porn, he wants to get fucked. “C’mon, fuck.”
Thor’s hand closes around his throat before Clint even registers that it’s gone from his leg. “Are you sure, Clint Barton?”
“If you don’t fuck me now I’ll come from just this and kick you out before you get off,” Clint hisses, pressing up into the heat of Thor’s hand. Thor squeezes, just once, not hard, and Clint melts back into the mattress. When Thor kisses him seconds later, he smiles, submits. The kiss turns filthy, all teeth and spit and blood, when Thor bites him and reopens the cut once more. Clint wasn’t joking; if Thor doesn’t start fucking him properly soon he’s going to come just from this and be more than satisfied.
In the confusion of kissing and choking Clint doesn’t immediately register the slow withdrawal of Thor’s fingers from his ass. It’s only when he’s empty and clenching around nothing that he whines and instinctively grabs at Thor, moving his hands down disobediently for the first time. His nails dig at Thor’s biceps, his shoulder, making desperate pleading noises against Thor’s mouth.
“Over,” Thor grunts, pushing him back down to the mattress. Clint doesn’t comply fast enough and Thor flips him, rough hands at the waist and throat rolling him onto his belly. Clint takes advantage of his new position to rub his cock, so neglected, against the bed, moaning into his faceful of pillow.
He’s pinned to the bed. Thor holds him down easily with one hand splayed across his shoulder and the back of his neck, pressing his cheek to the pillow, while his ass is pulled back, his legs shoved apart (like he ever bothered to even think about maybe closing them). He feels lube dripping down his inner thigh; it’s wiped up and fingered back into him. Thor grunts in time with the soft noise of a hand on a slick cock.
The heavy, heated bulk of the god of thunder settles over him, covering him from neck to knee. Clint makes an effort to say something coherent. His effort is immediately transformed into a wordless, greedy sound when the head of Thor’s dick is shoved inside him. He claws at the mattress, pushing back desperately despite the burn, the stretch of his asshole around Thor’s fucking enormous cock. There is no time for adjustment given. Thor slides inexorably forward, panting into Clint’s ear and pushing closer and further until there’s no room for anything between them but sweat.
Clint is pinned. Impaled. Impossibly spread open and full and barely managing to breathe from sensory overload. Thor’s hands are gentle at his hip and his shoulder, his mouth hot against his cheek. Clint swallows. His breath comes harshly, in gasps and pants; when Thor kisses him he responds out of instinct more than anything else.
“I’m inside you with my cock, Clint Barton,” Thor says, voice dark and rough with lust.
Clint nearly hurts himself laughing, unable to breathe and trapped between Thor’s weight and the mattress.
“I… I noticed,” Clint wheezes. “Just fucking… move.”
Thor’s answer to Clint laughing at him is to stop petting his neck gently and to grab a fistful of his hair. Clint snarls. Thor pulls his hips back and slams forward, shoving Clint hard into the mattress. The sound that bubbles out of his throat is barely human, but it’s apparently a goad to Thor because he’s riding Clint hard. No more witty banter; Clint is barely capable of spitting out one visceral, desperate noise after another. Thor alternates between snarling into his cheek and kissing him like he’s trying to steal all Clint’s air, all the while fucking him like his life depends on it.
It’s a good thing the living quarters are pretty much soundproofed.
Clint takes advantage of a pause in Thor’s hammering pace to reach for his dick, bouncing pathetically between his stomach and the mattress. He doesn’t have to put any effort into jerking off, just fucks his own hand with the force of Thor’s punishing thrusts.
“Is this what you wanted?” Thor demands, in time with a particularly rough shove forward. He pauses behind Clint, pulls his head backwards so his throat is exposed.
“Yessss, fuck, yes, god,” Clint babbles. He finds himself being manhandled into a new postion, twisted almost painfully at the waist, while the hand leaves his hair and drags both his hands away from his body. Thor is half over him, holding his wrists together, the other leaving red marks on the skin of his stomach that are painful to look at and amazing to have inflicted on him. The pace, when Thor starts moving again, is slower, less like he’s being pounded over an anvil like a nail, but just as fucking thorough.
He’s coming apart at the seams.
He almost misses Thor’s weight, the slick drag of skin against skin now that he’s not being pressed down with the full mass of Thor’s body against his own.
He’ll accept the trade-off of having Thor’s hand at his wrists squeezing so hard he thinks he can hear bone creaking.
His spine, though, will no longer accept that he isn’t 22 anymore and informs him that the pain versus permanent damage threshold is being approached rapidly.
“Hang on, stop,” he gasps out, once he’s got his verbal skills back under control. Thor stills immediately and releases his wrists.
“Is something wrong?” Thor asks. He looks concerned. Clint pushes himself up, worming out from under Thor’s body. The sudden absence of dick in his ass makes him whine, but it’ll be worth it.
“No. Just. Hang on.” Clint settles onto his back and pulls Thor over him again; it takes no persuasion whatsoever to get him lined up again and shoving back in. “Go for it.”
This time Thor doesn’t bother to control Clint’s hands, and he takes advantage of it to properly feel Thor up while he’s getting pounded. The sudden and unannounced introduction of Thor’s cock and his prostate make him gouge his fingers down the flawless expanse of Thor’s back; repeated contact sends him arching and moaning in a decent impression of a cat in heat. Thor shifts them, slightly, so Clint’s shoulders are taking most of his weight, and pulls his hips higher, hands around both of Clint’s thighs and holding him open like a book. No longer able to rub himself off on washboard abs, Clint grabs for his by now dripping hard on and jerks off furiously.
Thor’s orgasm takes Clint by surprise. Thor goes still over him, for long enough that Clint catches his breath, about to ask what he’s doing, when he’s practically bent in half. Thor pounds into him, makes him howl, and drowns out Clint’s noises with what can only be termed a roar. Thor comes buckets, a hurricane of semen in his ass and Clint is vaguely grossed out, except Thor is pulling out. He swears and grabs for Thor’s arm. He is not not going to get off. He’ll be squeamish about come later.
Three fingers slide deep into him, taking the place of his dick. Clint shoves back against Thor’s hand. Thor fingerfucks him roughly.
He’s surprised again when Thor pulls Clint’s hand away from his cock, only to dive face-first into fellatio. Clint grabs a handful of Thor’s hair without thinking about it. Never in his wildest wet dreams did he ever think he would be face-fucking the god of thunder. Thor is shockingly skilled at this. Clint finds himself squirming and pushing up into Thor’s mouth.
He’s almost as good as the guy with the tongue piercing in Budapest, which ranks high in Clint’s estimation of awesome blowjobs. The guy in Budapest didn’t fuck him as well, though, so Thor wins over all.
Clint gives Thor a little more warning than he got when he’s about to come, though not by much. He writhes, the only word for it, his hips twisting up and his hands clenching in Thor’s hair, in the sheets. Thor holds him down, swallows around his dick, twists his fingers deep in Clint’s ass.
“Fuck, I’m… fuck.” He comes with a shout and the sharp sound of fabric tearing under his grip. His vision goes white around the edges and his eyes clench shut, fly open again when Thor swallows.
He’s limp, sweaty and fucked out, still shivering through the last remnants of his orgasm when Thor kisses him, slow and sticky and smiling. Clint kisses back, one hand still clutching a fistful of Thor’s hair and the other dragging slowly across his shoulders, until he registers the taste of come.
“Oh god, gross,” he gasps. Thor looks at him, confusion wiping away his cheerful, sated grin.
“Do humans not enjoy the taste of semen? The Iron Man has implied that they do?”
Clint wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, using most of the last of his energy. There are tissues somewhere in the drawer, where the lube was; he’ll get them as soon as he can muster up the strength to roll over or the feeling of come drying on his skin gets too uncomfortable to stand. “Some do. I don’t.”
“I shall remember that. For next time,” Thor declares, kissing the bruised skin of Clint’s jaw instead. He slowly pulls his fingers out from Clint’s ass, wiping them on the sheets. He flops backwards so heavily the whole bed shakes, which leaves Clint half-falling off the mattress. He’s got to blackmail Tony into getting him a bigger bed. He vaguely wonders what Natasha used on him to get hers. He disregards that train of thought when Thor tugs him back onto the bed, half flopped over Thor’s chest. Thor is apparently a post-fuck cuddler; Clint is not going to complain. He settles in, with one massive arm looked around his waist and his legs tangled with Thor’s.
“Can next time wait, like, twenty minutes?” Clint groans and buries his face between Thor’s disgustingly perfect pecs, grinning into golden skin. Thor laughs and smacks his ass. “Ow. Maybe half an hour. Forty five minutes, max.”
It’s two a.m. when the door to his room slides open to let Natasha in.
Clint signals at her to be quiet, not that it’s really necessary. Thor is snoring fit to wake the dead and she could probably flip over his table without waking him up.
She points to the bed with a scandalized face. Clint shrugs and keeps fiddling with the calibrations on a new bow R&D left for him. He tries not to look smug; looking smug will just reopen the two new cuts in his lip and make his face hurt more.
You let him STAY? Natasha mouths at him. He indicates the bruises on his torso and face, and then points at the bed again.
Like I’d kick him out after this, he mimes back, punctuating it with a lewd wiggle of his eyebrows. Also he has a dick like a toddler’s arm.
Slut. She manages to look fond and disgusted at the same time. He blows her a kiss. If he doesn’t hurt you right, I’ll kill him.
I love you too, Tasha.