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“You make me feel like I’m not good enough,” Clint mumbled, face down with his nose burrowed into Steve’s pillow. (It still smelled like maple syrup, which yeah, when you flipped your plate of drenched pancakes over onto something, that tended to happen. Steve’d washed the pillowcase at least ten times now, and it wasn’t like there was a lack of pillows in the Tower, so that’d been replaced twice already. And yet the maple-y goodness held fast. It had Clint craving breakfast at the same time it served to remind him why he’d been banned from eating breakfast in bed indefinitely.)
“What?” It never ceased to amaze Clint how Steve could go from blissed out of his mind in the wake of a healthy round of sexy times to over-the-top concerned Mother Hen in the span of a second. (It also never ceased to annoy Clint that the dude never hit that breathless tone that Clint’d always associated with the after effects of good sex. Stupid super soldier stamina.) Steve scooted back in close and reached out for Clint’s shoulder to roll him over. “Hey, no. Come on–”
Clint snorted at Steve’s distressed little pout; dude could give those dogs on the Sarah McLachlan commercial a run for their money. “Seriously, Steve. I just gave you all I got, a hundred and fifty fucking percent, got you off three damn times , and you’re already gearing up for round four, aren’t you, sugar britches?” Clint slid his leg along the mattress and up under Steve’s thigh to press against Steve’s growing semi. (Stupid super soldier cock.)
Steve dropped him back down into the pillow with an exasperated huff, but Clint caught the corners of his mouth twitching up just the same. “It’s you own fault anyhow,” Steve teased as he rolled on top of Clint and let his forehead dip down to rest between Clint’s shoulder blades.
“How the fuck’s your insatiable libido my fault?” Clint squawked.
“Well, it’s this vicious cycle you get me caught in, really.” Steve started steadily making his way down the curve of Clint’s back, pressing feather-light kisses along his spine as he went. “I see you lying there, all sated and exhausted…” His voice trailed off as he brought up a hand to cup Clint’s ass cheek, kneading at the muscles until Clint let out a moan. Clint’s (sadly, not super soldier and therefore fully spent) cock made a damned good try at snapping back to attention, it felt so nice. “And then, of course, I start thinking about how you got like that–-”
Clint cut Steve’s quiet confession off with a sharp gasp, but that was hardly on him seeing as Steve’d just plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into his hole. Loose as Clint was after riding Steve into the sunset, he was still sensitive as all get out.
“You are a dirty, dirty old man, Steve Rogers,” Clint panted out, his body torn between sinking down into the mattress to escape the over-stimulation and moving back to fuck himself on Steve’s fingers to chase the pleasure-pain.
“Only as dirty as you make me.” Steve’s voice almost sounded clinical, but Clint’d known him long enough to know that Steve’d just managed to distract himself with watching his fingers pumping in and out of Clint lazily.
It didn’t take long at all for Clint to start squirming, though, a whine rising from the back of his throat as the sensations tipped over the edge into Too Much. With a sloppy kiss to his shoulder, Steve finally backed off and rolled out of bed, his footsteps heading away in the direction of the bathroom.
Clint was already dozing, hanging in that hazy-sweet reality between not-quite-awake but not-yet-asleep, when the bed dipped again and Steve passed a warm wash cloth down his back, slicking the sweat away before he got to work cleaning Clint up.
Clint, content to drift in the land of warm fuzzies, let the world fall away as Steve whispered his secrets into Clint’s skin, same as ever once he was convinced Clint wouldn’t hear him: “You’re more than enough for me. You’re everything I need.”