Ah, and here is everything they could need, all neatly wrapped. Thor does not necessarily object, but neither is he interested in complicated acts or implements: his lust here is simple, reflected back at him from Clint's eyes as the man looks up at him, seated upon the mattress. From the basket he picks out the little vial which looks to appropriately contain oil and tosses it to the mattress like a gauntlet between them, and then Thor begins, without the slightest flush of shame, to undress. 

There is purpose in every motion, his hands broad and sure as they undo the familiar Midgardian garments and strip them away, baring tawny skin and a broad frame which reflects all the impeccable, implacable strength within him. When he is naked he goes to the bed and takes a handful of Barton's hair, tugging back his head to kiss him, already half-hard and swelling still more; and then his mouth brushes at his jaw and his ear, his hands grip him and push him down to the bed, and Thor kneels and weighs him, surrounding him. 

He would stop, if it were asked. It's only that he is entirely certain it won't be.