Right, undressed. He'll go ahead and drop the pants and shrug off the shirt -- hell of a lot of scars, but somehow he doesn't think the warrior god of thunder is really going to judge him for a life quite thoroughly lived.

"This is usually the part where I make some dumbass sarcastic remar--hnngh," he says, the words dissolving as Thor's lips travel along his skin. Smartass remarks -- to cover the fact that he doesn't really know what he's doing. To provoke his partner into being the more active one. To keep up his very important reputation of being kind of an asshole sometimes.

Is it just his imagination, or is his skin more sensitive? Maybe it's just that it feels right, like going on his back here is obeying an order he didn't even know he had. There's the same sense of satisfaction, and the same need to prove himself, perform adequately.

By the time Thor's on top of him, Clint's arrow, so to speak, is right up and at attention.

He likes the feel of Thor's weight on him, presses up against it just so that he can feel it in full, so he can know it isn't going away. "I tend to be pretty chatty and annoying," he tells Thor, which is partially a lie, but he wants to recover some form of a comfort zone here. "Until someone shuts me up."