The water was scalding hot and washed away the last thoughts of the clusterfuck that had been his day. He wasn't sure when things started to go off the rails. Between mom & dad snarking at each other (Steve needed to tell Tony to just shut the fuck up, and he hoped to be there when he did), the bastard Loki gnawing on his last nerve, and the total lack of plans within acceptable limits of loss, he might as well have fast-forwarded through the whole day. They were no closer to where they needed to be now than they were when he left the party last night;, instead, his temper was frayed and frustration all-too-near the surface.
Like everything else here, Asgardian showers were huge, probably for washing orgies or something like that, but the echoing size made Clint feel even more alienated. Just give him his damn bow and let him shoot something, for God's sake. Preferably one dark-haired twisted son of a bitch who would make harassment lawyers a million dollars if they could sue his ass. Steam or not, Clint was stewing in his funk, and the root was the maddening lack of information to work with; no matter how much mockery he endured, Loki was giving up very little, if there was anything to divulge at all. And wouldn't that be a fucking waste of his time if Loki wasn't involved.
He realized Bruce was there but didn't react, keeping his hands on the warmed tile of the wall, letting the water pour over his neck and shoulders. After a few breaths, he looked; Bruce stood in the doorway, waiting for some sign of Clint's mood. Their last words had been sharp ones; with Clint's nerves frazzled and ready to combust, Tony had mouthed off, as usual, and Bruce had tried to mediate. Clint knew afterwards he'd said the wrong thing, snapped at the wrong man. But he'd gone to sulk, and even that was interrupted by yet another useless verbal sparring match with Loki. He should say something now, but he couldn't bring himself to muster up enough energy to step out of the shower, much less engage in a discussion of feelings and apologies.
Instead, he simply pushed the ornate glass door open, an invitation without words, before he turned back into the liquid heat. His mind was on rewind, playing back the conversations, what he should have said, might have done, when he felt Bruce step in, hands moving up his back to settle on his shoulders and begin kneading the knots there. Without a word, Bruce dropped a light kiss to Clint's neck, keeping his touch gentle, and Clint sighed as he finally began to relax; Bruce traced up Clint's arms to cover their hands on the wall, interlacing fingers together as Bruce molded his body to Clint's. They stayed that way, back to front, Bruce's breath on Clint's cheek, until the water finally began to cool; Bruce dropped his hand and turned it off before it could get cold. When Bruce's warmth left, Clint made a small sound of complaint, and Bruce tugged him along, exiting the shower to find towels. The friction of the soft material against his drying skin helped calm his mind, and then became downright erotic as Bruce covered Clint's body with slow strokes, even tousling his hair and using a corner to carefully trace his face, catching the drops that escaped. Wrapping the towel around Clint's hips, Bruce tied it off before he dried himself, taking his time so Clint could follow the progress with his eyes, and, damn if Bruce didn't make sure to bend just the right ways to make Clint's mouth go dry and his cock start to swell.
Tossing the towel, Bruce backed Clint up against the counter; Clint waited for the kiss, but Bruce's lips dipped instead to taste behind his ear, licking the spot as his breath tickled Clint's skin. Circling downward, he repeated the motion, taking his time; each brush of lips was like a tiny jolt, small by themselves, but kindling for a slow burn in Clint's gut. Even when Bruce switched sides, Clint simply let his eyes drift shut and savored the feeling. He wanted to reach for Bruce, kiss him, but he didn't; he understood the need to take things slow, to line up the shot and eye the target. Just as Clint was sure he couldn't stand anymore of the delicious torment, Bruce stepped back and Clint's eyes opened, questioning. Bruce nodded with his head towards the door and moved away; Clint followed, intrigued and interested in finding out what Bruce had planned.
"Lay down," Bruce suggested, "we'll work out those kinks." Bruce's smile was seductive and promised more than just a massage, not that Clint would turn down some body work, but he certainly was primed and ready for other things. Dropping the towel around his waist, he lay down on his stomach on the clean one Bruce had spread on the bed; he laughed when Bruce picked up the wet cloth and took the time to hang it up. Relaxed and aroused at the same time, Clint could smell sandalwood as Bruce opened the lotion, rubbing it on his hands before he climbed up to straddle Clint with his knees. With a sigh, Clint shifted a little, enough to know that Bruce was hard too, his shaft sliding over Clint's skin; Clint liked it so much he shifted again, more obvious this time, and Bruce laid his hands lightly on Clint's shoulders. "We've got plenty of time," he told Clint. "No need to rush it."
His chuckle turned to a groan as Bruce found a knot and pressed his thumb where muscles met on Clint's shoulder; he followed down Clint's shoulder blade, working along and underneath, the places an archer would ache after a long battle, running his thumbs down the line of the spine to where the back curved. Clint hissed as he felt the muscles respond, unknotting and loosening after a moment. Tension drained out of his body, pulled by Bruce's hands as they slicked and slid over Clint's back, his shoulders, his arms; Clint found himself drifting away from consciousness, drumming his toes lightly on the bed. As the day's stress melted away, excitement replaced it, his hard cock starting to jump a little with each long stroke of Bruce's fingers, caught between the towel and his stomach. It was like moving further into the deep end of a pool and feeling the buoyancy of the water lift him, easily floating on top. At some point, Bruce's touch changed, from massage to sensual circles at the nape of Clint's neck buried in his hair, leaving a trail of heat as Bruce brushed his lips over the spot, then moved on to the next. Square by square, Bruce traveled over Clint's skin and Clint ached, needy now, but languid.
"Do you like it slow?" Bruce asked, leaning forward onto his hands.
"Slow's good," Clint answered as he wiggled his body under Bruce's. "But you could hurry up."
Bruce laughed then, teasing Clint with fingers trailing over his ass and down between the cheeks to lightly trace around the tight muscle there. "Hurry up and go slow? I can do that." Clint jumped a little as the cold gel touched his back, and Bruce ran his hand through it, drawing scientific symbols on Clint's skin. With ease, he pressed one finger in gradually, up to the knuckle, twisting as Clint groaned. All in, then lazily back out, making circles as he set a languid rhythm that Clint found maddening. Arching back, Clint's body lobbied for faster, but Bruce kept the same pace, occasionally holding his finger still while he kissed a random spot of skin. It was driving Clint crazy, building to a climax at a steady measure, and yet Bruce's touch was so soothing; the two seemingly opposite impulses somehow worked together to take him even higher.
"You like it fast and hard, Clint?" Bruce took his time inserting the second finger, and he set the same deliberate measure, this time stopping to make patterns with his tongue on Clint's neck, shoulders, and arms. Writhing to relieve the throbbing of his cock, Clint moaned at Bruce's words. "Sometimes, delayed gratification is more intense."
"God, I'm going to …" Clint bucked back, rising up on his knees, feeling his climax coming; Bruce clamped a hand around the shaft of Clint's cock, holding him back. Burrowing his head into the bed, Clint bit his lip hard as Bruce positioned himself and gradually pressed in, inching forward until his cock was completely seated inside of Clint's tightness.
"Delayed means you have to wait," Bruce murmured. He slipped slowly back out and Clint objected with a curse. With a groan of his own, Bruce sank in again and then again and again, pushing Clint to the edge, but not letting him fall over; just when Clint thought he'd explode, Bruce would pause and touch him with his mouth, his fingers, his tongue. The need for release was like a wave that was pulling every sensation into his gut and readying them to break over him; Clint drew in a sharp breath as Bruce's hand holding him released and stroked his engorged cock. With violence he'd never experienced before, Clint came, the wave cresting, and he almost blacked out from the rush of it, heady and erotic. He could feel every last slow thrust as Bruce finally allowed himself to finish while aftershocks trembled through Clint's body for a long time.
"And I don't think I'm moving for quite a while," Bruce said as he collapsed onto his back on the bed beside Clint. "Just going to stay right here. Until I catch my breath."
"Intense, my ass," Clint muttered, occasionally still shuddering. "I'm taking a day off tomorrow to recover."
"Sounds like a plan," Bruce concurred. "You tell Steve I fucked you senseless, and you need some time off." They both laughed at the thought of that conversation.
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Clint felt the bed shift as Bruce slid under the covers to curl up against his back and he half-opened his eyes. Bruce liked to spoon; that was one of the first things Clint had discovered about the doc. He also liked to touch; Clint would wake up with hands in the most unusual of spots. Now, sated and relaxed, he rolled onto his back, his favorite position because he could watch Bruce's face during the night.
"So we're officially dating now, I hear?" Bruce propped his head up on a hand and dropped the other arm across Clint's chest.
"Tony filled you in on the conversation, I take it?" Clint's eyes were little more than slits as he fought the urge to slip into sleep.
"The other guy has really good hearing. And Thor's voice does carry." Bruce managed a mellow smile. "Although fuck buddies does have a nice ring to it."
"I didn't think you remembered much from the Big Guy."
"Sometimes. Especially if he's not destroying things." Bruce thought about it. "When I don't fight the change as much, I can remember little things. Thor was balancing on a table at one point?"
"Lots of people were on those tables, not just Thor."
"And Loki touching you," Bruce mirrored Loki's touch on Clint's shoulder. "Then just rage and the strong need to smash his head like a melon. I cannot understand what he wants in all this; what he's getting out of it if he is involved."
"It's personal for him, this strange Cain and Abel thing he's got going with Thor."
"And an obsession for the ones that got away?" Bruce asked. Clint started to protest, but stopped as his memory replayed Loki's jabs and feints.
"Damn it, you're right. He's frustrated and humiliated by the loss." With a pause, he let the thought sink in. "Maybe we've been asking the wrong question. We know why Loki would be working with someone; get back to Earth, get back at Daddy and big brother, take away my toys. But why would these guys be working with Loki. What do they get out of it?" His voice trailed off as he let the idea sink into his subconscious.
"Don't worry about it," Bruce mumbled, half-asleep, laying his head on Clint's shoulder. "He couldn't win then, and they won't win now." His hand tightened on Clint's waist. "I smashed him once, I'll do it again."
And, with a savage little joy at Bruce's declaration, Clint faded into sleep.