Chapter title from Songbird by Fleetwood Mac.

Clint's never had sex with another man before. A fair number of women, sure, and he's kissed a couple of men, but never sex. So far though, he doesn't think it's going too badly. He's always been open minded, after all. Phil doesn't seem to mind that he apparently dribbles when he gives blowjobs, if the noises he's making are any indication. Clint loves watching him, not missing a single expression that passes across his face. He loves touching him, really gentle feather-light brushes across his pulse points just to reassure himself that Phil's alive, that he's real and solid and there under Clint's hands. He stretches his jaw a little wider and tries to take a little more in, and Phil groans. The sound makes Clint close his eyes for a second just to soak it up, and missing any potential expressions by doing that is made worth it by Phil gasping his name a second later.

"Clint," he breathes, eyes barely open, fist clenched hard in the mattress to stop himself bucking into Clint's mouth and choking him (his gag reflex needs work, but he's more than willing to practise), "I'm…I'm…"

Clint pulls back a couple of inches to hum encouragingly, and Phil clenches his teeth and whines. Clint goes deep, and he's ready when Phil's cock pulses and he has to swallow several times, moving him through it. Phil's hand in the mattress relaxes slowly, and Clint pulls off gently. There's saliva everywhere, and he's about to apologise when Phil touches a hand to his hair and tugs to get him back up to face-level with him.

"Shh," he says when Clint opens his mouth, and pulls him down to kiss him instead. Clint's surprised – he'd been expecting to have to wash his mouth out first – but he goes with it perfectly happily. When they break apart, both grinning, Phil lifts a corner of the pushed-aside sheet to wipe Clint's mouth. "Better," he sighs, and kisses him again.

Phil's a very tactile person in private. Clint never would have guessed it, but he loves discovering these new things about his old handler, now new boyfriend. Clint presses himself down on top of Phil properly, trying to get some friction against his sorely-neglected erection, and Phil smiles against his mouth, reaching down to touch a finger to the tip. Clint groans when he pulls away. "Come on, man, you can't leave me like this."

"That would be cruel," Phil agrees, and rolls them so that he's on top. He's appropriately bossy in bed too, which delights Clint far more than it reasonably should. "Feel like trying this again?" he asks, trailing a hand up the inside of Clint's thigh.

Clint nods without really thinking about it, then says, "Yeah," when Phil raises his eyebrows, "yeah, let's do it."

"You sure?"

"Oh my god, yes!" Clint pushes up against him and hisses in frustration. "Just –"

"Okay," Phil grins and grinds down against him, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Clint's neck as he tips his head back happily. "Absolutely sure?" he says, but it's more teasing now.

"Phil, I swear, if you don't do more than this, I'm going to lose it."

"I thought that was the point?"

Smart ass, Clint thinks, but can't vocalise it because Phil's kissing him again. Kissing is one of Phil's favourite things. Clint will never, ever complain about it, even when Phil does it just to shut him up. When Phil does lean over to the bedside table though, Clint does have to push down a stab of worry. They're working up to full-on anal with him on the receiving end. Phil's done it before, and he's guided Clint through fucking him. The sight of Phil literally coming apart underneath him is something Clint's burned into his memory so strongly he doubts even Loki could make him forget it.

Relaxing is the thing Clint has difficulty with. He's never been with anyone who wanted to do this to him, so it's new and ever so slightly scary. The last time they tried it, Phil decided they weren't quite ready. He only got one finger in that time. Clint's ready now though, he's sure of it. He wants to be. He wants this, more than he would've expected to at the beginning. Phil looked so great when Clint did it to him, and he wants that pleasure as well. He wants it with Phil, more to the point.

Phil comes back, bottle of lube at the ready. "You're sure?" he asks again, and Clint smiles breathlessly and grinds up against him.

"I swear to god, Phil, if you ask me one more time whether I'm sure –"

"No harm in checking," Phil kisses his ear, and the sudden heat makes Clint's hip jerk even as Phil spreads his legs gently. "Ready?" the cap of the lube bottle pops, and Clint nods, making a concentrated effort to relax.

"Ready."

They get up to two fingers, and it's not bad, it's not uncomfortable, but it's still a little strange. And then suddenly Phil crooks his fingers and Clint gasps, hands digging into the sheets. "Holy fucking fuck, what the fuck –"

Phil laughs and does it again, softer, and Clint keens. "I told you about the prostate, right?"

"Might've mentioned it, fucking hell," Clint arches off the bed and curls his toes, "oh my god, Phil, Phil," he loses sight of him and doesn't even mind, that's how far gone he is. He's never been so damn hard in his life. He can't even unclench his hands from where they're wound into the sheets to touch himself. "Phil," his hips jerk as Phil just keeps pressing that spot over and over, rhythmic and glorious, "Phil, please…oh my god, fuck, please, Phil!"

The hand Phil wraps around his dick is lube-slick, and Clint thrusts into it desperately. He doesn't last long, and he thinks Phil's whispering as he comes, telling him how amazing he looks, how much he's wanted to do this, how beautiful Clint is, but Clint honestly wouldn't be able to say for sure. There's silence when he's done, come on his chest and covering Phil's hand, and he can't do anything but lie there and breathe for a moment.

"You okay?" Phil asks, and Clint makes a garbled sound. Phil laughs and gets off. He returns a second later with a damp washcloth, and he cleans them both up before falling into bed next to Clint. "Hey," he whispers.

Clint stares at him and pulls him in for a long kiss. "I love you," he says when they break apart, and he doesn't have time to whack himself mentally on the head for being so open so early in this relationship, because Phil's eyes sparkle, and his grin tells Clint that his admission was anything but unwelcome. He pulls Clint close and touches butterfly kisses to his cheek, his eyebrow, the side of his nose. Clint finally twists his head so that their lips meet, and it's slow and sweet and so utterly perfect Clint feels like he could just melt with happiness.

"I love you," Phil whispers when they break apart, leaning his forehead against Clint's. "I love you."

"Well good," Clint touches the tips of his fingers to the permanent grooves in Phil's forehead and traces the lines, sliding his fingers down his face, past his crow's feet to the corner of his mouth. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Neither am I," Phil tells him, and Clint finally closes his eyes, content just to feel Phil pressed against him, hand wide and warm on his hip and face close enough to feel his breathing. Phil reaches over Clint to pull the sheets over them and turns over in one smooth motion. Clint slings an arm over his waist without having to open his eyes, presses a kiss to the back of Phil's neck, and buries his face between his shoulder blades sleepily.

In a few hours, they'll both have to get up – Clint to go down to the range, Phil to suit up and start on his endless paperwork – but it's Friday tomorrow, and Bruce has decided that they need to start watching Firefly, so there'll be popcorn and blankets, and everyone spread across everyone else's legs and laps, and it'll be just fine. And maybe Clint's never been much of a team player, but no one could have predicted a dysfunctional team like theirs coming together, so maybe it all works out okay in the end.