Clint's jaw has gone slack. Low grunts, now, sounds of strain -- the strain of keeping as quiet as he can. Loki has a wicked tongue, stereotypically enough, and Clint can't help but thrust, push himself further into Loki's mouth.

The only thing that could make this better, the only thing that would make him give in completely, is if Loki spoke to him, at the same time. That voice whispering in his ear, saying my hawk, my warrior.

The thought hits Clint like a punch to the stomach. A whimper works its way out.