So, Clint's decided he loves bondage.
If you'd asked him about it before, even up through his and Phil's negotiations, he would've hesitated, would've been unsure of his answer. At best his feelings about it were meh, at worst they triggered all kinds of messed up shit, invoked feelings of being trapped and memories of torture sessions – both personal and professional.
Hoo boy, now.
They'd come at it slow, of course. After that first scene together Phil has been extra careful, not hesitant or uncertain but attentive, considerate. They negotiate scenes beforehand and he's meticulous with his words, constantly showering Clint with praise. They tell each other they love each other constantly, like they've built up a surplus of the phrase after holding it in so long, and in general just bask in each other's presence. Phil takes him on dinner dates and they sleep together just the two of them, no power exchange in sight, and on other nights Phil puts him halfway down and razzes him playfully while pairing the teasing words with hugs and pets and kisses.
They get better, and they start to trust each other even more, and they both relax a little as the newness wears off. Clint had been worried that once the shininess started to dull things might fall apart a little, but really they only got better. They were learning more about each other, becoming accustomed to each other's kinks, their likes and dislikes, and all in all it's just more and more fantastic. He's not so tense anymore, doesn't worry so much about performing, and by the time the first month has gone by of their contracting period, Clint's happier than he'd ever thought he could be.
So it's nice for Clint to find that his kinks line up with Phil's better than he'd originally thought. That first time, that first scene with the cuffs had been a revelation – Phil was a clever bastard when he wanted to be and the choice of bondage tape was a perfect one. Clint was familiar with the stuff already because it was actually used quite often in medical; the soft, stretchy tape was perfect for keeping bandages in place. It only stuck to itself, not his skin, it breathed and flexed and didn't crush the tendons in his wrists. It was gentle pressure, being held instead of locked down, and the fact that Phil had picked the color with him in mind, always kissed his wrists and ankles before wrapping the tape tenderly around him was probably the best part.
From there they moved on to more intense ties. Phil hadn't lied when he said he preferred Shibari to traditional American bondage, focusing on patterns and elaborate designs instead of on restriction of movement and anchor points. He'd given Clint a well-loved paperback, pages dog-eared and spine cracked and soft that he carried around for several days, reading covertly on mission until he had to stuff it in the pocket of his cargoes and take out a Bolivian drug lord at five hundred yards with a single shot. Later he gave him links to a few websites, and not-so-subtly left out a few old-fashioned photos of male and female subs wrapped in beautiful ropes, their faces artfully removed from the pictures.
Clint's breath had caught in his throat and he'd been intrigued enough to run his fingertips over the glossy images with reverence. Leave it to Coulson to notice, and to plan the perfect scene to induct him into the art of sensual bondage, to entice him into wanting more.
He comes out with two bundles of rope, one black and another dark, jewel purple, matching satin ribbon. Standing Clint at the end of the chaise lounge, completely naked while he himself is wearing those god-damned jeans of his again, he runs his hands all over his body, down his arms and his belly and his thighs. He slides the ribbons through his fingers in a way that makes Clint instantly hard, wraps them around his muscles and ties neat, efficient bows. The loops curl around the bulge of his biceps, the swell of his calves and thighs, the long tails of ribbon trailing down to tickle at him when they move as Phil circles round him like a predator and they're beautiful.
The whole time he keeps a steady murmur of appreciation, muttering in explicit detail – almost to himself – about how much he loves each part of Clint's body, kissing muscle groups as he goes. It sends Clint to a nice, floaty place, so he's calm and breathing deeply when Phil switches to the ropes, choosing the black and starting his tie just below Clint's heavy pectoral muscles. The tails cross over his spine, run up and over his shoulders, and the way Phil sinks into it, the way he moves slowly and methodically and entirely sure of himself plays to Clint's competence kink harder than anything has so far.
It's beautiful to watch, the way his Dom falls into the process, becomes consumed by it as he builds a neat pentagram over Clint's chest. The harness is snug, thick and sturdy between his shoulder blades like an army pack, a familiar weight. His arms are free and he still has nearly his full range of movement, but the way Phil looks at him when he's done puts any sort of logistical thought out of Clint's mind. Tucking his fingers beneath the bottom strap, his Dom jerks roughly and Clint's dick jumps, and then he's pulling him around to look in the mirror and Clint is stunned by what he sees.
The ribbons gleam in the glow of the lamplight, the ropes are dark against his skin, every strap of muscle highlighted, and there's a hunger on Phil's face that Clint has never seen before. The man's pupils are blown, huge and dark and intense, and he's staring at Clint like he's the last drink of water in the desert. Clint actually kind of gets it – he looks fucking hot like this and the chest harness actually feels hella-good, like the straps and reinforcements of his tac vest – but this is very obviously Phil's thing. The process of creating the patterns, the meticulous detail involved in the knotwork, the touching and the tracing line work; he's turned Clint into art and the man himself is a damned Van Gogh.
He's enjoying the view himself when Phil suddenly strips out of his jeans, his erection springing free to slap against his belly before he pounces.
He hauls Clint back to the chaise by the harness, tight but not painful, his weight all evenly distributed, and the sheer mastery of the ropework making arousal coil hot and tight in the pit of his stomach. Phil thumbs his nipples between the ropes, bites at his lower lip and swallows his whine before sitting back against the lounger with his legs spread wide, feet flat on the floor on either side. Dragging Clint down to straddle his hips, he gives them both a few rough strokes together, the calluses on his fingers and the heel of his palm catching on sensitive skin just so, and Clint can't do anything but whimper and tumble into the sensation.
He ends up riding Phil's dick for what feels like an eternity, until Phil commands him to put his hands behind his head and shoves him backward, until Clint has no hope of keeping his own balance and has to lean all his weight into the harness. Phil holds him up by the clean, straight lines of the pentagram, his own biceps bulging under the strain and sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat as he fucks up into Clint's body, hitting the happy place inside him with every stroke, the angle absolutely perfect and he feels like he's coming apart, like the ribbons and ropes are the only thing keeping the pieces together.
The sensations build until they're nearly unbearable and Clint's babbling incoherently, begging for permission to let go. Tears are streaming down his cheeks and precum streaming down his cock by the time Phil snarls his assent, panting with the effort of supporting Clint's weight and the driving pace of his own hips. He manages it without a touch and his Dom follows right after, the both of them shaking apart like they've shattered, and it takes nearly fifteen minutes for them to catch their breath. Clint flops forward onto Phil's chest and kisses every bit of the man that he can reach, and won't let him take the ropes and ribbons off until he fully recovers some two hours later.
Yeah, he pretty much loves this stuff.