Fic: return to the temple
Title: return to the temple
Series: the temple of bondage
Summary: Phil and Clint have a little scene.
Fandom: Avengers
Word Count: 1426
Rating/Contents: NC-17, whips, bondage, D/s, public play
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: For
kink_bingo (whipping/flogging)! This story contains pretty much all the things that were supposed to be in the original, like, idk, any actual bondage. At least it happened sometime.
They set up by the cross in the corner; Phil has him bring the bag over, despite the fact that he's only going to be using one thing from it, but it's become rote at this point- and it says volumes about Clint's life of late that anything involved in setting up for a scene in a dungeon could be described that way. Clint's a whole lot less self-conscious than he used to be, not thinking about it much when he strips down, piling his clothes neatly on a chair. Phil's busy setting out stuff for aftercare, water, a pillow, a blanket, and Clint waits; now he feels self-conscious, standing here almost literally with his dick in his hand while Phil finishes up. He knows people here now, probably seen a third of the people in this room naked, but it's still a little daunting when it's his turn.
But then Phil turns around; he takes Clint by the back of the neck and pulls him over, kissing him hard, possessive, demanding, and Clint relaxes into it. Phil's got it under control, just like always, just like it should be.
The cuffs are newish, dark purple and black leather, a present upon the occasion of their not screwing this up for six whole months, which is possibly a lifetime achievement for Clint. Phil clips them together at the other side of the cross, so that Clint is more or less hugging it. Clint adjusts to it, bowing his head; he knows Phil's not going to pop him in the ear or anything, but free insurance is always worth the price. Besides, it helps him get into it, the feeling of supplication, of giving up.
Phil's warm hands stroke his back; Clint can feel the tension in his own muscles, and he rolls his shoulders, trying to work it out. No matter how much he wants this, the fact remains that Phil is about to hit him over and over with a whip, and it's more than a little difficult to stop his natural reaction to that information. Phil kisses the back of his neck gently, running his hands down Clint's arms. The cuffs jingle and bump when he crosses them, moving on to lace his fingers into Clint's, but it's only a reminder, proof. Phil kisses his neck, the shell of his ear, and there could be fifteen people here or fifty thousand, Clint really doesn't know or care.
"Ready?" Phil says softly, and Clint nods. Phil squeezes his hands briefly before he steps back, and Clint misses the contact, feeling lost more than cold.
He can hear the whip long before he can feel it; Phil's very cautious with it to start, judging his distances carefully before he really gets going. Despite himself, Clint tenses right back up, waiting for it. He's lucky this time, because Phil makes a little contact before he actually hits Clint for real, the cracker hitting whisper-light. He's ready for it when Phil hits him, not that it's a thing that you can ever actually be ready for, but at least he doesn't jump out of his skin. He just arches his back, hissing at the sudden dash of pain.
Phil hits him again and again, side to side to start with, in a pattern that Clint can't guess, something organic and ultimately unimportant, just as long as it hurts. He wants more, of course he wants more, but that doesn't mean it's not hurting. He's never known how to explain that good hurt still hurts. He can take a lot without it slowing him up, but that's not at all the point. The point is for it to fuck him up, bring him down, make him scream. It needs to be too much to be enough. He's not sure Phil understands that, that anyone who's not a- masochist is still a big scary word, but it seems to fit Clint pretty well- could really get it. That doesn't matter a bit, not when Phil will give him what he needs.
He needs it pretty bad tonight, and he knows Phil can tell; he's hitting Clint good, careful but quick, over and over and over. He's pinpointing now, hitting the same two spots repeatedly, waiting for Clint to crack under it, to give. Clint's holding out, fighting him on it, but eventually it's just right over that edge. "Yellow," he calls, his mouth dry, and Phil's at his side in an instant.
"How's it going?" Phil asks, rubbing circles at the small of his back.
"Okay, just-" Clint shakes his head. "Can I have a drink, sir?"
"Sure," Phil says, stepping away for Clint's water bottle and coming back. Letting Phil tip the liquid into his mouth requires as much submission as anything else, as much trust and cooperation, but Clint gets what he needs. Phil wipes his chin, where some of the water's gone astray. "Need a minute?" Clint shakes his head. "Sure?"
"Let's go," Clint says, nodding. Phil kisses his shoulder before he moves back, getting ready for the next strike.
It's quite the strike; Phil brings the whip down across his back, and Clint yells in pain. For half a second, he's conscious of the noises he's making, the fact that there are other people around to listen, but then Phil hits him again, and he forgets all about it. Phil's doing it fast and precise, hard, and Clint's never more proud of him than in these moments, proud of himself for having somehow ended up with someone like him. Clint wants nothing more than to take it, to show Phil how lucky he feels, to give him a canvas to work on.
Pretty soon, though, those thoughts are out of his head, because all thought is out of his head, other than the need for more, the consciousness of pain, the edge that he's creeping up on little by little. One more good strike, and Clint sags against the cross, his knees weak; he feels like he's barely holding himself up, and he's not sure why he's supposed to be bothering.
"Are you done?" Phil says, suddenly beside him, running his hand over Clint's hip, and Clint can't remember how to respond with words. "Yeah, you're done. Let's get you down."
Phil very carefully reaches around and unclips the cuffs, holding Clint upright. Phil walks him over a few feet and sits down in a chair, pulling a pillow over and putting it between his feet, guiding Clint down until Clint's sitting between his legs. Clint immediately wraps his arms around Phil's calf, pressing his face against it. He feels relaxed, wrung out, like he's going to collapse into a puddle without Phil to hold him up.
He floats there for a while, just clinging, no connection except for Phil, nothing else holding him down. He's coming out of it by degrees, euphoria fading into good old-fashioned elation, but he's too far gone to even care about the loss. He gets up on his knees, shuffling around until he's facing Phil. Clint rubs his cheek across the bulge in Phil's pants, just as subtle as ever, feeling loose and wanton. "Can I, sir?"
"Sure you want it?" Phil asks.
He knows Phil already knows the answer to that question; there's a reason Clint includes this when they negotiate. "Yessir."
Phil opens his pants. "Come here then."
It feels so good, inexplicably good to get Phil's dick into his mouth and suck it. Maybe he's anxious to show his gratitude, maybe he's just looking for comfort- whatever, it's completely immaterial, so long as Phil will let him have it.
Phil strokes Clint's hair as Clint sucks, bobbing his head, working his hand on what he can't get into his mouth. Clint's distantly aware that he's being messy, making embarrassing noises, but this whole situation is his official licence to not give a fuck.
"Good," Phil says, petting him. "That's my good boy." Hearing that only makes Clint want to do it more, make it better for him, give him the very best that he can. "Get ready," Phil tells him, his hand tightening in Clint's hair, and Clint doesn't move away, swallowing it down without a second thought.
Phil lets him go, leaning down and kissing him, his hand on the back of Clint's neck. Clint rests his face against Phil's thigh, letting himself drift again. He drifts up and off and gone, safe here, alone with his Sir in a room full of people, completely satisfied.
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/430079.html.
comments over there.
Series: the temple of bondage
Summary: Phil and Clint have a little scene.
Fandom: Avengers
Word Count: 1426
Rating/Contents: NC-17, whips, bondage, D/s, public play
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: For
kink_bingo (whipping/flogging)! This story contains pretty much all the things that were supposed to be in the original, like, idk, any actual bondage. At least it happened sometime.
They set up by the cross in the corner; Phil has him bring the bag over, despite the fact that he's only going to be using one thing from it, but it's become rote at this point- and it says volumes about Clint's life of late that anything involved in setting up for a scene in a dungeon could be described that way. Clint's a whole lot less self-conscious than he used to be, not thinking about it much when he strips down, piling his clothes neatly on a chair. Phil's busy setting out stuff for aftercare, water, a pillow, a blanket, and Clint waits; now he feels self-conscious, standing here almost literally with his dick in his hand while Phil finishes up. He knows people here now, probably seen a third of the people in this room naked, but it's still a little daunting when it's his turn.
But then Phil turns around; he takes Clint by the back of the neck and pulls him over, kissing him hard, possessive, demanding, and Clint relaxes into it. Phil's got it under control, just like always, just like it should be.
The cuffs are newish, dark purple and black leather, a present upon the occasion of their not screwing this up for six whole months, which is possibly a lifetime achievement for Clint. Phil clips them together at the other side of the cross, so that Clint is more or less hugging it. Clint adjusts to it, bowing his head; he knows Phil's not going to pop him in the ear or anything, but free insurance is always worth the price. Besides, it helps him get into it, the feeling of supplication, of giving up.
Phil's warm hands stroke his back; Clint can feel the tension in his own muscles, and he rolls his shoulders, trying to work it out. No matter how much he wants this, the fact remains that Phil is about to hit him over and over with a whip, and it's more than a little difficult to stop his natural reaction to that information. Phil kisses the back of his neck gently, running his hands down Clint's arms. The cuffs jingle and bump when he crosses them, moving on to lace his fingers into Clint's, but it's only a reminder, proof. Phil kisses his neck, the shell of his ear, and there could be fifteen people here or fifty thousand, Clint really doesn't know or care.
"Ready?" Phil says softly, and Clint nods. Phil squeezes his hands briefly before he steps back, and Clint misses the contact, feeling lost more than cold.
He can hear the whip long before he can feel it; Phil's very cautious with it to start, judging his distances carefully before he really gets going. Despite himself, Clint tenses right back up, waiting for it. He's lucky this time, because Phil makes a little contact before he actually hits Clint for real, the cracker hitting whisper-light. He's ready for it when Phil hits him, not that it's a thing that you can ever actually be ready for, but at least he doesn't jump out of his skin. He just arches his back, hissing at the sudden dash of pain.
Phil hits him again and again, side to side to start with, in a pattern that Clint can't guess, something organic and ultimately unimportant, just as long as it hurts. He wants more, of course he wants more, but that doesn't mean it's not hurting. He's never known how to explain that good hurt still hurts. He can take a lot without it slowing him up, but that's not at all the point. The point is for it to fuck him up, bring him down, make him scream. It needs to be too much to be enough. He's not sure Phil understands that, that anyone who's not a- masochist is still a big scary word, but it seems to fit Clint pretty well- could really get it. That doesn't matter a bit, not when Phil will give him what he needs.
He needs it pretty bad tonight, and he knows Phil can tell; he's hitting Clint good, careful but quick, over and over and over. He's pinpointing now, hitting the same two spots repeatedly, waiting for Clint to crack under it, to give. Clint's holding out, fighting him on it, but eventually it's just right over that edge. "Yellow," he calls, his mouth dry, and Phil's at his side in an instant.
"How's it going?" Phil asks, rubbing circles at the small of his back.
"Okay, just-" Clint shakes his head. "Can I have a drink, sir?"
"Sure," Phil says, stepping away for Clint's water bottle and coming back. Letting Phil tip the liquid into his mouth requires as much submission as anything else, as much trust and cooperation, but Clint gets what he needs. Phil wipes his chin, where some of the water's gone astray. "Need a minute?" Clint shakes his head. "Sure?"
"Let's go," Clint says, nodding. Phil kisses his shoulder before he moves back, getting ready for the next strike.
It's quite the strike; Phil brings the whip down across his back, and Clint yells in pain. For half a second, he's conscious of the noises he's making, the fact that there are other people around to listen, but then Phil hits him again, and he forgets all about it. Phil's doing it fast and precise, hard, and Clint's never more proud of him than in these moments, proud of himself for having somehow ended up with someone like him. Clint wants nothing more than to take it, to show Phil how lucky he feels, to give him a canvas to work on.
Pretty soon, though, those thoughts are out of his head, because all thought is out of his head, other than the need for more, the consciousness of pain, the edge that he's creeping up on little by little. One more good strike, and Clint sags against the cross, his knees weak; he feels like he's barely holding himself up, and he's not sure why he's supposed to be bothering.
"Are you done?" Phil says, suddenly beside him, running his hand over Clint's hip, and Clint can't remember how to respond with words. "Yeah, you're done. Let's get you down."
Phil very carefully reaches around and unclips the cuffs, holding Clint upright. Phil walks him over a few feet and sits down in a chair, pulling a pillow over and putting it between his feet, guiding Clint down until Clint's sitting between his legs. Clint immediately wraps his arms around Phil's calf, pressing his face against it. He feels relaxed, wrung out, like he's going to collapse into a puddle without Phil to hold him up.
He floats there for a while, just clinging, no connection except for Phil, nothing else holding him down. He's coming out of it by degrees, euphoria fading into good old-fashioned elation, but he's too far gone to even care about the loss. He gets up on his knees, shuffling around until he's facing Phil. Clint rubs his cheek across the bulge in Phil's pants, just as subtle as ever, feeling loose and wanton. "Can I, sir?"
"Sure you want it?" Phil asks.
He knows Phil already knows the answer to that question; there's a reason Clint includes this when they negotiate. "Yessir."
Phil opens his pants. "Come here then."
It feels so good, inexplicably good to get Phil's dick into his mouth and suck it. Maybe he's anxious to show his gratitude, maybe he's just looking for comfort- whatever, it's completely immaterial, so long as Phil will let him have it.
Phil strokes Clint's hair as Clint sucks, bobbing his head, working his hand on what he can't get into his mouth. Clint's distantly aware that he's being messy, making embarrassing noises, but this whole situation is his official licence to not give a fuck.
"Good," Phil says, petting him. "That's my good boy." Hearing that only makes Clint want to do it more, make it better for him, give him the very best that he can. "Get ready," Phil tells him, his hand tightening in Clint's hair, and Clint doesn't move away, swallowing it down without a second thought.
Phil lets him go, leaning down and kissing him, his hand on the back of Clint's neck. Clint rests his face against Phil's thigh, letting himself drift again. He drifts up and off and gone, safe here, alone with his Sir in a room full of people, completely satisfied.
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/430079.html.
comments over there.