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“Limits?” Coulson asked. Clint could tell already that this was going to be by the book. No surprise there.
“No limits,” Clint answered, with a dare of a grin.
Coulson stared at him for a moment. But then he said, “Safeword?”
“Don’t need one,” Clint replied quickly.
Coulson raised an eyebrow at him. Clint recognized this look. It was his ‘I may be amused by your crap but that doesn’t mean I’m actually putting up with it’ look.
“Seriously. Don’t need one.”
“Indulge me,” Coulson instructed. His voice didn’t change in volume, but the force behind it sent a thrill up Clint’s spine.
“Okay. My safeword is ‘Coulson has a fine ass.’”
“Fine. What do you like?”
“Anything.”
Coulson leaned back in his chair. “Tell me something that you would like,” he ordered, and Clint managed to keep the smirk off his face. He was proud for some reason that he could bring out the dominant side of Coulson, even when they were supposed to be in the ‘talking it over’ stage.
Clint decided to test the waters. “I’d like you to fuck me in the most degrading ways you can possibly think of. Repeatedly. ‘Til I can’t even move after.”
Phil’s eyes darkened. Not a trace of fear. Not a trace of disgust.
Phil wanted to do exactly that.
At that point, Clint knew. This was going to be good.
~~~~~
It isn’t just a one night thing.
It seems, in fact, to be the opposite of a one night thing.
Clint is very confused and very surprised.
He knows he shouldn’t be, though. It is Coulson, after all.
Clint was right about most things, though. Coulson was a very, very by-the-book dom. They had to talk about everything. He liked to follow all the rules, all the precautions.
Luckily, it wasn’t all that different from in the field. Coulson might be all about plans and contingencies and the wise course of action, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t ever let Clint… improvise.
Another good thing: Coulson was always, always ready to take requests. He wouldn’t say yes to everything, but he would consider anything.
There were some things that Coulson didn’t particularly like, Clint could tell. But if Clint really wanted it, and Coulson didn’t feel strongly against it, Clint would get what he needed.
Coulson really didn’t enjoy hitting Clint in the face, for instance. When he brought it up, Clint could tell that Coulson wouldn’t punch him. He could see it in Coulson’s face, in the movement of the crease above his brow. So Clint dropped it.
Until their next scene. Coulson had beaten the hell out of Clint’s ass with a paddle, and he felt it, the linger of new bruises, throbby and lush and breathtaking. He was still in position on his hands and knees when Coulson drew him up to take him to bed.
“Slap me,” Clint said. Maybe it sounded a little bit like begging. Who’s to say?
“What?”
“Slap me on the face. Hard as you can.”
“Clint--”
“I need it. Please, Phil, I just… I really need it.”
Phil paused. But then he nodded.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes. A few times, okay? I need a few times.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. YES. Please.”
Coulson lay two quick slaps on Clint’s face, right in the same place. Hard. Not even close to as hard as Coulson could, Clint knew, but still. The sting was brutal.
It felt fucking amazing.
Clint touched the corner of his lips where there was just a drop of blood, and he rubbed it between his fingers. Pleased with it, as if it were newly uncanned paint.
Phil moved him onto the bed, then grabbed the back of his head by the hair as the other hand started prepping him. Clint felt Phil’s mouth, the heat of it, on his back and shoulders, and its softness didn’t make it any less of a claim. When Phil finally pushed into him, it was smooth, full but not painful; it made Clint feel immersed, surrounded.
It was always like that with Phil, somehow. Even when it was rough and fast, it always managed to feel smooth as silk.
It was strange, though, for Clint to realize that Phil would be willing to do things just because Clint wanted them. Sure, Mr. Perfect Dom said that he wanted to make Clint happy, wanted to help him live out his fantasies. But it was almost disconcerting for Clint to see that happen when it clearly wasn’t Coulson’s fantasy too.
But it was Coulson, Clint reminded himself. No need to go off the deep end and get all gushy because Coulson followed the protocols of Highly Effective Doms or whatever.
Not that it was all fun and games.
Because again, there was a LOT of talking.
A lot of it was crap that Clint didn’t understand why they needed to talk about.
Some of it was just annoyingly detail-oriented.
For example: if Clint said some shit while they were playing, if he said he wanted Coulson to punish him, then the next thing he knew, they would be sitting down talking about whether they wanted to introduce more discipline aspects to their relationships and how that would change things and a crapload of other points that Clint found incredibly boring.
Okay, maybe he was just pretending to be bored.
Because the thought that Coulson could at any time, for any reason, punish him for his behavior? Was just about the hottest fucking thing Clint has ever heard.
So maybe that one wasn’t so bad. But really, it was a lot of talking.
And a lot of questions Clint had to answer.
Not that he always answered, of course. What would be the fun in that?
Not to mention that Coulson made him repeat his safeword at the start of every single scene. Not that Clint would ever use it. Obviously.
And then of course there was the “aftercare.”
Clint really, really hated that word. It made him feel heavy and sticky and a little bit ill, for some reason.
But Coulson was really big on “aftercare.”
It was one of his rules. Even if Clint were fine, even if he had kept it together perfectly, they had to lie there in bed, close as they could. The fact that Clint would occasionally ask “Are we done with this shit yet?” didn’t faze Coulson at all. He just told Clint to “hush.” Apparently, that’s a more polite way of saying ‘shut the fuck up and keep cuddling.’
All in all, it was a good thing the sex was phenomenal. Otherwise, Clint wasn’t sure he could put up with this crap.
~~~~~
“Choke me,” Clint said.
Phil, for once, looked surprised.
“Choke me with it,” Clint said. He did his best to sound like a demanding sub, like a bratty bottom, but his voice was tired, ragged.
Phil tilted his head and gave Clint a discerning look.
Clint sighed. Should it really be this hard to get your dom to fuck your face until you gag on it? Clint knew plenty of guys who would jump at the chance.
“How are you doing?” Phil asked, relevant to nothing.
“Awesome.”
Clint did indeed feel awesome. Yes, the mission went south. Yes, shit happened that Clint couldn’t take back.
But Clint was a pro. And he knew exactly how to deal.
All he needed was for his boyfriend, as Coulson liked to call the two of them, to make him feel like a thing, like he was emptied out. All he needed was for Coulson to take his air until everything went black and numb and clean.
He wondered if he could manipulate Coulson into making him pass out.
But then he looked up and saw Coulson’s face.
“If this is really what you want, then we can talk about it on a day when both our heads are clear,” Coulson said.
“Fuck you,” Clint said, practically a sigh.
Coulson ignored that. “Let’s get to bed.”
“No.”
“We don’t have to-”
“Give me what I want or I don’t need to be here,” Clint said. He wanted to stop, he wanted to tell himself to shut the fuck up before he lost everything, but he just stared up at Coulson, challenge in his eyes.
He figured Coulson would kick his ass on out of there. Which would, if Clint were totally honest with himself, be completely fucking devastating.
But Coulson, yet again, managed to surprise him.
And to get the jump on him. Before he could react, Coulson had Clint’s shoulder pinned to the floor, with Coulson kneeling over him. His other hand grabbed Clint’s face, clung to his jaw, and it actually hurt.
“I almost lost you today, Clint! I almost lost you! So do not give me your bullshit about how you feel nothing and you need nothing and you’re only here to fuck!”
Coulson’s face was distorted, winced in anger, in something like pain, Clint saw. It was the closest to losing it that Clint had ever seen him.
Clint knew he should apologize. Fuck, he should probably grovel at this point. But some part of him – that asshole part of him that ALWAYS got him in trouble – made him want to tell Coulson to go fuck himself.
And that’s exactly what he decided to say.
Somehow it came out as a sob.
He felt Coulson’s body relax, lean on him, surround him, and he didn’t even have the sense to push him away.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Coulson whispered in his ear.
It hurt to hear. Didn’t make any sense, because Clint was relieved as hell to hear it, but it hurt. Like duct tape torn off of skin.
“I don’t think – I don’t think…” Clint gasped out. He couldn’t finish. He couldn’t tell Coulson that he wasn’t going to be able to do this. Whatever the fuck Coulson wanted from him, Clint was pretty sure he wasn’t going to able to give.
“It’s okay,” Coulson said, and Clint knew that Coulson was wrong. “It’s okay.”
They lay there for a long time, until Coulson left a soft kiss on Clint’s temple. “Tell me what I can do, Clint. Please tell me.”
Clint closed his eyes. “What I asked. Before.”
Phil sighed. “Are you sure?”
“I need it. I need to forget, Phil. I would do anything to forget,” he said. It was an honest answer – Coulson had dragged it out of him after all. And he was past demanding or begging; he just needed it. And now Phil knew it.
He looked up and saw that Phil wasn’t happy. But after a long pause, Phil pursed his lips in resignation.
It didn’t even feel like victory for Clint. It just felt like relief.
Even though it made Clint think that maybe Phil would do anything for him.
He came up to his knees as Phil stood, and he went to work on Phil’s belt buckle.
“Show me your safety gestures,” Phil said.
Clint refrained from rolling his eyes and dutifully displayed the hand signals he was instructed to use in place of safety words. Not that he would ever actually do that.
He closed his eyes as Coulson’s dick slid between his lips. Normally, he wouldn’t want to take his eyes off of Coulson’s face – he’d want to watch every little reaction his tongue was able to evoke. But now he just wanted to hold still, to let Coulson move in him, to have no control at all. To be overwhelmed, to be forced, to forget.
He waited to see if Coulson could do this for him, if he would have to ask specifically or if Coulson would just give this to him.
Coulson knew. Of course, Coulson knew.
Clint kept his eyes closed the whole time. Soon, he was thinking of nothing but Coulson’s hand on his head, and how much he wanted to breathe.
~~~~~
Months later, Clint’s bent over a chair, his feet tied to its legs.
It feels like he has been here forever.
He asked for this.
Another whack of the cane on Clint’s ass.
This is nothing. He’s been through so much worse.
Another. Searing.
Did it break his skin yet?
Again. Another.
This stopped being fun forever ago.
Another one on his upper thigh. Clint can’t help himself. He makes a noise.
A pause. “Red, yellow, green, Clint?” Coulson asks. Coulson had long ago decided that “Coulson has a fine ass” was too unwieldy a safeword, and so he went for the classic: Red, yellow, green -- Stop, caution, and go.
“Green,” Clint said through clenched teeth.
Seriously? Coulson thought he would break that easy?
Again. Clint hates the sound of it, hates that he is wincing - wincing - at each stroke.
Maybe Coulson wants him pathetic. It won’t work.
Another, mid-thigh, that loud crack again. Clint lost count long ago.
You can do this. You can take this. You can--
Another thwack, harder even, burning. Clint doesn’t understand how this is undoing him, doesn’t see how anything short of broken body could possibly make him feel like this.
“Clint? You okay?”
No. “Yes.”
“Clint?”
“Green,” Clint seethes.
Another.
Clint whimpers and hates himself for it.
He had asked for this. He had spent days convincing Phil to give him a caning so intense he would drop like a fly. He had begged for this.
Another stroke, angled to crisscross the others. His flesh felt brutalized.
This is his own fault.
Thwack.
How does this possibly fucking hurt so much?
Thwack.
Why isn’t it fucking over yet?
Thwack.
He’s crying now. Fuck. He’s crying and Coulson probably sees it.
“Clint? Do you need to stop?”
“No.”
Fuck you, Clint thinks. I don’t need anything from you.
Thwack.
He can do this. He’s gotten through torture and mind control and getting shot who knows how many times. He can take a fucking spanking.
Thwack.
Why is Coulson doing this to him?
Thwack.
He asked for this. He has to get his head on straight. He wants this, wants Coulson to decimate his body.
Thwack.
Why the fuck is this happening?
“Red, yellow, green?” Coulson asks.
Clint pants and doesn’t answer.
“Clint? Let’s stop?” Coulson asks softly.
“Green,” Coulson says, voice dry.
“Clint-”
“Green, you son of a bitch,” Clint gasps out.
Thwack.
He wasn’t going down that easy.
Thwack.
He wasn’t going to say it.
Thwack.
He wasn’t going to say it. Nobody - nobody - was going to get him to say he couldn’t take any more.
Thwack.
Clint screamed out a grunt.
“Clint?”
“Green,” he managed to rasp.
Thwack.
Not gonna break.
Thwack.
Never gonna happen.
Thwack.
Why the fuck is Coulson doing this to him?
Thwack.
Coulson must hate him.
Thwack.
Now he’s really fucking losing it. He fucking asked for this.
Thwack.
How can this possibly hurt this much?
Thwack.
Because it’s Coulson. Because Coulson is tearing apart his flesh and he won’t fucking stop. Because knowing it’s Coulson hurting him makes it a million times worse.
Thwack.
Pull it together.
Thwack.
This is not rational.
Thwack.
Keep it together.
Thwack.
Why is Coulson doing this? What the fuck is wrong with him?
Thwack.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Thwack.
How can Coulson want to do this to Clint?
Thwack.
Now he’s really losing it. Because he thinks --
Thwack.
He can’t – it doesn’t make sense --
Thwack.
He’s losing it. He is definitely losing it.
Thwack.
He is sobbing. He is sobbing and Coulson is still hitting him, and he’s not stopping.
Thwack.
Coulson is betraying him. The only person he has ever really trusted is fucking betraying him. And it’s not rational and it’s not true and Clint knows this, he knows it, but when Coulson hits him, Clint feels right in his gut that Coulson is fucking hurting him and it feels more like a fucking betrayal than anything he’s ever felt.
Thwack.
What the fuck is wrong with him? It’s just a fucking spanking. He asked for this.
Thwack.
Pull it together.
Thwack.
He would do anything to make it stop. He would do fucking anything.
“Red,” Coulson said.
Clint wasn’t sure he heard him right.
“Green,” Clint cried.
Not broken. Not broken, not broken, not broken.
“I said ‘red,’” Coulson said. “We’re done.”
He gently untied Clint and helped him to kneel, to collapse onto the carpet.
“Fuck you,” Clint said, and it was the most grateful he’s ever felt.
~~~~~
Clint doesn’t want to talk about it.
That’s fine with Coulson (for once). Coulson apparently wants to just “hang out” until Clint’s ass is in better shape. Or supposedly until Clint’s “ready to have a conversation.”
Not that Clint blames him. Coulson’s actually acting pretty cool considering how fucked up Clint was acting after they tried caning. He doesn’t remember all of it but he distinctly remembers pushing Coulson away. Physically pushing him.
He remembers crying half the night like a pathetic little bitch, with Phil patting him and speaking softly, like he was an animal that went crazy.
Of course, Coulson was too proper to leave someone for being fucked up. Coulson was more the type to leave someone because of “a lack of communication.”
So Clint was prepared. They were hanging out, “letting their relationship normalize,” for about a week after the scene that went completely off the rails, when Clint decided to bite the bullet.
“Scene tonight?” he asked Coulson, casually as he could.
“I think we might need to talk about some things first.”
“Not into it.”
“So you’ve said.”
“So why don’t you listen?”
“Why didn’t you safeword?”
Clint started to tap his foot, his habit when he was pissed or nervous. “I suppose you want a perfect little sub who begs for mercy.”
Coulson stared at Clint for a long minute.
“Tell me more.”
“What?” Clint said.
“About what you think I want.”
“Don’t shrink me, Phil.”
“Is that why – did you keep the scene going because you think I want--”
“No.” Fuck. Did Coulson actually think Clint was too stupid to know that Coulson didn’t enjoy that? Maybe he thought it in the moment things got all messed up in his head, but…. “Wait, did I say something? When I was – you know – upset?”
“Like what?”
“Just – never mind. No. I didn’t do it because I thought you needed it.”
“Then why?”
“I just fucking felt like it, okay?”
“We have to talk about this.”
“Or else what?” He was daring Coulson to dump him, to decide that Clint was just a sack too full of batshit crazy to put up with.
Coulson sighed. He tried to run his fingers through Clint’s hair but he pulled away.
Clint’s jaw was still clenched. “If you’re done with this, then just fucking say it.”
Coulson leaned in. “I don’t want to be done. Do you?”
“Who said I did?”
“Fine. So let’s… figure it out.”
“We don’t have to figure it out, Phil. Let’s just go back to normal. Is that really too much to ask?” There was a threat in Clint’s voice, a refusal, a let-it-go-or-else, and he knew – absolutely knew – that Coulson didn’t respond to threats or bluffs. He kind of hated himself for being stupid enough to say it.
But Coulson leaned back then, appraising. “Fine. But no sex tonight. I’ll tie you up, we’ll try some things, but that’s it.”
“Whatever.”
Withholding cock? Kind of an un-Coulson thing to do. But at least Clint was basically getting things back to where they should be.
Truth told, it was a big fucking relief.
~~~~~
That night, Clint is rope-bound to a steel chair. The chair is chained to the floor.
Apparently, Coulson isn’t fucking around.
Coulson carries another chair and sat directly across from Clint. He sits down and crossed his legs and gives him a hard stare.
Interrogation scene. This was going to be hot.
“Should I call you Agent?” Clint says with a smirk. “If you smack me around a little, maybe I’ll come around to seeing your way.”
Coulson ignores him. “Tell me about a time when you’ve been in pain and you’ve admitted it.”
Clint’s eyes go a little blank. “What?”
“I’m waiting.”
“This is – you’re not a fucking therapist, Phil,” Clint says, willing himself not to show anger. Anger would only make the bastard convinced he’s right.
“Not trying to be. But this is a reasonable request. Tell me about a time when you were in pain. But you didn’t hide it.”
“I’m not doing this.”
“You are.”
“Untie me.”
“No.”
No?
“Phil. Untie me now.”
“You have a safeword. Use it if you need to.”
Really? That was Phil’s game?
Really?
“I’m happy to gab all night with you, Coulson. But I’m not playing share-your-feelings with you.”
“Yes, it would be ridiculous to share your feelings with me.”
“Go fuck yourself.” That isn’t the right thing to say. That would only convince Coulson he was poking at a sore place.
“I mean it, Clint. A time when you didn’t hide your pain. Or I start hypothesizing about your reasons. And we both know you don’t want that.”
Clint lets out a breath. “You’re kind of being an asshole right now, you know that?”
“I’m willing to accept that possibility. Talk.”
Clint sort of wants to dig his heels in. But if this bullshit is how Coulson’s going to make him pay, then he can take it.
“When I was a kid.”
“Any times as an adult?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Tell me about when you were a kid.”
Clint did.
Apparently it wasn’t enough. “Tell me about a time when you didn’t think you could take it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anything. A time when something was too much for you. Physical pain, other pain, pleasure even. A time when you couldn’t handle it.”
“Aren’t any,” Clint said.
“A time when you almost couldn’t handle it.”
“I’ve handled it just fine.”
“Handled what?”
“Whatever. This is a stupid fucking question, Coulson.”
“No. It’s just a question you don’t like. Tell me about a time – any time in your life – when you didn’t think you could make it through. Even momentarily.”
Clint lets out a breath.
It takes half an hour of calm, well-reasoned debate (on Coulson’s side) to get to Clint to answer.
But he does.
Coulson still has more questions.
And more after that.
Clint loses his patience, eventually. He knows Coulson’s expecting it, and defying his expectation is the only reason he's held off this long.
“What are you fucking accomplishing here, Phil? Are you getting off on this? Are you fucking getting off on my shit childhood, on my worst days? On what a sad little piece of shit I am?”
Coulson’s jaw twitches. Clint knows he’s pissed.
It feels good, to get under his skin.
But Coulson just asks again. “When someone asks if you’ve had enough, what’s the answer?”
“No. Yes. Pretty please may I have another.”
“Clint. Answer the question. Have you had enough?!”
“Fuck, no!” Clint knows the answer is no; the answer to that question is always no.
“And if I say, ‘Did I go too far’?”
“Same answer.” This is not going well. Clint can feel the rage starting to hum, can tell that this is not going well at all.
“‘Do you need me to stop?’”
“Is that all you’ve got?!?” Clint yells. This is too much. This is not hypothetical. This is every man who's ever tried to destroy him, every man who's laughed at him for almost falling apart.
“You at your breaking point?”
“Never fucking going to happen, you son of a bitch!” Clint yells, and nearly bends the chair trying to get out.
Coulson’s there, then, his hands on Clint, telling him he’s fine, telling him where he is.
It feels like a long time before Clint is calm, before he’s breathing normally. He waits for Coulson to untie him.
Coulson doesn’t.
“Ready for more questions?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“You can stop this,” Coulson reminds him.
Clint pauses. Still with that shit?
He kind of wants to yell again. But he forces himself to look fine, to look untouched.
He takes a different tack.
“You won’t force a safeword. Everyone knows that a good, responsible dom would never force a safeword. Especially not on purpose.”
“That’s just it. I’m not here as your dom. I’m here as your partner. I’m here as the man who loves you. But I can’t go back to what we do until I know that you’ll tell me your limits. And until you admit you have them.”
“If you’re not here as my dom, why am I tied up?”
“I didn’t tie you up as your dom. I did it as a guy who’s just not interested in taking any bullshit from you.” He smiles just a little, and Clint can tell that he’s admitting the flaw in his logic. It’s kind of a relief.
But Clint’s exhausted. He’s fucking exhausted and he doesn’t understand where this could possibly go somewhere good.
“Why? Why do I have to… this isn’t going to solve anything, Phil. This isn’t going to make me someone you want to….” It's not even a protest at this point. It's something like a confession.
“Want to what?”
Clint doesn’t answer.
“You have no idea what it’s like, Clint.”
Clint agrees. No one but Coulson would ever put up with someone like him.
He still doesn’t answer.
Coulson continues, and Clint can see his face scrunch up a little, like he’s lost something, like he’s afraid of something. He looks hurt.
He doesn’t look afraid to show Clint that he’s hurt.
He’s tearing up as he tells Clint, “You don’t know what it’s like. To get you to trust me. To see you… open up to me. And then to know I’ve fucked it up so badly.”
What?
“How many times have you wanted me to stop? How many times did I think I was giving you what you needed and you were…”
“Never,” Clint says quickly.
Coulson gives him a look.
“Okay, maybe this last time. Just a little. It wasn’t too much, it was just a little… annoying.”
Coulson seems to look really sad at this response.
“Dammit, what do you want, Coulson?”
Coulson leans back in his chair again. “I want to make you happy. Emotionally, sexually, every other way. I want you to feel challenged, I want to be able to let you play at your limits without shooting those limits to hell. I want…” Coulson hunches and rests his head on his hand. “I want you to feel safe, Clint. I would do anything to make you feel safe.”
“Because that’s what perfect doms do?”
“That’s a joke, right? Because I have fucked this up entirely.”
Guilt washes over Clint, and he can’t answer. He hadn’t even noticed that Coulson felt like this. He had no idea.
“I’m sorry,” Clint says.
It’s the truth.
Coulson moves his chair up close. Their knees are interspersed like fingers on a folded hand, and his hand is soft on Clint’s face.
“We can’t do this if you think of me as your enemy,” Phil says.
Is that what he’s doing?
Coulson speaks again, softly, “I need you to say it, Clint.”
“I don’t…”
Coulson leans in more, rests the side of his face on Clint’s. “Even if you don’t mean it, Clint. Even if it’s just for me. Just a word. Just a little step.”
Coulson whispers in his ear then, please and love and I-need-this, over and over, and Clint thinks this is dirty pool, this is the worst interrogation he’s withstood and he’s had some stellar ones.
Finally, he can’t take it any more.
He can’t take any of it any more.
“Red.”
So soft, the only reason Coulson could hear him is because he was inches away.
But he says it.
Coulson unties him, kisses him, thanks him like it means something, like Clint is better now.
“I don’t think … I don’t think I can be this person you want me to be, Phil.”
“You are already. You always have been.”
“I’m not going to – I can’t….”
Phil strokes side of Clint’s face and it’s all he can do to not lean into it, to not disappear into Coulson's arms as they surround him.
“We’ll figure it out. It doesn’t have to be today, Clint. As long as it takes. We will figure it out.” Coulson’s tearing up again, and Clint can’t even tell if it’s relief or happiness or just frustration.
It’s the first moment that Clint realizes that Coulson is as terrified of losing him as Clint is.
“I think we might,” Clint says.
He thinks he could mean it.