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Phil had bound his own legs tight, from knee to ankle, with Clint’s favorite deep plum-colored rope. The loops crossed over his shins and he tied them together with round, even knots between his calves. The twists and turns of the rope against Phil's skin were perfect and precise, and altogether breathtakingly beautiful.
Then Phil looked at him, handed him another long length of rope, and instructed Clint to bind his arms the same way, from elbow to wrist.
It had been mesmerizing watching Phil work. Clint always felt like a prince, and a king, and an emperor all rolled into one whenever Phil tied him up. Doing it to Phil made him feel lightheaded, like the adrenaline rush of jumping off a building with just a grappling hook and his bow—but not just any building. It felt like he was jumping from Tokyo Tower, from the Empire State Building, from the Burj Khalifa.
When he was done, Clint moved aside, and let Phil stretch out the length of their bed. Exquisite rope bound his arms, and gorgeous rope bound his legs, and he laid out in a straight, stunning line from the tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes.
Phil looked up at him with hooded eyes and smiled. He asked for a kiss, and Clint gave one, readily. Then he told Clint to start from the knot right at his wrists, and kiss every knot from his hands to his feet.
Clint didn't miss that he'd not been told to touch any skin, so he didn't. He moved methodically from one knot to the other. Phil's breath was even and calm. It kept Clint centered, even as his mind swam from the bliss of doing exactly what Phil wanted him to.
By the time Clint reached the very last knot at Phil's ankles, they were both achingly hard.
Phil told him he was good, incredible, magnificent. Clint bowed his head at the praise. He just loved doing for Phil what Phil wanted him to do; it was all for him.
Phil smiled gently and told Clint to trace each of his scars with his fingertips. Clint started at the jagged line across one of Phil's ankles from a bad break in Afghanistan. Phil had told him the story of each scar once, on a night not too unlike the one they were sharing. Most of the stories Clint knew firsthand, but he cherished Phil telling him each and every one. He loved Phil’s voice—could listen to him say nothing for hours—and he loved hearing stories about their missions in Phil’s words, in Phil’s even, smooth, calming tone.
It took longer than kissing the knots holding his Dom in place. They weren't in any rush, weren't in any hurry. He could take his time; wanted to take his time; would take every second Phil gave him, every day for the rest of their lives.
Clint let out a soft, dry sob as he passed his fingers around the edge of the scar across Phil's chest that had almost ripped them apart.
Phil told him he'd done well when he finished, and that he was allowed to trace the scars with his lips if he wanted.
Clint wanted. It was his favorite part: being able to taste every imperfection along Phil's perfect skin.
He wasn't too sloppy, too messy, or too wet. That wasn’t what tonight was for. Tonight, he was just worshipful and loving. If he took longer to press his lips to the center of the scar over Phil's heart, neither of them acknowledged it.
The whole way, Phil worshiped him back, with praise and praise and praise.
Clint had never been better loved by anyone else. He wasn't sure he ever could be.
When Clint was done, they were both breathing hard. Phil nodded to him once and Clint slid into place. He straddled Phil's hips, lowered himself down, and rode Phil like it was the one thing in life he was made for.