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There is one problem with Clint’s project that Phil hadn’t anticipated. Now more than ever he’s keeping things as chaste as he can with Clint without actually being rejecting. It’s his job as a dom to help keep his sub on an even keel, and the only instance of overt sexuality between them had discombobulated Clint to such an extent that Phil has to assume he needs more time. This is all very sensible and Phil is strong-willed and he has not had to deal with this many unwanted erections since he was fifteen. Clint has always been beautiful, but to see him wander in whistling, his t-shirt slung over the back of his neck like a towel, a smudge of axle grease on one cheekbone making his eyes look bluer than ever, is torture. And he’s so open and happy when he comes to report on his progress, and the look on his face only gets more adorable when Phil tells him what a good boy he’s being and what a good job he’s doing. It makes Clint glow, and Phil really isn’t sure how much more of this he can take.
Still, even with in the midst of his suffering, Phil is happy. Clint is doing so much better now. Apparently destroying something as expensive and given with as much love as the bike and being forgiven has made him realize that he really can trust Phil to do as he says he will and not punish him. At least Phil hopes that the lesson has stuck at last, and tries not to watch Clint for signs of trouble too obviously.
“Hey, boss?” Clint’s diffident voice at his elbow startles Phil, and he jumps, knocking the dryer door shut with a loud clang that makes Clint wince. “Sorry, I just wondering where my sword and shackle t-shirt was.”
Phil smiles, heart rate slowing down again. “It’s in the load I was just about to do.” The crossed shackle and sword are the symbol of Strong In Submission, the first real subs’ rights group in U.S. history. Clint loves this shirt and Phil is already planning to replace it when it finally wears out.
“Cool. Uh…” Clint goes pink, shuffling his feet a little in sudden shyness. “Uh, are you hungry? ‘Cause I am, and I was thinking I could make us something.”
Phil smiles. “I didn’t know you cooked.”
“I’m not actually good at much, but I make good chili and it’s the kind of day that makes me want some.” It’s a grey day, cold and rainy and perfect weather for something warming and substantial.
“I would love to try it, Clint. You know where everything is, just don’t use the last of anything without telling me.”
“Got it,” Clint says, and darts in with birdlike quickness to kiss Phil’s neck. It sends a shiver down Phil’s spine, but Clint just smiles and gallops off to the kitchen. Phil takes deep breaths and finishes the laundry, fully in control of himself by the time he’s done. He has the feeling it will make Clint tense to watch him cook, so he goes a few rounds with the heavy bag he keeps down here. He goes easy on it since his hands aren’t wrapped, doing this more to keep up the speed of his footwork. He weaves a bit and throws a few kicks and elbows too, because he has never really been a boxer. By virtue of physical exertion, he actually manages to stop thinking about Clint for a while. His mind is comfortably blank as he feels the breath in his lungs and the sweat on his skin and the impact of his body against the bag, and he loses track of time. Then he hears Clint again, his voice raised over the sounds of the washer and dryer and the impacts, but still timid.
“Uh, hey. Phil?”
Phil stops, panting lightly, and catches the bag, hanging on to still it. “Yes?”
“F-food’s done,” Clint croaks, and Phil looks over, faintly alarmed. Clint is standing at the foot of the stairs, his face bright red and the front of his jeans tented. Phil shudders and bites his lip, taking another one of those deep, calming breaths that have become more familiar than ever lately. Clint walks toward him as if he can’t help it, blue eyes slightly glassy. It’s a more extreme version of his expression before that fateful blowjob that had driven him to wreck the bike, and it helps snap Phil out of this a little.
“Clint…”
“Please,” Clint whimpers, and steps into Phil’s arms, hiding his face in Phil’s shoulder. Phil shudders and hugs Clint tightly because even if he has to stop this before it starts, he never wants Clint to feel unwanted. Clint moans and sags against him, grinding on Phil’s thigh in a helpless, automatic way that makes Phil gasp quietly, pressing his face into Clint’s hair for a long moment.
“Clint, we can’t do this.” The whine Clint gives at this is heartbreaking, and Phil squeezes him tightly, kissing his cheek. “You were upset last time, and I think now is too soon.”
“Bullshit,” Clint growls, pulling back in sudden fury. “You just don’t want me.”
Phil actually laughs. He can’t help it, and when Clint tries to struggle out of his grasp he grabs each wrist in a hard, claiming grip and yanks him in close again. Phil bites Clint’s neck sharply and sucks for a just a moment before letting go to press tender kisses to the new red mark as Clint moans again, tipping his head to the side to offer more of his neck. Phil shivers and runs his tongue along Clint’s neck until he can bite his ear, tracing the edge with his tongue and whispering, “The things I want to do to you, Clint.” Clint makes a sharp, high-pitched little noise and bucks against Phil’s leg, helpless in his grasp. “I want to bind you so I can fuck your mouth slowly, so you can’t move at all and I can make it last. I want to flog you until your whole back is pink and the slightest touch makes you moan. I want to put you in a collar and leash and use it to guide you while you fuck me.” He shudders and buries his face in Clint’s shoulder, lightheaded with arousal and needing to catch his breath. Clint whimpers and shakes, and Phil sighs, letting go of his wrists and gently pushing him away. Clint makes a wounded little noise, but lets him.
“We need to talk about this,” Phil says, still short of breath, “and now isn’t the time. I meant everything I said, but for now I think we should each claim a bathroom, take care of ourselves, and then reconvene in the kitchen for chili.”
“Goddammit, Phil…” Clint whines.
“Red, Clint. We are not doing this.”
Clint sighs, but of course respects a safeword like the good boy he is. “…Can I have one kiss before we go?” He asks softly, and Phil nods.
“Of course,” Phil says, and steps up to Clint again, cupping his face in his hands and kissing him. It’s chaste but firm, and Clint shivers. He leans into it a little but doesn’t try to prolong it when Phil pulls away. “Good boy,” Phil whispers, stroking his hair and giving him a bonus kiss on the forehead. “You’re such a good boy, Clint, and I do want you. So much.”
“Yes, sir,” Clint breathes, and flees up the stairs. Phil gives him a decent head start and then does the same. Clint has already commandeered the downstairs bathroom, so Phil makes his way upstairs. Even with that delay by the time he gets the door closed behind him and his pants down, it only takes a few strokes before he’s coming, silently and so hard that he has to stumble a few steps forward and sit on the edge of the bathtub to recover.