A third kink meme fill! Warnings for this fix include whipping, blood, and minor gore!

Clint had to say as far as public embarrassments went, this surprisingly wasn't that bad. Sure, he was stripped of his shirt and tied with his arms above his head. Yes, he had been forced to his knees and shoved in an uncomfortable position, to make the strikes easier to land. But hell, he got spanked quite often – privately – and in Phil's office, or even in their bedroom this would probably be kind of hot. Of course he knew that it would hurt worse than anything he had experienced as of late as his skin was flayed off by the leather, but he knew Phil would take care of him as soon as they were done. Just as it was the handler's job to enact the punishment, it was the handler's job to get you taken care of when the punishment was done. The only downside was – aside from the obvious pain – that his boyfriend was also his handler.

Clint didn't hate the punishment aspect so much as he hated the publicity of it all. But that mission had gone to hell very quickly, there was nothing he, or Phil, could have done to stop it. He had made a risky shot, releasing the arrow just as he was being told not to, and accidentally triggered a trap, causing a nearby building to explode. Not waiting for orders was what had earned him this. Well, not waiting for orders and destroying a whole city block. He couldn't see the people gathered in the room unless he turned his head, which was hard to do with it trapped between his biceps.

Trapping his head served two purposes. The first was that he wouldn't be able to see the bindings on his wrist and start scoping out a way to escape. The second was that the muscle pressed to his ears made it more difficult for him to hear the footsteps coming up behind him or the swing of the cat o' nine tails that would be giving him the lashes today. But what he could see was the shadow fall across him, Phil's shoes coming to rest just in his line of sight. It didn't stop him from feeling the slightly trembling hand stroke down his spine, the last time the skin would be unbroken for a while. The last time this gesture would be able to be performed until he was healed.

"Nervous, sir?" he asked, smirking through his own bout of nervousness. If he could get Phil riled enough he wouldn't be thinking about what he was doing, he'd be focused on calming down while his hands stayed busy.

"Quiet Barton." The snappy reply was impassive, but he could tell that it was forced. He knew that if he could see his handler he'd be able to pick up the tic above Coulson's eye, the clench of his jaw, the way his thumb pressed into his forefinger around the cat's handle instead of his digits gripping the handle tight enough to show. Subtle things that most people missed. But he had witnessed enough of it as they brought him in. Coulson with a blank, vaguely disappointed stare, one that he hadn't quite been able to meet. They both knew that they were using the cat o' nine tails because he had 'gone too far this time' and every stroke would feel and act like nine. He understood it, he deserved it, but still he was not looking forward to it.

"We'll then let's get the show on the road. Unless you're scared. If you're going to be a baby about it you could always give up being my handle-ah!" He hadn't meant to make any pained sounds from the whipping, but the first stroke cut off the middle of his sentence, pulling a shocked and pained sound from his throat. From that point he closed his mouth, just in time for the second stroke to lash across his spine, dragging fire in its wake. Already his muscles started to twinge from the effort of being still. The third strike brought unwilling tears to his eyes, but he forced them back. He could already feel the blood pooling on his back and running down tanned skin, some flecking his pants with rust, others dripping with various speeds onto the white tile beneath him.

He had to get up to forty five. This was gonna suck.

The fifth stroke made him shudder slightly, back burning, as sweat stung his eyes during the brief moments he opened them. It was easier to keep them closed against the sweat. Save himself a little agony.

At the tenth his muscles screamed from being held in the same position, from not being allowed to twist out of the way and try to soften the blows, feeling all 90 splits in his skin as if they had happened one by one.

The twentieth found his muscles spasming, more than likely visibly, knees burning nearly as much as his back. He was no longer able to stop tears from running down his face. He doubted people noticed though, there was so much other liquid present.

The twenty fifth found him losing count, and the thirtieth brought the first cry of pain from his lips.

By thirty five he couldn't stop his body from arching away, and the fortieth stroke found him losing his voice, but still trying to yell anyways. By the time the forty fifth stroke landed on his raw and bloody back Clint was unconscious, blacked out from the pain.

There had been a moment when they nearly locked eyes as Clint had been walked in. Both knew that the other could tell what they were feeling. Clint knew Phil hated this and Phil knew that for as much bravado as he was showing, Clint was scared. Clint was scared and Phil couldn't do a damn thing about it. He kept his jaw locked, face impassive and allowed himself a deep breath and slow blink. He had to go through with this. Better him than someone who wouldn't even bother to try and be careful, not letting any spot get too injured. Spreading them out hurt more in the short term but they healed faster since the damage to the underlying tissues wasn't as severe.

Every crack of the whip onto Clint's back made his heart break a little more, made his stomach twist and threaten to push bile up and ruin his facade of calm. He didn't like this, not one bit. Especially since the whole thing was more of an accident than a malicious disobeying of orders. He had announced he was making the shot, but by the time he had been told not to, it was too late. Yes he should have waited for the all clear, but four hundred and five lacerations on his back was excessive. A caning would probably have been more effective, but he hadn't been able to convince Fury of that. Barton already had too many strikes on his record. It was time for the punishment to really stick, according to Fury anyways. As his handler it was his job to punish his boyfriend, even though he'd rather swap places with him. An option hat had been swept off the table by Fury just as quickly as Coulson brought it up.

He wasn't sure what bothered him more. The way the blood welled up over Clint's skin, taking the shreds of tanned flesh and moving them to hang sickly off of him revealing the red flesh underneath, the way people stared like this was an every day occurrence, or the fact that even as Clint was screaming and tears were running down his face he didn't once ask for it to stop. Didn't once apologize or say please like many in lesser situations had before him. He took it like one of SHIELD's finest. If it had been up to Phil, Clint would have been considered the best there was, instead of the 'great assassin with the attitude problem'.

When the sound from the last strike faded from the air, Phil dropped the weapon as Fury and Hill told everyone to go back to work. Medics entered as the agents left, some lingering until they didn't have an excuse to stay without it seeming suspicious. The only ones who didn't leave were Hill, Fury and Coulson himself. When the medics took Clint out of his bindings and laid him across their workbench, Phil followed, staying by his head and letting them work, slowly massaging his Archer's arms to get blood back into them and whispering quiet, calming things to him, even after they injected him with a sedative and painkiller. He was thankful for that, after all, he was unconscious and they had no reason to prolong his suffering. Still, he would never forget the sight of shreds of skin being cut away, to be dropped to the floor with a sickening splat, being left for when the room was cleaned and sanitized. Phil would never forget how they landed like pieces of bloody fettuccine.

The medics cleaned Clint's back, bandaged the wound - at this point singular was the only real explanation for it, even though there were four hundred and five individual cuts across the archer's once pristine back. Phil doubted he'd ever forget that number - and sent him home with Phil, trusting him to bring him in if things went wrong. Coulson was also given a long list of care instructions and extra bandages. However at the moment he was focused on getting his boy home and getting the sweat off of him. He'd have to be careful, but he knew Clint would appreciate it. Then in the morning, when it was time to change the bandages he'd help Clint through an actual shower, if the other man would let him.

The first time Clint came to at home, he was laying face down on chairs in the bathroom getting his hair washed by his boyfriend and handler. Phil was speaking quietly, apologizing and telling him he did well and thanking him softly. As if this was some sort of BDSM scene that they had participated in. When he turned to look at Phil the water was instantly pulled away and Phil stroked damp fingertips across his forehead and down his cheek, a comforting gesture.

"Well it's a good thing I wasn't being caned again. That could have gotten messy." He gave Phil a wink, and the older man shook his head.

"That was messy anyways. Too severe. We both know you haven't learned anything from that."

"Nope!" Clint gave a grin, "Except Fury's a bastard. But I did kind of deserve it this time." Phil crouched here, scowling as he met Clint eye to eye.

"You didn't deserve it. Nobody else would have been able to make that shot as cleanly as you did. Nobody knew that the building was rigged to explode."

"Then why tell me to stop?"

"We learned that he was bringing a young woman in the room with him, we didn't want her to be scarred for life, if his plans for her weren't malicious."

Clint nodded and ignored the pain to stretch and kiss his boyfriend. "I'm glad it was you. Thank you." For being his handler, for not leaving, for helping get him cleaned up, for bringing him home, for being his boyfriend, but most importantly, for bring Phil.

The kiss was gentle, as if Clint was glass and may shatter if too much force was used. "You're welcome. I love you."

"Love you too."