Flaws

by x-Energy.Purple-x

There are flaws in perfection. Flaws in appearances. Flaws in control. Every single one of Phil's flaws revolve around Clint. Phil, however, wouldn't change a thing. *Explicit Phlint d/s!*

A/N: So, I was really inspired for some reason to write some Phlint smut. However, what initially started off as a quick little porn fic very rapidly developed into this beast. Oh well, I hope you all enjoy it just the same :)

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Phil was a creature of impeccable routine.

Many of the Agents around the helicarrier laughed off his overly precise ways and little distinctive habits as things that happened when you were stuck with SHIELD for as long as Phil had been, but Phil didn't mind that. Phil didn't mind the stories and legends that were borne out of his ironclad control and sophisticated style either. More than once, he'd seen the Juniors tripping over their own feet in an attempt to avoid the Agent; very few dared to breathe a word against Phil for fear of repercussions that could be made to look like accidents or improbable feats of God.

Even fewer people in SHIELD could find a single bad word to say against Phil, purely because there was, on face value to those Agents who worked with him in a professional manner only, zero flaws that could be seen in the Senior Field Agent in Charge. His contingency plans had contingency plans. He was always calm and authoritative, seemingly ten steps ahead of everything else going on in the situation surrounding him at the time. He never left a single Agent behind in the field, even if it came at the expense of personal injury. His brain worked in such incredible ways, logical yet willing to jump from the box in leaps and bounds; it was no surprise that the idea of him being an android or one of Stark's robots had come about after a mission where Phil had managed to defy every odd and challenge, taking down an entire ammunitions cartel near singlehandedly with a broken ankle and zero fatalities in an area that Fury himself had deemed "hell on earth."

Phil was a man who commanded respect. Phil liked respect. He liked respect almost as much as he liked the comfort and familiarities of the routines established around him.

Above all else though, he craved control.

Medical had remarked on multiple occasions that Phil was practically obsessive-compulsive with the quirks and actions that helped to define the man for who and what he was. It was the control he had in the field that commanded the respect of every other Agent in SHIELD. It was Phil's instincts and reactions in apparently uncontrollable situations, the inbred routines and dynamics he could access within his own mental data banks in a split second to completely reassess and re-evaluate the scenario and the mission with a snap of his fingers, that made Phil almost untouchable.

Phil revelled in it.

Routine. Respect. Control. Those may have been things that helped to identify him within the otherwise chaotic world that existed, but it was the feeling of having earned every single one of those things, having clawed his way into that position of equal amounts of awe, admiration and fear, that Phil basked in the most.

Many of the Senior Agents had believed that throwing Clint Barton to Phil's legendary hand was going to destroy half of SHIELD in the process. A very small, naïve, overly optimistic group of individuals thought that Phil would be able to influence Clint to the point of being able to mould the wayward, reckless, insubordinate archer into his own image of control and efficiency. Almost every level 7 Agent, and the vast majority of those who seemed to have even a faint idea of who and what Clint Barton was capable of, was convinced that Phil was either going to end up killing Clint, or that Phil was going to be driven to the point of insanity trying to tame the one who'd been dubbed the untameable.

Agents quickly learnt never to doubt Phillip Coulson.

It may have been an incredibly painful and slow process, hampered by Clint's own inability to trust or listen to authority and Phil's initial lack of understanding about how on earth to approach such an unorthodox, misunderstood man, but it had happened to the disbelief of everyone.

Phil had managed to tame the untameable in spectacular fashion. Clint had ended up with less than a quarter of the usual number of disciplinary strikes and suspensions that had stained his ledger. Clint was gradually being trusted in the field not to do anything reckless or unbelievably stupid for most missions, and the archer was learning to obey the orders of the organisation that had saved him from the street and given him a life.

Somewhere along the way, Phil had become very close friends with Clint. They had their own personal in jokes and style of communication that left most other Agents at SHIELD base completely baffled. Clint could quite often be found in Phil's office eating whatever food he'd managed to snatch from the canteen, talking and laughing over missions, bad coffee, and bonding experiences they'd both gone through together.

Almost simultaneously, the gossip reel amongst the Junior Agents had gone into overdrive. Phil had managed to brainwash Clint and indoctrinate him into whatever secret group Phil was part of. Phil had had Clint replaced with a robot after taking him down with one of his own arrows. Clint was completely, head over heels, in love and lust for Phil and Phil was using that to manipulate Clint into being good, blackmailing Clint with his own infamous libido.

Phil had smiled that small, hidden smile when he'd first heard the rumours. Sitwell and Hill had almost encouraged Phil to play along with the idea of Clint and himself being in some kind of fucked up, power-driven sex orgy just to keep them lined in entertainment and humour during particularly long or depressing missions.

Phil had smiled quietly then too, drinking a measured sip of his coffee as Sitwell and Hill continued their conversation, his superficially tight and pinched grin taking on a wicked, hidden undertone as he launched into their review of the new recruits with gusto.

After all, it wouldn't pay for them to know that even the infamous, legendary Phil Coulson was capable of some flaws in control himself.

~x~

The slight scratching of Phil's fountain pen as he filled in yet another assignment report was the only indication that his control was beginning to be tested.

In all outward appearances, Phil was as impeccable as usual. His suit was perfectly pressed, his tie perfectly looped into a windsor knot, his cufflinks sitting at perfect angles from each other at his wrist as he continued checking the forms in front of him. His piles of paperwork were sitting in perfectly ordered triplicate groups - based on the security clearance of the mission, objectives, success rate, concluding aims, individuals involved, contingencies in place, involvement of outside government organisations, and other detailed factors that Phil liked to analyse for patterns and trends - in neat stacks on the corners of his desk. His spare pen was sitting at a perfect ninety degree angle from the chipped, well used coffee cup - the only visible sign of imperfection that seemed to ever marr any of Phil's routines, even if the coffee was a routine in and of itself that would symbolise Phil's descent into madness if it wasn't there anyway. Even the clock was perfectly in sync with the Rolex watch around his wrist.

On the outside, everything was perfect.

But Phil knew it wasn't.

His control was very gradually starting to slip away from him, his heart beat thrumming every so slightly in anticipation of what he knew was going to happen when that control was eventually completely broken, and the frisson of heat that pooled low in Phil's stomach at even the mere thought of it was enough to make him readjust his belt before he started the next form.

The anticipation was the sweetest of tortures, but it was barely a ripple compared to what Phil knew he was going to experience by the end of the night.

A brief flare of guilt burnt brightly, making Phil's heart clench in his chest for a moment as he pressed down even harder on his pen. Clint had protested and whined so much when he'd been given the mission, his eyes blazing with anger and upset as he tried to plead his case with Phil. Phil, to his credit, hadn't been immune to Clint's ill feelings on the situation. If it wasn't for the fact that they were in Phil's office, waiting for Sitwell and another Agent to arrive regarding the mission assignment, then Phil would've let Clint know exactly how he felt, but his professionalism had won out.

Clint was being sent out on what was essentially a milk run, one that was almost insultingly easy considering Clint's status and rank, and with some wet behind the ears Agent who was essentially fulfilling Phil's role in the field. Despite how highly both Clint and he ranked in the organisation, and the fact that it was never really necessary to send out two Senior Agents on routine missions, it was exceedingly rare that Phil was not Clint's handler and Agent in charge during the archers assignments.

It was generally accepted that where one went, the other was right beside them, but this was one of those times that was going to end up being an exception to the rule. It didn't help either that Clint was caught in an almost impossible position. Since the aftermath of New York, Clint's assignments had been incredibly thin on the ground; it wasn't that Fury or Phil didn't trust him - they both knew that Clint was more than capable of doing his job to his pre-Loki standards with ease - it was that nobody at SHIELD outside of a very tiny minority trusted Clint. With barely anybody willing to give Clint a chance or wanting to work with him, his missions were majorly restricted, which meant that if he wanted to be able to carry on providing for himself, he had no choice but to take whatever SHIELD threw at him.

Unfortunately, this was one of those times when SHIELD had firmly decided to screw Clint over.

Phil knew about the mission, and he knew about the possibility of them allowing newly promoted Seniors the chance to actually lead out in the field and gain some sorely needed experience; he'd just hoped that Clint would be able to understand.

Apparently, his horrifically insubordinate archer still had one or two things that managed to throw Phil for a loop.

Clint had screamed until red in the face. He'd paced Phil's office like a caged animal, tension painfully visible in his rigid muscles. He'd taken to sulking and empty threats that Phil knew - or at least hoped - Clint would never really carry out. It was like watching a child throwing a tantrum, and Phil had just breathed in deep, trying to project a soothing, understanding tone in his words that would get Clint to calm down.

It had worked. Kind of. Clint had stopped pacing at least, even if he didn't look any less agitated than before. His eyes had locked on Phil's, and Phil could read the fear and anxiety that coloured Clint's actions so devastatingly easy that it made a lump appear in his throat. Clint looked almost as if he was losing control of everything. Phil's hand twitched from its place on his desk; it was nearly impossible to resist Clint when he was like this, silently begging Phil to give him back the routine familiarity that he so desperately needed.

Clint's knees were trembling, his face open and exposing the gamut of emotions that Phil knew more intimately than he sometimes cared to admit, and Phil's control had very nearly crumbled. Watching the door in the periphery of his vision, he'd let his moment of weakness take over as he ghosted his fingers softly up Clint's bare arm.

"Sir, please," Clint whispered, biting down on his bottom lip as he hung his head low, and Phil knew that all he had to do was say the word, and Clint would be down on his knees, ready and waiting to accept whatever Phil decided he wanted to do to him.

Having that much power over the archer sometimes was enough to make him see stars.

Before Phil had been able to do anything, the swift knocking and opening of his office door had broken the connection. Clint had taken a few steps back, his shoulders straightening as he instantly shrugged off the submissive pose he had instinctively taken in Phil's presence, and Phil leaned back into his chair as Sitwell came in.

It was startling to see the change in Clint at the appearance of the relatively unknown Senior Agent standing a few steps behind Sitwell. Clint's body language had suddenly become aggressively stand-offish, on guard and distrustful, and Phil had felt the heat surge low in his gut. Clint possessed such raw power, such strength, and to know that Phil was the only person in the world capable of controlling a beast like Clint was absolutely intoxicating.

Taking a deep breath, Phil had stood, extending his hand out towards the Agent who had finally worked up the courage to step into Phil's office.

"Agent Weir, yes?" Phil shook the young man's hand, and Sitwell laughed when he visibly struggled to speak, settling instead for nodding his head nervously as he eyed up Clint.

"Don't worry about Barton," Sitwell smirked at the clearly tense Agent, amusement underlining his words as Phil and he shared a look of understanding. "He's an absolutely pussy cat, isn't he Coulson?"

Clint glared, his tone mockingly respectful. "Get bent, Sir."

Phil had rolled his eyes, one of his hands coming up to rest on the juncture of Clint's shoulder as he talked over the mission with Sitwell and Weir. Only half of his mind was on the current task though; his fingertips were skating over the slither of skin exposed by Clint's field gear, vividly remembering the sounds that fell from the archers beautifully dirty mouth whenever Phil sucked or kissed or bit that sensitive flesh, and he could see the way that Clint's hands were clenching behind his back as he struggled not to react to Phil's gentle ministrations.

Phil had smiled briefly when Clint managed to refrain from moving obviously into his touch, barely twisting his shoulder so that he could feel more of Phil's caresses against his skin to the obliviousness of the other two Agents in the room.

Times like this, it was good to know that Clint had learnt at least a little bit of control.

As the conversation had wound down and it begun nearing the time for Clint and Weir to dispatch to their mission location, Clint was practically wound up as tight as a spring, even despite Phil's subtle attempts at getting the archer to relax. As Sitwell and Weir had left, telling Clint to meet them up on the flight deck in 15 minutes, the door had barely closed before Clint's hands had reached out to grab Phil's hips, pulling him in close to his body as he leaned in for a kiss.

Phil had pulled his head back, keeping enough distance between the two of them as he raised his eyebrow to make sure that Clint knew he wasn't going to play this game. Clint tried again, ducking his head in more insistently as he ground himself against Phil's thigh, but before he could get any closer, the hand that had been on Clint's shoulder was wrapped around his throat, Phil's free hand reaching down to cup the front of Clint's pants with a squeeze.

Clint had whimpered so desperately, his eyes blown with need and frustration that Phil very nearly felt his control unravel, but he managed to keep it contained as he raised his eyebrow at the archer before him. Clint's eyes slipped shut, but a sharp squeeze from both of Phil's hands had his eyes shooting back open as he gave a gasp, biting down on his bottom lip as Phil let his fingers trace the outline of the erection that he could feel swelling in his grip.

"Now now, Barton, that was uncalled for."

Phil's tone had been a little bit deeper, a little bit more gravelly than usual; it was the tone that he usually used in more private surroundings, the tone that gave orders that expected to be obeyed, the tone that usually made the normally insubordinate archer fall apart under his touch. Phil knew that Clint was a slave to that calm, honeyed voice, and it appeared this time was no different.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Clint had instantly responded, his words slightly strained and cracked from the firm grip of Phil's hand around his neck and the emotional weight behind them.

"I know you are, Barton," Phil had soothed back just as quickly, letting his fingers loosen to become a teasingly light caress. Clint, to his credit, didn't move again; he stood statue still, his hands behind his back as he continued looking straight into Phil's eyes. "But you know what the rules are, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir."

Phil hummed noncommitally as he dug his nails into the pulse that he could see throbbing on the side of Clint's neck. Clint had gasped, an utterly wrecked sound that was doing indescribable things to Phil's brain, and Phil had briefly closed his eyes as he tried to keep a tight leash on his control.

"And what are those rules, Barton?"

"Not to touch unless I have permission to touch, Sir."

"Good," Phil had smiled back, seeing the way that Clint had started to relax despite the hands still lingering around his throat and his groin. This was the type of control that Clint needed, the firmly defined rules and boundaries, and the way Clint had seemed almost to glow at the positive acknowledgement was enough to let Phil indulge him with a soft stroke of his fingers across the length of Clint's rapidly hardening erection.

"I'm going to let you off this one time, Barton, because I know that you're better behaved than this when you're not upset about a mission. However," Phil's voice dropped as he squeezed hard around Clint's cock, the archer giving a breathy gasp as he tried desperately to keep his eyes on Phil's despite the growing pressure around his erection. "Don't think I'm going to let you get away with such blatant disrespect again."

"No, Sir, of course not."

Phil had smiled again, pulling his hands away from Clint and running his eyes deliberately down the length of the archer's body. Clint had blushed slightly under the inspection, the outline of his cock now quite prominent against the inside of his field pants as he took a deep breath, and Phil had been unable to deny himself a quick moment of self-indulgence as he pulled Clint into the kiss he'd been searching for mere minutes before.

It had been needy and frantic and oh so sinful, Phil's tongue plundering Clint's mouth, his hands framing Clint's face as Clint ground his hips hard and fast against Phil's, but before Clint could reach the brink, Phil had suddenly pulled back. A smirk crossed his face at the state of his asset; his lips were swollen, his skin flushed and beginning to bead with sweat, his hair messy, and as Clint's hips had thrust into mid-air, the whine he failed to contain almost made Phil laugh. This time though, Clint had known better than to reach out for his handler again, and as the realisation had crossed Clint's face about the situation he now found himself in, Phil could see the frustrated irritation painted in the archers eyes.

"If I'm right, Barton, then you might be able to afford yourself five minutes of personal time before you're needed on the flight deck. If you manage to control yourself during this assignment, and I think that you've satisfactorily learnt some respect, then I will be able to afford you much more than five minutes when you come back."

The lusty hint of promise in Phil's voice was enough to have Clint almost shaking with restrained desire as the archer had set about grabbing everything he needed.

"Yes, Sir!" Clint answered enthusiastically, and Phil had almost thought his heart was going to burst out his chest at the swell of affection he felt for the younger man as Clint left.

It was a delicate line he had to walk with Clint. For someone with such inherently strong trust and self esteem issues to be willing to subject themselves to the control of someone else, it was something that Phil never dared to take lightly.

As much as it was about control when it came to Clint, Phil knew that there was so many more things powering that trust and affection and mindless submission to his words and his body, and Phil was loathed to take any of that for granted. It had taken him long enough to get it, and the knowledge that it could take mere seconds to shatter that fragile relationship was enough to make him careful.

Phil had taken a few deep breaths, making himself yet another cup of coffee before he'd settled back down in his seat to confront the pile of paperwork that he had acquired over the course of the last couple of days and missions.

That had been nearly eight hours before, and Phil was steadily losing his mind as he heard the nib of his fountain pen snap from the pressure he'd been placing on it, a little dot of blue ink and the imperfection it caused on his form reflecting the control Phil could feel breaking inside him.

The thoughts of what he was going to do to Clint when he came back from the mission were enough to make his mouth start involuntarily watering, his fingers itching with the desire to touch Clint's smooth, soft flesh and wrestle those beautifully debauched sounds from the archers lips. It was having the archer so pliant, so perfect beneath his hand that wrecked any semblance of control Phil thought he had.

Clenching his fingers into a tight fist as he counted to five in his head, Phil could feel the heat and arousal in his stomach kick up a notch as he drained the luke-warm cup of coffee sitting next to him, feeling the caffeine calm his nerves.

If it wasn't for the fact that Phil was at work, he'd almost have been slightly tempted to lock his door for a little while and bring himself off so that he could finally think clearly again. It certainly would've helped his lack of concentration that images of Clint in compromising positions was helping to destroy, but he decided against it.

Half of the fun was maintaining every ounce of his control whilst breaking Clint down. Some of the enjoyment and satisfaction for Phil came from keeping a lid on his own lust and arousal until he'd made sure that Clint was taken care of. Anticipation really was one of the sweetest tortures of the experience, and Phil cracked a smile; this was one time when he really felt that the anticipation was more than worth bearing.

Despite the self-indulgent thoughts though, Phil knew that everything he did, he did for Clint; his enjoyment was only a secondary objective.

It had taken nearly 18 months of an uneasy alliance and tentative truce between them before Clint found himself able to tell Phil anything personal about his past. Control was a scarce, precious thing in the sort of environments Clint grew up in; it wasn't a luxury or a privilege Clint could become accustomed to when he was younger. Respect was most certainly something that the archer experienced very little of either.

Control had always been a weapon used against the archer, respect used at face value as a justification for the torrent of pain and abuse that marked Clint's records. The only routine Clint had been able to rely on was trusting his own instincts enough to be able to stay alive, to ensure that whatever happened to him would be over as fast and painless as possible.

Clint was terrified of control, but it was the one thing that the archer understood. He'd been conditioned to its effects for so long that, even despite his hatred and fear of it being turned against him, he couldn't help but fall into it.

It was this complex balancing act between craving and loathing control, routine and respect that had formed the core of Clint's mistrust and dislike of anyone and everyone at SHIELD until Phil had taken him under his wing. He lashed out at the boundaries and commands given to him because he hated losing all control. At the same time though, a small part of him was desperate for that control to be further enforced, just so that he knew where he stood, so that he could gain the respect and the intrinsic glow of approval that came from following such strict rules and orders.

When Clint had finally stopped talking, his body tense and his eyes blazing with confusion and self-doubt, Phil had just taken a deep breath, trying to take in everything that Clint had told him. Seconds had passed, seconds that felt like hours, before Phil was finally able to speak.

"Do you trust me, Clint?"

Clint's eyes had been glistening - the threat of tears, the emotional impact of the conversation they were having, sheer honesty, Phil never really knew - and it had taken at least five minutes of silence before the archer had whispered his answer.

"Of course I do, Sir."

That simple admission had opened up the floodgates between the two of them, Clint finally allowing Phil to see beneath the surface and understand the way that the archer saw the world from his jaded view, and Phil letting Clint see just how much he appreciated the new found openness between them.

It shouldn't have come as any surprise to Phil that it would take less than four months after that one conversation for the two of them to cross the last boundary between them. It had been after a particularly difficult mission, one that had spurred Clint to break into Phil's apartment and finally take up residence in Phil's large, empty bed. Phil's memories of that night were hazed with the frenzied lust and longing and the bone deep possessive protectiveness he felt at having Clint in his arms.

What did surprise Phil though was just how keen and submissive Clint was in his presence, desperately craving every ounce of approval and desire as if it was as essential as the blood in his veins. What surprised Phil even further was just how much he revelled in having Clint so pliant and obedient beneath him. It was a different kind of control he had altogether, and it was one that Phil knew he was eventually going to have to taste again to keep him sane.

When it became so painfully obvious that Clint wanted more of it as well, Phil had been unable to keep the grin off his face.

He wasn't stupid enough to abuse the gift that Clint had given him though. Phil knew more intimately than anyone else just how much respect Clint deserved, and he wasn't going to allow his own feelings and wants to dictate any potential disrespect. He'd researched. They'd both discussed. He'd treated it with all the single-minded thoroughness of any major mission, except the implications of anything that happened were more important to Phil than any other assignment he'd ever completed.

It had been a learning curve. Phil quickly discovered that Clint had limits, the sorts of limits that could cause near irrevocable damage if pushed too hard or too fast. Phil also discovered Clint needed so many different things from what they did together; it wasn't the stereotypical one-dimensional idea that he'd associated with the kind of relationship they had.

It wasn't always about pain. It wasn't always about sex.

Sometimes, it could be nothing more than Phil calmly talking Clint down from a mission, his voice rich with that honeyed, gravelled tone that acted like a salve to soothe the archer. Sometimes, it could purely be Phil giving Clint gentle touches and caresses, allowing the archer to bask in the approval and knowledge that he was so very wanted and cared for. A majority of the time though, it was Phil being merciless with his archer, breaking Clint down into seemingly irretrievable pieces before piecing him back together again.

Phil had learned to read the signs, the giveaways and the triggers. He knew now from barely a split second glance at Clint exactly what it was that the archer needed from him, the level of control and respect that Clint craved from his handler, and it was the intimate, shared experiences of giving Clint exactly what it was that he needed to feel human again that Phil cherished most of all.

Of course, he briefly acknowledged as he picked up his spare fountain pen, pulling an extra copy of the mission report from his drawer and filling out the fresh form to replace the ink-splattered one he'd been working on, it wasn't just Clint who benefited from the relationship that the two of them shared.

Contrary to popular belief and legends about Phil, Phil didn't want permanent control and routine in his life. He didn't want to live up to the pristine image of himself that was held up in equal measures of awe and fear around SHIELD base. Clint gave him an opportunity to be that flawed individual that he knew lurked just beneath the perfectly composed veneer of Senior Agent Coulson. With Clint, he could just be Phil. With Clint, he could allow his control to be vented into completely different directions, breaking down in harmonious parallel with Clint until he could forget who he was and just feel.

Sometimes, he got the very distinct impression that that was one of the things that Clint personally enjoyed very much as well.

It had taken them nearly four years to reach the equilibrium in their relationship that allowed both of them the maximum gains and benefits, but Phil never lost sight of the fact that this was all for Clint.

Phil continued in this thread for another two hours, his pile of forms efficiently completed and filled with the high level of detail that Fury knew Phil would be unable to help supplying for future assessments and missions. Phil had gone through nearly half of his email inbox, swiftly typing answers and responses to the vast quantity of enquiries and questions that got sent his way before his cell phone began to ring.

Leaning back in his chair, Phil briefly glanced up at the clock on his office wall as he flipped it open; 10 hours for a milk run. Not bad at all.

"Coulson."

"Sir," Sitwell's tone, professional and respectful as always addressed him, and Phil gave a smile at the glow that ran through him. "Agents Weir and Barton have been successfully extracted from the designated departure point. Estimated time of arrival for touchdown on the flight deck should be about 15 minutes."

"Good. Any initial indication on the outcome of the mission?"

"All objectives met, couple of leads that you might be interested in exploring for debrief."

"Weir and Barton?"

Phil could almost see the shrug that he knew Sitwell was giving down the other end of the cell, but the slight pause in Sitwell's words before he started talking again was enough to peak Phil's concern.

"Definitely not getting put together again in the near future, I can tell you that much."

Phil was instantly tense, and it took an awful amount more control than he cared to admit to keep the worry out of his voice. "Why?"

"Why'd you think?" Sitwell snorted down the line. "Barton really doesn't like him. Refused to follow his orders, cut off communication with Weir. Changed his perch numerous times, only to end up with one of them getting targeted."

Phil's stomach knotted. "Is he-"

"Barton's fine, Coulson. Bit battered and bruised, few stitches in his arm. Good thing Stark upgraded his field gear; thought he'd broken a few ribs going into a rock ledge, but medical just think he's badly bruised them, maybe cracked them slightly in the worst case, but nothing major. His own fault anyway."

Phil rubbed a hand down his face roughly, feeling a little bit of the tension melt out of him at Sitwell's words.

"Doesn't surprise me in the slightest."

Sitwell openly laughed at the weary exasperation in Phil's tone. "Me neither, Sir. Glad to know that you haven't completely broken that insubordination out of Barton. The Juniors were getting worried that he was starting to go soft."

Leaning back into his chair, Phil ran the tip of one of his fingers around the rim of his coffee cup as he smirked at the wall opposite. He'd never want to break Clint completely; where would be the long-term advantage and fun in that? Phil didn't do this so that he could have some mindless, permanently subdued bed partner at his beck and call. A major part of Clint's personality was his cocky recklessness and insubordination, and Phil couldn't take that away from the archer, even when Clint sometimes asked him to. That was just too close to playing God for Phil's comfort.

"Medical want to give him a once over, make sure he isn't hiding anything. Do you want me to send him to you for debrief once they let him go, or are you going to meet them?"

Phil bit down on his bottom lip slightly as he tried to go over various scenarios in his mind. Going down to meet Clint straight away would at least allow him the chance to instantly assess the situation, but sometimes, having that delay was enough to let Clint clear his head and calm down before unleashing himself on Phil.

If Sitwell had felt fit to warn Phil about Clint's hostility and dislike of Weir on such a strong level that it had caused Clint inadvertant injury, then Phil knew better than trying to impose too soon. Clint's actions sounded like he was seriously pushing the boundaries and vying to get one-up on Weir; classic Clint power games.

Classic Clint control tactics.

The last thing Phil needed to do was to try and wrestle Clint's control from him when he was obviously so desperate to maintain it on his own terms for a while.

"Let medical have him first. If he complains, tell him it's his own fault. If he still complains, then tell him that I'll deal with him later."

Phil was going to deal with Clint later regardless of whatever route the archer went down, but at least it would be a rough way in which to gauge what sort of condition and state Clint would be in when he eventually got to Phil.

"Well," Sitwell deadpanned, his tone half wary and half amused, "I'm not sure I'd like to be you later then, Sir."

Phil just laughed, listening as the cell disconnected before placing it back on his desk, staring at it contemplatively. It vibrated a couple of minutes later, and Phil let out a soft sigh when he saw the message left for him.

Def. don't want to be you Coulson. Good luck, you're gonna need it. S.

He should've expected it really; the combination of being forced to go to medical and coming off of a mission that he'd never wanted to do in the first place was bound to lead to an argumentative, angry archer. Clint most definitely wasn't going to be easy to put up with tonight, but Phil owed to Clint, even purely as his handler, to make sure that the archer was okay in the aftermath of such a bad assignment.

Pushing himself up from his seat, Phil started to efficiently file and organise the mountain of paperwork that was still sitting on his desk. He knew he wasn't going to be able to do anything else tonight, and he didn't want to have to deal with any remote possibility that a volatile Clint would cause chaos with his records. It had taken him nearly four days to sort out all of his files and bring them back up to his expected level of bookkeeping the last time Clint had been in a bad mood. Those were four days he'd much rather have spent doing other, more productive things with his time - like bringing Clint back to an even keel in their own, unique way.

His inbox clean, and his office ordered, Phil made himself another cup of coffee as he perched himself on the edge of his desk, ensuring that every inch of his appearance was as immaculate as it was when Clint first left.

It was the small details that helped calm Clint down, Phil had initially realised. It gave Clint some sense of routine and familiarity to be able to walk into Phil's office, no matter what was happening, and smell the faint whiff of coffee in the air, to see Phil looking as unshakably reliable and flawless as ever, and if it helped his archer in even the slightest of ways, then it was worth the effort of doing it, Phil decided early on in their relationship.

Settling himself in for however long it was going to take for Clint to arrive at his door, Phil sipped at his coffee leisurely. He used the warm buzz of the caffeine in his system as a way to calm down the heat that had been building low in his stomach for the last few hours. It didn't mean that it was gone altogether, the soft simmer of arousal and lust flowing through him in pulses a reminder that it was still alive and kicking inside the Agent, but Phil was adept at ignoring it. He wasn't going to allow his base desires to control him until he knew exactly what it was Clint needed from him. He couldn't let that crack in his veneer shine through.

Phil didn't need to wait long.

He'd gotten half way through his coffee when a sharp rap of knuckles against his office door - a highly distinctive and identifiable pattern he'd heard thousands of times in the past - made his gut knot for the briefest moment before he was able to regain his composure. Phil didn't answer though. He was going to make Clint wait.

The anticipation was beginning to build, like a hunter waiting to spot its prey, but Phil was able to resist. This was all just a part of the routine that they went through.

It had been another five minutes, and another cup of coffee finished, before Clint had knocked again. The tempo was different from the last set of beats; faster, more authoritative, somewhat agitated. Phil closed his eyes as he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. This was going to be one of those nights.

"Come in."

The words had barely left Phil's lips before Clint had opened the door, letting it slam shut behind him. Phil, to his credit, didn't even flinch at the sound of the bang that echoed around his office; he needed to remain very calm and collected for every possible situation that could occur, and jumping at noises he'd heard before wouldn't help his cause.

Agitated was an understatement to describe Clint now that Phil could see him. His entire posture screamed of defiance, of challenge and an undercurrent of anger that made Phil sigh to see it. His field vest was hanging open, and Phil could see the violent purple bruises already beginning to form over the archers ribs. Clint's eyes were blown wide, his skin flushed and his hair sticking up in clumps where it was flecked with dirt and sweat.

The image before him was enough to make Phil's knees weak and his heart clench in so many different ways.

Clint stood at parade rest in the centre of Phil's office, his hands behind his back, but there was anything but respect being shown. The tight square of Clint's shoulders, and the way that the archers gaze was fixed above Phil's head, not even acknowledging his presence, emphatically reminded Phil of a stand-off. Clint was coiled, wound up and ready to strike, and Phil knew from previous experience just how deadly Clint could be when he was like this.

This side of Clint was ready to fight and take, to battle with a vengeance before finally admitting what it was that they needed. This was the side of Clint that had first reared its head back in the very early, fragile days; the side that viciously denied the control that they so painfully craved until they'd driven themselves into the ground with exhaustion and fear.

Phil knew exactly what he needed to do; this wasn't a unique side to Clint in any means, but that didn't mean that he could afford to let his guard down. Clint was intrinsically relying on him to be firm, relentless, merciless, and to show him any less than that would be tantamount to spitting in the archers face. As it was, blazing beneath the thick layer of anger and irritation that coated Clint's skin, Phil could see the need.

For a few moments, they were silent, an entire conversation passing just from the way that they were feeling each other out. It was a testament to just how close they were that they didn't need to bring themselves down to the point of openly discussing anything regarding what Clint wanted Phil to do.

Clint's eyes dropped down to the floor for less than a second before flicking back up to stare at Phil. It was unwritten consent, the simplest acknowledgement that Clint knew what he was letting himself in for, and Phil gave the faintest of smiles.

This was just another part of their routine, one that had been even longer established than their relationship, stemming from the success of their professional association. Little quirks, unspoken communications, certain sounds and body movements; it was quicker than any words they could've exchanged at a time when Phil knew Clint would either be unwilling or unable to verbalise exactly what he felt. Phil was relaxed by it. They both knew the parameters, they both knew what the objectives were, and Phil knew that if Clint was unhappy with the way that Phil was going about things, then Phil wouldn't hesitate to obey his need to stop things dead in their tracks, regardless of what state they were both in.

Clint hadn't needed to use his safeword in nearly 14 months, so Phil was pretty damn sure that he knew how to read exactly what it was that Clint was after.

Despite the intensity beginning to build in the room, the undertones of tension, anger and lust permeating the air, Phil held back, never once moving from his position on the desk. For the moment, he wasn't Clint's lover; he was his superior, and professionalism demanded that he complete his debrief with his asset before engaging in any new business.

Phil could see just how restless Clint was. The archer who was capable of holding himself statue still for hours on end kept fidgeting in his place, his breaths deliberately paced in an obvious attempt to temper the annoyance and frustration that he felt, and Phil could tell this would be one of those times when his personal and professional life were going to come into direct conflict with each other.

It was in situations like this that Phil was glad for the ironclad discipline that made him legendary.

Now was the time when Phil was going to have to tread the exceptionally fine line between the consummate SHIELD Agent and the concerned, understanding partner who just wanted to give Clint the release and self-control he needed.

He hated those kinds of balancing acts, more for Clint than for himself. It made it so much harder for the archer to dissociate himself from what he was supposed to represent, the man he felt he had to be, and that just tend to make the journey a whole lot more uncomfortable on the way to giving Clint his measure of control.

Phil gave a sigh, absent-mindedly letting his gaze linger on Clint's ribs.

"So, Agent," Clint's gaze snapped down to Phil's, the archer bristling from the commanding, disinterested tone of Phil's voice, "Would you like to tell me why you thought it was in your best interest to cut off all communication with your lead field Agent during an assignment? Or why it would be a good idea to risk your own personal health and the potential success of the mission in order to change your designated position?"

The look Phil pierced Clint with was enough to let him know that Phil demanded an answer to his question, the accusatory heat behind his words enough to make Clint glare at him indignantly. Phil could understand why; normally, he never expected Clint to explain himself or justify any decisions made in the field, but then normally, Phil was right there with him to keep an eye on the archer and act as the voice of reason. Phil couldn't rely on any other Agent having that level of precision and skill when it came to the wayward archer.

"Because with all due respect, Sir," The mocking lightness that dripped from the honorific was more than enough to let Phil know just how pissed Clint was regarding the whole debrief, "Agent Weir was completely incapable of handling the situation, and if I'd listened to him, then we would've blown the mission."

Phil just raised an eyebrow nonchalantly, folding his hands into his lap in a way that he knew would rile the archer up even further. "Well that's one question answered. And the reason for cutting off your comm was?"

"Because he was getting on my fucking nerves, Sir, and he wouldn't shut the hell up and let me concentrate."

"According to the other operatives using the open communication line who have contacted me in the interim period between extraction and arrival back at base, Agent Weir was only corresponding orders when completely necessary for the flow of the mission. I highly doubt that that would constitute any breaking of your concentration, Agent Barton."

"Oh right," Clint bit back instantly, and the sharpness of his words made Phil involuntarily wince as he struggled to keep his personal feelings aside. "So this was all my fault, then? Naughty little Agent Barton refusing to co-operate and play fair?"

"Well, why didn't you?"

"Because he's an asshole!" Clint yelled back, throwing his arms up in the air as he struggled to hold back his growing anger. "Because I wasn't even needed on the stupid fucking mission anyway, and I was sick and tired of listening to him trying to tell me what I could and couldn't do when I know myself better than he fucking does!"

Phil let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. This was a painfully familiar argument, one that Phil had been on the receiving end of more times than he cared to count, particularly in their earlier, rockier days. Whilst many of the level 7 Agents were good at what they did, they were too restricted by an over reliance on the rules and regulations, the 'what if's' and conditionals that led to them being over cautious with the resources they possessed. Clint tended to attract an incredible level of cautiousness from others who had yet to understand the unorthodox skill and judgment Clint possessed, and the subsequent clash of ideas frequently ended in a very messy fallout between Clint and the poor, unsuspecting Agent who happened to mistake his recklessness for stupidity. Fortunately for Phil, he'd very quickly learnt never to make the same mistake twice when it came to arguing with Clint's instincts and decisions; he didn't like getting shot because he second guessed Clint's surveillance, and he'd lost count of the sheer number of times both of their lives had been saved by the archer spotting and shutting down targets before Phil had even opened his mouth.

"I understand that," Phil breathed out, his voice deliberately inflectionless so as not to betray his own personal opinion on the well worn theme, "But the point that you, during a mission which could quite easily have been compromised like so many other simple looking assignments, refused to follow orders and cut off all communication to your leading field Agent, still stands Agent Barton. You need to learn to compromise. You need to learn to control your outbursts and respec-"

"Goddamn it, Coulson, I've had enough of being lectured about respect and control!" Clint's tone was explosive, his body physically trembling with the effort of restraining himself, and Phil instantly knew that this was when that thin, fine line he'd been walking between the professional and the lover had to be crossed. "Respect the chain of command, Barton! Don't even dare to think about challenging your orders, Barton! Respect the mission, Barton! Control your mouth, Barton! Respect the other Agents, Barton, even if they fucking never have or never will respect you! I'm sick and fucking tired of being fed the same shit every time I walk into a room, or I go onto mission, or even when I'm walking down the hallway!"

Clint's voice had cracked over the last word, and Phil knew that this was no longer just about the mission and Weir rubbing the archer up the wrong way. This was about what everyone thought they saw in Clint, the mud that had stuck in the bloody aftermath of missions gone wrong. This was about what Clint saw in himself, the self doubt and loathing that lingered just below the scarred, damaged exterior he presented to the world, and it made Phil feel ill to hear it.

Even worse, it made him feel guilty to know that he was going to have to feed into that vicious circle - even for the shortest length of time - in order to break Clint down enough so that the archer could be rebuilt and able to regain the control and respect that he deserved. Phil knew though that it was ultimately a redundant exercise to feel guilty. Clint and him had both made their peace with just how fucked up their relationship seemed on the surface when either of them tried to analyse it too deeply; at the end of the day, it was something neither could function without, even with the shady areas that dimmed the overall experience, and neither of them were willing to let a little bit of guilt stop them.

Phil suddenly pushed himself up off the desk, his hands sitting on his hips as he matched Clint's glare with an equally glacial, irritated stare that emphatically told Clint that Phil refused to back down. Times like this, he didn't have to fake the anger he could feel bubbling away below the surface; it was never directed at the archer before him though. Phil knew he could never truly be angry with Clint, regardless of how much Clint felt otherwise during such emotionally intense confrontations. That didn't mean however that he couldn't allow the frustration he sometimes felt with his asset be vented in his attempts to provoke Clint into the position he was needed in for this part of their relationship to work.

"Well, Agent Barton, you wouldn't need to be told the same thing over and over again if you actually listened and did what it was that we keep repeatedly asking of you. You can't be given respect if you haven't earned it in the eyes of your peers and fellow Agents. If that means co-operating and jumping off of a cliff because that it what your lead Agent demands from you, then you will do it, no questions asked, for the good of the mission. If that means keeping quiet, then that is what you need to do. I have enough to deal with around here without having to babysit-"

That worked. Maybe judging by the sudden shock in Clint's eyes a little too well, but it was just the trigger that Phil needed to work with.

"I never fucking asked for a babysitter, Coulson," Clint spat out venomously, his hand clenching spasmodically by his side as he took a step towards Phil, his entire body radiating anger and upset from the implication of Phil's words. "I didn't want any-"

Clint was within a foot of Phil's face when Phil struck, grabbing Clint's wrist and jerking him forward. Clint lost his balance, and it was mere seconds later when Phil had managed to wrench the archers arm behind his back, slamming him down over Phil's desk. The breathy whine of pain that Clint gave as his ribs connected with the solid wood cut off any further shouting, but Phil didn't use that as an excuse to stop, knowing just how wound up the archer still was.

Phil expertly grasped both of Clint's wrists with one hand, pressing them down into the small of Clint's back for leverage as his free hand clamped down around the back of his neck, making sure that Clint's face was turned to the side so that he could still breathe reasonably easily as Phil forced the archers head down stiffly.

A fleeting moment of stillness overcame the room, but it was quickly broken when Clint began to struggle fiercely under Phil's hold, violently twisting and turning even despite the excruciating agony that Phil knew Clint's ribs would be causing him. Quashing down his own concerns, Phil merely increased the pressure of his grip, feeling Clint's pulse rapidly fluttering beneath his fingertips as he continued to fight.

"Let go of me, you fucking bastard!" Clint choked out, but the way that Clint's eyes had blown, all of the calm blue colour being sucked away by the desperate fear and need that swirled beneath the rage, completely negated the harshness of Clint's words.

"I will not let go of you, Agent Barton, until you have calmed down and I can trust you not to cause any damage to either of us. Is that understood?"

That gravelled, honeyed tone was in full effect, and its influence over the writhing archer was almost instantaneous. A shiver travelled down Clint's spine, his malicious protests cut off with a bone deep howl of frustration, and even as he continued to kick and flail under Phil, Phil knew that the effort was half-hearted compared to how energetically Clint had started.

Phil leant over Clint, digging his elbow sharply into the edge of the bruise on Clint's ribs as he brought his lips down to the archers ear. Hearing the very real gasp of pain that Clint gave as he flinched under Phil's weight, his eyes screwed shut as he sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down hard, Phil shifted his body just a little bit, enough to ease some of the pressure off of the archers chest as he rubbed his nose through the soft wave of hair just above the archers temple.

Phil knew from previous experience that Clint greatly appreciated the small signs of affection from him whilst they were building up the intensity of the scene. It was enough to give Clint an out, a moment to acknowledge that where they went was entirely down to what it was that Clint needed, and that if Clint wanted to stop now, then Phil wouldn't hold it against him.

It took a few minutes before Phil felt Clint gently, almost imperceptibly, turn his head into Phil's touch, the very tips of the fingertips on his trapped hands brushing haphazardly against the inside of Phil's wrist. They were incredibly subtle movements, barely noticeable for anyone who wasn't aware of their significance, but Phil wasn't just anyone.

Phil gave a smile that was hidden against the side of Clint's head, dropping the faintest of kisses against Clint's temple before leaning back again, Clint still very firmly pinned in the same position but no longer putting up any kind of resistance to Phil's presence. There was still a tension vibrating through his body though, that defiance still shining through that threatened to pierce Clint's gradual calm, and Phil felt the smile drop from his face as he contemplated what to do next.

It had been a while since Clint had been this aggressive and angry, but Phil didn't think that launching into anything too strong was going to be of much benefit on this occasion. No, there was a vulnerability there today that Clint very rarely let Phil see despite just how close they were, and Phil knew that he would be headed down the road to absolute disaster if he dared to overlook the weakness Clint was exposing to him.

Normally, in the aftermath of missions that warranted this kind of intervention, Phil would wait until they'd make it back to the Tower, using the stark divide between work and everyday life as a way to physically express to Clint the difference between the ruthless Agent and the calm, almost shy man he was when he wasn't wearing the uniform that defined him. Today though, Phil knew that there needed to be more immediate action.

Hoping that he'd been able to use his security clearance to destroy any incriminating evidence that could be potentially gathered, Phil took two steps back from Clint, leaving the Agent prone over the desk. There was a faint ring of bruising beginning to colour the archers wrists, and Phil could barely restrain the groan that he gave at the sight. He didn't consider himself a sadist - he could see how it could be argued sometimes, but that was a different matter entirely - but he'd never known anyone to look so stunning with such ugly discolouration and marks tainting their skin.

Then again though, Clint couldn't be considered just anyone, and Phil had never truly thought of himself as conventional in any way.

At the sound of Phil's appreciation, Clint lifted his head and shoulders, his eyes flitting over in Phil's direction. Phil let out a deep, somewhat frustrated sigh as he closed the gap between them again, cupping the back of Clint's neck and forcing his face down for a second time, feeling the way that the muscles under his touch spasmed in the conflict over obeying the implicit order or refusing to acknowledge Phil's demand.

Rolling his eyes, Phil let his right hand skate ghost over Clint's exposed ribs, pressing his fingertips into the vibrantly mottled bruise with varying degrees of frequency and pressure, knowing that even the softest of touches over such deep, fresh bruising would be agonising even for someone with as high a pain threshold as Clint. When he hit a particularly tender spot, Clint instantly flinched as he gave a whimper, and Phil used the distraction to push down hard until Clint's forehead banged against the wood with a thud.

"Now now, Agent Barton, I expected better. You've been nothing but disobedient today, and I don't like it when you disrespect me so often. I don't want to have to hurt you, Agent Barton, but I will if I have no choice. You will stay exactly where you are. You will stay silent unless I ask you a question or until I tell you to speak. If you move a single muscle, then there will be consequences. Do you understand me, Agent Barton?"

Phil could see Clint struggling to swallow down the lump in his throat, his eyes screwed shut, and Phil knew that the archer was suddenly very aware of the lancing throbs of pain radiating from his ribs as he laced his fingers together at the base of his back, his knuckles going white from the strength of his own hold. Every muscle had become way too stiff as well, suggesting to Phil that Clint was trying to fall into that mission-like state where he was capable of still perfection for hours.

"Yes."

Phil gave a sharp tap to the curve of Clint's ribs, knowing from the ring that echoed at the contact that it had to have hurt. Clint's back tensed in an attempt to stop the instinctive arch Phil knew he would have given, the archer biting down so suddenly on his lip to hold back a yelp that he split the skin.

"Excuse me, Agent Barton?"

"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

Clint's voice was rasped, beginning to fray around the edges from the power of his need and the emotional burden behind his words; his apology was almost desperate. Phil's hand at Clint's ribs that had initially caused pain changed tactic, very carefully soothing the flat of the palm across the expanse of heated flesh, tracing delicate patterns that - whilst Clint abortedly tried to prevent himself from moving away from at the first caress - the archer fell into almost as if he was in a trance.

"Good, Clint."

The warmth and sincerity of the praise, coupled with the way that Clint's name rolled off of Phil's tongue so sweetly and so reverently, was enough to make the archer give a muffled sigh. A little bit more of the tension that was there drifted away, and whilst Phil knew that Clint was now on edge from the potential threat and worry of more pain to come, seeing his partner begin to visibly relax was enough to allow the simmering arousal and lust Phil had felt tormenting him all afternoon to start seeping back into the cracks.

Stepping back again, Phil was pleased to see Clint's obedience this time, Clint not daring to move an inch as Phil crossed the room, locking his office door and engaging the 'DND' sign. He knew that nobody, not even Fury, would even think for a second about disturbing Phil when his door was very firmly closed to visitors, and it was this completely certainty in the respect and distance that he was granted when he so desired it that convinced him it was safe for them both to continue without fear of being discovered.

Turning back to face the room, Phil methodically began to unbutton his jacket, taking his time just to test the limits of Clint's patience and control as he held the archer in place with just his words alone. Shrugging it off his shoulders, Phil hung it up on the back of the door before rolling up his shirt sleeves and loosening his tie. Pulling it from around his neck, Phil noticed the shiver that ran down Clint's back at the soft 'zip' of Phil's tie being undone, and Phil couldn't bring himself to restrain the smirk he gave when he quickly walked back across the room towards the waiting archer.

Leaning over Clint's back, but maintaining just enough of a gap so that no part of his body made contact with Clint's, Phil used one hand to delicately smooth the strands of hair from Clint's face. He could see just how much it was taking out of the archer not to nuzzle into the palm cupping his cheek, and Phil dropped another indulgent kiss of subtle approval into Clint's temple before fastening the tie across his eyes.

At the sudden darkness, Phil felt Clint tense slightly, and he kept his touch as nonchalant as possible in an attempt to soothe the archers frazzled nerves, but to still keep him riled up. This was something Phil got a great measure of pleasure from, sending conflicting messages to stop Clint from getting too comfortable; pain accompanied by soft, lulling words, or sensory deprivation whilst giving Clint a full, detailed commentary of everything that Phil was doing to him that he couldn't see, with just the knowledge of Phil's presence and the scent from his tie keeping Clint anchored into reality.

It may have seemed rather perverse in its cruelty, toying with buttons that the archer didn't like to be pushed just to prolong the drop they both felt, but they were both confident in their trust of the other to know that it was a controlled descent that could be instantly stopped with a moments' hesitation or protest.

Leaning back up, one of Phil's hands suddenly reached around in front of Clint, grabbing the buckle of his belt and deftly unhooking it as he grabbed Clint's wrists again, digging his nails in sharply around the growing red and violet marks. Phil didn't immediately pull the belt from the loops though. He let the tips of his fingers dip down, tracing the outline of the erection that Phil could feel beginning to stir to life with deliberate precision, and the sound of Clint frantically trying to hold back his plea for more, his thighs tightening to the point of tremors as he managed to stop himself from pushing his groin into Phil's touch, was enough to make Phil's heart skip a beat in his chest, a wave of lust washing through him.

Phil didn't let the teasing linger though, and he unthreaded the belt, pulling Clint's wrists and forearms into a somewhat awkward angle for the archers position, but not wrenching his shoulders back quite far enough to cause any damage; whilst pain and restraint seemed to be a large factor for Clint, Phil wasn't stupid enough to do anything that could potentially hinder his aim or his draw for longer than a day or so. Gripping the soft leather between his front teeth, Phil undid his own, much thinner belt, before looping the two together with a great feat of dexterity to allow him a wider choice of options.

After a couple of moments, Phil started to wind the makeshift bond around Clint's arms almost like a bandage, starting from the archers wrists before firmly tying and buckling them off at the crook of Clint's elbows. It would be quick enough to take off in a hurry if needed, and it kept Clint's fingers exposed so that he could physically grab Phil's attention or respond to any of Phil's checks, but it was more than durable enough to ensure that Clint would be severely limited in what he could do.

Placing Clint's arms back down along the length of his spine, Phil gave a grin at his handiwork when he saw Clint's muscles rippling, trying to test the tensile strength and give of the bindings he was trapped in without making any overt movements that could raise Phil's suspicions. It may have looked messy - two different belts roughly linked together, and a worn, silk tie covering Clint's eyes - but the sight of it made Phil shudder. There was something about the feel of almost amateurish, DIY style bondage and resources that made the whole encounter seem that much more intimate than the perfect glossy finish of latex and plastic.

Well worn and cracked belts, patina soft ties, broken bow strings and leather arm bracers; they were all little things that represented them, and it was seeing such mundane, personal items being used in the midst of the pain, the blood and the haziness that helped to ground both of them. It reminded Phil that it was okay to let his discipline and perfect routines slip without fear, and Clint that this kind of control was always safe; he was wrapped up in Phil, knowing that Phil's steady calm and yearning affection was never going to leave him whilst he was this exposed and vulnerable.

The sight before him may have been debauched and depraved, but by God, it was the most perfect thing that Phil had seen, and he felt his own control beginning to erode.

"God, Clint, you have no idea just how good you are, do you? How beautiful you look with my bruises, so quiet and eager and all just for me?"

Phil's voice had taken on a hushed sort of awe, like coming to a sudden realisation that had been staring him in the face for years, and he could see the way that Clint's entire being seemed to grasp at the praise and control that he craved with every ounce of his body, greedily consuming it. Phil knew that if Clint had been allowed to speak, Clint would be a wreck, so hysterically desperate to please and to listen and to be manipulated in whatever way Phil wanted him to be, and Phil felt his cock straining against the inside of his pants.

Running the very tips of his fingers up the back of Clint's thighs, Phil could feel the muscles spasming beneath his touch, Clint's breathing hitching in his throat as the streak of blood continued to drip from the archers full bottom lip, and Phil was suddenly struck by the violent urge to see just how much more Clint would be able to withstand without ripping through the control that he was keeping grasp of. He knew, judging by how taut the archer was, how much his muscles were trembling and the rough gasps that escaped his mouth despite his best efforts, that Clint had to be very nearly the edge, clinging onto whatever shreds he could by his fingertips.

The thought of pushing Clint off of the precipice, of breaking down the last of the existing barriers that were keeping Clint from reaching the giddy highs and showing the archer that he could challenge and define the limits of his submission and self-control without losing his sense of himself, was more than enough to spur Phil into action.

"Now Clint," Phil cooed, his own control starting to splinter into fragments as his mind ran rampant with each and every visceral memory of what he could make Clint do like this. "I need to make sure that you know exactly how to control yourself. I need to make sure that you won't do reckless things when I'm not around. I don't like it when others get upset, and I definitely don't like it when you get upset because of what the others think. I know you know how to control yourself, and I want you to prove it to me."

Moving so that he was standing by Clint's side, Phil let one of his hands rest warningly against the back of Clint's throat as he indulgently traced the pad of his thumb across Clint's bottom lip. Clint was physically shaking as he gave a wavering sigh, the tip of his tongue wrapping around Phil's blood slicked digit almost convulsively when Phil brushed down slightly firmer against the soft skin. Phil gave a rough, dark chuckle when he tightly gripped Clint's neck, his thumb digging hard into the pulse point when Clint gave a sudden choked gasp, the archer going tense when he seemed to realise his mistake.

"Such a difficult one, Clint. All I ask of you is such simple things, yet it seems like you can't even manage to obey basic orders today. Such a shame." Phil let a very real disappointment colour his voice, and he could see the frantic apologies Clint was trying to hold back.

He smiled sadly; it was never particularly comfortable when Clint struggled to fall or stay in the right mindset for what was needed, slipping up on the smallest of things he otherwise would've followed without even requiring prompting. Letting out a deep breath, Phil knew that he was going to have to kick things up a notch.

It was never an easy decision to make to break Clint down in a more extreme, brutal manner, but he knew that it was ultimately in Clint's best interests, even if the physical damage incurred seemed to undermine Phil's argument somewhat. Furthermore, he knew that Clint would understand and agree with him.

"Stand up."

That honeyed tone was quieter, but it was hard, lined with an iciness that promised severe repercussions if it wasn't listened to. Clint hesitated for a split second, his face creasing up with fear and confusion as he instantly recognised the change in Phil's stance for what it represented. The lack of vision and balance caused by the way his arms had been bound behind him meant that Clint's attempt to straighten up was slow, tentative and just about bordering on disobedience in Phil's books.

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Phil's hand tightened further on Clint's neck as he yanked the archer up into a standing position, ripping a yelp of surprise and shock from Clint as he moved his palm to grip the front of Clint's throat, bringing his fingers up with such strength that Clint was forced onto his tiptoes to avoid being choked. The frantic pace of Clint's shallow breaths echoed around the room as Phil held him there for a good few minutes, Clint's face going red and his entire body shaking as Phil squeezed his hand harder. Just when Phil thought that Clint was going to call it quits, he fractionally relaxed his hold, and the pathetic gratitude he could feel rolling from the archer was enough to make that easy smile curl at his lips once more.

"See, Clint, if you co-operate with me, then I wouldn't have to hurt you, would I?"

"N-n-n-no, Sir," Clint rasped out, his words weak and timid.

"Good, Clint, you're actually listening to me for once."

It was underhanded praise, sarcasm tainting his tone despite the heavy truth and approval of his words, and Phil could tell that Clint wasn't entirely sure how to take it by the way Clint's jaw tightened.

Phil released his grip on the archer, and if it wasn't for Clint's instinctive reactions, he probably would've ended up on the floor as he coughed and wheezed, desperately trying to get air into his lungs. Clint listed forward dangerously quick, and Phil instantly put his arms out, ready to catch Clint if he was too light-headed or disoriented to hold himself up. As it was, the violent handprints ringing Clint's throat like some perverse collar, deep blotches of ugly reds and blues colouring his skin, indicated to Phil that he might have been slightly too heavy-handed.

After a few worrying seconds, Clint was just about able to steady himself, his muscles viciously trembling as Phil could see the dampness beginning to stain the tie around Clint's eyes. Frowning, Phil reached out, tenderly brushing the backs of his fingers against the archers cheek as he stepped in, his lips barely millimetres from Clint's temple as he tried to ignore Clint's flinch at Phil suddenly being so close to him.

"Clint, you sure you want to do this?"

Concern and affection laced his question, the gravelly roughness of his voice dropping as Phil whispered softly into Clint's ear; when Clint finally realised the temporary break in Phil's character, he briefly rested his forehead against Phil's shoulder, taking in a shuddered gulp of air as he steadied himself against Phil's blessedly solid form.

Phil patiently waited. He knew the toll their confrontations took on the younger man, and he knew that there was nothing to gain from trying to rush him into a decision. Instead, he kept quiet, keeping his touches as soothing but fleeting as possible so as not to shatter Clint's thoughts.

It seemed to take forever, but Clint eventually moved, briefly burying his nose into the crook of Phil's neck and inhaling deeply before shakily straightening himself back up. He looked a little bit more relaxed, his breathing coming slightly easier than previously, and Phil gave a heartfelt grin when Clint tentatively nodded, composing himself as he assumed his previous position.

"Good, Clint," Phil breathed out warmly, seeing the way that Clint glowingly basked at the reaffirmation of his obedience.

It was coming much more naturally now, Clint's head hanging down respectfully even with the tie obscuring his vision and making the gesture redundant, and Phil was relieved to see that Clint was finally settling into the mind space he needed to benefit and grow under Phil's words and touches.

Taking a step back, Phil began to undo the buttons on his shirt, letting it fall to the floor by his shoes.

"Spread your feet, don't stop until I say so."

Phil didn't even bother to hide his shameless ogling when Clint let his legs open, sliding his feet out until he had dropped down in height by a good few inches. Clint was so flexible, so smooth and fluid in even the simplest of movements, that Phil felt his mouth go dry and his cock twitch, straining against the inside of his pants.

"Stay."

Phil roughly barked the command almost as a second thought, and he could see the fleeting smirk on Clint's face that told him Clint knew exactly why his voice sounded so breathy. The archers pants clung to every curve and dip obscenely, and when he held the position, his abdominal muscles rippling and contracting with the coiled strength Clint possessed as Clint's head continued to hang low, the potent mixture of such raw power and mindless submission was more than Phil could stand.

Circling the archer, Phil clung to his hips, letting his erection firmly press against the swell of Clint's ass and grinding forward as his fingers dipped just inside the waistband of Clint's pants, venturing lower the further around Clint's front they slid until they stopped, literally a hairs breadth from the archers cock.

Clint's breaths were low and heavy, his mouth hanging open from frustration and arousal at having Phil's hands so close, but he still didn't move an inch. Phil smirked wickedly, letting one of his thumbs skirt over the hard flesh until it just rested on the ridge beneath the head of Clint's erection, pinning it against his groin as the other hand worked on getting the buttons and zipper of Clint's pants open. Clint gave a soft, heated whine, sucking his bottom lip back between his teeth as his cock jerked in Phil's teasing grip.

"Good boy, so eager and patient, so obedient."

Phil let his lips run down the length of Clint's bruised neck, teeth barely nipping as Clint subtly turned into the touch, exposing more of the sensitive skin in a silent plea for more; he let out a deep, throaty moan - equal amounts pleasure and pain - when Phil sunk his teeth in, digging into the salty flesh until he could faintly taste the coppery bitterness of blood on his tongue. Clint's cock throbbed, precum leaking from the slit and leaving a copious damp patch on his underwear that seemed to outline Phil's thumb, and Phil felt another hard wave of arousal twist his stomach.

"You know what good boys get, don't you Clint?" Phil whispered huskily, lathing his tongue over the bloodied bitemark as dribbles of blood and saliva pooled at the hollow of Clint's collarbone.

"Yes, Sir." Clint's voice was the complete opposite to the statuesque stillness of his body; it was wrecked and needy, desperately filled with desire and an overwhelming want that was destroying Clint from the inside out.

"And just what is that, Clint?"

Clint swallowed thickly. He was trembling as his head fell back onto Phil's shoulder, his stuttered gasps filling the air as Phil's hands and lips worked their seductive spell over his body.

"T-t-they get r-r-r-reward-ded, Sir."

"Yes they do, Clint," Phil breathed hotly into Clint's ear, bathing his neck in warmth as he withdrew his hand from Clint's underwear, restraining his chuckle at the whine Clint was unable to prevent.

He hooked his thumbs into Clint's waistband once more, moving back just a little bit so that he could slip the archers pants and underwear down a few inches, broadcasting his intentions loud and clear as he tried to break that last shred of control Clint was barely clinging on to.

"And seeing as you're being so good for me, Clint, I think you deserve a reward." Phil paused though, the smile slipping from his lips as his hands stopped their divesting. "Maybe in a little while though. Whilst you're being good now, you were disrespectful this morning, and you were grossly rude and disrespectful towards me during debrief, weren't you?

Clint's face flushed with shame, his voice quiet and hollow. "Yes, Sir."

"And to be perfectly honest with you, Clint, what you did today during your mission was disgustingly unprofessional and downright dangerous, and I'm incredibly disappointed in you."

"I'm sorry, Sir." Clint's tone cracked heavily as his utterance trailed off into a loaded silence, Clint's regret and upset crashing from his suddenly tensed frame. Phil knew just how much Clint hated it when Phil was disappointed in him.

Phil hushed him softly, one of his hands coming up to absent-mindedly stroke across Clint's damaged ribs as he tried to calm the distressed archer.

"I know you are, Clint, I know you are," Phil soothed, the belief and understanding in his voice lulling Clint back into his previously relaxed state, his hand not stopping its ministrations. "You were so good, Clint, doing exactly what you needed to do, not complaining about the mission, getting it done so quickly. So good." Phil gave a sigh. "But I can't let you get away with it though, you understand that don't you, Clint?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Over the desk, on your stomach, feet apart. You can scream all you like, but if you say or even think a single word, there will be trouble."

Despite Clint's lack of vision, he was able to shuffle himself over to Phil's desk relatively easily, never once questioning Phil's order. Phil felt his heart clench in his chest at the normally cocky archers silent submission. Waiting until Clint's cheek was pressed against the wood, the archer giving a soft hiss of pain as his ribs vehemently protested at the movement, Phil stepped behind him, pulling Clint's pants and underwear down until they were half way down his calfs before walking around and opening one of the drawers of his desk.

Clint was tense, involuntarily flinching at every sound that came from around him, and Phil knew that the archer was nervous, even despite his attempts to control the outward signs. Clint was exposed, physically and mentally, floating somewhere in that hazy shade between ecstasy and hell, but despite the brief flare of guilt he felt, Phil knew that he needed to follow through with his punishment. Phil had indirectly defined the boundaries of what was going to happen; even with the pain he'd go through, Clint needed those boundaries imposed so that he could work with his own limitations and receive the control that he craved.

Phil found what he was looking for, and as the soft rustle of metal laced leather being dragged along wood filled the room, Phil kept one eye fixed on Clint, watching for any indication that enough was enough. It didn't come. Phil didn't think it would. Clint had worked way too hard on trying to earn Phil's reward of complete control to throw it all away because of some random sounds. Phil smiled; he liked Clint's stubborn pride.

Rounding the table, Phil let the thick, softened leather travel fleetingly down the full length of Clint's bound arms, just enough to let Clint know there was something there, but not quite sufficient to let him know what it was that Phil was now brushing nonchalantly across the naked curve of Clint's ass. It was the lack of certainty, the fear of pain that Clint couldn't completely prepare for, that had the archers breath speeding up just a fraction as Phil took a step back, gripping the very edge of the material in his hands.

It was one of Clint's spare practise gloves, thin strands of a metal skeleton running down from the simple leather loop that bound Clint's fingers together for stability to connect to the reinforced palm covering for protection. It wasn't as lightweight as the one Clint used when he was out in the field, but it was good enough to train with. Phil knew from previous experience that the lack of material was deceiving; the metal was thin and sharp enough, and the leather thick and worn enough, that it would cause some serious pain if Phil put some strength behind it.

It would bruise. It could draw blood. It would make it nearly impossible for Clint to sit or lay down comfortably for a good few days without reminding him of why it hurt so badly in the first place. It was absolutely perfect for what Phil needed to do.

Adjusting his grip on the glove, Phil gave zero warning before he brought it down as hard as he could across the back of Clint's thighs, the stinging slap of leather and metal ringing in Phil's ears as Clint violently lurched forward, a startled cry tearing itself from the archers throat as deep red welts instantly began to bloom across the tender flesh.

"Oh, Clint," Phil intoned patiently, bringing the glove down with another tremendous smack a little higher up Clint's leg, ignoring the sound of Clint's scream of agony in favour of admiring the wiry line of blood that was lightly beading on the surface of his skin.

"I know that you can be so good."

Another strike across the inside crease of Clint's left thigh.

"You're always so perfect for me, such a good boy."

And a matching one on the inside of Clint's right thigh that forced a choked gasp from the archer.

"But like today, I'm not always going to be around to make sure that you're okay."

A particularly forceful hit was placed flat across Clint's ass that was so strong, Phil could feel the vibrations in his own fingers.

"You need to learn to control yourself, my Hawk."

Another violent smack, and a vibrant trickle of blood began to run enticingly down the back of Clint's shaking thigh as Clint started to sob from the intensity of the pain that assaulted him from all sides.

"My beautiful, perfect Hawk."

Phil didn't stop his onslaught, landing slap after slap against Clint's ass and thighs until they were raw and bloody, the soft skin branded black and blue with welts and bruises from the severity of the beating. Phil's heart was pounding in his chest, his wrist and shoulder aching with the exertion, and he paused to reflect in his masterpiece. Clint was an incoherent mess, the face slick and flushed with tears, his knuckles white, and his ribs convulsing from where they'd sharply dug into the edge of Phil's desk with every hit as he sobbed, yet Phil didn't think he'd seen anything so heartwrenchingly stunning in his life.

Clint didn't even have the energy left to keep his legs straight, his knees buckled into the desk and the wooden frame supporting the entirety of his weight. Various shades of red dripped down his skin, entwining and twisting lazily as they ran the full length of Clint's legs down to his ankles, and Phil could see the similar tint staining the archers lips and chin.

Devastation had no right to look so heavenly, so saintly and irresistible, and Phil had to close his eyes to stop himself from falling to his knees at the sight before him.

Dropping the glove to the floor, Phil toed off his shoes and his socks with a sense of urgency. Unzipping his pants, Phil carefully eased them and his boxers over his rock hard erection with a wince, leaving his underwear to sit midway down his thighs as he kicked his pants off into a corner of the room.

It took every ounce of sanity he possessed to not just throw his fingers around his cock and rush towards the climax he could feel burning through his veins as he took a step closer to Clint, draping the full weight of his body across the prone archer as he littered Clint's shoulders and throat with soft kisses, his hands caressing Clint's swollen and inflamed ribs with such care and attention that it broke Clint down completely.

Clint's sobs died, lazy gasps falling uncontrollably from his lips as he helplessly succumbed to Phil's touch, his flesh so overly sensitised from the beating that it was almost as if Phil was touching the very inner depths of his soul. Phil could feel the stickiness of the blood and his precum against his bare skin, the intense heat radiating off of the bruises he'd engraved into the archers skin, and he felt the very last of his prized control and discipline melt away into nothing.

"Oh, my perfect, beautiful Clint," he whispered reverently, and the rasped mew that seemed to echo around Phil's head in response was just too powerful to resist. "You're so good, Clint, so good. I couldn't ask for anything better in this world than you."

Dropping a kiss between Clint's shoulder blades, Phil straightened back up, giving a lustful groan at the whine of protest Clint let out as he massaged his thumb into the crook of Clint's hip, using his free hand to steady his erection as he positioned the head against Clint's entrance, rubbing it up and down the cleft of Clint's ass for makeshift lubrication as he felt Clint very tentatively roll his hips back, answering the silent question that passed between them.

Channelling all of his focus and concentration on making sure that he didn't push too hard or too much to cause Clint any extra unnecessary pain, Phil guided the tip of his cock to Clint's unprepared hole, every muscle in Clint's ass tightening from nerves the archer couldn't control as Phil pushed his hips forward. Phil let out a deep groan, one overshadowed by the choked hiss that was torn from the archer beneath him, when he managed to sink his erection slowly into Clint's body, barely moving in an inch before the overwhelming tightness and burn made him stop to catch his breath.

The dry friction was agonising, but Phil knew that Clint would be feeling the pain so much worse than him, and Phil rubbed the heel of his palm in gentle circles into the base of the archers back, desperately trying to get Clint to relax and accept the intrusion. Clint's fingers were shaking so badly, his pale palms clammy with sweat that betrayed every ounce of pain and fear racing through the archers body, that Phil reached out, intertwining his own fingers with Clint's and giving a soft squeeze. Clint immediately latched on to Phil's touch, gripping down so hard and frantically that Phil almost thought Clint had broken his hand with the strength of his hold as Phil continued to massage the tense, trembling muscles beneath him, feeling the way that Clint's ass carried on trying to reject him.

"Shh, Clint," Phil whispered reverently, his own tone thick with lust and affection as he tried to calm the archer. "You're doing so good, Clint, taking it so well for me. Just a little bit more, Clint, come on. Deep breaths okay, Clint?"

Clint's breathing unconsciously fell into perfect sync with Phil's before Phil had even finished speaking, and Phil gave a soft, heartfelt smile when he felt the resistance and tension very gradually began to dissipate beneath his fingers, Clint instantly and helplessly obeying Phil's words. When Phil pushed in further, half of his length encased in the constricted heat of Clint's body, Clint's muscles seized again as the archer suddenly held his breath in an attempt to control the sensations lancing through him like a knife.

Phil gave another soft squeeze to their linked fingers.

"Breathe, Clint, nice and slow. In."

Clint's shuddered gasp of air made the archer tremble, and Phil knew just how difficult it was for Clint to not just stop now.

"Out."

The violently choked expulsion was enough to make Clint cough and splutter roughly, and Phil used Clint's momentary distraction to move his hips forward just enough that Clint wouldn't tense up again. It seemed to work, Clint's raw hisses of pain gradually quieting as his body accommodated Phil's solid erection, but Phil kept up the whisper soft litany of orders until his groin was flush with Clint's ass, holding himself completely still within the archer as Clint whimpered and choked back the sobs that Phil could hear threading into Clint's breaths.

"So good, Clint, so good."

Phil lightly ran his fingers up the length of Clint's spine, and the blissful sigh that Clint gave out, his grip on Phil's hand loosening so that it was no longer quite so frantic, told Phil that they were both okay to continue. The slow pull out was just as excruciatingly tight and painful, Phil's actions jerky and tentative as he reacted to each and every sound that fell from the archers lips, reading the signs as he nearly completely withdrew from Clint's heat before pushing back in, just a little bit more smoothly as Clint's pained sighs and gasps became edged with a hint of pleasure.

It was lazy, luxurious, and a world away from the urgency they'd both previously felt; Clint made no move to make Phil go harder or faster, simply laying across the desk and receiving every ounce of love and all-consuming possession that Phil gifted him, his throat raw from his hoarse cries and whimpers of heady pleasure.

Phil's rhythm was deep, paced and steady; even despite the frantic lust clawing away through him, his vision hazed with white in the very corners as his arousal grew, Phil wanted this to last. This was no longer about control and submission, handler and subordinate, the numerous labels attached to them that distanced them from each other in public eyes. This was just about them wrapped up within each other, Clint so vulnerably pliant and responsive beneath him in ways no-one else would ever see, and it was the overwhelming power and depth of his emotional investment that fed into the fire burning within him.

Leaning over the archers writhing body, Phil's hand and lips skimmed bruised and sweaty flesh reverently as he thrust in harder, and the sudden groan ripped from Clint as his back arched, his fingers convulsively tightening around Phil's as he pushed his hips back to meet Phil with a renewed force, made Phil's stomach knot.

"Please," Clint breathed out wantonly, his tone wrecked with need as Phil drove back in, hitting the same spot again. "God, please Sir, more..."

Phil thought that it would be impossible for him to grow more desperate for release, but the rasped, lust-addled sound of Clint begging for him was explosively potent and impossible to deny. His free hand moving up to grasp Clint's shoulder, Phil forcefully pulled Clint down to meet his hips as his strokes became more reckless, and the half screeched moan Clint gave in response just stoked the flames of his desire.

Time seemed almost to stop as Phil kept driving forward into the archer, the lewd smack of skin hitting skin and the rich scent of sex filling the air. Clint was half sobbing from the ecstasy, every muscle in his body deliciously tense and screaming for the release that Phil knew Clint was helplessly chasing. Digging his nails in sharply to the bruised, sensitive skin at the hollow of Clint's throat, Phil felt the way that Clint's ass weakly spasmed around him, and he smiled darkly, knowing just how damn close to the abyss Clint was.

"Please, Sir, I need, I need..."

Clint's words were cut off with a gasp when Phil's fingers traced the curve of Clint's neck before grasping his throat in his hand, feeling the helpless shudder that ran through the archer as Phil continued to pound in deep.

"I know, Clint," Phil whispered raggedly, surprised at just how level and even his words were, considering the maelstrom breaking him apart from the inside out. "So close, I know, but I need you to hang on a little bit longer, until I tell you. Just a little bit, Clint."

Clint whined, his pulse racing beneath Phil's fingertips, and Phil could tell from the grip Clint had on his hand that trying to force the archer back from the edge was cruel agony. Phil never let up his onslaught though, every nerve in his body sparked with electricity from the mere brushing of his skin against Clint's as he felt Clint tense even further beneath him, and the sudden resistance that Phil could feel around his erection was so nearly enough to send him over the edge.

Squeezing even harder around Clint's throat, Phil untangled his fingers from Clint's, reaching around in front of the archer to wrap his hand around Clint's cock. It was near throbbing in Phil's palm as he loosely started to work his fingers up the length, the leisurely speed standing at a complete counterpoint to the frantic thrust of his hips as a thick glob of precum wept from the head, soaking his hand as Clint's breathing suddenly hitched.

Thumbing the ridge firmly as Phil released his grip on Clint's face in favour of brushing the tips of his fingers across the archers lips, Phil gave another vicious inwards plunge, waiting less than a split second when he felt the heavy exhalation of breath against his skin before he suddenly covered Clint's mouth and nose with his palm.

His fingers picking up speed along Clint's length, Phil felt the instant tension and fear that radiated from the archer as Clint briefly struggled against Phil's hand, but the lust and sheer unadulterated ecstasy that seemed to permeate from Clint's very pores as his cock pulsed and his balls tightened within Phil's grasp made Phil's heart stop.

"Now, Clint," Phil huskily commanded, his own voice shot to pieces, and his eyes rolled back into his head when the resistance around his erection reached fever pitch, Clint's entire body rippling from the force behind his orgasm as his release hit him in waves that sent him higher than anywhere else on earth.

Waiting a few moments as Phil milked the rest of Clint's orgasm for as long as he physically could, Phil shakily lifted his hand from Clint's mouth as felt his own release elude him by a hairs breadth.

"Phil..."

The sound of Clint half sighing, half sobbing his name was enough to send him flinging uncontrollably over the edge.

Giving out a guttural groan, Phil held himself deep inside Clint as he climaxed, feeling as if Clint surrounding him was the only thing keeping him from floating away. An intense kaleidoscope of colours exploded behind his eyes, his heart seemed to stop in his chest, and Phil felt like he was in a dream as he indulged himself with lazy thrusts into the exhausted man beneath him, trying not to fall apart at the aftershocks that strung his pleasure out for a lifetime.

At some point, minutes or hours later Phil really couldn't tell, he became aware that his eyes were closed, the entire weight of his body draped over the archer pinned beneath him. Clint didn't look like he cared though; he was slumped over the desk, his slacked muscles and soft breaths screaming of physical and emotional exhaustion as he basked in the afterglow of his orgasm, and Phil felt his heart swelling in his chest as he pressed a row of fleeting kisses up the length of Clint's throat, nuzzling his nose just behind the archers ear.

"Hey," he breathed out, feeling the slight stirrings of Clint beneath him, but as he brushed the edge of his tie, starting to undo the knot in the back, he was stopped by Clint's trapped fingers caressing his stomach absent-mindedly.

His lips quirking into a tired smile, Phil waited a few more minutes, just breathing in tandem with the archer until Clint turned his cheek to rest against the wood. Taking that as permission to continue what he was doing, Phil hooked his fingers underneath the sodden material, his eyes never once leaving Clint's.

Clint blinked owlishly at the sudden influx of light; His eyes were bloodshot and red from his sobbing, but there was a peace and awed affection visibly shining back at Phil as Phil cupped Clint's cheek in his hand.

"Hey," Clint eventually whispered back, his voice raw and thready as a slight smile curled his lips.

Unable to stop himself, Phil pressed a kiss to the corner of Clint's mouth, running his fingers through Clint's sweat matted hair as the archer weakly responded. It was barely a proper kiss compared to the thousands they'd shared in the past - their lips were simply resting together, not demanding or taking anything as they breathed in each others air - but that didn't make it any less heartfelt. It was this pure, almost chaste, longing and love that existed between them that made it possible to withstand everything else they went through.

After a few moments, Phil reluctantly moved to stand up, feeling the strain in his back and his legs as he straightened up, giving his equilibrium a couple of minutes to re-centre as he carried on stroking random patterns into the side of Clint's head.

"You okay for a few whilst I get this place sorted?"

"Go nuts," Clint replied, and the purr in his voice as he nuzzled his head into Phil's touch made Phil want to lay back down and curl the archer back up into his arms.

Mournfully deciding against that plan of action, he gingerly made his way around the room; he collected the random pieces of clothing that had been flung everywhere and neatly stacked them in his chair before picking up the leather glove and other items and putting them back in the drawers of his desk. He felt Clint's eyes unfalteringly follow his every move, and Phil felt that glow settle deep in his gut.

Coming to stand behind the archer, Phil deftly worked at undoing the belts from around Clint's arms, massaging every inch of chafed and pale skin that was released before grasping Clint's hands between his own.

"How you feeling?"

Clint gave a weak snort as Phil lifted Clint's hands to his lips, peppering them with indulgent caresses.

"Like I just fell off a building."

Phil gave a quiet laugh as he helped support Clint, lifting the archer into a sitting position on the edge of his desk when Clint's arms and shoulder buckled from the prolonged entrapment. Clint gave a sharp hiss when his abused ass and thighs hit the solid wood, giving Clint the exact reminder that Phil hoped they would.

"I'm gonna be walking funny for a few days, aren't I? 'Tween that and my throat, Stark and the baby Agents are gonna have a field day, aren't they?"

Phil quirked his lips as he ran the back of his fingers down the bruises and bite marks that extensively coloured Clint's neck; a small part of him felt more guilty than usual seeing them there, but that protective, possessive side of him was revelling in the relaxed, adoring way Clint was gazing at him, wearing the marks of complete dominance and ownership with pride.

"Well," Phil breathed out, smoothing the palms of his hands delicately over Clint's ribs as he stole another kiss from the immediately enthusiastic archer. "If you weren't such a disobedient, misbehaved man, then I wouldn't have to make you walk funny, would I?" Clint flushed with an equal measure of apology, embarrassment and affection, and Phil took a step back. "Besides, it's not my fault that you look so stunning when you're all bruised and bloodied."

Clint's smile grew larger. "Always knew that was the reason why you kept sending me out on the physical mission, Coulson. Fury know you're such a sadist?"

"There's a lot that Fury doesn't know; I like to think that even I'm allowed my indulgences."

They both settled into an easy silence, acutely aware of the others presence but not feeling threatened by it in any way as they slowly got dressed and finished cleaning Phil's office, instinctively helping each other without a word passing between them.

It was this unspoken understanding, this simple connection that was rooted soul and mind deep between the pair, that made them so perfect together, even despite the faults and flaws they both possessed; Phil knew that without a doubt.

When they were both decent once more - Phil looking completely impeccable, and Clint only looking a little bit more rough around the edges than usual considering the state of him underneath his clothing and the ring of bruises just about visible around the neckline of his field vest - Phil took a step closer, resting his hands gently on Clint's hips.

"When we get back, I'll run you a nice hot bath, get you all cleaned up. Got some of that lotion Natasha recommended, might help with your ribs a bit as well. Don't want you hurting more than you have to be."

The raised eyebrow Clint gave as he looped his arms around Phil's neck, never once dropping his gaze from Phil's, made Phil's heart skip a beat.

"And what if I like you hurting me more than you have to?"

"Then you obviously need to be taught better self-control," Phil drawled back, the hint of that honeyed, gravelly drawl make Clint shiver in his grip. "Not tonight though," he smiled at the slight pout that formed on the archers lips. "You've done enough tonight, been so good for me. Only thing we'll be doing in that lovely bed of ours is getting some sleep, otherwise neither of us is gonna be in any fit state tomorrow."

The glow of comfort and relaxation that shone out of every inch of the archer in his arms, the genuine smile reserved only for Phil playing out on his lips, was enough to make Phil melt as he pulled Clint in close enough for a tender kiss, Clint instantly responding in kind as he moulded into Phil's yearning, reflecting it back with every fibre of his being as they broke apart with a shared grin.

Grabbing his jacket from the back of the door as he opened it, Phil shrugged it on as Clint walked out into the corridor, a lightness in his step as they both walked down the corridor. Junior Agents littered the entrances and corners in their droves, all of them respectfully addressing the infamous duo.

"Agent Coulson, Sir."

"Barton."

Eyeing up the bruises on Clint's throat surreptitiously, Phil gave out a hidden grin that he knew only Clint could see as they walked out of the doors and into the streets of New York side by side, waiting until they were just out of sight of the building before Phil loosely linked his fingers around Clint's with a chuckle.

Oh yes, Phil had his flaws, but he loved them.