Archive of Our Own

No one’s supposed to know about Steve’s little hobby—certainly not any of the Avengers.

He covers his tracks well, hurts people but never uses his full strength, never makes himself identifiable. Steve needs somewhere to channel his rage, the shameful part of him that doesn’t give a fuck about regulations, about minimal use of force, with Bucky dead. He roughs men up when he finds them misbehaving, gives them a warning in a British accent. It’s barely passable, but it doesn’t sound like him , and that’s the point. He wears full leather gloves and doesn’t leave fingerprints. 

And then afterwards Steve rubs one out, sometimes even standing over their bruised, terrified bodies. Depends on the severity of the crime. Other times he lets them flee and takes care of his hard-on alone, or even makes it back to the Tower before indulging in his guilty pleasure.

Feeding his dark side does make Steve a bit broody, though. Tony’s noticed, says he’s been “emo” lately. Steve rents a storage locker where he can stash his gear, which he bought wearing a different disguise to several separate stores.

Theoretically his activities are untraceable to Steve Rogers. He’s certain no one would understand why he does it, understand the erotic thrill he gets from causing bodily harm. 

But then Steve gets called to DC for some meetings at the Triskelion. In the hallway Phil Coulson smiles mildly, shakes Steve's hand with something small inside his palm. Steve smoothly transfers the object to his pants pocket. 

“Captain Rogers. Good to see you again.” 

“Glad to see you alive and well, Agent.” Coulson keeps walking, but murmurs low as they brush past each other, “oh-two-hundred hours, Captain.” 

It’s a comms device in his pocket. Steve’s intrigued. 

He takes a nap after dinner. At exactly two am, Steve slips the tiny wireless transmitter into his ear. He’s terribly curious, adrenaline racing. What would Coulson be trying to communicate to Steve, personally, that he couldn’t say out loud at SHIELD? 

“I’ve seen your vigilante act, Nomad." 

The tone of Coulson's voice in Steve's ear doesn't differ from its usual mild nature as he reveals his hand. He doesn’t seem angry or disappointed, though presumably he could hide such emotions easily if he wanted to do so. 

Steve just stands there shocked for a moment, licking absently at his lips, unsure of his play. He wasn’t expecting this. Something going on within SHIELD that Coulson needed to bring him in on, a mole maybe. But not this. Phil Coulson should not know the name Nomad , has no reason to connect that name to Steve.

And so he’s strongly considering freaking the fuck out when Coulson speaks again. “I think you need a leash.” Steve inhales sharply through his nose because that was not supposed to make his dick hard. He could blame it on being caught off-guard. But there’s a long pause, and Steve’s spine crackles with anticipation as he waits. Is he fucked? Is Coulson going to hold this over his head in some way he can't imagine? Steve’s planning escape options when the man continues.

“Luckily for you," Coulson says in a dry tone, "you're not the only man around here who gets off on violence. I’ve selected your next target. Barton will assist. You’ve heard the name Ronin, perhaps?

Steve inhales, blinks. 

“...seriously, sir?”

Maybe the fact that Coulson might want to use Nomad to do some dirty work isn’t shocking, but his open admission that arousal is involved is something entirely different. And “Ronin” is a name Steve’s heard only in whispers, but they’re always connected to something terrifying and lethal. An assassin who’s very good with a blade—but evidently also a bow.  

“Hmm. Yes, that’ll do nicely,” Coulson evaluates as Steve’s reeling from the new information, the handler pleasant as always. “Sir. I like that.” 

Jesus. Steve bites his own lip, tries to channel a professional calm as his world tilts on its axis. He's not alone. The thought makes him somewhat giddy. 

“How did you know about me, sir? That Nomad was me, and that I…?”

“I’ve studied your fighting style extensively.”

“ Yeah he has,” Clint Barton cuts in, just as snarky as he is on Avengers missions. Suddenly it’s more real that this is happening, that they both know Steve's secret shame, the thing that makes him “emo” because he likes it so much. He could still run, but…

“Silence, Agent,” Coulson snaps. “As I was saying… once I took interest in Nomad, JARVIS kept an eye on assaults credited to that name and confirmed your absence from the Tower at the relevant times. He was the one to initially flag you, actually, and forward some CCTV footage from which I could confirm the similarities. I think he likes me.” Steve can almost hear the small smile in his voice.

“How much did you see?” 

“Enough.” Steve exhales slowly. He’s not exactly an expert in avoiding cameras, but he didn’t think it would matter if he covered his face and pulled his punches.

“So you could turn me in.”

“I could,” Coulson agrees. “There is a set of car keys in the third drawer of your dresser. Black Audi parked on the third level of the hotel garage, coordinates in the GPS system. This is a kill order, Nomad. It’s a legitimate target, but far too low-grade to really need either of you on it in an official capacity. The mission is for pleasure.” Steve shivers. 

It’s further than he’s ever gone operating alone. But by contrast, it’s more-or-less sanctioned. This is someone whose days are numbered either way, and Steve’s being given a blank check to have a little fun with it. Fuck, yeah .

“I’ll doctor the records,” Coulson continues. “Are you comfortable being involved in this?” 

“Yes.” Steve’s already slipped the keys into his jacket pocket and is moving towards the door. He can feel the buzz in his veins. 

“Don’t bring the shield.” Coulson’s voice stops him cold. There’s something of an edge to it that makes Steve very interested to see more. “Your gear is in the closet.”

It’s… not his gear. Not Captain America’s, nor the cobbled together costume Steve wears when he threatens his victims in Nomad's name. This uniform is sleek, black, armored. It looks like something Tony would make. In fact, it looks suspiciously like something Tony would make. 

“Sir, is this… did Stark make this?” Steve asks, hushed. It seems risky, though he’s not saying no. 

“Of course he did,” Coulson calmly agrees. “Just like he made the earpiece you’re using right now and just like JARVIS is monitoring this frequency to make sure it’s not intercepted. I wouldn’t trust just anyone with your safety.” Steve sucks in a breath, pleased, but…

“Isn’t that dangerous? Tony could figure it out, easy.” Steve strips anyway, gets suited up in the new uniform. There are two handguns on a shelf, and he holsters them both. Several knives. He likes those more than the guns.

“Steve, I’m telling you that he already knows.” Steve inhales sharply. “We have a deal. Stark can’t get personally involved—he’d be too recognizable. But he likes to listen in. He and Pepper both like to watch, sometimes, on JARVIS’s cameras.”

“ Pepper ?” Steve squeaks. 

“She turns the sound off,” Clint contributes. “Coulson’s got a filthy mouth.” 

“And you have a filthy mind , boy.” Clint goes silent again. “We’ve been doing this for a long time, Captain. We’ll keep doing it, either way. You don’t have to work with us if it doesn’t suit you.” 

“I… don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Steve mutters.

“No.” Coulson’s voice is low and warm, promising. “I didn’t think so.”

~*~

Coulson directs Steve to the target—a white supremacist, not someone within SHIELD’s specific jurisdiction but the name is on an interagency watchlist and he has a history of racially-motivated violence along with ties to other terrorist groups. There's not enough evidence to convict him of anything, but no one cares enough to get in the way if they take him out. 

Steve creeps through the shadows of a darkened office building to grab the man, breaking his arm and yanking his hair back with a gloved hand so Clint can cleanly put an arrow through his throat. Steve's presence isn't strictly necessary here, but he appreciates the fact that they let him get his hands a bit dirty anyway.

Coulson will manufacture a scenario involving a time-sensitive tip and unexpected resistance. He’ll do all the paperwork, so they get to play.

Coulson typically supplies the targets and the story, he's explained, while Clint gets to take them out. (Steve imagines that it’s possible Phil sometimes gets involved with the wetwork too, on occasion, and it’s a surprisingly hot thought.) However it normally works with them, though, right now Steve’s dick is hard against the target’s ass, there’s an arrow in the man’s throat, and he’s choking to death. 

It’s a bit of a situation.

“Fuck,” Steve mumbles into his comm, watching the man sputter as Steve holds him up by the biceps and feeling the sharp sting of adrenaline flooding his veins that tends to be accompanied by a vague desire to have a dick in his mouth. 

This time, though, he might actually get one.

Clint stares at Steve from his hiding place, eyes flashing, and starts stalking towards him. He’s not in his usual gear either, wearing a hooded leather jacket with gold accents, quiver strapped to his back, and a muzzle that he lowers as he walks. 

When Clint gets closer Steve can see the bruises on Clint’s throat, but right now the man’s moving like a predator so he instinctively drops their victim to his fate and starts backing up. 

Clint backs him right into a convenient wall. "So I'm a switch, Nomad ,” the archer growls. “Do you know what that means?” 

"Yeah," Steve snarls back, the look in his eyes no doubt betraying his hunger. 

But before they can fuck over the dying body, Coulson’s voice cuts in. "Boys," he snaps. "Focus." 

"Phil’s job is to keep us on task," Clint smirks, stepping back with a languid ease to his movements though he’s still looking Steve up and down like he’d have his dick down Steve’s throat if they hadn’t been interrupted. He snags the arrow, twisting it to make the weapon less obvious from the wound. "He takes care of our every need." 

"Including keeping your snarky mouth in check," Coulson agrees mildly. "Please proceed along the exfil route with some haste." 

That's Coulson for "I'm worried about you," Steve already knows in a very different context.

Clint’s brought a two-man rappelling rig, which is fun. They jog to a window and then drop out of it together at speed, hitting the pavement a few seconds later. Clint cops a feel as the gear retracts, and then they have to get moving again. Coulson meets them a few blocks away at the wheel of a nondescript car.

“Hawkeye, why are you always such a slut?” he mildly inquires as they pull away from the curb, and Clint grins brightly. 

“Because I know how much you like it like that. Sir.”

~*~

"Fury knows. This isn't the worst thing he's had to turn a blind eye to, in the name of keeping the best intelligence agents in the world under the auspices of SHIELD. Granted, getting Captain America involved might be pushing it..."

"He has your trading cards, Steve," Clint smirks. Without looking, Coulson scruffs him about the neck and slams Clint into a nearby wall. Steve’s never been in Phil’s apartment before. The space is bland, mostly nondescript, though there are a few personal touches.

"I do. That doesn't mean I can't keep either of you in line. Is that what you need, Captain?" Phil quirks an eyebrow. He may not be Agent Coulson, on the clock, right now, but Phil still conveys an air of authority like it’s easy as breathing. And this part, Steve knows.

"Sir," he whispers reverently, eyes flicking down, before he sinks to one knee.

"You like hurting them? Are you a sadist?" Phil calmly inquires. He takes his hand away but Barton doesn't move.

"Sometimes," Steve admits.

"Masochist?"

Steve looks up and Phil's just watching him expectantly, like he knows the answer. Shit.

"Yes, sir." Submissive , but maybe he doesn't have to voice that.

"Why else do you do it?"

"Too many fucking rules," Steve growls. "They don't let me mete out justice without a mountain of paperwork, these days. HYDRA fucking waltzed back into the picture, and I get no goddamned thanks."

"Mmm." Phil smiles and steps forward. Cups Steve’s cheek and then slaps him lightly, twice. Steve licks his lips and his breathing gets more deliberate. "So you need a place to direct your anger."

"I need a place to direct my rage ."

"Reasonable. You know..." Phil rubs his thumb over Steve's lower lip and Steve lets him tug it down, staring fiercely into Phil's eyes as he speaks. "I like you with a beard. I like you on your knees even more." Steve surges forward, onto both knees now, and sucks Phil's thumb into his mouth up to the base before Phil can stop him. His gaze is hungry . "What do you think, Hawkeye?"

"I mean, we've been doin' this for what, thirteen years now, sir?"

"Roughly." Phil looks bemused. Steve fellates his thumb as showily as possible. "What's your point?"

"Well we've never had a third, never invited anyone in, have we? Not like this. You're just so pretty , Steve, we couldn't help ourselves," Clint mocks. Steve doubts that Phil will let Clint top tonight, but maybe. Phil's such a daddydom, a term Steve recently learned from a couple of dubious online searches. (Actually, maybe those searches are part of why Phil let him in on this. Damn, Tony's gonna be pissed if SHIELD's stealing data from his servers. How to identify a predator. Reported rapists in New York City. ) But Clint's got promise, too.

Phil drags his thumb back and smacks Steve’s cheek again. "I think you sound pretty confident for someone with his face to a wall, Barton. You wanna tell Rogers the kind of dark shit you fantasize about when I'm fucking you?"

"Christ, sir," Clint gasps. He sounds like it's making him hard just to think about it, and Steve can relate.

"That wasn't actually a question." Phil balances and presses one shiny matte black Oxford against Steve’s thigh. He drags the sole down, grinding it hard, and though Steve’s currently protected by his tactical pants he still thinks he might shoot way too soon to be impressive, as soon as they touch his dick.

"I... think about hurting people. People like the ones who hurt me when I was a kid," Clint explains, sounding like he doesn't want to elaborate on that point. Steve can respect that. "Making them scared. Mostly I think about their fear," he murmurs. "Jumping at every sound, shivering in bed at night when a strange shadow passes at the window." 

Clint speaks slowly, practically moaning the words, and in his peripheral vision Steve can see him rubbing against the wall. Steve has no doubt it's only because Phil's decided to let him.

"And?" Phil sounds merciless, and Clint whines.

"And I think about you taking them out, sir," Clint whispers. Steve hears it, of course. Phil looks like he knows the answer, even if it doesn't reach his ears.

"How?" Steve asks, meeting Phil's eyes.

Clint moans. He's just shamelessly rolling his hips against the wall now, grinding into it with his forehead and palms rooting him. His ass rolls out sometimes, too, away from the wall, like he's teasing himself with inconsistent stimulation or maybe just offering Phil a show. He does look a little like a stripper. 

"Pistol to the back of the head. Close range, blood everywhere," Clint murmurs, so quiet, like he's ashamed but also aroused. Phil visibly shivers like it's killing him not to already be fucking Clint, but it’s tiniest of motions because it's Phil. "Breaking bones first. Breaking necks, sometimes. Strangulation. Mostly... strangulation." He's breathy and eager, and his ass rolls back again like it's begging for dick. Steve’s back to staring at the goddamned bruises on Clint’s throat. It’s so hot to imagine how he got them. 

"We have dark things inside us, Steve." Phil doesn't change his tone from his easy "Agent" cadence, and it makes Steve's dick perk up. The way Phil speaks has this air of that’s just how it is . "We think it keeps them from escalating, when we fill our urges together, but maybe that's exactly what this is. Escalation. We might be too far gone to care," he mildly confesses.

"Fuck me," is Steve's response.

Phil smiles. "Fuck Clint, first.”

Clint just groans "fuuuuuck" under his breath, but he also drops his pants. Steve stands, comes in from behind, and looks to Phil for instruction. He doesn't expect to be grabbed by the hips, his flies opened by the other man's hands and his dick fished out for him.

"You're going to give it to him hard," Phil calmly instructs, slowly jerking Steve off. His hand's wet, though Steve didn't catch how it got that way. "You're not going to stop unless he says 'yellow' or 'pomegranate.' ‘Red’ is... too risky."

"Cause I like blood so much," Clint helpfully elaborates. "Also people's faces turn red when you choke them. And there are other red things. Sometimes, my asshole," he mutters under his breath. Steve hears him and smirks.

"Don't borrow trouble," Phil rebukes. His hand leaves Steve's cock, disappears and comes back wet again, this time fingering Clint's ass. Perfunctory, as quick as practical. "Go ahead, Steve. Put it in him. He likes it, I promise."

As Steve follows instructions Phil leans into Clint's ear. "You do like it, don't you? Thick cock in your ass? You like Nomad fucking you, boy?"

His words have just a little more emphasis, like Phil's control is slipping. Steve works the first few inches of his cock in and thinks about how Phil sounds when he's deadly serious, when someone is threatening an agent under his protection. Low and measured.

"Yeah, sir, love his dick. Work me on it," Clint gasps, rolling his body against the wall and pushing his ass back another inch. "Gimme your cock, Steve, c'mon, nice an’ deep." Steve gives up on trying to exercise restraint and really shoves it in, slams his body into Clint's to shove him up against the wall, grabbing the man's hands and pinning them to it. Phil did say “hard.” 

"Fuck!" Clint shouts.

"Nomad," Phil reminds him. "Not Steve, Clint. This is a vigilante. The guy who beat up those homophobic shits on Long Island, so bad that they're too scared to report it to the cops. For example."

"Fuck, sir. Fuck , sir."

"That's right, Hawkeye," Phil purrs. It's enchanting to watch. "Let Nomad fuck your greedy ass. Let me use Nomad like a toy to fuck your ass," he elaborates, and Steve moans out loud, drops his head to Clint's shoulder and yanks Clint’s hips back, starts to fuck him a little like a man possessed. If this is what Phil wants then fuck, Clint has his safewords. 

"Ahh, that's right," Phil continues as Clint starts to whine uncontrollably on Steve's cock. Steve's jackhammering into him, pleasure building. "That's my toy." He grabs Steve's jaw, yanks his head to the side and down to look Phil in the eye, and Steve gasps and comes, pumping into Clint's ass. 

"Your refractory period is negligible, according to your medical file," Phil reports calmly in the middle of Steve’s orgasm. "I'll have to put you on a fucking machine sometime and see how long you can last. Maybe Tony would have space in his lab." 

Steve shudders uncontrollably. How could Phil know how Steve longs to be objectified, dehumanized even? He thinks of being an experiment under Tony's competent, unforgiving hands. He can't tell anyone that , ever. 

Phil leans in and kisses Steve dirty , his tongue invading and fucking Steve's mouth, sucking at Steve's lips. It’s kind of shocking. The man’s a bureaucrat, after all. 

"We could milk you. Or maybe we'll spitroast you." Steve's never heard the terms, but the images are visceral and he loves them. "For now," Phil continues when he pulls away. "You can fuck Clint until he comes." 

Steve's hips are already pumping again. 

"All right, baby,” Phil purrs. “Which bedtime story do you wanna hear? You want the brains or the fileting?" 

"Brains, please," Clint gasps. Even Steve is a little surprised by the options, though his dick doesn't wilt. Clint’s body feels good, clenching involuntarily around him, and Steve angles his hips to hit Clint’s prostate. 

"Yeah, all right.” Phil smiles. “You wanna hear about how I'd like to open up your skull, squish my fingers inside you? I'd squeeze you like a massage, and it might feel good but it would just make you stupider and stupider." 

Oh fuck, that's weird, but Clint's also jerking on Steve’s cock like he's been electrocuted. So sure, he can roll with it. "Daddddyyyyy," Clint whines. 

Huh. That's… also new. "That’s right, pretty boy, you know. You know how you'd go lax and happy for me. My little fucksleeve boy. You'd be so soft inside. Maybe I'd stick my dick in there. Fuck your brain and your asshole both."

Clint starts coming on Steve's cock, shuddering hard. Steve holds Clint up against the wall and pistons into him, chasing another orgasm as Clint's spasming asshole grips his cock. Phil instructs Steve to tuck him into bed when he’s done, then he pulls open a drawer in one of the nightstands.

"I was being literal about the leash," Phil announces, holding up a collar.

Steve whimpers, not even quiet about it. And then he realizes it says "not all those who wander are lost," engraved on the brown leather in cursive. Nomad. It's just for him . Steve licks his lips and rocks on the balls of his feet. "Please, sir."

Phil buckles the collar maybe a notch tighter than he would on a baseline human and Steve bites his lip. 

“So what do you like, masochist?” Phil smirks. “I have a cane.”

Steve whimpers and Phil’s eyes flash with something hot and dark. Steve wants more of that, pretty much immediately. 

“Yes, please. The cane.”

“Mmm. I think I know what kind of submissive you are,” Phil thoughtfully observes. God, Steve wants to be fucked so badly. Phil pops him lightly on the ass with an open palm. “I like that kind of submissive, for the record.”

“Yes,” Steve murmurs. 

“Tell me more.”

“When I learned about BDSM,” Steve explains, “I knew I'd be… especially into the discipline part. I wasn't wrong."

“More so than the masochism?” Phil hooks a matching leash to the collar and Steve’s sure his eyes go dark and hungry and needy and grateful, all at once. He can’t really hide from Phil anymore. Not now. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Phil yanks Steve towards the bed, careless of the tug on his throat—reasonable, given Steve’s enhancements. He loves it, obediently shifting to crawl onto the bed and lie down on his back next to Clint as Phil non-verbally guides him. “More so than the submission?” 

“Pretty… evenly tied, I think.” 

Phil glances at Clint over Steve’s head and gives him this urgent look that Steve can’t interpret, but Clint just laughs. “Yes, sir, Captain America is your perfect kink match. Dreams do come true.” Phil slaps him hard. 

“Shut up, slut. Where did you learn about it?” he asks Steve.

“Online. JARVIS helped me find what I was looking for.”

“And what else did you learn online?” Phil raises his eyebrows just slightly.

“Oh, well…” Steve blushes. “How to give the perfect blowjob, according to one author. But also… roleplay. I think I’m into roleplay, but that doesn’t really go under the letters.”

“What kind of roleplay?” Phil asks.

“Can I tell you what I’d really like, sir?”

“Please.”

“You don’t have to give it to me,” Steve quickly clarifies, and Phil just gives Steve a very condescending look, though his expression barely shifts. 

“Is that so?”

Steve’s eyes lower. Okay, yeah, obvious. Phil Coulson’s clearly not doing jackshit in bed that he doesn’t damn well want to. “I… would like you to try to figure it out, sir. The kind of roleplay.” Clint makes a soft little sound of approval next to him. 

“Mmm. I’m sure you would.” When Steve looks back up Phil’s smiling a little. “How about this? While I think about that, you can give that perfect blowjob a try.” 

“Oh,” Steve murmurs.

“And while he does, why don’t you tell him about where that fantasy of yours came from, Agent? It’s a good story.” 

“Oh,” Clint laughs. Steve’s shifting to his hands and knees, turning sideways on this mattress to get his mouth on Phil’s dick where he stands but also positioning his ass just above one of Clint’s hands, if he wants to pull it out from under the blankets. “It came from a game we used to play. Twelve hours,” Clint recalls, his hand indeed finding Steve’s ass and kneading firmly, “was my best choice. You’re so creative , sir.”

“The game was that if he named a duration of time, I would tell him off the top of my head how I’d take him out if we had that amount of time before the authorities arrived,” Phil explains. “It was never meant to be what we’d actually do, just… fantasies.”

“I understand, sir,” Steve pulls off Phil’s cock long enough to say before he sucks it down again. 

“Yeah, in real life it’s just a bullet to the brain. Quick,” Clint adds, deadly serious. 

“But it’s hot for us to imagine. Twelve hours was the longest amount of time he ever gave me. Other times it was thirty seconds.”

“Totally off the cuff,” Clint proudly recalls, even as Steve’s choking on Phil’s cock with these little gurgling sounds and starting to drool uncontrollably. Phil’s tugging at the leash and Steve’s eyes are tearing up. Others might recoil, but Steve imagines a choke chain. When he can manage noises, he whimpers. 

“He just rattled off this whole tale that involved a brain surgeon who would cut my skull open without asking questions, among other things. I still believe he had that one already in his back pocket, though. It was too good to improv.” Clint squeezes proprietarily at Steve’s ass, his fingers getting very close to dead center.

"You have no evidence to prove that."

"He is… creative," Steve gasps. Phil pushes his dick back into Steve's mouth before he can quite finish the word. Steve moans a little, rocking his hips into nothing, and Phil confidently manipulates him by the hair. That confidence is not misplaced.

“Bring me my cane, Agent.” Clint hops to the order faster than Steve would have expected. It’s like that word means something, even here. He’s gonna ask about it later. 

The cane is rattan, old school, like something a teacher might have used in Steve’s time, though his own used a paddle. Phil makes Steve kiss it before he pulls Steve’s pants down and lays into his ass. And boy, Phil lays into it.

“Is it the kind of roleplay that involves being my toy? My tool?” Phil purrs, smacking Steve with an even rhythm, just enough space in between the strikes that he gets to absorb and process the pain before the cane’s whistling through the air again. Phil’s got a good arm, and it takes Steve a moment to even realize that Phil’s responding to the request he made earlier. “Or is that just real life?”

“ Fuck , sir,” Steve gasps after another strike.

“You wanna be my puppy?”

“ Sir ,” Steve begs. He hadn’t thought of that but oh Jesus Christ, now he is.

“Yeah, you probably thought about taking discipline from your teacher, or your priest, or maybe your Daddy —” Steve moans and the cane crosses the stripes “—but I think you’re my puppy more than anything. My vicious puppy who bites,” Phil smirks. “Guard dog and a bitch.”

“ Please !” Steve shouts. Phil tugs Steve back onto his dick by the hair and strikes again. The unusual angle doesn’t seem to remotely phase him.

“Gonna have to get you a hood, puppy. A special puppy hood, and maybe a bone-shaped gag to chew on.”

Steve whimpers helplessly.

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being my fucked out, drooly little pup?” As Phil says it he strikes Steve a third time across the existing stripes, and that burst of pain pushes Steve over the edge, his cry muffled by Phil shoving down his throat, making him choke on it as he comes. He’s dizzy, lightheaded, barely aware of himself but Steve still at least attempts to suck, to make it good.

“Jesus,” Clint whispers, stroking over Steve’s collar, over his throat as Phil fucks into it chasing his own orgasm. “Did you seriously just come a third time from a dozen stripes with a cane?” It’s actually easier, Steve would explain, after the first time. 

But it’s not polite to talk with your mouth full.

~*~

“Why do you call him Agent?” Steve asks when they’re all curled up in Phil’s bed together, stacked like spoons in a drawer. “In bed, I mean.”

“Ah,” Phil smiles, kissing the back of Steve’s neck as his fingertips trace Clint’s hipbone. “We’ve been doing this for a long time, Steve. We did try to keep things separate, at first, but… the fact is, our dynamic here blends very naturally with our roles as specialist and handler. We’ve found that we’re actually much better in the field when we allow that to happen.” 

“Huh.” Steve considers that. “I guess there’s no arguing with results.”

“That’s what Nat said,” Clint smirks. “She was worried about it at first. Our… extracurricular activities.”

“She knows?”

“She’s Natasha .”

“She doesn’t know the details,” Phil clarifies. “But some of it, yes.” 

“And she didn’t report you.”

“No. She knows we’re dangerous, in our way, but we also make her feel safe. That’s not something Agent Romanoff experiences very often.”

“I guess that… makes a lot of sense,” Steve admits. 

“She trusts me to pick targets,” Phil elaborates. “And she knows I have a moral code. I suspect she also knows that we’d be far more dangerous if I didn’t have targets to point Clint at.”

“Moral code meaning you only go after agency targets?”

“We only kill agency targets,” Clint corrects. “There are unsanctioned missions, too, but they’re not hits.”

“Similar to the work you’ve been doing, Nomad. We instill a bit of fear, enjoy the violence. But the line we draw there is less of a moral issue than a practical one. Dead bodies draw attention. Cleanup is a pain in the ass,” Phil says as he strokes his fingers over Steve’s thigh. 

“How do you select the targets, when they’re not on a list?”

“JARVIS keeps an eye out for bad apples. Sometimes one of us stumbles upon a good option, outside of work. Too risky if they’re associated with a mission, since it could get tangled up.”

“You hide your faces, I assume,” Steve says, his hand idly tracing the broad planes of Clint’s chest with his cock tucked up against the agent’s ass. Steve’s half-hard again, but it doesn’t feel urgent.

“I wear a mask,” Clint agrees. “Phil doesn’t always bother.”

“I only report to the Director,” Phil explains. “No one’s likely to fuck with me for involvement with a bit of unsanctioned violence against fucks who deserve it. The two of you, on the other hand… well, no one needs the Avengers getting branded as vigilantes without a leash.”

“Would fuck with our fun time, for one,” Clint grins. “And nobody fucks with our fun time.”

“Besides, I do have a leash now,” Steve smiles, maybe a little dopey about it. 

Phil laughs. “Yes. Also, your squeaky-clean image is sometimes helpful, Captain. When it comes to official business.” Phil’s tone is mild, but as he says it he reaches around and squeezes Steve’s cock, angles it to rub the head between Clint’s cheeks. 

“Fuck,” Steve whispers.

“That’s the idea.”

~*~

Phil identifies their next target five weeks later.

“There’s a rather violent pervert on the loose right now in New York. JARVIS took the liberty of locating this individual for me.”

“Margin for error on that identification?” Steve asks.

“None. Fucker stored videos in the cloud.” Clint sounds like he wants to murder this dick, but Phil continues. 

“He’ll rot in jail. Death would be too kind, gentlemen.”

“Understood,” Clint agrees with just a sliver of recalcitrance. 

“So, are we following the Geneva Conventions on this mission, or…?”

“Doesn’t apply,” Clint laughs. “We’re non-combatants.”

“Make it hurt,” Phil confirms. “Enjoy yourselves.” 

Steve shivers. 

“You know what I like, puppy. His victims are kids.” 

Steve groans with anticipatory excitement at that reveal. Given Clint’s past trauma, Phil has explained that there are different rules for sexual abusers of kids. Clint gets extra protection, but also extra leeway around his own violence and his orders to Steve. It’s going to be messy, and Steve likes messy sometimes. It gets him off. 

Steve’s also excited that they’re bringing him in on this so early, that they trust him and that he gets to participate in this kind of mission. So he stretches his head to one side, cracks his neck, and grins.

“Let’s get to work.”

~*~  

Working with them is a dream Steve never imagined when Nomad was merely a solo operation without much supporting strategy. They don’t do it all the time, but when they do it’s vicious. And they always fuck after, they always play . 

Clint fucks like power and blood and vengeance. One time he’s kissing Steve, slammed up against a wall, when an unexpected straggler from the group of mafia enforcers they’ve been hunting comes around the corner and Clint just looses an arrow directly into the man’s eye socket, somehow, without looking—pulling away from Steve only exactly long enough to grab an arrow, nock, draw, and shoot.

Phil is cold bottled lightning, Death dressed in an immaculate suit with a faintly amused smile. He fucks like it’s his right to do so, and Steve’s helpless to that. On their seventh mission together a no-kill target sees Clint’s face in a scuffle, gets to his mask, and Steve’s first thought is fuck, we’re done . But Phil just growls “kill him” into the comm, the order simmering with protective rage, and Clint cocks his gun and shoots the fucker point-blank in the face without hesitating. Steve’s immune to diseases, so of course he licks the blood splatter from Clint’s exposed skin. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.

“You know, I used to admire you because of your morality… the decisions you made, your loyalty to Sergeant Barnes,” Phil muses one night when they come in from a mission. “It never occurred to me you might be the kind of man I’d actually enjoy sleeping with.”

“Meaning?” Steve raises his eyebrows.

“Obedient. Violent. Easy .” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Clint mutters.

“You know exactly what you are, Barton.” Phil doesn’t take his eyes off of Steve as he says it.

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Ever had your asshole whipped, Steven?”

“ Jesus .” Clint shoves his hand down his tac pants and Phil pivots and backhands him without checking angle or distance first. He doesn’t need to. Steve swallows.

“No, sir. Can’t say I have.”

“Excellent. This is a bit cliché, I know, but I do love a good first.”

Steve takes a deep breath and then nods. “Is that… hard to aim?”

“Yes.” Phil raises an eyebrow at him and Steve shivers. 

Clint smirks. “Don’t give the bossman a challenge, he’ll make you cry . Then again, maybe that’s what you’re going for,” Clint concedes with a shrug. “In which case I wish you luck, comrade.” He pats Steve on the back, grinning, until Phil fixes him with a look and he busies himself helping Steve out of his clothing.

"You're going to bend over the foot of my bed, spread your cheeks, and hold position."

“Sir,” Steve whispers once he’s naked in the bedroom and in position, looking back over his shoulder. “Will it bleed?”

“Oh,” Phil murmurs, low and hungry. “I hope so.” 

“Your mutual danger kink is going to get somebody killed one of these days. I mean. Un intentionally,” Clint clarifies.

“What was that?” Phil’s tone is so mild that Steve only comprehends the violence in it because he’s still watching when Phil’s hand snaps around Clint’s throat. The archer’s eyes go wide and then he melts into submission. Phil squeezes a little tighter, then releases, and Clint basically slides down the front of Phil’s body like Phil’s a wall he’s face-planted into half-drunk, landing on his knees. Phil gives Clint a look that is both very long-suffering and very fond.

“Nothing important, sir,” Clint mumbles, and Phil smiles. 

“Smart boy. Also, you misspoke. You meant to say our mutual danger kink,” Phil corrects in a tone that is gentle and stern, like a school teacher to a student. He slaps Clint across the face again. 

“My mistake, sir.”

“I think I’m going to need to enjoy a cigar with you soon, boy. Just to get you re-acquainted with your reactions to danger .” 

Clint moans and looks up at Phil with such raw emotion and hunger that Steve actually looks away, presses his cheek to the mattress again. The bed’s high enough that Steve barely needs to bend his knees like this, torso comfortably supported, though his cock is wedged a bit painfully between the top of the wooden footboard and the slightly protruding mattress. Steve wonders suddenly if Phil had a bed built specifically to favor his own height for such a moment. He would honestly bet on it. 

His ass clenches with anticipation, the air cool on his bare skin, but the lash doesn’t come yet. Phil’s hand touches him first, smoothing over Steve’s back. “Hold this,” Phil orders, positioning the braided leather handle of a short singletail whip between Steve’s teeth like a bit. Steve doesn’t put much pressure on it at all, conscious of the quality tool and Phil’s fastidiousness. Phil exploits that, grabbing Steve’s hair and yanking his head back, spitting on the exaggerated curve of his spine. 

He tests Steve’s resolve with a nice hard open-palmed smack on the ass. Then something teases at Steve’s hole and he nearly bites down hard just out of lust—fuck, that’s the barrel of Phil’s service weapon, unless he’s exchanged it with a prop of some kind. Steve whines instead, high-pitched and greedy, pushes back and gets another slap on the ass for his trouble, followed by a lazy smack with the gun.

Plenty of guys would put all the excitement into the big finish, focus on their fancy skill, the hole-whipping being enough of a draw not to bother with more of a scene around it. But Phil doesn’t rest on his laurels, keeping Steve alert to danger and throbbing. 

“Clint has a particular taste for cigar play,” Phil confides, no doubt having signaled Clint somehow as he stands and comes around the side of the bed, climbing up and getting his cock out before he slides into the spot Phil’s created by lifting Steve’s head. Drool is trickling steadily from the corners of Steve’s mouth now, and Clint smirks knowingly at him.

“Yeah, I used to use flaming arrows a lot, and I knew a few people who spun poi or did fire hoops… there was a lot of dubious impromptu fireplay in the circus. But there’s something about a cigar… it’s so hot when he holds it millimeters away from your skin,” Clint describes, shivering as he gets his fingers wet with Steve’s saliva and tweaks Steve’s nipples. Phil prods at his balls with the gun and Steve moans. 

“One of these days I’m going to have you just like this, but I’m going to shove your face into a pillow while I fuck you,” Phil growls, finally exposing something beyond his usual bland confidence. It makes Steve so hot. “How’s that for danger kink, Barton?” 

Clint laughs and gives Phil a lazy salute. The next expression on his face suggests Phil’s promised payback in a silent conversation over Steve’s head, and the transparency makes Steve smile. “Could, sir,” he manages to mumble around the obstruction blocking his mouth.

“Oh, I know I could.” Phil cups Steve’s throat and his hand isn’t that big, necessarily, but Steve can feel his gun callouses. His fingertips caress Steve’s skin and he whines, high and hopeful. “Okay sweetheart, you can have cock now,” Phil casually informs him, removing his whip handle and guiding Steve by the hair down onto Clint’s dick. It breaches his throat and Steve makes a wet choking sound but he doesn’t try to pull off, letting Phil use him like Steve’s just a toy to please his lover. 

Hell, there’s a new kink.

“Anyway.” Phil gives the whip a mildly disapproving look, clearly standing deliberately in Steve’s field of vision, once he’s transferred control of Steve’s hair to Clint. The archer moves him up and down a few strokes, then holds Steve’s head about halfway and fucks up fast into his throat, so Steve can’t control a damn thing about it. At the same time Phil wipes the handle off against Steve’s asshole, Steve’s hands still spreading his own cheeks wide. (He suspects that it’s meant to be a form of bondage as well, keeping Steve from holding himself up or controlling any part of the fuck, a devious little assignment.) Phil twists and drags it, wetting him up.

“Clint likes the heat. He also likes taking my ash on his tongue. Likes when I put my hand over his mouth and smear ash and spit on his face, when I force him to swallow.”

“Fuck, sir,” Clint whispers, sounding reverent, and Steve doesn’t blame him. 

“It’s a very multi-faceted kink,” Phil muses, and then the first flick of the whiptail startles the fuck out of Steve. He’s pretty sure Phil timed it intentionally so right after it hit his hole, Clint would fuck into Steve’s face again. “Degradation, sensory play, fear play, service, sadism, protocol.”

He says that last word and Steve’s eyes roll back for a moment, a visual flashing through his brain unbidden of Phil in an officer’s uniform, berating him not with the usual barking tone of a pissed-off CO but with quiet threats instead. “Shouldn’t have done that, Captain…”

“Oh he likes that one, Boss,” Clint volunteers.

“I know,” Phil smirks. “His asshole clenched, it was pretty obvious.”

It’s mildly humiliating, but Steve’s thinking entirely with his dick now. Phil pops him again with the whip and his scream is muffled on Clint’s cock.

“You know what’s really hot?” Clint shares, shoving deep and holding Steve’s head there to grind against his face. “When he ashes on my skin and then grinds his boot over it. Even better if the ash gets on an open wound.”

“Watch it. You were punished for that.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint mutters, contrite.

“He didn’t report it to me,” Phil explains. “And I couldn’t guarantee the ash was completely sterile. It’s an infection risk.”

“But it hurt so fucking good.”

“Damn right it did,” Phil growls. He snaps the whip against Steve’s hole twice in quick succession. Steve feels like he’s caught on a live wire between them, writhing between the whip and Clint’s cock. Somehow, not a single strike even catches his fingers.

“I love that he doesn’t have to breathe very much,” Clint sighs happily. It’s sleazy, but also true. They can be rough with Steve’s throat in a way they couldn’t with just anyone. 

“Well I love how pink his asshole is getting,” Phil counters, administering another couple of flicks with the whip. “You want me to fuck you bloody?”

Steve does his best to hum an affirmative noise. 

“Hey, wait, how is that not an infection risk?”

“It’s Steve ,” Phil points out, and Clint pouts.

“You’re unfair, Rogers. Just. So. Un. Fair,” he teases, thrusting hard enough to make Steve’s eyes water with each syllable. 

“Talk about unfair after I let you suck his blood off my cock, Agent.”

“...complaint rescinded, sir. Fuck, I’m close.”

“Move him to your balls. Suck ‘em like you mean it, Rogers.” Phil pops him again as Clint pulls Steve’s head up off his dick, and Steve’s first gasping breath is followed by a hoarse shout. 

“Got a couple of drops,” Phil calmly reports. “Suck Clint’s balls and give it a good showing if you want more.” It’s a kind of check-in, but Steve’s fully committed now. He pushes his face in a little awkwardly, as he’s still holding his spread cheeks, and it’s warm and musky and humiliating but he gets Clint’s balls in his mouth, manages both at once with some effort. Clint’s thighs clamp around his ears and he feels dizzy as Clint moans, slightly muffled. Steve tries to relax, knowing what praise from Clint could mean.

“Yeah, that’s right, baby, fill both your cheeks up like a dirty fucking slut,” Clint babbles, all breathy, and sure enough that gets Steve another pop of the whip that feels like it sets his hole on fire , splitting him right down the middle. Steve bolts into the stratosphere, moaning around Clint’s balls. “Aw fuck, yeah, that’s perfect, moan on me like that, Cap.” Steve tries to do it more, consciously, but it feels weaker. Phil hits him again and Steve’s muffled shout makes Clint nearly rip his hair out. “Sir, fuck, c’mon, I need to come.”

“Need or want, Barton? Be careful.”

“Want, sir,” Clint murmurs. 

“That’s what I thought. I could let you come in his hair, but not until I’m inside.”

“That… seems fair, sir,” Clint groans. 

Steve’s just thinking about how Phil doesn’t often do wetwork, but still always carries a gun. It feels like a metaphor for something.