Chapter Text
Jemma Simmons stood perfectly still outside Assistant Director Maria Hill’s office, her fingers curled into tight fists at her sides. The sterile hum of SHIELD headquarters pressed around her, fluorescent lights bleaching the color from her skin. She hadn’t slept.
Her reflection in the polished glass wall showed the hollows under her eyes, the way her lips parted just slightly, like she was always on the verge of saying something she shouldn’t. The USB drive Skye had given her weighed nothing in her pocket, yet it might as well have been a grenade.
Agent Sitwell had caught her mid-installation, his sharp eyes narrowing as the screen flickered with unauthorized code. Jemma’s pulse had jackhammered against her ribs, but she’d forced a smile instead. "You know," she’d murmured, tilting her head just so, "you have such a gorgeous head. Have you ever considered modeling?" Sitwell blinked, thrown, just long enough for her fingers to close around the ICER in her bag.
The shot had been clean. One fluid motion, the suppressed thwip of compressed air, and his body crumpled forward. She’d dragged him into a supply closet before anyone rounded the corner, her breath coming in jagged gasps.
Now, footsteps approached behind her. Jemma smoothed her blouse for the tenth time, her throat dry.
Hill’s voice cut through the silence. "Agent Simmons. My office."
Jemma turned, her smile brittle. She wondered if Hill could smell the guilt on her, like ozone before a storm.
The Assistant Director's combat suit clung to her frame, sculpting the curve of her hips, the taut muscle of her thighs shifting as she strode ahead. Jemma's gaze lingered, tracing the way the fabric stretched over Hill's ass with each precise step. She swallowed, tasting copper, she'd bitten her cheek again. Coulson's reassurances echoed uselessly in her skull. I've handled it. As if paperwork could erase what she'd done. As if Sitwell wouldn't wake with a migraine and questions.
Hill's office was colder than the hallway. Frosted glass muted the outside world; the only sound was the click of the door locking behind them. Jemma's stomach dropped.
"You look like hell," Hill said, leaning back against her desk. One boot crossed over the other, the toe tapping air. "Want to explain why Sitwell just filed a complaint about you tampering with secure servers?"
Jemma's pulse stuttered. She curled her toes inside her flats, grounding herself. "A misunderstanding, surely. I was, "
"Save it." Hill pushed off the desk, closing the distance between them. Up close, Jemma could see the fine scar along Hill's jawline, the way her pupils dilated in the dim light. "We both know what you did. The question is…" A gloved hand brushed Jemma's collarbone, pressing just enough to make her breath hitch. "What do I do with you?"
"Whatever you want," Jemma blurted, the words slipping out quicker than she'd intended. Hill's fingers slid beneath her chin, tilting her face up until their eyes locked. The air between them crackled with something jagged and electric.
"You do know the punishment is deliberately demeaning," Hill murmured, thumb tracing the line of Jemma's lower lip. The leather of her glove smelled faintly of gun oil and something darker, metallic. "Degrading. So agents think twice before doing something stupid." Jemma nodded, her pulse hammering in her throat. Hill's smile was razor-thin. "Good. Then we will begin."
Hill stepped back, her movements deliberate as she rounded the desk. The polished surface reflected the overhead lights, a sterile expanse between them. Jemma's palms prickled with sweat. "Over the desk," Hill said, fingers tapping the edge, "or over my knees?" The question hung in the air, weighted, inevitable. Jemma's mouth went dry.
She remembered Sitwell's slack face as he collapsed, the way his head had lolled against the mop bucket. Jemma exhaled. "Your knees," she whispered. The answer had taken all night to agonize over, twisting in her gut like a live wire. It was the worst option. That was why she chose it.
Hill's laugh was low, approving. "Come here." Jemma moved as if in a dream, the carpet fibers catching on her trousers. Hill's grip was iron when she seized her wrist, yanking her forward.
Jemma went over easily, her body folding across Hill's lap like a discarded coat. The angle was deliberate, her hips tilted just enough to raise the curve of her ass. She felt the heat of Hill's palm through the fabric of her trousers, pressing down with casual ownership. The position should have been humiliating, but instead, Jemma's breath came easier for the first time since Sitwell's body hit the floor. Decision made. Consequences accepted.
Hill's fingers flexed, testing the give of the material. "Still wearing your field gear," she noted, thumb dipping into the waistband just enough to make Jemma shiver. "Planning to run?" The question was rhetorical; Hill already knew the answer. Jemma shook her head, her cheek pressed against the cool leather of Hill's thigh. The scent of it, sweat and weapon polish, filled her nose.
"Good." Hill's hand lifted, hovered. Jemma braced. The first smack cracked through the office like a gunshot, the pain blooming sharp and bright. Jemma gasped, her fingers scrabbling at Hill's boot. Hill didn't pause. The second landed lower, precisely where thigh met cheek, wringing a choked noise from Jemma's throat.
The rhythm was merciless, each slap calculated to sting but not bruise. Hill's breathing didn't change. Jemma's did, her chest heaving as heat pooled low in her belly, shame and something darker twisting together.
Then Hill's palm stilled, resting heavy on the throbbing flesh. "Look at me." Jemma twisted, her hair sticking to her flushed face. Hill's eyes were black in the dim light. "I realize that you did all this to help your friend, Skye, but the rules are the rules."
Hill's fingers skimmed over the fabric, tracing the heat blooming beneath, her touch unexpectedly gentle. Jemma shivered. "But I could be lenient," Hill murmured, leaning close enough for Jemma to feel the whisper of her breath against her lips. "You were lured into Skye's bad-girl shenanigans. A shame, really." Her thumb pressed against the seam of Jemma's trousers, just shy of slipping beneath. "You're smarter than this."
Jemma's breath hitched. Her hips shifted, pressing instinctively into Hill's touch, then freezing, caught. She should've been mortified. Instead, her pulse hammered against her ribs, her body thrumming with something reckless and raw. "I'm not sorry," she whispered, defiant even as her voice trembled. It wasn't just about Skye anymore, or the mission, or even what was right or what was wrong. It was the way Hill's fingers flexed against her, the way pain melted into something thicker, sweeter.
Hill studied her, then smirked. "No, I don't think you are." Her hand slid down, palming the curve of Jemma's ass with deliberate possession. "But you will be."
The next strike landed harder, the sharp sound swallowed by Jemma's gasp. Hill didn't stop this time, her rhythm relentless, each slap punctuated by the hitch of Jemma's breath. The heat coiled tighter, shame and pleasure indistinguishable now. Jemma's fingers dug into Hill's boot, her body arching, not away, but into it, chasing the sting.
Hill chuckled, low and knowing. "Oh, Jemma," she murmured, her free hand tangling in Jemma's hair, tugging just enough to make her whimper. "What a mess you've made of yourself."
Jemma didn't answer. She couldn't. The words were lost in the dizzying rush of sensation, in the way Hill's touch, cruel one moment, tender the next, rewrote every rule she thought she knew.
And when Hill finally paused, her palm resting possessively over the heat she'd stoked, Jemma didn't protest. She simply waited, breathless, for whatever came next.
Hill's fingers trailed lower, skimming the inseam of Jemma's trousers where fabric clung to damp skin. The sudden shift from punishment to something far more intimate made Jemma's stomach lurch, not with fear, but with a hunger that burned hotter than shame. Hill's fingers pressed deliberately against the soaked fabric, the pressure just shy of cruel. Jemma gasped, her hips jerking forward instinctively, seeking friction even as her face burned with humiliation.
Hill's voice cut through the thick air, laced with mocking surprise. "Agent Jemma Anne Simmons," she purred, dragging her fingertips through the evidence of Jemma's arousal. A slow, deliberate circle that drew a whimper from Jemma's throat. "Did you enjoy that?" The question hung between them, charged and unavoidable. Jemma clenched her teeth, refusing to answer, but her body betrayed her, arching into Hill's touch like a strung bow.
Hill laughed, low and knowing. "Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, her free hand tightening in Jemma's hair, yanking just enough to make her gasp. "You're not half as clever as you think you are." The words were a blade, honed to carve through pretense. Jemma shuddered, her thighs pressing together around Hill's fingers, the movement involuntary and damning.
Hill didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of Jemma's ear, her voice dropping to a whisper that sent sparks skittering down Jemma's spine. "Let's see how much more you can take before you beg."
The threat, or was it a promise?, sent heat pooling low in Jemma's belly. She didn't know what terrified her more: that Hill might stop, or that she wouldn't.
Hill's grip tightened in her hair, yanking her head back until the tendons in Jemma's throat stood taut. The sudden exposure as Hill yanked her trousers down to her thighs sent a rush of cool air against heated skin. Jemma whimpered, the sound tearing free before she could bite it back. Her thighs trembled, the muscles twitching under Hill's assessing gaze. The sting of each slap had faded into a throbbing warmth, but the dampness clinging to her inner thighs betrayed her far more than any confession ever could.
Hill's breath hitched, barely audible, but Jemma caught it, the first crack in that controlled facade. A gloved finger traced the angry blush blooming across Jemma's skin, the touch feather-light yet searing. "Look at you," Hill murmured, her voice rougher now, the mockery laced with something darker. "Red as your damn lab coat." Her fingers dipped lower, skimming the crease where thigh met cheek, and Jemma's hips jerked forward with a choked gasp.
Hill's answering chuckle vibrated against Jemma's spine as she leaned closer, her lips brushing the shell of Jemma's ear. "Tell me," she breathed, her free hand sliding around to press flat against Jemma's stomach, fingers splaying possessively over the quivering muscles. "Did you think about this? When you were hunched over those servers, stealing secrets for your lovesick hacker?" The words dripped with contempt, but her touch betrayed her, the way her fingers flexed, the ragged edge to her breath.
Jemma's vision blurred. She couldn't lie, not with Hill's fingers skating lower, not when her body arched shamelessly into the touch. "Yes," she gasped, the admission ripped from her chest.
Hill stilled. For a heartbeat, the office held its breath. Then her hand fisted in Jemma's hair, wrenching her head back further. "Pathetic," she hissed, but the word lacked its usual bite. Her other hand slid down, fingers parting slick folds with deliberate cruelty. Jemma cried out, her hips bucking uncontrollably. Hill's grip tightened, holding her in place as she dragged a single, torturous finger through soaked flesh. "But useful."
The world narrowed to the press of Hill's fingers, the ragged sound of their breathing, and the dizzying realization that this, this was the punishment she'd truly feared. Because Jemma wasn't sure she'd survive it. Or that she wanted to.
Hill's hands shifted, gripping Jemma's cheeks with deliberate pressure, spreading them apart with a clinical precision that sent fresh humiliation scorching through her veins. The cool air hit exposed flesh, making Jemma shudder violently. Then, soft, impossibly soft, Hill exhaled, her breath ghosting over Jemma's asshole in a whisper of sensation that shouldn't have been as electrifying as it was. Jemma's entire body jerked, a strangled noise tearing from her throat as heat pooled violently between her legs.
Hill chuckled, the sound dark with satisfaction. "Sensitive," she murmured, her thumb tracing the fluttering rim in a slow circle that had Jemma's toes curling in her flats. "And so responsive." She leaned down, her breath hot against Jemma's skin as she spoke, each word deliberate. "Tell me, Agent Simmons, do you know how often disciplinary actions escalate?" Her lips brushed Jemma's flesh, feather-light, and Jemma whimpered, her fingers clawing at Hill's thigh. "Because I assure you," Hill continued, her voice dropping to a husky purr, "this is just the beginning."
The first lick was slow, deliberate, Hill's tongue dragging over Jemma's hole with a teasing flick that made her hips buck wildly. Jemma choked back a sob, her body torn between shame and a hunger so primal it terrified her. Hill didn't relent, her grip tightening as she lapped at Jemma's rim with obscene precision, each wet stroke sending jolts of pleasure-pain ricocheting through Jemma's nerves.
Then Hill's tongue pressed inside, just barely, and Jemma shattered. Her back arched, a desperate cry spilling from her lips as her thighs trembled uncontrollably. Hill hummed against her, the vibrations making Jemma's vision white out at the edges. "Look at you," Hill murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, her breath hot against Jemma's slick skin. "So desperate for it." Her fingers dug into Jemma's flesh, spreading her wider as she leaned in again, her tongue delving deeper this time, twisting in a way that had Jemma sobbing openly.
And then, the realization hit like a bucket of ice water. Every gasp, every shudder, every pathetic whimper was Hill's doing, orchestrated with surgical precision. Jemma's breath hitched as Hill's hand slid from her hip to her inner thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, possessive and controlling even as her tongue worked Jemma open with relentless expertise. Hill wasn't just punishing her. She was rewriting her, molding her reactions like clay, reducing her to nothing but a writhing, wanton thing.
Jemma's nails dug into Hill's leg, her body torn between shame and the overwhelming need to grind back against Hill's mouth. Hill chuckled, the sound dark and knowing, and Jemma's stomach flipped. "You're thinking too much," Hill murmured against her skin, her teeth grazing Jemma's ass cheek in a warning bite that sent a jolt straight to her core. "Stop fighting it." Her fingers tightened on Jemma's thigh, nails biting just enough to sting, and Jemma's resistance crumbled.
Hill's tongue curled inside her again, and Jemma's hips jerked forward, her body moving on instinct now, chasing the dizzying pleasure-pain of Hill's control. Hill's free hand slid up, palming Jemma's soaked cunt with rough possessiveness, fingers pressing just shy of where Jemma needed them most. The tease was unbearable, calculated, Hill was playing her like an instrument, every touch deliberate, every withheld caress a lesson in submission.
And Jemma, god help her, was learning.
Hill’s fingers circled her clit with agonizing precision, the rough pads of her gloves dragging against oversensitive flesh. Jemma’s breath hitched, her body arching off Hill’s lap, every nerve alight. The pressure built, relentless, coiled tight in her belly, until she teetered on the edge, then Hill stopped. Just like that. A cruel withdrawal that left Jemma gasping, her thighs trembling, her cunt clenching around nothing.
“Not yet,” Hill murmured against the small of Jemma’s back, her lips brushing sweat-slick skin. The words were velvet-wrapped steel. Jemma whimpered, her hips jerking forward instinctively, chasing friction that wasn’t there. Hill’s chuckle was dark, victorious. She dragged a single gloved finger up Jemma’s slit, gathering wetness, then pressed it teasingly against her entrance, but didn’t push in. “Discipline,” Hill purred, “is about control. Yours is lacking.”
The accusation burned hotter than the ache between Jemma’s legs. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to steady her breathing, to claw back some semblance of dignity. But then Hill’s thumb found her clit again, and Jemma’s resolve shattered like glass. Her hips bucked wildly, a sob caught in her throat. Hill’s grip tightened, holding her in place, her touch relentless but never enough, circling and circling until Jemma’s vision blurred at the edges.
Then, nothing. Hill pulled away entirely, leaving Jemma trembling, her body strung tight as a bowstring. “Please,” Jemma gasped before she could stop herself, the word torn from her chest.
Hill’s answering smile was razor-sharp. “Please what, Agent Simmons?” Her fingers traced idle patterns on Jemma’s inner thigh, feather-light, maddening. “Use your words.”
Jemma’s breath came in ragged bursts. She should refuse. She should, Hill’s palm landed sharp against her ass, the sudden sting wringing a cry from Jemma’s lips. “I won’t ask twice.”
Jemma swallowed. “Please,” she whispered, the syllables sticky with shame, “let me come.”
Hill’s fingers returned to her clit, this time with purpose. Two firm strokes, just enough to send Jemma hurtling toward the edge, then stopped again. Jemma’s entire body convulsed, a broken noise escaping her lips. Hill tutted, her breath warm against Jemma’s ear. “Not until I say.”
Jemma’s nails dug into Hill’s thigh, her body taut, her pulse a frantic drumbeat. She was ruinous, undone, and Hill, Hill was the architect of it all.
The next touch was merciless.
Hill's fingers returned to her clit, but her thumb pushed slowly into the wetness of her asshole, the blunt pressure a violation that shouldn’t have sent pleasure lancing up Jemma’s spine. She whimpered, her thighs shaking uncontrollably, her body torn between shame and the need to press back onto that invading digit. Hill’s breath hitched, the first crack in her composure, her thumb twisting deeper, stretching Jemma open with deliberate cruelty. The stretch burned, but the fullness, god, the fullness, made Jemma’s vision blur at the edges.
"Now," Hill whispered against the sweat-damp curve of Jemma’s shoulder, her voice ragged with something Jemma had never heard before, hunger, raw and unchecked.
And Jemma did.
Her orgasm ripped through her like a live wire, her back arching violently as pleasure detonated in her core. Hill’s fingers worked her through it, relentless, her thumb still buried deep, twisting just enough to wring another choked cry from Jemma’s throat. The aftershocks left her trembling, her body limp over Hill’s lap, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. Hill didn’t pull away, her fingers still pressed inside Jemma, possessive even in the aftermath.
When Jemma finally found the strength to lift her head, Hill’s expression was unreadable, her lips parted, her pupils blown wide. For a heartbeat, Jemma thought she saw something flicker in those dark eyes, regret, maybe, or something worse: want, untempered by duty. Then Hill blinked, and it was gone, replaced by the familiar ice. She withdrew her fingers slowly, the drag of leather against oversensitive flesh making Jemma shudder.
"Discipline," Hill murmured, her voice rough around the edges, "isn’t just about punishment." She wiped her gloved fingers on Jemma’s ruined trousers, the gesture obscenely casual. "It’s about ensuring compliance." Her gaze locked onto Jemma’s, dark and unyielding. "Consider yourself corrected."
Jemma swallowed, her throat dry. She should feel ashamed. She should feel used. Instead, her skin still hummed with the aftershocks of Hill’s touch, her body already aching for more. That, more than anything, terrified her.
Hill stood abruptly, the movement forcing Jemma to scramble upright, her legs unsteady. The assistant director adjusted her gloves with practiced efficiency, her mask firmly back in place. "Clean yourself up," she said, her tone brittle. "Report to my private quarter, 2200 hours tonight." She turned away, but not before Jemma caught the way her fingers flexed at her sides, the faint tremor in her usually steady hands.
Jemma watched her go, her pulse hammering in her throat. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.