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Home Maintenance: A Maria Hill Guide

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Nobody reads the newspaper anymore, nobody including, maybe especially, Nick Fury, and yet he's sitting there, reading the Wall Street Journal or some shit. He's got his feet kicked up on his ottoman, which happens to be her right at the moment, and she just really, really hopes he doesn't intend to do the crossword puzzle.

Maria's on her hands and knees, unbound, totally naked and mostly covered with goosebumps. This position seems really easy until you actually do it, until you've got nothing but hard floor underneath your knees and elbows, until it's been half an hour, until it's been forty-five minutes.

"Fuck," she says under her breath; she bites her lip, hoping he hasn't heard.

He shuts his newspaper, and she realizes she's out of luck. "Excuse me?" he says, digging in with his heel, and she hisses. "Footstools don't talk."

"Yes, sir," she says tightly.

He settles back in his chair, straightening his paper. "You better be damn glad I'm not wearing my boots."

"Yes, sir."

"Now shut up," he orders. "If you're good, I might let you suck my cock."

Maria knows better than to respond again. 'Shut up' means 'shut up', not 'affirm that you are going to shut up and then shut up'; she has learned this lesson the hard way. Thankfully, she's a fast learner, because there's a whole lot of that around here. Maybe the whole thing is atavistic, maybe he's harsh, but she wouldn't have it any other way. She's lost a lot of tops because they bored the shit out of her, because they spoon-fed her, insulted her intelligence or ignored her insolence. So far, Fury has done exactly none of these things, or else she wouldn't be here. He's demonstrated that he's worthy of her compliance, so now he has it.

Right this second, she kind of wishes he didn't.

She holds as still as she can for as long as she can, but she's starting to lose it. She's freezing, her arms are starting to shake, and between the position and the weight on it, her back is killing her. Just when she thinks she's going to lose it, he takes his feet off her, and she sighs in relief. "Up," he says, and she sits back on her heels, infinitely grateful not to have to hold position anymore. "Face me," he says, and she turns. He puts a finger underneath her chin, looking in her eyes, and she doesn't look away. "Good girl. Now take me out and suck me."

She leans forward and undoes his zipper with her teeth, a trick she learned for the sole purpose of fucking with people; Fury cuffs her on the back of the head, but it's worth it for the entertainment value. He's only half-hard, but his cock fills in her mouth, lengthening as she runs her tongue along the underside, lapping at the tip.

He doesn't put his hands on her head, which means she's doing it right, just like she's been trained to. Fury already knows what she's tired of explaining: training doesn't mean learning to please somebody. Training means making yourself better- at anything, it doesn't matter, it could be sucking dick or aiming a rocket launcher- by pushing yourself harder, and Fury's there to make sure she pushes herself just as hard as she possibly can, and then push her harder.

She kneels up, getting into the right spot to take him down as far as she can. She can't get him all the way in yet, can't quite keep from choking, but she's going to do it somehow. For now she sucks greedily, hungry for it, wanting more than anything that moment when he loses it, the bone-deep satisfaction of giving him exactly what he wants, exactly how he wants it.

He's close, bucking his hips up towards her mouth, and she lets him, holding still the best she can so he can fuck her face. He doesn't touch her until he's right there, grabbing her head and shoving in hard, coming into her mouth. She wants to cough, but she suppresses the urge, at least until she's swallowed. He puts his hand on her neck, warm and firm, a comfort, and she relaxes, feeling sore and used and so pleased with herself.

"In my lap," he says, as tucks himself away and zips up. Her muscles burn like fire when she tries to stand, and he has to help her up and into the chair. It feels a little strange, all his clothes against her naked skin; it makes her feel small, taken over, but it's a good feeling. She feels safe like this, even more so than she knows she always is in his hands.

He runs his hands over her skin, caressing her gently, cupping her breasts, toying with her nipples. She relaxes against him; this doesn't necessarily mean she's been good, because he might play with her for as long as he wants and then push her away. This also doesn't mean she's been bad, and either way she's happy to enjoy it as long as she has it.

He lowers his mouth to her neck; he knows precisely the spot where the high collar of her uniform meets the rest of it, and he bites her just there, so that she'll feel it every time she shifts. He's got an impressive bite, the kind that hurts so badly and leaves such great marks. She tries not to struggle, but it's hard not to fight against that kind of pain. He locks his arm around her stomach, holding her down to bite her again on the other side, and she whimpers, loving the promise of the marks she'll have just as much as she hates the pain.

He lets her go, kissing the mark, which is already throbbing. "Spread your legs," he tells her, and she does it without hesitation. He runs his hand down her stomach and between her thighs, laying his hand over her mound and massaging her, his big hand covering her up. She's had tops who acted like it was a dirty secret when she got wet for them, like she should be ashamed of getting excited. Fury acts like it's his goddamn right to turn her on, like she should be ready to go whenever he wants. Maria vastly prefers that, the honesty of it, no bullshit getting in the way of desire.

He rubs her clit, a little on the rough side but not too much; she's a little far gone for light and gentle. Her hips move without her, pressing up against his hand, and he bites her again. She tries to keep still, but then there's his other hand, thick fingers pushing inside of her. Her back arches, her head falling against his shoulder, but he doesn't relent, fucking her just the way he wants.

She's shaking against him, almost at the point where she won't have a choice whether to come or not. "Sir," she mewls, taking the risk; in terms of punishment, talking out of turn is far less dangerous than coming without permission.

"Come for me," he says into her ear, and she lets herself go, falling over the edge. He grabs onto her arm with one hand, which is good, because she thinks she might be on the verge of falling out of the chair. She rides it on and on, the aftershocks rolling through her as he brings her down, moving his fingers slowly in and out until she shakes her head, too sensitive to go on.

He lets her have a moment, stroking her thighs as she calms. "Stand up," he orders, and it's very hard to do it, too many sore, shaky muscles; luckily, she's only on her feet for a second, because almost as soon as she's standing, he stands and sweeps her up into his arms. "You need some ibuprofen," he says, "and I need to fuck you."

"Sir, yes, sir," she murmurs, and he just snorts in amusement, carrying her away.