"Come on, Nick. If you keep glaring at me like that, someone’s going to get the wrong idea."
Fury leaned in toward Manelli, slinging an arm around the Italian’s shoulders as he bent his head to murmur into Manelli’s ear. ”If the idea they’re gettin’ is that I’m gonna kill your ass nice and slow when we get on the other side of this mission, it ain’t exactly what I’d call wrong.”
Never the fuck again was he letting Manelli pick the location for the intel exchange on any mission that involved the two of them.
Never the fuck again was he going to trust Manelli’s definition of “an exclusive and discreet private gentleman’s club” — because apparently, somewhere along the way, that sort of club had gone from being one where beautiful women thoughtfully got naked and served you your drinks while you smoked cigars to one where impossibly handsome young gentlemen aggressively got naked and shook their moneymakers in your face while you sipped on fancy cocktails that each cost more a top-of-the-line steakhouse’s filet mignon.
All in all, Nick Fury wasn’t exactly having the sort of evening he’d been prepared for.
It wasn’t the fraternization that was irritating him — no, far from it. Fury wasn’t opposed to that sort of thing on a moral level — hell, he’d been Army far too long to even bat an eye at a little naked, sweaty private time between two gentlemen. Hell, when the mood had struck and the nearest lady’d been a mite bit farther away than he’d cared to try for, he’d been known to quietly indulge in the love that dare not speak its name a time or two his own damn self. Emphasis, however, on the quietly. Fuck who, what, and however you wanted to fuck, but for god’s sweet fuckin’ sake don’t make it his problem.
Manelli, today, had made a large number of things Fury’s problem that he’d never really hoped to have on that list.
The first being the fact that Dino’s hand was high up on his thigh as they sat in their exclusive corner booth — the second, god damn that handsome son of a bitch — was that Fury didn’t really mind it quite as much as he would have hoped to.
The third — and worst — was the unseemly (though, truth be told, rather flattering in its own way) number of eager gentleman he’d had to shoo away from their booth before Manelli’s hand had made its way to his thigh, since apparently without some sort of vigorous PDA they weren’t exactly passing as a couple who wanted to be left in peace. Oh, no — instead, every Tom, Dick, and God-Damn-Harry in the place had seen them both as on the menu, and had been vocally and tenaciously bold about inquiring as to the market price.
And so even though he had a stronger desire to punch Dino’s fucking face than to stroke it lightly, which he was in fact now doing, Fury had to admit that Dino’s hand on his thigh — along with his own arm around Dino’s shoulders — were the best ways to get a little peace and quiet from the rest of this crowd while they waited for their contact (who would himself be appearing, about an hour later, in his cover as a go-go-boy to give Fury a very enthusiastic lap-dance while passing over the a sheet of memory dots teeming with critical diplomatic intel through the simple expedient of shoving them into a special pocket in Manelli’s boxer briefs during the peak of his “performance”).
"Work with me, Colonel," Dino purred, giving Fury’s leg a little squeeze that did more to convey his delight at getting one over on the boss than anything else he’d done in the past god-alone-knew how many years Fury’d been saddled with his ass. "At least try to pretend you’re having a good time. And you should be — I’m the hottest piece of ass in this whole place. It’s a little suspicious that you haven’t even kissed me once since we’ve been in here."
Fury was quiet for a long moment, enough for the first bit of uncertainty to stain the brilliant smile Dino had turned on him. Not enough to flush out all of the cheeky little cunt’s confidence, but enough to knock the metaphorical new-car-smell out of it. It was a small thing, a tiny thing really, but god damn if it didn’t do something to elevate his mood.
"You’re — almost right," Fury finally responded, a wicked gleam in his eye as he reached out for Manelli, pulling him closer until Dino was half-way in Fury’s lap. Before Dino could say anything else Fury cut him off, claiming his mouth in a roughly expert and possessive kiss. There was nothing sweet about it, nothing soft, but there was a hot sensuality running through the kiss that had him almost growling against Dino’s mouth as Dino’s lips parted readily in response. The flavor of expensive scotch and even more expensive cigars met his tongue; Dino tasted like decadence, like money, and Fury took his time, putting on a show not just for anyone else in the bar who might have been watching, but also for Dino, whose hand had slid up quite a bit higher than might be strictly necessary for their cover to press possessively against Fury’s cock in a way that Fury — much to his irritation — didn’t mind in the god damn least.
A hand that, as Fury finally pulled back from the kiss, Fury covered with his own, keeping it right where it was.
“Almost right —” he purred, a smile breaking out on his face at the surprised (yet somehow, as always, smug) look on Dino’s face —” ‘Cepting that it’s me that’s the sexiest motherfucker in here ahead of even you, and don’t you fucking forget it.”
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