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firmament2012-06-12 08:58 pm
gorgeousnerd) wrote in firmament2012-06-12 08:58 pm
Entry tags:
Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes - Avengers, NC-17, Nick Fury/Rhodey.
Title: Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes
Fandom: Avengers
Rating: NC-17
Length: About 2300 words.
Characters/Pairings: Nick Fury/Rhodey, Tony.
Summary: Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes. Even when he goes to Stark Tower with a bottle of whiskey in the middle of the night.
Notes: Inspired by thisfandomsecrets. If you haven't thought about how hot Fury would be with any of the Avengers or associated teammates, I feel sad for your life.
(Also on AO3 and LJ.)
Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes
It's a joke around the helicarrier, and one he isn't supposed to hear: Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes. It's not a punchline so much as the start of the joke, like those Chuck Norris pictures his Galaga-playing subordinate leaves on his desktop no matter how many times a superior at any level of the chain of command tells him to stop.
Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes. The helicarrier is just better with less engines.
Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes. The laws of physics are just constantly wrong.
Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes. Eye patches are just cool. (Which Fury doesn't find funny, even when he stretches his sense of humor as far as it goes. Coulson puts a stop to it after rehab's done, and considering the blandly judging looks he gives after he sees his bloody Captain America cards for the first time, Fury's glad Coulson's still on his side.)
But that's the thing: Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes. He and SHIELD are reactive forces by nature, responding to threats and the orders of his superiors, and he's always figured mistakes for something proactive people make. It's not like he doesn't take responsibility when things go bad, but his judgment's always sound.
That's what he's telling himself when he holds the bottle of whiskey in his hands and checks the latest energy readouts of Stark Tower to make sure a suit just landed.
"This," he mutters to himself, words very deliberate, "is a bad idea."
Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes.
Much.
-
Music's playing quietly when Fury disengages from the line and squares his shoulders. Stark's new room is just as well-lit as the old, the warm tones a lot gentler on his eye than the fluorescents in all the SHIELD installations. But the fluorescents usually signal safe territory, no matter how temporary, so it's hard to ease from a battle-ready stance. Even if it goes against a seductive mindset.
Fury sees a figure through the frosted glass that separates the room from the bathroom and clears his throat. If this wasn't a social call, he'd let Stark discover him, but he'd rather get this over with as quickly as possible.
"Tony? I thought..."
The figure rounds the glass, and the words die off.
"Colonel Rhodes," Fury says. He spreads his feet instinctively and tucks his hands behind his back. It's a good way to keep the bottle out of sight. "I didn't realize this was your room."
"It's not. Mine isn't finished." Rhodes grabs at the towel around his waist. Which is all he's wearing. Because he wasn't expecting anyone. "I'd ask what you're doing here, but it's the middle of the night, and you've got a bottle of Tony's favorite whiskey behind your back, so I think I can guess."
Fury tilts his head to the side. "When do you expect Stark back?"
"I thought SHIELD kept intel on all the Avengers."
"Maybe I decided that was inappropriate use of resources."
For the first time, Rhodes laughs, wide and bright. "With all due respect, sir, you would've called first if you weren't using some kind of tracking."
"Stark has a way of disappearing if I try official channels." But Fury gives the barest hint of a smile. "And I'm not your commanding officer. You can call me Nick."
"And you can call me Rhodey." The smile broadens as Rhodey waves a hand. "No reason to put good alcohol to waste. There's glasses by the bar."
By the time Fury's navigated Stark's extensive setup, Rhodey's waiting on the couch in a pair of exercise pants and t-shirt. He accepts the glass Fury hands him and says, "Is that what you always wear for a booty call?"
Fury looks down. He's in his usual work outfit, black on black. "We deal with a lot of emergencies. I have to be prepared."
"Can you be prepared without the coat? You're making me nervous."
To answer, Fury shrugs off the coat and drapes it across the back of the couch. It makes him marginally less stiff when he lowers onto it. Rhodey watches him the whole way, sipping his whiskey.
"Is it good?" Fury asks, gesturing at Rhodey's cup with his own.
Rhodey nods. "If there's one thing Tony knows, it's what to drink. Can I ask you the obvious question?"
"Why Stark, or why now?"
Rhodey laughs again. "I guess both. You've known Tony long enough to know what a bad idea this is."
"Sure." Fury shrugs a little and takes a taste of his own drink. It isn't bad, but it's not really his taste. He sets it on the table in front and leans back, spreading his arms on the back of the couch. "But he's also not likely to see it as anything more than it is."
"No strings, then."
Fury snorts quietly and shakes his head. "There's always fucking strings. Stark just doesn't acknowledge them."
"Unless he wants to." Rhodey tips his head up a little. "JARVIS, you're not sending any of this to Malibu, are you?"
"No, sir," a pleasant British voice responds.
"Malibu?"
"Don't tell Tony I told you. He thinks having War Machine patrol was a clever way to give you the slip."
It's not Stark's most extravagant plan ever, but it did work. "He won't hear it from me."
"Good." Rhodey leans forward onto his knees, letting his almost-empty glass dangle from his fingertips. "You know, I don't have any plans tonight."
Fury looks him up and down. Even in a less field-active position, and even in a military branch like the Air Force, officers have to stay in good physical shape. Rhodey's well-muscled without being overly bulky. It's a good look.
But Fury hesitates. "You getting Stark back for something?"
"Oh, always." But the smile drops into something more serious. Not solemn, just measuring. "But mostly, I've been in the service long enough to take advantage of opportunities when they come my way. This seems like a good one."
Fury gets to his feet, and after a second, Rhodey puts his glass on the table and rises, too. He's a good half-foot shorter than Fury, not too far from Stark's height, but judging by the way he tilts his chin and stares him down, Rhodey's used to staring down bigger men and winning. A chill dances across Fury's skin, so apparently it works for him.
He steps closer and slips his hands onto Rhodey's bare arms. The muscles flex as Rhodey puts his hands on Fury's waist and pulls him closer.
"So what exactly were you looking for?" Rhodey asks in a low whisper. "When you thought Tony was the one giving it to you."
"Honestly?"
Rhodey nods.
"Tipsy handjobs."
He laughs. "I think we can do better. Feel like moving to the bed?"
Judging by the way his cock's getting half-hard, it's a definite yes. Fury nods, and Rhodey pulls back and strips down, not trying to make it a show. It almost packs more of a punch that way, seeing the methodical way he pushes off his pants and shirt and folds them on the couch, revealing the trim body and his own half-hard cock beneath.
"I'm thinking you'll blow me," he says, smiling wryly as he crosses the room and slides open the drawers of Stark's bedside table. "And then you'll fuck me, if you're in the mood for it."
Fury's still staring, but he laughs a little. "Oh, I'm definitely in the mood."
"Good." Rhodey tosses a bottle of lube on the bed and a handful of condoms. "Good thing Tony's got the flavored kind. My next physical isn't for another week."
Fury grins and crosses the room. He takes his time a lot more with his own clothes, dragging the zippers slowly and making sure to stretch as he slides the clothes off. He's not quite as fit as he used to be, but Rhodey's watching, taking turns between stroking himself to fullness and tearing open a condom pack and rolling it on.
"Hope you like strawberry," Rhodey says between gasps. He's still stroking.
Fury, now naked, sits on the bed next to him and grabs his wrist. "Sounds perfect."
It's been a while since Fury went down on anyone. Forget the fact that the clean-up of New York's still going on; just the amount of so-called superheroes that have popped up in the last decade haven't left him with much free time. But some things are hard to forget.
He wets his mouth and takes the head of Rhodey's covered cock in his mouth. It's not the best taste ever - latex and fake fruit flavors aren't a combination that people go out of their way to try - but Rhodey moans appreciatively as Fury uses his tongue to find the more sensitive spots, and that's the whole point, really.
Rhodey's hands slip over Fury's head, stroking the bare skin as Fury slides down, wrapping a hand to keep from taking Rhodey's cock deeper than he can handle. "That's...god, yeah, keep doing that."
Fury obliges. Because of the latex, he makes it sloppy, working up enough spit to really get things sliding. Rhodey's hips twitch a little the longer Fury draws it out, but it's obvious he has some discipline under his belt; Fury usually ends up having to pin down hips while he blows a guy. He probably would've had to tie up Stark entirely.
"I'm...I'm going to..." Rhodey finally says when Fury's jaw is starting to ache. Fury pulls off enough to say, "Do it," and he goes back until the condom fills and Rhodey's arching and grabbing at the sheets.
Fury sits up, giving a couple tugs of his own cock as Rhodey blinks heavily and pulls his condom off.
"You good for more?" Fury asks as Rhodey drops the condom in a trash can.
Rhodey nods, grabbing the bottle of lube. "Definitely. Just not twenty anymore, you know."
Fury definitely knows. But it has its benefits; it means he can hold off as he rolls on a condom and as Rhodey covers his fingers with slick and starts sliding them in his ass. Fury definitely wants to be inside Rhodey when he comes.
Rhodey shivers with his own touch. "Fuck, I always forget how sensitive things are."
"That a bad thing?"
"God no." He grins and starts working his fingers harder, stretching. Fury's finding it a little hard to breathe.
"How do you want to do this?"
Rhodey bites his lips and stops fucking himself so hard. "On my side? I was flying around all night."
Fury nods and lines up behind him on his own side as Rhodey pulls his fingers out. "As long as you don't fall asleep."
He starts pushing in, and Rhodey gasps a laugh. "Don't think that'll be a problem."
It's obvious it's been a while for Rhodey; even stretched, it's a tight fit. Fury's more than happy to take his time, and frankly, as big as he is, he usually has to. But before long, Rhodey's pushing back, and he reaches around a hand to hold onto Fury's head as Fury grabs his hips to help keep the rhythm.
Fury isn't thinking much as he gets closer, watching Rhodey's body writhe against his, feeling him clench around his cock. Not much beyond how hot this is, how much he needed this, how much he wants to come. Judging by the way Rhodey's muttering "Yeah, come on, do it," he's saying some of it out loud, too.
But something crosses his mind about how right this feels, and that's what tips him over the edge, dropping his head onto Rhodey's shoulder as he shoots into the rubber.
They lie flush for a while, breathing heavy as Fury softens inside Rhodey, and it's only when Rhodey rolls his shoulders that Fury pulls out, taking off the condom. His original plan involved a quick exit, shower back at base, and as much sleep as he could get. But now...
"Stark won't be back for a few days, right?"
Rhodey laughs, voice thick and slurred. "I'm not kicking you out of the door. Balcony. Whatever."
Fury snorts a quiet laugh and lets himself drift.
-
It's not surprising to see Stark's name on Fury's caller ID days later. If anything, he almost expected it sooner. Just not on his private line.
"How did you get this number?" Fury asks, pinching his nose.
"Googled it after I found a partially drunk bottle of whiskey on my bar. You shouldn't have, by the way."
"What makes you think it was me?"
"Fingerprints. You want into my pants, Agent?"
"Stark--"
"Actually, that's not why I'm calling. I have Rhodey's phone number, and he's too polite to use his power inappropriately to find yours."
Fury doesn't ignore the warm twist in his stomach. But that doesn't mean he has to share it with Tony Stark, of all people. "What makes you think--"
"Save it. Get a pen."
Fury sighs, but he writes down every digit Stark reads in an infuriatingly slow tone. He also resists the urge to tell him to shut up when he repeats the number three times.
"And just so you know," Tony says, when he's finally finished drawing it out, "Rhodey's more into pizza than shawarma. No accounting for taste."
The phone cuts off, and Fury's almost too pleased by the silence.
He only pauses for a second before putting Rhodey's number into his contacts. He doesn't pause again before texting a simple message: physical go well?
He gets an answer back right away: all clear expect your results shortly, followed by an email address.
Fury smirks as he pulls up his email client and finds the message with his own test results from the last week. He forwards them with a two-word message - pizza Friday? - and leans back in his chair, crossing his hands behind his head as he waits.
It's true. Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes.
Ever.
Fandom: Avengers
Rating: NC-17
Length: About 2300 words.
Characters/Pairings: Nick Fury/Rhodey, Tony.
Summary: Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes. Even when he goes to Stark Tower with a bottle of whiskey in the middle of the night.
Notes: Inspired by this
fandomsecrets. If you haven't thought about how hot Fury would be with any of the Avengers or associated teammates, I feel sad for your life.(Also on AO3 and LJ.)
It's a joke around the helicarrier, and one he isn't supposed to hear: Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes. It's not a punchline so much as the start of the joke, like those Chuck Norris pictures his Galaga-playing subordinate leaves on his desktop no matter how many times a superior at any level of the chain of command tells him to stop.
Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes. The helicarrier is just better with less engines.
Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes. The laws of physics are just constantly wrong.
Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes. Eye patches are just cool. (Which Fury doesn't find funny, even when he stretches his sense of humor as far as it goes. Coulson puts a stop to it after rehab's done, and considering the blandly judging looks he gives after he sees his bloody Captain America cards for the first time, Fury's glad Coulson's still on his side.)
But that's the thing: Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes. He and SHIELD are reactive forces by nature, responding to threats and the orders of his superiors, and he's always figured mistakes for something proactive people make. It's not like he doesn't take responsibility when things go bad, but his judgment's always sound.
That's what he's telling himself when he holds the bottle of whiskey in his hands and checks the latest energy readouts of Stark Tower to make sure a suit just landed.
"This," he mutters to himself, words very deliberate, "is a bad idea."
Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes.
Much.
-
Music's playing quietly when Fury disengages from the line and squares his shoulders. Stark's new room is just as well-lit as the old, the warm tones a lot gentler on his eye than the fluorescents in all the SHIELD installations. But the fluorescents usually signal safe territory, no matter how temporary, so it's hard to ease from a battle-ready stance. Even if it goes against a seductive mindset.
Fury sees a figure through the frosted glass that separates the room from the bathroom and clears his throat. If this wasn't a social call, he'd let Stark discover him, but he'd rather get this over with as quickly as possible.
"Tony? I thought..."
The figure rounds the glass, and the words die off.
"Colonel Rhodes," Fury says. He spreads his feet instinctively and tucks his hands behind his back. It's a good way to keep the bottle out of sight. "I didn't realize this was your room."
"It's not. Mine isn't finished." Rhodes grabs at the towel around his waist. Which is all he's wearing. Because he wasn't expecting anyone. "I'd ask what you're doing here, but it's the middle of the night, and you've got a bottle of Tony's favorite whiskey behind your back, so I think I can guess."
Fury tilts his head to the side. "When do you expect Stark back?"
"I thought SHIELD kept intel on all the Avengers."
"Maybe I decided that was inappropriate use of resources."
For the first time, Rhodes laughs, wide and bright. "With all due respect, sir, you would've called first if you weren't using some kind of tracking."
"Stark has a way of disappearing if I try official channels." But Fury gives the barest hint of a smile. "And I'm not your commanding officer. You can call me Nick."
"And you can call me Rhodey." The smile broadens as Rhodey waves a hand. "No reason to put good alcohol to waste. There's glasses by the bar."
By the time Fury's navigated Stark's extensive setup, Rhodey's waiting on the couch in a pair of exercise pants and t-shirt. He accepts the glass Fury hands him and says, "Is that what you always wear for a booty call?"
Fury looks down. He's in his usual work outfit, black on black. "We deal with a lot of emergencies. I have to be prepared."
"Can you be prepared without the coat? You're making me nervous."
To answer, Fury shrugs off the coat and drapes it across the back of the couch. It makes him marginally less stiff when he lowers onto it. Rhodey watches him the whole way, sipping his whiskey.
"Is it good?" Fury asks, gesturing at Rhodey's cup with his own.
Rhodey nods. "If there's one thing Tony knows, it's what to drink. Can I ask you the obvious question?"
"Why Stark, or why now?"
Rhodey laughs again. "I guess both. You've known Tony long enough to know what a bad idea this is."
"Sure." Fury shrugs a little and takes a taste of his own drink. It isn't bad, but it's not really his taste. He sets it on the table in front and leans back, spreading his arms on the back of the couch. "But he's also not likely to see it as anything more than it is."
"No strings, then."
Fury snorts quietly and shakes his head. "There's always fucking strings. Stark just doesn't acknowledge them."
"Unless he wants to." Rhodey tips his head up a little. "JARVIS, you're not sending any of this to Malibu, are you?"
"No, sir," a pleasant British voice responds.
"Malibu?"
"Don't tell Tony I told you. He thinks having War Machine patrol was a clever way to give you the slip."
It's not Stark's most extravagant plan ever, but it did work. "He won't hear it from me."
"Good." Rhodey leans forward onto his knees, letting his almost-empty glass dangle from his fingertips. "You know, I don't have any plans tonight."
Fury looks him up and down. Even in a less field-active position, and even in a military branch like the Air Force, officers have to stay in good physical shape. Rhodey's well-muscled without being overly bulky. It's a good look.
But Fury hesitates. "You getting Stark back for something?"
"Oh, always." But the smile drops into something more serious. Not solemn, just measuring. "But mostly, I've been in the service long enough to take advantage of opportunities when they come my way. This seems like a good one."
Fury gets to his feet, and after a second, Rhodey puts his glass on the table and rises, too. He's a good half-foot shorter than Fury, not too far from Stark's height, but judging by the way he tilts his chin and stares him down, Rhodey's used to staring down bigger men and winning. A chill dances across Fury's skin, so apparently it works for him.
He steps closer and slips his hands onto Rhodey's bare arms. The muscles flex as Rhodey puts his hands on Fury's waist and pulls him closer.
"So what exactly were you looking for?" Rhodey asks in a low whisper. "When you thought Tony was the one giving it to you."
"Honestly?"
Rhodey nods.
"Tipsy handjobs."
He laughs. "I think we can do better. Feel like moving to the bed?"
Judging by the way his cock's getting half-hard, it's a definite yes. Fury nods, and Rhodey pulls back and strips down, not trying to make it a show. It almost packs more of a punch that way, seeing the methodical way he pushes off his pants and shirt and folds them on the couch, revealing the trim body and his own half-hard cock beneath.
"I'm thinking you'll blow me," he says, smiling wryly as he crosses the room and slides open the drawers of Stark's bedside table. "And then you'll fuck me, if you're in the mood for it."
Fury's still staring, but he laughs a little. "Oh, I'm definitely in the mood."
"Good." Rhodey tosses a bottle of lube on the bed and a handful of condoms. "Good thing Tony's got the flavored kind. My next physical isn't for another week."
Fury grins and crosses the room. He takes his time a lot more with his own clothes, dragging the zippers slowly and making sure to stretch as he slides the clothes off. He's not quite as fit as he used to be, but Rhodey's watching, taking turns between stroking himself to fullness and tearing open a condom pack and rolling it on.
"Hope you like strawberry," Rhodey says between gasps. He's still stroking.
Fury, now naked, sits on the bed next to him and grabs his wrist. "Sounds perfect."
It's been a while since Fury went down on anyone. Forget the fact that the clean-up of New York's still going on; just the amount of so-called superheroes that have popped up in the last decade haven't left him with much free time. But some things are hard to forget.
He wets his mouth and takes the head of Rhodey's covered cock in his mouth. It's not the best taste ever - latex and fake fruit flavors aren't a combination that people go out of their way to try - but Rhodey moans appreciatively as Fury uses his tongue to find the more sensitive spots, and that's the whole point, really.
Rhodey's hands slip over Fury's head, stroking the bare skin as Fury slides down, wrapping a hand to keep from taking Rhodey's cock deeper than he can handle. "That's...god, yeah, keep doing that."
Fury obliges. Because of the latex, he makes it sloppy, working up enough spit to really get things sliding. Rhodey's hips twitch a little the longer Fury draws it out, but it's obvious he has some discipline under his belt; Fury usually ends up having to pin down hips while he blows a guy. He probably would've had to tie up Stark entirely.
"I'm...I'm going to..." Rhodey finally says when Fury's jaw is starting to ache. Fury pulls off enough to say, "Do it," and he goes back until the condom fills and Rhodey's arching and grabbing at the sheets.
Fury sits up, giving a couple tugs of his own cock as Rhodey blinks heavily and pulls his condom off.
"You good for more?" Fury asks as Rhodey drops the condom in a trash can.
Rhodey nods, grabbing the bottle of lube. "Definitely. Just not twenty anymore, you know."
Fury definitely knows. But it has its benefits; it means he can hold off as he rolls on a condom and as Rhodey covers his fingers with slick and starts sliding them in his ass. Fury definitely wants to be inside Rhodey when he comes.
Rhodey shivers with his own touch. "Fuck, I always forget how sensitive things are."
"That a bad thing?"
"God no." He grins and starts working his fingers harder, stretching. Fury's finding it a little hard to breathe.
"How do you want to do this?"
Rhodey bites his lips and stops fucking himself so hard. "On my side? I was flying around all night."
Fury nods and lines up behind him on his own side as Rhodey pulls his fingers out. "As long as you don't fall asleep."
He starts pushing in, and Rhodey gasps a laugh. "Don't think that'll be a problem."
It's obvious it's been a while for Rhodey; even stretched, it's a tight fit. Fury's more than happy to take his time, and frankly, as big as he is, he usually has to. But before long, Rhodey's pushing back, and he reaches around a hand to hold onto Fury's head as Fury grabs his hips to help keep the rhythm.
Fury isn't thinking much as he gets closer, watching Rhodey's body writhe against his, feeling him clench around his cock. Not much beyond how hot this is, how much he needed this, how much he wants to come. Judging by the way Rhodey's muttering "Yeah, come on, do it," he's saying some of it out loud, too.
But something crosses his mind about how right this feels, and that's what tips him over the edge, dropping his head onto Rhodey's shoulder as he shoots into the rubber.
They lie flush for a while, breathing heavy as Fury softens inside Rhodey, and it's only when Rhodey rolls his shoulders that Fury pulls out, taking off the condom. His original plan involved a quick exit, shower back at base, and as much sleep as he could get. But now...
"Stark won't be back for a few days, right?"
Rhodey laughs, voice thick and slurred. "I'm not kicking you out of the door. Balcony. Whatever."
Fury snorts a quiet laugh and lets himself drift.
-
It's not surprising to see Stark's name on Fury's caller ID days later. If anything, he almost expected it sooner. Just not on his private line.
"How did you get this number?" Fury asks, pinching his nose.
"Googled it after I found a partially drunk bottle of whiskey on my bar. You shouldn't have, by the way."
"What makes you think it was me?"
"Fingerprints. You want into my pants, Agent?"
"Stark--"
"Actually, that's not why I'm calling. I have Rhodey's phone number, and he's too polite to use his power inappropriately to find yours."
Fury doesn't ignore the warm twist in his stomach. But that doesn't mean he has to share it with Tony Stark, of all people. "What makes you think--"
"Save it. Get a pen."
Fury sighs, but he writes down every digit Stark reads in an infuriatingly slow tone. He also resists the urge to tell him to shut up when he repeats the number three times.
"And just so you know," Tony says, when he's finally finished drawing it out, "Rhodey's more into pizza than shawarma. No accounting for taste."
The phone cuts off, and Fury's almost too pleased by the silence.
He only pauses for a second before putting Rhodey's number into his contacts. He doesn't pause again before texting a simple message: physical go well?
He gets an answer back right away: all clear expect your results shortly, followed by an email address.
Fury smirks as he pulls up his email client and finds the message with his own test results from the last week. He forwards them with a two-word message - pizza Friday? - and leans back in his chair, crossing his hands behind his head as he waits.
It's true. Nick Fury doesn't make mistakes.
Ever.