FIC: you and me, we fit so tight (Top Gun, Iceman/Maverick, NC-17)

[carlyinrome]

TITLE: you and me, we fit so tight
RATING: NC-17
FANDOMS: Top Gun
PAIRINGS: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell/Tom "Iceman" Kazansky
SUMMARY: Ice looks good. He looks really good, and Maverick doesn’t realize his mistake until they are back in the elevator, riding down to the ground floor to the restaurant where Maverick has made reservations for Ice’s birthday dinner. They are alone in the elevator, and Maverick takes a look at Ice’s trim figure in his suit, at the tantalizing inches of honey brown chest visible because of his open collar, and his mouth goes dry.

“Fuck, Ice,” he says, “you look so good. We should’ve had sex upstairs.”

For MJ's 1K Subversion Challenge. Title from the Queens of the Stone Age song "Do It Again."

Ice has been on the east coast for almost a month, talking TOPGUN at the Pentagon and Annapolis and the flight school in Pensacola. It’s part of his job, and it was Maverick who decided to send him, but damn have the last twenty-six days hurt.

His birthday passed while he was away, and Maverick tried to find a way to fly out and be with him, even though Ice doesn’t make a big deal out of his birthday and never has, but they were down an instructor with Ice gone, and between that and his administrative duties, there was no way. Maverick sent roses to his hotel room that night, and they had phone sex, but it wasn’t the same, wasn’t as good as even a second sitting alone together, side by side, not even talking. Maverick knew he had to make it up to him, so he made some arrangements in Las Vegas. Ice’s original flight had a layover there; Maverick just changed the connection to a few days down the road, and made reservations at a nice hotel. They’d spend a long weekend in Vegas, a belated birthday celebration.

Maverick picks Ice up at the airport, which is always wonderful and always hard. It’s so good to see him after so long apart, but Maverick can’t sweep him into his arms and kiss him senseless the way he wants, not somewhere so public, not while Ice is wearing that uniform. He just takes Ice’s duffel from him and tells him it’s good to see him, and they walk to get a cab.

The Bellagio has 36 floors, and their room is on 32. They ride up to the room to drop off Ice’s bag, and to give him a moment to change into civvies, black suit jacket and pants and a white Oxford open at the collar. He looks good. He looks really good, and Maverick doesn’t realize his mistake until they are back in the elevator, riding down to the ground floor to the restaurant where Maverick has made reservations for Ice’s birthday dinner. They are alone in the elevator, and Maverick takes a look at Ice’s trim figure in his suit, at the tantalizing inches of honey brown chest visible because of his open collar, and his mouth goes dry.

“Fuck, Ice,” he says, “you look so good. We should’ve had sex upstairs.”

Ice laughs. “We’d miss our reservation.”

“Would you care?”

“No, but I like it when you make an effort.”

Maverick stuffs his hands in his pockets, and tries to breathe normally. Ice is still smiling, and he slants a glance at Maverick, and leans back against the handrail, hips cocked out just so.

“Come here,” he says softly, and Maverick doesn’t need to be told twice.

Kissing Ice is like that moment in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy wakes in the Land of Oz, the entire world bursting into Technicolor. Something about Ice just wakes him up in a way he didn’t even know he needed to be woken. The taste of him is familiar, because it’s home, but it’s never boring, and now, after weeks without it, Maverick savors it. He kisses Ice deep, threading his fingers through Ice’s hair, his other arm wrapping around Ice’s waist, pulling their bodies flush. Ice moans quietly, kissing back fervently, whispering “Mav” and “baby” against Mav’s mouth when they break for air.

The elevator dings, and they fly apart just before the doors open, standing side by side in the back of the elevator, flushed and mussed and smiling unenthusiastically at the older couple who gets on at 27. They depart three floors down, and the doors aren’t even closed all the way and Maverick has Ice in his arms, pressed up against the back of the elevator, his tongue in his mouth and his free hand fighting with the zipper of Ice’s pants.

“Fuck, it’s stuck or something,” Maverick growls, and Ice laughs lightly, and flips them, pushing Maverick into the near wall. He ignores their zippers, but he grinds his clothed cock against Maverick’s, and it’s not exactly what Maverick wants, but exactly what he wants involves four or five hours in bed with the doors locked and both of them naked and greased, and this is a really nice consolation prize. They’re both wearing summer weight suits, which means the material of their pants isn’t too heavy, and the texture of the fabric between them is kind of nice, actually. Maverick ruts back against Ice the best he can with Ice boxing him in with his back to the wall, and they rock together like that, fucking each other through the fabric of their suits. Ice is panting and flushed, and he looks so goddamn pretty, and Maverick is about to tell him this when the elevator dings.

Ice jumps off of him, leaning against the handrail in a way that looks casual to everyone but Maverick, as three giggling twenty-somethings enter the elevator wearing tiny dresses and big hair. Maverick’s cock aches, and he can’t look away from Ice, who has nonchalance down to an artform, all except for the flush coloring his cheeks and the little triangle of chest visible between the crisp, white lapels of his Oxford.

The sight is almost enough for Maverick to come spontaneously, and he breathes deep and does some drag coefficients in his head until the girls depart, exiting the elevator on 15. Had they turned back, they would have seen Maverick slamming Ice against the far wall as the doors shut. Ice laughs for a moment, then Maverick kisses him, shutting him up, and starts rutting up against his crotch again. Ice moans, tries to twist to get himself better leverage, but Maverick’s got him pinned. After a moment, he decides he likes that better, and stays, looking down at Maverick with what can only be described as bedroom eyes. Maverick fucks him through their clothes, and he growls against his ear, “You wanna come, Ice? You wanna come in your pants like some kid?” and Ice moans, long and low, and then he nods. Maverick grabs his hips, and they grind together, against one another, through their suit pants, so close, so tight, like Maverick is the mold to Ice’s cast, or maybe it’s the other way around. Maverick doesn’t know, and it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that it is, that their bodies were built to fit perfectly. Just perfectly.

Ice comes first, crying out, his lips trembling and his fists clutching desperately at the fabric of Maverick’s button-down. Maverick pushes him against the wall so hard the handrail leaves a bruise at the small of Ice’s back, and thrusts against him hard and fast.

“Come on, Mav,” Ice breathes, and that does it. Maverick comes, loud and hard, his vision flashing white, and the next thing he knows, Ice is standing him up and straightening his clothes, and the elevator is dinging again, because they’ve reached the lobby. Maverick’s head is still swimming, but Ice has his hands on him, guiding him, leading him out of the elevator and past the check-in desk to the five star Japanese place Maverick booked for Ice’s birthday.

Ice checks his watch as they walk past the shops. “We’re early,” he says. “We definitely have time for round two, if you’re not too old to give me a blowjob in the men’s room.”

Maverick doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls Ice into the first bathroom they pass, both of them laughing between kisses.