FIC: Closer (Top Gun, Iceman/Maverick, NC-17)

[carlyinrome]

TITLE: Closer
RATING: NC-17
FANDOMS: Top Gun
PAIRINGS: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell/Tom "Iceman" Kazansky
SUMMARY: Maverick is given a surprising gift on his birthday, and it gets the boys close.

Neither of them smokes, and they don't do drugs, but it's Maverick's birthday, and at the party, Jubilee tucks a spliff behind Maverick's ear as she leans in to kiss his cheek. Then she winks and says, "Have fun, boss."

Maverick promptly forgets about it until after the party is over and everyone has gone home. He and Ice are almost done cleaning up, and Ice frowns at him. Or at the cigarette tucked behind his ear, rather.

"You smoke?"

"Have you ever seen me smoke, Ice? We've been together eight years, come on. Jubilee gave it to me." He takes it into his hand, gives it a sniff. "I think it's pot."

"Have you ever done that?" Ice asks.

"I used to, in high school. Not a lot. You?"

He shakes his head, but Maverick knew it would be a no. He wiggles the spliff between his first two fingers. "How'd you like to?"

Half an hour later, they're still where they were when they started smoking: Maverick's bed. They started sitting up, legs crossed, facing each other, but by now they have gotten loose limbed and lazy, and Maverick is laying back into the pillows, and Ice has his head in his lap. Maverick is petting his hair, and he expects Ice will start purring any second. The spliff is gone, transmuted to smoke in their lungs, drugs in their blood.

Ice sighs and stretches. He looks up at Maverick with an unnecessary but frankly adorable level of focus, then turns over and climbs over him, looming into his space. Maverick watches him with interest, if not comprehension.

"I wanna taste you," Ice purrs, and then he leans in and kisses him.

Ice still tastes like birthday cake. His mouth is hot and slick and sweet, and he kisses Maverick deeply and slowly, his eyes closed, his hands in Maverick's hair, his weight pinning Maverick to the mattress. Maverick relaxes into it, into all of it, holding Ice close with one arm and running the fingers of his free hand through Ice's hair. Ice moves lower, his mouth on Maverick's neck now, sucking at his pulse point, his hands grasping at Maverick's chest through his shirt. Ice bites down gently on Maverick's collarbone, then murmurs, "I want you so much, Mav. Tell me I can have you. Tell me."

He's looking at him with that intense focus again, like Maverick's the only thing in the world. He'd give him anything he asked for, and this is all he wants?

"I'm all yours, Ice. I'm all yours."

They undress each other slowly, quietly. Maverick feels a little clumsy, but Ice doesn't seem to have that problem. His fingers are deft on Maverick's buttons and pulls, but he is moving a little slowly, like every moment has more weight than he's used to. Maybe it does. Their clothes are tossed aside, a snow angel of fabric with the bed in the middle. Maverick is still on his back, looking up at Ice moving over him.

He's in the top drawer of the bedside table.

"I don't want to use a condom," Ice says. "Do I have to?"

They've had this conversation. They're both clean, and they're monogamous, but Ice says it's tidier, whatever that means. But Maverick wants to feel him, just him with no separation.

"Hell no, baby," he said. "You never have to use one again."

Ice sighs happily, and shuts the drawer without taking anything but a little bottle of lube. He's straddling Maverick at the waist, and now that he's gotten the supplies he wants, he lays back over him. Eye to eye, one strong arm slipping around Maverick's back to hold him flush against him. They're so close, the tips of their noses touching, their limbs tangled, intertwined. Ice is still looking at him with that acute focus, and Maverick wonders if he can see through him. Not to muscle and bone and breath, but to the thoughts in his head, the love pumping through his veins. If Ice can see the walls of Maverick's heart, he'll find his name carved there. Over and over, Ice Ice Ice ICE.

Ice kisses him, softly, slowly. His tongue dips into Maverick's mouth gently, and at the same time, Maverick feels Ice's slick fingers parting his legs, urging him open. He spreads his legs for Ice and pushes up on his fingers, inviting him in. Please, baby. Come home.

Ice slides one slick finger up into him, and Maverick hums his approval against Ice's lips. Ice's touch is delicate, teasing, scrumptious. He never skimps on foreplay, which is the most delicious torture. He kisses Maverick deeply, then meets his eyes for a moment, whispers, "Hold on, baby," and slides in another finger. He starts stretching him now, and Maverick pants, trying to take all the sensation: the pleasure; the pain; the tickling, tantalizing tease of it. He's never been patient; he wants it all right away, but in truth he doesn't want to give this part up. There's just something about the way Ice touches him that makes him feel like he's starving.

Ice has stopped kissing him so he can watch his face as he fingers him. Maverick can only imagine what kind of show he's putting on, but Ice is biting his lip and he's a bit flushed, and it's gorgeous. Sometimes Maverick gets so jealous of him. He wants all of him. He wants to chain him to the bed so no one else can ever see him. He wants to sew his name into his flesh so everyone knows who he belongs to. He wants to write in indelible ink across his face and his cock, MAVERICK MITCHELL WAS HERE.

Ice adds a third finger, and Maverick whines. They are flush sternum to pelvis, and Ice's strong arm is still holding him against him. His eyes hold Maverick's.

"You're so beautiful for me, Mav," he says, and his voice is rich and rough. "You're taking it so beautifully for me, baby, just hold on. I'm gonna make you feel so good, I promise."

Maverick already feels good, but he wants all of him. He wants to unhinge his jaw and swallow Ice whole. He wants to shrink him down and imprison him in his ribcage, right next to his heart.

"Hurry," is all he says.

Ice draws back. It's only a few inches, but it feels like a mile, and Maverick feels freezing and alone without him so close. But it's only a minute, long enough for Ice to remove his fingers, long enough for him to line himself up and push the whole thick length of him inside Maverick. Maverick's breath stutters as Ice fills him. There's so much pleasure just in having him inside, having him home where he belongs. Maverick whines, and Ice's brow creases, and he lets Maverick take his weight as he kisses his face.

"I've got you, baby," he murmurs. "I've got you."

Ice moves inside him slowly. He's so close, but Maverick wants him closer, so he puts his arms around Ice's neck, drawing him down. Daylight couldn't fit between them. They're eye to eye still, and Maverick watches Ice's face. It's tranquil, except the sharp gaze. He's looking at Maverick like he's reading hieroglyphics sewn into his skin. Ice sees him, really sees him, like no one else ever has, and Maverick craves it like a drug.

He's beautiful when Ice looks at him.

Ice moves inside him, and pleasure laps up over Maverick like the tides. Ice draws back, pleasure recedes. Ice thrusts in, pleasure washes over Maverick, every inch of him, every cell of his body. It's almost meditative, the give and take of it, the slow, even rhythm, like the beating of Maverick's own heart. He closes his eyes, holding Ice down against him and nuzzling into the joint of Ice's jaw. He can hear Ice speaking, but he can't make out the words. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except this.

*

Afterwards, they lay together, flush sternum to pelvis, limbs intertwined. Ice's breathing is starting to deepen and slow, and Maverick just holds him close, and listens to the rhythm of it, just like the tides.