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top_gun_kink FIC: Proximity (Maverick/Iceman/Slider, NC-17)
Jan. 24th, 2012 08:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
carlyinromeTITLE: Proximity
RATING: NC-17
FANDOM: Top Gun
PAIRING: Pete “Maverick” Mitchell/Tom “Iceman” Kazansky/Ron “Slider” Kerner (Kind of. Actually something more like Pete “Maverick” Mitchell/Tom “Iceman” Kazansky, Tom “Iceman” Kazansky/Ron “Slider” Kerner)
SUMMARY: Ice has an interesting request for his birthday.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for the
top_gun_kink prompt “Ice/Mav/Slider threesome pr0n, Slider and Iceman aren't trying to get Maverick *drunk*, exactly...”They’re in a booth at the O Club, because after a few drinks Ice loosens up enough to let Slider feel him up, but only if he does it beneath the table, where it’s less likely someone will see. Slider has been pouring drinks into Ice all night, and he’s had more than a few, and he’s letting Slider scoot in close, letting him jerk him off through his summer whites while Ice sprawls back against the cheap vinyl of the booth.
Nobody’s watching, and if they look over and notice anything amiss, it’ll just be that Ice’s joints are liquor-loose, and he’s abandoned his usual attention-rigid posture. They’ll miss the flush in Ice’s cheeks, the way he’s taking in little gasps of air through a parted mouth.
Slider leans in close, his lips tickling Ice’s ear. “God, you look so fucking good right now.”
Ice just gives him a steely look, because he fucking knows how good he looks, the smug bastard. Mostly Slider will do anything he can to keep Ice happy, but right now he’s completely in control, so he punishes him for his arrogance, slowing his handwork to almost nothing. Ice mewls and raises his hips, pushing himself up into Slider’s hand, insistent, his bottom lip plumping into a pout.
Slider laughs, but he goes back to work. “You are so fucking spoiled, you little brat.”
“Blow me,” Ice growls.
“You said I couldn’t do that in public.”
Ice isn’t listening, his eyes closed, his hips moving rhythmically against Slider’s hand.
“Hey, Ice. You never told me what you wanted for your birthday.”
Ice peeks an eye open. “You want to talk about that now?”
“I can’t get a straight answer from you; I figure this is a good incentive. You can come when you tell me.”
Ice makes a little indignant sound in the back of his throat; at the same time, his jaw steels. Slider can see the battle raging: Ice wants to come, but he also doesn’t want to be told what to do, and he’s self-controlled enough to actually deny himself orgasm just so Slider doesn’t get his way. Slider is beginning to suspect that’s what’s going to happen, when Ice’s eyes find something at the bar, and he nods his head a little. Slider follows his gaze: that cocky fuck Maverick, chatting up the same leggy blonde that had unsuccessfully put the moves on Ice earlier that evening.
“Mitchell?” Slider says, and he’s so surprised that he stops touching Ice, his hand going slack.
Ice shrugs, mulishly. “It’ll be fun.” He raises his hips. “You said I could come if I told you.”
Slider really isn’t in the mood anymore, but a deal’s a deal, and if Ice doesn’t get off now, there’s no way Slider is getting any when they get home.
“Mitchell,” he says again, shaking his head, and he goes back to work.
Nobody’s watching, and if they look over and notice anything amiss, it’ll just be that Ice’s joints are liquor-loose, and he’s abandoned his usual attention-rigid posture. They’ll miss the flush in Ice’s cheeks, the way he’s taking in little gasps of air through a parted mouth.
Slider leans in close, his lips tickling Ice’s ear. “God, you look so fucking good right now.”
Ice just gives him a steely look, because he fucking knows how good he looks, the smug bastard. Mostly Slider will do anything he can to keep Ice happy, but right now he’s completely in control, so he punishes him for his arrogance, slowing his handwork to almost nothing. Ice mewls and raises his hips, pushing himself up into Slider’s hand, insistent, his bottom lip plumping into a pout.
Slider laughs, but he goes back to work. “You are so fucking spoiled, you little brat.”
“Blow me,” Ice growls.
“You said I couldn’t do that in public.”
Ice isn’t listening, his eyes closed, his hips moving rhythmically against Slider’s hand.
“Hey, Ice. You never told me what you wanted for your birthday.”
Ice peeks an eye open. “You want to talk about that now?”
“I can’t get a straight answer from you; I figure this is a good incentive. You can come when you tell me.”
Ice makes a little indignant sound in the back of his throat; at the same time, his jaw steels. Slider can see the battle raging: Ice wants to come, but he also doesn’t want to be told what to do, and he’s self-controlled enough to actually deny himself orgasm just so Slider doesn’t get his way. Slider is beginning to suspect that’s what’s going to happen, when Ice’s eyes find something at the bar, and he nods his head a little. Slider follows his gaze: that cocky fuck Maverick, chatting up the same leggy blonde that had unsuccessfully put the moves on Ice earlier that evening.
“Mitchell?” Slider says, and he’s so surprised that he stops touching Ice, his hand going slack.
Ice shrugs, mulishly. “It’ll be fun.” He raises his hips. “You said I could come if I told you.”
Slider really isn’t in the mood anymore, but a deal’s a deal, and if Ice doesn’t get off now, there’s no way Slider is getting any when they get home.
“Mitchell,” he says again, shaking his head, and he goes back to work.
***
A few nights later, they are at the O Club bar. Ice is in an uncharacteristically good mood, laughing and flirting with everything that moves. Maybe tequila isn’t his drink, Slider thinks—or maybe it is—and orders him another shot.
Maverick finally shows, and Slider smiles and goes up to meet him, putting an arm around him and steering him toward the bar.
Maverick looks confused. “Uh, hey, Slider. What’s up?”
“Buy Ice a shot, Mav.”
Maverick studies them both for a second, waiting to get the joke.
“It’s my birthday,” Ice explains finally.
Maverick’s brow rises. “Oh!” He frowns. “Really?”
Ice laughs. “You wanna see my ID?”
Maverick relaxes. “Oh . . . no, man, that’s—” He flags down the bartender.
Ice leans back against the bar, lazy and limber as a jungle cat, his eyes trailing over Maverick’s body. “You have one, too, Maverick.”
They clink their shot glasses together, and drink. Ice laughs, and sucks spilt tequila off his fingers. Maverick looks amused, but Slider can tell he’s starting to relax. Maverick puts a hand on Ice’s shoulder, steadies him.
“Jesus,” he says. “How much have you had?”
Slider signals for the bartender. “We’re just getting started.”
Maverick finally shows, and Slider smiles and goes up to meet him, putting an arm around him and steering him toward the bar.
Maverick looks confused. “Uh, hey, Slider. What’s up?”
“Buy Ice a shot, Mav.”
Maverick studies them both for a second, waiting to get the joke.
“It’s my birthday,” Ice explains finally.
Maverick’s brow rises. “Oh!” He frowns. “Really?”
Ice laughs. “You wanna see my ID?”
Maverick relaxes. “Oh . . . no, man, that’s—” He flags down the bartender.
Ice leans back against the bar, lazy and limber as a jungle cat, his eyes trailing over Maverick’s body. “You have one, too, Maverick.”
They clink their shot glasses together, and drink. Ice laughs, and sucks spilt tequila off his fingers. Maverick looks amused, but Slider can tell he’s starting to relax. Maverick puts a hand on Ice’s shoulder, steadies him.
“Jesus,” he says. “How much have you had?”
Slider signals for the bartender. “We’re just getting started.”
***
Slider isn’t trying to get Maverick drunk, exactly. It’s just that a little social lubrication will be easier than trying to explain things to him. Of course, he didn’t expect Ice to drink so much, but Ice can be surprising, and it’s been many years since he’s celebrated his birthday on shore. Last year it was the two of them below decks between hops, drinking contraband vodka Slider bought off some ensign for three jumbo chocolate bars and some dirty French postcards, so it’s understandable that Ice would want to let his hair down a little.
It’s late when they leave the bar, and Maverick stumbles through the parking lot, squinting for his motorcycle. Slider grabs him by the back of the shirt and hoists him upright.
“There’s no way you’re driving home, Mitchell. Come on, we’re getting a cab; you can crash with us tonight.”
Maverick is easily led at this point, and the three of them crowd into the backseat of a taxi, Ice in the middle, his head falling to Slider’s shoulder. Slider combs his fingers through Ice’s short-cropped hair, and Ice makes a little pleased sound.
“You’re drunk, Tommy,” Slider says, and he knows then that Ice is really wasted, because the last time anyone but Ice’s grandmother called him Tommy, Ice broke the fucker’s nose, and this time he just murmurs and nuzzles Slider’s neck a little.
Once they get back to base, Maverick can get out of the cab on his own, but Slider has to pull Ice to his feet. He walks fine after that, though, and the three of them go into the house. Slider switches on the lights and Ice disappears down the hallway without a word. Slider wonders briefly if Ice is having second thoughts, if they’ll be able to do this at all—and then, he wonders, with a pang, if Ice is really so worked up about Mitchell that he had to get drunk. If he’s having feelings beyond, “hey, that Maverick’s got a cute ass.”
But then Maverick’s talking to him, and Slider has to ask him to repeat himself.
“Got any beer?” he says again.
“Oh, yeah,” Slider says, and shows him where in the icebox.
They only have Ice’s beer left, some expensive German shit, and he’ll probably be pissed tomorrow, but what the hell. They pop open two bottles and then take their drinks down the hall.
Ice is in the bedroom, stripped to his underwear, stretched out on the bed on his belly. Maverick stops in the doorway, frozen, his eyes on Ice. Slider and his beer go to sit beside Ice on the mattress. He lands a good slap to Ice’s backside, enjoying the crack of it echoing through the room, enjoying the annoyance on Ice’s face as he scowls up at him.
“You took your clothes off, buddy,” Slider says, drawing on his beer.
In the doorway, Maverick watches Ice flip onto his back, his head lolling in the pillows. Maybe it’s that he’s had so much to drink, but he realizes, with sudden and unshakable clarity, that Iceman is the most beautiful man—maybe the most beautiful person—he’s ever seen in real life. The alcohol has made Ice flush, and it’s loosened up his expression—the disdainful scowl is gone and he just looks relaxed, open. When it’s not sneering at him, Ice’s face is good-looking: clear, pale eyes; the kind of plush, soft mouth that belongs on a porn star, not some stuck up Navy pilot. And Ice’s body is lightly-muscled and golden tan, and when Ice moves onto his back, Maverick can see all of it. And maybe it’s because he’s had so much to drink, but it doesn’t seem to bother Ice at all, being practically naked in front of Slider, in front of Maverick himself—his rival. But he doesn’t seem cocky about it, in his posture, in his expression; he just seems at ease with himself, and there’s something so fucking sexy about that.
“I was hot,” Ice says.
“Yeah, you are,” Maverick breathes. Slider looks up at him, an eyebrow raised, and Maverick blushes, and says hurriedly, “I mean, it is kind of warm in here.”
Slider gives him a look like he can smell right through Maverick’s bullshit, but he gets up and opens a window. Then he sits next to Ice on the bed again, running one hand over the flat plane of Ice’s stomach. Ice sighs in a pleased, unselfconscious way, and arches into the touch, his movements as languorous and fluid as a cat’s. And Ice looks over at Maverick, his eyes heavily lidded, his lips parted, and despite the cool air blowing in the window, Maverick feels feverish. Slider scratches down Ice’s stomach, nails leaving bright pink tracks, and Ice hisses, his teeth flashing. And then Slider leans down over Ice, and runs his tongue over the pink marks. Ice moans, head arching back, exposing his throat.
Maverick swears he stops breathing for a second.
“I—shit, I should go,” he stammers.
Slider looks up at him, smiling. “You should stay.”
Ice sits up, looks at Maverick. Maverick bites his lip. Slider rests his hand on the back of Ice’s head, his long fingers weaving through Ice’s close-cropped hair. He tightens his grip, using the hold to pull Ice’s head back; Ice lets out a noise of protest, his eyes flashing dangerously. His breath goes shallow.
“You wanna fuck him, Maverick?” Slider says. “You want him to suck your cock?”
Ice yanks himself out of Slider’s grip. He’s glaring daggers at him, and two violently pink blotches have risen on his cheeks. He’s still panting, his mouth open, showing his teeth.
“He wants to,” Slider says, and he’s looking right at Ice as he says it, looking right in his eyes.
Maverick’s been both turned on and terrified many times in his life. Usually it involves a cockpit, though, or an admiral’s daughter. This, whatever this shit is with Slider and Iceman, he has no context for this. That tiny voice in the back of his head, the one his mother probably would have called his “better senses,” is screaming for him to run.
But come on. He’s Maverick, for Christ’s sake. He didn’t get where he is today by listening to that voice. And when Ice breaks away from Slider’s gaze, Maverick catches his eye, and he can see it, Maverick can fucking see it in Ice’s face like it’s written there in thick, dark permanent marker, that Slider is telling the truth: Ice does want him.
And Jesus. The thought of Thomas “Cold as Fucking Iceman” Kazansky’s smug mouth stretching around his cock is enough to send his goddamn dick into orbit.
Maverick finishes his beer in one great swallow, then approaches the bed, abandoning the empty bottle on the bedside table. He stops a foot from Ice on the bed; Ice looks at him with the frosty gaze he’s used to, all tight control and challenge. Maverick toes off his shoes, and then pulls his shirt off over his head. Maybe it’s because Ice is so drunk, or because he’s shaken from Slider outing him, but Maverick sees him react visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Maverick reaches out—Ice doesn’t flinch; his arctic gaze doesn’t even waver—and tips up his chin, draws the pad of his thumb over Ice’s plush mouth.
“How about it, Iceman?”
Ice doesn’t say anything, but his jaw steels. Maverick laughs, and he runs his hand through the soft bristles of Ice’s hair before drawing his hand back and slowly opening the front of his pants. Ice’s expression is unreadable, his usual cool mask, but the pink spots on his cheek darken; they’re practically glowing.
Maverick steps out of his jeans, and he steps out of his briefs. He gives his erection a few slow strokes, just to listen to the way Ice’s breath hitches. Ice wets his lips, maybe unconsciously, and Maverick steps forward, taking Ice’s jaw in one hand, his thumb at Ice’s bottom lip drawing his mouth open, his other urging his cock into Ice’s mouth. Ice resists at first, his jaw taut, his teeth scraping Maverick. Maverick groans, grits his teeth.
“Come on, you fuck.”
Ice’s eyes flash, and his jaw doesn’t give, and for a second Maverick is terrified that Ice is going to bite him, one quick snap of the jaws like back in the locker room. But it’s only a second, and then Ice’s jaw is relaxing, and Maverick’s eyes are rolling up in his head because apparently Ice has no gag reflex whatsoever. And Ice is staring at him, his spooky pale eyes locked on Maverick—Ice’s gaze has fucking tone on Maverick. And in his whole life, Maverick hasn’t felt self-conscious about—well, much of anything, really—but now he feels like Ice is grading him on his performance or something, and he starts to sweat, his thrusting going a little erratic. And he wants to shout at Ice, to tell him to be goddamn normal for a change, but the things Ice is doing with his tongue should be fucking illegal, and when Maverick opens his mouth, all that comes out is a long string of vowels.
Slider laughs, and all of a sudden it hits Maverick that Slider is still in the room. He raises his eyes. Slider is watching them with obvious lust, his hand rubbing over the front of his pants. And somehow it doesn’t seem weird that Maverick is thrusting against Ice’s tonsils, but that Slider is getting off to it makes him a little uncomfortable, so Maverick lowers his eyes to Ice, those goddamn ghost eyes staring up at him. Ice’s plush mouth is stretched around him, his nostrils flaring, and Maverick can see himself moving against the thin wall of Ice’s sucked in cheek. Maverick slows the pace, thrusting in long and slow, pushing against Ice’s cheek so that he can actually see his dick fucking Ice. Ice gets annoyed pretty quick at Maverick’s directorial debut, and he tries to pull back, a little growl percolating in his throat. And Maverick can feel the growl vibrating all around him, vibrating up his dick, and he digs his fingers into the joint of Ice’s jaw—hard, so hard he must be hurting him. Ice’s eyes flash, a clear warning, and the growl builds up, crescendoing, and soon Maverick is peaking with it, crying out and pumping erratically into Ice’s mouth as he comes.
Maverick’s world blacks out for a minute, and he staggers back, free of those snapping teeth, and when things finally come into focus again, he’s half-collapsed against the bedside table, and Ice is sitting on the bed watching him, his cheeks pink, rubbing the slickness off his raw mouth with his fingers.
“Jesus,” Maverick pants. “How the hell are you a pilot, when you can suck dick like that?”
The corner of Ice’s mouth quirks up, that smug smile Maverick is used to.
“It isn’t so hard getting cocky flyboys off, Mitchell,” he drawls. “Most come quicker than high school freshmen.”
Maverick feels his cheeks burn, and fuck Iceman—how can he be so goddamn conceited when he’s barely done swallowing Maverick’s come?
“Well, I guess you’ve had plenty of practice, fag.”
Ice smiles coldly, and he gets off the bed, stepping toward Maverick until they are toe to toe. Maverick pulls his weight off the bedside table, even though he still feels like he needs the support, and stretches up to his full height. Ice still looms over him, inches taller—and broader, so huge and golden and sure in his cold-burning fury that for a second, Maverick feels like a different species.
“You’re right, Mitchell. Getting your dick sucked by a queer was an incredibly heterosexual thing for you to do.”
Maverick’s blush burns hotter, so hot he feels sick. He wonders if Ice is going to kick his ass—and, looking up at him, realizes that he probably could.
But then all the anger goes out of Ice’s face. And maybe it’s the tequila, because he’s never seen an emotion so obvious in Ice’s expression—unless haughtiness counts as an emotion—but Ice just looks sad.
“It’s my birthday, asshole,” he says quietly.
And it doesn’t happen often, but in this moment, Maverick knows he’s in the wrong, and he feels bad for it.
“Shit,” he says, the words coming slow, pulled from gritted teeth, “Ice, I’m sorry.”
And Ice’s eyes leave him, focusing on something in the distance, so Maverick takes a step forward and takes Ice’s jaw again, angling his face toward him until Ice is looking at him again.
Ice shrugs, the icy mask coming back. His pale eyes are like mirrors, giving nothing about himself.
“Whatever, Mitchell. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”
And Ice is just brushing him off, which infuriates Maverick more than anything—to be cast aside, ignored. He takes Ice by the arms, jerks him forward—and now they’re on top of each other, and Maverick isn’t sure what his endgame was here, except to show Ice that he could move his ridiculously huge body, that he is a force to be reckoned with, but now Ice is up against him, his skin fever warm, his pulse rabbiting. It’s so ridiculous, that the fucking Iceman has human things like warm blood and a heartbeat, and Maverick gets so distracted by the absurdity of it that he misses the look in Ice’s eyes. And Ice puts his big hands on Maverick, pulls him up, literally lifting Maverick so he’s scraping the ground with his tiptoes, and kisses him. And Maverick’s had that mouth on his dick, so maybe he should be prepared for Ice kissing him, the things that mouth can do, but at the same time he doesn’t think anything could prepare him for this, and he swoons like a fucking romance novel heroine, his head swimming, and suddenly he needs Ice’s hands to keep him upright.
When Maverick finally gets his head back, they’re still kissing, Ice’s tongue assaulting his mouth, his teeth nipping at him—just the right amount of roughness. Maverick tries to pull out of Ice’s grasp so that he can be on his own flat feet again, in control, but he tries to do it without breaking off the kiss, so all he ends up doing is pushing ineffectually against Ice’s chest and shoulders. To retaliate, Ice pulls him up higher, so his feet aren’t even touching the ground anymore. All of Maverick’s weight is held in Ice’s arms, is held against the broad form of him, which is impressive and infuriating, and Maverick is turned on and furious all at once. And suddenly he realizes, because he’s all pressed up against Ice, that Ice is painfully hard, and that he’s not far behind, their cocks trapped together between them. Maverick reaches down and grabs Ice, stroking him through his shorts, and that is how Ice drops him.
Ice is dazed, out of control for a moment, and Maverick takes advantage, shoving him onto the bed. Ice falls back, and then he stays, watching for Maverick’s next move, which is to pull Ice’s shorts off. And Maverick realizes how insane it is, that just a minute ago he was calling this man a faggot, and now he’s getting him naked, but it’s been an insane kind of night.
Maverick and Ice both look up at Slider at the same time, remembering him, and Slider gets off the bed, and he takes a few steps to the desk against the wall. He pulls out the chair, angles it for the best vantage point, and sits, watching them, unbuttoning his pants.
And somehow that’s okay. Maverick climbs on top of Ice, kissing him again. He tries to press Ice down to the mattress, but Ice is stubborn and strong enough to resist, so he stays sitting up, balanced on his forearms, Maverick in his lap. Maverick is frustrated that he can’t overpower Ice, but Ice’s position also means that Ice doesn’t have a hand free, which is an advantage Maverick is happy to exploit. He can touch Ice anywhere he wants to without retaliation, and he does, running his hands over Ice’s chest and shoulders, his thighs and ass.
Ice is as tightly controlled in bed as he is anywhere else—which is infuriating, because Maverick is moaning to beat the band—but he’s flushed everywhere, not just his face, but his chest and shoulders, too. Maverick chuckles; he always did have a thing for blondes. Ice’s erection looks painful, wet with pre-come, and Maverick takes it in hand, pumping with his fist. For a moment, Ice goes very still, and then something in him snaps, and he bursts into action, jumping on top of Maverick and pinning him to the mattress. Ice thrusts between Maverick’s thighs, moaning quietly, and Maverick is just still, because it’s kind of intimidating to be pinned down with Ice’s broad form looming over you, and he isn’t sure of what to do. Eventually he settles for holding Ice, one hand on his waist and the other cupping his cheek, angling his face so Ice’s eyes are focused on him, not glassy and distant. And Maverick watches Ice’s face when he comes, his eyes and mouth going wide, everything freezing for a moment, and this is certainly gayer than getting your rocks off in some guy’s mouth, but Maverick is okay with it, because in that moment Ice is open and vulnerable and so, so beautiful.
Ice makes a weak noise and his limbs just kind of give, and he falls atop Maverick. Ice is heavy, but the mass of him is kind of nice, and the way they’re positioned, eye to eye, they fit together. For a moment they just look at each other, as Ice’s breathing goes back to normal, and Ice’s expression isn’t haughtiness and challenge; it’s unguarded, real, and Maverick feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.
“Tom,” he says softly.
Ice just looks at him a minute, maybe the first genuine smile Maverick’s ever seen from him, and kisses him. Then he settles down in their tangled embrace, his nose nuzzled against Maverick’s neck, his warm breath on the nape.
Maverick hears the floorboards creak and looks up to see Slider walking to the bathroom, the front of his pants still hanging open. He hears the water turn on, and is conscious of the fact that he’s still hard, his erection trapped against Ice’s belly, and he’s sticky with Ice’s come. And he could remedy either or both, but it’s so nice lying here, and really he doesn’t mind. He pets the back of Ice’s neck, idly, and Ice sighs. Maverick can feel Ice’s body relaxing even further, his breaths elongating.
Slider comes out of the bathroom and turns the bedroom lights off. Maverick watches the long silhouette of him strip, moving in these long gestures like a crane, and then come to the bed. Atop him, Ice wets his lips, his tongue tickling Maverick’s neck, and Maverick holds him closer, holds him steady as Slider rocks the mattress settling his weight atop it. Slider settles in beside them, the three of them nestled together on the bed like a box full of puppies, and Slider is far from Maverick’s favorite person, but he feels like there’s something in his blood, some calming drug, and so he doesn’t mind so much the proximity. It’s kind of nice.
Soon, they sleep.
It’s late when they leave the bar, and Maverick stumbles through the parking lot, squinting for his motorcycle. Slider grabs him by the back of the shirt and hoists him upright.
“There’s no way you’re driving home, Mitchell. Come on, we’re getting a cab; you can crash with us tonight.”
Maverick is easily led at this point, and the three of them crowd into the backseat of a taxi, Ice in the middle, his head falling to Slider’s shoulder. Slider combs his fingers through Ice’s short-cropped hair, and Ice makes a little pleased sound.
“You’re drunk, Tommy,” Slider says, and he knows then that Ice is really wasted, because the last time anyone but Ice’s grandmother called him Tommy, Ice broke the fucker’s nose, and this time he just murmurs and nuzzles Slider’s neck a little.
Once they get back to base, Maverick can get out of the cab on his own, but Slider has to pull Ice to his feet. He walks fine after that, though, and the three of them go into the house. Slider switches on the lights and Ice disappears down the hallway without a word. Slider wonders briefly if Ice is having second thoughts, if they’ll be able to do this at all—and then, he wonders, with a pang, if Ice is really so worked up about Mitchell that he had to get drunk. If he’s having feelings beyond, “hey, that Maverick’s got a cute ass.”
But then Maverick’s talking to him, and Slider has to ask him to repeat himself.
“Got any beer?” he says again.
“Oh, yeah,” Slider says, and shows him where in the icebox.
They only have Ice’s beer left, some expensive German shit, and he’ll probably be pissed tomorrow, but what the hell. They pop open two bottles and then take their drinks down the hall.
Ice is in the bedroom, stripped to his underwear, stretched out on the bed on his belly. Maverick stops in the doorway, frozen, his eyes on Ice. Slider and his beer go to sit beside Ice on the mattress. He lands a good slap to Ice’s backside, enjoying the crack of it echoing through the room, enjoying the annoyance on Ice’s face as he scowls up at him.
“You took your clothes off, buddy,” Slider says, drawing on his beer.
In the doorway, Maverick watches Ice flip onto his back, his head lolling in the pillows. Maybe it’s that he’s had so much to drink, but he realizes, with sudden and unshakable clarity, that Iceman is the most beautiful man—maybe the most beautiful person—he’s ever seen in real life. The alcohol has made Ice flush, and it’s loosened up his expression—the disdainful scowl is gone and he just looks relaxed, open. When it’s not sneering at him, Ice’s face is good-looking: clear, pale eyes; the kind of plush, soft mouth that belongs on a porn star, not some stuck up Navy pilot. And Ice’s body is lightly-muscled and golden tan, and when Ice moves onto his back, Maverick can see all of it. And maybe it’s because he’s had so much to drink, but it doesn’t seem to bother Ice at all, being practically naked in front of Slider, in front of Maverick himself—his rival. But he doesn’t seem cocky about it, in his posture, in his expression; he just seems at ease with himself, and there’s something so fucking sexy about that.
“I was hot,” Ice says.
“Yeah, you are,” Maverick breathes. Slider looks up at him, an eyebrow raised, and Maverick blushes, and says hurriedly, “I mean, it is kind of warm in here.”
Slider gives him a look like he can smell right through Maverick’s bullshit, but he gets up and opens a window. Then he sits next to Ice on the bed again, running one hand over the flat plane of Ice’s stomach. Ice sighs in a pleased, unselfconscious way, and arches into the touch, his movements as languorous and fluid as a cat’s. And Ice looks over at Maverick, his eyes heavily lidded, his lips parted, and despite the cool air blowing in the window, Maverick feels feverish. Slider scratches down Ice’s stomach, nails leaving bright pink tracks, and Ice hisses, his teeth flashing. And then Slider leans down over Ice, and runs his tongue over the pink marks. Ice moans, head arching back, exposing his throat.
Maverick swears he stops breathing for a second.
“I—shit, I should go,” he stammers.
Slider looks up at him, smiling. “You should stay.”
Ice sits up, looks at Maverick. Maverick bites his lip. Slider rests his hand on the back of Ice’s head, his long fingers weaving through Ice’s close-cropped hair. He tightens his grip, using the hold to pull Ice’s head back; Ice lets out a noise of protest, his eyes flashing dangerously. His breath goes shallow.
“You wanna fuck him, Maverick?” Slider says. “You want him to suck your cock?”
Ice yanks himself out of Slider’s grip. He’s glaring daggers at him, and two violently pink blotches have risen on his cheeks. He’s still panting, his mouth open, showing his teeth.
“He wants to,” Slider says, and he’s looking right at Ice as he says it, looking right in his eyes.
Maverick’s been both turned on and terrified many times in his life. Usually it involves a cockpit, though, or an admiral’s daughter. This, whatever this shit is with Slider and Iceman, he has no context for this. That tiny voice in the back of his head, the one his mother probably would have called his “better senses,” is screaming for him to run.
But come on. He’s Maverick, for Christ’s sake. He didn’t get where he is today by listening to that voice. And when Ice breaks away from Slider’s gaze, Maverick catches his eye, and he can see it, Maverick can fucking see it in Ice’s face like it’s written there in thick, dark permanent marker, that Slider is telling the truth: Ice does want him.
And Jesus. The thought of Thomas “Cold as Fucking Iceman” Kazansky’s smug mouth stretching around his cock is enough to send his goddamn dick into orbit.
Maverick finishes his beer in one great swallow, then approaches the bed, abandoning the empty bottle on the bedside table. He stops a foot from Ice on the bed; Ice looks at him with the frosty gaze he’s used to, all tight control and challenge. Maverick toes off his shoes, and then pulls his shirt off over his head. Maybe it’s because Ice is so drunk, or because he’s shaken from Slider outing him, but Maverick sees him react visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Maverick reaches out—Ice doesn’t flinch; his arctic gaze doesn’t even waver—and tips up his chin, draws the pad of his thumb over Ice’s plush mouth.
“How about it, Iceman?”
Ice doesn’t say anything, but his jaw steels. Maverick laughs, and he runs his hand through the soft bristles of Ice’s hair before drawing his hand back and slowly opening the front of his pants. Ice’s expression is unreadable, his usual cool mask, but the pink spots on his cheek darken; they’re practically glowing.
Maverick steps out of his jeans, and he steps out of his briefs. He gives his erection a few slow strokes, just to listen to the way Ice’s breath hitches. Ice wets his lips, maybe unconsciously, and Maverick steps forward, taking Ice’s jaw in one hand, his thumb at Ice’s bottom lip drawing his mouth open, his other urging his cock into Ice’s mouth. Ice resists at first, his jaw taut, his teeth scraping Maverick. Maverick groans, grits his teeth.
“Come on, you fuck.”
Ice’s eyes flash, and his jaw doesn’t give, and for a second Maverick is terrified that Ice is going to bite him, one quick snap of the jaws like back in the locker room. But it’s only a second, and then Ice’s jaw is relaxing, and Maverick’s eyes are rolling up in his head because apparently Ice has no gag reflex whatsoever. And Ice is staring at him, his spooky pale eyes locked on Maverick—Ice’s gaze has fucking tone on Maverick. And in his whole life, Maverick hasn’t felt self-conscious about—well, much of anything, really—but now he feels like Ice is grading him on his performance or something, and he starts to sweat, his thrusting going a little erratic. And he wants to shout at Ice, to tell him to be goddamn normal for a change, but the things Ice is doing with his tongue should be fucking illegal, and when Maverick opens his mouth, all that comes out is a long string of vowels.
Slider laughs, and all of a sudden it hits Maverick that Slider is still in the room. He raises his eyes. Slider is watching them with obvious lust, his hand rubbing over the front of his pants. And somehow it doesn’t seem weird that Maverick is thrusting against Ice’s tonsils, but that Slider is getting off to it makes him a little uncomfortable, so Maverick lowers his eyes to Ice, those goddamn ghost eyes staring up at him. Ice’s plush mouth is stretched around him, his nostrils flaring, and Maverick can see himself moving against the thin wall of Ice’s sucked in cheek. Maverick slows the pace, thrusting in long and slow, pushing against Ice’s cheek so that he can actually see his dick fucking Ice. Ice gets annoyed pretty quick at Maverick’s directorial debut, and he tries to pull back, a little growl percolating in his throat. And Maverick can feel the growl vibrating all around him, vibrating up his dick, and he digs his fingers into the joint of Ice’s jaw—hard, so hard he must be hurting him. Ice’s eyes flash, a clear warning, and the growl builds up, crescendoing, and soon Maverick is peaking with it, crying out and pumping erratically into Ice’s mouth as he comes.
Maverick’s world blacks out for a minute, and he staggers back, free of those snapping teeth, and when things finally come into focus again, he’s half-collapsed against the bedside table, and Ice is sitting on the bed watching him, his cheeks pink, rubbing the slickness off his raw mouth with his fingers.
“Jesus,” Maverick pants. “How the hell are you a pilot, when you can suck dick like that?”
The corner of Ice’s mouth quirks up, that smug smile Maverick is used to.
“It isn’t so hard getting cocky flyboys off, Mitchell,” he drawls. “Most come quicker than high school freshmen.”
Maverick feels his cheeks burn, and fuck Iceman—how can he be so goddamn conceited when he’s barely done swallowing Maverick’s come?
“Well, I guess you’ve had plenty of practice, fag.”
Ice smiles coldly, and he gets off the bed, stepping toward Maverick until they are toe to toe. Maverick pulls his weight off the bedside table, even though he still feels like he needs the support, and stretches up to his full height. Ice still looms over him, inches taller—and broader, so huge and golden and sure in his cold-burning fury that for a second, Maverick feels like a different species.
“You’re right, Mitchell. Getting your dick sucked by a queer was an incredibly heterosexual thing for you to do.”
Maverick’s blush burns hotter, so hot he feels sick. He wonders if Ice is going to kick his ass—and, looking up at him, realizes that he probably could.
But then all the anger goes out of Ice’s face. And maybe it’s the tequila, because he’s never seen an emotion so obvious in Ice’s expression—unless haughtiness counts as an emotion—but Ice just looks sad.
“It’s my birthday, asshole,” he says quietly.
And it doesn’t happen often, but in this moment, Maverick knows he’s in the wrong, and he feels bad for it.
“Shit,” he says, the words coming slow, pulled from gritted teeth, “Ice, I’m sorry.”
And Ice’s eyes leave him, focusing on something in the distance, so Maverick takes a step forward and takes Ice’s jaw again, angling his face toward him until Ice is looking at him again.
Ice shrugs, the icy mask coming back. His pale eyes are like mirrors, giving nothing about himself.
“Whatever, Mitchell. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”
And Ice is just brushing him off, which infuriates Maverick more than anything—to be cast aside, ignored. He takes Ice by the arms, jerks him forward—and now they’re on top of each other, and Maverick isn’t sure what his endgame was here, except to show Ice that he could move his ridiculously huge body, that he is a force to be reckoned with, but now Ice is up against him, his skin fever warm, his pulse rabbiting. It’s so ridiculous, that the fucking Iceman has human things like warm blood and a heartbeat, and Maverick gets so distracted by the absurdity of it that he misses the look in Ice’s eyes. And Ice puts his big hands on Maverick, pulls him up, literally lifting Maverick so he’s scraping the ground with his tiptoes, and kisses him. And Maverick’s had that mouth on his dick, so maybe he should be prepared for Ice kissing him, the things that mouth can do, but at the same time he doesn’t think anything could prepare him for this, and he swoons like a fucking romance novel heroine, his head swimming, and suddenly he needs Ice’s hands to keep him upright.
When Maverick finally gets his head back, they’re still kissing, Ice’s tongue assaulting his mouth, his teeth nipping at him—just the right amount of roughness. Maverick tries to pull out of Ice’s grasp so that he can be on his own flat feet again, in control, but he tries to do it without breaking off the kiss, so all he ends up doing is pushing ineffectually against Ice’s chest and shoulders. To retaliate, Ice pulls him up higher, so his feet aren’t even touching the ground anymore. All of Maverick’s weight is held in Ice’s arms, is held against the broad form of him, which is impressive and infuriating, and Maverick is turned on and furious all at once. And suddenly he realizes, because he’s all pressed up against Ice, that Ice is painfully hard, and that he’s not far behind, their cocks trapped together between them. Maverick reaches down and grabs Ice, stroking him through his shorts, and that is how Ice drops him.
Ice is dazed, out of control for a moment, and Maverick takes advantage, shoving him onto the bed. Ice falls back, and then he stays, watching for Maverick’s next move, which is to pull Ice’s shorts off. And Maverick realizes how insane it is, that just a minute ago he was calling this man a faggot, and now he’s getting him naked, but it’s been an insane kind of night.
Maverick and Ice both look up at Slider at the same time, remembering him, and Slider gets off the bed, and he takes a few steps to the desk against the wall. He pulls out the chair, angles it for the best vantage point, and sits, watching them, unbuttoning his pants.
And somehow that’s okay. Maverick climbs on top of Ice, kissing him again. He tries to press Ice down to the mattress, but Ice is stubborn and strong enough to resist, so he stays sitting up, balanced on his forearms, Maverick in his lap. Maverick is frustrated that he can’t overpower Ice, but Ice’s position also means that Ice doesn’t have a hand free, which is an advantage Maverick is happy to exploit. He can touch Ice anywhere he wants to without retaliation, and he does, running his hands over Ice’s chest and shoulders, his thighs and ass.
Ice is as tightly controlled in bed as he is anywhere else—which is infuriating, because Maverick is moaning to beat the band—but he’s flushed everywhere, not just his face, but his chest and shoulders, too. Maverick chuckles; he always did have a thing for blondes. Ice’s erection looks painful, wet with pre-come, and Maverick takes it in hand, pumping with his fist. For a moment, Ice goes very still, and then something in him snaps, and he bursts into action, jumping on top of Maverick and pinning him to the mattress. Ice thrusts between Maverick’s thighs, moaning quietly, and Maverick is just still, because it’s kind of intimidating to be pinned down with Ice’s broad form looming over you, and he isn’t sure of what to do. Eventually he settles for holding Ice, one hand on his waist and the other cupping his cheek, angling his face so Ice’s eyes are focused on him, not glassy and distant. And Maverick watches Ice’s face when he comes, his eyes and mouth going wide, everything freezing for a moment, and this is certainly gayer than getting your rocks off in some guy’s mouth, but Maverick is okay with it, because in that moment Ice is open and vulnerable and so, so beautiful.
Ice makes a weak noise and his limbs just kind of give, and he falls atop Maverick. Ice is heavy, but the mass of him is kind of nice, and the way they’re positioned, eye to eye, they fit together. For a moment they just look at each other, as Ice’s breathing goes back to normal, and Ice’s expression isn’t haughtiness and challenge; it’s unguarded, real, and Maverick feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.
“Tom,” he says softly.
Ice just looks at him a minute, maybe the first genuine smile Maverick’s ever seen from him, and kisses him. Then he settles down in their tangled embrace, his nose nuzzled against Maverick’s neck, his warm breath on the nape.
Maverick hears the floorboards creak and looks up to see Slider walking to the bathroom, the front of his pants still hanging open. He hears the water turn on, and is conscious of the fact that he’s still hard, his erection trapped against Ice’s belly, and he’s sticky with Ice’s come. And he could remedy either or both, but it’s so nice lying here, and really he doesn’t mind. He pets the back of Ice’s neck, idly, and Ice sighs. Maverick can feel Ice’s body relaxing even further, his breaths elongating.
Slider comes out of the bathroom and turns the bedroom lights off. Maverick watches the long silhouette of him strip, moving in these long gestures like a crane, and then come to the bed. Atop him, Ice wets his lips, his tongue tickling Maverick’s neck, and Maverick holds him closer, holds him steady as Slider rocks the mattress settling his weight atop it. Slider settles in beside them, the three of them nestled together on the bed like a box full of puppies, and Slider is far from Maverick’s favorite person, but he feels like there’s something in his blood, some calming drug, and so he doesn’t mind so much the proximity. It’s kind of nice.
Soon, they sleep.
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Date: 2012-01-25 12:26 am (UTC)Guh.
You are amazing.
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Date: 2012-01-25 12:45 am (UTC)Oh, I'm sorry your computer's sick! But I'm glad you liked the story; I was worried it wasn't threesome-y enough.
<3
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Date: 2012-02-04 03:47 am (UTC)And this is the point at which I knew that this fic would probably kill me. You are SO DAMN GOOD at painting these gorgeous little pictures, so sexy and so perfect a character moment- this is one of the things I love about reading sex from good writers, beyond the prurient interest; Fucking, much like fighting or food, tells you SO MUCH about the characters, their dynamics, their quirks and cares and what makes them tic. This is something you're really really good at.
Ice just gives him a steely look, because he fucking knows how good he looks, the smug bastard. Mostly Slider will do anything he can to keep Ice happy, but right now he’s completely in control, so he punishes him for his arrogance
Same thing here. Also, Smug!Iceman? Holy shit. Why is it hot? I don't even. Also Pouting!Ice. He's fun when he's drunk, innit?
“Blow me,” Ice growls.
“You said I couldn’t do that in public.”
Hee. <3
“I can’t get a straight answer from you; I figure this is a good incentive. You can come when you tell me.”
You're creating a serious orgasm denial kink in me. God.
Ice shrugs, mulishly. “It’ll be fun.” He raises his hips. “You said I could come if I told you.”
Perfect image. PERFECT.
I really enjoy your characterization of Maverick both in general and in this fic, chiefly in that I actually sort of like him, the way you write him. Canon!Maverick is just a bit of a whiny douchebag. But this guy... He's insecure, and compensating, and still a cocky asshole but in a human way. His cockiness isn't portrayed as a benefit, except when it very occasionally is. Frankly, I love that he calls Ice a 'fag'- it's completely in character, and it's fucking heartwrenching, and "it's my birthday, asshole." made me almost DIE. I love that Maverick is lashing out and not thinking before he speaks, as per usual, forgetting that this isn't the damn locker room, and Ice's defenses are down more than he realizes. I could go through this line by line, and I can't even touch the sexy sex because GUH, but mostly OMG UR CHARACTERS I LOVE IT.
Well done.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-05 05:07 pm (UTC)Fucking, much like fighting or food, tells you SO MUCH about the characters, their dynamics, their quirks and cares and what makes them tic.
Yes! Well said. I know I should probably be more invested in creating grand, sweeping plots, but really it's just these little character moments that I'm interested in.
You're creating a serious orgasm denial kink in me. God.
LOL, as soon as you said that, I realized that my other Ice/Slider fic also has orgasm denial. They have a weird relationship.
I really enjoy your characterization of Maverick both in general and in this fic, chiefly in that I actually sort of like him, the way you write him.
BEST COMPLIMENT. Because, yeah, I hate Movie!Maverick, too, but I am interested in his relationship with Ice (you know, because I'm interested in the wall's relationship with Ice) so I put up with him, I guess. And I have to write him in a way that makes sense to me, in a way I don't actively loathe him, or it'd come out on the page.
TLDR: thank you so much for the wonderful feedback! I'm so glad you liked the story.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-20 02:59 am (UTC)